Head Scratching Fun

It was supposed to be an easy task.

In my own head, I had already created the job description before I had even brought my shadow through the front doors. My daughters are in a musical production of Mulan - the Disney show about a young Chinese girl who strives to save her father's life and bring honor to his name by dressing up as a man and joining the Chinese army. I never realized how much work and energy and labor go into the production of a children's musical. From my minimal experience of how children's musicals work, I just assumed the kids showed up and were herded onto the stage to stand and deliver their lines, and then get out quick.

My assumption proved incorrect and as I watched the proceedings of the dress rehearsal, I realized that all people that work with children's youth productions should be paid as well as CEO's of large companies. Seriously, watching adults try and finagle thirty-five children age 6-12 is as painful as having root canal. First, the children have arisen early on a Saturday morning (or should I say the parents have arisen early on a Saturday morning to drive their children to the place of practice) and they are excitable after a hopefully good night sleep. Secondly, because the kids haven't spoken all night (presumably) in their sleep, it's as if they have to make up for lost time. I've never heard that many children speak at the same time; watching the director of the play scream at the top of his voice, red-faced, spittle flying knowing instinctively that every other minute he is thinking to himself "Why, in the name of all that is holy and pure, did I agree to do this job", is an amazement to me.

I watched the parents drop their kids off and leave them with the director and his staff who are gluttons for punishment. The parents look like they've toilet papered the neighbor's tree and run off giggling into the night. Freedom. You can see it in their smirky smiles. Freedom to have a few moments of coffee, the paper and maybe, just maybe, a warm shower without being interrupted by a request to peanut butter the breakfast toast (I am speaking from experience).

It was supposed to be an easy task. The theater productions give options to the parents: either volunteer with specific parts of the production or pay $100 extra. Most parents choose to pay because they could never get a babysitter that cheap anyway. We, Christine and I, on the other hand, chose to volunteer because that extra $100 can come in handy - like another tank of gas (which is another story of frustration for another time). Christine volunteered to help backstage; Christine volunteered me to be theater security. Security. I had visions of being one of the bouncers at the door keeping out all the riff raff who are trying to sneak in and get a glimpse of a 12 year old Mulan surrounded by rhythmically challenged 7 year-olds. Security. I thought maybe I'd get one of those ear pieces and microphone cuffs to radio back to headquarters regarding the paparazzi that were surely to come.

But, the woman in charge of volunteers told me my main task would be to keep parents from rushing the stage while dress rehearsal was going on so that they could adjust their child's collar or wet down their hair with some motherly saliva. Needless to say the balloon from my dreams popped loudly.

So, I brought along a book. Thought I could get some reading in, I did. But, as I watched the first scene take place, the director beside himself in fury that Moo Goo Gai Pan did not get her steps down in the correct order, I felt a presence beside me. There she was, the backstage director smiling cunningly.

"I see that you don't have much to do," she started the conversation.

"I'm okay," I said. "I've really been keeping an eye on the bouffant haired mother who keeps wanting to stand and work over her daughters costume."

She smiled. Inwardly I knew that she was rolling her eyes.

"I have another job for you," she started again. "Since you are not doing too much here, in between scenes, I need you to take this spray can and spray the wigs, hats and such with de-lousing spray, as a precaution."

My jaw dropped. I raised my hands in surrender. "Sorry," I said. "Not part of the job description. I'm just security. Look at my badge."

I didn't have a badge - just a name tag with my handwritten name that said 'Reid - Security'.

The woman was not impressed. "It's not a hard job. Just lay out the headpieces and squirt a little bit of this into each one of them."

I swallowed hard. The last thing that I wanted to be doing was putting myself into contact with parasitic insects. I have a hard enough time with boogers that touching possible lice infested wigs was giving me the heebie jeebies. I looked toward the stage and inwardly counted at least five children that looked like they were infested. Another two were possible bogeys - they kept moving their wigs - possibly re-locating their lice colonies.

"Really," I said, "I'd rather not."

"Are you allergic to the spray?" she asked.

I have a tough time lying. I looked at the floor and mumbled 'no.' I was like a little kid who'd been caught cheating on his spelling test.

"Here," she said and forced the spray can into my hand. The woman turned around and I'm sure was laughing sadistically like the wicked witch of the east before the house fell on her. I looked at the can in my hand - read the ingredients - they were actually going to put this stuff onto the hair of little kids?

So, for the next minutes my head started itch. I had to scratch. Yet to even touch the "possibly" infested headgear, my fingers made their way through my thinning hair. I was already under the assumption that lice can spontaneously generate and here I was, exhibit A. Then came the wigs and the hats and the frocks and the smocks. I held them as far away from my person as I could but lice can jump a long ways, can't they? After creating a bug-bomb like smog around the headgear, the haze barely lifting, I almost had thoughts of applying the lice spray to my own head. Like hair spray, it would take care of the critters before they spent too much time setting up their estates between the forests of my hair follicles. I didn't do it, but I wonder - just wonder...

Security is not all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes we are called to do things that are not in the job description. Sometimes we are called to do a job that no one else will do like: cleaning toilets, changing diapers, forgiving people. Sometimes we are called to do things that no one wants to do like: holding the hand of an AIDS victim, speaking a word of comfort to a family who has been the victim of abuse, speaking a word of to parents to stop enabling their son or daughter who has an addiction.

Jesus had a lot of extras placed on him that was not in the job description for the Son of God. He was supposed to be the king of kings - sit on the throne - overthrow the ruling government and set up a kingdom that would never end. To have seas of servants and fields of slaves waiting on his every command. He would dress in royal robes and grant boons to those who were faithful and punish those who were disobedient.

But we find Jesus time and time again in the midst of a situation that called him to place his hands on the outcasts - the sick, the lame, the blind, the leper - all the other people would consider this an opportunity for diving into unclean-ness. That truly is the beauty of Jesus. He who would/could be an earthly king gave up earthly power to be a servant of all and he calls us to the same: to give up our pride, or ego, or self-assuredness, to hop down off our high horse and do the task that leads us back to God.

Jesus may have even encountered children with lice and still cared for them.

It's all good, head-scratching fun.

The best day of her life

One of the true pleasures in life is walking to school with my daughter Greta. She, 6, is at an age where her dad is still one of the pillars of her life; I have not ceased to be cool and I do not gather a rolling of eyes like dewdrops on early morning leaves.

She still wants to hold my hand when we walk.

I'm not sure there are many greater things in life than holding the small, soft hand of a child in your own and wonder at the beauty of life through the eyes of a child.

We left early one morning for school. Breakfast was hurriedly finished, lunch was made, little green backpack was packed full of notebooks and reading materials: Life started out that day the same as any other. After saying goodbye to her mother and sisters, Greta pulled the door closed behind her. Walking down our cement driveway Greta unconsciously reached for my hand. We walked that way in silence for a while, Greta in her own little world trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk for fear that her mothers back would be crushed, and I, contemplating what the day of work would bring. But these days I have been gradually trying to push myself to ask the girls more questions about life so that when the teenage years bear down on Christine and I like locomotives we are prepared to communicate with our children.

"How did you enjoy last night?" I asked Greta. The night before, Christine and I had been to a wedding reception and the girls had experience the joys of wonderful babysitting when they had two are three hours of undivided attention.

"It was good." She replied while finding a good stick to carry down the street.

"What did you do?"

"We read books and then I read books to them. Then we watched a movie. We watched Winn Dixie." Greta then proceeded to tell me the story of the dog and I soon found myself day-dreaming again. After she stopped talking, I snapped myself back to attention.

"So," I kiddingly queried, "was it the best day of your life?"

I did get a roll of the eyes for that one. "No, Daddy, it wasn't the best day of my life."

"So what is the best day of your life?"

Greta looked up at me with her brown eyes searching me. "Today," she said.

"Today? Why is today the best day of your life?"

Greta smiled. "Because I've got P.E. today at school."

Physical Education. She loves P.E. more than Winn Dixie; more than trips to Australia, Georgia or Rake, Iowa. She loves it more than a treasure hunt in the back yard. What a great thing to have the best day of your life be the one you are living right now.

Now I'm sure that if Greta, in her six year old way, were to really think about what has been the best day of her life, it probably would not be with regard to the activity curricula at her school. I've seen her laugh and jump and smile and giggle away the hours, but the beauty of a child's life is that every moment is new and experiential. I wish I could snag on to that for a while. I wish I could say that I already know that this is the best day of my life because I've got pre-marriage counseling to attend to, or no other days can compare to this because sermon prep lights up my eyes like Christmas bulbs. I wish I could do that, but maybe all that I need is an attitude adjustment.

On my desk is that very thing: my attitude adjustment holder. Inside this beige, metallic cup are the things that make life a bit happier. Such as: guitar picks, coffee grounds, a love note (from Christine in case I need to clarify) and a few odds and ends that turn my frown upside down. Perhaps this attitude adjuster will help me find some Greta-like days in the near future.

Jeanne Moreau writes (I have no idea who this is but I have a great book of quotes) "Age does not protect you from love but to some extent, love protects you from age."

As I continue to reflect on Greta's words and the Word itself, I am reminded that love makes our age pointless. Time truly ceases to matter when we love. We love God, we love our neighbor, we love our selves. The present is eternal.

So this week as you wind your way through life wondering what has been the best day of your life and what might be the best day to come I think it bears reminding that living in love makes every day the best day of your life.