Reading, and pausing to listen

I've been waiting for this day for several weeks now. I didn't know it would be today, I only found out this morning really, but I've been waiting for it, and I'm quite enjoying it. Today I have the house to myself. And instead of being out and about, or Jesus asking me to go somewhere, I'm staying at home. Reading, and resting.

I did a few errands this morning - groceries, and gas for George. (For those of you who are uninitiated, George is the car Jesus gave me for a dollar, via a nice elderly lady in the church I grew up in, who's health prevented her from driving him anymore. George is a big silver grandma boat of a car, who has brought me a great deal of freedom and sanity by removing the need to spend three hours on every weekday riding public transit, and giving me the ability to go out on evenings and weekends without a twenty minute trip taking three hours.)

Then I came home and started to read.

I'm working on two books right now. One of Anne Lamott's books of essays on faith that I've read several times in the past. And a translation of a sixteenth century manuscript on the spiritual life and prayer which I've avoided reading several times in the past.

After the errands and returning a few emails, I settled in to read.

I'm not above bribery and comfort, and it's taking a lot of both to convince myself to read the one book.

So I ran a hot bath, added citrus and frankincense scented bubbles from LUSH, and climbed in. I told myself that if I made it through one chapter, I could celebrate by reading one of Anne's essays. (I'm going to have to buy more of Anne's books if I need to match her essays one for one to the chapters in my sixteenth century book on prayer.)

I made it half-way through the chapter before I stopped. I was on my third read of the same paragraph, trying desperately to understand what this sixteenth century nun was trying to communicate. I was getting more and more frustrated, and the voices in my head that question my reading of this book were getting louder and more insistent.

So I stopped to have a frank conversation with God. Sometimes I manage to talk to God in the sort of holy tones and language that I grew up with, couching things in nicer terms. I don't manage that very often (and I'm not actually sure I want to for that matter.) The rest of the time I just talk to him honestly. This was one of those times. My prayer went something like, "God, I believe that you've asked me to read this book, but I've read the same paragraph three times and I can't understand it, and it's making me cranky. If you really want me to read this, could you help me to hear what this woman is trying to say?"

It seemed to help a little.

I finished the chapter. (Perhaps at this point I should sheepishly admit that the chapter was only 4 pages long?)

And I rewarded myself with Anne's story of the time she started a Sunday school in her church. I like a woman who can pen lines like, "One secret of life is that the reason life works at all is that not everyone in your tribe is nuts on the same day. Another secret is that laughter is carbonated holiness." or " We did not exclude anyone, because Jesus didn't. On bad days, I could not imagine what he had been thinking."

So, I'm passing this day that I've been waiting for in the company of two women, one a nun from the sixteenth century, and one a smart, sassy, left-wing writer from California. And I'm loving it, even in the moments when I have to stop and pray, "Help me, help me, help me to hear what this book is saying, because I sure can't make it out on my own."