If you want to reveal a person’s true personality, put them behind the wheel. There’s something about driving that causes us to regard any veneer of civility, and our true colors bleed through. Pete and I drove over 5,000 miles this month, from our home in Colorado to South Carolina, then Florida, and finally, Chattanooga, Tennessee, before returning home. Since the northern states were experiencing snow and ice, we chose a more southern route—we encountered no snow, but our choice made our trip a bit longer. Most of those 5,000 miles were on interstates.
I’m glad we survived.
I admit, I’m not the best of housekeepers. Removing every speck of dust just doesn’t seem that important, especially when considered in relation to the current global crisis—or most anything else on my agenda. Our house isn’t dirty, by any means, but I don’t hold myself to the same standard that my grandmothers set, or even my parents. (My dad actually polished the plumbing inside the bathroom vanity!)
Moving into a brand new home has been a revelation. To start with, the place was spotless when we were handed the keys. It had been cleaned for our walk-through the previous week, and cleaned again the day before we closed escrow. I realize that it will never again be so immaculate, but there is a certain pressure to maintain this level of cleanliness for as long as possible.
Do we need to repent?
The blogosphere is all up in arms over Cindy Jacobs telling Native Americans and Mexicans that they need to repent for the idolatry of their ancestors. You can read various takes on it here, here, and here, for starters. Or you can go straight to the source and watch the video on Vimeo. Yes, I watched the entire ten minutes.
Naturally, this video has caused quite a ruckus. Maybe that’s because of some inflammatory statements, such as:
If you have in your bloodline any animus, any Native American blood, for instance, not all Native Americans worshipped the serpent or crocodile, many did, but you might want to renounce that and repent for the generational iniquity.
I was talking to my friend as she cleaned off the top of her dryer. As a large, flat surface in the room connecting her house to her garage, her dryer was a convenient dumping spot for all sorts of debris, a backwater where flotsam washes up and is left stranded by the ebbing tide.
At our house, our dryer just collects dust were-rabbits, but we have The Shelf that serves the same function. It’s also just inside the garage door. Currently it provides a temporary home for a semi-disposable plastic container a friend send home leftovers in, some cans of organic cat food our resident Cleopatra spurned, two dust masks, a nightlight, a monkeypod candy dish, an old wristwatch with the hands proclaiming 1:45, a green milk jug lid, and one tube of Crystal Lite “On the Go” lemonade. I’d sort through the pile but it’s easier to let it sit.