First: Nothing against the Russian people, mind you — it’s 100% more a way of addressing a country’s leaders and shady supporters — but imagine “Russians” and “porn star” appearing in one ‘blog-title! So incredibly tacky, but I suspect it’s even worse to have those words connected to one’s name forever, here.
Indeed, I’m all about the classy ‘blog-post title, so I didn’t want to leave that awful one at the top, here (for all the rest of Lent..); today’s post title is so much better.
Anyway, onward. I asked the Lord if I could just win the lottery and be done with this working nonsense. His answer was, “Take this other thing, and be done with pestering Me about your need to store up into barns. It’ll wake you up with a nice song in your under-used head, which you will be able to explain to no one, so don’t bother them with that. And it will save My worse-aging others some Footwork.”
If that didn’t happen, then I don’t have ANY explanation of why I am now doing what I am now doing! It’s almost not a job (says others), considering the benefits-less embarrassingly low hourly rate (TG for non-taxed mileage pay!). I’m sure some young teens make more by babysitting or doing some Spring yardwork in the neighborhood.
That’s right — I deliver hot meals (on my wheels).
I’ve been feeding others since I was 8 when I had a full baby carriage full of be-ragged dolls who were HUNGRY. I’m ashamed to say I stole crackers and such for them out of the elder Mrs. Relax’s pantry when she was off being/doing good somewhere else in the apartment. The words “Crumbs!” and “Ants!” are no strangers to my ears (nor to my tongue, these days, living with kids who lost their belief in plates and bowls long ago. I’ve added “Mice!” to the ancient repertoire).
This job didn’t even garner a nod from me; it simply seemed inevitable.
And I feel good about that. He still trusts me! It’s scary, in a good way. And it’s incredibly merciful, considering it’s the easiest job on earth — easy on everything but the emotions. I can do this one almost indefinitely, come whatever may, here.
I’m training this and next week, but I did my first run yesterday, and am delightfully heartbroken on behalf of this new carriage full of lovable poor souls with whom I hope to ride wild horses on a beach in our far more pleasant eternity beyond here. It even incorporates a little soup kitchen-like prep work prior to hitting the road! Yay! Some of our clients bear rags, but none have to settle for crackers and bread heels!
As I came back into my cave and put my coat and bag down after such a short work-day, I heard a happy, urgent little voice (only) in my head:
“Take me with you!”
I turned around to look at the little and last third class relic I have, a sort of chaplet-rosary of (that great Irishwoman) St. Therese of Lisieux’s 24 “Glory be” beads, with a bit of holy cloth enclosed in the medal.
I nodded that time. Taking her along was probably inevitable, too, because I have an 8-year old’s love and thus need a big sister’s love to deliver (/from Him) — but I’m glad she spoke up!