There was this guy at church who didn’t belong there.  He had some kind of scarf over his head, making him a tunnel to hide in.  You could barely see his face.  He looked like a babushka through the white rabbit hole.  The scarf that was hiding his face was a nutty black and white Dr. Seuss pattern.  Deep down in that scarf, his face was black, and neither young nor old.

I really wasn’t feeling church too much.  I didn’t really know why I was there.  The woman in the pew in front of me seemed to be a visitor.  We have had incredible attendance at my little service lately—thirty people, or more!  I handed her my prayer book when she was looking for the confession.  I don’t know what to make of confession anyway.

We were declared fixed, and everybody stood up to wander around and shake hands, share the peace.  Dr. Seuss didn’t get up or approach anyone.  One thing I love about my church was that we actually have poor people show up to get help.  I think that’s how a church should be.  It’s not unusual for us to have someone who looks like they’re up shit creek, lingering in the back, about to approach a priest for some kind of help.

Still, I was terribly worried that Dr. Seuss was going to steal my purse when I went up for communion.  Everybody leaves purses behind in the pews.  It always seems sweet to me.  It seems like an important part of what’s happening.  Leave your junk behind, and go get fed with something better.  I was not at all happy with leaving my junk behind with Dr. Seuss.

As we were chanting all the communion prep stuff, I was thinking about how much I love my iPod, and how I couldn’t afford to get a new one, should Seuss make off with it.  I thought about how my car keys were in there, and that I had recently lost my extra set, so if Seuss snatched those, I’d have to have my car rekeyed, and that would cost a fortune, and then I’d be all behind in my plan to get all my dangling bills paid up before Christmas.   I’d have to give everyone homemade peanut butter sandwiches for Christmas, wrapped in plastic baggies, tied with red and green ribbon.  It’s the thought that counts, friends!

I stood up and got in line for communion.  I wanted to take my purse with me, but I didn’t.  I had considered sticking my keys in my pocket, but luckily the communion prep had distracted me from that idea.  The woman in front of me stayed put.  Thank goodness.  She would guard my stuff.  I went up and got my broken wafer and my sip of wine.  What a mess I was!  My mind was so restless, and I was so unsure of what was up with me.

Returning to my spot, past the Mary window, I felt better.  And I noticed that Dr. Seuss was scribbling away in a little blank book.   What a nut.

One thought on “Belonging

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