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When metaphors are real…it is kind of weird

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Have you ever lived a metaphor? Something happens to you or you do something and then, after some time passes, you look back and think, “if that happened in a book or movie I would not believe it!” A totally trippy experience.

Here is how it happened to me. When my son was 2 years old, he went to a Montessori school that asked parents to give a dozen blown eggs at Easter time. The kids made confetti eggs with them, smashed them on each others heads and had a blast. So I dutifully blew the innards out of a dozen eggs, let them dry, and took them to school. Then I thought, that was not so hard. I bet I could blow some more eggs and decorate them myself. So I did. here is how they turned out:

A little overboard, I know.

I did it again when he was three and four. And the thing is, I am crafty, but not really an artist. I don’t usually paint anything at all, much less decorative objects. But I couldn’t stop myself. Each year I added to the collection and put them all out on display for the holiday.

Y’all, who makes a Tiffany egg? A crazy woman, that’s who.

When my son was 5, I stopped. I was pregnant and he was in Kindergarten–they didn’t do the same Easter craft. I got out the eggs I had already decorated each year, but didn’t added any new ones.

And I never painted another egg again.

A couple of years later, when my son was 7ish and my daughter was a toddler my mom was visiting for Easter and asked if I was going to make any more decorated eggs. “Nah, for some reason I am just not into it any more.” And then she observed, “You stopped making them when you had the baby, maybe you were done thinking about eggs!”

Okay, this is where it gets all metaphorical and weird. The whole time I was painting those fancy eggs I was trying to get pregnant, being treated for infertility, totally focused on EGGS. All day long, all cycle long, thinking about making more and more eggs. And before Easter for three years in a row, I painted eggs with a kind of obsession.

I have no wisdom to add here. Really, I am just trying to figure out what my current habits mean.

Crumb by crumb

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I often serve as a Eucharistic minister on Sundays…wine or bread. Our service is casual and kind of chaotic. Plenty of small children run around during the service and are welcome to take communion with the rest of us. And over the years, I have seen something that bothered me at first, and then inspired me. Crumbs.

Growing up, I was taught that crumbs of communion bread were precious and not to be stepped on. Spilt wine was quickly wiped up and any leftovers went down a special drain in the sacristy. When I began serving communion in the Chaos Service, these rules were not so closely observed. Crumbs and drips end up on the floor and the rug, played with and walked on. I obsessed about them. Could I swoop down to get them before the next person in line came with their hands held out? The body of Christ was being trampled upon by…the body of Christ.

One Sunday it occurred to me there was something poetic happening with these crumbs and drips. They were being carried out into the world on the soles of our congregation. And this congregation was particularly good about walking those crumbs into all sorts of justice-making places. They host refugees and feed the homeless. They are making our city cleaner and greener. They educate children and protect the abused.

Those little bits of bread and wine are looking different to me now. Crumb by crumb, they are feeding our hearts, helping us see and serve Christ all around us everyday. I’m not gonna drop them on purpose, but I’ll follow them out the door to see what good we can do together.