In fact I think I made a huge mistake moving into this house.
There's something wrong with the electrical wiring in the living room. Some things work, and some things don't.
The microwave in the kitchen doesn't work.
The hot water heater doesn't work.
The *dryer* works.
The television and the computers work.
I gather that the refrigerator works.
I feel like I'm holding up fingers in front of the house and saying "Now, how many is this?"
Well, it's better than letting Mike go out and play with the breakers some more. Save me, Lord.
You scored 39 Socially Involved, 17 Alienated, 57 Contented and 49 Optimistic
|You're not highly socially contented, but you're confident that you'll get there eventually. You don't appear very social, and this may be natural for you, perhaps a gift even. My suggestion is to be patient and not worry much about past failures or missed opportunities, as the low alienation score is a good indicator that you have the potential to meaningfully connect with others.|
|My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:|
|Link: The Existential Loneliness Test written by DarkenedOaks on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test|
I imagine it
Slipping from my bed, moving between the interleaved waves of heat.
Outside the frogs sing; softly because they fear the snakes too.
The blankets lie on me like a reproachful stare.
I am old enough to begin to feel the inward pull. Who am I? I can ask it until the question is drained of meaning, just a husk.
I am elbows and knees at the world.
For all my strangeness, I know that there is another in the house who is stranger yet. And his strangeness is like the silent pull of a great magnet, slowly pulling everyone else to him.
My mother might have adopted me, might let me see the love that shines in her dark eyes, like light on still water. But he is the one she orbits. It is he who draws us close, so imperceptibly, so gently that we never feel it happening. It just is. It feels as if it always was.
I suppose that it occurs to us now and then to question. But it just *is*. Like the sand that you can never entirely sweep outside. Or the sound of the livestock on the hillside. He is as eternal as the sun, as gentle as water, and just as inescapable.
And so that's why I pull on a shawl. Because I know that once I get to the roof where he is, the air will be cooler. Because I know that once I get there, I won't want to leave. Not until I have to, until the light of false dawn washes the black from the sky.
I can hear the sound of my father snoring. He snores a lot. It's a soothing sound, steady and strong. I think I like it because it's like him. Strong and reliable.
My feet slap a little on the ladder. I can feel the legs shift a bit so I hurry because I really don't want to fall. The rope creaks, too, and I'm always afraid that it's going to wake up my mother.
Once I push open the trap door, I have to blink a little. He's not in bed, not that I expected he would be. He's praying, sitting so still that a couple of moths have landed on his clothing. I put the trap door down as quietly as I can and tiptoe over to sit. If I don't interrupt him, he'll make time for me. He always does.
I couldn't explain why people are so drawn to him. They just are. They come from all over to hear him talk. It's kind of embarrassing, because people come and then Mother and I have to work especially fast to make sure that people have something to drink and something to eat and a place to rest. When they're important people and all we have to give them is bread and well water, it's a little embarrassing.
I find myself watching him, sitting so silently. He seems so perfectly content. So perfectly still. And the thought comes to me that maybe he's the center of the world. He's the still point around which everything moves. It's a good mental picture and I tell myself to remember and keep it.
When he lifts his head, it's like a light uncovered. I always find I'm holding my breath. My heart gives this funny little bounce that's sweet and painful too. I have a feeling that when he goes away, it's going to leave a hole that will never be filled. A hole so big that the whole village will fall into it and leave no trace.
"What are you doing awake? Shouldn't you be asleep?" His voice is so gentle I can't take offense.
"It's too hot. It's too still." I pull the shawl closer, in spite of those words and creep a little closer. "Please won't you tell me a story? Please, Yeshua."
He smiles. He always smiles. And he pats the space across from him. It's all the invitation I need.