Belly Laughs
An anatomical lint filter.
Spiritually speaking, I know that we are all separate members of the same body. We are the Body of Christ. Some of us are heads. Some are hands. Others still are hearts.
I am a belly button- Calamity Jane is my patron saint.
I am mishap and mayhem, tornado and flood. I am a permanent member on any worst dressed list. One time, I even forgot to wear my skirt. The baby was cranky and I was running late for a meeting. I had a blouse, jacket, two blue shoes, the baby, diaper bag, burp rag, a briefcase, and a heavy polyester slip.
But, No skirt. Fortunately, I had an observant babysitter and a forgiving client. Calamity Jane rides again.
Grace is the pastor’s wife. She is not a belly button. She’s hands and head all spun together. She is efficient and capable, composed and elegant. Her creases stay creased. Her curls stay curly. She is serene and able. Effortless.
I didn’t know her very well before last spring- before the garden party. Each year, our pastor asks volunteers to work around the church. Yuck. All the jobs are bad but worst is the victory garden. It was named for the World War II plan to defeat the Nazis with homegrown veggies. (I might be over simplifying.) Our church fought hunger by giving homegrown, organic vegetables to the poor. (Organic always means hand-to-hand combat with weeds and manure.) A great idea, but hard, dirty work. No thanks!
The day they posted the volunteer sign-up lists, I was (of course) late. All the relatively light-dirt jobs were gone, piano dusting, pew polishing, etc. The only chores left were fence painting, roof repair, and the victory garden. From experience, I knew fresh paint was too challenging for Calamity Jane and my presence on a rooftop was just asking for a medical emergency. I made the only possible choice- the victory garden.
My teammate was Grace. She picked the garden, on purpose! Since I didn’t share her zeal, she led. I followed. Grace prepared and planned. I showed up. Grace pruned and pointed; I did. Grace re-did what I did.
I learned there was more to gardening than planting and picking. There was tilling, fertilizing, seeding, weeding, and, lastly, harvesting. And then, more harvesting. And then…. (You get my point.) Gardening was not for amateurs. But, I had forgotten my capable and efficient teammate. Grace was a professional doer not a quitter. She was the Victory Garden Queen.
She was undaunted by a few hundred chemicals, flesh-mangling farm implements, and seed packages with unknown names. (What are rutabagas and do real people eat them?) According to Grace, all we needed were fertilizers, shovels, rakes, gloves, spreaders, seeds, and an occasional rain. Obviously, Grace didn’t know the legend of Calamity Jane. We were going to need unceasing prayer!
Progress was painfully slow but, eventually, the victory garden took shape. It had a peculiar blend of Grace’s efficiency and my ineptness. The rows were alphabetically ordered- beans, beets, berries, butter squash… (That was Grace.) The rows were decidedly un-row-like. (That was me.) We fertilized. We planted. We weeded. I re-planted. (Plant and weeds look the same- green with leaves)
Mostly, I got to know Grace better. If her outsides had seemed gentle and poised, her insides were even more. She was truly wonderful. She taught me how to tell the young plants from the weeds. (That lesson came after we weeded and before I re-planted.) She even taught me to beat the berry bushes carefully with a stick before picking the vegetables. (Snakes!)
She was goodness and grace. And I felt mean and clumsy in comparison. I hated being a belly button. So, I made a decision; I would change. I could be Grace. I could be capable and efficient. And I would be capable and efficient…or die trying.
I had learned much from Grace. So, I prepared. I planned. I did. For two weeks, four days and 13 hours, I was successful. Even if not effortless, I was efficient. I WAS GRACE! I cleaned the house every night. I creased my trousers. I was on time for every appointment. My shoes matched. I coordinated my clothing. I coordinated my kids’ clothing. I was orderly. I was determined. I was worn out.
So on the third Wednesday of September last, I was woodenly following The Plan. I added detergent and bleach to the hot water in the washer (allow the machine to fill completely before adding soiled linens.) I gathered the kids’ toys from the bedroom floor, while waiting for the washer to fill. (Efficient use of time is the key to success.) I packed my husband’s lunch. Checked the washer (not quite full yet.) I verified the sitter for the morning. Reviewed my schedule. The phone rang. The baby cried. The empty machine started to agitate. OK. I answered the phone. (Wrong number) I picked up the baby. (Her stomach started to agitate.) I loaded dark clothes into the machine. (Hot, bleachy water) The baby started the spew cycle. I was undone.
Calamity Jane was back.
I dragged to church the next morning- seventeen minutes late. The harvest was almost over. It was one of the last times we would work in the garden. As much as I had come to admire Grace, I wouldn’t miss this weekly reminder of my failure. I worked at the edge of the garden, far away from Grace. I was in no mood for her…. I was in no mood for her gracefulness. I thought about the disaster I had left in the kitchen. There were dishes in the sink and pancake syrup on the floor. I remembered the “used-to-be” black tee shirt my husband wore to work.
I was the most un-Grace-ful person in the world. I was a belly button. A stupid, useless, lint hole. I muttered; I picked. I murmured; I picked. I grumbled; I picked up a snake.
SNAKE! I screeched and vaulted over two rows of beets and one of beans. I still had the snake. I whooped. I shook. I jumped on the collards.
“What? What is it?” Grace raced down the row.
I hollered. I yowled. I jumped on the peas. I still held the snake.
“Put it down!”
I hollered. I yowled. Maybe, the snake had me. I yollered. I howled.
“Drop the snake! Shut up and drop the snake!”
I hollered. I yowled. I caught my foot on a pea vine, fell over backwards, and landed rump first in the melon patch. Rump first on a ripe watermelon. THWACK! The melon exploded under the weight of my ample rear end. Seeds, rind, and gooey chunks flew everywhere. Splattering everything…
Including Grace.
Motionless, she stood. Pink watermelon fruit cradled in the curls of her hair. There was one black seed stuck on her forehead, another on her chin.
“Drop the snake.”
There I sat, atop a smashed watermelon in the middle of the victory garden. I looked up at Grace. I looked at the snake. It was still in my hand. I looked at the mess I had made of the peas, the beans, the beets and, especially, the melons. I loosed the snake and watched it slither away in terror.
Motionless, she stood. One seed stuck on her forehead, another on her chin. Motionless. Then, she laughed. And I laughed. And, we laughed and laughed. We were in the middle of the melon patch, two friends laughing. Hands, heads, and belly buttons.
We volunteered to do the garden next year. Grace will provide all efficiency needed to do the job and I’ll bring enough mayhem to make it fun.
I wonder… Do snakes have belly buttons?
