A Bilbo Moment

One Sunday morning as I was preparing dinner for friends who were planning to join us after church, I glanced at the clock and suddenly realized that in 15 minutes I was expected pray in the worship service. We live 15 minutes away from the church, so my over-active sympathetic nervous system, the one that most of the time thinks we're all going to die, reacted so audibly that Paul, in another part of the house, wondered if he should come running* or just dial 911. At the same moment, another saner, more reasonable and hopeful system told me to shut up and get moving. Without checking the mirror or changing my shoes, I grabbed my purse, teleported to the car and blasted from the driveway without explanation or goodbye to Paul.

As a ministry staff member, I'd driven to the church every day for over 11 years and knew how many seconds from our street to the first turn, the real-time distance from the Giant Shopping Center to the Lisburn exit, and the time it took to pass through three maddening traffic lights to the back entrance of our church. Hope and despair wrestled each other as I drove and silently voiced an Anne Lamott prayer: "Please, please, please, please, please."

All went well until, at the very last turn, I got caught behind an obviously and uncommonly good citizen whose goal in life, at least that Sunday morning at 8:55 AM, seemed to me was to drive 10 miles below the speed limit. That's when I began praying another Anne Lamott prayer aloud; "Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me!" Resisting the temptation to cross the yellow line, I followed that car, turtle-speed and bumper-bound, all the way to the church parking lot. When the opportunity finally came to wrest free, I slipped into the nearest parking space, exited and sprinted across the lawn, weaving my frantic self between individuals, also late but evidently not expected to to do anything public.

Upon reaching the auditorium I discovered that I was actually one minute early and, stopping so abruptly that I nearly fell forward and then over-calmly walked in, sweaty and brimming with unspent adrenaline. Finding my seat, I sat drummed by my hammering pulse and terrified insides crying, "What the heck was that?!"

Not entirely sure why the responsibility to pray disappeared from my brain that Sunday morning, I've decided to dedicate the frantic moment or series of moments just described to Bilbo Baggins, a beloved hobbit who awoke late one morning and "ran from Bag End without any handkerchiefs."** Running crazy to an event was evidently rare for Bilbo, a homebody who daily enjoyed more than one breakfast and whose foiled plan it was to stay very close to home and comfort. Unfortunately, this kind of zero to 100 mph is not so rare for me. Though I've pursued the contemplative life for many years, I have to admit that I must be one lousy contemplative--more out of place in quiet spaces than Maria in Sound of Music is in the abby. Tearing up Route 15 on the way to prayer and wishing someone else in the road would be in more a hurry is simply not contemplative. Incidentally, the only reason I didn't risk arrest by crossing the yellow line to pass the slowpoke in my way that morning was because I knew when I got up to pray I'd be instantly recognized as a hypocrite and my prayer would fall flat on the floor. I hate to do that to myself and, even more, hate to do that to prayer.

Furthermore, as often as possible I try not to be a hypocrite.

For this reason, I've disclosed here what happened, could have happened and too often happens as well as what didn't happen and why. More important than the prayer I almost didn't pray in the worship service that morning is admitting what is true about myself. Someone somewhere recently remarked that "the path of self-discovery is the mother of ALL adventures"--Bilbo and I both know something about that.

Even though it may feel futile, I still pursue the contemplative life because, of all people I know, that's what I need.

*He did that once: I was frying donuts when the kitchen pretty much caught on fire. Hearing me yell, he came running into the kitchen, straight from bed, in red underpants. Though this could probably be it's own post, he was the one to successfully put the fire out, but not before the curtains were burned off the rod, several cupboard doors were melted and some of the ceiling tiles had fallen to the floor. Pregnant with our first child, I went into labor 5 days later.

**from The Hobbit by JRR Tolkein