I may have put too much pressure on myself by creating a cute writing space out here in my backyard.
Nature provided the perfect weather, moderate temps and blue sky.
I have moved the patio table to the end of the pool and erected a beach umbrella found in the garage to provide shade.
The pool aerator provides a fountain's white noise.
Wind chimes move periodically in the cool breeze.
Austin is quiet in the house. I can hear him on the baby monitor, mmm, mmm, mmm, as he talks to Dora.
The occasional clunk, clunk, clunk sound of scooters on the sidewalk next to my backyard wall as kids voices rise, then fall.
The chatter of birds, a theme song in the background.
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Texas. I need to write about my trip through Texas. I WILL write about my trip through Texas.
But where to start? There is so much in my head. The memories of childhood. Friends. Church. The Bible belt. Growing up Southern Baptist. My "salvation" story.
Well let's start there.
I was six years old. And the honest truth that I have only recently admitted to myself and perhaps one other person is that I became "saved" because of a boy. A boy a year older than me sitting with his family in the chairs in front of my family. (No pews when your church meets in a gymnasium.)
As I said, I was only six years old, yet my heart fluttered in my chest for this boy (well, many boys, as you will see). He had dark hair, mischievous eyes, and a mocking smile. I felt a thrill and lucky if my parents unwittingly chose church seats near him. Especially behind him. I could watch him for the entire service and daydream of him noticing me someday. This is what shy, introverted girls do. I think. I hope. Perhaps just me.
I can't remember a time that I was not aware of boys, cute boys, mean boys, naughty boys. Didn't matter. I was aware even as early as Sunday preschool and kindergarten at the tiny Christian private school.
I don't remember a time when I did not notice, like, or "have a crush" on boys. And I still remember names. (I doubt boys are reading this, but if you are wondering if you were one of those boys? Yes. You probably were.)
I knew I was what they called "boy crazy". I remember this custom where other kids and even adults would pinch the back of a girl's neck, and if she flinched by raising her shoulders, a natural reaction because it tickled, they would tease her and say "Ohhh, you're boy crazy!"
My grandpa was relentless with this "game."
I hated this ritual. I hated that my body instinctively reacted to the tickle. I hated I had a tell. Now everyone would know. I remember trying to condition myself not to react if someone touched the back of my neck. I didn't want anyone to know this shameful secret.
That Sunday night during the "alter call", this boy sitting in front of me "walked the aisle" to "accept Jesus into his heart" (according to kid language) or "profess his faith" (according to adults), first to the preacher or deacon, and then in turn it was announced to the church.
He was now "saved".
What? I'm being left behind! My crush has been spiritually transformed. He's been "called". He has leveled up into a different club!
As a six year old in a Southern Baptist church, I knew all the steps. I knew someday I would be expected to "walk the aisle" and "get saved", and now someone close to my age, and one of my adorations, was actually doing it.
So I would do it too!
That night before bed, I told my parents I wanted to "ask Jesus into my heart."
Of course, they were probably thrilled. It's a testament to good Southern Baptist parenting for your kid to do this at as early an age as possible. It means you have done your job right. You are a good Christian parent. You have indoctrinated your child! Congratulations. (This is a very simplified joke. Everything a six year old knows is basically “indoctrination”. Which is fine. We all have to start from somewhere.)
I, on the other hand, was just happy I was going to get to "walk the aisle" the next Sunday night. Get some attention. Happy to join the exclusive Jesus club with my boy crush.
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Loud music from a neighbor's speakers abruptly interrupt my thoughts.
My attention is drawn back to the present. I gaze at the honey bees flitting from purple sage flower to purple sage flower.
The music sounds instrumental at the moment. It's got a jazzy Latin or Spanish rhythm. I like it. I feel like I'm at an outdoor bistro somewhere fun and carefree.
I hear Austin beginning to fuss through the monitor...I go to check...he didn't hit his help button this time, but he did need help. His show was stuck and the play triangle needed to be touched to advance it to the next show.
I remind him of his help button. We practice hitting it together a couple of times. Help! Help! He smiles.
Then I help him make a fist.
I accidentally figured out the other day when trying to help him use a finger to touch the triangular play button on the iPad screen that his fist worked, too. He had randomly made a quick fist and his brain caused him to spastically punch out at the screen near the triangle. The video began to play.
What joy! If he can control the iPad with a fist punch instead of a finger touch, so be it. It was a lovely discovery to find another option that might be easier for him. And me.
So I help him make a fist and support his elbow as I guide his fist towards the triangle button. Punch! The next video begins to play.
You did it! I exclaim in my sing-song high-pitched, most encouraging voice. You did it all by yourself! (Well, sort of, I think to myself.)
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I'm a signs person. I'm not necessarily looking for signs, but I try to pay attention to things that cross my path that I was not necessarily expecting to find. A book suggestion. An aunt calling out of the blue. Seeing repetitive numbers.
I was knee deep in those thoughts about my 6 year old self when these distractions occurred. Did they interrupt me for a reason? Should I return to the story? Is this a sign I should stop sharing the story?
The night I was "saved" also happened to be my mom's birthday. She never let me forget we shared birthdays, her actual birthday and what they called my "spiritual birthday." I liked it and always thought it was a pretty cool coincidence. Killed two birds with one stone as they say.
Perhaps, you're thinking, this is when I should log off and take all this to a therapist. Perhaps you are right.
However, I shan't. I shall continue to "work out my salvation" (as a good friend described what she thinks I'm doing) right here in public. For now.
The music has lyrics now. I think it’s Spanish. I wonder if its a quinceanera or, maybe a wedding celebration.
I imagine myself walking down the street and crashing the party. I imagine getting Austin into his wheel chair and walking down the street and crashing the party.
Yeah. I will stay put in my backyard. And drink a glass of wine maybe. I think this bistro needs to serve wine.
