I think Jesus did less miracles when it was humid.

“Seriously guys, can we suffer the little children to get out of my personal space box for a minute? And can we get a fan in here?”

I forgot to post this photo from the event I attended with my youth last weekend. It’s the princess bed I found my amused, greasy self retiring to each evening. The girl that owned the bed was wonderfully gracious about not facepalming my occupation of her quarters.

I went to grab a milkshake with one of my youth last night. He wasn’t around last week when I’d let the church know what I was up to for Lent, and asked what I’d given up/added (he’s abandoned social media). I explained briefly and he asked, “How’s that going?” I said it was inconvenient, but overall not so bad so far.

On the way home, I realized that it had only been 7 days out of 46 and it feels like I’ve been doing it for a month.

Today was a test. Wednesday mornings are mine; I don’t go to the church til lunch because I’m there until around 9pm. Wednesday AM is either usually either a haven of rest or a catchup for writing projects. Today was the latter; I spent the morning trying to shave a challenging new assignment down within a specified word count. As I worked, I realized something unfortunate: today’s superpower was going to be humidity. And I stood without a defense against its assault. Ugh.

I did think about Jesus a lot today. Partly because the writing project I’m on has me pouring the formation of the gospels through a sieve. Partly because I really think humidity had to affect the spirit of ministry amongst Jesus and his closest disciples. “So Jesus, you’re telling me that 5,000 people came out to the countryside today thinking there might be a potluck?”

I had forgotten (until tonight) the physical energy spent while leading worship. It’s sweaty work. I’m not sure if it’s the responsibility or nervousness, but I sweat when I lead worship. Not a ton, but any, which is a considerable amount at the moment.

This is all a little disjointed. But today was a day of realizations:

My mood is going to suffer. Sorry, my own children.

I shaved what had been long sideburns when I moved here 4.5 years ago because the stress of the move instantly turned them (and my beard) grey. So without the ability to shave I’m going to move from looking faintly disheveled to generally old. (Waves youth minister flag of failure)

I may never wash my pants. This is more of a time thing than anything else. Everything but my pants (including my person) is in some progressive state of awful. When do you make time for pants?

I don’t know if I’m going to get to care about my hair. There’s a time consideration here as well as the realization that if I do wash my hair it will be to limited effect; if I use hand soap, the result will surely be horrible–and if I don’t and just use water, roughly the same. I suspect that will be the journey of the next few days.

Last night (trying to make sure I wasn’t just going to lose my hair) I came upon the story of a woman in England who limited herself to 3 outfits while not bathing in any form nor brushing her teeth (for 40 days, ironically; not during Lent). She did it just to see what it would be like to separate herself from beauty products.

What a relief to draw closer to God through this.

Peace,
K

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