why me?

So...let me tell you about yesterday...

Yesterday was Pentecost Sunday, also Confirmation Sunday at Hope Lutheran Church, where I serve as the Vicar. For those who wonder what confirmation is and why we dedicate a Sunday for it, come to church and find out. (Actually, if you really, really want to know, let me hear about it and I'll dedicate a post to sorting out some things about the Lutheran practice in the Christian tradition).

I was at the church from 7:30 in the morning until almost 1:30 in the afternoon, led both services. Actually, I led the second service; in the first service I stumbled blindly through -- I made more mistakes in worship than I have for like, eight years; it was terrible.

But it went well, nevertheless. I was greatly impressed with our confirmands faith statements (instead of a sermon on Sunday, they instead were asked to write a short message on "What My Christian Faith Means to Me"); but was still somewhat irritable regarding something that had troubled me before. How do you write a statement about that topic -- what your Christian faith means to you -- without once mentioning the name of Jesus Christ? Boggles my mind.

Like I said, I was really impressed with the statements. Afterwards, we got treated to brunch by the family of one of the confirmands (thanks Lynn!) at a fabulous restaurant. I mean, even Boy2 was suitably impressed enough that he only threw four watermelon rinds and part of a waffle on the floor. This is like, a five-star Michelin rating, people!

Soon enough we were on our way back home. It was good to get out of the clericals and into some shorts, and then we went outside to spend some time in the backyard.

At this point in time I need to explain something. We live in one side of a duplex that's been subdivided up-and-down again. There is a shared entryway to which both us and family downstairs have keys, and then the inner doors to our suites have keyed locks again.

We were outside without our keys. After all, all the doors were open.

Then the family downstairs came outside, grumbling about being late for a dinner, and took off. A couple of minutes later I decided it was time to go inside and nap on the couch, lest I be exposed to a great deal of sun and end up looking like a Christmas ham.

I grabbed the doorhandle, and promptly committed several venal and numerous mortal sins. I used language that, in fact, I thought I'd forgotten.

They'd locked the door when they left. And we were outside, the co-Director and I, with both boys and no cellphone, no keys, no wallets.

Not the way I like to spend my Sunday afternoon. I'm also going to add at this point that our windows -- bedroom, kitchen, etc. -- are all 10 or 12 feet off the ground. Our balcony railing is also about 10 feet off the ground.

Do you see where this is going?

I managed, with the help of a nearby recycling bin, to haul myself up onto the balcony and tried to get in to the house through the patio door, which the co-Director had assured me was unlocked.

She lied to me, people. Locked up tighter than....than...well, than a locked patio door.

So decided to ask our neighbours, who share our landlord. They, however, weren't home. Here is where some skills I've acquired through the years started to percolate. You see, if you have a house, I can get into it. I won't say, "break into it" because that would assume those skills were developed by dishonest means, but no, they were just gotten out of necessity. I have managed to have to get into every house I've ever lived in without keys. Every time, except once (when I locked myself out of the house immediately after getting my acceptance letter from Harvard), it has not been my fault. I have, however, been able to gain access to the residence through a window, a door, or something at least.

This, however, was going to be a challenge. I am, after a year of sitting at a desk, in much, much, worse shape than I have been in the past when called upon to exercise those skills.

The door was not an option -- no tools to get the weatherstripping off so I could access the tongue of the deadbolt lock. That left the windows. Remember I told you they were 12 feet off the ground?

Cue the handy recycling bin, again. I now know it's weight-rated for over 250 pounds, because I was standing on it.

Getting the screen out of our bedroom window.

At this point, I must also point out that in a departure from tradition, I wasn't wearing any shoes. I always, always, wear shoes outside. I have no idea why I hadn't put any on before going outside. I paid the price for that.

Because the siding on our house is pebbelate -- like stucco, but with thousands of diamond-sharp little pebbles impeded in the concreted siding. After getting the screen out, I jumped, hauled myself up through the window (bent at a 90-degree angle because the window itself is only 30 inches tall -- and I'm six feet -- you do the math) and -- because if you recall what I said about being in worse shape -- scrabbling with my feet for purchase.

But I got inside. However, the bookshelf under our window will never be the same again. But I got the door unlocked.

And then sat down to soak my poor feet. They are now wrapped under, at last count, 11 bandaids to keep them together.

So, brothers and sisters, the moral of the story is this:

I'm going to win the damn lottery, and buy my own damn house!