Edubabble and other Blither

It was a very nice breakfast, the meal I shared with the missionaries. I stopped at a local bakery and picked up cinnamon piestix (devilishly good!) and arrived promptly at 9 am. The compound was a lovely farm situated on the outskirts of town; a breathtaking view awaited outside every window.

I shared the meal in the sunroom with Mr. and Mrs. Missionary, Sis Jane Missionary, Grandpa Missionary, and Student Kayla Missionary. An old dog, a boxer named Baby, napped and snored in front of one of the outside doors, after greeting me and making sure I liked him. I did. The Missionaries served savory quiche, coffecake, and a cranberry-cherry jelly or compote of some sort, delicious. The conversation was quick, witty, pleasant, and varied: funny stories about childhood, the time I kept calling the wrong South American number trying to talk to my aunt when she first ventured into the mission field, favorite teachers, and the antics of MK's. Their son, not present, would probably get along great with my aunt and uncle's middle son, who is said to have enjoyed reading The Anarchist's Cookbook and setting things on fire during his youth.

The Missionaries have quite a different purpose in their ministry than my aunt's family does, it seems. They've built churches, sent deaf-mute children to school, and cooked (without electricity or running water) for dozens of people after traveling long distances to barter at the grocery store, which may or may not have had much that they needed.

Whatever I may have feared yesterday after my conversation with the Mrs., they were happy to have me in their home, and Kayla appears to be a happy, well-adjusted, perhaps a bit rebellious teenager. I still believe that if she said she was molestated on the trip, she probably was, but I must admit that there could indeed be something to the theory that she just doesn't want to go on these trips anymore, and I certainly can understand that.

It came up a few times during breakfast. Jane was sharing a story about traveling, and I remarked that MK's were certainly well-traveled, relating my own cousins' varied excursions. "See, Kayla," Mr. Missionary said, "That's a good thing!" Kayla sighed, and vaguely rolled her eyes.

"My cousins did travel," I explained, "but since their missions term was for four years, they were able to attend just one school all the time except for one year out of five when they were on furlough."

"See, Dad, that's what I want."

The theme of how about you do what you want and I do what I want came up again when I asked Kayla what she had scheduled next year at the high school. Besides Spanish, she had taken weight lifting, looking forward to training for next year's soccer and volleyball seasons. Mr. Missionary good-naturedly chastised her choice, dismissing weight lifting as repetitious and unstimulating.

Mr. Missionary is a good-looking older man, a cross between Dubya and Hugh Heffner-- yes, I do think George W. Bush is a good-looking man. He's intelligent and friendly and annoys his children, as do all parents, at least in my experience. When Jane said that she and her brother were vociferous readers, Mr. M. interjected. "You mean voracious."

"Yeah, that, too, Dad," Jane conceded.

"Ask her." Mr. Missionary jerked his head toward me.

"Oh, I'm not in this," I smiled.

"You can only read vociferously if you're reading aloud," he finished.

The only slightly uncomfortable moment for me came when Mrs. Missionary asked me if I found it hard to be a Christian in today's schools. "No, I really don't," I said. "Our district is pretty conservative." Thankfully the conversation took another course.

No matter how much I expound on my newfound don't-give-a-shit-about-what-others-want-or-expect-from-me, after I said my goodbyes to all and left, arms laden with delectable leftovers, I spent the day wondering and worrying if I took advantage of their hospitality. If I was dishonest. If I was a hypocrite to them and to myself. Should I have declined the invitation, saying something like, "Although your offer is very kind, Mr. and Mrs. Missionary, I must warn you that you don't want me in your house, being a pro-choice liberal Democrat who is in favor of gay marriage. I broke away from organized religion a long time ago and still haven't found way to reconcile with evangelism." We'll see. Jane may friend me on Facebook.

I liked Jane. Like her still. I don't think we'll be close girlfriends, due to location, age, and philosophy, but I think that she. . . is me. She's what I would have been had I gone to a Christian college. She's what I would have been, perhaps, if my parents had stayed together. It could have happened that my dad asked forgiveness for the affair, re-accepted Christ as his Saviour. It could have happened that I simply experimented with the party scene a bit, then moved home to Rust Belt Town after graduation, and married a boy from my church.

It didn't happen, though. There's no point in regretting how things have turned out for me because nothing can be done about it, and I don't regret it. It was interesting, though, to sit at that table this morning between Jane and Kayla Missionary. At one time I had been like Jane, but now I identify more with Kayla, both of us wondering how to reconcile others' beliefs with own without making too many enemies, how to fly under the religious radar.