I had to work at Cold Stone today (note the video of the Cinnamon Challenge on BookFace- it might really be the best thing I've done while working at that store; that and the fact that I caught and ice cream and threw and ice cream and didn't fail [!] today) so I was driving myself to church, which means not waking up at 7:30 to leave at 8... 15 to go with my mother but rather that I could leave whenever I wanted to. I could leave at 9:45, like I intended, to be at church in time for Sunday School, or I could leave at 10:15, like my second plan was, to be able to be down at church in time to learn the anthem to sing in the choir, or I could leave, last ditch effort, at 10:45 and be at church in time for the 11 o'clock service. Sleep is powerful. I left around 10:52, wearing my new purchase and a pair of brown flip flops that I picked out specifically to wear to church.
Ironic, you might say, if you knew me, because then you would know that I don't wear shoes at church. The story behind the lack of shoes in my church life is this: I live in the choir loft. One of the top ten weirdest feelings in my world is when I sit out in the congregation at my home church. I mostly sit back and think, "Oh! So that's what the choir loft looks like from the other side. Huh." So, naturally, I adapted to life in the choir loft. Most of my church shoes in high school were heel-ish things that made little clonking noises when I walked. I spent a lot of time walking from where the brass players sat up two rows to where I stood to sing. It is not, in my opinion, good manners to be clonking all over the place during prayers or when a pastor is talking, so I'd take off my shoes in the choir loft so I could pretend to be a ninja... in a white, flowy yet constricting choir robe... when I walked from place to place. One Christmas-y service, I'm sitting with my french horn in my lap and there's an awkward pause in the service. It's a service of lessons and carols and the awkward pause is not because we're supposed to be singing a carol, because I have a list in front of me and I'm playing on the next one so we are definitely not starting it yet. So Ron looks down and hands me a piece of paper and says, "Will you read this?" and I take it and say sure and he says, "Now?" The reader for the lesson had mixed up the service times and wasn't there to read the lesson. So, in my choir robe and without shoes, I walked up to the pulpit and read the lesson and walked back and played my french horn. Apparently feet are very visible in that space in between the choir loft and the pulpit. And so a legend was born.
I brought my shoes to wear to sit in the congregation this morning because everyone else in the congregation would have them on and I'd be walking in late and blah blah blah. I left them in the car. Explanation? None. I then snuck into the service late and realized it was a communion service, but (tragic organ chord) it was too late. I became engrossed in the hymn and the sermon and then it's too late to retrieve the shoes because it's communion time. It was the offering that did it- they moved the offering up before everything and I got confused and then I was stuck in the service. So I walked up to get communion barefoot, which isn't that bad- people don't point out your feet if you look up and act like you've got shoes on like everyone else- and I make it back to my seat without criticism. I dunno why I'm always nervous about being barefoot in the congregation. I guess I think they know what's up in the world of propriety and that the choir members love me enough to ignore it, but I'm always iffy about the congregation.
I intended to sneak out of the service as well, because, due to my oversleep and then that long story that kept me up later than was necessary, I wasn't in a super talkative mood. We have a new associate pastor and she was at the back shaking hands on the way out. I felt bad, because I got out of wearing a name tag because I was late. Well, no, I didn't feel bad because I got out of wearing a name tag- I hate those. I felt bad because now the new associate pastor won't know my name. But I smile and she shakes my hand and then points to my feet and says, "Barefoot. That's the best way to go to church. I used to go barefoot all the time until my mother yelled at me from the choir to put my shoes on." And I smile and say something like "Sweet!" or "Awesome!" or "Good call!" because those are my approving exclamations and walk away to the nursery to say hey to my mother (who stopped fighting the where-are-your-shoes battle long ago [PS she doesn't wear them either]) and then abscond some animal crackers before speeding away to my current place of employment.
See, but the point is, the new associate pastor will now know me as The Girl Without Shoes. I fully intend to take advantage of this. She doesn't think I'm going to be a teacher, so I'm not going to leave a conversation with her convinced I'm going to be a teacher. She doesn't think I'm going to be a pastor, so I'm less likely than usual to leave a conversation with her thinking I'm going to be a pastor. She doesn't read what I write, so she won't make me feel like I could really do this writing thing. She hasn't known me since high school, so she has no preconceptions about astrophysics (PPS- I bought a particle physics book and am super excited about it! Because me and physics is like that Jackson 5 song- "When I had you to myself, I didn't want you around..."). She doesn't know that I'm going to be a senior in the fall, that I really need to get on this decision-making thing, no matter how much I want to ignore it. She doesn't know that her comment and the sky tonight have swayed me back in one direction. She just knows that I appreciate bare feet on holy ground.
I think she knows the most important thing about me.
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