Lament

No true, red-blooded Calvinist could ever be guilty of sloth, or laziness, one of the highly respected seven deadlies. Good night, if Max Weber is to be believed, we gifted this culture with capitalism, after all, because to us hard work is, without a doubt, something of a heavenly virtue, and I'm no exception.

But industry is like piety, in a way--you can never quite do enough or be enough. There's always more work lurking right around the corner, always more that could be done. The Bible says "pray without ceasing," after all. We could all be better Christians, harder workers, more passionate, more productive. Go on, take up your calling, take up your bed and walk, get out there, grab those bootstraps and get the job done, get off your butt. As that sage, secular Calvinist, Ben Franklin, used to say, "Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."

My clock, right now, says 4:55 a.m. Just call me a Calvinist.

It's one thing not to operate on "Indian time" here (with malice toward none of my Native brothers and sisters), but the fact is, our kitchen clock is actually set five minutes fast because, Lord knows, we can't be late.

Here's the rub: sometimes, just sometimes, it just gets to be too much. Yesterday was one of those days--too much to do and way, way, way too much that wouldn't get done. There wasn't enough time in the day for all the work that had to be done, and the Lord knows I can't--I won't--operate at anything less than maximum output. I'm a Calvinist, after all. Failure is not an option.

Sometimes I think I could use a good healthy shot of sloth. Maybe two. Maybe four or five, in fact, leaning over a bar. I bet the Lord wouldn't mind.

When it really gets bad, my heart rises like a bloody balloon in my chest and beats out a rhythm so heavy that I can feel it in my throat, as if I'm going to burst. Yesterday, on top of everything else, I could not--for the life of me--find my textbook. Drove me just about over the edge, in fact. Night class last night--got to give the students' their money's worth; but I had absolutely no idea where I'd find my text for this morning's 9:00 class. Wit's end, I'm convinced, features a breathtaking cliff. There I stood, panting. Seriously.

Then the book showed up, class went fine, and now it's the morning after.

I'm up early. Got to prepare.

The thing is, I've got a friend whose wife needs an organ transplant, but her heart's in no condition to sustain that traumatic level of surgery. He's been at her bedside for months, miles from here, miles from home, awaiting someone else's liver, a gift that's no longer coming. He's an old friend, not one I see all that often, a real presence in any room, big personality, a hearty sense of life and living, a man who at 60 years old, bought himself a Harley for his birthday. Barring a miracle, he's going to lose his wife of almost 40 years.

In my office at school, I deliberately put up a photo, an 8 x 10, of some wild flower in sunlight, along with a line that you'd have to look closely to see, but a line I know is there. "Consider. . .," it says. Meaning the lilies. Months ago, I stuck it up there deliberately, a reminder, even an admonition, an actual command from Jesus the Lord.

But I haven't seen for a while. I'm too busy. Isn't that sin deadly too?