oil on skin

This morning I got to my office more than an hour early so a nice Goodwill man could pick up old computer equipment that weighed a ton and haul it off in his sky-high truck. I decided to spend some of my time before opening the office on the phone with a Tracfone tech person, because my Tracfone didn't automatically update its minutes like it's supposed to each month.

Forty minutes later, the Tracfone lady who clearly understands a limited number of English phrases and I were still trying to correct the problem. I repeated a third time to her that I had to go now and start work, and she said, "Oh, I see," and went through the hours they're available and what number to call back and then corrected herself on how many days a week they're open.

I considered huffing and giving her a taste of America -- I don't deserve this treatment, you less-than-capable foreigner.

I would love to tell you I refrained because I've been in a joyful space lately inside my soul.

Frankly, I knew simply following the Tracfone lady's script along with her would get us done quicker.

Sometimes lately, though, the space inside this me has carried a reminder of a lighter, truer knowing than the too-often sense that I am right, I am deserving, misunderstood, or superior.

Pride and I can be such buddies.

The other day there happened a moment -- stepping forward like I did at age seven when I stood in front of Daddy and he asked, softly and tenderly, Do you believe, with all your heart? -- and it was somehow the right move to make over again, this time with oil dabbled on forehead, eyebrows, ears, feet, and hands, palms up and then palms down.

Yes, Daddy, I believe.

Today, in light of the coming reminder of the one anointed by spirit and truth who took the punishment I deserve, in a humble office on the phone to across the globe, it's not important that I don't get what I might be entitled to from the Tracfone lady.