I have a curious and socially debilitating
condition that I have decided to call, "Calendar Dyslexia." For reasons I do not
understand, I have great difficulty in organizing and understanding weeks and
months. I can generally tell you what year it is. I realize, of course, that
knowing the year is no big accomplishment. I only mention it because I want to
claim some level of competency in these matters. But when it comes
to weeks and months, I live in a state of constant confusion.
Once or twice a year I suddenly forget what
month it is. I’ll say to myself, “Is it Spring and we’re moving toward Summer,
or is it Fall and we’re moving toward Christmas?” For a few seconds I have no
idea what part of the year we are in. It’s a very disorienting feeling, let me
tell you.
I don't understand why calendars are so
difficult for me. I’m a reasonably intelligent man. I have no trouble with the
concept of days, weeks, months, and years. If I look at a calendar
I know exactly what I am seeing. Somehow I can say the date or the month, but
not “feel” the date or the month, if that makes any sense. I can know that it is
December 23rd, but not make the connection that Christmas is in two
days. It’s as if connections between dates and events – connections other people
seem to have no trouble with – are not made in my mind.
My mind does make connections;
they're just, well, odd connections. Right now I'm working on a piece for
Christian Century called, "Theology, Xeno, and the Hundred Meter Dash."
The connection between these three things came very easily to my mind. These are
the sort of connections that sometimes come out in my writing. These are also
the sort of connections they say schizophrenics often make.
Now here’s something funny. I am currently in
charge of our church calendar.
I'll wait for a minute until you stop
laughing.
Obviously calendars and organization are not a
high priority at our church. Either that or everyone enjoys watching the
hilarity that inevitable comes when I try to manage things.
Here’s a couple of examples:
In February - of this year I think - Ben
Chappell was stepping down after serving our church as an elder for 13 years. I
love Ben dearly and wanted to recognize his service. So I created a very nice
certificate, which I presented to him at the end of worship one Sunday. I wanted
this certificate to be just right, so I went over it very carefully. I read
every word about ten times.
Amy Main read the certificate out loud during
the presentation because I was afraid I was going to start crying. She had to
stop reading and giggle because it said, “The 5th Sunday of
February,” instead of “February 5th.”
Two things:
First, there can be five Sundays
in February on very rare occasions. It has to be a leap year, and
the first day of February must be Sunday. It’s rare, but not impossible.
Second, even if I had written the
date correctly, I would have been wrong since it was actually February 12th.
I offered to redo the
certificate for Ben, but he said, “No way,
I love it like this. It’s perfect coming from you.”
I thought that was nice of him. My friend
Cynthia says this about my calendar problems: “Most of the time it’s cute. On
rare occasions we want to slap you around a bit, but it’s okay.”
This last weekend I committed one of my more
serious calendar errors. Thank goodness the wedding party was made up of very
kind and forgiving people.
You’re dying to know what happened now,
right?
Some months ago a man called to reserve our
church for a wedding on the Saturday before Easter. No problem. We don’t have a
lot of weddings at our church, and the day was free. I wasn’t asked to do the
wedding or participate in any way. The bride’s father is a chaplain in the navy
and would be performing the ceremony.
Now on Good Friday, we have a rather somber
service in the evening. The church is stripped of all things that bear any sign
of gaiety or rejoicing. The cross above the fireplace mantel is draped in black.
During the service we light candles and read the passion story, the story of the
arrest and crucifixion of Jesus.
Last Thursday – the day before
Good Friday – I was at the church making preparations for our Good Friday
service the very next day. I was going over my notes and preparing
the manuscript from which I would read the story. The bride’s father dropped by
to pick up a key. I stopped what I was doing to talk with him. I was friendly
and accommodating. I answered his questions with a smile.
“Of course you may come Friday
afternoon to decorate the church with pretty white lace, Easter lilies, and all
manner of beautiful wedding regalia in preparation for your wedding Saturday. Of
course. Make yourselves at home."
Of course, because we are a kind and gentle
little church. We love to be helpful. We'll give you a key to our building and
let you have the run of the place.
“No problem!" I said with a smile.
"Friday afternoon and evening, the church is all yours. You’ll have to
excuse me now, I need to get back to work on my Good Friday stuff.”
They left and I cheerfully went back to getting
ready for Good Friday. I was so happy. I like being the pastor of a nice little
church.
The point is, my weird brain NEVER MADE THE
CONNECTION. I like the idea of a Good Friday service and was very engrossed in
preparing for it. I also like the idea of letting these good people decorate the
church the Friday before their wedding. I like these ideas so much that my brain
treats them as wholly separate subjects, each possessing goodness and neither
encroaching on the other. The fact that these completely incompatible events were
now scheduled for the same time and place didn't seem to register in my brain.
It was not important enough to draw my attention.
On Friday,
Michael Main was mowing the grass at the
church when the wedding party arrived, opened the door with a key, and began
decorating. Michael immediately saw the conflict and told them there must be
some mistake.
"You can't decorate the church, because we
strip it bare for the Good Friday service this evening."
The family was confused, of course. After all,
the pastor himself gave the okay. Now a guy pushing a lawnmower was saying that
the pastor was wrong. They were understandably doubtful and bewildered. This was
something of a crisis for them, as you can imagine.
Michael called me. I panicked and felt like an
idiot. I drove out to the church and apologized all over myself. Luckily the
family was very nice, and they didn’t mind decorating early Saturday morning
instead. So it wasn’t absolutely terrible or anything.
Michael told the story to a couple of our
friends at church, so by Sunday word had gotten around. Just another goofy
Gordon story for the Covenant archives. Just another day in the life of a church
that, for some reason, still lets me be in charge of the calendar.
Just between you and me, I think they’re
enjoying this.
rlp
