Assignments

           I love my Daddy.  He's such a good dad!  Also, he's so good at understanding me... most of the time.  After all, he has had 28 years to get used to me and he can read me pretty well.  Earlier this week, he was asking me to do something (giving me an assignment more or less) and honestly, it was more than I can handle right now. I hate to admit it-- honestly, it's humbling to have to admit that there is anything that is beyond my capacity to handle, let alone something as simple as he was asking me to do.  That this simple task was beyond me... that was humbling.

           The tears were streaming down my face and the sobs were coming in hiccups; in short the ugly cry had made an appearance over something that seemed so innocuous.  I cannot even begin to describe how frustrating it is to be unable to function at your highest capacity  and KNOW that you are not functioning even close to your best self.  It is as though I know something is wrong, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I could not for the life of me even begin to tell you what it would take to get me back to normal.
 
         Thankfully, Dad saw that I was clearly in melt-down mode and began to deal more gently with me.  But he is not one to sit back and let me shrivel up, have constant melt-downs, or sink into an obliterating depression.  This is not what a good daddy would do-- no, he challenges me, in small bites, in baby steps; not unlike what my Heavenly Father does. Hmm, an interesting parallel.

           As he was returning from appointments this morning, Dad called just checking in on me, getting a feel for my physical and emotional state.  After he had determined that my pain was in check but my melancholy and boredom were perhaps getting out of hand, he simply doled out a challenge, not an assignment really, but a brain-buster kind of challenge that he knew I couldn't resist.  "Take the word 'bored', Rebecca, and see how many words you can make from it.  Or, make a poem or a limerick or something and write about being bored," he dared. My on sophomoric wisdom can see that he was teasing me, calling my bluff, like I would have done to any of my own students; but he also knows me so well, and knows that I could never pass up a challenge like that, not in a million years.

      And so.... I found myself occupied and even laughing just a little bit as I composed.  I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the process of composing a formulaic piece; it's like a puzzle.  Oh, how I do love a good puzzle.  Thanks, Pop.

For your reading pleasure

Bored:
I heard of this Lit.professor so bored,
Forced to write anagrams by her landlord,
She dreamed of her lattes,
And summer-time nosegays,
While waiting for Frankenstein's leg to be cured.