This morning, not quite done with reunion cuddling, I slipped back into bed after wiping counters, washing the frying pan that produced the eggplant parmesan waiting for me when I arrived home last night, fetching the papers from the curb (and smiling, smiling! at the cars zooming by, which shows how deeply refreshed I am). I told my sleepy husband I had just been engaged in what Anne Lamott calls the sacrament of puttering.
“Small ‘s’ or big ‘S’ sacrament?” he asked, in a priestly way. With a smile. Just to check. We laughed because he is so solid and I am so flakey that together we would make a kind of perfect dessert in some alternative bakery somewhere. I’m guessing there are theologians around the world (if they read Anne Lamott, which likely they don’t) who might like to haul their irons out and get rid of some wrinkles in her theology. Or maybe it’s her politics that gets knickers knotted.
Regardless, I love her. And she made me gush, then giggle. Because after her keynote at the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids on Friday night, I lined up with my friends to have her sign books. “You are the writer who has impacted me most out of anyone,” I gushed, gushed! my eyes filling with idol tears. “As a writer,” I added unnecessarily but, oh, how I wanted her to know that I was a writer.
She graciously smiled and said, “Oh, thank you.” Then, my friend motioned for me to squeeze in closer for the clandestine photo she was snapping with her iPhone. I shuffled forward in a clown-like fashion and said, for no good reason, “I’m going to end up on your lap.” Then I erupted in giggling, for there is really no other word for it. I don’t care though. And I don’t think she did either.
She is one of the writers out there who writes great stuff really well. I admire her for what she says and how she says it. She inspires me to live better and to write better. I don’t love her work because she is so broken. I love her work because we all are.