Excitement

My Epiphany gift is Excitement.

Explanation: Several years ago, we started what has become a tradition at my church. During the offering on Epiphany Sunday, the ushers not only collect our gifts, they also hand out stars--simple stars cut out of construction paper by the members of the Mission-and-Peacemaking Committee on a chili-and-beer-filled evening the week before. [Note to those of you outside the Christian liturgical tradition: Epiphany throughout the Christian world marks the day the Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child. But both the Mission and Peacemaking Committee and the beer-and-chili nights are rather peculiar to my particular church. . .] On each star is written a simple noun naming a "spiritual gift"--things like steadfastness or hospitality or charity or simplicity or generosity or discernment. Each member of the congregation receives a star, and is supposed to spend the next year thinking about, reflecting on, trying to develop, giving thanks for that gift. Most years I receive Patience. I had begun to think it was a plot: that the Peacemaking Committee members and the ushers sat there in the back of the sanctuary and stacked the deck against me, that they huddled in the back pews and cackled at the thought of me with Patience.

This year, tho', I think the Peacemaking folks downed a few too many beers, as the stars bore "spiritual gifts" not found in any version of the New Testament: gifts like "moxie," "introspection," and yes, "excitement." Keith got Creativity. He leaned over during the choir anthem and whispered, "With some creativity, we could generate a lot of excitement"--nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I ignored him. Geez louise. We were sitting in a friggin' pew, for pete's sake.

OK. For marriage, yes, excitement is clearly a good thing. But --a spiritual gift?

Trying not to reject what was given, I decided my star must be a gentle divine smack for my lack of, yes, excitement, at the fact that right now, even as I type, the LSU Tigers are playing The Most Important Game Ever against Alabama. Except that that game was actually last month, so this time around it's The Mostest Importantest Game Ever And We Really Mean It.  The prestigious Catholic boys' schoool in town cancelled classes today and tomorrow morning  "to maintain academic integrity." I kid you not.

In the midst of all this, ahem, excitement, I am, I hasten to assert, not entirely unmoved. I mean, push comes to shove, yeah, I do hope LSU wins. Mostly because I'm a nice person and do not want my husband, sons, and family to be depressed. Also because, in general, I am not fond of anything to do with Alabama, which ranks right up there with Mississippi as a place that Time and Good Sense and Right Thinking passed on by.

But here's the thing, normally on a night featuring yet another LSU Most Importantestest Game Ever For Sure For Sure, I'd send on my guys with a wave and a smile and then I'd smugly and snugly settle into blissful solitude with a good book. This time, however, a dopey paper star bearing "Excitement" inscribed in  Magic Marker tossed me into orbit, launched me into dizzying spirals of anxiety: what'swrongwithme whycan'tI joinin otherpeopledoit justgoalong whyaren'tyou whydon'tyou whyhaven'tyou . . .  And so, despite my utter lack of any real interest, the end result of my Epiphany-wrought neurosis was that I actually did intend to attend the Game Party tonight with Keith. Out of this sense that, well, given the star and all, maybe God was saying hey you dull person, you boring soul, get excited, join in, be a sport, BE SOMEONE ELSE.

And then I came home this afternoon and my heart was racing and I felt like the mere act of breathing took a certain amount of intentionality, if that makes any sense.

It probably doesn't. But neither did not breathing. So I decided to skip The Game. Watch some British tv. Drink some white wine. Watch the rain. Pet the dog. Calm the kitty.

I'm breathing just fine now. I ripped up my star. Damn Excitement anyway. Even Patience seems preferable.