The Outdoor Confessional and Teachers With Unusual Names

Sometimes when I'm running, I pray. People passing probably think I'm a crazy neighborhood lady talking to herself, or possibly that I can't be without my cell phone for my workout and I have a very cool hidden micro headset. I don't say the things I think God wants to hear, either. I say all kinds of stuff. Things I'm happy about, things I'm proud of, maybe even things I'm embarrassed about. And unlike my husband who tunes me out when he's had enough, I'm pretty sure God stays in it for the long haul. It's all very relaxing--not in a scary priest-behind-a-screen sort of way. More like a cool-Dominican-priest-who-smokes-cigars-while-he-chats-at- your-college-dorm-nonjudgmentally sort of way. Two things that I believe before I totally exhaust the four credits of philosophy I took in graduate school: God doesn't hate anyone and He appreciates a good joke.

A totally unrelated blog paragraph, but one definitely worth sharing was my conversation with a six-year-old boy at my husband's softball game. The kid was climbing around on the metal bleachers. I tried to distract him as he climbed to the top, backless one. "What grade are you in?" I asked, willing him to take a couple of steps down to safety.

"Kindergarten." He shook his head at me like I was insane. "Whaddya think?"

I kept going, because it was clear he had spunk, which could make things interesting. "Who is your teacher?"

He took one step down. "Her name is Mrs. Poop." He raised one eyebrow. "She poops her pants."

"Realllly...." I say. "Do they know about her down at your school?"

He took a step back up and ignored me.

Another woman was listening in and smirking.

I shrugged. "She must have tenure," I said.