Playing Tag

“Mom! You’re such a little rebel!” My son, a man now in his early thirties, showed surprise and delight at the story I had just shared. At issue was the newly minted mandate, er, strong invitation, that congregation members at our church wear name tags. Personally, I detest those paper badges. They leave sticky residue on whatever I’m wearing, often hang like a rock-climber in trouble off of my boob, and invite social intimacy when it’s not offered.

I get it, I do. The intention is good…the name tags lead to introductions between congregant members who are new or just haven’t gotten around to meeting and greeting one another.  But as an introvert such devices are akin to standing naked in a room full of people thrusting cold outstretched hands at you.  I want to run. I want to hide.

To an extrovert like my husband, name tags are social lubricant. He can shake hands and slap shoulders with the confidence a shaky memory can’t offer…

Scenario: Church “share the peace” time. I start staring at my feet while my husband ranges out and around the room. He sees a likely soul. Slyly reading name tag as he approaches man …

“Bill! You old so and so. How’ve you been?” Then, when he returns to me, he whispers, “I always thought his name was Wendell. Huh.”

Yeah, that seems authentic and meaningful.

In my rebellion I’ve gotten so I either slide by the tag table while pretending to dig breath mints out of my purse, or I write something nonsensical on the tag like, “Tad’s wench,” or, “Sex cougar in training,” or other labels sure to make a Lutheran uncomfortable.

Once, in a bold move, I actually said, “No thank you,” when the woman waggled a tag in my face. She turned a slight shade of pink, continued to waggle, and said, “But you’re supposed to take one!” I held up both of my hands and shook my head. She was stunned and I felt wicked. Deliciously, anonymously, wicked.

My son, a person who shares the much misaligned path of the alone-loving introvert, says my actions are creating the very thing I don’t want…attention. He’s right, but in a world that loves extroverts, I feel a tiny victory when I stay true to my personality.

I’ve got to believe there is room in heaven for introverts too, even if we’re outnumbered down here on earth. Maybe God has a large wall all of us quiet folk can lean against while watching the extroverts dancing and milling and exchanging phone numbers. We’d be happy, they’d be happy, and isn’t that what heaven is all about? Finding a peace that surpasses all understanding?

Geez, it just occurred to me…do the newbies in heaven have to wear name tags? No, no,  that would be hell.