The OM at work, a very superstitious woman, told me one day that bad things come in threes.
I have no idea or wish to trust in that. I believe in a loving God who offers new days and new glories. He keeps no records of wrongs or bads. Fortune or misfortune aren't handed out like that free cup of coffee you get after you've accrued 10 punches on your coffee card. I'm pretty sure of that.
Even still, bad things happen. And sometimes they happen to good people. And sometimes there's just no rhyme or reason to the way God works out his plans and glories in our lives.
This past weekend, while on my way up to PA farm country for our church's intra-congregational picnic and mini Olympics, I randomly received a call from an old friend. She never calls me, so I found it odd and assumed it was about carpooling/details for another friend's birthday celebrations this week.
Later on, while reviewing my voicemails, I learned that her aunt, an old family friend and the wife of our old pastor from my childhood, had passed away suddenly. The message was drawn out. I could hear in this sister's voice the shock and disillusionment one only hears when misfortune knocks the wind out of you. It sounded as if she didn't really believe what she was saying. Her voice resonated the thoughts running through my mind and heart.
How could this have happened?
Why?
I just don't understand.
Tomorrow we will celebrate this beautiful woman's life at a memorial service. And, we who remain, will remember her and praise our Heavenly Father for blessing us all with a model of humility, self-sacrifice, love, wisdom, service and strength.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
City of Brotherly Love
A couple days ago, while briefly talking with my brother, I learned about a Korean woman who had asked for money while on his usual route for work. In so many words he told me she looked run down and strung out. The telltale signs of an addict written all over her person, on her ragged face, in her stringy hair and cracked nails.
In my ignorance, I exclaimed my shock at hearing she was Korean. Being surrounded by hard-working and often work-addicted, successful, studious and often Christian Korean-Americans, to hear of "one of our own" as a drug addict ripped a hole in my perception. I was saddened and confused. And while I processed the day he (my brother) had had, about smelling the stench of death in the air in some of the neighborhoods he traveled through, I thought about the Korean woman who'd come to my mom, aunt, her employee and myself a lifetime ago.
It was about 10 years ago when she had first stepped into my aunt's grocery to panhandle. She was a timid woman, and the years on the streets had visibly broken her. She wore her pain and her addictions about her like a chain tethering her to an tangible despair. She would frequent my aunt's store and visit with my mother. They would buy her some staples from the local deli/butcher shop and talk with her trying to uncover her story, about how she, a once beautiful woman with cascading black hair, had become this torn, broken, lost soul now before them.
After some time, my mom somehow convinced her to come with them to a shelter downtown. She'd heard about it from a deacon at her church who volunteered there. It was an ordeal. She made excuses, lied, grew angry and defensive, cursed them out and all the while they (my mom, aunt and my aunt's employee) pleaded with her to get in the car. They feared for this fellow Korean sister. They feared for her life.
I'd all but forgotten about this woman until my brother had told me about the woman he'd met. Part of me grew sad, thinking it was the same woman who we'd driven to the shelter years ago. So, in curiosity, I asked my mom if she knew whatever had happened to the woman who'd stumbled onto her store block. With a nonchalant tone that masked a hint of sadness, she told me that the woman had died a few years ago. The deacon at her church had seen her at the shelter off and on throughout the following years, but heard rather recently that she'd died of what I can only assume was an overdose.
Living just outside the center of the action (so to speak) in Center City, I often forget (ignore) the brokenness that surrounds me. I turn a blind eye and heart to the suffering world around me, the world outside of my own that is wailing for relief, pleading for a savior.
Philly is a hard place to live. The contrast in classes, of the haves and the have-nots is evident for those who truly know this "city of brotherly love."
Blocks from the beautiful scenery that surrounds the rivers and the chic Rittenhouse Square area, live the suffering and the broken. Minutes from the gorgeous brownstones and cobblestone streets of Olde City, past the Liberty Bill and the National Constitution Center and a breath away from the up-and-coming areas of Fairmount, Graduate Hospital, Bella Vista, Queen's Village and Northern Liberties, lie the dying and the suffering.
I have heard of children giving into the sexual pressures I'd only witnessed in my teens and college years. Hundreds of child-mothers and the fatherless. Children having children. The blind leading the blind.
I have come across the strung out, the drunk, the lost and, instead of receiving them with Christ's love, I have pushed them away. Growing up in an urban city will do that to you, it'll cause you to grow a thick skin, to become callous. And I wrestle with that more and more these days. I hear Christ's challenge echoing a whisper in the deepest, most hidden parts of my heart, itching it's way to the surface:
Clothe them.
Feed them.
Love them as I have loved you.
Love them as you love Me.
Die for them your brothers.
And still my heart refuses, blinded by myself, crippled in fear, calloused by the status quo and what is considered "acceptable" behavior for the sophisticated urbanite.
As Annie Parson's has prayed, "Lord, distract me from myself."
In my ignorance, I exclaimed my shock at hearing she was Korean. Being surrounded by hard-working and often work-addicted, successful, studious and often Christian Korean-Americans, to hear of "one of our own" as a drug addict ripped a hole in my perception. I was saddened and confused. And while I processed the day he (my brother) had had, about smelling the stench of death in the air in some of the neighborhoods he traveled through, I thought about the Korean woman who'd come to my mom, aunt, her employee and myself a lifetime ago.
It was about 10 years ago when she had first stepped into my aunt's grocery to panhandle. She was a timid woman, and the years on the streets had visibly broken her. She wore her pain and her addictions about her like a chain tethering her to an tangible despair. She would frequent my aunt's store and visit with my mother. They would buy her some staples from the local deli/butcher shop and talk with her trying to uncover her story, about how she, a once beautiful woman with cascading black hair, had become this torn, broken, lost soul now before them.
After some time, my mom somehow convinced her to come with them to a shelter downtown. She'd heard about it from a deacon at her church who volunteered there. It was an ordeal. She made excuses, lied, grew angry and defensive, cursed them out and all the while they (my mom, aunt and my aunt's employee) pleaded with her to get in the car. They feared for this fellow Korean sister. They feared for her life.
I'd all but forgotten about this woman until my brother had told me about the woman he'd met. Part of me grew sad, thinking it was the same woman who we'd driven to the shelter years ago. So, in curiosity, I asked my mom if she knew whatever had happened to the woman who'd stumbled onto her store block. With a nonchalant tone that masked a hint of sadness, she told me that the woman had died a few years ago. The deacon at her church had seen her at the shelter off and on throughout the following years, but heard rather recently that she'd died of what I can only assume was an overdose.
Living just outside the center of the action (so to speak) in Center City, I often forget (ignore) the brokenness that surrounds me. I turn a blind eye and heart to the suffering world around me, the world outside of my own that is wailing for relief, pleading for a savior.
Philly is a hard place to live. The contrast in classes, of the haves and the have-nots is evident for those who truly know this "city of brotherly love."
Blocks from the beautiful scenery that surrounds the rivers and the chic Rittenhouse Square area, live the suffering and the broken. Minutes from the gorgeous brownstones and cobblestone streets of Olde City, past the Liberty Bill and the National Constitution Center and a breath away from the up-and-coming areas of Fairmount, Graduate Hospital, Bella Vista, Queen's Village and Northern Liberties, lie the dying and the suffering.
I have heard of children giving into the sexual pressures I'd only witnessed in my teens and college years. Hundreds of child-mothers and the fatherless. Children having children. The blind leading the blind.
I have come across the strung out, the drunk, the lost and, instead of receiving them with Christ's love, I have pushed them away. Growing up in an urban city will do that to you, it'll cause you to grow a thick skin, to become callous. And I wrestle with that more and more these days. I hear Christ's challenge echoing a whisper in the deepest, most hidden parts of my heart, itching it's way to the surface:
Clothe them.
Feed them.
Love them as I have loved you.
Love them as you love Me.
Die for them your brothers.
And still my heart refuses, blinded by myself, crippled in fear, calloused by the status quo and what is considered "acceptable" behavior for the sophisticated urbanite.
As Annie Parson's has prayed, "Lord, distract me from myself."
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Lazy Bug
So, I had planned on being productive today. Who knew it would require so much energy and preparation? I didn't.
Instead of prepping for the wedding I'm doing in a few months, I wrote a (long) list of possible flowers to use in the bride's "vintage garden" wedding. Instead of hitting the gym to do a few laps in the pool (knee and ankle are currently messed up), I... slept. And, instead of watching Henry Poole is Here, I watched Sliding Doors on the tellie. Again. For the umpteenth time.
Howevah...
I was able to venture out to watch the Olympics tonight with Denise, which was nice. We both think Shawn and Nastia were robbed and that the Russian pole vaulter is hilarious.
Instead of prepping for the wedding I'm doing in a few months, I wrote a (long) list of possible flowers to use in the bride's "vintage garden" wedding. Instead of hitting the gym to do a few laps in the pool (knee and ankle are currently messed up), I... slept. And, instead of watching Henry Poole is Here, I watched Sliding Doors on the tellie. Again. For the umpteenth time.
Howevah...
I was able to venture out to watch the Olympics tonight with Denise, which was nice. We both think Shawn and Nastia were robbed and that the Russian pole vaulter is hilarious.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Ode to Amishland
I've just returned from a beautiful day with my dear Rebs.
We drove with the top down on her jeep, sun smiling on us and the wind in our hair. Nothing but blue skies and the road ahead. We drove all over Lancaster County - through towns with odd names like "Bird in Hand" and "Intercourse", past endless green pastures laden with dairy cows and young colts grazing alongside their mothers, over hills and valleys, and alongside cornfields that perfumed the air with their earthiness. We came across horse-drawn buggies carrying Lancaster County's most popular citizens, the Amish and Mennonite community. We came across oddities only found in Lancaster: a Mennonite woman riding her bicycle, clothed in an ankle-length dress and talking on her cellphone; and many a young Amish man riding about town on retro-scooters.
To conclude the official Rebs' tour of Lancaster, we popped into the downtown area where we shared a PB&J doughnut (soooooo good!), bought biscuits and chocolate at the local English/Irish/Scottish store and had lunch at Prince St. Cafe.
Afterwards, we watched Brideshead Revisited and admired the beautiful Matthew Goode. We sighed. We blushed. We giggled like school girls.
It was a glorious day. I am refreshed and as perky as a sunflower in the midday sun. Happy sleep and dreams are certain tonight.
Thanks, Rebs! Love, love, LOVE you and your beautiful soul!
We drove with the top down on her jeep, sun smiling on us and the wind in our hair. Nothing but blue skies and the road ahead. We drove all over Lancaster County - through towns with odd names like "Bird in Hand" and "Intercourse", past endless green pastures laden with dairy cows and young colts grazing alongside their mothers, over hills and valleys, and alongside cornfields that perfumed the air with their earthiness. We came across horse-drawn buggies carrying Lancaster County's most popular citizens, the Amish and Mennonite community. We came across oddities only found in Lancaster: a Mennonite woman riding her bicycle, clothed in an ankle-length dress and talking on her cellphone; and many a young Amish man riding about town on retro-scooters.
To conclude the official Rebs' tour of Lancaster, we popped into the downtown area where we shared a PB&J doughnut (soooooo good!), bought biscuits and chocolate at the local English/Irish/Scottish store and had lunch at Prince St. Cafe.
Afterwards, we watched Brideshead Revisited and admired the beautiful Matthew Goode. We sighed. We blushed. We giggled like school girls.
It was a glorious day. I am refreshed and as perky as a sunflower in the midday sun. Happy sleep and dreams are certain tonight.
Thanks, Rebs! Love, love, LOVE you and your beautiful soul!
Friday, August 15, 2008
Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker's Man
They say there are 2 kinds of people: Bakers and Cooks. Bakers are meticulous perfectionists who weigh and level their ingredients. They need formulas and recipes to follow. Cooks, on the otherhand, feel their way through their masterpieces. They use their senses and impulses and occasionally use recipes a a vague map to their destination.
I am a cook. Ironically, though I would call myself a perfectionist, I hate measuring and leveling off ingredients. I'm a "pinch here, sprinkle there" type of person.
All this to say that I'm going to a picnic this Sunday after church. The details are still pretty vague, but I can tell you there will be sangria, cheese(?), croquet and maybe a birthday cake for Priscilla... if I can figure out how to do that.
I want to make a banana cake with salted caramel filling and a ganache frosting. In my head it'll look and taste spectacular - gooey caramel and fragrant bananas, luscious silky layers of chocolate dripping like liquid satin down the edges.
Thing is:
I am a cook. Ironically, though I would call myself a perfectionist, I hate measuring and leveling off ingredients. I'm a "pinch here, sprinkle there" type of person.
All this to say that I'm going to a picnic this Sunday after church. The details are still pretty vague, but I can tell you there will be sangria, cheese(?), croquet and maybe a birthday cake for Priscilla... if I can figure out how to do that.
I want to make a banana cake with salted caramel filling and a ganache frosting. In my head it'll look and taste spectacular - gooey caramel and fragrant bananas, luscious silky layers of chocolate dripping like liquid satin down the edges.
Thing is:
- I've never made a cake that didn't come out or a little red or blue box. My closest attempts were a banana nut bread that was surprisingly deleeshush, and red velvet cupcakes from a recipe from Paula Deen, the Butter Queen. (I think I've JUST come off the sugar rush of that one)
- I don't know the first thing about caramels or ganaches.
- I lack any patience to let things rest or cool, which would explain all the flat, bloblike, runny frosting cakes I used to produce for school bake sales.
Big Fish In a Little Pond
I've always loved the water, but, as someone living in an urban city, swimming was a treat saved for holidays and church BBQs at one of the deacons' homes. The best my brother, friends and I could do was to "swim" in our wading pool, a glorified tub constructed of plastic and vinyl, the bottom of which would often tear when we drug it across our concrete porch.
We would splash and see how long each of us could hold our breaths under the water. And, when my brother would run off with his friends, my best friend and I would lounge in the pool, pretending to be lost mermaids stranded on some desert island, or scuba divers in search of lost treasure.
When I was about 13, my mom signed us (my brother and I) up for swimming lessons at the Y. It was her first attempt at assimilating her children into normal "American" extracurricular activities. My brother fit right in with all the other little kids, I, however, was keenly aware of the fact that I was a big fish in a little pond. Literally.
I swam my way up the food chain from Guppy to Minnow to Fish, eventually reaching the pinnacle of the YMCA chain, Dolphin, when I had to take a week off for summer camp. When I returned my previous instructor, a strong woman who resembled Martina Navratilova, had been replaced by a strapping young man. I was in like with him.
It wasn't until he'd come into the picture that I'd become conscious of my body. I always knew I was a little chubby because my family was sure to remind me of that fact on an almost constant basis. But I had never been so self-conscious of the way I appeared in my swimsuit until he came along in all his handsomeness. It was the first time I worried about my thighs being too big or my tummy a little paunchy, of my legs and armpits being freshly shaven or my hair in a perfect ponytail instead of the usual wet mop of octopus-like tendrils. I wanted so badly to impress him, but a week's absence and my nervousness of being underwater and face-up in the pool (I had almost drowned like that the year prior) prevented me from doing so. Instead, while the other (much smaller) kids dove and did their pretend water rescues, ring recoveries, flipturns and butterflies, I clung to the edge of the pool, holding on for dear life. I was traumatized and feeling inferior.
Swimming has lost a bit of its appeal since then. I lost a lot of my stamina (a lot!), and the self-confidence of my youth has been replaced by the self-consciousness that only comes with growing into your own skin.
But, tonight, inspired by Michael Phelps and Dara Torres, I will brave the waters once more. That is, after I buy myself a new pair of goggles and possibly some black spray paint to cover the fishbowl windows that overlook the pool at the gym.
We would splash and see how long each of us could hold our breaths under the water. And, when my brother would run off with his friends, my best friend and I would lounge in the pool, pretending to be lost mermaids stranded on some desert island, or scuba divers in search of lost treasure.
When I was about 13, my mom signed us (my brother and I) up for swimming lessons at the Y. It was her first attempt at assimilating her children into normal "American" extracurricular activities. My brother fit right in with all the other little kids, I, however, was keenly aware of the fact that I was a big fish in a little pond. Literally.
I swam my way up the food chain from Guppy to Minnow to Fish, eventually reaching the pinnacle of the YMCA chain, Dolphin, when I had to take a week off for summer camp. When I returned my previous instructor, a strong woman who resembled Martina Navratilova, had been replaced by a strapping young man. I was in like with him.
It wasn't until he'd come into the picture that I'd become conscious of my body. I always knew I was a little chubby because my family was sure to remind me of that fact on an almost constant basis. But I had never been so self-conscious of the way I appeared in my swimsuit until he came along in all his handsomeness. It was the first time I worried about my thighs being too big or my tummy a little paunchy, of my legs and armpits being freshly shaven or my hair in a perfect ponytail instead of the usual wet mop of octopus-like tendrils. I wanted so badly to impress him, but a week's absence and my nervousness of being underwater and face-up in the pool (I had almost drowned like that the year prior) prevented me from doing so. Instead, while the other (much smaller) kids dove and did their pretend water rescues, ring recoveries, flipturns and butterflies, I clung to the edge of the pool, holding on for dear life. I was traumatized and feeling inferior.
Swimming has lost a bit of its appeal since then. I lost a lot of my stamina (a lot!), and the self-confidence of my youth has been replaced by the self-consciousness that only comes with growing into your own skin.
But, tonight, inspired by Michael Phelps and Dara Torres, I will brave the waters once more. That is, after I buy myself a new pair of goggles and possibly some black spray paint to cover the fishbowl windows that overlook the pool at the gym.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Olympic Trials (08.08.08)
While most of the world anticipates tomorrow night's opening of the 2008 Olympic Games, I lay here on my couch, sore and spent. I have been hand-painting champagne flutes with the Olympic rings and the "lucky" date of 08.08.08. Nearly 6 hours of repetitive circles of gold.
For a better part of the day I was an elfin slave locked away in the conference room, hunched over glass flutes THIS close to my face as I gilded them with rings of gold.
My shoulder is sore, as is my right wrist, which had to hyperextend itself so I could rest the lower part of my palm on the convex glass/stem. HOWEVUH, my eyes, to my surprise, have neither permanently crossed as I had feared nor fallen out of my head from straining so hard. Glory, glory!
I was intending on meeting up with an old friend and her sister at the "urban" Bally's by us after a very quick "breakfast for dindin", but, instead, fell asleep STANDING UP, my body bent to a perfect right angle as I lay across my mother's bed. When I woke up, my calves and hamstrings were burning and my head pounding.
So, there will be no running or ellipticalling or crunching or weight-training. Instead, I will probably continue to lay here for a spell, pop some Advil, watch some TV and continue reading my current book on queue, "Same Kind of Different As Me."
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
MobWars
In the course of a few days I, as my alter ego "Art DeckO" have...
- acquired more (virtual) money than I have all year working in Crazytown, USA (aka my office)... [but, alas... man cannot live on virtual bread alone!]
- bought a lot and built a stately villa upon it [too bad I can't decorate it]
- racketeered
- robbed many liquor stores
- mugged a whole lotta imaginary people
Ah... vive los Sopranos! (not really)
Monday, July 28, 2008
It's All Goode aka "Flitter-Flatter (Don't laugh)"
I thought it high time for some lightheartedness here. So, ladies and... ladies (I don't think any boys read this), may I present to you Mr. Matthew Goode:
I think this man is absolutely lovely! Dark hair. Grey eyes. Dimpled Smile. Tall. British.
Now, if only he could sing and play the guitar, he'd be a shoe-in. For sure.
[Don't laugh! I'm already doing enough of that for all of us!]
I think this man is absolutely lovely! Dark hair. Grey eyes. Dimpled Smile. Tall. British.
Now, if only he could sing and play the guitar, he'd be a shoe-in. For sure.
[Don't laugh! I'm already doing enough of that for all of us!]
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Speechless.
The OM just called a short while ago with some very sad news. The husband of the woman I've continually had issues with since her start in April has passed. He had a heart attack. He leaves behind his 2 young children, his wife and his insurmountable debt.
I feel for her and her children. I am numb with guilt as I've been so cold and un-Christianlike with her since the start. It's been a struggle to understand her and show patience.
But, now? ... all that remains here is guilt.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Music and Laughter (is all that I'm after)
I'd hoped for a light, peaceful week. Unfortunately, my boss thought different. Per his usual nonsense, he continued driving everyone in the office nuts with his disorganization, lack of focus and thoughtfulness. He made my blood boil and my head ache and caused the OM's stomach to turn and knot.
Thankfully, a friend by what I can only attribute to providence, has planned an imprompt night of relaxation. Tonight we shall picnic and watch the fireworks and fireflies fly to the music of Tchaikovsky. It'll be brilliant.
Thank you, Lord!
Thankfully, a friend by what I can only attribute to providence, has planned an imprompt night of relaxation. Tonight we shall picnic and watch the fireworks and fireflies fly to the music of Tchaikovsky. It'll be brilliant.
Thank you, Lord!
Monday, July 21, 2008
Gravity (Music. Books)
This afternoon I made a somewhat impromptu visit out to a friend's bookstore, Gravity, about an hour away in Exeter, PA. While there he and I chatted briefly about music, new artists, my opinion of the layout, etc. Two hours later I left. $60 poorer, but 3 books, 1 gift and 1 CD richer.
I cracked open my newly purchased CD, and played the first disc, Jon Foreman's "Fall. Winter" on repeat the entire way home. I couldn't have found a more perfect companion on the long, windy, sunny drive home.
Last week was torture. This week, however, has the beginnings of of looking up.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Enter the Floodgates
My boss pulled me aside at the end of the day and "explained" the need for my shortened hours. Then, he asked me for my input on the matter. He shouldn't have...
As I started to tell about him about the financial problems facing my family, I could feel the burning of tears forming in my eyes. And, though I tried to fight them off, they came forth. They flooded my eyes, ears, throat, mouth, head and nose until I was this snotty mess of mucous.
They continued after our conversation had ended. Kept their route as I packed up my things and closed down my computer for the night. They lingered all the way home, through my "dinner" and now as I sit and type this. They keep coming forth like droplets falling from leaky faucets.
I don't know where they come from, these tears. It's as if my body has hoarded every tear on God's green earth and was waiting for the right moment to open the floodgates.
I am worn. Weathered. Though my eyes are wet with tears, my spirit is suffocatingly parched in this drought it finds itself in...
OK, I'm gonna retreat to the comfort of my bed and hide myself under the covers. Hopefully, it won't be a puffy-eyed, raspy creature that reemerges, but a renewed, refreshed being beaming with the light of hope.
Hopefully.
As I started to tell about him about the financial problems facing my family, I could feel the burning of tears forming in my eyes. And, though I tried to fight them off, they came forth. They flooded my eyes, ears, throat, mouth, head and nose until I was this snotty mess of mucous.
They continued after our conversation had ended. Kept their route as I packed up my things and closed down my computer for the night. They lingered all the way home, through my "dinner" and now as I sit and type this. They keep coming forth like droplets falling from leaky faucets.
I don't know where they come from, these tears. It's as if my body has hoarded every tear on God's green earth and was waiting for the right moment to open the floodgates.
I am worn. Weathered. Though my eyes are wet with tears, my spirit is suffocatingly parched in this drought it finds itself in...
OK, I'm gonna retreat to the comfort of my bed and hide myself under the covers. Hopefully, it won't be a puffy-eyed, raspy creature that reemerges, but a renewed, refreshed being beaming with the light of hope.
Hopefully.
Sleepless in Philadelphia
I went to bed at my normal hour (2:15am). Unfortunately, I was startled awake a mere 3 hours later, jostled by a mind that had decidedly become aware of all the problems I'd thought I'd packed away for the night:
- Mom's financial woes - the reality that she may have to file for bankruptcy if business doesn't pick up.
- Mom's (failing) health, exacerbated by the above financial straints
- My unhappiness at work and in life
- My wanting (and needing) to move away, so I can finally breathe, but feeling chained here because of family obligation (refer to 1 and 2 of list)
- Guilt over the growing resentment that boils inside me at any given moment
- Wondering about what lies ahead and wishing for signs of life
- An odd sense of envy as I watch (from afar) as others find themselves on the other side of the rainbow while I sit in the gloom of rainstorms
Monday, July 14, 2008
Don't It Make My Brown [Shoes Red]
I'm tired.
I cried for no reason, briefly (thankfully) on Saturday as I made my way home from a friend's 40th birthday party. Afterwards, as an attempt to self-medicate, I went shoe shopping, finding the pair of dark red, peep toe pumps I'd been looking for forever, only to realize later that night, while standing in line for some gelato, that they were BROWN.
Maybe that's what I'm to learn in this weird place I find myself... To re-evaluate the things I've been living for/in. Maybe in the light of His glory, they won't look like what I'd hoped for after all. Maybe they'll fail in comparison to what is to come if only I hold on a little longer and/or take a leap of faith.
And maybe, just maybe, a friend will come along to offer a word of encouragement and call these brown shoes "Indian Red" to make me/you feel just a little bit better...
As the AllState commercials say: "I'm there."
I cried for no reason, briefly (thankfully) on Saturday as I made my way home from a friend's 40th birthday party. Afterwards, as an attempt to self-medicate, I went shoe shopping, finding the pair of dark red, peep toe pumps I'd been looking for forever, only to realize later that night, while standing in line for some gelato, that they were BROWN.
Maybe that's what I'm to learn in this weird place I find myself... To re-evaluate the things I've been living for/in. Maybe in the light of His glory, they won't look like what I'd hoped for after all. Maybe they'll fail in comparison to what is to come if only I hold on a little longer and/or take a leap of faith.
And maybe, just maybe, a friend will come along to offer a word of encouragement and call these brown shoes "Indian Red" to make me/you feel just a little bit better...
As the AllState commercials say: "I'm there."
Sigh...
I've been in a bad place lately. I want to blame hormones or the humidity or even the possible minor ear infection I had last week. There is a burden on my shoulders. An invisible stranglehold on what I had hoped was this thing called "living" that had only just reached it's infancy.
Somewhere in the back of my mind and the deepest parts of my heart I wonder if this is where Faith meets us. Not in the moments of sunshine and laughter, but in those few moments when troubles sweep over and we find ourselves in its eclipse. This is where I find myself today. Stuck where I don't want to be. Knowing that better awaits. Running in circles as I try to live and yet be the good, dutiful, sacrificial daughter that my heritage demands of me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind and the deepest parts of my heart I wonder if this is where Faith meets us. Not in the moments of sunshine and laughter, but in those few moments when troubles sweep over and we find ourselves in its eclipse. This is where I find myself today. Stuck where I don't want to be. Knowing that better awaits. Running in circles as I try to live and yet be the good, dutiful, sacrificial daughter that my heritage demands of me.
Friday, July 11, 2008
No Lo Comprendo
The OM just pulled me aside. This is what she had to tell me:
Awesome.
Does anyone know of any normal jobs/working environments? My patience is wearing thin here. THIN.
Listen. Peter meant to tell you this in 30 seconds. He appreciates you. We all do, but since things are so slow here, you're only going to come in 2 or 3 days a week. OK? It's only until September when this get crazy again. And Peter said he would help you with unemployment, so you should look into that. OK?
Awesome.
Does anyone know of any normal jobs/working environments? My patience is wearing thin here. THIN.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Oopsie Daze-y
Yesterday after church - and a quick lunch with Sarah, Sonja and Robert - I headed off to work to help prepare for a wedding reception my company was hired to cater. I arrived home around 11:45pm supremely exhausted, covered in a film of sweat, sugar and wine and in dire need of a shower.
HOWEVER, instead of taking a shower and going to bed at a somewhat normal hour, I lay there in my bed. Unable to move. Drained yet unable to sleep. So, I did what any normal person would do - watched some disturbing fact-based psychodrama called "An American Crime" starring Ellen Page.
I fell asleep sometime around 3:30am.
I'm at the office, but am pretty sure the brain has gone fishing...
Lord, help me...
HOWEVER, instead of taking a shower and going to bed at a somewhat normal hour, I lay there in my bed. Unable to move. Drained yet unable to sleep. So, I did what any normal person would do - watched some disturbing fact-based psychodrama called "An American Crime" starring Ellen Page.
I fell asleep sometime around 3:30am.
I'm at the office, but am pretty sure the brain has gone fishing...
Lord, help me...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)