entertaining angels

if we treat people as they are, we make them worse. if we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.-  goethe

i had a bump-up about a month ago. just a little fender bender in front of my favorite local gas station. as i was pulling in front of the building, a woman backed up in to me, though i honked very loudly the entire time the black SUV was moving. it was my first accident ever. and i know i'm lucky it was so minor.

but the woman was anything but simple. she was difficult to work with, elusive and quick to flee the scene.

she told me she would e-mail me her insurance number. she didn't.

she told me she had insurance. she didn't.

and her little lies and deceptions cost me almost two months of headache and stress, the eventual outcome being that i was covered under my non-insured motorist insurance and all was well.

but i was angry. angry that her mistake cost me. angry that i had to spend hours on the phone, a stutterer's worst nightmare. angry that for two months, i had to drive around with my front bumper halfway hanging off while an insurance agent tried to reach her via snail mail.

but she's not the last. there will be others, i am sure of it. ones who will tear down the wall of sunshine i've built. ones whose clouds will helplessly wander into my beams. but it's how i treat those people that spins the situation. yes, i could be dealing with an instrument of satan. but i could also be entertaining angels. and on this side of heaven, i might not always know the difference.

so i overestimate the good. and trust. in promises that might turn up empty and strangers who only seem sincere. i do it in hopes that maybe one day, on an afternoon when i'm not my best, when i'm grouchy, angry and downright mean, someone will do the same for me.

to be an adjective

  xxx

they wanted, as we say, to ‘call their souls their own.’ but that means to live a lie, for our souls are not, in fact, our own. they wanted some corner in the universe of which they could say to God, ‘this is our business, not yours.’ but there is no such corner. they wanted to be nouns, but they were, and eternally must be, mere adjectives.

 -c.s. lewis, the problem of pain

 

as poets like page breaks that feel like deep breaths, so a creative writer loves adjectives. my descriptor of choice is lovely. my best friend in middle school loved the word crisp. there are just some words that, when added to a noun, enhance tremendously. they add depth, meaning and image.

but as any elementary school teacher will sweetly inform you, adjectives that stand alone are meaningless. pretty. small. big. without a subject, they lose their form and become half-shaped. like the victorian house on the edge of our road, standing tall against the heavens, with cracking paint and loose shutters. almost perfect. almost special, but not quite whole.

i am not the sun. but there are summer days when the sunshine reflects off my cheeks. my eyelids. my nose. and i feel it and radiate with it. likewise, i want to stand so close to the Son that i am a mere reflection of His glory. and brightness.

in my Christian walk, it is only an adjective i aspire to be. but so often, so incredibly, unknowingly and sometimes purposefully, often, i become the noun. my little world revolves around the subject of Me. and yes, Christ is a part of it. He is present and there and totally within reach, but only to support my goals and end desires. in effect, an adjective to my noun.

but if we switch. if we just swap places, what a beautiful, whole, complex sentence we would be! and the sentences of my peers, my family, my friends and all the population would swarm together to create a beautiful story. the most beautiful one in history. in His story.

the persistent vine

 

there's a vine that grows along the shed behind my house. just a little ivy, trellising toward the sky. we've tried to kill it with commercial sprays and our yard tools, but it remains. and i sort of love it. it's a little rogue, a little unruly and a little strong-minded. but those very qualities, the ones that make it a nussiance,  also make it terribly beautiful.

and it reminds me that there's a reason, sometimes, for weeds. there's often a season where they have to grow. reach their obnoxious heads towards the heavens. but they'll be gone one day, and i'll walk to find them. and miss them. and ache to remember how the sunset used to hit them. and share in their fate, that we're all just a little misunderstood.

the one i feed

xxx

i read something in my devotional book this weekend that struck me. not just got me thinking, but suddenly aligned everything i've been seeking for in my walk with God and my search for truth:

from a native american faith tradition we receive the story of a grandfather telling his grandchild about spiritual struggle and growth. "inside me there are two wolves who fight each other all the time. one is motivated by peace, gentleness, honesty, justice and love. the other lives by resentment, bitterness, hate, anger and violence." "which one wins?" asks the child.

"the one i feed," answers the elder.

fate as malleable as clay

i look forward to friday lunch breaks. they mean a trip to value village, my favorite neighborhood thrift shop. it's a spacious, beautiful warehouse with rows and rows of darling dresses and pretty retrro furnishings. it's like heaven.

last friday was no exception. at 12:00 sharp, i turned off my computer monitors. i slung my pocketbook over my shoulder and headed for the door, ID badge dangling between my fingers. halfway across the threshold, i remembered something. a work assignment i need to talk to someone about. before lunch. before the mid-afternoon hypnosis set in. but then, a quick conversation led to more work, more conversations. a terrible avalanche at the worst time.


so i spent the next 25 minutes going over a project with one of our managers.

i was frustrated when i left. because i was late. which meant less time shopping, and worse, a hurried, rushed feeling. and no one, i repeat no one, wants to feel rushed while thrifting--an experience to be savored slowly and purposefully. i got in the car and sped away.

then, a few miles before my exit, i saw it.

a row of cars clamoring to merge into one lane. to allow the fire truck to move through. the police cars. the ambulance. right where i would have driven, an accident had just happened.

i sat in the traffic jam for about 20 minutes until i passed the horrible scene. the dilapidated car and torn guardrail.

{in college, as a journalism minor, i was warned against using the word "tragedy" unless i was specifically talking about an event in which the main character has a flaw that causes his own demise, like oedipus. but friday, with the sirens joining in an awful chorus and the sky looming with rain, what i saw can only be described as tragic.)

i received an e-mail forward one time about all the employees who, for some random reason or the other, did not go to work in the twin towers on 9/11. they were all late.

some missed their alarm that morning. one man's son started kindergarten and he was a few minutes late from dropping him off. it was person's turn to bring doughnuts. one man wore a new pair of shoes, developed a blister, then stopped at the drugstore to get a band-aid.

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in all of those instances, including mine on friday, something caused a delay. which in turn, caused frustration, anxiety and unhappiness. but in the end, that very delay saved our lives.

so i urge you. embrace every situation as a gift. from a God who knows the future. standing behind an elderly woman in line counting her change, as irritating as it might be, is a deliberate standstill. traffic jams, long-winded friends and unexpected changes at work aren't accidental. by opening ourselves up to the idea that everything is working for the good--the beautiful, deliberate good--of those who love Him, things don't seem so inconvienent anymore. 

and being a Christian doesn't mean i'm immune. that could have easily been me on friday, and it wouldn't have meant God loves me any less. but having that relationship means trusting, searching and finding. looking for the meaning behind the simplest of things. for His mercy.


and it always comes, just in the nick of time.

conclusions and illusions

xxx

he wore a red golf shirt every day. his hair, graying, was parted on the side, tucked behind silver glasses too big for his face. he was older, almost retired, and walked slowly, deliberately.

to talk to him was a game of roulette, to chance a good mood or a sour one. his office, at the end of the hall, never had visitors. he was quick with a snappy comeback, arched eyebrow of suspicion, and sigh of defeat. but he was excellent at what he did, so no one bothered him. no family pictures decorated his office, only a whiteboard and clock.

it was my first job, one of my first co-workers. my heart was too tender for his caustic demeanor, and i tried to avoid confrontation, only running into him in the kitchen, pouring black coffee into his stained mug. he smugly laughed at my optimism and "have a great day" salutations.

then one day, someone told me something about him. about why he avoided family pictures and corporate christmas parties, with all their spousal small talk. 


the tragedies, deaths and losses that hung like broken limbs on his weeping willow of a family tree.

all of a sudden, i began to see his abrasiveness as hurt. as agony. as a grief too hard to bear and contain internally, so it spilled over outside of him, onto his clothes, his expression, his pursed lips and his feet that dragged.

and i felt so bad for judging him.

because we never, ever know all the burdens people are carrying. stories can be personal, deep and hidden.

if you pull up beside me in the car and see me singing, i appear like a silly, 20-something girl. primarily because it's probably katy perry or kesha. and i'm probably drumming on my steering wheel. 

but did you know it's because when i sing, it's the absolute only time i don't stutter? and i'm a terrible singer. oh my goodness. so awful. but i sing all the time for relief. of the glottal blocks and brick walls that rear their nasty heads when i speak. but you didn't know that, and you can't get that from a stoplight encounter.

and you sometimes can't even get that from years of experience with someone. from working with them. shoot, from living with them.


everyone's fighting a battle, whether obvious or not. but we're not mind readers. sometimes we don't have the luxury of peeling away those layers. we just can't do it.


but we can love them. and accept them. and go about our day without questioning or judging how they live theirs. because sometimes a song isn't just a song, and a mean-spirited snap isn't just a bad day. and sometime we're going to need that exact same acceptance.


i don't work with that man anymore, but i hope he's happy somewhere. and singing.

when you're not strong

one summer in college, i interned as a fact-checker for the in-flight magazines of several major airlines. it was my first real position, and by this i mean the first time i went shopping for "work clothes." for slacks that didn't have zippers up the pant leg. for cardigans. modest necklines. stud earrings. i felt so grown up, and though the job was only temporary, i felt part of a group for once. 


i sauntered into the building, with it's cold tile floors and gray cloth cubicles. with its veteran workers who called each other by their first names and ate out for lunch every friday at their favorite spot. i was, in a word, prepared.


however, my confidence reached a crumbling point with every phone call i had to make. as a stutterer, the phone is the bane of my existence. the bane, i tell you! and i spent all day on it. calling random sources, verifying information. i scoured the Web for all the answers i could find, but more often than not, there was no way around picking up that instrument of doom and speaking into the mouthpiece, waiting for confused silence to come wafting through the earpiece.


one afternoon was particulary hard. i home on the verge of tears. what is it about seeing your mama's face that just sucks the tears right out of whatever strong, pulled together place you were holding them? hoarding them until you were alone? at the very sight of her, i crumbled into a shaking, sobbing mess. then i turned to my sister.


"i can't do it, carly. i can't call this man."  i was supposed to contact someone in reference to a story on michael symon, the celebrity chef. and for some reason, on this particular day in july, i had reached my breaking point.


i asked my sister to call him for me. in the background, i heard mama pipe up. "courtney, don't make your sister do that...."


but she did. she didn't say anything to me, just took the paper with the number, went upstairs to the closet we shared, and called him. she ran back downstairs, told me she left him a message, and hugged me.


i had to call him back the next day. but i'll never, ever, in my entire life, not even if i live until i'm 102, forget that afternoon. the slack she picked up. the sacrifice she made so i could be comfortable, saved from my own inflictions of low confidence.
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my favorite character in the Bible is moses, because not only does his stutter endear him to my heart, but because when God asked him to go speak to His people in egypt, moses' reaction, in all its honesty and truth, mimics what my own would be. he begs the Lord to send someone else to do it instead. and who does He send? his brother aaron. he spoke to the people for and through moses, in a manner not unlike carly speaking through me.
---------------


this evening, before eating supper with nanno and before wheel of fortune, i was watching the news. about the flood in queensland, australia. 13-year-old jordan rice, on the hood of his car, waters gathering all around him, told a man grabbing for his hand to "save my brother first." his brother and mama were saved, but he was swept away. sacrifice to the highest degree. but i bet if we could ask him, he'd simply chalk it up to brotherly love.
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and it's not just siblings. best friends. cousins. mamas and daddys. 


sacrifice doesn't always come in the form of a burning bush or a flood.


sometimes, as in my case, it's a simple act of taking upon one's shoulders a load that is simply too.much.to.bear. for someone else.


because in sharing, we lighten. and in lightening, we open up room for loving. and in loving, we start the cycle all over again.

a universal truth

"We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another is entirely up to us.  I believe that for all our imperfections, we are full of decency and goodness, and that the forces that divide us are not as strong as those that unite us."

there's nothing i can say today, no words i can think up, quotes from favorite books or songs that i can recite, or musings i can drone on about that will match the heart, beauty and truth of last night's presidential speech in tucson. i'll be honest. i don't always watch televised speeches, and when i do, my attention is divided, scattered at best. 


but republican or democrat, regardless of how you feel about his policies, practices or the way he runs our country, last night wasn't about that. it was a tribute. plain and simple. to the lives lost and the people--real, flesh and blood people with histories, presents and futures--that were affected. and that universal truth transcends political boundaries.


i hung to every word. and i'm certain it was one for the history books. it was even worth missing half of modern family for, and i don't say that lightly.


find the full transcript and video here.

maybe i'm crazy

source

there's a man who lives down the road from my grandpa and me. in a clapboard white shack. a few yards back from the rural lane. right in the crook of the turn.

for as long as i can remember, he's rented that little house. long enough to have paid off a real mortgage years ago. but month after month, he shells out the cash. to maintain his little refuge, alone in the country with a few good dogs.

old pickups, at least four of them, decorate the front lawn. there is a metal contraption in the yard upon which at least a dozen randomly shaped birdhouses hang lackadaisically. clothes are hung on the line even when it's raining. the back porch is visible from the road, decorated top to bottom with old license plates, rusty with age and weather. a lifetime bachelor, it's not uncommon to see him sitting shirtless on his deck, surrounded by his few best friends, being a little too loud.

and all around the place, random bits of furniture are scattered. a few worn down barns sit just off to the left, old tobacco sheds rotting away season by season. on halloween, he passes out stale circus peanuts.

from an outside eye, he is a bit eccentric, to say the least. but he's a good man--a harmless outlaw holding on to what he loves.

yesterday we drove by his place, going slow in the snow.

and i saw smoke rising from his deteriorating chimney. heard lynyrd skynyrd blaring from somewhere inside his heap of a home. and imagined him. in his favorite recliner, hands wrapped around his meager cup of weak coffee. not hurting anyone, just being. being himself. alone. comfortable.

and i thought about the line between offbeat and crazy. and i think he has managed to squeeze his ripped up wranglers right in between. sometimes i envy his ability to live so openly, so completely him. without any care of societal norms or what anyone might think. 


because what is normal? maybe, for some people, normal takes on a different appearance. that doesn't mean it's not completely suitable for them.


i don't think my neighbor is crazy. misunderstood, yes. but content, secure and sweet? you betcha. 


look past the chaos littered on the lawn, and inside sits a man who's got a lot of life, at least the part i struggle with, neatly ironed out.

homeward, with heaven above me

whether they are a part of their home or home is a part of them is not a question children are prepared to answer. having taken away the dog, take away the kitchen--the smell of something good in the oven for dinner. also, the smell of washday, of wool drying on the wooden rack. of ashes. of soup simmering on the stove. take away the patient old horse waiting by the pasture fence. take away the chores that kept him busy from the time he got home from school until they sat down for supper. take away the early morning mist, the sound of crows quarreling in the treetops. take away all this and what have you done to him? in the face of deprivation so great, what is the use of asking him to go on being the boy he was. he might as well start life over again as some other boy instead.

so long, see you tomorrow

i drove home in the snow yesterday. it wasn't much. not enough to make the roads dangerous. just a little powdery cascade, dusting my front porch rocker and daintily dancing upon my sidewalk.

and as i drove, i thought (because that's when i do my best thinking, you know). 

about driving home. calling home. walking in my home.

there are things i know because i am taught. because i spend time to learn them and engrave them into my mind. the alphabet, multiplication tables, how to sew a button. my favorite song lyrics.

and then, there are things i know, because i can feel them. in my bones. somewhere that memory doesn't reach. somewhere inside the infant part of me. the part i can't recall.

i can't remember when i first memorized the shape of my home. the rooms and their placement. the corners and unexpected turns. the locations of all the light switches, tabletops and little step-downs. it just happened. and unlike academics, work, or anything else i learned through a teacher, i will never forget it. 

because i still have to bring my calculator to the grocery store. i look at directions when i sew. i write down lyrics so i can repeat them later. i forget grammar, history, and science sometimes.

but i still remember the path to my childhood bedroom. the room with white walls at the top of the stairs. and i still remember the shape of calling robert's old cell phone number, mama's car phone from the 90s, and my best friend's home number, which i haven't called in ages.

because things like that can't be unlearned. because home is me. i am home. what am i if not the accumulation of little moments associated with that structure of brick and vinyl siding, sheet rock and stucco?

the shape of home has changed, yes. now i have two homes. my childhood one and my new one with robert. but both are the same. i still run to them every afternoon. mama used to be at the stove, making homemade vegetable soup in the winter. now, i come home to robert, on the couch with pablo, watching the evening news. 

it's a different scene, but one that is wholly familiar to me.

i remember. i understand. i feel.

not because i was taught. because i already knew.

sunset soon forgotten

i got to bed late last night. it wasn't for lack of trying. goodness knows, i tried.

tried to slip under the covers before eleven. to feel the cool of just-washed linens slip over my nightgown. to replace the glow of laptop and lamp light with the deep, infinite darkness of bed. to take down my ponytail  and let my hair fall carelessly over my pillowcase.

but life got in the way. errands. little menial tasks that meant nothing but added up to hours. dishes. playing with pablo. reality television. etsy.

with my sleepy eyes finally closing, and sleep threatening to wash over me and pull me over the brink any minute, i listened for a second. and felt.

i heard robert breathing heavily behind me. this deep, hearty breath. i'm used to it and barely notice it. but last night i made an effort to take it in. to turn and watch his chest rise and sink with the steady rhythm of a midnight pendulum. i heard pablo too. a raspy little puff of air every few seconds. as i looked up at the bedroom ceiling, i let their collective breath pull me to sleep. the sync of it, paired with the sweet melody it created, was intoxicating.

and right before i fell, i thanked the Lord for such a sweet sound. how many times i take for granted the living beings that share my bed. their breath gentle in my ear. the creatures that i have been blessed to love and listen to.

and i do this so often. take things for granted. become so, so used to something that it loses its grandeur.

--like the feel of cool hardwood on my bare toes in the early hours of the morning, when the world is asleep but i'm reaching toward the coffee pot.

--the house i pass on my drive to work every morning, always stuck behind the school bus. the little boy who lives in that clapboard shack. running with unbelievable fervor toward the bus, blowing kisses to his mama, waving from the driveway in her robe and slippers.

--the little basil plant on my windowsill, still reaching its meager leaves toward the sunshine. hanging on even after being stripped of most of its green.

--the sound of robert coming home after work. his muddy boots. yes, even the mud. a sign that he loves me and will do whatever it takes to make a home for me.

--the delicious heat of an evening shower. taken with the bathroom lights off, the adjacent office light bathing the room in a soft glow.

i will take all these things in, and be thankful. because they are all gifts that could be taken in an instant. little, tangible proof that God loves me, i am worthy,

and life is unforgettably beautiful.

california road trip 2010

one resolution only

i sit in a chair all day at my job.

for eight hours, my bones hibernate. locked in place, the only movement being my fingers on the keyboard, littered with crumbs. as a result, i've noticed my body acting differently. aching, physically yearning, for movement.

in the mornings, during that initial roll up in bed, with legs stretched before me and arms above my head, i hear the cracks in my elbows. it's like they're yelling for activity. nudging me, in their not so subtle way, to use them. push them to their limits. engage them.

so last night, i did a little something different.

with the melody of "pocket full of sunshine" blasting in my head, i dropped my pocketbook at the doorway of my home, ran to the nearest mirror, and had a 20-minute dance party.

right there in the living room. in my work clothes, sans heels. in curls and pantyhose. a few minutes later, robert and pablo joined in on the action. we reconvened a few hours later to dance in our pajamas.

and i felt every fiber in my body thank me. applaud me. for the simple sways and makeshift pirouettes that my  amateur feet made on the sisal rug. for the dynamic fluidity of the movements. the opening up of pores of happiness.

-----------------------------------------------------

i don't have a list of new year's resolutions. no set of goals or ambitions.

but i do want one thing for 2011.

more dancing. 

and i'm convinced, everything else i need this year will fall into place.

everything i ever really needed to know

when i was growing up, a pink, laminated piece of paper was displayed on our refrigerator. a relic of my days in pigtails and ribbons, the paper was titled “everything i ever really needed to know, i learned in kindergarten.” the basis was that all of life’s key skills, such as compassion, sharing and kindness are learned alongside nap time and finger painting.

and i agree. to an extent. that many integral, vital traits and lessons in that classroom. that as we ride with training wheels, we are traveling at the speed of light. toward realization. maturity. heartaches and exultations. and kingergarten is the place that prepares us.

but last night, as i entered our little cottage and heard little paws on the wood floor and felt the soft impact of fur on my skirt, i realized something else.

everything i ever needed to know in adulthood, i learned from my dog. 

being loyal means being there. plain and simple. even when what you see or know is ugly. pablo  whimpers outside my bathroom door when i’m inside, scratches at the covers when i’m in bed and he’s on the floor, and serves as my shadow no matter where i go. i leave the room for one second, he’s behind me on my heels, lightning fast. if you want someone to love you, the first thing you’ve got to do is be loyal to them. gain their trust and ensure them—there’s nowhere that you can go that you will lose me. i swear.

you only get what you give. for every belly rub, extra dollop of peanut butter, and game of fetch i give to pablo, he gives me slobbery kisses, nose nudges under the covers, and smiles as wide as his face in return. because he knows a concept that is so difficult for humans to grasp. you can’t hug someone with your arms crossed. only when you open them up, wide as the sky, are you in the position to embrace and feel love.

when it’s time to rest, rest. don’t try to do a little play/rest juggle. just lay down, cross your hands under your chin, and let out a deep sigh from the bellows of your gut. because it’s beautiful and normal. and you’ll be ready to play with ten times the fervor when you’re done.

trust. even if it means you might get hurt or lost. just trust in people. every day, i hook on pablo’s leash and gently tug him outside, to a world that is new each morning. i lift him up, spin him around and even sometimes tie his ears in loose bows. and he can’t do anything about it. so he trusts. as humans, we have more of a choice. so choose trust.

God sends rain on the just and the unjust. no one is immune to sad times, hard feelings or even, bad hair days.

celebrate the little things. every little achievement, victory or half birthday. because life’s too short, yes, but also because that’s what life is. life is not work. life is not play. life is those little moments and celebrations that happen in the middle of those two extremes. it’s a gorgeous thing, too.

when you’re scared, don’t be afraid to show it.

no matter how unbeautiful or unworthy you feel right now, you are. you are special. there is no such thing as a lost cause. we picked pablo up looking like this.

never be afraid to add a little flair to your wardrobe. it’s what keeps life interesting, colorful and playful.

love your mama. she’s the only one you’ve got.

i have a college degree and i'm getting ready to start graduate school this spring, but the best education i’ve ever received came from a bichon with four paws and a tail.

don't let your dreams be dreams

when daylight savings time hits and the nights get shorter--too short to go on walks in the country or swing on our front porch and watch the sun go down--robert and i are forced to find other means of evening entertainment. 


this usually results in following at least one, if not a half dozen or so, new television shows. in the past, 24, LOST and desperate housewives have been our vices of choice. but recently, we have been indulging in a little guilty pleasure known as gold rush alaska. this discovery channel program follows six men who gave up everything to trek out to alaska and mine for gold. 

source

when i first saw this, my immediate thought was "this sounds like the yukon trail computer game." please tell me someone else spent copious amounts of time in front of the screen as a tween playing this fabulous "oregon trail" spin-off.


i thought it ridiculous. and foolish. and, quite honestly, crazy. 


to leave home and risk everything--every single thing--for the mere chance that riches lie buried beneath the boulders. to spend a whole three weeks not mining, but building a machine to pan for gold, to sift through the silt and mud for tiny nuggets. 


however, upon further viewing, the show turned a corner, and my feelings toward it did too. 


the men brought their wives and children up to live with them in the wilderness. i watched one wife walk gingerly off the plane, taking in the snow-capped mountains and rivers around her. i watched as her husband led her to the cabin he had built for her, and i saw his daughter playing in the sand.

source

and it hit me.


his dream isn't crazy at all. because it's his. it's solely and beautifully his, and that alone makes it worthwhile. and he's chasing it, which is more than i can say about myself half the time.


seeing him with his family cemented that for me. i saw the love in his crinkled brow wash the worry away from his wife's eyes. they understood each other. they got it. and who cared if i didn't get it? it wasn't mine to get.


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there's a piece of paper that i've been carrying around in my pocketbook for a week now. a simple name, scribbled down on the back of a take-out menu. a bra size. jean size. t-shirt size. a local woman that my bible study is sponsoring for christmas. a real, live woman, with real children, narrowed down to measurements and figures.


i've been scurrying about all week getting ready for christmas. almost every evening, i've found some reason to go to target, wal-mart or the shopping center, scrambling about for gifts and clothes for my family and friends. all the while, leaving that piece of paper zipped up. forgetting that a dream was inside there. 


a dream of a christmas without apologies to little faces. without shrugs and sighs of disappointment. without excitement shot down. without "maybe next year."


and it doesn't matter that i can't relate. that i don't understand or can't fathom. because, like the miner, her dream is singular. and it's not my place to try and identify. all i can do is help.


so i went shopping tonight. not for myself or my family. but for her. to do my part, my teeny, itsy part, to make sure her dreams.

aren't dreams anymore.

the good fight

robert and i had a fight the other day. 

a simple quarrel in the middle of the grocery store aisle. 

trying to hush and silence the rising volume in our voices as we grasped onto our salami. a little disagreement about whether to use cash or card to purchase our items. perhaps the lamest argument in history. 

but it escalated and resulted in hurt feelings. in a digging up of past wrongs, current struggles and worries about the future. we didn't speak the whole way home. and twenty minutes feels like eternity with the black highway rolling silently beneath your wheels. even pablo could sense something was wrong, and sounded a muffled whimper until we pulled into the driveway. 

and we worked it out. we sat on our sofa with the christmas lights twinkling. the television grumbling in the background, i positioned myself in the safe, warm crook of his strong arms. and we talked. honestly. rawly. for a long time. our voices loud in the air of the living room at midnight. and in the end, all was okay. we would have stayed up and talked all night, if we had to. and for a while there, i thought that very well might be what it took.

because we're not perfect. because we were tired. because sometimes, a healthy spat is needed in a relationship. of course there are deal-breakers. like hitting. and cheating. and lying. never okay. but a fight that forces you to look introspectively, to consult your actions and how they affect the ones you love? occasionally good for you.

because when i stood at the alter of the church i grew up in, my 21-year-old fingers, shaking with excitement and nerves, sliding on his wedding ring, i made a promise.

to love him. yes, in sickness and health, for better or for worse. but those are common words. they are holy and beautiful, but they need to be translated sometimes.

what that means is i will love you even if you wear a million white undershirts and our laundry pile is always twice the size of normal even though it's just us two. you will love me even if i forget you hate quiche and make a tuna casserole with eggs that ends up quite quiche-like. i will love you through layoffs, promotions, babies and grandbabies. through family deaths and births.

and yes, i will love you through fights at the grocery store. especially ones that result in making up over reruns of E! news and hot cider.

because the fact is, this man still sleeps to the left of me. he is mine and i am forever his. constantly learning and growing with him. this wasn't our first fight and it won't be our last. we're not done with little challenges.

but we're not done loving, either. 

as long as we both shall live.

a mustard seed

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 "I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." -Matthew 17:20

From behind my desk, I watched the clock strike 6:30 p.m. My boss and I were some of the only employees left in the building. We had been working painstakingly since 8 a.m. on a big proposal that, if won, could mean great things for our company. For more than 10 hours, we had hole punched, typed, edited and formatted until the project was complete. The only problem? We were in North Carolina and it had to arrive in Georgia by the next afternoon. We had to deliver it via FedEx. In our area, the last delivery time is typically no later than 6:30 p.m.

We browsed the Internet until we found a self-serve drop box nearby that was open until 7:00. We had less than half an hour. My boss hurriedly scribbled the address on a sticky note. In my haste to get out the door, it fell to the floor and was locked behind me. "Lewis!" I yelled across the parking lot. "What was the address again?" He hesitated for a moment, then yelled back "7027 Albert Pick Road!" With a broken GPS and a terrible sense of direction, I headed toward where I thought the road was. As I drove, I began to pray, Lord I'm not sure where I'm going. This is all riding on me now. Please help me find this place.

To my great surprise, I found the road on my first try. However, my satisfaction quickly dwindled when I looked around me. The road was home to a huge business park. Dozens of office buildings lined its side streets, each with its address hidden behind towering shade trees. The place was empty, as most of its businesses shut down at 5:00. Dodging roundabouts and merging lanes, I entered from the east side. Almost immediately, I found Building 7027. I had less than 10 minutes to go but was feeling pretty confident. Then, I circled the building five times. No drop box in sight.

I swerved in the vacant parking lot and desperately ran up to the door. Locked and dark inside. With less than five minutes to go, I hopped in my car and started the long, sad process of giving up. I searched on my phone for other local FedEx offices, telling myself that this was hopeless. I prayed again. Lord. We have worked so hard on this. Please help me find the drop box! All of a sudden, I looked up. A light went on in a building across the park. A completely random, unmarked building. It was the only lighted building as far as I could see. I thought to myself, if there are lights on, maybe there will be someone in there who can point in the right direction. Immediately, I drove over, ran up to the front door, package in tow, and found that it opened into a vast lobby with nothing but elevators on both sides.

One woman was exiting the lobby from the other side. "Excuse me!" I yelled, but she walked out the door without stopping. Confused and lost, I started to walk back to my car when something caught my eye. There was a little room off to the right, no larger than an office cubicle. As I entered it, my heart leapt. There, nestled in the tiniest of spaces, was the drop box, with a bold, beautiful sign that said "Today's Delivery has NOT Occurred Yet." Tears of relief and thanksgiving welled up in my eyes.


The proposal was successfully delivered that afternoon. I quickly put it in the box and slammed the lid, but not before placing my shaking hand on the cool metal and saying a prayer of gratitude to the Great Deliverer Himself.
 -----
faith comes in all forms and is a pivotal part of many religions. for me, it is belief in things unseen and a hope for my future. it doesn't always come in such a grand way as i experienced that day. sometimes it's a shout, yes. but most of the time, it's simply a whisper. a soft echoing into my soul that speaks peace to my being. it comes in the kitchen, when i'm preparing supper after a long day. in the bedroom, when i'm on my knees in prayer late at night. in the conference room, as my shaking hands grasp presentation papers. and through it, i feel Christ assure me. lead me.


this was a story about faith. an aha moment in my spiritual walk. a tangible, loud confirmation of the power of prayer. but more often than not, faith is a quiet space. it is finding the power to believe in those moments between the ahas,  in the deep, dark crevices of life and the lowest of devastating wells, that faith truly finds its foothold, and its power to move mountains. and i'm so thankful it does. because sometimes, that's all i can muster. the faith of a mustard seed. but sometimes, that's all it takes.

finding the good.

you tell them-we've all got meanness in us, but we've got goodness too. and the only thing worth living for is the good.

-where the heart is

while leaving the post office yesterday, i walked behind a woman. she in her navy slacks and blazer. me in my peacoat and scarf. my steps matched hers on the cold cement floor, both of us making a racket in our high heels, like angry ladybugs flickering over a light bulb.

and i knew she saw me. felt my presence behind her, as much as i felt the presence of the man behind me, walking slower than us, falling a few steps behind.

so it came as a surprise when she opened the door and let its heavy weight sling back in my face, not pausing or looking behind her. talking on her cell phone and hurrying to her sedan. in her defense, perhaps i'm wrong and she didn't see me, in which case my emotions were totally unmerited. but in that moment, with my lunch hour almost over and my chilly hands stuffed into my pockets, i felt my heart sink. i backed away quickly enough to avoid any impact. but what an impact it made.

i turned and held the door for the man behind me and was rewarded with his gentle half-smile. he was older, much older and was taking his time getting to his car. i waited while he shuffled to the exit.

and i realized that humans are humans. we make mistakes. we are forgetful, jealous, rude and unkind at times. but we're good too. and like natalie portman so beautiful narrarates to ashley judd, that's the only part that's worth anything at all.

so yesterday evening, while christmas shopping with robert, i looked for it. the good, that is.

and i found it.

in the bald man ringing the salvation army bell outside the grocery store, wind rippling at his jeans. in his smile and friendly "have a blessed day."

in the sweet woman behind the sushi counter who giggled when i said we didn't know how to use chopsticks. the way she piled extra forks and knives on our plates as if to make up for our lack of skills.

in the store clerk passing out fresh cranberry oatmeal cookies while we shopped. in her unassuming red sweater and black slacks, begging us to try one, explaining how they were freshly baked.

in my kind neighbor. paralyzed from the waist down and lying in bed for two years. her overwhelming gratitude for my notary services. talking about the importance of coupons, sharing the love of Christ with me through her eyes.

in my mama, greeting me this evening with more brightly colored tights and a new oreo dessert. making her home a place i want to come back to, again and again.

there's so much good--so much beauty--in this world, that i sometimes don't know what to do with it all. so i do what i can. i gather it up and spread it. some of it i keep in my heart for times like today. when people slam the door in my face. when people disappoint and hurt me, or worse-when i hurt others. it's my own little cushion from life's hard blows.

it's just that simple. trust in the kindness of people. there are certainly some rotten ones out there, but unlike apples, a few can't spoil the bunch. because the bunch is inheritently, totally,

beautifully.

good.

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