You Sure Got a Blessing

For those familiar with A/P (Apostolic/Pentecostal) lingo, you know what it means to "get blessed." It usually involves some type of demonstrative worshipful behavior, akin to "shouting."

So last night we had one of those services. The ones where people get delivered and such like (I just realized my tone may sound irreverant, but I don't mean it to be). At an A/P church there are a range of ways that people worship God. Not everybody goes crazy and swings from the chandeliers. My mother, dear lovely lady that she is, is one of them that does, however. She is unashamedly vocal and demonstrative in her worship, and that's cool because that's her. My dad, wonderful man that he is, is not. He quietly raises his hands and is to himself. I usually fall into my dad's category. The way I respond when I'm really "touched" is by crying accompanied by glossolalia (the scientific term for speaking in tongues, lol). I stay in one place, am not loud, and try not to call attention to myself.

But every once in a while, yes, I do catch the Spirit and act a little bit more like my mom. Especially when I feel that God has heard me, that He has reassured me about whatever concerns that I have, and I just feel so overwhelmed with Him that I can't respond any other way. I am not ashamed of this. I really don't care how I look or whatever. Especially not during a service where everyone is pretty much gettin' their praise on.

But afterward is when it sometimes gets me. After the service is dismissed and everyone greets each other with "Praise the Lord"s before we go home. Example conversation:

Me: Hey, Sis. Such and Such, Praise the Lord! (hug)
Sis. Such and Such: Oh, Praise the Lord, Sis. Chantell. You sure got a blessing, didn't you?
Me: (sheepish laugh) Yeah . . . I did.

I don't know why it bothers me when people say "You sure got a blessing." I know perhaps I'm being petty, and God forgive me, but I feel like saying "Were you so busy watching me get blessed that you missed out on yours?" lol! But for real, I guess I know people say it good naturedly, like, not trying to make fun of me or anything, but when they say it, it makes me wonder "well, how did I look? I must've called so much attention to myself!" and I start feeling self-conscious.

I wonder if anyone else has the "you sure got a blessing" pet peeve. Or maybe it's just me.

Nice Guys

I randomly happened across this page doing a Google search. The things this dude has to say about so-called "Nice Guys" really got me to thinkin'...

Invented Conversations

Okay, perhaps I'm bored and have a little too much free time on my hands. Anyway . . .

Me: (Standing in line to get an iced chai tea latte at Starbucks)
Guy 1: (behind me) An iced chai, huh? I’ve never tried one of those before.
Me: Oh, really? Well, you should. They’re heavenly.
Guy 1: Ah, kind of like your eyes?
Me: (flattered in spite of the corniness) Uh . . . (nervous laugh)
Guy 1: I think I’m going to try one today. (adjusts glasses and smiles dazzlingly)

Me: (Trying to find the Soft and Beautiful brand of moisturizer in the “Ethnic Hair Care” section of Wal-Mart)
Middle aged lady: Baby, you ever tried this “Organic Carrot Oil” before?
Me: Uh, no, ma’am.
Middle aged lady: I’m just trying to find something that will help out this old lady hair of mine. (chuckles to self, then looks at me as if just realizing I existed) Ooh! You so little! Do you ever eat?
Me: Yes, ma’am. I eat more than most people think I do. (smile)
Middle aged lady: (hearty chuckle) Wish I could say the same. Yessir, I do.

Me: (Milling around talking to people in the foyer after church)
Guy 2: Hey, uh . . . nice Bible you have there.
Me: (Looking at my unimpressive, ordinary Bible) Oh, thanks.
Guy 2: (After an awkward pause) So, uh, that sermon on baptism was something else, wasn’t it? It made me think of when I was baptized . . . in my pastor’s swimming pool back home. (nerdy laugh)
Me: (polite, fake laugh)
Guy 2: So, where were you baptized? I’ll betcha it wasn’t as unconventional a place as a swimming pool.
Me: (slight eye roll) I was baptized in the Adriatic Sea.
Guy 2: Whoa. (backs away slowly)

Me: (Smiling my happy Spanish teacher smile in front of a room full of 2nd graders)
Kid: Señora Smith, are you Spanish?
Me: No, sweetheart, I’m not.
Kid: Well, where were you born?
Me: I was born here, just like you. In Mississippi.
Kid: Well, how come you know Spanish like that? How do you remember all the words?
Me: Because Señora Smith studied Spanish for a long time and I lived in Spain for a little while.
Kid: (gasp) You lived in Spain?
Me: (smiling) Yes, sweetie. One day you can go too and use the Spanish Señora Smith taught you!

Me: (In line at Starbucks again)
Guy 1: Have I seen you here before?
Me: (jokingly) Sho nuff. Did you enjoy that iced chai tea latte?
Guy 1: (laughing at my saying “sho nuff”) I did. It was heavenly, just like you said.
Me: More heavenly than my eyes?
Guy 1: (laughingly remembering his corny compliment) Oh, never!
Me: So, are you from around here?
Guy 1: I just moved here from North Carolina, I’m still kinda getting settled and everything. I’m looking for a good church to go to, though. You know of any Spirit-filled churches in town?
Me: (big, toothy smile) Oh, and do I!

My Literary Love Affairs

Disclaimer: I admit it, I’m a nerd. If you do not wish to have further proof of this fact, please, spare yourself.

I was never one to have a multitude of boyfriends, a following of admirers, or a long list of passionate romances to boast of. Growing up, I was the admirer rather than the admired; less the crush, and more the crusher. lol. However, (and what a lovely “however” it is), what follows is not a laundry list of real and unrequited loves, but rather a list of my literary loves (just the major ones). Yes, those poets, writers, genres, and literary movements I have had serious literary crushes on throughout the years:

Folklore and Mythology
In elementary school, I went through a stage where I devoured up every book in the library about fairy tales around the world and about the gods and goddesses who meddled with mortals as they ate ambrosia on top of Mount Olympus. Athena was my favorite. She was the most levelheaded. She never got jealous of other gods or mortals, and when she did intervene, it was always in a helpful way. She was the goddess of wisdom, after all.

Judy Blume
Next, I went through a Judy Blume phase where all of my heroines were adolescent girls coming of age, having crushes on boys and experiencing first kisses. My favorite book from that phase was Just as Long as We’re Together.

R.L. Stine
Then, R.L. Stine hit the YA Literature circuit, and I devoured book after book about obsessive behavior, eerie coincidences, and paranormal activity. The scariest ones were from his Fear Street series.

Choose Your Own Adventure
I also became obsessed with those “choose your own adventure” books—the ones where if you make a certain choice, then you turn to a certain page, and you either end up meeting a fate worse than death or becoming the mightiest hero (or heroine).

Edgar Allan Poe
Once junior high hit, and I read “The Cask of Amontillado” in 7th grade Language Arts class, I developed a serious literary crush on Edgar Allan Poe. I pined after him, trying to imitate his style. At that time, I just loved that dark, eerie, morbid, dramatically ending stuff; I even wrote a series of short stories trying to be a young, modern day, female EAP.

Historical Fiction
As the high school years rolled along, I took an interest in historical fiction. Any story set long ago and far away and surrounding some historical event or time piqued my interest. The most beloved book from this phase is entitled Wolf by the Ears. It tells the story of Harriet Hemmings, one of Thomas Jefferson’s daughters by his (now DNA proven) slave mistress, Sally Hemmings. Another was Of Nightingales That Weep, a story of the daughter of a samurai warrior in feudal Japan.

William Shakespeare
Though my crush on EAP subsided, I developed a new, quite passionate one on William Shakespeare. Though Romeo and Juliet was my introduction to him, I became obsessed with Julius Caesar. Mark Antony, with his uncanny ability to use the “power of speech to stir men’s blood,” enchanted me. My 11th grade research paper analyzed his funeral oration. “Honorable men.” Ha!

The Harlem Renaissance
Though I had an introduction to it in high school, during the beginnings of my college years, my African American Lit class plunged me into the hip, short-lived world of the Harlem Renaissance. Langston Hughes became my main man and my guide through the fast-paced world infused with and inspired by jazz and the blues, a place where the Negro was in vogue but still denied a piece of the American Pie, where rent parties were a daily event, and where “passing” was a not-so-new phenomenon.

Currently . . .
For a while there, I took a fiction hiatus and got into non-fiction. I read about Americans living in poverty, about the Enron scandal, about the opinions the rest of the world has about Americans, and the list goes on. The most recent non-fiction book that blew me completely away was Blink by Malcolm Gladwell—the power of thinking without thinking. Now I’m slowly opening back up to fiction . . . when I have time to read for pleasure, that is.

The Red Teapot

I was recently gifted with a red teapot. It sits quietly in my closet, encapsulated in the cushion of a couple of Wal-Mart bags, awaiting that special day when I move into my own place this summer to become unveiled. My cute little red teapot. Just sitting there patiently until it has its time to shine. It reminds me of a very simple, yet profound poem by William Carlos Willams about a red wheelbarrow, entitled, quite appropriately, "The Red Wheelbarrow":

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Ordinariness

There’s just something about sitting cozied up in lavender pajamas on a Thursday night. Nothing spectacular, though . . . it’s actually pretty ordinary. Commonplace, everyday, mundane. What’s blog-worthy about feeling comfy in my pj’s? I guess the “something” is part of my continual quest to feel comfortable with the ordinary.

There is a part of me that has always had a hankering for the dramatic. I want something to be “going on” in my life, you know? Something new and exciting and interesting. Something titillating, something to keep me on the edge of my seat. Sometimes I fall into the trap of unconsciously creating drama for myself to thrive off of. But in the end, I realize that little tendency of mine is utter foolishness. Sometimes I think I hear God telling me, “Girl, sit down.”

I want to get to the point where I am comfortable with the ordinariness of my life. I don’t want to have a dark yearning in my heart, wishing that I were in another place, being let out of my box, doing bigger and better things. I want to be cool with the fact that more often than not, life consists of routine, and that it is not always a negative thing. We all need to be still and know that He is God, and I reasoned that maybe that’s what the ordinary times are for. I came across this quotation addressing the dearness of ordinary days that really resonated within me:

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in my pillow, or stretch myself taught, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return."
-- Mary Jean Iron

MLK Day

Today is a glorious day off from the rigors of teacherly life to commemorate the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. However, being located in the South as I am, the day used to be known as King/Lee Day. Lee, as in Robert E. Lee, the general of the Confederate army during the Civil War, or The War Between the States, as some still doggedly refer to it as. My darling place of employment, being a private school, has the liberty to refer to this day off as whatever they want to, so it remains King/Lee Day. I wonder what Dr. King would think about the commemoration of his birthday being shared with that of General Lee. Or, maybe worse, what would Lee think about sharing his birthday remembrance day with the likes of Dr. King! Just some musings, those crazy things that go on in my head.

Having time to think on this MLK Day, I’m reminded of one of my little kid beliefs—one of those things that you used to believe with a passion when you were a kid but finally came to the knowledge of the truth when you matured. Well, one of my little kid beliefs was that everyone was black. I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Let me explain:

One day, a long time ago . . . I must have been like 3 or 4, I had no concept of race. I was a military brat, I was surrounded by a cornucopia of different colors of people, my little playtime friends were of all different races; race was never anything that entered into my mind. Why should it have? I was a small child. But one day, my mom decided that I needed to know about my heritage, I guess, and started telling me about how there were black people that came from Africa to America. They were sold as slaves and treated very badly. Then the only other thing I remembered was that she told me about Martin Luther King and how black people had rights. Remember I was only 3 or 4. I didn’t really get it all, but she kept repeating stuff about “black people.” I remembered asking her, “Am I black? Are you black? Is Daddy black?” She answered “Yes” to all of those questions, so I made a very childishly egocentric assumption: If all of the people I cared about were black, then everybody was. Now, of course I knew that black was a color, but since Mommy said that we were black and none of us were the Crayola color black, then people being black must mean something else.

Soon afterward I went out to play with some white kids that lived next door, and I remember announcing to them, “Everybody is black. I’m black, you’re black, my mom is black, everybody is!” The kids looked at me quizzically and said (we were in Mississippi, and they had been there long enough to develop a Southern accent), “Nu-uh. We’re white.” And I just stared at them blankly. I thought, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. I guess their mommy hasn’t told them about black people yet.” lol. Little did I know.

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Ghetto Paul

Sometimes, when something that I think is humorous seizes me, it will last the whole day. Like, I’ll think about it at random times during the day and I’ll just chuckle silently to myself.

I was reading Acts, right? I know I’m kind of hung up on Paul, but I wanted to start my Bible reading this year with Acts and read through the epistles to have a biblical background on Paul while I’m reading all of this other “extra-canonical” stuff about him for this class. So anyway, there’s a part in Acts, chapter 16 to be exact, where Paul and Silas are beaten and thrown into prison for exorcising a spirit out of a servant girl who brought her masters money by fortune-telling. In the end, they were miraculously released from prison and ended up converting the prison guard. They were staying at the prison guard’s house when word arrived that they now were officially allowed to be released and to go in peace. But Paul was having none of it.

It dawned on me that Paul was about to straight clown on the magistrates that imprisoned him and Silas. I know Paul is eloquent and highly educated and all of that, but this verse proves to me that Paul could get downright ghetto if you pushed him to that point: The King James Version quotes Paul as saying, “They have beaten us openly uncondemned, being Romans, and have cast us into prison; and now do they thrust us out privily? nay verily; but let them come themselves and fetch us out” (Acts 16:37).

If that were translated into today’s language (censored for decency, of course), I could imagine Paul saying something like this: “These clowns lit us up with whips for nothing, and we Roman citizens, and they just gonna throw us all up in jail and now try to let us go on the sly? Aww, HECK naw! They betta come correct and bring their little sorry behinds to get us out themselves. Shoot. Betta come hold me back, Silas.”

Paul was doing an Acts of the Apostles version of “What, WHAT?” He was beating his chest saying, “Them magistrates betta recognize, you got a Roman citizen up in heah!” My boy wasn’t about to let this thing go, you know? My, my. Paul got ghetto. The longer I thought about this, the funnier it was.

Everything about Paul

Here’s a little ditty I’ve made up that rings through my head very often these days:

Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul,
Paul.
Everything about Paul.
Everything about Paul.

It’s meant to be said in an almost tired, overwhelmed voice. And the “every” in “everything” should be given special emphasis. And the longer I look at the name Paul, the more it starts looking like a foreign word. Have you ever done that? Like looked at an ordinary word on a cereal box or on some other common product or in a magazine or something and it started looking weirder the longer you looked at it? Must be some interesting psychological research out there about that phenomenon.

Anyway, the reason why I’m so Paul-obsessed lately is because, as I briefly mentioned before, I’m taking a class called “The Historical Paul” at the Urshan Graduate School of Theology in St. Louis this summer. It’s an intensive one-week class offered during what they call a J-Term. There is a whole bunch of prior reading we have to do, and it has a notoriously stressful workload. I keep questioning myself about why I want to do this. Do I like being stressed out? This is a graduate school of Theology. Like, for people who want to get Masters and Doctorates of Divinity, and I’m really not trying to do that for real. What’s the deal? Is it that I want a change of scene so badly that I’m willing to go to these extremes? I want to believe that I’m doing this because I want some spiritual enrichment and because I crave being in an educational environment with people who are about living for God. Yes, I’m satisfied with those reasons. But I wonder if there is an underlying . . . emotional thing going on. A case of “if I could just do_____, then I’ll be fulfilled.” I hope not.

Though I haven’t been on this earth for quite a quarter of a century yet, I’ve been here long enough to know that “if I could just _____, then I’ll be happy/fulfilled/satisfied” never works. Because each and every time I’ve had that feeling, and I finally attained whatever it was I thought was going to fill some void or what have you, it was never enough. I was disillusioned each time because things, people, situations, and places in and of this world are never enough. They only give temporary satisfaction. And I’m not even talking about “bad” things that can hinder us spiritually; I’m talking about normal, ordinary, human things. They’ll never completely solve it. If I’m not cool with being me and with my station in life and with being where God has placed me now, no matter what changes about the surface, about my surroundings and situations, I’m still stuck with me. I took me a while to kind of grasp that concept. One day I want to be able to say what Paul said in his letter to the Philippians: “I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content” (Phil. 4:11).

I Love My Dad

I don't usually do this, that is, blog from work, but since I'm an enrichment teacher, I have blocks of time where I don't have any responsibilities, which is nice when I have lots of other things to catch up on, but boring when I don't.

I know it's not near Father's Day or anything, but I was thinking about something that happened last night. As I may have mentioned before, I'm a big crybaby. Sometimes the thing that triggers it is the most insignificant thing in the universe. But once I get started, it's hard to stop. I can say all of these things from a rational, level-headed distance now, but last night I was curled up into a ball soaking my pillow like a child when my dad gently tapped on the door.

Now, I'm going to be for real and say that sometimes my dad gets on my nerves. I know I get on his. But sometimes he does the best daddy things in the world that makes me feel so grateful to have a father like him. Because I know that a lot of people out there have rotten ones or, maybe worse, non-existant ones. But he came in and sat on the edge of my bed and said, "I'm not going to say anything, I just want to listen. I'm a brick wall. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. " Before I knew it, I was tearfully blurting out the insignificant thing. I felt better. Eventually, he coaxed me out of my fetal position, he joked around and made me smile in spite of myself, he made sure I ate something, and I went to sleep in peace. It was so weird. I mean, funny now, but weird in a cool way.

I always jokingly tell my dad I'm going to marry someone better than him. lol. I know that sounds kind of spiteful, but it really is said and understood in jest. I don't know if he realizes it, but what he did last night was pretty amazing. Most men might see a woman close to them crying uncontrollably and stay away, even if it's a daughter or wife, figuring they'll just let the moment pass or maybe because they don't know what else to do. Or maybe they would try to offer comfort, but end up making the situation worse and pushing her further away. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but whatever it was my dad did was the right thing; hence, the title of this post.

Mind Wanderings

Preparing my musings to be sent out into the blogosphere, I sit, surrounded by various and sundry items on the desk where my laptop sits in my reclaimed room. My lavender and pink plastic butterfly thing that shines a bunch of pretty light when you plug it in. A box of blank cards with a picture of a sunflower on the front. My new Newsboys CD. A dusty blue toy Volkswagen bug.

As Chinese food settles in my belly, I’m thinking forward thoughts. Thoughts of the near future and the far. The near: I have to get up early and put on my happy Spanish teacher smile for the dear ones tomorrow. The far: I’m going to be busting it reading 6 books about the Apostle Paul for an intensive class I’m taking in St. Louis this upcoming summer (I’ll be a Pauline expert yet). The same summer I’m planning to move out and be a big girl on my own. Ooh, save up money, save up money! (I have to remember that I’m in my reclaimed room for a reason.)

Yesterday, I was wondering something. Why was it so hard for me to admit to myself that I want “that someone special” in my life? It took me the longest time to write that down, to say it out loud to myself. I guess because I never wanted to be one of those girls. You know the kind I’m talking about. The ones that are like, “I’m waiting for that knight in shining armor to come rescue me, so while I’m waiting, I’m learning to be the best damsel in distress I can be.” Or the kind that are like, “If you are a breathing entity that walks upright, wears pants, and has the Holy Ghost, you’re my potential soul mate.” I wanted not the slightest hint of desperado to be detected on my breath. But I had to stop being so smugly snide (or snidely smug?) and be honest with myself. I know that I’m not one of those girls, and I finally realized that there’s nothing desperate about saying “this is what I want.” Awright! I just gave myself a high five for that.

And I have another question too. Is it written somewhere that faculty meetings are required to be long and boring? Is it like one of the laws of nature? I’m telling you, I sat through one that was over the top. I mean, on the agenda it was like come back from lunch at 1:00, the little talk about testing over at 3:00. Most people would try to be a little courteous and give us a break and wrap it up at 2:30, tops. But no, homegirl from the whatever Educational Board took up the ENTIRE time. And I’m usually a pretty patient person. But this was too much. No, your in-depth droning on psychometric babble is not cool, I’m sorry.

In the words of Hamlet, I must leave you now to go “to sleep, to sleep! Perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.”