Something for the Grandkids

I don't know what it is . . . is it like, remnants of Valentine's Day lingering in my brain? Is it that there was a wedding at the church yesterday? Is it my non-existent love life propelling me to revisit things from back in the day?

I don't even know what made me remember that I had this saved in the archives of my old email. It was written as a final goodbye to this French guy that I met on my excursion to Paris while I was studying abroad in Spain. No, I never kept in touch with him once I left for the States; there was absolutely no earthly reason why that would have even been a consideration. Things lose the magic when you try to carry them on. Reality starts to overtake it. So, I kind of sent this out into the void, leaving things in the magical way that I remembered them, not expecting a response. He called that night, wishing me well in a thick French accent. C'est la vie:

Hola Stephane,

I know it's been a while, but I just wanted to tell you that today is my last day in Spain. I'm leaving tomorrow. Being in a foreign country has allowed me to meet people that I never would have met in my own country, and among those people is you. You were such an interesting guy, even from the first time I saw you. For some reason, it was so fascinating to meet someone that looked very much like me that had an authentic French accent and considered himself French before anything else and was from an island that I'd never even heard of before. And after that dream-like time in Paris, who would have thought that I'd ever see you again? But I did, and had another dream-like time in Valencia. I know that you are a busy guy, and that you have your own life in Paris (of all places!) and that you are not obligated to keep in touch with me for any reason. I'm not asking for that at all. I just wanted to let you know that for me, you were one of those people that you meet once in your life that maybe you'll never see again, but that you'll always remember. Take care, and I wish you the best in all you do.

Besos,

Chantell

Blank

There are moments of time where I will sit, stare into space, and do nothing. I become enveloped in a world of blankness in a near catatonic state. I have done this since I was a child; my mom told me once that she took me to the doctor because of it when I was a toddler. (The doctor said I was fine.) If I’m in the company of others during these times, someone is bound to wave a hand in front of me, summoning me back to earth. But when I’m alone . . .

Sometimes, I’m deep in thought, and time literally ceases to have an effect on me. A whole half hour could go by and it seem like a minute. Others, I’m not even thinking. I’m just floating in oblivion.

I’m not exactly sure why I do this, what brings it on. I will admit that it happens more often than not when I’m on the moody side, but usually the moments are not moments of pure melancholy. It’s almost like my body shuts down because my mind arrests all of my energy. Even though the rational part realizes that I’m wasting time, allowing precious seconds and minutes to slip by that could be used to do something more productive, it’s not enough to catapult me out of it right away.

It seems as if lately, I have been slipping into blankness more often than I usually do. I guess because, as it stands, there are still so many unanswereds. And when I try to grab hold of something, to pull it to me and embrace it for assurance, it eludes me. I grasp at air. Blankness. Choices defy definition. They don’t fall into categories of “what should be done” or “selfish” or “the most probable and convenient” or “not worth the time” or “too risky.” Right now, they’re kind of floating around like amorphous blobs. Amoeba of the mind.

I do believe that God is ordering my steps, so technically (spiritually, whatever), I should put it to rest, I suppose. But it feels uncomfortable. I can’t see clearly, there’s a haze in front of me everywhere I turn, and I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m really supposed to be doing.

I will just have to content myself with being in the haze for a while. Something tells me that things will come clearly in time.

The Ghetto Paul Returns

See here for the first installment. Now, I knew this verse was in Galatians, but when I read it again the other day, I just sat there and laughed for a minute:

“But when Peter came to Antioch, I withstood him to the face, because he was to be blamed” (Galatians 2:11).

Basically Peter was acting in an uncool manner because at first he was all good with the Gentiles not eating kosher and he would sit down to eat with them, not caring. But when the other Jews who were a part of the evangelizing group came, verse 12 says that Peter kind of backed off and separated himself from the Gentiles because he feared being criticized.

Paul was having none of it. What’s funny is that he doesn’t try to sugar coat Peter’s error. He doesn’t say, “Well, I didn’t really agree with what Peter did.” He doesn’t say, “Peter probably could have made a better choice.” No, he said, “He was to be blamed.” In other words, Peter was flat-out, inexcusably out of line. Paul was basically saying to Peter, “You wrong, dog. For real.” He wasn’t playing.

And on top of that, he “withstood him to the face.” Peter didn’t have to come off saying, “Come on, say it to my face, say it to my face!” because Paul was admittedly all up in his grill, and wasn’t backing down. Paul wasn’t going behind Peter’s back saying stuff, naw, he manned up, said what he had to say to his face, right then and there. Nowadays, we could probably say that Paul punked him.

Paul is my man. He’ll set a man straight in a heartbeat, youknaamean?

Anonymous Gift-Giver Revealed

Tonight, I went out with former anonymous gift-giver. He let me choose the place, so I chose my favorite food of all time, Mexican. ¡Arriba!

He was someone I had suspected, but had ruled out for reasons that I thought were valid. So when he finally revealed himself, I was surprised, but not so surprised.

We had a good time, laughed, and had good conversation over quesadillas, chile relleños and taco salad. I will admit that at first, I thought it was going to be awkward, because honestly, I had never spent one-on-one time with former anonymous gift-giver before. But the conversation flowed, and I felt comfortable and at ease. I tried to hold back on speaking too much Spanish with the waiters, I didn't want a repeat of this. Lordy, no.

Former anonymous gift-giver is cool. He has always been like a brother to me, and now he is an even greater friend. I will admit that perhaps my previous opinion of former anonymous gift-giver had not always been positive. I have accused him of being "mean." lol. But he has definitely proven himself to be quite the opposite, and I am very appreciative and grateful. The flowers are still beautifully brightening up my room, my heart boxers-wearing monkey balloon is still hovering happily around, and I'm still working on that box of chocolates!

Former anonymous gift-giver, thanks for giving me the most special Valentine's Day I've ever had, and thanks for a great night over Mexican food. Dat man cleeeean. You do it all supa-killa, yo.

My Secret Valentine

I used to feel melancholy around Valentine’s Day since I never had a Valentine, but this year, I was determined to be melancholy no more! I curled my hair in a soft Valentine’s Day way, I wore a nice red blouse and a wispy black skirt. I figured since today was a day of expressing love, I was going to show myself how much I appreciated me. After work, I was planning to get myself some sunflowers (my fave) and a box of chocolates. I was cool with being my own Valentine.

Oh, but a slight twist of fate found me in my room on the elementary side this morning during a break when another teacher popped her head in and let me know that I had a Valentine’s Day delivery in the admin building. “Oh,” I told her, “It’s probably my parents wanting me to feel special today.” I didn’t have time to run over and get it right then, so I had to wait until I had a bit of free time after lunch.

I dropped by the admin building and saw a several things on and around the counter. A dozen red roses, a cute little monkey balloon, and a box of chocolates. I was wondering which one was mine. After I inquired, the secretary said that all of it was mine. All of it? I looked at the card in the flowers: “Thinking of You, Happy Valentine’s Day, Judges 13:18 (KJV).” No name. Judges 13:18? I had my Bible with me, and after getting back to my room, I looked up the scripture. It was part of the story where the angel of the LORD prophesied the birth of Sampson to Manoah, and when Manoah asked the angel his name, “The angel of the LORD said unto him, Why askest thou thus after my name, seeing it is secret?” I laughed out loud. I thought that was a pretty clever way of signing an anonymous gift.

I immediately called my mom and a few close friends and all of them sincerely denied they had any part in it. I really wanted to find out who did it, and I vowed that after work, I would get to the bottom of it. But later on, I had a change of heart. Whoever did it must have done it anonymously for a reason. Getting all frantic and obsessing over finding out who it was kind of defeats the purpose of enjoying the flowers and the candy and the balloon, which I assume is what the gift-giver wanted me to do upon receiving them in the first place. So I’m going to let it be.

However, I’m kind of hoping that whoever the culprit is reads my blog . . . for some reason it seems likely that he may (well, I’m not ruling out the possibility of it being a she, but the guy friends that I talked to were convinced that the nature of the gift and the whole anonymous deal points to it being a guy) because there were several things about the gifts: The roses were in a purplish vase with a lavender bow and I’ve mentioned my love for lavender on my blog, and he must’ve somehow known that I have a thing for Curious George (which I’ve mentioned on my blog, therefore I must think monkeys are cute) in regards to the balloon. It may also be someone on everyonesconnected.com, because I’ve mentioned those things in the “Interests and Hobbies” section of my profile. Of course, I don’t think it’s a complete stranger because he must’ve also known where I work to have it delivered there.

In the end, if you’re reading this, anonymous gift-giver, I want to say thank you. You really made my day and made me feel very special. I want to know who you are because I want to tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done, so if you wouldn’t mind, please let me know somehow, and I can assure you, I won’t blab to the world your identity. But if you wish to remain anonymous, just know that I am very grateful, and it is something that I will always remember.

Create Your Own Ministry

That was the title of one of my favorite sessions at the IQ Forum that I went to this past October (recap here). In a nutshell, the session spoke to the point that ministry is about more than preaching, singing and piano playing. The talents that God has given me to speak a foreign language and to teach can be used for His glory even if it is not one of the conventional activities normally considered a “ministry.” I got this grand idea to start teaching free Spanish classes at the church. I am happy to announce that now the idea will become reality. Every Thursday night starting March 2nd from 6:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m., I will be teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by my church!

See, it started when a Hispanic man began attending the church. English-speaking people kept telling me they wish they knew Spanish so that they could communicate with him, and suggested that I teach a class. The idea sat in the back of my mind until the IQ Forum, and since then I had been determined to make it a reality. I got a proposal together, presented it to the pastor and assistant pastor, and was finally allowed to share my ideas with the leadership team during our church’s monthly leadership meeting. It went over well and all were very supportive. It was officially approved. Last Sunday night I was allowed a spot of time to give an official plug for the class over the pulpit. I had over 10 people sign up the first night. Since then, I’ve come up with a catchy flier and tonight I recruited interested church members to help me spread the word by passing out and posting the fliers. Who knows how many more people will come once word gets out?

The purpose of the class is two-fold. The church’s overall mission is to edify the Body and to seek and save that which was lost. The class would edify members of the Body of Christ in a way that they will be unified in working toward a common goal—to learn Spanish to communicate with Spanish-speaking people, and it would also be an outreach tool to seek and save those unconnected to the church. Though a free Spanish class is not necessarily spiritual, it would at least open the door. It would allow people who are not associated with the church to establish a connection to the church, and ultimately would allow for those interested, hungry souls to receive more.

I received confirmation tonight that just spoke to my soul. I am encouraged, I am reassured, I am confident, and I am looking forward to what God is going to do.

Perpetuity

I've had this perpetual cold since I've been working. All the little kiddies pass on their germs to me, I guess. And I see a lot of 'em every day. They're all so cute, the elementary ones especially, and they all want to touch on me and hug on me after class or when they see me in the hallway, which is fine because I love them too.

But little kids can be nasty. They pick their noses and God knows where else their little germy hands have been, and then they put them all over me. I don't think about this while I'm giving them a little Señora Smith hug; it's only after the fact that I realize that it is the fault of these little dear ones that I blow my nose incessantly, cough up chunks of nastiness quite frequently, and can barely sing in the choir because my voice is always hoarse. I will admit though, that I used to think I sounded kind of sexy when my voice was hoarse. I slightly liked that low, throaty kind of rasp I would have going on, and I could do a really good Macy Gray impression. But now it's just plain annoying. When am I going to sound like me again?

People keep telling me to get a Q-tip and line my nose with Neosporin as a preventative measure, and I think I'm going to do it for real because this madness has got to stop.

Pseudo-giddy

I can’t believe I’m sitting here like a giddy little girl awaiting a phone call. It’s not a typical situation where one would feel giddy, but giddy is the only way I can describe how I feel right now. Well, maybe giddy is the wrong word. More like . . . expectant. For some reason, I feel ashamed to admit my pseudo-giddy/expectancy. Can’t I just let myself feel human and be done with it?

It’s just that I haven’t had that “when is he going to call?” feeling in a long time. And the “he” that is “going to call” is not the kind of “he” that would call in any other situation where a girl would wait expectantly by the phone (or with cell phone close by).

Brief flashback: It was the summer of 2002. I was 20, less cynical that I am now, and ready to traverse Europe. I went to Spain for a month to do a study abroad program with my university. Inevitably, being 20, un-cynical, and in Europe, I became star struck with a green-eyed, long-lashed, honey-skinned young Spaniard. Boy, I fell hard. He was friends with my roommate’s conversation partner and we all hung out together and got along just swell. But what I couldn’t fathom is that why, in a country that literally fought to be Catholic, was he a Mormon?

I even began to believe that God sent me to Spain to help him see the light, especially when he came to church with me one night at an A/P church in Madrid. No, he didn’t get slain in the Spirit, much to my dismay. lol. When a month’s time was up, I was leaving, he was staying, and he remained a Mormon and wasn’t planning to convert any time soon (nor was I). In the end, I had to come to terms with the fact that it was utterly impossible. The last day, he saw us off as we boarded a bus back to the airport. My heart literally hurt. And did I ever mention how big of a crybaby I am? Yeah. He told me in Spanish not to cry.

Fast forward to the spring of 2004. The long-lashed Spaniard and I kept in touch over the years, and I was planning to spend a semester in Spain to get the rest of my Spanish credits. I would be lying if I said that I had gotten over him by that time. (Like I said, I fell hard.) But he was spending that year studying abroad in France, which was probably for the best. However, he did come to Spain a few times to visit, and my roommate and I met up with him in France (Paris!) so I did see him, which was cool, because after that bus-departure melodrama a couple of years previous, I thought I never would again. But somehow, I don’t know exactly what made it happen, but something clicked in my mind. The spell was broken. I realized that as far as he was concerned . . . no, never, ever. “Just friends” we would remain.

We still sporadically update each other from time to time. I would jokingly refer to him as a jack-in-the-box. It seemed like he was always suddenly popping up here and there. And he’s done it again. I got an out of the blue email from him saying that he’s in the US, in Utah (oh, so Mormon) visiting a friend, send him my phone number, and he’d give me a call. I was shocked out of my socks. In the US? I emailed him back saying I needed to brush up on my Spanish (I’ve lost my Castilian edge) or else I’d be ashamed when he called. The last time he emailed me he said he is not going to give me any more time to perfect my Spanish and he’d try to call today, so here I wait. Pseudo-giddy.