My Little Revelatory Thought

This morning at church, I listened to the pastor preach about faith. Oh, faith! Oh, jump up and down and get worked up and excited faith! Move mountains, swing from the chandelier, woo-hoo!

I’ll admit that perhaps my initial response was a slightly cynical, “Okay, tell me something I haven’t already heard.” I’m just being honest.

He started talking about holding on to the promises that God has made to us and to the promises in His Word. And this is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us: And if we know that he hear us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of him (I John 5:14-15).

Of course, there’s a little catch, if you want to call it that. Overall, God doesn’t really seem to be a God of instant gratification. Even though He’s got some rock-solid promises, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the promise will be fulfilled like, tomorrow. That’s where the whole “holding on” thing comes in.

But here’s the revelatory thing my pastor said: In the time between making the petition known or the prophecy going forth (oh, so Pentecostal) and the actual fulfillment of it, you’re going to be expending energy. Wondering when it will come to pass, turning it over and over in your mind. So, since you’re going to be expending energy anyway, why not expend the energy positively instead of negatively? Instead of brooding, doubting, and looking at it pessimistically, why not hope for it, have faith that God is a man of his word, so to speak, and believe with everything in you that it will happen?

Okay, let’s say your flight to Paris or some other international dream destination is indeterminately delayed. You don’t know how long, but you know you’re going to have to wait. You could do one of two things: One, you could spend the indeterminate wait complaining, fearing that the flight is actually canceled, and feeling sorry for yourself thinking how it’s so unfair that you have to waste time at the airport when you could already be in France eating crepes as you walk down the Champs-Elysées. Or two, you could sigh and think, “Oh, well, flights are delayed all the time,” and you could spend some more time planning out your Paris trip, get a caramel Frappucino from Starbucks, buy that book you were always meaning to read, and find a nice spot in front of the terminal window to watch the sunset.

It’s up to you.

Here's What I Get for Intensely Thinking

I'm already starting to get wrinkles. Not like for real old people wrinkles, but it's a wrinkle or two on my forehead, when I wrinkle up my brow while I'm in intense thought. It's almost like a frown, and when I do it, it looks like the number "11" between my eyebrows, and when I don't do it, there's still a slight wisp of a wrinkle. Grrrr.

I've been trying to get myself to lighten up. Stop brooding and pondering and rehashing everything and trying to figure every detail out, I tell myself. But do I listen? One look at the slight wisp of a wrinkle on my forehead would answer that question.

I think I've found a semi-solution. Anytime I have a negative or uneasy or pensive or regretful or melancholy feeling, I go into that intense thought mode, possibly as sort of a defense mechanism. Like, maybe my subconscious (oh, so Freudian) thinks that going into the mode will block the negative feeling, will protect me from it. But going into the mode is causing me to have wrinkles prematurely, and I won't stand for it. My solution? Just let it happen. If the negative feeling starts to come, I'm going to try not to fight it off, try not to go into emotional denial and take cover in my "mode." I'm just going to accept it and allow myself to feel the hurt until it passes. Ha. Always easier said than done.

Or maybe I should scrap the whole "accepting the hurt" and start saving up for Botox injections. C'mon, a girl's gotta have a backup plan.

Connecting the Dots of the Mind

But first, a little photo-op . . .
Here's me in my recently won 90&9.com t-shirt. Yeah, baby!












Anyway . . .

This little game I play
It's kind of like a mental, abstract connect-the-dots. Okay, I'm not one to believe that every single solitary coincidence in life is God speaking to me. But sometimes, oh, sometimes, if I happen to unfortunately become a tad preoccupied with some . . . concept, I begin to think that everything that presents itself to me, whether in word or deed, or in something I read or whatever that is in any way connected to the object of preoccupation, is some kind of positive "sign."

I hate when I begin to do this. The rational part of me knows it's not God, but rather me, picking out "signs" from ordinary happenstances because my mental perception is heightened and tuned towards that particular object of preoccupation. Things that would normally go unnoticed suddenly become uncanny "confirmations."

It's the weirdest thing in the world for your rational side to realize the irrationality of something even while you're continuing to indulge in it.

Part of me is like, "Girl, chill out. You could expend your brain's energy in much more productive ways." The other part is like, "Aw, c'mon. No harm done by an already-acknowledged-as-irrational element. It's not like you don't realize you're being irrational. If you didn't realize it, then maybe we'd have a problem. It's not like you really buy this 'connection' stuff anway."

But perhaps therein lies the crux of the matter. Though, rationally, I cannot allow myself to buy it, deep down inside, I want to buy it.

My analytical, just-the-facts-ma'am side is a frantic, sweating, placating servant, doing everything he can to keep the irrational, emotional mistress at bay. What a ridiculous metaphor. It's not entirely accurate, but it's kind of amusing nonetheless.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.
(Hamlet, Act II scene ii)

Minneapolis and Gilead

Minneapolis
Today (well, technically yesterday, since it's currently after 12 a.m.) we got back from our little excursion to Minneapolis. Tuesday night we spent a few hours at Mall of America. Wow. It's the biggest mall in the country. We had dinner at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co, and I got more than my fill of crab-stuffed shrimp.

All day Wednesday we spent at Valleyfair. I think I rode all of the rollercoasters in the park at least once. Two of them I rode thrice—Wild Thing and Steel Venom. I hadn't been to an amusement park since my senior year in high school, so I was pumped. I had ADHD that day. I mean, I really felt like a kid that day. I wore myself out.

Thursday we went back to Mall of America. We spent a good part of the day spending our money there. Then, we hopped on over to Albertville, a small town right outside of Minneapolis that is filled with outlet stores. Now I really know what it means to shop 'till you drop! Shoes and skirts and sunglasses and shirts and more shoes . . . (sigh).

Gilead
In the midst of all of the hustle and bustle of travel and road trips, I've been reading a book called Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. She won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction for it. It's not exactly an action-packed page-turner, but it's serene and profound. It's basically about the reflections of an old minister in a letter to his young son. One of the main themes is father-son relationships. It made me reflect on my relationship with my mom. I bought some huge sunglasses from New York & CO. Those sunglasses that are in style now that basically cover half of your face when you put them on, like exaggerated aviator glasses or something, that were in style in the 70s and such. When I tried them on in the mirror before I bought them, it reminded me of a 70s era picture of my mom girlishly posing, wearing the same kind of glasses. It was weird. It was like I was, in a small way, becoming more like her from wearing those glasses. Me in the prime of my youth. My mom in the prime of her youth in that picture. The two fusing together.

Another thing that Gilead is making me reflect on is the older guy thing. In the story, the old minister marries a woman about a generation younger than he is and he tells how his wife loves a novel called The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, which is partly a love story about a young woman and an older man. It brought the older guy thing up in my mind. Could I be with a guy who is several years older than I am? I've thought about this a lot, and I think the answer is yes.

I was one of those girls who had perpetual crushes on college professors. It seems that I've always had a penchant for the . . . pedagogical. I seem to want someone who can teach me something, show me something I don't already know, introduce me to that which is unfamiliar to me, who can intellectually engage and stimulate me. That is not to say that there aren't 24ish guys out there who could do that. But it just seems that for the whole "teaching me something" aspect about the kind of guy I think I want, an older one might fit the bill more than one of my peer group. I'm not saying this as like a certainty . . . it might just be my English major tendency (I double majored in Spanish and English, remember?) toward generalization and romanticism rising up and threatning to cloud my view.

I've Been Tagged!

This is a defining moment in a blogger's life. I've been tagged for the first time by ramblingrose to do one of these list things (as I call them) or memes, the proper blogosphere term for the "list things" (click here for more definitions of blog jargon). Here goes:

7 things that scare me
1. Not living up to my potential.

2. Being stuck in one place forever.

3. That presentation they showed us in Senior Camp back in the day about how rock music is satanic and they had like recordings of 80s rock with that backward masking stuff they would do. Like, that Queen song played forward would sing "another one bites the dust" but played backwards it sounded really freaky and said stuff like "try suicide, take a snort, take a snort" (like of cocaine or whatever). It scared the life out of me and brings tears to my eyes even now.

4. The thought of something traumatic happening to my teeth. I always have dreams of them being crushed because I bit down on something too hard or of them all falling out.

5. The thought of being separated from God. Like if one day I woke up and realized that He wasn't on my side any more. That He was just going to leave me to go at it all alone.

6. Walking out into the ocean barefoot and possibly stepping on some kind of slimy sea creature, sharp stuff (like glass or a sea urchin) or a really textured creature, like a starfish.

7. Something terrible happening to people that I love or myself. More specifically, the thought that since I haven't undergone anything absolutely devestating in my life thus far, that it's on its way and might catch me unawares.

7 things I like (aw, this one is easy!)
1. Iced chai tea lattes.

2. Reading for pleasure.

3. Traveling.

4. Long, leisurely showers.

5. Attractive male attention.

6. Knocking everything off of a to-do list.

7. Feeling like I fit in.


7 things I plan/hope to do before I die
1. Learn another language fluently.

2. Learn to play the guitar.

3. Visit all of the continents of the world (so far I've only done North America and Europe).

4. Contribute significantly to the work of God.

5. Get married to a man who will cherish me and have at least 2, maybe 3, fat, laughing babies. I don't want any of those skinny, long babies. I want cute, fat ones.

6. See the California Redwoods and think, "What is man that thou art mindful of him?"

7. Maybe before I die, technology will have advanced enough for people to have jetpacks, and we could personally fly, instead of driving or catching flights, to get from place to place. I've always had dreams of flying over the city, and I'd like to do that before I die, if technology and the good Lord allow.

7 things I can do
1. Speak Spanish fluently.

2. Recite the general prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Old English. "Here begynneth the book . . ."

3. Make a pound cake from scratch.

4. Make an origami frog that jumps.

5. Laugh at myself.

6. Try weird looking food.

7. All things through Christ which strengthens me. (I couldn't resist!)


7 things I can't do
1. Be cool with people who look down on other people.

2. Cook. (Yet.)

3. Eat blood sausage. I like rare steak, and I usually have an open mind about trying weird food, but that stuff is hands-down nasty.

4. Completely forget about all the dumb things I've ever said and done.

5. Drive a stick.

6. Juggle.

7. Say "toy boat" 3 times fast. (Bet you can't either. Just try.)

7 things I say the most
1. Adding "or whatever" after a possible activity. Example: "We're probably going to go to the mall or whatever."

2. Adding "and such" and/or "and stuff" when trying to describe all included elements of something or trying to capture the essence of something or some action. Example: "I thought she was all about traveling the world and such."

3. "No, I didn't mean it like that!"

4. "Why?"

5. Using the phrase "for real" instead of "really." Example: "He didn't show up looking like that for real, did he?"

6. Saying "You know what?" before making a decisive statement. Example: "You know what? I'm just going to go ahead with my original plan and not worry about the extra stuff."

7. This is not really a phrase or anything, but I always give disclaimers when I'm explaining myself. It drives my friends nuts. It's like I have this need to cover all my bases and give this preamble before I get to what I'm actually trying to say.

7 books I love (I have to mention plays and short stories too.)
1. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

2. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

3. Pepita Jimenez by Juan Valera

4. Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

5. "The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allan Poe

6. Cane by Jean Toomer

7. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

7 people I want to tag
I don't really feel like tagging other people because honestly, most, if not all of the bloggers I know have already done this, if not something very similar. But if you read this, and you're a blogger, please feel free if you want to do this and leave a comment letting me know so I can read yours!

Travel Trauma

:sigh: I made it, finally. I'm comfortably at the home of one of my best friends in the world. When you're a military brat, it's hard to be friends with people as long as I've been friends with Mat (female).

But the journey to the abode of Mat and her family was not without event. I want to talk about it, but I don't want to get all involved. Let's just say that I missed my last connecting flight to NoDak because my previous flight was delayed. There I was at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, late at night, stranded. Oh, what to do?

The people I tried to get help from were really not helpful, and it was so frustrating. I know that people miss their flights all the time . . . it just happened to be me this time, but the unhelpfulness and rudeness of people whose job it is to help stranded travelers didn't make matters better. The conclusion: The next flight out to North Dakota wasn't until the following morning at 9 a.m. Was I going to have to spend the night at the airport?

But God, as usual, was lookin' out for his girl. A very pleasant lady who overheard my tearful conversation with Mat explaining my predicament smiled, let me know that she was in the same situation, and gave me the numbers to a nearby hotel complete with a shuttle that would pick me up and take me back to the airport the following morning. I thanked her profusely, made a couple of phone calls, and 15 minutes later, I was on my way to a place where I could lay my weary head for the night.

Before I left to catch the shuttle, I said, "Thank you so much! This was just what I needed. You are an absolute godsend."

She replied, "You're welcome. God's people always look out for each other, right?"

Then I turned around and she was gone. Just kidding. It just seemed like an appropriate ending. Maybe she wasn't a for real angel, but God placed her in my path at the moment I needed it the most. Thank you God, for lookin' out for your girl.

Today I Got My Socks Shocked Off

Usually, you think of old church ladies as these sweet people that might talk too much and try to get in your business, but tell you straight and exhort you unto good works and such. The elder shall teach the younger and all of that, right?

Well, tonight, an old lady at church shocked my socks off.

I was wearing a long denim dress and Sis. Old Lady comes up to me and says,"Darlin' you lookin' just as purty as you always do. But let me tell you something, you look better in short skirts and dresses than you do in long ones. Now, that dress looks nice, but I remember seeing you in somethin' a little shorter not too long ago. Now, not nothin' too short, but you know . . . and I thought my, you look 100% better in short things. Just let them legs show, honey. Let them legs show!" It wasn't until after she gave me an old church lady hug and walked away that I did a mental double take.

I laughed. Incredulously and flabbergastedly, I laughed.

Novels and Travels

I just finished reading The High Window, a 1940s era detective novel by Raymond Chandler.

“Is all this on the level—or are you just being smart?”

“That straight goods about you owing Morny twelve grand?”

I was charmed by all the Dick Tracy-esque slang, (referring to women as “dames” and all of that), the fast-talking, wise-cracking banter. But what was nice is that Chandler used a lot of creative simile and metaphor, which is usually unconventional for this type of novel.

I also finished Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller last week. Non-religious thoughts on Christian spirituality. It was one of the most enlightening books I’ve ever read; it articulated a lot of my struggle with the paradoxes of faith.

His tone was so honest, down-to-earth, and humorous in sort of a self-deprecatory way. I really liked what he had to say about love. It should be given unconditionally, not parceled out as a commodity to only those who measure up to our expectations. He also hit on what I truly see as the central element to all sin—self-absorption. Satisfying number one above all else and at all costs is part of the twistedness of human nature. Reversing it is what we need to work on—putting others before ourselves. Jesus did that very thing for us to the ultimate degree on the cross. It’s so simple, yet so true.

In other news, on Thursday I’m leaving to visit some friends in Macon, GA and from there I’ll leave out of Atlanta on Friday to visit some friends in the cold, cold land of North Dakota. Or, No-Dak, as they affectionately refer to it. I’m looking forward to our upcoming Minneapolis, Minn. side trip, too. Which reminds me . . . I’d better check on the weather because I’m 100% sure that Midwestern summer weather is nothing like it is in the South, and this cold-natured girl is not going to be taken by surprise!

Singles Mingle

Just say that out loud to yourself. When I say ‘singles mingle’ it simply turns my gut. Just the sound of it makes it seem like an event that I don’t want to attend. What kinds of images converge in your head? It gives me the image of odiferous, undesirable juices slowly trickling and flowing together to mingle and form some even more odiferous and undesirable byproduct.

I know, I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m a little cranky and hormonal too. This whole week we’ve been having our District Camp Meetings and Thursday night (tonight) has been designated as the Singles Mingle. Tonight after service at Ruby Tuesday. On a Thursday.

Maybe I’m being frivolous, but I just can’t bring myself to do the singles thing. You know, up to about . . . hmmm, 21 or so, you’re churchly defined by your age. Children’s church. Teen’s class. Youth service. But then, once you’re like good and settled in your twenties, you become defined by your marital status. Single.

Now, I don’t mind being single too much. Really, I know it’s all good. I’m 24, I’m handling my business. I’m not freaking out about it. And I hope I never get to the point that I do. But for some reason, I have this aversion to doing “singles” stuff. I’ve never been to a singles conference. I have this notion that if I gave in and resigned myself to doing the singles thing that I would place myself into an environment where I’d just be breathing in all this desperation-filled air. That I would be putting myself out into the meat market, freshly cut from the cow. Pentecostally selling myself. Putting myself up for grabs. “Look, guys, no ring!” The very thought is so icky to me. As unattractive as force feeding yourself a bowl of cold, lumpy grits.

Now, I know times have changed. People do the “college and career” thing now, and I’m really down with that. But it hasn’t really caught on here yet. Right now I feel like it’s “Poor old sad single folks. Let’s let ‘em mingle and maybe a few here and there will get together and be happy.”

A million people must’ve asked me if I were going to the Singles Mingle tonight. Sample conversation:

Person: Are you going to the Singles Mingle tonight?
Me: No.
Person: Aww, you really ought to. It’s just for fellowship. They’re going to have some really nice door prizes.
Me: I know, but . . . I’m not going.
Person: Come on, why?
Me: Because I don’t want to.
Person: (after an awkward pause) Party pooper.

I know, I know, I’m being cranky and a party pooper and maybe even a little snobby. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. I know the Singles Mingle is not by virtue going to be a desperation-filled meat market. How unfair of me to categorize it as such. But I can’t help it.

List

1. I finished reading The English Patient. Such lyrical, haunting prose. It spoke to something in me, but I can't put my finger on exactly what. Though I understood it, there was something about it that was just beyond my grasp.

2. I’ve begun to read Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz. “I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.” It’s a man’s honest look at his Christian spiritual journey.

3. I finally, for the first time, watched Anne of Green Gables. Isn’t it like a Pentecostal female cult classic? The assistant pastor’s wife gasped when I confessed I had never seen any of them and she let me borrow the DVDs of the series. So far I’ve watched the first one and the sequel. Now I can sleep knowing that Anne and Gilbert finally got together.

4. Today my odometer read 123,456 miles. It was only going to stay that way for a mile more of driving, so I pulled over to the side of the road, dug out a disposable camera that I happened to have, and took two pictures of it. I just have this irresistible urge to memorialize unique moments, regardless of how small. There will only be one time in my car’s life that the odometer will read that unique series of numbers, and that moment has been immortalized in film.

5. I recently began a new personal journal. The cover of this one features one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings. This is the first journal since the last three that I’ve filled up that is not lavender. Sometimes you just have to get out of the routine.

Oh, Baby

Today I saw a baby being born. I won’t get too graphic, but I saw everything. I saw the little guy come out, I saw what came out after the little guy came out, I saw the cord being cut . . . I mean, I had front row seats to a live birth.

It was amazing on one hand, but a tad unsettling on the other. Maybe ‘unsettling’ isn’t the right word. ‘Raw’ maybe? I was just like, “Whoa. This is real life.” It was sobering, a lot to take in, but at the same time, miraculous and beautiful.

I’m going to be honest and say that the circumstances surrounding the birth were difficult. A young, unmarried girl with mental challenges. An uninvolved, non-existent father. The new grandma, a co-worker, and I became family.

Will this be me one day? Before the birth, one of Grandma’s co-workers dropped by to visit. She looked at my 5’6, 110-pound frame, my girlish denim skirt and flip-flops and said, “Could you even imagine Chantell having a baby? Her little self?”

I don’t think it’s really my size; I think, perhaps, especially when I’m out of my professional teacher wear, that I still give off somewhat of an adolescent air. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, “I’m 24?” I suppose I'll be thankful when I'm older.

Anyway, I hope when that time comes that my mom will be there, comforting me, waiting on me, giving me all the little bits of motherly advice. (Perhaps my pops will be chilling in the waiting room). I hope that I will be supported and loved by an amazing man who will be by my side and who will be determined to help raise our child in a godly, loving home.

I hope that I will look into my child’s eyes and realize that I am holding a part of myself.

Back in the Atmosphere

Now that she's back in the atmosphere
With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey

CHORUS 1
Tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated?
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

Now that she's back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that there's time to grow, hey, hey
Now that she's back in the atmosphere
I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol jane
Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land

CHORUS 2
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back to the Milky Way?
And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
Was it everything you wanted to find?
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

BRIDGE
Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back toward the Milky Way?
(Repeat 1st chorus)

"Drops of Jupiter" by Train

I'm Baaack!
I know the above is a "secular" song, but I love it and it describes kind of how I feel right now (the only exception being that I'm 100% sure that heaven is not overrated!). I took a hiatus from "Where You Can Find Me" blogging on "A Month in My Life" on 90&9, and it was a blast. (One of my fellow classmates from UGST is the new blogger for June.) I'll be honest and say there were some flare-ups of controversy here and there, but in the end, it was all good. Sometimes a little controversy spices things up and brings things out into the open that we don't ordinarily want to deal with, but that we need to deal with.

I also returned from St. Louis from my stint at UGST doing the Paul class yesterday. Like the song says, it was a "soul vacation." I learned so much, and it was so refreshing to get away, get a change of scene, meet like-minded people, gain some direction, and make lasting connections. I have a feeling that St. Louis and/or UGST is in my future . . . I don't claim to know the mind of God by any means, but if it is in my future, I know that I have a network of support already established.

Now, once all the Jupiter drops fall out of my hair and once I can get over my brushes with shooting stars, perhaps I can settle down and get focused on the 20-pager about the historical Paul that is due mid-August. (sigh) Back to the real world.

Upcoming . . .
In a couple of weeks, I'll be headed away again, but this time to the cold, cold land of North Dakota. (I'm desperately hoping that summer time will make the weather at least bearable.) North Dakota as summer vacation? "You're crazed!" some might say. But to make a long story short, I have some fellow military brat friends up there whom I haven't seen in eons, and we're taking a trip with their youth group to close-by Minneapolis to do Mall of America and the like. Yay!

For Now
I'm going to knock some things off my never ending to-do list, and get real with researching for the Paul paper. My topic is the centrality of the Antioch experience to Paul's ministry. (Remember the "ghetto Paul" entry where he "withstood Peter to the face"?) Maybe I can sort of sneak Paul's ancient ghettofabulousness into the mix of the paper somewhere . . . if only I could find some Bible scholars' writings to back me up!

TTFN

Well, the time has come to say goodbye . . . temporarily. I've been installed as the new blogger for "A Month in My Life" at ninetyandnine.com. It's a blog that features a new person every month and for the month of May, I'm it. So, I'm taking a temporary "Where You Can Find Me" hiatus. Never fear, though, just click here to catch up on daily Chantellian musings. I'll be back. (Insert your own Arnold accent.)

Love, Chemically

There’s this song that’s been coming on Christian radio by a group called Hyperstatic Union called “Praying for Sunny Days.” It’s been going through my head all day, and it won’t get out. There’s a part during the chorus where the lead singer’s voice goes up in a really high, sweet sounding falsetto, and I just love it. There’s just something about hearing a sweet, warm, fluid falsetto that gives me a bit of an adrenaline rush. Some things cannot be explained. They just are.

I had a little break from the 6th graders yesterday—they had some activity or another—International Day, it was. So, since I’m what they call an “exploratory” teacher—those classes which go in 7 week rotations—I’m one of the guys they cut out when they have a special program or whatever. But, psshhh, I’m not complaining.

Well, anyway, during my break, I was reading the February edition of National Geographic and I was enthralled by the feature they had on the chemistry of love. Like, it explained the chemicals and processes that go on in our brains when we feel like we’re in love. It went on to say that studies were done and that the level of seretonin in the blood of someone “madly” in love (for this particular study, someone who had fallen in love within the past 6 months and obsessed about the love object for at least 4 hours a day) is not dissimilar the level of seretonin in the blood of someone who is suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. So, love and mental illness could be difficult to tell apart.

But then it talked about how “studies around the world confirm that passion usually ends.” Our neurons become desensitized to the surges of dopamine that gives us that romantic high. And, as the article states, like cocaine users, we need more and more of the “drug” to produce the high. So it fizzles. That part kind of made me feel a twinge of sadness because it’s scientifically proven that the stars inevitably fade.

But then, there’s another hormone called oxytocin. “It’s a hormone that promotes a feeling of connection, bonding. It is released when we hug our long-term spouses, or our children. It is released when a mother nurses her infant.” So, after we’ve been burnt out on dopamine, if the relationship is to last, both partners have to sustain enough oxytocin levels to keep things going for the long haul.

I don’t know why this article fascinated me so much. I mean, as of late, I haven’t been blown away by any dopamine surges. But I guess it’s just like a scientific breakdown of one of my inner debates: What’s more important—the excitement of attraction (that will eventually fade), or the less exciting “good qualities” (that will need to be present to make things operate in the long run)? What’s more important—dopamine or oxytocin?

In the end, I know dopamine isn’t everything, but how can oxytocin even enter the equation if there’s never any dopamine to get things going in the first place? You knaamean?

Blogfast of Champions

I’m baaaack . . .

Blogfast?
‘Breakfast,’ the word from which ‘blogfast’ has been derived, is a compound word made up of ‘break’ and ‘fast.’ When we get up in the morning and eat a bowl of Wheaties, we are breaking our “fast” of not eating since dinner the previous night. Okay, what does this have to do with blogging? I went on a blogfast this past week. Actually, an Internet fast. (See what these modern times have brought us to?) I realized that I was spending too much time on the net—emailing, blogging, reading other blogs, and other stuff that was basically just wasting a bunch of time. And I felt a tad bit on the, uh, hypocritical side because I have this little conviction going on about not owning a TV and yet here I am being sucked into the net and, again, wasting time that could be spent doing much more productive and fruitful things. (Though, to my credit, I will admit I was not blowing nearly the amount of time I was pre-TV conviction.) I hadn’t been reading my Bible every day, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I checked my Gmail every day (more than once a day). The perfect opportunity to remedy this imbalance came last Sunday night when the pastor reminded us that we can fast things other than food and issued a challenge for us to fast something this week we really like and that perhaps we spend a lot of time doing, and the Internet was one of the things he mentioned. Gaaa! Conviction struck my heart. I resolved to fast the Internet. No blogging. No checking personal email. No Everyone’s Connected. No Facebook. No ninetyandnine. No anything Internet related until the following Sunday. Of course, the exception being for work-related tasks such as checking my Outlook mail at work and posting grades and assignments online. I had to show myself that it’s something I could do without, and I’m glad that I did. I refuse to let the Internet dominate my time. Let your moderation be known unto all men (Philipians 4:5).

Treading Softly over Spilled Beans
Once beans of any type, be they black beans, navy beans, pork n’ beans, whatever, have been spilled, there’s really no way to clean them up. Of course, you can try, but the beaniness is still going to be there, and there’s no way of getting around it. (sigh) Let’s just say a quite . . . unsuitable (if you knew the situation, believe me, you’d agree) spilling happened this week, and it’s gotten to me a little. How can someone just bare their entire heart and soul to you, beans spilling over in quite an untimely and confessional manner, and then afterward, after they’ve gotten it off their chest, regardless of your response, expect things to continue business as usual? Don’t you realize that I now know how you feel and I know that you know that the feeling is not mutual? It makes me feel weird, a little bad even. Don’t you think it might make me feel a wee bit uncomfortable talking to you for a while? Yes, you are a human being; we all have our weaknesses. But I’m human too. Ahem.

Getting Snatched Up
My mostly middle-aged, mostly female co-workers are starting to get to me too just a tad—with this whole “have you met the new band director yet” business and such like. I guess they just can’t help themselves seeing a fresh little young’un like me existing completely unattached. “I can’t believe no one’s come by and just snatched you up yet.” I get an image of myself walking peacefully along at the park or something, and then this huge hand swoops down out of nowhere and jerks me up off the ground by the collar, snapping my head back and leaving my little arms and legs flailing. “What happened to Chantell?” “Oh, she finally got snatched up.” I’m starting to wonder, am I snatchable? At the rate I’m going, I might have to be carefully coaxed. Like a trapped kitten being persuaded to come down from a tree.

Take That, You Standardized Test Villains!
I broke down and took the GRE last Saturday. It’s one of the hurdles you have to jump before applying to grad school. It was the computer-based version, so you get your scores on the verbal and quantitative parts as soon as you finish. (There’s a little writing part and they send the results later.) I was freaking out about the quantitative, because I’m so not a math and reasoning person. I was so much more confident about the verbal—reading comp, analogies and sentence completion are my strengths, I thought. Language Arts major, hello? But whaddya know, the scores flash up on the screen and I did 20 pts better on the quantitative than I did on the verbal. How’d I manage that one? The verdict: Verbal—660, Quantitative—680. Score!

UGST
I’m working overtime to finish the readings and papers for the Paul class this summer. I cannot believe it’s like a month away. I must do it. I refuse to be unprepared.

By the way . . .
Next month there will be a little surprise. Your friendly neighborhood blogger will be introduced into another realm of the blogosphere. Stay tuned!

Alive

Every day is a new day
I’m thankful for every breath I take
I won’t take it for granted (I won’t take it for granted)
So I learn from my mistakes
It’s beyond my control
Sometimes it’s best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love (so I trust in love)
You have given me peace of mind

I, I feel so alive
For the very first time
I can’t deny You (I feel so alive)
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time (for the very first time)
And I think I can fly

That’s the first verse and chorus of a song called “Alive” that was really popular a few years ago by a crossover “rap core” group called POD. The music’s a little edgy, but the lyrics are pretty inspiring, and kind of give voice to how I’ve been feeling lately.

For the first time in a while, I’ve gone without falling back on my characteristic “moodiness.” I feel like I’ve progressed, like I’ve gotten over a little hump that I’ve been trying to get over for a while. I’ve realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually feel good about myself and that God is leading me toward an “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).

I just finished reading a book that I mentioned previously entitled Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam. The book itself, indeed, was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a much-despised-in-my-eyes-waiting-on-a-man book. Neither was it a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-get-on-with-your-life-without-a-man-all-you-need-is-Jesus book. It was an honest, insightful, almost memoir, of a single, Christian lady navigating through life. It was the Aristotelian Golden Mean between the two extremes I mentioned above. It spoke to something I was having a bit of an inner struggle with (see post entitled “Uh-oh”).

I feel like I’m on the brink of making some big decisions. It’s probably come to the forefront in light of the fact that I’m taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) tomorrow—a must before entering graduate school. A part of me was tempted to . . . well, the only way to explain it is to say to sit on my talents. To resist going for the gold for fear that I might miss out. To wonder if I’d get so caught up in “doing” that potential whatevers would get left in the dust, and that once I’d reached the pinnacle, there I’d remain—accomplished, successful, victorious, and alone. But something in this book spoke to me. The author speaks of her experience in this same struggle:

“So what does a woman do when her British boss and her aunt Bonnie from Texas, whom she barely ever sees, can smell her issues a mile away? when she realizes that, like the servant who hid his talent in the ground for fear that the master was a tyrant, she too has buried her talents for fear that God is perhaps a little twisted? when she faces her suspicion that God is someone who might give her gifts in communication, spiritual leadership, and vision that, if she were to use them fully, would sabotage the very desires of her heart for marriage and possibly a family? [ . . .]

Sitting behind my computer in my windowless office, staring at unfiled papers and a keyboard with dust in its crevices, I repented. God, I’ve buried the talents you’ve given me because I’ve feared how my life might go if I use them. I’ve been wrong. Please forgive me. Then—hoping no one would barge into my office while tears dribbled onto my keyboard, I laid that big pile of strengths and weaknesses, dreams and fears, down before him. Okay, God, my talents—and my desires—are yours. You gave them to me; now I’m giving them back to you, for you to do with them what you’d like. No more ineffective strategic hoarding and stingy distribution for my own purposes. [ . . . ]

Perhaps, though, whether we’re talent smushers or talent celebrators or somewhere in between, finding the answer to the question, How much of myself—my time, my energy, my abilities, my heart—do I give to a career? begins at the same place for all of us: acknowledging that we can’t control an unpredictable work or relational future. We can only face what’s real in the present, offer our talents back to the Talent Giver, and move forward with the best wisdom we have.”

She goes on to mention in the subsequent chapter how those who are the most satisfied in their work are those who “are using their strengths for something or someone greater than themselves.” Something clicked in my mind. The assurance that I’m where I need to be flooded over me. Teaching, the profession in which I’m engaged now, is something that is deeper to me than a job. It’s a calling. Investing in young minds is something greater than me. The potential my current students have is more than I am. And participating in increasing that potential satisfies me. God has given me the ability to speak another language fluently. I feel that I’m giving back to Him what He's given to me through translating during church services, teaching a Bible study in Spanish, and by teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by the church.

In the end, I know that God has also given me the ability and the opportunity to progress using the talents He’s given me, and right now, the choice of whether I’m going to celebrate them or sit on them has to do with furthering my education. I cannot be afraid of the unknown and the unpredictable. I cannot be afraid of taking what I consider risky steps if those steps are ordered by God.

Odds n' Ends

We all know the devestating feeling of unrequited love--you're really feelin' someone, but they just ain't feelin' you. They want to be "just friends." Oh, and then to have to see them with someone else. Ouch. Well, this devotion on ninetyandnine makes a parallel between that feeling, and how Jesus might feel when we relegate Him to "just friends" status. Check it out here.

And now, for some hearty laughs. I got this forward and nearly busted a gut:

You a Ghetto Christian If . . .
1. You lie on an application to get a job and then get up and testify that "God made a way out of no way"
2. You get mad at a visitor and call them out for sitting in your seat.
3. You tell the preacher to baptize you from the neck down because you just got your hair did!
4. You take 2 hours to get ready for church, get there late, and leave early!!!
5. You open your Bible & cough from the dust that flies out.
6. Your wedding song is 'Secret Lovers'.
7. You do not lift your hand during worship because your acrylic nail is broken.
8. The only time you like to sing in the choir is when they let you sing "your" song.
9. You do not tithe because you say, "the preacher might be crooked and stealing the Lord's money, so I don't want to give it to him."
10. After you've done wrong and someone has rebuked you, you don't repent but you say, "Well the Lord knows my heart."
11. If you have ever said, "show me in the Bible where it says, thou shall not smoke."
12. Your favorite part of the service is the benediction.
13. You buy "hot" merchandise and testify the Lord blessed me with a TV, jewelry, clothes, etc.
14. You overheard someone say, "We got fed today at service" and you asked if they served chicken.
15. You finish smoking on the outside of the church and then try to lead a song, get choked up, holding your throat and say to the congregation, "The devil don't want me to sing this song!"

Catharsis

ca•thar•sis n. 1. a purging 2. a relieving of the emotions

It is said that a true tragedy, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, should not inspire sadness, but rather a feeling of awe, of wonder, of catharsis. Awe at how far the tragic hero fell, wonder at his potential, his greatness, in spite of the fall, and catharsis because the fall, though tragic, allows us a vicarious release because we recognize the human elements of the tragic hero in ourselves and are reminded that if such a great one could fall as a result of human frailty, so much more easily could we.

I had one of the most cathartic experiences in my life tonight. (It had nothing to do with the likes of Hamlet or Othello, just so you know.) Okay . . . I’m not going to do that “hypothetical” thing again, I’ll just be straightforwardly vague.

There was a situation that occurred which caused me to harbor resentment against another. No matter how hard I tried to force myself to get over it, or to convince myself that I was over it, it always popped back up—the discomfort in their presence, forced smiles, silent avoidance, and the mental monologue that began “How could this person behave the way they did then, and expect everything to be fine now?” I was hoping the pop-ups would become less frequent and eventually go away. But they never did. After all this time, still . . . POP! I’d try to placate myself with “Well, it’s not like I’m bitter,” and then . . . POP! Yet again.

I’m so not a confrontational person, that was part of the difficulty, and the other was pride. Something we all need a little less of. But tonight, God had my number. As soon as the pastor opened up his mouth, I knew. All of the scriptures he talked about had to do with how people with servant attitudes humbled themselves, and a common ritual to demonstrate that in the Biblical times was that of foot washing. Abraham was hospitable to and washed the feet of the three strangers that came to visit him. The unnamed harlot in John washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair. I knew. Tonight was the night the air would be cleared once and for all or the resentment would turn into bitterness. It was up to me. We had a time of pseudo-foot washing during service tonight. We simply got tissues and wiped the feet of our brothers and sisters in the Lord to symbolically demonstrate humbling ourselves one to another.

I was so overwhelmed. I was seized with the knowing of what I had to do. I was compelled to make my way to the person who I harbored resentment against, and to humble myself to them. My humanness did not want to. And the situation was such that I had to sort of go out of my way to do it. (Another person began symbolically washing my feet, and the person I harbored resentment against was symbolically washing the feet of another.) But God wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I sobbingly stumbled over to where the person was sitting, and swallowed my pride as I began to wipe their feet with a tissue.

It happened. A purging. A release. Catharsis. We both knew why, and we both cried a cleansing cry together. Though it was still unspoken at that point, it was enough. I was finally able to give it all to God.

After service, we were finally able to talk about it. Finally acknowledged, finally out in the open, finally explanations, finally apologies offered and accepted. It was a good, honest talk. Not like the forced smiles of before.

My heart is able to breathe and beat a little easier now. The seeds of resentment that the devil tried to nourish into roots of bitterness have been done away with, and it’s all because of a great and awesome God.

Uh-oh . . .

That what my heart says when my brain is thinking about making a paradigm shift. Out loud, I say "Oh, great. So, where does this put me now?" (sigh.)

I can't seem to escape it. Ever since I graduated from college I moved from "young adult" to "single" status. Now this whole "single" thing keeps popping out from behind corners trying to blindside me. Okay, it's not like that for real. lol. But understand--after reading these articles, my brain starting doing that thing, and now "uh-oh" is echoing around in my chest cavity. Wait until you have a little bit of time so you can sit down and read these. They're from a Christian webzine called Boundless that I assume is targeted toward the twentysomething crowd (akin to ninetyandnine).

"The Cost of Delaying Marriage"

"Defending 'The Cost of Delaying Marriage'"

"Rethinking the Gift of Singleness"

Ay, caramba, does this mean that . . . am I like . . . is my thinking like . . . is our popular Christian culture's thinking like . . . you see what I mean? 'Cuz first I thought that the seemingly prevalent A/P thinking was warped, a la "get married when you're 12." (and, for the record, I still do.) But now I'm afraid that the new and improved "singleness as gift" might be off. What's a girl to do?

The New Band Director

Everyone’s been abuzz about the new band director at school. Everyone’s been coming up to me, telling me how I “have to meet him.”

“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”

“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”

“Oh, you’d just love him.”

I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.

Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .

“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”

Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.

As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.

This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)

Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.

My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.

Mid-Twenties

Thursday, I officially entered the world of the mid-twenties. Technically. I mean, usually 20-23 is considered “early twenties,” 24-26 is “mid” and then 27-29 is “late,” right? Or maybe I can sort of hang on to early twenties just for this year. I’m not yet on the other side of 25, which is the true midpoint, I guess.

It was fun. I taught my Spanish class, and afterward my family and a few friends accompanied me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents got me a digital camera, which is something I wanted for a while, and my brother got me a couple of t-shirts from one of my favorite movies, Napoleon Dynamite. One said “Pedro’s Got Your Back” underneath an outline of Pedro’s cousins in their ghetto ride. The other one said “I Voted for Pedro” underneath a dopey looking picture of President Bush. I had a really good laugh. And those of you who have heard my laugh know what that means . . .

Speaking of good laughs, earlier that day I was listening to my students’ final project presentations. They have to choose a Spanish-speaking country, create a travel brochure (with specific info included that I’ve outlined for them) and then give a presentation about it—I try to let them have fun with it, give them a chance to bring food, etc., so it’s something the kids look forward to. One particular student, an 8th grader, chose the Spanish-speaking country in Africa, Equatorial Guinea. (I didn’t even know there was a Spanish-speaking country in Africa until pretty recently.) Anyway, some of their main foods, she explained, are plantains and dried fish. “And speaking of dried fish, well, I brought something.” All the kids were expecting this, I suppose. It must have been the talk of the day. “Well, see, my pet fish died a few days ago. His name was Rainbow.” Apparently, instead of disposing of him, she set him outside to dry. I refused to believe she had actually done this until she produced him out of the plastic cup she had for the class to see. There he was, dried, perfectly preserved, and eyeless. (Yeah, she had even gone as far as to remove the deceased fishie’s eyes.) The whole class erupted. I know I’m supposed to be the teacher and in control and everything, but that was too much—I lost it. For several minutes straight we just all had a belly-shaking, tear-jerking laugh. I mean, that’s dedication. To dry out your dead former pet, take out his eyes, and bring him to school in a cup, all for a Spanish presentation. Wow. She also brought banana nut bread to share (they eat bananas and nuts in Equatorial Guinea as a main food source also), and before she could lift the little covering she had over the plate of banana nut bread, kids in the class yelled, “Wash your hands!” Dried fish germs. Yeah.

I want to give a shout out and a thank you to all of those friends who remembered me on my birthday. You guys sure made me feel special. ¡Muchas gracias!

Addendum

I've never blogged more than one entry in a day, but I just have to share this, and it seemed wrong to try to add it on the end of what I previously posted. Though the previous entry was posted just a few minutes ago, it was actually typed earlier in the evening. Now, I'm just getting back from church. This was given to me by a brother who's been attending church (as well as my Spanish classes) consistently for a while now. He signed it with a pseudonym (I'm not exactly sure why . . . I guess I'll ask him later) so I can share it with you in its entirety without compromising anyone's identity or whatever. It was very sweet and encouraging. See for yourself:

Christ knows all about your struggles.
He will never leave you or forsake you.
A is for the amazing smile that you have.
No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper.
The Lord is your shepherd, so you will not want.
Every one of your enemies will be made your footstool.
Lean not to your own understanding.
Love the Lord with all of your heart.

Note: I just typed this so that I could encourage you. I can discern in my spirit that Satan is trying to make you feel that you are less than what you are. But God wants you to know that he loves you, and that he always will.

Today, I Was Back on Top

Yesterday was the first day of my still relatively new career that I have ever taken an official sick day. I mean, I’ve gone to school feeling a bit under the weather before—I like to think of myself as a tough cookie—I can usually weather it out. But yesterday morning was like “waa-waa-waaaaah” (you know that sound where someone gets something wrong on an old game show or like if something bad happens on some cartoon or on Sesame Street?). Sore throat, congestion, and it felt like the right side of my face was swollen or puffy or something. It wasn’t happening.

I called in and soon dragged myself out of bed so that I could run by the school real quick to drop off copies of a test my students were to take. As soon as I got home, I collapsed into the bed and didn’t get up again until something after 10 a.m., and to the doctor I went.

Thank goodness it wasn’t strep or anything. The doctor advised me to accept a shot of cortisone to relieve the puffiness in my face. The catch? The shot would be administered in the derrière. I was down, I mean, whatever. It was supposed to make me feel better, right? The cortisone shot did work quickly, as doc said, but then I spent the rest of the day with a slight dull ache in the hiney. (sigh) Ya win some, ya lose some.

I didn’t even think of the possible scandalousness of the shot situation until after I told my dad, “Yeah, I got prescribed some antibiotics, I had a get a shot in the (you know what),” and my dad was like, “It wasn’t a cute hottie that gave you the shot, was it?” “Dad!” I exclaimed prudishly, “C’mon, it was a lady.” The thought that it could have been a hot male nurse administering the shot had never crossed my mind until my overprotective dad said something. (The following said with a trembling Southern drawl:) The good Lord knew I couldn’t have handled it if it were. He never gives us more than we can bear. Oh, praise Him.

Anyway, today, I felt 100% better. I was ready. I bounded out of bed early. I got my little lesson together for my elementary babies. I had those old quizzes graded and ready to be passed back for my middle schoolers and got the stuff together to grade their final projects. I put grades in the system and updated them on our little online thing. I responded to emails, I was knocking stuff out left and right. Today, I was back on top.

::sighs deeply::

Like I said last post, not much of a break. But it’s been a fruitful one, I guess. I got 2 out of my 5 response papers done, and I’m well into the reading for response paper #3. That’s pretty good, I guess. I went ahead and sent them in, and my future professor wrote back and said they looked good. Awwrright! (And for those of you who know of my obsession with professorial praise, you know how big of a deal that is. lol.)

I went on a little detour last post and went on and on about how rewarding my job is and stuff, but I must issue a caveat: Teaching is not for those who hate grading papers—especially quizzes that most of your students did atrociously on. Here I am, at the end of Spring Break with quizzes that remain ungraded. Well, I started grading them . . . I think I even got through a class, but I was just bleeding red ink, and I lost hope. ::sighs deeply:: I’m just going to do this: If a student receives a worse quiz grade than the first one he/she took, I’ll throw it out. If it’s better than the first, then I’ll count it. So, it’s a win-win situation . . . sort of. The kids are excited about Spanish, and I’m thrilled that they have so much enthusiasm about it, but there’s a difference between having enthusiasm about learning something and actually retaining the info. Yep.

I did something I thought I’d never do today. I was enticed into Lifeway Christian Stores to buy the accompaniment track to this beautiful song called “Held.” (Not saying I’m going to sing it at church, but I sort of want to. Gotta practice it first, though.) But then, I found myself wandering over to the “Single Living” section. I usually avoid that section of the Christian bookstores like the plague. All of the titles ooze desperation and/or announce “I’m officially entering into old maidhood”: What to Do While You’re Waiting for Mr. Right. Living Whole Without a Better Half. If Men Are Like Buses, How Can I Catch One? ( I almost embarrassed myself laughing out loud at that one.) And they’re usually geared towards women. There was only one I saw geared for guys, and it was titled something like How to be God’s Gift to Women. Ugh. So anyway, I never wanted to be that single girl who had a collection of “waiting for a man” books. But then I gave in. ::sighs deeply:: Well, I won’t say it’s a “waiting for a man” book. It piqued my interest, which is very, very, hard for a book of its genre to do. It’s called Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect. Hmmm . . . I picked it up and started reading. The author cites a Newsweek article on the first page, which talks about “a generation of women who, now living between college and marriage, have been raised to believe that the world could be theirs. And now, out in that world, these women are ‘unsteadily navigating a barrage of choices our mothers never had the chance to make.’” That is so me. I was sold. So, maybe my faith in the Christian “Single Living” genre will be revived. We’ll see.

Well, back to procrastinating on grading these blasted quizzes (meant to be said with an angered British accent). ::sighs deeply::

Not Much of a Break

This upcoming week is designated as Spring Break. Ordinarily, I’d veg out and sleep in and just have a glorious week of do-nothing bliss. (Quite unlike my rather well to do students who are going to Cancun and Disneyworld and stuff). But oh, no. Not this time, baby. What am I going to be doing? Grading papers that I’ve put off grading for the longest and spending every possible shred of time reading and writing response papers for this Paul class coming up at UGST this summer. If I don’t do it now, over Spring Break, it’ll never get done. And I just have to . . . I just can’t let May 29th roll up on me being unprepared. I won’t have it. Yes, I do claim the title of Queen of Procrastination—I serve my loyal subjects like no other queen would, but then my anal retentive side kicks in and gets the ball rolling. And once anal retentiveness (AR) kicks into gear, it’s over. See, AR don’t care. AR don’t play. He busts up in the place and forces the Queen to abdicate, or else. If I procrastinate the night before, AR makes sure I’m up early enough (even if it’s 3:30 a.m.) to get it done (and done right) the following day. If I’ve been procrastinating for several months to get some books read, say, AR will make sure I get it done in a week. Hence, the title of this post.

In other news, I just realized that my brother is cool. Well, I have two of them; the one I’m referring to is the 21-year-old who moved out not too long ago. When I moved back home, and he was still living at home, he simply got on my nerves (Lord knows I probably got on his). He was like the bane of my existence. He’s this 6-foot hulk who was always in the way and could be downright rude with characteristic brotherly nastiness. He always seemed to barrel his way into everything, would leave the bathroom an intolerable wreck, and would sit at the table and slurp his cereal. Grrrrr. But once he left, the dynamics changed. I began to miss my little hulk. Whenever I see him at church or when he stops by the house every once in a while I always give him a big hug and we actually talk and laugh and have meaningful conversations. In fact, I’m going over to his place tonight to chill and eat pizza and watch a movie. Who would ‘a thunk it?

And last little random side note: If you need a self-esteem booster, become a middle or elementary school teacher. Though I get germs and sicknesses from my little dear ones, I also get lots of love. I get hugs and compliments every day, even from the big kids. That is not to say that teaching doesn’t get tiring and that the kids are all perfect angels. Absolutely not. Oh . . . I have my days. But teaching has a way of making you put your best foot forward, even when you don’t feel up to par, and making you put a smile on your face for the sake of the kids, even when you don’t feel like it. And soon, you realize that you really are happy, because you are doing what you love. (sigh) I hope my optimism about my profession doesn’t wax cynical with the passage of time.

Well, anyway, if there’s a blog drought for a little bit, you’ll know that it’s not my will, but AR’s be done. Like I said, he’s no joke.

80 Percent Off

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

It was insane. The Parisian at Montgomery Mall is going out of business, and everything, I repeat, everything, is 80% off.

I mean, that is like glorious paradise to people who like to shop for clothes . . . like me. I mean, I felt like a kid walking into a candy store and the owner saying, “Okay, everything is a penny.” Or like going into Red Lobster and the manager saying, “Okay, you can choose 5 entrees for a buck.” Or like, going to a travel agency and the lady saying, “Alright, you can have 10 round trips to Spain for $2.50.”

See, and I had just told God I was going to stop. I used my $10 off and 30% off coupons as an excuse to shop at New York & CO last weekend. And then, for being a “valued customer” I got a 20%-off-of-your-favorite-item coupon in the Lerner catalog, and they had this smashing denim dress . . . come on, I had to use the 20% off before it expired!

But then I had to get real and tell myself to stop using “I have to use this coupon before it expires” as an excuse to buy stuff I don’t really need. Isn’t the purpose of my living at home for now to save money?

But to top it off, Parisian had to go out of business. And you (well, those of you who are well-versed in the shopping realms) know that Parisian stuff ain’t cheap. But 80% off basically turned it into the Salvation Army. At my mom’s simple suggestion to “just go out and see what they have,” I caved in and tagged along.

As I was gleefully hunting through racks of skirts and jackets and what not, I felt a stab of Solomonic conviction in my heart. “All is vanity” kept going through my mind. Then, the little wannabe activist in me rose up and started berating me for falling into our country’s classic vices of giving into excess and materialism. “You capitalist pig!” the inner wannabe activist shouted. While I snickered a little at the accusations of my inner activist, I did feel Solomon’s world-weariness. Why am I getting all this stuff just because it’s there to be gotten? All is vanity. I put a few things back on the rack. (Okay, I didn’t put it all back. I’m not up for sainthood any time soon.)

In the end, I got two skirts, a jacket, a suit, and one of those flower pins for less than $40. I didn’t go overboard, just got a few nice things for ridiculously reduced prices. I would have made Solomon proud. Maybe. Or maybe he would have seen me all dolled up in my new cute 80% off clothes and would have wanted to add me to his harem of concubines. Ya just never know.

Gospel Music and Me

I’ve never been a big fan of gospel music. The only time I ever used to listen to it at all was on Sunday mornings while getting ready for church, compliments of my mom. Now, when I say gospel music, I’m talking about the down-home, black folk, foot-stompin’, hittin’ a tambourine so hard and long that you rub your palms raw, Jesus-screamin’ kind of gospel. There’s only so long the ending of a song can be, you know what I’m saying?

But what kind of noise usually blasts itself from the speakers of my CD player? Christian rock, usually. Audio Adrenaline, Newsboys, Jars of Clay, tobyMac, Switchfoot—those kinds of folks. Why wailing electric guitars and driving drum beats seem to get me going more than more . . . soulful sounds is beyond me. I’ve stopped trying to figure out why my tastes are the way they are. To be honest, I used to be ashamed of it, and I always despised being criticized for not being “down.” But I guess I’ve finally realized that stereotypes rarely apply to real people living real lives in the real world, and that what I’m “supposed” to listen to is whatever suits my fancy. As I step down from my soapbox . . .

But I guess what has inspired me to write this is that I’m gaining this new appreciation for gospel music. It has slowly inched its way into my car radio listening time. Especially in the mornings, when I’m heading to work, it puts me in a positive frame of mind. I’m gonna start this day off right. It gives me this warm, nostalgic feeling, like the smell of blueberry muffins baking in the oven that makes me feel that everything is right with the world. One morning, this song “I’m Blessed” came on. I’m blessed/ Truly blessed/ I got my health/ and I got my strength/ Thank God I’m blessed . . . gospel music is starting to make light bulbs come on in my head. Like, simple revelations that somehow penetrate to the core. I mean, all of a sudden: What, for the love of God, do you have to complain about? You lack nothing. Didn’t you go to bed last night with a roof over your head? Do you ever go hungry? Don’t you have a great job and a loving family? Be thankful! Thank you, gospel music. I think I’m finally starting to see you for who you really are. I need your simple reminders and your nudging wake-up calls.

A Feeling I Can't Put My Finger On, Hypothetically

The way I'm feeling right now is sort of weird. Not uncommon for me, I guess. I'm not devestated, no. Quite far from that. I can't exactly say that I'm jealous . . . I mean, what for? Hmmmm . . . it's like a mixture of longing and contentment. Maybe I can explain by constructing a hypothetical situation:

Let's say a hypothetical girl and a hypothetical guy fell for each other. The hypothetical guy loved the hypothetical girl almost unconditionally, but the hypothetical girl always seemed a little unsure. In the end, the hypothetical girl broke up with the hypothetical guy. It hypothetically devestated them both, but they have hypothetically remained friends. Let's say that one day, the hypothetical girl puts two and two together and realizes that the hypothetical guy is most likely talking to another hypothetical girl now. Let's say that one day the hypothetical guy and the original hypothetical girl are hypothetically small talking and the hypothetical girl casually asks if the hypothetical guy is "talking to anyone." The hypothetical girl's hypothetical suspicions are hypothetically confirmed. How is the hypothetical girl, hypothetically, to feel?

Well, hypothetically, I'd say on one hand, she is happy for the hypothetical guy. She truly and hypothetically wishes that things work out. She, after all, is the one who hypothetically decided that the hypothetical guy wasn't it. She hypothetically remembers wanting him to hypothetically find someone else who wouldn't be so fickle and unsure as she hypothetically was and that would hypothetically want him wholeheartedly, without reservation. Because that is what he hypothetically deserved. But on the other hand, I'd say the hypothetical girl feels this hypothetical longing. She still feels hypothetically drawn to him in a way, and hypothetically remembers when they were together. Perhaps it's because the hypothetical guy was the closest she's ever hypothetically had to the real deal, and the real deal is something she hypothetically longs for. And she sees that the hypothetical guy has hypothetically moved on, and she's left wondering if she has.

So, if, shall we say, the hypothetical girl were me, the way she would hypothetically feel would describe this weird feeling I have right now.

Spanish and Sudoku

Tonight was the debut of the first ever Spanish class sponsored by my church and taught by yours truly! I had almost 20 people show. The lesson tonight was on the sounds of the Spanish language. We had a ball rolling our 'r's and what not. Afterward, people told me that they enjoyed it; I enjoyed teaching it. So, I will have to say that it was a success. This will be a weekly deal, so maybe even more will come as the class progresses. Who knows what God is going to do? I just have a good feeling about it.

On a completely different note, I'm being sucked into the lure of Sudoku. See, I'm not usually one to follow the current crazes. I never read The DaVinci Code because it was like this craze and everyone was reading it. I'll probably read it sometime soon, now that the buzz has pretty much died down now. I just hate doing what everyone else is doing at the time. I never got into those cut-off jackets either. See, I don't even know what they're called. You know, those jackets (usually denim) that are like all the rage that have half of the back cut off? Never got into that. So, imagine my surprise when Sudoku made its entrance in my life. I just decided to try it, just once wouldn't hurt, right? But, oh, I'm starting to get hooked. The rules are so simple, but the logic it takes to solve them is almost . . . intoxicating. Ooh.

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.