Turkey Day Wrap-Up

Ah, all the turkey has been eaten. All that's left is a hollow carcass of what once was a living, moving, gobbling bird. That last bit of cranberry sauce, downed on the sly. I'm remembering that corn pudding and those collard greens that I savored with a bit of hot sauce. (Some a y'all know what I'm talkin' 'bout.) Anyway, enough with the enumeration of Thanksgiving foods.

However, my household has no leftovers because we had the fantabulous opportunity to visit some relatives in sunny California! This was the first time I had ever been to that side of the US. There are loads of palm trees just like in the movies. And on the way to my uncle's house, we saw the Pacific Ocean. The western edge of the United States.

Okay, 'nuff said. I had loads of fun and spent some time with family that I don't see very often. My little cousins are the cutest kids alive. Here's a pic so you can soak in the familyness.

Shout-out

I received a flattering shout-out via a letter to the editor in none other than my fave webzine of all time, ninetyandnine.com. The author of this letter? Well, a fellow IQ Forum attendee from my little St. Louis excursion last month. Check it out here.

His letter is the very first in the lineup. If you click on the title of the letter, it will link to the original article I wrote that he refers to. I will add a slight disclaimer (a notorious habit of mine) if you happen to have time and intentions to read it—one may note a bit of feminine ire poking through. But it was, I believe, justifiably felt ire at the time that I wrote it. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one because after it ran, it got a lot of “right ons” from other women who wrote in. It even inspired a guy to write a counter-article, or rather, a guy version of mine.

At any rate, my day was greatly made after reading that this morning. Said letter-writer scores 100 points for that one!

I Was a Mom Today

for about 7 hours to a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old while the real mom and dad went to church leadership training and ran other errands.

I came prepared with a little craft for them to do. Imagine a table spread with newspapers covering it, paint, those little googly eyes, and multi-colored Popsicle sticks, among other things, scattered about.

I also came bearing a recently-bought-from-the St.James-book-fair-book, A Treasury of Curious George. It has eight stories of my favorite little mischievous monkey, and the kids tell me he is their favorite, too. Imagine a full lap and little arms and legs snuggled up against you, ears listening in wonder as you read the phrase “George was curious” for at least the 10th time.

Settling arguments, explaining “why,” weathering little temper tantrums, playing house, giving hugs, drying tears, boiling pots of spaghetti—is this the stuff motherhood is made of?

I let my mind wander as I put the leftover spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware bowl (they wanted their noodles plain)—am I cut out for it? I like to think and hope that I am. I already have possible names and ideas for that possible phase in my life in the uncertain future. But I guess I realized even more today how all-consuming it must be to introduce a life into the world. More than that, an eternal soul. To nurture that soul and to be responsible for it.

There is a part of me that craves that simple kind of life Gwen Stefani sang about before she went solo, and for some reason, I used to be reluctant to admit it. But how will this craving ever be reconciled with my career woman, travel-the-world bent? Why do I always feel like I’m going to be forced to choose one day? Maybe because I will.

At least it’s not a decision I’ll have to make anytime soon, despite my text-messaged marriage proposal. lol. I will continue to ignore subsequent messages, voice mails and phone calls. There is no earthly reason to respond to any of that in any manner whatsoever unless I would want to prove to him that indeed I am the blithering idiot that he must’ve taken me to be when the ludicrous idea first entered his mind that somehow I would be his ticket to legality in this country. Oh, well. Así es la vida.

¡Ay, Caramba!

It's just a Spanish interjection which is the equivalent of "Oh, my goodness!" or some such variation.

Without boring you with detail upon detail of this whole FTC rigamarole (see previous post for more info), suffice it to say that my decision to end the friendship was one that was made quite rightly. I felt bad and such last night when I tried to (a bit tearily) explain to him why it was best that we stop "being friends." It wasn't so much that I felt so . . . attached to him, come on, I didn't know him for real. It was more that I felt bad for kind of cutting him off because he hadn't really given me an outright reason to suspect his motives of being less than noble. But now after reevaluating some things that perhaps I overlooked and doing a little bit of thinking (which is something I need to do more of these days), and in light of the following recent text message from him, I know without a doubt that womanly intuition or godly discernment or whatever it was that prompted me to say adios to him was on the real. It read (translated by yours truly):

"Forgive me for writing you, but I couldn't sleep from worry, thinking about you. Don't ever leave me, marry me, and I am not kidding. I will await forever a message from you. Take care."

No explanation needed. All I have to say is illegal immigrant seeking a green card by any means necessary.

Another Sunday Night

and here I am, wasting time again, when I should be getting some sleep, thinking over my week.

I don’t want to sit here and type out a what-I-did-this-week post. I really don’t. Perhaps this is not the best time to even write since I’m feeling a tad . . . unexplainable right now.

This is what happens. I always put myself into situations, usually impulsively, and then feel bad and even shed a few tears when I have to sort of somehow get out of them. Not that it’s something so . . . you know, serious or detrimental. But here I am, feeling ambiguous and melancholy (once again), and for something that was all my fault.

In short, I told FTC (see other related stories here and here) that we shouldn’t be friends anymore. I don’t want to go into the whole . . . story. I felt bad because it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t give me any outright reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior, but he’s like, something that I don’t need right now. There were just too many factors that could have turned an innocent I’m-practicing-Spanish-with-a-hottie thing into a mess. If that makes any sense.

Speaking of Spanish, my pastor, another Spanish-speaking young lady, the Honduran man we’re giving a Bible study to, and I went to the Southeastern Regional Spanish Conference in Atlanta this weekend. It pretty awesome, and the Honduran man received the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost. It was pretty amazing. And I claim not to be a conference junkie, right?

Last night I ran what you could call a mouth marathon. First I talked to one of my way back buds from junior high and high school. I’ll just call him Brother because he’s like the brother I never had (even though I have two flesh and blood ones already). He’s doing well in med school, and I know that God is really leading him. For that, I am thankful.

I also talked to McD. I’ll be honest and say that at first, there was a part of me that was compelled to put lots of space between us. I tried to convince myself that it was easiest and best, and that eventually my system would be cleansed of any residue. Of course it helped that he is no longer in my locale. But what I’m learning is that once someone has . . . gotten into your system, so to speak, in a certain way, you cannot simply cut them off. Even though I realize our relationship is different now, and has been for about 4 months, and though I know without a doubt that things happened the way that they did for a reason, there is a part of me that always wants the best for him. That wants him to be happy. And once I am assured of that, I am content.

After church tonight, I received a blush-worthy compliment from a dear (married, just so you know) brother. He said that I looked so beautiful that he thinks I’m trying to capture some guy’s attention. I looked around the near-empty sanctuary, devoid of any hopefuls, and knowing that there were none in the foyer chatting with the rest of the church folk either, I simply laughed and said, “Thanks, but, I can assure you, that is not my purpose at all.”

Then he replies with something about some, “Well we’re going to have to change that, I might have to start doing a bit of meddling.”

I told him, “Uhhh . . . I’d rather leave that to God. The Bible says whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing, so I’m not on the hunt. I’m just doing my thing until I’m found.” And I should have added, and after I’m found, I’m going to keep on doing my thing!

Hotdogs and Other Musings

Today I was starving. Mom promised to bring home some Chinese food (one of my faves, second only to Mexican), but she had some other errands to run first. Being a supposed adult who has a job and money, I could have gone out and gotten some food on my own if I really wanted to. But I was content to wait. For a while.

Two little kids from church were over the house, and it was up to me to play babysitter until she came home with the goods. In the meantime, “Could you make the kids some h-o-t-d-o-g-s?” Mom spelled after she dropped them off and before she headed back out. They’re still young enough where you can spell stuff out you don’t want to them to necessarily hear and it go unknown to them.

So I made them some hotdogs. I was telling myself just wait until Mom gets back with takeout. In other words, I was trying to tell myself to wait until Mom came home with some delicious, higher quality food than settling for some processed, God-knows-what-all-is-in-there hotdog. But I put a third hotdog in to cook too. Like I said, I was starving. So when the hotdogs were done, I fixed the kids theirs, and, against my better judgment, I put one on a bun, slathered it with mustard and downed it. And not in as lady-like a fashion as I would have liked.

Yeah, my hunger was satisfied. And the hotdog wasn’t bad, in spite of everything. But now, when mom comes home with steaming hot cartons full of shrimp fried rice, chicken lo mein, egg foo young and sweet and sour pork, I may get a little bit, but I won’t be able to enjoy it like I would have been able to had I not eaten that ridiculous hotdog.

Okay, this is going to turn into an analogy, (who knew?) but it’s not as . . . one track as it may seem. Waiting for the Chinese food is not simply an absurd allusion to True Love Waits. Though it does kind of work, I guess. But I promise, it wasn’t even my intention when I first decided to write about eating a hotdog, of all things. I guess I was more thinking about waiting and life in general.

Not that I’ve had such profound experiences in my life that I’m so seasoned and have this Solomon-esque air about everything that happens. But I guess I’m starting to see that many facets of life will require waiting, refusing to settle for the fake, processed stuff and sticking it out until the goods come along—whatever it is that you truly, really want.

Imagine marrying a hotdog guy/girl. Settling for a hotdog job. Having a hotdog relationship with God. Blowing your money on hotdog things. Surrounding yourself with hotdog people and getting involved in hotdog friendships and hotdog relationships. And . . . okay, eating hotdogs on the side when you should have waited for a legally binding, long term, til-death-do-us-part deal with Chinese takeout. lol. What a yucky existence. Okay for the moment, but filled with ground cow and pig and whatever processed leftovers in the long run.

I pray to God that I will never get to the point where I am so undisciplined and impatient that I will be willing to settle for any hotdogs in life. The hotdog is a lii-ya! I have faith that there’s some Chinese takeout waiting in the wings.

The Forum

I think it’s taken me so long to update because I’m still processing all of the info I received at one of the most innovative conferences I’ve ever attended.

October 21st-22nd was the first ever Identity Quotient Forum held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis, MO. As I’ve explained before, as soon as I got an email from the coordinator of the forum advertising it, I just felt compelled to go. I recruited two other young ladies from my church to join me, and, needless to say, the 8-9 hour road trip from Montgomery to St. Louis was well worth it.

Among the topics: Accountability, Time Management, Christian Bio-Ethics of Stem Cell Research (the speaker of which surprised me with his overall perspective), Islam, Self Image, Transitioning from College to the Real World, Debt Management, Colonizing the Media for the Kingdom, and Creating Your Own Ministry are some of the sessions I attended. As you can see, the topics were fresh, contemporary, and varied, yet all had a sound biblical perspective in their presentation.

What I loved is that this Forum defied all conventional definitions. It was not a singles conference, a.k.a. Pentecostal meat market with an air of desperation—okay, that’s a little extreme, I know; neither was it a preaching conference, a.k.a. go hear Bro. BigName preach to the point of losing his voice, get all temporarily fired up and remain ultimately unchanged—okay, also a bit cynical, but just because I’ve been guilty of it too. Rather than a one-way monologue, each session was a two-way dialogue. Because of the intimacy and the format, all participants could actively engage the speakers.

Overall, I think the session that most inspired me was Creating Your Own Ministry. So many times, some people’s definition of “ministry” is limited to preaching, singing, and piano playing. These are undoubtedly ministries, but at times it seems that if your abilities do not include one of these three then you are limited. So, I was challenged to create my own ministry if I have talents that God can use that sort of fall outside of the already established box. A little light bulb went off in my mind. As soon as I get my ideas in a formal format to present to my pastor, I will begin giving free conversational Spanish lessons at my church. It’s a small door, but to my knowledge, Jesus only needed a child’s lunch to feed a multitude.

Not only was I informed and inspired, but I had the awesome chance to meet people of like faith and interest and to make connections. Of course, nothing is set in stone about . . . anything, but I know that this is not the last time that I will make a trip to St. Louis, and now I’ve established a rapport with people who could help me should St. Louis become a more permanent part of my life’s plans.

My traveling companions and I got the chance to do a little bit of sightseeing after the conference was over, and we also got the awesome chance to chat with whom I would like to call one of the “new pioneers.” Kent Curry (executive editor of ninetyandnine.com) and his wife Nita were the main coordinators of the Forum, and it was such a delight to meet them. Through ninetyandnine dealings, I had corresponded with Kent over email since I was a freshman in college, so in a way, it was like I already knew him. Our conversation just flowed like we were old friends. It is always so refreshing to be able to connect with people so easily and talk about things that resonate within you because you’re on the same wavelength.

They’re planning one for next year. (Sigh.) Despite my protests about conference junkies and professing not to be one, the IQ Forum may have to be one of the exceptions to the rule.

A little photo gallery follows:


Me and the legendary Gateway Arch!


Oh, I'm in love with a cardboard soldier who lives at the top of the Arch . . .


Me and the bridge


Downtown St. Louis at night


City view from the top of the Arch


Me and Alicia--one of my Montgomery traveling companions. She did the driving!


Yours truly along with Kent and Nita Curry--a treat to meet!


Me and Tanya--my other accompanying Montgomery friend--post-conference. We made it safely home!

Great Expectations

Ever read that book back in the day? Pip and his benefactor. Miss Havisham and her moldy wedding cake and her twisted protégé, Estella. Nevertheless, my expectations have nothing to do with 19th century England or any fictional characters that inhabit it. It’s just that tomorrow morning, I will be taking a long road trip to a place I’ve never been before—St. Louis, MO.

As I’ve said probably 15 or so times already, I am so not a conference person. So, why is the prospect of going to the IQ Forum so titillating? I don’t know . . . I guess maybe because I’ve been on this personal quest to find some sort of niche where I actually fit in somewhere, and somehow, I have a feeling that going to this conference is the beginning of my answer. Excerpt from my personal journal (after getting into an argument with my dad and being branded as a “liberal” by him once again):

“Me and my “liberal tendencies.” A liberal Pentecostal. What a tormented oxymoron. A sad and twisted intertwining of supposedly seemingly polar opposites. Out of sorts in the big globe, out of sorts in the little bubble. But does there exist some sort of Aristotelian golden mean in this free-floating limbo that mashes your heart and brain over and over until they are indistinguishable masses of human tissue?”

I do not claim to be a “liberal.” I am not a bleeding heart Democrat, or a wannabe member of the ACLU and I don’t have soapbox-smelling bumper stickers all over my car. I will admit, however, that I did not vote for Bush and do not think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I will admit that the whole Iraq business went very sharply against my grain and that I don’t think Affirmative Action is nothing but reverse discrimination. Is it possible to be anti-death penalty yet pro-life? Is it possible to be politically left of center, but to be . . . so religiously “right” that many consider my lifestyle near fundamentalist extremism? But my mixed feelings concerning politics are just the tip of the iceberg in the “free-floating limbo” I find myself in.

I really didn’t mean to get so political. It’s just that I’m tired of falling into the “no one understands me” mode, when at the core, I know it’s not true. I know that I’m not alone. Not that the niche I seek is one where everyone is “left of center” politically—not at all. What I seek is a . . . network, if you will, of like-goaled people. People who think, people who are about education, people who believe that logic is not necessarily something to be shunned, yet people who are about living for God and people who are about dedicating themselves to furthering His kingdom. Another oxymoron? I beg to differ.

FTC, Installment 3

Oh, right now, I’m listening to Coldplay’s newest CD, X&Y. It’s so classically Coldplay. You know how some groups experiment and deviate so far from their solid original sound that endeared them to you in the first place? Not so with my fave British blokes. Chris Martin’s haunting falsetto soars above the driving drums and the melodically melancholic guitar. (sigh).

I bring to you the third installment of Flirt to Convert (FTC). For backstory, see here and here. Tonight, at FTC’s suggestion, another Spanish-speaking friend and I met him at Olive Garden. His Mexican chivalrousness refused to let us foot our part of the bill. We had an exquisite dinner and had a good, if not profound, conversation. Again, he gave neither of us any reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior. We talked about many things, ranging from the atrocities that many Mexicans endure to try to cross the border into the US to having an intimate personal relationship with God. Actually, he was the one to bring up “religion.” And though he didn’t, you know . . . fall out speaking in tongues or whatever after our conversation, I could tell that he was taking it in. Maybe this is the first time he’s ever talked with people so frankly about spiritual matters. Something that he asked that sort of caught me off guard was, “Why do you think the three of us are here together right now? Do you think there’s a reason?” Yes, there’s a reason, but we don’t always know what it is. Some things we may never know in this life.

And I finally, finally, finished translating the Bible study that my pastor wrote into Spanish. Well, actually, I didn’t do the initial translation, but I sort of revised and corrected grammatical and stylistic errors. And boy, did it take forever. But I finally finished it. Now I just need to get it off of the dinosaur of a laptop that I own and onto the sleeker and CD-burning-capable computer that my family owns so that I can get it onto a CD, give it to my pastor, and eventually get it into print. Pentecostal Publishing House, wassaaapp??

I’ve got a new group of 6th, 7th and 8th graders this week. Today was our little intro day. With one rotation already under my belt, I feel a little more equipped this time. I think I have a bit of a better group than last time, too (especially of the 8th graders). At the beginning of the rotation, after the bell rings, and they’re all sitting expectantly in their seats wondering, “What’s this new Spanish teacher all about?” I look at them all and start rattling off in Spanish: Me llamo Señora Smith, y soy la profesora de español. Vamos a aprender muchas cosas en esta clase . . . lol. I just love the wide-eyed look it produces from each of them. But then I give ‘em a break and translate what I just said. But it sure gets their attention and lets them know that I do know Spanish for real. Señora Smith’s ready for you this time, baby. Bring it on!

The World as We Know It

I used to have this recurring dream that I was flying above the city where I live. It was like everything was spread before me--everything that was familiar to me, but just from an aerial perspective. I can't believe it's been 5 years since I've written this. It doesn't really seem like that very long ago at all.

I have to go far, far away from this place . . .
Away from the world as we know it,
And never come back—ever, ever.
Give me the wings of the morning,
Let me fly
Guided by the light of the dawn,
Floating, soaring in the bliss of flight.
Let me gaze upon the city below and take in the beauty—
Take and share the pain of the people
So that I can reach out.
I want to kiss a star and laugh with the moon.
Let me delve into the deepest parts of the sea,
Uncovering new treasures and unknown wonders.
I have a need to roll in the bare, sacred earth of a wide, open plain,
Each spinning turn eroding layers upon layers,
Stripping away, exposing parts deeper and deeper,
Until there’s nothing
Left but
Me.

September 26, 2000

It Rained Today

The sky was heavy and gray, and there was a generous downpour. Teacher bag in tow, and flimsy light pink umbrella my only shield. I smartly wore my hair up (else, it would have been a disaster), but not-so-smartly wore my new beige heeled sandals. Once inside, brown paper towel pats saved my leaking feet.

The elementary lesson was about the Amazonian Rainforest. “But what does the rainforest have to do with Spanish?” I asked them. I had to make sure they could make the connection. They laughed till red-faced at my quirky animal voices when I read them the story of how a man almost cut down a Kapok tree. The toucan stole the show.

The middle schoolers: oh, what a delight. 7th grade was cool, 6th grade questioned me out (as usual), but 8th grade burned me up. Written in blood red on the papers of two boys who sit next to each other: “It was quite obvious that you turned this assignment into a ‘group project.’ 0/20. If you want to talk about it, see me after class.” Neither of them did. Did they think I was brainless?

The late afternoon greeted me with a sinus headache. After lollygagging a bit, I finally settled down to sorting out the best of the colored, cut, assembled, and pasted-onto-construction-paper faces each class created for my two gargantuan bulletin boards. (We learned body parts last week.)

I sat in one of the window seats of the elementary school library during our 45-minute joint faculty meeting. I let the emerging sun warm my back as I listened to the headmaster talk about short-term and long-term goals for the school. The future. I let my mind wander (I often do) and I pondered short-term and long-term goals for myself. My future. I snapped back into the present when the room filled with laughter as the headmaster presented a German proverb on his PowerPoint slide: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans for the future.” Yes, I cracked a smile.

Linger

I love words. There are so many things about them. Several words can mean the same thing generally, but have different minute shades that add variety and color. I’m such a word nerd; I have a thesaurus handy at my little desk. For example, some variations for the word “linger”: tarry, saunter, lag, vacillate, dawdle. I have this lingering cold. I have this lagging cold. Ha! I have this dawdling cold. I like that one better.

I finally went to the doctor after having this cold for 2+ weeks. It’s been ridiculous. I never get sick, and when I do, I get over it promptly. “Your body’s getting used to being around all of these kids,” the old teachers say in their been-there-done-that tone. But 2+ weeks is way too long for a cold, and I’m not exactly keen on developing bronchitis or worse, so to the doctor I went. My preconceived notion of a doctor was shattered when he was not the middle-aged white man I was expecting, but a surprisingly young and Asian one. As much as I ascend my soapbox about not making generalizations and following preconceived ideas, God always reminds me that I have a few of my own. At any rate, my mom should be happy now; she was starting to freak out and lecture me about how I’m not taking care of myself and such.

But, speaking of lingering, this cold is not the only thing. Lately, I have been reexamining lingering thoughts and lingering feelings. It makes me wish that I could literally call God up and be like, “Hey, God, so . . . what was up with that?” And then He would, ever so calmly and God-like, answer my every concern, speaking audibly. That would be so awesome.

And, speaking of words, I wrote a poem (or something like one) about words. As much as I love them, they’re so transitory, so ephemeral, so fleeting. (Told you I was a word nerd.) Our words:

Our words
have time limits.
Hourglasses tipped and
shifting sand.
“I love you” today
does not equal love eternal.
Our words
aren’t God-words.
Never caused existence.
Just describe
what already was
wish into being what isn’t,
and speculate on what will be
until the last
sand grain
falls.

Trippin’ in Tusky

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, T-town time was so overdue. This weekend I graced ol’ Tusky with my presence, as well as that of my little bro (okay, he’s not little for real. But he used to be).

Ahhh, it’s so weird. A few months ago, pre-graduation, the Gump was my haven away from the doldrums of T-town. Now, T-town has somehow magically transformed into this glittering city of escape. I don’t get it.

Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that my friends and associates still reside there. A couple of them are in for the long haul in grad school. I was thinking about doing that, but I was nearly burnt to a crisp after 5 undergrad years. The world of work was beckoning. I had to make sure Education was really my calling before jumping into a Master’s or more. A couple of others are continuing on their undergraduate journey, or going back for another round of undergraduate life. And here I am, little teacher, the creator and giver of schoolwork instead of being on the receiving end. But then I have to grade all the mess I assign. So, I don’t exactly get off scot-free.

Nevertheless, I’m slightly envious. The doing work part, I don’t really yearn for, but it’s the whole status, the whole collegiate atmosphere that I miss. Going to art shows and readings. Hearing the latest gossip on inter- and intra-departmental spats. Running into professors at Wal-mart. Writing letters to the editor of the campus newspaper. Getting free t-shirt after free t-shirt as a Resident Assistant. The suspense over how much money I’d get from selling my books back at the end of the semester. Learning how to write my name in Japanese and Russian at Starbucks with international students. Seeing free foreign films during international movie series. Wide-eyed and innocently reminding the mechanic about the student discount while paying for an oil change after flashing my ACTion card. Free food at Bama Blast even though it’s just for the freshmen. Supposedly. Getting a new life every semester. Dining Dollars. Those are the things I miss. Yep, the grass is always greener.

Oh, but I had a good time. Friday night, I came bearing brownies. Homegirl and I met up with McD, went to Applebee’s and then went Crimsoning (Crimsoning = going to the Crimson Café). After spending the night at Homegirl’s new apartment, the next morning we went Wal-Marting for the fixings of an Italian dinner party and invited the crew over Saturday night. Oh, and in-between Wal-Mart and dinner, I got a pedicure. It was fabulous. At first I was a little skittish about this smooth-talking, bespectacled Vietnamese guy handling my feet, but I calmed down and enjoyed the massage chair and the jet bubbles. He said that out of all of the feet he’s handled, mine were the best—that I had baby feet and didn’t have all the “leftovers” that other people’s feet have. Empowered by my newly prettified feet, I bought shoes and shirts and such on sale with Sam (female) at University Mall. Saturday night post-dinner I spent with Sam, and we ate brownies and ice cream watching a movie. Sunday morn was a walk down memory lane at First UPC of T-town. Everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see them too. I had to wake McD out of his church-oversleeping stupor. At least he made it for the preaching. My lovely weekend culminated with the crew again, over at Sam’s place this time, for post-Sunday-morning lunch.

Good friends, good times. Now, it’s back to the grind . . .

Take Time Out

Sometimes we have to do this. Take time out. When we don’t have time, we have to make time. (sigh) I feel so inundated lately. I just love that word. Inundated. It conveys the sense of busyness, of being immersed in the world of “having to do.” That was a phrase I introduced to my 8th graders today. Tengo que. I have to . . . whatever.

On one note, Spanish-ministry dealings have heightened significantly. Another Spanish-speaking young lady and I are doing a Bible study with a man from Honduras, and I’ve been Ms. Translator lately because he’s starting to come to church regularly. I’m also feverishly working on trying to finish the Spanish version of the two-day Bible study my pastor wrote. There’s a group of Hispanics from another city close-by that may begin to come to church as well—I’m excited about what God is doing on one hand, but on the other hand, God’s work . . . well, it takes work.

On another note, Flirt to Convert (FTC) guy is still hanging on in the picture, so to speak. However, the FTC focus of the guy has sort of shifted away from me and toward the other Spanish-speaking young lady. Go figure. She met him when we went to the restaurant where he works a couple of weeks ago. She was not enthralled at all by his Hispanic charm (as I will admit I was a little bit at first)—smart girl. Anyway, he still claims to want to come to church; however, I hope it’s for the right reasons. Time will tell.

I’m super fired up about this Young Adult conference going on in St. Louis next month. I’ve never been like this huge conference person, but I don’t know . . . there’s just something about it that really captured my interest, and I’ve drafted two other young ladies from church to join me. And the thought of the conference brings me to another thought . . .

McDougal. I hope he doesn’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve used his pseudonym. He’s still in the picture, too, albeit in a different form. I always jokingly tell him how we have completely switched places. Like, literally. Now I’m immersed in the working world, and he’s the poor college student. This conference will have been my first time in a Bible school environment, and this is his first time in a secular college environment . . . well, at a major university. And the thought of college environments brings me to another thought . . .

This upcoming weekend is T-town time. It is so past due. I haven’t been up to old Tusky since graduation in May. I used to always look forward to when I had time to escape to the Gump. Now I’m sneaking away from the Gump to T-town. When will the madness stop? Shall we ever be satisfied? It should be fun.

Oh, and I finally got a cell phone after surviving perfectly fine without one for several years. Ooh, I’m super cool now. Worthy to join the hordes of unlimited night and weekend minute gluttons. Oh, well. Excuse me while I end this procrastinatory rambling and mourn the wilting of my sunflowers.

Today I Got Flowers

They’re sitting right here, brightening my reclaimed room as I type. If you know me, you know what kind they are. Bright yellow-orange petals. Big, circular, dark-chocolate brown center with the little fuzzies in a swirly pattern. Little green leafies with pointed tips that round the flower head. Long, stalky, fuzzy green stem.

Ah, sunflowers.

There’s just something about them. And I’m so happy the person that got them for me thought enough about me to want to get them for me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten real, live sunflowers before.

To be honest, there have been times when I really didn’t think very highly of this person. Filled with adolescent angst, I thought this person was not the most attractive kid around, and didn’t really have much to offer. But as I got older and matured, I finally began to see this person in a new light. Eh, not too bad, I thought. I began to appreciate this person more than I ever had before. I realized that I could indeed love this person and that, as a result, my life would have a more positive, brighter, and more fulfilling outlook.

Who is this person? Eh . . . not exactly Mr. Wonderful.

Rather, it’s me.

Sunflowers on sale at Publix. A bunch of three for $3.27. Oh, who could resist?

The Voices

There are these voices that have this running commentary going on in my mind. Not for real (lest it be thought that I’m in need of professional help), but . . . well, it’s a funny idea, anyway.

The first one is named Melancholia. She is clad in black. She is a writer and an accomplished lyre-player. She usually sits brooding in the corner of my mind, either writing her latest depressing poem or playing some medieval ballad in a minor key on her lyre, and when she decides to come out, she usually does so at the most inopportune times. She likes Coldplay. Her ultimate wish is to be able to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor on the piano in its entirety because she just loves the darkly romantic, brooding melody. What books line her library shelves? The Complete Anthology of Edgar Allan Poe. Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. She has a collection of all of Shakespeare’s major tragedies. She does read her Bible though, surprisingly. What are her favorite books? Lamentations, Job, and Ecclesiates. Her favorite scripture? Ecclesiates 1:2, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Her eyes are perpetually swollen because she does a lot of crying. Sometimes she doesn’t even know why. She just sits there, absently strumming her lyre, tears slipping down her tragically beautiful cheeks.

The second is named Manica. She has this really loud, wide-mouthed laugh that just bursts from her belly. People sometimes make fun of her for it, but she doesn’t really care. And most of the time she laughs at stuff that most people don’t think is all that funny. And don’t let her get a little sleepy. Then she laughs at everything. She likes Curious George, the PowerPuff Girls, butterflies, and big, yellow smiley faces. She’s energetic, perpetually upbeat, and likes to bounce around to Christian rock on a pogo stick, pretending she’s Tigger. She always takes her vitamins. She’s sort of impulsive, too. She says things to people on a whim, and sometimes does silly things she may not have done had she thought about it for a second longer. But part of that impulsiveness explains her willingness to try new things, especially food. She’s tried things from snails to squid to sheep brains. She’s also the queen of procrastination: she puts things off till the last minute, then does it all in one sitting in the nick of time in an especially manic burst of energy. She doesn’t have as extensive a library as Melancholia, but at least she reads—the Comics section of the newspaper. And she does get a bit of Bible reading in, too. She’s not a complete heathen—unfortunately, it only consists of leafing through Song of Solomon and snickering to herself.

Next, we have Sarcasma. To say that she’s a smart aleck would be an understatement. She’s always rolling her eyes and coming up with quick quips and comebacks. She’s confident (some of the other voices thinks she’s too confident) and she knows what she wants and refuses to settle for less. She’s always arguing with the other voices and reminds them in little snide ways that she’s an educated woman. She’s spent five years at an Ivy League, has two-and-a-half majors, 3 minors and is certified in Deep Sea Diving. She also spent a year in the Philippines and speaks near-native-level Tagalog. She relishes a good debate, can really get fired up about politics and has a polite disdain for those who disagree with her. She’s a bit left of center. No “I refuse to believe the liberal media” bumper stickers on her car. She’s kind of a know-it-all and is unintentionally patronizing when she gives advice. She’s been there and done that. She is a big reader, among her favorite authors Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood. She reads the Bible too—Proverbs is her favorite.

Last but not least is Obsessa. The other voices call her OCD and Anal-retentive. She worries an awful lot about what people think about her, therefore, she always gives her opinions and explanations with a preamble—a “disclaimer” if you will, and it drives the other voices nuts. “Just spit it out!” they yell. She flosses her teeth at least twice a day (sometimes three times) and feels incomplete if she doesn’t. Sometimes she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation she’s had that day and each time she remembers that she said something that she would have liked to have said differently, she turns on her bedside lamp, takes out a pocket calendar and pencil, and writes down a little minus sign next to the date. For lunch, she cuts up pieces of cantaloupe, and uses a ruler to ensure that each piece is a perfect square. When she makes a sandwich, she always cuts it diagonally. She would have it no other way. She always feels that she’s not doing enough on her job, and always feels that she’s forgetting something every time she takes a trip. She seeks constant approval to make sure she’s doing things “right.” Her reading consists of “How To” books because she always feels that she’s in need of improvement and is forever trying to minimize her seemingly overwhelming flaws. She tries to read the Bible through once a year and always obsesses when she fails to meet her goal.

For the most part, my voices get along. Funny how they each have at least a little piece of what makes up the real me.

Hurricane Katrina vs. Payday

Today was payday. But how in the world can I be happy-go-lucky about my first professional paycheck when people's houses are underwater? I mean it's like . . . ugh. I just can't fathom it. How can I be like, "Ooh, I'm gonna use that 30% off coupon at New York & CO this weekend" when people are just about killing each other over food and stuff? When floating dead bodies are being passed by to try to save people who are in even worse danger?

Oh, any time things happen like this, I feel so detached, so . . . out of touch. Because I feel like I can't relate and I feel spoiled and uncaring because I don't have to deal with it. I can sit in front of my laptop and reminisce and think about eating an omelet. Crazy.

Well, at church, we took up a special offering, because there were so many people connected to the church in these areas that were affected, and at least I put my 2 cents in. The least I could do, really. I just pray that God will help and comfort these people who are in such a dire situation right now.

Real Sex and Flirt to Convert Part II

I meant to write a review on this book a long time ago because I finished it a long time ago. It's called Real Sex:The Naked Truth about Chastity by Lauren F. Winner. I promise you, it's not another one of those "just don't have sex, okay?" kind of books. And even though it was written by a woman, it is addressed to members of both sexes. It was the most eye-opening, most beautifully premised book about this subject that I have ever read in my entire life. Really. I wish that all young people such as myself who are trying to live their lives according to God's Word would read this book. It was so refreshing. One of my blog buddies, Wendy Scoggins, has written a review of it on her blog and does a better job of explaining why this book is so great than I have. Check it out.

Now for a brief Flirt to Convert (FTC) update. (See here for the backstory.) And, sorry, there are no juicy details. lol. Without putting all my business out there on the street, suffice it to say that I had to (well, didn't have to, but anyway) sort of cancel out on a dinner invitation that I had previously accepted. But all is not lost. He was very understanding, we chatted some more, and still, I have no reason to believe that he is not on the up-and-up. So, in the end, I guess I'm glad that I didn't "nip it in the bud." If, in the future, I do meet with him, though, for precaution's sake, I will not do so alone. And, for the record, I really am not a true believer in FTC--I just like the phrase because it rhymes and because it is seemingly fitting to the situation. Emphasis on seemingly.

And, though one of my worst fears is to ever be labeled as a conference junkie, there is a tentative upcoming conference that I hope becomes set in stone that I would seriously make the effort to attend. It's called the IQ Forum and will be held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis. It seems like something that is right up my alley and I think would be worthwhile to attend. I could definitely get a sub for work since I know ahead of time, and, thanks to finally entering the real working world, I should have the resources. We'll see!

Flirt to Convert

I got this phrase from a comment left on another blog that I frequent often. It’s a doctrine that some Pentecostal girls and guys subscribe to for lack of available fish in the pond of believers. “Flirting to convert” in its more advanced stages is called “missionary dating.” And if the conversion doesn’t happen before the wedding date, it’s called “unequally yoked.” So, for reasons that need not be detailed, I’m not a subscriber.

However, I have found myself in a circumstance that may lead others to believe that I am a subscriber, and I do protest that I am not. But, lest I run the risk of protesting too much, I will describe the circumstances and let them speak for themselves.

It all started with a quesadilla.

My mom and I are lovers of Mexican food, and we frequent a restaurant called San Marcos. Tuesday night, we went out for quesadilla dinners. Now, every time we go to a Mexican restaurant, I order in Spanish. Oftentimes, when I do, I get the attention of the Spanish-speaking waiters, and things get a little flirty. I know this. But I do it anyway. Sad, but true.

So, Tuesday night was no different. This time, one of the busboys sort of eased on over to where my mom and I were sitting and started chatting in Spanish with me, telling me about Mexico and discussing cultural differences between Mexico and the US. Eventually he got around to wanting my phone number. Why? He claimed that he didn’t have many friends and that he really needed help with his English. I laughed.

(In Spanish) “You’re telling me you’ve been in the United States for 6 years and you work at a restaurant with plenty of people from your country and you don’t know any English or have any friends? I don’t believe you.”

He proceeded to promise that he was telling the truth. “That’s why I can’t work as a waiter—because I can’t speak English.” He then went on and on about how he really just wants someone to talk to, he wouldn’t bother me or ask me to go out . . . I was skeptical even when he said that he was 24 until he showed me his ID. He looked to be more in his late twenties. I will admit, though, that he was a hottie. And taller than most men his persuasion. Side note: I’m almost embarrassed at how easily I am attracted to Hispanic men. Even so, I kept telling him, amidst his protests, that I didn’t think it would be a good idea for us to be amigos. Still, he persisted. Finally, Mom suggested that I invite him to church. I hadn’t thought of that. (Bad me.) So, I told him that I would give him my number if he agreed to come to my church. He lit up. He said he would love to come . . . yadda yadda yadda. Before we left, he said he would call Sunday afternoon to get directions so that he could make it to the Sunday night service.

Sunday afternoon, he calls. I give him directions to the church in my not-so-perfect Spanish. I have a feeling that he’s going to be a no-show. I don’t know why.

Sunday night, he’s a no-show.

Sunday night post-church, he leaves a message. As I get the phone to call him back, it rings. It’s him. In his rapid, non-stop Spanish, he explains how he got lost and how he went back and tried to find it but couldn’t, he’s sorry, but he tried . . . as I suspected. But then we ended up talking for a while on the phone. He still claims to just want to be friends, it’s so rare for him to have an American friend because he can’t speak English, and on and on. (sigh) I feel myself slowly starting to give in. Aw, give the guy a chance. Maybe he’s not a typical guy just out to see what he can get. Maybe he does just want a friend to talk to and to help improve his English.

Part of me says, "Nip it in the bud, you're making yourself look desperate. A Mexican busboy?" But the other part of me is intrigued and is like, “Why? You're not trying to get with him or anything. You could use a bit of brushing up on your Spanish anyway.” How do I get myself into these quandaries? Next time I go to a Mexican restaurant, I’m keeping my mouth shut.

Poem

today I got torn
a piece of me
I never knew would leave
such a token of
its greater existence.
a flesh skin rip
a love blood rivulet
and all I could do
was watch, water-eyed
as it trickled and dripped,
will it to heal
and wish it the best.