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.

You Sure Got a Blessing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nice Guys

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

Invented Conversations

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Literary Love Affairs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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