Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Locked Out

It's funny how different people are born with certain affinities.  Let's take singing, for example.  Some people are just born with a pretty voice.  They didn't inherit the talent or acquire it through training, they can just flat-out sing. It's a gift.

Other people may have a talent that has a logical explanation.  My son was an excellent baseball pitcher; he pitched a no-hitter during a Little League All Star game when he was twelve.  Was his talent inherited?  Not exactly.  You see, he was a huge baby.  His hand-eye coordination was highly developed because his large motor skills...ah....weren't.  The kid was so big he couldn't move. 

It's okay, you can blame me.  I'm his mother.

Thankfully, he grew out of his chubbiness by the time he was four and now he's pretty proud of it.  But I think his highly developed fine motor skills are one of the reasons he can play the guitar so beautifully.

So, I'm wondering, why do some people have an affinity for negative things?  Like, stupid negative things?  Like, why do some people continually lock themselves out of the house?

Let me say right up front that my house key is special.  I've tried to have spare copies made but nobody has the right blank.  Apparently there are only two keys in the world like my key and they are both inevitably locked in the house when I'm locked out. 

I do try to keep one of the keys hidden outside.  Wow, I'd really lock myself out a lot if it was never in its hiding place. 

Last Friday night I decided to wear my blue coat.  I had already locked the door when I realized I left my keys in my black coat.  A kind friend came and picked me up...she was especially kind because she also took me home.  And at 10 pm she and her unsuspecting husband ended up helping me break into my house.  I'm not going to give you the specifics, but it involved tromping through four feet of snow in the dark, a pocket knife and one of us being wedged into a small hole.  It wasn't me.

I'm still feeling kind of bad about the whole thing, but I'm trying not to.  I figure there must be some fundamental reason I have an affinity for locking myself out of the house.

So I'm going to blame my mother.

Monday, February 13, 2012

Valentine's Day

When I was a kid, Valentine's Day was one of my favorite holidays.  I loved picking out my box of Valentines at the dime store. I remember the angst I felt deciding which card to give my best friend, which to give the mean kid (if any), and which to give the cutest boy in the class.  I loved bringing my stash home, opening each little envelope and trying to decide what it all meant.

I got a big taste of reality when I was in the fifth grade.  I returned home after a fun-filled school day to find a strange man sitting in our living room.  He handed me a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and then listened with tears in his eyes as my mom explained he had run over my cat.

That's the thing about Valentine's Day.  It offers such highs and lows.

Two years ago I was walking on clouds.  I was in love and the object of my affection was a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy.  The bouquet of flowers I received was glorious; their scent, intoxicating. The guys in the office were complaining he was making everybody else look bad.

Last year I was still in love.  But instead of walking on clouds, I was nursing a broken heart.  And trying, once again, to figure out what it all meant.

You can imagine my surprise when a delivery person showed up at my office door with a huge bouquet of flowers.  I knew it had to be a mistake, but my name was on the card.  Mine.  There was no mistake.

I soon discovered that some amazing friends and family members had gone in together to send me the lovely bouquet.  They knew the day would be especially hard and they wanted me to know how much I am loved. A small bouquet wouldn't do, they wanted to make sure I understood theirs was a go-big-or-go-home kind of love.

That kind of love sustains.  And mends.

This year I'm not wondering what it all means. I know.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Thursday, February 2, 2012


The pastor of my church doesn't enjoy preaching sermons about giving.  But he teaches expositionally, so If he encounters a passage about giving in the book of the Bible he's preaching through, he can not ignore it.  He must preach about giving.

He must.  If it's in The Word, we need to hear it.  I need to hear it.

One Sunday I really needed to hear it. 

Pastor J was preaching about sacrificial giving that day, and I remember thinking, "I'm a single mom with two teenagers.  I make little money and there is simply nothing that can be sacrificed.  Nothing.  I've got this one, man.  I'm good."


 Mercifully, God only targeted one thing.  But he was very succinct.  A flashing neon sign appeared on the inside of my eye lids.  Every time I blinked I read COFFEE.

Nuh uh.  No way.  That sign couldn't have been meant for me, he must have goofed.  God would not ask me to give up coffee.  He loves me.

He does love me, but he knew some stuff.  He knew my car automatically turned into my favorite drive-through coffee shop every morning,  He knew the baristas at The Grind had my 'grande, half-caf, tan mocha with whip' made before I ever pulled up to the window.  He knew how much money I was spending on coffee every month.  It was a lot.

 God.  He's observant.  And he was serious...I needed to give it up.

The detox period was painful; the headaches lasted about a week.  The emotional detox was worse, a warm cup of chocolatey coffee is a such a comfort and I had to learn to start my day without it.  My poor co-workers, I wasn't very nice while I went through withdrawal.  Every Sunday for several months I placed the exact amount of my weekly coffee card in the offering plate.  It was important to me.  My girlfriend would ask, "Why don't you just write out a check for the whole month?"  Nope.  I refused to add it to my typical offering check. I wanted God to see that I was giving sacrificially.  I wanted him to notice.

Silly me.

It didn't take long for me to realize I felt much better without my coffee.  It was loaded with gluten and dairy...things I now know I can't have.  Eventually the sacrifice was no longer a sacrifice.  Eventually I tasted victory, and it didn't make me sick.

Eventually I realized soy milk makes a great cup of coffee. 

I haven't fallen completely off the wagon.  I only allow myself one a week.

And on Sundays, I drink tea.