The Date

I went on a date a couple of weeks ago.

Oh, stop.  It's rude to look so shocked.

Nope, I'm not telling you who it was with.  That would be too personal, and I try not to share anything personal on this blog.

Right.

So...it's an interesting thing, going on a date with somebody you don't really know.  All day long I kept telling myself it was just dinner, and everybody has to eat. Then I would think about how embarrassed I would be if I got home and found spinach in my teeth, or enchilada sauce on my blouse.

That didn't happen, by the way.

I handled the day pretty well, but when I got off work I had two hours to kill.  I didn't want to sit around making myself nervous, so I started to clean the house.

I had it completely spotless in an hour and a half.

Then I attempted to get cute...but not too cute.  A girl never wants to look like she's trying too hard, but she doesn't want to look frumpy either.

It's kind of complicated.

I left my house...then decided I didn't want to be too early.  But I didn't want to be late either.

I took the back road to the restaurant.  It worked, I got there one minute early.

He was already there, and I was glad.  Being there first would have looked desperate.

Hey, I may be a lot of things, but desperate isn't one of them.

I sat down and we started to chat.  I was the picture of poise, I was a natural.  I could do this thing.

Then out of the blue he asked me the most random question.

"Were you nervous about tonight?" he asked.

"Hmmm...."  I responded.  I was thinking fast. "Not really.  It's just dinner and everybody has to eat, right?  Why do you ask?"

"I had a friend whose neck used to get really red when she was nervous.  And yours is really red right now."

Dang, I forgot about my traitorous neck!

"Yeah, well, okay, I may have been a tad nervous,"  I stammered.  "But just because I've lived here for 30 years and I know somebody will see me and give me a hard time tomorrow."

We had a nice time, we did.  And I may decide to try this date thing again sometime.

And if you see me, be sure to say hello.

I'll be the girl in the scarf.

Four Eyes

When I was a kid, Friday nights were TV nights.  The Brady Bunch came first, followed by the Partridge Family.  My siblings and I had our own designated seating assignments.  I used to lay on the floor about four feet away from the television.

I didn't get glasses until I was 12.  But I suspect I may have needed them before that.

I've always hated wearing glasses.

Within months, I lost my first pair.  I remember trying to convince my mom they had to have fallen out of my pocket and down into the storm drain below our street. That was the only explanation because I had looked EVERYWHERE.  I never did get those glasses back;  she never allowed me to climb down there and look for them. They're probably still there.

High school brought on contact lense angst.

Remember those hard contacts people had back in the day?  I could never wear those.  My best friend could pop hers out, stick it in her mouth to rinse it off, then pop it back in without needing a mirror.

I was so jealous.

When soft contacts became popular, I was first in line.  I had several years of success wearing them.  But for some reason after my son was born, I could no longer wear them.  I have no idea why, but I totally blame him.  Every couple of years I try them again, and every time I end up miserable and am reminded what tremendous sacrifices I've made as a mother.

I guess it was worth it.

You'd think after so many years of wearing glasses, I wouldn't have any problems.  But I do.  The older I get, the harder it is for me to get used to a new pair.  It's torture.

My insurance pays for new glasses every two years, but about a year ago I was having a hard time seeing my computer.  I needed new glasses, and I had to pay for them 100%.  I wear transition lenses, and let me tell you, they ain't cheap.

I liked the ones I bought, but I couldn't get used to them.  No matter how many times I had them adjusted, it felt like they were squeezing my head.  They came with a warranty, so I exchanged them for the lightest pair available.  The lady at the eye doctor said I would have absolutely no problem with these...and I payed an additional $200.  Ouch.

She's right, they are light.

And, after a year of suffering, I'm finally used to them.

But my computer is looking kind of fuzzy...

Stress

This has been quite a day.  Actually, the last couple of weeks have pretty much eaten my lunch.

Unfortunately that's not quite true.  I tend to eat more lunch when I'm stressed.  And more breakfast and dinner.  Know what I mean?

This chain of misfortune started with my car.  It had two leaky seals.  I saw the boxes my new seals came in; they were about the size of canning jar lids.  Too bad I couldn't pop my car into a pressure cooker and seal the leaks, it would have been much cheaper.

You know, I always wonder if the guys who work on my car really work on my car.  I had my transmission flushed once; my car looked exactly the same when I picked it up as it did when I dropped it off.  It ran the same too.  How do you men know?  Maybe it's a testosterone thing that this estrogen laden woman will never understand.

And I am okay with that.

Then my hot water heater died.  It was a slow, painful death...I'd known it was coming.  Water kept raining down on the pilot light; I was getting used to lighting it in the morning and waiting for 30 minutes before I took a shower.  Finally, it gave up.  Kaput.

I mourned.

A few days later, The Beast (my quilt machine) refused to go sideways.  Funny thing...I found this random part under the table a few weeks ago; for the life of me I couldn't figure out where it came from.  It seemed to work fine without it...until it didn't.

That part made it go sideways.  Who knew?  Well, the repair man knew, but that's beside the point.

Things come in threes, right?  Wrongo.

Saturday morning I booted up the computer on The Beast and the screen went black.

I've never had a computer crash before.  It's not very fun.

My brilliant (and patient) son-in-law spent two hours on the other side of a webcam trying to get me up and running again.  We thought we had it, but when I heard him say, "Uh oh.  That's not good," I knew it was over.

I ordered a new computer yesterday.

As fun as it would be to feel sorry for myself, I simply can't.  God won't let me.  In retrospect, I can see the places he's stretched my faith, and then provided...stretched my faith, and then provided, sometimes in truly humbling and miraculous ways.

I think I'm getting it.

I suspect he's getting ready to move on, to deal with something else in my character.

I bet it will have something to do with eating my lunch.

About Prayer...the Sequel

Today is a very important anniversary in my life.

One year ago today, I began my prayer journey.

If you've recently joined this wild ride with me, here's my original post about it. http://shelikesskirts.blogspot.com/2011/03/about-prayer.html

I know this may sound terrible, but I'm relieved to have this year over.  I met my goal; I prayed consistently every single day for an entire year.  The pressure is off and now I can relax and let somebody else pray for a change.

Right?

Ah....no.  Wrong.  Very, very wrong.

I had some preconceived ideas about what being a prayer warrior would be like.  They were all way off the mark.  Like, way.

Prayer continues to be hard work for me.  At the beginning, I hoped it would get easier, but it never has.  I've decided that's because prayer isn't about me at all.  It's about God and about others...and for some reason when something isn't all about me, it's harder.  I hope I'm not the only person in the world with this flaw...but there it is.

I can be really selfish.

Prayer is also hard work because it can be very emotional.  As hard as I try, I can rarely keep from getting teary while I pray.  There always seems to be one request every day that just gets to me.  

I've learned to put my eye makeup on each morning after I've finished praying.

I used to think consistent prayer warriors must experience a special connection with God...some ethereal peace that prayer-challenged people like me don't have.  Maybe there are those that do, but I don't.  I am seldom drawn to my knees in the morning because I can hardly wait to talk to God.  I don't often get warm fuzzies from prayer.  Prayer for me is a choice, it is an act of my will that I have to make happen.   I'm accountable to no one...except God.  And as incredulous as it sounds, I can pretty easily tune him out.  The best way for me not to is to make sure I'm reading the Bible every day.

That's something else I've done every day for an entire year.  I've learned prayer and scripture reading go together like peanut butter and jelly.  Like chips and salsa.  Like milk and cookies.

You just can't have one without the other.  Having both every single day has changed my life.

How?  Good question.

First, I think less of myself and more of others.  God has grown a new level of compassion in my heart.

I don't know how to explain it.  I care more.  And I don't have to think about it more, it just happens.  And I really, really like it.

Second, I love God more.  I've asked him to help me fall more in love with Jesus Christ, and he is answering that prayer.  It didn't come over night, he had to root out some wrong thinking in my life first.  But it's happening.  I want more of Jesus, and I'm not just saying that because Jesus is always the right answer.  I really long for deeper knowledge of my Savior.

Lord, give me more of Jesus.

You may want to know if God has answered my prayers.  I can honestly say he absolutely has.

He said yes to some.  My mother's health has improved tremendously. My son got a great job.

He said no to others.  My friend's dear son-in-law died.  An important relationship has not been restored.

To many, many other prayers he has said wait.  And keep praying.

I used to wonder if it was okay to ask God for the same thing over and over again,  but for me, that's what being a prayer warrior is.  And the more I pray, even though it's hard, the more I'm convinced that God really can do more than we can ever ask or imagine.  That faith didn't come naturally from my sad, sinful little heart. It came as a gift from Almighty God.

The one who invites me into his throne room every day.

The one who rewards me with far more than my simple attempt at devotion will ever deserve.

Come on, join me.

Being Okay

Gate E6 is down two flights of stairs.  It kind of feels like its own little airport.

You can't get away from people at gate E6.  There's no Starbucks to disappear in.  It's just a bunch of chairs and a door that leads outside to the plane.

I sat across from them; a dad and his two kids.  He wore a weight lifting t-shirt and an arrogant expression.

I didn't like him.

His son was probably 12. His father spoke to him like he should know everything about air travel.  The boy looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders...he looked scared.  They were traveling alone to Houston, which, I surmised, was home, and where their mother lived.

The little girl was about eight.  She was crying and clinging to her dad.  Every now and then he would reach down and wipe away the tears that were falling on his arm, like they were a bug.  Occasionally he would pat her awkwardly and tell her she would be okay.

I was tempted to argue with him.

I was in first grade, so I was probably six.  My parents divorced when I was five and my dad had moved to San Francisco.  Compared to my home in L.A., San Francisco was cold.  When my brother and I flew up for a weekend visit, my mom sent me with my bright orange fake fur coat.

Do you ever wonder if you remember actual events, or if what you remember came from looking at pictures?

Besides that coat, what I remember is a horrible, panicky feeling.  My six year old brain was convinced my mom would not be safe without me.  I was terrified that something would happen to her and my baby sister while I was away.

I remember crying.   A lot.  I also remember trying really hard not to cry because I didn't want my dad to feel bad. But I couldn't help it.

I didn't see much of my dad while I was growing up.  We moved to San Diego and he moved to L.A., but we only saw him on an occasional weekend.  He always took us to the zoo and to a Mexican restaurant where he drank margaritas.

Eventually our relationship became a Christmas card and sometimes a birthday card.

He died this year on New Year's day.  Though I had recently tried to be more communicative, I hadn't seen him in years.

Didn't matter.  His death crushed me.

Like God, I hate divorce, but it is prevalent in my extended family. With one exception, everyone in my extended family has been divorced.  I don't know all of the reasons, and I can't judge.  But I had hoped that family legacy would end with me.  It didn't and my kids have had to go through some of the same emotions I did as a child.  At times, that haunts me.

But I know the family legacy will end with my children.  Their marriages are based on a foundation that will never move.

Hallelujah.

Shortly before we boarded our flight, that little girl pushed her way onto her dad's lap.  She gripped his neck and cried buckets.

He was embarrassed, the big jerk.  I had to give up my seat and stand as far away as I could to keep from smacking him.  Or at least giving him a really dirty look.

I know normal people don't get married with the goal of getting divorced.  And I suppose countless parents have patted their children as they cry in airports and told them they will be okay.

But, I have a question.

Compared to what?

The Airport

Airports are fascinating places; there is so much to entertain.   Truthfully, a traveler might experience sensory overload before ever stepping foot on a plane. 

“Huh?” you ask. 

‘Tis true.

For example….

At this moment, Carrie Underwood is singing about smashing out her boyfriend’s taillights with a Louisville Slugger over the intercom. 

I was just at McDonald’s where I heard several Asian employees speaking an Asian language really, really fast. 

The little Hispanic girl working the counter looked completely lost.

I stood in line behind two twenty-somethings that smelled like they hadn’t had a shower since they were twelve. 

I’ll never understand why people don’t shower before they get on a plane. I mean, seriously.  It’s a given that people will smell you in planes and elevators. 

Somebody should make a public service TV commercial to enlighten the masses.

I’m in the B concourse, never been here before.  I think they collected the oldest seats in the state to furnish this place.  The seat next to me has a huge hole in it; it’s swallowed my power cord.  And the seat I’m in?  I’m feeling no padding at all.

Though not fan of these seats, I kind of like the freaky wooden birds scattered about this concourse.  They’re huge and funky. 

And Alaskan.

I’ve saved the best for last.  There is SO much to see. 

I saw a young teenage girl wearing the tightest jeans in the history of the world.  I wondered how her mother ever let her out of the house, and then I saw her mother.  Now I understand.

I saw a nice looking young man in shorts, a nice jacket, a visor and nice sandals.  He was somewhat unremarkable until I noticed the bright purple nail polish he’s wearing on his toes.

I’ve seen Amish folks, Muslim folks, and Russian folks.  I’m sitting across from a woman with very long, very grey braids, and a woman with pink and purple hair.

There are lots of average folks too.

One lady I saw was really interesting.  She looked like she got up early to clean, worked all day and then drove to Anchorage. She had her friend cut and color her hair (she's trying to hide the grey from her kids), had a gluten free energy bar for dinner, then a McDonald’s ice cream cone.  She looks like she really needs a nap.

Wait…I didn’t see her in the terminal. 

I saw her in the mirror.  

She definitely overloaded my senses.

Lunch

Last week I had lunch with a couple of my girlfriends.

I do that a lot.  I like my girlfriends and I like lunch, so it's a win/win situation.

Before I grabbed the last chip out of the basket and rushed back to the office, one of my friends asked how she could pray for me.  We had discussed the ins and outs of our lives while we ate, so I listed a couple of things for her to pray for.  Okay, I listed a lot of things.  She looked me in the eye, grinned and said, "Okay.  I'll just ask God to give you everything you want."

Wow.

That made me think.  And I'm still at it.

I wonder what my life would be like if God gave me everything I've ever asked him for.

I wonder who I would be.

Our pastor preached on Psalm 139 last Sunday.  I know that psalm well; I memorized it with my 5th grade Sunday school students many years ago.  I often think about how God knows every single thing about me.  He knows my thoughts, he knows what I'm going to say, he knows why I'm going to say it.  He knows my motivations.  He knows where my heart hurts and why.  He knows my greatest joys and why.

He knows much more about me than I do.

Sometimes I wonder why God doesn't seem to answer some of my prayer requests.  They make sense to me...right now.  I've prayed for things in the past that made sense...back then.  Today I can see why God said no, why he left certain doors shut.

And I'm grateful.  Really, really grateful.

I suspect my friend didn't listen to me.  I suspect she prayed, instead, that God would give me the wisdom to see he knows the difference between what I want and what's best for me.

I'll have to ask her.

Because out of all the things I listed, that's the prayer he answered.