Counterfeits

Lately my girlfriend and I have been talking about counterfeits and how to spot them when making major life decisions.  Sometimes things can look deceptively right, too good to be true.  And sometimes they are.  But I would be amiss to assume any good thing is not simply a good thing from above.  And I don't think that gives the proper due to our Savior.  So how to tell the difference?

Everything isn't always laid out clearly in black and white, this I know.  Yet we too often try to tiptoe through the minefields on our own and end up in a world of trouble.  The one thing I do know is the Lord likes to be consulted in the matter, and he does answer prayer.  I've watched it happen too many times to discount.

What brought this all upon us was the visit of my girlfriend's girlfriend a few weeks ago.   This darling girl was sharing with us a prayer she had prayed in her own life: 

Lord, I'm tired of doing things my way.  Please work out your will in my life and keep the counterfeits away.

Granted, in this case she had been praying specifically for the Lord to bring her her husband.  The fact that that same weekend she was also spending time with her soulmate and new fiancee made her approach all the more appealing. 

What is easy to overlook is the fact that God was faithful in every way he answered her prayer:  he certainly kept away the counterfeits for a time.  She recounted how for a while it seemed nothing worked out and there were more than a few heartaches along the way.  Times of loneliness, impatience, frustration.  I'm sure there were times she regretted praying that prayer. 

But still I'm praying it, in every area of life. 

Lord, open the doors you would have me go through and slam the others shut, definitively.  Help me to accept and let go of the things you do not have for me, as painful and unpleasant as that might be. 

And thank God for that testimony, and for the very present answer to a friend's friend's prayer.  Seeing them together, sharing a little in their excitement, while knowing with every fiber of my being that they truly are a match made in heaven, is the best hope and encouragement a girl could have.  It reminds me that God knows what He's doing, even when we don't.  And the best things in life:  career choices, education, friendships, relationships--- all are worth waiting for His best. 

Dear Lord, keep me in your way and keep away the counterfeits. 

Walking the fine line

A strange feeling hit me the other day, and it still lingers. 

Its as if I've just woken up from a long sleep only to find I've realized a dream.  And I have. 

Four years ago, if you had told me I'd be where I am today, doing what I do each day, having these kinds of experiences and opportunities, meeting the people that I meet - I would have said you were crazy.  Or maybe I'd have gazed wistfully just before reconciling myself to the fact that it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen, didn't fit into the box I'd pegged myself into. 

A very idealistic me once promised myself that if I were to have the kinds of opportunities I now have, if I were to live and work in such a place and time as this, if I were to answer the highest calling I might imagine, that I would never, EVER take it for granted.  That I would always stay true to the cause and the course. 

You would laugh at idealistic me in the fall of 2006, and you would have good reason.  I have many times since.  But there's another side to my faded Pollyanna attitude that can't be overlooked.  And here is where the fine line is drawn. 

Just as absurd as the thought that this place, this job, this life is the end-all be-all is the thought that it's no big deal that I am here.  That it doesn't really matter.  That I should just enjoy myself and experience this city.  That I shouldn't still seek to serve a higher purpose and calling. 

On the one hand, a calling suggests an inflated sense of self.  On the other, a blase and uninspired approach denies the very real blessing, opportunity, and privilege I've been charged with.  To deny would be to squander.  And to squander would be the kiss of death to the part of my soul from whence the Pollyanna still escapes, wizened though she may be.  And it's just plain irresponsible.

I owe it to myself and to my Maker who placed me here to walk the fine line.  To acknowledge the opportunities and bear the responsibilities; all the while realizing it's not about me and it's not about the stone and marble and egos.  I began to err on the side of pessimism, but I've been reminded of the bigger picture, and I'm seeing things anew.     

An Ode to Girlfriends

When your nails are unkempt
And your spirits are low
I will love you

When you bail on plans and oversleep
Choose the boys over me
I won't judge you

When you drive us in circles
Ignore the GPS's heedings
I won't nag you

When you're feeling 5 pounds heavy
And you wonder if you've still got it
I'll remind you

When you need to melt down
Pitch a fit, cry and moan
I'll cry with you

When decisions press upon you
And there seem to be no answers
I'll pray for you

When you think you're all alone
That he's the only one to call
I'm here for you

When the day has been long
And the boss has been cruel
I'll wine with you

For when I was hungry
You fed me
And when I was thirsty
Gave me drink
Clothed me
Loved me
Forgave me
Took me in

- The gifts we have in girlfriends
Are the purest forms of grace
Little tastes of heaven
We must pass on to appreciate -

When life's seasons nudge us forward
And we no longer walk in stride
I'll celebrate our times and thank God for you

Rediscovering the Crockpot

Watch out!  I've just rediscovered my crockpot (and my chili pepper apron!) and I'm getting down and dirty in the kitchen. 

I've missed my slow cooker.  Once upon a time I put it to good use at least twice a week making roasts or stews or various beef and chicken concoctions.  Tonight I finally faced the pheasant in the freezer and decided the crockpot was the only way to go. 

I've actually learned quite a few kitchen lessons today: 

1) Pheasant is supposed to be that bloody-scary dark shade of reddish-purple.  And I thought all poultry was white meat...

2)  It is ok to use an onion that has been sitting out for over a month.  Limes are a different story.

3) Two clueless kitchen-ettes can conquer something domestic, even if it is just reassembly of the blender (thanks Lacelove!)

4) You can plug the coffeepot in,  fill it up with grounds and pour in the water, but you still have to turn it on

5) Recipe for a fantastic evening:

1 bottle red wine (the cheaper the better)
2 sassy Southern women (add to suit to taste)
1 bag tortilla chips
1 container salsa

Combine ingredients in urban kitchen and let simmer for 10 minutes.  Remove from heat when beginning to boil (be careful when inserting men and mothers into the mix!). Stir well, and allow to cool.  Serve in heels and pearls.  Enjoy!

God's resume

Living in this town it sometimes feels like life revolves around a constant stream of resumes.  Whether it's scanning for potential hires in your office, passing a friend's along for consideration, or getting barraged via email by various network acquaintances ("just in case you hear of an opening"), or busy distributing your own, we've all seen our fair share.

What does a resume tell you?  Past performance, specific tasks and responsibilities, and in my humble opinion, a good resume shows results.  Like doubling a client base in 2 years, or increasing sales by 5%, or successfully managing a campaign to victory.  Verifiable facts, best backed up by references; you get the idea.

So it just hit me funny tonight when, whilst talking about our experiences with God's faithfulness, my dear roomie actually used the term "God's resume".  Hmm.

Doesn't it make sense though?  And how often I do go looking back over his resume to reaffirm my faith!  Just think about it:  most of us have points in our life to which we can point and say undoubtedly, "That was the Lord."  Some times are more obvious than others, but get enough years under your belt and you'll be amazed at what you'll find.  Like intervening in a might way in major life decisions, providing a job or unexpected income or furniture, or delivering me with only so much as a scratch from a car I rolled six times.  And time and again I find him answering specific prayers, whether it takes a day or a month or a year.  I like to keep a journal and flip back through to glean encouragement from all the ways things I once dealt with were resolved.  Perhaps I will type out God's resume for my life and post it to have an even more visual reminder of his faithfulness. 

Sixteen Elizabeths

I have been in serious need of some Bob time. 

Last Sunday as we were catching up at the kitchen table he proudly showed me the program from Tony's graduation ceremony a few weeks earlier.  (Tony is another adopted grandchild from across the street, and Bob had attended his MBA graduation ceremony with Tony's parents.) I flipped through the pages as he recounted the ceremony, the Maryland Transportation Secretary's address, the rain, Tony's honors. 

I noticed how he had circled Tony's name each time it appeared in the program.  He truly is proud of all his "kids" and their accomplishments.  I also noticed he had placed numbers beside other names in the program, names I didn't recognize.  But I decided against interrupting him for an explanation:  he went on to recount mowing the church lawn, Ben's birthday party and his most recent meeting with his lawyer.  This month he has big plans to go to an Orioles game with Tony and then he's coming to a Nats game one night as well ("Honey, I want you to meet us if you can").  For the 4th he's going on a boys' trip with Harvey and Ben and they'll have a huge family reunion at his brother's cabin in the West Virginia mountains.

"And honey, wouldja believe they had sixteen Elizabeth's at Tony's graduation?" his eyes got big behind his thick frames and a grin spread across his face. 

"See I counted 'em, and I marked 'em all in that book,"he pointed to the program. "That's a lot now isn't it?"

All of a sudden I'm imagining him sitting there under a large tent watching in anticipation each time he hears the name of his beloved late wife being called.  I feel the ironic twist of pain and hope and happiness he must have felt to watch each stranger-Elizabeth walk across the stage, a reminder of all he has lost.  Sixteen of them, one by one.  I remember the Sunday a few weeks earlier when he draped a strand of her white beads around my neck and choked out, "Happy Future Mother's Day, honey, I want you to have these."  Right before we both melted into tears in the same kitchen. 

But this Sunday he was smiling at me expectantly as I stared back, a bit surprised and feeling his pain.  All I could do was smile back and answer, "It sure is, Bob, it sure is." 

"She's been gone 10 months on the 4th," he reminded me.  Still no tears, as I held my breath and searched his face for signs.  He chuckled softly and changed topics, leaving me in a daze. 

These have been a rough few weeks for him, and I'm still not sure how to react to his sixteen Elizabeth's. 

All I know is the Bob I love and adore has experienced loss to a degree that I may never understand.  He is not too proud to cry or to tell me when he's having a hard time.  He's not too independent to ask for help when he needs it.  And he still finds the strength to smile, serve and keep living and loving. 

And to find some odd, small joy in counting Elizabeth's. 

   

A Taste of Italy

We gazed over the muggy, miserably crowded room and laughed. I don't recall what it is we laughed at, but it doesn't take much: Stephanie's pessimistic spin on life and the legal system proves comedic, especially when mixed with my naievete and daring spirit. Which, oddly enough, seemed to wane with each glass of champagne. We were there to enjoy and be amused, but neither of us felt like making an effort to socialize.

Think Italian Embassy, modern architecture, fabulous pasta and a melting crowd of diplomats sweltering in the D.C. heat. And of course we two Southern girls happened to corner one of the few U.S. military men there. And of course he's spent the majority of his service time in Ft. Rucker, AL. We would hunt down the one Alabama connection in a room full of Italians!

Oh to speak Italian, just a teensy bit. To know more than bellissimo. We did happen to make one new friend, to neither of our credit. He approached, interrupting our fits of laughter and humoring our cultural whims. We learned the word for the national guard-like military men patrolling the room with their flared up caps and cross-shoulder belts. Bellissimo Carabiniere!

Two comments endeared us immediately:

"I can't stand Nancy Pelosi!" and "I went to Cornell. You know, like Andy from The Office."

I enjoy being silly with old friends and new ones. Comfortable, snorting-giggles, fake accents, feet-on-the-dash silly. And who says you can't do that in a fab environment surrounded by fashion superiors and foreign dignitaries?

I love this town. And sometimes, I think it loves me back.