These Nights

I don't often wax poetic, but Thursday night's walk down the mall provided inspiration and I had to "pen" this down.

These Nights
These nights make my heart race with endless, untapped possibility,
Make me ponder the sweet, fleeting moments of yesteryear,
Wonder how it can be these are memories so soon?

The dome-lit jogs among the stone and glory, beating down our demons with every step and drop of sweat,
The forgetting of troubles in gleeful coasts down Air Force Memorial hill,
Adrenaline pumping, midnight Potomac excursions, navigating turbulent waters by flashlight,
The thrill of each new explosion lighting up the night sky over the Lincoln again and again, bathing it in color as a million mesmerizing glows fade,
An unfamiliar crowd in a crushed velvet limo celebrating safe arrival in our noblest of steeds (How I still jump to think of the shot of cork out the moonroof!)
The man-child grinning maddeningly on the step as if he possessed a secret, took some secret pleasure in my presumptuous scoldings.

And the night of that very first glimpse, with a friendly stranger and ill-fitting heels.
A moment was all it took to take my breath, my heart.
One glimpse of the temple was sufficient to instill confidence in us both,
As we ventured onward sharing lives, loves, ambitions,
Taking the very world, as it were, at our command,
The same as we'd won the bar at Old Ebbitt's;
We came away feeling grand.

These nights make it all too easy to forfeit the mornings,
Forget my ne'er fulfilled vows to be rested.
Now I vacillate 'twixt hopeful joy and aching sadness,
Yet the feeling of it is one in the same.
It is the feeling of it, the very feeling ---
Spurs hope for unscathed, kindred souls yet unmet,
Assumes heart-to-hearts over botched culinary feats,
Anticipates passionate exchanges in the most unexpected of places,
Assures of a thousand experiences yet to be shared,
A thousand more breathtaking glances to be had ---
Makes these nights worth the sacrifice.

Of sleep.
Of reason.
Of inhibition.
Of pride.

And so, dearest ones, I bid you good to these nights.

A Sense of Belonging

I can romanticize just about anything. And I have.

I can remember visiting home last Spring, somewhat depressed and extremely homesick for familiar faces and dialects. I needed my dearest friends around me. I needed to sit around the kitchen table with my family or talk in the living room or outlast my brother in a grueling game of Scrabble. I needed hikes in the mountains and drives through forgotten scenic valleys. I needed late night heart-to-hearts with my sister and pep-talk coddle -time with my brother. I needed just enough time with my mother to remind me that my love for her is strong enough to reach across several hundred miles and states, and that for sanity's sake it's better off that way.

And those times, those experiences were absolutely wonderful. They were a salve to my aching soul. But still I wasn't ready to throw in the towel and come home. I knew I had to stick it out. I knew there was a bigger world I belonged in. If only I could feel I belonged...

Fast forward a year and my longing has taken on a different tone. I lie in bed in the room I occupied from the time I was 12 until I moved out of my parents' house and let the tears fall. I can't say that I am crying because I am homesick. I have built community in DC, and I can't imagine living anywhere else. I cannot attribute my emotion to my sister's impending wedding. He loves her. He really does, this free-spirited manboy who resents my attempt to define him in anyway (even as a free-spirit!), capable of crooning us all into hypnosis with his soft voice and guitar, yet recklessly charging up the skate ramp on his newfound rollerblades. I cannot explain the peace I have with this whole crazy situation. I cannot comprehend how happy they are, and I do not even understand how a most self-absorbed individual such as myself could be this excited. Especially given the circumstances. The Lord has answered prayers and he's prepared my heart for this somehow.

I recognize the roots of this new ache driving through the rundown town. I've seen the sights a million times before: the gossip cafe multitasking as a gas station and mini-mart, the downhome buffet in it's 3rd pair of ownership hands in 10 years, the vacant old autobody shop next to the tiny brick post office. The junior high girls laying out on the sidewalk, feet dangling over the drainage ditch bring back memories. Sarah and I used to run or walk or rollerblade our way around the square that makes up the neighborhood. Any given Friday evening or Saturday morning there we were, fantasizing about a similar batch of oblivious redneck boys I'm sure.

It's pangs hit once more at Ben's ballgames. The foreign-sounding dialects discussing matters most pertinent to their world: the dismal season, state rankings, new Mustangs and pimped-out old ones, the sale at the mall, and parent and student plans alike for the upcoming prom season. To be fair, political affairs receive a fair amount of negative attention (I'd challenge anyone to find a place where the topic does not incite anger these days). For the most part, I find myself an outside observer, at a loss for words and ever at a loss for understanding.

Those tears bring up a burning question: Have I ever really belonged here? I confess I can't remember a time when I did.

The lack of a sense of belonging stretches past a place to the time. This is a time in life where I am all but at a loss for a sense of settlement. The subsequent, haunting question that remains is this: Will I ever be in a place and time where I feel such a sense of belonging?

Something in my own restless, free-spirited heart answers in the negative. Perhaps I am destined to roam about the earth, about this life, without the burden and the blessing of belonging.

"You know, I didn't understand it at first, and I kind of thought you were crazy to just up and moved off," Jess reflected to me not long ago during a phone conversation. We had been talking about how the Lord had provided me with community and Bob and a dear church in this area. "And then, the other day I was thinking how that song really fits you, "Anywhere is Home."

Earthly wealth and fame may never come to me
And a palace fair here mine may never be
But let come what may, if Christ for me doth care
Anywhere is home, if Christ my Lord is there

The apostle Paul said that one of the most important lessons he'd learned from his vast experience in the Christian walk was to be content with his circumstances:

I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and hungry, both to abound and suffer need.

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

Phil. 4:12-13

He says he knows how to handle his circumstances and he can be content with them; that he has been instructed in the appropriate manner he ought to behave.

I can think of no one biblical figure who was put in so many different circumstances, found himself in quite so many different locations, and I can't imagine he felt comfortable or happy or like he belonged in all of them. Pretty sure he felt out of place more so than not, from a purely natural point of view. Yet he was given the ability, nay the power to do whatever task he was chosen for, because Christ was his commissioner. And his reliance on Christ and all the hard, new situations it put him in only served to grow his faith and make him stronger.

I don't mean to raise myself to the ranks of the apostle, and I'd hesitate to say my relocation in geography, in career, in numerous life circumstances have been especially appointed by Christ. But surely, I can point to the very real ways he's been with me along the way, and I can take comfort in that fact if in nothing else.

Besides, at the end of the day, I'd rather experience a little discomfort from growing pains than die slowly of a comfortable, familiar and complacent existence.

Sometimes it takes getting lost to find your way

It had been one of those days.

I had stumbled around the basement for months now, and thought surely I had discovered every little turn, crook and corridor. I thought I had the place mapped out, thought I could handle taking a slightly different route. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I checked my pride at the desk as I asked the security guard how best to find my way back to the office. I took comfort in the fact he had no idea how long I'd been working here. As I followed his directions and finally found myself in familiar surroundings, I began to ponder just how many times I'd gotten lost before finally finding my way.

That was how I'd learned how to get around in this city. I wouldn't know my way around half so well if I hadn't spent 6 months driving in circles, taking wrong turns down one-way streets, beating my steering wheel crying hysterically. Let me tell you, that was not fun in the process. And please, don't interpret the past tense to mean I've mastered DC driving. Now I'm simply fortunate enough to rely on GPS. But I can make my way to a few familiar places without it.

I'd had to lose myself a little when I changed life courses. When I walked away from my apparent career path, my family, my home, my intended--- all my future plans. I certainly didn't have a backup plan and I didn't have a clear alternative road mapped out. I'd charged blindly ahead, and I'd made more than one wrong turn in the process. Today, I could not be more thankful for that experience.

I found myself smiling outwardly as I made my way down the hall on the last familiar leg of my route. Some people responded in kind, some stared ahead or at the floor in order to avoid the offenses of my enthusiasm, and still others gave me confused sideward glances. A stranger with an open, friendly face is not common in these halls, and I relish the varied reactions. I find my own little predicaments amusing; why shouldn't I laugh at the mess that I am?

Right now, I feel like I am lost in life once more. I have shaken my steering wheel, beat my fists against closed doors, pulled out my hair and screamed like a banshee in frustration. Yet this simple reminder, that sometimes it takes getting lost to find my way, gives me comfort. I find a joy and a peace that allows me to step back away from my immediate circumstances and glimpse the bigger picture, if but for a moment. And it compels me to cast foolish grins at strangers and let them wonder why I'm so contented in the midst of it all.

Confessions of a Vinegar-laden Lady

My roomie rushed down the stairs upon hearing my banshee cries of frustration.

"What's the matter?" she asked, alarmed at my outburst. "We thought the dog next door was going crazy."

Still sobbing angrily, I held up my ticket. My $100 moving violation for talking on my cell while driving in the district.

"That jerk!" I growled. "This jerky, cocky a-hole of a cop just gave me a ticket. And he was SO rude!"

I hadn't handled it too well when he rolled up next to my window while I was attempting to park. First of all, he was too lazy to step off his segway and walk 10 feet over to my car. Secondly, his smug demeanor and the arrogant glances he shot his cop-buddies on the corner stunk reminiscently of a senior high boy about to pick on the freshman at the bus stop. Everything about him said: "Watch this! I'm about to get her."

Even the tone of his voice as he quipped rhetorically, "Do you know there's a $100 fine for driving and talking on your cell phone in the District of Columbia?"

Ok, so in my defense, let me say that at first I tried to go the sweet, compliant innocent route, even though his manner was already compelling me to whip out my 'angry eyes'. "No sir, I didn't know that," I replied in my most innocent tone, still with phone in hand, my mother waiting patiently on the line.

He motioned toward my reciprocity sticker and all but barked, "Well darlin', that right there means you assume all rights and consequences of operating a vehicle in the district. Get out your license and registration."

GRRR. He had used the dreaded "D" word.

I scrambled frustratedly to find the necessary documents. Surprisingly, I do have them all neatly in one place, but heck if I could find them now. As I searched my messy car and he sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes, resentment rose in my throat. My thoughts toward this guy were not G-rated, nor were the words I wanted to say to him.

And then, the moment of truth; the moment I should have let my words be few.

As I whipped out my paperwork and fought back angry tears I let it fly: "Gee, nice to see you guys out," I quipped. "You know, I really hope y'all hang around more, say at 2 am when I'm about to be carjacked or mugged." (And YES, I've had my second scare this year just last week!)

Well, that did it. He looked across the hood of my car at his buddies watching from the sidewalk, "Boys, she just signed her own ticket."

"Excuse me?" I asked indignantly. He knew he'd crossed a professional line, even if I had been the one to draw it in the sand.

"Nothing," he retorted gruffly.

A few minutes later he shoved a ticket through my window and I huffed and stomped my way through my front door. Which is where my dear roomie found me, ugly crying and howling aloud in frustration.

Isn't it funny how the stupidest things can sometimes send you over edge? True, this jerk had known just how to push all my buttons, and apparently I had reciprocated rather well. True, it was frustrating to "lose" the altercation, and take the ticket powerlessly. And true, I was already broke and had no extra money to spend on frivolous tickets. But somehow in the crying my fit became about every other ounce of pent-up frustration: feeling left out of my sister's impending wedding, my mother's frustrations and worries about my sister's wedding (at least bad cop had interrupted that conversation- should I thank him?), job frustrations, money frustrations, the extra five pounds I'd gained. The list goes on and on. They had all culminated into the perfect storm of ugly crying.

As I began to recover over a few glasses of wine with the roomies, one girls' comment from the previous evening came back with a vengeance and I had to laugh at my own stupidity. Upon failing to draw a guy friend out for a night of dancing, she had remarked, "Our strategy was all wrong. We should have been less antagonizing and stroked his ego more. You draw more flies with honey than vinegar, you know."

In light of my ticket, I mulled this over a bit more. Was I much too good at baiting with vinegar to be bothered with honey? Sometimes, it seemed that was the only way to survive, and I could think of fellow acerbic-leaning individuals who mutually respect a smart-mouth girl who can hold her own. And it didn't hurt when fending off the creepers I tend to attract when out.

But a much more substantial record seemed to speak in affirmation, that perhaps I am too acidic for my own good. In addition to the cop, and failure draw my friend from his couch, I could think of a string of other incidences where I'd cut off my nose, so to speak. There are the little altercations with an old coworker I tended to miscommunicate with from time to time, the backlash of a girlfriend's wrath. Even the creepers should be handled with care --- it is best to avoid making blatant enemies of the creepers in this town, though they might deserve to be taken down a few notches. You never know who someone works for, or who you might need to work with in the future.

Why it is so much easier to default to vinegar rather than honey, I will never know. All I know is, for all my Southern charms (and yes, I have a few and I know how to use them!), too often I play my cards foolishly and end up paying the price. This time, it just happens to be a $100 ticket. But perhaps, if I learn my lesson and let my biting words be few, it will save me from an even more costly mistake the next time around.

60 Degrees of Separation

I smile fondly across the table at him and take his hand as he graces our food. What a warmth and comfort it is to know him, to share another meal. It is our tradition now, this Sunday afternoon date at the Old Country Buffet.

His gnarled and disfigured hands grasp his utensils and slowly cut away at his baked potato. I chuckle as I survey his plate. His diet of starches and meat is a stark contrast to my vegetable-laden spread. He peers over his glasses and asks about my week as I pick at green beans and black-eyed peas.

This is not how I would have imagined it. He is certainly not the companion I had picked out for Sunday dates, or any dates for that matter. At 84 (turning 85 this year, he reminds me), there are 60 years between us. Sixty degrees of separation that should make this afternoon, and so many preceding ones preposterous. But it works somehow.

"She's my girl," he tells everyone we meet. "She's good to me, y'know? She's like my own granddaughter. I don't know what I'd do without her."

At first I almost bought into it. Even tried to live up to the saintly title I'd been bestowed. I was going to be his perfect little angel, his saving grace. I baked and called and cleaned up after. I visited weekends and came up during the week, especially those first few months. It was a gesture of love, but I'd be kidding myself not to acknowledge there was a measure of pride in the mix as well. Bob needed me. And I was not about to let Bob down.

It took more than one instance of emotional breakdown for me to realize the fateful truth: God had placed Bob in my life every bit as much as he'd placed me in his. How he knew just the right words to say to a heartbroken, distraught, hormonal woman in her mid-twenties on a number of different occasions, I will never understand. Outside of divine wisdom, there really is no clear answer.

It's been said that the most brilliant politicians are those who lull you off your defenses with the illusion of simplicity--- I've heard this especially applied to Southerners. Though he is no politico, the same might be said of Bob. With his West Virginia dialect and jovial light-heartedness, I am ashamed to confess I almost dismissed him as a simpleton. Yet, when I survey all the lessons I've learned over the last year, some of the most profound I attribute to him.

He loved her more than 60 years steadily, dearly, sacrificially, if imperfectly. He was not afraid to show her or let anyone else know, just as he is not ashamed to love me or any of his fellow men openly. He must have had pride all those years, and thoug h I've seen his a time or two, it doesn't rule him and doesn't threaten his love of others.

More than that, he's taught me what it is to accept love from others. To allow another to care for me, to breathe a moment and let my defenses down. Truly, this is the hardest thing for me. But I know it's possible, and I have Bob to thank for that. He's one of the few who have earned the right to call me "sweetheart", EVEN the dreaded "darlin'" is welcome coming from this dear man. Ignoring my futile protests, he tucks me in for afternoon naps, makes me fried ham sandwiches, and pays wherever we go. Let's face it --- he's spoiled me clean rotten.

And he keeps me laughing. I can't help but mirror his squinted smile as his glasses slide down his nose and he giggles in boyish contagion. Whatever pressing matters of life we might discuss later, for now he is content to tell jokes and remind me that whatever it is I'm eating "makes your hair grow, mmph!"

A few moments later, I glance around in disbelief and mild embarrassment as he returns from the dessert bar with no less than 10 cookies piled on a plate. "These will last me all week, hon." And he proceeds to wrap them each in a napkin, stuffing them into the bulging pockets of his Ralph Lauren blazer. We erupt in fits of laughter once more, drawing suspicious looks and raised brows from nearby tables. Never a dull moment.

Before we leave, he has to look around one more time for 'his girls'. He hasn't seen Sandra in weeks and Gail isn't working this section today. So he hands his ones to a grateful Anne instead. She winks and thanks him, reminding him of the Easter morning special next week. He wouldn't miss it for the world, he assures her.

He trustingly tosses me his handyman-assortment ring of keys and we climb inside his F-150. He knows I love that truck, and he knows I love to drive. My heart skips a beat as I crank 'er up and the sound of banjos and fiddles greets us. Instinctively, we burst into "I'll Fly Away" as we back out of the lot and make our way back to the house.

No, this is certainly not what I ever had in mind. Thank God, life rarely is.

Heels and Pearls

I walked in like I owned the place (what other way is there to enter a room?) and asked the hostess where the happy hour was being held.

"Downstairs," she motioned.

I slid into a nearby chair to change out my flats for heels and dropped my slippers into my favorite, if raggedy, oversized bag. As I made my way down the stairs, I grinned to myself on the inside. There is something truly gratifying about venturing out on one's own. Perhaps I don't do it often enough, because I still get a rush. The thrill of possibility of meeting new people, the surprise connections and acquaintances. The new ideas, new concepts: simply the novelty of the new. This is what I live for.

When I came downstairs into the much smaller-than-expected room, I realized that the speaker had just begun. Perfect timing. A lady leaning against the reception table turned to smile at me warmly and assist me in finding my nametag, but a brief glance was all it took to realize it wasn't there. Confused I began to scroll through my emails.

I promise, I RSVP'd. Is this the Fillmore Room? I'm at the Boulevard Woodgrill?

Reality check--- the email read "this Thursday" but the date clearly read 2 weeks from today. Ha! I was actually attempting to crash an IT conference reception. Lovely.

I laughed with the ladies at the table, and went to option 2. (There were about 4 options for this particular evening.) As I walked back to my car grinning at my own scatter-brained ineptness, I wondered aloud, "Lord, is this a sign? Life has been crazy lately, do I need to just take a break tonight?"

Jumping into my car and heading to destination no. 2, I received various texts from friends: "Where are you?" "We are in the back." "You're still coming, right?"

And then, I could swear it was providential, option 2 fell through: "Girl, sorry, we are leaving. Want to meet at Pourhouse?"

I laughed. Ok, Lord. I hear you, loud and clear. Time to park my pretty fanny at home. Taking the night off, I get it!

Which is how I ended up here:

A little baking therapy, that's what I needed. And I did have the Breakfast for Dinner girls' night tomorrow. Might as well go ahead and whip up some cinnamon pancakes. But dang, I looked too good to waste it. So, I tackled the task June Cleaver-style: in my heels and pearls and networking-best. And of course, I was belting Trisha Yearwood all the while.

"Got a picture of her Momma in heels and pearls/ She's gonna' make it in her Daddy's world..."

I needed this night in. I needed cinnamon pancakes, and the girl-talk that ensued with my roomies. I needed to don my chili-pepper apron, (inherited from Mrs. Elizabeth, courtesy of M'dear Bob) and lose myself in praise music coupled with some good country.

This was really my only a-social night in for the entire week. And I wouldn't have spent it that way given the choice. Isn't it fabulous and comforting and overwhelmingly humbling the way Jesus just steps in sometimes and takes care of us? Gives us exactly what we need, even if we don't realize it at the time? Even if it's not what we think we want?

Even if it's to just slow down, take a little time at home and bake some pancakes.

Southern style, in heels and pearls. Night y'all.

Borrowed Perspective

She began to lean instinctively against the concrete barrier, catching herself in the nick of time. The dirty wall wouldn't do - this skirt would have to last a few more wears between the cleaners.

"Ohhhhh, Sweet child of miiiiine." Now the constraint was even harder to fight. The urge to dance, to sing aloud, it all seemed so natural in this charade of an underworld. The worst she could do was to throw her head back, slightly swaying and tapping her feet to the music. They all saw one another, these fellow inhabitants. Everyone waiting for a train to take them to their own abodes, or that of an obliging friend. Heaven forbid, a stranger.

It was the pretense of not seeing that most amused her most, tempted her to break the social precepts so tangible one might imagine tapping up against them like glass. She had been closer to her sister 700 miles away than she was to the man now leaning almost too close beside her. This was not the time of night he should be leaning so close. Only 8 minutes until the next train now.

"I'd go hungry, I'd go black and bluuuue." Oh Garth, would you really? How long would you care for her to feel your love? Something in her doubted. Still she wanted to soak it in, wanted to believe. And this time, as she threw her head back and opened her eyes up at the cubed arc of a ceiling, she remembered distinctly what it was to experience this city. Her initial fascination, and how she still felt it from time to time. Nights like these when she stepped outside herself.

That first time she had stepped into the metro otherworld. She remembered how the mod-styled tunnels had reminded her of the Death Star from Star Wars. So grey, so geometrical, and so foreign-feeling from the outside world. Especially in contrast to her small, small, small-town world.

And now, here she stood, enjoying the assignment. She fancied herself a regular commuter. She concentrated on concentrating on nothing at all, losing herself in her own music and mind and world. That wasn't so much of a challenge anyway. But still she found her focus waning. Too curious, too distracted by the novelty of it all, too worried about the man almost brushing her arm now. The man on the other side of her, he must be a veteran of the trains. He was too detached, too absorbed in his own thoughts as the people passed by.

She found herself studying the people on the trains passing by. The very separate emotions, separate lives, all scrunched together, forced to share space for the briefest time. Their bodies lurching in unison with the stopping and starting of the train cars. This movement, the space, the holiday spirit. They shared it all, yet it seemed a farcical common-ground. So many people intersecting, yet going in very different directions.

They moved forward as her train approached and she noticed how the close-creeper stepped up in tandem, even closer now. Others followed suit, but something about him in particular made her hair stand on end. A woman's intuition perhaps? Nothing in his dress or mannerisms (other than standing too close for comfort) screamed danger. True, his crew cut and swirlyscript gangsta-style button down looked a tad awkward with slimfit jeans and Vans. Perhaps it was the lack of a read she could get on him that disturbed her most.

As she stepped on the train, she found other targets easier to peg. The lady leaning wearily against the window pane, an overworked mother trying to make her big corporate break. Perhaps she was bemoaning the fact that she'd missed tuck-in time with her small child once more? Or was she worried about tomorrow's proposal? Perhaps what she would wear to tomorrow night's dinner party?

The twenty-something, barely post-college crowd standing in the center of the car seemed oblivious to the rest of the train's passengers as the called down the aisle to one another. They seemed intoxicated, and it would serve to reason that they would be on this St. Patrick's Day. Green Mardi Gras beads decked with clovers hung about their necks and plastic party hats donned their heads. They swung about the carpoles recklessly while it stood waiting with other passengers loading and unloading. The necessity-riders pushed past, mild disdain on their faces. She chose to join them, digging in her heels and steadying herself with the rail above.

Perhaps the most striking sight was the man with the pizza boxes. His face spoke of exhaustion, but there was an unmistakable light in his eyes as well. Nothing else special about him; an African-American male in his late thirties, taking a late train home after work. His uniform gave him away, peeking out from underneath his pleather jacket. Lord, are you what's sustaining that light in his eyes, coming home from the late-shift on a crowded train? It was something they shared, she and he. She knew, even after this longest of days, it still burned out of her own green eyes, even if absent from those around them.

And she marvelled at this. Surely, these cynical-looking yuppies, tuned out to ipods or hiding in the papers- surely your children are here Lord! What of the frazzled woman in her forties, brow furrowed, eyes closed. The elderly, scowling gentleman, shifting his nonglances around the car? The tight-lipped, sari-shrouded woman sitting stiffly upright, eyes downcast on her folded hands resting in her lap.

What has snuffed out the light? What has buried and burdened it away in this city?

She braced herself for the next lurch as the trained slowed to her stop and found herself brushing once more against the creeper.

As she made her way to the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as he made no move to follow.

Child, you only imagine you can see what I see. You only imagine you can read their hearts, can feel and understand the weight of their struggles, their triumphs, their worries and failures.

She looked back once more as the train sped away and said a quick and thankful prayer. Yes, this Jesus; he could read their thoughts, meet their needs and give perspective to the most desperate of situations.

Even to a lonely, pretentious girl making her way home on the metro.