Most of the women refused to remember my name and prayed that their husbands didn’t either. How far removed from the days when we sat around together, hair in tight braids, playing with our dolls and dreaming of the future. Back when life was simple. I never thought I would end up here– avoiding the women I once called friends; not looking any of them in the eye out of fear that one would yell out the whispered insults. As if walking in here alone wasn’t humiliating enough.

Each step through the tight crowd flashed a horrific memory in front of me. Every mistake I made in private seemed to be haunting me openly. Each man I let touch me then hurt me seemed to appear in the smoke from the candles lighting the room. My heart felt on fire from those flames. I was starving and yet the smell of the freshly cooked meal only turned my stomach. Shame barely described the raw pain that radiated from my forehead to my feet.

“What am I doing here?” was all I could think. I turned to go and then remembered. Jesus.

He was different from any man I had ever been around and I had been around many. He was so pure. He was honest. Innocent. A beautiful image of the deepest desire of my heart. Not in any romantic way, but in a wholesome, loving way. When I heard him speak, even to multitudes, I felt like he was speaking directly to me. When he spoke, my past didn’t matter. He wasn’t after my body. He cared about my soul. He spoke of life brand new.

New life. I could only imagine… a life free from the guilt and shadows of my past. A life free from the whispers and glares. An honest life. Maybe I could have my dreams come true and be a wife and a mother. I hadn’t allowed myself to even consider such nonsense because of the awful sins I had committed. Sins that paid my expenses, but created more debt.

All of the whispers that filled the house that day were truth. I was the harlot. The sinful woman. Yes, even the town whore. Men flocked to me for attention and, for a price, I gave them everything they asked for. I deserved all of the condemnation. I deserved to be a social outcast.

I was raised better than this. I knew the sins I committed daily were an abomination to the Lord. It had been such a long journey to this place that I lost my moral sense long ago. Survival was the key and I knew no other solution until the day I met Jesus.

All of these thoughts consumed me as I walked through the house that day. The gossip surrounding me only reminded me of who I was. I turned to walk away, run away, get away from those people. What was I thinking?

Then I heard his voice. Jesus. Yes, that is why I had come. I turned and started elbowing my way through the crowd once again. I had to be near him.Oh, there he was. My heart started pounding. I remembered the things he said. New life. Nothing else mattered but that I find my way to him to thank him. For his love. For forgiveness. For a fresh start. I had changed.

I had nothing precious left in the world except one tiny alabaster box of the sweetest smelling perfume. It was the only offering I had to give to him. As I walked closer, I was overwhelmed. How could I say thank you? How could I express the extent of my gratitude in a way that he was worthy of? Suddenly, my little box of perfume didn’t seem enough.

“The nerve!”, “Get her out of here!”, “Do you see that harlot walking close to Jesus?”, “Immoral woman!”, “Whore!”… all of those accusations swirled around me. But as I stepped closer to Jesus, each insult reminded me of how much my life was changed. Yes, I was that woman. But this Jesus had come and shown me a better way, a way out of my sinful life, a way to start over. He showed me mercy and grace wrapped into each syllable of his sermons and parables.

Tears began rolling down my face. I was so embarrassed, but I couldn’t stop them and then I realized it didn’t even matter. I speechlessly bowed down to his feet, my tears mixing with the dirt covering his toes. Had no one washed his feet when he came in? Without thinking, I pulled down my hair and began wiping the dirt and mud away. I kissed his feet.

The whispers. The panic. The room erupted with judgment. I had just violated the prim and proper standards. Only in intimacy was a woman supposed to let her hair down. And kissing a man’s feet was such an personal display of affection. Never mind the audacity of doing it in public. But I didn’t know what else to do. Men paid me to lavish my affection on them. The only way I knew how to show this Jesus my love and appreciation was to offer him my affection freely. The perfume I had used to seduce men, I poured out on his feet. In my purest moment of gratitude, I gave him all that remained of my past.

He didn’t speak to me at first. One of his followers stood very near. Jesus must have heard the whispers and sensed the questions, even unspoken.

“Do you see this woman?” I heard Jesus ask. “I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has washed my feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head. You gave me no kiss of welcome, but this woman has not ceased to kiss my feet since the time I came in. you did not anoint my head with oil, but this woman has anointed my feet with fragrant oil. Therefore I say to you, her sins, which are many are forgiven, for she loved much…”

Then he turned to me. The entire house stood still. He may have whispered, but I heard it louder than the roaring thunder, “Your sins are forgiven.”

Mercy poured out from his eyes and into my soul. I sat in stunned silence. I was forgiven. My past, my pain, my sins were washed away in that precious moment. A peace flooded through my heart. A smile covered my face.

He continued, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”

And I did. (John 7:36-50)

—

Today, thousands of years from her story, I, too, sit in awe of His mercy and grace. Ignoring the whispers and chaos that has surrounded my past mistakes. Forgiven of my sins, with scars proclaiming my many healed wounds. My heart cries out…

Oh, Holy God, I stay amazed, You are so much more than words could ever say

Oh, Holy God, I pour out my praise on the One who never ceases to amaze

 You are enthroned above the Heavens, The Earth and all creation bow before You

You are crowned with strength and glory, The angels crying, ‘Holy!’ all surround You

Forever You will stand, Your Kingdom has no end

 Oh, Holy God, I stay amazed, You are so much more than words could ever say

Oh, Holy God, I pour out my praise on the One who never ceases to amaze

 You are loving beyond measure, Your presence is the treasure I am seeking

You are all consuming fire, I am Your desire and You are mine

 I’m pouring out my praise on You, I’m pouring out my love on You…

Ah, the Princess fluff! It’s the cotton candy of my heart. You know, solid sugar, sticky, ultimately bad for you but it’s just irresistible! The Prince and Princess Charming dream all little girls have is often a lifelong, all consuming disease. It can eat up our insides just like cotton candy eventually does to our teeth (despite the best dental products.)

Reality check. For as many years as we spend dreaming about Prince Charming, there are equally as many spent obsessing about every stupid thing he, whoever he is at the moment, did to make him obviously NOT Prince Charming. We girls spend endless hours dissecting our Prince Charming candidates to the point that they are unrecognizable. Why do we do that? Why do we feel the need to rip every boy apart? The truth is that every Perfect Man is looking for the Perfect Woman.

The Perfect Woman. Who is she? (Yes, I see you, oh one who thinks it’s funny to raise her hand.)

Proverbs 31 has a lot to say about her. Allow me to skip around to my favorites verses about her.

She is worth far more than rubies (verse 10). She is trustworthy (verse 11). She does good and not evil all the days of her life (verse 12). She covers herself with strength (verse 13). She extends her hands to the poor. She reaches out her hands to the needy (verse 14). She is not afraid of bad weather (verse 21). Strength and honor are her clothing (verse 25). She opens her mouth with wisdom and on her tongue is the law of kindness (verse 26). She watches over the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness (verse 27).

Kind of a high standard, huh? (Still raising your hand, Smarty Skirt?) When you have time, please go through and read the whole chapter. It is an amazing definition of the Perfect Woman. Who I am not. Not even close.

Which brings me back to my original topic. The Perfect Man is looking for the Perfect Woman. Since I hope I have proven that the Perfect Woman is not most of us, I then hope you have inferred that the Perfect Man is equally difficult to not only find (for us girls), but to be (for you boys who are eavesdropping).

The core of our Prince and Princess Charming obsession is this longing for a meaningful, everlasting relationship. We want to feel loved unconditionally. We want to be pampered. We want to feel secure. We crave that intimacy of having someone know us inside and out. Someone who knows the little details that make us who we are, all of our flaws and imperfections, all of our quirks and accomplishments…and loves us because of them and in spite of them.

We so easily waste minutes, hours, days and decades searching for this Prince Charming. We girls are too often willing to compromise, willing to hurt ourselves and sometimes others, willing to do just about anything to insure that our Prince Charming will notice us and whisk us away. When he doesn’t, with our broken hearts and sometimes loss of innocence, we look into the mirror feeling like we are no longer The Fairest of Them All.

Feeling all alone and rejected, after we’ve busted the windows out of his car and gone through an entire drugstore’s worth of Kleenex, after we have ripped him apart to all of our friends and blamed him entirely for every tear and then turn the blame on ourselves, someone (in my case, my beautiful pastor’s wife, Stacey Shaw) will quietly remind us about the Ultimate Prince Charming. He thinks we are beautiful and He will take all of our brokenness and create a something new. He loves us unconditionally.

If we could only remember that last part first. As little girls, we obsessively dream of Prince Charming. When he will come. Our beautiful dress. The flowers and music. Perfect bliss forever. What if we, as big girls, could replace all of those dreams, pure fantasy at best, with the picture of Jesus as our Prince Charming?

He is perfect. He knows us inside and out. He has been there for every moment of triumph. He has seen every broken heart and every smile. He has heard all of our laughter. He understands our train of thought even when we talk in circles. He knows every imperfection, every flaw, every mistake. He has been there in every moment of weakness. He loves us because of every one and in spite of every one.

How is it easier for us to waste so much of our energy consumed with Prince and Princess Charming concept, complete with hurt and disappointment each time we are wrong, than it is to accept that Jesus will never leave or forsake us? We so willingly go from relationship to relationship, pretend “magic fairy dust” will cover our mistakes and act all surprised when we end up wrong. Why do we prefer to risk everything than to sit back and let God, Who is perfect, Who never fails, Who knows what is best for us always, be in control?

How much time have I wasted trying to make my life into a Disney Princess story? Almost 25 years. This year has not been the prettiest page in my coloring book. It’s been messy. It’s been the wicked stepmother, evil dragon, poisoned apple, dark dungeon, Captain Hook… all rolled into one plus a scene from a horror movie, which Disney doesn’t produce but still seems applicable. All the result of me trying to write my own story.

I’m not the Perfect Woman. But my Prince Charming, Jesus, not only knows that I’m not perfect, but loves me because of it and in spite of it. I wouldn’t trade the messiest page in my coloring book for anything because it has forced me to… well, give the colors to Jesus. As elementary as that sounds. It really is that basic. God made us. He knows we aren’t perfect. He doesn’t expect it.

One of the biggest things we girls struggle with in our relationships with boys is that we don’t know what they are thinking. We are always on the defense about their motives. We do not have to be that way with our Prince of Peace. He is very clear in His motives and His desire for us. Isaiah 61 is a breathtaking explanation of His intentions…

To heal the brokenhearted and to proclaim liberty to the captives (verse 1). To comfort all who mourn (verse 2). To exchange beauty for ashes and joy for mourning and to exchange the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness (verse 3)

And after He has done all of that, the old ruins will be rebuilt (verse 4).

I don’t have to question His intentions. I don’t have to worry about Him not loving me because of my mistakes. My insecurities, my heart, my world is in His hands. He is my Prince Charming.

My gorgeous ball gown is my garment of praise. My bouquet of sweet smelling flowers is the beauty He’s given me replacing my ashes. The smile I can’t wipe off my face is from the inner joy He gave me in place of my mourning. And it is with my whole heart, put back together by His touch, as soft as pixie dust and exponentially more powerful, that I can finally sing…

“So this is love, Mmmmmmm
So this is love
So this is what makes life divine
I’m all aglow, Mmmmmmm
And now I know the key to all heaven is mine!

My heart has wings, Mmmmm
And I can fly
I’ll touch every star in the sky
So this is the miracle that I’ve been dreaming of
Mmmmmm, Mmmmmm
So this is love!”

Maybe it is a little funny. Caught in the moment, however, it was only frustrating. I was panicked. To this day, I will do just about whatever it takes to avoid having to walk through a revolving door. There is just something about it that scares me. It’s not the moving of the door, but the fact that I can see where I want to go, but can’t get there because there are too many people in the way.

 I’ve often wondered about the whole concept of God opening and closing doors. Perhaps I allow fears to get in the way of His plan when the door He chooses is a revolving door. Sometimes it is. Sometimes the door He opens is revolving. You can choose to use it as an entrance or an exit. You can rush through it, or you can take your time. You can allow others to enter it with you. And you can allow others to keep you stuck in the door frame, just walking around in circles.

The worst part about being stuck in a revolving door is that you often allow yourself to be stuck. You will find yourself completely surrounded and being pushed in circles. This happens so easily when you are working for God. There is an open door in the church, a need, a vacancy, another room to clean, another song to learn, another message to teach, another person to touch, another prayer, another, another, another…

You can become so focused on the jobs at hand that you don’t realize the door before you, that was once just an open opportunity, is now revolving, with other people who are also busy entering and exiting. And you get pushed into a corner because you don’t feel like fighting to get out. Sometimes it is easier to just walk in circles. Sometimes, you become weary in well doing. Before you know it, your open door has become a revolving list of things to do, people to see, tasks to complete and people to satisfy instead of an opportunity to step closer to Him.

I am somewhat obsessed with Galatians 6:9, “Let us not become weary in well doing…”

My entire life has been a racetrack toward burnout. I was raised to fill every hole in the church. If there wasn’t a drummer, I played. If there was a stain, I cleaned. If there was no Sunday School teacher, I taught, etc., etc., etc.. And at the time, I thought I was doing my diligent service. I was never truly frustrated because I enjoy working for God. I love to serve.

I didn’t even notice when I became so focused on what I was doing that I began dismissing Who I was doing it for. The object of my actions became the physical church, satisfying people instead of projecting my well doing to the One who loves me unconditionally.

Wow. Unconditional love. It is hard to imagine. How could someone who knows my every thought, action, hope and failure love me unconditionally? For every time He has stood for me, I have failed him many times over. And yet He still loves me.

God loves me. He loves you. He sees everything. He knows your hurts. He knows your scars. He knows your accomplishments. He knows the desires of your heart. He knows when you give your best and even better, that is all He wants from you. He wants your best. He doesn’t want what other people think is your best. He wants your best.

That’s where we get messed up. We focus so much on what other people think is our best. It’s how we get stuck in revolving doors. Instead of walking through them, we let too many people get involved. We allow other’s opinions to keep us walking in circles. We become obsessed with our lists of things we believe we have to do. But guess what? God only wants our best. He does not want our expectations to be based on what we believe everyone else expects.

By “we,” I definitely am talking to myself. I am guilty, absolutely, of allowing myself to get so involved in pleasing others that it becomes impossible to give my best to Him. I have spread myself so thin at times that I do become weary in well doing. And it gets easier and easier to just walk in circles instead of right through the very door that I have often travailed would open in the first place.

So here I am. Facing another open door. Only this time, I have made it my mission to never become so involved in well doing that I become weary. Psalm 100:2 says, “Serve the Lord with gladness. Come before Him singing with joy.”

It doesn’t say just to serve the Lord. It says serve the Lord… with gladness. It doesn’t say to come before Him just singing. It says come before Him singing… with joy. There is a joy that overtakes you in the presence of God. When you are crippled by an intense need to satisfy others along your journey, becoming weary in well doing, that joy becomes harder and harder to feel. Joy that disappears requires something to fill it’s place. That is when fear creeps in. Fear of displeasing people. Fear of failure. Fear of hurt. Fear of rejection. Fear of not being enough.

The doors He opens and closes, revolving or not, are never things to fear. He loves us unconditionally. Our best is enough for Him. His plans for our lives are perfect. His timing is impeccable, even when it does not coincide with our ideas of time. For all of the moments I have prayed for God to open the right doors and close the wrong ones, I have learned to not be afraid.

“I have chosen you and have not rejected you. So do not fear; do not be dismayed, for I am your God,” Isaiah 41:9.

He has chosen me. When I feel the sting of rejection from people, He has not rejected me. I have nothing to fear where His love is concerned. He is my God and I will serve Him with joy. Whatever doors He closes, I will be thankful. Whatever doors He opens, I will walk through. Without fear. With gladness and joy.

It has been quite the rollercoaster. The kind that you freak out on because you are having so much fun and can’t wait to get off and throw up! That kind. The roller coaster you get on because you know your friends will make fun of you for eternity for being a wimp if you don’t ride. The roller coaster that’s in the picture on the front of the theme park brochure. The one that you never, ever in a billion years, no matter how much you were paid to do so, would ever ride again. THAT, in a summary, has been my life this year. You could basically stop reading this blog right now. But please don’t.

Sentences. Funny how our whole world is framed by them. Our communication system is based on sentences, sentence structure. We spend our lives throwing them around, diagramming them, analyzing them, overanalyzing (both hands raised and waving) them. One sentence can absolutely change the course of your life.

December 2008:       “Daddy, Mom, I just got in a wreck.”

Wrecked. Not my fault, no matter how much you (and you know who YOU are) want to joke about my driving! I was rear-ended three days before Christmas. My trip to Austin was postponed and I was given the gift of time. A gift, I must say, that was not very appreciated at the time. Two weeks of no job, no school, laying on a couch. The event I had deemed to wreck (punny!) my life in fact provided me with direction. After being able to do nothing but pray (not even open Christmas presents! Sigh!), I came out of that boring two weeks with answers to questions I had been searching for.

Enter four months of physical therapy and not being able to wear high heels. That was fun.

January 2009:          “I’ve decided to move to Austin.”

Here’s the part where half of you cheer and half of you cry! I didn’t really know what I was going to do there, how I was going to get the money to move, where I was going to live, etc. All I knew was that it was time to move away. I could write for months about the physical, mental and emotional processes that accompanied this decision, but we’re only at month two of my 18 month blog!

Oddly, I cried like a little kid who just found out Santa wasn’t real when I told my parents I had decided to move. They did not shed one single tear. That’s what makes my parents so amazing. When I need strength, they are.

February 2009:        “You got the apartment!”

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Turns out that the wreck in December was great timing. My settlement check came through so quickly that I am convinced God had a hand in it. I was able to put down several months on the perfect apartment without having landed a job yet. Without getting in that wreck, who knows where I would have ended up? Would I have ever stopped my insane life long enough to listen to God? Without being forced to be still, would I have missed the opportunity to move?

April 2009:     “Krista, while you’re still in town, we’d like you to come back to Neiman’s for a second interview.”

“It looks like there was a mix-up in your curriculum and we’ll need to reevaluate a few things before you can graduate.”

“You’ll have to wear a walking boot for six weeks.”

AHHHHHHHHHHH!!! April was… a whole lot of words I’m not allowed to say. Less than a month away from graduation, I still did not have a job. I was told that my second minor had actually been discontinued and reformatted, which was going to delay my graduation. Told this after I had already completed 18 hours of course work in the “non-existent” curriculum.

On my last day of my job, I smashed my foot into a display. Ended up with torn ligaments on the side and strained muscle on the top. Fancy walking boot for six stinking weeks. Which meant: back in flats. Thankfully, I had acquired a few cute pair due to the wreck. (See how all things work together?!)

May 2009:     “We worked things out and you are set to graduate.”

                   “We would love for you to come work with us at Neiman’s.”

                   “Goodbye, Louisiana.”        

                   “Hello, Texas!”

This is the part where life got on speed. My counselor was able to work with the University to approve my graduation with the coursework completed. On May 14^th, I got a call from Neiman Marcus saying that I had gotten the job I wanted! The next day, I was graduated from LSU with a degree in Mass Communication, concentration in Public Relations and double minors in Textiles, Merchandising and Apparel and in Business Administration. (Yes, I do have to write the whole thing out. I labored intensely for four straight years, including summers, to be able to brag.) Seven days after graduating, I packed up and moved to Austin, TX. My parents cried. Finally.

Moment to be deep. When you are doing what you are supposed to do, perfect in God’s timing and will, everything works out. Not for one minute have I ever questioned my decision of moving to Austin. Once I felt that it was the right decision, every little detail worked out. I have had no doubt, no fear. God has been and still is in complete control. Even in situations where I have been tested, measured and, yes, I admit, WORRIED, I have had no doubt about me being where I am supposed to be.

I am sure my parents were a bit freaked at my moving to Austin. When I look back now, I wonder, “What was I thinking?! I only got the job here for sure SEVEN DAYS before I was set to move.” That, I’ve determined, was faith. More faith than I have had in a long time. I had completely put my mind, my heart and my future in God’s hands. And He provided above and beyond what I could ever ask or think.

July 2009:      “For every mountain You’ve brought me over, I give You praise.”

So far this year had been positive change. I was at the top of my game, rocking at my job, loving life. My sister came to visit for the first time. She, our cousin Lindsey and I were asked to sign a song at church while she was visiting. We chose to do “For Every Mountain.” Little did we know that each of our lives would be dramatically tested in the months ahead. The song we presented would become more personal than any of us could ever imagine.

September 2009:      “Surprise, Mom!”

After five months of living in Austin and not going back to visit Louisiana, I decided to surprise my Mom for her 50^th birthday! Von de Leigh knew I was coming, but I knew I couldn’t tell Dad because he’d spill! The surprise was perfect! How, then, did this sentence effect my life?

As most of you know, I was raised in a pastor’s home. I have lived my life doing what I call “filling holes.” If there was a need/hole in the church, I filled it. Sunday school. Children’s church. Offering. Hostessing. Drumming. (Okay, only twice, but it counts!) Baking. Singing. Playing. Youth leader. Drama. Deaf ministry. Campus ministry. Part of what made moving to Austin emotionally draining was the fact that I had to walk away from the church I grew up in. Other than leaving my family, it was the most difficult part of the move. My heart still hurts over it.

When I went home to surprise my mom and walked into the door of the church I grew up in, I knew something was different. My parents looked beat. There was a heaviness in the air. I sat down on the front row, the same row I had sat on for over 17 years, and I knew something was about to change.

October 2009:          “Dad just resigned.”

                             “Your Uncle David was just elected.”

I will never forget the Wednesday night in Austin during a church service when I felt my phone vibrate. I looked over at my aunt sitting next to me and my eyes welled up. Without even reading the text, I knew what it said. My sister simply texted, “Dad just resigned.”

My world stopped. A flood of emotions I still haven’t completely processed began pouring out of my heart. I don’t remember making it out of the door. I just remember sitting in my car and calling my parents. We all just sat there, silent on the phone. There was a peace that passed all understanding. I knew in my heart that it was the right timing. God’s timing is always perfect. Even when it hurts.

One of my favorite scriptures says, “The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart.” That describes the next several months of my life. There is a wholeness about being broken.

Fifteen days later, my Uncle David, Lindsey’s dad, was elected as the General Superintendent of the United Pentecostal Church International. Our family was experiencing the most drastic changes. I felt bipolar. My heart was bleeding and rejoicing. I was watching as my parents were dying from hurt that accompanies working for God. I was watching as my uncle and aunt were experiencing the blessings (and burden) that accompanies working for God. My uncle and aunt, at a new peak of their ministry; my parents, at the new depth of theirs. Two opposite situations. Same scared feeling. Our world would never be the same.

And still we sang, “For every mountain You’ve brought me over, for every trial You’ve seen me through, for every blessing, Hallelujah! For this, I give You praise.”

January 2010:          “Happy New Year!”

FINALLY! A new year. New beginning. Time to put the last chaotic year behind and begin anew. I looked at the clock as it struck midnight, convinced that this year HAD to be better. Never before had the words “Happy New Year” been so welcomed.

February 2010:        “Krista, we need to do surgery next week.”

My health has been a gigantic question mark for quite some time. After years of trial and error, I underwent surgery in February. The result was I was finally diagnosed with a disease that won’t kill me, but will continue to complicate my life indefinitely.

May 2010:               “It seems this is coming back earlier than anticipated.”

There are some things in life that just never will be understood. When you’re dealing with sickness, it is easy to ask questions that all begin with the word “Why.” Those questions are rhetorical. The poser usually doesn’t expect a real answer. I don’t have the answers. Here’s what I do know:

I believe with all my heart that God is Healer. I know He can heal. I have seen Him heal. Sometimes He chooses not to. And after years of dealing with health issues, I have come to the conclusion that if He never does heal me, I will still proclaim that He is my healer.

That’s what I have learned the most the past eighteen months. God is a healer. He heals what is broken. He puts back together the pieces. He mends the wounds. He loves unconditionally. He is the peace that passes all understanding. He sees every tear. He rejoices in every triumph. He knows every scar. He hears the whispered thoughts. He restores the joy. The sentence that has changed my life the most in the last eighteen months is one of the shortest sentences in the world:

“He is.”

In a world of chaotic order, where convenience is what we all seek, yet obstacles are what we thrive on, it is easy to get confused. Which is sort of ironic considering all of the resources available to answer every possible question one could ask. Or are there? I submit to you a list of questions that haunt me. I apologize in advance for the many nights of sleep you will loose after reading this (not because it’s lengthy)…

…

Why isn’t phonetic spelled the way it sounds?

Why are there interstate highways in Hawaii?

Why are there flotation devices under plane seats instead of parachutes?

If the opposite of pro is con does that mean the opposite of progress is congress?

Why are cigarettes sold in gas stations when smoking is prohibited there?

Do you need a silencer if you are going to shoot a mime?

How does the guy who drives the snowplow get to work in the mornings?

If a cow laughed, would milk come out her nose?

If nothing ever sticks to TEFLON, how do they make TEFLON stick to the pan?

If you tied buttered toast to the back of a cat and dropped it from a height, what would happen?

If you’re in a vehicle going the speed of light, what happens when you turn on the headlights?

Why is it that when you transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when you transport something by ship, it’s called cargo?

You know that little indestructible black box that is used on planes, why can’t they make the whole plane out of the same substance?

What happens when you set a slinky on an escalator?

What exactly happens when you hit a can of Cheez Whiz with a sledgehammer?

Why do you either have 5 minutes to get to the gate at the exact opposite end of the airport and 5 hours to get to the gate right next to you?

Do Barbies explode in the microwave?

What IS the Incredible Edible Egg?

What is the universe expanding into?

Is AOL linked somehow linked to the CIA of FBI?

Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?

Why isn’t “palindrome” spelled the same way backwards as it is forwards?

Why is it so hard to remember how to spell ‘mnemonic’?

Why is it called a TV “set” when you only get one?

Why does your nose run and your feet smell?

Why does an alarm clock “go off” when it begins ringing?

Why does “cleave” mean both split apart and stick together?

Why is it, whether you sit up or sit down, the result is the same?

Why is there an expiry date on my sour cream container?

Why call it a building if it’s already been built?

Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

How do you know when it’s time to tune your bagpipes?

If the front of your car says ‘DODGE’, do you really need a horn?

What do sheep count when they can’t get to sleep?

When you choke a Smurf, what color does it turn?

Does fuzzy logic tickle?

If corn oil comes from corn, where does baby oil come from?

If there is no God, who pops up the next Kleenex in the box?

Is there another word for thesaurus?

Is the color orange called that because it’s the color of the fruit of the same name, or was the fruit called orange because that’s its color? Which came first, the color or the fruit?

If a mute swears, does his mother make him wash his hands with soap?

Instead of talking to your plants, if you yelled at them would they still grow, but only to be troubled and insecure?

Just before someone gets nervous, do they experience cocoons in their stomach?

It is hard to understand how a cemetery raised its burial cost and blamed it on the cost of living?

Why don’t sheep shrink when it rains?

Why are they called apartments when they are all stuck together?

When sign makers go on strike, is there anything written on their signs?

If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?

Why does the word monosyllabic contain five syllables?

If you put a chameleon in a mirrored box what color would it change to?

What should you do if you see an endangered animal eating an endangered plant?

If you asked a librarian where the books on self help were would they tell you, or would that defeat the purpose?

…

I’m pretty sure Chuck Norris could answer every single one. He can, after all, slam a revolving door.

I am getting so old. The other day, while wrapping a present, I realized I left the ribbon in the other room. I sat there for a full five minutes, whining to myself about having to get up to get it. I even considered picking up my cell phone, calling my sister, and asking her to come downstairs into my apartment and get the ribbon for me. 

When I stood up to fetch it, I was completely overcome with this sense of aging. My bones hurt. My joints cracked. I think I may have pulled something in my calf because it felt like it was on fire. And it continued hurting for days. I hobbled into the next room and picked up the ribbon. Arthritis? I certainly hope not. Wouldn’t be a bit surprising, though. I am, after all, on the stairway to 30.

I think I may need glasses. My hearing in my left ear is just about completely gone. I noticed WRINKLES around my eyes in a recent picture. A kid in the grocery store said, “Thank you, ma’am,” after I picked up something he dropped. While going through my closet, I had to pull out a few things that are no longer age appropriate. (A few people may argue they were never age appropriate. But I tend to lean toward the opinion of, “Fashion items are what you wear. Unfashionable items are what other people wear.” Just kidding! Sort of.)

A vast majority of my friends are not only married, but married with CHILDREN. In less than five months, I will be considered LSU ALUMNI, which totally gives me the heebie-jeebies because I’ve always considered “alumni” to be old people with horn rimmed glasses. I actually caught myself saying, “You’ve gotten so big!” to a young person I hadn’t seen in awhile. I used to HATE when people said that to me. My, my, my, how things are changing.

Boy does time fly. You don’t realize when you’re younger how true that is. There seems to be a disconnect between “these things take time” and “time flies.” Realizing that time does go faster than you think, but that at times, it is as slow as a herd of snails running through a vat of molasses, is really what faith is all about.

I have kind of taken it upon myself to be an advocate for faith. Not that I am so good at it, because I will be the first to admit that I tend to relate too well with the disciple Thomas. I know, deep down in my heart, that God can do anything. I just like to be in control of things and often have trouble trying to figure out the logistics of how, when, and where God will do it.That’s the thing about God. People often spend their entire lives searching to do His will. I feel like God’s will is subject to humanity. He built us with the ability to choose. God has angels around Him eternally, to worship Him and adore Him. He created humans to live for Him, and love Him by choice. And when it comes down to God’s will, each of us has the opportunity to either yield to it, or to choose another path.

Yes, I believe God does have a plan for each and every person’s lives. But whether or not we go along with it is up to each of us. I believe that there are two aspects of God’s will: God’s Perfect Will (the one best for us) and God’s Permissive Will (the one where we beg and beg and beg and finally He says “OK, fine. Have it your way.”) Sure, God works all things together for those who trust in Him, but sometimes, that good comes at a bitter price.

God has His own time table. Actually, He’s timeless. Have I mentioned that I am a stickler for planning? I have a Day Planner, the good old fashioned kind (like I’m rapidly becoming). Not one of these fancy touch-pad, fit-in-your-tiny-front-pocket type things. The rock star, 8.5″ x 11″ month-by-month Day Planner. I have no idea how to function without that thing. Every single detail of what I have to do is in it. Without it, I would probably forget to brush my teeth. It’s probably because of the hurried memory loss I’m experiencing as a side-effect of my I’m-Getting-Old medication.

Ok. It’s not THAT bad, but I do consider my planner to be a vital organ to my existence. Which makes it really difficult for me to understand how God is timeless.

Back in the day, things were so much simpler, in a sense. It seems the great leaders of all faiths had so much faith in God. Old songs consist of lyrics that proclaim an unending faith in God. Could it be that when things were slower, before fast cars and credit cards, it was easier to appreciate and wait for God’s timing?

That’s really just a question I am throwing out into the universe along with a cry for faith. My Bible says that faith can move mountains. Yours probably does, too. In a world where dynamite is used to move mountains (i.e., Korea), it is hard to comprehend how something as small as a grain of a mustard seed can move a mountain. Mustard seeds are so small. And also are often unseen by this generation who has never grown our own food. Still, it’s true. Faith can move mountains. Mountains of fear and of doubt.

I have no idea where you are, my one reader, in March of 2009. I don’t know what mountains are in your way. I don’t know if you’re standing on top of the mountain, crawling on your belly through the valley, or if you are on a plane flying over the mountain on your way to a Spring vacation. Only you and God truly know where you are…

The thing is that faith can move mountains. Put a little faith in God. I know sometimes it’s really hard. But just faith as small as a grain of mustard seed can move that mountain. As soon as you have that itsy-bitsy amount of faith, suddenly you’ll find that “faith can” morphs in to “God is.”

He wants you to love Him, to trust Him, wholeheartedly. It’s the greatest present you could ever wrap up and give to Him.

And that, my friends, is advice from a long-life lived. I am now going to take off my reading glasses, rinse out the decaf coffee from my “World’s Best Grandma” mug, and call it a night. After all, it’s a bit past 8:30 p.m., which is way past my bedtime.

Dear You-Know-Who:

I really don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” seems too cliché. “I wish I could go back” is a lie. “If I knew then what I know now” is a pathetic excuse. When it comes down to it, my love, I failed you.

You would think after all of the things we have been through, after all of the excellent advice you’ve given, that I would have learned to follow your guidance. Instead, ever the one to walk in the road less traveled, to pioneer my way through the unknown, I ignored your advice and found myself in a pickle; a cucumber soaked so long in vinegar that it becomes mush and sour and smelly. That’s me.

I have only myself to blame. Honestly, it’s not you, it’s me. I don’t know why I ever thought I could do better than you. Because I can’t. I want to get back together. I promise to be a better person and to not just listen, but follow, your lead.

So, my GPS, will you please forgive me for ignoring your directions after Beaumont? Had I taken that blasted exit, the TWO HOURS I spent hitting Houston would have never happened. Forgive me for the harsh words I hurled at you and the rude looks.

All my love,

Me, the scum of the earth

*

OK! So obviously my Mardi Gras trip got off to a rock start. After the incredibly frustrating traffic jam in Houston, the rest of it was fantastic! My Grandma in Houston just got through surgery to remove a cancerous tumor. The cancer was contained in that spot, so she is not going to have to undergo chemotherapy! Thank God for that!

After Houston, I headed to Austin… where I am moving in approximately three months. Eeek! I found a fantastic apartment with the works! It even has an impressive fitness center, which I never thought was necessary. But after I’ve graduated, I won’t be walking miles and miles a day on campus, so I may have to (gulp) work out for the first time in my life. The business center is filled with all of these modern gadgets, including Apple computers (shout out). It is literally next door to the new church building that my Uncle David’s church is undergoing and it is across the way from my family! I’m really excited and nervous and scared and thrilled and terrified to move so far away from my mommy and daddy (and maybe Von de Leigh)… and these emotions come and go about as frequently as my breathing. I am applying for several jobs, and know the Lord will open the best door!

The best part of Austin, as always, was spending time with my wonderful family! My aunts and uncles there are rocks in my life. My cousins never cease to amaze me! I got to meet my new first-cousin-once-removed, Elijah David! He is adorable! I can’t wait to watch him grow!

On the way home from Austin, I stopped to spend the night with my best-friend-since-I-was-two-weeks-old-who-got-married-and-moved-three-hours-away-from-me-but-I’m-not-bitter, Lacey! She is the mother of the greatest almost-two-year-old on this planet! Nothing gets to my heart like Pierce running up with pizza all over his face and hands and grabbing me in a big hug!

We were ushered through an amazing tour of the Sulphur Fire Department, thanks to Lacey’s firefighter husband, Mitchell. I am so brave. I climbed all the way to the top of the training tower in the dark. (Ok, we all did, including the two-year-old, but I’m the one writing the blog, so I am just going to boast about my bravery.)

The trip ended with one last stop in Lafayette, where I got a personal tour of Landmark and its amazing hobbit room. I got to teach the guy who knows how to do it all how to find a gift registry. (Matt, please don’t ruin this moment of victory for me by saying you already knew how.) My GPS found a shortcut that I never knew existed. And I didn’t get in a wreck while I was there. All in all, a really fun day! Per his insistance: for more information on Matt, please visit www.mattflies.com.

The biggest lesson I learned on this trip is that kids are really hard work. My whole body aches. I have muscles now. They’re really impressive. To all you mothers out there, I applaud you. Mothers are heroes and should have more than just the one Mother’s Day a year. On Mother’s Day, kids should be much more appreciative than they already are. If you haven’t hugged your mom today, hug her. If she lives too far for you to hug, give her a call. If your Mom is no longer here, call my Mom. She’ll adopt you!

And I learned that Mardi Gras in Texas is just not the same. The only way they would eat the King Cake I brought was to warm it up and put butter on it. People need a passport to live there.

With just three months left to graduate, I decided to take “Minorities in the Media” as my last Mass Communication elective. I guess I thought it would be interesting to spend three full months discussing how the media portrays minorities. I should have just dropped the class whenever I saw the book title: “Racism and Sexism in the Media” written in an obnoxiously large font size. What was I thinking?

If carrying around that book for all to see isn’t uncomfortable enough, sitting through three hours of class a week discussing how the White man has beaten down every other cultural group is worse. I do agree that the media somewhat sees life through white-colored glasses, but I also realize now that I am rather opinionated. If I could mind-wrestle with my professor and classmates without getting kicked out of class and therefore delaying my graduation, I would.  Unfortunately, I am just not that brave.

I have written several papers regarding the mistreatment of minorities in the media. I submit to you, however, some opinions of mine that were not included in those papers.  It is not that I am ashamed of my opinion; it’s just that I don’t want to win the battle and lose the war.

First of all, I do NOT think that Aunt Jemima is a slam against Blacks or that she is a lasting symbol of slavery on the American grocery isle. She is simply the most adorable syrup bottle on the shelves. And she possesses the recipe to the best syrup ever. Her plump little figure engulfing the single best part of waffles and pancakes is what puts a smile in my breakfast. I have not once in my entire life looked at that bottle and thought, “This is a symbol of my ancestors demeaning people of color. I eat this only because somewhere deep in my subconscious, I support slavery.”

Secondly, there are 23 African American magazines in the United States.  Twenty three! As in, there is a magazine for every year I have been alive plus one that exclusively caters to the African American audience. How many magazines are there catering to White people only?! Zero. Even “Cosmopolitan,” which is considered to be a “White” magazine, has put Halle Berry on the cover. Why? Because she’s beautiful! And because the world would end as we know if there ever was a magazine that refused to put a minority on the cover. “Good Housekeeping” has done feature after feature on minorities, including a huge deal on the Obama. Did “Essence” do a feature on President Bush? Or on the Clintons? Of course not.

 “Essence”, “Ebony”, “Shades of Love” and, my personal favorite, “Blackgirl Magazine” can publish issue after issue without getting some big preacher standing up and whining about discrimination on behalf of other racial groups. If we tried to have a White Miss America, the entire nation would shake with outcry from racial groups. If I tried entering the Black Miss America contest, they would not let me. That’s discrimination.

Furthermore, since when was hiring Hispanics to do yard work “encouraging minorities to be placed in servant roles?” I cannot help that they opened a fantastic lawn service that does incredible work at a great price. Hiring Garcia, Inc. to do my yard work does not mean that I consider Hispanics to be servants. It’s actually a compliment to their artistic abilities to turn my lawn into a grassy haven, an oasis of warm-and-fuzzies that invites me into my comfy home.

On that same note, I am not going to take out my own trash at the hotel just because the housekeeper is an African American woman. My dear professor, it is NOT a reflection of slavery. She applied and got hired for that job and she’s getting paid.

Insert little known fact about me: I once was a housekeeper for an African American family.

Yes, I do hold my purse if a large guy comes waking by with a stained wife beater, pants starting at his knees, and a hat real low and shoes five sizes too big with shoelaces not tied. I will hold it tighter if he gets real close and says, “Girl, you lookin’ fine. What I gotta do to getchu?” Notice I did not include a race because I react the same way regardless of the individual’s race. See the thing is… guys dressed like punks that expect to be treated like lawyers not only get on my last nerve, but jump up and down on it.

 If people would just spend as much time trying to break stereotypes as they do griping about the stereotypes that exist, our world would be a much better place. So you’re tired of the “white woman holding her purse when I walk by” stereotype? Put on clean clothes that fit and be courteous. Get my drift?

AND FURTHERMORE, not all stereotypes are bad.  Yes, African Americans can sing and play sports! Yes, gay men tend to be very artistic! Yes, Hispanics are great lawn care and roofing constructors! Yes, white man can’t dance! Yes, many Asians are very smart! Yes, blondes have more fun! None of those are negative. Embrace the stereotype. Or change it. Those are the only two options available.

Can’t we just stop constantly rehashing racial separation (for all races)? Can’t we just all be Americans? I think this generation is. My generation is trying!

Lastly, I submit to your collective thinking:

·         The highest paid male actor, Will Smith, is not White.

·         The highest paid football athletes are not White.

·         The highest paid GOLFER, Tiger Woods, is not White.

·         The highest paid (and best, might I add) singers are not White.

·         The last Miss Universe, Dayana Mendoza, is not White.

·         The world’s highest paid director, Anees Bazmee, is not White.

·         The President of the United States, Barack Obama, is not White.

Where’s the discrimination?

There’s just something about commercial radio. I love commercials. I love listening to them: moaning at the stupid ones, snickering at the inappropriate ones, and rolling my eyes at the ones built upon desperation. XM radio cannot compare.

Commercial-free radio is like not eating the chips and dip at a Mexican restaurant. It’s picking the pepperonis off the pizza, not reading the fortune inside the cookie, liking the Chipmunks better without Alvin , or not dipping your chicken nuggets in BBQ sauce. Each commercial stimulates a response in my ever active imagination. Most recently, the KoolAid commercial really got the hamster running…

“More smiles in every gallon.”  Really, KoolAid?

Is encouraging parents to fuel their kids up with sugar-infused red food coloring really going to give more smiles in every gallon? Are red stained clothes, upholsteries, and children going to create more smiles in every gallon? Has anyone ever smiled more per gallon when realizing the red stains under their fingernails may never go away? (By the way: never make KoolAid and eat Doritos. Even Frankie couldn’t relax with that color combination.)

Perhaps KoolAid is trying to encourage nostalgia in their adult target market. Bringing to mind the days where cough syrup was the perfect solution to any ailment is a noble strategy, to be sure. There is probably a conspiracy between the KoolAid owners and the cough syrup developers. The secret ingredient must be the same. They taste exactly the same. And how else would the cough syrup cure the cold and KoolAid make a skinned-knee all better?

Wrapping this up now, lest I get accused once again of being longwinded. I haven’t had a glass of KoolAid in forever. Today, thanks to my commercial radio and its never ending supply of imagination stimulation, I just may go home and grab a gallon. If you see me tomorrow, please don’t act like you don’t know me just because my whole mouth will have a red circle around it. Reach deep down and hug the child who hides inside your heart. If you’re sweet, I’ll pour you a glass.

Note: If anyone from KoolAid is reading this, I accept compensation in forms of gift certificates, cash, credit, check, and free samples.

It’s almost like she does not want to die, even though she has to be 200 years old, if not older. And each time she bounces back, I can’t help but think: what on earth is there for her to live for? She’s old. She has had many battles and a stopped up garbage disposal and a broken heart many times over. The last of which concerns me the most.

How many times can a heart get broken before one just gives up on life? Is it true that the first cut is the deepest? And further more, why would anyone go for a second cut? After all, someone who lost their arm in a mowing accident isn’t exactly going to jump back on the lawnmower… they’d probably hire someone.

Life. Life is complicated. Sometimes I wish I was a little girl again, back on Mommy’s lap with a skinned knee. When just a kiss and a bag of ice would make any ailment disappear. Or maybe I wish I was still in the third grade. When we would have to sing those stupid good-morning songs that made my head spin. I would trade one “We Need To Talk” conversation for one million of those daily humiliating incidents.

Life was simpler when the biggest dilemma was which pair of black shoes to wear with that dress. As I am about to graduate, I can’t help but think about the days when coloring inside of the lines was my biggest challenge. Or how I would almost gag when it had been four days and I still hadn’t gotten a letter back from him. (Wow, I’m dating myself here when I mention actual snail-mail writing.) If I knew then what I know now, I think I would have probably done things a little differently. For one thing, I wouldn’t go to the mailbox 112 times a day. The mail comes at 1:30 p.m. and only after that will there be new mail.

It’s not that he, whoever he was at the moment, was not worth fighting for. To all of you eavesdropping boys, you probably are absolutely worth fighting for. However, to my girls, you are all worth holding on to. Never risk your health and happiness fighting for a boy who was stupid enough to let you go. And when your heart gets broken, believe me, the healing hurts worse than the actual break. (To quote my Father, if you haven’t gotten your heart broken yet, please don’t die yet. Live a little while.)

It’s really weird how the heart works. Guys don’t get it. See for girls, it’s not so much that HE broke her heart. It’s that she broke her own heart by overanalyzing every single, microscopic, stupid little detail until she believed, wholeheartedly, that he was the absolutely personification of The List… and we all know about The List.

The List is the thing that every little girl dreams up (yes, dreams up because it does not actually exist in reality) about The One. Who is The One? The One is the perfect manifestation of all that is Prince Charming in flesh. We are encouraged by our Sunday School teachers, older female role models and Walt Disney to conjure up the image of The One and hold on to it for dear life. Not to settle for anything less. And dare not to chase our dreams until The One rides up on his white horse and whisks us away to Happily Ever After.

Um… problem. There is no such thing as The One Perfect Man. People are not perfect. I work at a clothing store. Every winter we get in these FABULOUS leather jackets, made out of the softest lambskin. And every year, they have a tag that says, “This garment is made out of the skin of a lamb raised in the blahblahblah, imperfections in the garment are part of the natural skin of the lamb and are not to be considered defective.” That’s how people are.

Someone really should sue Walt Disney for making every little girl believe there is such thing as a Prince Charming. It’s a nice thought, but seriously, if you really had a man with perfect looks, muscle and style that treated you like you were a porcelain doll incapable of doing anything for yourself, you would… ditch him. Admit it. You would be bored in about five minutes. Ok. Maybe a day or two.

And still we girls cling to this impossible dream. To the point that we are afraid to chase our own dreams for fear that while we are on our journey, The One will get turned around, lost and be too stubborn to call and ask for directions. Which one of you girls really wants to be with a boy who isn’t looking for you? *Pauses while looking for raised hands.*

Believe it or not, I am not some bitter and cynical old hag who is jaded to the point of buying a bunch of cats and dunning a paper sack for eternity. (For one thing, I’m highly allergic to cats.) Its just that I’m tired of seeing so many girls getting hung up on this impossible fantasy and missing out on life because of a boy who was probably never interested in the first place. Life is an adventure. Its why my old lady friend keeps fighting to live.

Don’t let anyone get in the way of you chasing your dreams and living. Yes, there are speed bumps in the road, but that just means you’re moving. Don’t sit in your ivory tower waiting for that guy on his white horse to show up. You have a vehicle. Get in it and speed along… forget this nonsense of a white horse coming to whisk you away. Horses are pretty, but they’re stinky and kinda slow. Get on the fast track of your life. It’s okay to drive by yourself for awhile. This way you can play your own music as loud as you want, sing at the top of your lungs and have the air conditioning on the correct temperature.

Maybe somewhere along the way, you’ll hear someone honking along side of you and turn to see a breathtakingly handsome smile beaming your way. Maybe he’ll even be in a white Mustang convertible. Don’t sit around clicking your heels and waiting for some guy to start your life. Create your own life, chase your own dreams.

At the end of the day, yes, life was a lot simpler back when picking out the perfect outfits for camp was a year-long-painstaking process. But you know what? I’ve learned a lot about God since then…

Before my Papa died, I had never felt God’s peace that passes understanding. I had read about it, heard about but I had never felt it. Before my biggest heartbreak, I did not understand that God sometimes allows bad things to happen just so he can make you stronger for the next battle. Before some broken friendships, I never knew the meaning of God being the Friend That Sticks Closer Than A Brother. Before my 11 years of dealing with a skin disease, I never knew God sometimes waits until you’ve given up on healing to prove that He is a Healer.

And it wasn’t until I reached the lowest point in my life, broken heart and all, that I began understanding that His love never fails. Never. No matter how many times people give up on us, or worst of all, when we give up on ourselves, God never gives up on us. Sometimes it does seem like He isn’t listening. But it wasn’t until after many lonely nights that I realized that sometimes God just wants to see if our faith will outlast His silence.

Don’t give up, girls (and boys). Sometimes life is just gross. Plans don’t always work out. Hearts break. So do bones. Friends come and go. You will break up with every single person you date until you BOTH say, “I do.” So just get used to it…

God has a plan. And it begins long before Prince Charming ever wakes up and smells the coffee. Figure out who God is, who you are and what the two of you can do together (fyi: that’s absolutely everything). And then do it. On purpose.