Love Perfected

I was late for work this morning. For a change, it wasn’t because I had forgotten to put the trash on the road, nor was it because I needed to turn around for the tenth time to make sure I had turned the burner off on the stove. Instead, it was because I couldn’t pull myself away from the radio. Yes, the radio.

NPR features a weekly segment on Friday mornings with excerpts from the sound proof StoryCorps booth. Though not a Friday, this Tuesday’s Morning Edition spoke of Danny and Annie Perasa. The announcer sadly told of Danny’s passing last Friday after a short, month-long battle with pancreatic cancer.

These NPR segments are brief and I knew that I would miss the good part during the walk from my room at the north end of the house toward the garage at the south end. So, in my late-to-work state, I sat on my bed and listened. Through their thick Brooklyn accents, I heard evidence of their unmistakable, unabashed love for one another. Danny said that being married is like having a colored television set. “No one ever wants to go back to black and white.”

Danny’s last interview, recorded just eight days before his death, was full of hope -- hope that Annie would be well after he passed, hope that people would support her and hope that she would even one day marry again. It’s worth noting that one’s true heart can’t possibly be revealed in a short radio segment. So, on my drive to work, I found myself wondering what else Annie and Danny hoped in. Now that Danny is no more, is Annie now once again living in “black and white?”

While theirs is a story more beautiful than that of a movie screen and more rapturous than that of any fairy tale, it would be utterly anti-climactic if their only hope was in their love for one another. It’s our human tendency to elevate our earthly loves to heights of near spiritual proportions, to the dangerous degree that they redeem and justify our existence. It’s the Jerry McGuire line of “you complete me,” that, on the surface, would make any girl in her right mind melt. Yet, a deeper dig would reveal that statement to not be so true. Certainly, life is fuller with the love of another human. But life is completed only with the love of Christ.

In a sense, Annie was cheated. Just one month’s notice of Danny’s pending death gave her so little time to prepare. Walter Hooper reflected on this untimely nature of death in his preface to CS Lewis' The Weight of Glory. He penned these thoughts shortly after Lewis’ death. Here's an excerpt...

I am ashamed to admit that I once thought that because the plans Lewis and I made together did not run on into the years, I was somehow cheated. If not wicked, [these thoughts are] ungracious. Recently, the grandmother of one of my friends was dying, and I went with him into those delectable peaks of Derbyshire where the people are as free from cant and overstatement as any I know. It was early spring and there was nothing my friend could find for his grandmother but a few sprigs of pussy willow. As he gave them to her, minutes before she died, she pressed them to her face and whispered, “They're grand, my love. And enough.”

We long for someone to be here with us when God would deem otherwise. Every ounce of my being wants to say that such a longing is anything but selfish, as it demonstrates one’s effectual love for that person. Yet after reading Hooper’s words, I think otherwise. According to my standards, I have known several people to pass from this life in an untimely manner. But somehow in God's grand scheme, the length of their lives was, in effect, like the willow -- "enough." One more day would have been too much; one less day, too little. My hope is that Danny gained pleasures forevermore in heaven. We have gained new perspective here on earth. Is it safe to say who, if anyone, has really been cheated? Tough, isn’t it?

Dealing with my thoughts and reactions toward death always confirms this fact: I think more lofty thoughts of earth than I do heaven. In the same prefaced book, Lewis goes on to write, “Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

A friend of a friend of a friend once wrote about the dying of a spouse. When I heard the Perosa’s story, his thoughts came to my mind. Following is an excerpt, but know that his entire entry is well worth the read.

Death, though common, is not the "natural" state of affairs as was intended for a perfect and unfallen Creation. But, death is right and in order for a fallen creation. Death is a consequence. Death is the inevitable end we will all find ourselves crashing into. And relationships, as precious as they are to us, and which are at times reflective of the love of Christ and may be things of great beauty (by our standards of measurement), can in no way remain as they are since they can only partly point us to our true North, which is Christ. Nothing can go on as it is. Everything-- every person, every relationship, and every love must die. Some loves will wake to find themselves in perfection. Other loves will just end.

Here’s hoping that Danny awakened after his death to find his love perfected and that Annie is experiencing the true Hope, unlike any this world has to offer.

Wintry Waterfront Weekend

Our time in St. Augustine was wonderful. Earmarked as my first winter trip to the beach, it could not have been more relaxing. I found the long six hour drive to be painless with dear friends (and the audible luxury of a satellite radio). Holly’s gracious parents gave us their St. Augustine condo for the weekend. The view was spectacular. I kept a safe distance from the beach, spending most of my time on the couch in front of the sea-side window (too cold and windy for a day spent on the sand).

A Saturday morning's worth of at-home spa treatments followed by an afternoon of rest made for the most relaxing Saturday I've had in quite some time. We left the comfort of the condo only once (for dinner at Holly’s favorite restaurant) and we all agreed that our leaving was well worth it (I could have eaten my weight in the fried shrimp. Yum!).

Sunday mornings with these girls is always such a joy as we enter into some sort of a mock worship service – a far cry from the Sunday morning formality that we’d normally experience, but God is always faithful in meeting us there. Such was the case on Sunday morning as we delved into a study by Tim Keller on the marks of true friendship. Keller quoted the 19th century English poet Dinah Craik from A Life for a Life…

“Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

It was a great weekend of “keeping what is worth keeping” and blowing the rest away. At Kristin’s request, it had its end with a satisfying meal at Waffle House. Our joy was not not only the food, but the service rendered by our waitress, Tina, and the dollar’s worth of songs cranked out by the signature WH jukebox.

Happy (early) Birthday, Kristin!

Holly, Kristin, Emily & I are heading down to St. Augustine this evening to celebrate a premature birthday weekend for Kristin. Kristin planned a similar weekend for me last year at a cabin in Hendersonville, NC. The big surprise event was snow tubing down Moonshine Mountain. Nothing but laziness is on our schedule for this weekend, so signed waivers should not be necessary.

Who's Playing?

I’m the girl who shows up for the Super Bowl party and always asks, “Who’s playing?” Save for Auburn football, I’ve never been characterized as one who follows sports -- it's just never really been my thing. But I get a sports inkling every two years when the Olympic games roll around. I can’t get enough of them. As a little girl, I watched figure skating and dreamed of gliding across the slate of white, beneath the eyes of my adoring public (not a realistic goal for a girl from Georgia, I know). And years later, with more grounded dreams, I am still consumed by these events. I’m tuning into Torino whenever I have the chance…

Last night, it finally occurred to me why I love the Olympics – it’s those heart-wrenching break-away stories. Therein is where I learn of the speed skater who’s competing on the anniversary of his grandmother’s death or of the downhill skier whose brother has just been diagnosed with lymphoma. I don’t have a window into the soul of the Steelers' Hines Ward, but I can catch a glimpse of what makes bobsledder Brock Kreitzburg tick. My heart broke for the balding guy who missed out on his chance to compete and how ironic is it that Lanny Barnes’ fiercest competition is her very own twin sister?

A friend of mine has another take on the Olympics. He thinks that we’ll never be able to fully appreciate the skill of these athletes until an “average man” is entered into the competition. I agree. Let Average Man take lane 3 as the Olympic speed skaters go head to head in the other two. And come summer of 2008, I’ll be Average Girl, trotting alongside (o.k., more like “far behind”) the Gail Devers of the 100m dash. I’d be a big loser, but an even bigger fan.

Good Thought...

My good friend Veronica had a little incident with a snow board last week. Four days of pain and one resetting surgery later, she's now at home recuperating. I visited her this afternoon. When asked if she was discouraged, with hand propped high on pillows she shared this quote...

"Everything is necessary that He sends,
and nothing is necessary that He withholds."
John Newton

Good stuff.

Tuesday Reprieve

I discovered Jonathan & Jennifer Adams of Montana Skies four years ago as they took part in the Tuesday Music Live lunch concert series at St. Paul’s. Theirs is an unusual combination: a classical cellist and a classical guitarist. The couple met almost a decade ago while studying music at the University of Georgia in Athens. They initially intended to collaborate on classical music but after a trip to the university library to investigate repertoire, they discovered that music written for cello/guitar was rare. Undiscouraged, they began writing their own arrangements to classics and composing music for themselves. What they have is a sight and a sound to behold. Throughout my life I’ve experienced moments (most often of the musical sort) that I wish would never end. Hearing them play is one such moment.

They were my reprieve in hectic Tuesday, as I sat in St. Paul’s for this year’s lunch concert. For half of an hour, they danced together, but never left their seats.

I walked out with their new album in hand. Ashokan Farewell is one of my favorites. Made popular by the PBS Civil War series, I think it captures the beauty of two unlikely instruments making a delightful pair. Here There & Everywhere is great, too. Click on the titles and enjoy!

Ann's Greatest Hits

Ann, my 5 year old niece, sings her greatest hits...

Click To Hear Ann Sing...

Claire Sings Her Heart Out...

So as to not be outdone by her big sister...

Click To Hear Claire Sing

Red Hats On Cold Days

My dear friend Carrie sent this picture not too long ago. You’ll see me on the right and Carrie on the left. Taken in 1981, we had just marched in the annual Christmas parade. We were twirlers (note the batons).

I love this picture for two reasons:

1) It reminds me of how precious childhood friendships can be. Living just half a block away from one another, Carrie and I were joined at the hip for years. Through lemonade stands, dance classes, and countless mock weddings (who knows how many times I’ve married her little brother...), Carrie became a staple of my childhood and she’ll forever claim the title as my best friend through all those years. She mailed this picture along with my birthday card last month. I opened the envelope, saw the picture and got misty-eyed, realizing what a good and perfect gift her friendship has been.

2) And then, I laughed at the picture. I remember this moment like it happened yesterday. I was so angry because my mother made me wear this ridiculous red hat. Look at Carrie, with her trendy red coat and matching mittens. Now look at me, with the not-so-trendy outerwear and the crocheted head wrap. Mom’s intentions were so noble – to keep my head warm and to stave off illness. Yet, all I can remember is looking and feeling hideous.

This brings to mind that age we all reach, somewhere between 4 and maybe 7, when we start to worry about what other people think about us. And as we grow older, such a worry consumes us. And some of us give ourselves over to this “people-pleasing” to the degree that we are more and more like others and less and less like ourselves. This must have been the beginning of that phase for me.

One should note, through 30 years of mothering, this is the only thing that I’ve ever held against my mom. Not a bad record, is it? And come to think of it, now that I am feeling more comfortable in my skin than ever before, were Mom to pull out a red had on a cold day, you'd better believe I’d wear it.

The Price of Freedom

The Department of Veterans Affairs just celebrated National Salute to Hospitalized Veterans Week as they do each year during the week of Valentine’s Day. It’s a program designed to bring awareness of hospitalized veterans to the community. In light of that, I’ve been thinking through the following…

My first real awareness of veterans came to me during the summer of 1998. It was then that I saw "Saving Private Ryan.” I sat, reclined in a plush theater seat, sipping on a Coke, and enveloped in the wonders of surround sound. Despite all of the creature comforts, I barely survived it. I remember sitting in disbelief, fighting the realization that the personal experience of war is so much worse than that which I had just seen on the big screen.

After working at a VA hospital for a little over six years, I now know that realization to be true. I have treated a handful of active duty patients who, due to injuries sustained in Iraq, will more than likely never walk again. One will probably never have the strength to feed himself again as he’s only able to move his head and shrug his shoulders. When asked how he feels about the war, his response to me was, “I’ve given 3/4’s of myself for this cause. I have no other choice but to support it.”

Whatever one’s thoughts, feelings and attitudes might be about our presence in Iraq, I am thankful to be in a climate where our troops are still honored. Alongside these active duty soldiers, I’m also treating several Vietnam veterans. Comparing their homecoming with the return of our current soldiers – it’s a difference like night and day. As the sign above the main entrance of the hospital so fittingly declares, "The price of freedom is visible here." I am thankful that we as a nation are sensing that cost, regardless of whether we agree or disagree with the cause.

A little over a year ago, shortly after Christopher Reeves’ death, the wife of one of my patients wrote this letter to the Augusta Chronicle. I thought it was worth the cut and paste…

The Real Heroes Are At Nearby VAs

Regarding Christopher Reeves’ death from complications of his quadriplegia: It is always sad to see someone lose a battle for life. Certainly, after his fall in an equestrian event, Mr. Reeves used his considerable influence to further research for spinal cord injury in the hope that he would walk again. And, with his resources, he had the best of care, encouragement and equipment under the watchful eyes of his wife, Dana, and young children. However, I do think his death should be kept in perspective.

If you want to meet a real superman, get a visitor's pass at one of our local Veterans Administration hospitals and meet patients injured on a battlefield serving others as protectors. They are heroes, who go days, weeks and years without a visit from anyone to listen or encourage.

And instead of going out to buy or rent a Superman video so little Johnny will remember the legendary Christopher Reeve, talk to him about the honor and courage of men and women from Pearl Harbor to Baghdad who exemplify sacrifice, expecting nothing in return.

--From the Thursday, October 21, 2004 printed edition of the Augusta Chronicle

Bridge Training

Several weeks ago, I began training for this year’s Cooper River Bridge Run. It’s a 10K, which is no large feat for a seasoned runner. But for this girl who hasn’t an athletic bone in her body, it’s a tremendous challenge. And if a half marathon is anywhere in my future, I thought this was the best place to begin. So ironically, on April Fools’ Day of this year, I, along with 35,000 others, will cross over the brand new Cooper River Bridge. I finished the run two years ago and promised my legs I’d never do it again. After the third week of training, I think they’ve realized that I can’t be trusted.

Making matters for the legs much worse is the fact that the run promises to be more difficult than ever before. The new bridge was completed last summer and claims to be North America’s longest cable-stay bridge. I told one of my patients today, who just so happens to live in Charleston, that I’d be running it again this year. His response was, “Girl, you’ve got to be crazy! Have you seen that thing?”

So this afternoon, I ran for 15 min, walked for one, then ran another 15. It was a decent run and I probably could have pushed myself for ten more minutes. I feel a small sense of accomplishment, but then am grounded by the realization that I’m not even halfway there yet in the arduous training process. It was a comfortable run along the paved Riverwalk in North Augusta. The trail begins with a rather unimpressive start through the woods, but then it makes a sharp southwestward turn and I find myself running alongside the water with the orange glow of the setting sun casting an amazing reflection. Steadily increasing in its excitement, the trail flows into a new neighborhood where I’m met by construction workers building houses (the houses aren’t too exciting, but the workers are). Then the run spikes in excitement as I approach my favorite part – the end!

Next run is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon with Kristin. Kristin is quite the athlete so she’ll stoop ever so low to my level and we’ll run together. Her favorite part of the run will be the sun or the workers (probably the workers). My favorite part will still be the end.

Ponderings at Publix

I swung by Publix this afternoon on my way home from work. I needed to pick up toilet paper and milk. What I thought would be a quick in and out trip, turned into a 30 min ordeal. At that eleventh hour, I was met by masses of people, scrambling around, congregating in the floral department and gathering on the wine, candy, and card aisles. My item selection was easy, isolating me to the deserted paper product and dairy sections. I found the check-out line to be much more congested. As I stood with TP in one hand, milk in the other, my head was clear and undaunted by the “red or white wine?”, “funny or serious card?” decision. And so, I sized up all those around me. As I passed over the faces of the male-dominated crowd, I wondered about their relationships. I had this incredible urge to approach customer service, access the store intercom and conduct a quick poll. The question being, “As you choose the card, buy the wine, smell the flowers, and grab the box of chocolate, are you driven by duty or delight?”

I didn’t make a fool of myself, but if I had, I am willing to bet that some, maybe many, would respond that they were driven by duty – a feeling that they “had” to do what they were doing and that the somewhat painful trip to the grocery store would be much better than suffering through the repercussions of a flower-less, candy-less, wine-less, card-less Valentine’s Day.

Perhaps John Piper said it best in “Desiring God.” He set forth a scenario that is allegorical to our relationship with God. In it, he proposes that God desires not duty-driven, but delight-driven lovers. I also think it's a beautiful picture of how we here on earth could better love one another.

"…If I come home with a bunch of a dozen red roses, my wife swings open the front door, sees the flowers, flings her arms around me and says: "Darling thank you so much they are wonderful, you shouldn't have". Would I as a husband respond: "Well, that's the kind of thing a husband should do, it is my duty". Immediately a response like that would deflate the event and would be crass.

But if I respond as a loving husband would, "My darling I love you and I can think of nothing I want more than to do this. It is my pleasure to give you flowers!" She is not going to turn to me and say "You egotist, it isn't about you!" Rather, my delight in doing this dignifies the act, and such pleasure-seeking devotion is a greater indication of love than an unmoved fulfillment of duty. "

And that’s the frightening thing about love and the outward display of it -- one can “do” their duty without ever taking delight in it. And if that’s the case, the flowers, the cards, and the candy are no more a demonstration of love than paying taxes or obeying the speed limit. In this day and age, I would venture to say that so many relationships revolve around this “unmoved fulfillment of duty” axis. And with that, the flowers and candy evoke just about as much heart fervor in the gift-giver as does driving 70 mph on an interstate.

Tonight we had the party at church. It was a bit scaled-down from last year – no limos, no formal dresses; just a nice dinner and some entertainment. John, our singles pastor, gave a short introduction at the beginning. He affirmed that none of us would really choose to want to spend a Valentine’s Day evening like that – in a room of a church surrounded by 50 other single people. But, he encouraged us to focus, not on what we could “get” from that evening, but what we could “give” to it.

John says lots of really good things, but that statement met me, along with many others, right where we needed it. The night became my delight, not my duty. And so it was with delight that five of us girls stood in front of the 45 other single people and sang Gloria Gaynor's "I will Survive" along with the Karaoke equipment.

How does it go? "I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give...."

Well said.

The BR340

So, I make the final payment on my car and instantly feel this rush of financial freedom. That rush came to a screeching halt when I tried to crank my Homelite blower a few weeks ago. The sad news is that it didn’t.

Several years ago, my brother bought it for $5 at a garage sale and asked my dad to fix it. As Dad does with just about everything he puts his hands on, he rebuilt whatever was broken and it’s purred like a kitten ever since.... Until now. And suddenly, visions of a digital camera, an iPod, and a flat screen TV faded, and I was forced to set my sights on this industrial strength air displacer (pictured above). Needless to say I was quite disappointed.

I could have opted for the smaller handheld version, but with the recent hand pathology, I decided that the STIHL BR340 Backpack and its “ergonomic easy-grip throttle control with on/off switch, variable-speed throttle and trigger lock for constant air flow” would be my best bet.

I used it for the first time this afternoon and had a sudden change of heart. I went from hating the fact that I had to buy it to wishing that I had bought it much earlier than now. I love it! This thing has some power. It displaces air at the whopping rate of 170 mph. The owner’s manual even recommends using it to dry your car! It can blow (or vacuum) leaves. An additional attachment will even spread fertilizer. An accessory part called the ULV Rotary Nozzle promises to increase the atomization of liquids for a "fog" effect (I promise, I didn’t make that up).

A leaf blower; a vacuum; a dry spreader;

a car blow dryer; and a fog machine.

Can your iPod do that?

(I didn't think so.)

Valentine's Day: The Best and the Worst

Of all my Valentine’s Days, I’ve had a boyfriend on just one, and surprisingly, it was the worst one I ever had. It was my freshman year of college and I was dating a sophomore. He was my first real boyfriend (not that the others were fake, but elementary school courtships tend to lack depth and thus, don’t qualify). Valentine’s Day could not have fallen at a more inopportune time for the two of us. I sensed that he just wasn’t that into me anymore. So, I did what any mature, self-respecting freshman female might do – I freaked out. We were going out to dinner, so I bought him a card – a serious card – and signed my name with the antecedent of “Love.” (I have since learned that this just isn’t cool to do with a boy that’s not into you, but I had no idea then.) He passed a card my way. It was a funny card, but I didn’t laugh. His choice of antecedent was “Your Friend,” and I was mortified. I nearly died. Matters weren't helped when I returned to my dorm rooom only to realize that I had a huge mascara smear of black-eye proportions on my right upper eye lid -- a smear that had probably been there all night. Needless to say, he never called me again. (His loss, right?)

So last year’s Valentine’s Day rolls around, and I was gearing up for one that I thought would top the disastrous events of my freshman year. The single guys in my Sunday school class planned a Valentine’s Day Banquet for all of us single girls and I couldn’t think of a more dreadful event to attend. The location? The church fellowship hall. And prior to the evening, that’s all the information we had, save for the fact that we were told to wear something formal and to be at one of four houses, ready to be picked up at 6:30.

So I did what any mature, self-respecting 29 year-old might do. I freaked out. Taking matters into my own hands, I determined that, come hell or high water, all of us girls were going to have a good time. So, I organized a pre-party at my house, gave all the girls black feathered boas, had chocolate covered strawberries, music, and 30 minutes worth of fun before the drudgery was to begin.

I soon had my expectations of the night shattered. What I thought was going to be a dreadful affair was, in all actuality, delightful. We were transported in stretch SUV limos, escorted all night by our own personal fellow, entertained by a string quartet, served a mouth-watering meal (prepared by a single guy in our class who just so happens to be a chef at Augusta National), and swept off to a building next door where a dance instructor awaited us along with 2,000 square feet of open hardwood floors.

The single guys plan to do another event tomorrow night. A group of single girls are once again, meeting at my place. But no extravagant pre-party has been planned. If past performance determines future success, we’ll have more than enough to delight in. Sure, having the man of our dreams would be nice, but this is, hands down, the next best thing.

Happy Birthday, Holly!

My friend Holly turns 30 today. Holly is a friend with whom I was closely knit for three years during college. Since then, distance and time have taken their toll on how frequent we see and speak. Despite this, she’s the kind of friend who can call me about twice a year and we can pick up, right where we left off. She called me a week ago, confessing that she had missed my birthday. We relished the fact that our friendship was of the sorts that no one keeps score. The truth is, I think I’ve missed her birthday every year since college. Today, Holly celebrates her 30th (and I remembered).

Happy 30th Birthday, Holly!
(Has anyone called you “ma’am” yet?)

Hand Pathology

I am, in general, a very trusting individual. Yet those things that don’t easily earn my confidence are as follows: hairstylists with bad hair, shaky hands that draw my blood, men who operate county fair rides, books by theologians that aren’t dead, and doctors who aren’t balding or graying.

Yesterday I saw a hand surgeon for the first time. I’ve been dealing with a troublesome right hand for the past two weeks. Tendons haven’t glided well, my ring no longer fits, and I can’t quite play trills and runs on the piano or strums on the guitar as well as I once did. What might have been minor hand pain to a non-musician was a life-threatening pathology of sorts to me. So, off to the hand surgeon I scurried.

I wanted graying or balding. I got graying. It’s not that I don’t believe younger doctors to be competent, but I breathe easier when I know the guy has some experience – especially when the infirmity affects one of my life’s greatest joys. I discovered that this doctor actually goes to my church, but our paths have never crossed (one of the downfalls of attending a large church with two worship services).

The verdict? The diagnosis was not life-altering. Doctors who are graying call it tenosynovitis. I call it swollen tendons. He cleared me to play in church this Sunday, pending the absence of pain, and he thinks that I’ll be back to runs, trills, and strums within the next two weeks.

While it’s been a tremendous nuisance and cause for extreme anxiety, this inflammation of my right fourth digit flexor digitorum profundus has been the hammer that’s driven home a nail of truth into my stubborn heart. That nail is the fact that I needed a shift in perspective, a focus away from all of my “have not’s” and more toward my “have’s.”

So, now I have a right hand that’s less swollen and less painful. Thanks to God's grace working through a doctor that's graying and a wrist brace that offers support (and gives me the look of a professional bowler), I am slowly approaching my way back to the bench.

In my mind, I can now hear my mother saying, “The last thing you should do right now is type.” So, Mom, I’ll stop now.

Among My Betters

After returning from New York, the girls and I went to La Maison, a local French restaurant in Augusta. Housed within the walls of a restored 1853 Southern revival mansion, La Maison’s lounge is the perfect setting for the fostering of friendship. We sat on Victorian sofas under enormous prismatic chandeliers, enjoying one another (and a shared slice of chocolate mousse cake drizzled in raspberry sauce). Moments like those remind me of what Lewis once said about friendship. (We had everything that evening but our slippers…)

"In a perfect friendship love is, I think, often so great and so firmly based that each member of the circle feels, in his secret heart, humbled before all the rest. Sometimes he wonders what he is doing there among his betters. He is lucky beyond desert to be in such company. Especially when the whole group is together, each bringing out all that is best, wisest, or funniest in all the others. These are the golden sessions; when four or five of us after a hard day’s walking have come to our inn; when our slippers are on, our feet spread out towards the blaze and our drinks at our elbows; when the whole world, and something beyond the world, opens itself to our minds as we talk; and no one has any claim on or any responsibility for another, but we are freemen and equals as if we had first met an hour ago, while at the same time an affection mellowed by the years enfolds us. Life—natural life—has no better gift to give. Who could have deserved it?" CS Lewis, The Four Loves

Not too long ago I read this…

Every woman should…

Know how to drive a stick shift and how to use a plunger.
Understand the difference between “don’t tell a soul”

and “don’t tell a soul, I mean it.”
Know her mind and change it.
Use special china and special underwear for no special reason.
Know how to over commit, come through, and refuse to do it again.
Be able to discuss first and ten.
Have better things to do.
Set boundaries.
Grow something.
Dance crazy all alone.
Stare at a phone.
Get dressed in five minutes.
Be a princess.
Get over it.
Read. Walk. Flirt. Shock. Listen. Sing.
Thank God.
Be single or married and like it (a lot).
Raise a child (or not).
See a wrinkle and be reminded of her youth, not her age.

(and my response was...)

Every woman should have a friend like…

Emily, to teach her how to drive a stick shift,

set boundaries and shock.
Holly, to teach her how to use special china, grow something,

stare at a phone and sing.
Kristin, to teach her how to use a plunger, come through,

discuss first and ten and read.
Melissa, to teach her how to use special underwear,

dance crazy, be a princess and flirt.

Veronica, to teach her how to know her mind,

never tell a soul I mean it and listen.

New York State of Mind

I would be remiss if I neglected to share details about the big 3 – “oh my goodness.” My friend Emily and I flew to New York for a 5-day stay. We landed in Queens, saw a boxing match in the Bronx, ferried to Staten Island, shopped in Manhattan and spent our nights in Brooklyn. All five boroughs in five short days. We even made it as far north as Harlem to enjoy soul food at Sylvia's.

Highlights of the trip were slurping on a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity’s (yes, frozen and hot -- still makes no sense to me); enjoying the blustery ferry ride past the Statue; eating Chocolate Mouse Cheesecake at Junior’s in Brooklyn (absolutely delightful); attending morning worship services at Redeemer Pres (what a church!); and making a small purchase (is there such?) at Tiffany’s. It was bitterly cold. Painfully cold. Almost too cold for us to bear. A sweet man at Rockefeller Center sacrificed his hand-warmers for the two frozen Georgia peaches. Were it not for him, we would have lost ours (hands, that is).

My friend Sam and her roommate were our outstanding hostesses. Sam works at this upscale PT clinic that’s associated with one of New York’s premier health club facilities (Law & Order filmed an episode in her clinic just last week). Her roommate Kelly is a sports photographer. (As an intern with Gregory Heisler, she was there as Bill Clinton posed for the cover of TIME. The week before our visit, she freelanced for ESPN -- the Heisman trophy winner being her subject. Not too shabby, huh?) With Kelly’s subway expertise and Sam’s offer of a comfortable and quiet place for us to stay, it was quite a birthday weekend.

Above, you'll see Emily and me on 5th Avenue in our $3 knock-off shades. Below that, we're rather windswept on the Staten Island ferry with the financial district in the background. Below, we've met Holly and Julie (who just so happened to be in NY at the same time) for brunch in Harlem. And does the keyboard look at all familiar?

Birthday Resolutions

Years come in many forms – the fiscal year, the school year, the calendar year, etc…. I tend to operate on a “birthday year.” In light of this, I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions. Believing it’s more personal, I’ll postpone them two weeks later and make “birthday resolutions.”

A new year began for me on the 17th of this past January and it was a milestone of sorts. I hit thirty. Yes, the Big 3-“OH my goodness!” And with it came three resolutions: that I would return to Africa, that I would run a half marathon, and that, with the urging of a friend from college (thanks, Holly!) and the inspiration of two friends (thanks, Kristin & Janet!), I would start a blog. Yes, the girl who took two years to make the switch from a bag phone to a flip phone, the girl who continues to develop 35 mm film, and the girl who still runs with a clunky handheld CD player instead of a streamlined iPod – that girl is now a blogger!

And the best part is…I’ve done this all by myself. My best friend Kristin is the crème de la crème when it comes to technology – she is so savvy. She’s the kind of girl who can change the oil in a car, reconfigure a computer, rewire a light switch, and do a thousand other things that amaze me. If all goes according to her plan, she’ll be moving to start Orthotics & Prosthetics school in the fall. It has been doubtful whether or not I can survive without her. Launching a blog gives me faith. (K, I hope this makes you proud!)

“Why Small Letters?” one might ask. I read Lewis' quote several years ago and it struck me. My life is one of over-commitment and busyness -- so busy that as I flitter from one thing to the next, I miss its miracles. Writing has always stilled me. Whether the subject is of the mundane or the magnificent, the retelling of it brings me to a greater awareness of the miracle that lies within.

As I enjoy the retelling, may those who might read these small letters enjoy the listening.

Resolving to retell,
Julie