Birthday People

I woke up this morning and reflected on how my cup runneth over. Translation -- I didn't pay attention to the water level in the Keurig, and soon I had a puddle of coffee on my kitchen counter.

Today is my birthday, so I thought, how appropriate. Birthdays are such wonderful times to reflect on how lucky we are. I just wish the Holy Spirit wouldn't remind me of Biblical quips like overflowing blessings in such a messy manner.

Pardon the blue tape. I'm in the process of discovering the cruel life lesson that most everything on HGTV is a lie.

Sometimes I think that there are two kinds of people -- those who love their birthday and those who don't. We all know birthday people. They pick out their birthday dress weeks (maybe even months) in advance, watch their Facebook wall like a stock broker, judge the degree of professionalism in their presents' wrapping job. Birthday people are great. I would much rather attend a birthday person's soiree than my own. In addition that all this, birthday people make it a goal to ensure that their friends' birthday don't pass without some sort of fanfare. The notion of wanting to stay home or do something low-key is almost unthinkable to some of my best girlfriends. A phone conversation with a birthday person might go something like this:

"Hey! Just calling to wish you a happy birthday!" 

"Thanks! Is there something wrong with your computer?" 

"Um, not that I'm aware."

"Oh. Have you been on your computer yet today?"

"Yeah, I'm at work. What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I just figured something was wrong with it if you were calling me as opposed to posting something on Facebook." 

(Awkward pause) "I thought I'd call you instead." 

"That's so sweet! When we get off the phone, can you do it then?" 

You know it's true.

The "don't" category can be expanded into subcategories of those who hate their birthday, who are neutral about their birthday, or who ignore it altogether. I fall somewhere in this category. I've never been one to get overly excited about the impending celebration. I don't enjoy being the reason people gather together, because then I spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not everyone is enjoying themselves. With all my neuroses, the one in which I fixation on someone else's good time is by far the worst. I always seem to pick the restaurant with the worst service, or the bar with rap-only music policy, or just any place in general where ghosts of boyfriend's past seem to haunt.

Wedding planning is going to be a nightmare for me. Luckily, an impending marriage only exists on my Pinterest account, so I'm good.

Don't get me wrong; I love being with my girls. My cup certainly runneth over in the friendship category. We're typically the type of girls who garner unusual stares from other restaurant patrons for talking too loudly about our mildly inappropriate inside jokes, the type of girls who badger the DJ into playing Wayne Toups or Garth Brooks, and the type of girls who still text each other pictures of potential outfits for the evening despite living in several different cities. I love my friends because there's something different about them -- a spark, a spirit, a-little-something-extra. They possess all the graces that southern breeding would afford them, but are still able to break away from anything bland. Sometimes I feel that we are Ya-Yas in training. Not all people really understand sisterhood in their lives; I'm glad that I've been immersed in such a thing since I was thirteen.

In other news, I've moved over to a different "box." You know -- the box you check when filling out one of those surveys that refrains from being too age specific. I used to be mid-twenties. Now I'm  going to have to check the late-twenties box. So far I've gotten three separate messages expressing that the late twenties box is one worth waiting for, and it's barely 10 am.

Principled Stands

My father is known to take a principled stand or two. He's the type of person who won't subscribe to certain local services because of their overt bias, or who goes to the very early morning masses on the big holidays to avoid the three-times-a-year church goers, or who refused to let us watch things that portrayed Cajuns in a disparaging light because it was culturally insensitive.

St. Joseph by Gerrit VonHonthorst - 1620

Speaking of fathers, did you know that St. Joseph doesn't speak in any account in Scripture? Seriously. Don't believe me? Go ahead and stop reading, Google it, and then come back.

See? I'll admit that I didn't make this observation on my own. I've actually been thinking about this since a very astute deacon pointed this out to my school during a homily given on St. Joseph's feast day. I thought, not even a "yes" or a "I'm on it" or "don't us Israelites have a bad history in Egypt?"  Nothing. Just pure action.

Some Biblical scholars might dismiss this as being a small matter in the grand scheme of the Infancy Narratives. After all, people spoke to Joseph, and the Gospel writers clearly record his subsequent actions when he was spoken to. Plus there are many righteous people in the Bible who don't say a word. Maybe Joseph's is a classic case of actions speaking louder than words. All the information we need to call Joseph a "righteous" man clearly resounds through what he does to protect his family. But still, I think the fact Joseph is silent is one of the more poignant subtlties of the Gospels (Sorry John. You used a lot of pretty language too, but I still perfer Luke and Matthew.)

Joseph didn't need to leave us with a collection of sayings or teachings to convey the meaning of righteousness. Imagine how hard it must have been to muster the courage to do exactly what God was calling him to do. Marrying the girl you're engaged to who you discover is pregnant before you;re living together? That was surely the end of many friendships right there. It might have even caused a rift in his own family. But Joseph obviously wasn't one to break under pressure from lookers-on. He stood on his principles: that if God calls on you to do something, you listen.

I realize that it might be a bit of a leap to say that Mary and Joseph didn't have many friends; there isn't much contextual evidence of that. But I have a feeling that the climate surrounding an unexpected pregnancy today hasn't changed much since the first century -- the stigma, the ostracizing, the labeling.  This makes me appreciate Joseph more. Not only did he shoulder the task of taking care of a precious family, but he did it in the face of great scrutiny. Talk about a principled stand.

I love my Iphone. It's my best friend. If you've ever met me, you'll know it rarely leaves my hand. I think that technology is a beautiful thing, but I do think it's acclimating us to reach for things that make life easier and faster. For instance, if my weather app doesn't load faster than five seconds, I feel like my head's going to explode. Sometimes I think that it's important to remember Joseph -- we need to be reminded that doing the right thing might be the most uncomfortable, unpopular, or under appreciated act, but it's still worth doing.

TL;DR? Principled stands are hard. In fact, our culture at present is seemingly teaching us to strive for the exact opposite. I'm so lucky that I have a father in my life who, like St. Joseph, is someone who still believes in principles.

Happy Father's Day!

Fanny Packs

Imagine my surprise when the conversation on the lake's dock turned to fanny packs.

My friends and I spent the weekend house sitting a quaint white house tucked far behind an overgrown field and overlooking a still grey lake. The water was quiet which came as a surprise being Father's Day weekend and all. We were secluded save for the infrequent jet ski humming by.

One of my favorite things about being on the lake is being able to watch the rain roll in over the horizon (unless, of course, you are out in the middle of said lake while the lightening strikes are coming down just over the trees). Even though we chased the shadow of the dock's roof with our folding chairs, magazines, and liquefied strawberry daiquiris, we could see the veil of rain creeping closer. The impending storm was somewhat welcome; it's June in Louisiana, and it's hard to enjoy the view when ever crevice of your body is sweating.

"Don't let your arms fold at the creases," my wise friend advised.

We went over the usual: trading stories about the most awkward wedding experience, idyllic descriptions of our perfect match, and lamentations over the fact things at present were so drastically different from our college years. Ever since graduation, jobs have taken me and my friends different places. Relationships took us even farther than those. Which brings us to fanny packs.

Sometimes I find myself sad that things are very different from four years ago. I've been a young adult almost longer than the time I spent in college (meaning the pretext "young" might be retiring in the near future). And just recently the dust has begun to settle on the many marriages and pregnancies that I've witnessed in the last two years or so; the historically accurate themed parties have started to become few and far between, the week night outings tend to conclude at a reasonable hour, and friends are becoming increasingly hard to reach on the weekends because of families blending.

A weekend with your four girlfriends used to not be considered such a rarity. Now it is.

So we began to think about the way that our lives are gradually moving away from one another. Not to wax too poetic, we talked about it in the only way that didn't seem to hurt so much. Maybe relationships are like items your can find in your closet, we posed. For instance, some friends are like the bedazzled Fleur-de-lis hand bags that, while are not every one's taste, you appreciate them for their sparkle and pop. Some friends are like wayfarer sunglasses: timeless, can fit in with a variety of styles and occasions. Some friends are like fanny packs: admit it -- as much as you can't stand them, they are one of the most practical, efficient, and begrudgingly valuable things out there. Not everyone wants to be seen wearing a fanny pack, nor are there only a handful of occasions in which fanny packs are needed; but you are certainly happy to have one.

At any rate, relationships, like many things in life, have there seasons and purposes. The hard thing is being able to take a hard look at your closet and see everything for it's purpose. The hard thing is being content that certain relationships entered your life, impacted you, and are transitioning into something else completely. The hard thing is having to hang certain things up in order to make room for the other things you need.

Maybe this a big reason I'm still single. There are some articles of clothing I cannot for the life of me stand to put back into the far reaches of my closet.  The mature adulthood thing doesn't exactly fit the way it fits my friends.

Ok, I know this is not a concrete analogy. Do I have any of my faux leather animal print pants I bought in the wake of a movie called Coyote Ugly? No. I hope those things found their way back into the abyss from which they sprung. Do I ever think there will be an occasion when I would need said faux leather animal print pants? Dear God, I hope not.

I'll get back to the original paradigm: I'm thankful for a closet where every thing's always there for me. Even a fanny pack.

An Open Letter to St. Anthony

Image by Kevin Dooley under Creative Commons license

Dear St. Anthony,

Being the patron saint of lost articles, I have kept you busy over the years. I didn't even really own a wallet until I graduated college (well, that is if slipping your credit cards and driver's license into your cell phone case doesn't count, which I don't think it does). Seriously, all of my friends have grown wise to letting me borrow -- scratch that -- touch anything of theirs; I'm thankful you have always kept me squarely in your sights.

I even invoked your intercession just last week as our school bus full of teenagers bobbled down the streets of Mobile, AL in search of Spring Hill College after a hot, sticky, three hour drive. If we're all being honest here, it was a cry of frustration more than an actual prayer. If we're all being really honest here, it was more of a passive-aggressive dig at the bus driver who kept ignoring the GPS and my attempts to help. But you answered anyway and led us straight to our destination.

You are also the saint who has a special place in his heart for the lost themselves. I know you have petitioned on my behalf many times; even when I didn't seek it or deserve it. Please stay by my side, and strengthen in me the graces of responsibility and temperance.

In short, thanks for not clicking "hide" on the news feed that is my life.

Dee

PS: I could still use some help in finding my Kindle Fire power cord. I've included a reference picture below. No judgement?

Beastmode ~or~ The Tragedy of Always Being a Bridesmaid

Have you ever heard of the term Beastmode? Well, if you haven't, I have a picture that might help you understand what this phrase means. I was looking through my friend Jay's wedding photo album while drinking my coffee this morning and dirtied my screen with spittle after stumbling upon this gem.

Courtesy of Angela Groce - Unveiled Radiance Photography

Is this the face of desperation? Is it the result of being wrapped up in the presence of true love for a weekend? Is it the spirit of being caught up in friendly competition during an age-old tradition? Or is it the moment a single bridesmaid realizes that if you can't have the satisfaction of an engagement or marriage like your cohorts, you might as well walk home with a consolation prize. 

Of all the weddings I've gone to over the years, I've never wanted a bouquet so badly. I'll admit, part of my determination came from my competitive nature. But this wedding comes at the end of two years of non-stop weekend nuptials. My wedding schedule is starting to look as thin as the crowd that gathered to catch the bouquet. Once upon a time I was one of fifty girls clamoring in pile of taffeta and hairspray as the flowers sailed over our heads. Now I'm one of six - or less - while the married couples look on with emotions that range from tickled to horror to pity. 

Look at that reach. Years of tennis lessons made that extension possible. Check out the height: the pure determination. It looks like something that should be on a Sports Center highlight reel. 

My friend Jay is one of the best people you'll ever meet. She was my first "new" friend in college. I sat next to her during the car ride home from my sorority's bid day. She's such a trooper. I once left her in the Lambda Chi house to fend for herself against the philandering of a stout boy they called Shmooey while I tossed my hair and batted my eyes at another chapter member. I so wish that eighteen-year-old girl would have had the good sense to remember the old adage: nothing good ever happens after 2am. 

The Bible verse above reminds me of my friend. Jay is the model of Southern grace. She drinks sweet tea, wags her finger at impropriety, and makes certain that everything she says is anchored in something positive. Think Gone With The Wind sentimentality minus the overt racism. Even in the face of great struggle, Jay maintains the picture of feminine dignity and strength. 

Gentleness and quiet are just a few of the things I am working on this summer. Some people might confuse those virtues with submissiveness or an inability to stand on your own two feet as a woman. I tend to disagree. Turn on any reality show, and you see women screaming at each other.  Sometimes I think this is what is being packaged and shipped to our young girls as an example of strength and resilience. We're showing them that being gentle means being weak and being irrational equates to being strong. Case in point: Did anyone see this viral video of a dissatisfied Dunkin' Donuts (video contains strong language) customer who went on a tirade after not getting a receipt? 

 But Gentleness allows us to think wisely about things before we make snap decisions driven by emotions. Gentle women don't easily back down because they know exactly who they are and what's worth protecting. Gentle women might be the fiercest of the bunch.  

I did an activity with my seniors this year in which we had to pick a spirit animal. Sometimes I think about spirit animals when I think of my friends. Jay would most definitely be a stag: gentle, regal, and strong. My students came up with a couple of really good animals and matching analogies for themselves: wolves, bears, falcons, butterflies... When the question was turned to me, I was shocked that I couldn't think of anything. A couple of good suggestions were thrown at me after I offered a couple of key words about my personality: restless, snarky, overemotional, a tad flighty. I got everything from a honeybadger, to a narwhal, to an awkward turtle, to Loca the pug that can't run (google it NOW).

Courtesy of Angela Groce - Unveiled Radiance Photography 

This weekend made me thankful for all the strong women I have in my life. Most anchor me, temper me. I have a lot to learn from them. Maybe if I learn how to tap into that gentle spirit that they have shared with me, I won't be so anxious to reach up and snatch the bridal bouquet while then yelling, "Booyah" into the camera.

Happy Belated Birthday, Granny!

Yesterday was this sassy lady's birthday! Spending the day with my mom today made me really appreciative of my Granny's greathearted love which she passed to her and, while it's a work in painfully slow progress, might resound in me. 

Granny's bday falls on the feast of St. Barnabas. People don't stop to give Barnabas props as often as we should. After all, he was instrumental in getting the Jerusalem Christian community to accept newly converted Paul (or the artist formerly known as Saul of Tarsus). Paul had quite the rap sheet; I can't imagine the brokering the Bman had to go through to help integrate one of the future most influential figures of the early church into The Way. 

While I wasn't there, I'm sure those Christians present at Stephen's stoning (that Paul condoned) took one look at Barnabas with his newly converted Tarsus colleague and muttered something like, "You serious, Clark?" 

After easing the once hunter of Christians into the growing community, Barnabas took on the arduous task of lobbying for the admission of gentile converts into the Christian community. If you don't know, this was a hotly debated issue in the early church. When studying this in class, I once had a student comment, "That's like sitting next to someone in Bama shirt [at an LSU home game]. Awkward." Yeah, I guess it must have been. It's no wonder we invoke him as a peacemaker. 

Some of my earliest spiritual memories are of my Granny telling us we needed to pray for peace -- that there were bad things going on in far away places called Bosnia, and if we prayed, there'd be peace. I would drag my hand across the globe they kept in the living room, picturing all the people I'd never meet who I was lifting up in prayer. I remember thinking what a great responsibility I had and how important prayer was. The lesson my Granny was teaching us was that you need to model peace with your life; that peace was possible when we partook in it.  Side note: Granny probably didn't mean for me to think so deeply into it... but... then again... 

So happy (belated) birthday, Granny! And happy (belated) feast of St. Barnabas! 

Frugal Alfredo

This post was almost titled Pasta AlFAILdo. . .

Since there are many adventures on the horizon this summer, I'm trying to cut back any way that I can. One of the biggest drains on my bank account is eating out.  But hey... you would too if you lived in South Louisiana. So I decided to go to the grocery store yesterday and purchase enough food to last - gasp - at least a week, a feat I have long since accomplished. Some of you might be gently face palming at that remark, but I have never been able to keep a fridge stocked with ingredients. Usually it looks like a container store with an assortment of styrofoam, cardboard, and tin foil covered rectangles.  

My first venture into the inexpensive yet satisfying meal is homemade alfredo sauce over pasta. Maybe there is another domestically challenged girl out there reading this: this is too easy not to make from scratch! I am accustomed to buying the jar stuff, but never will again. Now I realize how metallic and artificial it tastes. A container of heavy whipping cream, grated parmesan cheese, garlic, and butter are the four essential ingredients. All on top of some rigatoni pasta made for a delicious meal! 

I already had the bells and whistles: parsley, a box of butter, and a jar of minced garlic. I didn't have to purchase very much at the store. Plus, I am saving the remainder of the pasta for at least two more meals this week. 

As I already said, this was almost an epic fail! But I learned the best thing about this recipe is that if you eye-ball it, you'll can fix your miscalculations in a jiffy. In my case, I went heavy on the parmesan because I like ... no love ... cheese. The problem is that adding too much parmesan makes the sauce almost cakey. Just a splash of milk, and the mixture regained it's silky texture. Yum! 

Recipe and directions below: 

2 Tablespoons of butter

1/2 Cup of Heavy Whipping Cream

1 Tablespoon of minced garlic 

3/4 Cup of parmesan cheese  

Parsley, salt, and pepper to taste

Melt butter over medium heat. Stir in garlic and cream. Slowly whisk parmesan cheese. Whisk well, and bring to a simmer. Make sure the mixture is heated through. Serve over pasta of your choice. 

PS: Props to the guy that put the butter measurements on the wrapping! 

    

                                                                      

Getting Started

    I'm new at this blogging thing. I usually scoff at all things trendy and technologically advanced. I have a Facebook, I follow a couple of people on Twitter, but for the most part, I stay away from all things that combine being social utilizing media. Sometimes this comes as an inconvenience as I teach around 130 high school students and they often slip into a language that is littered with hashtags, instas, and status updates.

   I once had an entire lecture comparing Biblical Revelation to a Facebook interaction. I was actually pretty pleased with myself mid-lesson when I saw the 25 wide-eyed girls fixated on me instead of on their computer screens. I thought, "They're really getting this! I'm on a roll!" God inviting Moses to chat? They loved it! Someone hacking into your account as an analogy for the Babylonian Captivity? Homerun! Then I said something about the people drifting away from God, and he needed to poke them to get their attention. Boom. Lesson over. Apparently poking hasn't been cool since 2005. It's really a shame, though. I was almost through the Old Testament.