Slipperless

I read a man's view of his future wife once. He likened her to Cinderella--perfect, innocent, understanding, sweet, and exquisitely gorgeous. I guess that is a male's false perception of the opposite gender. The woman's view is the "knight in shining armor"--tall, dark, handsome, strong, confident, and able to read her soul. ;)


There is no room for 'almost'. An almost perfect man--the prince without the charming or the knight without the steed. An almost perfect woman--the Cinderella still missing a slipper or the Snow White without the white. No room for the ones still trying their hardest. No matter how hard we Almosts try, we'll never reach perfect. We'll all fall short of the dreamy desire of our significant other.

Here's the catch: our significant other is an Almost as well...we all are. So let's wake up and realize that. No more mental criteria. God has already set aside the Almost who is perfect for each of us. He pairs the off-white with the uniquely average and the rusty with the slipperless. Why? because He has the missing slippers. He has the armor polish. He has the groomed, trained steeds. And when we join Him in heaven someday, we'll be slipperless no more.

The State of Your Mustard

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"...if you have faith as a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you." (Matthew 17:20)

This is a verse that nearly every church-raised child hears. Sometimes the Sunday School teacher even brings in props (aka. 2 millimeter mustard seeds) to show the students how very tiny a mustard seed is (aka. how tiny our faith will always be). Then, at some age, we come to the realization that none of us have the faith of an atom nucleus, let alone a mustard seed. I don't know about you, but when I stand outside and demand that the Grand Teton throw itself into the sea, it just growls and grows a little taller...and greyer.


I wondered about the size of my faith when God left a sticky note on my mental chalkboard this morning.

"I have a task for you. Gird up your faith-loins."

What size are my faith-loins? I'm pretty sure I'm teetering between super-duper-extra-small and extremely-super-duper-extra-small. Either way, I get to girding. I'm one sentence in to the unpleasant letter I must write and resort (once more) to prayer. ("Must I do this?" "How do I word it?" "Help!") In an act of either postponement or further knowledge, I flip to the book of Matthew (after looking up the mustard reference) and then pull up Wikipedia.

Did you know that mustard never grows old, mold, mildew, or creates harmful bacteria?
I think that if you believe Jesus is Lord, faith never grows old, mold, or harmful bacteria. It's always with us and can't go bad.

Did you know that mustard can last indefinitely, though it may dry out, lose flavor, or go brown?
I believe that, if we don't exercise our faith, it can dry out and lose its flavor (but still last indefinitely). Don't let your faith go brown.

Did you know that mixing in a small amount of wine or vinegar will revitalize dried mustard?
"For this is My blood of the new covenant which is shed for many for the remission of sins."
When we allow Christ to pour His love and Himself back into us (after shutting Him out), our faith is revitalized.

Who would have thought all this significant mustard really linked us back to Christ? What's the state of your mustard? Brown? Weak? Strong and pungent? If I were filled with mustard, I would pick Grey Poupon. It already has wine...white wine. "...though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow..." How about, "...though your mustard is like tar..." I know I take the "snow" verse out of context, but because of it I have grown more fond of the idea of white wine in my faith-mustard. I'll never look at Grey Poupon the same way again.


Now if only I had a mini mustard seed of faith inside my extremely-super-duper-extra-small faith-loins...

The Big-Toe of Busyness

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I used to believe I had deadline issues, but now I realize I actually have priority issues.


When I see a deadline, I automatically think, "I can! I can! I can!" Nothing can stop me--not the clock, not the hospital, not even a handsome car salesman (or so I think). I am and have always been the Little Engine That Thought She Could. I'll shove over the conductor and head toward the gigantic hill of deadlines at full speed. The problem is, I forget to stock the furnace with coal, my wheels are a little rusted, and the train track isn't even built yet.

Recently (meaning tonight at 11:30pm), I've realized I need to take the shaver to the hairs of my Big-Toe of Busyness, but which hairs to shave? The easiest time-consumers to ditch are the ones I love most--reading, writing, and snowboarding. Naturally, my selfish nature screams, "Don't you dare!" and I attempt to reason with myself ("It's Christmas break, you know"). Never try to reason yourself out of being unreasonable--you don't have unbiased reasoning available to even put to use (I'm already confused).

Back to shaving...(I recommend the Mach 3).

Where are my priorities? I must start with this. I think they're in the back pocket of my overalls with a paperclip, rusty nail, and lip gloss--three things I never use. They must be pulled out and organized.

("But it's Christmas break!")

No no, this must be done. What comes first? The Christmas play? Writing my novel? Editing someone else's novel? Cramming in pleasure-reading? Working at the coffee shop? Stocking the fireplace woodbox? Spending time with siblings? Sending out already-late Christmas cards?

I shove the priorities back into the pocket (the lip gloss protests) and I force myself to face facts: Straightened-priorities or not, shaved toes or not, those deadlines will still be missed and I'll feel guilty. But if I face that fact, perhaps the guilt will subside and maybe--just maybe--my train will find the extra coal, the rust will fall from my wheels, and I'll allow the Conductor to take charge again...

...while I rebuild that track.





Comic retrieved on 12/18/10 from http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/t/the_little_engine_that_could.asp
Track picture retrieved on 12/18/10 from http://www.ehow.com/how_7377877_make-kid_s-wooden-train-track.html

First Class on the Ground

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Airport.

When I hear this term, a slot machine of associated words click into my subconscious. Words like tile, uniform, and echo. As I step from the car and enter the human processor (aka. terminal), I leave behind a kind friend and an hour and a half of refreshing, delightful conversation--you know the type; afterward, you feel like a better, smarter, happier human being. Just the simple, honest interaction that reminds you of the depth inside people, the joy of openness, and God's original version of "hanging out" intended for His family. It's...refreshing. Like the crunch of watermelon.



The terminal feels unexpectedly happy today--or maybe the residue of my pleasant ride here is still affecting my view of life and people. At the self check-in kiosk, I pick the seats I want, check in a bag (praying it weighs less than 50 pounds), and wait for my tickets. Instead, I receive a couple food vouchers and a receipt. Not bad for airport luck, but something inside me (possibly the fact I don't believe in luck) sends its unwelcome opinion (unwelcome because I know it's right).

"Food vouchers = trouble."

Three attendants, two more vouchers, and one shuttle bus later, I find myself at the Hilton hotel. My flight is delayed until 6:10 tomorrow morning so the airport puts me up for the night with $26 of airport money to feed me. I don't mind one bit. Maybe I'm just in a particularly flexible mood or the idea of a comfy bed sounds more appealing than 6 hours of traveling, but events like this--the ones out of your control that surprise you like a bald eagle in your city backyard--are adventures. Everything I experience from this moment onward is something I would have missed if everything were in my control. I will cherish every minute.

The evening pans out like first-class on the ground. My flight is rescheduled, I take a nice shuttle to my hotel (the driver loads my bags for me), I arrive at the Hilton, and receive the room of my request (floor 2 or above...I'm not picky). The Hilton is beautiful. I enter to Christmas trees bedecked with both ornaments and dangling gifts that match the interior sweeps of carpet. Fairy-lights line the walls of the restaurant and the hotel lighting is butterscotch yellow--the type that makes you feel warm and relaxed.

I inevitably snatch my camera from my suitcase and snap away, imagining how lovely these pictures will match this post. Mid-snap (a Christmas tree at the end of a long hall of chandeliers), my lounging memory leaps to its feet and informs me it encountered a moment of extra-faultiness today. It forgot my camera cord. The pride I formerly held at remembering to grab the charger, the extra batteries, the case, and even the camera itself fades into nonexistence. I won't have the cord again until mid-January.

*shrug* Such is life.

I treat myself to a delicious Hilton dinner, starting with a Caesar salad. The first bite tastes...Caribbean-classy. It's a bit of pina-colada memories, the crunch of field-fresh greens, and soft-beach music drifting on my salty nostalgia-senses. Homemade croutons and thin dressing.
Delicious.
As I move on to the "main course" (Diablo chicken--it tastes very Italian), an older gentleman in a suit with a navy pin on his lapel enters and requests, "A glass of Cabernet." Behind him stand two handle-bar mustache hicks. I wonder if they're on my flight tomorrow. They look like Wyoming people. They order two beers. I don't see them on my flight the next morning. They must be flying to Idaho.

I have a three-hour layover in Salt Lake, but I can't hold it against Delta. They treated me like the only customer using their airline yesterday. Though their baggage prices may be inflated and infuriating, I gladly say this:

"Delta, you done good."

I still have some food vouchers left over and get some kung-pao chicken for breakfast (no chicken, but lots of pao). Coffee is next on the list. I say this with no intention of actually buying or drinking coffee. "Coffee" for me is like "Coke" for people who live in the south.

"I'd like a Coke."
"What type?"
"Sprite, please."

With me, "coffee" just means I'm going to Starbucks and I'll probably get a chai latte. But, until I finish my kung-pao, I return to the excitement of a 3-hour-layover spent thinking of the many joys that have and will arrive with this year's Christmas season. I think God's favorite seasonal decoration is "joy"--He pulls garlands off the Earth's summer and fall decorations, adds a bit of winter flavor, and twirls them around the December calendar of my heart. The best part is, they never come down.

I've always loved garlands.

Desperate Cooking

When approaching finals week, a student is faced with an unpleasant adjustment of eating habits. This means inhaling a bowl of cereal (whether fresh or left over from last night's studying) without allowing it to pass over the taste buds (takes too much time) in order to make it to class. After class is finished, homework screams bloody murder and you suddenly remember that paper that was due yesterday. Lunch is nothing more than a luxury forgotten around 3pm. Once home, dinner looms. Do you have time to pre-heat the stove and throw in a pot-pie? Or do you settle for cereal again?


Being a graduate student myself with my own kitchen, I've resisted some of these forced adjustments, but only to an extent. Tonight I find myself working on my take-home final that is due tomorrow (I thought I had an extra week. Lucky me). I realize it's 6pm and I'm trying to remember if I had lunch...or breakfast. Dirty dishes on my homework desk tell me "yes".

I open the fridge. Nothing looks appealing. I open the cupboard. Tomato sauce and some cream of chicken soup. Hm...what if I just made a casserole of sorts? That's usually just eggs, milk, and some sort of meat, right? And it's always good over rice.

Rice.

I fling open the cupboard above the stove. There's about a tablespoon of rice in a rolled up bag. That'll do. No where's the pot? Dirty? Hm.....I'll just mix the rice with the casserole and hope it cooks. I scoop the rice into a glass loaf-pan. Eggs come next. I only have one egg left in the carton and it expired exactly one month ago. Crack. Smells fine, so it joins the rice.




Chicken? I don't have time to cook it. Instead, I pull out a can of tuna--it's pretty much the same, right? Add a dash of milk (aka. whatever's left in the carton), a handful of grated cheese, and stir. Shouldn't there be vegetables? I pull out the half-used carton of mushrooms. They are black and squishy. Okay, no vegetables. The oven is preheated, I toss in half a can of cream-of-chicken and shove it in the oven.

Once it is done, it looks a bit like a loaf of tuna-bread with bits of uncooked rice in it. I scoop half onto my plate with the plastic, I-may-snap-in-half-any-day serving spoon. I try a cheesy forkful. It's absolutely scrumptrulescent (a college word for "exactly what my stomach didn't realize it needed").

Who would have thought?

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First Winner

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I won my first contest.

I say this only because, in my exuberant joy, I can't recall ever winning any other contest before. Not one that I desperately wanted to win. Sure, I've won a few inconsequential "contests" here and there: a packet of sponges in Bingo, a baby-blue plastic hat in a work-out gym raffle (it ended up being too big ), and a school sweatshirt that looked better on my friend who now has it for good. The biggest prize I ever won was the "jackpot" graduation raffle--school ring, graduation announcements, cap and gown, and diploma frame.
Of course, I won this after I'd purchased all these items. Refund? Certainly not! But I digress...

I am the first place winner of the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest.


I know you've all heard of it, who hasn't? It's famous. I don't even need to explain because you are sitting on your side of the computer exclaiming in awed "ooh"s and "wow"s, right?
No?
What a shock. Alright, I shall indulge you this once, but don't you ever forget the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest after this.

Essentially, the contest focuses on the opening of one's book. In the world of writing, authors must grab the attention of editors/agents/bookstore browsers (etc) in the first five minutes and persuade them to keep reading. In "Hook Me", us authors-to-be *giggle* send in our first 1,000 words and a back-cover blurb (that juicy snippet on the back of a book screaming for you to open its pages). Three professional judges take a look at your chunk of work and give it a score out of 60 (following a list of intense criteria, of course). After this, your two highest scores are taken and averaged.

So I sent in the 1,000 words from my most recent novel and waited anxiously for an entire month (oh, the drama). The e-mail arrived. My breath caught. I double clicked and these bright red words met my nervous gaze:

CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU ARE OUR 1ST PLACE WINNER

I read the word "1st" about a hundred times before I allowed myself to squeak, dance, laugh out loud, and throw my hands in the air. None of that is an exaggeration. I believe I may have even allowed myself an on-the-spot rap about "I can't believe I won" (this, coming from a girl who doesn't even listen to rap).
Then I looked at the number of contestants (41) and calculated my chances of winning. With atrocious math skills and six failed attempts, I came up with the approximate number: 2.5% chance of dominance. Two percent. And I won. My score? 60. Double the shock.

Do I sound prideful yet? None of this is written with the intent to brag. It is written in pure, ecstatic joy. I'm shocked, amazed, befuddled, in awe, and forever thankful to my best friend, Christ, who gave me the opportunity to join this contest, and who gave me the words to write. He won the contest and then laughed and let me think it was me.

The significance of this contest is not in the prize money, not in the title, and not in the certificates. It is in the fact I won a contest that judged what I love to do. It judged my writing--something in which I pursue perfection more frequently than breathing. After the smoke cleared, I was told that I'm "up-to-par". Hope and motivation are renewed with fresh vigor.

In a day when "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" is the contest-to-win, I am perfectly content with my yellow and fluorescent-blue print-it-yourself certificate.



And my $50 Amazon gift card might as well be the world.

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