We lounged in the lamp lit half-dark: my husband and I, and our college friend. We’ve been friends for about two decades now, which makes us feel impossibly old. We still easily bend over in outright laughter over hilarious references to our college days and their mishaps. Now, though, we have things like minivans and tax returns, and my friend and I swap tips on how cast iron is really the best way to cook fish, or omelets, she says.
But years aren’t the only thing under the bridge. That night, I marveled sadly how out of our six parents, we wouldn’t have guessed we’d have lost two of them by this point. My husband and I have moved to Africa, caught malaria, gotten robbed, etc. My friend has dealt with multiple nightmarish diagnoses of those she loves.
Ever feel like your heart’s two sizes too small for the Christmas season?
I may have recently given my radio the stinkeye for its heartfelt counsel for me to have a holly-jolly Christmas this year, when I really felt like sulking, washed down with a swig of wassail and one of those little chocolate-dipped pretzels with sprinkles.
If you’ve ever stood in the middle of African worship, it’s…well, it’s pretty hard to stand still.
As I first stood just mildly observing at our recent refugee center staff retreat, I marveled at the full-bodied–literally!–movement and singing: music that took over my heart, my body. I was, um, really dancing (don’t necessarily try to picture it…) to worship for the first time. Moisture leaked from the corners of my eyes. Perhaps you can see what I’m talking about:
It’s pretty much the only time, I think, when I should talk more than I listen.
You’ve been, there, I know: times like my morning a few days ago, when I tucked my feet beside me on the back porch, cup of tea in hand–mind splintered, floating in a deluge of concerns. I’d curled up to pray, but prayers kept colliding with the flotsam in my mind. I felt adrift; perhaps even a bit unmoored. Pretty sure I was just staring for a good portion of the time.
The psalmist’s words in chapter 42 and 43 bubbled to the surface: Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed in me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him.
Somehow I’m thankful that the writer took the time to know his soul well, but also took the initiative to tow it towards shore.
She’s cute, sitting across the table from me in her pink “I LOVE TO DANCE” tee with curls poking out from under that faux-raccoon hat. But then again, being cute has never been her problem. It’s what’s behind that smile with those eight-year-old Chiclet-sized teeth that’s been giving me a run for my money.
Lying in bed a few nights ago–makeup rinsed off (if I was wearing any), the beginnings of my double chin/jowls showcased by the position of head on pillow–I glimpsed an advertisement in a leading women’s magazine for an aging serum available only at high-end retailers. The model was lovely; perfect for the enticing caption: effortless beauty.
Her makeup was invisible, lashes were long and perfectly separated, skin creamy. She looked like one of those .0001% people who, upon waking, her partner may actually roll over, like in the movies, and say, Man, you’re gorgeous in the mornings. This does not happen at my house, and I consider it an attribution to my husband’s integrity that he does not contrive elaborate fairy tales about this point.