Looks Like I'm Falling in Love

I have not written in this blog for quite some time. I guess I have been busy figuring out how to love like a wife (a full time job) in the midst of the rest of my life. And though I have had no deficit in instances of daily love (especially from my particularly Christ-like husband), I have found it difficult to find the time to write about anything besides what is required of me in graduate school. But recently, I experienced something that reddened my cheeks while warming my heart. This weekend, my mother and grandmothers visited my church to watch me dance with the dance ministry. We decided we would go out to eat afterwards to chat and partially to celebrate Hubby’s recent birthday. He chose Red Lobster (typical). The dance went well, lunch was awesome, and I always love spending time with my family, so I was already on cloud nine. Hubby had to return to work eventually but the ladies wanted to go shopping for an outfit for my grandmother’s upcoming 75th birthday bash. So off we went. We were very successful in choosing a festive shirt in her favorite color and matching accessories. While they were looking at shoes, I remembered Hubby had recently commented that he needed more dress slacks for work. So I escaped to the sales racks to see if I could find a good deal on some pants (I refuse to buy things that aren’t on sale…something I learned from my mother), but I did not see anything worth getting. As we were leaving the store, I asked if my granny and mother wouldn’t mind going to Marshall’s with me to see if I could find something for Hubby. Because I didn’t get my love of shopping from nowhere, they readily agreed. It didn’t take much time for us to choose some things for him, laughing and joking along the way. Eventually we were distracted by the other shiny things in Marshall’s and wandered through the entire store inspecting frames and forcing my granny to try on hats. And finally we ended up in the section to rival all sections: the shoe section. First I perused the men’s shoes and considered getting a pair for Hubby, but decided against that for very mature budgetary reasons (and maybe partially because sometimes men’s shoes are boring). Then we wandered into the women’s shoe section and had ourselves a good ole time! There we were, picking out shoes for each other to try on, not really seriously considering purchasing most of them, when it happened. I spotted an adorable pair of neon salmon (is that even a real color?), peep-toe wedges on the clearance rack…in my size! How fun! Of course I had to try those on! I put them on and walked over to the mirror, admiring the cuteness. I walked back to where I’d chosen the shoes and was just about to say something until I realized that I was suddenly in the midst of falling. I’m still not quite sure how it happened, or even what happened. One moment, I was trying on shoes, and the next moment I was fighting gravity in a battle for my life. It felt like the most dramatic fall of all time. I was trying to grab onto something…anything, while also trying very hard not to die. And as I was falling I thought to myself, “Self, this is going to hurt. This is going to hurt really bad.” And finally, I was on the ground. In the middle of Marshall’s. Surrounded by many people. One leg going this way, the other bent under me. One arm in a trash can, cute shoes still firmly attached to my feet. My heart was pounding and I was terrified…and…I was completely unharmed. I was very surprised that nothing was broken. Now, the love I felt came from the looks of my mother and grandmother and the gentle hands of a stranger on my shoulders. As I fell, a woman noticed what was happening and ran...no. Jumped…no. LEAPED to my aid. Like an Olympic hurdler, she flew to my rescue and tried to prevent me from what probably looked like my impending doom. She didn’t manage to quite catch me, but her hands did manage to get beneath my shoulders and head. If my head would have gotten closer to the ground, her quick thinking would have definitely prevented a concussion (and later she even showed me her bruises from a recent tumble down the stairs to ease my embarrassment…sweet lady). But my mommy and granny stared at me in silent terror as I fell, looking helpless like watching a precious vase tumbling toward the ground. When I finally landed, flustered but unbroken, I nervously chuckled. And my mother, assured that I was alright and easily amused, burst into laughter. When I noticed my grandmother, her lip was quivering and she looked like she might cry. Even though I was clearly ok, even the scare of my possible pain was too much for her to readily shake. So though I felt extremely embarrassed, I also felt so valuable and so precious and so loved…by the most important women in my life and by a stranger. So I guess love looks like a lot of things: like anonymous and aerobic saviors, like hysterical relief, and like unshakeable concern.

Love is Patient

Hello!

It's been a few months, hasn't it. =) I apologize. Recent events in my life has inspired to really analyze what love is and what it looks like. I feel as if I'm called to be a lover of people. So what does that look like?

To answer that question, I turned to the possibly cliche but quite appropriate description of love in 1 Corinthians 13.

As I am learning in my New Testament class, the most important part of engaging scripture is a CLOSE READING OF THE TEXT (haha..this is only funny if you've seen Joel B. Green's slide show).

So let us read the text closely, and supplement it with examples from my life, shall we?

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres
Here we go!

You may know that I struggle with this little heart issue (please refer to this post: ). I was afforded the blessing of having many many months of relief, for which I am very thankful. Recently, however, the little bugger started acting up again. Shame on it! Sadly, I responded to this stressor with becoming extremely stressed out. EXTREMELY. I sat squarely on my pity pot and was exceedingly discouraged. Soon, I became angry. Angry with my body, with doctors, with God, with my friends and family for asking the exact same question 28 times a day ("How are you feeeeeeeling?"). I was just plain angry. I decided that the universe hated me and I was going to return the favor by becoming Pissed Off Sarah. Sarah...with an attitude. I was going to thumb my nose at everyone and be ornery until I felt justice was served! But God, in His unconditional love, placed His very best lovers in the path of my rage and reminded me that when I'm going the craziest...love, at the very least, is patient...

(Storytime!!)

After numerous doctor's appointments with my Primary Care Physician, Cardiologist, and Emergency Care providers, my family, fiance (yes, fiance!!! that's a whole nother story about love that I will tell you later!!!), and I were beyond fed-up with having 99 questions and zero answers. So my father discovered a cardio specialist that apparently raised his friend from the dead (or something equally as impressive) and INSISTED that I see him. INSISTED. When I resisted, he decided to schedule the appointment and take me his durn self.

So on Tuesday afternoon, promptly at 3pm, my father shows up. This day is already going quite horribly. I pretty much fail an exam (that I missed classes for due to my ticker) and am looking forward to two more in just 19 short hours. I decide to hate the world and refuse to speak to anyone with more than a few short words. Instead, I glare at my computer screen and shoot dirty looks at squirrels. At about noon, this anger is started to make me feel both anxious and gassy. So I call my dear friend, Mossface, who is calm and loving. She talks me off the ledge and prays for me. So I am no longer exactly homicidal, but man am I still cranky. I decide that I am not going to be Sweet Sarah, today, but I will tell anybody who asks whatever is on my mind. I BEG the universe to say something ANYTHING to upset me. All I need is a reason to go off on somebody. Today is Tuesday, and I am going to be a brat.

So...at 3pm, I crankily stomp (quite literally) to my father's car. Fiance (!!!) meets me on my walk back to give me a bear hug. He is completely unfazed by my frostiness. He is uncharacteristically cheerful and has printed out the information I needed for my appointment. I try to unsettle him with my very best glare but...nope...falls on deaf smiles.

I flop into the car and cross my arms in defiance. Defiance to what?...I do not know. I answer all questions with no more than 3 syllables and refuse to smile. My father, who has known me for 24 years, is justifiably confused and asks me what's wrong. I lie and say nothing. And then I continue to pout.

On the way to the office, I refuse to indulge his hopefulness in this new doctor. I am unerringly pessimistic and shoot down every positive thing he says. Once in the office, I do not smile at the receptionist or nurse (if you know me, you know I'm always smiling...I smile at everyone...even when I don't want to...it's an issue, really. Imagine how many men have interpreted that smile as a flirt...very inconvenient). I fill out the form in the most awful penmanship I can muster and return it to the window. The receptionist is very kind and does not return my scowl. Instead, she gives me the brightest smile she has.

And then I sit back down and play games on my phone. I refuse to engage in any kind of polite conversation with the parent who has driven all around greater Los Angeles to take his adult daughter to a doctor's appointment that she could easily take herself to. And still, he doesn't return any of my attitude or coldness. He continues to speak warmly and lovingly to me. I deflect the warmth and love with ice.

Soon, a nurse comes to get me. She is a rather hood nurse, and I lose count of her tattoos. She smells like cigarettes and does that awful back of the throat scratchy thingy. I glare at her.

And she smiles at me. She calls me baby and mama and fumbles around to put the EKG on me. She tries to make small talk and I use my 3-syllable technique. I suppose my father has told her about my engagement, because she asks me about that. Talking about him gets a little smile out of me, BUT THAT'S ALL SHE'S GETTIN'! I promptly return to my sternness.

She does more standard tests and never loses her cheerful chitchat or kind smile. She patiently waits while I stubbornly try to condense natural human responses into 3unnatural syllables.

She hums a little as she tinkers with the machines and I try to see how hard I can squint my eyes at her. My face is starting to hurt and she's still smiling.

The doctor comes in and he asks 2 million questions and tries his very best to make me feel heard, understood, and like I am a part of the process. My father looks at me hopefully.

My response? Glare. Frost.

After he has created a plan for tests to differentially diagnose me, that nurse returns. And she is still smiling. Now I KNOW this woman could get an attitude that could CRUSH mine. I can see it in her eyes. I'm absolutely positive that she could roll her neck, put her finger in my face, and cuss me clear out until I am a little pile of tears and shame. But she never even winces!

This woman must have a smile of steel! And patience of titanium!

After enduring nearly 2 hours of my frostiness, she remains unfazed and loving. I, on the other hand, am getting quite tired. Being angry is exhausting! As the appointment wraps up, she gathers the EKG machine to leave. She stops and looks at me again,

"Have a good week, ok baby? We'll see you again soon. Dr. B is gonna get you fixed up. You take care of yourself."

WHY IS SHE STILL BEING NICE??? HOW DID MY FROST NOT WORK!?!?!??! As she smiles and hums herself out of the room of her very last patient of her very long day, every last bit of my frost melts. My face returns to its normal position, and I am astonished at how persistently patient real love is. I see love all over her as she walks away. My tantrum is no match for the Godly love in a nurse's persistent kindness.

Sometimes love looks like being patient with your patient.

Sarah and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very BLESSED DAY!

A few weeks ago, I had a day to rival all days.

Have you ever had a day with so much stuff in it that when you remembered the day later, you remembered it as two days? No? That just happens to me? Ok.

The length of this post will reflect the length of this day...you have been warned.

Anyway...although my day was chock full of poo, like a freshly fed, constipated baby, I felt God's love pervasively...

I'd gone to my parents' house to have Shopping Time with my mommy and bond with everybody else. Shopping time took significantly longer than expected (as it always does) so I spent the night, knowing full well I had to be back in town for work at 9:40am. Forgetting that I am not an early riser, I planned to get dressed at my parents' and drive straight to work. But of course, I woke up an hour later than I had planned and had to stumble into my car half dressed and partially asleep.

I managed, by the grace of God, to make it to my apartment, get dressed (in something from Shopping Time), grab a snack, and even brush my teeth! AND I made it to work on time...early, actually! (Small miracle...I am perpetually late to everything).

At work, I was told over and over again how adorable I looked. An old man, who was on slightly creepy, told me that my dress looked nice on me because I had the perfect figure for it. I choose to ignore his awkward grunt of appreciation and accept the compliment.

And then the bad stuff starts happening...

If you know me at all, you my relationship with shoes, especially tennis shoes. I do not wear them...ever. But TODAY, since I had this black and white with a splash of red motif goin' on, I decided to dig out a pair of black and white converse I'd been forced to buy for a dance team a couple years prior. I've only been at work for a few minutes when I am informed that tennis shoes are not allowed at work.

Boo...I'd finally found a way to make tennis shoes coordinate with a dress. That's ok though! I always carry extra shoes in my car! I go to my car and discover that I have many shoes to choose from...but they're all heels. ...Alright. I can wear heels for an 8 hour shift on my feet. No problem!

Somewhere around hour 3, I lose feeling in my toes.

And around hour 3.5 is where things really get weird...

Right before my lunch, I'm serving customers in the awesome MAGIC fashion in which I have been thoroughly trained. I am helping them find and buy things like IT IS MY JOB (hehe...it is!).

I am moving very quickly because there are two million customers and my lunch is 15 minutes away. I am very much looking forward to said lunch because it includes time with the most amazing boyfriend to ever walk the earth and Del Taco (life doesn't get any better than that).

I am chatting happily with a customer while I bag his things. I am cutting the bag off of a piece of luggage so I can ring it up when...

I cut a piece of my finger off.

It was so anticlimactic. You would think that losing a small piece of your body would take a lot more than it does. But nope...snip snip...lose a chunk of flesh.

It didn't hurt right away. I just saw a piece of myself fall to the floor and saw the void where part of my finger used to be and I immediately closed my hand into a ball. I pretended nothing happened and rang up the few customers that had been waiting ONE HANDED (oh yeah...I'm good).

When a customer looks down to decide whether or not to get three or four pillows, I make the mistake of unclenching my fist and taking a peek at my finger.

It begins to GUSH blood.

I never knew I had that much blood in my tiny little pointer finger.

I must have been trained in emergency first aid as a baby, because I somehow manage to rig a makeshift bandage out of some paper, tissue, and tape. And I smiled the whole time.

Finally, the customers have all been helped. I see my manager and mention casually that I cut my finger. She is appropriately sympathetic and directs me to first aid.

I go upstairs to get a band aid and sufficiently inspect the damage.

I'm not sure why...but nearly all of the managers are sitting together...in the room with the first aid kit. They are kind people. Upon seeing me grasping my finger, they ask what happened. I brush it off and tell them I have a little cut. One manager, being quite motherly, insists on seeing.

Perhaps I should have warned her...

I unwrap my finger and show her. She begins to gag violently. All of the other managers gasp in disgust.

"WHAT HAPPENED!?!?!?" they exclaim in horror.

I recount the tale of the extremely sharp scissors to confused stares and a chorus of "but...HOW?"s.

I give up and find the band aids. Someone also hands me a packet of iodine.

I'm slightly perturbed because Amazing Boyfriend has probably been waiting for 20 minutes downstairs, by now.

After inspecting the damage (OMG I really am missing a piece of my finger) and making another person in the bathroom gag, I quickly bandage myself and quickly go downstairs.

As I'm walking out the building, I trip and fall.

Ow.

I get outside and apologize to Amazing Boyfriend and casually mention that I cut a piece of my finger off. He refuses to take such news casually and demands to see my finger. I do not want AB to throw up on me (and I don't have another band aid) so I deny the request.

But then he takes me to Del Taco. And he puts his jacket on the grass in the sun. And we eat and chat. And my finger is throbbing now...but all is right in the world.

I return to work with throbbing feet and a throbbing finger. But my belly is full and my spirit is lifted.

I work and entertain my coworkers with my butchered finger.

People remark how markedly cheerful I seem for having lost a piece of myself...I thank God for the cheerful spirit.

After work, as I am driving home (all 9.8 fingers on the steering wheel), I am hit by a woman who decides to turn left...from the center lane. Goody.

I am quite shaken up and I immediately call AB to let him know I've been in a car accident. Then I let my parents know. Before I even have time to get out of my car, three people surround it.

Oh goodness...

They are not the occupants of the other car. They are random strangers. Who have stopped to ensure me that I am not at fault and serve as witnesses for me. They all write down their phone numbers. One of them works at a law office and offers to give me free legal advice if things get sticky.

Then they go and talk to the woman in the other car for me! At first she denied fault...until the three witnesses gave her the "For reals?" side-eye. She got out of her car and we exchanged information.

Finally AB arrives and although he is mostly concerned with my well being...I am excited because he got a hair cut! I LOVE a freshly lined head!

I have nearly forgotten all about the state of my poor little car until AB prompts me to take pictures.

The woman apologizes and offers to pay for the damage. She looks so sad that I feel compelled to comfort her and gently rub her back.

As AB follows me back to my apartment, my finger really starts throbbing. Maybe I gripped the steering wheel in fear during the collision? Who knows!

It is now 8pm and I...am...exhausted. My finger hurts. My car is ugly (uglier). My cheerful mood is fading. I want to have some peace and quiet. Can't go to my apartment...lively game night. AB's roommates are watching a very violent and very loud movie on surround sound.

I am now pouting.

So we some snacks and I text a friend, whom we shall call Pretty Angel. Pretty Angel offers to let us hang out in her very quiet apartment.

So we get snack and rent "How to Train Your Dragon" and order a pizza (with bacon!!) and head over there.

Another friend, Chuckles, comes over and we four enjoy ourselves. We laugh and joke and eat. Pretty Angel bakes cupcakes. We eat those too. After the movie, we stay up way past our bedtimes and talk. And talk and talk and talk.

Silently, I reflect on my day. It was a crazy one, but God's loving fingerprints were all over it. How else could I experience joy in the loss of a finger? How else could I be protected and provided for in the middle of a car accident? How else could I find solace and laughter in the middle of the night? How else could I find people like these: angels dressed as my friends?

Snuggled up against AB, feeling the laughter in his belly rumble against my arm, throbbing finger still throbbing, exchanging stories and advice with two loving women of God, I feel happy. I feel calmed. A long day is behind me, and I feel loved.

Sometimes love looks like the band aids to your butchered day.

As long as we both shall laugh...

This is a short one!

The other day, in between classes and work, I saw a little display of pure joyful love. =)

After hours upon hours of class, I stop at Of The Taco (hehe...inside joke with myself) to get a snack before I am scheduled to endure three hours of retail torture. Because my car (mentioned in a previous blog) has no air conditioning, the short ride from campus to food is unnecessarily painful. It takes precisely 35 seconds after entering my car to begin sweating. Needless to say, when I arrive at OTT, I am desperate to get inside. I am in such a sweaty rush that I nearly knock over a homeless man and get hit by a car en route to the door.

Once inside, I am in ecstasy. The combination of blasting air and sweat droplets is amazing...and slightly sticky. I order what I always order because I am a creature of habit and fear culinary change. I sit down with my delicious meal and prepare to enjoy. After I have eaten 3-5 french fries, I realize that I am officially freezing (I have a very low tolerance for being cold). And since I must be within 5-10 degrees of my preferred temperature in order to digest food, I pick up my tray and go outside.

There's not much outside, save for a few parked cars, pigeons, and the homeless man talking happily to both of them. I am much more comfortable, temperature-wise, and my meal is delicious. I’m nearly done when I hear a burst of laughter from behind me. I startle and turn to see the source. I have a few guesses as a I turn around: another homeless man, laughing to himself? Someone obnoxiously talking on their cell phone much more loudly than they need to?

As the person rounds the corner I discover that it’s a woman, walking with what appears to be her family. The supposed mother and father are carrying heavy looking Target bags and are accompanied by two very young children. I KNOW they must be hot; it’s 90 degrees out here! Their shirts are slightly damp and the mother’s hair is sticking to her forehead. The mother laughs again, a laugh so deep and loud that it startles me again. The father looks at her with an open mouthed smile. He seems so pleased to be the source of her laughter. The mother is laughing so hard she is out of breath (please imagine laughing your hardest while carrying a child and some Target bags…in 90 degree weather…after you’ve walked a couple of blocks).

This alone was heart warming…to see someone laugh that hard in the middle of a hot day. In Spanish I hear the little boy ask the mother what is wrong and why is she laughing. I expected to hear her explain some watered down version of her husband’s joke. Or to simply say nothing and continue laughing. But her explanation of her laughter brought a true smile to my face. After taking a few breaths to calm herself, she answered: Nothing sweetheart, it’s just that I love your father.

And as he pulled the door open for his family to squeeze through, the father and mother exchanged a look that spoke volumes of love and companionship for better or for worse.

The Tale of the Bleeding Heart

I know it's taken me a while. Please forgive me.

Anywhoots...here you go!

Many people know that I have been struggling with some health issues recently, more specifically...my ticker is broken (quite literally). I've had three instances of pericarditis in the last year...which is the fancy word for swollen pericardium, which is the sac that your heart sits in. I like to envision it this way...picture a really fat man trying to wear a really tiny sweater. Uncomfortable? You betcha. The pericarditis causes Premature Atrial Contractions...which is doctor speak for: heart beats funny. I illustrate PAC's this way: imagine that one guy in your church. He's often a white middle aged male (but not always!) and he loves praise and worship. He is blessed in many ways, except for the gift of rhythm. So he dances and praises and claps very loudly. His claps are consistent but they always manage NOT to fall on a proper beat. Sometimes he claps slowly and then remembers that the tempo is quick and adds extra claps to catch up. Distracting? Absolutely.

And all of this...fat man in a tiny sweater and unrhythmic praiser...goes on in the caves of my ribcage.

Of course, I am very curious to know the cause of this so I may avoid this discomfort. But the doctors, in all their doctory wisdom, have dubbed my pericarditis as idiopathic. Do you know what that means? It means they have absolutely no idea.

So here I am on my third round of medications that cause side effects that rival the initial complaint (ranging from nausea to raging diarrhea) and I'm actually pretty sick and tired of bombarding my body with 2400 mgs of ibuprofen, daily.

Add to that the number of other stressors that are currently tap dancing through my life and you can come close to imagining my frustration as I walk into my doctor's office on Wednesday...

After enduring many weeks of the horrific side effects and very little relief of the pericarditis, I am convinced that it is time to see someone. I call ahead to schedule an appointment to see my doctor, who is finally back from maternity leave (have a baby on your own time, lady! just kidding, guys...just kidding). After jumping through numerous hoops I finally manage to secure an appointment. Hurrah! I take a detour to my job to pick up some things that I will need for the next day and scurry along to my appointment.

I check in with the receptionist who is confused for a few minutes before she discovers that I am in the wrong room. So she points me to the correct room and I check in there. This receptionist is even MORE confused, especially when she concludes that I have no appointment. I assure her that I made an appointment, but even after minutes of searching, she is unable to locate the elusive appointment.

So what's a girl to do? Apparently, a girl is to go to the nurse's triage station, where a nurse will determine if I am actually truly sick and then AND ONLY THEN, will I be connected with a doctor. So I go to the triage station. I check in...once more and I wait. There are many people waiting and I am jammed between a woman having a very loud and very personal conversation on her cell phone and a canoodling couple. Somehow, I still manage to remain unperturbed.

[Let us break for a moment so I can mention that on THIS particular week, I managed to commit myself to 60+ hours of work between two jobs, Vacation Bible School daily from 6-8:30pm, socializing, bonding with the boyfriend, planning and executing a surprise midnight birthday party for my grandmother (because that's how we roll in this family!) and choreographing and teaching 2 minutes of a routine. I was burning my candle at all ends. It was not the best example of moderation or time management or appropriate sleep patterns. Now back to our story...]

Finally, I'm called back to a room, by a nurse named Nancy. I'm so glad her name was Nancy, because Nurse Nancy has a very nice ring to it. Nurse Nancy is short and wears glasses. She is neutral and her fingers flit over the keys as she asks routines questions. As she has probably done 300 times today, Nurse Nancy asks me what the problem is. And I explain, for the third time today, that the medication is destroying my body. And my back hurts...a lot. She is patient and asks a lot of questions that I have already answered. I try my best to reciprocate her patience but I am slowly feeling months of built up frustration beginning to rise to the surface. I tell her about how I stopped taking my medication for a few weeks because the side effects were just as bad as the pericarditis and it doesn't even seem to work because the pericarditis just keeps coming back!

She encourages me to tell my doctor this. I have. She has a revelation and tells me that I should see a cardiologist! Light bulb! Oh wait...I have. Light bulb dims...

"Well what did he say?" she wants to know.

"He said he doesn't know why I keep getting it. He says he doesn't know if or when it'll come back. He pretty much said he doesn't know anything." (I mean, I appreciate the man's honesty but COME ON!!)

And now the bough is breaking...uh oh...here come the tears...

Now I'm officially bawling and I unleash my tears and frustrations onto Nurse Nancy. I tell her every frustration I have and I do not edit. I tell her that having to decide whether you want your heart to hurt or your body to feel like it's being turned inside out is not a fun or fair decision.

Nurse Nancy maintains a stern face the entire time. After I'm done with my rant, I expect her to give me a canned and placid answer and redirect me to my Primary Care Physician.

Instead, she hands me some tissues so I can stop using my dress to wipe my face. Then she takes a deep breath and goes on a rant of her own. In a very stern and very maternal voice she encourages me. She reminds me that doctors are busy and don't always take the care to be thorough. She reminds me that my body is my responsibility and implores me to be its greatest advocate.

I'm still crying and I'm sure I look a hot mess.

So Nurse Nancy...cries with me. She just stands there and cries and empathizes and rubs my back and affirms my frustrations. She makes me feel like someone cares. She hugs me and tells me that her daughter is my age and she would hate to see her go through something like this. She tells me I am strong. She gives me world's wettest pep talk. She schedules an appointment with my doctor and assures me I can come to Module 4 on the 4th floor if I need another voice to advocate for me and my body.

I finally stop crying. I think about a million things: how much more compassion I have for my clients who are frustrated with their own illnesses, how much back and heart still hurt, how much time I have to get to VBS, how Nurse Nancy's make-up is runnig a little. But mostly I think about how much love is in the room. How godly Nurse Nancy is being...

1 Corinthians 1:3-4 Praise be to the God of all comfort who comforts us in all our troubles so we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

Thanks Nurse Nancy for being a vessel of comfort. And putting a band aid on my heart (figuratively, speaking of course).

Sometimes love looks like a bleeding heart.

I'm sorry...Are you sassing me?

It's been a while...oops. It's not because I haven't been surrounded by love! Love is everywhere. You just have to open your eyes (and your heart...but to say that would have been terribly cliche).

A few weeks ago, while at work, someone showed me a little bit of love and it made my day.

It's a Tuesday and I've just gotten out of a meeting (If you do not yet have a real job, I must forewarn you that full-time jobbery is 25% work...75% meetings). I'm preparing to follow up on some of the team decisions we have made. My boss had mentioned that all I needed for a particular task was a sheet of paper that my client needed to sign. Easy enough. She has the paper. I have an abundance of pens. I go to my desk to call the client and schedule a time for her to sign. Check. I make sure my pen still writes. Double check. I shoot the quickest of breezes with a co-worker. Pow pow...check.

Then I walk out of my office with the intent to pick up this particular piece of paper from my boss. She is the director for no less than 4 billion programs and wears 87 hats daily. Aaaaaand her door is closed. Typical. So, I walk in the opposite direction in search of someone else who might have that paper. Enter Sassy Pants* (*names changed because nicknames are way more fun), a person whom I'd really enjoyed until this moment.

Me: Hey Sassy Pants, do you have a contract? I'm following up with a client and Boss Lady said they need to sign it.

SP: Well...why didn't I know about this?

Me: Um...I'm sorry...we just decided to do this in our meeting.

SP: Well have you filled out a yellow sheet?

Me: No. What's a yellow sheet?

SP: You don't know what a yellow sheet is?

Me: ...No I do not know what a yellow sheet is.

SP (chuckles): I can tell you've never done this procedure before.

Me: This is true. I have not. Boss Lady said all I needed to do was get the contract signed.

SP laughs again. Ok ma'am...this is officially beginning to annoy me. Another person is in our presence and they laugh smugly and conspiratorially at my ignorance.

Me: Well, can I have this yellow sheet so I may fill it out for you? What's it called?

SP: Go ask anybody else in your department what a yellow sheet is.

Me: So...you don't have one?

SP: Go ask anybody else in your department what a yellow sheet is.

Because I suppose I have nothing else I could be doing. So I spend the next 10 minutes of my life (10 minutes I will never get back) looking for, obtaining, and filling out this mysterious (and actually quite simple) yellow sheet. I return to Sassy Pants and hand it to her.

SP: You found it! I guess SOMEbody knew what a yellow sheet was. Now you'll know for next time.

She laughs again and even has the nerve to add a smirk and a wink for good measure.

Me: May I have the contract now?

SP: The client has to meet with me first.

Two deep breaths. Suppress the inner sista girl. Be a light. Jump through the hoops. Whatever you do...do not tell this woman about herself!

I schedule an appointment for the two of them to meet and return to my desk. I stare at my wall and realize how belittled and hurt I feel. Feeling belittled and hurt is actually rather distracting so I stare at the wall for quite some time. After two more deep breaths and a hearty shake of the head to clear the wounds away, I return to my work.

About an hour later, Sassy Pants (who has worked there for many many moons, has seniority and could probably talk to me however she pleased and not get any serious repercussions) comes into my office. I bristle at the sight of her, believing she might belittle me again. I feel silly because I am naive enough to like everyone I meet and gullible enough to believe that everyone is inherently kind.

After distributing some papers to everyone in the office, she stops at my desk and looks me in the eye. Without a single drop of sarcasm or superiority or prompting, Sassy Pants apologizes!

SP: I'm sorry I got an attitude with you earlier. It was uncalled for and unnecessary.

Me-- BLANK STARE. Shock is even too shocked to make its way onto my face.

SP:...Well...I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry.

Me: Ok.

I've always had such a way with words. The thankfulness I feel toward her (and God) for showing me that it's not naive to believe in the kindness of people is not easily conveyed by words.

Sometimes love looks like being sorry for your sass.

I pay you! I pay it forward

So, having been loved on so much...I think it's time to share a love effort of my own! Love can be as big or as small as the tiniest effort. But a little more love adds up!

I'm in the field for work in Los Angeles. I'm driving to get my next client and I am currently in the company car alone. Having had a very stressful morning (and since I am currently hungry and therefore cranky), I begin to pray and repeat Bible verses to myself. This effectively calms me down, but it also causes me to be in my own little world. My window is rolled down because I find fresh air to be a more appropriate temperature than the fridgidity of the subzero AC.

Now I am humming to myself and I almost miss the little old lady standing at my window.

"Excuse me. You can help? You help me?"

I'm a little alarmed because the look of concern is etched so deeply in her face. The wrinkles have folded into themselves in a most ungraceful way and she is sweating.

"Help me? You can? I need to get to Fountain. Been here for 2 hour. I just need to get to Fountain. Bus never come. Is down street there. Please, you can help?"

I am ashamed to say that my initial reaction is suspicion. I look around her for a big bulky man waiting to jump into the car if I let her in and murder me. I see no man and I can only think of my grandmothers standing out here, wishing someone would help them get down the street.

What if nobody helped them? All she needs is a ride, Sarah. And if she does have a shank in her purse, at least you died trying to help somebody. Whoa, Sarah...that's a really weird thought. Well, it's how I feel, self...we should probably decide whether or not we're going to help her before this light turns green. What would Jesus do? Um...DUHHH!!!

So I move my purse (don't judge me...all my suspicion isn't gone yet!), and open the door.

"Oh goodness. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. I pay you. I pay!"

"No no, don't worry about it. I'd want someone to do the same for me."

I drive exactly two blocks (in the direction I was going anyway), as she sits breathing heavily and sweating in the passenger seat. She is possibly slightly afraid because she clutches her purse and looks straight ahead. (Turns out Fountain is a street! I thought she was looking for water!)

"Here. I live here. Thank you. I am so sorry to bother you. I could not walk no more. I wait two hours for bus and it never come. I pay you! I pay!"

"No! No need!"

"Please have good good day. You sure I no pay you? I pay you!"

"No thanks ma'am...God bless you" because I could think of nothing else to say.

She bows over and over again as she leaves the car. The burly murderer never shows up.

Sometimes love looks like driving 60 seconds thataway.