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.

Plaid Taco Stand

A lesson I learn again and again is: It's really the little things that make the biggest difference. Everybody knows it-India Arie even wrote a song about it! I think we just forget sometimes.

Last weekend a little blond man with a scratch on his nose and a big black woman wearing plaid did a little thing for a group of us that has stayed with me all week.

It's early evening and we've just finished rehearsal. We throw on boots, sandals, scarves, hats, sweatshirts-random remnants from our daytime outfits- over our slightly sweaty dance clothes. We talk our way to our cars and head to a nearby taco place for happy hour (tacos, burritos and margaritas $1.50 a piece!!)

The place is PACKED and we are forced to park in Northeastern Timbuktu. It's Southern California so who cares about walking a couple blocks in the just barely cooled evening air. The inside of the restaurant is even more packed. Some people are sitting at tables or perched on stools; but just as many are standing, eying the sitters and willing them to eat faster. There are some high tables that customers linger around while waiting for a proper dinner table (not sure what the difference is...maybe it's not dinner if it's eaten on a high top table? maybe some customers are afraid of heights?).

We decide to order our food in shifts so the waiting girls can search for the stationary goldmine that is an open and clean table. As a part of Waiting Girls Shift 1, we spot a small empty couple-size table next to a big 5girls-sized table that is inhabited by a singular man. Operating on Rule #42 -"You have not because you ask not," we approach the man.

"Are you sitting alone?, because..."

"No I'm waiting for someone," he replies in the most quick and politest of fashions.

"Oh, then nevermind." I am also very good at quick and polite. I begin to walk away.

"Why do you ask?" His nose has a pretty nasty scratch on it and I find myself wondering if he has a cat that is as violent as ours.

"Oh, because there are five of us and if you weren't waiting for somebody I was gonna ask if..."

"Here! Take it! I can totally move." Picks up his things and bounces to the couple-sized table before I can even by properly surprised by his niceness.

"Wow. Thanks! We really appreciate it!" Waiting Girls Shift 1, Girl #2 and I move quickly to stake our claim on the table. It'll definitely fit 5 girls!

"Awwww! That was real sweet of you," says a strangely gruff female voice behind us. We turn around and see two women smiling at Scratched Nose.

"That was nice of him," one of the women informs us. They are heavyset Black women, both dressed in blue. I (with my propensity to assume) guess they are lesbians. They sit very close throughout the meal and bicker like a couple. And one of them is wearing plaid...and not the fashionable kind of trucker-chic plaid; the kind of plaid only worn by Crips in the 1980s, farmers and (of course) lesbians.

Plaid lady, when she's not swearing at her girlfriend or at the unlucky listener on her cell phone, has a very warm aura about her and I kind of want to hug her.

Ordering Girls Shift 1 return and celebrate our success at securing a table. We switch titles and shifts and leave the current Waiting Girls Shift 2 (previously Ordering Girls Shift 1...are you following?) to conjure up 2 extra seats since our perfect table only came with 3. We return with our orders (and some tasty chips) to find the ladies standing around 4 empty chairs now, no one wanting to be the girl that sits down at the expense of one person having to stand.

"No, you sit down. I've been sitting all day."

"No, you go ahead! I'm totally fine."

"Oh no no...I have wide calloused feet. Perfect for standing!" (this one is an embellishment for my own personal amusement)

And so on and so forth until Plaid lady presumably gets tired of our well-meaning bickering. She wades through the sea of customers to the other side of the room. She picks up a bar stool, raises it above her head like some sort of strange orange trophy and plops it down at our perfect table.

"There you go! Now everyone can sit." She's not irritated or being sarcastic. She's just...nice.

And I want to hug her again.

She walks back to her table, a plaid ship amongst a sea of tacos, and resumes her conversation.

A word problem: If each person took time to satisfy one need (no matter how trivial) of another person, how many needs would there be left?

Answer: 74.

Just kidding...NONE, of course!

Sometimes love looks like one extra chair, courtesy of a woman in plaid.

Wanna love you girl, wanna love you

This probably won't be the most amusing post I ever write...but it was the most beautiful to me =)

May 10th was a really rough day. The kind of day when you hate everybody because you feel so miserable. The kind of day when simply overhearing the laughter of another person draws a bitter thought from you. The kind of day when you purpose to clean out the junk from underneath your bed just so you can crawl under it and cry. May 10th was that kind of day.

I hated my job with a renewed vigor and felt too consumed by frustration to even count the days until I begin school again. I was exhausted because sleep had been playing games with me lately. Bad news was coming in droves. Death was way too real and tangible. Pain was all around me. People were coming to my ears with problems and looking into my eyes for solutions. They wanted advice on how to fix things that needed to be thrown away a long time ago. I had exactly 6 dollars and 43 cents in my bank account, a quarter tank of gas, and a whole lotta questions regarding exactly how I was going to get my tush to (and from) my dreaded job 5 times (25 miles each way) on roughly 4 gallons of gas. I was down to one pair of unders but didn't have enough quarters to do laundry. And then I managed to smash my pinky finger. Super.

I tried readjusting my attitude and was unsuccessful. My positive self-talk sounded insincere and the encouraging voices in my head were starting to work my nerves. Then I got an email from a friend about a sick girl who was fighting for her life. I felt embarrassed to be fixated on trivial things. I also felt overwhelmed by the presence of even more pain to those who seemed so undeserving. These thoughts were made worse by the fact that I had been questioning God's purpose for healing in our lives. I went to the bathroom to pray for the little girl and to cry.

I returned to my office and put Hillsong's "Healer" on repeat. I texted my mom who texted back (and then emailed back) Bible verse after Bible verse because I reckon that's where her help comes from. By the end of the day, I was drained and felt more than a little hopeless. I continued to say small prayers and tried my best to work through the day. I saw two clients who reported doing remarkably well in their treatment and I was pleasantly surprised. Then my grandfather called randomly and told me he had my birthday present (my birthday is in March =/ ), which turned out to be 50 dollars. Why thanks, Jesus...that solves that whole money problem!

As I drove home from work, I meditated on the concept of being happy precisely where you are (although I couldn't remember the exact words or verse at the time- fyi: Philippians 4:11-13). I bypassed Bible study in favor of alone time and sleep. At home, I found some quarters and really did mean to do my laundry, but I watched TV and ate donuts instead. At 8:45pm, I got into bed. I didn't feel quite as hopeless but my soul was still pretty heavy. I read a few passages in my Bible, but my attention span was not cooperating. I lay down to sleep and a wave of thoughts kept me awake for another hour. I tossed and turned-still stressed from the day. I had no idea where my do-rag was and I knew my brush would have something to say about that in the morning.

Finally, I decided that I've had enough and since I don't know what else to do...I prayed. I prayed for forgiveness for allowing negative thoughts and complaints to control me. I prayed for God to help me be less self centered. I prayed for clarity and patience. I prayed for optimism. I prayed a lot for the little girl who is fighting for her life. But mostly I prayed and thanked God for being what I know He is: a Healer, a Comforter, a Forgiver, a Strengthener. And I asked Him to correct any misconceptions I hold about Him. Nothing spectacular happened. I got no great revelation. I just fell asleep praying.

When I wake up in the morning, I put on every color I can find and I go to work. A full nights sleep has improved my attitude quite a few degrees. I get an email stating that I have gotten an interview for another part-time job I'd applied for and then I get a call about very small coaching position that is absolutely perfect for me. How's that for good timing? Somebody tells me that my menagerie of colors is making them feel happy. Well, isn't that nice? I manage to make it through the day with minimal irritations and I drive home (gas tank still mysteriously not empty).

A few hours later, I am once again overwhelmed by how God can love me through someone else. I walk into a mentor's(MJ) house, tired and hungry. The house is full of girls, all similarly tired and hungry. It's not long before we've all been fed and hugged. Another woman is there, sitting and laughing but not saying much. Soon, she has our attention and shares that her desire is to be nothing more than a mentor and a friend to us. She and mentor MJ want to be there for us 24/7 to provide love and guidance and support. It is important to them to rebuild communities of women committed to growing in love: loving God, loving ourselves and loving people.

We have worship there in the living room, a space so free that we sprawl out in socks with no fear of being self conscious. We pray. We are prayed for individually. We are given journals with our names glittered on them so we can write/draw/scratch down our thoughts and track our growth. We eat cake and laugh until way past our adult bedtimes.

I feel more overwhelmed than I did yesterday. Surrounded by food and music and solidarity, I feel absolutely overwhelmed by the unadulterated love of two women after God's own heart.

Sometimes love looks like praying for things I didn't even have the chance to tell you about yet.

Never judge love by its tattoos!

The other day, Chloe and I were on a mission to rent a movie, get snacks, and bond with the family. And a tatted up thug showed us mad love...

Chloe and I leave church in my trusty but dusty Honda. It has been agreed that we will rent Book of Eli (because mother has yet to see it) and get fatty snacks (because some of the family will start diets tomorrow). We drive to Hollywood Video, because Blockbuster has gone out of business (I say: blame Netflix and Redbox). It is very hot, so we ride with 3 of the 4 windows down. The driver's side window stays up because it is fickle in its choosing whether or not to be rolled back up after being rolled down. When we reach our destination, I roll up the 2 of the 3 open windows. I grow impatient 3/4 of the way through the rolling up of the third. So I leave it as it is, believing that only a fool would steal a 1994 Honda with no radio, no heat/AC, no hubcaps and only 3 working windows. If someone, probably a blind or desperate someone, did steal the Turquoise Wonder they probably needed it even more than I do and I would have to suck it up and find other means of transportation. Any other common thief would become exasperated at discovering that one must coax the car into starting and leave it precisely where it is.

Anyway, I have digressed, as usual. We leave the last window with just about a 3 inch opening...(completing the roll up would have taken another 2 or 3 minutes- ok...enough car jokes). We go into the store and find that a) Book of Eli has yet to be released AND b) Hollywood Video will also be closing in 3 weeks. This is truly a pity because I really have been trying to discourage my father from using his bootleg connection. We sigh and return to our car, brainstorming how to break the news to my mother. During the conversation I search my canyon of a purse for my keys, as is customary. When I find that I have searched unusually long, I joke: "Wouldn't it be funny if I locked my keys in the car?" Chloe and I laugh because that would be sooo like me.

Turns out...it is not really all the funny to lock your keys in the car.

As we try to shove Chloe's arm down the 3 inch opening (weird coincidence, eh?) and she tries not to cry, I remember taking my spare car key from my grandmother (who lives 10 minutes away from the current location of the car) and throwing it into the cyclone of my room in my apartment...which is over an hour away. I can see some people staring at us out of the corner of my eye. I can practically feel their judgement and I really want to assure them that we are not stealing this car. I try to squeeze my arm into that tiny slot and am forced to wriggle it back out, managing only to make myself red and ashy. Some bystanders are snickering and we are even more motivated to get into this car.

We've been trying to break into my car for about 5 minutes now and the adorable quirkiness of the situation has officially worn off. We are hot and tired and we want ice cream. Not to mention, we are still movieless. Out of the corner of my other eye, I see a big burly man approaching. I notice he is covered in tattoos and wearing a leather cut off vest. He is also carrying a very large crowbar. I've seen enough movies to know how this is going to end. Great. Not only are we sweating and locked out of the car...but now we are also in danger.

"HEY!"

Oh no...I really didn't want to have to run for my life today...

"Lemme see that...I think I can help." Said with a kind smile. I notice his biker girlfriend standing near him, also wearing a smile (and leather...but we're beyond that now!).

As he inspects my car, Chloe and I give each other embarrassed looks. Then we look at him. I notice that once you get past all the tattoos, Tattooman has a really kind face. Sadly, he and his crowbar are uncharacteristically unsuccessful. But Tattooman has another idea. He hands the crowbar to Bikerchick and grabs onto the window with both hands and pulls down with all his might.

"Quick! Stick your arm in there and unlock it! I'll hold it down"

The window is creaking and this seems like a really quick way to lose an apendage but Chloe tentatively puts her arm in there anyway. Still won't fit. Rats.

"Your turn! Go!"

He's getting a little red in the face and he's been so nice that I am compelled to put life and limb on the line. I put my arm in and straighten my elbow (which I have only now noticed is quite knobby). And voila! We unlock the car!!!

We give high fives and "Thank You's" to Tattooman who shrugs it off, takes his crowbar and walks back to his car.

Chloe and I coax the Turquoise Wonder into starting and drive off into the sunset. Actually it was daytime...but driving off into the sunset is a much more poetic ending.

Sometimes love looks like the bleeding heart tattoo on a biker's chest.

Love on a plane

This past weekend, I traveled to St. Louis, MO to attend my 1 year college reunion (we're a tight-knit people; don't judge us). I decided to wait until Wednesday night to do all of my laundry and find my floor beneath the numerous things that can accumulate on a floor in 3 weeks. Like most things in my life, it seemed like a good idea at the time: staying up all night to clean. I also figured 2am on a weeknight was a good time to wash and deep condition my hair. While I was at it, I added packing, eating, catching up on Glee and shaving my armpits to the list. I managed to do all these tasks with minimal (and by minimal, I mean multiple) distractions.

My original plan did include sleep, but the best laid plans of mice and men are...something something something... Who knows. I bet they don't include sleep. Anyway, 4pm creeps silently in and although I've rearranged my crayon collection, g-chatted, watched half of a random movie and planned a weekend of outfits (with alternates provided for sudden mood changes), I have not slept.

I drive to my grandmother's apartment so she can take me to the airport. I am convinced that I'm not sleepy, but I listen to very crunk music on their 40 minute ride there...just in case. In the 20 minutes it takes to drive to LAX from her apartment, I manage to fall fast asleep. I do not remember falling asleep; I just...did. I stumble out of the car and groggily check in. I somehow manage to shuffle through security without any spontaneous bouts of narcolepsy and I am beginning to feel somewhat awake by the time I get to my gate. There are only 20 minutes until boarding time, so I set my alarm and take a cat nap. My alarm sounds for an entire minute before I wake up. I gather my things and prepare to board the plane: group 3, seat 35D (an aisle seat...ew). I think to myself, I should be on the plane in 5 minutes and then I can sleep for 4 hours.

Suddenly I realize that I have fallen asleep again. I awaken, startled, to an empty terminal and the threatening sounds of the last boarding call. Why did no one wake me?!! I zoom onto the plane as fast as grogginess will allow and they nearly let the aircraft's door hit me where the good Lord split me. I am frazzled by the flight that almost wasn't. Sleep deprivation has dulled my motor skills and I bruise 38 knees on the way to my seat. When I finally arrive at my seat (when did they start making planes so long??), my neighbor demonstrates her tiny act of love.

She is entirely too happy for 6am and she is about my age and height. I don't even notice her until she invades my frazzled space with her kindness.

"Do you need some help?" Bright smile, eager nod.

Blank stare. Confusion. Sleeplessness. "...huh?"

"Do you need some help?" Still bright. Still eager.

I haven't even lifted my bag yet...just rolled it from place to place. I guess it can't be that heavy. Besides, why is she offering to help me? I don't look like I need help, do I? No need to inconvenience her...I'll just do it myself.

"Oh no...thanks, but I got it." Friendly, 6am-appropriate smile. Polite.

"No. You need help. Here...let me help you." REALLY bright. REALLY eager. She says it like I don't really have a choice and is out of her seat before I can protest.

Stranger Girl walks with me until we find an empty bin (not an easy task on a full airplane). I am still confused by her niceness, but too sleepy to argue. Why are we so resistant to kindness?? I begin to lift the bag and realize that 7 outfits and 2 pairs of shoes are actually pretty heavy. She takes the bag from me like it's hers, pops it into the bin, smiles cheerfully and walks back to her seat.

"There you go." Simple. Selfless.

"Thanks a lot. You didn't have to do that."

She smiles and shrugs. We sit next to each other and don't speak another word. All the previous frazzle has dissipated and Stranger Girl is still smiling. I feel...seen and we both fall asleep in comfortable silence.

Her act of love is complete when I overhear a man offer to get her luggage down for her when the plane lands. She smiles and lets him.

Love looks like a smiling stranger.

Anything for a smile

My Pastor must have an incredible memory. I told him my name exactly one time, in passing, and he has never forgotten. Whenever I see him, he hugs me and calls me by all five letters of my name. I feel seen; I feel important; and what's more, I feel loved. Pastor, mimicking Christ and His father, possesses and expresses a love that is godly and pure and readily available to anyone he meets. I believe that even if an acquaintance of Pastor Kerwin's was subpoenaed as a Character Witness, he would give (at the very least) the same testimony.

I say all that to say: today PK (Pastor Kerwin) privileged me with seeing yet another example of itsy bitsy love.

Church has gotten out. People are mingling, talking, hugging. Children chase each other on the grass and get too near the concrete for parental comfort. Women keep a close watch on those children, whether they belong to them or not. We send laughs into the air that sound like songs. Some people sing literally. The teens have let their guards down, pushed away their bangs and lifted up the brims of their hats long enough for us to see their faces. Men are packing things up, holding doors open, heartily slapping one another on the back. There is love all around, and it's for free.

I'm wearing a dress among a sea of jeans because that's just how I roll. I am hungry and my knees are freezing in the air of a randomly cold Pasadena day. But my heart is warmed when I see my Pastor make an absolute fool for himself in the name of a smile.

I see him jumping around and I hear the laughter before I understand what's going on. As I walk closer, I notice Pastor Kerwin is doing a Bojangles-esque jig and has even created an accompanying song. One might presume that this man of God, dressed smartly in a suit, should be a bit more...conservative in decorum. But true love, especially as demonstrated within and through the church, has little room for pious presumption. A goofy grin is plastered on his face and he seems completely unaware that he is embarrassing both himself and the Black race in broad daylight. Before I have time to be properly offended or ashamed, I notice his audience. Pastor is dancing, spinning, singing, goofing, miming and actin' a fool for the viewing pleasure of little baby Grace- stone faced in her mother's arms. The 8 month old is attentive and interested, but not yet amused. So Pastor continues to dance. And he dances until little Grace sneezes and finally cracks a smile.

I guess sometimes love looks just like a jig in broad daylight.

Blog's Inspiration and Molehill or Mountain?

The inspiration for this blog came from realizing how many times the tiniest act changed the entire course of my day. In the spirit of brevity, I will stop the explanation there. The following, is story number 1. We shall call this story: Molehill or Mountain?

Molehill or Mountain:

I work as a mental health counselor and often my work takes me into the field. On this particular day, I was traveling to a hospital near Echo Park. I googled directions and went on my merry way. Google did not feel it was necessary to inform me that I would be traversing the slopes of southern California to get to the hospital. And why anyone would build a road that goes over a hill is beyond me...but I am getting ahead of myself.

The freeway was clear and I was singing to myself. I get off the freeway and follow directions closely because I am prone to getting lost for hours and ending up in cities that do not even border my desired destination. Suddenly, I find myself at the bottom of a very steep hill. I am in one of the more...crusty...work vehicles that is known to squeal and squeak and display warning messages at random. I take a deep breath and begin lugging a few thousand pounds of metal up the hill, praying all the while. At one point in time another car appears on the thin road coming toward me and I pull over to let him pass. It is a man in a rusty utility truck and he waves a thank you.

I am now in the middle of the upward slope and I have to give the car a fair amount of gas to keep from rolling, butt first, to my imminent death. I reach the hill and feel successful. I look at my directions and they tell me to continue to drive straight. I begin to do this and realize that I do not see any road in front of me on which to drive straight. I look down and see blue sky and trees...but no road. My powers of deductive reasoning tell me that this road was built on a veritable hill...one side goes up, the other goes down (not sure why I didn't think of this while going up the hill-would have taken other route). I, being afraid of heights, start to hyperventilate and wonder out loud how I'm going to live through this and why in the world someone would build a road like this! I dramatically think about how many people have died on this road but do not notice any bodies lying around. I realize that my two options include blindly driving down a very steep hill or going backwards down its less steep but nonetheless frightening other side.

I'm just starting to cry when a man appears from a tiny (and presently unreachable) sidestreet. We'll call him Blond Man in Yellow Shirt, BMYS for short. BMYS shows me a tiny 15 second act of love and helps me conquer a 23 year old fear. He pauses his car, gives me his biggest smile and a thumbs up and shouts (I assume he shouted because I cannot hear him-both our windows are up...maybe he mouthed it. Who knows. I imagine he shouted, though...anyway...)"YOU CAN DO IT!!!!" I nod and one little tear falls. He nods his head encouragingly and I grab my steering wheel and drive down that mountain. My car groans in protest and I have to keep my foot pressed firmly on the brake to keep the car from gaining too much momentum.

I make it to the bottom 45 very scary seconds later and find myself in very pretty scenery. Feeling accomplished, I tell myself that driving over that molehill wasn't so bad! Then I turn around and see the big wall of gray divided by a dotted yellow line (Sidenote: DOTTED LINE!?!?! WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD EVER PASS ANYONE ON THAT ROAD??)and make a mental note to find another route back to the office.

I say a small prayer of thanks for the lovely man who took 15 seconds to demonstrate love and encourage a girl whose name he'll never know.

The search begins!

I don't really need to look far to find love; it's everywhere! It's in the little things. It's in the big things. It's in us. Psalms 33:5 says:

The Lord loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love.

God, who is not merely an example of love but actually IS love (1 John 4:16), has filled the earth with Himself. Our job is to mirror Gods love to one another (John 15:17). I believe that people are capable of adhering to God's command to love. I even believe that people DO follow this command! So as I seek to love more and more like God, I will seek to SEE the love around me.

I purpose to see the beauty of love in all things (Philippians 4:8). I choose to point out even the most minute evidence of love, because I believe that where there is a little, there is potential for a lot.

Maybe if we paid more attention to love, people would be more lovely. Plus, I think it's a little rude that God illustrates all this love on a daily basis and we just ignore it.

So! Off we go!

See you on my search!

Love,
Sarah