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.