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Changing Times

It was my lunch hour some weeks ago. The tiny restaurant was filled with hungry customers so I was relieved and surprised when I spotted an empty table near the entrance. I plopped my purse on the seat next to me and was just about to take a bite of a sizzling hot French fry when I saw my cellphone light up. 

It was my mom. 


"I just want to say that you are such a good daughter. You're always giving, you always show love, you care about others. You never gave me any trouble. I'm sure you're a good friend too."


It was an unexpected boost. I smiled as I soaked up her praise. But then, her voice tinged with concern, she said,

"I just don't want you to be alone."

I spent the latter part of the call reassuring her that my solo life will turn into a duet soon. But a part of me saddened when she said that. 


Whether she will admit to it or not, my mother has a very simple equation for a good life:

Happiness=Husband

I think a lot of women in her generation know that type of math by heart. 


My mother was born in the 1950s, an era where the minute there was a Mr. to your Mrs., you were set for life. 


In that time, a single woman in her late-twenties was as rare a sight as a unicorn galloping in Times Square. 


Which is why it's an enigma to her why a woman like me is still untaken.


Times have changed. 


For the large part, the need for marriage is gone but the want still remains.


So out of those that want it, there's a section of us who want to do it with God's help. 


Out of that population, there are some that have a not-so-minor prerequisite.


Out of that portion, there are some that have an additional requirement.


Such ratios don't make dating and finding a mate impossible.


But they do make it difficult. 


Not good news for eager and concerned mothers.


During another similar conversation, my mother mused, 

"I'll sure be glad when you bring home a beau." 

I laughed silently at her use of the dated term and thought, 


I'll be glad too, Mom. 

All That

Everyone has an unwritten (or secretly written) list of attributes, features, and assets that attract them to the opposite sex. 


Some men like women with long legs. 


Some women drool over men with goatees. 


Some men are driven by women with pixie haircuts. 


Some women are captivated by men who can croon and vocalize with the best of them.


For me?


 I think I'm pretty easy. 


I have no real preference. I've found myself attracted to men who range in height, education, complexion, weight, vocal talent, etc. 


But one thing that I find attractive is something that I can't compromise on. 


It's a nonnegotiable. 


A must-have.


A deal-breaker.

A relationship with Christ.

Someone who won't look confused when I ask him to pray for me.


Someone who places His will at the top of his daily To-Do list. 


Someone whose relationship with Christ is so important that he knows Him before he even meets me. 


Not a perfect Christian. Not a perfect man. But someone who has a real-life relationship with Jesus Christ. 


And because of this, I was told that I want too much. 

"You have to be willing to give chances."

"Men aren't as spiritual as we are." 

"As long as he believes in God, he should be all right. "

"You can't expect 'all that'."   

 The feedback was unexpected and dumped me into a sea of thoughts. 

Am I requesting too much?

Maybe because I'm not as familiar with relationships as they are, that's too much to ask. 

But if I'm doing "all that", why can't he?

I felt alone. 

Like I was swimming against the current. 

Going against the grain. 

Hiking up a hill while everyone else was sliding down. 

But after shedding a few tears and praying about it, I came away with a measure of resolve and assurance. 

I shouldn't apologize for desiring someone whose walk with God is in unison with mine. 

I can expect all that. 

And will. 

Strangers Again

It seems like love stories always happen the same way. 


Two strangers who...


by mutual friends...


mutual interests...


attend the same school...


work at the same place...


use the same gym...


eat at the same diner...


or just by chance...


meet and begin a conversation that leads into an encounter that trails into a relationship. 


But once the shiny pink paint is rubbed off and the burnt brown of rust begins to show, a relationship will go through changes and stages.


A friend of mine sent me this video that I feel does a superb job of illustrating this truth. 

My takeway from it:


It's what you do at certain stages that determines how it will end. 

Who loves you more?

The worst kept secret in my 7th grade class was Jimmy's crush on Raquel. His infatuation with her was public knowledge, from the skinny buck-toothed class reject to our math and homeroom teacher. His cheeks would flush red whenever she'd speak to him. He'd spoil her with sodas and Crybabies from the corner store. A natural comedian, he would turn his talent on high to hear her laugh and see her smile. 

It was equally evident how his attraction to her was not exactly returned.

Raquel was beautiful. She knew it, Jimmy knew it, and the entire male body of our 7th and 8th grade classes knew it. But chubby Jimmy was only good enough to hang out with, take gifts from, and become distracted from the uselessness of middle school classwork. He wasn't considered worthy for entry in her circle of suitors. 

I remember watching Jimmy trail after Raquel, shamelessly fawning after someone who would never fully reciprocate his actions. 

And at 12, it seemed off to me. 

It still does at 26. 

But I hear that, in a way, that's how it should be. 

A friend of mine said, 

"In a relationship, the man should love the woman more than the woman loves the man. Women, we already love with all we have. So if our man loves us more than we do him, it will balance out."

True, men and women do love differently. 

But when you start to measure, what conversion chart do you use? 

Two of his "I love you's" equals 10 of mine?

Three of his kisses equals 5 of my hugs?

Nine of his hours spent helping me with my thesis equals 3 days of me taking care of him while he recovered from surgery?

Or is it 10 of his hours?

It's tricky talk when we begin to speak of love in matters of portion. 

Love is intangible and if it can be weighed, the scales don't exist.

 All in all, love is rarely what you say but always what you do. 

So make sure you're doing something. 

Hard

Something inside of me hardened. 


It's an odd feeling to get when someone is giving you advice. 


Yet it happened. 


I felt sadness fill my core. 


My mouth contorted in an attempt to stop the pending frown.


And something in me became solid and hard as steel. 


Usually, I welcome spoonfuls of guidance from those I trust. 


But I couldn't digest this dose.


I tried to swallow each letter. 


Each syllable. 


Each argument. 


But I vomited them all up immediately.


And I didn't understand why.


And it troubled me deeply.


So I went home. 


Sat on the steps. 


And thought. 


And prayed. 


And cried. 


Then it came to me. 

Maybe it's not digesting because it's not supposed to. 

I hardened for a reason.

Hardened so that the pounding of her words against my heart wasn't enough to break through. 

Hardened so that it would obliterate the precarious logic behind her reasoning. 

Hardened so that the truth encased within me wouldn't be tainted. 

People can be sincere in their advice. 

And they can be sincerely wrong. 

Look Up

My day starts at an hour when most people are still sleeping. 


The sound of chirping birds fall into my ears, singing a duet with my alarm clock.


My eyes half closed, I place a bare foot on the floor. 


I turn towards the window but I don't know why. I can't see anything because it's still dark. 


The motion of walking wakes up my leg muscles as I begin the routine. 


Shower. 


CNN. 


Toothbrush.


Eggs.


Comb.


Mascara. 


Coat.


Keys. 


Door. 


The morning air is brisk and flushes away whatever sleep is left in me. 


My body's awake but my mind fully isn't. 


I've forgotten something.


But then I look up. 


I see licorice black branches against the cool gray sky. 


Or an orange flood bleeding into the fresh morning. 


Or a wide stroke of periwinkle floating in the atmosphere. 


Or a creamy cluster of pink clouds slow dancing in the air. 


I look up and see God. 


And I remember what and Who I've forgotten. 
________________________________
The heavens proclaim the glory of God.
 The skies display His craftsmanship.
 Day after day they continue to speak;
 Night after night they make Him known.
 They speak without a sound or word;their voice is never heard.
 Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world.


-Psalm 19:1-4

Power Trip

 It was a sad story. A minister was convicted of murdering his wife in order to carry on multiple affairs with women in his congregation. Most of the women had reached out to him for help with failing marriages. But their trust in him soon became obviously misplaced. 


A woman who had been one of the minister's lovers and her husband sat before the television reporter with matching melancholy expressions. 


And the woman said something that stuck in my brain: 

"Power corrupts and church is a place [where] people can get power."

The ideas sound so foreign next to each other. 

Corrupt control and church. 


Clout in a holy place. 


But it can happen..so easily.


Raise your hand and you become head over the 75th church anniversary committee. 


Attend a meeting and your name is typed in as the guest speaker at this year's conference. 


Show your face and say "Hallelujah" enough times and you earn a permanent seat on the third row on the dais, in perfect view of the podium. 


Then titles become Velcroed to first names. 


Expectation and duties are heightened to a frightening level. 


True leadership becomes disfigured.

And then the main idea is forgotten.

Because how can anyone really have power or pull or sway in the Almighty's house? 


When we're all supposed to be servants?
__________________________________________________________________
Jesus got them together to settle things down. "You've observed how godless rulers throw their weight around," He said, "and when people get a little power how quickly it goes to their heads. It's not going to be that way with you. Whoever wants to be great must become a servant. Whoever wants to be first among you must be your slave. That is what the Son of Man has done: He came to serve, not to be served—and then to give away His life in exchange for many who are held hostage."


-Mark 10:41-45 (The Message)

Tied

Evelyn was quiet for a moment.

I could tell she was mentally digging into her past, brushing off old encounters. 

And I could see memories lining her eyes. 

I saw pain pad her cheeks.

And I felt the icy sick atmosphere of regret fill the room as she exhaled. 

"I'm telling you this because I've been there."

Her voice wasn't soaked with her normal sunshined wisdom. 

It was coated with solemn experience. 

"Sex is not as simple as people want to believe it is." 

In her younger days, Evelyn was far from loose. With candied yam colored skin and wide soulful eyes, she had no trouble getting attached.

But when it came to men, she was understandably discriminating. She didn't have dreams of cavalier casanovas or l'amour de la journée. 

She wanted longevity, permanence. 

Someone whose heart for God and His will would be identical to hers. 

So she dated. 

Entertained a select few here. 

Dined with a select few there. 

Yet none of them captivated her. 

Until he came. 

And she fell. 

Hard. 

His tenor timbre tickled and dripped down her fingertips. 

His rugged swagger warmed her belly. 

His company soothed her heart. 

His very being was like moonshine. 

Intoxicating her past the point where control was an option and concern was a choice. 

Her grip was lost.

And a willing spirit lay defeated. 

But all remained well until things went south. 

The man exited.

And Evelyn was single again...but not really. 

She explained, 

"Physical intimacy is not just physical. It took me years to get over him because I was literally still tied to him. I could feel him even if he was miles away. He could even feel when I was upset. 

That is why God didn't design us to do this carefreely. It was created with a lifelong bond in mind. 

Spirits become wrapped together.

Yours with his. His with yours."

My soul tied to another's. A knot that can't easily be undone. 


Another lesson that's making me think. 

Spoiler alert

When I was younger and would hear the story of how my parents met, I'd close my eyes and imagine myself watching how it all went down. 

I'd see my father walk into the department store, trying not to trip over his bellbottom pants. He picks out his Afro with the fist-handled pick and sticks his nametag on his shirt. As he heads to the cash register, he encounters a new employee, a cashier, on her first day of work. 

With a neat mini-fro and a dusky brown wrap dress, my mother introduces herself and flashes a shy smile. My father, the store manager, says hi and goes on about his way, noting to himself that the new girl has quite the pretty smile. 

I wondered what would happen if I went back in time, entered the store at that moment, and told them all that would happen. 

You two are going to fall in love!

You're going to propose to her in 7 years! 

You're going to have two children! 

There will be financial difficulties and in-law issues but you will be married for more than a quarter century!

I'm sure they'd look at me, look at each other, and deem me certifiable. 

But if  I told them how the story will go...

How it will progress...

How it will end...

If they knew all that, it might make things easier. 

Make nights more restful. 

Make days less stressful. 

Make their hearts more comfortable.

But...

If they knew all that, it would have messed up their faith walk. 

Such knowledge would have eliminated lessons that God wanted them learn. 

It would have ruined the story. 

There are days where I imagine my future daughter watching my story unfold. 

Is her father standing right before my eyes, and she's screaming at me to recognize him?

Is she blurting out spoilers?

Is she reading lines written in the script before they are even said? 

She probably is. 

But I have to be glad I can't hear her.

Trying to continue to trust Him

BFF (Part 3)

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Robin gripped the steering wheel as she spoke. Her lilac lidded eyes were narrowed as she focused on the road and awaited my answer. 


But I chewed on the lid of my coffee cup and kept silent.

"Come on. I'm waiting for you to tell me that I'm wrong for feeling this way. Tell me I'm wrong." 

But I couldn't tell her. Because she wasn't. And, 

"I would feel the exact same way." 

Reassured in her feelings, Robin let out a sigh that sounded rough and weary.

 We were on our way home from Lola's birthday party. After months of planning, it had finally arrived. But it was anything but fun. 

Feet throbbing from standing for 6 hours in heels while serving food.

Fingers skinned from twisting plastic flowers. 

Heads spinning from loud DJ music. 

Wallets empty from expense... after expense.... after expense... after expense. 

All while trying to keep a decade plus long friendship in tact. 

It was sad to hear about Lola's behavior. Robin had been venting to me about her rudeness throughout the party's planning process.

Her unreasonableness.

Her ego.

Indeed, it was sad.

But not surprising. 

In high school during a few brief moments, her mask cracked and through its crevices, I saw pieces of bad temper and egotism.

It was just a quick peek here or there. 

I saw it then. 

But Robin never did and thus was caught completely off guard.

It's crazy how certain situations can shake the mask completely off and reveal what else is inside. 

And trigger new opinions about an old friend.

Wait

There are moments in my singleness where I start to wander and wonder...

About where he is and where He is...

About if I expect too much...

About what would happen if I throw caution/wisdom/knowledge/conviction out the window and settle for whatever I can get...

But after that, I always come to the same conclusion: 

It's best to wait. 

Last weekend, a friend sent this poem to me. This woman says it so much better than I ever could. 

Not saying that I want someone who can spit Scripture at a moment's notice ('cause I can't). 

Not saying that I'm the epitome of Proverbs 31 (I can't even sew).

But someone who understands that Christ doesn't come off like a coat you can't wear anymore? 

Someone who's running the same race I am and towards the same finish line I'm trying to get to?

Yes, I'll take that.

Thank You Lord for the Monday morning encouragement.

Weak

In my grandmother's library, there was a book of Bible stories that I loved to read. The stories were short, making it easy for my 9-year-old self to understand. But what I liked the most about the book were the illustrations. 


There was one in particular that I remember, a picture that depicted the story of Samson and Delilah. In this drawing, Delilah was a knockout. Shiny ebony locks that cascaded down her shoulders, pouty red lips, and kohl rimmed eyelids.  She wore a dreamy, almost seductive expression as she looked at Samson, who seemed to be completely charmed by this woman.


I was talking to my life coach this week, and she introduced a thought to me that never crossed my mind. 


She heard a pastor once say that,  

"Whoever said that Delilah was beautiful? Her appearance isn't spoken of anywhere in the story. Her most notable feature is her ability to extract the secret of Samson's strength.  And how was she able to do it? She provided a place of solace and comfort, a place for him to lay his head." 

What a concept. 

Samson, after a day of leading Israel and fighting their enemies, recovers and rests in Delilah's arms and lap. She gently massages his scalp and smooths his curls around her index finger while cooing soft words of comfort and peace.  

I had always envisioned Delilah as this ridiculously gorgeous femme fatale, a Halle Berry twin with a body so curvaceous that all she had to do was whisper a request, and it would be done in 3 seconds flat. 

But the idea, not that she might have been an average looking gal, but that it was her disposition, her aura, and her personality that was so soothing that it made the strongest man in the world give up his might....

There is a lesson I can take from that (minus Delilah's terrible betrayal). 


I want to be a place where my love can rest easy...


be secure....


breathe deeply....


and not have his trust interrupted.


A place where he can become weak and know his power is safe with me. 

Watch What You Eat

Water Cooler Lesson of the Week:

Before you indulge in the office’s free lunch, consider the hands that made and touch it. 

A couple of months ago, a coworker of mine brought in a homemade carrot cake. He placed it on a nearby island for anyone with a sugar jones to enjoy. The frosting was creamy and inviting. The cherries on top looked fresh and sweet. But I was halfway through my slice of cake when I noticed Amy’s stern look. 

“What?” I said, with my mouth full.

She asked me, “Why are you eating from them?”

I searched her face for any sign of humor or glee. But there was none. She was all business.

But I had no idea where she was coming from. “What do you mean?”

“You know we don’t eat from them. You only see them here but who knows what their habits are like at home. You don’t know what their kitchens look like. You don’t know if they’re clean. And some of them you know for sure aren't!”

Another friend told me a similar story of a former coworker who would always share her dishes with the office. My friend never partook of the offered treats due to the fact that said coworker went dumpster diving on a regular basis.

My appetite suddenly gone, I looked down at my slice of cake and slowly flipped it over into a nearby trashcan.

Recently, a dessert of a giant chocolate dipped, candy confetti encrusted fortune cookie was placed in the kitchen. I watched as whole palms groped the cookie, noses swept over the chocolate, and coffee-odored breath moistened the sprinkles.

While watching, I saw Amy out of the corner of my eye. She smirked and gave me a knowing nod.

That’s why we don’t eat from them.