Everyday Life

I’ve been a bit emotional lately, crying at the drop of a hat–and no, it’s not about the car accident. It’s just that I’m so blessed.

Tuesday at work was insane. My pedometer read that I had walked 1400 steps during the 9.5 hours that I was there. (Yep, I stayed an extra hour.) By the time it was over, my feet were killing me and I was tireder than tired. I went to the library, where I finished the book I needed to return. On the drive home, I contemplated the dishes. I’d been too busy or tired to dishes in almost a week–and we’d managed to use nearly every pan in our cupboards (I think there were 8 or 9 unwashed pans sitting on the counter). I entertained a little dream that a fairy would come and do the dishes like the Shoemaker and the elves–or that maybe my roommate would do dishes. When I opened the garage door to find that Casandra’s car wasn’t there, I knew that the latter couldn’t be true. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that the light was on in my kitchen and Grace was elbow deep in dishwater. I almost cried.

Wednesday, I walked into work at 6:25 as usual and the greeter at the front door said hi. Then he stopped me to tell me how much he appreciates that I’m always happy and friendly when I come in. I teared up.

As I was about to leave Wednesday afternoon, my office-mate told me that I was the most professional intern they’ve had yet. He struggled to explain himself, mentioning how I was task oriented and stayed busy. Which, to me, is a pretty high compliment. I turned my face back towards my computer as my eyes got watery.

Then came the car accident. I was rear-ended, pushing me into the car in front of me, giving me a bit of whiplash, and decimating my car. It took the police 45 minutes to show up (of course). I was so thankful that I had several books in my bag and could read while I waited. I read two (long) chapters of The Endurance: Shackleton’s Legendary Antarctic Expedition, a chapter of The Cost of Discipleship, and a Taste of Home Magazine before all was said and done. I didn’t cry, but I felt pretty blessed to have those books there with me.

After I couldn’t start my car, I called my parents to see if someone could come and get me. Dad came along and we dropped by Simply the Best Autos to talk to our good friend Robin. Robin and Dad went out to see if they could get Jack (my car) while I watched the shop (gulp!) They brought Jack over to the lot and I only looked stupidly, stammered, and handed out business cards to two gentlemen who were asking about the prices on cars. Then Robin loaned me a car for today and gave me the information I needed to deal with insurance agents. I could have cried.

I got to the folks house and soon had a concerned bevy about me. Mom, Dad, Josh, and Dan all wanted to hear. They asked questions and shared reassurances. And they laid hands on me and prayed for me. I cried again.

Dad did the hard work of calling the last guy in line’s insurance company and getting the ball rolling on insurance claims. I’m so thankful he was willing to go through the insurance rigmarole for me.

Daniel went to my house and got Schindler’s List from my desk so we could watch it together while I re-cuped. I cried all the way through.

We were hungry but didn’t feel like making anything (imagine that!), so I called the kids to see if they could pick up Popeye’s on their way home from youth group. My roommate paid for our meal, even though she had errands to run and couldn’t join us for it.

The movie got over and the kiddos started telling me about how Jeremy said something in his sermon that evening because I wasn’t there. He said that Eve sinned first–and that he could say that because I wasn’t there (I would, naturally, protest that Eve was deceived per I Timothy but Adam was the first to willfully sin.) Then, the kids tell me, he went on to tell the students that I was one of the best sponsors he’d had and that I was just wonderful–telling them anecdotes about stuff I’d done and everything. I cried as they told me.

Anna called, concerned once Daniel told her the news, and gave me all sorts of advice. She told me I shouldn’t be stoic and should go to the doctor to get some narcotics if they pain got too bad (by God’s grace, it hasn’t been that bad yet). She worried over me a bit, and told me I could sleep in her bed tonight (since climbing into my loft is not exactly the easiest thing when my back and neck are screaming at me.) Then she texted our other part-time roomie, who promptly Facebooked me her concern and that she was praying. I’m too blessed.

Perhaps I should be worried because I’m without a car and starting my community rotation (in which I will have to do a great deal of traveling) on Monday. Perhaps I should be upset that my wonderful, reliable Jack is totaled. Perhaps I should be overcome by the pain in my back and neck. But instead, I’m overwhelmed by the grace and favor of God.

Some days are just a time to cry.

Norovirus is going around the state of Nebraska–and I just might have it. I can’t say for sure, as my immune system seems pretty strong and I’m not spewing from both ends as someone with a weaker system might do if faced with Norovirus–but still. With a mild fever, gastrointestinal cramps, and a touch of diarrhea, I’m staying home from church.

Hopefully you will escape the bugs that are traveling about this winter, but in case you don’t, I figured I’d share a little ditty that I wrote myself. It’s called the “sick song”.

Sung to the tune of WestSide Story’s “I feel pretty”:
I feel icky
Oh so yicky
I feel icky and yicky and gross

I was staring blankly at the tabloids, lost in my own little world, when I noticed the guy behind me in line. More specifically, I noticed that he was leaning a bit over the belt as if he was looking for a divider. I silently handed him one, still paying no attention to anything–except the vague “Huh” I was muttering in my head regarding Heath Ledger’s fatherless daughter.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what the man behind me was placing on the belt. Whole grain cheerios, sweet potatoes, spinach, carrots, skim milk– That was enough to jolt me out of my reverie. This guy was seriously attractive. I had to take a look. So I stole a quick peek.

On my glance away, I saw the canvas grocery bags lying in his cart. And almost swooned. Seriously. I mean, I’m not fond of calling things “hot”, but that was HOT.

And now my secret is out. I judge people by the contents of their shopping carts.

When I see a cart full of fresh fruits and veggies, with lots of raw ingredients and not many pre-processed items, I applaud internally. And if the shopper happens to be male, between the ages of 20 and 40, and buying only enough for one, I think “Soul Mate.” (At which point I remind myself that there’s more to life than food–even if being an unpicky eater who loves vegetables ranks high on my dream guy list.)

When I see a cart loaded with pre-packaged foods, predominantly snack foods, I cringe and wonder. I tell myself not to be so judgemental–after all, everyone has different circumstances–and if people judged me by the contents of my grocery bag, they might come up with the wrong impression too.

For instance, this week I bought white flour, shortening, mozzarella and provolone cheese, canned mushrooms, oatmeal, and raisins. The person who sees that (like the hot guy behind me) doesn’t know that I have milk, carrots, romaine lettuce, Omega Eggs, celery, cabbage, turnips, and cauliflower in my fridge. He doesn’t know that I have bananas, apples, and oranges on my counter. He doesn’t know that I have carrots, corn, lima beans, broccoli, peas, stir fry vegetables, and chicken breasts in my freezer. He doesn’t know that I have home canned tomatoes, green beans, and applesauce in my cupboard. He doesn’t know that I have brown rice, dried beans, whole wheat pasta, onions, and red potatoes in my pantry. He doesn’t know that I make my own whole wheat bread and whole grain corn tortillas or my own yogurt. He really doesn’t know anything about me based on this week’s purchases.

So what if the hot guy behind me was judging me based on my purchases? If he were looking at me through my eyes, he’d probably be thinking: “Pretty girl. I like the shopping bag–is that homemade? But look at what she’s buying. Does she realize that everything she’s buying is WHITE? She probably doesn’t even cook–probably taking oatmeal cookies to an event.”

He might have had a really good-looking cart, but I ruined my chances with mine. Apart from his thank you when I handed him a divider, we didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Just another attractive guy to admire from a distance.

when your eyeglasses frost over with the air from your nostrils.

For those with asthma and similar conditions (such as the euphemistically named “exercise-induced bronchospasm”), cold can be an enemy. Cold air is dry air, and dry air increases asthma symptoms.

So since the walk into class this afternoon had me wheezing a bit, I told myself I’d take precautions on the trip back to my car. I wrapped my scarf tightly around my face, covering my mouth and nose. This kept more moisture in and warmed the air slightly before I breathed it in. It’s a common recommendation for asthmatic individuals dealing with low temperatures.

While the scarf technique was successful at preventing wheezing on the way back from class, there were some unexpected complications. The scarf channelled some of my breath up and behind my eyeglasses, causing them to fog over–and then frost over.

So I walked back to my car blind. I lifted the glasses to look both ways before crossing the main street, and replaced them a little low on my nose (so that I could look over them if needed for the rest of the trip.)

Once I got back to the car, I turned it on and waited for a few minutes for my glasses to thaw. It didn’t take too long before they thawed and the water ran off onto my cheeks in two huge teardrops.

Not even probably… Life couldn’t possibly better be. (Lyrics from The Court Jester.)

But truly I have been blessed. I’m not sure life can get much better than it is right now.

I love my job (er, internship). Today I rolled a bazillion cinnamon rolls, plated some Bundt cake, observed the tray line, sat in on an interview, compared menus on old computer system and new, and rifled through some cooking magazines for recipe ideas.

I love my home. Today I baked off a few extra cinnamon rolls, made some hamburger buns, made a chicken pot pie from scratch (and my pie crust was FLAKY-Yay! I’ve finally mastered it!), started some more yogurt going, washed and replaced the sofa slipcovers, dusted and vacuumed the living room, swept and mopped the kitchen, and washed the “Joy to the World” off the patio door.

I love God. He met me at 5(am) before I left for work, He kept me safe and focused throughout the day. He’s restored my emotions (something I was beginning to think was impossible while I remained on the antidepressant.) And this evening I got a call from a friend I used to meet with regularly to do Bible study with. She said she had some extra time on Friday and she’s missed hanging out with me and talking about God. So we’re getting together this Friday to talk about God. Then my little sister had news–a family friend accepted Jesus as his Savior this evening at youth group.

Now I know I should be getting ready for bed–I do have to work (er, intern) tomorrow at 6:30–but tell me, can life possibly be better?

Life couldn’t possibly– not even probably– life couldn’t possibly better BE!

Lincoln’s hippies are alive and well–if you know how to find them.

Incidentally, I stumbled upon a hippie hostel just this afternoon.

I’d never been to our local cooperative grocery, preferring instead to shop at Super Saver, where food is plentiful and inexpensive.

But today I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to buy some vanilla beans to make vanilla extract with. So I stopped in at Open Harvest.

The clerk was my age, but her hair hung wavy and free down her back. Her peasant skirt and Birkenstocks flaunted her counter-culture, natural-health identity. The customers were either young people with multiple piercings or middle-aged men. I felt immediately out of place in my trim turquoise suit with hose and business flats. Only my homemade white canvas shopping bag kept me from being immediately ejected as an outsider.

Reserving judgement, the clerk asked me if I was a member/owner. I told her no, I was not. She asked me if I’d like information about membership. Sure, I said, why not. She sized me up one last time before making her final suggestion: “Would you rather just take a brochure home to read at your leisure? Or did you want me to tell you about it now?” Her assessment was apt–I’d certainly rather take home a brochure.

I liked the store. Really, I did. I have little use for organic food, but Open Harvest has more than organic to recommend it. A wide selection of bulk foods–esoteric grains, beans, and spices. Several different gluten-free flours (to experiment with for education sake and to use to cook for a friend with celiac.) Essential oils and the like. I enjoyed my quick visit. I’ll probably be back.

But I don’t know if I’ll drop by quickly after work any more. I’d rather change before I go–put on my longest skirt and tons of beads, let down my hair and hide my lack of Birkenstocks. I’ll get myself some Patchouli or not put on deodorant in the morning–anything to cover up the absence of the distinctive odor of marijuana or clove cigarettes. No one mentioned my lack of non-conformity today, but I don’t know if I could get away with it a second time.