Kiss Me And Smile For Me

It's a rather dreary day in San Diego. Occasional drips outside my window inform me that it rained during the night despite the red clouds that graced the dusk sky yesterday.

I'd like to think the city's going to miss me but as today brings reminiscent emotions, I have to admit that I've done rather nothing to impact it as a whole. But people. People will miss me.

I'm sitting here munching on a bowl of protein cereal and mixed berry yogurt, taking a breather and running off a few online errands before the chaos of today really begins. I need about 10 extra hours in the day. But it'll all get done, I'm sure.

In twenty-four hours, I will be sitting on a Boeing 757 on a nonstop flight to Dulles Airport on the first leg of my 38-hour journey that will take up two full days. 14 of those hours will be spent in London, 3 in Washington D.C., and the rest sitting on planes. Or sleeping on planes. Or hopelessly trying not to pace on planes.

My car is Deanne's. My phone is Jen's. A rather fascinating group of friends are being separated from me to go on with their lives- an adventure of which I will not be a part.

I will be embarking on an adventure all my own.

I can't be sure why it worked out this way- why I'm going and they're not. But it's God's plan, for sure, and He is working in our lives.

I will say this:

I'm going to miss John's stupid jokes about making out that never came to fruition.
I'm going to miss those awkward silences when Caesar said something that no one else got.
I'm going to miss the sound of Gary's voice as he prattles on about things which I already know.
I'm going to miss whispering conspiratorially with Jessie about doing nice things for people.
I'm going to miss heckling Rachael as she gets ready in the morning.
I'm going to miss talking to my mom on the phone as I pull in the driveway.
I'm going to miss calling Andrea and telling her she needs to come over.
I'm going to miss sitting on Deanne's bed late at night sharing concerns and praying with each other.

Warm beachy summers. Cool sunny winters. Taking phone calls from numbers I don't recognize and talking to someone I haven't heard from in years. Doing phone surveys and spending hours chatting with the interviewer after the survey is over. Walking around the mall, always visiting the same stores. Semi-dates with guy friends that end with a long hug and a healthy respect for each other. Annual movie nights at Elita's. Sitting in on Fred's class. Smiling at people I don't know at church. Heckling Mike C. during Sunday School.

Inside jokes.

I've travelled all over North and South America. I've traipsed across Europe. I've been in city after city. But San Diego, like a faithful lover, has always taken me back and let me live here. Dear San Diego, you hold my heart. Don't forget me.



And so, friends, as I bid you all adieu, I offer you this: It is my quiet goal in life, and I hope that you make it yours.



Breathe Deep. Seek Peace.

Mochatini and a Pickle

My sending service at church was last night. I was miserable all day preparing for it. I knew that I function better without prep, but I needed a Power Point because Pastor told me to. So I wanted to die.

But then Gary called.

Of all the people I talked to that afternoon, he calmed me down.

"Hey, Gary," I said, a little less upbeat than usual.
"Hello, Kathy." Immediately I felt better.
"So," he continued. "Caesar and I were wondering where your church is. Because we don't want to go to Shadow tonight."
I gave him directions and he relayed them to Caesar.
"I'm going to tell everyone I see to come to your church," he said. "Do you want me to call Sherri?"
"Sure, could you?"
"Of course."
"Gary, you're the best," I said, now smiling.
"I do try," was the reply, but I don't think he does.
He chatted for a moment and I could feel my blood pressure dropping, my headache receding, and my cry-reflex slowly sinking back into the abyss.
"Well Kathy, you have a wonderful afternoon and I will most definitely see you tonight."
"Thanks. It means a lot to me."

We hung up and I stopped flipping out about my Power Point. God was in charge.
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After the service, a million people came up to me and hugged me. Gary waited for a lull and squeezed me a little tighter than usual. I buried my face in his shoulder for a moment. Pause. And then back to everyone else.
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Deanne, Andrea, Justin B., Caesar, Gary, and I went to Applebee's after, joking around, taking pictures, snarfing food. Well, I was snarfing food. I hadn't eaten in 24 hours, and you better believe I was devouring those garlic mashed potatoes like no tomorrow.

I said some things that were rather inappropriate, crude, and just plain unnecessary. Partially because I was tired, partially because I was with good friends. Luckily, only Gary heard my comments. He smiled forgivingly and just shook his head. He didn't make a big deal. He didn't make fun of me. He just let me be. That was maybe more convicting than if he'd said something.

After the meal, we all got our checks and the two of us finished off our drinks. I was getting out my credit card when Gary smoothly pulled my charge slip from its black holder. "I'll take care of that," he said.
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Minus Deanne, we went back to Andrea's to watch a comedy video and hang out. Quick hug after midnight and I was off.
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So here's to Gary. I know he doesn't read this blog, but that doesn't change my opinion of him nor does it prevent me from being in his debt.

Gary, you showed you cared about me in a way that most people could never approach. You knew how to handle my nutty (and sometimes raunchy) side. You're gracious and Christlike in almost everything you do and while you do have your faults, you readily admit them and show that you're working on them.

My close female friends have provided a sanctuary for me, listening ears, and greater friendships than I could ever presume to deserve.

But Gary, you are a breath of fresh air when it comes to my male friends. You make no presumptions, you show no expectations of reward. You serve because you can and you care. You're the truest kind of friend there is. I'm proud to have you as a brother. Thank you for living Christ.

Tales from the Preschool

"Kathy! Can I borrow you for a second?" Karin yelled from across the hall. People are always "borrowing" me at work, so with a "yup" I stepped over the toddler gate, took two steps, and was in Karin's classroom, where her Pre-Kindergarteners were sitting around the horseshoe-shaped table tracing letter Xs. On their sheets were drawings of a man in a throne, and the name Xerxes.

"I figured I'd ask the resident genius Bible aficionado. Where can I find King Xerxes in the Bible? The kids want to know why he looks so mad."

I had to laugh at that, because while I would have liked to recount the events of 300 in detail to Karin thus explaining why Xerxes was royally (pun intended) pissed off, she had asked about Biblical reference to the man.

"Uh, either Daniel or Esther. Check Daniel first," I finally said, considering calling my mother to ask. Karin was already flipping through the Bible in front of her though, and I was leaning across the table trying to catch a glimpse of any key words. "There, there!"

"Then Darius the Mede, son of Xerxes..." I jumped. "Hey, go to Esther!"

Karin flipped through the pages. Esther begins, "Now it came to pass in the days of Xerxes..."

I had to chew on that for a while. Was Darius the Mede Esther's son? More research required.

So I went back into the toddler room and proceeded to teach the animal dance to Ryan, who calls me "Mom." We were being snakes and monkeys and elephants and tigers (oh my!) when Karin burst into the room. "Kathy!"

I walked over to the door where she was half-leaning in. "This Xerxes guy was kind of a player," she said. "Maybe that's why he was so mad. Maybe he caught something. Maybe it hurt to pee."
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Side note on Ryan. His dad's a sheriff downtown. His mom's not in the picture. He's nineteen months old. When he first started, he didn't call me anything. Then, he graduated to calling both Rhonda and me "Noh-na". That evolved into calling Rhonda "Noh-na" and me "Moh-ma." Which evolved into "Mama". I tried to correct this.

"No, not Mama. Miss Kathy." Ryan was unfazed.

"No," he'd say stubbornly. "Mama." This week, I'm "Mom." He saw a picture of me in the church lobby, pointed to it, and said, "Mom!"

Jennifer asked him what her name was. "Jenzxjioenghiok." "Close enough," she said, then jabbed her thumb at me. "What's her name?"

He looked at me, smiled, and said, "Mom."
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P.S. Further research suggests that Darius was either Esther's son, or her father-in-law. Cool in a very geeky way.

Characters

The people at the Blue Agave where we go dancing seem like caricatures of stereotypes.



Walter, the instructor, is an amazing dancer. He leads strongly but kindly. He's very forgiving when you don't get a cue. There's a sadness in his eyes that makes me wonder what he's lost.

Sara is beautiful, graceful, and polished. Her dancing is understated and fluid. Perfect. But she's young and she's still learning. Under Walter's tutelage, she looks like she was born with cloth heels on.

The rest don't have names in my mind.

The Man Who Never Dances sits at the first table by the rail, watching. He sometimes joins in the dance class, smiling at those of us who are fairly competent. His motions are smooth, quiet. He doesn't make you feel like he's taking the class so he can get his hands on you. He always wears cowboy boots and jeans. His dark hair is held back in a moderately long pony tail.

That Woman has about four dresses that she rotates. She's in her forties, I'd guess. Her hair is dyed blonde, but her roots are dark. Her body is not great, but she has no problem showing it off. Her dancing is flawless, but she never smiles.

The Funny Guy has a quirky smile and he always plays pool. Good for maybe one dance per night. He is an amazing dancer, so you're lucky if he asks you to dance. But it doesn't happen often.

The Short Guy is just a shade away from creepy. He never dances with a girl that he can properly lead. Part of me thinks that he dances with taller women just so he can get a hand on their ass and blame it on his height. He's a good dancer, but he never looks away from you. His eyes focus on yours until you blush.

The Nazi is not actually. He looks like that guy from Raiders of the Lost Ark with the hat and glasses and so I call him The Nazi. He dances well. But only ever with That Woman and anyone she brings with her.

Then there's US. Deanne is saucy and smooth. I'm fluid and detached. Sometimes we dance well, sometimes we don't. Sometimes we have good partners; it's hit-and-miss. We feel comfortable now turning men who ask us down, but not too often.

The end of the night, we look at each other, and say either "Yaaaaay!" or "Mehh."

The Life I Wish I'd Lived

I live with a general sense of dread.

No, it's true. I'm terrified of being alive.

I don't want to make any big mistakes. I walk on eggshells all the time, considering and reevaluating my decisions, making sure my choices were the right ones.

This sense of dread was instilled in my by my parents. I can't count the number of times they said, "We don't want you to make the same mistakes we made."

So I live in fear of making any mistakes at all. I don't take a chance. Ever. Especially not in matters of the heart.

I've been brought up not to trust my own judgment. "You're still young. You're not seeing the whole picture." Trust Us.

But then there's dread in the other direction. I fear that Life will pass me by. I'll waste it analyzing what I'm going to do and second-guessing myself. I'll spend so much time trying not to screw it up that I miss all my chances at success, too. In this scenario, I end up a worried, sad old woman who dreams of the things she could have done had she let herself live.

I don't want to live in fear. That's no way to follow God's leading. We are to live joyful, unified, victorious lives for the sake of Christ.

But the question remains, that one plodding, plaguing, question:
What the hell is a victorious life anyway?!

When It Happens To You- Written 06/28/07

For some, life is a production. Everything must be just so before anyone is allowed to see it. Scenes are carefully rehearsed, costume and makeup are immaculate, and all culminates to a grand finale: success, marriage, sometimes death.

For others, life is an illusion. A trick of the light, a sleight of the hand. The setup, the catch, the reveal. They sit in the audience and ponder how the trick works and how they can duplicate it.

Still others see life as a challenge, an adventure. Always a mountain to climb, a river to ford, a cave to explore. And when they reach the top, the opposite bank, come out the other side, they breathe deeply for a moment, enjoy their victory, and then push on toward the next obstacle to overcome.

And then there's my life.

I don't have the self-control to plan the production, the tenacity to figure out the illusion, or the willpower to forge toward the next challenge with astonishing enthusiasm. For my kindreds and me, life is something else entirely.

It is a broken spotlight during the love song, a slipped card from the sleeve of the magician, an avalanche 20 feet from the summit. Like an old mystery book with the final chapter missing, of a puzzle with only a few lost pieces, life seems to constantly build up our hopes only to cruelly dash them against a cliff wall.

We tragic few seem doomed to always be let down at critical moments. Through no fault of our own, events that, in the life of another, seems to always work out for the best, tend to go awry and leave us clutching at what little we can hold. We hope for nothing more than just the ability to stand our ground and not be swept away by the crashing waves of happenstance.

They tell us to take charge of our own lives, but when we try, that control is brutally wrested away. So we run. We leave to start afresh, hoping that we can then perhaps control the reigns of this runaway stallion called Life. But alas, circumstance is a wicked master that will not lightly set up free. So our struggle continues, always grasping, holding, running, letting go.

C'est la vie.