Hiatus Largo Impromptus

Grows sporadically in the spring, most frequently in areas where high volume of activity occurs. Actually, the title of this post has nothing to do with my botanical aspirations. It merely describes my prolonged absence in literary creativity. Not that I haven't been inspired by the daily lessons in life that so often come unexpectedly my way. There have been plenty of those opportunities- from the cute field mouse that was frantically trying to escape my clumsy feet the other day as I ran through my neighborhood- to my wonderment at the clusters of strawberries which grew and ripened in spite of the lack of sunshine, hidden underneath a plastic sheath. There just hasn't been enough time to sit down and take the millions of thoughts and words that float through my grey matter every day and transform them to word pictures worth sharing with my little world.

Writer's block. Lackluster novelty. Interest lost. I had nothing to say, plenty to think about, and no desire to share. But that's why it's called a hiatus - because eventually you come back. Refreshed.

Why walk when you can fly?

"There I was on the side of the road, eyes fixed on the grass and trees that alluded me. I need to be over there. The lushness of spring is so inviting and there's no need to waste the little time I have walking this barren and dirty sidewalk." Those were the thoughts of a bird I saw the other day, walking on the side of the road. I know that's what he was thinking, because I'm talented in that way. He was determined to cross the road to where the trees, grass, and shrubs grew. The landscapes on either side of the road were so different from each other and I knew that bird was intent on reaching his destination. At first I wasn't quite sure what "it" was, because he stepped into incoming traffic and was attempting to cross the street on foot. Union Street is not that busy on Sunday mornings, but there are still enough vehicles out on the road to make crossing six lanes quite difficult. Especially when your legs are but a few inches long. The light had turned red and I was transfixed on the scene that was developing in front of me. I watched in horror as the bird attempted to cross, walking step by step. Oh no! Watch out!! I honked my horn as the cars on the opposite side began to accelerate, for the light had just turned green. I couldn't understand why the bird was trying to walk across the street. It was a large bird. With my urban and vegetarian upbringing in tow, I concluded it must be a wild turkey or something of that nature. One car swerved to the left to avoid hitting it, another did the same. I was glued to my seat, hands on my face, mouth shaped in an "O", heart beating fast as I waited for the explosion of feathers. But in a flash of a moment, the wings spread, the bird took flight, and projected itself upward away from the dangerous traffic. The bird was actually a duck, a large duck. With a sigh of relief, I remembered that the light had been green for some time and I needed to proceed before I became a sitting duck to some unobservant driver.

I asked myself why on earth would that duck not try to fly to reach his destination? Why attempt to cross the street on foot, when he possessed one of the most amazing of God's inventions: wings? Silly duck, I thought. His experience stayed with me most of the day, and though it's been over two weeks, I still think about this duck.

Funny, but I'm not that much different. How many times have I attempted feats of ordinary measures with talents that I do not possess? Instead of using the faculties that the Lord so graciously has given me, I stumble through life, walking and crawling instead of using the wings He has given me. How dangerous it is to cross the roads of life without using my head and the wisdom that the Lord provides. That duck taught me a very valuable lesson. And how awesome of God to illustrate it to me in person.

An Encounter With God

Thousands of bodies were pressed together, adrenaline pumping through our veins, I could smell the anticipation as we anxiously waited the "1...2...3...GO!!" from the MC at the microphone. A blue hue was emerging from the dark sky as the sun attempted to break the darkness. My mind was racing and my heartbeats were erratic, but I took a moment to look up to the dark sky and thank God again for allowing me to be healthy to train for yet another race. These last three months were more physically taxing than my preparation for past races. I had suffered through an inflamed IT band and a swollen bursa sac. New responsibilities at my job and personal life have increased my stress levels, and my body has felt the effects of having a busy and a very much "grown-up" life. God knows how much running means to me, how I connect with Him through prayer and song while I run. And yet, I refuse to allow running to become a god to me, for I will not have any other gods before Him. I pray that if my body image, my interest with my health, and the "high" I get from running ever become more important than my relationship with my Savior, then please Lord, keep me grounded, whatever it may take.

It's so easy for us to lose focus from God. As fallen humans, over the thousands of years that we have populated the earth, we have idolized everything around us. It's so easy to get captivated by the magnificence of how our bodies work and then we take credit for its beauty, its artistic and scientific intricacies. As I waited in that crowd of 15,000 strong, empowered athletes, the voice flowing from the speakers called for our participation in a non-denominational prayer. A local minister who was also running the race was invited to lead the athletes into prayer. He began with a few words of encouragement, inviting the athletes to an encounter with God during the race. Two men beside me scoffed at the invitation. Through my ears and eyes, their laughter was one of mockery. "Yeah, let's encounter 'God' as we run", they said. A man and woman beside them laughed heartily also, then added disbelief that this prayer was actually taking place. "I can't believe this is happening. It is the south, after all" I heard them say. Again, my heart felt heavy with sadness. Who are these people, who are we, that we may laugh in mockery before God, denying His existence? He created us: our lungs, our legs, the veins and arteries, which are our byways and highways to the powerful heart He carefully crafted. From the heavenly perch, I can imagine God sitting on His throne looking at this microscopic speck of a crowd of 15,000 people, hearing the laughter and mockery, a look of sorrow on His face. "I made you, I died for you, and I want you to live with Me forever. Whether here on this race course, or somewhere else in the course of life, I do want to have an encounter with you and offer you eternal life!" As I crossed the start line, I responded to Him "I accept, lead me on!"

I did very well on my race. My chip time at the finish line was 1:56:36 (pace time: 8:53), and I was #146 out of 2020 females in my age bracket (30-39). I ran this race harder than any of the others I have done. I'm pretty sore today, but my heart is full. And I'm feeling thankful and humbled that the Lord has granted me endurance, good health, and a supporting husband. Speaking of husbands, check out Kevin's blog for some great pictures he took of the event. I told him he stole my thunder by beating me on blogging about the race last night!! When it comes to blogging, Kevin is hands-down the winner!

The Music of Friendship

For as long as I can remember, most of the individuals that make up my circle of friends have a common denominator: music. It all started with my best friend's sister, Maribel. I had been taking piano lessons for about two or three years. I hadn't really played in public, except for an old Spanish bolero song or two that the occasional pleading family member or visitor who would force, I mean, request me to play. I had been practicing daily, fascinated by the mathematical logic that comprises music, the Italian terms rolling off my tongue as if I was a native speaker, and the black specks called notes that danced in front of my eyes as I interpreted their meaning on ivory keys. For two years, my growing talent was a well-kept secret. That is until my best friend, Nanette, told her older sister that my piano playing was getting pretty good for a ten year-old. She wanted to sing at church and asked me to play for her. So I did. I played straight from my little heart, somewhat scared, but I managed to keep my eyes on the music and block out the people around me. I became the background: the small, insignificant details that surround a model in a painting. Yet without those details, the model's imperfections are brought to light. I was the adjectives and adverbs, the euphemisms and metaphors that support a storyline. Without them, the narrative is bland and not worth telling. I enjoyed playing so much that I decided I would always play for others to sing. And so began a life-long journey of musical friends: Broadway, hymns, jazz, Gospel, sacred, and contemporary Christian. I've played it all, for others to sing. And I love it.

I have a group of friends from church, and we've been getting together since October to sing- harmonizing, arranging music, laughing. It's a lot of fun and also a lot of work. We've performed at our local church a few times already and our sound is pretty good. Tight harmonies, the melodious intonations of female voices floating through the air, the words praising our risen Savior, all of it makes the time and effort we put into learning music together worthwhile. It's sweet to the ears, light on the heart, and lovely to behold. That's what music is to me. At certain moments, some of us have experienced goose bumps and realized that a song has touched us; the harmonies sung just right, the meaning of the words impacting our hearts. Ministering to each other through laughter and prayer, the occasional kind word of support, and ministering to others who listen to us - that's what this group is about. And the friendships I'm developing with each of the girls, especially the ones I don't know that well, are becoming important part to me.

Here are some pictures of a vespers service we presented at a nearby church last weekend. We shared from our hearts, through spoken word and song.


Here is the talented and beautiful D, always enjoying herself as she shares her love for God and His music.

The "trio": mother & daughter team Melanie and Megan, and long-time friend Jennifer


Jennifer singing "O Calvary's Lamb", a beautiful song about our Savior.

Arjean and I practicing before her big "American" debut.

Simple Words

Defeated and dejected, I slowly made my way back to my desk. It had been a challenging morning, and I couldn't seem to get motivated and excited about the projects I have been working on. With no end in sight to the madness that makes up my corporate world, I admitted failure and plopped in my chair. The light on my phone indicated yet another voice mail that had to be answered, another request I wouldn't be able to complete on time or correctly. Inwardly, I let out another "Oy vay!" and picked up the receiver. The message was from an unknown caller, and I perked up when I heard the greeting. "Hi Joy, it's Lisa!" My friend Lisa from Florida had called. With her mellow voice and distinct Boston accent, she recounted how enchanting her daughter looked on her first birthday party, wearing the simple but lovely dress I had bought her for Christmas. She looked absolutely beautiful and everyone gushed over her threads. "Thank you for the gift," Lisa said. Simple words, but my spirit and spunk rebounded and I sat straighter in my chair, with a new determination to make the most of my day. Little did Lisa know that her sweet, short message made all the difference for me that day. I listened to her message twice, wishing I had been there to see and hug that little one year-old miss with the cutest dimples I've ever seen.

So the next time I get the urge to call and leave a message for someone, I think I will. I'll remember what a difference Lisa's message had on me yesterday and how a few simple, but thoughtful words really perked my spirit up.

Joy's Spot of Pride

There's lots of construction taking place on the streets near my house where I usually run. I noticed this the other day as I sat in traffic forever, thinking how unusual it was to have so much traffic at this time of day, on this particular street. As I approached the bottleneck, I saw the culprit. A “Spot of Pride” was being built. Yup, these are areas in the medians all throughout the city streets of the town I live in that have been created as community projects for companies and organizations to maintain the landscaping. Some areas are pretty small, about the size of the front yard in a tight subdivision. Others are bigger, like a tiny park. They all have the wooden sign "Spot of Pride" with the name of the organization that is responsible for its upkeep. And they have small trees, cute little shrubs; some have seasonal flowers, mulch, and an occasional sprout of monkey grass. I think it's a great idea, giving the community a clean, green look and providing organizations the opportunity to give back to the neighborhoods in the area.

After I noticed that the traffic was due to the construction of the new spot of pride in the median, I reflected on the name "Spot of Pride" and its meaning. Do I have "Spots of Pride" in my life? But of course I do! And they have little signs with the names of friends and families that contribute to the upkeep. My favorite pastime, running, is a spot of pride. Kevin, my sweet hubby, is one of the contributors to this spot, encouraging me to maintain an active lifestyle, massaging my legs after a particularly hard run, clandestinely dropping a water bottle off at a predetermined location just so I could be refreshed near the end of a route. My love for music is a spot of pride that has been developed and maintained all throughout my life. There are lots of volunteers contributing at this spot – dozens of friends past and present, my parents, church congregations in many locations and of different denominations. This blog is a spot of pride – a new one for me- where I have enjoyed sharing my ramblings, coherent or otherwise, with friends and family, strangers, and the occasional googler who happens to click upon my written thoughts. I have rediscovered my love for writing and used this blog as an outlet for those thoughts that are either afraid of being spoken or for some reason may not fit into the topics of conversations around me. My joy is another spot of pride. No pun intended here, but the happiness and peace I experience is a result of the relationships I share with Jesus, my husband, my family, and my friends. Lots of work, prayer, and tears have been invested in my joy-spot.

One realization that I have come to as I type my thoughts is that for this hobby, talent, memory to be a true “spot of pride”, it has to be maintained by someone else. Someone else, not just me, must contribute to its upkeep. If we don’t experience these moments and activities with others, there’s no real happiness, no satisfaction that life has been worth the experience. I invite you to contribute to someone’s spot of pride. You’ll be pleased to see how our spots intermingle and bring happiness to even the occasional passer-by.

Farewell, My Purring Dove

"My beloved Zion has departed and now there is an emptiness in my heart." No, this is not a verse from the book of Lamentations or Jeremiah. This is really what's going on in my life today. Zion was my sweet, sleek kitty until yesterday, when I relinquished parental rights to his original daddy. Ours was a tumultuous relationship, but it grew into sheer love and respect for each other all the way until our last day together. Zion is a loner, a hunter, with a mean glare and a thuggish swagger. He could subdue even the most alley-ist of cats to a pitiful whimper. He has a large, aggressive head, a furrow of eyebrows that stare and induce fear in all. But then one nuzzle with that sweet pink nose, and the heart would melt with love. All barriers were broken when the purring started. "Prrrrnn, Prrrrn". I called him my dove. He truly sounds like a dove when he purrs. The house feels so empty without him here. He loved to sit in the shower with me, basking in the cloud of mist as if in a sauna. He would sleep near my head at times, peacefully curled, zzzz's intermingling with mine.

So farewell, my purring dove. I know you will bring much happiness and warmth to your new family. And you will always have a spot in my heart that is reserved only for my furry loves.

The Saving Grace of a Family Tree

Always fascinated by the stories and characters from the Old Testament, I had a sudden realization the other day, a "ha!" moment, if you will. I was captivated by the story of Ruth, that noble daughter in-law whose devotion, respect and love has been studied and shared, especially among Christian women. Everyone can relate to a facet of Ruth- from foreigners, to widows, to women with strong ties to their families, from the hopeless and the poor, to those at a crossroads and pivotal turning points in their lives. But my fascination wasn't about Ruth's devotion, her acceptance of her mother in-law's religion and God. It was the prelude to her story, the story of Boaz and his own mother that interested me anew.

I had never consciously put the two together. Bo's mom was Rahab, the harlot who hid the Hebrew spies. There's no mention of this in the book of Ruth. Prior to Ruth receiving Yahweh as her God, Rahab had done so. She was another foreigner, an outcast, from a people who had also rejected God and worshipped idols. I can imagine little Bo sitting on Rahab's lap, tenderly twisting a lock of her hair around his chubby fingers, as she told him (again at his request) the adventurous story of how she, along with the rest of the family, had escaped annihilation. The scarlet cord that was hung from the window was now humbly displayed above the door - a sign of deliverance and mercy, a sign of salvation. (This is my own imagination depicting this moment, but it could very well have happened in a similar manner.) She taught her son that though a sinner, an outcast and pariah, she was granted salvation, a gift for which she would be eternally grateful. She recounted how she heard that blast from the ram's horn, signifying a new chapter in her life would begin, and how the walls of the city fell down. But she and her father's household were spared. She taught her young son that it doesn't matter what your past is made of, how many blemishes you have on your record, when God offers salvation, you begin afresh.

And so Bo became Boaz, a responsible adult with a kind heart and a special softness for a young foreign woman in need of redemption. It's no wonder that he fought for Ruth. Well, he didn't really fight, but he did go to the elders at the gate of the city and state Ruth and Naomi's case. In faith, he followed the rules of tradition and offered the inheritance to Naomi's closest kin. Now Boaz took a risk by taking Ruth as his wife. Their first son together would perpetuate Ruth's dead husband's name through his inheritance. But it's Boaz's name that shows up in the lineage of Jesus, not Ruth’s first husband, and thus Boaz's faithfulness was rewarded. Boaz, his mom Rahab, and his wife Ruth - their stories about love, devotion, hope and faith- are eternally engraved in the lineage of Jesus Christ, the one true Redeemer.

I can't help but think that indeed it was a mother's story and love, and her devotion to God that allowed Boaz, without hesitation, to accept God's leading when Ruth came into his life. Before Ruth was born, God was preparing the heart of a man that would accept her for who she was, and redeem Ruth from her sad circumstances. How utterly beautiful! What wonderful hope the lives of these women, and this man that connects them, gives us. What a magnificent and faithful God we serve!

The experiences we encounter as we walk through life, when God is at the forefront of our decisions, have a ripple effect that surpasses flesh and bone. These experiences prepare our hearts for the unthinkable: the beauty of God's will.

It's All Connected

The IT Band. Sounds like a bunch of computer techies making music. But no, it's gristle, those tough fibers that are hard to chew (if you're a carnivore). That's what I've been battling the last 6 weeks. The IT band (iliotibial, for those with anatomical smarts) runs outside of the thigh, begins right at the hip and attaches to the outside bottom of the knee. If not properly exercised and stretched, it can become irritated and inflamed. And that's exactly what I've done. For the last 6 weeks I've been unable to run no more than 3 miles at a time without some pain and discomfort. Extremely frustrating. Especially for me, since running is my release, my happy place. I haven't been in my happy place in 6 weeks. And that means that those around me haven't been in their happy place either.

So I sucked it up and went to my orthopedic doctor. And now I'm in physical therapy. I had my first session today and it was very productive. My doctor prescribed an anti-inflammatory to help relieve that part of my ailment, and my physical therapist is working on a stretching/cross-training/core-building routine for me. I don't like taking drugs; I even avoid taking aspirin or ibuprofen during that time of the month. But this non-running has really gotten to me. So like a good girl, I pop these pills religiously twice per day. And it's working! I'm scheduled to run 8 miles this Sunday as part of my training for another 1/2 marathon this spring, and I feel like I can meet the challenge. I'm not going to focus on beating any records this time. But I'm going to run this one smart, the correct way. I can already feel the difference from taking a good 15 minutes to stretch properly before and after a run. And cross-training is helping develop those muscles that I have neglected from only running.

I've learned a lesson. Even a good thing must be planned and done right. I can't just get up and run whenever I want all the time. If I want to maintain this mind-cleansing, soul-searching, lung-filling therapy called running, I need to take care of my body in such a way that will enhance my running ability and not diminish it over time. As tedious as it may feel, taking those 15 minutes before and after a run, riding a bike every-other-day, or some other different type of exercise, and weight training will enable me to continue running way into my old age. And another thing I learned: the core is essential to any type of exercise. Maintaining and building my core-strength (the abdominals-torso) will help stabilize my hips, and maintain my body in an even flow as I run. So it's not only my legs that need training - we're talking lungs, torso, abdomen, hips, calves. It's all connected.

The same applies to life. Think about it. We can't just jump into a job. We need training, learning processes and systems. We can't just sit down and play Beethoven's Fifth Symphony; we need years of practicing and lessons. I can't just go and marry the first guy that smiles at me. I need to be friends, learn each other's idiosyncrasies, fall in love. I can't just go to heaven. I need to accept Jesus as my Savior, read the Word, develop a relationship with Him, fall in love.

I'm being challenged, to change my learned behavior, to develop a training program for my body so I can keep doing what I love doing most. I think it will benefit me to do the same with my mind too.

My Foundation, part deux

Okay, Part One was the logical study that helped me reason and learn. Now here's my personal application. I grew up a Christian. A Seventh-day Adventist Christian, very well indoctrinated in the teachings of the Word. I even spent the whole sixth grade in a Christian school. (Wowzers) Yet in spite of living in a Christian home, attending church every Sabbath, having friends who were Christians, I did not develop a relationship with Jesus Christ - I did not have a foundation that was built with that Sole Main Ingredient that is so essential to my eternal salvation. I had all this head knowledge, memorized Bible verses, knew the melodies from the hymnal and the heroes from the Bible, but somehow I never made that connection between words and heart. Sadly, my story is the norm and not the exception among Christian youth. When the tests and trials came, I failed and I failed badly. Looking at me you couldn't tell that I had fallen into an abysmal pit. But my heart was empty and my future had no hope. The stones, the gold and silver, from my childhood and teenage years had nowhere to stand on. I had no foundation. What good was it to have all that gold and silver, if I had no foundation?

I was 28 years old when I finally gave my heart to Christ. That's when the first stone of my foundation was built. I remember that night. I felt so wretched, so empty and drained. I heard the words I had heard over and over throughout my entire life, how Jesus wants me for Himself, how He can fill that void in my heart with His love. I accepted His invitation and it was instant overflow. I cried and cried. But they were really tears of "joy". That was only 8 years ago. And I still struggle, man do I struggle. I know I'm not alone. There are so many like me, so many who grew up with me, who are in the same boat. We learned, we were indoctrinated, we were taught, we sang and smiled. But open the doors to our hearts and you fall right in, no foundation to hold the house up. Some are no longer living Christian lives, are good citizens, great parents/friends/neighbors, but don't have Jesus in their hearts. Some will acknowledge that they are poor in spirit and will return to God to be made whole again. Those will begin to lay down their foundation, the Foundation who laid down His life for us.

It's not too late. The fire will come and we need our Foundation to keep us afloat. And after you have accepted the Foundation, study and pray, ask for leading, ask for Truth. There is gold and silver to lay on top of your foundation. Don't waste your time with wood, hay and straw. Be spared the loss.

My Foundation, part one

Post pre-note: I thought maybe this could be explained in a few paragraphs. But no, long-worded Joy could not manage that. Because I feel it so important to share this with you all, I have divided my post into parts 1 and 2. Please come back in a few days and read part 2.

I learned something quite amazing the other day. These words cut cleanly and sharply right to my heart. In fact, they spoke so loudly that I couldn't wait to get home and write about it. It's funny how we hear words, sayings, poems, verses time after time and don't really get their meaning. But then one day, wham, the meaning is clear and rings so true. I wasn't quite sure how to approach what I learned, whether from a more logical, study format or from how I personally related to the message. And so I decided to incorporate both ways, since that is how my mind operates when processing something new.

I had an encounter with 1 Corinthians 3:11-15. Here's what the apostle Paul writes: "For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ. If any man builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw, his work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each man's work. If what he has built survives, he will receive his reward. If it is burned up, he will suffer loss; he himself will be saved, but only as one escaping through the flames." (NIV)

The verses prior to these related what some people from the church in Corinth were saying. Some were indoctrinated by Apollos, others by Paul. Paul said, "Hey, it don't matter!" What matters is that your foundation is based on Jesus Christ. A true relationship with Him, where what we do, think, breathe is Jesus Christ. These individuals who teach, lead, and preach are mere vessels used by God to spread the Gospel. They water and feed the garden, the flock. It is Jesus Christ who can only make us grow. He is the only one true Foundation. Everything else that is built on it may be toppled or burned.

Different denominations, churches, and movements teach different belief systems and doctrines. Some of these are not correct. Some beliefs are based on Biblical truth. Paul used 6 different materials symbolically representing what we may use to build on top of our foundation. Gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay, and straw. Out of these six, only three could survive fire without being consumed: stones, silver, gold. These represent the Biblical truths that are right on, messages of truth spoken in the Word that God has revealed to us. The other three, the wood, hay and straw will burn up quickly. These are of course beliefs we have that are based from misinterpretations of the Word. How do I know if what I believe is correct? Through the fire, the fire that purifies and refines. Through test, time, and tribulation. If what I have built on my Foundation (Jesus Christ) is based on Biblical truths, then after the fire comes, I will receive my reward. If I have a Foundation, a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, and the materials I used to build on my Foundation were Biblically incorrect, when the fire comes, I will feel the loss. "You mean what I believed all this time isn't right?" I'll feel the disappointment, the personal loss of having been deceived or misled, or the emptiness from time lost on incorrect teachings. But here's the good news. Even though the beliefs and doctrines were not correct, because my foundation was in Jesus Christ, I still will be saved. It says it right there, "he himself will be saved, but only as one escaping through the flames." The key, the saving grace is our Foundation!!

That's why it's so important to spread the Gospel, to introduce the whole world to Jesus Christ. They need a foundation based on Him!! WE need a Jesus Christ Foundation!!

Come back in a few days and I will share how these verses personally applied to me.

Huh?

Sometimes words and phrases pile up in my head. They make sense to me, but when I write them down and try to read it from another person's perspective, I'm like "Huh?" Maybe you can decipher the meaning of my poem. It makes complete sense in my head.

¿Huh? - a poem by Joy
A complexity of characters, a myriad of faces.
Which one? Why that one?
Emotions...
A smile, a tear, a frown.
A thought, not deep, appeared, was said.
A phrase was spoken, the meaning intentionally hidden.
The past shapes, the future holds, the present suffocates.
Turns, stops, acceleration.
How did I get here from where I started?
Confusion, resolution, absolution.
Truisms, my credo, my stance.
What is my core, what fills, when does it stop?
Too complex, oversimplified, huh?
This is who I am.
Words and questions, empty yet saturated with letters.

The Greatest Love of All

Whitney got it wrong when she sang "The Greatest Love of All" ...learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all... That's not true at all. I don't think I could ever love "me". I tolerate "me", most people do. But love? Nah. My goal in life is to have and keep God in my heart. Only He can put love there, because God is love.

I was driving home from work yesterday, listening to the radio. I like the stories I hear on NPR. Sometimes I'll sit in my car, parked in front of my house, my road trip completely finished, and I'll be sitting there with tears streaming down my cheeks, or laughing my head off, or just quietly musing. There's something enrapturing about not seeing a face and hearing a voice full of emotion talking to me about total strangers in distant lands. I was listening to Cpl. Jason Dunham's parents describe their son, the grin that went on forever, the sparkle in his eye that no longer is. Dunham was killed in Iraq two years ago and his parents received his Medal of Honor from President Bush this week. What did Dunham do to receive such an honor? He personified John 15:13. In this verse, God Himself describes what the greatest love of all is. "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." In a split second, as Dunham realized that there was a grenade at his feet dropped by the Iraqi who had just grabbed him by the neck, he took off his Kevlar helmet and put it over the explosive. His actions saved the lives of his fellow Marines. But 8 days later, he died. The reporter asked Jason's dad what could have caused Jason to act so instinctively. He said it wasn't instinct, not at all. Even though it happened so fast, Jason made a quick, conscious decision to act - a thought process faster than the speed of light - to save the life of his friends. Wow. Even if I had had 5 more seconds to think, would I have done the same? Some could argue that hard-core military training prompted Jason to act. Maybe. But that's not the point that kept me tearfully sitting in my car. Would I do the same for my husband, my family, my friends, complete strangers? Do I have "The Greatest Love of All" in me? When faced with a life-and-death decision, would I be able to demonstrate the greatest love and put the life of others before my own?

Mi Mamá

Milestones. That's what birthdays that end in zeros are called. My mom celebrated life yesterday with one of those milestones. The big 6-0. Why do we start calling them "The Big ___-Zero" when we hit 30? When I turned 10, I didn't hear "Wow, you hit The Big One-Zero!" Maybe we should start doing that to make kids aware of the gravity of it all. Counting age in whole decades - it's a huge responsibility. So Fina (my mom) has been alive and kicking for six whole decades. I love my mom - she's a character all her own. Few understand the intricacies that make Fina "Fina". Having so many of her personality traits and having been around her for so long, I feel like I have a grasp of what makes her tick. And then she surprises me. Fina came from very humble beginnings. I've written about my Dad and how he came to the US, his struggles and how much he has achieved. Mami is right there in step with Papi. She is a wiz at playing jacks. Man, she can whip anyone with that crazy bouncy ball and those metallic pinwheel-looking stars. Her hand-eye coordination is of gold-medal-Olympic worthiness. And you should see her playing with her sisters! I can close my eyes and picture pigtailed girls with thin cotton dresses, kneeling on the asphalt, shrieking as the ball bounces and a jack is dropped by mistake. I have a new year's resolution this year to learn how to play jacks well enough to beat my mom. I tried to play with her over the holidays, but I was no match to the Jacks Champion of the Universe. So I warned her that next time I came home to visit, to be prepared to meet her match. I figured after all, I have so many of her genes, surely the jacks gene is in there somewhere. I wonder where I can buy jacks?

My mom shared some of her childhood memories with me during my holiday visit. I want to learn so much of my parents' history while I still can. I have so many vivid memories from my childhood and I cherish them. I know they do as well - but not all of their childhood memories are pleasant. Fina came from very humble beginnings. She was child number 6 out of 11. Her family was very poor - mother was illiterate, father a simple, but religious man. She wasn't enrolled in school until she was 9 years old. But once there, she was a star student - skipping grades and graduating at the top of her class. She was named "Queen" of her barrio three times, the Barrio de Hoyamala, which translates to "Bad Pot". Go figure. Each time she was named queen, her brother would buy some fabric from town, cut out a dress using her old dress as a pattern, and sew it for her, just so she would have something new to wear during the parade. She told me during my last visit that she would often go to bed hungry, and sometimes her older brother Raul would bring back a bag of peanuts from the festivals held in town. She and her younger brother, Pello, would ravenously eat the peanut shells first and then eat the peanuts - that would be their dinner.

Mami's home had no running water or electricity. Her older sister and mother cooked from a coal stove, for which they have paid a high price. My grandmother died of emphysema due to her smoking and cooking with coal. My aunt has major respiratory problems because of that stove. Thankfully my mom's exposure was limited, so her lungs are healthy. Mami's idiosyncrasies resonate from her humble beginnings. She washes Ziploc bags and reuses them over and over. She makes lots of food and freezes it for later. She's frugal but generous; a paradox of childhood poverty mixed in with current comfort and abundance.

And she feeds. Boy, can she feed. No one escapes from her home without a meal, or at least a glass of real fruit juice. Tamarind, passion fruit, orange, grapefruit, güanabana. Name it, she's juiced it. Her neighbor's grandchildren will yell from across the street, "Fina! Do you have cookies?" And they'll beg to come over so they can get their cookies. During the hurricanes of 2005, when the state of Florida was hit 3 times, she turned on her propane stove in the garage and fixed fish, rice and beans for all the neighbors. Whenever I visit, I know now to bring a cooler, because I come back loaded with arroz con gandules (rice & pigeon peas), pasteles (Puerto Rican tamales, kind of), frozen tamarind juice, yame... Mami offers visitors food because that's how she shows her love and hospitality. Cooking is something she does well, and she wants to share a little of herself with you. She's insistent too. I call her a food pusher, but in reality I'm turning into one myself. Friends that come to my house rarely leave empty-handed. I've turned into my mother!

I'm proud of Mami. She's worked 10 years-plus as a "Lunch Lady" at a local elementary school. She walks to school every day, sometimes sporting an umbrella to shield her from the brutal Florida sun. Little kids who live near her route have called her "Mary Poppins". She cooks everyday, prepares lunches and dinner for my dad. He's healthy and strong because of her 38 years of vegetarian home cooking. And she's adamant he eats healthy too.

So, yes, I hope I do turn out like my mom in a lot of ways. She's far from perfect. But she laughs, reads, exercises, cooks, and enjoys taking care of others. And I hope she enjoys many more milestone birthdays, with good health, a happy spirit, and a sound mind.

Christmas Delight

How quickly Christmas arrived this year. It didn't sneak up on me; my eyes were wide open as the days flew by throughout the year. Anticipated events- births, weddings, vacations, milestones- all came and went. And so during these last few weeks, my world became a whirlwind of activity as I took part in Christmas programs, parties, dinners, shopping, quality time with friends...all jam-packed into my end-of-year holiday schedule. But it's been a wonderful month. I have been in such a holiday mood and spirit. I can almost compare this feeling of contentment to what I used to feel during the Christmas holidays as a young girl. You know, that feeling that rests just above the gut, right where a good belly laugh starts.

So while Kevin is out getting a haircut, I am sitting here in front of the computer, writing my last words for 2006. In an hour or so, we'll be driving down to Florida to visit family and add more pleasure to my holiday spirit. Kevin and I shared our own little "Christmas" last night. We laughed and hugged and said "Merry Christmas" and exchanged gifts. There was no sense taking our gifts down with us and have to bring them back. I really felt like a little girl. He had hand-wrapped all of my gifts, each corner lovingly folded, each bow attached just so. I am married to the most wonderful man, and not just because he showered me with gifts last night. He paid attention to all the little details, all the conversations we've had in the last year, to my needs and wants and desires, encouraging me in my hobbies and endeavors, and making them as pleasurable and relaxing as they could be. A heart monitor watch to allow me to get the best of my exercise routines, an FM transmitter so I can listen to TV programs when I run on the treadmill at the gym, wicking shirts to wear when I run outside during the winter months, a footbath to soak my achy feet after a long run, massage oil and sugar scrubs for my hands and legs, a bathrobe so soft I can almost melt into it, a kitty calendar to warm my heart while I work. He pampered me, literally, from head to toe. And he took pleasure and happiness in my delight.

I want the memory of last night to spill into my new year with Kevin. My plan is that we show that much delight in each other in the events we create and take part in, unfolding each one and watching each other's reaction with anticipation and joy. Whatever we encounter during the year and for the rest of our lives, let it be an experience based in trust and love. No matter if the experience is good or bad. It was a most magical night for me, the beginning of the end of Christmas 2006.

I wish you delight this Christmas. Whether experienced firsthand, or from watching your children squeal and laugh, or in the form of a "love squeeze" from a family member or a friend - however you experience delight this Christmas, may you find pleasure and joy in giving.

I just met a girl named Maria...

Maria. That's the name of the sweet lady who cleans the offices at my company. She arrives every day around 4 in the afternoon, parks the yellow trolley at the bottom of the stairs and goes to the office cluster next to mine to get her little cup of black coffee. Then she comes over to my desk to say hello. She's quite the character. And does she take her job seriously! We all want to be on her good side because this 4-foot-ten, sixty-something merry maid can summon the wrath of the cubicle gnomes if we leave clutter behind. Of course, I'm the only one who can understand her rapid-fire ranting. And so she leaves me with special messages for my management. They need to organize the clutter so she can thoroughly clean their desks and remove all the impurities the dust mites leave behind. She even had me make a sign for her, informing desk occupants everywhere that their areas were going to be sterilized the next day. But alas, no one pays attention. And so she carefully removes piles, taking note of how and where they lay so she can return them to their exact spot. And no one is even aware of how she makes the environment purer, healthier, and easier to work in. Except me. I'm her little link to the world she cleans.

When my family and I moved from New Jersey to Florida, we hit the job market jackpot and got a contract to clean two banks after hours. Woo-hoo, I thought I was going to have my evenings family-free to talk on the phone and watch TV. But no, I too was expected to join the family, pick up a mop and a rag, and pay the bills. I thoroughly disliked having to interrupt my evening homework time to empty ashtrays, vacuum, and clean bathrooms. But my parents took a major cut in pay when we moved south and this contract helped offset some of the bills we as new homeowners were now responsible for. Sometimes I wondered what the lives of these bankers and tellers were like. I learned their names and the faces of their children, and had conversations with them. Some were really dirty and left all sorts of grimy matter behind on their desk and floor. I probably learned more about these people in that year than close friends knew about them.

That's why I respect Maria so much. Not only does she make me laugh, but she is also uncannily perceptive about the characters of those whose trashcans she empties. The environment and clutter we leave behind long after we have departed says a lot about who we really are. And I'm not talking about death here. I'm talking about short departures, like when we leave a room. In the space of a few seconds or minutes, when my words and actions probably still linger- what kind of impression do I leave others with after a meeting or a casual conversation by the copier? Is my life and talk one such that would force the cleaning lady to leave me a note asking me to tidy up my act?

Maria likes me. Not just because I talk to her and ask her how she feels or how her children are. Or because I leave my desk tidy and in good form. I don't know why Maria likes me, but I would really like to know. She brings me "arepas de queso" (Columbian quesadillas) every week and I know she enjoys my company. And she wouldn't hesitate to tell me to clean up my act if I should fall into bad habits. Funny, knowing that she comes by every day, forces me to straighten up and be mindful of what I throw in my trashcan.

In Gratitude

Gracias. Thank you. Merci. Grazie. Obrigado. No matter what language I use, the word "thanks" conveys a meaning that is far beyond just a few consonants and vowels. It can be powerful, full of emotion, or a simple polite courtesy. Here in America, we have a whole federal holiday devoted to this action-word. It brings families and friends together for fellowship and a meal. Across the country, people hold hands, share stories, kiss babies and cry over recently and not-so-recently lost loved ones that aren't present to share in a day of thanksgiving. But do we always have to be thankful for something? Can we just be thankful, period? Is thanksgiving something we can experience without attaching it to a moment, a person, and act? I don't know.

Why am I thankful? Prior to my near-death experience last year, was I truly just thankful? My experience with carbon monoxide changed my whole life forever and it has tainted my thanksgiving forever, literally and symbolically. Literally, I am thankful because Thanksgiving Day 2005 I lay in an oxygen chamber, breathing pure oxygen in super gulps, trying to expel the carbon monoxide molecules that had obtrusively attached themselves to the hemoglobin in my red blood cells. Symbolically, I am eternally thankful because I was given a renewed contract on life. Literally, I am thankful because a few days after my accident, I couldn't even run a few miles without feeling like my lungs were going to explode, even after having run 15 miles the week before. And just this past Thursday, on Thanksgiving Day, I broke a personal record and ran the Atlanta Marathon (1/2 marathon course) in 1 hour and 55 minutes. The whole time I ran, I was thinking "At this exact time last year, I was in the hospital!" and here I am, free, running, my powerful lungs intact. My hubby, also having been exposed to CO and in greater danger than me that day, was waiting at the finish line with open arms and the biggest smile on his face. (Also waiting for me at the finish line was my buddy, Arjeany, who got up with us at 4 a.m. to see me off and then stayed up the whole 24 hours that day when we went shopping at midnight!!!) This race was so special to me. Personal record or not, I was celebrating life with every step.

So, because of my experience, I can't just be thankful. I have to be thankful "to" and "for". Thankful to God for giving me life, eternal life that is. Whether my life would have been terminated a year ago or twenty years from now should not matter. I am grateful because I have the knowledge that I am loved and I have been saved by He who shapes my future and holds my past. I am and will always be, eternally grateful.

Facing Mediocrity, an addendum

In my last post I shared with you how during my childhood I came to terms with my mediocre vocal talent. Somehow since my last posting, I had "forgotten" about this inability of mine - and I traversed time and memories to that same place 26 years ago where I was an undiscovered star, ripe with talent.

Every year, my friend Sheila and I direct and produce the children's Christmas musical at church. These kids are precious - their eager faces, strong lungs, happy but slightly off-pitch voices penetrate the church walls and fill my heart with Christmas cheer. And every year I record the whole play, acting out the parts and singing all the songs so the children can practice during the week. It's a grand production, and I usually have my friend Yessica help with the acting and singing. Yessica moved to Miami this summer, so Sheila and Alfie came over to help me record the play. The kids love their CD's, and anxiously wait every Christmas for their copy. I usually put a tribute at the end of the recording, babbling stuff about the actors and singers to make the kids laugh and enjoy the "show". This year, I was pressed for time, so I decided to begin the recording process by myself. I grabbed the microphone and was transported in time to an era in my life, of pigtails, bobby socks and Mary Janes. I was a star again! The song was "Silent Night! Holy Night!" - and it was way out of my vocal range. But I gave it my best.

I play a little game with my kitty cat, Lolita. To get her to come to me, I'll whine and cry at a high pitch, to which she'll come running through the house, come straight to my face, concerned and worried that something's wrong. During my rendition of "Silent Night", as I rounded "the yon virgin" and ended the first verse, Lolita comes galloping through the house. She jumped on the computer table, and got right in my face. She had that "Oh no, something's wrong with Mommy" look. She started sniffing my face, and even though I would try to ward her off, her concern would not let me continue the song. It didn't dawn on me right away that my singing sounded like the whiny-crying game that she and I play. After about four attempts at recording, I finally gave up and took Lolita to the room where Kevin was hiding, I mean, hanging out. We laughed about it, and I sheepishly went back to recording, humbled once again, remembering what I had written about a few weeks ago but conveniently forgotten.

I guess I continue to hold on to that dream that I will one day sing and everyone will listen in wonder and awe at my talent. But Lolita reminded me that even after 26 years, the time has not come. I think I'll go and play the piano for a while...

Struggling with Mediocrity

What happens when you mix dreams of grandeur and success with the reality of mediocrity? What's the result? Frustration? Defeat? Deflated-ness?

For as long as I can remember I have always loved music. My dad put that love in my heart. He has a rich, baritone voice, and has great rhythm, an ear for harmony, definitely a born song leader. As a young man searching for purpose in life, he walked by a church and was enraptured by the melodies and chords from the hymns that were being sung. He had the church pianist teach him how to read music so he could improve his talent. When we moved back to NJ from Puerto Rico, one of the promises he made to me to ease the transition of leaving family and friends was piano lessons. I was so excited! He had dreams for me to learn how to play well enough, so I would accompany him at church, playing hymns and songs to praise God. That was to be my ministry in life.

I loved to sing too. That cute little voice we all have as a kid - slightly nasal but that brings so much joy to our families when we boldly burst into song. My dad organized a singing group when we moved back to NJ. For one of the songs they sang during concerts, he had my friends and I join the group and sing with the adult members. I was an alto, and he paired me up with the lead alto. I quickly learned my part, and proudly wore my navy skirt and white blouse. My outfit was complete with bobby socks, Mary Janes, and pigtails. I was ready to begin my singing career! Noelia, the lead alto, told my dad how well I sang and learned my part. I was so proud! I envisioned myself singing solos, playing my piano, captivating audiences. I was enroute to stardom for sure!

Then one day my dad brought home one of those tape recorders that play a cassette on one side and, with a microphone in hand, I could record my voice with the music of the original tape. How exciting - my very own recording studio. I remember pulling out one of my Amy Grant tapes. The song was "El Shaddai" and I belted all of my heart and soul into that song. I was positive I sang better than Amy did - I always did. I remember hitting the rewind button, and sitting in anticipation to hear my stellar voice float magically through the airwaves. I was my dad's daughter after all, music was in my blood and for sure that musical talent had infiltrated my very core. I listened to myself and thought "Oh no! I can't sing!! That sounds horrible!" It was nasal, kind of breathy. There was nothing special or magical, rich or enrapturing about my voice. It was quite ordinary, slightly below ordinary. Mediocre. My little ego deflated, I accepted the fact that this was not my talent. Perhaps it would be best to go downstairs and practice the piano more. With the piano, I could probably cross the line of mediocrity and have more of a chance to do better for myself.

I remember that first feeling of mediocrity so well, when I realized how not special I was. We always feed our children with comments and thoughts about how smart and beautiful, how intelligent and super they are. Then there's that point when we grow up a little and realize that we are not the center of the universe, and there are so many like us, around us, who are just like us, and even better than us!

I have always felt that I have a very special station in life, a purpose that is on the grand scale. I don't think I'm there yet and I keep on hitting bumps in the road that make me face my mediocrity. At work, at play, at home. Constantly I ask God to make me humble, because I also realize that whatever that special purpose is, it's to glorify Him and I need to remove myself from the equation. And so I come face to face with my mediocrity.

Straight to my heart

"Do not look at his appearance or at his physical stature, because I have refused him. For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16:7

There have been countless times over the 3.5+ decades of my life where I have judged someone because of how they looked. I'm ashamed to write this, but it's true. Appearance may share some relevance with how a person acts, and this may contribute to how stereotypes are formed. The beautiful are arrogant; the unattractive have self-esteem issues and are less sure of themselves. Or the opposite may occur; we overcompensate for our insecurities and give the front of being something we're not. How many friendships and heart-moments have I passed up because of my unfair prejudgments?

I remember a boy from my second grade class. He was tall for his age, and had long 70's hair over his shirt collar and bangs over his eyes. Freckles too. He was a quiet boy, reserved, intelligent, never said much and didn't have friends. I know now that he must have had some medical condition that caused his body to expel a particular scent. It wasn't that he didn't groom or bathe; the scent wasn't foul. But it was strong enough to cause a bunch of 8 and 9 year-olds to poke fun and humiliate him. He intrigued me because he never fought back. To me he was a gentle giant. Memories come to mind of having to stand in single file in the hallway and no one wanting to stand next to him. I sometimes wonder what became of him, if the ridicule that he experienced day after day broke him or made him stronger. I wonder if he ever found medical treatment to either mask his scent or eliminate it completely. I regret that I didn't try to make friends with him; I would have learned so much from his patience and humble demeanor.

Aren't we blessed to know that God doesn't put any weight on our physical traits? It's not important to him at all. Throughout the Bible and history after that, He has used the underdog to champion His redemption plan. The unattractive, the outcast, the ones who struggle financially, the unintelligent, the poor in health. And He transforms these individuals to the point where it's so obvious that it's Him working through them. There's no question about it, God worked a miracle and through this person everyone is blessed. He uses beautiful, intelligent, wealthy people too, don't get me wrong. Esther, Nicodemus, Paul all come to mind. But the common factor is that God saw their heart and knew they were malleable. I am so thankful that God doesn't pay attention to my appearance. He goes straight to my heart. And hopefully He sees potential there, enough to say, "I will form her and use her to do great things in My name."