The Blossoming Fig Tree, a short story by Joy

Inspired by a wonderful sermon I heard today from Pastor Carlos Molina...

Once there was a young fig tree with leaves happy green, surrounded by fig trees of leaves happy green. The garden where he lived was welcoming, enjoyed by many as a haven of beauty and rest for the soul. Paths were worn by the feet of friends, lovers, and even the solitary ones who came to hear nature, feel the earth, and breathe color. The fruit of the fig trees was delightful and sweet, its pulp desired by many, its nectar enjoyed by all who came to the garden. The time for blossoms had arrived and the fig tree felt the power of life surge through him, beginning at the roots, traveling through the trunk, making his limbs shiver. But alas no blossoms came. He shook his limbs and tried again. Surely that was only a fluke, he thought. The other youthful fig trees were blossoming around him. He searched deep within the core, wiggled his roots and concentrated on producing beauty. Nothing. Disheartened, the fig tree bowed his head and wept silently. Maybe next year. Time and time again, after dismal winter had passed, he would witness the life of spring as shrubs and plants, even stately trees would burst with flowers with such natural artistry that it would take even his breath away. And he prayed that he too could add to the array of color and wonderment, hopeful that he could be fruitful so that others could enjoy the product of his love. One beautiful spring day a visitor came to the garden, and walked quietly among the flowers with a book under his arm and a blanket draped across his shoulder. He laid the blanket on the carpeted grass underneath the blossomless fig tree with leaves happy green. He read from his book, with a voice rich yet gentle. “Though the fig tree may not blossom… Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.” (Hab 3:17-18) The fig tree heard the words and in amazement came to the quiet realization that the power to blossom did not come from within him, but from He who had created him. With humble acceptance, he meditated on the words he just heard, happy to provide shade to his friend. His troubled heart finally at rest, the young fig tree thought, “In spite of my circumstance, I will have faith in my Creator, at peace with my lot, rejoicing and sharing what I do have with all who come underneath my happy green leaves.”

“The Lord God is my strength; He will make my feet like deer’s feet, and He will make me walk on my high hills.” Habakuk 3:19

How Far Will You Walk?

What motivates people to go through extraordinary measures for a cause? Is it love? Dogged determination and perseverance? Or are we spiritually wired with an inner resolve that transcends our mere existence and surfaces during times of hardship?

As my family and most of my friends know, I love to run long distances. It energizes and liberates me. I have no desire to run a full marathon- am quite content with the half-marathon distance and enjoy the challenge it brings without the strenuous training and time investments. I run for me and my health: physical, mental, and spiritual health. And I participate in "races" because I enjoy challenges and like to establish a few goals every now and then. But this year I thought about doing something different. Every year I try to find a race outside of my "area" - I ran in San Francisco the year before and just last year did a neat course in New Hampshire. So to continue tradition, I searched websites far and wide looking for that "perfect" location during that right time of year where training wouldn't take away from the enjoyment of my sport. I was searching hard and not coming up with anything that met my criteria for location, time of year and distance. Then I came across a flyer in the mail from the Susan G. Komen foundation. But it wasn't a half-marathon and it didn't require running. I was intrigued because if I do this, it will be the greatest physical and mental challenge for me EVER. It's called The 3-Day. We're talking 60 grueling miles over three days, and not running but walking. Walking, laughing, crying, singing with thousand of others. Walking for a cure to a cruel disease that every day snatches the vibrant lives of women around the world. This, I want to be a part of. I know I will get frustrated in the "slowness" of walking. I can run 13.1 miles in under 2 hours. But to walk 20 miles in one day - I don't know. We're talking 5 hours of straight walking, at a "fast" pace of 4 miles per hour. And by day 3, I'm not going to have the energy to walk at 4 miles per hour. But you know what? The women who have to undergo mastectomies, hair loss, pain, uncertainty- they go through so much more. At the end of the 3 days I can go home and submerge my aching body in a fragrant bubble bath and within days my body will be whole again. The inner and outer scars from breast cancer are with you and your loved ones forever. I can totally do this.

Reading the news today, I came across a beautiful story about a father and his crippled child that convinced me that walking 60 miles is nothing. This family lives in Iraq and have never had the luxury of owning a wheel chair. So the father carried his son everywhere he went. A wonderful civilian contractor working in Iraq felt a deep burden from watching crippled children dragging their thin bodies all over Baghdad because they did not have wheelchairs. So he began a program that donates wheelchairs to needy families. The father of this crippled boy walked 6 miles with the boy in his arms to collect his wheelchair. Within 100 yards from his destination some tried to take the boy from his arms to help him out. He was adamant. "I've been carrying this child all my life. I can carry him the last 100 yards to receive his wheelchair." That brought me to almost uncontrollable tears. Pictures of my heavenly Father came to mind with the reassurance that one day all this pain and suffering will be over. And children will be able to laugh and run and be free. And the frail, diseased bodies of mothers and sisters and daughters and friends will be made whole once again.

Jesus walked to Calvary to save us forever. The Iraqi father walked 6 miles for a wheelchair for his son. I can definitely dedicate 3 days of my life to walk 60 miles for a cause I believe in. How far will you walk?

If you want to join me in my 60 mile quest, email me. I would love to have a group of sisters at my side and share in this beautiful experience.

Bothered and Bemused

The older I get, the more persnickety I become. It's so funny how little things bother me to the point of insanity, like the pitch of someone's voice, dried toothpaste on the faucet, and little pieces of paper folded a million times. And because I know how much these unimportant things bother me, I have decided to become "slick-back". It's a new term I created that describes what I should do when I encounter a person or something about a person that drives me crazy. Butter my back and let it roll right off me. Life is too precious to let the fastidious 10% affect my essential 90%. So I put on my headphones, clean my bathroom, and throw little pieces of paper away, smile and tackle the real problems in life, like world peace, the environment, and my closet!

Jobos, Quenepas, Parchas and Tamarindos

This week I received an unexpected package from one of my aunts who live in Puerto Rico. My family in PR knows how much I love the fruits and vegetables from the island and they try to periodically send me care packages with little edible mementos. I was in high heaven, sinking my teeth into a jobo grown on a tree in Tia Estrella's backyard. It's a fruit that seems to be a cross between a mango and an apple. In English, they're called ambarella and they grow only in warm tropical places. The skin peels like a mango and the flesh is somewhat crisp like an apple. The seed is like a prickly cactus. The flesh is sweet, almost honey-like and there are thick fibers that run throughout the fruit. Tia Estrella sent me about 10 jobos and I've been eating one a day, sad that after 10 days there won't be any more until this time next year.

My uncle, Tio Yoyo, sent me a care package a couple of months ago with quenepas. This is a very addicting wonderful fruit that again only grows in high tropical areas. It goes by different names in different countries, mamoncillos, gineps, mamones, Spanish limes. The outer shell is hard, like a muscadine. And the flesh is pink, soft and fuzzy and acidic. There is a large round seed in the middle. When Kevin and I were in Costa Rica for our honeymoon many years ago, I discovered that they grow there as well. Every single picture from our honeymoon has me with a brown paper bag filled with the fruit and my hand to my mouth, sucking on the sweet soft quenepa flesh. Life cannot get better than this.

I also receive packages with fresh parcha, aka passion fruit. My sweet aunt Tia Ada sent me a few this summer and I was able to enjoy fresh passion fruit juice, just like my mom taught me to make. There's an involved, careful process of removing the seeds so it won't taint the flavor of the fruit. Oh, but the juice is nothing like what you buy at the store. Tart but sweet and orange-yellow in color.

Then there's tamarindos. My mom sends me these from Florida. This fruit is like a big brown bean pod. The flesh is also brown and soft, very tart, and the seeds are hard and dark brown. I make bottles and bottles of fresh tamarindo juice, keeping the brown shiny seeds for mosaic mirror frame I plan to make one day.

I'm so grateful for my family and how they spoil me with delicious natural flavors from fruit trees that God has so lovingly created. When I sink my teeth into a jobo, or a quenepa, or drink the pulp from a parcha or tamarindo, I can close my eyes and let the flavors roll around my mouth, my heart full of love and appreciation for a caring family and God's culinary artistry.

Coal on my lips

Our world market has been tainted with products that are less than desirous when it comes to quality. In the rush to produce more, questionable materials and practices are being used to produce goods that are potentially harmful to its consumers. And so we have lead in toys, tainted pet products, foods laced with illicit pesticides, even lead in lipstick. Now this was a shocker to me, since I've been painting my lips for the last 20 years. Fortunately my buttered rum lipstick shade that I faithfully get from my Avon lady isn't on the forbidden list.

Pretty much all my life I've been very conscious of what passes through my lips. My mom being the health conscious authority of the Tirado family has made it her life mission to ensure that we were kept on a healthy regiment full of legumes, nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Even during my rebellious years her image would miraculously appear on my shoulder when I would pass the sugared cereal section of the grocery store, admonishing me to keep on going and not give in to temptation.

I consider my lips to be a gateway to not just my stomach but also to my inner thoughts and feelings. Countless times I have blurted out thoughts - what in the world was I thinking of letting that out! Someone asked me a few weeks ago, "Where did you come up with that?" after I inadvertently said something that should have stayed right where the thought originated - in my head. If they only knew what actually never makes it out.

The Bible says, "For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks." Pretty wise words. And true too. Whatever we fill our hearts - what we see and hear, read and watch - that's what we'll talk about. That's why it's important to surround ourselves with things that are pure, noble, good, and virtuous.

And so as much as I watch the foods that pass through my lips, as much as I don't want lipstick tainted with lead to even come close to this important part of my body - I should take even greater care to watch that which comes in contact with my other senses. Like Isaiah of old, I identify with those unclean lips. And I desperately need live coal taken from the altar of the Most High to cleanse and purge my lips and take my iniquity away. (Isaiah 6:5-7)

A little can-can with my friends

Star in Your Own JibJab! It's Free!

Bambinos A-Plenty

There may be some truth to the phrase "it's in the water" when it comes to describing the phase in your life when so many people around you synchronize their reproductive systems and decide to have babies at the same time. I'm abstaining from water these days - please don't read into this and send Kevin your condolences. I'm literally only drinking bottled water and keeping away from neighboring water sources. No lie, for the next 6 to 9 months, I will be kissing and holding about seven babies from seven different friends/relatives. It's beautiful, really. Each so different, but all have 10 toes and 10 fingers and the cutest lips and chubby cheeks. Different skin colors and amounts of hair, but all will make gurgly noises and have that sweet bambino scent (prior to diaper messes, of course).

Babies don't scare me. I love babies, actually. Especially in the winter, when their warm bodies radiate all that heat that cold-natured people like me love to soak up. I faithfully crochet little hats and scarves or sweaters and baby afghans. And I lovingly count each stitch and pick out yarns that are soft and cuddly. It takes me forever and sometimes the handmade gifts don't arrive until the child has graduated from high school. But I try.

The newest addition to the Tirado family was born on September 11th and I can't wait to meet her and see the rest of my family. I hear my mom gush about how beautiful she is and what a proud big brother my 2-year old nephew has become, and already I feel the tug at my heart. These little creatures have tremendous power over me.

Kevin and I are seriously considering adding on in the distant-near future. I'm not talking about our house remodeling project, either. I can hear the gasps and see the stunned faces. Yes, we've talked about it and continue to talk about it. To me, being a parent is such an awesome responsibility and not everyone is equipped for the lifelong task. I see my husband interact with children and I think it would be great to let him try out his Donald Duck voice with one of his own. The decision is so scary, though- we both have a lot of baggage and bad habits that we need to rid ourselves of. Throw in the mix all the genes from generations past, society, environment, a 13.5 year-old marriage, independence, stubbornness, afternoon naps, little purses, too many shoes, frivolous spending, a convertible car - and I have created an environment where a normal child cannot be brought into. Yet, it's the spiritual factor that has convinced me that it can be done. If it weren't for God's grace, there would not be a happy child living in this world. That's the only way I can look at it without running away from the thought of having children. As long as God is the central focus of this home, all members present and future, will fall under the umbrella of His love and it will be all right.

Life full of bug splatter

Smack...Splatter...Splat... I hadn't seen so many bugs on the front bumper of my car since my first experience with the love bug epidemic that hits Florida every year. Don't ever travel far and fast with a white car - it's nearly impossible to wash all the dead bugs off. I hand-washed my new white car with a rag and mild soap, attempting to recover the front end from the insect cemetery it had become. Kevin and I have just returned from a 2500-mile excursion through the northeast. Along the way, we managed to collect every species of insect imaginable. My car became an entomologist’s laboratory, a morbid collection of grayish matter and paper-thin wings. With my nose wrinkled and some warm sudsy water, I patiently scrubbed most of the bug particles from the front bumper, the hood, the windshield, and the side mirrors of my car.

I had been fussing under my breath, not enjoying my task, when a thought popped in my head. During my younger years, I had traveled on the fast lane, careening through life at high speeds, oblivious to the small obstacles that collided and splattered, leaving little marks here and there. It’s nothing, insignificant, that’s not going to matter later, or so I reasoned with the bad choices I made. But when life came to a standstill and I was left to assess the reason for my existence, the outcome from my collection of mistakes was disturbing. The worst damage was mental and emotional, not so much physical. I turned to God, the "Ultimate Carwash”, and He sat there, with a rag soaked in His blood, and lovingly washed away the debris from the mess I called my life. Not everything is back to being brand-spanking new, fresh from the factory, new-car-smell-kind of good. There are consequences to certain actions that we will always have to deal with. The good news is that God is here to help us deal with the consequences – and He empowers us with what I call measures: measures of faith, of love, of strength, of power – fueled by His Word through prayer, study, and daily communication.

I fall short so many times, running on empty, knowing what I have to do, how I need to connect, but being blatantly stubborn and lazy. Yet through simple tasks such as washing my car, God still tries to reach me, telling me how He has saved me and that He wants to empower me to live my life to the fullest.

A little break...

Vacation... This powerful word has immobilized my creativity and ruined my work ethic. I've really been good-for-nothing these last few days. And I've yet to pack, clean, organize, and leave my affairs in order so I won't be too stressed when I get back. Kevin and I are leaving for our East Coast tour tomorrow afternoon. We have a huge adventure planned, visiting some family, and ending up in little coastal New England towns to rejuvenate our bodies and minds. We're strapping our bikes to our little Z-4 convertible, hoping we won't topple over from the height of our load. Big fun.

Won't be blogging any - in fact I'm looking forward to 10 days of no computer access. We'll see how long it lasts. Of course Kevin has to check up on his fantasy football team. I, on the other hand, will abstain from anything electronic, except ATM's, an electric razor, and maybe a phone.

Check back after Labor Day!

Expressions of Faith

Coming to the realization
that there is hope,
that death is not final,
that love is forever;
That there’s Someone
who can heal wounds,
find the lost,
comfort the grieving,
instill peace during troubling times.
How can I express my faith?

So much to receive
so little do I give.
How can I express my faith?

Will a smile suffice,
perhaps a hug, a prayer?
Thanksgiving, gratitude,
mercy, commitment;
Is it enough?

After all, He devoted His life,
eternal as it was,
for my cause.
To give me hope
and save me from grave sadness.

That sacrifice, though so long ago,
gives hope anew
to all who accept through faith.

Love eternal,
love profound,
love with no beginning or end:
Unfathomable love.
How can I express my faith?

Expressions of faith,
not a one-time occurrence,
but a lifetime of giving,
and sharing –
forever loving.

More than meets the "I"

Transformer makeovers. As a twirly little girl, I used to love playing makeover. I didn't have fancy clothes or feather boas to play with, but I would fantasize about one day being transformed from a nobody to a princess. Eliza Doolittle, Anastasia, Cinderella... Hollywood has capitalized on this very little-girl fantasy. But not all makeovers are an improvement. I was watching a talk show this week- I don't know why, but my dead brain cells must have resurrected as zombies and taken over the few good cells I still have. Anyway, it was a show on makeovers - pretty girl makeovers. The first candidate was a poster child for all the 80's fashion faux pas every American woman regrets. I'm talking bleached hair, with the 10-foot cemented bangs, bright eye shadow and ruby red lips, all topped off with spandex. She was transformed with dark flowy, natural hair and make-up, and well-fitted clothing. I was optimistic after seeing her transformation; this show may not be so bad after all. The feeling that I was not wasting time worshipping the one-eyed monster was short-lived. The rest of the transformations were complete with hair extensions galore, outfits suitable for music videos, and fake excitement. One of the women stood out - she was very attractive in a natural way. She had short curly hair, a healthy complexion, and cool glasses - a natural beauty that only needed a little steering. After her day at the salon, she was given long, straight auburn extensions and an outfit that cried, "Look at me!" I actually thought she looked better before her makeover. The stylists painted her in a different picture from what she truly represented. She didn't appear too ecstatic about her new look and I felt sad for her, almost like she had sold-out her real self in front of national TV. Her 10 seconds of fame were marred by an image of someone who didn't truly represent what she was about.

Thankfully, I let go of those little-girl fantasies. I've come to the realization that the beauty from within is what shines brightest from without. God has played the major role in my total makeover transformation. He knows what I need - and it's none of this over-rated, materialistic, temporary glamour. Superficial beauty fades with trends, time and age - but the sparkle in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, and the smiles that begin from the inside is what captures and transforms.

The Class of 87

"She's a brick - house..." Reconnecting with the '80's - that's what I'll be doing this weekend. Watching Kevin's old friends relive, reminisce, and recount the highlight of their lives - high school. Kevin's stories from his high school era have increased greatly during the last month when we decided we would attend his 20th reunion. Hearing him talk about his friends and their escapades, I couldn't help but go down the "what if" memory lane. All the crossroads I encountered throughout that four-year chapter of my life, if I took a left turn instead of a right turn, how close would I be to where I am today? What if I had concentrated less on math and science, and more on literature and music? What if I had defied my parents and pursued the crush of my life? What if instead of moving to FL my senior year I would have stayed in NJ? What if... What if... What if?

How many people waste their lives pondering what ifs? It doesn't matter, does it? What's done is done and there's no going back and doing it differently. The choices we made are irreversible. But there is hope for the bad choices - they can be improved. Even as we pay the consequences from mistakes in our past, we have the choice to pursue a better outcome. By wisely choosing the best option, I can improve my situation. Improvement doesn't always have to be measured by how good things are -it may take a while to see improvement. Even if things don't look rosy - a good way to look at a situation is how not worse things have gotten. I choose to be positive, to expect good, and to be happy with how my life has turned out. It will be interesting to see how many people I encounter this weekend that feel the same way.

Musings of a Birthday Girl

Birthdays are starting to be fun again. If I measured happiness in percentage across time, with each of my birthdays as a tick mark on the x-axis, I would have an inverted bell-shaped curve. (In non-statistic language, I guess that would be a "U".) I think I hit my low point right around 27 - having recently moved away from good friends and a city that I loved to inhabit. A decade later, I find myself more emotionally involved with situations removed from me, overtly conscious of my environmental imprint in this world, outspoken yet inwardly secluded. Gone is the Joy that wanted to be President and was voted most likely to succeed. Nowadays, I'm more content with fixing a yummy meal for my husband than climbing corporate ladders.

Having been born on the fourth of July, I've led a life pampered with birthday celebrations that always climaxed into fireworks. And no matter what day of the week it fell on, I always got a respite from the ritual humdrum of everydayness. For the longest time, I thought the whole world celebrated my birthday. Then I learned about American History and that bubble quickly burst.

I had a special birthday last week- it's the longest I've ever lived. My parents came to visit and I spent the day surrounded by people I love, taking part in activities that I enjoy. I actually celebrate birthday months now, and the good cheer follows me all the way to the 31st. My mantle is full of fun and sweet cards I've received from family and friends far and near. My heart is warm from the phone messages and e-cards I received, all the presents and pampering, and good cheer.

I have a hard respect for the life I've been given. I am blessed. I'm healthy and strong, smart and well thought of, I'm in love and loved by many. Gainfully employed, comfortably roofed, and fashionably attired. So many have so much less. Countless struggle exponentially. On this side of my inverted curve, I pray that I will share with the same delight of my childhood years that only a wise old woman can appreciate.

Sisters of my heart

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted a sister. Don't get me wrong, I love my little brother to pieces and wouldn't trade him for the world. I had fun dresssing him up when he was little and clipping shower curtain holders in his ears so he could have big hoop earrings to go with the outrageous outfits I would make him wear. (Sorry Jay - I'll pay for any therapy you may need as a result of the mental damage I may have caused over the years.) There was just something magical to me, an invisible bond if you will, when you share your life adventures with a sibling of your same sex. My mom and her sisters share that bond - a quiet aura that surrounds their hearts and transcends oceans, lands, and time.

So over the years, I've built many friendships with other girls, searching for members in my hood of sisters. I have been blessed with many of these sister-friends, some with whom I still keep in touch, even after decades of life trials and experiences.

For the past six years, a small group of my sisters and I have enjoyed one long-weekend every summer to bask in the sun and curl our toes in the South Carolina sand. These weekends have evolved into a culinary affair, with delicious recipes being shared as we dance around each other in the kitchen, laughing and giggling as we prepare our meals. We eat our delicious meals together, walk and play on the beach, watch girly movies, and shop the outlets. Most importantly, we share a love for Jesus, evidenced when we pray together and share experiences with each other. We have a large time.

I don't know what the future holds for us. But I do know that this past weekend was wonderful and I treasure the friendship I share with each of these girls.

Here we are after church, enjoying the sunshine.

Don't we look cute with our bathing suits?

And then there were four... Arjean had to go to D.C. for work. We wore matching shirts (fun!)

Blossoming Tracy

Birds-Eye-View Tracy

Sun-kissed Tracy

Sheila in the shrubs

New friends, Sheila and Arjean

Timeless Sheila

Elegant Arjean

Snuggle Bear

Va-va-voom Arjean!

Always Smiling Christi

Cute Bathing Suit!

Arjean did a great job taking this picture of me...

Soaked but happy!

Mala Unleashed

Ever feel like throwing a tantrum just because you're in a funk? That's exactly what I did the other day. I don't know why I felt that way; I had gotten off from work at 11 a.m. and was going to enjoy a day of hard work around the house. But I was mean and totally disregarded the feelings of those around me (i.e. my husband). There's a term for my behavior, when I step out of my usual "joyful" attitude; it's called "mala". In Spanish, the word is defined as "bad". For me, I earned the label one hot summer morning at a train station in San Diego, California.

My co-workers and I were first in line at the Amtrak station in San Diego, where we had spent the first few days of our vacation together last summer. We were quite happy about being first in line, because we had just learned that the previous train had never arrived and we were probably going to wait in a long line of disgruntled travelers. As the arrival time for our train got closer, the line we had formed had grown exponentially and now snaked around the building. My attention was drawn to three young women who plopped against the wall, away from the line. They sat there listening to their music, smoking, chatting in Spanish.

As the arrival of the next train drew near, I overhead one of the girls ask her friends if they should get in line. "No", she said. "We'll manage to get in". And so she crept up and stood near the front of the line where we were standing. Her friends were obviously uncomfortable with cutting in line and stood back. I turned around and saw the long stream of people who were also waiting patiently in line. I couldn't believe the audacity of these girls, especially since I understood every word they were saying to each other, as they plotted and schemed. Someone behind me would probably not be able to get on the train after waiting in line in this unbearable heat, and here these girls refuse to stand in line and would probably make it on the train and comfortably travel to LA.

Ignited, I took up the charge of the underdog and I spoke up. I said to them in Spanish that if they want to get on the train they better stand in line with the rest of the people, that it wasn't fair that they cut in line, especially at the front of the line. That someone who has been waiting in line for hours would probably not be able to get on because of their rudeness and inconsiderate behavior. She fired back in Spanish that they didn't know that they needed to stand in line and that they had a plane to catch from LA for which they would be late. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. That in Spain they didn't have to stand in lines. I had news for them: this wasn't Spain! And actually I have been to Spain and spent a good time at the train stations standing in line. They whined and cried, argued and whined some more. The security guard came and started handing out tickets to those in line. I brought to his attention that these young ladies were trying to cut in line. He got two other guards and said absolutely not, that it wasn't fair to those who had been standing in line for hours. That's when the girls turned to me, "Eres una mala. ¡Desgraciada! ¡Mala!" I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. Stick and stones... I told them that it's not that I didn't want them to get on the train, they just need to follow the rules, especially when they knew the rules and chose not to follow them. My traveling friends had been watching the whole situation unfold with curiosity and humor, not understanding what we had been saying to each other. They asked me what "mala" meant. And so I told them. They had witnessed a side of me that they had never seen at work, a confrontational, stand-up-for-my-cause-side of Joy that I keep hidden unless the underdog needs a hero.

We returned to work a week later, my coworkers telling the rest of my officemates the tale of Mala, the train-line superhero. And so the name was coined and is now used by all who sit near my cube. "Don't make me get mala on you!" is a frequent threat, all said with a smirk and sideways glance towards me. Mala hasn't surfaced since that hot summer day in San Diego. Until two days ago when I unleashed Mala on my poor unsuspecting husband. And it wasn't for a good cause this time. There was no reason or excuse for my behavior, except my selfish spirit taking over my joyful nature; probably an unusual mix of hormones and lack of sleep. I've apologized and tried to make up for my behavior. He was sweet and said I was allowed to have a bad day every once in a while. But still... Mala should only be let out when there's a cause that requires someone to stand up for others who don't have a voice. And I misused my gift.

What happened to the rude girls? They got on the train. With smirks on their faces, they got on the same car as we did, and found seats away from us. I was glad they were able to get on, as long as all the others standing in line were able to get on too. Plus my traveling friends had said they had my back.

In the Depths of Despair

There is so much sadness in this world. Every day we hear of atrocities against children, abductions of innocent people, families being targeted and killed... death, disease, despair. I live surrounded by good things, a haven hedged by love and protection. And I can't even begin to fathom what it would be like to live in fear and sadness. I pray that if one day I have to be raked through those coals, that my God will keep my heart unscathed. My soul felt heavy this morning from a couple of situations in friends’ lives, and I sought solace in the Word. I started reading about the kings and rulers during the times of the Israel and Judah conflict, way back during the prophet Elijah's time (1 Kings 15 & 16, 2 Chronicles 13). I started in the book of Chronicles and then went back to reference the same characters in 1 Kings. That's when I began reading about Elijah in chapters 17 through 19.

I knew the stories by heart, but this time I was captivated by the smaller details which I had probably read too quickly through before. Elijah had just experienced victory over the priests of Baal, and rain was now pounding hard on the parched, scorched earth as undeniable evidence that Jehovah reigns supreme over all. An evil woman makes a threat that sends Elijah fleeing to the wilderness, tail between his legs, defeated, after mightily demonstrating God's power just a few hours before. What hope is there for me, when this powerful man of God feels disappointment and discouragement, even after experiencing firsthand a miracle of great proportions? Come on! He had been fed by ravens, given bread daily by a poor widow who used flour and oil that never ran out, witnessed the resurrection of a child after prayer and supplication. How could this man of God run so fast and hard from a mere woman who worshipped gods of stone? And yet there, in the depths of his despair, God sent an angel to nourish Elijah, to prepare him for a journey where he could hear the still, small voice of the Lord. This the part where I was most fascinated. The angel brought him bread and a jug of water. Twice. That was a total two small loaves of bread and two jugs of water. The heavenly nourishment he received that day allowed him to travel almost 200 miles for 40 days through wilderness non-stop. Wow. I want some of that bread. During this dark moment of Elijah's life, God personally fed him and nourished him enough to withstand 40 days of trudging through the wilderness. And the thing is that God can do that today for us. I haven't felt despair like Elijah has, but I have faith that if I ever do, God will bring me bread that will sustain me and get me through my wilderness. The nourishment is not intravenous - there needs to be action on my part. But God has held up His end of the deal and brings me bread to feast upon. All I have to do is take, eat, and get up.

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.