Except for the past four and a half months, I was single my entire life. There were times that I was skeptical about male/female relationships, when I hated the entire male race, when I swore I'd never let little red hearts float around my head. I had good reasons, which were bad experiences.
A few of my friends are in those skeptical stages. They think that I've abandoned them by abandoning my skepticism. They don't understand why anyone would want to love for risk of pain. They deny any need for someone of the opposite sex in their lives. Maybe you do. I heard a story today that might not alter your view of the future and relationships, but it may alter your view of love in general, maybe even faith. A day later, I heard this story. I'm repeating this story closely to how it was relayed to me. May it reach out from this computer screen and pat you on the shoulder.
My friend Matt's nephew found Matt's dad Ken in the bathroom floor yesterday morning. Ken was in the fetal position, struggling to breathe, and asking for his wife. His wife rushed in, called 911 and our pastor Blake, then went with him to the hospital. Blake rushed there, too. They all prayed desperately for Ken, but shortly later, the doctors told the family that Ken had died of a heart attack. The nurses kept him on a respirator while the family came in to say their last goodbyes. Patients are typically pronounced dead after 30 minutes of being in Ken's state. As Ken's wife Tina began talking to him, the heart monitor registered its first faint beat in 49 minutes.
After more prayer from family and friends and more work from the doctors, Ken was taken into surgery. He made it through and, by this morning, could sit up in bed and respond verbally to questions.
Faith. Hope. Love. I need these. Of the three, my greatest need is love. It grants me the other two. I have the right to be a skeptic. I also have the right to choose not to exercise that right. I believe in the strength and power of genuine love. I believe it can rejuvenate faith then move mountains. I also believe that it can start hearts that have stopped.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
One More Layer
I sat on clear plastic, cross-legged, in sweatpants and an old tee shirt. Burgundy paint dripped from the sponge roller and down the handle, barely missing my new Class of 2006 high school ring. All of my furniture was pushed to the center of my small room as my parents and I worked rigorously near the outside edges.
Daddy always did the trim of any paint job in our house. He was the most meticulous and had the steadiest hand. He pulled the triangular sponge along the molding and corners. My mom, on the other hand, tended to get distracted in the midst of painting, so she took the role of tidying.
She wiped the walls before we started, dusted everything within a ten-foot radius of the paint, and moved items just before they got in our way. This task assignment left me with the roller.
Daddy and I worked silently except for the dipping then dripping of brushes and rollers followed by moist swishing sounds against the walls. If anyone said anything, it was my mom, sharing memories about my childhood while she straightened articles in my room.
My room grew up with me. The walls began as white as a clean dry erase board. They were the background for a red and yellow circus theme when my parents brought me home from Oconee Memorial Hospital in early fall of 1987. Though I had no preference for color as an infant, almost twenty years later, red and yellow were undeniably my favorites.
As I dodged the white molding, I remembered that the walls changed from the white of the nursery to light pink during elementary school. My beloved pastel dolls and tea sets abounded, but my tomboy personality didn't allow that stage to last very long.
I followed the wall with my paint roller until I reached the phone jack. With my new cellular phone, I had no use for the jack anymore, but I certainly did in the late 90s. As I became enamored with various actors and boy-bands, the soft pink walls became the background for posters torn out of Teen Magazine. I remembered the phone that used to be there. It lit up hot pink when it rang, matching the shade of my cheeks if the caller were a boy.
From late middle school to early high school, when my mom insisted that the walls throughout the entire house have the same neutral color, my room turned “dusted olive.” Then, I believed that all boys were stupid and horses were marvelous. We traded my popular posters and girly pinks for horse figurines and rustic browns.
Now, I was a senior in high school. I wanted something more mature. I needed something different because I was different. I was going to be in college soon. I needed this.
I had just returned from my senior trip to Spain, Italy, and France with deep-colored, European souvenirs and artsy pictures. I had also recently inherited my great-grandmother’s antique bedroom suite. The combination of modern Europe and an old heirloom was perfect. Wall to wall mahogany bookshelves were essential for my collection of American classics. I couldn’t afford them now, but they would come. So would the sheer, cream curtains and the silk, orange pillow that I daydreamed of as I sat scraping the dried paint off my tired hands at the end of the day. The presence of my equally exhausted parents reminded me that I was not completely independent. Still, I knew that I stood in the midst of my masterpiece, and underneath were all those layers of paint.
Daddy always did the trim of any paint job in our house. He was the most meticulous and had the steadiest hand. He pulled the triangular sponge along the molding and corners. My mom, on the other hand, tended to get distracted in the midst of painting, so she took the role of tidying.
She wiped the walls before we started, dusted everything within a ten-foot radius of the paint, and moved items just before they got in our way. This task assignment left me with the roller.
Daddy and I worked silently except for the dipping then dripping of brushes and rollers followed by moist swishing sounds against the walls. If anyone said anything, it was my mom, sharing memories about my childhood while she straightened articles in my room.
My room grew up with me. The walls began as white as a clean dry erase board. They were the background for a red and yellow circus theme when my parents brought me home from Oconee Memorial Hospital in early fall of 1987. Though I had no preference for color as an infant, almost twenty years later, red and yellow were undeniably my favorites.
As I dodged the white molding, I remembered that the walls changed from the white of the nursery to light pink during elementary school. My beloved pastel dolls and tea sets abounded, but my tomboy personality didn't allow that stage to last very long.
I followed the wall with my paint roller until I reached the phone jack. With my new cellular phone, I had no use for the jack anymore, but I certainly did in the late 90s. As I became enamored with various actors and boy-bands, the soft pink walls became the background for posters torn out of Teen Magazine. I remembered the phone that used to be there. It lit up hot pink when it rang, matching the shade of my cheeks if the caller were a boy.
From late middle school to early high school, when my mom insisted that the walls throughout the entire house have the same neutral color, my room turned “dusted olive.” Then, I believed that all boys were stupid and horses were marvelous. We traded my popular posters and girly pinks for horse figurines and rustic browns.
Now, I was a senior in high school. I wanted something more mature. I needed something different because I was different. I was going to be in college soon. I needed this.
I had just returned from my senior trip to Spain, Italy, and France with deep-colored, European souvenirs and artsy pictures. I had also recently inherited my great-grandmother’s antique bedroom suite. The combination of modern Europe and an old heirloom was perfect. Wall to wall mahogany bookshelves were essential for my collection of American classics. I couldn’t afford them now, but they would come. So would the sheer, cream curtains and the silk, orange pillow that I daydreamed of as I sat scraping the dried paint off my tired hands at the end of the day. The presence of my equally exhausted parents reminded me that I was not completely independent. Still, I knew that I stood in the midst of my masterpiece, and underneath were all those layers of paint.
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