Have you ever met someone who claims an entire month for their birthday celebration? As in, “Oh, we’re holding my birthday party tomorrow, and then my birthday month continues with another party on Saturday.” I so badly want to tell them that it is only a day. Just one. But I don’t, because I try to watch what I say. There’s no saltiness coming out of this fountain, coming out of this heart.
I will only accept celebration extensions when they apply to activities we all agree on globally. Such as Christmas or Thanksgiving being celebrated for more than one day. Or vacations. “How was your July 4th?” I was asked when I came back to work, and I answered that it was good because if you count the day before the 4th, the actual 4th, and the day after, as most people do, it was great. If you are only counting the 4th itself, I’d rather not talk about it.
So I will let Chris Rock do the talking for me:
You’ve never been in love if you haven’t contemplated murder and the only thing that stopped you from killing him was an episode of CSI.
Lord help me. That quote is obviously mean to be funny, but the truth is in there somewhere. Only love would make me cry, make me yell, make me run through the subway and stumble down the stairs to stop it from getting away. Only love would calm me down, make me see, that this is where I want to be.
And only whole love, in all its fullness, would allow me to see that where I am weak, he can be strong. Such as in finances. Everyone knows money has never been my thing, but everyone should know that we’re halfway through the year and I am more on track with supernatural debt cancellation than I ever thought I could be. And with a partner like Brandon I know I’ll be financially secure because he actually understands how to make bank interest work for you, amongst many other you know, bank-y things.
I made a list of things we needed to do before we got married, and that list included going to open a joint bank account. To my surprise Brandon actually researched the bank that we should use, and even beat me to the appointment. He opened the door of the bank for me, and although I consistently try to thank him for small acts of valor, I rushed inside without saying a word and wiped sweat from my brow. The New York heat has been brutal lately, so I’m sure he understood. We were eventually met by a young Hispanic guy named Caesar. He instantly liked us as a couple, and I think a lot of that had to do with the fact that I sat upright with my legs crossed and my mouth shut for most of the meeting. They discussed Roth IRAs, mutual funds, retirement funds, and investment banking while I looked at Facebook, and every so often glanced at Brandon with a smile. He can still surprise me.
Notice that I said that I sat quietly for most of the meeting. I piped up when Caesar turned his computer around toward us and explained how our online account and the password log-in would work. Nowadays you don’t only make an alpha-numeric password, you select a picture and a word to associate with it as an extra precaution. Brandon lifted his right hand to click through the pictures and guided the arrow on the screen toward a car. I protested. I felt it should be something that makes us think of positive thoughts, or scripture. I took the mouse from him and scrolled through to the next page where there was a picture of a plain basket made from straw. He debated me on the basket and told me he didn’t want it, but I didn’t care. We chose a password for him, and then moved on to my picture. House? No. Apple? No. I scrolled through to the next page, and waiting for me was a shiny, patent leather, couture looking picture of a basket. “Now THAT’s a basket!” I yelled. I babbled about how exciting all of this was, and how we were really a team if indeed our banking passwords matched. Brandon just smiled at Caesar, and I saw Caesar gently touch his empty ring finger as if to silently thank God that he was single.
From there the week took on a roll of highs and lows like a symphony. But, the grim and dangerous crescendo so to speak is over, and my mood and current situations would match that of a light flute solo. The film that I was so blessed to help write has been given the official greenlight. They’re going to film it soon and I’m going to hear my words on the screen, and I’m going to know that my personal ministry has really started! I’m going to know that I didn’t become a failure when I decided to stop pursuing Hollywood, I became a success! To be used as a vessel for God, for His purposes, is still something that I fight daily to believe I am worthy of. Whether or not I know it or believe it, the fact is that I am so very worthy, because Jesus has made me so.
“I am the righteousness of God and He loves me even though I haven’t washed this sports bra,” I mumbled the other morning. As I approached the place in the sidewalk where you really start to notice how uneven it is, I saw a cat. It was a cat unlike any I had seen before. It was dirty looking, odd-shaped, partially coated in mud, and it’s posture was strange. I looked away briefly to hoist my gym bag higher onto my shoulder, and to admire how beautiful my neighborhood is at six o’clock in the morning when the sun has first illuminated it. As I stepped no more than a foot out from the cat it’s head turned all the way around over it’s shoulder and I realized that it wasn’t a cat. It was a…hm, oh…it was a rat. The biggest, mangiest, disease-ridden, sent from Hell rat that I ever saw.
And so I continue to declare that I am a vessel worthy to be used for God on these early morning walks to the gym, and that is usually followed by “I hope you die, Luci!”. Luci is short for Lucifer, the name of the rat. Every single day, the same mangy rat scares me. I mean, that rat just won’t seem to find a new place to live, and it doesn’t surprise me that it’s currently making a hole in the wall of my creeper neighbor’s house its home. The neighbor I speak of is such a weirdo, and he always stares at the young girls in the neighborhood. I hope he and Luci have fun together. Or no, no I don’t. I hope they both fly away.
And if I have my way, I will be flying soon. In a private plane no less, though the teeny tiny ones scare me. The technology director at work asked me into his office for a meeting so we could discuss some next steps on a project, and I noticed there was some funny looking equipment on his desk. He explained that he uses it to fly his own private plane, and then he launched into a lengthy explanation about aviation. I really like this guy. He’s nice, he’s friendly, and he’s not bad to work with so I desperately wanted to make more conversation with him.
“Oh really? How exciting! My fiance’…um, likes aviation and he wants to, like, fly”. Upon hearing those words Ken immediately invited us to go with him to New Jersey and take a free lesson. He was so enthused to hear that Brandon might be a fellow lover of aviation that he literally mapped out a day in the air for us, and asked me to give him a date next week when we’d like to go. I nodded my head and smiled at Ken, and then walked out into the hallway to release my breath. Fly? Brandon doesn’t like to fly planes, it was just something I sort of, you know, said. Why wasn’t I watching what I say when I said that?
Ken has approached me every day since then to ask when we’d like to go flying, and I’ve only stalled because I had yet to tell Brandon. Well I finally did, and he couldn’t believe I made that story up. As I suspected, the idea of taking a long flight in a small plane with an amateur pilot doesn’t thrill him and he said, “Baby, we’ll see.”
“But we have to go!” I whined. “He asks me everyday!”
“Well,” he started in his slow southern drawl, “You’ll just have to beat around the bush until I figure out if I’m gonna go.”
“It’s a big bush,” I said.
He answered, “Then keep beatin’ nigga.”
Only love—love, sweet love in the form of God and my blessings—would make me see…that this is where I want to be.
Written to: Nothing. Because Youtube is being ridiculous today.
(And apologies for the lack of photos. I’m going to be snapping away in the coming days.)