Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

I Heard the Bells

Oh, what a day.

Fear, excitement, panic, hope, dread...the list goes on and on and on.  Sitting at my computer (at work...shhh) I felt it all rise up within me.  I became suddenly overwhelmed.  How on earth will we go on after this election day?  No one can deny that this campaign process has incited and ignited passion within people.  And not just good passion.  No.  Anger...hatred...vitriol...

I wondered how our nation could move on after all this.  Surely we are more divided than ever before.

Except -

As I let my mind spiral downward a song came on my Dave Barnes (Holiday) Pandora station.  (Yes.  Holiday.  Judge not.)  As I listened I felt tears come to my eyes and peace wash over me.  The carol was a song based on a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Christmas Day, 1863.

Folks, 1863 was the middle of the American Civil War.  A time when our nation was more divided than ever before, a time in which it seemed we could only splinter apart.  Longfellow, the widowed father of six children, had recently learned his oldest child had been severely injured in the war.  So he did what the artists and dreamers do: He put his pain and hope on paper.

I think it applies now, just as surely as then.

Here is his poem (emphasis mine):

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Let's Talk About Guilt, Baby

I've been intending to post for...oh, about 2 weeks. I've had great experiences to draw on, too. Good things are happening with my writing. I just spent a long weekend at a conference in New Orleans. I'm currently in Nashville visiting my sister and her family.

Doin' the Nashville hipster photo pose

So, so much.

I actually wrote a little something about NOLA, but couldn't shake the feeling that it was off.  Not bad, but not the right post at the right time.

But really, how cool is NOLA?  I will write about it soon.  Promise.

And then - well, then something relatively minor happened and I became afraid that I had hurt someone I love dearly. Suddenly I felt guilty. Oh, so guilty.

You know the feeling: pressure in your chest, churning in your stomach, the inability to focus on anything else for long...that horrible assurance that you are truly the worst friend/daughter/sister/HUMAN in the history of the world.

You know. Guilt.

It's a crappy feeling.

However, I've learned Guilt is like any other uncomfortable feeling: it's kind of hinged in the middle.

Guilt lets us know when we've taken a misstep. It's our alert for when we act in ways that are incongruous with who we are. It lets us know when we are being selfish, careless, self-centered -- when we are in danger of wandering far and away from our Truth.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us well.

But Guilt has a much more sinister side. It often overstays its welcome.  It can keep us down. It can whisper dark lies in our ear, keeping us away from Good. It can call over its big brother, Shame, and convince us that we are not worthy.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us poorly.

There are some who would claim I feel guilt because of my religion, my faith. They state that I have been conditioned to feel this way anytime I step outside the accepted rules of the establishment. Keep 'em down, keep 'em in line.

I don't agree. In fact, to those who say my misguided guilt is put upon me by my church, I kindly and gently call BS.

Sure, sometimes people suck, and due to suckiness will try to impose harmful rules on us. But that's a people problem, not a God problem.

You see, my God straight up said that I don't need to be kept downtrodden by Guilt.
"It is finished."

That's what He said.
"It is finished."

Hanging on the cross, enduring the worst humanity could offer, being mocked and scorned for His sacrifice.

"It is finished."

There is no need to keep opening up the door to the past. No need to pick off the scab. No need to stay in the gutter of our mistakes. We are not too dirty, too broken, too ANYTHING to move on. We deserve forgiveness. We deserve love.

It is finished.

Thank you, Jon Acuff.  And Pinterest, for the photo.

So I know that when Guilt comes to visit, bringing along any of his family members - Shame, Fear, Despair - I can say hello, hear the lesson, and then let him know he is not welcome.

Guilt can drop off the road map, but he does not get to come on the journey back to myself.

Photo from crazytraveler.com

And that is totally okay.

Not Cinderella

I'm a shoe girl.

I.
LOVE.
Shoes.

I know, I know!  It's cliche.  But, hey!  I'm a redhead whose favorite color is red, and while I don't mind a margarita or glass of wine, I'm definitely a whiskey girl.  I'm used to being a cliche.

My shoe closet pretty much holds the spectrum of colors and patterns: glittery ruby slippers, blue suede wedges, black patent leather stilettos...heck!  I even have a pair of pumps that have The Avengers all over them.

And they glow under a black light!

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that a certain pair of glass slippers crosses my mind on a fairly regular basis.  Glass.  Slippers.  (Or possibly fur slippers, if you're sticking with the original telling.  There's some controversy over the translation.)  There's no doubt in my mind that if I had a pair of those suckers they would be in my regular rotation.  Because functional glass slippers?  Yes, please!

But even with my slight shoe obsession (fetish?  No...okay, yes) it hit me the other day that I am not Cinderella.

Now, before I get to the moment in which I had this epiphany, I feel the need to say something:  I don't hate Cinderella.  I don't dislike Cinderella.  I don't have anything against Cinderella.

I LOVE CINDERELLA!

In some ways Cinderella is a perfect symbol of fairy tale princesses.  I would love her for that alone, but there's more.  Whether we're talking the Disney version or the Perrault (and then Grimm) version, or even the Egyptian story of Rhodopis, I am a fan.  She has incredible grace under pressure, is an example of perseverance and kindness in the face of hardship and hatred, and it's great that those traits are rewarded at the end of the story.  I think, "Go back!  Go back!  There's blood on the trail!" is an awesome - if Grimm -  refrain, and "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is equally wonderful.

And don't even get me started on statements like this:

Who says these ideas are mutually exclusive?  Why can't I love fairy tales and dreaming and whimsy and still be a strong, successful woman?  I will make it rain shards of glass while wearing glass slippers.  I will chase my dreams in my cutest pair of shoes.  When I have kids they will be taught to dance and dream and demolish that glass ceiling.  You do not have to sacrifice one at the expense of the other.

Honestly.





Anyway, all that to say: I love Cinderella.

But I am not Cinderella.

Some of you may know that I've been doing the online dating thing for a bit.  While it's cool to meet new people and I always enjoy getting dressed up, I'm not stoked on it.  The guys are nice enough (barring, of course, those who think it's alright to ask for naked pictures right off the bat), but I find I'm in a strange mindset about relationships right now.  I don't want anything serious - but I'm open to that if it happens - and I definitely am not looking for a one night thing.  So something casual and with no pressure, but with the option to explore more if there's a connection.  And no hookups.

See?  It's not fair.  It's kind of setting the poor guys up for failure.

A couple days ago I got a perfectly nice message from a perfectly nice guy who was wishing me a good day at work.  I suddenly felt very clearly and heavily in my heart that while he may be Prince Charming I am certainly not Cinderella.  I looked at my phone and sighed, "I'm not The One, guy," before I typed a short and cheerful response thanking him for the kind thoughts.

Cinderella is delicate and strong, persevering and gentle.  She is faith in good things and working solidly and steadily at the task that has been set before her, all while never giving up on the dream of something better.

I am a temper that is contained 96% of the time and fierce the other 4.
I am constant vigilance against the threat of bedbugs.
I am a laugh that is just a touch too loud.
I am bottles of kombucha abandoned with 1/4 of the drink left.
I am Christmas music year round.
I am lying on the floor when writing feels too hard.
I am SO EXCITED to go to Disneyland.  Always.
I am quiet moments at my grandma's grave, telling her about everything going on in my life, and listening for the little bell of her answer.
I am always going to laugh at a fart joke...and most raunchy humor.
I am a dirty mind (*ahem* sexy imagination) that hangs out behind an innocent face.
I am incensed when anyone implies - or states - that I need to dress in a more modest/conservative/ladylike/whatever way.  Incensed.
I am not quite afraid of the dark, but I sleep much better with just a little light in the room.
I am conversations with random strangers about what on earth it means that they dreamt about that weird thing.  And also they swear they saw their grandfather after he passed away.

I am not Cinderella.

And so when well-meaning people tell me to have faith, that my perfect Prince Charming, with his pristine background and white steed, will come soon, well...I cringe.  Because I don't have time for you, Prince Charming - for you or your perfect posture and bizarre insistence that you will marry a woman you danced one silent dance with.

No.  For as much as I love fairy tales, and believe in fairies (well, faeries), I'm not looking for a fairy tale romance.  I need someone who will suit up and show up.  Someone who will don his armor and step into the gladiator ring to fight alongside me.  Someone who will push me to try new things and who doesn't care that "delicate" is a word that has never been used to describe me.  Someone who will embrace and explore life with me, who will hold my hand when it's scary or hard, or simply just because.

Frank and Sadie from Beyond Belief (Thrilling Adventure Hour)...Relationship goals.

So, until I find him - until we find each other - I'll just keep putting one well-shod foot in front of the other.  And to all you Princes Charming or Fairy Godmothers, I will never turn down the gift of a great pair of shoes.

Never.





Any pictures that are not mine were found on Pinterest, and as such photo credit is not given.

"If Grace Is An Ocean We're All Sinking"

Last weekend I had the opportunity to spend time away from the stress and pressure of everyday life. 

I don't think there are words to adequately describe the experience.  See, when I was in high school I was involved in a youth group called LOG (Love of God).  LOG was important for me...LOG taught me that I could actually be loved for being myself, not because I shared the last name of some pretty incredible people.  LOG taught me that I was worth being cared about and listened to - by people other than my family - even though I might not have been the cutest or the smartest.  LOG taught me how to know Jesus, really know Him, and what it means to love Him. 

LOG was pretty important to me.

Luckily for me, LOG is still a part of my life.  I was asked to be on the Spiritual Advisory Board (a.k.a. LOGBoard) when I was out of college.  Elisa told me to think about it and pray about it - and I used all my self-control to do so - and then said, "YES!!"  My role on LOGBoard is to do a bunch of behind-the-scenes type stuff.  Mary and I are a unit (sometimes called, "Phary"...take the last few letters of "Stepha" and "Mary") and together we write some pretty amazing skits (if I do say so, myself), and get a lot of the more practical things done.  I am also supposed to be there to pray for and love and lift up the high school students who are involved in LOG.  It's kind of funny how I am always the one getting lifted up and loved.

Last weekend we had a retreat where we rented a camp up by Lake Cachuma.  Cell phones are discouraged, but you don't get reception anyway, so it's not too rough to keep them put away.  iPods are discouraged, but there's no time to sit and listen to them, so what's the point of having them?  Watches are discouraged, because up at that retreat you get the chance to be outside of time.  It's tough the first time to have no watch, but after that you begin to appreciate it.  Time has no meaning up at LOG, except that you sleep at night and wake up in the morning, and God is always present. 

While I haven't exactly been screaming it from the rooftops, I haven't made a secret of the fact that life has been a little rough lately.  I have felt weighed down by all the things I have to do.  I am slightly afraid of checking my email, because while there is always one more reminder of something I need to do there is also always the possibility that I will have an email asking, "Why didn't you do this?  Did you forget??"  I feel overwhelmed sometimes, and all I want to do is run away (not the healthiest way of dealing with my problems at all). 

In the weeks leading up to LOG this all reached a peak, of sorts.  I was feeling down-trodden and frustrated and guilty, too, because I was looking forward to the weekend, but only to get away from it all.  I was excited to spend the weekend with my close friends, other LOGBoard members and high-schoolers.  I am sorry to say that I wasn't necessarily excited to spend the time with God. 

Fortunately He met me where I was.  Last weekend I was wrapped up in love and taught a valuable lesson.  Sometimes we need a slap in the face.  Sometimes we need to get knocked out of our complacency.  We need to realize that the path we are headed down is going exactly that way: down. 

My life lately has been the slap.  I was skating along and somewhere along the way had lost sight of what was truly important.  I got caught up in my own world.  I forgot to look outside myself.  And then my life - which wasn't too hard really, however much I had moaned about it - got hard.  I was suddenly left feeling like the things I had before were gone.  I was left without the things that distract me from the important things in life. 

And then, because God is good, I was wrapped up and held tight when I felt most vulnerable.  The slap in the face was soothed by the hug afterward.  And with my eyes cleared from the distracting stuff I was able to see the most beautiful thing of all: Grace.  I saw that even with my faults, my distractions, and my missteps I am loved.  I am offered forgiveness and the grace to stand back up and begin to walk again. 

Mary gets Group-Hugged!

Quite the lesson, really.  And it was taught by high-schoolers. 

And so I leave you now with the words of the theme of LOG 42.  The song, How He Loves states it much better than I can. 

He is jealous for me,
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy.
When all of a sudden,
I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory,
And I realize just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.

And oh, how He loves us so,
Oh, how He loves us.
How He loves us, so.

We are His portion and He is our Prize,
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes.
If grace is an ocean we're all sinking.
And Heaven meets Earth like a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
And I don't have time to maintain these regrets
When I think about the way

That He loves us,
Oh how he loves us.

Oh how he loves us

How he loves us, so.

"The Substance of Things Hoped For"

I heard a priest say once that "faith is the substance of things hoped for."  It struck me as almost lyrical: a poem in the midst of prose.  I was smitten.  I liked the line so much that I did something I never do in church, and in fact is something that usually shocks and offends me when I see others do it (remember how I said I'm trying not to judge? Yeah...It's a work in progress.).  I pulled out my phone in the middle of the sermon and opened up to a "NEW TEXT MESSAGE" page.  Now, I did this to send myself a text of that pretty little quote so I could use it in a story later.  Maybe it could be a character's quote, maybe a theme.  Who knew?  I liked it, and I am always on the lookout for story fodder.

I've thought about that line a lot, turning it over in my mind, whispering it to myself.  I've even meditated on it a bit.  I have never quite found the right place for it, though, and so it remains repeating its gentle rhythm in my mind. 

My mom and I were talking recently and she said something along the lines of, "I just keep hoping."  I made the pretty natural response of, "That's all we can do."  And I was immediately struck with the thought of living a life of hope.  What does that even look like?  Is it a good thing or a bad thing?  Is it positive, always being hopeful, or terribly sad that you are always hoping and never achieving?

And what, if it comes down to it, does that phrase truly mean?  "The substance of things hoped for." 

Merriam-Webster offers the following definition for substance:

             1: essential nature : essence

             2: ultimate reality that underlies all outward manifestations and change

             3: physical material from which something is made or which has discrete existence

      

Substance, it would seem, is a foundation.  Substance is the inside of something - substance is what "makes up" an object.  So if faith is the substance of things hoped for, it must follow that faith is the foundation of our hopes.  Faith is the stool we stand on when we are aiming for something beyond our reach.  So often we want something - whether it's physical or spiritual, material or ethereal - and we can't quite get it.  We have to wait.  We have to have faith that it will work out however it needs to. 

This is something that I am still working on.  Because having faith that things will work out usually means trusting that it will work out - which in my case tends to mean letting go of control.  As my dad said to me today, "You need to trust that God has everything in control."  And this is a hard lesson for me.  But somehow, thinking of trust as faith, and faith as a stool or a building block, I find myself able to relax a bit.  It's almost as if the beauty of the phrase allows me to close my eyes for just a moment and breathe deeply.  It allows me to feel secure on a strong foundation, if only briefly.

So, I sit here typing a message to myself and hoping I can draw encouragement from the phrase I have come to love so dearly.  "Faith is the substance of things hoped for."  I think a life of hope isn't such a bad thing, as long as we stand on a foundation of faith.  Faith in God, faith in ourselves, faith in those around us. 

I hope you can draw some encouragement, too.  Take a moment to close your eyes and take a deep breath. 

Lots of love,



Psalm 33:22



Who Falls Off an Airplane?? - or - Adventures in Air-Travel

I have just had the (wonderful) opportunity to visit my sister and her family for a week. So many beautiful things happened this past week, and I will write about those soon. But, considering the fact that I spent two full days in airports and on airplanes, I would like to take a moment and focus on just that: airports and airplanes.

I woke up at an ungodly hour - and forced Cat to wake up at an ungodly hour so she could drive me to the airport - and was on a plane by 6 am. The flight to LAX was pretty smooth, ignoring the fact that I set off the metal detector at the airport, but they couldn't find the reason...Or the fact that although I did renew my license I didn't do it with enough time to receive my new one before the trip...And the fact that the plane was so small it felt like we were being flung around by every gust of wind - and it was a very windy morning.

I was determined to be cool, calm, and collected. I wanted my nameless fellow travelers to see me as a sophisticated woman who doesn't bat an eye at the aspect of flying somewhere new. The problem was that I am more curious little girl than sophisticated woman. My eyes were wide, darting around, trying to take everything in.

There are fascinating things to see everywhere, but airports, I have found, are amazing places for people-watching, finding character fodder, and all-around observation of the silly, sweet, tender, and ridiculous. For example, I after being at LAX for 10 minutes (including sitting on the runway) I had seen 2 street-sweepers (runway-sweepers?), 2 vending machines for iPods and the like (no joke), and Jude Law look-alike. I know he was a look-alike, and not actually Jude Law,

This is really Jude Law, NOT the guy I saw standing at the airport...

because he was standing at the gate waiting with the rest of us poor shmucks who hadn't made it in time to snag a chair. And as I still had about an hour and a half before boarding for my next flight I wandered about 20 feet and found a Starbucks. With coffee in hand I went back to wait to board the flight, humming along to the piano version of the one Phantom of the Opera song they played over and over and over and over...

My layover in Chicago was shorter, but I discovered quite a few things while waiting:

-I must have little minions or something who love me, because the first thing I saw upon leaving the plane was a Starbucks! YES!

-I could have gotten a flu shot, or for $30 more, a pneumonia shot. Nice...

-All of the workers I encountered had a serious attitude problem.

The return trip, however, was where my main excitement happened. I had given up the hope of ever appearing elegant or sophisticated, and hoped instead to enjoy my Milk Duds and a book and see if I might discover anything in the other passengers that might suit a story or something. Imagine my dismay when I sat down and realized my row-mate was a man who chose to take part of my seat and apparently felt that personal hygiene was optional. I curled into the window and (luckily) lost myself in my book. The flight was smooth, and I was only disrupted by a few snores from my neighbor - really, it wasn't too bad.

However...when we landed, and my neighbor decided he would be first off the plane I decided to be patient and wait. After all, I reasoned, I didn't want to rush and (knowing me) fall and hurt myself. When I finally got to the door of the plane I smiled and thanked the flight attendant and stepped to the top of a small flight of stairs. Careful, Steph, I thought. You don't want to fall...That would be embarrassing and potentially painful. I made it down the first two steps with no problem. But then I put my left foot down and slid forward. I still don't know how it happened, but somehow my foot slid through the front of my sandal, popping the upper out of the sole. I slid down the last two steps, frantically grabbed the handrail, and held on for dear life. I somehow landed on my feet on the tarmac, my rear about 2 inches from the concrete.

Fabulous.

The rest of the passengers, waiting on the tarmac for their carry-ons that had to be gate checked, turned their eyes away from me...Afraid to see my embarrassment, I'm sure. I laughed at myself, picked up my shoe and held it up. "My shoe broke," I announced, wanting to be sure they all knew I am not simply a clutz. "It was my shoe. My shoe broke." People nodded, obviously not believing me. "You okay, miss?" an airport employee asked, laughing at me.

"My shoe broke," I answered, loud enough that everyone could hear me. It didn't matter. They continued ignoring me. "My shoe broke," I muttered as I hobbled across the tarmac trying to put the upper back in the sole. I walked through a wing of the airport with one shoe on, laughing and shaking my head. I pulled out my phone and texted my friends...I needed to share this with someone! Other travelers saw me and gave me a wide berth, wanting to avoid the crazy lady with one shoe on who was muttering to herself. I finally fixed my shoe and slipped it back on, and followed the signs to my gate. I slowed to a stop as I looked out a giant window...There was a crystal clear view of the plane I had just fallen off. I shrugged off the knowledge that it was not only the other passengers of my flight that had seen me fall but anyone who happened to look out that window. I kept walking (and had yet another Starbucks) and then stopped in my tracks. There was another giant window. "Great."

I took the escalator down to my gate (I was understandably a little nervous about stairs) and made my way to a chair. I stopped again. "Oh, man!" People around me looked over then quickly away, wanting to avoid any contact with a crazy lady. There, taking up the entire wall, was yet another giant window with a clear view of my plane. "Wonderful!"

My only consolation was the hope that people may not have looked out the window at the exact moment I fell off the plane. Well, that and the fact that there was a man waiting at the gate who was doing yoga right in the middle of the floor.

Yes...There was someone who was really doing this.

So I wasn't the only crazy person in the airport that day.

Job 8:21