Back in college I had an atheist friend who was somewhat disillusioned with relationships. He told me one day, "Every friend I have ever had has let me down." This initiated the expression of my fix-it gene that I inherited from my mother. I made a vow to myself that I would never let him down. I figured in this way he would see the love of Christ and be moved to accept Jesus and then we could spend eternity in heaven together being BFFs. You can probably guess how this turned out. I disappointed him and as a consequence of my imperfection Jesus could not save him. Just kidding. I did let him down, but he wound up coming to Christ later on when he met his future wife. He now has babies and is happy, or so I hear. I figure we'll catch up as BFFs in heaven.
Anyway, you would think that with time I would grow in wisdom and maturity and recognize the naivete in such quests. You would think.
I recently found out a (former?) friend has been telling people that I am lousy. That I hurt her (which is true) and therefore no one should trust me or believe anything I say (I hope that's not true). I did hurt her, more than once. Each time, when I realized what I had done, I apologized and asked her forgiveness, hoping we could still be friends despite the fact that I can be a twit. Each time she assured me that we were cool and everything was fine. So finding out that she has been telling people I am a creepizoid really upset me. But maybe not for the reason you might think.
My fear is, what if she's right? I mean, she's got a point, I screwed up more than once. I have a long history of really hurting the people I love most. Why should anyone trust me? Worst of all, what kind of Christian does that make me? In Christian circles we like to complain about the bad hypocritical Christians that give us a bad name. The whole,
"The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable." - Brennan Manning
Yeah, that bad Christian, that's me. I'm the jerk. Even worse, I've participated in the bad Christian bashing. That makes me like a double hypocrite, which has gotta be the worst kind. Why should my friend want to follow Christ when, instead of showing the love of Christ, I'm letting her down? Over and over again.
But maybe (probably?) there is a flaw in my philosophy. What brand of Christianity am I trying to sell here? I pretty sure that, "Once you get saved you will be perfect," is not in the Bible. The Bible does tell us to confess our sins to one another (James 5:16), which kind of implies there will be sinning going on.
So maybe it's not about being perfect so that others will be saved. We know we don't get saved because we are good enough, no one is. So why should someone else's salvation be based on whether I am good enough? Maybe it was small-minded of me to think that God's ability to impact people's lives would be limited by my flaws. Maybe I should look back at what happened 10 years ago and learn something (i.e. grow in wisdom and maturity): God saved my friend because of who He is, not because of my foolish attempt to earn someone's salvation.
So where does this leave my dear friend? Well, I'm sorry she feels so hurt by me. I didn't mean to hurt her. I do still want to be her friend, but I get the distinct impression she doesn't want to be mine. And that's okay. I just have to trust God to take good care of her. Maybe she will come to Christ in spite of me. And then we can be BFFs in heaven together.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The Rabies Story
For those of you who missed it the first time around, here is the rabies story.
So there is a homeless guy we'll call 'Oscar' who lives on my front porch part-time. (If he lived there all the time he technically wouldn't be homeless, right?) Oscar is French, generally harmless and, when he is sober, is almost lucid. He gets along with women pretty well, but is somewhat less tolerant of men. For example, one time my friend Steven replied, "Oh yeah?" rather innocuously to something Oscar said. Apparently this was highly offensive to Oscar who gave Steven quite a tongue lashing about respect. So my basic plan with Oscar is to keep him happy. Smile, nod, and go along with whatever he might say, even though I usually don't understand him.
Sometimes I'll see Oscar daily, then he'll disappear for weeks or months. Once, after being gone for a few months I saw him on the porch again. "Oscar! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?" I asked. "Oh," he replied in his gravelly French accent, "I've been in the suburbs. I stay with my girlfriend out there. I can't take the city anymore. It's too dirty here. Trash everywhere. And you know what?" "What Oscar?" "There are too many crazy people around here. I can't take it anymore." Two things in this conversation struck me. 1) How sad has my life gotten that Oscar can find love and I can't? 2) Oscar is complaining about the crazy people? Hmmm.
Anyway, this past January I was walking to school when I saw Oscar with a dog about a block from my place. "Oscar, is this your dog? I've never seen him before," I say. "Yeah, I found her in the street. Pet her," Oscar tells me. Okay, in retrospect, I know that following Oscar's directions doesn't sound bright. But I've never had a run-in with a dog before, and the only rule that comes to mind at the moment is, "Keep Oscar happy, go along with it." Plus, there is the fact that my entire life I have been obedient to a fault.
The first example I have of this occurred when I was in the first grade. The rules were specific, you do not move, talk to your neighbor, or in any other way divert your focus when it is time to pledge allegiance to the flag. Unfortunately, I was not feeling well one day and got sick. During the pledge. So, I stood at my desk, with my hand over my heart, and threw up on the back of the shoes of the kid in front of me. (He never forgot this, reminding me several times throughout the rest of the school year that I threw up on him. I honestly never understood why he was so upset, in my mind it wasn't my fault.) My teacher asked me, "Angela, if you were sick, why didn't you run over to the trash can?" I innocently and sincerely told her, "We aren't allowed to move during the pledge." She revised the rules that day. From that point forward students were allowed to leave their desks during the pledge if they should get sick. But I digress.
So, naive, obedient Angela reaches out to pet the little harmless looking yellow dog. Within seconds the bitch (she was female, I'm being accurate) has clamped down onto my fingers and is not letting go. Oscar is completely unfazed by my situation. "Okay, she's mean!" I exclaim and finally manage to yank my hand back. I tell Oscar that I've gotta go now and hurry on my way. Oscar helpfully tells me to have a good day.
As I'm walking, it occurs to me that my fingers really hurt. Eventually I look down and notice I am bleeding. Crap. I hope it doesn't get infected. What is first aid for a dog bite, I wonder. Then my mind starts to replay the conversation. "I found her in the street." What are the odds that the dog was current on her rabies vaccine? Probably not good. But, I'm not panicking yet. I get to work, check my e-mail, get things started for the day, then figure I should call student health and see if they have any advice on dog bite first aid. The girl on the other end of the phone sounds less relaxed though, "How long ago did this happen?" "About an hour and half," I tell her. "How fast can you get here?" she asks. "Um, I guess I can come right now," I say. Great.
At Student Health they set me to work scrubbing my wounds while my doctor Googles rabies. BTW, it doesn't inspire confidence when your doctor Googles your illness. "How did this happen?" the doctor asks me. Moment of shame. Yes, I am the idiot white girl from the suburbs who did what the homeless man told her to do. I tell her the story. She gives me the look I expected. This plays out over again every time a different nurse wanders in. They ask, I explain, the look. I'm beginning to think of changing my answer to, "Because I'm thupid. Still tarded!"
"Well," my doctor says, "it doesn't look like there were many cases of rabies in dogs in Philadelphia last year, so the odds of you getting the disease are low. Then again, if you do get rabies and don't get treated, rabies is always fatal. It's up to you, do you want to be treated?"
Honestly, there was a part of me that though, eh, what are the odds? Then I thought about how the conversation would go the next time I talk to my mom and inform her that I chose not to be protected against a fatal but preventable disease. I tell the doctor this. "Well, you don't have to tell her,' she says. True. But now I start thinking about Murphy's law. I'm thinking, if I don't get treated, I will most definitely get the disease. And then I will wind up breaking one of the few rules I live by, "Don't die a stupid death." It's not that I am afraid of dying. I just don't want everyone as my funeral thinking, "What kind of idiot gets sucked out by a rip tide/doesn't leave a house full of toxic and flammable fumes/ gets back in the shower after passing out in it once already?" (These are all scenarios that have invoked the Don't-die-a-stupid-death rule before.)
So, for the sake of preserving my reputation after death, I chose to be treated. The several mils of interferon gamma in the finger hurt like hell, but the vaccine shots (which they now administer in the arm) weren't so bad. So, I'm happy to say that I have not contracted or died of rabies, yet. And I have a new rule to live by, "Don't pet dogs, especially those owned by homeless people." I'm making an exception for Alfie though.
So there is a homeless guy we'll call 'Oscar' who lives on my front porch part-time. (If he lived there all the time he technically wouldn't be homeless, right?) Oscar is French, generally harmless and, when he is sober, is almost lucid. He gets along with women pretty well, but is somewhat less tolerant of men. For example, one time my friend Steven replied, "Oh yeah?" rather innocuously to something Oscar said. Apparently this was highly offensive to Oscar who gave Steven quite a tongue lashing about respect. So my basic plan with Oscar is to keep him happy. Smile, nod, and go along with whatever he might say, even though I usually don't understand him.
Sometimes I'll see Oscar daily, then he'll disappear for weeks or months. Once, after being gone for a few months I saw him on the porch again. "Oscar! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?" I asked. "Oh," he replied in his gravelly French accent, "I've been in the suburbs. I stay with my girlfriend out there. I can't take the city anymore. It's too dirty here. Trash everywhere. And you know what?" "What Oscar?" "There are too many crazy people around here. I can't take it anymore." Two things in this conversation struck me. 1) How sad has my life gotten that Oscar can find love and I can't? 2) Oscar is complaining about the crazy people? Hmmm.
Anyway, this past January I was walking to school when I saw Oscar with a dog about a block from my place. "Oscar, is this your dog? I've never seen him before," I say. "Yeah, I found her in the street. Pet her," Oscar tells me. Okay, in retrospect, I know that following Oscar's directions doesn't sound bright. But I've never had a run-in with a dog before, and the only rule that comes to mind at the moment is, "Keep Oscar happy, go along with it." Plus, there is the fact that my entire life I have been obedient to a fault.
The first example I have of this occurred when I was in the first grade. The rules were specific, you do not move, talk to your neighbor, or in any other way divert your focus when it is time to pledge allegiance to the flag. Unfortunately, I was not feeling well one day and got sick. During the pledge. So, I stood at my desk, with my hand over my heart, and threw up on the back of the shoes of the kid in front of me. (He never forgot this, reminding me several times throughout the rest of the school year that I threw up on him. I honestly never understood why he was so upset, in my mind it wasn't my fault.) My teacher asked me, "Angela, if you were sick, why didn't you run over to the trash can?" I innocently and sincerely told her, "We aren't allowed to move during the pledge." She revised the rules that day. From that point forward students were allowed to leave their desks during the pledge if they should get sick. But I digress.
So, naive, obedient Angela reaches out to pet the little harmless looking yellow dog. Within seconds the bitch (she was female, I'm being accurate) has clamped down onto my fingers and is not letting go. Oscar is completely unfazed by my situation. "Okay, she's mean!" I exclaim and finally manage to yank my hand back. I tell Oscar that I've gotta go now and hurry on my way. Oscar helpfully tells me to have a good day.
As I'm walking, it occurs to me that my fingers really hurt. Eventually I look down and notice I am bleeding. Crap. I hope it doesn't get infected. What is first aid for a dog bite, I wonder. Then my mind starts to replay the conversation. "I found her in the street." What are the odds that the dog was current on her rabies vaccine? Probably not good. But, I'm not panicking yet. I get to work, check my e-mail, get things started for the day, then figure I should call student health and see if they have any advice on dog bite first aid. The girl on the other end of the phone sounds less relaxed though, "How long ago did this happen?" "About an hour and half," I tell her. "How fast can you get here?" she asks. "Um, I guess I can come right now," I say. Great.
At Student Health they set me to work scrubbing my wounds while my doctor Googles rabies. BTW, it doesn't inspire confidence when your doctor Googles your illness. "How did this happen?" the doctor asks me. Moment of shame. Yes, I am the idiot white girl from the suburbs who did what the homeless man told her to do. I tell her the story. She gives me the look I expected. This plays out over again every time a different nurse wanders in. They ask, I explain, the look. I'm beginning to think of changing my answer to, "Because I'm thupid. Still tarded!"
"Well," my doctor says, "it doesn't look like there were many cases of rabies in dogs in Philadelphia last year, so the odds of you getting the disease are low. Then again, if you do get rabies and don't get treated, rabies is always fatal. It's up to you, do you want to be treated?"
Honestly, there was a part of me that though, eh, what are the odds? Then I thought about how the conversation would go the next time I talk to my mom and inform her that I chose not to be protected against a fatal but preventable disease. I tell the doctor this. "Well, you don't have to tell her,' she says. True. But now I start thinking about Murphy's law. I'm thinking, if I don't get treated, I will most definitely get the disease. And then I will wind up breaking one of the few rules I live by, "Don't die a stupid death." It's not that I am afraid of dying. I just don't want everyone as my funeral thinking, "What kind of idiot gets sucked out by a rip tide/doesn't leave a house full of toxic and flammable fumes/ gets back in the shower after passing out in it once already?" (These are all scenarios that have invoked the Don't-die-a-stupid-death rule before.)
So, for the sake of preserving my reputation after death, I chose to be treated. The several mils of interferon gamma in the finger hurt like hell, but the vaccine shots (which they now administer in the arm) weren't so bad. So, I'm happy to say that I have not contracted or died of rabies, yet. And I have a new rule to live by, "Don't pet dogs, especially those owned by homeless people." I'm making an exception for Alfie though.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The sun is actually shining today
Imagine that you have a great job that you enjoy doing and pays well and is located in a city that you thoroughly enjoy. Then imagine that you walk away from that for a job that pays a third as much such that after you pay your bills you've got $5 left over, so this requires you to live in a city where your safety is compromised daily. Oh and you suck at your job and get told you are an idiot on a regular basis. Think about what you might wish for in this situation.
The immediate thing that comes to mind would probably be for your previous lifestyle. That's not an option though, so you wish for things that might make your current situation more bearable, like a nice dinner out, or a trip home to see your old friends. Maybe you would wish for a vacation or some sexy shoes or, best of all, some good wine. Or perhaps it would be something as basic as Mom's cooking and a full night's sleep.
Oh, I've wished for them all. And I've had all those things. And, at the time, they definitely raised my level of satisfaction. But I want something more. Even when things were good, I wasn't happy. That's why I forsook my perfect life and came here. I told everyone my plan was this: earn a higher degree so I can get better a job and afford a place with a backyard so I can drink wine outside with my cat and my friends (clarification, I would share my wine with my friends, not my cat).
I realized though, I've already got that. Even now I am writing you from my backyard, sipping wine (AmRhein Sauvignon Blanc, nice balance of fruit and butter, perfect for early summer and blogging) while my cat throws up the toxic vegetation he just ate (his favorite pastime). And you know what, this isn't enough either.
What I really want is this: I am sitting here barefoot in jeans and a tee-shirt, my favorite attire, and I want to be accepted and loved the way I am. I don't want to be loved because I spent countless hours at the gym perfecting my rock hard bod (I didn't and I have what I describe as 'a natural body'). I don't want to be loved because I am so cultured and know just what to say at parties (Virginia wine and Hokie football is the extent of my culture and I spend most parties in the kitchen trying to be useful). I don't want to be loved because I'm so darned nice and giving and I bake amazing chocolate cupcakes (okay, I actually do these). I want someone to just think I am enough the way I am. I want someone to see the celulite and not mind so much. I want someone to hear me butcher the pronunciation of something French and not give me a look. And I want to be able to have a crabby day and say something I shouldn't and still be forgiven for it.
But, as I was making my list of wants, something occured to me. These are all the things Jesus offers. I am reminded of a song (can't remember the title, see, not cultured) that sings, "Sometimes the very thing you're looking for is the one thing you can't see." Romans 5:8 (I had to look this up, not one of those dedicated types who has scripture memorized) says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." God looked at me and said, "You've got flabby thighs, you can't speak a second language, and you are a selfish sinner who breaks my heart all the time. But I love you anyway."
You know, I titled this blog in the way that you nickname your fatest friend 'slim'. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is sunny in grad school. Maybe it took losing everything to see what I had.
The immediate thing that comes to mind would probably be for your previous lifestyle. That's not an option though, so you wish for things that might make your current situation more bearable, like a nice dinner out, or a trip home to see your old friends. Maybe you would wish for a vacation or some sexy shoes or, best of all, some good wine. Or perhaps it would be something as basic as Mom's cooking and a full night's sleep.
Oh, I've wished for them all. And I've had all those things. And, at the time, they definitely raised my level of satisfaction. But I want something more. Even when things were good, I wasn't happy. That's why I forsook my perfect life and came here. I told everyone my plan was this: earn a higher degree so I can get better a job and afford a place with a backyard so I can drink wine outside with my cat and my friends (clarification, I would share my wine with my friends, not my cat).
I realized though, I've already got that. Even now I am writing you from my backyard, sipping wine (AmRhein Sauvignon Blanc, nice balance of fruit and butter, perfect for early summer and blogging) while my cat throws up the toxic vegetation he just ate (his favorite pastime). And you know what, this isn't enough either.
What I really want is this: I am sitting here barefoot in jeans and a tee-shirt, my favorite attire, and I want to be accepted and loved the way I am. I don't want to be loved because I spent countless hours at the gym perfecting my rock hard bod (I didn't and I have what I describe as 'a natural body'). I don't want to be loved because I am so cultured and know just what to say at parties (Virginia wine and Hokie football is the extent of my culture and I spend most parties in the kitchen trying to be useful). I don't want to be loved because I'm so darned nice and giving and I bake amazing chocolate cupcakes (okay, I actually do these). I want someone to just think I am enough the way I am. I want someone to see the celulite and not mind so much. I want someone to hear me butcher the pronunciation of something French and not give me a look. And I want to be able to have a crabby day and say something I shouldn't and still be forgiven for it.
But, as I was making my list of wants, something occured to me. These are all the things Jesus offers. I am reminded of a song (can't remember the title, see, not cultured) that sings, "Sometimes the very thing you're looking for is the one thing you can't see." Romans 5:8 (I had to look this up, not one of those dedicated types who has scripture memorized) says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." God looked at me and said, "You've got flabby thighs, you can't speak a second language, and you are a selfish sinner who breaks my heart all the time. But I love you anyway."
You know, I titled this blog in the way that you nickname your fatest friend 'slim'. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is sunny in grad school. Maybe it took losing everything to see what I had.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Welcome to West Philly
Dear Readers,
Thank you for taking the time to check out my blog. I was reluctant to start this because I felt that it was somewhat narcissistic, "Oh, I have so many insightful things to say I simply must share it with the world!" But I rationalized it this way, this will help me to document a significant time in my life and keep my friends and family up to date without spamming them regularly. Plus, no one has to read this anyway if they don't want to.
So, when you are reading this blog while bored at work, I hope that at best you will find some redeeming value in it, and at least you will find some humor in it. I'm trying to.
Cheers,
Angela
Thank you for taking the time to check out my blog. I was reluctant to start this because I felt that it was somewhat narcissistic, "Oh, I have so many insightful things to say I simply must share it with the world!" But I rationalized it this way, this will help me to document a significant time in my life and keep my friends and family up to date without spamming them regularly. Plus, no one has to read this anyway if they don't want to.
So, when you are reading this blog while bored at work, I hope that at best you will find some redeeming value in it, and at least you will find some humor in it. I'm trying to.
Cheers,
Angela
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