Being, Being, Being . . .

Easter Sunday has come & gone, and it was an amazing week of actively reflecting on the cross. What an incredible symbol of God's perfect Love.

It almost doesn't make sense, and yet, it's so beautiful.

The day started with church duties, and I took it upon myself to "film" our service for a future Part 2 to the Shoreline Documentary I've been archiving footage for. There is something I love to hate about filming, and that is the "work" part. When I am filming, I don't get to be a part of what is happening, I have to stay "behind" it. But inevitably, as soon as I get over that sulky part of my self-inflicted responsibility I start to see things through a different lens. Instead of being "in it" and not noticing every detail, I am observing and therefore capturing it all on a medium that will never fade away. It's pretty cool. Or at least it will be one day when we all get to look back at "the early days" and grow nostalgic and laugh at our outdated clothing and hair styles while watching our actual church body morph and grow into whatever we turn out to be in the future.

The rest of the day I spent time with my Aunt, cousins, and Grandparents and my Aunt nonchalantly pointed to a finished quilt she'd been working on - for 13 years! For ME! I unfolded it shocked to see my literal life flash before me presented in cotton cloth. It was a memory quilt about my childhood. My entire first 18 years on earth.

Looking at this storybook masterpiece was at first unnerving. There were pictures of old friends stitched into it, past pets, and childhood poses. There were letters and pictures I'd written to people about simple things like my favorite chores and animals. There were pieces of me stitched all together to make this Queen-sized story about "being me" from birth to adolescence, and I'd forgotten so much about her.

My sister and I took time yesterday to unfold it in my bedroom and gaze over it - commenting on the hilarious high bangs we had, the braces, my brother's lanky build, and the acquaintances we no longer keep track of. In between we admired the stitching work and the details that my Aunt brought the story together with. We mused over the pieces of fabric she'd selected for every border, every color scheme, and how amazingly detailed she was in piecing it all together. I looked at my former self, and I almost didn't recognize me. My hair was straighter, lighter. My skin was darker, my interests and friends were strangers, and images of some of the people in my life then, have now passed away.

Somehow after the initial shock of seeing a quilted snapshot of "this is your life" wore off, I was able to look back and admire the many paths, journeys, friends, and interests that have since been stitched into my life after being 18. How enormous my life's quilt has grown to be since then. Full of stumbles and triumph, growth, seasoning, career paths, friends, and many additions to our family . . .

Jaime snuggled into it for warmth while nursing an aching stomach and I think about how my quilt- stitched with images from my past- was a literal comfort to my sister. Sometimes I try so hard to shed who I used to be out of pure embarrassment. I never thought of allowing it to be a comfort once in awhile- let alone a masterpiece.

I can not express the intense amazement I felt to receive such a special and personal gift (for no real reason) on Easter Sunday.

It almost doesn't make sense, and yet, it's so beautiful.

So I walked into this bar . . .

A few weeks ago, I was at a friend's birthday party at a local Restaurant & bar. The first crowd had already arrived & were settled in with their appetizers & drinks, so I floated over to the bar to order one too.

The funny thing about this "bar" was the negative attention. I'm not talking about the "leering" kind - but that there was absolutely no attention paid - at all. And it was an all-male staff, and there was absolutely no one ahead of me. I figured me 1) being a customer and 2) a female meant that getting the attention of the bartender would be quick and simple. Not so much.
By the time I flagged him down he begrudgingly, out of breath -carded me.

Getting carded used to annoy the heck out of me because I'd be out with a crowd who'd turned 21 yesterday and I'd be well over (and the oldest), and yet I'd be the ONLY one who was carded. I mean, my little sister AND brother who supposedly look like my TWINS would not get carded at the same places I did and we'd all walk in together. . . .

These days, getting carded is a novelty, and so I just smile, dig into my purse and say "why yes you MAY see my ID sir."

But by the time I'd put my ID on the counter of the bar, the bartender had disappeared again- so he was oblivious to my flattered reaction. And there I stood. ID card at the ready. No drink order in. For five more minutes.

This old man (like 70) and already sipping on his Gin & Tonic noticed my ID sitting lonesome on the counter awaiting the approval and service of the bartender who had forgotten my existence. He turned to me and said -"Be happy they're still asking kid!"
and I said, "I am, I am!"
Then he said "Thank God for those genes."
I agreed. "Oh I do. "
And he continued. "I don't believe in him, but Thank Him."
So I couldn't help myself and said "You don't believe in God? Why not?"
And he answered with a gruff "I am a man of Science."
And I still had no attention from the bartender so I said. "Well, I believe that God invented science!"
And the old man grunted a bit, turned his entire body away from me, and left me to wait on the bartender some more. Alone. Without anymore "friendly" conversation to pass the time.

I thought I was being witty.

And hello? What's it going to take to get a drink around this place?

The bartender finally sauntered back over to me, compared the picture with my face 12 times, felt it's consistency, checked the birth year, did the math in his head, and then (still unconvinced) handed it back with an "okay what can I get you?" 5 more minutes passed before he'd poured it.

When he told me how much I owed, he walked away again, and I got so tired of waiting for my change I left without it.

The drink, meanwhile, tasted like a Jamba Juice and was twice the price! I thought it was supposed to make me "tipsy" not want to go workout later.

And people go to bars as a preferred "to do on a Friday night". . . why?

And no, it was NOT in West Hollywood.