On a slightly more serious note....

I've identified a new target. This is a bit different mission because I'm not drawn to this person because I foresee a running buddy or someone to make casseroles with, but because I think he needs a friend. Maybe, having so much experience with needing friends, I can now more readily recognize the same need in others. I just feel this person needs someone in his corner telling him to get back in there even when his face is covered in blood and he has a string of drool hanging down on the ground. His corner, from what I can tell, seems to be populated by occasional tumbleweeds rolling along to the disheartening soundtrack of crickets.

Handy, which is what I'm calling him, is friendly and keeps a good outlook despite having managed to place himself in a situation that mandates all fully functioning members of society to furrow their brows and write him off as a loser who is getting only what he deserves, and maybe less. That's certainly what I did.

Handy is a client where I work. Despite not using his real name, I'm going to endeavor to be as vague as I can be while still painting the picture of the situation. Most people know where I work and can probably guess at most of what I don't say, but I think I should be extra careful anyway. When I first saw Handy he was seeking legal help since his mountain of charges called for him to be thrown in jail and the key fed to the dog. He made a stupid, inexcusable, irresponsible choice that put others at risk, and then he went ahead and did it a couple more times. When I first met Handy he managed to make me dislike my job simply because I was part of a force that would help the likes of him.

I hated him in my heart, and though I had no authority to make this judgment, I decided someone God had created was perhaps a little better than worthless. I really hate writing this and am a little surprised at myself. There is no law saying that I have to blog about the gross parts of my character that would otherwise would remain hidden. But my hope is that there will be a point at the end. We'll see.

Because of the nature of my jobs (yep, plural) I am privy to a lot of extremely private client information. So as I'm working, I discover that Handy has indeed placed himself at the uttermost bottom of the proverbial barrel. His life sucks. He is alone in a seemingly hopeless situation. He doesn't need me to mentally tell him he's a screw-up, he knows it. He knows he now has to claw himself out of this situation, and as he's already driven away his support system, he has to do it alone.

So it seems to me that, apparently, God is not okay with my thoughts regarding this individual. Conviction has made this fact annoyingly obvious. However, it was Handy himself that helped me drum up some compassion. He learned my name quickly and his humble and gentle demeanor won me over. He was always courteous and never impatient when I couldn't answer his questions or when it became more obvious than usual that I didn't know what I was doing. A rapport developed... and then, well, not quite a friendship, but our interactions seem to have reached a different level than the ones I have with other clients. And then there was a night when for whatever reason, no one else was around. Co-worker had left and there were no other clients around. Handy came in early and light conversation ensued. We had run out of coffee and since sadly that's pretty much the only thing I'm solely in charge of, I was going to make some more. He wouldn't have it and insisted that I make it myself. We talked for a little bit and then he let me see his sketchbook.

If you create, whether it be music, writing, lawn sculptures out of used tires, whatever, you know that it's something special. When I write stories, they're a part of my heart, and it's extremely personal. Showing them to someone else feels like a risk. So it was special to me when Handy showed me something so personal. The guy's got talent, too.

So we're a kind of friends now. We only see each other at my places of employment, and because I signed a contract saying I would not socialize with clients, there is really no potential for anything more. That part is a bit sad, but then, because of age and gender differences, I'm not sure how much more would be appropriate anyway. I'm so grateful that God helped me see this man differently. I count it a privilege to know him now, and I look forward to the days I know he's coming in. He wished me luck in the marathon, which made me smile somewhat confusedly, because I definitely did not tell him I was running one. But then, since he never told me the things I know about him (i.e. his social history, legal history, and the state of his mental health) I suppose he can know something about me (especially something I've hardly kept private).

I pray for Handy. I pray that people that haven't signed agreements prohibiting them from doing so will be his friend. I pray that the interactions we have will be encouraging to him. Suddenly my extremely part-time file girl job is so much more important. And who else here can I encourage? Even if I can only do so by taking time to listen to them and greeting them as sincerely as possible, I know these things are meaningful to others because they have been meaningful when others have extended the same kindnesses to me. And then the big one-- who else have I written off before they even had a chance? Here I am, eager as a puppy for the checkers in the grocery store to ask me how I am or the post office worker to wish me a nice day, and yet, when someone needs the same from me...

I hope I learn from this mistake. I hope I remember to act like I'm interacting with humans and not perpetrators. I wish I had started off looking for ways to encourage and reach out to this man. I think I'm going to try this approach with others, for a lot of good reasons, but one of the big ones is that being nice to people feels so much better than grumbling.

As far as other updates? Well, there are many and I need to get on it with the blogging. I'll just mention really quick that I have a brownie making date this week. Clearly, I've stumbled into something good.

Love to you all,
Katie

Strawberry Cream-Cheese Brownies at the Mochas

Husband and I were invited to dinner at a family from church's house on Memorial Day. The implications of the invitation were huge. Would this be a casual meeting, a tolerably enjoyable evening upon which to reflect with blandly positive responses? Or would it be a pivotal moment in our Washington lives? Would this seemingly random invitation be the moment we looked back on someday as the beginning of a social life that's not a travesty of a sham of a mockery? Could this engagement have an effect on our lonely weekends from this point until the end of the age? Would this Memorial Day get-together be the first of many, lead to quality friendships, happy memories, and, hope against hope, an avenue for recipe exchange?

I'm calling this family the Mochas not because the nickname strikes me as even marginally creative, but because I'm not convinced that if I sit here for 20 minutes I'll think of anything better. But Mochas is at least somewhat fitting because not only are they warm and inviting, but they have not only an espresso machine, about twenty flavors for your latte or Italian soda, but a full-on bistro room. I'm not sure why I have not mentioned this particular family before because they have certainly reached out to us and been quite enjoyable to spend time with during the opportunities we've had thus far. In fact, I talked to them to pass the time a couple Sundays ago because Husband and Mr. Canadian talked for about an hour after church. I repeat: Husband talked for an hour. Unprovoked. Progress? I think so.

So we were invited to dinner by the Mochas, as I said. I asked what I could bring as the sense of the necessity of this etiquette was thoroughly ingrained in me by my mother. (I begin to realize now that I've been training to be a wife since I was born). I was assigned a dessert. I undertook my mission with gravity and some trepidation, as was appropriate considering the import of the task entrusted me. I aproned-up and proceeded to scour all of my cookbooks and cooking magazines (my trusty compansions) for the perfect dessert recipe. I put a whisk in my front pocket to put me in the mood and to foster inspiration.

I don't have a lot of dessert experience as I find dessert recipes usually make about 80 dozen bars/slices/cookies or whatever, and so even halved I end up eating like 39 dozen guilt-inducing treats before the stars align to put Husband in the mood to try his first one. So I knew it would be a new recipe more than likely. Risky. Very risky. I asked Husband if he would help me. For a brief but significant moment his face drained of everything except horror. He paused, composed himself, took a breath, and said yes. I laughed. "Isn't it fun to be married to me?" Answer: "Sometimes." He was a good sport and endured my, "What about this? What about this?" for as long as he could, until I understood (as I should have from the beginning) that it was hopeless and called my mom.

So a few hours later we were off on yet another adventure in social interaction. James drove us to our dinner party while his little wife sat next to him with baked goods. I felt like I should have made a bunt.

The Mochas have a beautiful home and we passed through rural farmland and under sprawling shade trees to get there. I complimented them on their home and they simply gave all the credit to God. They said it was such a blessing and so perfect because they love to have people over and their house is set up perfectly for entertaining. They do have a reputation for having people over a lot. It seems they only enjoy having good things because they can use them to bless people. They understand that what really validates a thing's goodness is the ability to share it with others. Having a mansion with a tennis court and polo field isn't really useful until you have friends to share it with. The relationship is where the worth comes in. Without someone to share our blessings with... it's like keeping a facebook account but not requesting or accepting any friends. The Mochas use their house to have others over, makes friends, and let others relax. They realize that what they have isn't theirs at all, but God's gift to them. It seems to me they've given their things, and their lives, back to God (since they're his anyway) and now that they have, they're freed up to enjoy them in all their fullness.

Upon entering they told us we could take off our shoes, or not, depending on our preference, make ourselves at home, eat anything we found, and just feel comfortable. I smiled and thanked them but advised them, please, never give me permission to eat whatever I find. For the good of all.

Anyway, I was touched by how well they simply used their possessions as a means of blessing others. Kind of like how communism was supposed to work before humans got involved.

I so enjoyed the evening with the Mochas, as well as the rest of the church congregation. (They said they hadn't expected so many people to accept their invitation). I enjoy being with people that I want to be like, because hanging out with them increases the likelihood that I will indeed become a person with the qualities I see in them: openness, generosity, sincerity, and proper appreciation for guacamole.

It seems I am learning through others who I want to be. If you are reading this, most likely you are someone who is teaching me part of this. Thank you. I'm learning that people have a huge capacity for love and relationship, but these qualities will only develop through intentional cultivation. If that's the case, trim me up and pour on the Miracle Gro.

Again, my love to you all. And the dessert I brought? I received many compliments and some took seconds, but when I nibbled mine I turned to the only man in the room I knew I could trust and asked, "These aren't very good, are they?" He agreed they were not. But then, if something's worth increases when it's shared, and these were shared by so many, then I guess they were amazing. Though, I probably won't use my Cooking Light magazine for desserts anymore. Note to self: Add more calories.

From the mouth to the heart

I love food. I think about food almost all the time, especially when I'm supposed to be thinking about other things. (Today in church I caught myself thinking about how to prepare the yam I bought in order to achieve maximum delciousness--whoops). I look forward to Saturdays when I do the grocery shopping. The store has about 20 half-mile long aisles showcasing a number of options that oftentimes makes my head spin. All too often I end up standing in front of one area, say granola bars, for twenty minutes comparing ingredients, calculating the price per bar (allowing for coupons if applicable), deciding if the extra two grams of fiber are worth another 20 calories per serving, and contemplating whether or not placing the box of snack bars in my cart is really the life choice that I'm going to be happiest with 20 years down the road, or at least when I get home. This, of course, often leads to frustration severe enough for me to call Husband and extract the information from him I already know: He doesn't care - do whatever I want. Then, wishing I hadn't given in the the temptation to call him in the first place, I either throw something decidely into the cart or forget the whole thing and move on.

However, I still like going. The food is beautiful. Last week my favorite kind of apples in the whole world were on sale for 98 cents a pound, and I filled a bag like a greedy kid at the carcass of a pinata. Every week it's my sole responsibility to choose what sort of good food will nourish my family of two. There's the game of trying to make the money stretch as far as possible, and the label-deciphering research it takes to determine when spending the extra $1.00 really is going to buy a healthier option. There are the staples to buy: Husband's Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, my weekly yogurt supply, and our weekly supply of onions. Onions, apparently, go in everything. Then there's always the mystery of what new thing could be in store for my shopping cart this week- could this be the week I finally find out what a parsnip tastes like? What? Blackberries are that cheap?? Into the cart they go. It's always fun when Husband helps put away the groceries, apples, bread, pasta sauce - what? Croissants?? His happy surprise makes me feel like a goddess, especially when I pronounce they were on sale for an extremely affordable price.

What we eat gives us clues about who we are. It shows our culture, our habits, our background. I think that the fact that I will never leave a spoon with even miniscule traces of batter, dough, or sauce unlicked tells a lot about who I am and where I came from. I think also the fact that Husband washes his hands instead of licking frosting off his fingers says a lot about him - but I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with the implications. Food also helps us build relationships.

Which is why I had such a good time today. After church when we were invited to join a group of our fellow church-goers for breakfast, I was worried they might be talking about another day when my schedule probably would not allow it. But no - they meant breakfast for lunch. Breakfast is my favorite meal. I not only love ALL breakfast foods, but I like that it's the first meal of the day. The promise of Cheerios has oftentimes inspired me to finally get out of bed in the morning. However, when breakfast is the second or third meal of the day, my love does not diminish. Husband quickly said we would go, which surprised me considering his usual reluctance to join big groups. Later I learned he simply knew that I would want to go. I like him.

So we arrived and sat down with our group. Our group. It wasn't awkward and we all didn't have to grasp for conversation and then try for kindness' sake to pull in the quiet ones (or they didn't have to try to pull us in, as would have been the case). We had a common purpose - food. Conversation started lightly as we glanced over our menus and decided out loud whether we were wanting something sweet or savory, and then continued to comments about the drinks when they were brought out. (Which was no hard as this was one of the places that serve those artistically designed mochas). By the time the real food came, we had to pause between bites to continue the conversations that had developed. I, of course, did not pause too long, as I am always very eager to transfer delcious fare from a plate (not always my own) to my mouth. We shared a meal together, and that history marks a cornerstone of relationship - one that may grow and may not, but that has been established firmly by sitting down to food together. I was even able to save half of my omelette (oh! eggs!) because I wasn't single-mindedly wolfing down all my food. The food wasn't the purpose of my being there, at least not completely. The fellowship was, but also the food, but then, also the fellowship. It's hard to separate the two because they flow so smoothly together.

When Husband told me he was going to ask one of his co-workers to dinner, I asked him what he was going to make. But he knew better than to give a comment like that any creedence- he knows I would jump at the chance to cook for someone. (Scared to death and calling my mom every 5 minutes, but still). Sharing food together, sharing favorite restaurants, especially cooking for someone, is an accepted custom we have of sharing ourselves with others. Serving someone in that way is very intimate, and a privilege. Friendships form around food (especially with me, but out of default since I'm always by food when it's at all possible).

If this has made anyone hungry, please, please come to my house. I'll whip something right up - or maybe you'd just like some hot chocolate or tea. There's an open invitation. There's no need to RSVP, just know you might find us on we-have-ten-minutes-to-cook-and-get-out-the-door night. But you're welcome! If you let me know beforehand I'll go with something I've established a good track record with. But please, do let me know if you don't like onions, because I hardly start a meal without chopping one up before I'm even sure what I'm making.

I know that most people that read this, though I would love to have them over for food - or take them out to muffins!! - won't be able to join me. I'm continuing in my search for people that I can do that with. But just know, all you long-distance friends, I miss you all and wish you good meals with good food, good friends, and, if applicable, a Husband who's willing to help clean up!

What? You READ this?

I furrow my brows curiously as it occurs to me that read this blog that I write so that people can read it. Mayhap I should have suspected as much, this curious trend of people reading writing, but I still find myself taken aback - like a puppy who glances behind himself and discovers - Eureka! - he has a tail. I'm quite pleased that anyone at all, especially such lovely people as I happen to know have read this blog, takes the time to read my social logbook. To those of you that read it because my mom, ahem, suggests you do so, well, thank you to you too.

This whole internet writing business has been pretty useful. I did not want to write simply about my desire for friends, because that's not interesting, and while I think I a lot of people can relate to the desire for quality friendships, sitting along moaning into cyberspace about it is not an efficient problem-solving method, and if I'm going to use my computer to ignore the world and forgo human interaction, then I'm going to do it right and start playing WOW. At least then I'll be defeating evil. (Because while I wouldn't, if I did, Alliance, obviously, sorry Walrus).

Anywho, I wanted to write about a quest for friends. An epic search! I wanted to document my going forth and seeking that which I am unworthy and unprepared to seek, but nevertheless I go on! On! Fighting, bleeding, dodging orcs and foaming at the mouth until Samwise finally throws me over his shoulder and hefts me up the mountain! (Thus fulfilling my destiny and his deepest fantasy)! I used to think I liked the fantasy genre (of which Lord of the Rings reigns supreme) because of the escapism - because of the lack of reality. But that's not it at all. These epic stories reflect the deeper truths of real life, and the grand scale of the stories serves to magnify the themes that surround us every day and should be, but hardly ever are, obvious. There is a good fight to fight, there are insurmountable forces, and we are not qualified to overcome the evil that threatens to destroy. Yet we're still called upon to fight, and in some respects, everything does depend upon us doing what we are called to do. I can't watch Lord of the Rings, Narnia, or even Harry Potter, without thinking, "Hey! This is real, the world is dying and God is desperate that we fight with him to save it!" Those fantasies get me in the gut because they strip off the frills and show us the scale of our lives.

Scale it back now - I think I was having a flashback to a really excellent essay I wrote in college. The problem with this epic principal when I apply it to my life, however, is that actual action is required. I mean action besides crying. And calling my mom. And those are two things I am very good at. If crying and calling your mom were an Olympic event, then the world would watch me take gold in London. Not only can I cry and call my mom simultaneously, I can hold off crying until I can also call my mom, or sometimes I make sure I have my mom on the line (and I'm never dissuaded if I can't through the first time, or if it's early in the morning, no, I'll track her down), and then commence crying. I don't feel I need to limit myself to once a day either. The second day I was married, I resisted crying on the phone to my mom. And that was the end of that. In light of Mother's Day, let's just acknowledge that some moms are amazing. And a mom that is ready to encourage her daughter tirelessly, and is committed to telling her what she needs to hear not just what she wants to hear, is one of the amazing ones. So I don't mind if I take a sentence to thank my mom, and I don't feel bad, because she very well may be the only one reading this!!

Now I think it's about time I make my point. Writing this blog has forced me to be accountable. I can't write that I'm going to do something and not do it (again, my mom reads this, and what would she think?) I had to take actual steps to reach out, and those steps have been matched by those that already love me. God has blessed my efforts and I've reaped more than I've sown. My friends have helped me find friends. Thank you to all. Maybe I should blog about other areas of my life, and get those quandaries somewhat organized as well. But one thing at a time. And I don't want to say I now have all the friends I want or even all the friends I need. I'm definitely not saying I'm going to stop, cut back, or even ease up on crying and calling my mom. (Though it has been a few weeks!) I just see things blooming, and I'm grateful and encouraged. So many people are so wonderful. I highly recommend them. Seek them out, and you'll be rewarded. Status update? This week I had lunch with Neighbor girl again and we both ordered in Spanish. Good times. Next week I have a date to have lunch with Co-Worker, who has the same name as Neighbor girl. Also, the girl that owns the best coffee shop in the world also lives in my complex and I think we could become friends here with a little extra effort on my part. I don't know if it's silly that I never use names, but I just don't know how people would feel about it. But I'll give you a hint - all three of the aforementioned females have the same name. And it's the same name that I have. I'm a big fan of diversity, but if it ain't broke... love you all!

It never rains in Southern California

I think I left my heart in Southern California. Oh, sweet sunshine that warms the whirring freeways in a cloudless sky, accept me as your devoted fan and know my heart is always with you. Forgive my hiatus - wait for me. Mighty 405, may your crowded multiplicity of lanes be ever-ready to carry me to every place I feel at home: the sand of Newport where I went to be quiet and watch waves, the swanky suburbs in Mission Viejo where I fell in love, dear Costa Mesa that I first knew, and my very heart, Disneyland.

Two weekends ago Husband and I went to Orange County for a wedding. As soon as I saw the layer of smog the plane would have to wrangle in order to land at LAX I felt at home. When we stepped out of the airport I experienced two sensations that I've rarely felt simultaneously since moving to Washington: being warm and being outside. This alone had me ready to cash in my return ticket for some In 'N Out burger. I left all jackets at home. I had no business with them.

A matter of hours after arriving I met a girl that lives in the same town I work in. She would be the bridesmaid ahead of me in the wedding. Apparently I have to go to California to meet my Washington neighbors. I knew I had to cash in on Neighbor girl. If I didn't snag her I deserved to be lonely. After some chatting at the bachelorette party (uh, no thanks, I don't think I can drink through that and retain my fidelity, I'll take a regular straw), I felt I had to move in. I did not feel the time was right to move in, because I really would have preferred waiting until I had said something especially funny or shown myself to be wildly talented and brilliant. I don't mean to be down on myself, but I'm already quiet at first, and since my bedtime is usually around 8:30, the nocturnal demands of the bachelorette party were especially hard on my woo-hoo levels. Also, once again, I felt the disadvantages of not drinking alcohol, though that might have had something to do with the fact that the bowling skills I retained from my 5th-grade end-of-the-year bowling party were still enough to win three games in a row. I tried my best to make it seem like the thing I was looking forward to most in life was not going to bed.

So anyway. I suggested we meet at Starbucks on my lunchbreak. She upgraded my offer by suggesting the Austrialian Pie place. I have always wanted to go there. It's a teeny tiny little yellow shop where you have your choice of hot, flaky, Austrailian pies. If there were ever more than eight people in the shop at a time the fire marshall would bring down the axe. Neighbor girl knows it? Likes it? Clearly, I'm going to enjoy hanging out with this girl. And I did. I had a lunch date. Our next adventure? Well, there's been talk of a taco shop...

I think I'm learning I need to let go of my demographic. Trying to make friends with young married people, or with people of similar interests, or who also love toasters is good, but it leaves a lot to be desired. I think it was about a month ago when Husband and I were coming home from our church's young adults' group *cough*youth group*cough* and I said that I didn't think I would ever feel like I fit in there. He simply asked me if that mattered. I was rather affronted. But I think he's right, (I HATE how often that happens) fitting in is not so very necessary.

With this in mind, I finally had the courage to do what I'd been told I was welcome to do - I invinted myself over to the lady that hosts Wednesday night prayer. She lives about three minutes from my house and oftentimes it's just me and her on Wednesday nights. She's a bit fiesty. She has a tendency for knick knacks that I've solemnly vowed to never allow myself. She has grandkids my age. She's my friend. I didn't realize how special it is to have someone that I could call and just pop over and present myself to without warning was until I didn't have it. That's a special relationship, and for her to tell me (previously) that I was welcome to do just that, really shows great open-heartedness and love. What meant the most to me was that, though I certainly had a wonderful time visiting her, I believe she had a good time with me as well. And that sort of sounds like a friendship, doesn't it?

Worms and Oreos

There was a Sunday after Easter, and I was prepared to accept the fact that I have no friends at church, will never make any friends, and then grill myself a nice worms sandwich. But alas, it was not to be. Despite my resolute plans, I found myself extremely encouraged when we met some new people at church for whom I will shortly have to think of monikers.

They met us, rather. It was a good decision on their part. Who knows? Given enough time without varied social interaction I might have eventually snapped and thrown myself at them in a well-meaning but compromising manner. Much like a puppy so eager to make friends it runs up to you hoping you'll be pet him and play with him forever and ever, and then he promptly pees all over himself, causing you to jump out of the way of the rapidly spreading urine pool thereby severely mitigating the chances you'll throw the ball for him for fourteen hours.

I'm sure our new acquaintances had been meaning to talk to the charismatic and unusually good-looking new couple for weeks, but God somehow had them hold off so that just when I was about to take up residence in a corner and revert to thumb sucking, He could remind me that He's on top of the situation. "So, um, you done now? Because I was thinking we'd move forward with my plan now, which, by the way, does not include you being constantly on the verge of a mental breakdown." That's what He does. He cares, and I'm pretty sure often smiles bemusedly while I freak out up until the point He reminds me that he loves me very much and I just look ridiculous when I decide I'm helpless.

So not only does it look like I'll soon be swapping recipes merrily in the kitchen while Husband and husbands of new friends play video games and eat Oreos, but I'm happily reminded of God's love for me, and not only love, but affection. I'm reminded of the hope I have, and that produces joy, and I'm pretty sure that will count for a lot next time I decide I quit being a grown-up and want to pout (preferably with a steady stream of Oreos heading toward my mouth). It's hard to feel so extremely alone when I'm cared for so very much.

The only thing I had to be happy about this Easter was a resurrected savior. I know, I know, but hear me out. I've never had an Easter like this last one. There have always been trappings. Easter baskets filled with glucose products were my first Easter joy, but as I aged, the quest to convince my mom that we needed to dye 87 dozen eggs despite my unwillingness to eat even one consumed me. I had an insatiable desire to see those virginal white eggs come drink up vibrant color from various dye-filled coffee cups. My family's several dozen eggs combined with the eggs of my ever-increasing supply of cousins made for an epic Easter egg hunt at my grandparents' house - which sometimes lasted unintentionally for several months, until we could find the eggs by smell. When there were too many cousins younger than me to justify my hunting eggs, (which never would have happened if my family could have stopped being so stinking fruitful for ten seconds) I found the joy of hiding eggs myself. Aha! Try to find that egg you little ankle-biter. Finally, as I matured I found a growing appreciation for family, church traditions, and a day to celebrate Christ's resurrection properly--with joy and chocolate.

So the day before Easter, Saturday, Husband and I once again set out on our quest to pretend we have a social network and showed up at our new church's young adults group. I was hopeful - this would certainly be where we set up a big kids' playdate with Mr. and Mrs. Canadian. I might even get invited to coffee with Cute Girl. Once you set a coffee date you've arrived. Movers and shakers have coffee dates, am I right? At the very least I would have the pleasure of chatting pleasantly with someone other than my wonderful husband, who cannot fathom why anyone would ever go to a coffee shop when they can talk at home - for free.

I feel duped. Young adults group my eye! We went to a youth group. Last week they might have been able to fool us, what with the chairs in an intimate circle and all, but this time I saw through their clever "young adults" facada. Ages 16 to 30 - lies! I doubt anyone there could even fathom being 30. You might as well try to explain to them why that piercing is not a good career move, but good luck being met with more than a blank stare.

Mr. and Mrs. Canadian and Cute Girl, or Shoe Girl, as I find I'd rather call her, did not show. They probably had grown-up things to do. I don't remember what the preaching was about, because someone brought a puppy! A Beagle puppy! It was sniffing around and intent on searching out all mischief to be had. Husband and I were once in the market for a Beagle, and it was a beautiful, beautiful dream. We woke up when we remembered we live in a condo and work full time. See? We're such adults it's disgusting.

Easter service was beautiful. There was real joy in celebrating Christ's resurrection. The preschoolers sang an Easter song, and even though no one could understand a word they were, ahem, singing, it was sufficiently precious. Families were together. Everyone was smiling and dressed beautifully. After church we went home and I sat in the car and cried hard. The holiday left me longing for family, for friends, for someone to share joy with. I wanted to be joyful that day, not go back into the condo and cook for five hours while Husband read C.S. Lewis, silent, on the couch. In the car I told God my frustrations (and they were several). My impulse was to call my mom and cry to her, but I knew that comfort was not a lasting solution. I needed action.

I cleaned up my face and went into the house. I told Husband I was going back to church (they were having muffin fellowship). I did not ask him if he wanted to g0, because I knew he didn't and I wanted to be able to do this on my own.

I went to church. I made small talk. Consumed muffins. I even talked to Mrs. Canadian, mostly about the ridiculousness of our respective husbands. Progress? No, I don't think so. But at least I talked. At least I showed myself friendly and took action. Mrs. Canadian will have a baby any day now, (damn fruitfulness again) and I realize that the chances of her and I forming a friendship will be dramatically reduced after that. It's not as if we were even on our way to being friends; she was just a hope I had.

What I wanted to say is, this Easter I learned about hope. All would have been lost if Jesus had stayed in the tomb, but death could not hold him and there is hope for us all. God has given me snippets of hope in different ways this week, and I'm grateful that my current desperation helps me notice them. Jesus understands loneliness in a far deeper sense than I ever could, and yet he holds me and doesn't think my hurting is silly. So, as I told my mom when she lamented that she had not sent me any Easter gifts, a resurrected savior is much better than a chocolate bunny. So onward, further up and farther in!