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.