"Charlie made me cry!"

This weekend I played with Charlie.

We had gone out to dinner a few weeks ago – 2 couple’s night out at Carrabas. It was great fun: good food and warm conversation as always. In fact we had had so much fun that D and I requested an encore. This time I decided to do something different: dumpling party at home instead of dining out. Charlie can be stubborn, but I am bossy. With no room for persuasion on my end, he finally caved in.

Dumplings, or Chinese raviolis, to be more exact, are the delicacy and rare honor at our home since I started working full time. They are labor intensive from chopping vegetables to dough kneading. After that, there is yet another hour of pastry making and dumpling wrapping. Nevertheless, they are not only family’s favorites but also a most-requested dish from friends. I could not think of anything better then that. So the party went on – we were at the kitchen island making dumplings and conversation for a good hour and half. He was looking pale after all that chemo treatments and radiations but none the less jovial. The dinner turned out to be somewhat a let-down for my standard, but my company did not seem to mind. Their gracious forgiveness allowed me to overlook my less than satisfactory performance and soon instead of the disappointing dishes we feasted on a better substitute: hours of intriguing conversation, which was far more scrumptious and enjoyable than any gourmet delicacy I could think of.

During the conversation, he mentioned he had been asked to substitute for a substitute at our sister church the next day due to a last-minute cancellation of the guest speaker. It’s been 2 years since he turned in his interim pastorage after our new pastor came. He had not returned to our podium since. After months of the severe attack by the ailment and far-more-hostile treatments for the ailment, he stopped taking invites from other churches. This news came both miraculous and wonderful! How many times have I relived those moments when my troubled heart and wandering eyes were set straight with God at the rise and fall of his voice? Sunday came and the bad student skipped the school to play with Charlie. The church was a pitiful sight outside and sadder inside with but a handful of congregation left. How ironic it was when the guest speaker was almost as frail and forgotten as the building itself? And yet there he walked in, on his cane or “third leg”, which he humorously quoted, his eyes twinkling and face smiling. When the long anticipated preaching finally started, with his first word the unexpected, ridiculous tears came! It was déjà vu when this Philemon was brought home again to make peace with both God and men. The magic continued on when he preached on none other than Romans 8, starting with God’s unconditional pardon through “no condemnation” for the most wretched sinner then, me, and ending with God’s immeasurable provision in “no separation” for His most suffering servant there, him. There he stood, his body stubbornly leaning against the podium to support his pain stricken legs, baring his soul how he had cried for that 20-year-old boy whom he had shepherded and lost to sea just a few weeks ago. And there I sat, with no tissues for rescue, all silly and weepy for reasons beyond the young man’s death. He was testifying to the adequacy of God’s grace through the father’s faith and example when all that reminded me was that of his own, along with his trials and tribulations, which he so sneakily avoided. I was fighting for control with my face buried low for fear of being found out what a cry baby I was, but when that last hymn “Amazing Grace” started the battle was lost. I had to flee out of the chapel. I would not be seen with my makeup all messed up like that! Word for word, the song pursued and persecuted me through the closed door. When I finally returned, the last verse ended. I turned, only to find Pat just as teary as I was. We stared into the same pain through each other’s eyes and cried together.

It was a beautiful, sunny day on the way home. The sky was blue and air was cool. The Sunday’s traffic was moving steadily like any other Sundays, oblivious of the trauma that I had just gone through. I couldn’t shake off that image: an old and almost forgotten church, the musky and gloomy sanctuary, Charlie smiling up there and me crying underneath. I was thinking, he may be afflicted by that “chronicle condition” or on that “third leg”, as he so eloquently put, he was none the less a bully. I should have known that before going out to play with him. I wanted then to tattletale on him: “Look what Charlie did! He made me cry!”

My walk, my Bach and my blog

September has finally come. After 2 months of intense heat and humidity, we are more than ready for a change of season. Even though for southern Virginia the reality might not take effect for yet another few weeks, the official change of the month digit from 8 to 9 still brought much hope for some reluctant summer’s captives like me who cannot wait to be set free. September means cooler days, golden leaves and dancing air. September means light jackets and boots. It also means shorter days, change of routines, such as my walk.

With the summer’s blazing heat, I had to shift my mid-day walk to morning, and further on early morning (6:30). The route I have been taking has its reputation of “NOT safe”, thus I was cautioned enough not to temper with even further (or earlier) change. Impulsive and undisciplined I may be, I am also a creature of habits that breathes on routines such as my 3:30am wakeup time, the exact parking spot under the same tree, and, yes, the 16-block morning walk to and fro. The insatiable, restless nature in me finds no other better therapy than that 30-minute walk during which all care and fear evaporate soundlessly and effortlessly.

Why would such simple activity that costs so little, time-wise and equipment-wise, does so much good for my mental well-being? I wonder. Every day as the dusk turns to twilight, I would feel the same antsy excitement leaping inside my chest. I put on my walking shoes and grab my IPOD, all ready to revisit the same buildings, streets and trees. With heart thrilled and strides swift and long, I magically morph into that carefree creature, feasting on the birth of another day in its display from the air in the sky to the meager grass on the roadside. For reasons I don’t know still, I am exhilarated beyond words. The paved walk next to the Credit Union takes me to the street back home in my moody and awkward 14-year-old days. The crimson blossom of the crape myrtles above my head reminds me of those beautiful tropical summers when cicada echoed high the thrill and hope of the graduation season. Time has done its magic to heal the past wounds, thus I find myself no longer haunted but smiling at the remnant memory with nostalgia. The street is lined up with mixed architectures, some of which century old and some modern and grand. Those old stone buildings with peeled off paint would instigate my vivid imagination of their past glory while the gated new establishment triggers my curiosity of its new inhabitants, who they are and what their hope and dreams may be. A few more streets further down is the corner where I take my returning direction and meet the breeze from the waterfront that almost teases me to tears every time. It is only 6:45am and there I walk on – streets still half awake, the stone pavement under my feet worn but crispy clean. Across the street sits the park in tranquil beauty under the veiled twilight. And there on the bench was the same man with his computer, quiet and motionless. I wonder if he too is under the spell of the morn as I am.

And let’s not forget my Bach Sonatas and Partitas violin solos – how brilliantly and perfectly they play on, resonating with every emotion I relive. Morning after morning, their magic never fails or fades. Past the city courthouse and banks is where the traffic of the morning crowd starts to pick up. Thankfully my friend Bach provides ample disguise or excuses for me to remain a speculator rather than participant as I march on, surveying the world without any obligation for social etiquettes. For yet a little while longer, there I am still, ageless and fearless, looking at life in a brand new vision. From a pale blue sky surfacing above to a world resuming her day and activities below, everything seems the same and yet so different. It’s amazing how a little distance and distraction can yield such a change of perspective. Even as insignificant and ordinary as a tree with a hint of autumn on its leaves would take my eyes away from the consuming care of this world. I am instantly reminded of how little and brief this life is and how majestic and endless another one will be. All my pitiful strivings appear, once again, ridiculously fruitless in His omnipotent presence.

My walk ends. I have returned to where I started, all sweaty and messed up outside and somewhat improved inside: Calmer, quieter and, for a little while, wiser. The hope follows me as I quicken the step to walk up the stairs, knowing that when my limited effort and vision end I have too another faithful friend, my blog, to help me recapture the revelation. Who else is there like my blog, whose ear is always ready, silence like gold, and patience never ceasing? Indeed it is through the walk that this old gal meets her young soul, and through timeless Bach those two make their peace, but it is my Blog that receives all that irreconcilable differences after the walk. I could not be more blessed than in the company of the threesome like my walk, my Bach and my Blog.

Back to School

Over two decades later, I was back to school.

I recall clearly that day when I handed in my last final thinking to myself: that’s it, my last exam. I wanted to pat my shoulder to congratulate myself for a job well done in persevering to the end for the past 19 years of schooling days. Like my fellow comrades, I fought a good fight, kept the course and now waited for that well deserving trophy – the last diploma. I remember too promising to myself as worthwhile or meaningful as it had been, I had had enough of schools and that would be true end of an era.

Windows 7 broke that promise. With the computer world evolving continually, we the IT support face the reality of keeping up with the changes. The company then decided to send us all to school for a whole week. Incidentally my sign-up week fell on the time just when most schools started. So here I came, backpack and lunch bag packed, marching along with the student crowd for the same mission, much more in age and apprehension and unfortunately less in joy and hope.
What do students expect of the first day of school besides new outfit and gear? From a world of different time and space, it hardly ever revolved around new shoes or clothes – uniforms took care of that and school supply was merely new pencils and erasers since the rest was provided by school. On that same road back to school after a 2-month summer vacation was a child with a book bag nearly empty yet a heart filled with much anxiety: Would I make new friends? Would they like me? Could I finally make it to the “good students” list so my teacher would love me as they loved my sister? Many, many years later, there I was again, standing in front of that classroom – still the same child within and yet so different in many ways: instead of walking, I had driven my cross-over utility to school; instead of growing my hair is now thinning and brain shrinking; instead of many ambitions and resolutions for a better me, my head stirring with only one question: how do I survive this week without looking like a fool?

My classmates of the week may be from different groups but were of the same floor, so there were no strangers to deal with. Our “teacher” was but a well-paid outsider who cared no grades or disciplines thus no one to seek approval from. Yet, I still intuitively sat myself at the far end aisle seat next to door for easy, necessary escape. My survival instinct was miscalculated when another coworker took his seat right next to me seconds later. He was not at all in the category of “strangers” since we had had our occasional “dealings” back at the office in our IM sessions and chocolates tossing across the partition between our cubicles. This unfortunate mishap actually cost not only my safety but also my sanity for the whole week as my “no-stranger” neighbor dutifully performed his daily instigator and tormentor role. Instead of hiding behind the enemy line, I was tossed out mercilessly in the war zone with him pushing the button and I yelped and cussed despite all effort. All eyes or heads would turn at me with frown and disapproval while I sat mouth wide opened and defenseless. Gone was all well designed safeguard, gone was productivity and gone was, most sadly, propriety. In short, I successfully committed the exact crime I had feared most: becoming a fool.

A week has passed since the school day revisit. As much as I would like to pin it on my enemy, I am well aware that I couldn’t help being baited like a silly 8-year-old. I had anticipated everything in that classroom – everything except teasing, as harmless as it was, something that the younger me had known a thing or two about and the older and wiser me taught my own children of. All that experience and wisdom rendered useless in a setting of reality. Do we ever change over time and space? Across the Pacific Ocean and another continent with many, MANY years of wisdom and experience acquired, I went back in that classroom as helpless as I had been on the very first day of school. I think of my other “classmates” there, many of whom I knew little of except crossing path at the office, still I am sure they too had reversed to be their younger selves in that classroom: some reserved, some dutiful and focused and some teasers or bullies as they had been since day one. The truth is: they never left the classroom.

So how was training? Some asked. I smiled with my usual wise answer: “Best thing was the last day: we had 3 dozens of donuts and 1 batch of chocolate cookies”, when the real revelation in fact was: Forget Windows 7, forget pens and pencils, but don’t forget the bullies.

"Are we there yet?"

August continued on to week two. For college son and husband, they have yet 1 more week to go before a new academic year begins in full session. Since the ending of the high school era, we have been slacking in taking summer vacation as a family and finally became convicted enough to take remediation on this setback. We had come up with a couple of choices: Pittsburgh or Baltimore. Both seemed doable as far as time frame and budget are concerned, but Baltimore won eventually in its merit of location (closer) and time (shorter).

23 years of parenting and 25 years of marriage later, I have concluded that playing is definitely NOT in our gene pool. Some believe in “practices make perfect”, but I would argue that it may improve but never overcome, let alone perfect. In this family, vacation is work (and vice versa) for parents. For children, it is somewhat a split. The older son would consider a ride on Interstate Highway with his camera in action vacation already, while the younger one merely tags along for the motion only. He seems forevermore detached and neutral with whatever decisions we make: what to do, where to go, McD or Wendy. Vacation to us is a picture of 4 faithful and long suffering pilgrims trapped in the car performing their playing duty.

In the past, the man of the house extended his authority to the domain of the car and thus had always been the designated driver. I might have stepped in a couple of times as the reluctant substitute out of necessity. Unexpectedly, this trip deviated when the younger son popped the question: do you want me to drive? At 20 years old, he has been driving since 17, mostly for errands or agendas of his own but strictly limited to the local routes. Still, I was taken by surprise. The request may sound logical from a young man of his age, but not from one who is anything but logical. Intense and atypical, he has had no social activities such as phone calls, partying, or outing with people of his age throughout his growing years. Nowadays, he has been withdrawing from family trips whenever an option is in place. Even with his presence, it would be at best in the company of a shadow, who with his ear piece on is anywhere but there in the back seat of the car. Outside of the car, the shadow moves away even farther, skirting and dancing 50 feet ahead of us with almost a painful look. An outing with him, as rare as it may be, is no dream vacation that we would get thrilled about. His volunteer to drive to some degree was more disturbing than unexpected for the worrisome mother. The father, however, being a born teacher with the most persevering faith and patience, hesitated no time to turn in the driver’s seat. Baltimore is but a 3+ hour drive. With the route we planned, the proposal seemed harmless and feasible to him. Just like that, another driver was born, I mean, on.

Why do we continue to expect life anything but unexpected when it never fails to surprise us with its unpredictability? Once he was behind that wheel, the shadow took shape and came alive for the first time since forever. In that metal box only big enough to be called “Cross-over” utility, he was not only animated but also engaging, violating all evidences of his 20 years of existence. That Hallmark moment even includes those silly, nonsensical interactions with his Autistic brother. For a little while, we were almost a normal family, taking a trip while we joked and conversed from movies, music, to nothingness. The rest of the first day - the motel that GPS could not locate, a baseball stadium too crammed for comfort, the anticipated attraction, Inner Harbor, jam packed with Saturday crowd on a hot and humid August day – failed in every category to qualify for a fun and relaxing vacation, but somehow it became irrelevant. Like good sports with perseverance, we came, we saw, we conquered.

After we concluded our first day in a brand new, hopeful American family spirit, the next day delivered another surprise when we headed on to Annapolis. The contrast between two worlds – that inside of the car and that outside – became strikingly evident. Once outside, he reversed to that amorphous ghost whose presence was too gloomy to ignore yet too far to reach. The charm by the water with shops, restaurants and blue sky might well have been as invisible as he was. Gone was our normalcy of a typical American family, gone was the bliss and gone was that amiable son. In as little as an hour of chasing after our illusion, we returned to our car and there he was again, alive and well, behind that steering wheel.

On the way back, I couldn’t help wondering if we did or did not have a good trip. Thus far, I was, and still am, uncertain with my conclusion. Somehow, the object of my assessment is no longer the trip but once again the million dollar mystery: the phantom, our son. Trip or son, I would probably wrestle on forevermore. But this I do know: while most parents take drastic measure for the road trip to avoid the dreadful question from the back seat “are we there yet?”, we are definitely spared from this predicament. For us, it is more like: “Thank God, we are NOT there yet”.

Skirt Experiment

After months of drought, the rain finally came. It started in the form of fury with Friday’s thunderstorm, flooding cities in various areas and continued on the next day to relieve the long suppressed agony. To our pleasant surprise, it wept more steadily yesterday till nightfall. I went to bed with windows open and the sweetest, most primitive music on earth, the sound of the raindrops.

As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.

In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.

So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.

On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?

The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.

Good Morning, C!

My computer has been warming up, email scanned through and time sheet entered. Next to it sits a mug of hot water - my first and habitual drink of the day for decades. The time display at the very bottom right of the computer screen flashes the 3 familiar digits, 4:30, beckoning me for the very first appointment of the day: it’s time to meet C, my pastor, brother and friend.

I follow the shortcut to go to my favorite site for daily devotion, wondering why the convenience of technology has not hit home run with me still. After all I am the IT professional and it is 2010 already. I miss my 25-year-old Bible with burgundy faux leather cover, all duck-taped up with pages chewed up by our first dog. But C is waiting. “I will see you at 4:30!” He was saying exactly that at the end of the dinner last night. His face, now thinning and pale, was still glowing with that usual ardor and earnestness. It’s been almost a month when we first agreed to meet each other at 4:30am with a prayer session. He wakes up at 4, goes out to feed the birds and then comes back inside for his time with God. P whispered very quietly that he has not been sleeping well these days. Chemo and all the medications have brought along the inevitable side effect of insomnia, which coincidently has also been my life-long rival and companion. The irony is: as unwelcomed and tormenting it may be, this mutual nuisance has turned out to be the instigator of a sweet communion of 2 sleepless souls.

My chest constricts with joy and pang as I start to pray. Would I trade this stammering tongue here with his most endearing prayer almost poetry! But it is never about the words but the heart and soul behind and where they lead others. I find home and rest in Christ when he prays and even on the podium when he preached with those small, sometimes all wrinkled hand-written notes that he pulled out of his pocket. I am now exasperated as my mind drifts away to touch a territory I have avoided for fear of the predicament I am facing now. How do you describe something or someone so intricate, magnificent and multifarious? The danger is not that my words might fail the emotion within but that they would harm the integrity of my subject. Any deliberate effort from this poorly equipped tongue and mind would be at best as good as wrapping something majestic with gift wrap less in yardage and quality. I couldn’t help asking if half truth equals to lies and that half said is worse than not saying at all? Worst of all, it pains me to ever risk hurting him by exposing him who is so helplessly shy and insecure.

But how can I stop all these emotions from erupting without venturing to temper them with words even if they are bleakly inadequate! He brings smile and tears to my face even now as I struggle to capture him and all that paradox within: an old soul with a child’s heart, well-read, inquisitive and intelligent, who goes to bed with children’s classic such as Treasure Island; the beloved pastor who does not want to be one but served as one out of necessity for 3 years refusing to take compensation; the ex preacher who came to church to turn on the heat on the wintery Sunday morning before anyone was even awake and took leave before anyone came in; a man with a presence impossible to be missed at any gathering yet hides himself in the corner, desperately to be invisible; a friend whose company and conversation makes hours fly on like minutes (and what fun we had at the dinner!); a faithful brother whose confession of a rightful moan turned a runaway sinner tearful and speechless; the suffering one who battles the snare of cancer and looks at me with glistening eyes and says: “I pray for you at 4:30 every morning”.

My heart is too full and my vision blurred. It is fruitless to continue on. No, this ranting would do him or me no benefit. I would now abandon my useless exertion and trade it for a sweet hour of prayer with him. Unworthy and wretched I may be, I am ready to cease all striving and take all my sins and wounds to the foot of my Savior - in the company of a dear frined.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

That calls me from a world of care,

And bids me at my Father’s throne

Make all my wants and wishes known.

In seasons of distress and grief,

My soul has often found relief,

And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,

By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

The joys I feel, the bliss I share,

Of those whose anxious spirits burn

With strong desires for thy return!

With such I hasten to the place

Where God my Savior shows His face,

And gladly take my station there,

And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Shall we meet?

10 months of “communications” later, AH and I finally met.

As IT team, we provide services for customers at locations that sometimes require transportation means to get to if needed. However, technology has made distances irrelevant since most support can be achieved via remote control through PC and phone. Thus it is more than likely that we never come face to face with customers such as those. AH started as one of them. It was not until by chance we discovered our common association with Pittsburgh that our relationship slowly moved from work to less professional territory. For months, though, this casual communication on sports or weather was limited to email solely as if we were bond by some mutual, unspoken rule. With IM and phone at our finger tips, we rigidly persisted on this arrangement until a month ago when I worked with his group on some problematic ticket that required instant and frequent responses, thus IM finally cut in. Even so, we continued to take deliberate caution to avoid the last barriers, phone or face-on confrontation.

Among many of my self-contradicting personality traits, social ineptness is one of them. I have not been known for being verbally quick or articulate. On top of such deficiency there is also a balance issue that I could never master: I either do too much or too little. Thus I avoid direct interaction if ever choices are available. Emails allow room for organizing thoughts at the same time satisfy the writer’s need or addiction inside of me. IM will be the next preference even though it provides some instant gratification in that you don’t have to wait long for feedback. Either way, there is nothing that exposes the true quality of thoughts better than writing, which serves the purpose of my secret quest for distinguished mind. My obsession, though, is hardly reciprocated in this modern culture of fast food products. AH’s willingness or perseverance in keeping our email/IM makes up his average quality of expression. Over time, this mediocre was overcome by other qualities such as his honesty and straightforwardness.

It started on Monday’s routine when he IM’ed and said he had brought some home grown tomatoes for share, followed by a logical question: how did he get them delivered? After a few iterations, it was then concluded for me to stop by on the way home to their parking lot outside of the building. It seemed logical; most importantly, he sounded as-a-matter-of-fact. At 3:50pm, I headed out to keep our appointment. It was then when I realized I was about to come face to face with not AH but my own social handicap. Like a drowning victim, I was overcome with paralyzing fear as the memory of past failure came flooding to swallow me. I remembered with acute pain that all relationships that started out on paper never ended well if not collapsed completely.

The reality is: this complex, confusing and contradicting package comes in the form of an average wrapper. My physical endowment is not nearly as interesting as my thoughts. Meanwhile, the size of my vanity is none the less smaller than that of those with superior beauty. History has proved that it would be better off if it started with the lesser end, as in my outside, then moving on to the better end, my inside, with the hope that time allows grace to grow such that both ends might compromise and even compensate. Clearly, this was not the case. As my car approached his building, I began to panic but there was no time for retreat. I saw him already, standing in the parking lot, spotting me and started walking toward my car. I parked and walked out to face my daemon, looking all too smiling and brave. How are you? We finally meet… the usual pleasantry any two people who met the first time. I am pretty sure to have said something stupid too. I remember averting my eyes, feeling and looking awkward to receive that friendly hug and finally scrambling back into my car and speeding off. The whole ordeal lasted less than 3 minutes but it may well be hell of a life time.

Why do we care what others may or may not approve of us in the skin-deep and deceiving part of human, our physical appearance? Experience has proved to me time after time that looks last as brief as minutes when our physical eyes see without seeing and the other faculty, brain, takes over to evaluate and scrutinize. How many times has this invisible yet far more superior organ of ours confirmed the irony that beauty of one’s outside rarely matches that of inside and vice versa? If so, why can’t I trust my fellow human beings to do the fair thing when I know such revelation cannot possibly be my own unique gift? Mayhap my true insecurity lies not in that’s outside but that is inside???

While I started on the verge of self-destructive doubt and fright, I recalled the one surety who has known me and remained his singular devotion and adoration for 25 years. With him, there would never be room for fear may it be glorious performance or regretful disappointment. I will, hopefully, always be the apple of his eye on a Sunday morning when I have my Converse on with my girly skirt or at any party when words fly before my better judgment. Even with all failing to be impressed, including my own self, I would but to look into his eyes and find myself as beautiful as I was on the day when they first met mine.