Five Years

Got a lot of love today.

Miss you, Momma.

-Kit Kat Girl

Anything Goes

Amaaaaaazing night. Best show I've seen in New York. Followed by me dancing in the street in stilettos trying to hail a cab. (I'll tell that story later)

If anyone wants to know what will be stuck in my head for the next week...

My friend Joe says incredible things

"Women need to stop worrying about what a man can buy you. And find out what a man could build you."

My Night

Tonight was one for the books. Dinner and drinks on Eataly's rooftop (who knew?!), and more red wine than I think I've ever consumed in one sitting. Emily and Greg, my two sweet married friends in town from LA, were there, along with their two sweet friends from the other LA-- Louisiana. Rounded out with a sassy Latina from the upper west side (I never did catch her name), and we had a party.

Lots of wine, salumi, cheese with honey, fried shiitake mushrooms, pretzel bread so hot the steam burned our fingers when we passed it to break off crunchy hunks, all consumed quickly and with vigor as the tenor of our conversation rose. We talked over each other, laughing and shouting, moving wine glasses and carafes, stacking plates and passing bread.

Greg is from Indiana, and he sat next to me as he talked animatedly about his upcoming film projects and asked with his sweet Midwestern twang about my job and life and church. It should be noted that Greg gives one of the top three hugs I've ever received in my life, and I can blissfully report that I was lucky enough to be on the receiving end of more of these than I could count over the course of the evening. As we all drank our wine, we talked about politics and fiscal policy (the two Louisiana boys are investment managers, a fact easily and wholly tempered by their southern-ness I discovered) and Full House and whether this was clover or orange blossom honey. If we were ever to glance up in contemplation or ecstasy, the Empire State building gleamed overhead in full view, so close it felt touchable.

This was how I spent my Saturday night. One of the boys bought our dinner. All of it. From the wine to the pretzel bread to the awful salad the waiter recommended I get. The other bought our gelato downstairs, and listened rapturously as I told him my Dustin Hoffman story. (He earned it.)

It's nights like these that make me so happy to be young and fun and living in the greatest city in the world. So happy that this is the exciting world I get to live in and enjoy and call my own.

I'm so happy that today, this is my life.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Loving the King

I have no idea how to be in love with Jesus.

I am rendered useless when it comes to loving nearly anything at all, much less the King of all heaven who ransomed my heart and my soul, my life and my mind—but how could one so perfect, so holy and whole, ever desire my affection or need my heart’s embrace? When I think about Jesus—my imperfect, distant, flawed, speculative knowledge of his person and character—all I can think of is how dimly I grasp his goodness. And how utterly ill-equipped I am to respond even to that.

From what I know about Jesus—from what I understand about things I’ve heard other people say, things I’ve experienced and read—what echoes in my soul, the deep calling out to deep, is his utter goodness. He is good. He is rich and holy and wise and smart and playful and sweet and persistent. He is respected and feared but tender and kind. He wants to hear everything I have to say and is never frustrated by or disappointed in me. He gives the best advice and tells the funniest jokes and is the safest company I’ll ever keep. He knows me better than anyone will ever know me, and loves me better than anyone will ever love me.

He is good. He is good. And yet with all this, with all he has saved me from and given me, I have no idea how to love him.

How feeble my attempts seem, and how frequently I fail as I blunder in my affections and selfish, short-sighted grace. All I can do is hold out my hands in the darkness.

Find me. Please find me. You who ransomed my heart and mind, make known to me the path of life. Let me love you. Help me love you.

There is nothing I am less good at than love. I am far better in competition than in love. I am far better at responding to my instincts and ambitions to get ahead and make my mark than I am at figuring out how to love another. I am schooled and trained in acquisitive skills, in getting my own way. And yet I decide, every day, to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily— open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving, daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride. (Eugene Peterson)

Help me. Help me be in love with you.

Brooklyn

I went to Brooklyn tonight. Stood on a rooftop with the gentle late-summer breeze ruffling my hair, taking in what was quite possibly the most stunning view I’ve seen since moving to New York. The lights stretched from La Guardia’s air traffic control tower in Queens, all the way past the Chrysler and Empire State, down through the Battery and across the Brooklyn Bridge. I left the party as my eyes grew heavy, and went and stood in the sticky hot subway station waiting for the train to come.

Brooklyn is wonderful, I thought. More and more people flooded the platform, and everyone was creative and interesting and glowing with youth and excitement and late-summer heat. The man with the guitar had a tambourine around one ankle and a ring of homemade wooden bells on the other, and he strummed and stomped along to “Hotel California” and “Brown-Eyed Girl” as the crowd grew denser. 45 minutes later my feet were hurting, still no train, and the station was closing. We all rose to the sidewalk, spreading in clusters to street corners to fight for taxis, or to line up for the shuttle. I walked blocks and blocks and blocks and finally flagged down an off-duty cab.

“Are you available?” I asked. He nodded. “You going into the city?” He nodded again. I got in, feet weary, ready for sleep. “You’re my hero,” I sighed.

“And you are my heroine,” he replied.

New York is wonderful.