Beauty Through the Eyes of Children

Sometimes we just need to stop and stare.

This summer at camp, I was a counselor for 13 precious (most of the time) 8-year-olds. During the middle of the session, I had been assigned to take these girls to Sequoyah Caverns, some caves in the hills of Lookout Mountain. It was there that the Lord taught me a good lesson.

Coming off the nauseating and sweaty bus ride to the caverns, I confess that I wasn't in the peppiest of moods. But my girls were excited, so I tried to maintain an attitude similar to theirs.

As we entered the caverns, the temperature soon dropped 40 degrees. That dry, cool environment was so refreshing, and it lifted my mood a little. It's funny how a change of environment can affect my mood. But I soon forgot about how comforted I was by the dropped temperature... there were other things to think of. It was another counselor and I in charge, and that was it. So, as soon as we got into that cave, my "mommy mode" came on, my eyes were constantly dashing from girl to girl to make sure they weren't touching something they weren't supposed to be touching, my mind was constantly counting them up, my own thoughts drowning out our guide's words so that I could keep looking out for the kids. Maybe it was because of this preoccupation, or maybe it was because of my past experience splunking, but I was not too impressed with these caverns. My mind was constantly busy thinking of my girls, but at the same time, I was bored.

And then, for just a moment, I stopped paying attention to the girls' actions and the group count, and I started paying attention to them. They were freaking out. They were so amazed by this cave, constantly shouting "WOAH" and "Sarah look at this!", pointing, looking up, looking all around, with their jaws dropped. Their eyes were wide and their little hearts were overcome with the grandness of this cave, the beauty it had to offer them, the adventure that it provided.

And at the moment also, the Lord taught me so much. He used these girls as an instrument to show me how important it is to maintain a childlike spirit. We may be somewhere at a point where we feel weak and tired, and the Lord may offer us a refreshing alternative. We take what he's given us and appreciate it for a split second, but then we go back to worrying. We are more occupied with other things, when sometimes the Lord just wants us to stop and look up. He wants us to see Him with childlike eyes. He wants us to say "Woah". He wants us to show others what we've discovered. He wants us to see how big He is. He wants our hearts to be overcome with his beauty. He wants us to go on an adventure with him.

As we go about our busy bustling lives, I am thankful to be reminded that sometimes my God just wants me to look up with a childlike spirit. As we grow older, we become less and less amazed with things around us. Things that used to be phenomena when we were children are now just run-of-the-mill. I think it wouldn't be a bad idea for us to just stop focusing on the little things and remember our purpose. Here Jesus is, giving us an opportunity to glorify him and enjoy him forever. Wait, why do the other things matter again?

Spoiled Chocolate.

(Pictured is myself as a 15-year-old in a kitchen adventure with Valrhona in Chocolate Friands)

I shuffle my feet down the stairs into a hidden, lower level, humble store a block away from Dupont Circle. As I open the door and probe into the 200 square feet store, my senses pay no attention to the dingling of the entrance bells, the paper I just dropped, or the chapping winter air on my cheeks-- they are now centered on one thing. The smell.

What is so brilliant about the smell of chocolate? Good chocolate, I mean. The roasty-ness, the sweetness, the deep, dark sensual aroma... I have never smelled something so.. thick.. in my life. But in the room, or any where when you smell chocolate, the smell isn't overwhelming. It's complicated yet light. It's refreshing. It's chocolate.

I scan the pristine shelves lined with the contrasting dark-colored chocolate. I see my favorite names. I see brands that make my heart go pitter patter. Amedei. Valrhona. Michel Cluizel.

I've been using Valrhona Manjari for baking for the last 3 years. Manjari is the perfect one for baking-- it is smooth and rich, but it has enough of a bite at the end to give an edge to any chocolate dessert. Now, if I am making a confection, like tonight's truffles, I'll go with an Amedei Chuao. Just because Amedei is so incredible.

The Chuao amazes me. I still have not gotten over how complex a flavor can be from a simple cocoa bean. (Well, maybe the bean isn't so simple at all). The hint of dried fruit (raisins to my personal tongue) is overwhelming. How can a chocolate taste so much like something from which it is so dissimilar? Beats me.

As far as milk chocolate goes, my recent obsession is Valrhona Jivara. Its deep, nutty aroma is way past any other brand I've tasted. I must admit, I haven't ventured far with my milks. But after Jivara, I am encouraged to try more.

The problem is, once you've experienced the magnificence of the cacao bean, it is hard to return to those convenient store candy bars from which no true essence of the bean can be detected. I'm afraid I've been spoiled by chocolate, and it will be hard to return. The problem is, as the shopkeeper at that incredible store in D.C. stated, it isn't real chocolate. Now-a-days, what I taste when I bite into a Crunch bar isn't chocolate, but just lots of butter and sugar. I'm not saying I never eat candy bars, because there are times when I crave those delicious ingredients, but when I want chocolate, I don't go to Texaco.

Thus, I am ruined forever. And I continue to ruin others when I hold tastings. Tasters' senses become awakened and addicted, just as my own nose and tongue had the time of their life years ago. After the tastings, the usual comment I often hear is "I'll never go back."

So, taking a step out into the first-class chocolate world is... well, bittersweet. But I am not remorseful for my chocolate discovery, I am purely thankful. It has enhanced my culinary adventures, opened up my tastebuds, helped me appreciate aromas, and has caused me to see the beauty and complexity in such a small simple bean. And little wonders like these enable me to glorify God a little bit more.

Life Lessons With Every Step I Take (Or Lack Thereof)

I have been cursed with malfunctioning feet. I detest their innate ineptness to follow what the rest of my legs are doing. They just can’t seem to keep up. Furthermore, I assume that my sore behind is more disappointed in their lack of agility. My feet have defined the story of my life. They have determined each path I take. I have to admit, without my slow toes, my life would be much less interesting.

I can remember in ballet class as a five and six-year-old, being the “slow one” of the class. I was simply offbeat. Correction: my feet were offbeat. I had everything else in order, my arm movements, my spins, my twirls—it was just the feet that didn’t match up quite right… which probably made it worse. It was because of these same feet that my dance career came to a halt. Once during practice, as I rose to perform a potentially graceful arabesque, one foot wanted to go up with the other, causing me to fall perfectly on my left ankle, issuing a sprain and a refusal from my teacher to continue teaching me pointe lessons. And that was that.

During my middle school years—you know, during those times when you think the whole world is always looking at you, because you are all that—I was quickly humbled by a lesson taught by my own feet. I had just picked up my lunch tray and I was headed towards my lunch table. And of course, I thought everybody was watching. So I quickly shuffled towards my destination as a result of my self-consciousness. My feet moved too fast for me to notice the convenient yellow “wet floor” sign on the ground. The next thing I know, I am on the floor with a bruised bottom. It was like a movie scene; I can still replay it in my head: In slow motion my feet slip under me. Balance is escaping me as I flail my arms in a backwards circular motion, forgetting that those arms were once uplifting a tray full of messy food. With a shocked face, my mouth twisted and ajar, and brows furrowed, I land on the floor with ketchup and gravy and mashed potatoes flung all over my face and clothes. I look up and every face in the room is exploding with deriding hysteria. The boisterous clamor of laughter is but a whisper compared to my panicked thoughts of embarrassment and shame. I decide to fight the tears back. Instead, I get up and “laugh it off”.

My feet have always been at my side to guide me in learning life lessons. After the lunchroom incident, falls seemed to be less embarrassing. The rest of my middle school days were followed with plenty more trips of ever-improving humility: in P.E. class, in the hallway, in front of my church congregation when I tripped and spilled the offering plate in front of the altar… you know, the usual.

Once, at school Mass, We were filing out of the chorus pews in order to go down to where everyone was receiving the Eucharist. I don’t really know how it happened, but my feet apparently skipped a step going down, but left my head suspended at the same height, just high enough for me to knock my head forcefully on the back of a piece of wood that juts out to display the hymn numbers. I don’t really know what that experience taught me exactly, but it sure did wake up some students who otherwise would have not paid attention for the rest of the service. Maybe this is how God is using me.

You know, through all the hard times I’ve had with these awkward feet, I really don’t give them enough credit. I guess there havebeen good things that have occurred because of my cinder blocks that attach to my ankles... like the fact that a man, who would not otherwise be paid, is training me for goalkeeping, because my footwork is like that of a pregnant elephant. Also, I would have never gotten to meet cutie “Charles” in the library if I hadn’t accidentally run into him, causing him to spill his coffee. Maybe, because of my feet, we’ll meet one day and get married, because he’ll remember me as the charming, approachable, klutz who ruined his study session, but remained as a replay in his mind because he knew that I was the love of his life.

So, maybe my feet are almost a blessing rather than a curse. Because I quit dance, I started up French lessons. And I’ve probably gotten way further with that course than dancing anyway. Because of that trip in the lunchroom, I have a few friends that really love to recount the tale to anyone who hasn’t heard the story of my famous fall. I’ve decided, that because of my feet, in the end, I’ll be married to Charles and live in France with friends who think I’m extremely popular and approachable because of my willingness to “laugh at life”. I’ll be the subject of embarrassing stories, keeping in mind the countless amount of people I have helped through struggle, such as the poor goalie trainer or the monks and nuns who used to be sleeping kids in church.

Thanks, feet.

"The Marketplace" painting

b market painting
Originally uploaded by peanutbutter423

And thus.. the result.

Barcelona Marketplace

barcelona market
Originally uploaded by peanutbutter423

A sight to see, that's for sure.

I decided to paint after this picture that I took.

Dancing With Alice.

I walked into Caring Days facility, a daycare center for the elderly and the mentally disabled, expecting it to be a normal day of volunteering. I had been going to Caring Days for some time to do volunteer work, and I had grown to love working with this community. But today was different. As I sat down to assist some ladies making crafts, there was one particular woman at the end of the table with wide, empty eyes. I noticed she was very well-groomed, and she had classy, attractive features. For a few moments I had mistaken her for an employee, but when I introduced myself to her, she smiled at me and attempted to respond, but I couldn’t understand any of the words that came out of her mouth. She was apparently not able to speak. Despite my lack of understanding, I glanced down at her nametag and smiled at her, saying, “It’s nice to meet you, Alice.”

She smiled back, started rocking in her chair, and began to babble some more. She was very reserved, and the other old ladies were divided in their attitude toward her. Some were concerned and attentive; others were annoyed and distant. Sometimes she would try to get out of her chair and walk towards the door, and one of the employees at the facility would gently sit her back down. Again she’d commence to rocking back and forth, uttering unintelligibly, but one time, she had a frown on her pretty face. During this rush of emotion, she did not seem to notice those around her. One of the employees explained to me that she was ready to go home to her husband. This poor woman touched my heart, and I decided to remain close to her until it was time for her to leave.

As closing time approached, Alice became more and more impatient to leave. I decided that the best way to ease her stress was to entertain her, so I asked her to dance with me. There was music playing in the room, and I was willing to do anything to ameliorate her mood. When I asked her at first, she looked down and otherwise did not respond. When I got up and started to dance, though, she looked up at me, and began to smile. I extended my invitation for her to join me once again. Then, slowly but surely, she got up out of her seat and danced with me. We danced not more than a song or two, but these few moments put her at ease for the remainder of her stay.

When her husband arrived to take her home, he explained to me that Alice was suffering from dementia. She used to be a brilliant schoolteacher, but now her life had turned another direction. He told me how difficult it was to find someone to assist her for extended hours during the day. Her condition had changed both of their lives dramatically. He explained that she is the same woman he married a long time ago. But now, just as if she had suffered from cancer or another disease, she had been afflicted with a debilitating mental condition. His gaze on her and the tenderness of his voice displayed his love and devotion to his wife. Sometimes it is hard to imagine how someone could persevere and sacrifice so much for a person. But as I took in the way he felt towards Alice I began to understand. I recounted to him how Alice and I had danced today, and he smiled and replied, “Yes, she loves to dance.”

When I left Caring Days that day, I did not realize how much of an impact Alice’s story would have on me. Since then, I have often thought of Alice. That particular day at the facility awakened in me an otherwise dormant concern for the elderly and the mentally disabled. Before I viewed these individuals’ conditions as distant and unrealistic, but Alice showed me that anyone can suffer from a mental illness. Alice was a joyful, spirited, brilliant woman, and something unfortunate had caused her life to change forever. Alice, a sweet spirit trapped in a failing mind, has softened my heart and changed my outlook. Now, when I go to Caring Days, I do not see the needy elderly stereotype with which we often stamp them, but I see a group of individuals who are real human beings who have quite possibly lived the lives that we all hope for ourselves. That one day with Alice has caused me to be more aware of others’ hardships, and it has rendered me a person of better understanding. This was a dance lesson that taught me much more than a few steps.

What A Day

I bust open the door, practically collapsing as a result of being weighed down tremendously by the 30 grocery bags stacked up along my limbs, the plastic binding and suffocating my poor, limp arms. The things we do to save a second trip...

I make it to the threshold of the kitchen and lunge in an effort to get the grocery bags as far over towards the goal line of the counter as possible. I guess, at this point, a few short trips back and forth from the counter to the doorway will have to do.

I pause. Calculation time. How many minutes 'til the guests arrive? Forty. Forty?! Forty. Breathe. I can make it in forty.

Grocery sorting... done.

Now to clean up the kitchen. Dishwasher is next in line.

I spend a few seconds planning out the most efficient methods of emptying the dishwasher, which of course cancels out my efficiency by the amount of time I spend planning the efficiency. I must empty the dishes by order of placing groups. Hmm.. Far pantry items first. Silverware second... and you don't want to hear the rest.

I approach the silverware. Apparently whoever rinsed these babies before putting them in here (most likely me) didn't do a very swell job. I put them back in a compartment for further cleansing.

In a rush and not paying attention, by habit I grab the dirty silverware I just put back into the dishwasher and almost place it in the drawer. Then, I realize what's going on. I put them back into a compartment to be completely washed.

In a rush and not paying attention, by habit I grab the dirty...

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Time to move on. Apparently I can't handle dishes.

Do I get ready? Or do I get the food ready?

Or I could do them at the same time... bring my curling iron down to the kitchen? Would hair get in the food? Will I blow an outlet?

Conclusion of the day: Too bad I'm a woman.

Tidbit for Yearbook-- not too deep.

As a Protestant raised in a Catholic School environment, I have experienced two sides of Christianity: I learn Catholic theology in school everyday, and then I go to church on Sundays and show off my knowledge from Catholic school. But Catholic school religion classes have taught me more than just how to be a know-it-all in front of all the Methodist kids; I have experienced a perspective that I would not have had the opportunity to appreciate otherwise. Hopping back and forth from Catholic education on weekdays to Sunday School on weekends has expanded my understanding of both denominations. Not only has Catholic education helped me apprehend Catholic theology and eradicate theological prejudices, but it has also enhanced my walk with Christ. For instance, one of the aspects that I am grateful for in my religion classes is the promotion of the student’s individual thinking and reasoning behind their faith.

As Christians, we seek to know God more intimately everyday in our walk with Christ. And as a Christian, I would love nothing more than to learn about my God everyday at school. What an opportunity! Religion class has presented a daily reminder of God’s eternal love for me as His child, His excitement for me to learn about Him, and the theological bases that I am so fortunate to have as pillars of faith. There is one thing above all in Catholic theology with which I can identify—the desire to see Jesus Christ glorified. This doctrine requires no specific denominational background in order to grasp the concept. It is simply at the core of why we have religion class, why we live our faith the way we do, and why we can all be classified under one name—Christian.