The News Part I

 “I have bad news.”

“What’s that?” The guy from down the shore inquired.

“That doctor I’ve been talking to – he’s Calvinist.” I lamented.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he replied, extending empathy.  “And I know you have history with Calvinists.”   It’s true, I do.  My favorite ex-boyfriend ditched me when his pastoral pursuits didn’t seem to mesh with my less than Calvinist thinking.  He wanted a woman who would stay in line with his 5 point, cessationist, patriarchal, theology.

The guy from down the shore continued on, “Is it ignorant for me to ask if all Calvinists are hardcore set in their beliefs?  Perhaps he’s a laid back one.   Maybe he’s a Calvinist like I’m Methodist.”

I laughed.  Guy from down the shore is a VERY laid back Methodist.  With his questionable comments and rampant cussing one would never know he had ever stepped foot into a church.  He explained to me one time he attended about 3 times a week growing up, so he thinks he’s good on fulfilling his church attendance quota for at least another decade.

“He could be...” I hesitated, “but it’s highly unlikely.  Calvinists tend to be black and white in their thinking,” I explained.  “They don’t leave a lot of room for the grey in life and the mystery of God.”

Last week, after some theological discussion, I explained to the Calvinist doctor the following:

I fear you'll hate the theological undertones of my writing. My landing point for my first book is the mystery of God. For me, the only way I can continue to trust God and his love for me is to embrace his mystery.

Despite my statement, the doctor and I are still chatting.  But this whole Calvinist thing got me thinking – I need a guy who is going to support me in my writing.  He doesn’t have to love my work, but he can’t hate the message I am communicating.  And if I so happen to get invited to speak before a coed audience on a Sunday, I’d want him there cheering me on rather than staying home to read 1 Timothy, chapter 2.

Funny, I remember back when I was 19, asking this guy who had been stringing me along if he had any feelings left for me.  He replied, “Yes and no.  Yes, I’m still attracted to you, but I feel like we are headed two different directions in life.  I want to marry a woman who is going to be there to support me in ministry.”  At the time I intended to pursue a career in broadcast journalism, so I accepted his answer as a sensible response for someone who wanted to be a youth pastor. 

By the time I had graduated from college, I had been brainwashed into believing the role of a woman is not to dream big dreams, but rather to use all of who she is to support a man in his – whatever they may be.  I would love to someday support a man in his dreams, but I would also want him to encourage me in the gifts God has given me.

Katrina Andrade

Yesterday I woke up and my cell phone company informed me my last name has been changed to Andrade.   This came as quite a surprise to me since I couldn’t recall getting married recently.  I thought back to my most recent stay in New York and a few of the guys I had spent time with, but I was stumped.  I couldn’t remember eloping with anyone.

I then remembered that weekend in Chicago 3 years ago – a St Patty’s day weekend celebration.  I didn’t elope then either, but my taxi cab driver took me out for breakfast after my wallet had been stolen the night before.  I was already short on cash in paying him to get me to the bus station, so I asked him to take me as far as he could go.  He insisted on getting me there regardless, and when we arrived an hour before my bus’s departure, he told me he was going to grab a bite to eat at the diner down the street and asked if I would like to go - his treat.

My stomach had rumbled just moments before, reminding me that without any money or credit cards I would go hungry that day unless I accepted his offer.  So yes, I went out to breakfast with my taxi cab driver and he near proposed to me by the end of the meal.  His wife had passed away several years prior and he was raising 3 little ones on his own.  I did agree to giving him my telephone number, but I know didn’t give him (or anyone else that weekend) my hand in marriage.

But since that weekend I’ve run into all sorts of identity theft issues.  Within months of St. Patty's Day the guy who stole my wallet managed to run up a $2,000 Comcast bill in my name.  And then there were issues with Paypal, and now my cell phone.  The Verizon lady explained to me someone had called in, answered all the security questions, and requested the name change.  I explained to the Verizon lady that I would very much like to change my name someday, but, to the best of my knowledge, my last name is still Blank.

It is said never, ever keep your Social Security Card in your wallet.  GREAT advice!  I only swayed from it for a few weeks and now I am being haunted for life.

Recent Tweet: dear satan, i know you're after my identity, but can't we keep this metaphorical?

NYC Man Update Part III

It was past midnight and the Starbucks had closed at half past 11.  I deliberated, trying to decide if I should return then, or wait until the morning.  But I feared with each minute that passed I would be less likely to ever see my journal again.  So I threw on a bra and my running shoes, and took off in my PJs to the corner of 35th street and 7th avenue.

Upon my arrival a worker stepped outside with a bag of trash.  I cringed, hoping my journal wasn't mixed in with the mess of garbage.  I explained my journal mishap, and she let me inside to speak with the shift manager.  Within minutes, the manager was checking their back room, and he returned to me with my journal.

Relieved, I thanked the Starbucks employee and walked back to my sublet, flipping through the pages of my journal, reading the words that would have been gone, had my journal not been returned.  Halfway back, still immersed in my writing, a man, who seemed to come out of nowhere sticks a small sheet of paper out in front me and says, "Here's my number.  Why don't you give me a call sometime."  I accepted the piece of paper into my hand from the attractive mystery man.  I read the paper.  It stated Stan, followed by a 212 New York telephone number.

He continued on, "Actually why don't I get your number?"  His accent was charming, but I wasn't going to give him my number.

"Um.  I don't think so."

He then said, "Well why don't you give me a call then.  Tomorrow - okay?"

Still dumbfounded by this bizarre exchange I replied without thinking and somehow agreed. "Okay."

I continued down the street walking west, while he moved east.  I kept staring at the piece of paper Stan had handed me.  I didn't get it - why would this man hand me his number when I looked far from put together?  I was wearing my University of Michigan sweats, my glasses, and to top it off my hair was a straggly mess from running with it down.  I was far from hit-on worthy in my appearance.  Perhaps if he was a Michigan fan, I would get it, but he made absolutely no mention of my university.

I told my lawyer friend Teresa about the incident the following day.  I told her perhaps she was right.  Maybe I am the one closing the doors.  But I'm not just going to call up some random stranger just because he gave me his phone number.  So no, I never did call Stan.  I did, however, encounter a Michigan fan a few days later.  His pick up line, "You had me at go blue."  Now there's a guy possibility I feel is worth exploring.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the answer is 12.  (See Part II)

NYC Man Update Part II

Over a year ago…

“How can someone as beautiful as you still be single?  Clearly, it must be your decision.”   

“Mmmm… I’m not so sure about that.  There are a number of guys I would have been more than happy to marry, but for whatever reason, they closed the door – not me.”

I was out for drinks with my favorite author and he couldn’t get past the shock that I would still be single after all these years.  He explained to me, one of his good buddies told him years ago he needed to be dating me.  He told his friend, “I don’t know who she is.”  But 5 years later, as “fate” would have it, our paths finally crossed in New York City.  

Now, I make a point NOT to celebrity crush, so I had never considered him romantically before.  After all, what’s the point of falling for someone who doesn’t know you exist?  I assumed I would never be on his radar, but within moments of meeting him at the fountain at Bryant Park, he made it clear he had been curious about me for years.  And by the first sip of our beers, I was hooked by him. 

“But wait,” He continued on. “You did Young Life. You didn’t meet anyone doing Young Life?  Young Life has a lot of attractive people.”  I laughed.  He was truly baffled by my singleness, and I was truly amazed that this man would even consider me.  I was honored, actually.

That conversation was over a year ago, but last week my hot, lawyer friend Teresa suggested the same thing he did – perhaps we are the ones turning away men.  She questioned, “Is God REALLY holding back on me, or am I holding back?  Am I withholding marriage from me?” 

This conversation happened over the phone, while she was in her apartment in the financial district, and I was sitting at a Starbucks “writing” in Midtown.  I pulled out my journal from my lap top bag to jot down some of what she was saying.  I then started in on my rebuttal, but she, being a lawyer and all, seemed to win the case. 

After our chat, I returned to my writing until the Starbucks closed for the night.  As I walked home, I continued to ponder, “Am I really too picky?  Am I the one shutting all the doors?”  But, I reminded myself, I’ve been into guys well outside my ideal –  way too old, way too young, way too Calvinist, divorced, bald, short, no college degree, comes with an STD, etc.  There are a lot of guys I would have been more than thrilled to marry, who, for whatever reason, didn’t want to marry me.

Back at my sublet I changed out of my dress and into my comfy pjs – University of Michigan sweats.  I then determined I would figure out in my journal exactly how many guys I would have said yes to marrying had things progressed.

I opened up my laptop bag, but my journal wasn't inside.  I then checked my purse, but my journal wasn’t in it either.  I then checked everything again, but my journal did not suddenly appear.  It was gone, MIA, perhaps soaking up mocha in a Starbucks trash bin, or being read by a stranger.

Stay tuned for NYC Man Update Part III: Meeting Stan on 32^nd Street

NYC Man Update Part I

A week ago...

3 AM Friday Night... Times Square... Waiting for the Subway

"Um... so yeah... I saw you sitting here."

I was deep in thought, wondering if I should have kissed that guy from France, just so I could claim I had French kissed a French man. 

Or maybe that other guy George, who was from Georgia - as in the country, not the state.  He was cute, but also kind of creepy.  He kept staring at me while I was looking over my dinner menu.  I ignored him at first, but he wouldn't let up, so finally I acknowledged his existence and made small talk with him until the guy I was there with returned to the table.

In all honesty, I didn't really want to kiss either one of them.  As I explained to the guy from down the shore, I'm not really into kissing guys unless I'm into them.  For me, it's not fun unless there is an element of romance involved.  Guy from down the shore recommends drinking more for added spark; he insists people become wondrously attractive the more intoxicated you are.  As I've mentioned before, he and I approach life very differently.

I look up and he continues on, "Can I get your number?" 

I respond with a smile, and a light-hearted laugh.  I'm thoroughly amused by this man's bold approach to pick me up from a subway bench.

"Come on..." His nervousness was evident, yet endearing.  He had a great smile, actually.  "I don't know."  He fumbled for words.  "Who are you?  Let me at least sit down."

I moved my purse from the seat beside me.  "So who in the world are you?" He asked as he took the open seat.

"I'm Katrina."  I reached over to shake his hand.

"Hi.  I'm Derek.  Nice to meet you.  So can I get your number?"

"Ah, I kind of already have a few other complications in the works."  I explained.  (By complications, I mean guys I am somewhat interested in.) 

"So you already have 3 boyfriends?  That's okay.  Let me be your fourth."

"I don't think so."

My train started to make its way into the station.  I stood up and so did he.  In doing so I realized he had to be at least 6'3".  I'll admit, he was good-looking.  If he had picked me up from a church bench, rather than a subway bench, I would have given him my digits.

"That's your train, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Come on." He pleaded, "Let me get your number."

"Sorry." I stepped on to the train and the doors closed behind me, shutting the doors to possibility.

(Coming Soon: Part II)

Big

There are three movies I reference in my book, two of which are Tom Hanks classics – Big and Castaway.  For years I claimed Big as my favorite movie of all time.  I’m not sure if it really was my favorite, or if I just really appreciated the indoor trampoline and the big piano at F.A.O. Schwarz.  Regardless, Big was the first movie I ever owned, and I find great irony that I also ended up in New York City in my 30s, playing that same piano.

I dropped by that piano not too long ago.  And later on, I also dropped by Tom Hanks’ Wikipedia page.  Under his personal life, I was surprised to find summed up so succinctly what 10 years of theological training took me to understand – that our theological framework for understanding God MUST include mystery.

Wikipedia writes:

Regarding his religious views, Hanks has said, "I must say that when I go to church—and I do go to church—I ponder the mystery. I meditate on the 'why?' of 'Why people are as they are' and 'Why bad things happen to good people,' and 'Why good things happen to bad people'... The mystery is what I think it is, almost, the grand unifying theory of mankind."^[9]

9 ^ ^{a b} Terry Mattingly (March 25, 2009). "Mattingly: Tom Hanks talks about religion". Scripps Howard News Service. Retrieved December 14, 2012.

Last July I wrote the final chapter for my book at Spring Hill Camps and my landing point, after much struggle, is the mystery of God.  Mark Olson, a former director of the camp, passed away at the age of 42, leaving behind his wife, 4 children, and these words:

 

“Where there is clarity, there is no room for faith and trust.  This life we are to live, Jesus called a relationship.  Within a relationship, there is always mystery.”
 

Roses

A week ago Monday I grabbed lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park.  Following my meal, I discovered this sculpture not too far from the entrance to the subway. 

 

I stared for a bit, and wondered at the rose in the bird’s mouth.  I have somewhat of a history with roses.  5 years ago, while I was out running in Southern California, this homeless looking man came out of nowhere and placed a long stem rose in my hand.  For me, it was of great significance, because it served as a reminder for me that God is in THIS with me.  And by THIS, I mean the mess and chaos of life – when things aren’t going so well.  For me, a rose has become symbol of hope and encouragement - that God has good things in store for me and my future, and WE are in THIS together.

So I stood in front of this bird, and asked God for a symbolic rose – not the one I was staring at in that moment, but something else to remind me he still cares, and to give me hope for good things to come after such a tumultuous year and a half.  After praying the prayer, I wondered if I should have even bothered.  Because I quickly remembered praying that same prayer back in November after losing everything in the hurricane.  And the only “response” I received was a single, trampled rose lying outside of a Duanne Reade that same evening.  The rose looked like I felt.  It wasn’t beautiful; it had been stomped upon and crushed.

On Wednesday, as I drove out to Jersey to attend Brennan Manning’s funeral the following day, I explained to my friend Amy (from MI) on the phone how I had prayed this rose prayer, and that the symbol of a rose for me is also one of commissioning.  In working in Residence Life, from year to year, each current student leader (RA) would pass on a rose to the incoming student leader.  I explained to Amy, as I say my good byes to one of my writing heroes, perhaps his funeral is the symbolic rose I had prayed for on Monday.  And that I am to continue to carry the baton as writer. 

Thursday I attended Brennan’s funeral...

 

 

... at The Church of Saint Rose.

In his book Ruthless Trust, Brennan Manning writes,

Send in the artists, mystics, and clowns.  Their fertile imagination pours the new wine of the gospel into fresh wine skins (Luke 5:38).  With fresh language, poetic vision, and striking symbols, they express God’s inexpressible Word in artistic forms that are charged with the power of God, engaging our minds and stirring our hearts as they flare and flame.  (74)

And so I will write.  And keep at this craft, for I know the significance isn't in the accomplishment of completing a book, but rather, in the words and stories that will touch, heal, and shape people's lives.