Filinda

It has been a long, long while since I've shared this with anyone.  As a reader of my blog, I think it's something you should know.  I came across this story as I was digging up old writing files and since it's too hot to write new material in NYC this week (ha! excuses!), here's a brief bit from my writing archives.

I suppose you should know that my name hasn’t always been Katrina.  When I was born my parents named me Filinda – Filinda Blank.  They didn’t think anything of it at the time; they simply thought Filinda was a pretty name for their daughter.  But that changed once I got into grade school.  In first and second grade teachers started handing out those worksheets you would slowly fill out with the entire class one blank at a time.  As we came to each blank space, and a correct answer was given, the teacher would instruct us to, “Fill in the blank.”  The kids in my class eventually noticed the similarity between my name and the teacher’s request to “Fill in the blank.”  And so they began to tease me all the time.  “Fill in the blank.  Filinda Blank.  Ha Ha Ha That’s your name.”  By the end of 2^nd grade I was so completely traumatized by their frequent teasing that my parents decided to have my name legally changed to Katrina. 

Now, I have to confess, the Filinda story is not a true story, but I sure like to tell it.  Ironically, since the hurricane destroyed New Orleans and my birth-given name, I have contemplated having my name legally changed to Filinda.  After all, one can only handle so many comments and teasing about their name. 
 

Summer In the City Part I

Yesterday morning I paddled out to the middle of our lake one last time before tucking my surfboard away in my parents' basement, and tucking the rest of the clothes I'll need for this next week in my suitcase.  The waves aren't big enough to catch and ride back into shore on our little lake.  Still, there is something about paddling out on my board, and being out on the water that is good for my soul (and for toning my arms.) 

Later in the afternoon I hopped on a plane headed to Charlotte, and then another one headed to New York.  From the airport I took a cab to the nearest subway line, and then took the R train (the line pirates prefer) down to the financial district.  This week I'm staying not too far from where the towers once stood.  I'm dog sitting for my lawyer friend Teresa, while she is in Zambia working on some important case for her law firm and the US government.

I exited the subway at White Hall - the final stop on the island on Manhattan.  As I surfaced to street level, I recognized from media coverage of Hurricane Sandy my location. 

picture by nypost.com

I paused for a moment at the top of the escalators, recalling photos and footage of the submerged subway station.  The station appears to be repaired and recovered since the hurricane did damage to the station this past fall.  However, the damage it did to me is still under repair.  I'm moving forward, yes, but it wasn't just Sandy that hit me last year.  Instead of one blow, I'm recovering from several life "storms" that hit me hard - including a decline in my physical health.  I see my doctor on Wednesday.  I'm hoping for answers on this trip - a diagnosis of something that can be easily treated. 

As much as I love the lake in Michigan, it is good for my spirit to be back in the city and back with "my people."  Last night my friend Teresa and I met up with our friends Steve and Matt for dinner and then joined a number of our other friends at Bell Book & Candle on 10th Street for a birthday celebration.  Then, tonight I danced on a rooftop in the Upper West Side, pausing to watch the fireworks being set off in Central Park concluding the Philharmonic Show.  A good number gathered for the roof top party to say our good byes to a friend who recently got engaged and will soon be joining her fiancé out in LA.

Go Back?

Some time ago I was a finalist for a well-paying, personal assisting position in New York.  After reviewing my resume, the older man seeking an assistant expressed his concern about my theological studies at Fuller and my employment history working at a Baptist university.  He was pleased to see University of Michigan on my resume, reassuring him I had to be somewhat intelligent.  Yet, he stated to another interviewer in the room, he didn’t want a born again Christian working for him. 

Somehow I knew this man didn’t have an accurate picture of what one is, so I wasn’t concerned when he made the comment.  His very next question confirmed my suspicion.  He asked me about my political affiliation.  I hesitated and then stated, “That’s tough.”  It’s true.  It was and still is tough.  I don’t trust either party.  And although for most of my life I’ve been a nominal Republican, the more time I spend with my Republican friends the more confused I become on how they go about communicating their affiliation.  They keep talking about wanting to go back to the faith of the founding fathers of our nation.  I’m sorry, but I think that’s a terrible idea.  I don’t want to go back to the faith of a group of men who treated women and black people like inferior human beings – like property, with no voting rights.  It seems to me the faith of our founding fathers doesn’t paint a very good picture of Jesus.  Why would I want to go back to racism and sexism?  Granted, our founding fathers did much for our nation, with Scripture and hopefully the Holy Spirit helping guide them in some of their decisions.  But that was just  the beginning - a starting point - not a selling point on why Christians should vote Republican.

“So you don’t lean strongly one way or another?” he clarified.  I replied no, and he said, “That’s good.”  What he meant by good is that as long as I wasn’t a born again Republican who adores Jerry Falwell then he had no problem with me working for him.  I received additional bonus points when he learned I also drink wine on occasion, confirming for him I wasn’t all that Baptist either.

Some Sunday later my pastor explained the negative connotations associated with the phrase “born again” in the NYC.  In New York, in particular, “born again” tends to translate “unintelligent Republican” who hates gay people and loves Rush Limbaugh.  In today’s America, the term “born again” for those who don’t identify with the Christian faith doesn’t mean what Jesus meant as he spoke the words to Nicodemus. 

Be Still and Know

Pausing from blog writing for a breather...

Sand Lake Summer Sunsets

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they display knowledge.

 

 

There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. 

Their voice goes out into all the earth,

their words to the ends of the world.

 

 

 Psalm 19

 

 



Mission Complete

My pastor in LA says it typically only takes him a week or two to write a book.  He waits until he has all the ideas in his head and then talks his chapters aloud to this lady who can type really fast.

Others I know take a few months, or a few years.  Someone asked me how long I had been working on my book and I replied, "8 years."

With the motivation of a $20 bet, I completed my book by the 4th of July.  Granted I have a ways yet to go in the editing and refining process, but I handed over a draft copy of the book to guy from down the shore before the midnight deadline.

Next Mission: Find a publisher.  Praying and hoping for Harper One.

The $20 Deal

Current Facebook Status:

got mugged by 2 nuns while out on my run this afternoon. (edit: Hugged) rather than sprinkling me with holy water, i sprinkled them with my sweat. they loooved the title of the book i'm writing - makes me think nuns might also be part of my target audience... perhaps a copy will someday make its way into the Vatican

Speaking of book, an initial draft of my book will FINALLY be complete this Thursday - just in time for the 4th of July potluck dinner.  That was the agreement that was made when I pre-sold a copy of my book for $20 to the guy from down the shore.  Granted, it was more of a bet, than a pre-sale, but regardless, on Thursday, he'll be receiving a draft of my book, and I'll be receiving $20 cash.

Or so I hope.  I still have 2 more chapters to piece together - chapters 17 and 22.  There are 24 total.  So with the clock ticking, and time running out, we'll see if I can pull through to make this draft happen.

My friend Jen questioned me the other day, "Really?  $20 is all the motivation you needed for you to finish your book?"  I explained to Jen it has more to do with the dynamics of my friendship with the guy from down the shore than the $20.  Not just anyone could have convinced me with $20, or even $100, to finally finish this book that I've been working on for years.

With the guy from down the shore the bet felt more like a playful, challenge - to push me towards the finish line.  And since he has been there for me through my hardest year of life yet, his bet posed the questioned, "Katrina, despite your health being poor, will you keep fighting?  Will you keep going after your dreams despite the less than favorable cards life has thrown you this past year?"

My answer to his challenge is yes.  Yes, I will keep fighting.

COMING SOON!

I Hate Books on Christian Dating
A Memoir Journey Towards a Mysterious God

157 Miles

157 Miles

That is the distance he drove to show up at my hotel room at 4 in the morning.  I was sound asleep, but my friends knew he’d be arriving, so when he knocked on the door, they answered.

And as I stirred from my slumber, I saw his 6’4” silhouette standing in our doorway.  Unsure if I was awake, I inquired, “Am I dreaming?” 

One of the others flipped on a light, and as I sat up in my bed, he walked over to me and kissed me on the forehead.  “No, you’re not dreaming.  I’m here.”  His tender kiss moved to my lips.  “I’m really here.” 

“I can’t believe you’re back.”  I stated, stunned, yet delighted to see him again so soon.

“I couldn’t stay away.”  He reached for my hand.  “Want to go for a walk?”

“Sure.”  We headed outside to walk the Atlantic shore, where our kisses and conversation could continue without an audience.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”  He explained.  “I had to see you again before you go.”

We had met just the week before, but we were 18 years young and completely in love.  The kind of in love that is intoxicating and free from logic.  It didn’t matter that he lived in Florida and I lived in Michigan.  For the time being we were together and that’s all that mattered.  And we had no list or reasons for liking each other – we just did.  (This was long before theology and books on Christian dating ruined me.  I didn’t know the rules yet, so love came easy.)

I was in Daytona Beach, on Spring Break with friends.  And he had been in the area the previous week vacationing with family.  We met, and there was an instant connection - a chemistry that typically only happens in the movies.  But we were real people, experiencing a real life romance that soon shifted to long distance letter writing.

Thank God I had at least one romance in my life that didn’t revolve around the use of technology.  I still have every letter he wrote me, and I recently found them in a bin at my parents’ lake house.  I’m a hopeless romantic, so tears streamed down my face as I reread his words.  And I wondered why I was so foolish to end things with this guy who adored me like no other guy has since. 

He made me promise I would never forget about him as we parted ways following his return visit. 

Believe me Jonathan, I haven’t.