Feliz Cumpleanos, Mi Hermano Mayor

Today is Stephen's birthday. Although he was only present the three years prior to my full cerebrum development, I will always have a unique connection with my brother. A piece of me feels indebted to Stephen; his time was spent in suffering, but my parents continued to have children, despite/because of his cruel disability. After he died, we frequented the cemetery, appropriately placed behind the little league baseball field, each year. From time to time, mainly when I was feeling particularly contemplative, I stopped by Stephen's grave. I talked about sports, recent drama, what I imagined his character to be as well as the development of my own.

I visited Stephen the night before moving to Virginia. The graveyard exuded an eerie peace, and the country air penetrated my bones as I lay gazing toward the vast, flickering canvas above. Our conversation began with me asking how things were going, if the food was as tasty as the DQ Blizzard I just ate, and if he was playing lots of baseball. I never expected a response, but I wanted him to know I cared. I then continued to reveal my fears about the upcoming transition. It was easy to convey excitement about experiencing the world from a fresh perspective to others, but really, I was petrified. What if the unknown pummeled me to the ground? What if I failed and disappointed? More than anything, how could I survive so distant from family, the unbreakable relationships on which I depended my entire life?

Today, I will take a bit of time to document the conversation were I bundled by his grave, soaking in the sweet serenity of knowing he is in a place where his agony has ceased.



Hi Stephen. You would be 26 today. While we had our tiffs during adolescence, we are quite close, our conversations riddled with sarcasm and innuendos. I imagine you a quietly successful business man, focused on finance. Soft spoken but strong, mild-tempered but fiercely witty. Striking in a suit. You have a fiance, who I was a bit skeptical about at the onset, but has grown quite lovely in my eyes. You stayed near family.

Cleveland sports are as hopeless as ever, however the Browns will keep the same starting quarterback next year which is more than a small miracle. Ohio State is also promising to have an excellent football season under the leadership of Urban Meyer. He coached Mitch, you know. You would have gotten along quite nicely with Mitch. He is an excellent fit for our family, and I am glad he married Gail.

I still miss you. I miss everyone. Man, I miss everyone so much it hurts sometimes.

Then I consider what has blessed me where I am. I miss Sunday waffles with real maple syrup and whipped cream followed by an afternoon nap serenaded by Dad's snoring, but look forward to a lazy brunch with friends, discussing everything from politics* to personal history to outlandish tales from the night prior. I miss breakfast bar conversations with Aunt Jill and Tasha until the wee hours of the morning, but I cherish the time my roommate, friends and I have spent gathered around our counter top. I miss our younger cousins, but have the opportunity to act as close kin for a small group of high school girls each Thursday. No one can replace Grandma, but I thoroughly enjoy chats with John the maintenance man who constantly reminisces on his glory days, Al from the gym who speaks of his travels with his wife, and Ken and Sherry, my recently retired neighbors whose love for one another is palpable. Though I cannot lay my head in our sister's lap after a particularly hard week, I can sit for hours with those closest to me, talking through pervasive mental blocks that can hinder growth if allowed to fester. I have found guys nearly as immature and humorous as Phil with whom I can banter; some even have comparably sized hearts. I miss the immense love of Mom and Dad, and to be honest, I have not found much close to that. I do, however, have those in my life who will stand by my side and give me a very large hug when needed most.

Indeed, Stephen, the longer I am away, the more I realize nothing will ever replace home - and I would not want it to. In that, there are those relationships that are strong, stable and fulfilling when given the opportunity and investment. That is deeply comforting.

Thank you, so much, for fighting four and a half long years. I hope you are proud of me, big brother.

*The extent of my contribution to such topics is what I inadvertently heard on the morning talk show that interrupted my music.

Powerful Beyond Measure - but Still Apparel Handicapped

I'm not going to lie - I have been feeling atop my proverbial game as of late. Life is quite busy, but I am handling incoming pressures with relative ease. I am performing well at work, continuing commitments, fancying friends, and rocking workouts. I am, in the inspirational words of Lauren Valentine, "Powerful beyond measure." It is times like these that God in his infinite wisdom takes a brief moment to toss me from my mental horse. For some reason, he sees fit to use my wardrobe.

Yesterday, though still riding the high of encouraging circumstances, I was tired. I left for work at 6 o'clock due to my car parked in a time sensitive spot*, grabbing workout clothes as I exited the apartment. I looked at the posted workout prior to leaving and was aware dead lifts were involved. The lower half of my legs already have bruises from rope climbs, sporadic knee push ups and failing to clear the jump rope. Since I do not want to appear a poster child for roommate abuse, I chose my trusty JCU tennis sweatpants to shield my chins.

The day proceeded, and I arrived at the gym, ready to dispel any frustrations by means of vigorous sweat. We began with handstands. Each time I approach the wall, I envision my legs kicking toward it as my body loses all sense of awareness and hands collapse, landing my head on the concrete floor - or the wall moves, resulting in the same pain. No, neither has happened in the gym's history, but surely I would pop that cherry. I am happy to say I conquered this fear and kicked my legs into a balanced handstand hold assisted by the reliable wall. I was even mildly impressed with my stamina throughout our box jump workout despite mental and physical exhaustion.

Onward! Changing lives*. This is a commitment I have rekindled in 2013 and am very glad to have done so. Tonight was a unique occasion as it was the only night since the club's inception we have had a man join. A pastor was speaking to the girls about the significance of Communion.

The gentleman arrived, and we gathered on the cozy couch, ready to glean insight from his knowledge. As I placed my hand on my cross-legged lap, I realized my finger was not resting on my sweat pants, but rather inside them. Indeed, there was a gaping hole where the inseam should ideally be stitched. I gasped in horror and laughed in amusement when the girls told me they had already noticed the hole, and I considered the number of times my legs had been separated as I stretched, kicked into handstands and bent over to complete dead lifts.

I do not know if anyone else noticed the inappropriately placed chasm; I am quite positive the pastor did. Whoever reads this post also knows, but as I ironically observed regarding another's embarrassing moment yesterday, "These gems are not funny unless shared with someone."

*I have taken to parking in time sensitive spots to spur my sleepy body into action. This sometimes proves effective and sometimes results in a twenty dollar parking ticket.

*A high school girl's youth group for those of you who do not religiously follow my blog.

My Favorite Mardi Gras

Ash Wednesday was always an intriguing phenomenon to me. Having been raised in a Christian home, I saw value in observing Easter and Good Friday, but secretly assumed most sporting an ash laden forehead attended the Catholic service because doing so was a valid dismissal from fourth period*. For forty days thereafter, I would intermittently hear groanings regarding the disciplinary challenge of Lent. I do not want to make light of this and have a great amount of respect for people improving their relationship with God by means of fasting. In fact, I participated in Lent my freshman year of college. Confession: I gave up ice cream with the thought that I could shed superfluous pounds but caved less than a week into the season when Ben and Jerry's Half-baked pint beckoned.

It was not until my sophomore year of college that I was introduced to a Catholic tradition I could readily understand and embrace: Fat Tuesday. My roommate, Kate, had returned from studying abroad and joined me in our second floor Miller dorm. We met through tennis the year prior, and since neither of us had a roommate come that critical time housing decisions must be ascertained, we chose to live together. Although I missed the luxury of capering about the dorm nude, I was glad for her company second semester.

In early February, Kate shared with me the glorious traditions of Fat Tuesday. I was familiar with Mardi Gras beads, purple yellow, green, and Cajun style food, but she told me of others. The king cake housing a hidden, lucky baby Jesus. Okay, so the main tradition was king cake, but one cannot underestimate the power of dessert. In an ongoing effort to avoid any amount of work, we decided our dorm would host a Mardi Gras gala, and following another mildly exerting tennis practice, we gathered the necessary accessories.

1) King Cake. Unfortunately, the grocers had sold all variations thereof; not to be discouraged, we bought a pack of cinnamon rolls, a bit of frosting, and sprinkles.
2)Libations. Kate had recently tried coconut rum and sprite; since I was still bumming legal alcohol (in responsible quantities) from adults, I did not dispute. Plus, I consider myself an equal opportunist regarding mixed drinks.
3) Refreshments. In an effort to be outlandishly sophisticated, we provided an assortment of cheese, crackers and fruit.
4)Decorations. Absconded from the cafeteria.

The evening's festivities commenced in our 15' x 20' room, hosting an intimate gathering, involving singing, dancing, and telling ourselves we would not eat another piece of king cake - then doing so. We would work off at least a tenth of the calories in tomorrow's lackadaisical tennis practice - the other 90% would be worked off on Malloy's dance floor*. Per usual, the night ended with us roaming to the university cafe, displaying our extremely bubbly selves to the more responsible parties of JCU.

It was by no means epic, nor did it possess the adventuresome qualities of other tales Kate and I enjoyed together*. But every Mardi Gras, I reminisce with the palatable taste of nostalgia. My introduction to King Cake is definitely a factor, but more than that, the day reminds me of Kate. Had we met at a random party or in passing through a mutual friend, we most likely would not have been instant kindred spirits. Because we met through an intimate setting forcing relationships that may not have otherwise blossomed, we bonded often over the frustrating politics of collegiate athletics. Still, it was not until our arrangement of convenience that we truly got to know one another, and I am so blessed to have had that opportunity.

For many, college years were insouciant, spent frolicking within an unrealistic social bubble, shielded from cruel realities. Kate was dealt circumstances few could handle with similar grace and maturity during this time. She was nurturing when others needed comfort, forgetting her own needs, but strong and fiery when disrespected. Her honesty with herself and others helped me address confrontation in my own life. Her laugh was contagious, whether it was in response to an outrageous story, a silly song, or an awkward encounter, all of which were plentiful in our cozy space.

It has been years since we lived together, and entirely too long since we have spoken. As with many relationships, time and distance make communication sparse. She still inspires me, though. After a particularly long day, I hear her voice reminding me that, "if she did not know where I was, she stepped outside our room and could reliably hear my voice echoing in song throughout the dorm halls." I then force myself to sing whatever melody comes to mind en route the apartment door, smiling. If she could smile so exuberantly through those years, I certainly could smile despite the real world's minor inconveniences. And every Mardi Gras, I fondly remember a wonderful friend.

*If I wanted to skip school, my mother simply wrote a note explaining I did not feel well - because who really feels well when they wake up at six o'clock?

**At least by me. Kate would probably do Pilates or yoga.

***This means I did not disappear.

The Year of the Fruit Salad

Literally. In an effort to improve company camaraderie and team solidarity*, the merchandising department of Musictoday has instituted Friday breakfast club. Though I have yet to cook, I thoroughly enjoy beginning my morning with scrumptious treats. Last Friday, a co-worker's wife* prepared quiche, breakfast pizza, and a fruit salad. I noticed on my hourly trips to the bathroom one fruit was not diminishing in proportion to the others. I am sure we all know what this is - honeydew. No one has a strong yearning for the melon, but it is fairly inexpensive and enhances the size, ensuring its position as merely a placeholder in an otherwise satisfying salad.

I then indulged in a moment of self pity, lamenting the month of January which has been the honeydew of my year, mainly because I have spent most of it creating and re-creating annual reports a midst the usual workload. Naturally, I intermittently extended this metaphor to encapsulate the entire year. And here I am.

Before I begin presenting each month and its corresponding fruit, it is critical to understand that location does have a sizable impact on perspective. April, for example, has been my honeydew for years; the moment you cautiously believe winter is at its end, Chardon gets a four foot sleet storm on April 26. In Charlottesville, this is not so, rendering April a bit more tasty.

Honeydew - January, obviously. It is dark, cold, and I am skidding down a sharp descent from holiday highs, realizing those Christmas ales and cookies did, in fact, go to my hips. I think I can take a deep breath since Q4 has ended, but then clients want to know how they performed in Q4, rendering my workload doubled. The national championship is a slightly redeeming factor, but since college football refuses to instill a playoff system, these have been anti-climactic as of late. College basketball is not yet in the prime of its season, and while NFL playoffs are entertaining, there is always a tinge of remorse that the Browns fell short yet again. The only juice in this month is that men stroll the streets donning pea coats, scarves and beanies*. Fine, you can stay.

Cantaloupe - How did you weasel your way into the salad? Consistent with my thoughts on January are my thoughts on February. It is still cold and still dark. The year end reports are not completed, and deadlines are steadily creeping. Sports are still pretty uneventful, although there is the occasional top ten match up. I have not celebrated Valentine's Day since 2005, so the idea of chocolate, flowers, or a fine meal do not brighten my spirits any more than they do on a normal day. Since you are so short, you are a bit more tolerable than January, but overall, the salad would not miss you.

Blueberries - The hidden gem within the salad. March, though not a boisterous part of the year, adds much flavor in small doses. St. Patrick's Day. Although I did not fully appreciate its implications until attending an Irish Catholic university, I now eagerly embrace the holiday. Spring arrives March 20 and warm days are speckled throughout the month, foreshadowing weather to come. Most importantly, it is March Madness. Ten days of unadulterated passion and competition interspersed throughout the month adding a pop of flavor to the year.

Grapes - Affordable, simple, tasty. April is not a flashy month. There are no guaranteed vacation days, and it is not reliably warm or sunny. Yet, the tastes of spring are palpable. Blossoming flowers and the gracious spirit of Easter signify new beginnings. It is not quite the sweetness of a berry, but has much more flavor than melon, making it a lovely accoutrement.

Pineapple - The most refreshing accessory of the salad. May is a lovely transition between spring and summer. We have not yet reached the sweltering heat, but the chilly rainy days are far behind. After months without a government holiday, we take a day to memorialize those who have served - and cook burgers and drink beer. It is the beginning of summer concerts - and the marathon of NBA playoffs*.

Blackberries - Delicious, but get stuck in your teeth. One is capitalizing upon the long days and warm nights throughout June. It seems harmless to indulge in late night patio libations or midweek concerts. With that pleasure comes the risk of those nights getting stuck in your teeth, lingering as you struggle to recover from physical and mental exhaustion.

Pear - When ripe, the juiciest of the fruits. July has a lot of potential, which it may or may not fulfill. The month can be very disappointing should the heat be too sweltering. It is also an ideal time for trips to the beach, exotic vacations and backyard BBQs. If you cut the month of July correctly, it will be quite satisfying.

Kiwi - When I was younger, my mother would cut kiwis in half, the skin acting as a small bowl. August, I would be okay if you were cut in half. I no longer relish the dogged days and am tired of wearing only tank tops as these do not offer much wardrobe versatility. The long days and longer nights are beginning to wear on me, and the sports world is fairly inactive, save a PGA golf tournament, preseason football, and the never ending baseball season. Also, I am running out of fruits and this one needs to be used.

Watermelon - An essential element of a fruit salad; arguably, it's foundation. September has always been the foundation of my year - after all, it is the month marking my birth. Crisp winds and changing seasons offer fresh outlooks on the year. Sounds of collegiate bands fill sports bars, pumpkin lattes and muffins become a staple at coffee shops, and I am able to once again utilize different styles, be it loose layers or form fitting jeans complimented by boots. I could eat September all day and never tire of it.

Apple - In a bowl of soft, juicy textures, these add a welcome crunch. First, October is a prime month for apple picking, so the association is natural. It also harkens thoughts of hikes through crunching leaves and the great array of colors both above and below. As all colors of apples are delicious, so a clear and overcast day can be equally enjoyable.

Bananas - Help balance the flavor. November is a very cozy month and one of my favorites. It is not overtly sweet, but Thanksgiving certainly adds the perfect hint of sugar. I am not compelled to go out every night and am satisfied cuddling with a blanket, watching college football as cold winds bellow outside. Bananas are the one fruit that can be tasty rotten or ripe; similarly, I do not mind terrible weather in November, as I have not yet grown tired of the shorter days and nippy nights.

Strawberries - The most decadent in flavor. December is decidedly the richest month. Swanky holiday parties, glitz and glam, luxurious meals and desserts, hemorrhaging money for siblings' gifts. It is certainly delicious, but one is glad there are other flavors to balance the extravagance of the season.

This post stretched my creativity as I went through the months. January was such an obvious honeydew, but the others were not so apparent. Hopefully my office does not start doing lunch, because then I will have to compare the days of the week to sandwich elements. Wednesday would be lettuce...

*I did not need to use both terms, but I cannot turn down an opportunity to incorporate corporate jargon.

*I point out that his wife cooked to defend the fact that I have yet to bring in breakfast. If I had a wife cooking for me, I would be more than happy to provide breakfast every week. Heck, I would do it twice a week.

*Obviously the beanie is not always worn in congruence with the pea coat and scarf. Sometimes, a beanie is better suited for a hooded sweatshirt. Sophisticated, educated adult vs snugly, burly athlete.

*But seriously, Noah took less time to build an ark.

A Glimpse of Greatness

Timing is everything. I think he was too young. And we were excited - ooo how excited we were. It began as merely a crush. We admired from afar his physique, his strength, his passion. We were guarded as past relationships had taught us the painful consequences of misplaced hope. Over time, it became apparent our union would be a reality, and our cautious optimism quickly transformed into reckless enthusiasm. Certainly, he had the power to heal our wounds, and this would not end in disappointment. I believe initially he was as captivated by the prospect as we.

The honeymoon period was pure bliss, a veritable slam dunk in the game of romance. There was an undeniable connection. He was all we expected him to be, knowing when to assist or take charge and always willing to revisit the drawing boards to perfect our relationship. We linked arms proudly and defended him when others attacked his character and will. Perhaps we were blissfully naive, but we believed this would blossom and flourish.

For awhile, it did. I will not be so blind as to say there were never problems. He did not always approve of those we brought into his life, though we did all within our power to satisfy his needs. He failed us from time to time, but this was merely the ebb and flow of maturing that would ultimately lead to that for which we had both been longing.

Then it happened. Perhaps he was tired as expectations were too high. Perhaps the pressure of lifting us from a state of mediocrity was too heavy a load to bear. We did have a tendency to be quite cold, and we certainly could never be the glamorous partner he desired. Regardless his reasons, he shut down. The ball was in his court, and rather than risking failure, he stood with callous indifference at the key's apex.

His manner of rejection was smug, juvenile and harsh. It was not satisfactory to merely leave us; he made a spectacle, broadcasting to the world he was moving on while we remained, hopes shattered yet again.

Our time together is now a bittersweet memory, fading with each passing season. We have opened ourselves to others, recognizing we are in no state to sacrifice unbridled support in the same manner. He has moved on and now shares with another what we so desperately coveted. It is difficult to merely observe his successes, as the vengeful side of one's soul seeks vindication after such a cruel display of disrespect.

The sting of an additional scar may never completely subside. The resounding what ifs may forever haunt our thoughts: what if we had met later in his life; what if those random cards often dictating unanticipated outcomes had fallen differently; what if he had stayed? Or what if he came back?

One cannot dwell on those thoughts but must live in the present. Presently, he has silenced his critics, and while we were not able to share in the bounty, we were a pivotal stepping stone. I believe we all experience a small sense of pride witnessing the champion he has become and like to think his experience and failure with us molded him into the man he is. Arguably the greatest to have ever played the game.

The Boylan Burger: Culinary Empowerment

First, I would like you to pronounce culinary as such: q-linary. My first night of training at Commonwealth, the waitress introduced herself as the "guide to this evening's q-linary adventure." I think it adds a funky terminological twist.

Second, thank you for bearing with me through my latest introspective post. I discovered a contributing factor to the emotions spawning that post this morning. It was the same reason I spent most of last week glaring at co-workers during the day and relegated to my couch in the evening, craving all things edible. Today, I am going to remind you and myself I am able to write about casual experiences by relaying thoughts of a particular step in last week's quest for palette satiation.

Saturday evening, a friend and I ventured to the Corner to indulge in burgers, beer, and basketball. Boylan Heights is by far the best place to do so, as there are plenty of televisions, affordable yet tasty draft selections and waitresses donning Catholic school girl outfits complimented by glasses that may or may not be necessary. The most attractive aspect of the establishment, however, is this: the build your own burger menu.

Boylan Heights is certainly not the first to incorporate interaction beyond the standard, "May I take your order?". Buffets have been a staple in casinos for years. Omelet, nacho and salad bars have become popular in hotels, wedding receptions and Ruby Tuesday's. Fondue restaurants invite the guest to cook their own meats and control the chocolate ratio of a dipped strawberry. While these options are tasty and somewhat liberating for the diner, the build your own burger menu has three characteristics that I believe make it the preferred model for self-driven dining experiences.

1) The process involves little movement or effort. In the above scenarios, the guest is required to actively participate, walking from station to station and weighing the benefits of various courses. In the case of a buffet, the variety of cuisine can be overwhelming. One is always at risk of reaching the desired station only to find the food is near the bottom but not to the point of replenishment. Further, one cannot choose the ingredients of the cuisine. One is able to do so in the case of an omelet/salad/nacho bar but still must leave the comfort of the table, bumping elbows to attain the proper accoutrements.

While remaining seated throughout the fondue experience, one must cook meat to the proper temperature. As you know, I have been expanding my expertise in the kitchen, but I know my limitations. I do not take the texture of red meat lightly and prefer to leave the responsibility of cooking that meat in the deft hands of a professional.

What little work the build your own burger requires arguably enhances the experience. All I must do to indicate the desired ingredients is fill in bubbles. Each time I do so, I remember the simple days of college exams for which the extent of my preparation was twenty minutes. The beauty of this particular process is there is no wrong answer and I can drink a beer while doing so.

2) The guest has control of the ingredients, offering the ultimate culinary empowerment. Outside the limitations inherent to any kitchen, I am able to create whatever burger I would like. In a world where much is out of my control, it is lovely to sit at a table and know that if I do not want a tomato on my burger, the waitress will not look at me as though I am insulting the chef who so meticulously decided a tomato belongs on all burgers. I do not like tomatoes, no matter the spices incorporated. I just don't.

Each chef is able to expand the creative palette, choosing complimentary flavors, and each has a different strategy to do so. My friend and I both knew this would take a bit of time, so we put our conversation aside and began with basics. Red meat was an easy choice, and since this meal was decidedly indulgent, I chose the wheat bun as opposed to a burger bowl.

I believe the sauce sets the ultimate theme as cheese chosen to nestle between the bun will certainly differ if the sauce is pesto as opposed to buffalo. Of course, certain cheeses are so potent they may not require a sauce - goat cheese being one of them. I could fore go the sauce in efforts to cut superfluous calories but as previously stated - "decidedly indulgent."

I opted for sriracha mayo - hot. This theme may develop as the burger evolves, but it is best to begin simple. Spicy jack is an obvious cheese as it adds spice to the heat. I then venture to the right half of the page for additional vegetation. Grilled onions are a must. I cannot tolerate raw onions, but throw a little oil on them and they add the perfect crunch without an overpowering flavor. Jalapenos are an option, and once I have committed to the bubble, I realize my burger is becoming quite fiery. I continually vacillate regarding the value of lettuce, but in this case, it adds texture and a bit of relief for my tongue. A calculated decision, indeed.

It is then I look to the fancier fare section. Though avocado is $1.00 extra, it completes a perfectly balanced "Hawaiian flare*" burger; I am unopposed to the charge. At the end of the twenty minutes spent contemplating the perfect burger, I am ready to send my veritable masterpiece to the kitchen. I sip my Scrimshaw in satisfaction.

3) This is the most important aspect: after all the mental energy expended, the CHEF will view MY creation. I often imagine the reaction when the sheet is passed through the threshold. It parallels Ralphie's expectation of his teacher's response to the Red Ryder BB Gun essay. The chef will look at the masterful combination of flavors and textures and see it as truly inspired. There will be moans among staff as they imagine the burger melting in their mouths. Perhaps it will even be a special in coming months.

In reality, the cooks prepare my burger the same monotonous way every other custom burger is prepared, but I prefer the romanticized version - surprising, I know. Regardless of their reaction, the burger is placed before me. My mouth waters at every bite, and at the close of the meal, I leave with a full tummy and sense of accomplishment. O Boylan, you have satiated me on so many levels.

*Because it is hot with a cool breeze

As a side note, I began to calculate the number of burger combinations one could create. The starting point is approximately this:

4 burger options
4 bun options
10 cheeses
10 sauces
15 additions (up to three on a burger)
5 fancier fare

Unfortunately, I have been thrown off by the up to three option. There would be 15 ways to choose one, I believe 105 way to choose two, but I get hung up on the three. I want to say there are 475 ways. If so, then there are 595 for the additions to be combined. If one assumes you need to pick from each section, the math is easy. 8000*595. But then... what if someone does not want fancier far. Then we multiply 595*1600. No sauce - 595*800. No cheese - 595*800. No sauce or fancier fare - 595*160. No cheese or fancier fare - 595*160. No cheese or sauce - 595*80. No cheese, sauce, fancier fare - 595*16. No additions - 8000. No additions or cheese - 800. No additions or sauce - 800. No additions or fancier fare - 1600. No additions, cheese, sauce - 80. No additions, cheese, fancier fare - 160. No additions, sauce, fancier fare - 160. So our final calculation is something like...

8000*595 + 595*1600 + 2(595*800) + 2(595*160) + 595*80 + 595*16 + 8000 + 2(800) + 1600 + 2(160) + 80

6,923,120

Of course, it is only an approximation because I do not have the exact number in each section. Admittedly I probably spent too much time on that. And I probably missed something. But I had today half off and needed a mental challenge.

On Moving Forward

I have a confession. I have been avoiding you. Many times in the past six months I have thought about you. I consider telling you of Friday night exploits, new goals of becoming a master chef or random considerations - such as commentary on NFL announcers or the male sport with the finest comprehensive physique.

I visit posts and remember days of old when I felt comfortable sharing my thoughts, both intimate and shallow. A time or two I even began writing. Each time, I stopped, not because I do not care about you, but because I want to be open, even vulnerable with you and the five people who shuffle through my posts. While said topics would elicit a chuckle, they are not truly on my heart. I come to you, hoping by the end of my rambling, I will have articulated that which I have been been scared to write for some time.

As we have discussed ad nauseum, this chapter removed from lifetime comforts and those I hold dear has at times been lonely, frustrating and stressful, which I definitely expected. I did not expect that after two and a half years, it would remain hard. More than that, I realize evermore the difficulty of maintaining one's integrity and priorities when others are questioning not only you, but also themselves.

If I am utterly honest with myself - which is always difficult - I have suppressed my values and ignored my priorities because settling is easy. Steps toward improvement are followed by steps (sometimes leaps) backward. But if one does not move forward, there will not be the disappointment of digression.

I am not speaking of my illustrious career, social life or even my fitness, because those have been thriving - relatively speaking. I started a new job where I am able to make an impact on the company in ways not possible at my past job. I stroll the downtown mall, engaging in casual (but always entertaining) conversations with fellow restaurant employees, my adopted grandparents, Ken and Sherry, or the random friend whose name I cannot remember. As the father of a middle school classmate once observed: "She's a hoot." It was true at age ten, and it still accurately depicts my personality. I joined a gym in August and due to exorbitant fees, I frequent the establishment at least four times a week.

Yes, these are tangible improvements and offer a positive sense of stability, but I have never desired definition from them - other than in my biceps and calves. From where then, do I acquire my identity?

Last year, my grandma celebrated her 85th birthday. Although she was disappointed to enter a surprise party rather than the silent auction promised her, she humored the family. Many spoke of her caring spirit, sacrificial heart and sarcastic wit; she in turn relayed a silly anecdote. When I expressed my gratitude and admiration, her story was a bit different, and for that I am flattered and grateful.

I was two, and Grandma was babysitting my mentally retarded brother, Stephen, and me. He was a year older than I but his bodily functions had barely developed. Apparently I had a bowl of Fruit Loops and while Grandma was in the kitchen, began feeding them to Stephen. Grandma returned to a coughing grandson and a granddaughter who merely wanted another to experience what she was so blessed to have.

The love one shares with others may be brutally rebuffed; they may not have the capacity to return in kind. It may also be accepted in fullness and joy. Regardless the reception, all shallow encounters will fade, but what I have invested in others will remain - even if it is a mere seed planted in a genuine conversation.

My decision to move to Charlottesville and that to quit my job were based on a belief that God called me to do so. Both forced me out of my comfort zone; admittedly, I have bemoaned that fact and questioned its purpose. Had I stayed in Chardon, I would have been comfortable. Had my first job gone as I foresaw, I would have been comfortable. Heck, if some guy had decided I was the greatest thing since any treat wrapped in bacon and I had returned the compliment, I would have been comfortable. God has used this experience to continually remind me He is the only source of true comfort and fulfillment. Apart from Him, there is a void that cannot be filled through any amount of extracurricular activity.

I was in a similar place last year - and the year before, and the year before. Funny how our flaws seem to be cyclical. Each time, I stepped forward. These steps were followed by backward bounds and a time when I did not move for fear of failure. I am going to step forward again in the love of One who has been waiting for me to come to a place of complete surrender - a place where I am willing to admit that I cannot do this of my own power, no matter my resolution.

Per usual, I am not entirely sure what I am trying to say, but I believe it is something like this: I do not know God's ultimate purpose in bringing me to Charlottesville or how long I will remain; I suppose I may never fully understand. I do know that wherever I am, if I am not sharing the love so graciously given me and cultivating my relationship with Him, I am wasted.

And I promise... the next post will be dedicated to the outfits on Sunday NFL countdown. Or Lebron James. Or cheese. I do really like cheese.