Bubbles.

I am thankful for bubbles.

My first memory, albeit a blurry one, is pictured off to the side. When I was twelve or thirteen, I was looking through family albums with my mom for a school project, and when we got to this picture, I gasped and said, “I remember that!” According to Mom’s note on the back of the photo, I was a little over a year and a half old at the time it was taken. Now, I have to admit: I do not remember what we were doing that day, I don’t remember any conscious thoughts, and I don’t remember what anyone said to or around me as the picture was being made. But I definitely remember the moment. The strength of my dad’s arms holding me up, the smile on my mom’s face lighting me up, and pure, uncontainable happiness spilling over within me. You can see it in my eyes. And I remember that it felt like bubbles—millions and millions of bubbles filling me up and running over.

Before writing this, I considered other “bubbly” moments in my life, and it turns out that many were from childhood: sitting on Pastor J’s lap during the children’s sermon at the church where I grew up; watching SEC football with my parents, sister, aunts, and uncles at my aunt’s house; mini-golfing with my “grown-up” friend AM; Christmas the year I was ten when my parents got me a personalized teacher’s bag; receptions after piano recitals when my beloved piano teacher AC would dote and brag on me; I could list 130 others at least. Perhaps this is why Jesus was so insistent on our need of childlikeness in his Kingdom. Being bubbly requires wonder, joy. It requires innocence, hope, and love. All the “adult” things people sometimes do—myself included—trying to feel bubbly end up pushing us in the other direction: buying things we don’t need, getting into relationships we shouldn’t be in, swallowing diet pills and/or overindulging in food and drinks, and so on. In my life, the bubbles have always come from connecting with other people. From peace with my place in the world and the condition of my spirit. From acceptance of myself. Those are a whole lot harder to come by than a boat or a one-night stand.

There’s a beautiful poem by William Wordsworth that starts with an often-quoted (and often-misattributed) phrase: “surprised by joy.” All of a sudden, a million bubbles. My favorite bubbly moments are those—the ones where you’re going about your business and then out of nowhere…joy. When you’re sitting on the porch swing in the peaceful twilight that follows a productive day and joy rushes over you. When your puppy curls up on your lap and sighs with contentment. When someone gives you an unexpected compliment. My wish for us as we end the year is to experience millions and millions of bubbles and the best of friends to celebrate them with.

“Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.” — Henry David Thoreau

Halloween.

I am thankful for Halloween.

I’ve never been much of a Halloween fan, mostly because I don’t like scary things or donning costumes. And these days I don’t eat a lot of candy either. (Unfortunately, I’ve learned that chocolate consumption is inversely related to weight loss. This was an unhappy discovery.) So that effectively knocks out 99% of the holiday’s festivities. But I do love fall, and I especially love Thanksgiving, so I thought I’d spend my holiday energy celebrating what I do love. In honor of Thanksgiving, I’ve mused recently about things in life I’m particularly grateful for.

Ironically enough, one thing I must say I’m grateful for is Halloween. It is because of Halloween and its frightening nightlife that the church I attended in my adolescence created “Hallelujah Night.” Hallelujah Night was the brainchild of the children’s pastor, and I must say, a pretty brilliant one. Costumed children went in groups from room to room in the church, watching skits of Bible stories. Every room gave out hundreds of pounds of candy over the course of the three nights, and a really long line of children waiting to participate always snaked around the church. There was a Jonah room where you were lit up with a black light and sprayed with whale saliva (…or water streaming from water guns), a Lazarus room where a biblical zombie came back to life, a Noah room with more water and strobe lights, a resurrection room with an authentic-looking Jesus (seriously, you should see the man who played Jesus), and the list goes on. (I do wish there’d been an Ahab-and-Jezebel room. Or Balaam and the donkey. Or Sodom, Gomorra, and the pillar of salt. Some highly entertaining Bible stories were completely overlooked.) To this day, when I think of Hallelujah Night, I can smell the black trash bags that lined the walls in the water rooms and the trampled-on popcorn in the fellowship hall.

Since I was an adolescent when I attended the church, I never went through Hallelujah Night as a child, but for years I worked it as a teenager. I was a tour guide, leading the groups through the rooms. It was so much fun rushing around like I was in high demand, wearing a T-shirt that said staff, and acting like the adult I so desperately wanted to be. But even beyond this, Hallelujah Night gave rise to some great memories. I remember my friend J’s mom jumping off a chair in a dark room to scare the workers as we were cleaning up. I remember a water gun fight (thank you, Jonah) between J, me, and some other friends on a cold autumn night on the playground. I remember getting so sick and tired of Sandi Patty’s “Via Dolorosa,” but still tearing up at the end of the resurrection skit every single time. And thanks to Hallelujah Night, and thus Halloween, I met P, one of my very best friends in the whole world.

So I have to be grateful even for one of my least favorite days of the year. Thinking about what my adolescence would’ve been like without Halloween, and thus Hallelujah Night…that’s, frankly, a little scary.

Tires.

Yesterday early, so early, in the morning I groggily opened my eyes to the sound of my beloved dog snoring so loudly I feared a disturbance-of-the-peace citation from the policeman across the street. (Of course, we’re running this risk every time Peabody eats, drinks, or sees another animal. Or car. Or human. Or dried-up leaf blowing in the wind.) I am no morning person, but the sight of that little creature snuggled up next to me melted my heart, even though he did wake me up ten minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. Oh, well: ten minutes to consciously enjoy the warmth of my bed. But somehow—this mystifies the mind—the ten-minute change in my schedule set off a chain reaction: a tad late getting in the shower, a little later packing lunch, moderately late making coffee, seriously late leaving for work. My anxiety quotient skyrocketed because I hate being late for work, even though I don’t have a first block class. Still, as I pulled out of the driveway, I could get there before the first bell, even without speeding, as long as traffic was at a minimum on the interstate.

What I was definitely not expecting was for one of my tires to blow out on a bridge, less than two miles from my exit. I lost control of the car but kept the steering wheel turned slightly to the right so that as I drifted, I’d drift away from traffic. As smoke trailed off into the distance from somewhere in the back of my vehicle, I cocked my head and said aloud, “Interesting.” When I had stopped shaking like a hedonist on Judgment Day, I investigated the tire. The wall had caved in, causing the rubber to separate from the wheel. It was masterful. So I crawled back in my car, turned on my hazards, and did what all girls do when they’re in trouble: I called my daddy. He was tied up at work, so I called my mom. She and her (male) assistant came, and in a few minutes the latter had my tire changed. Only one problem remained: the spare was flat.

Already we have a comedy of errors. And by this point, I was chuckling a little at the unlucky turn of events. But hey, nothing terrible had happened, and when I apprised my boss of the situation, he was very helpful. T assured me that I’d have enough air in the tire to get to the truck stop and fill it up the rest of the way. “Gotcha. Thanks,” I replied and settled into my car a third time. I’d barely turned the ignition when my mom walked up to my door, laughing. I rolled the window down and looked up expectantly. Through her laughter, she finally managed to say, “My battery is dead.”

“What?!” I said in disbelief. Apparently, the fifteen minutes of hazard lights flashing had been enough to drain the battery. So T, gentleman that he is, went to work on the third automotive problem of the day. Fortunately, I had a battery charger that my dad got me for Christmas the year before. But, as you probably already guessed, it was dead itself. And the only other thing I had to offer was a set of girly jumper cables. They’re not even jumper cables: they’re two cigarette lighter inserts attached by a cord that are supposed to start the car without touching the battery. Now, before you point and laugh, I have before started girls’ cars in the high school parking lot with said apparatus, so I know it works. It does not, however, work when what you have to charge is a full-size truck.

No problem! Mom had normal, human-style jumper cables under the passenger seat in her truck. When my car charger didn’t work, she opened her door and pulled up the lever to release the seat so we could reach them…only to throw a new monkey wrench into the situation when the lever broke off in her hand. I am not making this up. So now poor T is stranded on the side of the road with two maniacally laughing women who own two down-for-the-count vehicles. I’m sure this is not what he pictured when he took the job last year.

I called my boss and thanked him for his concern. Then, I said, “Umm…P.S.: Do you have jumper cables?”

“I thought it was a blown-out tire?” he said, more as a question than a statement.

“It was. Then, it was a flat tire. Now, it’s a dead battery and a broken seat lever as well.”

“Wow. What an awful morning,” he commiserated.

“Not an awful morning per se. Certainly a ridiculous one,” I conceded.

“Okay, well, I will find you some jumper cables. In the meantime, keep calling people in case you find a set before I do. We’ll get you to work somehow, I promise.”

I thanked him and hung up. Then, I called my friend A (remember Italy Day?) and explained the situation. “So…do you have jumper cables?” I asked.

Without hesitation, A said she would find me jumper cables. Not only did she find me some almost immediately, but she also brought them to me herself. At this point, we were quite the spectacle: three cars and four adults on the shoulder of the interstate, seemingly having a roadside party.

I did end up getting to work just fine. A little worse for the wear, perhaps, but there all the same.

After all that, this morning was so uneventful it was almost boring. Almost.

Crap.

Last week my friend A and I had Italy Day. We ate pasta, planned our someday-vacation in Europe, and watched a couple of movies set in Italy. Interestingly, both movies—Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love—feature women making a drastic, spontaneous change to heal their broken hearts. Frances renovates a Tuscan villa and fills it with food, friends, and family; Elizabeth takes a yearlong quest for self-discovery, starting in Italy. That’s all very nice, and it makes for gorgeous films. But for most of us it’s not financially advantageous to buy a villa in Tuscany or rent an apartment in Rome. Some of us have to deal with our crap right here in our own houses while we drive to work, walk the dog, and cook dinner. Lather, rinse, repeat; take care of the crap when you get a chance.

But that’s okay. Because sometimes getting past the pain is just a matter of refusing it, of being patient enough with yourself that you choose against self-doubt for a day. Or turning up the music and dancing until you have to catch your breath. Or closing your eyes and filling your lungs with fresh air. Or hitting your knees and admitting your fallibility to God. Or spending the day with a dear friend, laughing and talking and watching Italy movies, and thanking the Lord for the sweet gift of friendship.


Sometimes you just have to remember, as one of my friends regularly tells me, that the crap is ancillary to who you are. You’re lovely; the crap is just a mess you have to clean up because humans have to do that sort of thing sometimes. Today the crap will not win. And I…I am dreaming of Italy.