My Evening with Max

We walked in hand and hand, Max and I. There were no strange looks, or hushed whispers.

"I warned them before you came." Jason told me amid the din of the restaurant. "I told them that you'd moved in with a guy, and you were bringing him with you."

"Thank you." I replied. It spares the awkwardness.

Later that night Paul (my ex-fiancee) told me, "When Jason told me, I couldn't believe it. I mean, it was only three weeks ago when we went out to ice cream, and you never mentioned anything about it."

Well, it is true, in case you haven't already heard. I moved recently and Max is one of my new roommates. These blurry pictures gives you a vague picture of what our abode looks like.



One half of the living room.



Suz and I in the dining room enjoying cucumber water and a Mexican dinner.

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My car was idling at a red light as we were on our way to Jason's birthday party when someone honked.

"What is going on?" Max piped in from his car seat in the back.

"I don't know." I replied honestly.

"I was not asking you." Max informed me in a matter-of-fact manner. "I was talking to myself." As if asking yourself a question out loud were the most normal thing ever...

----

We pulled up to Annie's apartment building. Max is immediately mesmorized by the water fountain.

"This is Anne's place." I explained to Max.

"Wow, she has a really big house." Max exclaimed.

"Oh, Max, this is an apartment building." I clarified.

"What is that?" He asked, because he lives in a house, and has always lived in a house.

"Well, everyone lives in different sections of the building." This was an utterly new concept to Max. I could see him trying to wrap his head around it.

On the way home, Max asked me all about words that only have three letters, because those are easy to spell, or so he says. Then he wanted to know how to spell transformers.

When I parked my car in front of our house, I took his hand to cross the street. His tiny hand grabbed mine, and the other clutched his precious, new transformer.

Me n' Max

(Please don't mistake the bright pink apron as a sign that I can cook now; I still can't.)

Studette of the Month - June 2009

First of all, we call her K.L.E.B., short for 'Kristi Loves Everybody'. And she does.

There are some friends in life that are such a part of your existence, that you have to wonder if you are friends just because life put you together.

Kristi and I decided we were best friends when we were Sunbeams in Primary; we were three years old. It only made sense right? We lived in the same city only minutes from each other. We went to the same church. We are both the oldest girls in our family. Our two little sisters are exactly the same age. We worked at the same place in high school. We attended the same seminary. We attended the same proms. We shared the same friends. We were in the same gym class. We are both equally uncoordinated.

With so much commonality, I used to wonder if we were just situational friends.

But she loves Disney, boardgames, Boston and 'The Boys'. She loves pop-culture, shopping, penguins, Princess Dianna, and scrap booking. I love literature, architecture, the outdoors, camping, world travel, and running. Her blog is dedicated to Disney, mine is dedicated to deep, ponderous thoughts.

But situational friendships don't last 30 years.

Situational friends forget you once the situation ends. Kristi called me every week my first year of college...EVERY WEEK, pre-cellphone era, on her own accord, when we had to pay dearly for long distance. She remembers my birthday every year, even though I haven't been home for a birthday since I was 17. She used to send me care packages from New Hampshire containing pieces of New Hampshire that I might be missing (like a sand dollar...because she knew I missed the beach). She was at the airport when I came home from my mission AND she wrote me while I was gone. A visit home necessarily includes a visit with Kristi; there has never been an exception. Because that would defy the unspoken K.L.E.B. code. She has forgiven me for my stupid humanness repeatedly (keep in mind that we were friends through junior high and high school) because of her K.L.E.B. nature. She has seen all my vices and loves me anyway. She gives without the expectation of return.

I used to think that K.L.E.B.'s were normal and could be discovered in abundance. But I've discovered that a true K.L.E.B. is a rarity. I am grateful that I got one...my very own K.L.E.B.

Even Though

Life is beautiful. I believe that. I believe that even though I don't have air conditioning in 90 degree weather. I believed that when I was spending 12 hour days studying for the bar. I believe that even though...even though there are a lot of even though's in my life.

Tonight my housemate comments, "Chantal, for the last two nights I have heard the voice of a man. He calls my name."

I begin to freak out. "What? From outside the window? A man is calling your name from outside the window!!"

"No, inside the house. He calls my name."

I should interject here that my roommate speaks much better English than I speak Spanish, but there is still a significant language barrier. I should also point out that her room is RIGHT ACROSS THE HALL FROM ME.

Resuming the story: I continue freaking out. "You hear the audible voice of a man, inside our house, at night, calling your name?!"

She begins to see that I am not understanding fully what she is trying to express. Her voice becomes hushed.

"No, it is not like that. I feel good. It is a voice and he tells me that he is aware of me, and he is watching over me. I feel so good after, so peaceful that I can sleep the rest of the night."

Sleeping at all is somewhat of a miracle in this 90 degree weather, but slowly I begin to understand the full import what she is saying. He knows her by name. He is watching over her. He has not forgotten her, even though...even though there are a lot of even though's right now.

A Tribute to Men and Boys on Fathers' Day

Normally on Father's Day I would talk about my dad, but I did that last year. If you want to read it see here. Instead, I would like to express my appreciation to guys in general.

In my life, guys have always been somewhere in the picture. I was born between two brothers, and I loved it. I LOVE my sisters, but I was so glad to grow up with the boys. We didn't sit around fussing about our hair and shopping, we played. I grew to appreciate early on the playfulness of guys, thanks to my brothers. We made forts with the furniture, went sledding in crazy places, built towers in the back yard and explored the woods. My high school years were spent hiking, canoeing, running, cross country skiing and rollerblading thanks to my brothers and guy friends.

I love the way guys always skip rocks by the water. I love the way old men always have to crack a joke. I love the sense of adventure that isn't matched in us female counterparts.

I love helpfulness in guys. To my dad who supported me when I was training for a marathon by biking behind me for 14 MILES, VOLUNTARILY so he could give me water and whatever else I needed while I was running. To my little brother who never thought twice when it came to helping me scrub my car our after long road trips. To my older brother who drove hours just so he could spend a few hours with me when I was home one year. To the countless guy friends who have helped me move over the years, or patch my roof, put up dry wall, put trim up, replace car tires, or fix a shattered car window.

I love being a woman. I do. But I am grateful for men, all of the men who have added so greatly to the quality of my life. Thank you for your playfulness, humor, responsibility, help and friendship.

Some Sisters....Some Dancing....

Studette of the Month - May 2009

Mom, Colette and Ginette outside the Boston Temple

Of course, this month's Studette of the Month is my mother, although it comes a little late. A few things:

(1) I love, and have always loved talking to my mom. She is a good conversationalist, and even as a little girl, I enjoyed conversing with her.

(2) Mom is a woman of great depth. She understands things to a deeper level than I do, and I have learned to trust her judgment and viewpoints.

(3) She is a woman of great virtue. I have really never met anyone as virtuous as my mother. Ever. I am quite certain that I never will.

(4) My mother adores my dad, and genuinely loves and respects him. I always enjoyed being the child of two parents who genuinely love each other. And I especially loved having a mother who respected my father. I never grew up hearing disparaging things about men, which I greatly appreciated.

(5) My mother is unusually genuine. There are no false pretenses with mom, in any way. She is incredibly honest. If there was any error in her honesty, it would only be tempered by her humility. If anything, she puts her worst foot forward. She does not substitute appearances for what really is. I have grown to love this more, and more, and more with life experience. She is as real as they come. On the flip side, she appreciates genuineness from others.

(6) My mother is incredibly good. I could always feel this growing up. I think we all could. She is just a very good spirit. Though she is not flashy, or trendy, or brilliant, she is exceptionally good.

(7) Mom is confident. Mom has a quiet confidence that is utterly refreshing. She was never really prone to self-esteem issues. I think part of this is that being as good as she is, deep down she has confidence in this. Though she was painfully shy as a child, she always believed that when people would get to know her, that they would love her. I would wish this confidence on the whole world.

(8) Mom is intelligent and wise. She always insisted that we talk like we are educated. There was to be no use of the word "ma" or "ain't" or improper grammar. She still corrects my English. Mom reads a lot of books, which means that her critical thinking skills are well developed. I love going home and seeing which books she has been reading lately. Depending on the review she gives, I steal them till I've finished them, and she does the same for me.

(9) Mom walks the walk. There is NOTHING hypocritical about my mother. She doesn't expect anything of anyone that she doesn't do herself. If she expects you to be honest, she is. If she expects you to be a quiet giver, she is. If she expects you to exercise from the age 40 on, she does. Her integrity is among the very best I've ever seen.

(10) She is happy. Mom always used to say, "Chantal, if you are good, you will miss out on some of the fun. You will. But you will find that you will be happy." I have found that she was right, and that happiness is wholesome, and priceless.

Psalms 31:10-31

The Coffee Shop View of You

I grabbed my backpack, slammed my car door, and crossed the street in a hurry. I was late. 1307, my destination was supposed to be on the corner, but the closer I got to the corner, the more obvious it became that I had parked nowhere near my destination. I finished scanning the street numbers on the apartment buildings and realized that I would need to cross the busy street just in front of me.

Just as this realization hit, the apartment buildings suddenly turned into a coffee shop, and facing me was a man sitting behind his coffee shop table, book in hand, sipping his coffee.

I lived in Paris. I know why people really go to coffee shops. It has nothing to do with sipping coffee or reading books. It has everything to do with watching people. You make up their stories and try to figure out what you can about a person in the few seconds that they pass in front of you.

I suddenly became aware that my feelings of frustration were written all over my face. I could tell by his expression that he saw my predicament and was amused by it.

But I was late. I hurried on.

Later that evening as I strolled back to my car, I passed the coffee shop again. I began to wonder, what kind of story does a man sipping his coffee in a coffee shop make of me?

Lets look at his view. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail. I am wearing jeans, black shoes, a dark grey shirt, and a light grey zip-up hoodie. The hoodie is zipped up too high to be cool. Under my right arm I clutch a worn teal backpack that has more than a few items in it. The bag is not zipped shut. I am walking fast, and clearly perplexed that the street number I am looking for was not there.

I think my real story is as good as any story he could have made up about me.

I am in a hurry in part because I am chronically late and I always get lost my first, second, and third time anywhere.

I am on my way to a friend's house to babysit. (I met my friend mostly through a running group because I love running and I'd been praying for a running group near my residence.) I was supposed to be at her place at 7:30, it is now 7:40ish and I just discovered that I am a block away meaning I'll be 15ish minutes late.

If he was a really good coffee shop observer perhaps he would have realized that the tattered backpack is of the LL Bean sort. Generally a brand that easterners use. Significant because it is part of my story. I am a New Hampshire native.

The worn state of the backpack also speaks volumes. It survived four years of high school, four years of college, and three years of law school before the zipper gave out. I have it tucked under my arm because this veteran of my schooling doesn't stay shut on its own anymore.

The backpack is telling of more than just my origin. It tells of my compulsive need to be constructive, like any good type-A person. The children will be sleeping. The things I fill my hours of free time with are the contents of my backpack. Would the observer have guessed that it contains an Ayn Rand book, my journal, my scriptures, a print out of the teacher's manual of this weeks Sunday school lesson, and a Spanish text book? Ayn Rand because I believe in altruism and every time I defend it, someone brings up Ayn Rand. She didn't believe in altruism. I am still finishing her book.

The clothes I am wearing are a quick change out of work clothes. My jeans are a gift from my sister last time I visited her in Provo. She no longer lives in Provo. The origins of my shirt are unknown, but the hoodie I bought with Wendy in Salt Lake when we used to go shopping together on lunch breaks. The shoes are ones I bought for my mission in France and still love to wear.

'Why is this easterner in the mid-west?' he might curiously wonder. Because I came here for school and because of my love for warm weather, old architecture, economic diversity, places with character, and non-grid system cities.

Somehow I doubt that was his conclusion. But that is my story, and I'm sticking to it.