Petitioning for pain in order to reach a positive outcome

Two months ago, one of my friends made a formidable promise: "I'm going to be praying for you."

Usually, I'd welcome someone's offer to intercede on my behalf. But, after a brief conversation with this friend, I realized he'd be praying for ill. He'd asked several questions about my boyfriend's current spiritual state, and then, instead of offering to pray for my boyfriend's struggles with doubt to abate or for the health of our relationship to improve, my friend had implied he'd be praying for a breakup.

The joy of anticipating small, simple pleasures

Tomorrow … next week … next month …

My friend’s anticipation was palpable as she sat down in my office and relayed her upcoming plans.

In the languor of a workday afternoon, dreaming of next week’s trip to the beach and this fall’s luxurious cruise seemed a welcome diversion. So I joined in, mentally cataloging my most anticipated future events: the concert by my favorite rocker next week; my East Coast trip next month; my birthday the following month; my boyfriend’s birthday several weeks later; finally, the holidays.

Finding the meaning in menial tasks

I didn’t want the job. Too small. Too menial. Too unimportant. But at my manager’s request several weeks ago, taking meeting notes became my new responsibility.

I knew I had no choice; still, I attempted a bargain: I’d record the notes and type them into an accessible computer file in exchange for the assurance they’d be of regular assistance to my coworkers.

I had to make the job at least seem important.

The havoc home schooling wreaked on my relationships

All my life, I’ve been sitting at tables with my mom.

The thought is apt as I sit across from her at our favorite bakery, a weekend substitute for our usual Wednesday dinner, and listen to customers retrieving cake orders to celebrate upcoming graduations.

From preschool to high school, I sat beside her at our kitchen table and “did school.” She’d open her teacher’s curriculum, spread out her record book, and concentrate all her energy—her hopes and dreams and expectations—on her cowering class of one. Every question was mine to answer, every problem mine to solve.

Receiving grace for my lapses in contact

I opened a book of poetry last evening, and a note fluttered out from the pages.

Eagerly, I unfolded it. For I knew behind the card’s cover of Pablo Picasso’s Old Guitarist were words of love and encouragement from the book’s giver, my friend Emily. But, in the years since receiving her gift, I’d forgotten the note’s simple closing.

“We will always be friends."

I wanted to take vengeance into my own hands.

I pounded viciously on my dining room window. “I’ll get you back!” I promised the squirrel perched atop my backyard fence post.

No doubt he’d struck the same impertinent pose atop my living room couch the previous morning, after strewing the remnants of his garbage-bag feast all over the pillows.

The scent of discarded leftovers must have beckoned him from the chilly outdoors and impelled him through a crevice between my open dining room window and its closed inner storm pane. For immediately after I’d left for work, he’d apparently squeezed through the hole, vaulted onto the floor, and dug gleefully into the kitchen trash waiting to be taken out.

Learning to accept my God-given genes required drastic measures.

At my first appointment for laser hair removal, the aesthetician sent me home without doing anything. “Lasers need six weeks of hair growth to have maximum effect,” she explained. “And you’ve tweezed within the last week.”

I didn’t tell her I’d tweezed my facial hair almost every day for the past ten years. My obsession began with my first hair highlights. Looking into the beautician’s hand-held mirror at the blond streaks I’d long desired in order to fit in with other, prettier teenage girls, I suddenly noticed the contrasting thick, dark, Italian hair sprouting from my cheeks, and the faint but detectable mustache against my pasty-white Polish skin.

Even my moments of leisure were filled with activity and noise.

“Watch less TV.”

I’d recently scrawled the reminder at the top of my New Year’s resolutions list. Yet while I’d attempted variations of this goal in the past, inevitably I’d return home from a frustrating day at work, throw myself on the couch, snap on whatever mindless reality show or banal sitcom I could find, and relax. At least I thought I was relaxing, judging from the countless times I’d fall asleep in front of my blaring television set.

Why I long resented visiting relatives

California Syndrome — n. [[Midwestern > originated in an Illinois family named Bianchi in the mid-1990s]] 1 the extravagant, often undue preparation and celebration surrounding the rare return visit of a relative, permanently living out of town, to his home state and local family still residing there

Usage
Our family’s creation of this term, California Syndrome, arose from arguments that swirled in the thick, lemony scent of disinfectant and ascended over the deafening roar of my grandmother’s vacuum cleaner as she prepared for one of my rich uncle’s rare return visits from California to his birthplace, Chicago. To my angry mother, my grandmother could never concoct a fair explanation as to why she scrubbed her home—apparently clean enough without scrubbing for my family’s visits—for his. Or why while Grandma cleared under the beds and behind the couch, she urged my mother and the rest of our local extended family to clear their schedules for a dinner in his honor.

Why I’ve come to celebrate my monthly cycle

“I’m PMSing.” I might as well say it. For everyone fortunate enough to encounter me during this precarious time of month already knows it. The snappish irritability, the unprovoked crying, the inexplicable mood swings—premenstrual syndrome is part of my cycle I’ve never been able to hide.

“We always have fights around the same time of month,” my boyfriend observed just before my last period. One of his silly, harmless jokes had escalated into an hour-long discussion that had threatened to end our relationship. And days earlier, my eyes had stung with tears over one minor reprimand from my boss. I’d pounded the steering wheel and blared the horn over a roadway incident that on any other evening would have elicited a mere tap on my brakes. I’d scowled at a grocery store clerk whose line required a longer than 30-second wait.

Why I struggle to pray out loud

My palms sweat. My heart races. And I’m certain everyone can hear its pounding over the softly spoken prayers that wind through the small prayer group I attend each Tuesday morning.

The petitions usually travel in a circle, progressing from the volunteer opener to the designated closer. And as I bow my head, I begin quick mental arithmetic to determine how long I have before the arrival of the long, deafening pause that indicates the circle’s once again reached me.

When does submission go too far?

“They have dogs for that,” I whispered to my mother as I leaned across the pew. She laughed, then told me to be quiet and listen to the sermon. But I was listening—had been for the past 15 years my family had attended legalistic churches. And as a new college student, hearing this message on submission that suggested wives simply nod and silently agree to their husband’s decisions—no matter how unwise or ill advised—I knew I’d listened for the last time.

My pastor warned me I’d leave the independent fundamental churches of my childhood when I chose to attend a “liberal” Christian college. But changing congregations wasn’t the only “backsliding” he foresaw. He feared if I were to begin thinking for myself—especially about Scripture—I’d abandon the entire list of extra-biblical rules these churches enforced.

How losing my health has helped me find my body

He’d lost his previous sunglasses, a high-priced pair of Nikes forgotten months ago at a restaurant table. And as I stood in the mall ready to replace those shades someone else had given my forgetful boyfriend, I hesitated. After all, he was somewhat careless. I would never lose or forget such a valuable gift.

Or would I? I questioned as I drove from the mall toward more late-night errands, my eyes—bleary from a 12-hour workday—straining to see through the windshield, my arms—weak from a neglected dinner—struggling to stay on the steering wheel.

I’d forgotten my body.

How many talents had I let burn out?

I was mingling at a party a few Friday nights ago when I encountered the strangest get-to-know-you question anyone had ever asked me: “What extracurricular activities were you involved in at high school?”

As I thought back to my student days, I vividly recollected nerve-twisting auditions, repetitive rehearsals, and triumphant concerts. “I was involved in orchestra,” I answered.

“Andrea plays the flute,” a longtime friend volunteered.

“Well, I used to,” I corrected quickly. The oft-repeated words of an instrument-shop owner whose store I’d frequented returned to me: If you don’t practice, you can’t say you play.

And I hadn’t practiced in ... months? years?

Andrea Bianchi, Assistant Editor
Before joining the staff of TCW, Andrea served as assistant editor of free e-mail newsletters from ChristianityToday.com, parent website of TodaysChristianWoman.com, and freelanced for some of TCW's sister publications. When she isn't rereading classics from her days as an English major at Wheaton College or borrowing books on grammar from the public library, Andrea sneaks a guilty peek at her numerous subscriptions to fashion and beauty magazines. So her weakness for high heels is unsurprising. And although she's endured an occasional stumble, she enjoys wearing those rakish shoes when she catches movies alone at the theater or searches Chicago's many suburban restaurants for the best vegetarian dishes (which contain no vegetables—and plenty of chocolate).