Milkshake, oh milkshake
In your glass all frosty and cold…
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Your statement is bold.
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Please give me a clue.
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Why does a clear identity elude you?
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Are you a beverage or an ice cream?
Milkshake, oh milkshake
You really need to pick a team.
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Riding the fence, you will surely loose
Milkshake, oh milkshake
Whose allegiance do you choose?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Your Very Own Bed Sheets
Yesterday I kept a promise. I deeply wish that I could tell you that I kept my promise because I was overwhelmed with a love and passion that could not keep me away from fulfilling my vow, but sooner or later Truth would rat me out and you would discover that I mostly kept my promise out of pride. I made a commitment to be somewhere, and I would certainly rise to the occasion, lest someone find my obliged word questionable. Pride. So what was this promise I felt so inclined to keep? A few weeks ago I was asked to join my church for a morning of feeding the homeless at a local shelter, and yesterday was that day.
Too intimidated to go alone, I shanghaied a friend into going with me. We pulled into the parking lot and immediately faced the decision to take the easy route and claim there wasn’t a parking spot to behold and feigning disappointment later in the day, or deciding to stay. As one homeless man approached the rear of our car to move a parking cone for us, I, for but a brief moment, made eye contact with somebody’s need. It was not his need for pancakes that I was face to face with at that moment, but the need for genuine love. We stayed.
Walking into the gated parking lot, dressing down in last year’s J.Crew from head to toe, all which was within me wanted to leave. We got put to work at the clothing station. Hey, a girl’s gotta use her strengths, right? At first, I busied myself with the organization of the clothes… shirts here, pants there, large, medium, small… nothing to it, just like my closet at home. Until it wasn’t anymore.
I picked up a large maroon piece of cloth I originally thought was an oversized dress shirt. It turns out that it was at the very bottom of the pile of clothes, so it took quite a bit of tugging to release it from the stack. Once I got it out, however, I realized my initial impression was actually quite wrong. It wasn’t an oversized dress shirt; it was a bed sheet. I am ashamed to admit that the first two thoughts that ran through my head upon fully gazing at this bed covering were: “This is possibly the ugliest set of sheets I have ever seen,” and soon followed by “If you are homeless, why do you need a set of sheets to begin with?” That’s when I met her.
I’m not sure what her name is (I now regret not having the forethought to ask her when I had the chance), but the words she spoke have forever changed my perspective on monetary purchases. As she was rummaging through the stack of clothes, and approaching the bottom where I had re-stashed the unnecessary hideous sheet set, she quickly placed her bags on the ground in order to free both hands to delicately pick up the maroon monstrosity. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her inability to take her eyes off of the sheets.
She held them in her left hand and gently whisked her right hand across the top of the worn cloth as if it was a newborn grandchild’s precious cheek. After taking a second for contemplation, she extended the sheets towards her friend, who also paused in her tracks upon realizing what was before her: bed sheets. “Imagine that… having your very own bed sheets. And, such a beautiful set at that.”
She delicately ran her fingertips over the top layer of the gorgeous fabric as she and her friend both sighed in unison, and then gently lowered them back to the table. I, ignorantly, reminded her that she was free to take them if she wanted. She, now making eye contact with my point of need… humility… smiled and stated these everlasting words: “Oh, honey, now that would require that I had a bed to put them on, wouldn’t it?” Writing that sentence, I fear it may be taken in the cynical voice with which I naturally read things so often. Let me be overly clear here that her intention was far from cynicism, or even pity for that matter. Her statement was but a shear representation of the truth: she had no bed, so therefore she also had no need for a set of bed sheets, however soft and beautiful they may have been.
She had no bed? I have two! and goodness knows how many sets of sheets for both of them. How many times have I complained that the sets I have are not made of Egyptian cotton, a high enough thread count, or just simply have been shelved for years on account of their hideous clash with my updated décor? Somehow I can now envision that worn maroon cloth matching everything I own, and I own nothing maroon.
When did it become okay in mind for me to spend a three-digit number on a single pair of jeans? To own six black pairs of shoes… and still believe I have no appropriate footwear for the day? When exactly was it that I lost touch with reality? At what point did money offer to be my god and I willingly bowed down to it? I cannot answer any of these questions, but I can give you a clear answer to this: When did I decide that Money had to be dethroned in my heart? Yesterday at 10 AM, while holding a set of maroon sheets.
Too intimidated to go alone, I shanghaied a friend into going with me. We pulled into the parking lot and immediately faced the decision to take the easy route and claim there wasn’t a parking spot to behold and feigning disappointment later in the day, or deciding to stay. As one homeless man approached the rear of our car to move a parking cone for us, I, for but a brief moment, made eye contact with somebody’s need. It was not his need for pancakes that I was face to face with at that moment, but the need for genuine love. We stayed.
Walking into the gated parking lot, dressing down in last year’s J.Crew from head to toe, all which was within me wanted to leave. We got put to work at the clothing station. Hey, a girl’s gotta use her strengths, right? At first, I busied myself with the organization of the clothes… shirts here, pants there, large, medium, small… nothing to it, just like my closet at home. Until it wasn’t anymore.
I picked up a large maroon piece of cloth I originally thought was an oversized dress shirt. It turns out that it was at the very bottom of the pile of clothes, so it took quite a bit of tugging to release it from the stack. Once I got it out, however, I realized my initial impression was actually quite wrong. It wasn’t an oversized dress shirt; it was a bed sheet. I am ashamed to admit that the first two thoughts that ran through my head upon fully gazing at this bed covering were: “This is possibly the ugliest set of sheets I have ever seen,” and soon followed by “If you are homeless, why do you need a set of sheets to begin with?” That’s when I met her.
I’m not sure what her name is (I now regret not having the forethought to ask her when I had the chance), but the words she spoke have forever changed my perspective on monetary purchases. As she was rummaging through the stack of clothes, and approaching the bottom where I had re-stashed the unnecessary hideous sheet set, she quickly placed her bags on the ground in order to free both hands to delicately pick up the maroon monstrosity. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her inability to take her eyes off of the sheets.
She held them in her left hand and gently whisked her right hand across the top of the worn cloth as if it was a newborn grandchild’s precious cheek. After taking a second for contemplation, she extended the sheets towards her friend, who also paused in her tracks upon realizing what was before her: bed sheets. “Imagine that… having your very own bed sheets. And, such a beautiful set at that.”
She delicately ran her fingertips over the top layer of the gorgeous fabric as she and her friend both sighed in unison, and then gently lowered them back to the table. I, ignorantly, reminded her that she was free to take them if she wanted. She, now making eye contact with my point of need… humility… smiled and stated these everlasting words: “Oh, honey, now that would require that I had a bed to put them on, wouldn’t it?” Writing that sentence, I fear it may be taken in the cynical voice with which I naturally read things so often. Let me be overly clear here that her intention was far from cynicism, or even pity for that matter. Her statement was but a shear representation of the truth: she had no bed, so therefore she also had no need for a set of bed sheets, however soft and beautiful they may have been.
She had no bed? I have two! and goodness knows how many sets of sheets for both of them. How many times have I complained that the sets I have are not made of Egyptian cotton, a high enough thread count, or just simply have been shelved for years on account of their hideous clash with my updated décor? Somehow I can now envision that worn maroon cloth matching everything I own, and I own nothing maroon.
When did it become okay in mind for me to spend a three-digit number on a single pair of jeans? To own six black pairs of shoes… and still believe I have no appropriate footwear for the day? When exactly was it that I lost touch with reality? At what point did money offer to be my god and I willingly bowed down to it? I cannot answer any of these questions, but I can give you a clear answer to this: When did I decide that Money had to be dethroned in my heart? Yesterday at 10 AM, while holding a set of maroon sheets.
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