Well my last post was about spilled milk, and unfortunately this one is about melted butter. Apparently dairy products have a vendetta against me.
Last Friday, the second most fabulous day of the week (right after Thursday) became much less fabulous when I arrived home from work only to find an entire stick of butter had melted inside my Tory Burch purse. It’s a strange story as to why there was butter in my purse in the first place and I’d rather not elaborate on my careless shenanigans, but I can now say that I am probably the only person on this planet to have a stick of butter bring shame to their Tory. (Yes, it’s a fake Tory that I bought out of a man’s suitcase, but it looks just like a real one and I’ve even had several real Tory shoppers admire it! So despite counterfeit-ness, I will always treat it like the $500 gem that it looks like.) And thus you can imagine my distress upon its greasy demise.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to clean butter off anything, but let me tell you, it’s not easy. I bathed credit cards, a lipstick tube, a pair of earrings I forgot I owned, a tiny bottle of Jack, a USB port, a Swiss army knife, and a plethora of writing utensils. I wish that list would have had at least one of those typically strange purse items but I guess my bags are not very interesting.
But I did add an interesting set of shoes to my collection- hot, and I mean hot, pink tennis shoes. And I’ve never been a pink kind of girl. I wanted the hot, hot yellow ones, but the yellow ones were white…and I can’t keep white shoes white any longer than it takes for me to wear them out of the store. So I settled for the hot, hot pink ones because they were gray. And I have learned to love, love their hot hotness. Maybe I’m not a pink girl, but I can work with being a hot, hot pink girl. After walking the soles off the last pair, it was way past time for a new set. I had worn them so long that I didn’t even realize the loss of support on the outsides of the soles (I’m a chronic side-walker). I thought the new tennies made me feel knob-kneed, but it was actually just the strange adjustment to standing on a level surface again. Now I’ve got support all the way around and extra pep in my step. There’s just something about a new pair of good shoes that’s good for the soul as much as the sole…. Maybe I’ll start running again. Maybe….
Speaking of running, guess who doesn’t get to make last minute beer runs- this girl. Even after begrudgingly turning not 21, not 22, but 23 years old, I still get carded everywhere. Last Friday, after my butter meltdown, I walked into a sketchy, podunk , hole-in-the-wall gas station in the middle of nowhere and tried to buy my favorite strawberry flavored Abita beer (it’s seasonal, so get it while you can), and I got carded. As if my afternoon couldn’t get any worse, my id was not with me, but rather at home in the sink taking a bath. Apparently the gas station attendant didn’t buy my butter story. Or even believe that I was of age. I wouldn’t have been so disappointed had we been in the middle of anywhere, but don’t they know that no one needs proof of age in the middle of nowhere? I had better luck in high school than I do now…
Today is the nationally recognized day of prayer. I found this article that pretty much sums it all up. I ask everyone to please read it: http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2013/05/02/on-national-day-prayer-america-needs-prayer-like-never-before/
I couldn’t have said it better myself. Our nation needs prayer like never before. The answers we need cannot be answered through politics and our deepest needs cannot be met by any form of government, but rather spirituality. Our problems we face every day as individuals and as a nation are never going to be fixed until we turn them to God. He is the only one that can fully satisfy our every need. He made us to need Him and instead our flesh wants to need everything else. Let’s start being a nation of the Spirit rather than a nation of substance. We’ve gone so long without a good support system, just like my tennis shoes. We think we’re just fine without it….and then one day you are standing on a reak support system and realize what you’ve been missing. Don’t let God go out of our nation like worn out shoes. Keep your souls supported.
One of my biggest demons is a time that I simply call “writers block.” I find peace in writing and when I can’t find inspiration or the push to write, I fall into long periods where creativity and thought processes beyond the everyday “what do I want to eat” and “what should I wear today” completely leave me. I never like these times and it’s a struggle to get back on into my “swing”. Sometimes when I’m in the slumps, it’s even hard to compose a prayer. A conversation with God should be easy, but I’ll be the first to admit that I sometimes struggle. I’ve been in one of those times recently, which is why I pushed myself to blog today. And will push myself to write in my prayer journal tonight as well. I think that everyone has their own personal slumps of different sorts and sometimes you just can’t wait for the spark- you have to push yourself. Go run, even though you hate it. Fight out a prayer, God will hear it. Stop criticizing yourself and start loving. Pick the phone and make that call. Eat that piece of cake…I said it’s ok.
Today I challenge you to write down your prayer. I believe that my prayer journaling (despite my writers block moments) has led me to a deeper faith and stronger relationships in general. The key is to have faith in your own faith. Pray for our nation. Pray for the world. Pray for yourself. You are a more powerful force than you know. Imagine what can come from an entire nation that shares a prayer. Imagine if every day was National Prayer Day.
I wish everyone a wonderful Thursday. It is, after all, the best day of the week.
And don’t cry over spilled milk. Or melted butter. It may not be an easy fix, but it will get better.
Love always,
Addie
“Despite the fact that we, as a nation, have largely forgotten God, the good news is: God has not forgotten us.” –Pastor Greg Laurie
Breaking out of the Bootheel 