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I’m Thirty

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Evening before my birthday

11:53pm

What happens when you turn 30? Seriously, I need to know, because, whatever it is, it’s going to happen to me in about 7 minutes and I’m not one for birthday surprises.* I’m already overwhelmed with the fact that I’m going to have to check a completely different age range box on the forms at the DMV. So this whole “not-knowing-what-to-expect-once-I-reach-this-milestone” situation is not really working for me. Since no one seems to be willing to give me any answers, I’ve had to guess.

Here’s my current hypothesis:

Sometime between midnight and 12:03 a.m., my room will be rushed with agents from a secret international agency. I will be injected with a serum that will render me unconscious and transported to a secret facility. At said facility, vital vitamins and minerals will be extracted from my body to be distributed, via lattes, to women who are not making a mockery of their reproductive years. I will then be returned to my room with no memory or evidence of what occurred, except that I will bear the mark of the unwed and over 30: Cankles.

As I await the inevitable, I become introspective. I’ve spent three whole decades on earth, and I can’t help but wonder if the world is any different because of my being in it. Shouldn’t I have made my big impact on the world by now? Maybe I have! I regularly post articles and indignant status updates on the horrors of war and human trafficking for my 1300+ close, personal friends. That’s enough, right?

Or what if life is less about making some huge impact on the world and more about tiny ripples of compassion? What if my “big impact” is simply asking someone how they are and really taking the time to listen?

I’m not saying that I shouldn’t care about injustices around the world. On the contrary, I’m glad those things make me angry, and I will continue to speak out on them as much as I can, even if it’s only through social media. But I also think that I’ll spend the next three decades participating in the revolution of loving my neighbor. My legitimate, in the flesh and in close physical proximity neighbor. Maybe that can change the world!

It’s 12:14 am. I’m officially 30, and PHEW, my hypothesis was wrong. I can rest easy tonight. Wait… are those cankles?!

“But he’s already made it plain how to live, what to do, what God is looking for in men and women. It’s quite simple: Do what is fair and just to your neighbor, be compassionate and loyal in your love. And don’t take yourself too seriously— take God seriously” (Micah 6:8, The Message).

*This is a lie. I LOVE birthday surprises! But on this particular birthday, I am alone in a Parisian hotel room and am acutely aware that the chances of my friends and family jumping out of my closet with cake and presents are minimal.

Jael Amador writes from New York, New York.

The post I’m Thirty appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: I’m Thirty

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

My Real Enemy

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Julie O’Connell was my very first nemesis. I met Julie on the first day of second grade. We were both new students at our school, so we stuck together. We relied on each other to navigate the new school, we sat together at lunch and learned the rules of “four square” during recess. Plus, Julie had red hair and I had never met anyone with red hair before.

Julie loved being my friend because I would always trade my school lunch for her packed lunch. You see, her mom refused to allow her to buy the school lunch, but I was more than happy to make the trade off. To this day, Mrs. O’Connell’s tuna salad sandwich is the best I’ve ever tasted. For the first three weeks of second grade, Julie O’Connell was my very best friend.

But then it all went down hill. One day after swimming lessons, Lori Matthews came up to me as I was changing out of my bathing suit. She told me that Julie had told the entire second grade that I was smelly. Smelly?! That’s the worst thing you can possibly be in the second grade.

At first I didn’t believe it, but Lori’s story was so convincing that I finally began to accept it. Julie O’Connell became my very first nemesis. The next three weeks were spent avoiding each other, sticking our tongues out at each other, and rolling our eyes when we knew the other one was looking. Until one day, Julie came up to me at recess with tears in her eyes and said, “Jael, why would you tell everyone that I am smelly? I thought you were my friend.”

After a brief conversation, we finally figured out what happened. Lori Matthews had pitted us against each other, for reasons I still don’t understand today. Julie and I realized that there was no reason to fight with each other. We were not enemies.

We live in a world in which we are constantly pitted against each other. We view our neighbors as our enemies if they worship differently, love differently, or even vote differently. I fall into this trap all the time. My prayer is that whenever I feel the urge to dislike or even hate someone because I think I have them all figured out, I remember that they are not the real enemy.

The real enemy has already been defeated.

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12, ESV).

Jael Amador writes from New York.

The post My Real Enemy appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: My Real Enemy

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

God Has a Georgia Accent

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I lived in New York City for some time and let me tell you that it has ruined me. Well, actually, it has ruined my feet. You see, among the many things that New York City is famous for, the real treasures of the city are mani-pedi salons. Those glorious places where for $18 you can get the nails on your hands and feet filed and pumiced to perfection ($15 if you go on a weekday). While living in the City, it was easy to justify biweekly or even weekly stops to the nail salon (it was such a bargain!).

After I left New York City, my sole suffered (pun TOTALLY intended). It was hard to find a place where I could get my pedis done at so reasonable a price. So I had to forgo my biweekly indulging for the sake of my (ever shrinking) wallet. I attempted to perform pedicures on my own feet, but it never quite came close to the perfection of the NYC nail salons. So I lived for the winters! Those glorious times when my feet were covered in layers of socks and boots. I could hide the condition of my feet and no one would ever be the wiser.

A friend recently surprised me with a trip to a nail salon. As I removed my shoes and socks, I apologized to the nail tech for the unsightliness of my feet.

She replied in her sweet Georgia accent, “Well, honey, if your feet weren’t a mess, you wouldn’t need me, now would you?”

I laughed as I dipped my feet into the foot-bath. She was absolutely right.

So many times we think about God in the same way. We say things like,

“As soon as I get myself together, I can start a relationship with God.”

“I just have to figure a few things out, and then I can start praying.”

Whenever I hear something like that, I like to imagine that God has a sweet Georgia accent and says, “Well, honey, if your life weren’t a mess, you wouldn’t need me, now would you?”

“All those the Father has given me will come to me, and I will never reject them” (John 6:37, NLT).

Jael Amador writes from New York, New York.

The post God Has a Georgia Accent appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: God Has a Georgia Accent

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Those Who Mourn

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Today is my grandmother’s birthday. She would have been 87. She passed away 10 days ago. I was in my kitchen with my sister when I got the call from my mother telling us that our Abuela (grandmother in Spanish) had passed away. After getting the news, I immediately packed my bags and drove up from New York City to Massachusetts to be with my family.

As a therapist, I often tell people that there is no “right” way to mourn. I, for example, like to keep busy when confronted with grief. So as soon as I got to Massachusetts, I set out to help my mom and her siblings with the funeral arrangements. I picked out a cemetery plot, went to flower shops, compiled photographs, and took on the job of keeping my cousins up to date with funeral information. But after a while there was no more work to be done. All of the funeral arrangements were made and there was very little that could keep me busy. That’s when I noticed the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. It came with the realization that I would soon see my grandmother for the first time since her passing.

When I got to my grandmother’s funeral, I made a point to stay as close to the back of the room as possible and away from her open casket, making sure that everyone had tissues and that the program was running smoothly. But as the service drew to a close, I started to become honest with myself. Perhaps keeping busy was not how I mourned at all. Perhaps it was how I avoided mourning. So I took a deep breath for the first time, walked up to my Abuela’s coffin, and looked at her as she lay resting. And I wept. As I did, I felt the arms of my siblings and cousins envelop me, and we wept together.

As I think of that moment, I am reminded of the words of Jesus:

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted (Matthew 5:14, NIV).

I always thought that the “comfort” that Jesus was referring to was the eternal comfort of when we all get to live with him in heaven. But I know now that those words were meant for us here and now. I know because I sure saw a little bit of heaven in the arms of the ones I love.

Jael Amador writes from New York, New York.

The post Those Who Mourn appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: Those Who Mourn

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

The Magic of a Smile

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When I first moved to California, I felt like a fish out of water. I had moved from New York City to begin graduate school in a very small town located about an hour and a half drive east of Los Angeles. Prior to living in New York, I had been living in Seoul, South Korea. So as you can imagine, coming from two of the largest cities in the world to a small town took some getting used to.

During my first week in California, I decided to take a walk around my neighborhood. I saw people watering their lawns, picking lemons and avocados from their trees, and pruning their rose bushes.

“Wow!” I thought, “I’ve only seen this stuff happen in movies!”

As I rounded the block, I saw a jogger that was making his way in my direction. As he approached me, all of the familiar city-living internal warning sirens went off.

“Can you see both his hands? Remember, you can use your keys as a weapon. Why didn’t you take that self-defense course when you had the chance!”

As my mind raced, the jogger stopped, asked me how my day was, welcomed me to the neighborhood and went on his way.

“Well,” I thought. “This is new.”

You see, living in a big city had taught me that on some level I was supposed to mistrust everyone around me. And for good reason, there are a lot of bad people out there. But there are also a lot of good people in the world, many of whom would love to be smiled at and asked how their day was. The jogger had every reason in the world to mistrust me. He didn’t even know me. But the small gesture to say hello made me feel good!

The experience with the jogger popped into my head this afternoon as I rode the train home from work. I decided to put down my book and look at the person in the seat across from me and smile. She smiled back. And you know what? That felt pretty good.

“A joyful heart is good medicine. But a broken spirit dries up the bones,” (Proverbs 17:22, NASB).

Jael Amador write’s from New York, New York.

The post The Magic of a Smile appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: The Magic of a Smile

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

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