Wednesday, January 28, 2015


I'd like to air a few grievances before I continue with today's post. Sometimes you just have to tell somebody. I knew you'd understand.

1. My poor baby has a cold that he just can't shake. Just when we think he's kicked it, it comes back like a bad fashion trend. (Daisy dukes and tube tops, I'm looking at you. Also giant furry boots.) So I went to my local health food store in search of a homeopathic remedy--maybe even something he could take everyday for immune support. "I have the perfect solution for you," she said. For $20. For four ounces.

2.  Just...this. There is so much wrong here that I can't even look at it. (That's why I'm here instead of cleaning that whole situation up.)

3.The grocery store. The end.

So while I was at the store, waiting for my honey turkey to be sliced, I saw a mom I know from my son's elementary school. I smiled and nodded and waited for her to respond in like. Because that's what you do when you see someone you know. And she smiled vaguely and continued on her way.

Because she had no idea who I am.

Now. I know this woman's name. I've seen her at a thousand classroom parties. I know her son's name, and that he plays baseball, and I even know her husband's name. (Maybe this makes me a stalker and not a friend.)

She walked by me with no more than a polite "excuse me" and as I was staring down the back of her jacket, I pursed my lips and raised my brow and thought about how much I didn't like her. Hopefully the deli counter lady did not notice.

A few years ago, a new neighbor moved into my neighborhood, and I wanted to greet them with a homemade-fresh-store-bought cheesecake--I had met them a few times out in the neighborhood but wanted to officially welcome them. (I do not rock at making cheesecake. I'm good at other things.) The situation went down like something out of a awkwardly-made tween movie about awkward tweens.

The wife invited me in, with many thanks for the pie, then she offered to show me the house. I politely refused, saying I needed to get home and do thus-and-such and it was great to see you and have a great night and enjoy the pie and then the husband came down and interrupted my good-byes with a "the kids want you to come say goodnight".  I excused myself and started walking to the front door. Of course the kids want to say goodnight. So do I.

"Honey, you remember Heather, don't you? We met them a few times out in the neighborhood."

He looked at me. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips and said "No."

Not, no but it's nice to see you again, or no, but thanks for the cheesecake, or no, but glad to have you.

Just no.


"So, honey, Heather wants a tour of the house, so why don't you show her around while I go say goodnight to the kids."

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. Heather has already stated that she does not want a tour of the house. Heather has already said goodbye. Heather needs to leave.

I tried to leave again. I mean, I didn't want to be rude, but I needed to G-O.

"Oh, no, he's happy to give you a tour."

When, when, WHEN did I say I wanted a tour? Is there an unstated neighbor rule that says one must give someone a tour, even if the tour guide and the tourist are unwilling?

So I stood there with the man who had no idea who I was (and stated as such), while he showed me his kitchen. Which I had already seen because I was STANDING IN IT.

"So...this is the double-oven. This is the microwave."


You can imagine how painful the rest of the thirty-minute tour was.

So I must ask myself. Why do awkward things like this keep happening to me? First, the meeting of the cousins, (remember when my cousin reintroduced himself to me in Target--only after I approached him and had to introduce myself to him, because the blank look on his face said I have no idea who you are--BY SHAKING MY HAND? No hug. No, hey, I didn't recognize you, it's been awhile! No GOOD TO SEE YA!) which, to make matters worse, was suspiciously observed by Wife of Cousin as a possible "I'm trying to pick up your husband in the laundry and cleaning aisle of Target with the bogus Hi, I'm your awkward cousin you don't remember, let's shake hands, {wink, wink} pick-up line.

I have HAD IT with being forgettable.

I've even, in the past, had people suggest bible studies to me as possibilities for me to do. Even when I'm in the study. With them.

So. I was staring at the back of this woman's coral coat, standing at the grocery store deli-counter, thinking to myself I. AM. NOT. FORGETTABLE. (Am I?)

Because clearly you--and everybody else--thinks so.

It took a minute for the ruckus to die down in my head.

Gah. I was mad. about. it.

People may not remember me. They may not even have any idea who I am. They would walk by me in Target and Kroger and not think anything about it.

People do not define who I am. Or what I'm worth.

See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.
 {isaiah 49:16}

And if God says it, then I know it is true. I just have to get past all the mad in my head to see the truth. He will never forget me.

How can He? I'm engraved on the palms of His hands.

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