Friday, August 3, 2007

Blind Date, Bridges & Humility


He didn’t look like Denzel, Will Smith, Idris Elba, or Boris Kodjoe, although he can hold his own. But more importantly, neither did he look like Gary Coleman. The latter was a huge relief, believe me.

A big shout out to Tracey, my matchmaking friend, who was on point with her description of my blind date. He is attractive, successful, funny, and yes, he was a nice guy. We exchanged contact information and have spoken since. The conversations were not contrived nor did it feel like we were interviewing job applicants. Wherever this is headed, my intent is to get there slowly with no preconceived ideas or expectations.

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How many times have you been in your car stuck on a bridge or overpass during rush hour traffic? If you’re like me more times than you would like. The bouncing, shaking and rattling always made me wonder what would happen if it suddenly gave way. The I-35 bridge collapse in Minneapolis on Wednesday answered that question and reinforced my fears.

Living in a large metropolitan area bridges are like death and taxes - unavoidable. On my daily commute to work I cross at least seven bridges. Going forward, each one will be crossed with a prayer.
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Just last night I apologized to someone for something I said and the “way” I said it. On the surface this really isn’t a big deal until I tell you I claimed hell would first freeze over before I apologized.

It was a heated exchange and I went for the jugular. In my relationships, familial, platonic, or romantic, I normally walk away from debates or arguments when I’m angry to avoid such heated exchanges. But there are those rare occasions when, before I know it, I am like a pit bull on attack mode. There’s no stopping until my thirst for blood is satisfied. Yes. It can get like that.

In the ten days from when the incident occurred and the apology was offered, God convicted my spirit. How did He do this you may ask? By using my grandmother, Laura L. Sterling. I kept hearing her voice in my head admonishing my behavior, 'you know you weren't raised liked that'…blah, blah, blah-ba-dee blah. Mother, or “Mudda”, has been gone from this earth for 11 years and let me tell you, they don’t make ‘em like her anymore.

For ten days I pouted, I stomped my feet, and I stood my ground on principle. For ten nights my sleep was restless and fitful. I refused, absolutely refused to humble myself, doggone it, I was right! I have played this game of tug-o-war with God before and I have never, ever won. Thus, I relented, repented, and humbled myself.

After all, when it is all said and done and I've gone to meet my maker, I need there to be one less thing for which I have to answer to God. Besides, I needed the sleep.