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[Guest Post] What I learned about patience by being single.

sarah-vbGrowing up, I always figured I’d get married someday.

That, along with having kids, was just one of those things you did when you were an adult. I more or less kept that mentality up through college, which included a break-up with a guy who I was sure at the time was “The One.” When that ended, as much as I still wanted to be with someone, I figured maybe God was telling me to hold off in the relationship department for awhile. My “someday” was not at that time. So I put dating on the back-burner and instead focused on my college classes and socializing with friends, figuring that “someday” would happen at an undisclosed point in time after graduation and finding an adult job. Then a funny thing happened as graduation loomed closer and closer: good friends started getting engaged. Suddenly I found myself going to bachelorette parties and bridal showers, shopping for bridesmaid dresses and wedding gifts. While my “someday” was at some point in the distant future, my friends’ “somedays” were happening right then.

As happy as I was for my friends, all that wedding fever brought back to the surface my desire to be with someone. While I wanted to wait on God and on who or what He had in store for me, my flawed human nature got the better of me. I began to grow impatient. When would it be my turn to shop for a wedding dress? When would I get to have a bachelorette party thrown in my honor? Not only was I not getting married, I wasn’t even dating anybody, and there were zero prospects in my immediate future. So, since God seemed to be ignoring me completely, I decided to take matters into my own hands. What resulted was a string of hilariously bad dates with grossly incompatible men: the blind date with zero chemistry. The Italian guy with whom I had nothing in common because he was just too European and I was just too American. The Australian who informed me on the first (and only) date that he needed sex in a relationship because he was an affectionate person. The guy from Starbucks who was just…off. At the end of it, I was frustrated and still nowhere closer to my “someday.” Meanwhile, friends were still getting married.

Looking back, I think all those cringe-worthy dates were part of God’s lesson in patience. I think He was trying to show me that, by taking matters into my own hands, I was robbing myself of something way better He had in store for me. Along with learning the hard way what I DIDN’T want in a spouse, God was also showing me qualities I DID want, both through people I met in church and elsewhere. And I realized that the people with those desirable qualities were worth waiting for. That God’s plan, regardless of whether or not it included marriage, was worth waiting for. I learned that just because I was single didn’t mean God loved me any less than my married counterparts. He wasn’t ignoring me. He had His best in store for me, regardless of my marital status. I just had to be patient and trust Him.

So that is what I am doing. I’m still single. No prospects. But I’m truly okay with that. I’m enjoying His best as a single, growing in my faith and discovering new interests and hobbies. I’m focusing less on when my “someday” will be and more on resting in Him and trusting in Him. And I can’t wait to see what else He has in store for me.

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About the blogger: Sarah Van Blaricum lives in Tampa, FL with her fur baby, a mini schnauzer named Ava. She works full-time at an ad agency in the Bay Area, but likes to pretend that writing is her real job. She blogs here, tweets here, Googles here, and would love it if you stopped by to say hi.

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Stuff I’ll never forget about being on staff at the Times.

I still need a Tampa Bay Times hat.

Friday was my last day at the Times. Sort of.

For the rest of the month, I’ll be back Mondays, and a couple mornings a week, to help out and to train my replacement.

To quote the email I wrote to the paper’s entire news department, “I am so proud to have been part of a staff that does what we do here.”

Which is why when I left Friday, I walked out with tears welling up and sunglasses on to cover them. But to permit me to feel what I feel in response to resigning after five fabulous years results not solely in tears (not even mostly in tears, for the record).

It mostly results in recalling memories and lessons I’ll cherish as long as I live. Here are 20, in random order:

1. The job interview I bombed. Little do most people know, I didn’t get the job the first time I vied for one at the Times. That day, I sat in a small room on the seventh floor of the Times building in downtown Tampa, across from a woman named Shannon. She asked about my experience. My schedule. My interests. She asked how my friends would describe me. I paused thoughtfully before I smiled and said, “CRAZY.” I added “in a good way,” in effort to ease Shannon’s apparent concern. The meeting didn’t result in an offer, but I did learn a valuable lesson: Don’t say crazy at a job interview.

2. The time I showed up at the wrong house for an interview. For the first story I wrote as a staff writer, I arranged to meet a high school student and her parents at their house. The dad gave me the address and said to look for the one with the red front door. I don’t remember now the development in which the family lived, but I do recall the winding roads and ambiguous intersections, i.e. “Am I turning onto a new street now, or is this just a fancy curve?” What were the odds, really, that I’d wind up on the wrong street at a house with the right house number and a red front door?

3. Having colleagues who are Pulitzer winners and finalists. My heart still skips a beat when I think of the day John Barry – a feature writer and mentor of mine my first year on staff at the Times – called my desk to call something I’d written “brilliant.” You might recognize the series he wrote that resulted in his being a Pulitzer finalist (especially if you’ve also seen the movie).

4. Shooshing solicitors. What do “SHHH, PEOPLE ARE WORKING!” and “YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!” and “I guess you didn’t see the ‘no solicitors’ sign on the door.” have in common? They’re all phrases I got really good at using when I worked as the buffer between solicitors and the newsroom at the desk closest to the front door of the now-closed, store-front Carollwood bureau of the Times.

5. Donating blood. One morning, the Blood Mobile and I showed up at the Hernando bureau, where I worked periodically. A colleague there planned to give blood and invited me to join her. “Are you kidding?” I said. “No.” I laughed, and shook my head. She said, “Arleen, please. Don’t be a wuss.” Another colleague overheard. “Do it, Arleen,” she said. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. “ALL RIGHT,” I shouted, impassioned by a sudden courageous urge. “I’ll do it.” And I did. And frankly, it was exhilarating. And I got free Goldfish crackers. Win, win.

6. The closing of the Carrollwood bureau. My first two years on staff I worked in a Tampa suburb called Carrollwood. The day the bureau closed, we packed our desks, emptied the drawers, grilled chicken and hot dogs and tossed a Nerf football in the parking lot. The guy I tossed it with moved to the downtown Tampa bureau, and I to Wesley Chapel and Port Richey. He left the Times a year or so later. A couple days after he left, a package arrived to my desk in Port Richey. No note on the box, no note inside it. Just the very Nerf football we tossed on our last day at C-wood. Warmed my heart.

7. The entertaining phone calls. Excerpt of an actual phone call/guilt trip from a guy who wanted somebody at the paper to teach him how to market a book he wrote: “I’m just an old man, 82 years old, and I wrote a book. It’s something I hope to accomplish before I die. And that could happen any day.”

8. The entertaining voicemails. Excerpt of an actual voicemail: “You people are ridiculous. You should be ashamed of yourselves. AND I DO NOT WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS.”

9. The time I accidentally deleted the entire North Tampa crime report an hour after deadline. We don’t like to talk about it.

10. Interviews with Tony Moran (you may know him as Michael Myers), R.L. Stine, Jean Kilbourne, Tom Vanderbilt. Interviews with a 9/11 survivor and a 9/11 first responder.

11. The mis-communication at Louis Pappas Market. Former colleague Phuong and I were out to lunch at Louis Pappas Market on Bruce B. Downs. After we ate, we both had to use the restroom but we couldn’t remember whether the bathroom there had one or two stalls. “You go first,” she said. So, I did. Upon my return, I sat down at our booth. Phuong looked right at me and asked, “So was it one or two?” I was taken aback by her question, but I answered anyway. “Uh… number one?” Phuong looked confused. And then, we both realized. She’d asked how many stalls the bathroom has, not what I did while I was in there. We laughed so hard we cried. Several times. For the rest of the day.

12. The time I Dumpster dove. I got a call once from a woman, who earlier the same day, had thrown a stack of old newspapers in the Dumpster-style recycle bin behind our building. “I think my ring fell off and into the Dumpster,” she said. The custom ring was made with part of a stone she’d gotten as a gift from her now deceased son. So the head of maintenance and I walked to the back, rolled up our sleeves and climbed in. We found out a lot of people throw trash in our recycle bin. But we didn’t find the ring.

13. The time I taught Coupon Man a Michael Jackson song. If I ever knew his real name, I don’t remember it. But he – the guy who’d come by the Carrollwood bureau once a week to buy papers just for the coupons – called himself Coupon Man as much as we did. One day, he walked into the bureau and did what you might expect a guy named Coupon Man would: hummed a Michael Jackson song and asked if I could clarify the lyrics. “Repeat after me,” I said. “MAMASE, MAMASA, MAMAKUSA.” It took awhile, but brother knew it by the time he left.

14. The grasshopper. Every afternoon at or around 3:30, we’d take “The Walk” next door to Dunkin Donuts. On the way one day, a giant grass hopper (not unlike this one) jumped up from the ground and clung to my top. Let’s just say had a brave columnist not intervened, I publicly would have ripped my shirt right off.

“Jason Voorhees:” Intimidating with or without the mask.

15. Tattoo Fest. A few years ago, for a feature I wrote about a few local filmmakers, I followed them and Tony Moran (Michael Myers from Halloween) at the Tampa Bay Tattoo Fest. I watched Moran get his first tattoo (a four leaf clover on his calf, fyi) and hit the horror movie jackpot. I met Kane Hodder (aka Jason Voorhees from some of the Friday the Thirteenth movies), Courtney Gains (aka Malachai from Children of the Corn. And a clerk on an episode of Seinfeld.) and J. Larose, from Saw IV.

16. The time I had to turn down a free trip to Antigua from somebody about whom I wrote. Media ethics sums it up. I sincerely considered quitting.

17. The time I typed a birth announcement for a baby whose middle name actually was “Awesome.” Need I say more?

18. The rat. I’ll spare you details, but this one ended with me on top of my desk.

19. Showing up in other papers. Few things simultaneously surprise and flatter me more than learning something I’ve written has been picked up and printed by other papers, like the Chicago Sun Times and the Austin American Statesman. So grateful.

20. Don’t judge a gender by a voice. Because few moments are more awkward than the one in which you find yourself saying, “Sorry about that. I thought you were your wife.”

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[Guest Post] Eve: Round II

Guest blogger Amber Mobley!
Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?” The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden,(except for that one). ~ Genesis 3:1 – 2

I’m Eve, y’all. I just recently realized it.

Boasting solely in God and His goodness, I have to say that my life and experiences have been AMAZING! The places I’ve lived, the people I’ve met, the things I’ve accomplished…but, I have to admit: for a large part of my life, I’ve still been unhappy because I didn’t have a ‘real’ boyfriend and have never been close to marriage.

My situation runs parallel to the foolishness that Eve got herself into.

As Ephesians 6:12 states,”We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

And just like he did with Eve, that dirty devil’s been trying to start a fight.

That dirty devil had the nerve to get in her head and make her think that she should be ungrateful because God didn’t want her eating from one, ONE, of the trees in the garden. This hefa had a kazillion kabillion million shillion trees to eat from and enjoy, but she was worried, concerned, and even “mad” at God because He told her to leave ONE of those trees alone for her own good.

Just like Eve, I’ve been conversing with the devil for far too long. He’s been in my head and in my spirit, trying to convince me that I’m worthless — or worth less — because I’m single at 30.

Here I’ve been, for 30 years, eating from the kazillion kabillion million shillion trees and having the nerve to keep looking at that ONE tree — with the relationship fruit — and being ungrateful for aaaaall of the other fruits that have come to me in their season from phenomenally tasty, delicious and plentiful trees.

So, my new mantra — because I know me :o) — is “All the trees in the garden…” (I’m leaving the “except for that one” part out in order to help me focus on all I DO have.)

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About the blogger: Amber Mobley currently lives in Kansas City, Kansas but — throughout the last 12 years — has called Washington, DC; Shreveport and Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Tampa, Florida and Los Angeles her home. She freelances for The Kansas City Star (Faith Walk and Ink) and is currently one of the coolest librarians this side of the Mississippi as she’s working on her PhD in education. Click here to visit her on Facebook.

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[True Story] The shoes.

My brother sat on a bench outside Gaspar’s Grotto, where one of his bands had played during brunch. A man in his 20s sat on the bench across from his, and struck up a conversation.

“Any good bands playing?”

“Mine just finished,” my brother said. “Another band’s up next.”

The man looked at my brother’s feet. “What kind of shoes are those?” he asked.

Reluctantly, my brother answered.

“…um, Nautica flip flops?”

Then, in one fell swoop, the guy got off the bench, asked whether my brother’s shoes have bottoms, leaned toward the ground and licked the bottom of my brother’s flip flop.

[CENSORED!], my brother shouted while he jumped to his feet.

The man fled.

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Totally happened this afternoon outside Gaspar’s Grotto in Ybor City. At lunch afterward with the band, my brother Googled “shoe licking” to find out if it’s some kind of fetish. But before he finished typing, the first option Google gave him was “shoe licker Tampa.” The Shoe Licker even has a Facebook page.

This post is part of a series of true stories, called “True Story.” Click here to read all the posts in the series.

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Modesty only works when it isn’t distorted.

They need a sign that warns about the butts.

If one thing stands out about a trip I took to South Beach back in May, it’s this:

I have never seen so much butt on a beach.

Our first day there, I stepped off the boardwalk behind the hotel and onto the sand,  far too close for comfort to a woman who – while holding her toddler’s hand – rubbed sunblock onto a part of her body that is normally covered by clothes.

I go with my gut when I say “modest is hottest” isn’t Miami’s motto. (Oh how I wish it was.)

But even for we who are proponents of modesty, embracing it as it stands now could backfire on us. This is because modesty has been distorted.

Awhile ago, a study was conducted at Princeton, as paraphrased like this by Jason Evert:

The test subjects were placed in a brain scanner and for a fraction of a second were shown photographs of women in bikinis, as well as men and women dressed modestly. 

When the young men viewed the scantily clad women, the part of their brain associated with tool use lit up.

According to the study, men are likely to objectify women when women are scantily clad. To accommodate for that likelihood, the purpose of modesty has morphed into this: “Girls have to cover up so boys don’t objectify them.”

Which implies that the woman is responsible for the man’s actions, that the onus is on her to create conditions in which he won’t objectify her.

Which relieves a man of responsibility for his actions and requires of him exactly zero discipline.

Which implies men are weak. As if men can’t not objectify scantily clad women. As if human nature means men will objectify them.

But men don’t objectify women because they’re wired to do it. They objectify women because they’re humans who live in a culture that tells them to do it. And what is learned can be unlearned.

If we decide, however, that “it’s a woman’s job” to create conditions in which a man won’t objectify her (and therefore that “it’s her fault” when he does), men who learned it don’t have to unlearn it. And men who don’t unlearn it – even the ones who save sex for marriage – become husbands who will objectify their wives, because their wives inevitably will be scantily clad sometimes.

This is not to say I want the world to be one where women can be scantily clad under any circumstance. This is to say that if our solution for “men objectify scantily clad women” is “women stop dressing scantily,” we send the following message: A man’s objectification of a woman isn’t the problem. Her body is.

The damage done by an idea like that goes deep for both women and men.

And real modesty doesn’t do any damage.

Bodies aren’t bad. Bodies are good. We know this because we are physically attracted to each other. The attraction is designed to “orient” us toward the other. It produces a sensual reaction. A sensual reaction is a good thing, too.

But a sensual reaction is superficial when compared to other important elements of a relationship (like friendship). When fostered before the other important elements, a sensual reaction can distract a person from ever discovering whether the other important elements even exist.

The problem is “when only sensuality is stirred, we experience the body of the other person as a potential object of enjoyment. We reduce the person to their physical qualities – their good looks, their body – and view the person primarily in terms of the pleasure we can experience from those qualities,” wrote Edward Sri in Men, Women, and the Mystery of Love.

But, wrote Sri, we live “in a highly sexualized culture … (where) we are constantly bombarded by sexual images exploiting our sensuality, getting us to focus on the bodies of members of the opposite sex.”

Which is why real modesty is so important.

Modesty, when not distorted, doesn’t say girls have to cover up so boys don’t objectify them. It isn’t a burden on women and doesn’t imply men are weak. It requires us to pursue and be pursued for virtuous reasons. It enables us to be drawn to somebody for who he or she is (which is conducive to love), not for what his or her body does to us (which impedes love).

And in a culture mostly all right with superficial relationships and way-too-bare bodies on (and off) the beach, modesty provides a refreshing “arena in which something much more than a sensual reaction might take place.” (Sri)