I was flustered today.

I’m still a bit flustered.  And it’s still, technically, today.  Though given the fact that I’ve already taken a shower and changed into my pajamas, I’m calling it a day at 745 PM.  Yes, please.  Party hardy on a Friday night with my thoughts and my second cup of coffee.

Anyway, this might be a terribly unexpected shocker for you all, but behind the unattainable expectation of always and forever providing A+ customer service at the shop, the truth is that I just didn’t feel like being at work today.  I didn’t feel like serving.  I didn’t feel like smiling or engaging in small talk about the weather or weekend plans.

I apologize.  It’s me, not you.

Now I don’t know what was the matter with me, and I’m not sure how many times a month or week or how many times in a day is permissible to use the PMS excuse, but something was the matter.  It wasn’t bad, though it wasn’t great; though as I think about it, I don’t believe it was really anything in particular.

It was just one of those days.

—–

Earlier this week, I went to a contemporary class with a new teacher.  We warmed up and learned the phrase and eventually split up into groups.  For the first couple of rounds, everyone watched from the sides, doing it in their heads and following along as the preceding group took the floor.  After two or three turns, the teacher had everyone not dancing move from the sides of the studio to the front.  What she said next really moved me, and I don’t just mean physically upstage.

She said, “When it’s your turn to dance, remember that just because the exterior energy and the eyes of the room have shifted and are on you now, that doesn’t mean that your interior does anything differently.  You dance your dance.  You tell your story and stick to it.”

I needed that.  Because as the days are long and the hours in my bed are short, so extreme was this word received into my soul.

Now there are those of you reading this who have done life in the nitty gritty with me.  You’ve gotten to know my heart over lunch dates and during late nights, with coffee mugs in hand and with dust from the dance floor still on our feet.  You’ve seen me in my ups and in my downs and have given me grace along every point in between.  You know my heart and understand that it is continually being renewed and transformed from glory to glory.  You also know that I love you, but this entry is not primarily for you.

This entry is for those who have stumbled upon this link but don’t necessarily know my life.  This is for those I’ve only had a couple of encounters with and have read only a couple of my entries.  This one is for you, Stranger and Acquaintance and very well the Customer-I-Served-Today.

That’s not at all to say that I go about promoting my blog with every transaction that I make.  “Have a good one!  Oh and read all of my most intimate thoughts at msmaliawee.wordpress.com!”  Very much on the contrary.

Still, this blog, whether read or not holds me to a certain level of accountability with what I write and with what I live.  Over and above that, it makes me think twice about mentioning the ultimate title to which I claim and cling to but fear tarnishing?  It seems almost taboo to say on days when I feel that my worth is measured by my performance, but how about this?  How about on those very days, ones like today, when I feel like a hot Christian (if I could convey a whisper over a Word document, that would have been the word to do it on) mess.  How about being honest, especially during that time and owning to the fact that indeed, I am a Christian.

Again, for those of you who might not be familiar with God or with faith or religion but only know of us as homophobic and judgmental hypocrites, firstly I apologize more than words can say for missed opportunities to love and a misconstrued message that we often and wrongly communicate.  Nevertheless, I write specifically for you and to you tonight with my metaphorical palms up and my heart open.  And I humbly but boldly declare that I am a Christian.

Now I don’t always feel like one, but feelings are fickle.  I don’t always do the right thing, but it’s not about what I do but rather what He already did on the cross.  I mess up far more than I would care to admit and have bleh days just like everyone else.

Nonetheless, it is my persistent desire that the convictions on this blog would match up with the actions of my life.  That regardless of who is watching or how the energy or eyes of the world may shift about and try to focus on my flawed exterior, I pray that the dance of my interior would remain resolute and that its story would always be about the One who lived the perfect life that pardoned all of my not-even-close-to-perfect days.

May it always and forever point to the One who said, “It is finished.”