The Giving of Thanks

Thanksgiving weekend was wonderful, truly wonderful; one of those interludes where one emerges feeling like a completely different (and better) person than one was going in.

I spent the long weekend in North Georgia, submerged in a heavenly mix of nature and civilization; exertion and relaxation; solitude and companionship; comfort and discomfort.  Couldn't ask for better, really.

I spent Thursday and Friday hiking; almost 20 miles total, between the two days, and did it ever feel good.  There's just something about getting out into the mountains, away from the noise and far from the madding crowd - it works wonders, every time.  I think it has something to do, for me, anyway, with the stability that they represent.  Life has this way of growing ever more complicated; things, circumstances, people change...  The world flies around in this state of perpetual commotion... The noise of society reaches a fever pitch...  And then I drive those winding, mountain roads and look, and there they are, just the same as they always were (well, to my naked eye, anyway), untouched and unmoved by the storms that have passed over them, the headlines that have screamed around them, the battles that have been fought and the earth-shattering events that have transpired while they stood there, just as they always have.  Really, for me, they stand as a parable of the unchanging faithfulness of my Heavenly Father, and what a great, great comfort that is.

Plus, hiking solo is just plain a great opportunity to think - about plans and priorities, where one has been and where one is going, those sorts of things; especially here at the end of the year.  (Of course, that moment always comes when the brain quits indulging in the luxury of thinking and instead focuses on just trying to force screaming lungs to gasp for oxygen and aching feet to take one painful step after another.)  Plus, you meet the coolest people on the trail, from the friendly AT-hikers overtaken filtering stream water, to the trail angel in the Springer Mountain parking lot, to the two dudes just back from a 34-day backpacking trip in Southeast Asia, to the three cheerful hunting buddies roaming the mountain looking for bear, to the sweet, slightly overweight and under-prepared couple who drove me around a mountain in the Chattahoochee National Forest in the pitch-dark for an hour, looking for my car... But that's another story.

In any case, spending two days hiking was literally heavenly and long overdue.  Plus, burning all those calories meant I could tuck into a Dillard House dinner, guilt-free.

I got to spend a day with Andrew and Katie, really just relaxing - eating breakfast at Bronx Bagels, exploring Avalon (Alpharetta's newest lifestyle development), poking around downtown Decatur, wandering the aisles of the vast Dekalb Farmers Market, discovering the utter awesomeness that is Kudzu Antique Market (I shall return!), and savoring the exquisite tasting menus, with their riffs on classic Southern flavors, at Restaurant Eugene, in downtown Buckhead.

Omelet topped with caviar

Sweet potatoes and a mess of greens, yes sir!

Crisped, fried rice and a perfectly poached egg

Probably the single most pivotal part of my weekend, though, was the day that I spent on the streets. I've always been deeply moved whenever I've watched films or read books addressing poverty and inequality; I'm always left weeping and with a determination to get out there and do something, and yet, somehow, life and routine have this way of creeping in and chipping away at those good intentions.  So, needless to say, it caught my attention when my friend Justin started telling me about a street ministry he had been introduced to; this weekend turned out to be the perfect opportunity to investigate.

For starters, to get a better understanding of what this ministry is all about, feel free to check out the website I've linked to above or Google "Pastor 7 Atlanta", but long story short, The Lord reached down with a mighty hand and rescued a cold, hard sinner from a desperate, miserable life of crime and drugs and prison and set him on a path to eternal life.  This guy just couldn't keep the good news inside, so he decided to go back into the same places he once inhabited, the poorest and most dangerous parts of inner-city Atlanta, and feed the hungry, both literally and spiritually; the work he started has been steadily growing ever since.

From a logistical standpoint, our task was simple - we were to load up in our vehicles and follow the ministry van into what is known as The Bluff, one of the most infamous drug neighborhoods in the city.  We'd stop at about five or six different pre-arranged locations, ranging from parking lots to abandoned buildings to housing projects, hand out sack lunches, pray with whoever we came into contact with, and share the love of Jesus.

I'm still not entirely certain that my command of the English language is enough to put words to what that day was like, but it was important enough to me that I have to try.  Let me start by saying it wasn't fun.  It was a day marked by profound discomfort and a powerful desire to turn and run, back to safety and comfort, away from the dark ugliness and poverty that I saw all around me.  For starters, this comfortably middle-class white girl who has never known true want or fear her entire life, was completely horrified at the conditions she saw her fellow human beings living in, right under the shadow of the interstates and shopping malls and megaplexes that are as commonplace and familiar as her own backyard.  I'm not kidding here.  Google "The Bluff Atlanta" and check out the images - this is no exaggeration; it really looks (and smells and sounds) like this.  And I'm serious - in the event a person forgets that they're in the heart of America, all they have to do is look up and see the same stadiums and high-rises and shopping centers that one passes while traveling I-75.  This dreadful, poverty-stricken alternate universe lurks literally right under our noses as we cruise by in our comfortable, climate-controlled vehicles at 79 miles per hour, and we don't even know it.

So, yes, I felt anger, at a nation who prides itself on being the world's policeman and yet who allows this kind of misery, right in its own backyard.  But there was more, far more.  I heard an elderly woman sing Amazing Grace at the top of her lungs, head thrown back, like she really meant it, in the middle of an abandoned parking lot.  I saw and heard former addicts and drug dealers stand in the middle of a circle of believers and read God's Holy Word, followed up with those familiar lines, "and that means to me..."  I saw a young thug, anger and mistrust distorting his features, swagger up to the food line, snatch his lunch and move away and thought about the fact that he was one of the very lost lambs that Jesus left the ninety and nine to go find.  I held hands with complete strangers and lifted up Jesus' name, in prayer and in song.  I played human taxi to a little fellow who climbed on my back and refused to let me put him down until we left - he issued orders while devouring a donut, and I toted him around and held all of his goodies, and we sang the Potato Chip Song.  I saw a father stand quietly, his hands on his children's heads, listening to the Gospel.  I saw a very little boy, far too old for his years, curse and shove a little girl, and I grieved, because how does a little one know to behave that way, unless he sees it acted out in front of him by the adults in his life?  I listened as one young man, just newly turned away from dealing dope, told me his dreams, his hopes of getting his GED and then learning heating and air-conditioning or welding, of building a new life for himself, clean, sober, and giving glory to the One who saved him.  I hugged and hugged and hugged, people like me, and people who, I confess, I might be tempted to cross the street to avoid in my everyday life.  I wrapped my arms around people whose history and way of life was a complete mystery to me, and I talked to my Jesus, out loud, on their behalf.  I looked into eyes and I saw them fill, with tears and with hope.  And, in the process, through all of that, through what I saw and heard and did, I could feel my soul expanding, right before my very eyes.


I thought about it later.  7 Bridges bills itself as an organization that reaches out to the lost and broken of Atlanta and beyond, and welcomes the help of any and all who wish to participate in that mission.  We kind of naturally classify who falls into which category: the poor and homeless and downtrodden fall under the "lost and broken" heading and church-goers and families and civic groups fall under the "helper" heading.  As I watched some of those church-goers, though, a different picture started to emerge.  I saw in their faces some of the same discomfort and awkwardness that I felt, and I saw eagerness and excitement start to dawn as they too began to realize the mighty power of God that we as believers can so easily take for granted and what that power can do in lives that so desperately need Him.  It got me thinking - maybe what 7 Bridges is doing is much, much bigger than just ministering to the hungry, literally speaking.  Maybe, in addition, they're providing an opportunity for those of us who have maybe gotten a little complacent in our walks to get "on fire" again, to open our eyes to what The Lord is ready and willing to do, even in our own lives.  So everybody gets fed, really.  Some get lunch and a hug and an opportunity to meet their Creator for the first time, and some get a chance to fall in love with their Savior all over again.  That's a pretty good day's work, I'd say.

I will say this much, and I say this especially to those of you reading this who are, like me, blessed to live a wonderful, prosperous, comfortable life serving Jesus.  There is a big, big, hurting, dying world out there that is starving to know the true and living God.  I've never been so thankful for the blessing of having known Him all of my life, for having learned his ways since I was a child, and for the truth of his Word.  I've also never felt such a burden to share the good news, because this world needs it, bad.  And I understand more than ever before that sharing that good news might involve some discomfort and a willingness to step outside one's bubble of security.  What good is the Gospel if we only tell it to ourselves and to people who look and sound and smell just like us?

I don't know where this road will lead, but I know that if I follow Him, it will be glorious.
 

Southern Charm

It's been awhile since I posted about a particular restaurant; I guess that's in part because I haven't eaten at many places lately that I felt passionate about.  Either that, or I forget to take pictures, and who wants a big, long, wordy post with nothing else to look at?  (Although I was kind of impressed with Sal's Deli, here in town - they serve a pretty mean sandwich.)

Seriously, though, I'm kind of in love with Southern Charm Kitchen at the moment.  I remember hearing about them back when they opened a couple of years ago, but didn't get around to trying the place right away, and then I kind of forgot about it.  (Side note: they're owned by the same people who own Reggae Shack.  You usually start to lose me once you start to talk about multiple locations; I equate a restaurant empire with profits and appealing to the masses, neither of which tend to contribute to what makes a restaurant amazing, unfortunately.  These people seem to break that mold, though, at least so far.  Both restaurants are great.  I hear an Indian restaurant is in the works, now, too.)

Anyway, I first stopped in there with Anna (she of Puerto Rico fame) a couple of months ago.  I was utterly blown away by the chicken and waffles, the lemon squall (a pretty fabulous homemade lemonade and pineapple juice concoction) and the pimento cheese burger.  (Relax.  I didn't order all of that.  I just believe in plate sharing.)

I kept meaning to drag Marc and Anita there; I just had this gut suspicion they would like it.  Tonight turned out to be the night.  I do believe my gut suspicion was right.  

We started out with appetizers - a fried green tomato and pimento goat cheese tart and some sweet potato fritters.  To be honest, it wasn't a great start - they were out of the first couple of menu items we asked about, the phyllo pastry tasted a little freezer-burnt, and the fritters came out looking almost burnt black.  False alarm on the fritters, though; they tasted just fine - a little bit of onion and a crisp, shattery crust tempered nicely by a bit of a brown sugar counterpoint.

After that small disappointment, we started moving in a more positive direction.  The smoked turkey chowder was pretty good, and the sweet tea was just right.  Then our entrees hit the table.

Roasted chicken drizzled with caramel, black-eyed peas and caramelized pork belly (gosh, I love caramel) and mac and cheese better than what I can make in my own kitchen, and THAT is saying something, let me tell you.  

This girl raved and raved about how much she loved her Pentecostal fried chicken sandwich.  This girl does not rave and rave about food very often.  Just saying.  (And, frankly, how can something named Pentecostal fried chicken not be good?)  In addition, the author of this blog post did some serious fry-snitching.  The sweet/salty Cajun spice they sprinkle on those things has addictive qualities.  

This lady went with the Cheating Pig - a gloriously messy mix of pulled pork and corned beef.

Then there was the oxtail with mashed potatoes and gravy and okra - I really liked the oxtail.  It was beefy, but with an extra kick of meat flavor.

I like her.  A lot.

There's still a lot more on that menu I want to try.  The liver and onions... meatloaf... ribs... coconut mint julep... cake... apple dumplings...  My mouth is watering and I'm still full.  Yeah, I'll be back there. 

Oh, and I forgot to mention.  The ambience is pretty cool.  Mason jar lighting, old implements on the walls, and a positively glorious B.B. King soundtrack.  The only sad thing is the location - it's kind of off the beaten path - my guess is that the residents in the immediate vicinity probably find it a little too highbrow, and the restaurant's target clientele might not automatically find themselves in the neighborhood of a weekend night.  Sad, because they're so worth visiting.  Frankly, I admire what the owners appear to be trying to do; I sincerely hope they succeed.  I know I'll gladly do my little bit to support them, as long as they feed me as well as they do!

P.S.  Second undrinkable Starbucks drink in a row.  I've had it.  Off to Elliano's I go.  And trust me, this girl spends a chunk of change on coffee these days.  I wonder if and when Starbucks corporate will wake up and realize what incompetence is costing them.

How to Spend a Fall Saturday

This weekend was a spectacular one, the kind I live for all year long.  Blue skies, a bit of bite to the air, trees beginning to display their fall costumes...  At least it was such in Atlanta, which is where I spent mine.  Andrew was scheduled to spend the weekend competing in a barbecue competition, so Katie and I made plans to knock around together.

The competition took place in Rome, maybe an hour or so west of where Katie lives, and was part of the festivities surrounding an air show .  The combination of barbecue and the USAF Thunderbirds was a hard one to resist, but we did decide to take the scenic route, so to speak, in getting there.  We had to pass near Woodstock (a really cute little town I've been made aware of through a business associate), so we decided to stop in and poke around for a couple of hours.

Our first stop was breakfast at J. Christopher's.  I'd been a model calorie citizen all week long; time to fall off the wagon in a big way!

Granola added to pancakes?  Genius!

After breakfast, it was time to grab coffee and explore.  My opinion of the town?  Let me put it this way, it's literally the perfect girls' day venue.  Very small, really only two main streets downtown, but the shops are fantastic.  I'll be honest, I get really bored really fast with downtowns that are jammed with boutique after boutique filled with Vera Bradley bags, expensive candles, cocktail napkins with witty sayings on them, polka-dotted signs, and pre-packaged pasta and olive oil gift sets.  Can you picture the kind of store I'm talking about?  Yes, those.  This little hamlet is different - think lots of fashion, but at a price point that us normal people can get behind, with a smattering of coffee shops, yoga studios, hippie art nests, independent bookstores, and yes, an olive oil and vinegar shop, just to keep it real.  I spent way too much money but at least I came home with tons of cute shopping bags...

 

I am a SUCKER for cool logos.

Cute, no?  And see what I mean about the day?  I get intoxicated just looking at it.

Katie could hardly handle this place...

No, this is not a figment of your imagination.  Pure awesome on wheels.

Because I found this hilarious.  How cool would it be to have this nonchalantly hanging on your wall?

We stopped in at the Vienna hot dog place, where Kate grabbed a chili dog before we hit the road.

Stomachs full and bank accounts depleted, it was time to head west towards Rome.  We parked at the Braves stadium (do you know how many years it's been since I watched a baseball game?  Something about walking past the ball fields gave me a powerful nostalgic urge...) and rode the shuttle to the festival grounds (accompanied by a little boy who said "Airplane!" approximately 19,875 times...).

I got a huge bang out of this guy's shirt.

The festival was everything you'd ever want it to be.  I think sometimes that if I were ever asked to present America in a nutshell to a visitor, I would want to take them to one of our small-town festivals.  They so perfectly encapsulate who and what we as Americans are, replete as they are with human beings of all shapes and colors and sizes (because, yes, heavyset is very much a part of our national identity), families in all of their various configurations, food - terribly unwholesome but in such abundance, games and noise and bright colors and music and shouting; so many, many things to see and opportunities to be entertained...  Somehow, I always feel a sense of pride and patriotism when I end up at shindigs like this.  Sure, we have our flaws; irritable parents yell at wailing, overheated children; clueless ignoramuses stand chewing on their fried turkey legs like zombies, right smack in the middle of the path of oncoming vehicles; trash cans overflow and lines are long and traffic gets snarled, and yet... I can't help but think that there isn't another place on Earth where we can gather in places like this, without fear of being attacked, or of going without; where, even though we might not like the jerk who cut us off in line, or we may not want a fried Oreo, at least we can coexist in relative peace, and hey, there's always fried cheesecake at the next food stall.  I know we as a nation are far from perfect, and hey, I even admit that we're walking down the wrong, wrong path and it won't always be this way, but I'm not too proud to say that I'm grateful for the security, the comfort and the prosperity that have been my birthright as an American.

Anyway.

ANNNNNDDDD, speaking of patriotism!  I FINALLY got to see the USAF Thunderbirds in REAL LIFE!  Why all the caps?  Let me explain it this way: when I was about 13, I wanted to be a fighter pilot (well, either that or an astronaut.  Nope, neither one happened).  These guys in their sexy F-16's and cool uniforms were the epitome of heroes to my starstruck teen self's way of thinking.

My 35-year-old self didn't exactly fall prostrate in adoration, but it was still pretty cool.  And I did feel a sense of pride at being a citizen of the most powerful nation in the world, one that can afford to send out some of the most sophisticated war-making machines in the world today, just to give its people a good show, and yet is pretty good-natured, in spite of all of that.  Anyway.  Enough patriotism already.

 

Awwww.......

Got to eat some darn good barbecue, too!  (I bought it from a vendor; barbecue competitions are not really about feeding the masses so much as impressing the judges, which is really dumb, in my opinion.)  I also got to meet Randy and Kirsten and their buddies and  their babies, and try some of Randy's (shriveled but delectable) grilled sausage, all of which was terrific fun.

The sky-writer's message to the long lines of shuttle-riders waiting below...  Hey, don't worry, be happy!!!

Great as these things are, after awhile, you've seen what there is to see, and it's time to move on.  Kate and I headed back to Alpharetta, but it was a fall weekend in North Georgia, so the festivities weren't over yet...

We detoured into downtown Alpharetta to join the second annual Wire & Wood songwriters' festival.  Food trucks plus nerdy intellectuals playing guitar and singing complicated songs equals good times.

A couple of bowls overloaded with potatoes and brisket and horseradish sauce plus a pecan pie and praline later, and we were both downright hashed.  It was a pretty straight line from there to the prostrate position, and blissful unconsciousness.  All being said, I couldn't have asked for a nicer Saturday.

Estuvimos en Puerto Rico! (Day 4)

Okay, I admit it, I took a sabbatical from blogging.  Bad case of the "I don't want to's".  I did learn something about trip blogging, though: if you want to document your journey, do it in the moment.  If you wait until you come home, it starts to feel unpleasantly similar to homework, and I am unapologetically in the middle of a no-homework semester, so....

But anyway, I'm back, and I'm going to do my best to finish the Puerto Rico trip out because a) I want to remember as much as I can, and b) hey, it was a complete gas, and I would be selfish to keep all of the fun to myself!

So, on to Sunday.  Off in the distance, I heard the sound of Anna's alarm, and then Anna leaving the condo for a run; I opted to continue sleeping.  No matter, though; about the time she returned, breathing hard and dripping sweat, I was comfortably emerging from my slumber, well-rested and far more coherent and sociable than I had been a few hours earlier.  (It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who wins the discipline award on this trip.)

Our original plan had been to head to San Cristobal Canyon and do some exploring, but, after talking it over, we decided to adjust the schedule a bit, and turn Sunday into a little bit more of a chill day.  (Funny how kicking back and swaying in a hammock for awhile will do that to a person...)

First things, first, we loaded up in Bill and Kim's minivan and headed towards breakfast, singing as we went.  We stopped at a little bakery/coffee shop in Fajardo and ordered our first course - eggs, toast, coffee, you know, that sort of thing.  It was Sunday morning and the place was hopping, so we ended up sitting in this little alcove off of the main dining room.  It was kind of an empty room with tiled floors and nothing but a few chairs and tables, and the acoustics were awesome, so...  Let me pause and mention that I absolutely ADORED traveling with the sort of people who sing as they go.  It's really hard to put into words the deep soul-satisfaction I find when I get to lift my voice in harmony with my companions, whether it's cruising down the road or waiting for breakfast to be served in a crowded restaurant.  I don't quite know how to explain it, but mere conversation just can't match this connection that happens through music.  Without a doubt, the world would be a better place if that sort of thing happened more often.

Breakfast?  Check.  Next stop?  Panaderia.  (No, I'm not kidding.)  I didn't get a picture, which is really sad, because we walked out of that place with a box full of sugar coma-inducing pastries, which we proceeded to devour immediately.  One flaky, buttery, dulce de leche-filled concoction later, and my body was cheerfully informing me that I had apparently lost my mind.

We headed towards Naguabo, a little town on the east coast of the island, maybe an hour or so from San Juan.  Bill and Kim had recently discovered the place, a little diamond-in-the-rough of a village.  It's a fishing community - we saw more than one pescaderia, promising fish as fresh as the ocean just a few feet from the door.  Farm-to-table is no avant-garde concept here, just a way of life as old as the hills, although frying everything in sight is still the sadly predominant food preparation of choice.

The town's in a unique situation.  Its economy was supported in years past by a United States military base, which recently closed, leaving the town struggling to survive.  What you're left with are some really nice homes, situated on hillsides looking out over some of the most beautiful views on the island, co-existing alongside a lot of poverty and disrepair.  The upside to all of this is some serious opportunity for those in the market for real estate bargains.  We engaged in a lot of stimulating discussion about what could happen if this little town, with its breathtaking vistas and depressed property values, were discovered.  It would be the creative set, we agreed, that could make it happen; imagine writers and programmers and artists looking for somewhere to escape and chill out.  Like attracts like, and next thing you know, you have a thriving community congregating around beautiful surroundings, cool architecture, peace and quiet, and affordable prices.  Makes for heady conversation, anyway.  That, and the sorry state of the island's culture, education and economy at large, which we found ourselves discussing in depth with the animated, bicycle-riding gentleman we stopped to ask directions of on the side of the road.  I love how a quick question at an intersection can turn into a sweeping, passionate discourse on the Puerto Rican psyche itself, complete with websites, email swaps, and promises of future interactions.

Seriously! Check out that architecture!

In any case, it was a lot of fun to poke around; we stopped and visited with one of Bill and Kim's new acquaintances, who invited us to his back porch so we could see his spectacular view and then loaded us up with avocados from the tree in his yard, we stopped at an almost-deserted sports bar for fruit smoothies, and we walked around the drowsy main street for a bit, browsing the makeshift market tables set up along the waterfront, selling everything from jewelry to bootleg CD's and movies (it broke my heart that we couldn't communicate with the little girl who came up to us and repeatedly tried to tell us...something...in rapid-fire Spanish).

It was mid-afternoon and we had church tonight, so we headed back towards San Juan, with a quick stop at a nice little gift shop in Fajardo for souvenirs.  We parted company in Condado - Bill & Kim headed home for a bit and Anna and I went out in search of something to eat.  (This is starting to get embarrassing.)  We ended up at Pinky's for smoothies and wraps - after a few days of nothing but fried food and sweets, fruit, raw tuna and veggies felt pretty virtuous.  Plus, it was just really cool to sit outside on the sidewalk, just outside the reach of the rain, leisurely observing the hustle and bustle of downtown San Juan.  This was one of those moments when I told myself that I could get used to living in a big city, at least part-time.  Walk out the front door and around the block to pop in on the folks and grab some weird tea and song practice, back out and around the corner for lunch and then coffee, and then stroll back home to clean up and dress up before heading out to church.  All easy-breezy, and no car needed.  Nice.

Church was heavenly, just heavenly.  I haven't worshipped with many believers outside of my own congregation, so, for me, to sit in a room filled with people who I'd never met before, who barely speak my language, and yet who are my next of kin in that they love and serve the same Lord that I do was so incredibly special.  We had the opportunity to participate in the service - Bill preached and we all sang, and to look out over those precious faces and see them worshipping my Jesus, gosh, it was amazing.  I've never been hugged and kissed so much in my life, never felt such an immediate sense of welcome - I walked away that night with a whole new family to call my own.  Anna and I ended up in the alley next to the church, singing with Ryan and Keila and Aby and Mia, accompanied by Anna on the guitar, and as we pulled ourselves away, their dad called out to me that now I had to come back to Puerto Rico; that his babies had stolen a piece of my heart.  He was right.  I'll be back to see Aby and taste her cooking and hear about Keila's big dreams for when she grows up.

Aby.

Keila.

I think we were on a little bit of a high, coming away from that wonderful experience.  We stopped at Seaweed, just around the corner from Bill and Kim's place, for some late-night sushi and edamame and a chance to hash over the evening's events, and then it was off to a good night's sleep again.

Sorry Kim, awkward angle.  But pretty amuse-bouche, no?

Nice presentation!  (It was late.  My already shaky photography skills were going to pot.)

My dear friends. You share these experiences, with folks; it starts to create a real bond.