On Fritters and Faith

Donut Palace RAN OUT of donuts yesterday, thereby thwarting my apple fritter craving, or more to the point, denying me the satisfaction of fulfilling said craving.  To be fair, it was after noon when Jimmy, Ashley and I pulled up to the door and absorbed the absence of sweetness in the air, the darkened neon OPEN light and the neatly printed sign on the glass door alerting us late-rising customers to their non-problem.  I mean, what business doesn't want to completely sell out of product in a day?!
 
Fortunately, I'm not given to surrendering after only one attempt.  So, this morning I was up bright and early, after . . .

OHHHHHHH, ANOTHER DENVER TOUCHDOWN!!!  WE ARE PAST THE TWO-MINUTE WARNING.  PEYTON MANNING AND HIS MERRY MEN HAVE TROMPED ALL OVER THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS IN THE 2012 SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL SEASON OPENER.  WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAM IN PROGRESS.

. . . after four hours of sleep, for round two with Donut Palace.  Needless to say, the early customer gets the fritter!  In this case, two apple fritters, four jelly-filled, six glazed, a dozen holes and a sausage croissant.  We'll get back to that meat-filled pastry in a moment.


An older gentleman entered the store while I was paying for my wide-and-fried treasure.  He perused the product behind the glass and then stood to ask me, "Is that your dog out there in the truck?"  Of course, I answered in the affirmative.  "You got yourself a handsome hound," he declared.  I thanked him several times over, an inordinately wide grin practically splitting my face in two.  As if I had anything to do with Hank's good looks.  I mean, he wasn't even spawned from my gene pool like the three handsome human children I once toted around everywhere in my car.  But the sense of pleasure and pride I feel still resonates.  After all, his training and diet and exercise contribute to his overall health and that is reflected in his form, for sure.  And all that love and attention heaped upon him surely affects his carriage and demeanor.  Happy, well-cared-for pets do exude a certain confidence that is infectious.  But I'm really digressing now.

Though I didn't personally know that man, I admire his generation.  Somehow, his delivery, the feeling behind his words, the sparkle in his eyes, the culmination of these things, led me to believe he knew dogs.  That he probably had one or two in his past, maybe even in his boyhood, and they meant something to him.  Taught him life lessons.  Offered him companionship.  Maybe accompanied him hunting or fishing or farming or camping.  Stood by his side in the rain.  Or sat beside him in the cab of his truck.  Memories that trumped even "Old Yeller" or "Where The Red Fern Grows."  Because of all of this, this instant awareness in the space of seconds, his opinion meant a great deal to me.  Until he paid this compliment to both me and my overgrown, iPhone-eating, ball-chasing, white-haired pup, I didn't know I even needed, or wanted, this stranger's approval.  His words were every bit as rewarding as my fritter victory!

Now back to that sausage croissant.  Today was my pastor's birthday.  Rodney Edwards.  He also happens to be the husband of one of my Earth Diva gal-pals, Gayla.  I consider him a friend first and pastor second.  Overall, he's simply a regular good guy of extraordinary character.  (He would disagree.  That's part of his character.)  Now, friend or not, unless you are one of my children, I won't remember your birthday.  (Though after two years of forgetting, the fact that me and Val, another Earth Diva, share the same birthday is finally ingrained in my memory.)  My husband informed me that Facebook had informed him of Rodney's birthday.  Last night.  Well, more like midnight.  And to my way of thinking, such a day can NOT go unnoticed.

Most folks are unaware that Rodney actually sleeps.

I first set about proclaiming to the entire social network kingdom within my domain the news I had learned.  Then, I ran through my collection of cards, searching for THE ONE which said it all.  Such a one did not exist.  So, I picked two.  And then I proceeded to say it all as only I can.  Finally, the selection of a gift.  Something meaningful.  Memorable.  Unusual.  And already in the house.  Now, Rodney enjoys pork in his diet.  At one time, much more than was probably good for his arteries.  Gayla does not consume pork under any name.  I have a cute little green piggy bank which I thought I could gift with a clever label saying, "For the man who's saved our bacon more than once."  Because Rodney gives of his time, advice, energy, experience and wisdom to those who profess need.  And my family has had a few emotional and spiritual needs over the years since we've attended Church at Cross Point and known Rodney.  Not to mention how much has encouraged my friendship with his wife -- that's been a definite lifesaver to me, MANY a time.  But I settled upon one of the rocks I hauled back down that little hill I climbed last weekend.  A flat palm-sized stone.  Shimmery with minerals.  Black and white with shades of dark grey.  Distinctive.  A bit like my initial impressions of Rodney, minus the shimmer.  And the symbolism of such a memento would not be lost on him.  I think I made the right choice.  Since I couldn't bake, the sausage-stuffed treat sufficed as his birthday cake.  An unlit candle and birthday song ala Cross Pointers topped it all off.  Oh, and my daughter, Sarah, called from Germany via FaceTime to wish him a happy birthday.  A definite highlight.

At this point, while finding all of this touchy-feely stuff nice and all, you must be wondering how Hank fits into all of this.  Besides the fact that Hank is allowed three donut holes whenever I allow my fritter attacks to result in a trip to the Donut Palace.

Well, while Rodney and I enjoy a big brother-little sister . . . wait, scratch that . . . MUCH OLDER brother-younger sister relationship . . . yeah, that works . . . and enjoy antagonizing one another on Facebook and at church and while eating frozen yogurt, there was a time when he thoroughly intimidated me.  Not intentionally.  But because of my fear and perceptions.  My worry that as a founder and elder of  the small church we'd been attending for a year, he might see right through me and find my faith lacking.  My belief wanting.  My Christian legs were unsteady.  He might knock them right out from beneath me.  And my faith, while wounded, had been nursed for years in the hope of possible revival at some point down the road.

One day, I took a chance and joined a Bible study before church.  Yes, Rodney led the group.  For weeks, I sat on my hands and listened.  Read passages when asked.  And then the morning arrived when I spoke.  Such a simple thing.  So basic to my personality.  No one looked at me as if I had sprouted horns.  In fact, they listened much as I had.  Even responded.  This went on for a couple weeks more.  Finally, in true open-Gloria fashion, I gave voice to my fears about my faith and how 'real' and regular church-goers might see it.  I noted the way in which I arrived at a deep love and belief in Christ which seemed to dovetail with what I was hearing in the circle of people at the study though they had traversed a more traditional route to Calvary.  If I wasn't crying by that point, I know I was close.

By then, I'd observed enough about Rodney to understand his heart.  His humor.  His true passion for the truth as taught by Jesus.  At least in part.  So, when he replied to my outpouring of all that inner turmoil and debate, it knocked me for a good long loop.  "You know, Gloria," he has a habit of entering into deep territory by opening with those two words -- you know -- though it's also a handy segue way for zingers and one-liners, "I've learned something from you and your life about Christ and how He comes for us . . . "  There was more.  Much more.  More said in the space of a verbal paragraph than could ever be told here.  More than I am capable of remembering verbatim and therefore don't want to sully by encapsulating in written recollection-shorthand.

The point is I needed, I wanted, to know that my faith was real, visible to other believers, and Rodney somehow had been appointed the lightning rod (no pun intended, though he'd love it) for that necessity.  Much like my feeling about that older gentleman at the pastry counter, and his likely history with dogs, I perceived within Rodney an affinity for genuine openness before a Lord we both desire to worship and know and please regardless of our failings.  So when he uttered those words, they shot straight and true to that place where my wounded faith awaited resuscitation, and they breathed life.  Through him, my love for Christ had been validated.  Not BY him, but THROUGH him, through the learning he had allowed to take place in his heart, mind and spirit.

And that, folks, is as nice as I want to get concerning old man Rodney Edwards.  His birthday ended half an hour ago.  I'm sure the Aspen frozen yogurt to which I treated him is arriving at the end of the digestive process.  (Is there another pun there?)  Though I may consider him a spiritual giant in the realm of faith, he's a handsome but goofy older brother sporting glasses, a purple tie and a subdued white-man's afro on this earthly plain.  Outside of his transparency concerning himself and his faith, the fact that he married Gayla . . . way back before he even knew that he'd been so fortunate as to stumble into the good graces of a bonafide Earth Diva . . . speaks volumes about the man.  That and his kids.

  (A photo of Christmas presents from the Valdez Bunch, as I took none today!)

But that's an entry for another day.