On Comparison

When we compare ourselves to others we deprive ourselves of the freedom in originality.

Envy fails to give God credit for what He has and what He will do in our lives.

No two paths are alike. And if they are, one is not authentic.

Who are we to tell God what He can and cannot, what He will or will not do?

Christmas Time

It's been a while. Sorry bout that. The show's going well, but leaving little time for blogging, since on my days off, I'm trying to make more money and spending it Christmas shopping. I'm paid to do the show, but, well, let's just say my paycheck leaves much to be desired, or much to be NEEDED...you know, for rent and nonessential things like that. But all is well! All is well. 'Tis the season for yuletide and carols, and the city is the best place to be in a season such as this. My Christmas season has truly begun. Yesterday we went to see the Rockettes with my parents, who are in town to see my show. And see my show, they did. Twice, in fact, because on Saturday night I got to go on as "Violet," which was nerve racking and fun all at the same time. So they came again on Sunday to see me in the ensemble. The Rockettes were really great. We saw the 75th anniversary Christmas Spectacular show, and it was quite enjoyable.What is it about girls kicking in a straight line that's so cool, and who figured that out? It was a full day with the parents yesterday. Brunch at Good Enough To Eat, one of our favorite restaurants down the street, a quick cab ride to Radio City Music Hall for a chance at getting into the 2 o'clock show, success, lots of sparkle and lots of leg, a warming cup of hot chocolate, a last minute trip to the Museum of Modern Art, where artists attempt to prove how inanimate objects arranged in puzzling formations is art, a brisk walk to Rockefeller Center to see the tree, dinner at Virgil's Barbecue (Oh yum), dessert at Nonna's, then back home to play two games of Scrabble, the first of which I came in second to my father, and the second of which I whupped major heinie, especially that of my dear husband, which is saying something because he ALWAYS beats me in Scrabble. ALWAYS. But NO LONGER. I am the champion.

And my show was reviewed by the New York Times. The picture below is from the article. The reviewer liked the cast and the new theater, but didn't think the show measured up to the movie. I get that. But come on. Everyone knows that nothing can measure up to the movie. Get real. Listen to the story. It's told well, and it's a life-changing story. And in my opinion, the music is really good. Resembles Sondheim. Great lyrics. But it's a critic's job, so whatever. Here's the article.


I'm the first girl from right to left. You can see my little head directly above the guy kneeling.

A Wonderful Life

My show opened this past weekend. I've had Monday through Wednesday off, a needed break after an intense rehearsal schedule with techs and dress. Back to it tomorrow. We've got a big week this week with double shows on Saturday and Sunday, so 6 shows in 4 days. I'm loving it!

I have a fantastic cast. Not only are they all extremely talented, they are sincere and kind people. I've become close friends with many of them and look forward to seeing everyone again on Thursday. Here's a couple of pics.

At the high school dance. I'm on the left. We have a really fun Charleston number in these costumes.

Here we are as angels. (Go ahead and laugh.) We surround Clarence the "angel second class" as he dreams of getting his wings. Again, I'm on the left. Nice Carol Channing wigs, huh?

So that's what I've been doing. I'll post more pics as I get them. I'm relying on everyone else because I no longer have a camera.

Belonging

Today, amidst a bout of discouragement and self-pity, I remembered I hadn't prayed. I silently prayed the Lord's prayer.

Heavenly Father, hallowed be Thy name
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven

That's as far as I got. I thought on that phrase alone. By those words I remembered I belong to Him. That my reality must be set within that frame of mind, within the kingdom of God. When I live a reality of belonging to my Creator, the rest makes sense, and the inward glare of despair turns outward into the unseen world around me, and that which is seen is seen by the light of that invisible yet tangible kingdom. There I can rest in knowing that I am His and not this world's. There I find peace. Comfort. Joy. Relief.

There I let go of that which I think I need, and I see what I have. I see what others don't have, but what they need. Most of all I feel known by God, and kept. Kept safe. Kept right. Kept and loved. From where I sit, this place feels more alone, but less lonely. More vivid. More clear.

And full. So much more full.

Caution: Proactive Provides Damaging Solutions

This is the stuff I use to wash my face. As you can very well see, Jessica Simpson uses it, too. At least she says she does. At least she makes bazookoos of money saying she does. But, I'm wondering...does it bleach Jessica's eyebrows, too?

A curious phenomenom is occurring on my face. The very top of my eyebrows (usually brown, naturally to match my hair) are turning bleach blond. But it's just the top of my eyebrows. So right now my eyebrows are somewhat two-toned.

I first noticed this about two months ago when talking to Seth. As he pretended to listen to me ramble on about whatever, his focus kept shifting from my eyes to my eyebrows. I finally stopped to ask.

"What are you looking at?"

Seth furrowed his own brow, ultimately perplexed. "Your eyebrows are changing colors."

"My eyebrows are changing colors?"

He studied my eyebrows intensely. "Yeah, just the top."

"What?" I reached for the mirror in my bag. "Oh, weird. Yeah, they're changing colors. Maybe's its the way the sun hits them in New York when I have my sunglasses on." (Hey, it was the best I could come up with.)

I resumed telling my story, but not without intermittent pauses as I waited while Seth sat distracted by my eyebrows.

Then, as I talked to my mom on a recent visit to Oklahoma, she stopped me mid-sentence and moved closer to examine my face.

"Amber, did you know your eyebrows are changing colors?" she asked, quite concerned. Then she laughed.

"OK. This is ridiculous. Yes, I know my eyebrows are changing colors. Is it that bad?"

Later my mom called. She had an idea. What if my facewash that I've been using for the past...oh...6 years or so has been accidentally getting into my eyebrows all this time, and now the effects are showing. And sure enough, as I washed my face that night, I saw that my facewash has been dripping into the top of my eyebrows...for 6 years!

So I'm wondering if Jessica has this problem, too, and what she's doing to remedy it. I don't want to change my facewash. I like it. It works. But I can't go walking around with two-toned eyebrows. Jessica, you're the only one who can help. Save me. What do I do?

In My Kitchen, part II

Our super came today and sealed holes around the piping in the cabinets underneath the sink. And he set a trap.

Now see, this causes another problem. If Mickey gets caught in the trap, you're crazy if you think I'm touching that thing to throw it out the window, or kill it like my father-in-law does, by STOMPING on it. Uh-uh. No sirrree. And Seth's out of town. (Of course, I have to see the dadgum mouse when he's out of town.)

So I've remedied the problem. My next door neighbor has agreed to deal with it if I catch Mickey.

My next door neighbor's 18 and just out of high school. I think he hates me now for asking because I could see in his face that he was just being nice. Oh well. I'm very thankful for his manners, and I hope he doesn't hate me. He's a really great kid who's on Broadway, actually. He hasn't been working for the past few days, though, because of the stagehand strike. Most Broadway has gone dark, if you haven't read it in the papers. So since he has so much free time, I've requested he rid me of my mouse.

Let's all just hope Mickey decides not to visit again. For his sake and mine, and my next door neighbor's.

In My Kitchen

I just saw a mouse peek its little head out from beneath the kitchen sink.

A MOUSE.

In my kitchen.

Dad friggin gummit.

At the Diner

Today I tried Matzah Ball soup.

I traded it in for French Onion.

Hey. I tried.

What to say

It's not that I don't want to blog. It's that I'm having a hard time figuring out what to say.

My life now consists of auditioning and babysitting. And now rehearsing. I'm taking a break from auditioning (thank the good Lord above) because I booked a show. Woo hoo! It's a Wonderful Life, the musical. Didn't know that was a musical till I auditioned for it. I'll be understudying the role of Violet. She's the trampish character (modestly trampish, more like excessively flirtatious). Remember from the movie? George Bailey gives her money, but she selflessly returns it in the end. Rehearsals start tomorrow.

The babysitting is calling forth my maternal instinct, which has since been buried deep under discontent and nomadic tendencies. But the biological clock is ticking away, ticking, ticking away, and I actually told Seth we have to be in a position to have children in a year.

I quickly reconsidered, and sanity (or is it insanity?) resumed its place in the forefront of my mind.

I'm reading Jane Eyre and have fallen in love with it.

I'm editing a book for my Renaissance man of a husband, who just decides one day that he wants to write a novel, and so does. And it's the funniest thing I've ever read....ever.

And I'm trying to figure out how to fit my blender and good set of knives into my new kitchen down the hall from my old kitchen, and counting the days until my dad comes again to hang more shelves. He's the greatest shelf hanger of all time. Seth can write a novel but doesn't really like hanging shelves.

Last but not least, I had the worst audition of my life today. The worst...ever. Synopsis: "Mean casting director is relentlessly harsh and condescending to a flustered auditionee." First layer of thick skin applied...moving on.

Defeating God?

I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of wrestling with God and man. I’m tired.

Jacob wrestled with God and what did Jacob receive? No answer, but a new name, and a blessing. For fighting with God. Is that weird to anyone else? That Jacob, in a sense, overcame God. It feels disrespectful to write. But that’s what it says: “because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.” That Jacob won and got what he wanted. “I will not let you go until you bless me.” God gave in, I suppose. He didn’t actually change His will to fit Jacob’s demand, because God had already promised Jacob a blessing. But he gave up the fight and did what Jacob asked. Jacob walked away with a blessing and a limp.

Then why did God wrestle? Why was it necessary? If God was just going to give in eventually, why put Jacob to the test at all?

Perhaps to see how badly Jacob needed God’s blessing, that which could come from God, not from man or personal, inner strength. To see how much Jacob needed answers. How much would Jacob give to hear from God? How long would he persevere to obtain God’s promise?

Just thoughts after the sermon this morning and a lazy afternoon. It was a fight to move to this city and now it’s a fight to stay. Seems like you fight your way through the day sometimes.

But while we wrestle every day with man, in a sense we’ve “defeated” God, and been given the blessing we so desperately seek: to see God and live. He’s given up the fight on the cross. He, through Jesus Christ, has taken the beating for us and from us, but has left us with an injured hip. We walk with a limp, but will one day be restored completely. We serve a merciful God, full of grace and overwhelming goodness, who gave in to the demands of the law for us, so that we might live.

Blogpology

We are internet-less again. Will be a bad blogger for the next week or so until we can sort out our lives again. Bummer.

Apartment Saga: Eviction

We only thought the apartment saga was over. Check it out.

I Missed My Church Today

We meant to get up for church this morning. Wanted to make the 11 AM service at St. Thomas, an Episcopal church at 53rd and 5th Ave. We have visited there twice now, and find ourselves craving more of the liturgy and choral Mass. But we were out late last night at a friend's party where we played "Catch Phrase" and "Taboo" until way too late. So we missed the morning service and tried to make the Evensong 4 PM service. But the subways ran so behind that it took us an hour to get there, making us entirely too late. We ended up not going, and instead made the night service at Redeemer Presbyterian where they did a very weirded-out-meter jazz arrangement of "In Christ Alone" that required way too much thought toward how to sing the melody, the very reason why I think worship and jazz don't quite work together. But hey, that's just me.

As I struggled to sing a complex rhythm to a hymn whose beauty should be found in its simplicity, I missed my church in Houston and I missed my friends there. I missed singing the simple rhythm of a beautiful hymn and being moved together toward holiness in a way that is familiar to me. And that's when I finally understood why tradition is important, and why some church members and leaders fear change and resist it. Why some people like to sing from the book and not off the wall. And that I've judged certain people who enjoy what's comfortable. Maybe not out loud, but in my thoughts, but maybe out loud, too.

I missed what was comfortable and wanted so badly to just sing the hymn the right way. Just sing it the way it was written. Because that's the way I knew it. But I noticed people around me worshipping and singing and meaning it. And I realized that this was how they knew it.

For some reason, it felt good to miss my church. It must have been the sense of belonging. Or maybe it's because I had something that was good, and it feels good to have had it. Feels good to get that what I had was good. I'm not sure we always get it. But anyway,

I missed my church today.

City Sights

This is the life.

What's Your Name?

Saw this on 4andcounting's blog and couldn't resist.

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME:
(first pet & current car)

Tyra Ford

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME:
(fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie)

Mint Chocolate Chip Chocolate Chip

3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME:
(first letter of first name, first three letters of last name)

Awar

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME:
(favorite color, favorite animal)

Red Dog

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME:
(middle name, city where you were born)

Christina Moore

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME:
(the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first)

WarAm

7. SUPERHERO NAME:
(”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink)

The Green Mojito

8. NASCAR NAME:
(the first names of your grandfathers)

Skeeter Floyd

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME:
(mother’s & father’s middle names )

Jean Ross

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME:
(Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter)

Fry Florence

12. SPY NAME:
(your favorite season/holiday, flower)

Christmas Gerber Daisy

13. CARTOON NAME:
(favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”)

Apple Pajamasie

14. HIPPIE NAME:
(What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)

Bagel Magnolia

15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME:
(”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”

The Dance Breeze Tour

The Apartment Saga: The End

Continued from previous post.

I took out my hand sanitizer, shared it with Seth, and figured it couldn't get any worse than this.

Thankfully, it didn't. In fact, I found out when we got home that our next door neighbor's bathroom vent had leaked brown nastiness all over his bathroom....4 times. And Jamaican Michael had guys exterminate my neighbor's apartment, too, but they had no idea what they were doing, and sprayed all over my neighbor's new furniture and couch, ruining it. And his dishwasher malfunctioned so that the water backed up in the pipes and flooded the girl's ceiling underneath him, warping his wood floors as well. And his oven only cooked the top of the food and not the bottom, so his pizza and cookies came out well-done on top, but gooey on the bottom.

And my neighbor's apartment was the apartment we thought we were getting. Apartment A, if you remember. So, I'm thankful we didn't end up with Apartment A.

Turns out the management company got smart and hired a certified extermination company to come out and spray the ENTIRE building for bed bugs. No, Jamaican Michael was not properly certified for bed bug inspection. When the certified company searched the building, they said they found no bed bugs anywhere, and what people were finding were in fact tiny spiders that look very similar to bed bugs. So the entire first floor of our building moved out for no reason at all. I'm not sure about all that, because Fred was definitely a bed bug. I saw the tiny spiders they were talking about, and Fred looked much different than the tiny spiders, and very like the picture of the bed bug on the internet. And a guy on the first floor claimed to have been bit at least 50 times, and I don't think those tiny little spiders bite that much. But hey, a certified bed bug company sprayed, and I bought a mattress cover just in case. Hallelujah. I'm over it.

I know for sure that they sprayed because I found a cockroach lying on its back on the floor next to my couch, although I refuse to dwell on the implications of such a thing.

So my story has a happy ending. We're not going anywhere, and a bunch of this bed bug stuff might have been alot of rumors and hype.

I did find out, through this series of unfotunate events, that our building, prior to our landlord's purchase and renovation of the place, was a crack house and a whore house. Supposedly, a man was murdered on the front steps, and another died on the third floor. Fourteen people shared a studio the same size as ours. Supposedly. Supposedly our buidling was infested with bed bugs. Supposedly.

THE END

The Apartment Saga: Stella

Continued from previous post

After several silent and suspenseful seconds of intense study, Michael, with eyes cast downward looking grimly at our Fred, said softly after a quick nod:

"Dis is de bug."

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Bed bugs in our apartment the THIRD WEEK of living in Manhattan. I thought they had exterminated for those? Obviously not. No, see, what they did was SAY they would exterminate, and then they told us everything was fine, and it wasn't fine. And I was itching all over. It's amazing how sensitive your skin becomes when you imagine bugs crawling all over your body in the middle of night, sucking your blood, and then going to hide away and lay eggs.

Gross.

So, thankfully, our management company agreed to put us up in a hotel that night, while Jamaican man Michael officially exterminated. I was surprised that they agreed. If they wouldn't have agreed, we would have high tailed it out of this place. And at the time we had plans to do that very thing. I called my broker and set up an appointment the next week to look for apartments.

But an interesting thing happened.

We had a relatively nice stay at The Amsterdam Inn (which, upon arrival, I noticed the shared bathrooms and thought I might cry again. But we had a private bathroom so it was all good.) BUT. We soon realized that WE MISSED OUR LITTLE HOBBIT HOLE! The apartment with no closets and hardly any windows! It had become our home! Our neighborhood had invaded our psyche and we belonged to it and it belonged to us. We were miserable away from it. Even the pounding and the fear of bed bugs couldn't keep us away. We wanted to go back HOME.

And back home we went the next afternoon, but not before perhaps the worst of all experiences.

We were told to wait until around 5 PM to return the next day, so Seth and I spent a good bit of time in the Barnes and Noble Cafe down the street from our place. We had been pleasantly sitting and reading for an hour, when a man with two little girls sat down at the adjoining table directly to our right. The little girls were beautiful. Probably ages 5 and 3. Dark, curly hair and brown eyes. And the Dad kept calling one of them Stella and she kept calling him Papa. He sounded British.

Stella, the five year old, kept looking our way and smiling. We kept looking her way and smiling.

It was a special day for Stella and her sister. A special day because they got an oatmeal cookie at the Barnes and Noble. And an even more special day because they got hot chocolate after the oatmeal cookie. All this if they finished their vegetable pizza, which they did.

But I suppose special days have certain special consequences, because all of the sudden, Papa was leaning over Stella, asking if she felt alright. And Stella was shaking her head, no. And then Papa reached for the paper cup that just seconds ago had held the hot chocolate. And Stella leaned her little face over it. And then I turned away and heard sounds of spurting liquid hitting the bottom of a cup.

I gagged. I avoided looking. Papa said, "Are you done?" And Stella shook her head no. And then more sounds of liquid spurting into a cup. I placed my right index finger inside my right ear and stared at the laptop computer in front of me. Stella kept looking our way, embarrassed. We no longer looked her way. Smiles were gone. My face was hot. Please be done. Please be done. Papa ran to the counter for another cup. Stella panicked, and Papa made it back just in time. PLEASE be done.

Finally it was over. They left the cafe, an embarassed Papa, a crying Stella, and a confused little sister. I felt sorry for Stella and her dad. I felt sorry for myself that I couldn't go home and instead had to sit next to a puking child on a rainy day after I found a bed bug in my bed. I took out my hand sanitizer, shared it with Seth, and figured it couldn't get any worse than this.

TO BE CONTINUED (just once more)

The Apartment Saga: De Bug

So I have recently been cured of caring what other people think.

OK.

We stay with Apartment B. Our apartment building is being completely renovated, which is nice because everything is new. What's not so nice is that construction on the building continues 7 days a week. They're behind.

I go home and pack and itinerize the move. You see, itiineraries are necessary when living with an A.D.D. man. Especially when our A.D.D. friend offers to help with the move so he can bum a free trip to New York City off of us. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Couldn't have done it without him. He and Seth drove the moving truck to New York City while I flew with my parents. I'm not complaining at all.

The two A.D.D. men arrived with their itinerary earlier than scheduled, and the Super of the building (which up here is the guy that fixes everything when it breaks), who is in charge of the renovations , made all of his workers help us move our boxes up three flights of stairs. It was a good move on his part, because now, when the Hispanic men yell and scream and sing at the top of their lungs at 7 o'clock in the morning, we can't get too mad because they all made our move-in bearable. Or when they bang so hard on the floor above us that debris falls from the ceiling onto our brand new sleeper sofa, we can't get too mad. Or when we find out they're going to add a sixth floor to our building, or when they don't have the laundry facility finished downstairs so I have to haul ass with two tons laundry up a couple of blocks to the laundromat, or when we don't get our UPS mail because they haven't installed the call box by the front door, or when they turn off the water without telling us, or when they randomly decide to tinker around with the cable cords somewhere and we have no internet for a daywe try not to get too mad.

But last week came the straw that broke the camels back.

I found a bed bug in our apartment.

It was Friday morning. The night before, our next door neighbor relayed the news that a girl on the third floor thought she found a bed bug in her apartment. After the news circulating about the bed bugs on the first floor (which had been exterminated), we were beside ourselves. This meant they were crawling up the walls or were already in the walls. That was it. We were getting out of this place. We thoroughly checked our mattress and clothes and saw nothing. No bugs.

The next morning we woke up with no bites. I got out of bed, showered, and began getting ready for the day. I sat down on our bed, and already cautious of creepy crawly critters, I looked down at the sheets on which I was sitting, and lo and behold a little tick-like thing was scurrying toward me. I jumped up, cried, "Seth, Seth, Seth," pointed, and almost cried. We captured the bed bug alive and held him hostage in a plastic baggy.

We looked around for more but found none.

Nevertheless, we marched our bed bug, whom I nicknamed "Fred", around town in his plasitc baggy as we looked at new apartments, and then to our management office. We kindly demanded the immediate extermination of our apartment and a place to stay for the night. Thankfully, they took care of us. An exterminator came to our room, whose name is Michael. Michael is Jamaican. He stepped inside the hobbit hole and asked for us to show him the bug. We gave him the plastic baggy and he set it under the light, examining the specimen inside the bag. After several silent and suspenseful seconds of intense study, Michael, with eyes cast downward looking grimly at our Fred, said softly after a quick nod:

"Dis is de bug."

continuing TO BE CONTINUED

The Apartment Saga: Apartment B

Apartment B.

We signed for it on the dotted line and hadn't known it.

Brokers check? Paid.

Security deposit? Paid.

First and last month's rent? Paid.

They had our money. I had no more time. They said they would let us out of our lease, and I suppose they would have reimbursed us, but who knows! The point was we had to be out of our Houston apartment in two weeks, and I needed to come home and pack. And organize. And throw stuff away. And sell cars. And sell couches and a table and chairs. And say good-bye.

We had to make a choice. Option 1: We pay ALOT more money for happy Apartment A. Option 2: We pay more money for a bigger apartment in the same building, also moving in at a later date and therefore putting all our stuff in storage and staying with my parents in Tulsa. Option 3: I stay longer and start the process all over again, while Seth packed up all our stuff and organized and...yeah, not an option. (Sorry, my dear, but we both know you would have rather lit the whole place on fire than be in charge of packing it all up. Plus you were working. I know I know.) Option 4: We keep what we have and deal. Even if we were wronged, purposefully or accidentally.

This decision was a turning point in my life. Here's what I mean. This decision was damn hard to make, and not a soul on earth could make this decision for us. And some of those souls had some very strong opinions as to what we should do. Very strong. I'm finding that people who aren't you have a tendency to think they know better than you what you should do. And the problem with me was that I always thought they knew better, too. Decision making for me was a fretful ordeal, wondering who I would please and displease with my decision.

But God, faithfully answering prayer, made it clear. Apartment A, the happy apartment but much more expensive, the one we wanted, was rented, deal sealed, that very morning, the morning our decision had to be made. OK, so that option: gone.

Now the real kicker. We could have waited and moved later. We could have stayed with my parents. It would have worked. Here's where the decision was really actually very simple.

What was our desire? What did we want?

We wanted to move to New York City....sooner rather than later.

What did it cost?

Some space, a closet, and bigger windows.

What did it require?

Humility. Faith. Creativity. Fortitude. Hope. Perseverence. Surrender.

Weird, huh? What we wanted required surrender. God's still requiring it of me, because I fight every day to do it. And....there's more.

TO BE CONTINUED again

The Apartment Saga

Will the apartment saga never end?

I should fill you in first. I can't remember how much Seth has written about it.

When we decided to move to New York City, we weren't sure when that would be. We debated over waiting until the new year or moving in August/September. After deciding to wait until the new year, the gut inside both of us remained uneasy. Sometimes that's the Holy Spirit. Sometimes I don't know. But nevertheless we re-decided it should be sooner rather than later.

We gave notice to our apartment to move out August 30. I flew to New York City to look for apartments. Seth stayed in Houston to work. I have friends who live in Astoria, which is right outside Manhattan and right inside Queens, and because I've stayed with my friends a few times, I became aquainted with the area. And I liked it. It's quaint. Alot of sky. Cute rows of houses and a bit more affordable. So I found a place there I liked, and I showed the pictures to Seth. It was a one-bedroom. Very spacious, clean, cute. I liked it.

But my gut feeling wouldn't agree with my brain. Although I knew it would be more expensive, I couldn't help but think Manhattan. I knew Seth loved Manhattan, but he was completely fine with Astoria. The only way for me to explain it was that I felt something spiritual and healthy about Manhattan that I didn't feel about Astoria. And the only thing holding me back from living there was the expense. I brought it up to Seth, and he felt the same way.

So Seth and I had a talk about trusting God. God can and will provide for us. We have nothing to fear. So that was it. Manhattan it was. I have a friend who lives on the Upper West Side, and we LOVE the Upper West Side. And amazingly I found this great studio apartment, bigger than most, for an amazing price. A miracle price, so my friend told me that lives down the street. I'm happy. Seth's happy. We sign the lease. (a process that takes a week in Manhattan due to the approval process) We're happy. We're going to live around the corner from a church to which we've felt drawn. Turns out, that same church needs a permanent building, and that same church is gutting out the parking garage right across the street from our happy Upper West Side apartment.

And then I receive a phone call. The day before I'm scheduled to fly back to Houston. It was bad news. We signed a lease for what we thought was Apartment, I'll just say, A. Apartment A. See, Apartment A was this great studio with two large windows and a big closet, a studio big enough for a bed, a couch, a T.V., and a work station. The Apartment I visited was Apartment A. The one that I liked, that Seth liked, with which we were both so happy, was Apartment A. But due to a series of mistakes through miscommunication between our broker, the management company, and the non-English speaking Hispanic worker that showed us the apartment, we signed a lease for Apartment B, thinking it was Apartment A. BECAUSE the non-English speaking Hispanic worker who showed us Apartment A told us that it was Apartment B. We sign a lease which states on the top: Apartment B....all the while having happy thoughts about Apartment A. Following me?

Apartment B is half the size, has no closet, and has a small window that looks directly out to a brick wall on every side, with light coming in from above.

And that is what our lease, signed with happy thoughts, stated on the top: Apartment B.

TO BE CONTINUED