An Unexpected Joy

An unexpected phone call last Wednesday morning led M and I to turn around (we had both just arrived at work) get the oil changed in our car and head south.  Tuesday evening M lost his childhood best friend; we didn't yet know when the funeral would be but- even though they hadn't talked since high school- M knew we needed to be there.  So we just picked up and left.

We drove over 1,000 miles down to Florida, spending the night in Nashville, then again with Mason's parents in Alabama, finally arriving into Pensacola on Friday morning.  By some gracious gift of God (I really believe that's what it was) my immediate family and some of my extended family were on their annual trip to Destin and M and I were able to spend a few hours with them, before mentally and emotionally preparing ourselves for Saturday morning's funeral (the visitation on Friday was just too much to handle we decided).

But what we found at the funeral wasn't what had been expected.  In high school, M's friend had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, the wrong things.  And we didn't have much hope for a happy ending.  So when the crowds pushed in (and there really was a crowd) and the family walked in, my eyes began to tear up.

But then someone began to speak.  Rather than hearing a story of despair, fast lives and fast cars, we heard something else.  We heard about a life that had been transformed, some four years ago.  Through the funeral preacher- and the friend's notes in his Bible- we got to see inside the very private, spiritual musings of a young man whose life had changed.  We heard of a man who had discovered who he truly was and what he was made for; and who wanted to tell others about what he himself had realized.  We listened to the story of a man who found peace, with himself and with the world.

And at that point, my tears stopped.  Suddenly this wasn't just another "sad story" of a "good kid gone bad." It was yet another amazing story- an incredible reminder- of redemption.  Tragic, yes, and to be mourned, for sure.  And yet...there was something more there.  A peace that was so much bigger than the casket in front of us.  Almost as if, even in death, the friend was not defeated.  It was a simple reminder that lessened, even if just a little, the sting of death and loss.

And in that moment, there was an unexpected joy.

Yes, I said pineapple

One of the great things about summer is that M doesn't have to study every evening.  Not only does this mean that we can go work out together (it's so much easier when someone else is expecting you to do it) but it also means that M cooks dinner quite a bit. 

Anyone who knows anything about M knows that he's a great cook.  I would even venture to say that he might be better than me (and- yes, I'm bragging- I'm pretty darn good).  He's much more creative and willing to try things until he gets them right, making up his own proportions and such.  And 9.5 times out of 10, he gets it spot on the first time.  How did I get so lucky??!  Did I also mention that he's brilliant, humble, wise, calm, quick-witted, athletic, a true leader and super attractive, inside and out?  Because he is.  Just saying.

So anyway, since he's not studying a million hours a day (I am not exaggerating), he's been cooking quite a bit.  So when he offered to make dinner the night I had planned to make lasagna, I couldn't refuse.

And, dear Jesus, it might have been the best lasagna I've ever had.  It had the perfect proportion of sauce, cheese, spinach and noodle and he added a tiny bit of pepperoni to give us a little bit of protein.  But the best part?  The best part was...the pineapple.  Sprinkled on the top, with a coating of mozzarella on top of that, I could have probably licked the pan clean it was so good.

I don't know why it never dawned on me to add pineapple to lasagna.  I love it on pizza, which is basically the exact same ingredients, but I never thought about it outside of the confines of deep dish or thin crust.  But seriously.  Do yourself a favor and try it.  If you like pineapple on pizza, you'll like it on lasagna.  I guarantee it. 

Just Call Me Nadal

M and I have been playing tennis together for over three years now.  And by playing tennis, I mean that he hits the ball very softly towards me and I still sometimes miss it.  I admit it.  Tennis isn't my best game.  But I love playing it, love being outside and am glad it makes him happy to play, too.

And I'm getting better!  He's started doing his little spin ball move on me and he legitimately has to run after quite a few of my shots (I'm learning ball placement.  Finally.)  Granted, I'm the one doing the most running, but hey, I need the exercise.

With a forecast of partly sunny and 85, M and I headed out to the University tennis courts again today, having been shut down yesterday when they were all full.  Despite no room yesterday, we were able to play in our own little cage today so I didn't have to worry about hitting other people with our balls (I have no idea what this layout is called, but there are two courts in each "cage," ie, there was no one on the other court).  

And then, about five games in, the clouds parted, a bright ray of sun appeared on me and...I WON A GAME AGAINST M FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I don't remember what the score of the game was, but what matters is that I BEAT HIS ARSE.  WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!  Rafael Nadal, watch out.  This Hyde Park Hero is comin' to get ya.

(Now is probably the point where I should mention that M then went on to beat me soundly for the rest of the day.)