Useless Googly-Eyed Monsters

I spent a lot of recesses sitting alone on the curb in first grade. After some failed attempts to make friends, I had come to the conclusion that I was better off hanging out with the bugs on the pavement.

Halfway through my first grade school year, my parents and I moved from New York to Lancaster, PA.

I was excited about the move at first, but I soon began to miss our old neighborhood. I missed all of the family and friends who used to live so close by, and I especially missed my half-sisters.

I also discovered that my new classmates couldn’t understand my supposed “accent.” When I spoke to them, they’d look at each other, shrug, and then skip away. When I followed, they'd inform me that only kids who spoke English could play with them. I argued that I was speaking English “poyfictly,” but they didn’t buy it.

One day at recess, my teacher took my hand, pulled me up from the curb, and brought me to the guidance counselor’s office. There, I sat across a big wooden desk from a lady in a periwinkle suit and answered her questions about why I “looked so sad.”

At the end of our session, she handed me a little monster made of a fuzzy pom-pom with glued-on googly eyes and felt feet.

“Now don’t you feel better?” she asked.

I didn’t. But I nodded anyway.

I continued seeing the lady in the funny-colored suits day after day, until I had a whole troupe of googly-eyed monsters stuffed into my desk. I wanted to explain to my classroom teacher that the guidance sessions weren’t working, but I didn’t have the confidence to speak up.

So instead, I wrote a story.

His Light

It’s been a challenge to find words for blogging lately. With the terrible news from Newtown, Connecticut fresh in our minds and prayers, the only message that rises in my heart is that our God reigns. He brings hope to the hopeless and light in the darkness.

I wrote this poem when I was around 18. I hope it will be a blessing to you as we remember Christ’s birth this Christmas season.

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His Light

By Michelle Altilio-Perez 

Lone candle flickers in my grasp at night,

In a room full of darkness shines this one small light.

Wax drips softly from the wick to the base, 

Bringing to mind a certain man’s face.

This man of modest origin, who was called a Nazarene,

Bore a gift of love like the world had never seen.

He spent His youth in study of God’s Almighty Word,

And on His Holy Baptism came the Spirit like a bird.

This man, we know as Jesus,

God’s Beloved Son,

Who lived a life of humble service,

Until His work on Earth was done.

Then one dark and dismal Friday,

Our sins nailed him to a tree.

To think, the only Son of God

Would die for you and me!

There at Golgotha loomed this solemn sight.

In a world full of darkness, hung God’s own Light.

His blood dripped softly from His head to the base,

As suffering anguish lined every crease of His face.

But from the grave, our Lord was risen, and He will forever reign,

And for His use on Earth, we each have been ordained.

By the Spirit and Word, we will fight the good fight.

Ever seeking His Glory, and spreading His Light.

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JOHN 8:12 - When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Make the World Go Away

When you’re faced with a threat, do you tend to fight... or take flight? Maybe your response varies depending on the type of peril you’re facing. You might fight to compete for a promotion at work, for example, but run for cover when your neighbor’s kid comes to the door with those disarming dimples and yet another little league fundraiser.

I’d like to say that I’m a natural-born fighter, but to be truthful, I don’t have an aggressive or competitive bone in my body. When threats come my way, my instincts lead me to roll over and play dead. You can prod me all you want, but I’m a-gonna lay there with my eyes crossed until the threat loses interest or consumes me alive.

How’s that for inspirational? Hang in there; I didn’t get to that part yet. I need to finish airing my dirty laundry first.

Four Years and Counting

On November 28, Chris and I will have been married for four years (and together as a couple for nearly nine).

Looking back, I’m thankful that we’ve had each other’s love and support through so many of life’s ups and downs. Looking ahead, I’m praying that God will help me to resemble the Biblical descriptions of a Godly wife more and more.

For the husbands and wives out there (and for those of you praying for a future spouse), I’d like to share the Amplified translation of Ephesians 5:33. Since I’m not a Hebrew and Greek scholar, I appreciate how the AMP expands words and phrases to capture the connotations of the original text:

We're Having a Baby!

It's true! We're about to help increase the Hispanic population in our area. ¡Olé! Here are some answers to frequently asked questions we’ve received about our pregnancy:

1. When’s the due date? June 11, 2013.


2. Was it a surprise or were you trying? For about a year, Chris and I took the “whatever happens, happens” stance and left it in God’s hands.


3. Will you find out the gender? Yes. (I can sense judgment from the pro-surprise crowd as I type this.) We just want to know, okay?


4. Do you prefer a boy or a girl? We’ll be thrilled with either.


5. Do you have morning sickness? Thankfully, no! I just feel much more tired than usual.


6. Do you have names picked out? We’re flip-flopping on a few. We’ll share them once we’re a little more decided. When that time comes, please let us know if we’ve inadvertently chosen the name of an infamous ax murderer or someone you couldn’t stand in high school. 


7. Are you and Chris excited? Yes, definitely. We’re also terrified. We’re grateful that we have God’s strength to rely on, however, as well as an amazing support system of family and friends. I’m also thankful for my wonderful husband, whose quiet strength and unwavering faith keeps me sane.


8. Will you (Michelle) go back to work? Yes, I will. Although it’ll be tough for me to kiss our baby goodbye each morning and head to the office, I’m extremely thankful for my job, and I wouldn’t want to lose it. We’re going to try to work things out so that my mother can help with childcare. There’s no doubt that our baby will be in great hands… Although, he or she may learn to talk with my mom's Brooklyn accent. I can hear it now: Yo, Ma! You gonna fix me a bottle or what? I ain’t got all day! I’m starvin’ ovuh heah! (Cute, right?)


9. How do you feel about people touching your stomach? Okay, no one really asks this, but I just wanted to say that I’ve never been a touchy-feely person. Being pregnant isn’t going to change that. I won’t slap your hand away or anything, but if you can resist rubbing my belly like I’m some kind of good-luck-Buddha, that’ll be great.


10. How can we pray for you? Please pray for a healthy pregnancy, and that our child will come to know Jesus and learn to walk in His ways. Pray for Chris and I as we plan and prepare for parenthood (or at least try to). Pray also that we’ll miraculously be able to sell our house and move closer to our jobs in York by the time the baby arrives. Thanks so much!

The Time I Played Hooky

Caught in the act (skipping school at age 6)

Growing up, did you struggle to understand how to please the people who raised you? Unless your folks were as blissfully yoked as Ward and June Cleaver, I’ll assume that you can relate on some level.

My parents have vastly different personalities, and they express their approval in different ways, for different reasons. It was tricky for me as a kid to grasp what sort of behaviors could make both of them happy.

For instance, one morning when I was in first grade, my mom determined that I should stay home from school. I wasn’t sick or even pretending to be sick. She simply felt that it was best not to interrupt my creative flow. At the breakfast table, I’d started some “masterpiece” in marker, and she couldn’t bear to ask me to stop. My dad had already left for work, so she made the executive decision to keep me home without his input.

Waking Up is Hard to Do

[Continuation of my last post on the Holy Spirit’s Fire]

I'm not a morning person. The parts of my brain that handle coordination and reasoning don’t seem to wake up until the afternoon some time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m clumsy ‘round the clock, but it’s worse in the wee hours. At the end of nearly every day, I discover bruises on my body that most likely came about as I bounced off furniture and doorframes on my early morning trek to the kitchen.

Winter mornings are the worst for me. I have to plug-in my alarm clock across the room or else there's no convincing my little piggies to touch the cold floor. I dread fumbling in the moon glow and trading my warm blankets for a robe and slippers that have seemingly gathered frost overnight.

I think the same holds true for spiritual awakening: without warmth and light, it ain't gonna happen. We need the Holy Spirit's fire to keep us from shivering and blundering in the darkness of our sinful nature:

Making Life Count

It’s been a tearful day for our family. This morning, my dad called to share the news that his sister passed away. After a long battle with ovarian cancer, my dear aunt has gone home to be with Jesus.

Although I'm grieving, it brings a smile to my face to know that she’s rejoicing in God’s presence. I’ll always remember standing beside my aunt in church as she sung from the hymnal. She wasn’t timid about raising her voice to sing for her Savior. And now, at last, she’s singing for Him in Heaven.

“...We do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”  - 1 THESSALONIANS 4:13-14

There’s no denying that my aunt lived her life to the fullest. From her dedication to teaching, to achieving her masters in her later years; from honoring her husband, to raising her children; from traveling the world with her family, to hosting gatherings in her home—it’s clear that every one of her days mattered.

She lived a life worthy of the calling she received (Ephesians 4:1). She made a loving impact on every life she touched. I want to live like she lived.

But I have a long way to go.

The Blunder Games

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You might say that my husband, Chris, and I aren’t outdoorsy types. It’s not that we don’t like nature. We just prefer to bask in the glow of our computer screens.

Last month, we bid our 3G signals adieu and vacationed in the Poconos. The trip had quite a few highlights. We took a hike in the woods, went swimming, and tried out a few new recreational activities. Shuffleboard was harmless enough. Row boating was a little on the daring side (we rowed in circles for a while until we sorted things out). Archery, however, was an adventure in itself.

The Master's Brushstrokes

When I was 18, my thoughtful cousins gave me a Chinese watercolor kit for Christmas. Excited to try out this new art form, I turned to one of the “advanced” paintings in the book, which depicted two yellow birds on a branch with a mountain in the distance.

Easy peasy, I thought. After all, I’d had plenty of experience with watercolor in school, and the composition seemed really simple.

So, I dove right in. I swished the tapered brush around in some water, plunged it into the pigment, and gave it a go.

A few minutes later, I was finished. But my rendition looked nothing like the one in the book. Sure, the proportions were close. It clearly represented birds and a mountain. But my short Western-style strokes gave the painting a completely different feel. The beauty of simplicity was lost in all my anxious dabbing at the paper.

Are You an Imitator or an Innovator?

I’ve been a fan of jazz since I was a little tyke. Throughout my childhood, my dad and I crooned along to Sinatra around the dinner table. It wasn’t always pretty, but all of that practice came in handy when I landed the part of vocal soloist for my high school’s jazz band.

In preparation for our first performance, I listened to hours of songs by the classic jazz greats, determined to mimic every trill and melismatic fluctuation of notes.

I marvelled at how the original artists were such innovators, improvising sounds with genuine soul and skill. I knew that my imitation would pale in comparison, but I felt confident that I’d be decent enough to be entertaining.

Our first concert was lots of fun, and I recall feeling pretty good about myself afterward. That is, until I met Mrs. Burkholder in the hallway. She was my former choir director in middle school.

Getting Punched in the Stomach

After a long day in second grade, I slumped into a worn vinyl seat on the school bus and leaned my forehead against the window. I couldn't wait to get home to my dog, some cartoons, and a juicebox. The bus rolled along past farms and fields as I anxiously awaited a glimpse of the pine trees that lined my neighborhood.

A few minutes into the ride, a boy seated across the aisle leaned over and tapped my shoulder. “Hey short girl, how old are you?”

“Seven,” I replied, a bit miffed that this boy from my class didn’t bother to use my name.

“Seven?” he growled back. “I’m eight. How come you’re smarter than me?”

“Huh?” I wasn't as bright as my thick glasses and shy demeanor led people to believe. “How should I know? Maybe you should read more.”

And with that, he held me by the shoulder and pulled back his fist. The next thing I knew, his knuckles met my stomach with full force.

I winced, anticipating another blow, but that solid punch was apparently all he needed to release his aggression. He was done with me. And I was left to nurse my pain with the lukewarm icepack from my lunchbox.

When the bus finally arrived at my stop, I ran all the way home, flung open the screen door, and made a beeline for my father. His smile faded at the sight of my tear-streaked face, and he bent down to catch me in his arms.

Buried Treasures

Deep in the recesses of a linen closet, I keep two incredibly embarrassing old journals. Amidst poems and doodles, these spiral-bound pages catalogue the not-so-thrilling sagas of my high school crushes. Par exemple: “He turned around in study hall and asked to borrow my graphing calculator. Yippee! He knows I exist!”

I’ve considered tossing my old journals into a bonfire on more than one occasion. But whenever I page through them, I come across sweet family memories, vignettes from my early walk with God, and anecdotes about the Latino from youth group who’s now my husband. Those bits of nostalgia are worth treasuring, so the journals remain.

But what if, each evening, I dug up my journals and pined away for that guy from tenth grade study hall?

What if We Prayed?

In my last post, I shared some reflection on Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young.” I have just a few more thoughts, and then I swear on a stack of vinyl records that I'll write about something else.

In this next portion of lyrics, Billy Joel belts a sobering accusation...

Scowling Saints

“Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel is a song that makes me both laugh and cry. I laugh because he manages to describe the religious mind-set in a way that’s both hilarious and very true—and I cry for the very same reasons.

In summary, Billy Joel sings from the perspective of a boy who is trying to convince a good Catholic girl (aptly named "Virginia") to come out of her religious cocoon and have fun with him. The song hits home for me because I was raised Catholic, but I believe the tongue-in-cheek lyrics can be meaningful in a broader sense...

Pass the Cheese

I’m not as loud and outgoing as an Italian-American probably ought to be. As far as living-into a stereotype is concerned, I’m clearly defective. I can’t tell you how many meatballs have cooled to room temperature in my plate as I’ve struggled to gain my cumpari’s attention to pass the Parmesan. At the dinner table, and in life in general, I’m just not good at speaking up.

I’ve felt a little nudge to start a blog for some time now, but I've always dismissed the notion. After all, with all the knowledgeable, compelling, creative voices out there, who on earth would pause to listen if I raised a finger and cleared my throat?

Even as I write my first post, I’m not completely certain that I have anything to say that’s worth listening to. I came across an inspiring article, however, in this month’s issue of National Geographic, which helped me work up the nerve to at least try.