I have to laugh when I pick a category for each blog entry and end up checking the box beside “I Heart NY.”  Because so many of my blogs lately, though centering around my life in this city, are about my frustration with it.  The BF and I have gotten into a habit of sending each other a one-word text when things here are rough: Atlanta. Sometimes we elaborate: This weather blows. Atlanta. My boss just told me the presentation is due by 5 pm.  Atlanta. If one more parent shows up late and gives me attitude about not seeing her child, I’m going to…Atlanta.

The nasty weather has been the inspiration for most of those texts lately.  Thank God and my Yankee Mom for the sunflower umbrella.  It has truly gotten the hell beaten out of it over the past few months.  As have I, I sometimes feel. Like this morning, when I arrived at the office after a thirty-minute walk through a rain and wind tunnel otherwise known as Second Avenue.  Usually Tuesdays are a patient-free zone–such is the charm of my working life here in New York.  But wouldn’t you know, the day I decided to say, “Screw it, I’m not dressing nicely to sit in front of a computer,” and proceeded to put on my ripped jeans and oops-it-shrunk-in-the-wash green knit shirt (hello boobs, when did you get here?) is the day I roll up to that computer and find a full schedule.  As I read that schedule, wavering between screaming and crying, my sopping-wet jeans dripped on the carpet and my hair floated around my head in a frizz fro.  Naturally, I had not brought any shoes other than my rubber boots.  Seriously?!

So I scrapped my plans to run in Central Park and catch up on Us Weekly and prayed instead.  It went a little something like this: “God, seriously?  This weather is absolutely horrible.  And I hate everything right now.  So you’re going to have to show me, very clearly, that you are bigger than what’s going on outside and the schedule in front of me.  And just to get a head start, the rest of the week looks even worse with all the public schools being on Spring Break and so many kids likely to show up at NYU that it will be a total cluster.  So, like I said, be bigger. Than all of it.  Amen.”

Then I set about finding reinforcements: reading KA’s blog (which reminded me that we are approaching Good Friday and a couple thousand years ago, Jesus had a much worse week than I did); asking for AC’s recommendation on some pre-Easter devotions.  And then I waited for Him to show up.

My first patient was accompanied by one of those rarities in New York: a totally down-to-earth mother.  She noticed my ring and got genuinely excited for me, asking about plans and reminding me to enjoy it.  (Thanks, God.)  The Chinese food I ordered for lunch came an hour late and with a fortune cookie that told me I have “a quiet and unobtrusive nature.”  (You know me better than that. I’ll keep waiting.) The Sis called on my way to the gym, laughing about how funny Ellen Degeneres is. Then she called back two minutes later to inform me that she had a confession. When Ellen was dancing around in the audience, The Sis noticed one dude sitting still while everyone around him was standing and having fun.  “And I just thought, how rude!  You can’t even bother getting up?  Then I realized he was in a wheelchair.”  I told her the same thing happened to me at church the other night when the woman in front of me didn’t stand for the hymn and I silently judged her until I saw the huge walking cane in front of her.  “Sometimes I think God loves us into being better people by showing us what assholes we are right now,” I told The Sis.  (Yep. You’re even bigger than my bad words and questionable theology.)  Then I had a voicemail from The Mom who was calling to let me know that she, dad, and Fred all love me.  Fred is my parents’ dog.  (You again, minus the creepy dog.)  Add to all that the Facebook comments and other general hilarity provided by the people in my circle.  (You, You, You, You…)

When I let go of being a slave to my own agenda, it’s amazing how everything can go “wrong” and I still have a good day.  As if God isn’t bigger than a spring storm and wet jeans.  Next challenge: God versus pneumonia.