All I Wanted Was a Frappuccino

     Thursday (6/27) was a long day without my Sherpa. After all my scheduled appointments, I ‘checked in’ at several departments–inadvertently checking in at one twice where I said the checker, “I’m sorry ma’am, I’ve got a case of the ‘Mayo Haze’ going on, but now I’m going to get a frappuccino and head back home.” I had a Starbucks gift card that was burning hole in my pocket, so I headed straight to the lobby and out the revolving doors. 
     Things on the sidewalk and street had come to a standstill with lights from police cars flashing and both sides of the drop-off street filled with dark cars. There was a sort of awed-reverent hush among the crowd.  “What is going on?…seriously, I need to get across the street…Mama needs a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino!” I’m usually all over a new experience and stood still for a moment, but my patience was waning and my need for comfort was increasing. I quietly asked the lady next to me, “Are we allowed to cross the street or do we have to wait?”
     “You can cross.” She answered looking a bit perplexed as to why I wasn’t joining the event.
     I started crossing realizing I was the ONLY person in the entire drop-off area who was moving. I hefted my giant satchel of medical records to one shoulder and over-sized purse to the other, made sure I had a firm grip on the plastic bag that had my jug o’ urine (hundreds of people had these gold colored bags and we ALL knew what was in them) and schlumped across the pedestrian crossing…one of the cars made a sudden stop so that I could cross. “I believe it’s the law that you have to stop for me at a pedestrian crossing even if the car you’re driving has diplomat license plates.
     On the other side of the street was the entrance to the Grand Kahler and a gentleman was excitedly but quietly announcing to each passerby, “It’s the King of Dubai–It’s the King of Dubai.” 

     “Okay, so that’s what all the hub-bub’s about, but I want my frappuccino—–ohhh boutique store. That could be fun.” I went into the store and proudly announced to the clerk my new found knowledge, “The King of Dubai is here.” She jumped to look out the window. I continued, “I’d take a picture, but I don’t know what he looks like–wouldn’t be able to pick him out in that crowd.”
     “He’s stayed here before…” she began explaining, “Rents out an entire floor of the Grand Kahler. My friend is a police officer and when he’s off-duty has been hired to guard the floor where the king stayed.”

     I was duly impressed, but really wanted to make my purchase so that I could soothe my parched throat and comfort my emotions with a frappuccino.  I rummaged in my purse  a bit when I realized: my wallet wasn’t in my purse, my Sherpa was in Iowa, my car was parked in a ramp that charged $15 a day and I’d spent the emergency $5 in my car two weeks earlier at Dairy Queen–at the time I considered it an emergency.  
     Plans began swirling through my head, maybe the King of Dubai could spot me a twenty…which didn’t seem likely since I think his vehicle was the one that had to wait for me to cross the street.  I finally landed on trying to get a cash advance on my credit card from the hotel I’d stayed at two nights earlier, it would have my number on file–they didn’t do cash advances and my account was closed. “What to do? What to do?” BUT, they would comp my parking.  
     I was still desperate for a cold coffee treat and found enough change (to the penny) in my car to get a McCafe for the drive home. Sipping my frosty drink, thoughts of my reaction to the King of Dubai lingered in my head and I contemplated how often I have had the same reaction to The King of kings:

  • my wants for earthly comfort taking precedence
  • not reveling in the splendor of His presence
  • schlumping in front of him with baggage and waste from my past
  • not recognizing Him
  • not giving Him the best rooms in my heart
  • not going to added expense to guard the rooms of my heart

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