Ponderings

Colington Cafe, Kill Devil Hills — Gluten-Free Review

Trio

Colington Cafe, Kill Devil Hills — Gluten-Free Review

So, me and my daughter went back to Colington Cafe for an early dinner — a favorite of the locals and a place we remembered fondly from years ago. It had been excellent back then. Cozy, charming, tucked beneath the live oaks — the kind of place that whispers, “you’re on vacation, relax.” It’s like eating at someone’s home on Thanksgiving, and they’ve pulled out every last table and chair to make sure everyone fits. And hey, they even have a separate gluten-free menu now, which felt promising.

We let them know right away: gluten-free, tree nut-free, and dairy-free. They were accommodating and kind, which I deeply appreciate. I ordered the Le Grand Trio ($39) — grilled filet mignon, grilled shrimp, and jumbo lump crabmeat. My daughter had the grilled shrimp with their pineapple mango salsa.

Everything was cooked perfectly. The steak? Medium rare, spot on. The shrimp? Great texture. The crabmeat? Clean and fresh.

But here’s the thing: no flavor. Like… none. Not subtle. Not delicate. Just… bland. No seasoning, no olive oil, no garlic, no zip. Not even a whisper of lemon or salt. I get it — we gave dietary restrictions, but “free of gluten, nuts, and dairy” doesn’t mean “free of all taste.” There are plenty of ways to cook safely without stripping away everything.

It felt like the flavor got tossed out with the allergens.

When the waiter asked, “How was your meal?” I told the truth: “It was utterly tasteless.” He looked genuinely shocked… and then just sort of vanished, leaving us to sit there and, well, savor our blandness.

We left disappointed, wondering how a place with such high hopes could land so flat.

So while the service and atmosphere still shine, the food (at least for us dietary-challenged folks) didn’t hold up. Hopefully it was just an off night… but for now, Colington has slipped off our “must return” list.

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The Perils of a Puppy

There’s something about a puppy. Adorably cute — just melts the heart — but also so fragile. She thinks she’s queen of the universe, stomping her tiny paws across the floor like they command gravity. Everything revolves around her — every squeak, every bowl of food, every pair of untied shoelaces. The egocentric world of the puppy.

But with time, that puppy begins to learn. She finds herself part of a pack. She realizes she’s not in charge — not really. And slowly, with love and repetition (and a few chewed shoes), she becomes obedient. Teachable. She finds her place.

It makes me wonder:
Do we seem like puppies to God?

Are we adorably foolish to Him — bursting with potential, but utterly unaware of our fragility? Do we puff ourselves up, thinking we’re rulers of our little patch of carpet, when in truth, we’re just beginning to toddle toward wisdom?

And then comes the bigger question:
When do we actually grow up?
Do we ever stop seeing the world through the lens of “mine,” “me,” and “more”? As humans, we’re supposed to around the age of six — but clearly, many never make that stretch; to become part of something vast — a pack, a people, a planet, a purpose.

Do we ever fully learn our place in the world?
In history?
In the universe?

Maybe learning our place isn’t so much about obedience as it is acceptance.
Not about control, but trust.
Not about dominance, but belonging.

Maybe the journey is the obedience.
We’re not meant to be in charge — just faithfully following the One who is.

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What I think, I become.

There’s this little phrase tucked into Proverbs, and I can’t stop ruminating on it: “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.”

It’s simple. Elegant. But let’s be honest—it can be deeply unsettling. Yikes. Some of my thoughts…

Note: it doesn’t say “as a man behaves,” or “as a man is told,” or even “as a man believes.” It says thinks. And not just the passing faux pas—we’re talking about the thoughts you’ve spent more than 10 seconds on. The ones you let sink in and settle. These are the deep beliefs that live beneath our words.

And science? As usual… recently caught up to Scripture.

🧠 Psychology Meets Proverbs

Science has now established that stress can be used to enhance performance, not just inhibit it. Bossard and Gomez (2024) studied something called stress-arousal reappraisal. When people learn that their stress response is actually a good thing—that racing heart, sweaty palms, buzzing nerves—it changes everything. People perform better. They feel stronger. Their body handles stress more efficiently.

And it all hinges on one small shift in belief:
Stress is not danger. Stress is energy.

One sentence. One new story.
That’s it.

Recognizing your stress, however it manifests for you, as poorly dispersed energy, changes how you deal with it. The reason for the stress is less important than what you do with the stress-energy. That’s why going for a walk or a run relieves stress. That’s why eating and then burning calories helps us “feel better.” But those coping mechanisms don’t deal with the stressor—just the energy it created.

And this is where Scripture meets science.

The Bible doesn’t sugarcoat stress or hardship. It doesn’t say we won’t face trials—it says we’ll walk through fire. But what it does say, over and over again, is that how we think about those trials changes who we become.

  • “Count it all joy…” (James 1) isn’t naïve—it’s reframing.
  • “Be anxious for nothing…” (Philippians 4) isn’t denial—it’s surrender through trust.
  • “As you think in your heart…” isn’t just a proverb—it’s a law of spiritual becoming.

Our interpretation is our transformation.
How we choose to cope becomes a mirror to the mind.

🪞 The Mirror of the Mind

So here’s the ponder:
What story are you telling yourself?

Whether you realize it or not, you’re writing your character one thought at a time. If I think I’m weak, I’ll act from weakness. If I think stress is a threat, I’ll respond like I’m under attack. But if I learn—slowly, with grace—that discomfort is growth in disguise?

That joy can be found even in pain.
That worry is waste, but the energy it creates can be redirected into purpose.
That is the beginning of mastering your mind.

You’re not a robot acting out fate.
You’re a soul with a story—and every thought you nurture becomes a sentence in that story.

🙏 God’s Gift: The Reframe

I believe with all my heart that Adonai, our Creator, gave us this ability not just to feel but to frame. Not to avoid pain, but to transform it.
To think differently. To see differently. To live differently.

And that gift—your mind, your story—isn’t meant to trap you.
It’s meant to free you.

🌀 So I Ponder…

Maybe Descartes was close: I think, therefore I am.

But I’ll go further:
I think—and in that thinking, I shape who I am becoming.

Not because I’m powerful, but because I was designed to co-create with a powerful God who invites me into the reframing process.

And if my thoughts have that much power—shouldn’t I pause long enough to wonder if they’re true?

Pondering onward,
Christine

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The Mask Comes Off in the Fire

In ancient times, people viewed the mind through the heart.
Titus Lucretius Carus, Roman poet and philosopher, once wrote:

“Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is;
for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart,
and the mask is torn off.”

This truth still holds.
We don’t find out who we are in our comfort—we find out in the fire.

Not the moment we snap out of exhaustion.
Not the frustration at a coworker
But the moment when everything is on the line.

When the stakes are life and death—what road do we choose?
Do we harm to survive, or find a way to love?
Do we shield our own at the cost of others, or listen for a better way?

I pray I never face that kind of test.
But if I do, I trust that God will lead me.
And I pray I’ll have the wisdom to follow.

✨
What do you believe we carry into those moments?
Where does your strength come from when everything else is stripped away?

🪷 Pondering onward,
Christine

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Forged by Fire, Not Fueled by Rage

Los Angeles is burning again.
Police cars overturned. Flags defaced. Crowds in the streets — not marching in protest, but surging in anger, demanding open borders and shouting down the idea of enforcement as if laws themselves were the enemy.

Watching this unfold, I feel the knot rise in my chest.

And I think of my father.

He came to this country in 1947 — not because he was poor, though he was. Not because he was afraid, though he had every reason to be. He came because the place he was from had been obliterated.

He was German.
He was Jewish.

And in post-war America, that made him suspect from every direction.
Some hated him for being German — the enemy.
Others distrusted him because he was a Jew — even though that identity had nearly cost him his life.

The war may have ended, but the distrust lingered. America was eager to move on, but not yet ready to embrace the displaced — especially not the ones who blurred the lines between categories we find easier to hate.

“Many who sought a safe haven from persecution during the 1930s and 1940s found their efforts thwarted by the United States’ restrictive immigration quotas and the complicated, demanding requirements for obtaining visas. Public opinion in the United States did not favor increased immigration…”
— United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

That was the world my father stepped into.
And it’s the world he had to navigate with quiet strength, resilience, and humility.

He didn’t sneak in.
He didn’t demand to be taken care of.
He secured a sponsor. He filed the paperwork. He paid the fees.
He arrived in New York on the USS Bremen and stood in line at Ellis Island, waiting for this country to say yes.

By 1951, he was wearing a U.S. uniform — a baker in the Korean War — feeding the soldiers of a nation still unsure if it wanted him. That’s the legacy I come from.

So when I see angry mobs insisting that compassion means erasing process, I feel that old ache and a rising frustration. I understand the longing to come here. I really do. America still shines with promise.

But I also understand the cost of doing it right. The patience. The grit. The sacrifice.

My father didn’t demand America bend to him. He bent himself toward her promise.

I believe in compassion. I believe in mercy. But mercy without structure is not mercy. It’s mayhem.

This country needs rules. Because without rules, there is no justice. And without structure, there is no sanctuary.

We owe it to those who came through the fire — not to burn down the country that gave them shelter, but to protect it for those still coming.

Not through entitlement.
Not through rage.
But through honor.

Forged by fire.
Not fueled by rage.

Reference:
United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. “Introduction to the Holocaust.” Holocaust Encyclopedia. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/introduction-to-the-holocaust

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In My Dreams, I’m Always 25…

Lately, I’ve been pondering something strange but persistent: in my dreams, I’m never my current self.

Not in age. Not in weight. Not in health or hesitation.

I’m always… well, me—but the version of me that feels most like me. No back pain. No fatigue. No awareness of aging. I don’t second-guess what I’m capable of. I just am. Strong, moving, doing, becoming.

It made me wonder—do our brains hold onto some internal image of ourselves, some subconscious blueprint that gets locked in around age 25?

Science has some thoughts on that.

By our mid-20s, our prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for decision-making, self-awareness, and our sense of identity—is fully developed. After that, the architecture is in place. The rest is refinement. That’s also the season of life when many people settle into who they believe they are and what they’re here to do.

Psychologists call it narrative identity—that invisible thread we use to stitch our life story together. And once we find that thread, we tend to hold onto it. Even if our bodies change. Even if time marches on.

So maybe, when we dream, we return to that version. The most whole version. The one that feels like freedom. Like purpose. Like us at full capacity.

And here’s the deeper layer I’ve been turning over:
What if that version is more than just a psychological default?

What if that’s our soul’s imprint?

What if that “ideal self” we return to in dreams—the one without limits or fear or fatigue—is a glimpse of who we really are, eternally? The version Heaven holds. Not in vanity, but in essence. Whole. Restored. As we were meant to be before time and gravity got their say.

Maybe the reason I always dream as my younger, healthier self isn’t just nostalgia.
Maybe it’s memory. Soul-memory. A whisper from eternity that says: This is still you.

Because even as our bodies age, something inside us never does. Something eternal remembers.

And when the world fades—when these earthly bodies fall away—maybe that’s the version of us that remains. The soul, shaped in love, refined by fire, and finally free.

So I ask you:
If you had to picture your truest self—the one that might walk into Heaven tomorrow—
What would she look like?

What age would she be?

Would she still carry worry? Or would she finally be light?

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🌀 Just something I’m pondering. Maybe you are too.

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