Maturity

I went out to lunch with a dear college friend yesterday, and, in so many ways, it was like coming home again, if you'll forgive me for that cliche. I wish so much that the work the Lord has designated for us had fewer miles between us. Yet, the time we have is sweet and restoring.

Our topics of conversation were typical for us: how the Lord is working in our lives, where we believe He is leading for the future, the conflict of anxiety and faith we feel about where our lives our heading. We talked about our families and funny stories. Yet, we also talked about some very adult issues that we didn't talk about in college. We talked a lot about finances. We never talked about finances in college. Sure, there were student loans and whether we had enough money to go to a concert or even out to Steakn'Shake, but we both had qualified for all of the student loans we needed, and we were happily ignoring the fact that they were accruing interest and we would have to pay them back someday. We both had jobs that paid for the little expenses, I had enough in savings to pay for my blessed negligable rent, our parents owned our cars and of course took care of the insurance payments for those, we were on our parents' health insurance plans, and, really, we were quite content with pasta and wearing the same clothes we had owned since high school. I know everyone was not that fortunate, and, please forgive me if I implied that the financial circumstances of all college students are easy and carefree. However, in the case of my friend and I, that is exactly what they were.

Today, things are different. I am fortunate to be single and have health insurance covered by my employer. She is not so fortunate, and due to health issues with her husband, that can't find a single insurance company to cover them at all, except for the one who will not cover pre-existing conditions for at least a year. I never thought about health insurance as a college student. Now, as it seems possible that I will not be a teacher forever, I wonder about how I am going to pay for health insurance, what about the health insurance of my family someday, will I ever have to refrain from going to the doctor because I can't pay for the visit. We talked about retirement and if we will have enough money to help take care of our parents someday. We talked about where our retirements would come from. The life puzzles we used to discuss centered on our class schedules or whether her parents would let her get engaged. Now, they are a matrix of income, insurance, and retirement. When did this happen?

2005

I have always been a traditional, sentimental person. I develop deep attachments to people, places, and things. This year, I've experienced loss in all of those areas. This year they tore down my high school. It being just down the road from my parents' house, I was able to watch as the auditorium was the first to go, the stage and closed-off balcony remaining exposed to the temper of the sky for a few days, then the west side of the school, then the east side. The classrooms where I once felt at home are no more. Also, this year I lost my grandfather, and after his death, the hog confinement was torn down and the little farmhouse where I lived until I was five was burnt to the ground along with the barn and the remaining buildings. The farmstead that has been in my family for decades, the home where my dad spent his first years and then where I and my brother learned to walk as well is now a burnt spot in the grass. My family no longer owns even that burnt spot in the grass. One of my favorite places in the entire world, where the yard rolls downward slightly, only to roll again into a hay meadow before bowling upward towards a windmill on a hill - I will probably never stand there again. And this fall, a strong storm tore through my parents' neighborhood, bringing down a huge, and I mean HUGE willow tree in my backyard. I promise you that I am not exaggerating when I say that willow tree was twice as big as any other willow tree I have ever seen in my life. It was a monster, and I loved that tree. My brother and I would literally swing from the branches when we were little - the trick was to get a decent amount of willow branches so that if one broke, the remaining branches would continue to swing. However, if you pulled too many branches together, your range of swinging was compromised. It provided shade, a backrest, and just a beautiful backdrop to the back yard. In my eyes, the tree's absence has turned our backyard from soft French Impressionism to stark Modernism.

You may wonder why I have spent more time talking about the things and structures I have lost rather than my grandfather. I don't know. Yet, what I have experienced this year is the transient nature of everything on this earth. That which I have lost this year has been here since before I was born. I have never known my grandparents' place without my grandpa. I have never known my street without the high school; I have never known my backyard without the willow tree. I have never known not being able to go out to the North Farm whenever i wanted to. What I once treasured no longer exists in this world. I'm okay with that, but it does set my heart to longing. I long for a world where I will be able to embrace without loss. I long for a world that does not require us to guard our hearts from holding onto things too tightly. I long for a world where I do not outlive that which comforted me and steadied me and was refuge for me while growing up. I long for Heaven. I long for that day when everything will be made right. I long for His embrace, I long to hear Him say my name. What a glorious, completing moment that will be. I will hear Him say my name, and my past, present, and future will no longer be vessels of regret and anxiety. I will hear Him say my name.

Tragic irony

I have observed an irony this Christmas season that I have never fully realized before. Of course, all of us are aware of much of the irony of the Christmas season, even if we don't describe it such words. It is marketed as a month of peace, love, and joy, yet very little of the said attributes abounds in the gift-giving, party-attending, present-wrapping, family-bearing, traffic succumbing activities we partake in. You know that. I know that. Admonitions to slow down and realize the true meaning of Christmas are cliche now. However, Christmas bothered me this year in a way it hasn't in other years. Others have summed it up on lighted church signs in trite phrases, proclaiming "Jesus is the reason for the season, " or "Keep the Christ in Christmas," but I don't see anything cute in the reality. Thousands, if not millions, who celebrated the birth of Christ yesterday have not acknowledged that Jesus is Lord, have not acknowledged of their need for a savior, have not repented of their sin. The thing about it that crushes me, brings tears to my eyes, makes me just want tear something apart in frustration, is so many of those people are hurting. Divorce, unemployment, loneliness, rejection, illness, troubled finances, addiction, death, along with so many nameless hurts and longings live in the hearts of many. I've seen people, burdened with such loads on their backs, look for relief in the giving and celebration of Christmas, sing the Christmas carols proclaiming salvation through God incarnate, and then, once New Years' comes around, face the same burden that has plagued them all year long. People are hurting, the stumble upon the very truth, the only truth, that will save them, that will redeem them, that will restore their lives, and yet they do not see it. They will have their fun with it, it brings them satisfaction for awhile, yet it is nothing to them. The miracle of Christ's birth is one thing - acknowledging one's need for salvation, confessing Jesus as Lord is another. It's painfully ironic that in this fallen, violent, hurtful world, one of the most celebrated holidays is a day honoring the Savior offered to all mankind, yet most of those who sing glory to the newborn king do not see Jesus as a king and do not want to give Him glory with their lives. They brush up against God's cosmic love for them, but they do not see. They sing of the most incredible, passionate love story that has unfolded on this earth, yet it means nothing to their own soul. Christ has come and no one seems to know. It's been that way since the night of His birth. It brings tears to my eyes; I wonder if it brings sorrow to God's heart as well. God with ys. Immanuel. Our Savior has come. We have all fallen short of the glory of God. The selfish, greedy, prideful things we do separate us from Him. He sent His Son to earth in human flesh to grow up and die, so that justice would be done for the wrongs that we committed. And now, with the blood of our Lord as our plea, we may be close to God. Christ is Lord. Our Savior has come. It's good news. It's hope. Our Savior has come.

fear not

Merry Christmas, everyone. Our beloved Savior has come; let us adore Him and fear no more.

love,
Jessie

ache

I'm feeling a little unsettled this evening. Many of this day's hours have been spent in the car, listening to music, sermons, and the news. Some time has been spent in prayer and thoughtful wandering, but, at the moment, I am left with a sickening feeling of discontent. Today was a wedding shower for my brother's fiance, Linsay, so I drove to Charleston and had a wonderful time seeing Linsay and so many of the other girls again. Rebekah and Jen did a great job with the shower, the food was good, the conversation was pleasant, and Linsay seemed to have a great time. Upon leaving the shower I went to Kristi and Matt's, enjoyed hot apple cider in front of the fire place, and took in the beauty of the Christmas tree. Yet, as I was talking to Kristi about this and that, I felt tears well up in my eyes and a lump rise in my throat. I just wanted to cry for some reason, and I probably would have if Matt hadn't been there. I don't know where this melancholy comes from. Maybe it was because I got to see my mom today but really didn't get to talk to her. Maybe it was because I got to see several people today but didn't really get to talk to them. Perhaps it was that all-too-common feeling of displacement. I'm welcome in so many places, but I don't know anywhere that I'm completely settled. Some days it feels as if I have many homes - here, LeRoy, Charleston, Crete; for some reason today it felt as if I had none. The three-hour drive home seemed insurmountable this evening. I called Kristen and talked for awhile, hoping that in conversation with her time would disappear and I would be off the road soon. It was good while the conversation lasted, and I love that girl to the ends of the earth, but when I hung up the phone I felt as lost as ever. As I was listening to the radio the other day, I think it was Chris Rice I heard talk about "the ache," a vague yet acute emotional pain, seeming to have nor origin or logic, that takes ahold of us, makes us tearful, and sets in our being a longing for something nameless and elusive. I feel that ache today. It's loneliness, disappointment, hope, love, sorrow, waiting, longing all at once. It's wanting something more, wanting someone more, yet no one and nothing on this earth seems to satisfy it. I wonder if this longing is part of the human experience, perhaps in part because we are not in our heavenly home yet, perhaps in part because our hearts and minds are continually seduced by that which is not of God. I'm learning, though, that no one but God is going to bring me rest tonight, no one is going to soothe this dull throbbing, no one is going to turn my discontent into thankfulness but my Father tonight. I really don't feel like turning to God. My first impulse is to bury myself under the covers and feel sorry for myself (although I can't pinpoint a reason to be unsatisfied right now), yet, it's God I want, it's God I need, and Him I will seek and find tonight.

a little nervous...

Everyone who reads this, please pray for me tomorrow, Friday, December 16. I have to talk to my boss to tell him I will not be able to be a drama director because I am going to be taking seminary classes. I don't think he will be very happy with me, and I'm almost sure he will try to talk me out of it, and I'm afraid he'll get mad at me, and I know you non-people-pleasers may not understand this but it is torture for me!

My Eternity is Not a Wal-Mart Parking Lot

I wasn't feeling well about a week ago. It was about 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening, I was tired, I was cold, and I just wanted to go home and curl up under a quilt. However, I was convinced that my head weighed five pounds more than it had the day before, and I wanted some medicine. Glaring flourescent lighting, crying children, and obstacle course of determined shoppers, stray carts, and meandering customers made me feel even more tired than did my classes of high school freshmen, but I went forth to Wal-Mart get my medicine anyway. I braved the venture without incident, but I was about to start my car to leave the parking lot, shivering and sick, weary and worn, my eye happened to catch an elderly woman, slowly but steadily hobbling towards the entrance with a cane. Then I noticed the car beside me, hatchback open as a mother was loading groceries into the back, two little boys running and climbing around the car, another child in her arms. She eventually turned her attention away from the groceries to put the child in a car seat and work to corrall the two rambunctious ones into their seats as well. She looked tired, and I was sure there was a lot of night left ahead of her. Everyone I observed looked tired. Everyone was cold. And, I, therefore, shivered in lonely, weary silence as well. This shouldn't be the bulk of life, I thought. Loading and corralling and stepping around and avoiding people in the freezing air so that we can go home and go to sleep and do it all over again isn't what we are living for. At least, it shouldn't be what we are living for. Thank goodness there is more. Thank goodness there is light and goodness and grace and leisure and warmth and comfort and rest and refreshing and love, yes, and love in life, and these dreary miserable moments are only moments. I hope that mother of three knows that. I hope she knows that she isn't alone in raising those three kids - or even that she and her husband aren't alone in it. I hope that elderly woman knows that whatever dreams have come true as well as whatever disappointments have come to pass, that she is pursued by a loving Father. Thank goodness that my eternity is not in that Wal-Mart parking lot. I hope others realize it as well.

simply

"God, your God, chose you out of all the people on Earth for himself as a cherished, personal treasure. God wasn't attracted to you and didn't choose you because you were big and important - the fact is, there was almost nothing to you. He did it out of sheer love, keeping the promise he made to your ancestors. God stepped in and mightily brought you back out of that world of slavery, freed you from the iron grip of Pharaoh king of Egypt. Know this: God, your God, is God indeed, a God you can depend upon." - Deuteronomy 7 - The Message

?

How do Christmas lights break from the time you store them away in January to the time you take them out again in December? They just sit there all year.

lunch break

I wonder how my grandmother is doing. I have to be honest: I really don't think about her as much as I should. Of course I do think of her, though. I talk to her and love doing nice things for her. I'm thrilled that I pulled her name from the family Christmas gift hat and that I will get to go shopping for her. I love buying clothes for her, and I know she loves wearing them. But, last night I realized how little I have sat down and deeply thought about what she must be feeling right now. I was trying to motivate myself to grade some essays, and, wanting to listen to some soft, warm instrumentals, I put a CD in entitled, Winter on the Moor, which I received for Christmas a few years ago. As I listened, the feelings I was experiencing in Winter of 2002 came back to me, and I felt like I was sitting at my desk in Covenant House, reading for my literature classes and researching best practices for my education classes, missing my dear friends who had moved away, mulling over my confusion with the boys in my life, and still enjoying the knowledge that Lydia was just across the hall, Melissa was three doors down the hall, and several friends were within a mile. I can remember being lonely and confused in those moments, yet, last night, I longed to be back in that little corner in my college town. As much as that time held confusion and apprehension, important, precious memories from that winter and spring are locked in my heart. I grow sentimental when I reminesce of those days. And then, last night, I began thinking about Grandma. Grandpa died this past summer, just two days after my grandma's brother died suddenly of a heart attack. I wonder what Grandma feels like at night. What memories float through her mind, leaving aches in her heart. She's had so many wonderful moments in her life. She was smart and popular in high school, she did well in nursing school, and was pursued by the man who would become her husband. She has four great kids she talks about and ten wonderful grandkids she brags about. I wonder what piece of the past she wants so desperately to be the present. So many wonderful memories are locked in her heart, and I can't imagine how those memories can cause anything but pain for her right now. How does she feel as she watches my brother get ready for a wedding? How did she feel when my cousin excitedly showed her her engagement ring? Was she filled with joy? Or was she full of pain, remembering the time of her life when she had the ring, when she was planning her wedding? That's a pain I can't heal. It's a pain I know just a little about. What is comforting Grandma tonight? I hope she's praying. I hope she's finding comfort in God tonight. But I know she still hurts. I'm sorry Grandma. I wish I could do more.

Blessings of today

1. my car started
2. Jane
3. a kind parent who warmed my feelings in the checkout aisle at WalMart
5. a custodian who came looking for me to show off his grandaughter in costume
6. a surprise call from Kristen
7. knowing there's more than tears

on empty

I’ve been freakishly caught up in myself lately, and now, still freakishly caught up in myself, I feel remorseful and empty. I want to go home, hug my mom, visit Sue next door, and spend the night with my grandma. I want to walk Mollie and have a conversation with Mr. Hail, sitting in a lawn chair just inside of his garage. We’ll talk about his daughter and son, his grandkids and garden, and he’ll laugh at and delight in Mollie, sniffing under his truck. I want to forget about me and lose myself in someone else’s life for awhile. I want to sit and listen as someone pours out her life to me. I want to help someone other than myself.

a head He can lift up

I haven't hung around with a whole lot of ex-cons in my life, but I'm usually up for anything I haven't done before (as long as it's a day-thing and not a rearrange my life kind of thing), so I happily went along this morning when my small group teamed up with another small group to clean out the basements and yards of ex-criminal rehabilitation mission houses in the city. Our job was joy. Except for the removal of the toilet tanks that sat on the porches (I have no idea why) and the pungent smell of urine that lingered (don't ask - I have no idea), the tasks were for the most part pleasant in the cool, sunny October morning. Our task was clear: carry every broken appliance out to the dumpster and clean up the place. We did our job well, and there is no satisfaction like the visible evidence of a job well done.

At one point in the morning, though, as I was scoping leaves into a bag, I overheard a regular volunteer at the mission and one of the clients the mission serves talking. I wasn't really paying attention to the conversation until I heard the words out of the former convict's mouth, "Do you really think God could have a purpose for my life?" Direct quote. Exact sentence. A man whose history I don't even know anything except for the fact that he's been in prison for drugs, spoke with a tone of humility and revealed a disbelief ever so scared but ever so desiring to grasp onto hope, "Do you really think God could have a purpose for my life?"

That man finds it amazing, awesome with an emphasis on the awe, that God, the God he's heard about as the caretaker of good little girls and boys, the God of the holy, the devout, the pristinely dressed church-goers, has a purpose for his broken life. That God knows him, loves him, and finds him worthy to become His own child.

I love my God. I love Him. He is so shocking, radical, and offensive to the social contructs of this world that He must either be loved or hated, and I am so glad that He has opened my eyes to love Him. He has chosen to reveal His truth to a broken man, barely out of prison and holding on to his sobriety with a weak will and a prayer, so that this man, this shady-looking fellow, can glorify Him. God does choose rich and successful people to glorify Him, but just as often He chooses the poor, the guilty, the addicted, the mentally ill, the homeless, the parentless, the abandoned, the condemned, the rejected of society to glorify Him. What kind of God would seek those who have little to no credibility as far as society is concerned, to glorify Him? My God does. He'll accept a criminal who bows before Him long before He will accept a good-intentioned charity volunteer who has no use for Him. It's offensive. It's backwards. It angers and confuses me at times. But, sometimes it just leaves me in awe. I'm honored that the broken, convicted man said thank you to me today for raking his yard, and I feel I certain sense of shame that he had no idea what we were talking about when we thanked him. I'm honored that God allowed me to overhear the conversation between him and the volunteer, that God would allow me to experience a piece of His kingdom in that way. And, perhaps more than anything today, I'm honored I'll get to stand by my new ex-convict friend in Heaven someday.

missing you

It's amazing how, when I feel most lonely, writing out a Christmas card list comforts me. I hope someone out there misses me, because I sure miss all of you. And if you are one of those people with whom I exchange warm hellos and comforting words throughout the week as we fly by one another in our busy schedules, I sure miss the time I once had to get to know you better. I miss you too.

Field of Dreams

I caught the end of Field of Dreams last night. Ray had just gotten into a fight with Shoeless Joe Jackson over not being able to follow James Earl Jones to wherever those baseball ghosts spend their time when they're not playing ball. Ray wanted to go, was upset that after he had done all that work he didn't get to, and was feeling cheated and used. And then, there was that moment when Ray saw the catcher take off his mask, and realized that he was looking at his father. "If you build it, he will come. Go the distance. Ease his pain." Ray said, "It was him." Shoeless Joe Jackson looked back, "No Ray, it was you."

I relish those moments in my life. When watching a movie, I only have to wait two hours. In life, it's usually months, if not years, for such a moment. I so much want to do be part of something important and something mysterious - I want to be part of something that I trust and feel connected to yet do not fully understand. And then, despite the desire to be part of something larger than myself, I want to know someone is looking out for me, and that even as I strive in faith and love, someone is being very intentional about guiding events so that my own pain will be eased. The ballfield was as much an instrument of healing for Ray as it was for any of those athletes. And whatever force in that movie whispered for Ray to build and have faith chose Ray for that purpose. I love two-hour movies. I need to keep faith as I live my life, which oddly doesn't swell into a hopeful ochestra score every two hours. I need to remember that even in the midst of the mundane, there is something important going on here - and the way things work in this world are far more mysterious than I even appreciate. And yes, someone is very aware of my needs and hurts, hopes and fears, and is working things out for my own good, even as He touches so many other people around me. Life is not random; there is a plan, there is a score, and it will all work out "for the good of those who love Him."

Doubts

Sometimes I am so proud of myself for moving out on my own. I moved into a community in which I knew no one, lived by myself for the first time ever, found a church all by myself, and have managed to keep a job and pay my bills. Sometimes, though, I wonder what I am doing. I love my job. I love it. But, at the end of the day, I wonder if it is enough. Choose a career you love and you'll never have to work a day in your life; but if your career is all you have, what do you do when you go home at night? This isn't enough. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I work in the best school district in the entire state, but I don't know how long I can do this.

Squeaky

I somehow survived a mouse poking its head out of my shoe as I was about it put it on. Then, yesterday, I made it through the day even though I found two baby mice in the sticky trap behind my desk. Today, though, the mouse took up extreme sports in my classroom, and I am finding this utterly unacceptable. The filthy vermin plunged from a hole in the ceiling, landing within a foot of a student who was giving an informative speech, and transformed what was once a quiet, sleepy after-lunch classroom into chaotic circus of screaming, jumping, and grandstanding. Boys were suddenly chasing the once-airborn rodent around the room, girls were curled up in their seats, and I was standing on top of my chair, telling everyone to stay calm. I'm striving to teach these kids volume, articulation, poise, and eye contact; but I have a feeling the only thing they will remember from today is Squeaky the flying mouse.

Monday

I was not ready for today. I had not finished grading all of the tests and papers as I had hoped, my lesson plans were sketchy at best, I had very limited options as far as clean work clothes go, I overslept, I didn't have time to dry my hair, I had not spent time in prayer or reading the Bible in a couple of days, the house was a mess, I didn't allow time to make my lunch, the hem of my pants fell out, I put on makeup after I got to work instead of before, and then, at the end of first hour, I spotted two live baby mice in the sticky mouse trap in my classroom. I freaked out, went pale, and called maintenance. Once the mice were gone, I was still frightened and jumpy, and I screamed once during class when I saw a fly out of the corner of my eye. I spent most of the morning wanting to cry, I was so shaken up and startled. Then, to make things worse, a student brought in a mounted large-mouth bass as a visual aid for his informative speech, and those fish eyes and gaping mouth penetrated my calm exterior for the rest of the day. I'm going to curl up and pull the covers over my head now, thank you.

They got me a chair

Several people have asked me for an update to my autopilot blog: how the kids did, any more problems, etc... The kids were awesome. I really didn't get to see much of the play because I was busy with tasks behind the scenes, but from what everyone tells me, the kids performed beautifully. And then, they gave me a chair... and I could have cried. During the curtain call, they called Mrs. Bailey and I up to the stage, as is customary, and thanked us for our hard work and all that. All of the accolades were given in sincerity, yet that whole process is a formality. They would do that if we had nelgected the kids during the entire rehearsal process. But, then, they brought out a chair. And not just any chair, a barstool height, dark wood director's chair with yellow canvas and my name printed across the back. I just covered my mouth and stared. They got me a director's chair. They thought of it all themselves, found out what my favorite color was, purchased it, had my name printed on it, and brought it here. This was more than just a formality; they strove to do something special for me. This blog isn't doing the moment justice right now, and I will revise this later. but I just wanted those of you who asked to know, they got me a chair, and it was the best night I have had in a long time.

this isn't in my job description...

I have to give my high school teachers credit. I don't think they ever once let on that they would rather be home than with me. From band, to Madrigals, to student council, to speech, to Key Club, Spanish Club, CAPTAINS, etc..., it never occurred to me that my teachers did not love hanging out with us kids.

I'm exhausted this week. If you read this blog regularly, you must think I'm exhausted every week, and there may be some truth to that. However, you must understand that this was Spirit Week in honor of the school's homecoming. As a class sponsor, I was supervising for four hours last night as kids covered fluorescent lights with black crate paper and precariously hung strands of Halloween lights from twisted paper clips stuck in the ceiling. I received the honor of riding the float with the freshmen, making sure their chants were appropriate and did not reflect negatively on the school's image and that they threw nothing, even streamers scrunched into balls with tails, to the adoring elementary school kids. When the complete backdrop to the float fell off mid-parade, I was the one to make sure that nobody got hurt as the kids scrambled after it and jump back on the float. They're pretty quick and agile, I'll give them that.

I did have fun at some points this week, though. The freshman hallway is usually pathetic: a few streamers taped to the wall, a couple of signs proclaiming "Go Team," and a balloon floating around here and there. This year's freshmen were incredible though, earning the praise of sophomores and upperclassmen. Was the hallway the best hallway? Of course not. Was it the best freshman hallway WHS has seen in a long time? Absolutely. And I have to admit that I was energized by my pride in them for awhile last night. When the kids wanted to stay for a couple more hours though, I had no hesitation in saying, no, it's time to go home. It never occurred to the kids that as long as they were willing to keep working, I was not willing to stay at school until 9:00, 10:00, 10:30. Maybe a truly dedicated class sponsor would have stayed with them, but I guess my passion for the kids runs out after four hours of hall decorating.

Tuesday night, as I was cleaning up the concession stand the drama club runs at volleyball games, I kept saying to myself, "It is a privilege to be part of these kids' lives. It is a privilege to be part of these kids' lives." At this point it was about 9:00; water from the soda cooler was leaking all of the way down the hall, around a corner, and to a back door; I still had to lock the candy away; and I was sweeping stubborn salt out of the popcorn machine, which the kids had already supposedly cleaned. After everything was finally put away, I sat with the kids outside for awhile as they waited for their parents to pick them up. I was so tired I felt like crying. Nothing was wrong, nothing was upsetting, I just felt so tired all I wanted to do was cry. But, it is a privilege to be part of these kids lives. And, it is an even greater beauty that they don't realize that I would really rather be somewhere else than selling concessions with them at a volleyball game. They don't realize that I would prefer not to spend Saturdays with them during speech season. They don't realize that I don't want to stay at school until 10:30 decorating a hallway or that I really don't have a whole lot of fun riding with them on a homecoming float. I want it that way. I want them to know I have a lot of fun with them, because I do. Maybe the fun I have is in moments rather than hours, but I treasure these kids and I don't ever want them to think they are a burden in me. It is a privilege to be part of these kids' lives. They are paying attention to me, they are listening to me, and some of them are even talking to me. God just give me the strength to be faithful with this privilege. Help me to communicate how special and worth-while each of these kids are. And give me that energy I need in moments like this, moments in which I feel I don't have anything left to give. That's the miracle I'm asking of right now; give me the strength to pour into these kids another week.

Autopilot

One performance down, one to go. It's 11:00, and I haven't been this exhausted since student teaching, but I need to wind down after the opening night of our high school's fall play, the rush of hoping against missed cues, forgotten lines, and lethargic pace; notifying the cops of kids hanging around smoking pot; scurrying around to take care of ticket money, concessions and money, donations, sticky popcorn machines; and so forth.

I'm running on autopilot right now, and I am kind of scared to come out of it. Serious decisions that have been put off until the play is over will reappear this weekend. The smokescreen of busyness, which my mind distorts into meaning, will disipate. Wow, am I going to need God this weekend. Emotions will be flowing, confusion will be looming, but God will be present and His word will be steady. I'll need that steadiness. Wow, I'm going to need that steadiness.

more drama...

School, tennis shoes for after school, and a mouse. I'll let you fill in the blanks, but I think I have found my inner-screamer.

Drama

To quote a good friend of mine, "I'm having drama." I bought a couch and a loveseat today. They are used but very comfortable and sport a neutral, classy cream and tan upolstry. I am overall very pleased with my purchase, thankful that after two years of waiting for just the right opportunity, I was able to aquire a nice-looking couch for a minimal price. The owner even offered to deliver it for me, which is a huge advantage for me in my four-door Cutlass.

But, now I am having drama. My living room finally has had that "feel" that I've been working for. I have no couch, but there are two "cushy" chairs that just happen to be the same color of burgundy, as well as a rocking chair with floral upolstry that complements the rest of the room perfectly. I have a new vertical chest displaying my favorite pictures, treasured old books, and the nick-nacks and momentos meaning the most to me, and the hope chest I received for my 16th birthday sits along the opposite wall. Somehow (I don't know how), but somehow, it has finally taken on the warm, comforting atmosphere I love to come home to. So, now what am I going to do with these couches? Where am I going to put them? Then, where will I put my vertical chest? What about my hope chest? Which "cushy" chair will have to go the extra bedroom? Will the cream and tan wash out the room while the burgundy helped to add color? Yes, I am having drama.

I remember the first time someone told me that I don't deal well with change. If I hadn't had enormous respect for the person who told me, I probably would have laughed at her. Change? I'm fine with change! Well, I guess I'm not. I'm already mourning my old living room, when I know that the couches will make it so much easier to entertain, have small groups, etc... I know the couches will probably make it even "homier" than it is now. Yet still, I greive the loss, even though it is being replaced by something better. I need a new study Bible. The pages are starting to fall out of my old one, and, it being a life application Bible, I would really rather have a more in-depth study Bible anyway. I wouldn't even have to buy it myself; I'm sure my mom would get it for me for Christmas if I asked her. But, I hate change. I've had that Bible since my freshman year of college. It's been through a lot with me. I don't want to let it go. I could go on.

If you are used to reading my writing, you are probably expecting the metaphor about now. I resist change, but it usually turns out being better than before, yada yada... I know you know that. I know you know about risk, letting go, shedding tears over the old (well, maybe not a living room) and embracing the new. I just have to stand back and laugh at myself sometimes.

Yes, I'm still getting the couches. I usually do go through with the changes that are before me. Just smile at me if you see me hesitate though. It might encourage me a little bit, and I won't be as tempted to look back. You can be sure I am coming. I'm coming; I really am.

Justified

I feel a little justified in the presence of those people who thought I was just plain weird. I would describe to them how, when I was exhausted and wanting to go to sleep, I could not stop moving my legs, and would often have to get out of bed and walk around. Or, I might be lying there and refusing to get out of bed, and I would therefore just bicycle pedal in the middle of my bed, often circulating myself upside down. So, for those of you who thought I was freakish, I just wanted to let you know that there actually is something called restless legs syndrome, acknowledged and treated in the medical community. So there - see, I'm not weird. I need to cut down on my intake of caffeine and exercise more, but I'm not weird. Now, don't you feel silly...

Thankful

Play practice was torture tonight. Of course, kids did not have their lines memorized, every mistake (and there were many) warranted much laughter, imitation jokes, and side conversations among the kids, and all I wanted to do was come home. I finally get home, change into jeans, boil some pasta, and turn on CNN; I then watch a report of firefighters, exhausted, emotionally weary, and worried about their own homes and families, fighting a fire (one of many) in New Orleans. The fire hydrants don't work, so they have to find ways to pump the water flooding the streets. Their own homes are destroyed; I wonder where the relief workers do go at the end of the day. I wonder where their families are and when they will see them again. I'm still tired. I'm still glad to be home. But, wow, today was a faraway dream in the minds of too many people today, everyday.

something large

"I'm so tired of little gods while standing on the edge of something large..." - David Crowder

My friend serves a big God. She's taking advantage of an opportunity right now to serve the homeless, actually talk to them, serve them, and see them and treat them as Christ would. The person who opened up this opportunity to her serves a big God too. I don't know through what circumstances he has developed such a passion, but he is using his vacation time to walk the streets of cities just to understand that way of life so many of us would rather just pretend doesn't exist.

I remember a prayer I prayed a little over three years ago. I prayed that my dreams would not be limited to my own desires, but that they would take on the expanse of God's own heart. I prayed that in the context of a relationship I was in at the time, but, today with no relationship in sight, I pray that still. I want to walk away from my comfort zone, feel the tightening of my chest as I watch the safe and familiar grow smaller and smaller to the vanishing point. I want to be more mindful of lack of faith and I am of failure. I want my mind to be on the eternal and not on the temporary.

I have to admit that as I was talking to my friend tonight I felt a little bit jealous. Her life just seems so exciting right now while mine seems, well, kind of like making it from day to day. But, it's time to take inventory and re-evaluate my life that I somehow think is so...well, ordinary.

1. I moved here all alone two years ago. I didn't know a single person here except my landlord.
2. I have managed to teach, the first year of which is notoriously the worst year of any teacher's life (and, in my case, it was) while living here alone.
3. I have students who love me and are really glad I was their teacher.
4. I have had to find a church on my own, and I have.
5. I somehow managed to direct a contest play all by myself last year, and I even drove moving truck to competition.
6. I was there for a friend when her marriage was falling apart.
7. I was there for my family when my grandpa had died.
8. I fought through illness and still have perservered with a sense of humor about it.

I guess this is just kind of a pep-talk for myself. And, looking back at that list, I know it was only by faith that I was able to do any of those things. And, where my faith was lacking, grace was plentiful, and I survived, even grew, and am growing still. I don't know if I am living more on my desires or on God's heart these days, but I pray I'm making progress. Sometimes I feel like I'm just treading water, but when I think about it, I marvel that I've been able keep my head above water for this long. On my own strength, I would have sunk long ago. So, it could be that the great acts of faith involve me getting up tomorrow morning, trusting that God has me in these kids' lives for a reason, and give all I have to them as to the Lord. I want to be faithful to act in the big things though. Just in case. If God ever wants me to walk on water, I don't want miss the opportunity. If anyone ever calls me up to hang out with the homeless, I don't want to shrink away. So God, drag me out of my comfort zone, and please pry my fingers off of my treasured familiar if I put up a fight. But, in Your will and Your timing. And may I see Your power in the everyday.

Heroes

To the two ladies who came down to my classroom in the drama "cave" the other day for the sole purpose of giving me a hug, I just want to say thank you. I can't express how much that meant to me, and though I know I was too surprised and awkward to even show it, I am so, so grateful for the two of you.

Respite

My classroom is weighing pretty heavily on my heart right now. I want it to be a safe place for the kids, a place where they feel valued and treasured, a place where they know they have worth and deserve respect. I want that so much for my kids, and I know I have failed to make that reality for kids in the past. 14-year-olds - they sometimes laugh at inappropriate things and occasionally don't consider feelings as much as they should. Or at least it seems like it at times. I don't always notice when someone gets hurt in the process, and therefore I don't hold those responsible for the hurting accountable. I want my classroom to be a safe place; it is my prayer that it would be. It is my prayer that in that room, if only in that room, those kids would know that they have so much value, so much worth, so much to be protected and fought for. I want that so much for these kids. Father God, I pray that would happen.

Today

"But as for me, it is good to be near God..."

"doing all things..."

I cried all of the way home from church today. The tears started coming right as I was getting onto 270 and had escalated into sobs by the time I passed Lemay Ferry. I’m not sure from where these emotions are coming. Whether it is the start of school tomorrow and the knowledge that it is going to be a long time before I will get to travel to see anyone again or just the continuing of the frustration over feeling at home in a church, I don’t know. It’s probably a little bit of everything.

I put up quite a front, pretending like everything is alright, reciting all the words I know as the proper and godly things to say. But, let’s face it – I’m lonely. I’m extremely confused about the Church, Christ’s bride, God’s delight. I’ve been faithful and steady in one small group throughout the past year and a half, but I’ve switched churches in that time and am now again considering going back to where I started. I feel a certain guilt for my lack commitment to the church I currently attend, and I fear becoming known as a church-hopper. I know it should not be a matter of what the church can do for me but what I can do for the church, but, honestly, I was able to serve much for effectively in my previous fellowship. I made a mistake in leaving that church in the first place. I left because of loneliness, and, a year later, I find that I am still lonely. But now what am I to do? Now that I’m a member of the other church, do I go back to my original family, or do I plow through the distance and the obstacles of serving where I am now?

School starts tomorrow, for which I am glad, for it is why I am living down here, but my stomach collapses at the thought of not seeing anyone from my pre-MetroEast life for awhile. Summer has been grand this year. Full of laughter and tears, catching up with old friends and making new friends, people dear to me making vows of commitment to the men of their dreams, renewing ties with family and becoming more thankful for those ever-strong ties. It’s been a grand summer. But I think it just hit me that it’s going to be a long time before I see any of those people again. All I wanted this morning was to see Melissa or Melissa or Kristen or Kristin or Kristi or Liz and run up and tackle them with a hug. It’s just one of those little things that aren’t appreciated until they’re gone. I’ve never really considered myself one of the “touchy-feely” types, but, oh my goodness, when not a single person even touches you on the shoulder for one or two months at a time, it grows lonely inside.

But I am okay. And I’m not just saying that to put up my “Of course I’m doing wonderful because I have Jesus” front. I’m saying that because I know that although my emotions are having my way with me right now and that it is certain that things are not ideal, I expect God to provide like He has provided in the past. It hurts like crazy today, and I won’t pretend that it doesn’t, but God will provide the way through it. My first year of teaching God provided Anna, a foreign language teacher just across the hallway from me, whose extreme extroversion and social nature were exactly what my introverted heart needed at that time. There was Linsay and Rebekah one rainy October night, who still don’t know the impact their encouraging words had on me that evening. There has been Ananda and the girls, wonderful Jane, and the faithfulness of friends across distance. God has been faithful in my own life, and, if I run out of stories there, the stories of friends and friends of friends could encourage me throughout the dark hours of the night. And, of course, there are the stories of David and Moses and Elijah and the man born blind and Paul and Peter and so many others, who could testify with tears and joy of the indescribable faithfulness of God. So, I guess there is where my heart finds rest. I can stop striving so much, worrying so much, engaging in futile analyzing so much. God is here, with me, fully aware of my needs, more so than I can comprehend. God, I long for a community growing on your spirit – I long for the deepest kind of friends. I pray you will lead me and provide me in your wisdom and time.

I kept the dress

I had a dream last night that I was getting married (sorry, you curious people, once I woke up I had no idea who the groom was). That day that I had feared would never come had in its slow manner swiftly arrived, I had the dress on, the make up was set, and the big moment was only a little more than an hour away. As I was looking in the mirror at my primped and polished self, though, images of the future filled the space in front of me. Dreams and desire, heartful prayer and resulting passions took ahold of me as I thought about the man who was in a few hours to be my husband. He wasn't a bad guy, but I knew my life wouldn't be what it could be if I married him. I had a sense that ruthless trust, reckless love, and radical faith would fade under the intense rays of the need to play it safe and plan according to our own, not God's, potential. I feared this man would encourage me to seek out safe, cozy corners instead of the deep waters only faith can overcome. The trembling of my hands combined with nauseating vertigo has more than once resulted in me clinging to the edge, refusing to let go of what I know to be safe. It's my deepest desire yet most agonizing fear to follow Christ with abandon, throwing myself into situations that I know that I cannot possibly handle with my own strength. If I am to share my life with someone, that must be his deepest desire as well. I couldn't marry that man.

I didn't do it. Though the dress was so beautiful, guests were already starting to arrive, and so much money had been poured into that day - not to mention the the poor jilted groom, I didn't do it. I changed into wind pants and a sweatshirt, walked downstairs, and my dad looked at me and knew. There still was a party, although I didn't feel too much like taking part. I cleaned and organized something while the nextdoor boys I grew up with kept me company.

This is my favorite part of the dream, though. I kept the dress. I put it on a hanger, zipped up the protective jacket, and put it in my closet, confident that I would take it out again someday. Just because this groom and I weren't right for each other didn't mean no one would be right. Getting married doesn't have to mean an end to an adventure with God. So I chose to wait for the one who would lead me over the edge instead of cower away from it, the one who would focus on God's strength, not his own...and I kept the dress.

Just for Fun

Yes, and you better believe the music was as captivating as I looked.

Broken

Okay, I think I may have hurt someone, but I don't know if I hurt them or not. The thing is, I attacked a position that this person holds, not to their face, but behind their back. I didn't mention their name or any clue to their identity at all, but, they may have found out about it anyway. So, not knowing if they know, I don't know what to do. I can go to them and apologize to them for something that they don't even know about, and therefore end up hurting them by telling them they did something that angered me, not in a personal kind of way, but in a "Jessie knows what's best for society" kind of way. Or, I can just let it go and hope the person confronts me about it. If the person knows and doesn't confront me about it, they either 1.) forgive me and have completely let it go; 2.) forgive me but still are very hurt and in need of an apology from me but are afraid to confront me; 3.) won't ever speak to me again.

I'm not going to say anything, just in case they don't know. I might feel better afterwards, but it would probably hurt them. I pray that if they do know, they will confront me about it. If so, I do owe them a very, very big apology.

I hate it when I hurt people. And it scares me that I might do it all the time without even realizing it. I am in front of 120 kids every single day. How many of them do I end up hurting by the end of the semester? It's so easy to do. I'm having a bad day, I'm under stress, everyone is asking me questions at once, and then one kid who never causes any problems at all just happens to ask the question that is the last straw, and I answer directly but curtly, my tone of voice making it clear that at that moment, I am irritated and annoyed. Some kids shrug it off like it is nothing. Other kids take that message and hold it in their hearts. The arrows spoken of in The Sacred Romance. How many of those arrows have I myself shot? I know what it is to be hypersensitive and easily hurt; how in the world can I string the same arrows that pierced me?

I am just learning to confront friends when I am really hurt and believe that the other person played a role. I hope that those I hurt will confront me as well. I'd rather know than be blissfully ignorant. Okay, you don't have to tell me every single thing I've done wrong. But, really, if I have a giant plank sticking out of my eye, and I manage to knock you to the ground with it when I turn around, let me know. I'd rather preserve the friendship, the working relationship, or the family love than have people walking around with wounds I have caused while I just puncture the hearts of others.

Even if I gain the forgiveness of all who I have hurt, I realize I may have lost forever a special place inside their hearts, which they only reveal to those whom they trust. It's a consequence, and it is a tragedy. Thank God for His mercy and grace.

Stories

Right now I'm watching One Tree Hill, mainly with the idea of understanding my students better by watching one of their favorite shows. From what I can tell, it's a WB teenage soap opera, about as far away from reality as daytime soap operas are from real adult lives. No one on the show is a virgin unless they are either extremely awkward or puritanical. They all look perfect, from clothes to hair to makeup, and I suppose it is no coincidence that they all look twenty-five instead of sixteen/seventeen. Everything is just so, so heavy.

Okay, so this is the only episode I've watched. And I know that all teenage kids have their problems, even those from wealthy families, even those who are popular and blessed with beauty. I'm just wondering what the appeal is for my high school students. Is it the problems they are experiencing? Is it how the show deals with the confusion about love and lust and emotion and commitment? Is it about the hope that everything that is missing in their lives can be found in that one special person and the disappointment that happens when they find that is not true?

It's startling to think that this show might actually be a reflection of the reality of which I am blissfully and naively unaware. However, for the most part, I don't think that is true. I think the kids enjoy the show because it is not reality. Going to high school with beautiful people, not so much to deal with classes, but to experience the glamorous drama of it all is appealing to kids. It's appealing to adults. However, I wish those shows didn't have the ratings that they do; I hope kids don't think they're missing out on something because they don't look twenty-five, aren't wealthy, and haven't had sex. Wanting your life to be like a television show is no way to live; anyone who knows an adult who lives that way would say the same thing.

Maybe this is all a part of a bigger question of the purpose of stories in our lives. For what purpose do we watch television, rent movies, enjoy narrative songs, and read fiction and biographical books? Why do we tell stories from the past? I remember a friend of mine from college would often say he would rather live his life than watch it in a movie. I agree with him, but think entertainment, especially entertainment in the form of stories, has a purpose. The telling of stories is an essential, life-enriching part of all cultures and life-styles. The thing is, I think we would be happier if we sought and told stories as a way to enrich our lives instead of escape from them. If the show or the movie does not enrich my life, but rather takes me away from my life, I probably shouldn't watch it. Maybe that's where the line should be drawn.

Remind me of this in late October

It's time to go back to work. I'm having a great summer, but until I have something to take a break from, these days off just aren't as gratifying as they could be. Now, there are advantages. For instance, I am available and attentive to a full night of Gilmore Girls tonight. But, I've lost the ability to enjoy doing nothing. Today I was sick. I took a short nap on the bathroom floor, crawled into the kitchen for crackers, and sipped chamomile tea and Gatorade all day. I never enjoy getting sick, but sometimes not being able to move is a nice change of pace and enables me to rest and reengergize in ways I would not allow myself otherwise. However, today the nausea and lightheadedness was just a big waste of time. I was not able to anything but nothing, and it was just more of the normal instead of an excuse to relax. I hated it instead of appreciated it. I miss being pushed and in need of a day off.

July 28

I loved last night. Windows open, ceiling fan spinning, dusk just ending and the sky falling dark from a sapphire blue. I, sitting cross-legged on the floor, laptop in front of me, pecking away while watching a movie on TV, took delight in Linsay, my friend and future sister, who was sitting beside me, squealing in laughter at the movie. A Pizza Hut pepperoni and mushroom pizza was for supper. We had ice cream for dessert, and we talked and laughed and squealed and reminisced all night long. I loved last night.

I remember three years ago from last night I was bawling my eyes out. I was crying two years ago from last night too. I guess I don't remember what I was doing a year ago, but I know it wasn't as good as this year.

July 28, 2003, I moved to the community that would become my home for what is now two years and going. I didn't know a single person here. I was starting my first year of teaching, terribly lacking confidence and even doubting if I was in God's will in taking this position and making this move. I had a bed, a chest of drawers, a table with two chairs, a computer, and a tv. The mattress had been soaked by rain during the move, so I spent the first night clinging to the dry edge of it. I was so frightened that first night too. I remember locking the door, then locking my bedroom door, and laying awake listening for any sound that could speak danger to my life. I remember sitting on the floor in my near empty living room, just crying and crying and crying. I felt so alone. All day long, the words "You are alone, you are alone, you are alone," cycled through my head. I had not yet learned to say no to those words.

I felt alone, but I was not alone. And I'm not just saying that God was with me, although He was and it is because of His grace and to His glory that I found such joy in last night. But I mean I was not void of human relationships. They weren't right there, but there were people who loved me, were thinking of me, and were praying for me. And, although I did not know them yet, there was a Christian community here, willing and eager to help me as soon as they knew me. Because of pride and fear and timidity I shyed away from such help, choosing to retreat inside of myself instead of risking the rejection coming with relationships. I felt alone, and though that was a legitimate, reasonable emotion rooted in hurts and wounds that were real and needed to be addressed and not ignored or denied, the reality was I was not alone.

Beth Moore once pointed out that David, in his cries of loneliness and hopelessness while running from Saul, was not without ally. Of course, God was with him, and God was his comfort, but, David's father and brothers were still rooting for him. David was not completely abandoned. There were people who cared very much for his well-being. The emotions were real, and David had every reason to feel the way he did, but I'm sure he gave thanks later for those people who loved him.

I am so thankful for the people who have been with me when I felt so alone. I'm so glad for those people who stuck with me, not offended that I was little comforted by their warm words, not giving up when their presence made little difference to me.

And, I am so thankful to God in making this lonely place home. Two years after I sat in an empty apartment crying, Linsay and I laughed in a cozy room, I being so happy I could offer some hospitality to a friend who never left. And, I am so happy I can go up to school and talk and laugh with those who have become my new friends. Loneliness is still a real emotion, but at least it is no longer combined with hopelessness and a perception that I am utterly alone. That is God's grace.

marvel

Recently my friend Tammy wrote about how, even throughout the changes of life, so many of our quirks, interests, and mannerisms stay the same. And I think it is true. Crackers, bread, and milk are still perfectly acceptable for lunch for me. I still tend to procrastinate. I still stay in my car after I park if a good song is on the radio. People still tend to think I'm quiet and good for the first year they know me, and then they think I'm "quite a card," (I'm not really sure what that means, but it's been said) after that.

However, it also makes me think how I have changed. For instance, I now prefer Coke over Pepsi. I take my vitamins almost every day. If I still have work to do and I'm tired, I'll go to bed - it's just not worth hurting myself anymore. (I know, Tammy - you'll believe it when you see it). Besides, if I don't get enough sleep, the kids get a very cranky Miss Swigart, and nobody likes a cranky Miss Swigart. I'm not quite the academic or career perfectionist. I get excited and jump around the room and make a complete fool of myself in front of my students, something that I never could have done a few years ago.

But really, I'm not quite the perfectionist I once was. That is huge; nausea has declined, hours of sleep have increased, weekends have become a little more enjoyable, and I have become more content in the present. I appreciate beauty more. I'm still pretty cheap, but I'm much more likely to pay a little more for something that is pretty and practical rather than just practical. I delight in floral tablecloths and delicate bracelets. Those extra details that seemed superfluous and even frivolous are worthwhile now.

I used to stay put more. Now, I'm driving all over the place. I know I'm putting miles on my car, but if I'm not going to use my car to visit treasured friends, why have it?

My friends have changed too. Melissa D. has become one of the strongest and most content single women I know. Kristin faces her trials with a calm, steadfast spirit that absolutely amazes me. Melissa W.'s passions have shifted whole-heartedly to adult ministry. When Kristen B. went back to school, she found herself loving her classes.

Yet, like Tammy, I delight in the things that stay the same as much as I get excited about how God is growing us all. Melissa's love for purple and prayer comforts me as much as it did when she lived in Cov. House. While Kristin still looks forward to chic-flicks, chocolate, and yuppie-puppy coffee, and Melissa still cherishes her family and Justin, Kristen B. and I still talk about our confusion of why we, though we are happy, still long for someone to shares our lives with.

Tammy has considered buying a pink and purple children's Bible. That floors me. However, I'm not surprised to know her love for the Lord would lead her to do it and that she would find humor in it while marveling at God all of the way. I hope that is one thing that will stay the same about all of us - that whatever unlikely situation we may be in - like if I, for instance, ever become a Mary Kay consultant or Melissa D., who hates throbbing music and heat and humidity, ends up ministering in the swamps of Florida while married to an alternative Christian rock musician - I hope that we will still marvel at God and laugh at ourselves.

pleasing the parents

My parents are coming tomorrow, and I'm so excited! They haven't been to my place since last summer, and I can't wait for them to see the new things I've added, how I've added a decorative touch here and there, and the way I've arranged the gifts Mom has given me throughout my apartment. Also, they will be able to see my classroom (although it's in pretty sad shape right now), my teachers' lounge, the hallway I walk through at work every day, and the Dr. Pepper machine I frequent.

I'm twenty-five years old and haven't had a report card mailed to my parents since I was in high school. There are no more open house evenings or invite your parents to school days in my life. Yet, it is still important for me to show off where I spend my days to my family. It's important to me for them to see reflections of my work. Instead of good papers and report cards, I excitedly show my mom and dad good evaluation reports from my boss. My mom used to be proud of my clean room (I think that happened once when I was in sixth grade). Now I'm excited she will see vacuumed floors and dusted shelves. That pride that comes from making my parents proud is still a part of me. My parents love me unconditionally, of course. If I struggled at my job, had not vacuumed in six months, and had things still stacked in boxes around my apartment, my parents would still love me. I'm secure in their love. Still, I'm eager to make them proud.

(I hope my dad doesn't look in the shed outside!)

hesitant refusal

Recently I've been journaling about how much I miss home. Maybe it's because my grandpa died, or maybe it's because I reconnected with so many good friends this summer, and I would so much rather be 1-2 hours away from them rather than 3-5 hours away from them, but, regardless of the reason, I have begun to question why exactly I have chosen to be three hours away from my family and my closest friends. I'm tired of being away just for the sake of being away. Much of me just wants to be back home.

This morning, unexpectedly, I received a job offer to teach English in my old hometown, at the high school from which I graduated. The English teacher, my high school English teacher, resigned, and the principal, who was my high school chemistry teacher, offered me the job. I have the chance to go back home, to be surrounded by the people who love me the most, and to once again be in the midst of people who know me, not just superficially, but deeply, and who love me very much. I would be close to Bloomington/Normal, small cities which I love, close to my Grandma and my Aunt Sara, not too far away from Melissa and Melissa, closer to Matt and Kristi, closer to Kristen Browning, and closer to Liz Morriss. I would be back at a church where I actually feel known.

Yet, I don't think I can accept this offer. I miss home, but I have ongoing relationships here too. I love the faculty and staff at WHS, and leaving them this quickly would break my heart. I know I don't have an extremely deep relationship with the staff there; I haven't seen any of them except for during professional development activities during the summer, but they have helped me so much through my days at work, and part of me just can't stomach working without them. What's more, I have invested work for this coming school year, and I would have to leave all that behind. It would be like the past two years of my life suddenly came to an abrupt halt, and the tapestry, the painting, the chapter, or whatever cliche' metaphor you want to insert would be incomplete, half-finished, and only inspiring confusion and discomfort.

As much as I yearn for home, I know it's good for me to forge some relationships on my own. Yes, I feel lonely and isolated some of the time, but it has forced me to speak to strangers, reach out to people I barely know, and risk rejection on a level beyond which is not possible in a town where everyone knew my name, my parents' names, my grandparents' names, and my great-grandparents' names. I've had to do so many things for myself, including estabilshing my own reputation, good or bad. At the end of the day, I knew I was the only one really interested in what had happened to me throughout that twelve hours, and I think that is still the part that hurts the most, but at the same time it has helped me appreciate the importance of relationships, and will help me to cherish my relationships in the future.

I still have responsibilities here in Waterloo. Here is where I need to stay. Maybe opportunities we have to turn down are answers to prayer. I long so much to be close to home, but, when I have the chance, I see more reason to stay down here. There are so many people I long to be near, but I understand that there are relationships here that should not be broken off so quickly. I know I would be a great teacher there, but I have responsibilities to be a great teacher here. God still wants me here, and, strangely, I think I still want to be here too. I miss all of you in the CBS Channel 3 viewing area though. I miss you in Chicagoland too. I'll still be here in St. Louis. Write me sometime.

Lil_bitsky

Kristen Browning - what is your IM number?!?!

Johnny Depp

I just want everyone to know that the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory freaked me out, and the second one looks absolutely terrifying. I think there is something wrong with enjoying seeing an overweight kid being squeezed through a pipe, and I hypothesize that thousands of twenty and thiry-somethings have clausterphobia issues because of that very scene.

mental webs

Sigh...

I've spun a mental web so complicated that it is I who is trapped and needs rescuing.

I don't know how long to keep teaching. I love my job, my workplace, and my colleagues. Even more than the people in my church small group, my coworkers have become a source of encouragement and laughter for me. Yet, there's something inside of me that whispers that this isn't quite it, that teaching high school isn't the best match for my gifts and abilities. I have longed to do ministry ever since my sophomore year in college. That desire has taken many forms and has manifested itself in various dreams, but, in the past, when I thought of that one thing that I most wanted to do but was most scared to even try, I thought of vocational ministry. So I didn't pursue it and kept it to myself, yet the desire never completely went away.

I love teaching, but as I read the Bible, I often long to teach scripture, which of course is not possible in public school. Last April, I believed God was nudging me to make more time for ministry in Christ's name. I debated in my mind wondering if I needed to make more time avocationally, or if I should get a ministry degree. As it is, I don't know how I can make significant time avocationally and still perform my job duties well. But, the thought of seminary absolutely terrifies me. For one thing, I am scared of the "Christian bubble." I don't want to be surrounded by all Christians all of the time. I like working in a secular workplace. The other thing is that I just have this vague dread of seminary. I don't know what it is. I know I am smart and can intellectually wrangle with the best of them. I love studying scripture. But the thought of seminary full time doesn't sit well with me. However, I want to do vocational ministry. I don't really care if I get a seminary degree or not, but I fear it is what will be required of me to do what I want to do.

I feel like there's a missing piece to this puzzle. I am tempted to wait for it to appear, but what if taking the plunge is what is really required of me at this point?

Any wisdom would be great appreciated.

July 19

July 19. Okay, is it anybody's birthday? Becky, I know yours was the 16th, so that's not it. Why do I feel this date is important for some reason? I think it may have been the birthday of a girl who was in my first family group, led by Jen Fulkerson, over the book of James. I can picture her but I can't remember her name. Amanda? I don't know. If it is anybody's birthday or anniversary, let me know. And if I'm supposed to be at anybody's house celebrating anything, let me know and save me a piece of cake.

Dear Becky and friends,

Remember when we used to talk on the phone for hours about all of the places we wanted to see? I remember Maine being pretty high on the list. I haven't make it there yet, have you? Remember how we used to talk about Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, delighting in the verses and passages we had just discovered? We together had such a love for beauty and for romance, even the romance of dancing colors or captivating song. We had big dreams for each other - huge dreams. They didn't involve prestige or accomplishment, but they did involve experiences that were deep and rich. We didn't long for trophies, we longed for stories. How is your story coming along? Are you giving it a chance? Are you lingering in a moment long enough to let the colors sink in and the melody haunt you?

You're in Turkey now; I'm close to St. Louis. You are a wife and mother of two, bringing love, comfort, and stability to your family. You are a military wife living in gentleness and strength. You fight your battles, but you also accept unfortunate circumstances with grace. You are raising two children away from your own family and the places that watched you grow up. You are a supporter, encourager, comforter, lover, teacher, entrepreneur, healer, and disciplinarian.

As for me, I am a single career woman, an educator, a mentor, and a friend. I'm living on my own, often wondering what it would be like to have a husband and children. I often long for someone to be there with me in the evenings, someone who at the end of the day cared about what I was thinking and feeling. I want someone to unconditionally love me when the busyness of the day has passed so that I don't have to carry every sting and arrow to bed with me that night. I desire someone to love, someone to cherish, someone to care for. I wonder what it would be like to have someone who has committed to stay by my side as long as we both shall live. I wonder what it would be like to have the well-being of two precious little lives entrusted into my care. I wonder what it would be like to have someone looking forward to coming home to me.

But I wonder if you wonder about me. Do you wonder what it might be like to be twenty-five and single, not even a boyfriend, not even a dog, and certainly no consideration of children? Do you wonder what it might be like to only consider yourself as you think about the future? Do you wonder what it might be like to do absolutely anything you want with your weekend or to have the financial freedom of an unmarried person without kids?

I imagine you do think about those things from time to time, just as I imagine life in your shoes. You might long for more "me time," while I long for the blessing of having a companion. You might wonder how in the world your life got so complicated; I, with all of the freedom in the world, worry about making a misstep, and having no one there to even miss me, let alone rescue me. Yet, I think God knows what He is doing as He leads us on in life. God is my refuge after all; He will never leave me alone and forgotten on the dark side of the Earth somewhere. And, in the mist of the military, money, and the terrible twos, God is able to quiet your heart and give you as strong a sense of self as that of any single woman. And, I am learning more and more, that whether God gave us a husband or singleness, kids or a career, Turkey or St. Louis, they are just that - gifts from God.

I miss you, Becky. I miss you, friends. How is your story coming along? Are the experiences rich and deep? Are they full of color and haunting melody? Are you wishing for another plot line? Well, I have another plot line, but I don't think you want it. I'm not sure the melody I have would go with your harmony, and vice versa. We better just drink deep of the riches we have. Wow, the fireflies seem climb on the thick Illinois air. And, wow, I wonder which road I will choose next year. It's amazing how the light catches the highlights in your daughter's hair. And aren't the notes of your children's laughter intoxicating?

The rest of you, how are your stories coming along? Are they full of trophies or of experiences? What are the colors and shades of your stories, and do you think you could describe some of your melodies to me?

home

It's amazing how travel can lead to such an appreciation of home. For instance, after traveling to Germany, I am filled with thankfulness that God has not yet called me to a place where I would have to eat herring on a regular basis. I know, like Paul, through Christ I could learn to be content in all situations, but the herring thing would be really, really hard.

Germany was a wonderful experience though. The herring was about the only thing I couldn't stomach. I learned to like sparkling water (or "water with gas" as they call it), butter on my lunchmeat sandwiches, and pedal brakes on adult bicycles. I found that I can watch movies in a foreign language and still enjoy them and learn from them. A live performace of Romeo and Juliet is just as heartbreaking in German as it is in English. I learned I need to recycle more and ride my bike to work more.

But there is no place like home. I learned to like butter on lunchmeat, but I still prefer mayo. I learned to like sparkling water, but I still prefer it "without the gas." And, looking back on my anxiousness to return home, I think of all of the time I spent with international students in college and wonder why it never occured to me to try, even in small ways, to make things more like their homes. It was so refreshing to land in Memphis and be able to read the signs posted around me and to walk up to a shop counter with confidence that the person on the other side would speak English. To be able to easily understand what was going on around me. To easily be able to find and purchase food I like prepared the way I prefer it. In college, I think I was so busy trying to introduce my international friends to my culture, I never really appreciated how much they must have longed for home. Oh sure, I would sit and listen as they talked about home and made a conscious effort to learn from them, but I never really tried and thought about bringing their homes to them.

I love home. I remember upon returning from Scotland a few years ago, Kristen Browning and I shouting and screaming and skipping and turning around in circles in a McDonald's parking lot because we were in America and we could act as silly as we wanted. We no longer had to be on our best behavior because we were in someone else's country, we no longer had to sit and observe just to figure out what was going on (even though we spoke the same language there), we were no longer visitors in a foreign place. I love home because of the sense of comfort, the sense of belonging, the sense of ownership. I wish I could go back in time and try to give that to my international friends. Nothing I could do would make this foreign land home, but maybe at least that understanding would have helped bridge the chasm between the international students and the American students. Maybe I could have shared just a taste of what different students from different countries already shared so deeply in being strangers in a foreign land.

Greetings from Deustchland!

Hello Everyone!

I just want you to know that I'm here and doing well. The kids are great and I am enjoying the lavish hospitality and grace of the host family with whom I am staying right now. I miss the friends and family from home, though. I wish you could be here with me. Love you!

i'm changing my license plates

As you read this, please keep in mind that I have a degree, have held a full-time teaching job for two years, live on my own, pay my bills, budget accordingly, and am generally respected for having the mental capacity to screw in a lightbulb without anybody's help. However, on my way to the post office to responsibly mail payments to those companies who have earned my patronage, I first run over the curb with not one, but two wheels. Then, as a sheepishly align my car to the narrow path which leads to the mail boxes, I look in my rearview mirror to see if the woman in the Lexus behind me has a condescending countenance. I cannot tell. Then, as I reach to put my letters in the mail box, I drop all of the envelopes in between my car and the mail box. I am now flustered beyond control and am afraid to look in my rearview mirror to read the Lexus woman’s face. I open the car door to retrieve my responsible payments to those who have earned my patronage, but, because I forgot to put the car in park, the vehicle rolls forward and the slightly ajar car door smacks into the lip of the blue mail box. Fortunately I am only half-way out of the car at this point, and I apply the brakes to prevent the car from hitting the car precariously parked in the middle of the path in front of me. I, with my foot still on the break, bend over to pick up my bills and put them in the mail box. Unfortunately, not anticipating this string of events, I did not replace the Eastern logo on the back of my car with a U of I sticker.

fellowship in the mud

I visited a state park a few weeks ago with a group of friends. It was a wonderful weekend and a wonderful time just to kick back, enjoy company, and enjoy the nature that we so often miss in our busy lives. At one point in the trip, we had just come from one side of a deep dell, around which we climbed through small caves and climbed behind a small waterfall. We laughed at and wished the worst for each other as we found footing on narrow ledges, sometimes readying cameras for what seemed to be a friend’s imminent plunge into the pond around which we were climbing. After awhile we decided to hike on towards the opposite side of the dell to see what adventures might be in store for us there. The brush grew thicker, the dirt turned to mud, and we soon came upon a trickling stream. Some boys – actually, I think it was just my brother with his waterproof boots – moved a log so that we could use it to cross the stream, and my brother started haphazardly throwing large rocks in front of us, I later understood for us to walk on. Before long, we were in a quagmire. I don’t remember ever making a conscious decision to continue, or why we as a group just decided to go where it seemed no sensible person had gone before, but most of us did. We cautiously tested the soft ground before we took a step and tried to follow each other’s steps exactly. The boys went out ahead of us and tried to make things as easy as possible for the girls (even though we are beastly mountain women), often offering a hand or showing where to step. Sometimes they just weren’t sure though; I remember thinking that the path through the poison ivy was a better option than what they were doing, and I led us through with only one casualty due to a stinging nettle. Sure, people got hurt. One girl got elbowed in the face. Another girl got attacked by a plant left over from the curse of Adam. But, that can happen on even the most benign trail. The fact is, navigating our way through that muddy quagmire was one of my favorite parts of the trip. We willingly put ourselves in a challenging situation. It was muddy. It was wet. I sunk to my ankles in the mud a couple of times. I slipped off a rock and ended up standing in water once or twice too. But we were all in it together, helping each other out, trusting each other, and sympathizing with each other as our feet were consumed by the earth. And the great part is, we willingly put ourselves in that situation. We didn’t realize it would eventually get so muddy that we would have to turn back, but we knew it would be muddy, and we knew it would be more than a stroll. And what’s more, I probably laughed harder on that part of the trip than I did on any other.

I loved that camping trip. It made us like kids in that we wanted the biggest challenge. When I was little, I remember waiting for the day when I would be out of kindergarten and into the first grade, because that would mean I would no longer have to settle for the little climbing dome on the playground; I would graduate to the big dome. I looked forward to the big slides, the big teeter-totters, and the tires. Isn’t it funny? When we were little we would long for greater challenges. We wanted to sit atop the big dome, climb through the caverns of the tires, view the world from the highest rung of the latter on the slide. We wanted to get bigger, to be able to do more difficult things. I was so disappointed the first time I rode my bike across the block. The vanishing point of the sidewalk seemed like such a mysterious place; I imagined all sorts of adventures there. As the mysterious turned familiar, I remember, even at age six, feeling a loss. Challenge turned into the mundane. But as I grew up, I found myself choosing the mundane over the mysterious. I know some of you never lost your stomach for the most grueling option, but somewhere I started to settle for less. I would rather be with people just like me. I’ll drive the paved road instead of the gravel road. I’ll send an e-mail instead of making the phone call. I continue working instead of going to graduate school. As an adult, I am lacking something I had as a child: the desire and courage to go after the greater challenge and thus experience the greater adventure. And, with the God that I serve, I imagine I’m missing out on some pretty grand adventures and some pretty grand people with whom to experience those adventures.

Did we accomplish anything in our voyage through the mud? No, not really. Kristen got quite a bump on her head, and Rebekah got quite a stinging sensation in her hand, and we all got mud smeared up to our knees. But, it was fun. I laughed harder than I have laughed in a long time. Who knows what we would have found if we had continued? Probably more mud, but also probably more laughter, more ingenuity at the hands of my brother, and more opportunities to help each other as we struggled along the path. Thank God for those muddy times. Thank God that we have to help each other out every once in awhile. Thank God that we have to get close enough to each other to actually touch each other once in awhile. Maybe if we trusted God more to follow Him into those quagmires more often, we would get to experience that fellowship more, maybe we would get to laugh more, maybe we would delight in Him more.

answered prayer

Sometimes I forget that God hears. I pray, and I do consciously believe God hears, but I don't live my days in expectation of seeing His work. I pray every day (okay, I have missed a day or two) for the safety of my family. I pray for Mom and Dad, for JP and Linsay, that God would protect them from disaster or disease, from accident or harm. Things scare me. JP scuba dives. Submerging oneself in water does not sound like a good idea to me. Dad sometimes gets on a ladder and fixes things. Termites eat wood. Ladders are made out of wood. Anything can happen. Mom plants flowers. Flowers attract bees and hostile hummingbirds. It could get ugly. So I pray. And sometimes God shows up in visible ways.

A few weeks ago my dad, after a morning of documenting continuing education for his teaching certificate, as well engaging in other enjoyable activies, decided that he would sit down on our back deck and enjoy a Subway sandwich. It was a beautiful day, not even a breeze, temperature in the 70's. School was out for the summer, the pace of the day was laid back, and for once my parents had a day of peace. Dad could enjoy his sandwich with no worry of stress-induced indigestion. Well, that was until the sky started falling. Without warning, the utitility pole in our backyard snapped at its base, falling across the doghouse, nearly crashing into our neighbor's garage. The power line from the pole to the house went slack, falling across the deck (see photo below), not more than five feet from where Dad was sitting with a mouth full of turkey club on Asiago toasted bread. The strength of the main power lines managed to keep the pole from crashing through the garage, but as they swayed with the shift of weight, they bounced off of each other, arking and sparking all across the neighborhood. Less than five feet away from the live power line lying across the deck on which he was sitting, Dad decided not to move. He also decided he didn't feel like finishing his sandwich. Mom, unable to actually get to him, asked if she should call 911. Dad decided that was a good idea.

I am just thankful that Dad wasn't hurt or killed. And I am thankful that Mom didn't run out there and get hurt or killed as well. This was a near miss. A freak accident that could have turned tragic. I wonder how many freak accidents and "normal" accidents we avoid each day. I wonder what impact my prayers had on that near miss.

I doubt we realize the impact of many, if not most of our prayers. When I was in college, I and a group of others prayed twice a week for Eastern's campus, for the students and faculty, for the Christian Campus House, for those who there, for those who had not yet arrived. We who prayed, and I know there were many who prayed for the campus, even if they did not sit in that particular circle, will live our lives never knowing exactly why God put it on our hearts to pray that semester, that year. And we will never know what lives are different now because God called us to prayer and we obeyed. Maybe a girl was more careful about who had touched her drink. Maybe an international student was befriended by an American student who really wanted to be his friend. Maybe someone decided that she would give Intervarsity a try. Perhaps a challenging question that a professor asked motivated one student to think about life and meaning, existence and God. And then maybe that student had a conversation with a Christian on his floor, and then, months later, he started reading the Bible, asked quesitons, and surrendered his life to Christ. Maybe blessings of wisdom and strength were given to the student leaders at Campus House. Maybe. We prayed for all of those things. I am confident that they were in some way answered. And I am glad that students who preceded my time at Eastern prayed for me. I, an incoming freshman, scared, looking for belonging, looking for meaning, looking for God. I ended up at Campus House even though I had never heard of it before. And I stayed. So, anyone who was at Eastern the years before me, thank you for praying for me before you ever knew I existed. And those of you who are at Eastern now, please keep praying for the students who will follow you. God has a story in mind for them. He may be calling you to pray for them.

In a down power line, God reminded me that He still is answering prayer, even if I only occasionly am able to see it. It's not just a coincidence that safety is provided when we pray for it. Those people who prayed for the incoming freshman class, the class of '98, likely never really got to know me or become familiar with my story, or my roommate's story, or many of the stories that were written while we were there. Yet, those prayers were answered in God letting us find him.

I hope that I pray more now. I pray that I pray more.

Why visitations?

In my mind, visitations have always been somewhat ridiculous. The concept of the visitation is good, but the way we go about it here in the Midwest is tiring, stressful, and takes away from both mourning and celebration. My grandfather died last week, and, as is customary, there was a visitation the evening before the funeral. Grandpa’s body was laid out, open casket, at one end of the funeral home room, Grandma and all the children stood in front of and to the side of the casket, and then the mourners, the well-wishers, friends of the family, neighbors, etc. stood in a line around the perimeter of the room, waiting for forty-five minutes or more to shake the hands of the family, look at Grandpa, give their condolences, cry, and even be comforted by those they came to comfort. It sounds nice, but the family ends up standing for over three hours with the dead body of their loved one behind them. Friends of one child shake hands with all of the family members, explain who they are, and tell them that they are so sorry. None of the immediate family gets to really talk with anyone. The line progresses and people have one minute at most to express themselves, exchange hugs, or even be friends. Then the people walk out the door, and those who need comfort the most are still fulfilling their obligation to stand up, sweetly smile, thank people for coming, and nod their heads at what a wonderful life their loved one has led.

Why do we handle visitations this way? We don’t have to. When my great-grandmother died ten years ago, my dad’s cousin, Julie, from Washington state came home for the funeral, and looked at us quizzically at the mention of a visitation? What is a visitation? You stand up for hours while people pass through a line and shake your hand? Why? Do you really get to talk to people? What kind of comfort comes from that? I must say that some comfort does come from it. Grandma would never have considered doing a visitation any other way. It is the way things are done, and, in her mind, the standard way of expressing grief and love. But do things have to be that way? Or, if that is what people of my grandmother’s generation prefer and are most comforted by, does my generation have to follow suit? I found myself, accidentally, calling the visitation a reception all of last week. The irony of course is that a reception is a celebratory and joyful event, while the visitation is a mournful, subdued event. However, I believe that our mourning could be better served and comforted if our visitations were more like receptions. Why not make the funeral dinner the main visitation event? People can talk to the family members as long as they need to. Long hugs can be exchanged. Stories can be shared. Tears and laughter can mingle. Please do not get me wrong. I am not discounting mourning, grief, and tears as legitimate, appropriate, and God-given ways of working through the death of a loved one, and I am not suggesting that we just pretend that there is nothing to cry about and have a party instead. But, in working through grief, I wonder if there is a better way. The love of family and friends is crucial in the times of grief; why not make it easier to give and receive that love? Why not create the opportunity for legitimate acts of kindness? Why not forgo the line and create a authentic environment for friendship and sharing – why not a meal, an open house, or even a worship service with authentic fellowship afterwards. What we need most in our times of grief is love. Why not reflect that in our services?

homecomings

Yesterday I returned home from a 10 day absence, the beginning of which was a wonderful, yet probably not deserved, respite from responsibility, but the majority of which was spent giving comfort, receiving comfort, and mourning the death of my grandfather. The visit to my hometown, county, township was somewhat formulaic, I feeling like the lead character in a movie about homecomings, family, and discovering who we really are, with the houses, buildings, and big yards that contained our childhoods. I, having left to aquaint myself with bigger cities, returned home to the farm, the quaint country church, and hosts of relatives and friends whom I had not bothered writing or calling. After my visit there, I am in no way eager to move back to Central Illinois, nor do I feel like I have to rearrange my life, reprioritize, or gut the infrastructure of my personality in tune with what I feel I may have discovered during a time of sorrow with the people who taught me my earliest lessons. However, I feel that I did, in a way, emotionally come back home. I had been angry, not with my parents, but with others and their failure to live up to my expectations, their failure to be the sparkling idols that I had set them up to be. The farm, my grandparents’ farm, had been my Utopia growing up. Everything that was good, everything that was worked for, earned, and enjoyed was in my mind and my heart somewhere on those farms. I loved the pastures of the North farm, the creek of the Homeplace, the red-winged black birds, the dogs, the kittens, and the calls of the livestock. I enjoyed being in the middle of nowhere. And I loved my Grandpa, the man who worked the farm, whose touch could calm the animals, who worked hard without complaint and without ever counting down to vacation. I remember praying for him with all my might when some sort of machinery would break down (which was every week), just begging God to cut Grandpa a break, give him a taste of success, let him be glad at the fruit of his work. I thought my Grandpa could do no wrong... imagine my devastation when I found out that he could. I, little by little, realized that the farm was no Utopia, that my grandfather was not infallible. I don’t know if I was angry, was hurt, or was just frustrated, but I distanced myself from the farm for a long time. I returned there in the wake of Grandpa’s death, however, and found myself no longer angry or frustrated or wanting to not be there. I don't know why, but I was just at peace with everything. Things had been done wrong, things were not ideal, and in some ways things were just the opposite of what they could have been if only Grandpa had stopped striving long enough to consider us, his family. But, I forgave the farm, my grandpa, and myself. I came to treasure my role as granddaughter once again. I felt satisfied with my place in the family tree. I felt like Grandpa would have been proud of me, even though he wouldn't have known how to show it. I know Grandpa loved me, even though he didn't understand me and was scared to try. I know my grandfather is Grandpa, and even though we are now paying for some of his mistakes, we loved him, and I forgive him. That is at least one less load to bear.