The holiday season is officially here. That announcement usually ushers in a great deal of excitement. Naturally, I am looking forward to celebrating old traditions, making up new ones, spending time with family and friends, and of course, always present on my mind is the bleak hope of snow. However, I find myself holding back this year.
I am happy to report that since writing the above sentences nearly two weeks ago, holiday cheer and general merriment have begun to take hold. Ninety-five percent of my shopping is done, presents purchased are wrapped and sitting under a fabulous tree, and our yard should be on par with the Griswold's sometime this afternoon. But, I digress ...
Loss lays dormant. It becomes an uncomfortable, but familiar stitch in the side. Then one night, while putting up a Christmas tree, the thud of reality hits again. The world has kept spinning, somehow, without a certain person on it. Memories are in place, but the possibility of making new ones is gone.
Holidays are full of memories for me, as I'm sure they are for every person reading this. My favorite memories of childhood Christmases involve Krystal. I laugh out loud when I remember our special operative-style plans to meet Santa. I cringe when I recall our wading through waist-deep snow until being abruptly stopped by the jagged rim of a culvert. Under my tutelage Krystal learned and sang the wrong words to many a Christmas carol, but our parents never corrected us. Instead, they listened patiently as we drove through the streets of Boise or Burley looking at lights, and then silenced us with homemade hot cocoa once we were home. Our childhoods were simple, and filled with love.
This year, life has not been as simple. Nevertheless, laughter seems to be our choice of illumination when we find ourselves in a tunnel. It's not the same carefree giggling we shared as girls. Instead, it is a deeper, I'll even say healing acknowledgement of the joy and contentment present in the simple pleasures God provides. Despite our constant wishes for Kenny to be here to laugh for himself, his absence has taught us to look for his special brand of humor in every situation -- now we laugh more often, a little harder, and a little longer, and we laugh at ourselves, to make up for not hearing his goofy chuckle echoing with our own.
Exhibit A: Kenny was a faithful follower of Christ, but was less enthusiastic about the commercialism of the Christmas holiday than Krystal, whom he affectionately dubbed "Krystal Christmas" from roughly November 15-January 2 of every year. With that in mind, I heard a fiendish chortle mix with the north wind last night when we discovered that the lights we had carefully wrapped every tree with would not connect with the extension cords we had purchased. Evidently, these extension cords were manufactured on Mars.
Transplanting past memories, grafting them into the fabric of the present, makes loss easier to handle. Sometimes it plays a trick on the mind, one that is followed by tears or just moments of silence. As I've said before, a fresh moment of heartbreak is a small price to pay for a minute or two of vivid, joyful memory.
I know the same love and strength that has always been a part of Krystal's life will continue to illuminate a path for her. Kenny is not here, but the memories of his love and devotion are. He can't physcially be a part of our celebrations this year, or next, but he is with The One that we celebrate.
Showing posts with label Window To My World. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Window To My World. Show all posts
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Box Tops and Lies
“Solve for ‘y’.”
“Benjamin Franklin.”
“You have to complete the Punnett Square to get the percentage!”
“Multiply by the inverse and simplify.”
“London and Istanbul were both conquered by Romans.”
“Rubber and quinine.”
“Tuck your shirt.”
“Where’s your belt?”
“You need a haircut.”
“Austin, stop fidgeting.”
“Posture for prayer. Posture. For. Prayer.”
Those are just a few of the phrases that have left my mouth today. Some are statements, others are commands. Most are answers to the 47,000 questions I respond to every day. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be a standard day at CWA if I didn’t say one or more of those things 15 times, didn’t come home with my pockets full of Box Tops, my hands covered in red ink messages to myself -- reminders that still didn’t remind me -- and at least a few comical anecdotes.
This morning in pledges we voted on our Christmas service project. I found five children’s charities to choose from. My logic was that a hand vote would be quicker and easier than distributing paper ballots to each class. I described each charity and then asked students to vote. My exact words were: “Raise your hands high, and DO NOT put them down until I say so.” (Donna, are you reading this?) Like nailing Jell-O to a tree, my friends. On the first round, I counted to about 12, then 14 more hands went up. I started counting again, and 11 hands went down. This was repeated in similar fashion five times, and our voting process resembled something like a game of Whack-A-Mole. Eventually, we selected a charity, and bless their hearts they chose a good one. I’m proud.
Later in the day, I was on my way into a parent meeting. I noticed a young man (I’ve written about him before, he’s a suspicious fellow) lingering behind me in the commons.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
He oddly nodded his head “yes” and “no” at the same time.
“What is it?” I repeated.
He went on with some question about science experiments, and without having all the background information, and in my hurried state, I gave the answer he undoubtedly was seeking. Three minutes later my meeting was interrupted by the student’s teacher. Said student had originally been given the exact opposite answer. He then proceeded to lie to his teacher about needing to ask me a question for his mom. He was excused from class and found me, and the rest is history. Oh, to channel this resourcefulness into something truly useful ... and honest.
I remember being a teenager and having far more important things on my mind than following instructions. Although, most of the time I did follow instructions, to the point of being nerdy, because the idea of not doing something right frightened me. I also remember not liking the answer I got from my mom, and subsequently going to my dad. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: God gives us experiences that not only teach us, but give us wisdom and grace to deal with people and situations further down the road. Fortunately, I remember what it was like to not quite have it all figured out. I still don’t quite have it all figured out.
I’m glad I can not only laugh at my students’ antics, but also turn them into endearing memories. Wherever I end up in life, when I look back on this chapter it will be filled with humor and joyful memories, and that’s exactly how I want it.
“Benjamin Franklin.”
“You have to complete the Punnett Square to get the percentage!”
“Multiply by the inverse and simplify.”
“London and Istanbul were both conquered by Romans.”
“Rubber and quinine.”
“Tuck your shirt.”
“Where’s your belt?”
“You need a haircut.”
“Austin, stop fidgeting.”
“Posture for prayer. Posture. For. Prayer.”
Those are just a few of the phrases that have left my mouth today. Some are statements, others are commands. Most are answers to the 47,000 questions I respond to every day. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be a standard day at CWA if I didn’t say one or more of those things 15 times, didn’t come home with my pockets full of Box Tops, my hands covered in red ink messages to myself -- reminders that still didn’t remind me -- and at least a few comical anecdotes.
This morning in pledges we voted on our Christmas service project. I found five children’s charities to choose from. My logic was that a hand vote would be quicker and easier than distributing paper ballots to each class. I described each charity and then asked students to vote. My exact words were: “Raise your hands high, and DO NOT put them down until I say so.” (Donna, are you reading this?) Like nailing Jell-O to a tree, my friends. On the first round, I counted to about 12, then 14 more hands went up. I started counting again, and 11 hands went down. This was repeated in similar fashion five times, and our voting process resembled something like a game of Whack-A-Mole. Eventually, we selected a charity, and bless their hearts they chose a good one. I’m proud.
Later in the day, I was on my way into a parent meeting. I noticed a young man (I’ve written about him before, he’s a suspicious fellow) lingering behind me in the commons.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
He oddly nodded his head “yes” and “no” at the same time.
“What is it?” I repeated.
He went on with some question about science experiments, and without having all the background information, and in my hurried state, I gave the answer he undoubtedly was seeking. Three minutes later my meeting was interrupted by the student’s teacher. Said student had originally been given the exact opposite answer. He then proceeded to lie to his teacher about needing to ask me a question for his mom. He was excused from class and found me, and the rest is history. Oh, to channel this resourcefulness into something truly useful ... and honest.
I remember being a teenager and having far more important things on my mind than following instructions. Although, most of the time I did follow instructions, to the point of being nerdy, because the idea of not doing something right frightened me. I also remember not liking the answer I got from my mom, and subsequently going to my dad. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: God gives us experiences that not only teach us, but give us wisdom and grace to deal with people and situations further down the road. Fortunately, I remember what it was like to not quite have it all figured out. I still don’t quite have it all figured out.
I’m glad I can not only laugh at my students’ antics, but also turn them into endearing memories. Wherever I end up in life, when I look back on this chapter it will be filled with humor and joyful memories, and that’s exactly how I want it.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
September Thoughts
It is now the third week of school, therefore the honeymoon is officially over, the gloves are off, et al. Nevertheless, as my students settle in and begin to show their true personalities, I’m overcome with how much joy they bring me. I am so grateful for all the lives that are a part of my life. Below are a few laughable examples of why I don’t mind the sound of my alarm clock … most days.
I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.
At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.
We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.
Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.
Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.
I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.
At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.
We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.
Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.
Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Life's a Trip
Isn't it funny how things turn out? Facebook, as I'm sure it does for many people, keeps me in an almost constant state of retrospect. Five or ten years ago, ahead of social media, it was easy to forget people (read: experiences) from the past. Now, by my own choice, I daily see names and faces of people I haven't seen in years. Chances are, I won't ever physically see them again, barring the extremely unlikely event that I attend my high school reunion.
Depending on the name, I am taken to the halls of Borah High School in Boise, Idaho. Occasionally, an experience tied to a certain individual will take me further back, even to West Junior High (shudder). Others cause a flashback to the University of Idaho campus and the Pi Phi Palace. Some are more recent, like the SFA campus in Nacogdoches, Texas, and just yesterday I communicated with someone I interned with at cue:creative in Tyler, Texas. Some associations are positive, others move me to the serious consideration of lobotomy. Regardless, they are all people and experiences that are a part of who I am today. Every memory shapes me, and I find it so interesting to look back over these chapters in my life and try to get into my own head back then. I never would have imagined I'd be where I am today, not geographically, professionally, socially, or spiritually.
I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in high school. If I could go back, I would do it just for the sheer purpose of being nicer to people. There's a lot to be said for a smile. Oh, how offering one to others at crucial times might have changed things a bit. Wisdom like "show yourself friendly" or "keep your mouth shut" were wasted on me then, but now I see so clearly what they mean, and how the advice is best and most simply applied. If I'd obeyed the latter, I might not have lost a car window and an insurance suit during my freshman year of college.
I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in college, too. I was a mess - the first two years anyway. Made excellent grades and bad decisions. Reputation was something I didn't think much about, I felt it didn't have any weight of importance for the long term. God took care of me, though. He gave me a fresh start in a new place. I couldn't be what I am today in proximity to that past life, and He knew that. I have absolutely no control over what people think of me, but I do have control over what I think of them. I figure forgiveness and a non-judgmental attitude balance the scales. Just this minute while writing this it's so clear to me what God was up to. What an awesome and wise Heavenly Father I have.
Once I got to Texas I started getting some sense talked into my dense head. Still messed up on a daily basis for roughly five years in a row. Now I mess up, but I generally realize it pretty quickly and make it right. "Success is a journey, not a destination." We've all heard that, right? The same rings true for a walk with God. I didn't cross the Texas state line and instantly turn into a saint. Living for Him is a process, and I learn new things every day. My first years at it were a mess, because I was young and still wanted to fit in somewhere else. I made mistakes, ruined opportunities to witness, and tried to earn my salvation, instead of just receiving it. But, time and love were applied to my confusion, and although I have questions and trials all the time, I now have this wonderful open line of communication with my Creator. Even when the answer doesn't come right away, I know He's working on it, and I have peace - the kind of peace that only comes with full trust in, and surrender to someone else.
I can't explain in words to anyone what true liberty is like, but I hope my life is an explanation. My God is so good to me. Whatever is between the lines in the paragraphs above, it’s erased. I may remember it, you may remember it, but He doesn't. And His opinion is the only one that matters in the long run.
Depending on the name, I am taken to the halls of Borah High School in Boise, Idaho. Occasionally, an experience tied to a certain individual will take me further back, even to West Junior High (shudder). Others cause a flashback to the University of Idaho campus and the Pi Phi Palace. Some are more recent, like the SFA campus in Nacogdoches, Texas, and just yesterday I communicated with someone I interned with at cue:creative in Tyler, Texas. Some associations are positive, others move me to the serious consideration of lobotomy. Regardless, they are all people and experiences that are a part of who I am today. Every memory shapes me, and I find it so interesting to look back over these chapters in my life and try to get into my own head back then. I never would have imagined I'd be where I am today, not geographically, professionally, socially, or spiritually.
I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in high school. If I could go back, I would do it just for the sheer purpose of being nicer to people. There's a lot to be said for a smile. Oh, how offering one to others at crucial times might have changed things a bit. Wisdom like "show yourself friendly" or "keep your mouth shut" were wasted on me then, but now I see so clearly what they mean, and how the advice is best and most simply applied. If I'd obeyed the latter, I might not have lost a car window and an insurance suit during my freshman year of college.
I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in college, too. I was a mess - the first two years anyway. Made excellent grades and bad decisions. Reputation was something I didn't think much about, I felt it didn't have any weight of importance for the long term. God took care of me, though. He gave me a fresh start in a new place. I couldn't be what I am today in proximity to that past life, and He knew that. I have absolutely no control over what people think of me, but I do have control over what I think of them. I figure forgiveness and a non-judgmental attitude balance the scales. Just this minute while writing this it's so clear to me what God was up to. What an awesome and wise Heavenly Father I have.
Once I got to Texas I started getting some sense talked into my dense head. Still messed up on a daily basis for roughly five years in a row. Now I mess up, but I generally realize it pretty quickly and make it right. "Success is a journey, not a destination." We've all heard that, right? The same rings true for a walk with God. I didn't cross the Texas state line and instantly turn into a saint. Living for Him is a process, and I learn new things every day. My first years at it were a mess, because I was young and still wanted to fit in somewhere else. I made mistakes, ruined opportunities to witness, and tried to earn my salvation, instead of just receiving it. But, time and love were applied to my confusion, and although I have questions and trials all the time, I now have this wonderful open line of communication with my Creator. Even when the answer doesn't come right away, I know He's working on it, and I have peace - the kind of peace that only comes with full trust in, and surrender to someone else.
I can't explain in words to anyone what true liberty is like, but I hope my life is an explanation. My God is so good to me. Whatever is between the lines in the paragraphs above, it’s erased. I may remember it, you may remember it, but He doesn't. And His opinion is the only one that matters in the long run.
Monday, July 26, 2010
An emotional rhapsody
I'm listening to Matt Redman. Right now "You Alone Can Rescue" is playing, and I plan to listen to it again. Every single time I sit down to write a blog, I take a few moments and search, and listen for a still, small voice to tell me what I need to say. I try my best to be obedient. I never know if what I write will touch someone who reads it, but I'm always blessed by the thought I'm given. It's humbling and awe-inspiring to hear the voice of God. I can't come up with most of this stuff on my own. "To you alone belongs the highest praise" - that's the final line of the song, which just ended. Talk about timing.
Music is so powerful. It can put us in another place, another time, it can make a fading memory burn bright and invoke an emotion or desire thought forgotten. It can inspire a person, bring them joy, or drive them to tears. It can bring praise to someone's lips, or influence them to make poor decisions. I believe music has had all of these effects on me at one time or another.
I love music. I assign a lot of importance to it. I can look at the long list of songs in my iTunes library and identify a memory or emotion with just about all of them. I've listened to three tonight, in the past hour or so, that all point to my two very good friends.
One friend is actually my cousin, and probably the human being on this earth I'm closest to, although I wouldn't have always admitted it. The other is her Marine husband who was killed in Afghanistan this past May.
My music library is organized alphabetically, and oddly enough that places the first and second songs that reference them right next to each other. One is uplifting, and the other (although it's an awesome and beautiful song) I have no business listening to because I know it's going to open the floodgates. In consequence, I will sit around bawling and sniffling for an hour, like I'm doing right now. I repeat: Music has a profound effect on me.
When the couple was first dating in high school I don't know if any of us thought it would turn into what it did. The relationship lasted a year, and then two. When he enlisted in the Marines, there were some that believed the relationship would peter out due to time and distance. But, they lasted through basic training, then through the first tour in Iraq, and then the second. What started as flirtation in the band room, turned into a commitment between two of the most independent and iron-willed people I've ever met.
I remember vivid details from their wedding. Not just because I was the maid of honor and had a front row seat - if anything nervousness would have blocked some of it out. I remember because it was like no wedding I've ever been to. It was so personal, and illustrated in numerous ways the absolutely unshakeable bond of love, honor, and dedication that was present between the bride and groom. The first song I listened to tonight was the song she walked down the aisle to. If I remember correctly, he discovered it some length of time before he ever proposed, called her from Camp Pendleton, and played it for her over the phone. It's like it was written just for them.
I am positively heartbroken every time I listen to it, or even think about the lyrics. Marriage is about loyalty, companionship, and commitment. The one you marry is supposed to be the person you love and cherish above all others next to God, the one you would have an arm severed off for. Sadly, it's a covenant that has been cheapened by modern society. It's mocked, and seen as a way to get new appliances and bath towels. It's even viewed as temporary by some. Not the case with these two.
This is where the other two songs come in. One was played at the funeral - "Promised Land" by Fee, the other is just a song I know. "Promised Land" reminds me that she hasn't "lost" him at all, she just has to wait a little while to see him again. In the meantime, he's "gone up to glory land, he's gonna see his Lord, he ain't gonna cry no more." That song is for him. The other is for her, it simply reiterates that God is love, and perfect love casts out fear.
This is for her, too. You've always been so supportive of me, even when I wasn't of you - and that's why I know you're reading this right now, so let me say this: You are a remarkable, strong, intelligent, Christian person, and I am so privileged to know you, and honored that you call me friend.
Music is so powerful. It can put us in another place, another time, it can make a fading memory burn bright and invoke an emotion or desire thought forgotten. It can inspire a person, bring them joy, or drive them to tears. It can bring praise to someone's lips, or influence them to make poor decisions. I believe music has had all of these effects on me at one time or another.
I love music. I assign a lot of importance to it. I can look at the long list of songs in my iTunes library and identify a memory or emotion with just about all of them. I've listened to three tonight, in the past hour or so, that all point to my two very good friends.
One friend is actually my cousin, and probably the human being on this earth I'm closest to, although I wouldn't have always admitted it. The other is her Marine husband who was killed in Afghanistan this past May.
My music library is organized alphabetically, and oddly enough that places the first and second songs that reference them right next to each other. One is uplifting, and the other (although it's an awesome and beautiful song) I have no business listening to because I know it's going to open the floodgates. In consequence, I will sit around bawling and sniffling for an hour, like I'm doing right now. I repeat: Music has a profound effect on me.
When the couple was first dating in high school I don't know if any of us thought it would turn into what it did. The relationship lasted a year, and then two. When he enlisted in the Marines, there were some that believed the relationship would peter out due to time and distance. But, they lasted through basic training, then through the first tour in Iraq, and then the second. What started as flirtation in the band room, turned into a commitment between two of the most independent and iron-willed people I've ever met.
I remember vivid details from their wedding. Not just because I was the maid of honor and had a front row seat - if anything nervousness would have blocked some of it out. I remember because it was like no wedding I've ever been to. It was so personal, and illustrated in numerous ways the absolutely unshakeable bond of love, honor, and dedication that was present between the bride and groom. The first song I listened to tonight was the song she walked down the aisle to. If I remember correctly, he discovered it some length of time before he ever proposed, called her from Camp Pendleton, and played it for her over the phone. It's like it was written just for them.
I am positively heartbroken every time I listen to it, or even think about the lyrics. Marriage is about loyalty, companionship, and commitment. The one you marry is supposed to be the person you love and cherish above all others next to God, the one you would have an arm severed off for. Sadly, it's a covenant that has been cheapened by modern society. It's mocked, and seen as a way to get new appliances and bath towels. It's even viewed as temporary by some. Not the case with these two.
This is where the other two songs come in. One was played at the funeral - "Promised Land" by Fee, the other is just a song I know. "Promised Land" reminds me that she hasn't "lost" him at all, she just has to wait a little while to see him again. In the meantime, he's "gone up to glory land, he's gonna see his Lord, he ain't gonna cry no more." That song is for him. The other is for her, it simply reiterates that God is love, and perfect love casts out fear.
This is for her, too. You've always been so supportive of me, even when I wasn't of you - and that's why I know you're reading this right now, so let me say this: You are a remarkable, strong, intelligent, Christian person, and I am so privileged to know you, and honored that you call me friend.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Look at the ant
I don't know what to write this morning - I only know I want to write. That's refreshing, as it's been some time since I felt words pulsing in my fingertips. My natural creativity often slinks back and stays silent, intimidated, even exhausted, by the seeming importance of parent letters, web revisions, board meeting minutes, and ho-hum e-mails.
Several months ago, my pastor taught a message about keeping your personal walk separate from your ministry. God always knows what we need. I always knew I needed to take care of my personal relationship on some level, but I wasn't practicing it. A pretty important part of living for God is helping, serving and ministering to others. That's indisputable. However, it's very difficult, nigh impossible, to help others if we don't seek strength for ourselves daily.
I was praying and studying, of course, but the time I spent for my personal growth always seemed to be done in preparation for praying for someone else, or teaching a lesson. Should we pray and study in that manner? Absolutely. But, should we also make time every day to just have a personal talk with God about our own growth? Yes. That's what I was missing.
I find the same is true for my writing. I use the talent and skill I have for a bunch of other things, which is fine - I'm supposed to. But, I let those tasks fill my writing shoes. I have four goals every day (minimally): pray, study God's Word, write, and exercise. For too long I have let my mundane daily writing tasks, those listed in the first paragraph, slide by as "writing." I go to bed at night and mark things off my mental to-do list and allow "parent policy revisions" to ease my conscience over not nourishing this precious gift from my Creator. This is not acceptable.
You lazy fool, look at an ant.
Watch it closely; let it teach you a thing or two.
Nobody has to tell it what to do.
All summer it stores up food;
at harvest it stockpiles provisions.
So how long are you going to laze around doing nothing?
How long before you get out of bed?
A nap here, a nap there, a day off here, a day off there,
sit back, take it easy—do you know what comes next?
Just this: You can look forward to a dirt-poor life,
poverty your permanent houseguest!
Proverbs 6:6-11 The Message
I'm not claiming to be lazy, but I'm not working as hard as possible every day for my writing, either. "You have a full-time job, Rachel!" Yes, I do, but there are a lot of writers with full-time jobs that still make time for their passion. That's what this is about - whether I ever publish or not, writing is my passion, my outlet. I owe it to me to make time for it every day.
Several months ago, my pastor taught a message about keeping your personal walk separate from your ministry. God always knows what we need. I always knew I needed to take care of my personal relationship on some level, but I wasn't practicing it. A pretty important part of living for God is helping, serving and ministering to others. That's indisputable. However, it's very difficult, nigh impossible, to help others if we don't seek strength for ourselves daily.
I was praying and studying, of course, but the time I spent for my personal growth always seemed to be done in preparation for praying for someone else, or teaching a lesson. Should we pray and study in that manner? Absolutely. But, should we also make time every day to just have a personal talk with God about our own growth? Yes. That's what I was missing.
I find the same is true for my writing. I use the talent and skill I have for a bunch of other things, which is fine - I'm supposed to. But, I let those tasks fill my writing shoes. I have four goals every day (minimally): pray, study God's Word, write, and exercise. For too long I have let my mundane daily writing tasks, those listed in the first paragraph, slide by as "writing." I go to bed at night and mark things off my mental to-do list and allow "parent policy revisions" to ease my conscience over not nourishing this precious gift from my Creator. This is not acceptable.
You lazy fool, look at an ant.
Watch it closely; let it teach you a thing or two.
Nobody has to tell it what to do.
All summer it stores up food;
at harvest it stockpiles provisions.
So how long are you going to laze around doing nothing?
How long before you get out of bed?
A nap here, a nap there, a day off here, a day off there,
sit back, take it easy—do you know what comes next?
Just this: You can look forward to a dirt-poor life,
poverty your permanent houseguest!
Proverbs 6:6-11 The Message
I'm not claiming to be lazy, but I'm not working as hard as possible every day for my writing, either. "You have a full-time job, Rachel!" Yes, I do, but there are a lot of writers with full-time jobs that still make time for their passion. That's what this is about - whether I ever publish or not, writing is my passion, my outlet. I owe it to me to make time for it every day.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sweater Saga
There are times in a woman's life when she just wants stuff. Be it clothing, a piece of decor, a new home, or perhaps a certain food. Yesterday, I wanted a sweater. I didn't have any particular style or color in mind, I just wanted a sweater - something cozy and feminine to wear in the beautiful fall weather currently descending upon us. My only parameter was the amount of money I intended to spend on said sweater. However, the number in my mind was more than adequate. I've bought many sweaters in the past for less.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Learning not to lean
There is a picture that my parents have, my aunt and uncle have the same one, and a second set of aunt and uncle also have it. The picture is of three children, suspiciously crouched behind a set of steps, holding giant orange-and-black balloons. The looks on their faces would tell you that their whole world's happiness is wrapped up in the balloons, and in the company of one another. The latter is true, the former, however, might be misconstrued, as I know our whole world's happiness was wrapped in the security and love offered us by the six adults in the house.
My two cousins and I have remained close since that photo was taken about 24 years ago. Krystal has since married and moved to California, and David moved back to Texas from Mississippi, and married earlier this year.
Growing up it was me and Krystal, and our families respectively that wound up in Idaho together. Those years, formative for me, cemented forever the feeling of having a second set of parents, a second set of people to run to with my problems, a second set of ears to just listen and then help figure it all out. They left Idaho and returned to Texas before I was even a teenager, but the attachment remained. When I moved to Texas permanently and this aunt and uncle became my pastor and pastor's wife, the practice of sharing my worries and fears compounded. Once again, these miniscule threats to my peace of mind became theirs as well, although I now know bigger ones have always waited at the top of their mind's awareness.
(Hopefully) when we are children, we all have adults such as these. I think of what a wonderful childhood I had, and what a wonderful family I have today, and the picture I spoke of says it all. However, the three of us are no longer children, no longer babies. Nonetheless, (I can speak for myself if no one else) I still lean and depend heavily on the support and security that was in that house that day.
Recently, that changed. The tables have begun to turn, and now I must offer safety, security and even guidance to one or more of those all-important adults in my life. There was one night of fear and even selfishness, for lack of a better term, where my dreams were filled with needs and worries, none of which I could figure out without their help. Beginning the very next morning, their fears and worries were voiced to me, and out of love, honor, and respect, I could do nothing but start on the road to becoming whatever they needed me to be.
People constantly search for ways to be strong, fierce, even to be unaffected by what goes on around them. Ironically, I guess, I believe the purest form of strength is both found in, and refined by, love. Your love for someone else will propel you to set everything else aside and do what is necessary for the well being of that person or persons.
Think of a newly married, free-spirited man, holding his new born baby girl (yes, I'm stealing this from the insurance commercial). The first thing he thinks of is doing whatever is required to care for her forever, even in his absence. That is love. Think of the fear associated with being completely and totally responsible for another life (you already know if you are a parent), yet you find the strength to care for them.
It takes strength to forgive and love covers all sins. It takes strength to stand for what is right, and God's unconditional love encourages us to do this.
As you search for strength in your daily walk, look for love first. You will find the one, although a contrast in some ways, ultimately leads to the other.
My two cousins and I have remained close since that photo was taken about 24 years ago. Krystal has since married and moved to California, and David moved back to Texas from Mississippi, and married earlier this year.
Growing up it was me and Krystal, and our families respectively that wound up in Idaho together. Those years, formative for me, cemented forever the feeling of having a second set of parents, a second set of people to run to with my problems, a second set of ears to just listen and then help figure it all out. They left Idaho and returned to Texas before I was even a teenager, but the attachment remained. When I moved to Texas permanently and this aunt and uncle became my pastor and pastor's wife, the practice of sharing my worries and fears compounded. Once again, these miniscule threats to my peace of mind became theirs as well, although I now know bigger ones have always waited at the top of their mind's awareness.
(Hopefully) when we are children, we all have adults such as these. I think of what a wonderful childhood I had, and what a wonderful family I have today, and the picture I spoke of says it all. However, the three of us are no longer children, no longer babies. Nonetheless, (I can speak for myself if no one else) I still lean and depend heavily on the support and security that was in that house that day.
Recently, that changed. The tables have begun to turn, and now I must offer safety, security and even guidance to one or more of those all-important adults in my life. There was one night of fear and even selfishness, for lack of a better term, where my dreams were filled with needs and worries, none of which I could figure out without their help. Beginning the very next morning, their fears and worries were voiced to me, and out of love, honor, and respect, I could do nothing but start on the road to becoming whatever they needed me to be.
People constantly search for ways to be strong, fierce, even to be unaffected by what goes on around them. Ironically, I guess, I believe the purest form of strength is both found in, and refined by, love. Your love for someone else will propel you to set everything else aside and do what is necessary for the well being of that person or persons.
Think of a newly married, free-spirited man, holding his new born baby girl (yes, I'm stealing this from the insurance commercial). The first thing he thinks of is doing whatever is required to care for her forever, even in his absence. That is love. Think of the fear associated with being completely and totally responsible for another life (you already know if you are a parent), yet you find the strength to care for them.
It takes strength to forgive and love covers all sins. It takes strength to stand for what is right, and God's unconditional love encourages us to do this.
As you search for strength in your daily walk, look for love first. You will find the one, although a contrast in some ways, ultimately leads to the other.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
God's Lab Rat
I'm not saying God is experimenting on me. I actually mean this in the best possible way. I'm talking about God's will, and how He has a way of closing off or opening up certain areas to channel us in the right direction. In my life, He is doing this through added responsibility, and added challenges.
Responsibility from God is an honor. If He gives you a job to do, or two or three or four, feel blessed. I do. By my own request, and through a series of events, I've taken on a brand new leadership role within my church, I've got to step more fully into one I've apparently had, and I've got to expand my reach in a third. Each of these areas is challenging in its own way and I am being pushed as an individual to learn new things and strengthen myself in certain areas. Most importantly, these challenges have become integrated into my personal prayer and study life, and I AM GROWING!
I pray all the time for a better prayer life, and naturally, for a closer walk with God. I pray these things out of habit. And, although I sincerely desire those things (obviously) I never think too much about how God's going to bring them about in a tangible, visible or measurable sort of way. I've realized over the past week or so that He's been working on these things in my life for some time, and now, I must be getting to the place where my eyes are open, my vision is clearer, and I can really see how He's doing it. AWESOME!
I believe one thing that has brought this epiphany on, is the fact that I've stopped viewing my walk as "just for me." With the added responsibility, I've come to realize that the quality of my walk is going to directly impact the walks of others. If I'm not where God wants me, doing what He wants me to do, studying what He wants me to study, acting and behaving how He wants me to act and behave, how am I going to lead, teach and bless others? Everything is connected.
Example: If I don't pray and seek God before leading praise and worship, how will I know which songs to pick and what words to speak? I must be in tune (no pun intended) before my fingers hit the keys in order to be sensitive to the spirit and God's intentions for that service. THAT is an awesome responsibility, but an amazing blessing, too. To have such direction and immediacy in prayer! "God help me and lead me and show me RIGHT now, so I can do exactly what you need me to do RIGHT NOW." And, the results are immediate - I pray for God to use me, I tell Him in prayer that the talents and gifts He has given me belong to Him. Then I witness and feel Him use them for His glory. He tells me what to do, I do it, and then He goes to work. It's like an out-of-body experience. I watch and see what He is doing and I feel such closeness to Him, I feel such worth. I don't want this to sound like it's about me, because it's not. It's about Him. Just like an offering or any other sacrifice we offer up, God takes it and uses it in the way He chooses.
Thank you, God, for allowing me to work for you.
Responsibility from God is an honor. If He gives you a job to do, or two or three or four, feel blessed. I do. By my own request, and through a series of events, I've taken on a brand new leadership role within my church, I've got to step more fully into one I've apparently had, and I've got to expand my reach in a third. Each of these areas is challenging in its own way and I am being pushed as an individual to learn new things and strengthen myself in certain areas. Most importantly, these challenges have become integrated into my personal prayer and study life, and I AM GROWING!
I pray all the time for a better prayer life, and naturally, for a closer walk with God. I pray these things out of habit. And, although I sincerely desire those things (obviously) I never think too much about how God's going to bring them about in a tangible, visible or measurable sort of way. I've realized over the past week or so that He's been working on these things in my life for some time, and now, I must be getting to the place where my eyes are open, my vision is clearer, and I can really see how He's doing it. AWESOME!
I believe one thing that has brought this epiphany on, is the fact that I've stopped viewing my walk as "just for me." With the added responsibility, I've come to realize that the quality of my walk is going to directly impact the walks of others. If I'm not where God wants me, doing what He wants me to do, studying what He wants me to study, acting and behaving how He wants me to act and behave, how am I going to lead, teach and bless others? Everything is connected.
Example: If I don't pray and seek God before leading praise and worship, how will I know which songs to pick and what words to speak? I must be in tune (no pun intended) before my fingers hit the keys in order to be sensitive to the spirit and God's intentions for that service. THAT is an awesome responsibility, but an amazing blessing, too. To have such direction and immediacy in prayer! "God help me and lead me and show me RIGHT now, so I can do exactly what you need me to do RIGHT NOW." And, the results are immediate - I pray for God to use me, I tell Him in prayer that the talents and gifts He has given me belong to Him. Then I witness and feel Him use them for His glory. He tells me what to do, I do it, and then He goes to work. It's like an out-of-body experience. I watch and see what He is doing and I feel such closeness to Him, I feel such worth. I don't want this to sound like it's about me, because it's not. It's about Him. Just like an offering or any other sacrifice we offer up, God takes it and uses it in the way He chooses.
Thank you, God, for allowing me to work for you.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Diary of a Mad, White Girl
I am Bridget Jones. On certain days. Minus the cigarettes, boos, and loose morals. And swearing. Incidentally, I am also a brunette. I'm trying to tap into the positive here. I go through stages of chaotically motivated self reinvention/improvement. I love my life in general - love the family and the work, but I'll admit, the single factor does seem to bother people - oh for real, it just got to the part in the movie where she's at the dinner party and a dozen people stare at her after she's asked why there are so many single women in their thirties. Yeah, I'm watching it right now. No, I'm not in my thirties, but you have to make the adjustment from London to rural East Texas. I'm in my mid-twenties. It's the same. Trust me. The people I know love me the most (I count myself in that group) never say anything about my singularity, and I don't believe they care. Complete strangers, however, or people whose business it most assuredly is not, are quite uncomfortable with my unattached state.
It is considered bad etiquette to ask someone what they do for a living at a social engagement. Is it not also rude to ask someone if they're seeing someone special? Or, even worse: "So why aren't you married?" My answer: "I don't know." Am I supposed to know? Because I don't, really.
Then I'm told that I need to "put myself out there." Ahem. . . have these people seen what's on the market in my neck of the woods? No, thank you. The pickins are slim.
Moral of the story - I'd rather be single forever than settle for something mediocre just to fit a mold others consider to be acceptable. I hope if you're single and reading this, you can feel the same way about yourself.
FYI - I am leaving in the morning to take seven students to Knoxville for national competition. I'll be away for a week, so the blog will be silent. Not that that will be a big change, I am pretty much posting once a week anyway. That'll change come summer, I promise.
It is considered bad etiquette to ask someone what they do for a living at a social engagement. Is it not also rude to ask someone if they're seeing someone special? Or, even worse: "So why aren't you married?" My answer: "I don't know." Am I supposed to know? Because I don't, really.
Then I'm told that I need to "put myself out there." Ahem. . . have these people seen what's on the market in my neck of the woods? No, thank you. The pickins are slim.
Moral of the story - I'd rather be single forever than settle for something mediocre just to fit a mold others consider to be acceptable. I hope if you're single and reading this, you can feel the same way about yourself.
FYI - I am leaving in the morning to take seven students to Knoxville for national competition. I'll be away for a week, so the blog will be silent. Not that that will be a big change, I am pretty much posting once a week anyway. That'll change come summer, I promise.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A country-fied city mouse
We forget the negative when we've been away from a place, a person, a situation. Time heals and absence makes the heart grow fonder. I've lived in rural East Texas for almost six years, and most days I find reasons to dislike it and pine away for the big city, any city. It's amazing to me that one region can be so completely devoid of culture, food, and size 2 garments. I am constantly frustrated and preoccupied with what my locale doesn't offer that I often forget to sit back and think about what I love, and why, ultimately, I really am happy. If I wasn't, I would have found a way to leave by now.
I recently finished a Nicholas Sparks book about a man who leaves his fast-paced Manhattan life for love, moving to a no-name North Carolina town. A loft apartment overlooking the city is traded for a rented room full of taxidermy. The apex of all things literary and culinary, walks in Central Park, the excitement and tension of New York streets, is exchanged for a local diner and a sad local paper. As I read the first chapters, even before the character's desolation was revealed, I felt it. I live there. In the end, the character comes to love his new home. He is even given the chance to return to Manhattan and passes it up, choosing the slow and simple saunter of southern life.
Driving home tonight, passing wooded areas and pastures made lush and green by days and days of East Texas rain, I had a flashback to my teen years, when I started driving. I grew up in Boise, Idaho, a fairly good-sized city. Not a New York, not a Chicago, not a Houston or Dallas, but big enough. Beautiful. Varied opportunities for experiencing culture, museums, street markets, shopping, entertainment, food, food, food, and recreation everywhere - skiing, river sports, hiking, biking. . .a wonderful, wonderful town. And I remembered on my peaceful drive home tonight, the traffic. As a young driver, the back-ups on well-traveled roads infuriated me. Granted I was young, extremely immature, and had no semblance of a walk with God. All the same, I didn't like the traffic.
Toward the end of my 19-year stay in the Northwest, I became disgusted with the mentality of the people, who grew more and more. . .I won't go into detail, but my political views are no longer the norm in that part of the country. In fact, looking back, it appears that God was dropping hints, setting it all up, making it miraculously easy for me to leave my childhood home, my friends of a decade or more, my golden college experience. Everything I sometimes long for now, was mine, and I had grown sick of it. It no longer mattered, I wanted John Deere Green, cowboy hats, belts with big buckles and names on the back, magnolia trees, chicken fried steak, okra, banana pudding, and Blue Bell on the front porch. I wanted to drive from my house to the post office and back and know what 80 percent of my family and friends were doing and where they were at. I wanted to find love and raise children within 15 miles of the final resting places of my great-great grandparents.
Humans are fickle. We are forever dreaming of the green, green grass that's in our line of sight, but out of our reach. Then, it seems when we finally have a moist, muddy handful of it, we want to throw it down and wipe our hands.
I often wonder what I would miss about East Texas if I were suddenly transplanted into a metropolitan area. There's no way to know for sure, however, I am confident the layered sounds of crickets, frogs, and distant birds all painted onto a background of tranquil silence would be missed when I attempted to sleep among busy city streets. In the spring, the wafting fragrance of wisteria, in the summer, the first aromas of barbecue, when those were replaced with the smells of culinary choice on a busy downtown street mixed with exhaust, I would miss my lakeside home. And, at the end of a day spent in a building built tall as a monument to mind-numbing, soul-sucking commerce, I am confident I would long for the days that my only charge was to please God, to find a way to plant one more seed, and then wait for HIM to give the increase.
I recently finished a Nicholas Sparks book about a man who leaves his fast-paced Manhattan life for love, moving to a no-name North Carolina town. A loft apartment overlooking the city is traded for a rented room full of taxidermy. The apex of all things literary and culinary, walks in Central Park, the excitement and tension of New York streets, is exchanged for a local diner and a sad local paper. As I read the first chapters, even before the character's desolation was revealed, I felt it. I live there. In the end, the character comes to love his new home. He is even given the chance to return to Manhattan and passes it up, choosing the slow and simple saunter of southern life.
Driving home tonight, passing wooded areas and pastures made lush and green by days and days of East Texas rain, I had a flashback to my teen years, when I started driving. I grew up in Boise, Idaho, a fairly good-sized city. Not a New York, not a Chicago, not a Houston or Dallas, but big enough. Beautiful. Varied opportunities for experiencing culture, museums, street markets, shopping, entertainment, food, food, food, and recreation everywhere - skiing, river sports, hiking, biking. . .a wonderful, wonderful town. And I remembered on my peaceful drive home tonight, the traffic. As a young driver, the back-ups on well-traveled roads infuriated me. Granted I was young, extremely immature, and had no semblance of a walk with God. All the same, I didn't like the traffic.
Toward the end of my 19-year stay in the Northwest, I became disgusted with the mentality of the people, who grew more and more. . .I won't go into detail, but my political views are no longer the norm in that part of the country. In fact, looking back, it appears that God was dropping hints, setting it all up, making it miraculously easy for me to leave my childhood home, my friends of a decade or more, my golden college experience. Everything I sometimes long for now, was mine, and I had grown sick of it. It no longer mattered, I wanted John Deere Green, cowboy hats, belts with big buckles and names on the back, magnolia trees, chicken fried steak, okra, banana pudding, and Blue Bell on the front porch. I wanted to drive from my house to the post office and back and know what 80 percent of my family and friends were doing and where they were at. I wanted to find love and raise children within 15 miles of the final resting places of my great-great grandparents.
Humans are fickle. We are forever dreaming of the green, green grass that's in our line of sight, but out of our reach. Then, it seems when we finally have a moist, muddy handful of it, we want to throw it down and wipe our hands.
I often wonder what I would miss about East Texas if I were suddenly transplanted into a metropolitan area. There's no way to know for sure, however, I am confident the layered sounds of crickets, frogs, and distant birds all painted onto a background of tranquil silence would be missed when I attempted to sleep among busy city streets. In the spring, the wafting fragrance of wisteria, in the summer, the first aromas of barbecue, when those were replaced with the smells of culinary choice on a busy downtown street mixed with exhaust, I would miss my lakeside home. And, at the end of a day spent in a building built tall as a monument to mind-numbing, soul-sucking commerce, I am confident I would long for the days that my only charge was to please God, to find a way to plant one more seed, and then wait for HIM to give the increase.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Random Tid Bits
It's Spring Break. My students left about 45 minutes ago, and I am leaving on Sunday for Paris. I think this calls for a laid-back sort of blog, not that all of my blogs are profound tomes of wisdom, but this one is going to be really relaxed. I'm just going to mention two very random things that have happened to me and a person close to me as of late.
1. My cousin, who lives in California with her Marine husband, recently had 12 pairs of underwear jacked from a laundromat. Who steals underwear? Yuck. (I mean this as a general comment, my cousin practices very good personal hygiene...awkward.) I'm a germophobe, so I have a bias, but I think most people should have some sort of mechanism in their brains that tells them it's not okay to, number one steal, but also wear a stranger's undergarments. I get the heebee-jeebees when I see slips at a Good Will. It ain’t right. The heartbreaking part is, her underwear was Victoria's Secret, and at a minimum cost of $8 a pair, that's at least $100 worth of panties gone in the night. Horrible, and...random.
2. Last night my sweet tooth got to aching and there was nothing in the house. We do that on purpose. However, I did find some chocolate chips, toffee bits, and chopped pecans. I mixed them together in a bowl and ate the concoction with a spoon. Don't judge me!! Now, that in itself is random, but, there's more. After this act of desperation, I of course needed to brush my teeth because one without dental insurance does not go to sleep with toffee stuck to one's teeth. I brushed well and set my toothbrush back in the thing that holds my toothbrush (I don't know what else to call it). It bounced out, slid off the counter (as almost everything in my bathroom has done at least 46 times - the room has an altered gravitational pull or something) and landed. . .on the toilet brush. Yuck, again. This is the reason I was in Wal-Mart at 7:40 this morning, on Friday the 13th no less, buying a toothbrush and nothing else. That’s random, too.
This blog will in all likelihood remain silent next week. But, I will have Paris experiences to share when I return.
1. My cousin, who lives in California with her Marine husband, recently had 12 pairs of underwear jacked from a laundromat. Who steals underwear? Yuck. (I mean this as a general comment, my cousin practices very good personal hygiene...awkward.) I'm a germophobe, so I have a bias, but I think most people should have some sort of mechanism in their brains that tells them it's not okay to, number one steal, but also wear a stranger's undergarments. I get the heebee-jeebees when I see slips at a Good Will. It ain’t right. The heartbreaking part is, her underwear was Victoria's Secret, and at a minimum cost of $8 a pair, that's at least $100 worth of panties gone in the night. Horrible, and...random.
2. Last night my sweet tooth got to aching and there was nothing in the house. We do that on purpose. However, I did find some chocolate chips, toffee bits, and chopped pecans. I mixed them together in a bowl and ate the concoction with a spoon. Don't judge me!! Now, that in itself is random, but, there's more. After this act of desperation, I of course needed to brush my teeth because one without dental insurance does not go to sleep with toffee stuck to one's teeth. I brushed well and set my toothbrush back in the thing that holds my toothbrush (I don't know what else to call it). It bounced out, slid off the counter (as almost everything in my bathroom has done at least 46 times - the room has an altered gravitational pull or something) and landed. . .on the toilet brush. Yuck, again. This is the reason I was in Wal-Mart at 7:40 this morning, on Friday the 13th no less, buying a toothbrush and nothing else. That’s random, too.
This blog will in all likelihood remain silent next week. But, I will have Paris experiences to share when I return.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Sleepless in East Texas
I did not sleep last night, not real sleep. It was that altered-state-of-consciousness business. I began reading a book about Marie Antoinette before bed, and consequently, had waking dreams of the Dauphin and Dauphine and approaching revolution, and became very concerned about my taxes (I have to pay in this year - first time ever - because of my writing income).
Amidst my tossing and turning, I thought about the trip and my finances. I prayed. I panicked about my arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, fearing it will be too intimidating and I will have to fight the urge to walk straight up to a ticket counter and pay an exorbitant amount of money to fly home immediately. I prayed some more. My worries and fears are always more concentrated at night.
Today, I am zombie-like, so I apologize if this post is less than brilliant. As a result of my nocturnal financial panic, I got up at five, an hour earlier than usual, and looked for some writing work. I've not been sending queries out because I've been focused on the book. Now that it's finished and now that I have a more clearly defined schedule at the school, I have time to look, and more importantly, will actually have time to do the work should I get it.
Yet another outcome: I drove to work terrified because I was behind a truck loaded down with steel beams. If you've seen "The Descent", you know what's up. Horrifying. My mind does not WORK properly when I am sleep deprived. However, it does lend a surreal quality to the day.
I just can't take it any deeper than this today. . .
Amidst my tossing and turning, I thought about the trip and my finances. I prayed. I panicked about my arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, fearing it will be too intimidating and I will have to fight the urge to walk straight up to a ticket counter and pay an exorbitant amount of money to fly home immediately. I prayed some more. My worries and fears are always more concentrated at night.
Today, I am zombie-like, so I apologize if this post is less than brilliant. As a result of my nocturnal financial panic, I got up at five, an hour earlier than usual, and looked for some writing work. I've not been sending queries out because I've been focused on the book. Now that it's finished and now that I have a more clearly defined schedule at the school, I have time to look, and more importantly, will actually have time to do the work should I get it.
Yet another outcome: I drove to work terrified because I was behind a truck loaded down with steel beams. If you've seen "The Descent", you know what's up. Horrifying. My mind does not WORK properly when I am sleep deprived. However, it does lend a surreal quality to the day.
I just can't take it any deeper than this today. . .
Monday, March 2, 2009
Breaking News
I got two e-mail acknowledgements from the agent. So, it would seem they received ALL three of my submissions. L. . .O. . .L
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
On making decisions
We've spoken about this before, so it should come as no surprise that I'm not so good with the decisions. This truth prompted my family to purchase a "decision maker" for me at Christmas. It is a wooden platform embedded with magnets. It has different answers written on the top and above it hangs a pendulum, also with a magnet. The pendulum swings wildly at first, but then slows down and frantically jitters between two answers before finally landing on one. The likeness to my own decision making process is uncanny.
I actually turned to it as I stared at a "continue with purchase" button on a travel-booking site Monday. It told me yes, and I proceeded. I am now officially spending Spring Break in Paris, France. Once I made the decision I felt nothing but relief. Although, I periodically go through buyer's remorse moments and fret about the stability of the world in general. France is God's world, too, and wherever I am, there is He also.
My plunge into international travel inspired me in other areas, and I finally got up the courage to submit my book query to an agent. Let me set up the scene. I've reviewed this agent's submission guidelines exhaustively, but I did it one more time last night. Their web site states that an immediate e-mail acknowledgment should follow your query submission. It instructs you to resubmit if you do not receive one. I did not get one, so I sent it again with a different subject line. Still no acknowledgement. I waited until this morning and sent it again from my work e-mail account. As of the drafting of this post, I have no acknowledgement in either inbox. However, after the third attempt, I read the agent's blog where she happened to have posted about the agency's query policy. She casually mentioned it sometimes takes a few days for the acknowledgement to appear. . . visualize me in a state of frenzied worry and panic. I strive for perfection when making Hamburger Helper. Doing something this important wrong is the stuff my nightmares are made of. . .!!!
So, one possible outcome of all this decision-making empowerment is, I just sent the same query to an agent (not just any agent, but the one I've been researching for six months) three times, that'll go over well, very professional. The other? I have been rejected by their e-mail system, not once, not twice, but three times from two different addresses. Only time will tell. In the meantime, anybody know a good agent?
I actually turned to it as I stared at a "continue with purchase" button on a travel-booking site Monday. It told me yes, and I proceeded. I am now officially spending Spring Break in Paris, France. Once I made the decision I felt nothing but relief. Although, I periodically go through buyer's remorse moments and fret about the stability of the world in general. France is God's world, too, and wherever I am, there is He also.
My plunge into international travel inspired me in other areas, and I finally got up the courage to submit my book query to an agent. Let me set up the scene. I've reviewed this agent's submission guidelines exhaustively, but I did it one more time last night. Their web site states that an immediate e-mail acknowledgment should follow your query submission. It instructs you to resubmit if you do not receive one. I did not get one, so I sent it again with a different subject line. Still no acknowledgement. I waited until this morning and sent it again from my work e-mail account. As of the drafting of this post, I have no acknowledgement in either inbox. However, after the third attempt, I read the agent's blog where she happened to have posted about the agency's query policy. She casually mentioned it sometimes takes a few days for the acknowledgement to appear. . . visualize me in a state of frenzied worry and panic. I strive for perfection when making Hamburger Helper. Doing something this important wrong is the stuff my nightmares are made of. . .!!!
So, one possible outcome of all this decision-making empowerment is, I just sent the same query to an agent (not just any agent, but the one I've been researching for six months) three times, that'll go over well, very professional. The other? I have been rejected by their e-mail system, not once, not twice, but three times from two different addresses. Only time will tell. In the meantime, anybody know a good agent?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Characters
I have tried and tried to find a humorous topic to write on today. I’ve wracked my brain for a funny story from the past few days and nothing has surfaced, at least not one I wouldn’t be considered cruel for writing about. The topic I keep going back to is the people in my life, the ones I see every day. So, today will be character introduction, and some of it might be funny.
Let’s start at the top, at the beginning – my parents. My dad is amazing, a Vietnam veteran, the most honest and hardworking person I know. He is a fisherman, a metal detector, an expert on end time prophecy, and a right-wing, arms-bearing, conservative Christian REPUBLICAN. It is quite possible the Fed will arrive at our house one day soon, as my dad routinely invites them. Every time a story on Fox News gets his dander up, he stands in front of the television shouting his address and proposes a meeting in our front yard for later in the day. A duel of sorts. . .
My mom is perpetually 16. She plans her evenings around American Idol, is addicted to computer games, shops when she gets angry, and enjoys slamming doors and throwing things, mainly dishes and remotes. (I’d better not say anymore because she reads this blog daily.) Her good habits far outweigh her bad ones. She is one of the few people I know that will absolutely do anything for anybody. She has always put my sisters and me ahead of herself. I start thinking about things I know she’s given up in order for me to have, and I tear up.
On to the truly entertaining one. Rebekah. There are a few previous posts that will shed light on the history of our relationship. Lately, we’ve become buddies. She’s matured and I’ve learned to pick my battles. We “hang out” and sometimes have dance parties – just the two of us. We also share an affinity for trashy scary movies. I saw her through her first boyfriend-related tragedy about a month ago. As an individual, she is so much stronger than I ever was, and I am so grateful. She is not the least bit afraid to show her values. She is uninfluenced by others and their perception of “cool.” I respect her for that so much. A good anecdote to illustrate her less-practical side involves a sweatshirt. She picked out said sweatshirt and came up short, so I pitched in. It was expensive. When mom exclaimed, "You spent $___ on a sweatshirt!" Rebekah's response was, "Well. . .it's reversible."
There are several other noteworthy characters to talk about, including all of my students. However, I have a basketball game to get to, so we’ll have to discuss them later.
Let’s start at the top, at the beginning – my parents. My dad is amazing, a Vietnam veteran, the most honest and hardworking person I know. He is a fisherman, a metal detector, an expert on end time prophecy, and a right-wing, arms-bearing, conservative Christian REPUBLICAN. It is quite possible the Fed will arrive at our house one day soon, as my dad routinely invites them. Every time a story on Fox News gets his dander up, he stands in front of the television shouting his address and proposes a meeting in our front yard for later in the day. A duel of sorts. . .
My mom is perpetually 16. She plans her evenings around American Idol, is addicted to computer games, shops when she gets angry, and enjoys slamming doors and throwing things, mainly dishes and remotes. (I’d better not say anymore because she reads this blog daily.) Her good habits far outweigh her bad ones. She is one of the few people I know that will absolutely do anything for anybody. She has always put my sisters and me ahead of herself. I start thinking about things I know she’s given up in order for me to have, and I tear up.
On to the truly entertaining one. Rebekah. There are a few previous posts that will shed light on the history of our relationship. Lately, we’ve become buddies. She’s matured and I’ve learned to pick my battles. We “hang out” and sometimes have dance parties – just the two of us. We also share an affinity for trashy scary movies. I saw her through her first boyfriend-related tragedy about a month ago. As an individual, she is so much stronger than I ever was, and I am so grateful. She is not the least bit afraid to show her values. She is uninfluenced by others and their perception of “cool.” I respect her for that so much. A good anecdote to illustrate her less-practical side involves a sweatshirt. She picked out said sweatshirt and came up short, so I pitched in. It was expensive. When mom exclaimed, "You spent $___ on a sweatshirt!" Rebekah's response was, "Well. . .it's reversible."
There are several other noteworthy characters to talk about, including all of my students. However, I have a basketball game to get to, so we’ll have to discuss them later.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Job Description
Today, I spent 25 minutes in Game Stop. Prior to today, I’m not sure I’ve spent 25 seconds in any kind of video game store. Our school has an academic and good behavior incentive program called A-Privilege. Good grades and no serious disciplinary issues for a two-month period will earn a student two months of “privilege.” The two months is topped off with a day away from school, on which we treat our students to lunch and an outing. Sometimes it’s bowling or miniature golf; today it was a day at the mall in Tyler, and consequently, Game Stop.
I wound up in Game Stop because of one very special student. Seeing him every day reminds me why I do what I do for a third of the salary I am “eligible” for given my education and background. This student was enrolled at the academy the year I began working there again. He was completely beaten down by his peers from public school, to the point that just about anything would drive him to tears. Self esteem was non-existent and his brilliance and bright personality were dull and unnoticeable. At first, he was withdrawn and shy, untrusting, but after time he blossomed. By the end of the year he was friends with everyone and he returned this year with a smile on his face, full of summer stories, which he excitedly shared with fellow students, teachers, and anyone else that he could find. He is proof that God can heal anyone, that a loving, Christian environment IS the answer.
When this student found out I would be accompanying them on their outing today in place of the pastor, he asked if I would be in his group. Students his age are not required to have a chaperone, but he wanted me with him, so I agreed. We arrived at the mall and he ran ahead with his friends (friends in plural, something he didn’t have a short time ago), but when I came through the entrance he was waiting.
“Ms. Rachel, let’s form our group.”
So away we went…to Game Stop. The jargon amazed me. I stood by and watched as he knowingly traded games and asked about new games, specific versions, upcoming release dates, and the methods of downloading cheat codes. He moved with confidence, secure in his right to be himself. That’s how he behaves in the classroom, too. His personality is wonderful – he’s a little different, but so was John the Baptist. It is a blessing to me every time I see one of our older boys, one with a souped up pick-up or a starting spot on our basketball team, walk by this student and acknowledge him and show him kindness. That’s just the way it is at Calvary Way. My students are wonderful. They didn’t all start out that way, but they are educated in a place where the presence of God dwells, and where prayer goes on almost constantly.
This student is not our only success story. We have many. Some have come from broken and abusive homes, others deny God and His existence daily. Whatever their issues when they come, we always see improvement, maybe not as much as we want as humans, but some. When I think of it spiritually I know that the seed has been planted, the change may not come in my lifetime, but the work has been started and God will give the increase.
As I write this, the after school group is sitting outside my office singing “Open the Eyes of My Heart.” They’ve been in public school all day, an institution that has unabashedly turned its back on God. They have removed every trace of Him from what they teach. But God finds a way, and those same students come here in the afternoon and willingly, excitedly, and openly glorify God. Not because it is required, but because they want to, because their simple heartfelt praise makes them feel good.
I may never publish a book or travel the world, or even have anybody but family and a few close friends read this blog. But I’m in God’s will. When I wake up in the morning and come to work, I am helping a young person find their way. Many of them have experienced and endured things I’ve never dreamt of, and only one person can help them overcome the obstacles life has cruelly thrown in their path. It's my job to make sure they get introduced.
I wound up in Game Stop because of one very special student. Seeing him every day reminds me why I do what I do for a third of the salary I am “eligible” for given my education and background. This student was enrolled at the academy the year I began working there again. He was completely beaten down by his peers from public school, to the point that just about anything would drive him to tears. Self esteem was non-existent and his brilliance and bright personality were dull and unnoticeable. At first, he was withdrawn and shy, untrusting, but after time he blossomed. By the end of the year he was friends with everyone and he returned this year with a smile on his face, full of summer stories, which he excitedly shared with fellow students, teachers, and anyone else that he could find. He is proof that God can heal anyone, that a loving, Christian environment IS the answer.
When this student found out I would be accompanying them on their outing today in place of the pastor, he asked if I would be in his group. Students his age are not required to have a chaperone, but he wanted me with him, so I agreed. We arrived at the mall and he ran ahead with his friends (friends in plural, something he didn’t have a short time ago), but when I came through the entrance he was waiting.
“Ms. Rachel, let’s form our group.”
So away we went…to Game Stop. The jargon amazed me. I stood by and watched as he knowingly traded games and asked about new games, specific versions, upcoming release dates, and the methods of downloading cheat codes. He moved with confidence, secure in his right to be himself. That’s how he behaves in the classroom, too. His personality is wonderful – he’s a little different, but so was John the Baptist. It is a blessing to me every time I see one of our older boys, one with a souped up pick-up or a starting spot on our basketball team, walk by this student and acknowledge him and show him kindness. That’s just the way it is at Calvary Way. My students are wonderful. They didn’t all start out that way, but they are educated in a place where the presence of God dwells, and where prayer goes on almost constantly.
This student is not our only success story. We have many. Some have come from broken and abusive homes, others deny God and His existence daily. Whatever their issues when they come, we always see improvement, maybe not as much as we want as humans, but some. When I think of it spiritually I know that the seed has been planted, the change may not come in my lifetime, but the work has been started and God will give the increase.
As I write this, the after school group is sitting outside my office singing “Open the Eyes of My Heart.” They’ve been in public school all day, an institution that has unabashedly turned its back on God. They have removed every trace of Him from what they teach. But God finds a way, and those same students come here in the afternoon and willingly, excitedly, and openly glorify God. Not because it is required, but because they want to, because their simple heartfelt praise makes them feel good.
I may never publish a book or travel the world, or even have anybody but family and a few close friends read this blog. But I’m in God’s will. When I wake up in the morning and come to work, I am helping a young person find their way. Many of them have experienced and endured things I’ve never dreamt of, and only one person can help them overcome the obstacles life has cruelly thrown in their path. It's my job to make sure they get introduced.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Getting off the multi-tasking
Since junior high, I've challenged myself to see just how much I can accomplish all at once. Seventh grade is when I discovered I could shave my legs and wash my face while I let my conditioner set for three minutes. Years later I would study notecards while driving back and forth to school. Not safe, but productive.
Multi-tasking. It was an epidemic about 15 years ago. Oprah talked about it and it snowballed into efficiency reform. I'm good at it, it's the chief reason I'm able to get so much done in 24 hours. I also love it, if I could multi-task while sleeping, well, I would. However, my need to constantly be marking something off my to-do list is starting to take its toll.
While driving to work this morning, I flipped on the radio. It was tuned to a Christian station, and instead of enjoying the song and taking the opportunity to meditate on God and spiritually prepare for my day, I automatically thought to myself, "I need to print this lead sheet and learn the song." (I am the keyboard player at my church.) This thought quickly turned into guilt for not having had prasie & worship rehearsal in several weeks, and soon I was stressed out, I had that feeling in my stomach of worry - the kind I get when a writing deadline is looming, and the words I'm staring at on the screen are not quite article quality. When I realized what I was doing to myself, I made a conscious effort to stop. It worked, in this instance. Most often, the matter is slightly more serious. Work-work, and writing-work have to get done at some point and I can't help but think about those tasks constantly when they are unfinished and incomplete.
Sadly, the past few "vacations" I've taken have either revolved around work, or I've had a writing deadline, meaning my laptop came along with me. A constant reminder that I could not completely unwind and relax. My trip to New Orleans was really for the purpose of researching my book, which is set in the Crescent City. A recent trip to Houston was to attend a conference hosted by the magazine for which I am a regular contributor. I enjoyed both of these trips and found time to do fun things, but nevertheless, I didn't get a "break" from everything, which is what is truly recuperative about a vacation.
My standard days are much the same. When I step from the shower and walk back into my bedroom to get ready, I turn cell phone, television and computer on, thus opening myself wide up for stress. I often work through lunch instead of being social. In the evenings, I won't allow myself to rest until I've done some writing and engaged in some form of exercise. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I've actually tried to pray while doing crunches.
Case in point, it's time I learn to relax and disconnect guilt free, and that means I don't have to multi-task 24 hours a day. It's alright to not be accomplishing something. This new initiative will commence tonight, during The Office.
Multi-tasking. It was an epidemic about 15 years ago. Oprah talked about it and it snowballed into efficiency reform. I'm good at it, it's the chief reason I'm able to get so much done in 24 hours. I also love it, if I could multi-task while sleeping, well, I would. However, my need to constantly be marking something off my to-do list is starting to take its toll.
While driving to work this morning, I flipped on the radio. It was tuned to a Christian station, and instead of enjoying the song and taking the opportunity to meditate on God and spiritually prepare for my day, I automatically thought to myself, "I need to print this lead sheet and learn the song." (I am the keyboard player at my church.) This thought quickly turned into guilt for not having had prasie & worship rehearsal in several weeks, and soon I was stressed out, I had that feeling in my stomach of worry - the kind I get when a writing deadline is looming, and the words I'm staring at on the screen are not quite article quality. When I realized what I was doing to myself, I made a conscious effort to stop. It worked, in this instance. Most often, the matter is slightly more serious. Work-work, and writing-work have to get done at some point and I can't help but think about those tasks constantly when they are unfinished and incomplete.
Sadly, the past few "vacations" I've taken have either revolved around work, or I've had a writing deadline, meaning my laptop came along with me. A constant reminder that I could not completely unwind and relax. My trip to New Orleans was really for the purpose of researching my book, which is set in the Crescent City. A recent trip to Houston was to attend a conference hosted by the magazine for which I am a regular contributor. I enjoyed both of these trips and found time to do fun things, but nevertheless, I didn't get a "break" from everything, which is what is truly recuperative about a vacation.
My standard days are much the same. When I step from the shower and walk back into my bedroom to get ready, I turn cell phone, television and computer on, thus opening myself wide up for stress. I often work through lunch instead of being social. In the evenings, I won't allow myself to rest until I've done some writing and engaged in some form of exercise. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I've actually tried to pray while doing crunches.
Case in point, it's time I learn to relax and disconnect guilt free, and that means I don't have to multi-task 24 hours a day. It's alright to not be accomplishing something. This new initiative will commence tonight, during The Office.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Fear
Okay, I have given myself a deadline of Thursday for submitting a query of the book to an agent. I am terrified. . .of rejection.
I sent a query to an agent last Spring, before the book was really even off the ground, and it was of course turned down, and I completley understand why. For one reason, the particular agent was one of the biggest names in the industry (it's a miracle he even accepts unsolicited queries). Another is, he was a secular agent and I now know this book belongs in the Christian market, as do I as its author. Then there's the fact that it just wasn't a good query. I didn't know where the story was going yet. I rushed things.
I remember the sentence "I'm going to pass" staring at me from my e-mail. It was a really terrible feeling and I really don't want to feel it for a second time. I worry I'm rushing the submission again, maybe I should keep working on it. However, if I don't give myself some sort of deadline, I won't ever do it. And, how will I ever know if the book is ready unless I put it out there? Still, the thought of it not being good enough for this agent scares me, and I'm not scared of much. Yes, there are other agents, but I really like this one. I have one chance. If the first sentence of my book doesn't wow her, she will stop reading and send me THAT sentence.
Several people have read the first two chapters, which is what I have to submit along with my pitch. They've all liked it and said it made them want to read the rest of the book. But, they're not the agent. Their paycheck and reputation is not at stake. I can't read it anymore because I'm no longer objective. I know I have to preserve my own voice and style, but I find myself comparing my first pages to Patricia Cornwell books to see if I cover the same elements up front. That's not healthy because there is already a Patricia Cornwell. I want the world to read Rachel Dawn Allen.
I sent a query to an agent last Spring, before the book was really even off the ground, and it was of course turned down, and I completley understand why. For one reason, the particular agent was one of the biggest names in the industry (it's a miracle he even accepts unsolicited queries). Another is, he was a secular agent and I now know this book belongs in the Christian market, as do I as its author. Then there's the fact that it just wasn't a good query. I didn't know where the story was going yet. I rushed things.
I remember the sentence "I'm going to pass" staring at me from my e-mail. It was a really terrible feeling and I really don't want to feel it for a second time. I worry I'm rushing the submission again, maybe I should keep working on it. However, if I don't give myself some sort of deadline, I won't ever do it. And, how will I ever know if the book is ready unless I put it out there? Still, the thought of it not being good enough for this agent scares me, and I'm not scared of much. Yes, there are other agents, but I really like this one. I have one chance. If the first sentence of my book doesn't wow her, she will stop reading and send me THAT sentence.
Several people have read the first two chapters, which is what I have to submit along with my pitch. They've all liked it and said it made them want to read the rest of the book. But, they're not the agent. Their paycheck and reputation is not at stake. I can't read it anymore because I'm no longer objective. I know I have to preserve my own voice and style, but I find myself comparing my first pages to Patricia Cornwell books to see if I cover the same elements up front. That's not healthy because there is already a Patricia Cornwell. I want the world to read Rachel Dawn Allen.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Three-day weekend, sort of
I contracted a demon stomach virus last week – so not by choice I checked out at 3:30 Thursday. I never got sick in the “classic sense” one thinks of when a stomach bug is involved, and for that I am most grateful, though I still begged my mother to give me intravenous drugs of some kind to knock me out. My skin hurt, my stomach hurt, and it sucked. I was awakened at 3 a.m. Friday to the sound of frogs outside my bedroom window. I sat up and listened, listened some more, then realized the sound was not coming from my amphibian friends. It was coming from my stomach. Something dark and unnatural was going on in my intestines, and I was dripping buckets of sweat, so I reached over and reset the alarm to 7:30, just in time to call in sick, or if I happened to be cured within the next five hours, call in to say I would be really late. I stayed home. There are some things you just don’t screw around with, and the risk of, well, I stayed home.
Ordinarily I love couch time. I had couch time on Friday. About 3:00 my brain was tired of couch time, though, but I didn’t feel well enough to walk around and do anything about it. I hadn’t had much to eat because everything my lips touched sent debilitating pain ripping through my abdomen. (Side note: The guy who brought the virus to work, quit on Friday. Chicken. He knew what was coming.) So, I just remained on the couch, in pain, I went to bed, in pain, and I woke up Saturday morning, in pain. But, to alleviate said pain, I went to the boardwalk in Shreveport with the parents, Rebekah and my Aunt Sheri and Uncle Larry. We rounded out the day by going to visit Sheri’s parents. Her mother is awesome. For those of you who think Texas is crazy, you should spend some time in Louisiana. They’re a breed apart, must be the gumbo. Her mom has been in a wheelchair for several years, I’m not sure why, but she is just the sweetest lady. So, we’re all sitting out on the porch and I mentioned the concealed handgun license class and the conversation briefly turned to firearms.
Sheri said, “I’d like to take a class and get that license.”
“Yeah, me, too” I replied. “But. I have to get a semi-automatic first, because - ”
“Oh, I want one of those, like my mama has,” said Sheri, as she pointed to her mother pulling a small pouch out of her wheelchair pocket.
I surveyed the pouch and considered the possible contents - manicure kit? Nope. Collapsible .22.
That’s freakin’ cool. You might think an older lady, confined to a wheelchair, alone during the day in a rural area would be vulnerable to hoodlums and such. Not this lady – she’s shot at people before and she’ll do it again. She also said if she had to shoot someone in the street, she would, then she’d drag them into her front yard and claim the blood trail was arterial spray. She probably has rope in that wheelchair pocket just for the purpose of a wheelchair body tow.
I’m considering writing a blog, shoot I could probably write a whole book, on things you only see and hear in the South. This story would make the cut, as would this observation: Why do people down here use Confederate flags as window treatments?
Ordinarily I love couch time. I had couch time on Friday. About 3:00 my brain was tired of couch time, though, but I didn’t feel well enough to walk around and do anything about it. I hadn’t had much to eat because everything my lips touched sent debilitating pain ripping through my abdomen. (Side note: The guy who brought the virus to work, quit on Friday. Chicken. He knew what was coming.) So, I just remained on the couch, in pain, I went to bed, in pain, and I woke up Saturday morning, in pain. But, to alleviate said pain, I went to the boardwalk in Shreveport with the parents, Rebekah and my Aunt Sheri and Uncle Larry. We rounded out the day by going to visit Sheri’s parents. Her mother is awesome. For those of you who think Texas is crazy, you should spend some time in Louisiana. They’re a breed apart, must be the gumbo. Her mom has been in a wheelchair for several years, I’m not sure why, but she is just the sweetest lady. So, we’re all sitting out on the porch and I mentioned the concealed handgun license class and the conversation briefly turned to firearms.
Sheri said, “I’d like to take a class and get that license.”
“Yeah, me, too” I replied. “But. I have to get a semi-automatic first, because - ”
“Oh, I want one of those, like my mama has,” said Sheri, as she pointed to her mother pulling a small pouch out of her wheelchair pocket.
I surveyed the pouch and considered the possible contents - manicure kit? Nope. Collapsible .22.
That’s freakin’ cool. You might think an older lady, confined to a wheelchair, alone during the day in a rural area would be vulnerable to hoodlums and such. Not this lady – she’s shot at people before and she’ll do it again. She also said if she had to shoot someone in the street, she would, then she’d drag them into her front yard and claim the blood trail was arterial spray. She probably has rope in that wheelchair pocket just for the purpose of a wheelchair body tow.
I’m considering writing a blog, shoot I could probably write a whole book, on things you only see and hear in the South. This story would make the cut, as would this observation: Why do people down here use Confederate flags as window treatments?
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