On keeping a notebook | Response

I loved this essay. It completely hit a chord. I’d never really thought about why I write what I do, but now I understand. Like the author, I’ve tried and failed to keep a diary but it’s too boring! Who wants to write down exactly what you did that day? It’s much more interesting to put down random thoughts, and it’s much more interesting when you go back to read them.

“we are talking about something private, about bits of the mind's string too short to use, an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker. And sometimes even the maker has difficulty with the meaning.”

These things, theses “bits of the mind’s string too short to use”, are mainly the reason I keep a notebook {or journal}. Quotes overheard. Thoughts that are bursting through my mind that don’t make sense to tell others. Interesting people I met. Internal struggles. Those are the things I’d rather look back at, and those are the things that bring me back to those places.

I am, like Didon, one of those people that have to write things down. I can never just file it in my mind and enjoy the moment, I want to write something down to save it forever.

I like what she said about staying in touch with the person we used to be. I might not want to be there, and I might be glad I didn’t stay there, but it’s good to remember.

“It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch, and I suppose that keeping in touch is what notebooks are all about.”

Icouldn'tthinkofagoodenoughtitle

The white bus with blue and red stars, tinted windows and the name “The Friendly Rider” drove quietly through the small town. The slogan under the innocent name proclaimed “an easy way to get from here to there”.

The sun was sinking on the horizon, signaling the end of the calm summer evening. The only sounds were an occasional car as it drove by, and a dog barking a few blocks away.

A tired girl sat on the bench on the corner of 6^th and Illinois Ave. She’d had a long day at work, and she had an even longer walk home. Her black shoes hurt her feet, but were a requirement on the job.

Just then the Friendly Rider pulled up the curb. She wasn’t at a bus stop, and she hadn’t waved them down, but the bus ground to a stop alongside her. She’d never taken the bus before, but tonight she thought, “sure, why not?”

She didn’t pay much attention to the driver as the doors slowly folded open and she reached in her purse to find her fare. She mumbled her destination and made her way to the third row, vaguely noticing the absence of other passengers, other than an older lady in the very back, and plopped down on the seat.

The girl reached down to loosen her shoes, and leaned her forehead against the window. The boulevard trees flew by and she closed her eyes, listening to the soft noise of the engine. Before she knew it she had dozed off.

When she opened her eyes it was dark. The sun had finally slipped behind the horizon, and there was just a faint glowing line left. She rubbed her eyes as she peered out the window, her mind groggy and confused and she didn’t recognize the road passing by. She shook her head and just as she began to realize that this wasn’t the way home, the bus slowed and pulled onto a dark dirt road.

She could just make out a few dilapated* buildings, and what looked like an old fairground. She began to panic and started up the aisle, questioning the driver. “Where are we? What is this?” she asked, but her only answer was silence and a blank stare ahead.  

She pushed on the doors, thinking that if they weren’t going too fast she would jump, but they were locked shut. They rounded a corner and came to a sudden stop. The doors opened and the girl jumped out.  Bright lights lite her panicky face as she stared up at a Ferris Wheel, the only apparent life in an abandoned fairground. And then she noticed the clown.

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I don't usually write stories like this, but this one popped into my head one day when thinking about how utterly creepy the "Friendly Rider" bus is. Not to mention fairgrounds at night.  My sister says I have to much of an imagination... but hey, it runs in the family.

Elevator Etiquette

Elevators. Why were they invented? I understand that sometimes they are useful, but more often they are just plain awkward.

I just spend ten days in hotel that only had stairs in case of a fire emergency. Needless to say I had lots of experience riding elevators. The more I rode, the more I wished for a set of stairs, even if that meant being out of breath and taking a little longer to reach my room.

I still haven’t figured out the proper way to act in an elevator. Do you engage the people in there with you? Or do you pretend to stare intently at the screen and watch the floor numbers change? Is it rude to make small talk, or is it rude to pretend that they’re not there?

Both ways can be equally awkward. Like when the older man in the elevator started making slightly unnerving remarks about how beautiful our eyes were when we still had multiple floors to go. Or when you ride nine floors down with the big guy who is wearing gold chains and has tattoos that doesn’t say a word when you get in.

If you do start a conversation, it’s always rudely interrupted by the elevator doors opening, but if you don’t start one…. the time feels like forever.

What if the ones you're stuck there with five times in just two days, don't speak much English but try to ask you questions?

Do you say goodbye when you leave the elevator? It feels like you should, but when it’s the only thing you’ve said… it feels even more weird than saying nothing.

What about getting on the elevator? The best part is when neither of you realize there’s someone on the other side of the door, and get fairly surprised. Best reaction to that situation? “Oh! Hello! And WELCOME to your floor!!” (this particular instance was made even more awkward by the fact that we were in swim suits, and that the above comment was followed by, “your clothes are in your room!”)

What do you do when the door is closing? Do you run and stick your hand in to make it open? Or just wait until the next elevator comes? It feels kind of dumb to sit there and wait, when there was just one there, but it feels even more dumb to go racing to the door, start waving your arm and then jump in to a group full of people (“Hi!”).

I guess the only thing I’ve figured out for certain is that elevators can be handy for times when you are carrying big loads of luggage, or when you are all by yourself and can jump and sing, but usually it’s better to take the stairs.

God the Creator

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” {Genesis 1:1}

We’ve ignored a huge side of God in today’s Christianity, the creative. In the beginning, the very first thing He did was create.

God is the Ultimate Creative; He designed not only this world, but the universe, but we tend to forget that fact. In the church today we recognize the need for Christians in math and science, and even business, but the arts? Nah. The arts are evil, but there’s no need to take them back; they’re just for entertainment after all.

But God created the arts. Losing a Christian influence in the art industry has limited our view of God to the left-brained scientist. We’ve put Him in a box, ignoring His freedom to create, and reducing Him to a mathematical formula. If you get one small part of that formula wrong, the project (i.e. your life) won’t turn out.

This is where we begin to believe that being a good Christian looks a certain way, and that it takes a specific equation, because that’s our view of how God works.

This is why I feel we desperately need to take back the arts, because without being an active part of them, from movies and music to photography and painting or potter, we fail to grasp the importance of the "other side" of God.

God’s path for your life (and others) is beautiful, and a lot of it is due to the fact that it’s different than anyone else’s. He takes pleasure in creating unique places and roads just for you. Don’t forget that He’s not limited to one formula, even though we tend to think He is.

Purity and our Past

I read this post on Stuff Christians Like, on “Guys like girls with a past” the other day. There are a lot of things I could say about this, and there were a lot of good arguments in the comments, such as why guys *shouldn’t* like girls with a past and other topics but it really just sparked some different thoughts for me.

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Wait a sec…there’s a difference? You mean there are girls without a past? Woah woah woah. When did this happen? I don’t know any.

I think sometimes we need to realize the fact that ALL of us have a past. Maybe the guys are attracted to the ones with an “open” past because they’re more real*. They’re admitting that they’ve messed up. That they’re not pure.

Because none of us are pure. I don’t care if you’ve never slept with a guy, never even kissed a guy, never watch a PG-13 movie, listened to secular music, or been around people who swear [much less use one yourself],  we were born with sin. We were born marked, tarnished… UN-pure. In Christian circles we talk about “losing our purity”, but how can you “lose” it if you’ve never had it? We talk about, strategize and stress [and stress and stress some more] KEEPING your purity, but how can we keep what we’ve never had?

“All have sinned and fallen SHORT of the glory of God.” {Romans 3:23}

We can only gain purity. We can only be given purity, it’s not something we already have. We were never whole, we were never blameless, and never spotless. Jesus came to give us that, He came to make us that way. Pure is something you become, not something you were.

Accepting this fact, for me, is freeing. Because instead of being something on me [I need to keep my purity, I need to be so careful because if I lose it… I can never get it back], and turns into something on God [He’s the only one that has it, and the only one that can give it]. It turns our focus from us to Him. Exactly where it should be. It frees us to do, and be, and say exactly what He wants of us because we have forgotten that it’s on us to save our purity.

Never forget, only Jesus can give us purity, it was never ours in the first place and it’s gift. But it’s a gift He’s more than willing to give.

“Come, and let us return to the Lord; for He has torn, but He will heal us. He has stricken, but He will bind us up. After two days He will revive us; on the third day He will raise us up, that we may live in His sight.” {Hosea 6:1-2}

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{The P.S.'s} 

*This has nothing to do with the "past" or the "cooler past" that they were talking about in the post. And this is not me saying that guys should be attracted to "bad girls", it's more me saying that really we're all bad girls [and boys]. 

Links to the two blog posts that sparked these thoughts of mine [they were also feed by some of the talk at Junction last night]

http://laurennicolelove.blogspot.com/2011/10/what-makes-woman-good.html

http://www.jonacuff.com/stuffchristianslike/2011/11/stuff-christians-guys-like-girls-that-have-a-past/

Kind of like Sisters

So I've decided that I hate short stories... so much for thinking this was an easy assignment. They always end up so lopsided... my intro is as long as the rest of the story for crying out loud. And the whole thing doesn't have a very strong story line for someone who wasn't there. Ahhhh! I guess practice makes perfect... So I should just suck it up and do more, right? haha

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 The girl waited impatiently to leave the plane. She stood in the isle with her backpack slung across one shoulder and her suitcase at her feet. She pulled at the neck of her Twins sweatshirt and shifted. Thoughts flashed through her brain, ‘was this really a good idea?’ she second guessed herself.

Eventually the line started moving and everything went from the quiet calm on the plane to busy people rushing here and there, the sound of roller bags on the linoleum, sometimes a different language. The girl briefly wished she wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt and tennis shoes in the California airport, but the thought was interrupted by the sound of her name.

“You’re here!” hugs, parking lots and cars followed, and then a year’s worth of catching up. It didn’t take long to skip the small stuff and jump right into what God had been doing in their lives, but still the quiet doubts lingered.

The next day the two found themselves in San Diego, looking for a gelato shop in the midst of all the crazy ComicCon goers. After enjoying cappuccino flavored gelato they ventured up the outside staircase to find the bathrooms. Laughing and talking as the followed the sign the pushed open the door and stopped when they realized it was a single bathroom.

  

 “ummm, go ahead,” one of them said, and the other walked back to the main room to awkwardly read the bulletin board. Before she could get to the board however, one of the men sitting at a table looked up from his computer with a laugh and remarked, “not that good of friends, huh?”

“ha… yeahhh not that good,” she managed, and the man went back to his work.

The girls had a good laugh about it on the two hour drive back, “what an awkward comment!

Nine days, a wedding, four days of camping in a small tent, tramping all over Yosemite with their bibles, a day of rock climbing, being mistaken for sisters (and mother/daughter), meeting crazy people, brushing their teeth in the street, 24 hours in the car and hoards of adventures later, they were sitting at a picnic table in the dark, somewhere in the mountains, talking.

One of them remarked on how they both had such similar taste, “I mean we never have to argue about what kind of music to listen to, we get the same kind of coffee where ever we go, we like the same kinds of food, and the same kinds of activities. It’s kind of a good thing...”

“I know! It’s a really good thing… Otherwise I don’t know how the ten days would have gone. To be completely honest I was kind of wondering how good idea this was,” said the CA girl. “I was thinking, ‘I liked her at Photoj and all, but that was two years ago..”

“Since we’re being honest… I had the same thoughts!” admitted the one that came to visit, “What if we didn’t have any of the same tastes!? What if we didn’t get along very well and had to spend all that time together?!?”  The two laughed about how unfounded their fears had turned out to be, and tried to ignore the fact that they wouldn’t be together in another day.

The next night was her last night in Cali. She cuddled up on the floor while her friend crawled into bed. “What are you doing down there?!? Get up here and bring your pillow!"

She laughed, “I guess maybe, by now, we are ‘that good of friends’.” 

Sweaters and Hoodies

Sometimes I can't decide who I really am.

Sometimes I feel as if I'm having an internal identity crisis. Actually a lot of the time.

Part of me thinks I'm an artsy person. You know, the sweaters, skinny jeans and TOMS wearing, trend setting person. An abstract and impractical one, loving my new haircut and always being creative. The dreamer, the right-brained.

And the other part of me says I'm just pretending. That I'm just an right-brained wanna-be.

That at heart, I'm really a jock, the one that wonders what the heck I'm going to do with these bangs when I'm lifting or climbing, the part that chooses sweats and a hoodie with the hood up over a sweater and jeans, and the one that disses all things impractical.

Can I actually be both? Or am I one or the other?

Am I pretending? Or am I really a part of both people?

The Cryptozoologist

This is me getting the cryptozoologist out of the way, because it's been plaguing me for a lonnnnng time. ;) [happy Jennette???]

I'm not sure this really counts are writing... but whatever.
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I don’t want my life to be like the story of the Cryptozoologist.

Honestly, I’m intrigued by stories like that; slight randomness, lots of insinuation and not a lot of flat out answers. They make my imagination run, and I make up sub-stories while I’m reading.

But this ending, annoyed me; in reality, it more than annoyed me, but less than infuriated me. What did the two plastic five gallon buckets half filled with apples have to do with it? Was it Wayne Lee, or a Skunk Ape? Or did it have something to do with her dying, or was she dreaming? And what did the Secret Agent Dude want?

I don’t want my life to be full of questions, I want a least a few answers. I don’t want my life a bunch of random, gloomy events; I want a least a little order. I don’t want my life to happen by default, but I do want to make the best of what does happen like Rose did.

I don’t know where this “response” is going, and that’s what I didn’t like about the story. So I guess I’ll end this by saying, I actually really enjoyed reading it, even if it was a bit depressing and had a ridiculous ending. Haha

I think I need to get back in the swing of this writing. 

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I wrote this last night... so I'm going to try to write some more today :)

"Can I give this lady some free guac?"

I wasn’t a picky kid when I was younger, but there was one thing I couldn’t stand. Avocados. Oh, the texture. The smooshy green pieces slid down your throat. There wasn’t anything that I couldn’t eat, but avocados… they made me gag. Really gag.

We have a policy in our family that no matter what it is, no matter how much you hate it, you have to eat a tiny bit every time it’s served. So I did. I’d quickly search my salad, or whatever it was, pick out one nice gooy piece, and with glass in hand quickly swallow it.

I’m not sure when it happened. Or how it did. But I like avocados now, and like is a weak word. Actually I love avocados now. And it wasn’t something that slowly happened, it was a sudden occurrence. Now I can’t get enough of them. It’s sort of sad, because living in Minnesota means that they are expensive, not very plentiful and mushy by the time you get to them (or they get to you).

When I went to visit my friend in the Bahamas and, get this, she has an avocado tree in her back yard! We literally ate them for breakfast , lunch and supper. And any time we were hungry. Lots of salt and pepper. Creole seasoning. On their own. Mmmmm, delicious. Nice and firm, just picked and perfectly ripe, and huge. I’d never seen such big ones. We brought them to the island, and they were even better there. So I ate my fill for ten days, and now I dream about them.

Oh and then there’s guacamole... I used the think it was smooshy* and not worth ruining your chip for. Not anymore. Blend up that gorgeous green stuff, add some lime juice and salt, crush some garlic and pull out the chips. Especially Chipotle’s guac, it’s smooth and creamy, with cilantro and salsa. Add a burrito and it’s heaven. Plus, bring your mom along. Because she’s amazing at getting free stuff.

[This was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be... sorry guys! hahah, I think I'll stick to letting Jennette assign us stuff. I *do* want to try something like this again... maybe something a little less specific...]

Boxes: A Short Story

“She turned the business card over in her hands, feeling the smoothness with her fingers. She contemplated the story it might tell, but for some reason her mind couldn’t go anywhere other than a romantic meeting of the guy and a girl.

“What is wrong with my brain?” she wondered. Sometimes she felt her mind was stuck on one track, and even though she hadn’t placed it there, she couldn’t get it off.

Stories. That was what she thought about. Always thought about stories. But lately her stories were limited to love stories. She loved adventure, but she had no plots without guy plus girl. “Oh boy, I feel like a hopeless romantic.”

And this writing was making things no better. She sighed and laid down her pen.”

Smiling she turned the page. Sitting back on her heels, she pulled the box full of journals closer. Reading them was amusing, to say the least. “I was such a hopeless dork!” She kept turning the pages. This one was from 2006, and so much had changed since then.

She resumed her reading, losing herself in her thoughts from long ago. Struggles with her life and her work that seemed so large then, but in hindsight appeared almost laughable. Entry after entry made mountains out of molehills, but she survived, and what was happening in the present made all the scraps worth it.

Some of the entries made a few tears trickle* out, while others made her laugh. “Oh I wish I had known what would happen after that,” she sighed. 

Then of course there were the multiple entries like the above one. “Geeze, girl, what was your problem. It’s not the only thing in life, and boy am I glad I’ve figured that all out now.” She rolled her eyes at the old her, and all her “heart problems” and “boy issues”.

“Whatever made me think that about him?” “Wow, that was stupid.” “girly, it’s not that big of a deal. You’ll get over it.”

She closed the journal, and stacked it back in the box, replacing the cover and carrying it to the storage closet. She shut the door and smiled at how mature she felt after reading her old problems. In her pocket her phone started vibrating. Looking down her heart jumped, breathing deep she tried to calm it.

“Hello? Oh hey!” Thump.

*yes Jennette... they trickled. 

Love Hurts

There's been a lot on my mind lately. Questions that aren't always answered, thoughts floating around, answers coming slowly out of the fog. A 13 year-old friend of a friend that died in a car accident. A dream that made me re-visit the memories of a family friend's newborn baby going to heaven too soon. Feeling God's overwhelming love. Seeing tragedy in the world, in Japan. Hearing my Aunt's story of two babies saved outside the Planned Parenthood this morning. God's love will conquer. Lord, make beauty out of these ashes.


These are the thoughts that came out of my fingers tonight. I hope they make sense.


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What is our heart? When we’re happy we say our heart is full. When something bad happens, we say our heart hurts. When we get hurt by someone, we say its broken.

Can we break our heart? Part of me is inclined to think when we use that, we really just have mental issues. If we magically had a switch, that turned off our brain or our thought process, would we still end up with pieces? If we convinced ourselves that nothing was really the matter, would our heart still hurt?

Solomon told us to “Keep our heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.” Is he really telling us to guard our mind? Our thoughts? Our feelings? 

The same word used for heart here was commonly used for the feelings. The Strong’s Concordance also describes it as the inner man, mind, will, heart, understanding. The inner part, or the midst of things. I’d say he’s talking about our mind here.

But, I think there’s a part of us, our feelings, our inner part, that’s disconnected from our minds. Sometimes my heart does ache, sometimes even when my mind can’t make sense of things, it hurts.

Honestly, I think broken “hearts” are a part of life. This earth isn’t perfect, and bad things happen. If we are attempting to love imperfect people with a perfect un-ending love, we’re bound to end up with pieces.

God want's our hearts, and we can’t be afraid of being broken. Do you think Jesus’ heart was all in one beautiful piece while He was hanging on the cross for Love?

It hurts to love someone. Jesus knows. I’m not sure any of us could hurt more than He did and has, and does. Sometimes that love breaks us, sometimes it hurts us, sometimes it aches. Sometimes we wonder why? Why does it have to be this way? It’s not fair.

But it’s worth it. It’s the only way. The alternative is a whole heart, but an empty one. You can’t fill something that that doesn’t have an opening. Love is the only way our world, our hearts, our minds can be healed. Love is the only way, even if it hurts.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” {Romans 8:38-39}

Like a Mustard Seed

I need more faith. Not because more faith would make more things happen in my life, mainly because more faith would make life easier.

I tend to worry, and wonder and complain, instead of resting, and trusting while being content. It’s funny how faith is more for us, and not for God. The strength of our faith doesn’t affect the outcome, remember all we have to have is a mustard seed, and that’s not much at all. I remember one time at church Mr. Gillson said, “The outcome of a situation doesn’t rest in how much faith you have, but it rests in how reliable the source of your faith is.”

If I decide to step onto a thin sheet of ice, despite how much I believe that the ice will hold me… it probably won’t. But if I choose to step out, trusting in God, He will always hold me.

Our God never fails us, no matter how much faith we have.

He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you. {Luke 17:6}

The Dreaded Poetry

A cloudy day, a comfy hoody, business books, and image back-ups. Coffee and pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting. Comfortably achy muscles from yesterday’s workout, conversations with friends, and that little nagging thought in the back of your brain, “mmm, you’d better not put off that poetry too long”.

Such is my day. And it’s a good one, except for the poetry part.

Syllables. I’m not sure if I should admit how hard a time I have with these. I know, I was homeschooled. Wait, thought is only one syllable???

Why did I agree to this? Where is writing poetry going to get me? Maybe I’ll do the response instead. Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea.

I guess if I could write poetry like that I would.

Other thoughts fly through my head: “bring Sarah a business card. Remind the parents sign up starts today. Shoot pictures for tomorrow’s LDPS. Finish the wedding contract. Oh and write something for Red Ink.”

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Black marks on a page

Brings fascinating emotion

And takes me somewhere

Obscure story of

Pain trial triumph hope love

Runs through cluttered thoughts

An adventure of

Living life finding knowledge

Slowly taking shape

Sentences forming

Writing words and syllables

Worlds come into view

People places ideas

My book filling fast with dreams

Final page happy thoughts

Flipping pages cover closed

Peaceful content not for long

More thoughts more marks come.

Grammer and Smarts - My Niagara Response

I wish I could write like Mark Twain. Although he uses enormous words, quite a few you don’t understand and plenty you’ve never heard, he keeps you entertained even if you are a slight bit confused. I laugh at things I’m not sure I understand, and he has my favorite kind of sarcastic humor. The things he said to the supposed Indians, and his last paragraph on his fatal injuries, made me love the essay.

He inspires me to go read the dictionary to expand my vocabulary, and not just the encyclopedias [yes, true story. I used to read through the encyclopedias when I was young]. It makes me want to be smarter, so I can write smarter. He also inspires me to be more humorous in my writing. I aspire to make my readers laugh and relate while reading my writings. 

I miss this quality of writing. In this era of facebooking and texting and emailing, nothing sounds even close to his Niagra ramblings.

“Wht up w u? im gnna b @ concrt”

“hey brb in 2 sec”

“idk wht 2 think”

Although I might be slightly confused, I’m definitely not entertained at the same time. Half the time I pick up a kids book to read to my siblings I wonder what pre-schooler wrote this one. Or when I read someone’s comment on facebook, and I have to go over it three times to understand what they are saying due to lack of punctuation and misspelt words, I have to think, are we really that dumb? Or are we that lazy?

[If I was a conspiracy theorist, I might wonder if it’s a plot to dumb us down, so we don’t realize a few people are planning on taking over the world, but I’m not. Or maybe I am. There are more ridiculous thoughts. ]

I could now get started on about people’s punctuation and grammar, oh and their lack of capitalization [that one really gets me, really guys? It’s that much harder to write “I” instead of “i”?], but the real reason we started this was to like improve our righting so I should proly stop here for i expose my lack of smartness.  ;)

Sports Writing: Softball

{This was fun for me, because I really like sports. I like watching them, playing them, writing about them. Well most of them... I really don't enjoy golf, for multiple reasons that you probably shouldn't ask about, [God must know that, I just got assigned both girls and boys golf for this season. haha] and I *can't* play soccer. I was going to write about football, and the super cool athletes [tongue in cheek here] that have egos bigger than their shoulder pads, but I decided to write about something that was closer to home for me. I'm not sure it'll be much fun for someone who doesn't/hasn't played, but it was fun writing it :) }

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I miss softball. I've played some form of baseball/softball since I was about three (it's very much the family sport) but playing competitively was different.

There was something about putting on the uniform that made you assume your “game face”. Something about knowing that you were prepared as much as you could be, and realizing that you were going to have to try your hardest. There was something about knowing your body could actually do these things. Putting on the uniform pumped yourself up mentally, while you warmed up physically.

Softball is a very mental game. When you get up to the plate, and even in the on deck circle, you start to zone in. By the time the pitcher starts to wind-up it’s like you are the only two on the field. Occasionally, mainly because it was so familiar, I could hear my dad’s voice when I stepped up to the plate, but after that there was nothing besides the battle between you and the pitcher.

Yeah, it takes skill to hit the ball, and more to hit it well, but it also takes concentration and mental toughness. I know. You can smash every ball in the cage, but have a batting average of .000. It was a challenge against myself, and a battle in my mind every time I was at the plate.

When you hit the ball you can hear again, even though all your focus is getting to the next base. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the ball hitting your sweet spot, and you could know without looking that it was a solid hit. * Then you’re on base, the play is over and the next batter at the plate. I loved base running; pushing your limits, playing with the catcher’s mind, sprinting hard, stealing bases, sliding, taking out the catcher while scoring, it was all a blast.

I played both catcher and short stop, two awfully different positions. When I caught, I loved having every aspect of the game in your mind as you crouched behind the plate, eyes on each runner, knowing the count, remembering each batter’s weaknesses. I loved being the leader on the field. Catching was a challenge, and the feeling of playing a good game was immensely satisfying.

Short was completely different but as much of a challenge. I loved not having the responsibility of a bag, but having to know the next play, and exactly where you were going with the ball; fielding fast moving ground balls, and whipping them over to first. I loved being part of a play at second, or turning on a pop-up; being the mouth on in the infield, or covering a base on a bunt. I loved the relationship with the second baseman and deep throws from in the hole.  

In either position, I can remember the feeling of a hard pitch or a screaming line drive in your pocket. The sting of your palm as you closed your glove on the ball and brought your other hand over it. I remember the adrenaline of a play, and the smug feeling of one well done.  

Capping it off were the feelings after a game; exhausted and full of dirt, you might have some bruises or a raspberry from sliding, and your muscles would be aching [and since I couldn’t separate them from softball, your quads would be killing you], but if you knew you’d done your best and left it all on the field, they were all pretty good feelings, even your quads. 

* (There's also nothing quite like the feeling of hitting the ball off your handle, and the vibrating in your palms, and the stress of trying to out run it. But this is about the things I actually miss) 

The Lake

There’s something about Lake Superior that draws me, much like the ocean. It makes me imagine stories of ships and sailors, of ship wrecks and people living along the lake. It makes me stand and think of the God that created it, and how huge He really is.

Visiting during the warmer weather we watch ships coming and going; some large Great Lakes ships, some smaller ones for the ocean. Some are leaving full of iron ore, low in the water, others are coming in empty, riding high.

This weekend I visited the lake with friends, and at this time things are covered in ice. The ice chunks had blown up against the mountain of ice along the shore, created by the breaking waves all winter. Large blocks floated and rolled with the waves, while the smaller ones piled up on each other. The wind was blowing the breaking ice out of the harbor and through the canal. The walls of the lighthouse on the pier were covered with strange designs of ice and the stairs were lost under the ice.  Sheets of it covered the walls of the canal.

During the night the wind blew the ice slabs out and all that was left was the mountain created by the waves. Far out you could vaguely see them on the horizon, along with a thin film of ice that had formed in places. Instead of big rolling waves, like the day before, the water was choppy.

Even though it’s much, much smaller than the ocean, you can’t tell when you’re standing at the shore. It makes you feel small, and insignificant, and makes you think wild thoughts.  Nothing controls the lake, except for the shoreline. And occasionally that’s not enough to governor it.

It’s wild, but at the same time soothing. It’s both predictable, with the waves coming in one after another, and unpredictable, like when it storms. It’s always cold, the temperature changes just 3 degrees over the season, and I think that adds the wild feeling. I sit in awe of the wild and awesome side of the God I serve.

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{Ug. Why won't conclusions write themselves?? I feel like this was a pretty abrupt ending.. but I couldn't figure out how to finish it better... suggestions??}

Mmmmmmm

I want to write... but I just got home from a weekend in Duluth, and four hours of lovely swimming lessons [bites tongue] and ended up editing pictures instead.

But I'm really excited about writing something cool about sports this week! And the funny thing... this is my week off from writing about it for the paper :) haha [I know.. it was my idea]

I also wanted to say that everyone's writing has really motivated me to make mine better. And I just realized that we're half over........ sad day.

Brain Coral and Sand dollars

There are too many parts of my last trip, which was to the Bahamas, to write about, so I’m just going to write about one of the my favorite parts. ;)

I went to the Bahamas to visit my friend Susan, who married a Bahamian. Yes, a Minnesotan married a Bahamian. Anyways, because we stayed with his family the whole time, for the first five/six days we didn’t do typical “tourist stuff”. Those days, for me, were the best part of the trip, although that could be because my sister and brother were there too….

We went camping on another island, Rose, for three days. Really roughed it, and it was a blast, long nights, lizards, no toilets and all! 

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We were on a boat, skipping over calm water. The wind whipped my hair and I could taste the salt spray from the bright blue water. The sun shone, and in places the water appeared darker. We didn’t talk much on the short ride out from the island to the reef.

Brett killed the engine and we drifted a short ways while Susan pulled out the rope and threw over the anchor. I helped her feed the rope until it hit bottom. Everyone passed around masks and snorkels, found flippers that fit and talked all the while.

The sun glinted off the edge of the boat as I peered into the reef. Although eager to get in the gorgeous water, I didn’t want to be the first one in out here in the unknown. Hey, there could be sharks... Eventually everyone had gear, and one by one we sat on the side of the boat, sliding into the water backwards.

The cool water closed around me, as did the silence. Suddenly I felt alone. I looked around for the others, and started kicking. The reef was both intriguing and beautiful, and a little bit eerie. I could vaguely hear noises of people kicking their flipper clad feet, and the sound of my own breathing through the snorkel tube.

 I smiled at Ange, the best I could while still holding my teeth around my snorkel, and waved. Both of us popped our heads above the surface and pulled the snorkels out.

“Did you see this?”

“Look at that!”

“Woah, did you see that piece of coral?”

“This fish!”

The coral was gorgeous, and way more intricate than I had imagined. Brain coral, that looked like a maze carved out of rock, and pretty purple sea leaves covered the bottom of the ocean, interspersed with fire coral, that Brett told us we’d better not touch. Brightly colored fish swam in schools all around us.

Amy popped up to the surface and pointed to a large brain coral. “Woah! Did you see that thing down there… someone has been down there carving!” Needless to say, she still hasn’t lived that one down.

Sucking in a big breath I dove down towards the edge of the reef and the deeper water, getting a close up look. I ran out of air and pushed myself up towards the surface, blowing hard to get the water out of the snorkel. Amy and I posed for an underwater picture.

Back under the water Brett waved us over, pointing out a weird fish that looked almost like a sea cucumber swimming upright. Above water he explained it was a relative of a sea horse called a pipe fish.  I think we had a million and two questions for him, “What’s this? What’s that?” and “How does the coral survive? What kind of fish is that?” and the all-important one, “What sharks do you have here?”

Brett had two spears and shooters, but none of us tried. Being used to Minnesota I was a little scared that if I did end up miraculously spearing something it would be something out of season. Apparently everything is fair game in the Bahamas. We watched him spear a blue jack and a crawfish, both of which we ended up eating for dinner. 

Pretty soon we started to tire out, and headed back to the boat. I sat soaking up the warm sun, enjoying how your muscles feel after a good swim.

“Derek, what did you find?” Kara says with her camera running.

“A butt! And Dory.”

“Ahh! He touched the butt!”

Mark pulled the crawfish out of a bucket by its long antenna and wiggled it in front of Kara. “Ahhhh!!  Get that away from me! That’s not on Nemo!”

After warming up we moved to a shallow, sandy part of the ocean. Four of us got back in the water to drag behind the boat, and look for sand dollars and conch shells (fyi, it’s really pronounced conk). I grabbed the yellow rope and held on next to Susan. The water rushed over my body as I gazed at the rippled sand.

Things didn’t go so well, although we found a lot of sand dollars we only found one conch, and it was just the shell. Every time Brett would get the boat moving one of us would see something and drop off, and then we’d have to start all over again. When the boat got moving faster, I would have a hard time keeping my mouth around my snorkel and it would fill up with water. I would come up choking, desperately trying to fix it without letting go. It didn’t work.

Finally, after too many times starting and stopping, starting and stopping, and a bucket full of sand dollars, Brett told us, “NO MORE sand dollars OR sunshine shells. You can eat conch… you can’t eat sand dollars.” (We ended up going hungry that night. Well actually, we ended up eating hot dogs instead.)

Susan was heartbroken over all those sunshine shells she was passing over. “I kept seeing gorgeous ones… and I couldn’t get them!”

Eventually we all ended up shivering and back in the boat, watching Brett kite surf. And laughing at Susan’s driving.  We drove back to the island for a long, cold, windy night. Haha, but that’s another rad story…..

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This was fairly hard... but I made it, even if it took me two days. Oh, and did I say sometimes I have a problem with rambling? 

I'm crabby

I'm crabby, and I don't want to write anything. period.

I read the Niagara Falls thing, and enjoyed it... but didn't think I had time to write a response. I tried starting two different travel stories... and didn't finish either.

My room is a mess, I'm tired from swimming laps, and even though I don't have "the fluffs" running around... I think a fog has rolled in, and I'm not sure what to do about it. I'm pretty sure I had some little thing that I was inspired by and could have written a paragraph on... but I don't remember it now. [go figure]

So. I quit. And I'm going to go eat a Fox Mint and read a fiction book. Good solution? I think so. ;)

Oh, actually.... if anyone has any suggestions for good reads.... send them my way!

Teaching the Teacher

It’s interesting how much teaching someone else can teach you.

Twice a week I teach 6 classes of swimming lessons. In 28 hours I teach for 8, and 12 classes. Sometimes it’s a really long haul, and other weeks it goes really fast (although a lot of it depends on the temperature of the pool). I’ve taught kids from the age of 3 to 17, a blind student, a downs syndrome girl and a couple of other special needs kids.

Besides the obvious, like learning to communicate clearly, and adapt to each of the kids learning styles, I’ve been taught so many things.

Finn and Ryhs taught me that I need to keep some order, and that some kids appreciate it. Devin and Kasia have taught me not to work people too hard. Sam taught me that every once and a while I need to relax and talk about How to Train Your Dragon, and that life isn’t all about vision.

Jake and Sara (and their mom) taught me how to deal with paranoid and nervous people, and give them strength, but push them forward at the same time. Regann has taught me that some people can be distracted from their stubbornness with a little creativity. Macy and Christopher taught me that some kids need the law laid down, and in a not so gentle way. Alicia (and quite a few of the other kids) taught me patience, and that some things just take time.

But I think, one of the biggest things I’ve learned, is to cut kids some slack. I’m not a very compassionate person, my friends and my little siblings can attest to that. My favorite saying is, “Just suck it up and deal with it.” Or to my two year old little bro, “You’re okay, be a man!”

Although it’s a truth that sometimes needs to be said, there are also a lot of times where someone needs a bit of compassion. Like little Kamryn last night, who didn’t want to put her mouth in for the ring. Yes, I know she can do it, and yes, sometimes she’s a little stubborn, but maybe she’s scared, maybe it’s hard for her. She is only three after all.

And…. It’s something God gives us. So…. It’s something we need to be able to pass on at the right times.

 “The LORD is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love” {Psalm 145:8}

“Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love”

 {Lamentations 3:32}

It’s been hard to find the line, the line between pushing the kids so they learn and giving them some slack and mercy. But it’s something that I want to learn, because I love these kids. And I’m not using that word lightly. I’m really sad when some of them go, sometimes even the challenging ones [not always though], and I’m happy that some of them stay with me. I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be, because I really think it’s just the love God is showing me coming through.

So although four hours in the pool a night gets long and cold, and I’ve actually found myself staring at the clock, praying for God to get me through, He’s used this for a lot of things in my life. And for that I’m very grateful, even if I do smell like chlorine….