The Hike

"We're going to go on a long hike today!" said Christy enthusiastically, a ball cap on her head and khaki shorts coming down to the knees of her pale, unshaved legs. She was the ideal camp counselor. "We're going to get to see lots of amazing things, which I'll point out along the way! Just remember our number one rule: stay with the group!"

But Violet wasn't listening. She loved camp, sure, not because of the games and crafts and silly songs around the campfire (well, she did love the campfire itself, its beauty, its power, its warmth), but because she lived in the city with a stressed-out single mother and this was the only time she got to breathe clean air and see things like trees and wildlife and stars. It was all so different and wonderful! This was a place to escape--forget who she had to be at her low-budget school, at her apartment that always smelled like cigarette smoke and sounded like people fighting, on the street where she wasn't allowed to walk alone past dark. Here, she was a bird or an elf or a deer...

"Violet! Are you coming?" From a distance, Christy was trying to hide her annoyance that Violet hadn't been listening again. She clearly had some attention issues, and Christy felt like she was constantly trying to keep Violet involved. She was quiet, not loud and disruptive, but Christy's job was to keep all the kids safe, happy, and active, and Violet rarely wanted to participate in any activities and still hadn't made any friends in the three days she'd been at camp. Christy was trying to keep an eye out for signs of abuse, just in case, but she had seven other girls in her cabin to worry about too, and Violet couldn't always be her number one priority. Why did kids always need so much individual attention?

Violet said nothing but ran to catch up with the group, staying at the back of the group. Passing through the tree line, she found herself immediately in a wonderland of trees, miscellaneous smaller plants, bugs, dead leaves, sticks. Every now and then she would see animal tracks; or cross a stream; or hear an animal through the trees, but it was usually just a squirrel.

***
Violet's mother, Shannon, rubbed her eyes. She was taking a fifteen-minute smoke break, then it was back to the cash register. How was Violet liking camp? Shannon should write her a letter. Let her know she was thinking of her, let her know that she was missing absolutely nothing fantastic here at home. But even if she could find an envelope and a stamp, or even a piece of paper, that was no guarantee she'd have the time or energy to sit down and do it with Violet's three other siblings at home. Well, it was a blessing that Violet was able to go to camp at all. Between the money Shannon had saved and the scholarship they'd been offered, Violet had been able to go for her second year this year. She'd absolutely loved it last year, so Shannon could only assume she was having a good time again.

Four hours later, Shannon was thinking about how it was a good thing her shift would end in ten minutes because her stomach had just growled. She felt her phone buzz in her pocket, but of course she didn't answer it; she was checking people out, scanning item after item. But her phone rang again and again, and eventually she decided to just leave a few minutes early, so she turned off her register light and put the "NEXT CHECKOUT LANE PLEASE" sign on her conveyer belt.

Unknown number. "Hello?"
"Hi- uh, Shannon? Violet's mother?"
"Yes. Who is this."
"Hi, uh, well, this is the director of the camp where you're daughter's staying. We're afraid, um, Violet's lost in the woods somewhere. We're sending in a squad. I'm sure she's perfectly safe. We're doing everything we can to find her. Anyway, I just wanted to inform you. You can come down here if you want."
Shannon stood there for a moment, stunned, then rapidly hung up and dialed the babysitter's number.

***
Violet was bending over an inchworm on a leaf when she realized she was all alone. First she panicked--this was against the rules! She was supposed to stay with her group! Then she felt relief. Well, more of a sense of freedom. Yes, freedom was definitely the right word. She giggled, stood up straight, and danced in the dead leaves--then giggled some more at the sound they made under her feet. She could live here! She could eat berries and sleep on tree branches and be like the female version of Tarzan! She started to run. It was the most wonderful run ever--she wasn't running in gym class, she wasn't running home. She was running through the woods, with nowhere to go and no one to answer to!

In her glee, Violet started singing nonsensically, some cross between how she heard birds sing and how she thought Tarzan probably sings as he swings through the forest on vines. She stopped to take a breath when she heard voices. Male voices. They were yelling in the distant, and they sounded serious. Violet suddenly realized that they were looking for her.

Violet wouldn't run or hide. She would let them find her. She would go back to the city and live with her mother and siblings. She would breathe in smoke and smog and see very few living things, which didn't include the lifeless, dull, tired people she saw on the street every day.

But she had discovered, at only nine years of age, a connection to the wilderness that she could not ignore. She would come back... someday. She would be free.


God bless.

Photography

A kind young woman called Sarah who went to my church is a photographer and just shared someone's blog post on facebook called "Date a girl who Photographs." I read it and liked it, thought it was idealistically and poetically written. What I liked most about it was the way it described a young woman as someone who saw beauty in virtually everything, including the mundane.

Photography is merely and only a way to capture beauty. A way to take a moment and eternize its visual components. But it creates nothing.

Painting, composing music, sculpting, choreographing dance, writing. All these things and many more art forms create beauty. They birth something that never existed in the world before. But photography doesn't do this. Photographers look at something that already exists and snap a picture of it, but they don't just look at it. They see it. They capture the beautiful so that others will say, "My, look at this photo! That must have been quite a moment." But if these spectators had been there and seen it with their own eyes, would they have seen the wonder of it at all? The photographer's job is to point it out to them, even though they did not create it.

However, when I found myself with a camera (when I had one), I believe that I actually missed out on what was going on around me. Being someone who has very poor episodic memory, photos help me remember where I've been and what I've done. Meanwhile, I find that while I am consumed with finding beautiful things to take photos of, I am much less attentive to everything else. I am only attentive to taking photos.

For me personally, does photographing take away from the experience or enhance it for future memories? Does it conserve beauty or does it rob me of seeing the world with my own two eyes instead of through a lens?

I'm trying to decide if it would be worth it to buy a camera, or even to borrow my sister's old broken one, and take it with me to Juneau. Surely I will see some marvelous things there that I will not want to forget! But also surely there will be plenty of other people there with cameras of their own there. Should I worry about it, then?

I am less concerned about this predicament than I am about a more internalized one: do I see the beauty around me? Are my eyes open?

Does someone want to take me to an art museum?

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are. -Anaïs Nin

God bless.

P.S. Check out Sarah's lovely photography here.

How to Facebook

I'm addicted to facebook. So what? Facebooking is a cultural standard. If you're not on facebook, you basically don't exist. This post is in honor of my brother getting a facebook for the very, very first time the other day.

Everyone should be a proficient facebooker. If you aren't, how can you know if you are proficiently existing? This easy-to-follow guide will show you how.

1. Check facebook 5+ times a day. Unless you are on facebook once for the entire day, which counts as well. So, check it a minimum of 5 times, or for a minimum duration of two hours.

2. Stop talking to friends in real life. Friends are only real if they're fbo (facebook official), so you only need to communicate with them through a computer screen now. How convenient! This is also an efficient way to talk to multiple friends at a time, even if all of you are in different parts of the world.

3. "Share" every post that you spend more than three seconds looking at. If it makes you chuckle, even just a little, the rest of the world needs to see it too. Also share everything that you agree with politically.

4. Similarly, your statuses, which should be posted as frequently as possible, should cover every slightly-above-mundane thought that crosses your mind.

5. Invite all your friends to play your awesome, time-killing, brain-mushing games with you, such as Farmville or...whatever. And when other friends invite you to play their games, always accept. Never, ever block the apps of the games you get invited to.

6. Speaking of blocking, never block anything unwanted that shows up in your newsfeed. Someone shared or posted it because they knew you needed to see it, whether you wanted to or not.

7. When you're single, you should have your relationship status as married to your best friend. And your other best friend should be listed as your mother or something clever like that.

8. If you're not single, all your posts should be about your significant other. Because we all want to know how happy you are with that person and how much you're in love! Everyone loves a good love story, right??

9. Post pictures of the dinner you just made. ALWAYS.

10. If you ever post anything or do anything on another website, share it to facebook. Once again, the rest of the world needs to see it because they want to know what you're doing all the time. Your life is that important!

11. Creep on all your friends and like/comment on everything they post. And then forget about it, so that when they talk to you about what they posted in real life (if you ever see that person in real life), you look like a fool.
Them: So I went to the funeral on Saturday... it was pretty hard for me.
You: What funeral?
Them: My grandma's! You commented on my status saying you were sorry for my loss and that you were here for me!
You: I did? When?

12. Add people as friends that you've never met because you think they look nice in their profile picture. Or because they sit on the other side of the classroom. After all, having as many facebook friends as possible makes you look popular and that's what's really truly important in this life.

13. Spelling doesn't matter. Don't even try.


Well, there you go, folks! Now you know how to facebook, brought to you by one of the experts! Feel free to add your own tips in the comments!

"Facebook wants you to think it's a place where things are always happening, that things are constantly going on so you always need to be checking it. It's disgusting. I love it." -Phil quoting Kyle


God bless.

Doorknob

In honor of Mother's Day and my brother's 13th birthday today, here is a very true short story (or as true as I can remember) that I wrote for my creative writing class fall semester. Neither of them have read this, so, to Mom and Sam, Happy Mother's Day! Happy Birthday!



When my younger sister, Sarah, and I were both little girls, we were in the habit of praying every night before we went to sleep in our bunk bed. Usually our prayers went something like this: “Dear God, please help so-and-so who has cancer, please be with the family who are missionaries in Africa, and please be with Mr. so-and-so who lost his job. And thank you for books. In Jesus name, Amen.” Our prayers slowly evolved, depending on the needs of the people in our family or church. However, one prayer that we were unrelenting on was the plea for a younger brother. We needed one because when we played House, there was no one to fill the male father role. And to be a brother of quality, his name had to be Hercules, Aladdin, or Jack. Somehow, God heard our tiny voices every night.

Unbeknownst to us, Mom and Dad had been trying to have a son for years. Getting pregnant had been easy with Sarah and me. It just happened as soon as they decided they were ready and Mom went off birth control. Life as the happy, American, middle-class family was panning out just as planned. But when they tried for their third and final child, hopefully a boy, they got nothing. Over five fruitless years passed and the whole family was praying, together and individually, when one day, we had a “family meeting.”

“We’re getting something very special, and we want you girls to guess what it is,” my Dad said, barely able to contain his excitement. Sarah and I were five and seven at the time. We were clueless.

“A car?”

“No, smaller.”

“A bike?”

“No, it’s living.”

The guessing game continued for far too long, and my parents gave us as many clues as possible as to what this special thing might be. Based on the knowledge that it was living, very small, and wiggly, Sarah and I rationally but erroneously concluded that our family was going to get a baby worm. We were literally rolling on the floor with laughter at this bizarre concept. Mom and Dad looked at each other and decided to just tell us, since our silly childish minds couldn’t actually figure out what it was.

“We’re not getting a baby worm… We’re getting a baby!” At the news, the four of us were filled with excitement and joy. Even the family dog could sense it, because she was wagging her tail frantically and panting with her lips curled up in a furry dog-smile.

The pregnancy didn’t turn out to be all sunshine and rainbows, though. Much trial and tribulation was ahead of us, especially for Mom. I didn’t understand it then. I assumed that all pregnant mothers had to go on bed-rest. Early in the pregnancy, she began bleeding. Panicked, she went to the doctor, where she learned that although the egg in which the baby was nestled is supposed to be firmly attached to the wall of her uterus, it was tearing away, causing the bleeding. Should it be completely torn off, the baby would die and Mom would have a miscarriage. To prevent this tragedy from happening, Mom had to be as still as possible, because any large movement could cause more tearing inside her. The only reasonable way to do this was for her to go on bed-rest.

I now understand how incredibly difficult this must have been for her. She has told me that it was all worth it for the precious life inside her that she already loved so dearly, but my mother is an incredibly active woman. She’s a runner and an elementary school teacher. She’s used to being on her feet, constantly busy, constantly being productive. Now, she spent her days in bed reading the newspaper and books and watching TV and getting increasingly utterly bored. The only productive thing she could do now was be a safe vessel for a tiny embryo. When she got up to fulfill basic needs, she moved at a snail’s pace, even though she was dying to be active again. Meanwhile, the rest of us lived life as normal. My dad must have been more stressed with having to fill in for her with all the cooking and driving Sarah and me around. But she and I had no idea anything was wrong.

Finally, Mom was able to get out of bed and go back to work, but she wasn’t able to just jump back into her active lifestyle. The life of another was at stake. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take for the sheer relief of walking normally or lifting things or bending over. She would rather be a little helpless for a while than lose the life of her third child. She walked like an old woman, even though her body was still physically able to run. She wouldn’t carry a bag of groceries to the car but had a store worker help her, even though she was still physically strong. It was torture. It was still fairly early in the pregnancy, and strangers couldn’t see the baby bump yet and probably wondered what was wrong with her; why she looked so young but moved like she was elderly. But that didn’t bother her. She was surely a champion of mothers. Eventually she healed and the baby had become large enough that the risk of it dying was no longer a concern, and she, thank God, was able to resume normal activity.

At that point, the news of Mom’s pregnancy was allowed to be released to the public. I had been strictly told to keep this “secret” from all my friends at school until further notice. In retrospect, this precaution was probably in case of a miscarriage. When that threat subsided, I had the privilege of announcing it to my second-grade class. My teacher, who was a colleague of my mother, made a huge deal of having me stand up while everyone turned to look at me. “So, what’s the big news?” she asked.

I was way too excited to become nervous in the spotlight, and proudly declared, “I’m having a baby!”

My teacher immediately burst into laughter. “You’re having a baby?!”

Realizing my mistake, but thinking it to be petty and insignificant, I giggled and corrected myself. “My mom’s having a baby!” To me, that detail was almost inconsequential. Of course I was having a baby! A baby brother or sister! The humor and slight embarrassment of that moment has stuck with me over the years.

When the time came to find out the gender of the baby, it was an event for the whole family. I stood next to the white bed my mother was on while they rubbed gel onto her tummy, with a little device palpating her hump. On a screen was the grainy black-and-white sonogram image of a baby. The nurse showed us its head, arms, and legs. “Would you like to know the gender?” she asked my parents. Of course they did. And when we heard that my dad would no longer be the “only boy” in the family, nothing could take the smiles off any of our faces.

My sister and I, being the five- and seven-year-olds that we were, thought it would be our personal job to name our brother. We left our dreams of a Hercules/Aladdin/Jack baby behind and turned to more sophisticated titles, like Peanut-Butter and Tennis-Shoes.

“We should name the baby Gumball!”

“No, I like Blanket! or Q-Tip!”

“How about Underwear?!” Similar conversations happened on many occasions, and each occasion ended with roaring laughter at the sheer hilarity that we thought it was. My parents were pretty amused by it too, and often joined in the fun with their own silly name ideas.

It was my sister’s brilliant idea to name the unsuspecting embryo “Doorknob.” For some reason, that name stuck. The unseen baby was dubbed Doorknob, and everyone, friends and family, referred to him by that.

“How’s Doorknob doing?”

“Wow, Doorknob’s getting big!”

It started sounding surprisingly and incredibly normal, at least to me. Whatever “real” name my parents picked out for my future brother, we knew it would be hard to call him by anything other than Doorknob. It would probably be the poor kid’s nickname for the rest of his life.

Another cause for concern and prayer arose at this time, fairly close to the end of Mom’s pregnancy. After I almost lost my unborn sibling, I almost lost my other one when Sarah became very sick. She had been to a hospital before, as she frequently became dehydrated from drinking more milk than any child could ever need and puking until there was nothing left to puke. That was nothing new.

But this time was different. Sarah contracted a fever and was taken, exhausted, to the hospital. My parents were told, “The symptoms could indicate either Mononucleosis or Leukemia. We’re going to have to get it tested.” Downhearted and incredibly concerned, my parents asked everyone to pray that my sister had mono instead of leukemia. Of course they wanted a healthy daughter, but in this case they had to pray for the lesser of two evils. Leukemia was, of course, formidable.

Yet another answer to prayers, it turned out Sarah was coming down with a terrible case of mono. The Kissing Disease got her a lot of teasing, since five-year-olds smooch so many of those hot kindergarten boys. She was a miserable big sister when Doorknob was born because she wasn’t allowed to touch or even come near him for several weeks after he arrived. But that’s a story for her to tell. There is a photo of Sarah finally holding our brother for the first time, him pink in his infancy, and her, pale skin, tangly blond hair, brown eyes sparkling, and an altogether priceless look on her face.

The warm spring night that my brother was born, Sarah and I were at a ballet dress rehearsal. Mom deeply regretted not being able to attend the rehearsal, but she had a pretty good excuse, for being in labor and all. My dad could not be with us either, since he was with Mom. So, our beloved daycare provider, Linda, brought us to the rehearsal, taking lots of pictures for my mom as promised, and the two of us spent the night at her house that night. My birthday had been the day before, and my joyful first memory as an eight-year old is standing in my nightgown in Linda's dim living room after the rehearsal, clutching a huge phone and hearing my mom’s victorious voice say, “You have a new baby brother! His name is Samuel.” I grinned and handed the phone to Sarah so she could hear the news too. Samuel. Sam. Not Doorknob? Oh well.

Samuel meant “asked of God,” and, just as the Biblical Hannah had prayed for a son, whom she also named Samuel, that’s exactly what my brother was: prayed for, before and during the pregnancy, by many, many people. Asked for and received. Our enormous little gift from above.

It was exciting to have my brother’s birthday be the day after mine. From that day on, I thought it was hilarious to say, “I’m eight years and one day older than my brother!” It shouldn’t have happened that way, but it did, because I was born ten days after my due date and he was born eight days early. I guess I was too scared to leave the warmth and comfort of my mother’s womb, whereas Sam was more than ready to greet the world with gusto and look life directly in the eyes, one eyebrow raised.

Amidst this joyous time, my sister, however, was still sick. Dad was driving us to the hospital to see our new baby brother for the first time. I stared out the window, waiting anxiously for the hospital to come into view. We parked in the parking garage and began walking toward the entrance when Sarah stopped in her tracks and vomited on the pavement. We left before we even went inside. I was furious with her. The poor girl was miserably ill, but I didn’t care. She just had to barf in the parking lot and ruin everything. How could she be so stupid? Didn’t she care that we had a new baby brother that needed to be held? To this day, I give her a hard time for the setback in my first chance to see Sam. Needless to say, I was a brat. I did eventually get to see my baby brother and, despite the delay, I love him endlessly.

Sam would have been called Doorknob for the rest of his life, or at least the rest of his childhood, if my Grandpa hadn’t stepped in to save the day. He purchased a stuffed sheep that was incredibly soft and that I thought was the cutest little sheep I had ever seen. He had it embroidered across its belly, “Doorknob,” and gave it to my brother as a gift when he was born. From then on, my brother was Sam, and the sheep, the one that always won his favor above all other stuffed creatures, was Doorknob. And it sounded completely normal.

God bless.

To Alcohol or Not to Alcohol?

Well, I'm legal. It's 11:00 p.m. on the night of my 21st birthday and I'm perfectly sober. However, I did have a hurricane (whatever that is- it's fruity and has rum in it, I guess) with dinner.

Apparently I don't look 21. When the waiter asked what I would have to drink, and I said a hurricane (per my mom's recommendation) (yes, I was with my mom. And sister, and aunt), he laughed and said, "I'm sorry, I thought you said a hurricane!" Yes, that is what I said... Mom helped me out by explaining the occasion, and the waiter was pretty surprised. But he said he wouldn't card me since my mom was there and she, of course, wouldn't lie about her daughter's age. But Mom insisted that he card me since it'd be my first time.

The whole thing was a bizarre experience because while it was fun and exciting, I didn't feel nearly old enough to deserve all the fuss. After the waiter left, I turned to my mom and said, "Do I really look that young?" "Yeah, he probably thought you were like sixteen. Don't worry, looking young isn't a bad thing!" Well, yeah. I hope I never look old! I just had absolutely no idea I could pass for sixteen!

After dinner, I came home, opened presents from my family, and sat in the hot tub reading my book, sans drink. And now I'm here typing this, sans drink.

Why did I opt not to get wasted on my 21st birthday? Why am I a lame-o hanging out at home and/or with my family? Several reasons:

One is that I don't have many friends in this town. Since entering college, I suddenly had a summer birthday instead of a school year birthday, but all my friends are now dispersed over Ohio and the U.S. All that's left here is my family, and heck, I love them, so of course I'm happy to spend the day with them.

Another reason is that drunkenness is not something I want to pursue. I don't really see the point in it! I mean, I get that people resort to it escape difficult emotions. But do people really need it to have fun? Do people really need to chemically alter their minds for excitement? Besides, I'm not too keen on losing control of myself. I can do that well enough when I'm sober. I do incredibly stupid things sometimes, and I would hate to see how much more foolish I could be with alcohol in me. (Trey? Kevin? Others? Are you reading this?) Not that I want to judge people who like to party, of course. I personally just don't think it would be the wisest choice for me.

Why, then, am I open to drinking at all?, you ask. After all, I did order one at dinner. Well, frankly, I really like the taste of alcohol! It's delicious and it compliments so many drinks! I'm a huge fan of champagne, which is the only drink I've really had before today, but I've had sips of others, and I just think they're so yummy!

So my life decision is to drink in total moderation for the sake of the taste of the drink, not for the sake of the effect.  Some of you may think I should never drink at all, because it's simply wrong, or because the appeal of alcohol for me will tempt me to drink more and more of it, and maybe that's true for you. But I was raised in a family where I saw almost all the adults drink, yet never saw any of them get drunk. They have all exhibited responsible drinking my entire life, and I intend to live by their example. I will enjoy this new step into adulthood!

Besides, I can have a heck of a lot of fun when I'm totally sober. BOO-YA!

"...but Soda is one of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race or dancing without ever getting near alcohol. In our neighborhood it's rare to find a kid who doesn't drink once in a while. But Soda never touches a drop--he doesn't need to. He gets drunk on just plain living." -The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton


God bless.

Breakfast Blog

I've never written a blog, or probably anything at all for that matter, while eating Toaster Strudels until now.

The thing is, almost a year ago on my birthday, I wrote about turning 20, and since today is my last day of being 20, I woke up with the strange sensation that I needed to close the year the same way I started it.

Speaking of birthdays, today is my next-door neighbor's 90th birthday. How impressive is that! I think he's finally getting old, too; he just mowed his lawn for the last time a few weeks ago.

So, I know you're all dying to discover where I'm at in life and how I'm feeling right now as I plunge deeper into my early 20's. Let me tell you!

I've been thinking about my future. That never really stopped happening, of course, but I'm getting closer to becoming a real grown-up with a real college diploma and a real job, so the matter is becoming more pressing.

My immediate future includes finishing the last few bites of my toaster strudel, finishing this blog post, and taking a shower to wash my hair for the first time in a week. After that I'm not really sure what I'll do. Boy, I love summer vacation! Maybe I'll go on an adventure!

Speaking of adventures, something that has been on my mind a lot is my own personal little adventure. I've been slowly working my way through Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, which I highly, highly recommend to anyone not 100% satisfied with the material life of modern civilization, anyone that's felt drawn to the wilderness even once in their life. It's not a book for everyone; I know some people that hate it, but I know more people that love it as much as I do. While reading it, I've been trying to read several other novels at a much faster pace, but Into the Wild I want to digest slowly. I mark my place in the book with a pencil and frequently use it to underline things I like. Once again, I love summer vacation and the fact that I have the time to do this.

Into the Wild inspires me to explore this beautiful planet God has made. It's a true story, essentially a biography, about a guy called Chris, not much older than me, who cuts off all contact with the world he's always known and explores North America (mostly the western states) with little money and provisions. He ultimately died in the Alaskan wilderness, but that's not really the point. The point is that we can choose our lives; we don't have to be boxed up! We can experience God and live freely and unreservedly in communion with him. We don't need to cling to worldly possessions or money. We don't need to cling to a secure future or a plan beyond today. Such prospects thrill and inspire me! That's why I'm headed to Alaska in a few weeks, which brings me to...

My near future includes journeying to Juneau, the capital of the vast state of Alaska, where I will live with a group of other young folks. We'll get jobs and live relatively calmly, sharing the love of Jesus wherever we go (if you can consider that calm). Then, on the weekends, we will take off and go nuts-- not only will we be evangelizing with more intensity and intention, as well as doing service projects, we will go hiking and camping! I just ordered a big, externtal-frame backpack, so I know this is real life. I suppose we'll see glaciers and mountains and wildlife. People have asked if I'll see aurora borealis- I don't know!  I hope so! I know my trip will be somewhat structured, and I will be surrounded by a fantastic support group of other believers rather than off on my own, but I'm still traveling into unknown territory. And I know I will still have an adventure! So my plan is to be as adventurous as I dare.

My distant future is a bit foggy. Like I was saying, that's the beauty of it! Of course it is important that I plan for my career, but not knowing what will become of it is pretty wonderful, I suppose. I have thought about going back to camp for a time, or working for Second Nature Wilderness Therapy, but ultimately I want to end up at Mercy Ministries. And I want to get married sometime in this decade of my life, hopefully sooner than later, but I haven't found anyone that wants to marry me yet, and obviously that's another thing about my life that I can't control, so why worry? I also plan on producing some infants after said marriage occurs. That's it. That's my long-term life plan. Pretty solid, eh?

Of course, birthdays are not only about where we're going. It's about where we've been! Twenty has been a great year for me. You can read about the wonders of my fall semester at college here, or about my incredible trip to Jamaica here. I've made some absolutely incredible friends, done some amazing things, laughed a lot. I've grown and stretched as a person and in my relationship with Christ. I made or helped make dreads for two people, and given 3 people single dreads. I've taken great classes, explored who I am and what I want to be.

So there you go. Now you know my life. Onto the next chapter...


God bless.

Tree Run

A made-up story:


"Keith, what on earth are you doing?" I was already annoyed.

"Watch me, baby!" Keith dangled from the low branch with one arm and one leg hanging on. He swung to kiss me me, but I stepped away and folded my arms.

"Watch! See how high I can get! Think I can touch that bird's nest up there?" He was straddling the branch now, pointing up. We were in a clearing surrounded by woods. In the middle of the clearing was a big, rotting tree, and Keith had scrambled right up it.

"You'd better not, Keith! That tree doesn't look too sturdy. It's dying. Why do you always gotta act like an idiot? Trying to show off or something?"

Keith's lips spread wide and grinned with all his teeth. "So what if I want to show off to my girlfriend every now and then! You know you're impressed!" He stood up on a branch and reached up to haul himself up to the next one. He was already halfway up the tree.

I raised my eyebrow and looked up at him. I had to holler a little for him to hear me. "I'm not impressed. I'm irritated!"

"Baby, come on. Watch this!" He swung around the thinning trunk and grabbed another branch. I heaved a sigh while dozens of scenes flashed before the screen of my mind within seconds. Keith trying to impress my parents with all his stupid jokes. Keith playing rough with my little dog and saying he was only playing when my dog limped away, whimpering. Keith showing up at my apartment completely drunk one night and trying to take my clothes off. Keith laughing at me when I tried to tell him my dream and what it meant to me, saying it didn't mean nothing at all and that I was stupid. Keith skipping his college classes and never doing any homework. Keith rolling his eyes and getting impatient when I cried. Keith always acting funny, never ever taking me seriously.

I watched him now and couldn't stand him. I didn't know if I could leave him. But, as he climbed higher and higher, a crazy thought came to my head: people could disappear. Sometimes people ran away and no one ever knew what happened to them. I could go home, lock the door to my apartment, and pack all my things. And the next day I could be gone. It wouldn't be hard to transfer my college credit and finish up my senior year somewhere else. Heck, I could move across the world! He'd never find me! I could start all over.

No, I was thinking way too crazy. I'm stuck in this life with this guy. I need to suck it up and accept the life I chose. Besides, if I leave him, I'll be alone.

I'm already alone. What did I have to lose?

I watched Keith climb up to the level of the bird's nest. It wasn't safe for him up there at all. "Hey!" he hollered down at me. "What did one egg say to the other?" He was leaning over, looking into the nest. He didn't wait for me to try to guess the answer. "Let's get cracking!" He hooted and slapped the bottom of the nest. It fell through the branches and three eggs fell out and fell too. All of it landed on the leafy ground and the crack of the eggs made me sick.

I looked up at Keith, horrified. He had a wild look in his eyes and laughed at my facial expresion. I knew I had to leave. Immediately. Something was pulling at me and I desperately had to get away from him. He wasn't all bad, but he seemed like a monster to me then and there. I looked around at the woods around us. My heart pounded.

I knew that if I said anything at all, he would think I was angry and that he could argue his way back to my good side. I didn't want that. I wanted to never see him again. My eyes widened as I looked at him one last time, then I turned around and bolted into the woods. Things slapped my face, little branches or bugs or whatever, but I stared at the ground, leaping over roots and rocks. I breathed heavily but didn't slow down. I heard Keith calling, as if from a dream, "Hey! Where are you going?" It would take him a while to climb down and chase after me, and at the edge of the woods was my car (Keith had never learned to drive), so he'd have to find his own way home.

I didn't have to move away for things to be different. I didn't have to let him ruin my life, either by provoking me to leave everything here that I loved and moving to Arkansas or Mongolia or somewhere, or by letting things stay the same. I was done, I was done, I was done. I was running and panting and free.


God bless.