A Causal Universe

I've come the conclusion that I'm far more likely to write humorous, satirical posts in the morning and contemplative, introspective ones at night. Since it is now 8:45 in the evening, you can probably guess which kind this particular entry is going to be. My apologies if you're disappointed.

I'm addicted to movies. I admit it freely. I'm not even sure just what it is about film that entrances me so -- possibly because film has many of the same draws as books do for me. I like the idea of disappearing into another person's mind, or into another world or time for awhile. What does it say about life that we're all so eager to escape it? Rather, what does it say about us human folk? Are we wimps, to be so desperate to be free of our own troubles that we willingly watch the hardships of another individual? I don't know. I do know that I enjoy watching for visual clues of the greater meanings of a story. Finding a synechdoke in flashes of film rather than in words in fascinating to me. 

All this to say, yes, I've found yet another television show that I enjoy. I've tried to make my addiction sound noble and intellectual, but it really just boils down to the fact that I'm a nerd. Which is something I can easily live with, because if being a nerd means that I'm not willing to waste my time on shallow, jerky people so I fill my time with reading and writing and crocheting and watching television, then I don't think I'm that bad a person. 

Today I started watching the first season of Joan of Arcadia while waiting for my computer to finish scanning itself for issues. (Which begs the obvious question of, "what if my computer has become self aware, and it won't tell me that it has problems because that would kill off its carefully evolved brain cells? Should I really trust my computer to be honest with me?" Okay, I'll stop personifying everything now. It's my natural, writer instinct...my apologies.) It's truly an amazing show -- I don't understand why all the good shows never last and the bad ones do. In any case, the show focuses mainly on its sixteen year old heroine (Joan, duh) and on the inner workings of her family as God (yes, the Head Honcho himself) routinely shows Himself to her and asks her to do things. One of the main dilemmas of Joan's family is the recent paralysis of her older brother, Kevin. 

One day Joan is literally in tears before God (in the guise of a little girl this time...kinda creepy, to be honest, since the little girl is the kid that played the genius killer Hannah in CSI). Joan asks Him to please, please heal Kevin, because it would be easy for Him to do. God informs Joan that He can't show preferential treatment. In subsequent episodes, He tells Joan that this is a cause and effect universe. He doesn't punish, but we can't expect our actions to not have consequences. When Joan asks Him why He is talking to her, God says that He is using Joan as a catalyst for Him. The seemingly random things He tells her to do all ultimately has some sort of good involved, if not for Joan, but for someone else.

This show has left me with several musings. The first and foremost is... WHY DOES GOD TALK TO JOAN? WHY CAN'T HE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT? 

Let's forget that this a TV show for second, and pretend that God actually would talk to me specifically. We already know that He could, but would He?

To a certain degree, I recognize the fact that I would probably be scared stiff if God all of a sudden did show up and start telling me things to do. We ask for burning bushes or still, small voices or whatever, but honestly, folks! If you had a still, small voice suddenly telling you to quit your job or some such thing, wouldn't you automatically check yourself in for psychiatric observation? We're too pragmatic as a race for Old Testament procedures to work anymore. So I imagine that God continues to work, just not in such obvious ways. I want to be a catalyst for Him, but how in the world am I supposed to recognize the tiny things I might do that will save the world or just make somebody happy? 

There are days when I really would like for God to materialize in my room and talk bluntly to me and tell me what I'm supposed to do. When I'm sad, I do wish that God was there to sit with me, and hold me, and tell me that everything will be all right and that He really does have it all under control. The simple fact is that I want Him to be human. But if that really did happen, would He be God? It's hard to say this, but no. To ask God to be human would be to put Him in a box, and if He's in a box, He can't work in those bold, Old Testament-esque ways that I sometimes wish He would. It would be a lot easier (for me, anyway) if God were to lean casually against the wall and look at me and say, "Seriously, Katie, chill out. Is the sun in the sky? Yeah, that's me. Is there still air for you to breathe? I've got that part down pat. Have the stars come unstuck in the thousands of years since I super glued 'em up there? No. So what makes you think that I can't take care of one human woman like you? Trust me, sweetheart. I'm everywhere. I know what you're thinking and I know the desires of your heart. I'm never going to forget you, because the word 'awesome' was invented for Me alone. Go to sleep and stop worrying, or you'll give yourself premature wrinkles. Trust me on this, it ain't pretty. Might want to avoid it."

But He won't do any of that, because, darn it, He believes in me. I have faith in Him, and I'd like to think that God has faith in me. He isn't going to come down here and hold my hand and treat me like a baby because He's taught me better than that. He's never let me fall yet. He's taught me how to walk. Now it's up to me to stop wanting to crawl back into my walker and get on with business. If only He didn't trust me! But He does, and I can't underestimate that, because He doesn't underestimate me.

I guess that's cause and effect in action.

525,600 Minutes

Sorry that this update is rather late this evening. I've been talking with several friends and visiting with Shelby and Jordan and listening to music. All in all, a thoroughly pleasant evening! In any case, I shall not fail you, although this post might be rather shorter than usual.

"One of the illusions of life," so says Ralph Waldo Emerson, "is that the present hour is not the critical, decisive hour. Write it on your heart that every day is the best day of the year. No man has ever learned anything rightly until he knows that every day is Doomsday." 

I find this sentiment strangely resonating. You see, folks, today I would like to illuminate the fact that I'm grateful for this year. Rather a large thing to encompass, that, but the theory is sound and it's my blog. So there.

I look back on the past five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes (yes, the song from RENT is now totally stuck in my head) and I'm amazed at how different my life truly is now than how it was then. I'm almost done with the first semester of my junior year of college ... how odd! When one is a freshmen, one can never quite visualize themselves as ever being any older. Yes, you make plans for a misty future, but it never seems real. Life now seems real in a whole new way. Some doors are closed now that were up open last year. I've lost family, dreams, possessions and loves. But most of all, I've lost some of the burdens I've been carrying. 

This year has been so hard in some ways, but so joyous in others. How can I regret these passing days, when each day holds such a potential for beauty? Ralph Waldo Emerson speaks again in his omnipresent apropos manner: "To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again." (I love this dude.)

So I am thankful for this year. This brief period in the great expanse of time heralds some coming changes which I rather balk at facing, yes, but it also holds the potential for marvelous things. Don't bemoan how long a year seems. Instead, we should rather see that a year is far too short a time to contain all of the wonders that our futures might hold. Don't shortchange a year.

Heavenly Smacketh Downeth

I have something a little offbeat to be thankful for this evening. I actually meant to post about this a couple weeks ago, but it slipped my mind. Then I thought, hey! Perfect Thanksgiving post! So there you go, a post that's been saran-wrapped and stuck in the fridge of my mind, much like your turkey will be the day after tomorrow!

As you all know, I've really gotten into reading my Bible this semester. The results have been amazing, but also quite ... unsettling. You see, I finally realized that it didn't matter how much I prayed, how many chapters I read a day, or how many resolutions I made. I was still going to screw up, and screw up royally. How often was God going to listen patiently to the same old tired prayers of, "God, I'm so sorry I made the same darn mistake again. Please help me tomorrow to listen to you and not sin." 

And then, when tomorrow came, I would find myself saying the exact same thing.

If I'm this irritated with myself, I'm really glad I don't have God's job. If I were, I'd probably be sending a little divine wooden spoon action to the kid in Memphis that never can learn to keep her stupid mouth shut. 

Actually, it all started to really bother me. I like being salty, you see. It's part of my personality. I'm sarcastic, and usually at the expense of some kind of injustice or idiocy. I spent a good portion of my life hiding behind books. The results are a.) a wide knowledge of literature, which we know from Monty Python to be quite helpful for satire and b.) a huge distaste for cringing in corners behind a hardback edition of "Oliver Twist." I've lived that life, and I'm tired of it. I like saying what I mean and meaning what I say. But the thing is that the Bible is always saying this stuff about being meek and women being silent and ... yeah. Mesa didn't much appreciate that. I want to be a good handmaiden to God, but does that automatically require me to become Elsie freakin' Dinsmore?

Thank God, and I mean that quite literally, for Paul.

One night I was still tussling with this Christian womanly ideal thingy when I came across a verse in  II Corinthians that I literally burst out laughing out loud over. And I can't remember ever just laughing over scripture, but this one took the cake. Paul writes in chapter thirteen, verse ten the following marvel: "Therefore I write these things being absent, lest being present I should use sharpness, according to the power which the Lord hath given me to edification, and not to destruction." 

The New Katie Translation: "Be really, really grateful that I took the time to write you yahoos a nice, sweet little letter rather than coming over there myself. I ain't got a lot of patience, boys and girls. Either shape it up, or you'll get a rather strong reminder of the blessed fact that I'm bigger, I'm stronger, and I work for God. He gave me a mighty big stick to show to those who don't believe in the amen factor and need a little persuasion. Mind you don't make me use said holy yule log to beat you over the head with rather than using it to politely teach you your 'please and thank you's' to the savior. And remember, I'm praying for you!"

That there, folks, made everything clear for me. If Paul is immortalized forever in God's divine Word with such a smartass (sorry, only word for it) comment, then I'm allowed to be salty. 

And, oh boy! I'm thankful for it! Otherwise this would be one very quiet blog...

Give Thanks

So here we go again with Thanksgiving! I think this holiday is largely ignored by the modern human populace, and that's a shame. By this point in the year, all of the Christmas decorations are going up/have been up for weeks. We have Halloween, then we have Christmas for three months, with virtually a single by-line for Thanksgiving that goes as follows: Oh, yeah, and give thanks. And eat turkey and be gluttonous, for tomorrow we shop for Christmas!"

Pathetic.

Therefore, I will honor the tradition I set last year by spending the days leading up to Thanksgiving with posts about things things for which I am thankful. 

Today, I am thankful for scars. Yes, you read that right. Scars.

In case you haven't heard this already, folks, life is hard. Unless you're one of those benighted individuals that just seems to float through life knowing only two adjectives ("cute!" and "sad...") and having everything given to them, you're going to suffer. Sorry to burst your bubble. Welcome to reality. Life at some point either has shattered you or will shatter you. "There is no escape, Luke," life says. "Don't make me destroy you."

Lately, I've been contemplating the whole idea of suffering and beauty a lot, and what these concepts mean to life. I've come to the conclusion that suffering is beauty. To see that kind of beauty, we have only to look at the Man on the cross. He is scarred and He has suffered a kind of agony that no one can possibly understand -- not only has he gone through physical pain of the cruelest sort, but He has also experienced utter spiritual rejection from the Father. The pure and perfect Man became sin in all its ugliest forms. Still, who can look at Jesus' scarred hands and not see beauty? In those scars is redemption, as well as the hope of heaven that He bought for His children with his blood and spirit. What could be more beautiful?

I have scars on my heart. I admit it quite freely. They will always ache and cause me pangs, some days worse than others. Humans cry loftily "get over it" at the suffering and believe in empowerment and strength. I hate that phrase. Nobody can ever just "get over it." They can overcome their trials, yes, but they will never truly forget the pain that caused the scars on their hearts. The beauty comes in realizing that there is good in these scars that cause me pain. Each one of these scars represents a time when God didn't let me fall. They are a symbol of growth and change and love. 

My scars are a mere echo of the scars that Jesus' body bears. How can I resent anything that makes me more like Him? I cannot, therefore I must be thankful for my scars. Every time that I am made weak, God is made strong. My weakness allows me to be stabbed, that's true enough. I hate being weak ... but that gives God the room to work. When the heart is weak and pliable is when God can truly shape it in His image.

What scars are you thankful for? What times of trial are you resenting, instead of allowing it to be a time when God shows His grace in your life? I know that there are some wounds I've been licking, instead of allowing them to scab over and heal. A line will always show, but oh! What a beautiful line it will be!

Dream Dance

One, two, three. Dance with me.

You know what I dream of

You know where my heart flies

In the black of the night

I will dream of the dance.

I close my eyes tightly

I can see my dream now, very clear.

In the arms of my love,

I will soar. I’ll be free.

An unseen specter in my own dream,

I watch with raw yearning

As the dream form of me

Tilts back her head as she twirls

In reckless abandon,

She laughs.

One, two, three.

The waltz is calling me.

One, two, three.

In the dream, I always

Know what comes.

And in the dream I will find security.

Where to step, how to fly:

All this is known now.

Secure in his sure grasp,

I can feel everything.

I know joy. I know love.

 

 

My eyes have opened now.

The dream is just a dream.

Where to step is in doubt,

But I throw back my head

And trust in my partner.

I will laugh.

One, two, three. Step with Him.

The future is unknown.

But despite all of this,

I know that He leads me.

He knows all of the steps in this dance.

Until my future comes,

Until I know who is

Meant to be the partner of my life,

And even after that,

God will guide. I won’t fall.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Outside the joy, the dream,

I still dance. I still fly.

I know that life is a dance.

Dancers are ne’er alone.

One, two, three. Be with me.

You know what I dream of.

One, two, three. You will lead.

And the dream will be real.

Let me fly. I am free.

Only be with me now,

And for all eternity.

 

 

Life's Genre

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts."

--As You Like It

We had an interesting discussion in Shakespeare today, and I wanted to explore it in more detail here. In class, we were discussing the differences in genre that differentiate comedies, tragedies, and romances from each other. Dr. Callis said the most fascinating thing, which I scribbled as fast I could in my notebook. I didn't get it all, but I did get the gist. He said, and I quote, "Some people believe that life is fundamentally a tragedy. You are living your own mistakes and seeing the mistakes of those around you crash down on your heads. There is no neat wind-up at the end. Romances, though, are quite different. They have all of the elements and repercussions of sin, but in the end there is a chance for grace. A romance incorporates comedy and tragedy and wraps it all up into a happy ending. Characters may be taxed to their limits, but they are eventually shown a measure of grace."

Of course, I thought, how typical this is of real life! I don't believe that life is a tragedy. There is too much beauty in the world, and too large a potential for grace. Certainly, there are times when everything seems dark and I get just as despairing and melodramatic as everyone else...but then I am reminded of my fundamental rule. What is this rule? "In everything there is a chance for beauty." There is beauty in growth, in change, and even in despair. Without an intimate knowledge of the night, how could we ever appreciate the dawn? 

Don't get me wrong -- I don't think that everything always wraps itself up neatly in the end like a Brady Bunch episode. That would be a comedy, and while I enjoy them, life is rarely ever going to end in a fortuitous reprieve of the lovable antagonist and a multitude of weddings. Sin is in the world, and sin means that sometimes things are going to be messy and ugly. But it is grace that offers a way out of the Celtic knot we knot ourselves into so many times! 

Another thing that sets aside romances is the essential theme of supernatural intervention. Whether it was the appearance of a ghost or the use of a magic spell, somehow something outside of the realm of normalcy intercedes on a character's behalf and turns the tide. In our lives, what greater supernatural intervention can there be than the presence of a knowing and loving God in our lives? God put the ultimate beauty into the world when He showed us the Man on the cross, and it is when we appreciate this gracious beauty and try to emulate it that our lives can become a romance -- a romance in which we are taxed to the limits of our endurance, yes, but are still able to come to the end with hope of finding resolution. I couldn't live without hope of the happy ending; very few people can. It is one reason why fairy tales are so attractive, in my opinion. Actually, I think that fairy tales could definitely fit into the romance genre. Think about your favorite fairy tale (mine is Cinderella -- I know, huge surprise there). The characters in the story have been placed in a terrible situation in which they have little hope of prevailing...but through the supernatural intervention of an outside character or by the sternness of their own characters they eventually make it to the glorious sentence "...and they lived happily ever after." 

See the parallels? I surely do.

Please, friends, I beg you, don't assume that life is a tragedy that must be endured with the grimmest kind of determination. (See how well that worked out for Hamlet and Macbeth!) Instead, face trouble with hope, and reach for the grace that we have all be offered. Find the beauty in everything, and make your life into a romance.

Non Sequitur

It has been confirmed: I have pathetically small hands/fingers. I've always suspected this to be true, but now that it has been verified by a professional, at least my soul can rest.

Okay, so I'm being melodramatic. Which is kinda fun, so deal with it. I went to the jewelers today to get some of my rings sized. Since I've lost so much weight, none of my rings fit anymore and that's enormously sad. My life lacks lustre without my rings... *fake laugh* The jeweler said that the rings were already small to begin with...oh, well. They may be small little sausages, but they can sure play Fur Elise! They're like the little fingers that could or something. You have these small fingers and try to play Moonlight Sonata. Go on, I dare you. 

Who knew that shoe boxes could contain so much? It's that time of year again for Operation Christmas Child, my favorite mission opportunity. I'll put the link to it on the bottom of this post--they're really a magnificent organization. While I'm priding myself about fitting a toothbrush, toothpaste, mini slinky, brush, flashlight, candy canes, pencils and paper, soap, puzzle, and other assorted items into one cardboard box, OCC will add something far greater to my box when it reaches their packing plant: hope. Into every shoebox is placed a storybook about Jesus that has been translated into whatever language the child speaks. Someday I think I'd like to be on the other end of OCC. I can't say that missions is my first love (I've always believed that my ministry is my writing) but I would like to go with OCC and deliver the boxes at some point. It is something that I feel quite strongly about.

I wish people could have mutual respect for one another....but it's enormously funny when they get put in their place. Sam was shooting off his mouth again in Effie's World. We'd been having a vote on whether to have our day off this week or next week. I would have preferred this week, but one of the softball girls leaned over and told me that if the day off was next week, people could go home for Thanksgiving. So I voted for next week. Anyway, after Effie had asked about fourteen times for people to raise their hands for specific issues, Sam hollers out, "Raise your hand if you voted for Obama!" The softball girl that had talked to me earlier looked over at Sam with upraised eyebrows and said, very coolly, "You are so stupid."

I about had a coronary from sheer laughter. Which, come to think of it, isn't that bad a way to go.

I finished my emerald chenille scarf. It's very beautiful, and I'm quite desolate now that it's done. It was something to look forward to in the evenings. So I'll probably start making another one...after all, Christmas is coming! You can never have too many spare gifts.

I re-read one of my very favorite books this week. It's titled Daddy-Long-Legs and is by Jean Webster, the niece of Mark Twain. It tells of an orphan who is being sent to college by an unknown benefactor, whose only request is that the orphan write him letters once a month telling about the happenings of her daily life. The book is absolutely hysterical, and I've never come across anything that is so much like my own style. The heroine, Judy, so easily balances the satirical with the introspective. I was amazed upon this reading of the novel to find so many genuinely wise passages. I'll probably be quoting them to you for some time, so be prepared for that eventuality! For example, here is one of Judy's more sarcastic entries, speaking about her roommate, Julia: "Her mother was a Rutherford. The family came over in the ark, and were connected by marriage to Henry VIII. On her father's side they date back further than Adam. On the topmost branches of her family tree there's a superior breed of monkeys, with very fine silky hair and extra long tails."

However, Judy also wrote the following, which I found both true and memorable. "It's the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--I really think that requires spirit. It's the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skillfully and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if I win."

I suppose I had better close this rather rambling epistle now. Goodnight, all. I hope that you are well, no matter where in the world you are when you view this. Be glad for your overlarge fingers and laugh whether you win or lose!

http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/OCC/

For the Want of Orange Juice...

"For the want of a nail

The shoe is lost

For the want of a shoe

The horse is lost

For the want of a horse

The rider is lost

For the want of a rider

The battle is lost

For the want of a battle

The kingdom is lost

And all for the loss

Of a horse shoe nail."

The above is an apropos precursor to what happened to me today. I'd had a perfectly marvelous day, actually. My financial aid reimbursement check was FINALLY in (three weeks late....), I'd gotten my Shakespeare paper turned in on time (the concept of "the jewel" in Measure for Measure), had pizza with Shelby (spur of the moment, it's-cold-and-wet kind of decision), done three loads of laundry (it's amazing how much four people can manage to get dirty in one day), and taught four piano lessons in a row (Mary Banks is really tearing up the keys on The Pink Panther. For a nine-year-old, she's extraordinarily talented). 

After I'd waved good-bye to my final student, I decided that life would not be worth living for the next few days without orange juice. I love teaching piano lessons, but those kids get me sick more often than I care to think about. Within the last month alone, I've traced both my horrendous stomach virus and now this hideous cold back to the little angels. I'm about ready to sent home a note to their mothers. Anyway, I could see the way in which this cold would choose to go, and without orange juice ready and waiting in my arsenal, the prospect of my survival was grim.

So I got into my car after having made sure that it would be light outside for the next hour or so. My depth perception at night, frankly, is crummy. I can't wait to ask God someday why He chose to make a future author, someone who will be looking at computer screens for a good percentage of her lifespan, have eyes that are barely functional. I kid you not, ladies and gentleman. I once blew a tire when I jumped a curb because I thought it was farther away than it was in actuality. It should be of no surprise to you, then, that I carefully plan my errands to coincide with the hours of daylight. It also doesn't help that I'm hideously afraid of the dark. But we won't go down that road right now. 

After I got into my car, I noticed that my gas gauge was below a quarter of a tank. I don't like to get too low, just in case I get stuck in a traffic jam on the interstate, so I went to the gas station first and filled 'er up. I need not go into great detail on my ecstasies of joy that were brought on as I was filling my car with only seventeen dollars, rather than the hitherto necessary amount of thirty-five. It was very, very nice to see. After that, I found myself stopping at Hobby Lobby to see if they had a skein of wool to match the emerald chenille that I'm using to make myself a scarf. It was at this point that I decided that people with colds really have no right to make unexpected detours--I hadn't been smart enough to pack any Kleenex in my purse, and my nose was in dire need of a good honk.

When I left Hobby Lobby, the skies had opened. I like rain, except when I have to drive in it. And, of course, I had no umbrella on my person. So I pretended to mind having to run through the rain to my car. It was then rather interesting having to carefully orchestrate putting my bags away without getting my front seat wet. This was accomplished by flinging my car keys into the driver's seat while tossing the bags pell mell into the back. Of course I then climbed into the driver's seat and couldn't find my keys... Realization soon dawned, however, and I extracted my keys from under my tush and drove on to Kroger.

Let me say, folks, that people who are at Kroger after five o'clock in the rain are BRUTAL. Finding a parking space was like unto Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian both trying to claim Planet X in the names of their respective planets. (Look below for a video with more information on same incident...if I did it correctly, of course. I have no idea how to do it in the suave, click-the-blue-letters way.)

I finally got into the store and did my shopping (two kinds of juice!!!). It was kind of amusing when I got carded for buying Nyquil....the little manager rushed over to look at my driver's license and I, being the insufferable smart aleck that I am, said in a thoroughly stuffed-up nose way, "Dude, I'm buying Nyquil, not making drugs. I hab a culd. Obviously." He just grinned--there must not be much in the way of amusement when one is checking out the many suspicious Nyquil buyers in the self-checkout lane of a grocery store.

As my next feat, I managed to slush my way back to my car. I got in without huge incident, and even made it out of the parking lot without any near misses. I was absurdly proud of myself. 

Pride goeth before a fall. 

I was sitting in the left hand lane of a three lane road, minding my own business, when I noticed a gargantuan, look-at-my-gun-rack kind of truck in the parking lot directly to the right of me. It obviously wanted to get into the left hand turn lane, but I was in the way. Note my deplorable lack of sympathy for him. Anyway, he decided he was gonna be a good 'ole boy and give it the old-fashioned try. I just sat there, helpless, while he tried to get around me, HIT ME in the back, and ran up the curb. I'm sitting there in shock going, "Uh, hello! Sitting right here! Headlights are on, music pounding and everything!" Unfazed, the giant green truck just reversed AND HIT ME AGAIN! It roared into the turn lane and scrammed before I could even honk my horn or get its license plate number. 

Need I add that he did this RIGHT in front of the police station? 

I was irked. Royally irked. I call him a thoroughly un-Christian name, of which I remain to be unrepentant. I got home just fine, and although seeing was rather difficult, I couldn't find any major damage. I don't even think he busted a light...but still! What a jerk! I'm a poor little college student out buying supplies for my cold, and some guy thinks he's going to go monster truck rally on my piddlin' little car's back bumper! Is there no justice in the world?

And need I add, as yet another addition, that as I was bringing in the juice that had started it all, the plastic bags ripped and dumped their loads onto the wet concrete?

For want of some orange juice was my beloved car desecrated...

What Are They Teaching These Kids Nowadays?

I thought the "wise fool" stage wasn't until sophomore year...I guess I was wrong. I love how little patience I have with freshmen these days--it makes me pray fervently that I was never that idiotic. I know that freshman year is scary and bewildering and all that. Trust me, I've been there, had the meltdowns, and learned from them. But hopefully I was never so outright disrespectful!

On Monday I was sitting in the library, minding my own business until it was time to go to class. I believe I was trying to work on that darn problematic chapter of my story that positively REFUSES to listen to me and cooperate. Anyway, the library here at Crichton is pretty small, so you can hear everybody's conversations (that gets pretty interesting sometimes). On the table over from me, I could hear one freshman trying to help another with his English paper. Now, the helpee was a freshman that I had already helped on Friday with this very same paper, so I wondered a little at why he sounded so desperate...not to mention the fact that a fellow freshman tutor was probably not the ideal situation. Of course, the helpee is in the library A LOT for tutoring. He's one of those types that needs a good deal of handholding. If he had his way, the tutors would probably write his papers for him. Thankfully, by this point in our academic careers most of us have seen it all, so we can dodge such desires fairly handily. Still, I had my reputation to uphold, and, regrettably, I care about people. So I leaned over casually and asked if they needed any help. 

The helper looked up and smiled and said, holding up the paper as evidence, "His paper is due at eleven today, and this is all he has." I looked at the sheet with handwriting on it and said suspiciously to the helpee, "Isn't that the bit I helped you write on Friday?" He looked pained and replied, "Yes. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldn't get it." I resisted the urge to bang my head on the table (I had helped him write his entire introductory paragraph, thesis statement and all! How difficult is it to write your paper after that? You have your three points, you know what you're talking about, good luck, go! GAH!) and then returned to my business. If the helpee freshman thought that the helper freshman could be of greatest assistance, more power to them. 

However, it was impossible not to hear this impromptu tutoring session, and I got irritated as I heard the helper freshman repeatedly refer to Dr. Jenkins as "Mr. Jenkins." Let me remark here that Dr. Jenkins is one of my favorite professors at this miserable school, and I respect him highly. 

The first time the freshman did this, therefore, I spoke up and said, "Dr. Jenkins" as a mild correction. I was ignored. Fine, whatever, my self-esteem isn't so low that I need to be acknowledged. Still, a few minutes later, I heard "Mr. Jenkins" again. Now I get irritated. "Dr. Jenkins," I corrected again. "He's your professor, and he deserves your respect."

 The freshman replied, "Well, I don't really believe in calling anybody who isn't a medical doctor 'Dr.' It just seems wrong."

Oh, thank you, Masterful Freshman Sage of the Universe! How did we ever live until you came down from heaven in order to show us the true nature of humanity and manners? I just, I just don't know how I made it through these past twenty years without you!

I bristled and said cuttingly, "It takes longer to earn your doctorate of literature than it does to become a medical doctor. (I left out residency for the purpose of reprisal--he probably had no idea how long it really took to become a medical doctor anyway. I merely exploited his ignorance. That's what happens when you're ignorant. Hee, hee.) Besides," I continued, "he is your professor and he has been placed in a position of authority over you." What I didn't add, but probably should have, was, "Quite frankly, I don't give a care what you believe--things like that go out the window in the real world. There are rules and manners, and you would do well to abide by them."

He started waffling on and on illogical nonsense about what he believed. Fah. I had to escape into Jamie's office (my boss) in order to keep from exploding. He took one look at me and asked if I needed a sanity break--I have the best boss in the world.

I don't have a problem with freshmen that genuinely don't know what they're doing. Heaven knows I certainly didn't get the whole college thing until my sophomore year. (That's when I learned that, yeah, actually reading your books is quite helpful...never said I was brilliant.) It's the ones that are insufferable know-it-alls that really burn my butt. 

If you're a freshman, here's my advice: Keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and abide by your syllabus. Those three things will do more to endear you to your professors and prevent moronic mistakes than anything else possibly can. May the Force be with you--you're gonna need it. 

Of Tennis Shoes and Adulthood

Yesterday I had a bit of a meltdown. There were numerous reasons, most of which have been building up this entire semester. The election, Effie, a couple stalkers (Alyce, don't laugh!), and facing decisions about the future have kind of unnerved me. Don't get me wrong, I'm actually grateful for these things--they've forced me to grow and change as an individual, and have taught me to look to my Bible for answers instead of to myself (yeah, there's a surefire way to eat the world's dirt). I've read more of my Bible this semester than I have for the last, oh, two years? Which is sad, really, but that's not the point. The point is that yesterday gradually degenerated until I was finally just crying for mostly irrational reasons. 

One of the things that set me off was fear of the future. I know the basics of what I want to be when I grow up, but I have no friggin' clue of how to get there. I trust that God will provide, but I'm terrified of the ways in which He might provide. He may provide for me by calling me away from everything that feels safe and comfortable to me. That kind of plan a nervous Katie makes.

Anyway, I was talking to my mom (seek wise counsel! She's amazing.) and she had some really good points to make. But as we were talking, an old memory came back to me, something I haven't thought about in a long time, even though it's still vivid in my mind. 

In my memory, I'm standing on the long, narrow back porch of my grandparents' house at the lake. After my parents' divorce, we went out to the lake almost every weekend, just trying to escape the stress and the reality of our new lives. It was our sanctuary. 

I think I was maybe twelve or thirteen at the time, and I was in a marching band where I played the clarinet. I remember that our band directors had informed us all that we would need to have some special shoes to march in so that we would all look uniform, and that these shoes would cost fifteen dollars each. Not such a big sum, right? It was pretty big to a thirteen year old who has having to watch her mother work three jobs and juggle the budget endlessly just to keep us all afloat. 

I couldn't bear to ask Mom to pay for the shoes for me, not when she was already so worried. Fifteen dollars would have bought us groceries, or gas for the car, etc etc. So I took the money out of what little I had saved, and bought the shoes for myself. I didn't want to tell Mom about it, but the resentment of having to buy my own shoes when nobody else in the band had to was eating at me, and I finally talked to my grandfather, PawPaw, about it. 

PawPaw is a man in a million. He never said very much, but what he did say was always to the point and relevant. He hadn't had much education, but the man was absolutely brilliant. I've since learned that he studied Russian and advanced math during the one year he was in college. He was just a good, country man who took care of his responsibilities no matter what the costs and would happily kick anybody who messed with his family to the moon. Needless to say, he was not that thrilled with my father at the time. PawPaw had since been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and is living (if you can call it that) at a nursing home.

After I'd told PawPaw all about the ignominy of having to buy my own shoes and how nobody else had to buy their own shoes, I summed up by saying something to the affect of, "It's not fair that nobody else has to work as hard as we do. They don't even appreciate what they have, and here we are just struggling to make it. I wish things could be easier. I wish I could be like everybody else and not have to worry about money. I'm only thirteen!"

PawPaw was silent for a moment after he let me vent my spleen. Then he looked at me and said, "Katie, I'm sorry that things are the way they are. I wish you didn't have to do things like this, either. But honey, someday when you're grown up, you're gonna know how to take care of yourself. All those other kids aren't. You'll know how to save money and how to appreciate what you have while the other kids just spend a lot of money and get into debt. You're just skipping some steps--you're growing up. It's hard, but it's necessary."

I think the same advice applies now. Growing up is hard, but then, nobody gets out of life alive anyway. To a certain degree, you just have to suck it up and punch through as best you can. Sure, I'm terrified of having to make the decisions of where to go to graduate school and what to do with my life. But I do know how to take care of myself, and I do appreciate what I have. Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and buy the tennis shoes, and sometimes you just have to make the decision, even if it's an uncomfortable one. Whining about the unfairness of life just gets you rolled eyes and bitterness.

I really, really miss my PawPaw. I wonder what he'd think of me now?

SHAKESPEAREAN VISITATION!!!!

HOLY CRAP! 

According to my handy-dandy map down at the bottom of this page, somebody from Stratford-upon-avon was on MY blog! MINE! AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! *dies* That is just way, way, way cool. First was the bard...then a sarcastic southern chick, connected across time and space. Way past cool!

I just realized that I sound like a fangirl. At least I'm a fangirl for an incredible author, not for something like High School Musical. Which I must admit I'm seeing tomorrow.

But that's not the point.

It's kinda sad how much this had jazzed me.....

Sam Rides Again

As I suspected would happen, Obama won the race. I shall therefore spend the next four years burying myself in the following distractions:

1.) Finishing college and hopefully graduating magna (or summa...whichever one is the highest. I never can remember. I'm pathetic, I know. I can't even remember what weather watch and weather warning mean...I get them confused. Sigh.)

2.) Graduate school (Where to go?)

3.) The multitude of weddings that are going to be happening. I'm going to be maid-of-honor in two of them, and bridesmaid in a few more, so I'm gonna need to eat my Wheaties.

4.) The trip to England and Ireland Mom and I are planning. I'm so excited I just about can't stand myself. AHHHH! *dances a jig*

Anyway, that's the way of the world. I accept it. There's a reason for everything, even this. I can face the following years with dignity and trust...that is, until some lamebrain tries to rub my nose in the election like I'm some disobedient puppy.

Anyway, Sam (of six-times-the-charm-in-jail fame) starting putting Obama's name to hymns this morning, as well as requesting a moment of silence in honor of the big O, and being generally annoying and obnoxious. I bore it in comparative silence, but I had to put my head down on the table when he said loudly, "Obama's president! Now he can pay my child support!"

Oh, yeah. This guy's a model parent, all right. Not to mention a doofus. I need a thesaurus to describe how much of a blockhead this blockhead is. A SOCIALIST blockhead, too. That's a very dangerous combination.

What has been amusing about all this mess is that my mom has suddenly found a number of websites that sell private islands. Seriously. She's leaning toward the Canadian area, obviously. After all, it's not the tropics, which means no snake, sharks, or Joran van de Sloots to worry about. She was seriously cracking me up--I think she was honestly considering it! 

When I pointed out that it would be a little difficult for me to go to graduate school on an island, she started spouting off stuff about satellites. I looked at the descriptions of the islands, and I said, "Whales, Mom? Do you want to be Moby Dick now?" She said, "Whales are beautiful!" I replied, "Yeah, and we can always get oil." Never mind the fact that my favorite childhood song was "Baby Beluga" and if I were to see a dead whale, I'd probably cry like a three year old who can't understand why she isn't allowed to go on the jungle gym. 

My mom's crazy, but I love her.

Oh, and I just thought I would add that I find it highly amusing that my spellcheck on here doesn't recognize "Obama." Hee, hee.

Addendum

P.S. I was just looking through some of the old blog posts, and I realized that I've been writing on here for a year and a month and a day. Pretty sweet, huh? Happy birthday to blindingfirefly.blogspot.com!!!!!! 

Please leave your good wishes, suggestions for improvement, or unashamed brown-nosing in the comment box. 

I thank you all, my fabulous public! I would never have been able to do it without you!

Wow, this sounds like an Academy Award acceptance speech. Cue the "shut up!" music, please, maestro!

Addendum over.

Ostrich, Party of One, Ostrich, Party of One

I would really, really, really, really, did I mention REALLY like to just climb into bed right now, pull the covers over my head, and ignore the world until Thursday. I hate this election crap. There's so much dadgum tension and hysteria in the air! Presidential elections come every four years, the campaigning starts every two years, and for one day the entire country is behaving like a lot of hungry, beaten rottweilers that would love nothing better than to have an entree of larynx, rare, for dinner. 

It's deplorable. It's despicable. I positively loathe it. I can't think for a single reason for it except for the fact that we need a new president, apparently. 

Ugh. 

Then, of course, there's the inevitable backwash that will come on Wednesday. This is when everybody is either whining or shoving their victory into everyone else's faces, which causes the rottweilers to come back out, this time hungry for some good old cardiac muscle. 

It's a good thing the elections happen to match up with the Olympics. Otherwise, this entire year would be a grand and glorious hodgepodge of despicableness and intrigue and MELODRAMA.

I'll be back later. I'm going out to buy muzzles and dog biscuits. I suggest you do the same. Anybody got the dog whisperer's phone number handy?

There Are No Words...

Today's installment of Effie's World takes a darker turn, ladies and gentlemen. Ye be warned. I've taken a few days to just think things over before I blogged about them, but I guess it's finally time to stop stewing and just put it all out there. If I keep stewing about it for much longer, my glasses are going to fog up from the steam.

For those of you who don't know, I have a temper. A bad one. A "there she bloooows!!!" kind of temper. I've really been working on it, simply because I don't like who I am when I allow my anger to get the best of me. I have good days and bad days, but I can usually keep myself in check. With God's divine help, of course. Teaching piano lessons has actually been great for my temper--there are so many frustrations, but it's not like you can scream at the kid. That wouldn't help anything, and it would lose me my job.

So when I tell you that on Thursday in Effie's class I couldn't remember being that angry in a long, long time, perhaps you'll understand just how bad it was. 

On Tuesday Effie had handed out homework assignments, so I knew automatically what that would mean for class on Thursday. She would walk in, dismiss everyone that hadn't done the homework, and split us up into groups. She would then have us all sit there for an hour and fifteen minutes before asking us to give the same answers to the same homework questions again, just as a group this time and not as individuals. You have no idea how badly I wanted to just not do the homework so that I could leave with the rest of the delinquents, but my moronic nerdiness wouldn't allow me that perfectly harmless infraction. It happened exactly as I'd thought it would, and I ended up at a table with two of my classmates facing the same stupid questions on the Buddha.

Like I've said before in this series of blogs, I've started to mildly enjoy these groups things despite their absolute boredom. I've gotten to know some of the other people in the class a lot better than I probably would have otherwise. This has served the purpose of allowing me to learn that the jocks aren't all bad and the jocks to learn that just because I'm a nerd doesn't mean that I'm Steve Urkel in drag. 

My group-mates this time around were both people that I hadn't had a chance to work with yet, so I didn't really know what to expect. We'll call my classmates Sam and Mary. They were both coffee to my cream, which is fine. Doesn't bother me in the least. I'm prejudiced against stupid, not skin.

As per usual, it turned out that I was the only one that had given the assignment more than the most perfunctory of skims, so I educated my classmates and answered the questions. This left us with roughly forty-five minutes to just sit there and stare at the ceiling. Sam and Mary starting talking, and I tried to join in, but they didn't seem to appreciate my trying to get to know them. They would give me one word answers and then continue talking just to themselves. I didn't mind this so much--I like to observe. So I sat back and listened. 

And listened.

And got mad.

It started when Sam and Mary started talking about their children. I was a little surprised, but that's just me in my naivete, I suppose. Still, though, they both seemed awfully young. Maybe they're juniors or seniors, I thought to myself. I looked at Sam and said, "How old are you?" He said, "nineteen. I had my son when I was seventeen. He's two now." I looked at Mary and said, "How old are you?" She said, "I just turned eighteen. I lost my son when he was two months old, and then I had a miscarriage." 

Thunk.

The above onomatopoeia was my jaw as it hit the floor.

Okay, when I was seventeen, I was bawling my brains out because I didn't want to go to college, mommy! When I was eighteen, I was starting college and trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. And these poor souls were having children? I immediately offered Mary my condolences on the loss of her son. I truly cannot imagine the pain of losing a child. 

Lest you think that I got mad because of their ages when they had children, let me tell you this: that assumption is absolutely, 100% untrue. I don't approve of having children that young, yes, but it's not exactly something I can help. What made me mad were their attitudes towards their children. It was nothing blatant at first, just a feeling that I was getting. They were both saying wonderful, parent-y things, like Sam saying, "I gave up my football career so that I could stay here and be here for my son. I don't want to miss a single minute in his life" and Mary saying, "I don't think I'm ever going to get over losing my son. It's the worst thing ever." I guess you could say my odd little feeling was heightened when Sam asked Mary what had happened to her son, and she said, "There was something wrong with his lungs, and the doctors said he'd had an asthma attack." I asked her if her son had been premature, and she said that he hadn't been, he'd been born right on his due date. Then she added, "I think the doctors did something to him."

I'd like to point out at this time that we live in Memphis. MEMPHIS! Are you writing this down, Captain Obvious? This is the allergy capital of the world! The lung challenge seminar of the ages! Just about seventy percent of Memphis' inhabitants have lung problems of some kind, and there are allergies galore. If there had been anything wrong with that baby that was clearly visible, the doctors would have told Mary all about it. So I'm forced to conclude three things. 1.) The lung problem went undiagnosed and the baby's death was horrifically tragic. 2.) The asthma developed quickly, without either the mother or doctors noticing. 3.) The doctors had told Mary that there might be a risk for lung problems, and she just didn't pay attention. As hesitant as I am to accept he last option, it did give me pause when she was talking about the night her son died. She said she'd gotten up in the night, and just checked on the baby on her way back to bed. "I touched him, and he was cold and he didn't move. And I was like, something's not right."

No duh, something's not right. You're touching a corpse! What else does cold and not-moving mean? And then to blame it on doctors....argh.

Sam went on to say that his son was the most important thing in the world to him and that his son had made him grow up, and when his son's mother gave him the option of either leaving his son alone or going to jail, he chose jail....

Yup. You read that right. Jail. Apparently, Sam has been in jail six, count 'em, six, times since his son's birth. It seems that on the above-mentioned night, he'd gotten mad and torn the house apart. But yup! He loves his son more than anything! He'll even love that kid from jail! No sacrifice is too small.

Mary nodded sympathetically and said that she still had her son's medicaid card and other papers, but how she knew she just needed to throw them away, she needed to just get rid of them and move on with her life and someday when she had another son she'd give him her other son's name....

It was at this point that I started to get upset. You all know how important family is to me. Here are two individuals saying that they just loved their children so much. But Sam doesn't love his son enough to keep his butt out of jail for the boy? Mary loving her son so much that she's not going to allow herself to grieve or remember him, but instead replace him? Does this make any sense to you guys? It sure didn't to me. I didn't appreciate it much, either, when they started talking about how much they partied. There are just some things about classmates that I will never want to know, but that I was forced to hear during this conversation. We'll leave it at that.

That was just one part of the whole thing, though, that made me mad. I could live with these things. A lot of it is cultural, and I realize that we've had vastly different backgrounds and worldviews and all that. I get all that. Truly. 

Here's the rest of the story.

Sam started talking about how he was maybe going to become a bank teller after college. Dare to dream. Mary said, "Yeah, then you can take money away from all those rich white folks!" I don't know what came over me, but I suddenly found myself snapping, "Don't be prejudiced." They both looked at me in surprise. I gulped and prayed that they weren't armed and said, "I teach piano lessons. My mom works three jobs. Don't assume that just because we're white that we're rich." Thankfully, they brushed it off, but it sure felt good to say. I'm tired of people assuming that I have money just because I dress nicely or whatever. I work hard for everything I have.

Eventually, they started talking about the election. It has been my policy all year to stay the heck OUT of all the election mania. I know who I'm voting for, and I'm not interested in getting into a debate. All debate does is cause rifts between friends and excess tension, neither of which I'm particularly fond. But they asked my opinion, and said with much head-nodding and exalted facial expressions that every opinion is important. So I took a deep breath and said that I wasn't particularly fond of either presidential candidate. They liked that a lot. They didn't like it so much when I said that I'd already voted, and that I'd voted Republican, mostly because of Sarah Palin, whom I really, really, really like and have liked for years now.

They asked me why I didn't like Obama. I gave several clear, logical, and truthful reasons for my problems with Obama...at least, I tried to give my reasons. It's rather hard to talk when you're being interrupted every three words. I asked them why they didn't like McCain. Basically, it all boiled down to "he's old." And Mary seemed to be of the opinion (she repeated this statement no less than five times. I counted.) that the world would end the moment John McCain became president. She wasn't very clear on whether it would end by nuclear explosion or another Big Bang. Just McCain being elected seemed to be enough to cause the very heavens to fall out of balance and shatter.

Then, the creme de la creme. Mary said, "I heard on channel five that if McCain gets elected, he's going to bring back slavery."

I hope you're laughing just as loudly as I was. I had to ask forgiveness that night for using a curse word, because I told her that that whole idea was, um, silly. The rest of the class had been drawn into our conversation somehow (the name "Obama" seems to do that. Is this an early form of eavesdropping technology at work, perhaps? I knew Bush would kill us all! The world may never know.) and most of them, even the coffee ones, were looking at Mary as if she were insane. 

I managed to get a hold of myself and I told Mary that for the most part, the human race had grown past the idea of slavery and that it would never come back in America as the country is now. I then found myself adding, "And just before you ask, my ancestors at the time of the Civil War were poor hillbillies in the mountains of Arkansas. We didn't own slaves."

Mary looked at me and said quite seriously, "You don't know how far back your family goes. Some of them might have."

There are no words, although I'll try and find some.

Found some. 

WHAT THE CRAP???? 

How can anybody be so...so...gah! How can a cultural hurt be so ingrained that anyone who is white is suspect just because somebody on the more obscure branches of their family trees MIGHT have had slaves? I've heard of entitlement, but this is ridiculous. You know, I think I'll hate all Englishmen willy-nilly. One of their ancestors MIGHT have been mean to one of my more revolutionary forbears either in America or in Ireland. I think, while I'm at it, I'll hate all Native Americans. They took white slaves way back when, you know. One of them MIGHT have had one of my ancestors as a slave. I know for a fact that some of my ancestors were involved in the Mountain Meadow Massacre. I think I'll hate all Mormons. I'm part Native American, come to think of it. I'll add hatred of all white men to my list, too. Does that mean I should hate myself? What a knotty problem. What to do, what to do....

How do you argue with someone who has not the vaguest idea of logical thought? How is it possible to coexist with anyone who hates you simply because of what your ancestors MIGHT have done? I never thought that I would be a victim of racism, but it has happened. Mary and Sam kept on talking, but I just put my head down on the table and hummed "For the Beauty of the Earth" to myself. (It's amazing how one song can pretty much wrap up all of my beliefs about religion and life in such a lovely package.) It was the only way to keep from combustion. I got out of the classroom as fast I could, a wiser girl about the paranoia and beliefs of some of my classmates. This entire conversation, from the family beliefs to the political beliefs to the extreme sense of entitlement, shook me up pretty badly. 

Maybe the human race hasn't grown past slavery after all. It just may come from a different culture next time. I don't think I would be surprised.