tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56013530537069874472024-03-04T23:15:43.913-05:00152 Insights Into My SoulLeahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13022366918283976711noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-37056971245671357002012-01-05T15:28:00.003-05:002012-01-05T15:28:58.453-05:00My Year: Final Post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As 2011 drew to a close, I contemplated finishing the task I had begun in those first two posts: reliving all the painful moments, describing the few happy times interspersed among the tough ones. But time ran out. On December 16, I had an emergency surgery to remove my right Fallopian tube after my ectopic pregnancy ruptured. Then I was able to spend a much-needed week in Georgia with my family, and by the time I got back, I didn't feel like dwelling on the sorrows of the past year anymore. I was ready to start anticipating the new one. So I'll end that series of posts here, with the words I posted on my facebook page on New Year's Eve. They express my feelings better than a whole series of posts about each individual event could:<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Some friends from Ecuador told me about Ecuadorian New Year's Eve tradition. They make an effigy representing the year and fill it with firecrackers. If it's been an especially bad year, they make a show of beating it before setting it off. I'd like to blow 2011 sky high after giving it a few swift kicks. It's been all kinds of terrible, and I'm not the least bit sorry to see it go. But it wasn't </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">without purpose.</span></blockquote>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Hopefully, 2012 will bring a return to OKC, a teaching job, and a healthy pregnancy. But even if it doesn't, I'll carry the jewels left behind in the ashes of 2011 with me: a greater assurance of God's faithfulness and provision (being miraculously selected--against stiff competition--for a grant for Ken's business that we wrote together, getting health insurance in the nick of time before an unexpected surgery after being denied coverage, raising thousands of dollars to build a church in India, Ken's being able to quit his miserable OSU job to work for CRISALIS full time, among many other examples); a stronger relationship with my precious husband, who has prayed with me and cried with me through two early miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy; and a deeper commitment to my callings, writing and teaching (along with crystal clarity that I'm not meant to teach college, at least not now). </span></span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Goodbye, 2011. I'm finally grateful for the gifts you brought, and just as grateful to see you explode.</span></span></span></blockquote>
</div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13022366918283976711noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-20949727079967891982011-12-14T01:02:00.002-05:002011-12-14T01:26:54.149-05:00My Year, Part 2: Strike One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On April 18, I sent this announcement to my family:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzZ46YhKB70X6OYzHbEo-D1NZU9rzEhPmTZxw_htIGHkisdZy2HdnQBKRJxIGxk7Mb2lh4F76jH_dRHuGJUPan4KBKrNrTFlfVaiyBeX_abLwsUXCILAtMtlqqpVgZd947Qag2NNDxXAF/s1600/Slide1+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzZ46YhKB70X6OYzHbEo-D1NZU9rzEhPmTZxw_htIGHkisdZy2HdnQBKRJxIGxk7Mb2lh4F76jH_dRHuGJUPan4KBKrNrTFlfVaiyBeX_abLwsUXCILAtMtlqqpVgZd947Qag2NNDxXAF/s640/Slide1+%25281%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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By April 28, I had to take it back. I'd been bleeding for days and the ultrasound showed nothing. I'd miscarried at 5.5 weeks.<br />
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Already sluggish because of pregnancy and the fallout from The Big Test, not to mention one of the coldest winters in years (never my best season), I had fallen behind in my Intro to Graduate Studies course. By the time this happened, there was no way to catch up. I was behind in grading for my two classes of freshman composition as well, barely keeping my head above water.<br />
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While Ken was supportive and sweet, he was sad too. His job doing DNA sampling at OSU was miserable, and it hurt him as much as it hurt me to have to tell his mother in India that we'd spoken too soon. We just didn't understand what was happening with us. Why had we moved to Stillwater in December if I was just going to flunk out of grad school? What was God's purpose in all this? Why?</div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13022366918283976711noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-52530477917027123802011-10-14T23:15:00.001-04:002011-10-14T23:19:27.969-04:00My Year, Part 1: The Big Test<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's February. I am sitting at a computer desk between two male PhD students, a poet and a lit guy. The literature student is into anarchy and probably thinks the big shampoo corporations are evil. Both men emit an odor of clothes worn for three days, bodies unwashed in the same span, and stale cigarette smoke. The computer lab where we've assembled to take the five-hour first year PhD exam is muggy, and as I stare at my computer screen, arms cramped into uncomfortable acute angles because the chair isn't adjustable, I know that I will not pass this test. I am barely pregnant, or about to be, and I don't </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">yet </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">know what kind of year I'm about to face. I only know it hasn't started all that well. Ken and I have realized in a few short weeks that we'd rather commute to Stillwater than be stuck here (it's too late of course--we've sold our condo). The weather has been especially brutal, and I am not enjoying my teaching assistantship one bit. I've spent most of January and the first few weeks of February avoiding.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A.void.ing. Because that's what I do when I'm anxious. Anxious about grading my students' work. Anxious about this test. Anxious with indecision about school, career, life. Anxious. How many times has God brought Philippians 4:6 to my mind? How many times will I need to remember it this year? "Be anxious for nothing," as the NASB renders the verse, can be read in two opposite ways, and though I know it means not to be anxious about anything, I often become anxious "for nothing," for no good reason. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the weeks before this exam, I've spent about three days studying, if all the little snatches are added together. My peers have been fretting over this thing for months--memorizing poems, boning up on theory, but I am paralyzed by anxiety, and I procrastinate. I play word games on the computer, become fascinated by economics and Scientology (<a href="http://exscientologykids.org/">Exscientologykids.org </a>provides hours of horrifying reading.) In short, I don't prepare, and I don't know why.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I end up finishing only two of the three questions in five hours. After a few weeks, I receive a letter in the mail informing me that my exam has been thrown out since I did not answer all three questions. Turns out, five other people are in the same boat. I find out later that there is a huge controversy. Several of my peers have written two superb (in their opinion) essays, and it is only necessary to pass two to be accepted into the program. The problem? None of our essays are even graded. The faculty has determined that there is some sort of conspiracy to only answer two questions, and they take the unprecedented step of having us all retake the exam.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I get the letter, I have already decided not to teach in the fall. I am now several weeks pregnant, and my extremely emotional and exhausted self is behind in a class (Intro to Grad Studies) for the first time in my life. I will not catch up, and my teacher will not grant me an incomplete. Before the semester is complete I am sure that my graduate school career is over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Ever wish you could start a year over knowing what you know now? It's not that I want to go back and correct </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">a lifetime</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> of mistakes--for better or worse, they've made me who I am. But this year is one that could use a fresh start, a fresh perspective, a rewrite. I know that God is building something in me that might not get built without the stretching and stress of this year, and I am painfully aware that some friends have suffered during this same time beyond my capacity to understand. But it's been a tough one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I haven't blogged in a long time, so I realize that the audience for these stories is extremely small. But for the first time, I'm getting it down in writing, and that seems important somehow. In the next few posts, I'll be sharing several chapters of my 2011 with you.</span><br />
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</div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13022366918283976711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-39655428816628036712011-09-23T18:08:00.001-04:002011-10-14T17:03:26.739-04:00A New Beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I've decided to start blogging again, mostly as an antidote to Facebook. The last time I made an announcement of this kind, I wrote one additional post. That was over two years ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But I feel like this time will be different, not only because I'd like to get to 152 posts eventually, but because I just have a few things I need to send out into the void, to use Kathleen Kelly's expression. "So good night, dear void." More to come.</span></div>Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13022366918283976711noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-81289888142159530682009-08-25T09:19:00.003-04:002011-09-23T16:24:24.754-04:00Late noticeBangalore, India, 18:25, 25 August 2009: Sorry to let everyone know we're alive at such a late hour. We've been here since very early this morning, but I haven't had the chance to get on the computer. Cousin Kevin set me up with the tricky modem so I could write you.<br> <br> Both of our flights were good. Because of the way the times were written, I was confused about how long we'd actually be on the plane. I'm dumb. :) The flight from ATL to London was seven hours and ten minutes. They are five hours ahead of Georgia time, so we got there around 10:30 am London time. Then we had a layover for a few hours, during which time we rested and ate nice baguettes from a place called EAT. Pretty cheap, too--£2.95. We also looked for a dictionary in the airport bookstore so as to ascertain the spelling of the word <i>adze</i>, which we had argued over during travel Scrabble. Sadly, four out of four British flight attendants do not know what an adze is. "What do they teach them in these schools?"<br> <br> The flight from London to Bangalore was only nine hours, forty-five minutes, but of course it felt like longer because we arrived around 4:00 a.m. Bangalore time. All the customs people were wearing masks, and they shot a scanner-type thermometer at our heads to get a reading of our temperature. <i>Very accurate</i>, I'm sure. I slept around five hours on the flight. They served us curry for supper and some other spicy thing for breakfast. Good, but a little bit acidic when coupled with OJ. Good thing there was yogurt, too. The only other thing I did on this flight was watch <i>The Soloist</i>, which Saige had recommended to me. Amazing that "Wanda" could turn out to be such a great actor. Jamie Foxx is definitely the standout act from <i>In Living Color</i>, huh? And Robert Downey, Jr. is amazing, too. He is Steve Lopez. You don't think RDJ or Tony Stark or random druggie. You just see the character. I love that about him.<br> <br> Anyway, it was windy and nice outside the airport, and Amma, Cousin Jimmy, and his wife Gretta were waiting for us. Amma had beautiful flowers for me. We had about a twenty minute van ride to their house, and Kevin was up waiting for us. We sat around and had tea and chatted. Yes, British tea with milk and sugar. :)<br> <br> Later, we had a special breakfast, holige, an Indian sweet bread. Ken told me they only make that for special occasions. Then we each had baths and naps, and we slept from a little after 10:00 until almost 5:00 p.m. It was wonderful. When we got up, Amma had late lunch for us: fried cod and ladyfish, spinach, rice, and lentil soup with vegetables and curry. Yummy. I ate with my fingers just like Ken did. Then we had tea and biscuits, and now I'm here at the computer.<br> <br> It's hard to believe I'm a world away. There's more to say, but for now just know that I love you all and I'm alive and I'm having wonderful time.<br> <br> LUnknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-44354477719164709882009-01-17T16:55:00.007-05:002017-11-28T22:57:14.304-05:00Honest Scrap Thingamadoodle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Well, Josh tagged me with </span><a href="http://thesmoakhouse.wordpress.com/2009/01/14/honest-scrap%E2%80%94in-yo%E2%80%99-face/" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">this meme</a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">, so I guess I'd better do it. It's not like I have 152 post ideas or anything. I won't be tagging folks or anything (so I'm totally breaking the rules--hence, I'm not "accepting the award"), but I'm sure I can think of at least ten honest things to say. Whether or not they're old news depends upon how well my readers know me (or how often I've bored them with details).<br /><br />1. <a href="http://undeception.com/category/personal/">Steve</a> talked about pretending that his life was fully televised--my fantasy was similar, but it was more like I was always being interviewed. Whenever I had alone time (such as on the toilet or in the shower), the interview answers would begin. Sometimes I'd play the interviewer, too. Oh, and the person being interviewed wasn't always me. Often it was a character in a story I was formulating--based on a movie, on recent news events, etc.<br /><br />2. To be painfully honest, I occasionally still slip into interview/story mode. It's the writer in me. I always start in the middle of a conversation, too, like there's this invisible ellipsis hanging in the air between conversations.<br /><br />3. Though there are piles of clothes in the floor of my closet waiting to be washed right now, every piece of hung clothing is perfectly organized--not by color (that would be <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> anal)--but by type: sleeveless shirts, vests, short-sleeved t-shirts, short-sleeved shirts with buttons, three-quarter-sleeved shirts w/o buttons, etc....<br /><br />4. I have a ponytail in a bag that I meant to send to Locks of Love almost three years ago. I was really disappointed that the hairdresser didn't take the time to cut individual pieces to make it all one length, and I was afraid LoL wouldn't accept a layered ponytail--so the wind was totally taken out of my sails about sending it. I have successfully sent at least one ponytail to them, though.<br /><br />5. One of my family's favorite shows when I was a kid was "Greatest American Hero," a show about a bumbling superhero who could barely fly. I still love the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9Q3orQhEcA">theme song</a>. So Eighties!<br /><br />6. Saige and I used to try to sing every song from <span style="font-style: italic;">i 2 (eye)</span>, our favorite Michael W. Smith tape, in order, from "Hand of Providence" to "Pray for Me."<br /><br />7. One day in middle school, I refused to allow Saige to borrow my HUGE silver earrings unless she promised to call them aquatacian (a word I made up) earrings all day long. I made sure to have various people at school ask her about her earrings so that she'd have to use the word.<br /><br />8. My sense of humor is pretty particular. I mostly love wordplay, not sarcasm or nastiness, though the occasional </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">bit of </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">over-the-top silliness will get to me (<u>Dumb and Dumber</u>, anyone? "Just the bare essentials, man.") I'm pretty sure I'll need the man I marry to think I'm funny, and I'll need to "get" his sense of humor too, whether he's a regular comedian or not.*<br /><br />9. I'm addicted to paper towels. I've gotten better, but sometimes I'll just carry them around and forget they're in my hand or my pocket. I seem to have inherited this trait from my grandfathers, whose TV trays or recliner areas were often littered with Viva or Brawny towels that were wrinkled up but <span style="font-style: italic;">still good</span>.<br /><br />10. One of the ways I conquered some of my OCDish behaviors years ago was to make myself use the same towel more than once (I used to wash them every time). Washcloths are another story. :)<br /><br />Guess that's enough weirdness for one post.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">*2017 Update: I guess the one who has a sense of humor on that one is God. My husband Ken, whom I had just met and would marry that August, doesn't always get my humor, and being from different cultures, we don't share many of the references that make me funny to family and friends. But we still make each other chuckle with silliness and inside jokes, and we laugh with genuine joy at the antics of our almost five-year-old stinker, Raj.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-35617034030084137252008-12-22T17:47:00.005-05:002011-09-24T14:13:10.269-04:00152 insights<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgajyI4XKLNafpbAxwMFMSGKz41RyY-SaSWjkm32z5NemN2GgVUCsq8jxrnFxt7app7jSPn_OjhegnD4A0SUC4aMUcV7QA9gU3_E3h7Kq7u9G9Pals5DqYLXbzWTQnmCW6PcGUGTermij8/s1600-h/152.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282750073542392146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgajyI4XKLNafpbAxwMFMSGKz41RyY-SaSWjkm32z5NemN2GgVUCsq8jxrnFxt7app7jSPn_OjhegnD4A0SUC4aMUcV7QA9gU3_E3h7Kq7u9G9Pals5DqYLXbzWTQnmCW6PcGUGTermij8/s320/152.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 217px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 259px;" /></a><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Seeing as I am only on my fortieth post, I have made the decision that I shall end at 152, as I jokingly considered at the onset of this venture. Of course, since it has taken me nearly a year and a half to get just over a fourth of that number, I guess I won't being discontinuing the blog any time soon.<br /><br />Still, this number gives me a goal to shoot for, an end to anticipate, an inevitably anticlimactic moment to await. Maybe I'll even give away a "You've Got Mail" gift basket to mark the occasion. I'm already planning it:</span><br />
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<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-family: trebuchet ms;">the movie, of course</li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms; font-family: trebuchet ms;">the soundtrack</li>
<li face="trebuchet ms" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">a copy of <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Pride and Prejudice</span> with a scarlet rose</li>
<li face="trebuchet ms" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Boy</span>, by Roald Dahl</li>
<li face="trebuchet ms"><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a pop-up dinosaur book</span></li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">hot tea and a mug</li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">a small Starbucks gift card</li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Echinacea and Vitamin C</li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Tic-Tacs</li>
<li style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Scotch tape</li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a bouquet of sharpened pencils</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">daisies or daisy-themed items</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a box of Kleenex</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">an embroidered handkerchief</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span style="font-style: italic;">Anne of Green Gables</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span style="font-style: italic;">Blue</span>, by Joni Mitchell, on which "River" appears</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">"twinkle lights" and funky ornaments</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a mango</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a Clark bar</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a lone reed</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">an "I ♥ NY" item</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">a dollar</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">the Shoe books by Noel Streatfeild, except for <span style="font-style: italic;">The Skating Shoes</span> (It really is out of print, and you won't believe how much it costs on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Skating-Shoes-Noel-Streatfeild/dp/044047731X">Amazon</a>.*)</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Okay, so this basket is getting really huge and expensive, but it may be years away, right? Perhaps I'll have married my rich old man by then. Tell me, fellow diehard fans, have I left anything important out? I mean, that's affordable and small? Cans of olive oil are too big, and caviar is, of course, out of the question!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Update: <i>The Skating Shoes </i>is back in print, so that old Amazon link takes you to a paperback for $6.99. Yay!</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-42458950450081559122008-11-25T11:58:00.009-05:002008-11-25T20:45:51.398-05:00How old is way too old? (or way too young?)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://serentripity.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/picture-1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 278px;" src="http://serentripity.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/picture-1.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yesterday my wonderful doctor, who said she's no matchmaker and doesn't usually do this sort of thing, suggested setting me up with a pharmaceutical sales rep she knows. He's a great guy, never married, who's been waiting for the right one. He <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> wants to get married and have children. The problem? He's in his 40s! She doesn't know whether he's 41, or 45, or (gasp!) even <span style="font-style: italic;">older</span>.<br /><br />So whaddya say? Would one blind date hurt? Or is he just way too old? I've got the biblical example of Boaz and Ruth, I suppose, on the side of going for it (and according to tradition, Joseph and Mary). Then there's the literary examples of Emma and Mr. Knightley, Jane and Rochester, etc. But ewww.<br /><br />Such a weird age, 30. Especially when you're a total innocent (and a young-looking one at that) in the dating world. I had a former student (about 20 yrs. old) practically flirting with me the other night on facebook, telling me I wasn't old and talking about all the cougars at the bars in Statesboro. This after a sixth grader had told me the day before that I'd look like a model if my hair were blowing in the wind and I got some fly (or "fie" (fire)--don't know which term he used) clothes, not those old-lady church clothes I wore to work! Don't worry. I shushed him and explained the inappropriateness. No Mary Kay LeTourneau here.<br /><br />But still. Seems I've always had little children and old men in love with me. Very few fellas of the right age have ever asked me out. Am I old before my time...or just frightfully immature?<br /><br />Got any suggestions for dating my age--as opposed to my shoe size (10) or my hip measurement (ahem...)???</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-37869267724536213412008-10-01T21:33:00.005-04:002011-09-23T17:23:30.313-04:00Ubiquitous Metonymy (or, shut up and find a new way to talk about me!!)Metonymy (defined <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/metonymy">here</a>) is a useful and sometimes lovely tool in our language. Because of it, we have these lines from Robin Hood (forever etched in my memory by the LP of the movie we absolutely wore out as children): "Traitor to the crown?!! That crown belongs to King Richard!" In these two sentences, <span style="font-style: italic;">crown</span> moves from a metonymic reference to royalty (Prince John at the time) to a literal reference to the crown that "keeps slipping down around that pointed head." Metonymy allows us to refer to President Bush's administration as <span style="font-style: italic;">The White House</span>. Such references to the domicile on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue make sense to us in a kind of shorthand: we automatically register that a sentence talking about "The White House's revised plan for an economic bailout" isn't talking about the house at all.<br /><br />So, yeah, metonymy's a good thing. I love it. I love that <span style="font-style: italic;">Fleet Street</span> still stands for the London press, even though the actual street is mainly shops now, and the papers do their printing elsewhere. I love that the term <span style="font-style: italic;">Wall Street</span> makes it easy for us to refer to our financial system in such an efficient way. English is cool like that.<br /><br />But...(and you knew a <span style="font-style: italic;">but</span> was coming!) since when did the American people become <span style="font-style: italic;">Main Street</span>? Oh, yeah, I'm sure it was cute the first fifty or sixty times folks made this reference. I'm sure its originators were thinking, "Look, repetition is cool: I repeat the word <span style="font-style: italic;">street</span>, I get everyone's attention. I reference a street that invokes small-town America and baseball and apple pie, ZING! Now they're listening." Of course, one has to think that if a politician or pundit had made this choice back in the Ozzie and Harriet days, the street would have been Maple or Elm, but we have <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monsters_Are_Due_on_Maple_Street">Rod Serling</a> and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087800/">Wes Craven</a> to thank for Main Street's making the cut.<br /><br />So somebody started saying it. Obama may have been the first, but who knows? Anyway, he started saying it. And then McCain started saying it. And then every single newscaster on the planet started saying it. And after everybody started saying it, something fundamentally changed about what <span style="font-style: italic;">Main Street</span> was, and is, and evermore shall be. It went from somebody's cutesy idea of a soundbite-worthy metaphor to straight-up metonymy, a convenient shorthand for middle-class America that has become about as common as, well, apple pie.<br /><br />It doesn't get on my nerves because it's stupid, though it is. I mean, if we're going to be reduced to a street name, it might as well be a name that makes sense. Isn't Main Street usually comprised of businesses, restaurants, the post office, etc.? The folks using this shorthand aren't talking about small-town business, but about our houses, our bank accounts. <span style="font-style: italic;">We</span> are Main Street.<br /><br />Nope. I'm not reacting to the stupidity of it, but the ubiquity. We are lazy creatures. Blessed with the vast resources of our amazing English language, we consign ourselves to the vapid metaphors someone else impressed us with a few days ago. Makes me think of Jim Carrey's line from <span style="font-style: italic;">Dumb and Dumber</span>, when the waitress defines the soup<span style="font-style: italic;"> du jour </span>as "the soup of the day": "That sounds good. I'll have that." It's kind of like plagiarism, isn't it? I mean, I just don't understand why EVERYBODY has to say the same thing in the same way! Do reporters and politicians repeat these buzzwords and catchphrases because they want us to <span style="font-style: italic;">catch</span> something, or are have they themselves been overtaken by the viral words that latch on to those with the weak immune system of poor vocabulary?<br /><br />I'm not saying I'm immune by any stretch of the imagination--my vocabulary is rather limited, my metaphors often threadbare. In fact, I completely understand the malady. Several regrettable words remain so ingrained in my speech that I may be attempting to expunge them for the rest of my life: <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span> (for <span style="font-style: italic;">as if</span>), <span style="font-style: italic;">cool</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">totally</span>, etc. Fortunately, I totally let go of <span style="font-style: italic;">proverbial</span> like way before it stopped being cool to everyone else.<br /><br />But <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> don't make my living talking to thinking adults. My every word is not judged, except by God and maybe the occasional reader of this blog (and you're all occasional readers now that I never post!) The press, the pundits, the future President (whoever he may be)--all these folks are smart enough to figure out how to kill the overkill and at least move us to MLK Boulevard, or the 'burbs. Or better yet, lose the metonymy and just call us who we are: Americans, taxpayers, voters, PEOPLE.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-32691675289644916712008-09-25T16:26:00.008-04:002008-09-25T22:09:49.096-04:00White lady rap<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxndc8oBIybOAx34Dy6O49zWnuakrts-lJ4Z7L-tT4nchyQM8t_PP3G_G0WNN8sC7m5d82X5g3GSKCezfhBH2SnfYYTQRz4YpQffCzBUgke6hsl4HX5fGUIgApTAbeBEUmG4SIJ7vtgI/s1600-h/d.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvxndc8oBIybOAx34Dy6O49zWnuakrts-lJ4Z7L-tT4nchyQM8t_PP3G_G0WNN8sC7m5d82X5g3GSKCezfhBH2SnfYYTQRz4YpQffCzBUgke6hsl4HX5fGUIgApTAbeBEUmG4SIJ7vtgI/s320/d.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250064325180606754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I've warned some of my classes that every time they start to beat on the tables they will be subject to a lame white lady rap. I hadn't had to follow through with my threat until yesterday, when my sixth graders would not stop making beats and quietly mumbling raps. So Mi' D started spitting rhymes: <br /><blockquote> It's lame, it's lame<br /> Mi' Dean and her rhymes is lame<br /> White lady oughtta feel ashamed<br /> If it weren't for Taylor and James*<br /> Fifth block could be reclaimed</blockquote></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Yes, I know I only rhymed the same sound, but it impressed sixth graders for me to come up with that pretty much on the spot (yeah, I did have the "lame" bit in my head already, but they didn't know that). See, I'm writing...</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />*my rowdiest students in that class--not an ironic reference to my beloved Mr. Taylor</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-22600034959459585932008-09-25T14:13:00.003-04:002017-11-28T22:44:22.932-05:00Lessons from my job (warning, boring post ahead)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">So, I know I haven't posted in forever, that it's more like 35 insights into my soul rather than 152, that my faithful readers have all but given up on me (hello, Erin, are you reading this?)...but I just haven't been inspired to write. Even though I love writing essays and poems, I have never been much of a journaler. I'm such a prolific talker, you know--so good and analyzing and over-analyzing myself and my little world verbally that I've never done it much on paper. I've journaled a good bit in the past when I had a ridiculous new crush on someone, or was going through some kind of crisis, but besides that, no. I've often thought that if I become a famous writer some day (uh, Leah...that would require that you do some WRITING--hush, self!), that there won't be much to publish in the way of personal papers. Of course, if I had the kind of job that gave me lots of time for reflection, I'd <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">make</span> myself write everyday, no matter what. I've had some excellent results in the past from forcing myself to write. But I'm not there right this minute.<br /><br />Anyway, folks have been wondering about my job. Well, I've learned a few things in 9 weeks.<br /><br />1. South Georgia is not Middle Georgia. Some of the comments about the South that I've bristled at all my life seem a little bit more warranted down that-a-way.<br /><br />2. I am not an artist.* I love art, and I like to make crafts, but I am a word person. I miss talking and thinking about words and ideas.<br /><br />3. I was not meant to be an art teacher.* Paper has always been a problem for me, what with all the written assignments of the language arts classroom--stacks to be graded, stacks to be returned, etc. Now there's paper everywhere. And broken crayons. And charcoal dust. And glue. And paint. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">And clay. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">And bits of wire. And crumpled up pieces of Leah's sanity.<br /><br />4. I'm done with the public school (or private, for that matter) classroom. I've tried different grades, different subjects, and different schools, and I'm convinced that this profession is not something I want to spend any more of my life on. I haven't ruled out college, but we'll see.<br /><br />5. God is sovereign. Yes, I already knew this, but I've realized that whether this was a horrible decision that He's working together for good, or the right decision that just happens to be really hard, divine purposes are being accomplished. Whether it's loving a kid who doesn't get much attention at home, or learning how to be more disciplined, or sharpening my French skills (by podcast!) on my long commute (yes, there could be divine purpose in learning French!!!), or being a good friend to some of my colleagues, there's a reason for this season. Pray that I'll keep this attitude and get my mind right. So far, I haven't been handling it too well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">2017 update: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">*I no longer consider this to be accurate. I am definitely an artist. While words are my preferred medium, I wouldn't be whole without creating visual art as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">**Ha, ha, ha. Only what I've done for the past 4 and a half years--in elementary, no less. Still finding bits of my sanity everywhere amongst ribbon scraps and marker lids.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-67258070112622266352008-06-26T11:43:00.006-04:002008-10-03T21:23:59.723-04:00From the Vault<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">It has been three years since I went to London, and it occurs to me that very few of my friends have seen the great little video that my friend Jenny did of our trip.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;">Warning: Please do not be offended by Jenny's first song choice ("Let's Get Retarded/It Started in Here"), her occasional spelling errors, or some highly offensive white knee socks that yours truly is shown wearing.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: trebuchet ms;">Otherwise, enjoy</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">.</span><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy3zIjDml8FBmZ_L4sXBpCucemSmpS_JVc2Lvum0XyoPMWl_PZdDSOH1YyYgR_hY4q9VKQOVvm8_4lwIaG2_w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-6327068371393574872008-05-16T17:46:00.003-04:002008-06-25T21:49:19.704-04:00Click on the baby horsey for a moment and let us contemplate the existence of such creatures.<a href="http://usa.hermes.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10202&catalogId=10052&langId=-1&categoryId=59174&leftCategoryId=59173&topCategoryId=10895&parentCategoryId=10811&productId=24351&nbItem=0"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201095628604267346" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu59k7pA144K1SVu97DNE0bd5E0FMcXv0wogVSr4xlvOvLtYNlhK0pJE-hh0JdNHJuU8K1-t7rcBcn_tDQwFI5vGYLTc59t7Ia540pC9kwlEHbylYZJKEwJxEeTKAA1yHCuekoYPK6JM/s400/hermes.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Not the horsey--he's cute--the folks who would pay that much money for him. Pretty sickening, eh?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Update: The link no longer shows the price, but he was 209 dollars!!!</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-34351766199061686902008-05-15T10:13:00.003-04:002008-05-16T18:05:34.928-04:00To be spiritually minded...<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">On Wednesday, I spent several hours facepainting a bunch of middle schoolers for a special AR celebration. "AR" is Accelerated Reader, a program in which students earn points for taking comprehension tests on books they have read; the celebration was for those who had met their grade-level point goal. I didn't get an exact count, but I know I painted around 40 kids at least. It was a fun time in spite of my soreness from sitting in a strange position all day and from the sunburn on my neck. I love being artistic and interacting with kids, so the day was right up my alley.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">That evening at intercessory prayer, though, I realized what an opportunity I had missed. In those hours spent painting wolves and initials and soccer balls and ballet shoes, my hands touched dozens of little faces. In serving them, I believe I served Christ, but how much more could I have served Him if I truly were spiritually minded? If my first thought were the spiritual instead of the natural, I could have asked the Lord for words of knowledge, and without saying a word, prayed back to Him the things He was showing me. I could've asked Him for specific encouragement to give to each child who sat down in my chair.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Of course I interact with people all the time without feeling like I've missed something, but it was the fact of <em>physically</em> touching so many people in one day without really thinking about God and his purposes for them that really struck me later on. Is the anointing that breaks the yoke on me or isn't it? Does the power that raised Christ from the dead dwell in my mortal body or doesn't it? Though I can think of no sin I committed in my time facepainting, I definitely failed to seize the day.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Aren't there so many days like that? We haven't done anything wrong, but what have we done that's <em>right</em>? I'm not talking about being so heavenly minded we're no earthly good--we have to live here in these physical bodies and do the day-to-day mess that constitutes a life--but I am talking about an intentionally spiritual mindset, a choice to think with the mind of Christ. I want to wake up with some divine initiative, a heart that says</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><blockquote><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Where's a need I can meet?<br />Let's pray about that right now!<br />Why don't we look and see what God's<br />word has to say about it?<br />You blessed me today!<br />What can I do to serve you?<br />I love you!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></blockquote></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This is my Tres Dias/Vida Nueva/New Attitude heart, but I want it to be my default attitude, my automatic response, my repent-quickly-and-get-it-back mindset. "For to be carnally minded is death," Romans 8:6 tells us, "but to be spiritually minded is life and peace." I want to stay there. </span></span></p></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-55145097963505773552008-04-07T22:32:00.002-04:002008-04-07T22:37:02.548-04:00Another poem from my thesis that will never be published<p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Again, not good enough, but definitely an insight into my soul.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />Magic</span><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p>My mom thinks Harry Potter’s probably wickedness,<o:p></o:p><br />but this is progress. When I was five, Rapunzel <o:p></o:p><br />got a haircut, became <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Lydia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, New Testament<o:p></o:p><br />seller of purple, sponsor of apostles. Every<o:p></o:p><br />frog and owl was tossed away. Demons.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p>No He-Man, as God alone<o:p></o:p><br />was Master of the Universe.<o:p></o:p><br />Only Aslan had the kind of power<o:p></o:p><br />we could celebrate, wild as Jesus, and each summer<o:p></o:p><br />we read his endorsed enchantment together<o:p></o:p><br />in my parents’ king-sized bed. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p>Now when my aunt hears Bible babbling<o:p></o:p><br />from my brother’s lips, from mine, <o:p></o:p><br />she chides, expounds the magic of change,<o:p></o:p><br />warns us not to be so sure of anything<o:p></o:p><br />in our twenties. She remembers when pants and<o:p></o:p><br />bacon came from the Devil, when the TV <o:p></o:p><br />hid shame-faced in the closet, when exorcism<o:p></o:p><br />was en vogue. She fears we might be under the spell<o:p></o:p><br />that made her sister a troll, hoarding the jewels of<o:p></o:p><br />revelation with <i>Mine!<span style=""> </span>Mine!<span style=""> </span>Mine!</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p>She must not see the wands<o:p></o:p><br />behind our backs. We’ve turned that troll<o:p></o:p><br />into a jolly Mother Goose, and she’ll be a princess<o:p></o:p><br />yet, well-versed like us in the magic of change,<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Sylfaen;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">of granite turned to soft, pink flesh.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-86343826940151693612008-04-05T20:31:00.013-04:002008-04-06T00:36:32.649-04:00Spring Broke...<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">is how I'm usually feeling at the end of spring break. Usually I've spent most of my time sleeping,</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> eating, and wasting time on the Internet, and by the last day, I'm regretful of my choices and anxious to get back into the routine, if only to save me from myself.<br /><br />This break was different. I visited the wonderful old Southern city of Charleston (to which I'd never been), crammed my head full of history, walked all over the place, took in the sights, enjoyed time with family, finished a book and started on another one, and graded all but one set of papers. It was a wonderful break!<br /><br />A few pics from our time in Charles Towne (I took very few, as I had forgotten to empty my SDcard before I went and didn't have my USB cable with me):<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGw7ErF2c-WOL8ij9sRrISes8Zt5Q99M3JWukXC5GbBTgQYOBnD1AI5jQvSIf8Jps8quEKvqrvuMvo_mz6FcKmGVJSX7aA4D2MksofeDOWirE0pmrwL0cccusmVJWC6J_yA6Q9J4BZld0/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGw7ErF2c-WOL8ij9sRrISes8Zt5Q99M3JWukXC5GbBTgQYOBnD1AI5jQvSIf8Jps8quEKvqrvuMvo_mz6FcKmGVJSX7aA4D2MksofeDOWirE0pmrwL0cccusmVJWC6J_yA6Q9J4BZld0/s400/charleston+blog+pics+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185936995614966642" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />at The College of Charleston, which I heard one local refer to in passing as "The College" (in a lovely Charleston accent)</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BOanBCiHEJwUMXkeX-JVuBrJTNaS9rM28dPpXtrExgL0o-0V-iJ8ZZeZ7e996gpzq2e747ZGUFzqMb9KdLoBLxmdCD9j9CPSrYoOpFQRMU_GCbdrsGohqQWPttgqgIqWW1fs7sd_6Cw/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BOanBCiHEJwUMXkeX-JVuBrJTNaS9rM28dPpXtrExgL0o-0V-iJ8ZZeZ7e996gpzq2e747ZGUFzqMb9KdLoBLxmdCD9j9CPSrYoOpFQRMU_GCbdrsGohqQWPttgqgIqWW1fs7sd_6Cw/s400/charleston+blog+pics+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185937609795289986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Daddy at the grave of "Our Beloved Pastor" in one of the fascinating old cemeteries</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7JSUy-QDH6xmEa3r3j6joUYfdinCYKTmJOjeG8zZ77TKzl6rO28G-OlW0utSaGP5Ddzzej0DfF2X9wKEYwGQMvMF5_GsCpLwUMgomullv55hqf9GkHGOo6R8qpJGFuggKsLzcFiq8D0/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7JSUy-QDH6xmEa3r3j6joUYfdinCYKTmJOjeG8zZ77TKzl6rO28G-OlW0utSaGP5Ddzzej0DfF2X9wKEYwGQMvMF5_GsCpLwUMgomullv55hqf9GkHGOo6R8qpJGFuggKsLzcFiq8D0/s400/charleston+blog+pics+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185938082241692562" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtxccAy10KGOiK439sN-ORkR3OE0t6Bzk5ES1XLo31FexndUxTGeeEm9favKZPeWrMpxIbDeMeieMOT1QhTEf0D2Sl77vjqnYYnN2Py5VQfE1TyUuPSUwoqdD5rbQzu4hnfHtiq5MzzNg/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtxccAy10KGOiK439sN-ORkR3OE0t6Bzk5ES1XLo31FexndUxTGeeEm9favKZPeWrMpxIbDeMeieMOT1QhTEf0D2Sl77vjqnYYnN2Py5VQfE1TyUuPSUwoqdD5rbQzu4hnfHtiq5MzzNg/s400/charleston+blog+pics+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185938584752866210" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6HtVXgRbQG5-d5IJ6GXkvD8jPiLAnE4mP2uWhh7BKPvu2N8I3b8xZlzlBisfUfKRUBErV9J2p1ocy1BPULX38NZRjYwfs8u_i3OhWWvgEpgz_BXme0HQtmoUJFTmi8NS-6DVoPd2wtc/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6HtVXgRbQG5-d5IJ6GXkvD8jPiLAnE4mP2uWhh7BKPvu2N8I3b8xZlzlBisfUfKRUBErV9J2p1ocy1BPULX38NZRjYwfs8u_i3OhWWvgEpgz_BXme0HQtmoUJFTmi8NS-6DVoPd2wtc/s400/charleston+blog+pics+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185985150788289458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">at the Battery<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH6rskk-0FpMaXfJc_CEotMuCPj3FGkdFLRQiTWGlY-N5l0BhWz09oTNNszTeRtDjmXH_sLp4_4LVzJJCKWT_UAJQRkeE5C80-zkLDaH-24qxp2OMid5JujFtnFJU3_-vbjKMRITUJ88/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvH6rskk-0FpMaXfJc_CEotMuCPj3FGkdFLRQiTWGlY-N5l0BhWz09oTNNszTeRtDjmXH_sLp4_4LVzJJCKWT_UAJQRkeE5C80-zkLDaH-24qxp2OMid5JujFtnFJU3_-vbjKMRITUJ88/s400/charleston+blog+pics+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185985846572991426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the amazing Angel Entwife (I mean Angel Oak)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXRU6aV3UihkkQkQ2avH3Aiwk7zVDDn-3f6guVfEaxqNMNLFhcW9cgX-RpyNqYpoaG7ztI-tI-r1XH4amUFPfFXqdb-Sox-6kQgaZaAmePyWDGYX9cPb_n0-HgOyc2aNHd-20QX_ao1-g/s1600-h/charleston+blog+pics+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXRU6aV3UihkkQkQ2avH3Aiwk7zVDDn-3f6guVfEaxqNMNLFhcW9cgX-RpyNqYpoaG7ztI-tI-r1XH4amUFPfFXqdb-Sox-6kQgaZaAmePyWDGYX9cPb_n0-HgOyc2aNHd-20QX_ao1-g/s400/charleston+blog+pics+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185986370559001554" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-87986433581505438072008-02-12T21:47:00.002-05:002008-02-12T21:55:29.350-05:00It's official.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ekc29jdeZVIfvM:http://petewarden.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/10/08/cobweb.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ekc29jdeZVIfvM:http://petewarden.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/10/08/cobweb.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><br />Yes, it's true--<span style="font-style: italic;">152insightsintomysoul.blogspot.com</span> is a cobweb site. It appears I cannot have a life and a teaching job at the same time. Maybe one day I'll be able to manage the twain, but that is not this day.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-59808165568894288412007-12-30T23:36:00.001-05:002017-05-19T11:34:05.818-04:00Gum, she wrote...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">We could handle the small crowd of ADDCP5. We smiled at the torrential downpour that killed my beautiful candlelit walkway plan--after all, the state of Georgia's in a drought, and how nice of the rain to come on Daniel Dean's birthday! But nothing could prepare us for the horror that awaited on December 16th, when while folding one of our card tables we discovered FRESH GUM stuck to the bottom of one of them, in the very same Sweet Mint Orbit flavor that almost every person around the four card tables had taken a piece of the night before. But which one of our friends could be the culprit? Could it be Kevin, the former baseball player--those guys are known for spitting sunflower seeds, tobacco, gum ... How about Kim, the gum provider? Was she tired of the gum, giving away each piece to strangers and her own to the bottom of the table? What about Daniel Williams? Could his princeliness be forever tarnished with a single heinous act?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><br />A quick look at the location of the offending table narrowed the choices to three individuals:<br /><br />Paul, recent Tech grad, usually a class act.<br />Steve, doctoral candidate in linguistics, known germophobe.<br />Megan, college student, helpful party assistant.<br /><br />Excluding Steve seems a no-brainer, but there's where the mystery comes in. Jessica always surprised us back in the day, didn't she? What do you think, folks?<br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-89338150121515689882007-12-17T16:27:00.000-05:002007-12-17T19:36:57.189-05:00Tired of looking at the same old thing...<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don't have anything to say, but I'm tired of the party invite being at the top of the page. It went well, though the turnout was pretty sad due to inclement weather. We finally got rain, though, so I'm glad, even if my beautiful candlelit entry was spoiled. About halfway into the lighting process, Mom and I gave up--they kept getting rained out :(.<br /><br />Thanks to all who came, especially to those who gave PIT Extreme a try. It was wonderful to see everybody.<br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-35363406145756414012007-11-25T22:25:00.000-05:002007-12-07T16:05:44.056-05:00Saturday, December 15, 6:30 p.m.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136986039584844354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5wk2F-zSTC_aySSWFf74gbFRMgBNbDv5X6YbMHAOdZbtktpPGwJuTOzWLysLS9Lu4jKe-6xN_svEf9cTx1197mwotan_MXODFtYXYEpwTBzFZFBI1iA3WqCLUUGvQvzmJJk2iM7Br-Y/s400/ddcard.JPG" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">This year, Daniel Dean will be hosting his annual Christmas party at Evergreen Family Fellowship--not nearly as cozy or (if I may say so) attractive a place, but large enough for his ever-expanding list of friends. If you're single, bring a date if you'd like (even if he/she doesn't know Daniel Dean). If you've got kids, bring 'em. Just don't forget to RSVP at <a href="mailto:Anduril80@aol.com">Anduril80@aol.com</a> or 478-960-6906. We're doing pasta this year, so we need to have a pretty good idea of the number of folks.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">As usual, dinner and soft drinks will be provided, but we'd love for some of you to bring a favorite Christmas dessert to share.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Daniel informs me there will be a doorprize this year, and we hope to have a bit of caroling. Also, some of you might like to play basketball outside, so come prepared for the possibility if that's you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&geocode=&time=&date=&ttype=&saddr=I+75+S,+Ringgold,+GA+30736&daddr=80+Tabor+Dr,+Warner+Robins,+GA+31093&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=31.922255,59.238281&ie=UTF8&z=7&om=1">Here's</a> a link to directions on Google. (Ignore the fact that they start in Ringgold. Just start driving down I-75.) This way is the one I would personally take. Highway 247 is ugly, but it's quicker, in my opinion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">If you'd like a longer, straighter option (or if you're coming from the south), get off I-75 at either the Russell Parkway or the Centerville/Warner Robins (Watson Blvd.) exit. Both will run into Davis Drive after about 10 miles. Turn left on Davis. From Russell, you'll go through five red lights--Tabor Drive is the first left turn past the red light at Ignico Drive. From Watson, you'll go through two red lights at Green and Ignico. After a left on Tabor, Evergreen will be the second church on your left.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">We can't wait to see you there!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-10559985104808555592007-11-18T19:21:00.000-05:002007-11-18T19:32:34.031-05:00The Way to Get Visitors:<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">post images obtained from Google image search. Especially popular: cheesy Christian-themed photos (e.g., hands holding blocks that spell "grace") and orange monkeys.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">These visitors--from such exotic locations as Chile, Romania, France, England, New Jersey--will not leave comments. Heck, they won't even stay for a whole second. But somehow, in their borrowing of your carefully chosen images (just as you have borrowed them before), you'll feel a sense of global community. Or you'll just wonder why so many folks are looking for monkeys.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">We know why they're looking for grace.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-75185910635524265152007-11-04T18:50:00.001-05:002017-11-28T22:39:10.654-05:00"The Warrior is a Child"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Tomorrow I begin a long-term substitute position (until December 7) at Warner Robins Middle School (the Warriors, hence the very old Twila Paris song title). I'm thankful for the opportunity to give middle school a try before I hang up the language arts thing entirely, but I do feel a bit anxious about it. Unlike substituting for a day or a week in one school, substituting for the next month will mean getting up close and personal with not only my eighth graders, but the faculty and staff of a new place.<br /><br />I'm just in time to go through training for writing test preparation.<br /><br />I'm just in time to be the one preparing them for the 8th grade writing test in January.<br /><br />I'm just in time to hand out progress reports for work someone else assigned and graded.<br /><br />A little thing called "paying the bills" propels me forward in this venture, but do pray for me, not only that this next month will be productive, but for my career crisis (Blackaby's "crisis of belief that requires faith in action"). Unless the teacher I'm substituting for decides to stay home with her baby, this long-term sub is merely a stop-gap measure. So pray that if God wants me teaching, He'll open the right doors. Pray that if He doesn't, I'll get some clear direction about what kind of options to pursue. And pray that no matter what, I'll keep the main thing the main thing. My life is to be about God's glory, and He can glorify Himself in an eighth-grade language arts classroom just as well as anywhere else. Here am I, Lord. Send me.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-71467084357852143052007-10-31T01:13:00.000-04:002007-10-31T02:07:04.449-04:00Kevin's Assignment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.ebibleteacher.com/backgrnd/blocksGrace3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.ebibleteacher.com/backgrnd/blocksGrace3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I'm having a hard time with Kev's assignment to write about a time when God's grace or helping hand were most evident (see comments under "Play that tape again"), because there's not one big story that stands out right now. I keep hearing Tom Hanks in <span style="font-style: italic;">Sleepless in Seattle</span> saying, "It's just a million little things..."<br /><br />-the grace to forgive someone I'd held a grudge against for a long time (not a little thing, really, but not a story for telling)<br /><br />-the chance to make my Pa-Pa laugh one last time before he died (when he was bed-bound and mute from a massive stroke)<br /><br />-a dead squirrel on the stoop when I had gone through long season of writer's block<br /><br />-the exact song/sermon I needed to hear being sung/preached at church or played on the radio (how many times has this happened?)<br /><br />-the time I found a bunch of cheap copies of <span style="font-style: italic;">Wild at Heart</span> to give to my guy friends<br /><br />-receiving the wrong CD in the mail from GPB (folk songs when I'd ordered classical as my free gift for contributing) and listening to find a song that brought me to my knees with its pleading lyrics ("Lord, Revive Us") and pertinence to my situation<br /><br />These are just some tidbits of a life that is touched every day by little miracles and stories of grace. I'm ungrateful so often.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5601353053706987447.post-85055614606526318042007-10-30T09:48:00.000-04:002007-11-02T13:13:40.342-04:00Most exotic visitors<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sitemeter is so cool (I know my friends have already discovered this, so Duh, Leah!)! But so far my most interesting visitors have been a person from South Africa who googled "My soul remembers," and a person from Romania looking for that picture of a baby ginger monkey I got from Wikipedia. <span style="font-style: italic;">Foarte interesant!</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1