152 Insights Into My Soul

My Year: Final Post

2012-01-05T15:28:00.003-05:00

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:

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 without purpose.

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).

Goodbye, 2011. I'm finally grateful for the gifts you brought, and just as grateful to see you explode.

My Year, Part 2: Strike One

2011-12-14T01:02:00.002-05:00

On April 18, I sent this announcement to my family:

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.

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.

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?

My Year, Part 1: The Big Test

2011-10-14T23:15:00.001-04:00

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 yet 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.

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.

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 (Exscientologykids.org provides hours of horrifying reading.) In short, I don't prepare, and I don't know why.

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.

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.

My Year

2011-10-14T18:13:00.000-04:00

Ever wish you could start a year over knowing what you know now? It's not that I want to go back and correct a lifetime 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.

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.

A New Beginning

2011-09-23T18:08:00.001-04:00

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.

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.

Late notice

2009-08-25T09:19:00.003-04:00

Bangalore, 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.

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 adze, 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?"

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. Very accurate, 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 The Soloist, 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 In Living Color, 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.

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. :)

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.

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.

L

Honest Scrap Thingamadoodle

2009-01-17T16:55:00.007-05:00

Well, Josh tagged me with this meme, 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).

1. Steve 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.

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.

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 too anal)--but by type: sleeveless shirts, vests, short-sleeved t-shirts, short-sleeved shirts with buttons, three-quarter-sleeved shirts w/o buttons, etc....

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.

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 theme song. So Eighties!

6. Saige and I used to try to sing every song from i 2 (eye), our favorite Michael W. Smith tape, in order, from "Hand of Providence" to "Pray for Me."

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.

8. My sense of humor is pretty particular. I mostly love wordplay, not sarcasm or nastiness, though the occasional bit of over-the-top silliness (a la Amanda & Melanie videos) will get to me. 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.

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 still good.

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. :)

Guess that's enough weirdness for one post.

152 insights

2008-12-22T17:47:00.005-05:00

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.

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:

the movie, of course
the soundtrack
a copy of Pride and Prejudice with a scarlet rose
Boy, by Roald Dahl
a pop-up dinosaur book
hot tea and a mug
a small Starbucks gift card
Echinacea and Vitamin C
Tic-Tacs
Scotch tape
a bouquet of sharpened pencils
daisies or daisy-themed items
a box of Kleenex
an embroidered handkerchief
Anne of Green Gables
Blue, by Joni Mitchell, on which "River" appears
"twinkle lights" and funky ornaments
a mango
a Clark bar
a lone reed
an "I ♥ NY" item
a dollar
the Shoe books by Noel Streatfeild, except for The Skating Shoes (It really is out of print, and you won't believe how much it costs on Amazon.*)

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!

Update: The Skating Shoes is back in print, so that old Amazon link takes you to a paperback for $6.99. Yay!

How old is way too old? (or way too young?)

2008-11-25T11:58:00.009-05:00

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 really 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 older.

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.

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.

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?

Got any suggestions for dating my age--as opposed to my shoe size (10) or my hip measurement (ahem...)???

Ubiquitous Metonymy (or, shut up and find a new way to talk about me!!)

2008-10-01T21:33:00.005-04:00

Metonymy (defined here) 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, crown 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 The White House. 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.

So, yeah, metonymy's a good thing. I love it. I love that Fleet Street 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 Wall Street makes it easy for us to refer to our financial system in such an efficient way. English is cool like that.

But...(and you knew a but was coming!) since when did the American people become Main Street? 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 street, 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 Rod Serling and Wes Craven to thank for Main Street's making the cut.

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 Main Street 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.

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. We are Main Street.

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 Dumb and Dumber, when the waitress defines the soup du jour 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 catch 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?

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: like (for as if), cool, totally, etc. Fortunately, I totally let go of proverbial like way before it stopped being cool to everyone else.

But I 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.

White lady rap

2008-09-25T16:26:00.008-04:00

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:

It's lame, it's lame
Mi' Dean and her rhymes is lame
White lady oughtta feel ashamed
If it weren't for Taylor and James*
Fifth block could be reclaimed

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...

*my rowdiest students in that class--not an ironic reference to my beloved Mr. Taylor

Lessons from my job (warning, boring post ahead)

2008-09-25T14:13:00.003-04:00

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 make 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.

Anyway, folks have been wondering about my job. Well, I've learned a few things in 9 weeks.

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.

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.

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. And clay. And bits of wire. And crumpled up pieces of Leah's sanity.

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.

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.

From the Vault

2008-06-26T11:43:00.006-04:00

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.

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.

Otherwise, enjoy.

Click on the baby horsey for a moment and let us contemplate the existence of such creatures.

2008-05-16T17:46:00.003-04:00

Not the horsey--he's cute--the folks who would pay that much money for him. Pretty sickening, eh?

Update: The link no longer shows the price, but he was 209 dollars!!!

To be spiritually minded...

2008-05-15T10:13:00.003-04:00

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.

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.

Of course I interact with people all the time without feeling like I've missed something, but it was the fact of physically 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.

Aren't there so many days like that? We haven't done anything wrong, but what have we done that's right? 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

Where's a need I can meet?
Let's pray about that right now!
Why don't we look and see what God's
word has to say about it?
You blessed me today!
What can I do to serve you?
I love you!

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.

Another poem from my thesis that will never be published

2008-04-07T22:32:00.002-04:00

Again, not good enough, but definitely an insight into my soul.

Magic

My mom thinks Harry Potter’s probably wickedness,
but this is progress. When I was five, Rapunzel
got a haircut, became Lydia, New Testament
seller of purple, sponsor of apostles. Every
frog and owl was tossed away. Demons.

No He-Man, as God alone
was Master of the Universe.
Only Aslan had the kind of power
we could celebrate, wild as Jesus, and each summer
we read his endorsed enchantment together
in my parents’ king-sized bed.

Now when my aunt hears Bible babbling
from my brother’s lips, from mine,
she chides, expounds the magic of change,
warns us not to be so sure of anything
in our twenties. She remembers when pants and
bacon came from the Devil, when the TV
hid shame-faced in the closet, when exorcism
was en vogue. She fears we might be under the spell
that made her sister a troll, hoarding the jewels of
revelation with Mine! Mine! Mine!

She must not see the wands
behind our backs. We’ve turned that troll
into a jolly Mother Goose, and she’ll be a princess
yet, well-versed like us in the magic of change,
of granite turned to soft, pink flesh.

Spring Broke...

2008-04-05T20:31:00.013-04:00

is how I'm usually feeling at the end of spring break. Usually I've spent most of my time sleeping, 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.

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!

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):

at The College of Charleston, which I heard one local refer to in passing as "The College" (in a lovely Charleston accent)

Daddy at the grave of "Our Beloved Pastor" in one of the fascinating old cemeteries

at the Battery

the amazing Angel Entwife (I mean Angel Oak)

It's official.

2008-02-12T21:47:00.002-05:00

Yes, it's true--152insightsintomysoul.blogspot.com 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.

Gum, she wrote...

2007-12-30T23:36:00.001-05:00

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?

A quick look at the location of the offending table narrowed the choices to three individuals:

Paul, recent Tech grad, usually a class act.
Steve, doctoral candidate in linguistics, known germophobe.
Megan, college student, helpful party assistant.

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?

Hey, if it's yucky enough to warrant a fabrique-en-Chine prank, it's yucky.

Tired of looking at the same old thing...

2007-12-17T16:27:00.000-05:00

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 :(.

Thanks to all who came, especially to those who gave PIT Extreme a try. It was wonderful to see everybody.

Saturday, December 15, 6:30 p.m.

2007-11-25T22:25:00.000-05:00

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 Anduril80@aol.com or 478-960-6906. We're doing pasta this year, so we need to have a pretty good idea of the number of folks.

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.

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.

Here's 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.

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.

We can't wait to see you there!

The Way to Get Visitors:

2007-11-18T19:21:00.000-05:00

post images obtained from Google image search. Especially popular: cheesy Christian-themed photos (e.g., hands holding blocks that spell "grace") and orange monkeys.

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.

We know why they're looking for grace.

"The Warrior is a Child"

2007-11-04T18:50:00.001-05:00

Tomorrow I begin a long-term substitute position (until December 7) at Warner Robins Middle School. 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.

I'm just in time to go through training for writing test preparation.

I'm just in time to be the one preparing them for the 8th grade writing test in January.

I'm just in time to hand out progress reports for work someone else assigned and graded.

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.

Kevin's Assignment

2007-10-31T01:13:00.000-04:00

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 Sleepless in Seattle saying, "It's just a million little things..."

-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)

-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)

-a dead squirrel on the stoop when I had gone through long season of writer's block

-the exact song/sermon I needed to hear being sung/preached at church or played on the radio (how many times has this happened?)

-the time I found a bunch of cheap copies of Wild at Heart to give to my guy friends

-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

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.

Most exotic visitors

2007-10-30T09:48:00.000-04:00

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. Foarte interesant!

Play that tape again...

2007-10-27T00:03:00.000-04:00

Last night at my ladies' group we were talking about our recent experience at Tres Dias, some of us as workers, some as attendees. It was awesome to do together what Bobbe, leader of the weekend, said she had done individually all week long: replay the weekend in her mind.

When she used that phrase, the Holy Spirit brought to mind a particular part of our theme verse for the weekend. Psalm 103:2 says, "Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits" (NIV). I got the picture of me and God viewing a tape of my life. Forgetting not His benefits is like rewinding back to all the best parts--the times He's proven his faithfulness so indisputably, the promises He's fulfilled, the healing He's granted, the truths He's illuminated--and dwelling on them. Everyone who knows me well has heard me quote lines (repeatedly!) from You've Got Mail, Pride and Prejudice, and Sabrina. I rewind to those funny or poignant moments I love time and time again. As Christians, we're called to do that with the moments of our lives, offering them back to God in praise, repeating them to others as testimonies of His grace.

I believe the Father loves it when we come to Him, childlike, and say, "Daddy, 'member dat time...?" Of course He remembers, but isn't it fun to tell those old stories? There's no quicker way to build faith than to replay the tape.

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him; How I've proved Him o'er and o'er!
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! O for grace to trust Him more!

Good stuff from Oswald Chambers

2007-10-23T18:55:00.000-04:00

A portion of today's reading from MUfHH:

When we are born again, the Holy Spirit begins to work His new creation in us, and there will come a time when there is not a bit of the old order left, the old solemnity goes, the old attitude to things goes, and "all things are of God." How are we going to get the life that has no lust, no self-interest, no sensitiveness to pokes, the love that is not provoked, that thinketh no evil, that is always kind? The only way is by allowing not a bit of the old life to be left; but only simple perfect trust in God, such trust that we no longer want God's blessings, but only want Himself. Have we come to the place where God can withdraw His blessings and it does not affect our trust in Him? When once we see God at work, we will never bother our heads about things that happen, because we are actually trusting in our Father in Heaven Whom the world cannot see.

A poem from my thesis that will never get published

2007-10-16T23:01:00.000-04:00

I won't share any poems that might make it into a journal someday, but here's a poem from my thesis that was okay at the time but not really publishable. It's one of a series about the Poet, a stereotypical old white male poet type on at least his second marriage; "recovering" from some religion or other and vaguely associated with Buddhism; supremely pompous, though in an Everyman sort of guise; and so well-known in the poetry world that anything he writes will be published, good or not.

The best of my Poet poems will hopefully get picked up by a magazine, so it won't appear here. This one was more something I had to write, a working-out of some issues about Poetry that I was dealing with at the time. Most poets who talk about religion in their work are post-church people, and the dreaded f-word of academe is not that nasty one that rolls regularly of most tongues these days, but fundamentalism. Truth is fluid, art semi-divine--really, it's the only thing safe to believe in.

The in-jokes (among other things) are what make it less a good poem than a good exercise (or exorcising of some stuff), but it's thought-provoking, at least.

The Cult of Art

The Poet, a Buddhist if he’s anything,
says I can’t believe in poetry and capital-G
god, says I’ll have to choose.

I always knew it.

But how to give up poetry, how to
shun her goddesses with an oh-well
shrug? Can’t I just mix spirits
and saints, chants and prayers?
Drink bubbling potions and
communion wine?

No, he warns. We dare not
risk such mixing. Leave experiments
to science—this is Art. Here
is the blank white page. We
write holy writ. Your muse is
jealous, Dearie, jealous as any
O.T. God, and, Vengeance—
well, she saith it’s hers, too.

How can I risk the silence
of the goddess? How dare I
risk the holy wrath of God?
How much longer can I live
in the eye of this Venn, these
intersecting rings of flame?

Other writers circle us, say
the Poet’s full of mumbo-
jumbo, say I’m too dramatic.
What choice? What incompatibility?
Think of Milton, they say,
of King David, of Gerard
Manley Hopkins. Worship
is Art, Art worship. Jesus,
Allah, YHWH, it doesn’t matter.
You might even follow the Poet
as he follows the Buddha. We are
all artists here, followers of
Art—full of love and
questions. Seekers.

From the corner, Art eyes
us, an elephant wild for
peanuts just beyond her
reach. Should the seekers
notice, they would dress her
statuesque in red and gold,
call her shrieks songs, make
obeisance. But they’re not
paying attention, and I don’t
care to see the spectacle.
My reasonable act of worship:
to remember she’d like to devour
me, and to fear that power.

Words I occasionally have trouble spelling

2007-10-15T18:35:00.000-04:00

license
exercise
separate
conscious
some -ible word that I can't recall at present

I usually catch myself, but my first instinct is to misspell these words. Also, more often than not, I type to when I mean too and you when I mean your.

That is all.

Two Years Ago...

2007-10-10T23:13:00.000-04:00

I looked like a hippie and Aubie was a little tiny thing. I missed Mountain Day this past weekend (we're at Berry in the video for that very occasion), so I guess I'm a little sentimental.

But our boy will be able to enjoy it next year. Can you believe how small Aubs was? I love this funny little moment in time.

I can't believe he's really here.

2007-10-07T00:02:00.000-04:00

Until I get new camera batteries, you'll just have to take my word for it on how adorable our new little monkey is. Or Heather's. Or the Douglases', though I believe Little Daniel was a mite disappointed that he wasn't a different color.

"Daniel want wittle owange baby right here" was one of his reactions at their hospital visit yesterday.

Can't wait to see Baby Douglas III--hopefully in a traditional baby hue.

Update: Cue Lavar Burton saying "You don't have to take my word for it." You can just look here.

September 22, 2007: Mr. Matthew Steven Stout to Miss Sara Elyzabeth Greene

2007-10-06T20:36:00.000-04:00

Best man? Why, yes, I am.

Lovely attendees and lovely bride

Lost, lost, lost...

2007-10-03T16:48:00.000-04:00

I've lost my marbles.

Well, not quite, but I'm kind of disturbed. Today I met with a career counselor from the Georgia Department of Labor, and we had a nice talk. She's offered to contact Mercer University Press (where her husband, now a prof at Macon State, once worked) to see if they have anything available. She's also going to work with me on making my resume better, something I've needed to do for some time but haven't really known what direction to take.

Why? Simple enough ... because I don't know where I'm going. I have a great Alice in Wonderland quote on my wall that kind of sums things up:

Alice: Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?
The Cheshire Cat: That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.
A: I don't much care where ...
CC: Then it doesn't much matter which way you go.
A: ... so long as I get somewhere.
CC: Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.

Lately the running theme at meetings like this one, informational interviews, and even initial job interviews, has been this question, or one like it:

So, Leah, what do you want to do?

"Heck if I know" sounds flighty and just plain sad for someone pushing 30, and it's not quite accurate. It's more like I have 17 possible directions that won't work right this second, at least not in the Middle Georgia area.

Plus a few directions I would have taken years ago if I'd been brave. I'll spare you the YGM quote that comes to mind.

Commendation

2007-10-01T22:18:00.000-04:00

At the various Sovereign Grace conferences I've been privileged to attend, one truth has emerged for me: the leadership of this ministry is comprised of readers, and it is their expectation that growing Christians should be purposeful readers as well. To that end, they're always "commending" resources--seems like everyone uses that word. I guess it makes sense: if I've never heard of the book before, it's a commendation, not a re-commendation. Anyway, one of the books I heard commended long ago was Spiritual Disciplines for the Christian Life, by Donald S. Whitney. I finally picked it up at this year's New Attitude conference, and I finally got around to reading it over the past few months (with long breaks along the way to read other things).

The foremost hindrance to my growth as a Christian, a writer, and anything else I've tried to be in my life is a lack of discipline. Though I know a lot about the Bible, I've been undisciplined in my study. Though I believe in the benefits of prayer, my prayer life has been iffy at best. And though I had heard of the various elements of Christian practice being called disciplines, it wasn't until I read this book that I gave much serious thought to the connection between my lack of discipline and my lack of victorious living. I mean, I did--I've been talking about my need to be more regular with "quiet times" since middle school--but I guess I never really allowed myself to envision growth as a process I could choose to get better at. Like disciplining myself in eating will not fail to effect changes in my body, disciplining myself in the spiritual disciplines "for the purpose of godliness" (1 Tim. 4:7) will not fail to change me inside ... I will be more godly as a result.

The book opens with an invitation to be disciplined with an end in mind, which shouldn't be a new idea to me, but somehow was:

Discipline without direction is drudgery.

Imagine six-year-old Kevin, whose parents have enrolled him in music lessons. After school every afternoon, he sits in the living room and reluctantly strums "Home on the Range" while watching his buddies play baseball in the park across the street. That's discipline without direction. It's drudgery.

Now suppose Kevin is visited by an angel one afternoon during guitar practice. In a vision he's taken to Carnegie Hall. He's shown a guitar virtuoso giving a concert. Usually bored by classical music, Kevin is astonished by what he sees and hears. The musician's fingers dance excitedly on the strings with fluidity and grace. Kevin thinks of how stupid and clunky his hands feel when they halt and stumble over the chords. The virtuoso blends clean, soaring notes into a musical aroma that wafts from his guitar. Kevin remembers the toneless, irritating discord that comes stumbling out of his.

But Kevin is enchanted. His head tilts slightly to one side as he listens. He drinks in everything. He never imagined that anyone could play the guitar like this.

"What do you think, Kevin?" asks the angel.

The answer is a soft, slow, six-year-old's "W-o-w!"

The vision vanishes, and the angel is again standing in front of Kevin in his living room. "Kevin," says the angel, "the wonderful musician you saw is you in a few years." Then pointing at the guitar, the angel declares, "But you must practice!"

Suddenly the angel disappears and Kevin finds himself alone with his guitar. Do you think his attitude toward practice will be different now? As long as he remembers what he's going to become, Kevin's discipline will have a direction, a goal that will pull him into the future. Yes, effort will be involved, but you could hardly call it drudgery.

Though this little story may have been a bit over the top, it got to me, because it reminded me that I've never had much spiritual discipline at all. And the reasons for that are on two extremes. Sometimes, like little Kevin, I have failed to visualize an end result to my practice, and my Christianity has instead be a list of shoulds. Worse still, I have sometimes seen myself as the virtuoso when I'm actually still plunking along on "Home on the Range."

Spiritual Disciplines for the Christian Life includes chapters on Bible intake, prayer, worship, evangelism, serving, stewardship, fasting, silence and solitude, journaling, and learning, and I found myself greatly challenged by each. Though the writing is occasionally dry, Whitney peppers the material with enough personal stories and imaginative little analogies like this one to keep this reader interested. My desire to grow in godliness through the spiritual disciplines has greatly increased with the reading of this book. I commend and recommend it.

Well, it's 70 dollars more than we had.

2007-10-01T11:56:00.001-04:00

I am saddened to announce that I am finally over it. My love for yard sales (on the hosting end, that is) is over. Though I'm sure I will continue to frequent them throughout my life--even if I marry into money or get rich in some other fortuitous fashion--I don't feel tempted to have another one. Ever.

Or at least not until next spring, when we'll have free advertising again with the biannual Beaver Glen Homeowners Association Community Yard Sale. But only if I'm really, really broke.

Only my sister...

2007-09-26T23:41:00.000-04:00

would know what kind of feeling I'm describing when I say, "This feels like a late-night club-sandwich supper at Disney World."

Only I would know what she means when she says, "This gum kinda tastes like Pine-Sol, like Mimi's on a Saturday."

How great to have a relationship with such specific similes.

Aaaargh!

2007-09-20T10:26:00.001-04:00

Well, Talk Like a Pirate Day was a bust yesterday. Daniel woke Saige up at 7:45 with a piratical phone call--he was hoping to get voicemail. When I tried to get in on the spirit, I came into Aubie's room with a flourish and said, "Aaargh, little lass, be ye talkin' like a pirate?" or something like that.

She ran away from me with a frown. Apparently, pirates are scary. At least the one we had seen at Sam's club the day before was. Maybe I sounded like him.

The description at samsclub.comsaid, " Hmmm....It's pretty clear this is not a toy, and what else would children do with it? What else would you do with it? Post it as a scarecrow on your farm? Use it to practice the tango when your dance partner isn't available? Some warnings suggest weird possibilities.

Why, yes, I AM a Relating Promoter

2007-09-18T22:25:00.000-04:00

So I applied for the job of administrative assistant with the high school ministry at Ingleside, and they had me do a few online assessments, the Keirsey temperament sorter (I'm an Idealist Teacher) and this DISC thing I'd never heard of. On the latter, I didn't like many of the questions or the way it felt like you would look bad no matter what you picked (four choices per question with a choice of which you're most and least like, no in-betweens). After hating almost every question (not sure how many--just a 10-minute test) but trying to be as honest as possible, I got the most spot-on results I have ever gotten from such an assessment. Even if I don't get the job, it was worth applying for this amazing thing. It's long, but I'm gonna post the whole thing:

Leah prefers working for a participative manager. She does her best work in this kind
of environment. She likes feedback from her manager on how she is doing. She is most
likely to be at her best in situations where important things, such as values, judgments,
feelings and emotions are involved. She prides herself on her "intuition." She can be
friendly with others in many situations, but primarily with groups of established friends and
associates. She is sociable and enjoys the uniqueness of each human being. Leah can be
seen as a person of good will. She likes public recognition for her achievements. One of
her motivating factors is recognition and "strokes." She is usually filled with good
intentions, but often lacks the time to fulfill them. Her goal is to have and make many
friends. At work, she is good at maintaining friendly public relations. Leah influences most
people with her warmth. She can combine and balance enthusiasm and patience.

Leah will not be overlooked nor uninvolved. She will consistently try to inspire people
to her point of view. Because of her trust and willing acceptance of people, she may
misjudge the abilities of others. She prefers not disciplining people. She may sidestep
direct disciplinary action because she wants to maintain the friendly relationship. When
she has strong feelings about a particular problem, you should expect to hear these
feelings, and they will probably be expressed in an emotional manner. Leah likes to
participate in decision making. She is good at solving problems that deal with people. She
is good at giving verbal and nonverbal feedback that serves to encourage people to be
open, to trust her and to see her as receptive and helpful. She likes working for managers
who make quick decisions.

Leah judges others by their verbal skills and warmth. She can get emotional about
any subject in which she believes. She has a tendency, which she regards as an ability, to
talk smoothly, readily and at length. She may use her time imprecisely because she likes
to talk to people. Leah is highly excited by what influences her. It is important for Leah to
use her people skills to "facilitate" agreement between people. She tends to look at all the
things the group has in common, rather than key in on the differences. She tends to mask
some of her directness in friendly terms and is usually recognized as a friendly and trusting
person. She is good at negotiating conflict between others. Leah feels that "if everyone
would just talk it out, everything would be okay!"

UPDATE: I interviewed today, and I believe it went well. It was mostly a character assessment with some job stuff thrown in--you know those Baptists! I won't find out whether I'm moving on to Round 2 until the end of next week, though. In the meantime, I hope to be substituting while continuing to look for other leads. I'm supposed to get my sub badge in the next day or so.

Listen, if any of you hear of anything (besides childcare, Heather) that sounds promising, let me know. I'm open to suggestions for where to look next.

More PowerPoint Creations

2007-09-15T01:07:00.000-04:00

Several weeks ago, I was trying to come up with some ideas for ads in a few hours. Who knows why I decided to send off a popsicle-stick-and-paste production to a real advertising agency, but I figured they might be impressed with my ingenuity. If I can make interesting things using only Paint and Power Point on a PC (with no real knowledge of computers), surely I could do great things with the proper tools and training. Faulty logic, since advertising jobs are hard to come by and you usually have to have the polish of ad school, but it was fun whipping these up anyway. I created a fictional brand called unREAL that is honest about makeup's inherit dishonesty. They're for real with women about the masks we wear--and they're okay with it. Anyway, there will never be such a company, but if there were, I thought these would be good ads:

Taking orders

2007-09-14T21:54:00.001-04:00

Here's the design I'm going to print on a t-shirt for Aubie soon.

The gal loves her pancakes.

Anybody else want one? A t-shirt, not a pancake. Of course, if it takes off like Pig in a Rose (which went international in June), I'll have to do another Google image search and find out who to get copyright permission from.

Carlos and Tammy

2007-09-06T10:31:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, the subject of marrying a Mexican immigrant so that he could stay in the U.S. came up amongst some girlfriends--don't ask how; it doesn't matter. Many times I've looked at the couples in the grocery store or the bank, the tiny little Latino guy and the tall, fat white woman with stair-step kids trailing them. This particular coupling was more common in Rome than it is here, the large mills and factories a more attractive landing place for workers looking to stick around. And I've wondered: are any of them ever in love?

Our conversation made me think of a little homework assignment I had done on this very subject. We were supposed to copy the structure of a scene from the book we were reading, and since the book was originally written in Spanish, I chose to thematically relate my scene a tiny bit as well. I am no fiction writer, but I found that setting up a scene the way an author does helped me get the flow of a scene better. In the book I imitated, a scene opens with an announcement of what the two main characters, Irene and Franciso, are going to do, then cuts “back to the future”—what Francisco remembers about a past event, which, in the present action of the book, hasn’t happened yet. Then, the scene that should come next chronologically is jumped. As the scene continues, after the part I’m imitating, the characters tell their experience as a story, which the others discuss when they finish telling it. (I didn't get to that part--it was homework, so I rushed!) The whole situation, dialogue, characters, etc., are mine, I just copied structure.

Something wanted to make me keep going with these people, and not only finish the scene, but write a whole story, because the romantic in me wants to believe that some of those odd pairings at the grocery store are Carlos and Tammy. Misunderstood. But happy.

“Well, we could just get married. I imagine there are chapels in Gatlinburg that are open twenty-four hours. It’s the Vegas of the South as far as weddings go.”

Later, Tammy would laugh when she remembered that sudden dawning of realization in Carlos’s eyes. It was something the pop songs all try to translate into salable lyrics, concise bits of nonsense to describe that moment when the lights come on. She had even fewer words for it that night, when they were young and dumb, ready to get out of Rome and less in love than they were just anxious to do something. For him, it was all mixed up and had something to do with a future, with getting his mama and little sisters safe in Los Estados Unidos, come hell or high water. For her, it was about shocking all her relations and getting a fine hunk of brownness in the process. That real love could dawn so suddenly, well, it was crazy to think about now, and not a process she’d recommend for Rosalita or Greer or James. But that’s all it took—her joke did something in them both, just felt right. And without so much as a toothbrush they were headed the 200 miles north to Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

They got back around four in the afternoon on Monday. Carlos had Labor Day off from his job at the mill, but he hadn’t earned any vacation time yet, and with this new situation of theirs, he certainly couldn’t afford to lose it. When they walked into the kitchen, Momma was at the sink rinsing raggedy eggs as she chipped off their shells tiny bits at a time. She always used fresh eggs, against the warnings of the cooking shows, and the egg process was usually like this, ugly and slow. But her potato salad was a staple of holiday meals and church potlucks, loved and attempted by everybody. She gave out her recipe freely, but it never tasted quite the same unless Melba Greer fixed it. That yellow afternoon, chicken sizzled in the bubbling Fry Daddy, and the unmistakable scent of buttermilk biscuits made the kitchen smell like always, like home. Tammy stared at her mother’s round rump, the flour handprint on her black elastic-waist pants that her step-dad Bobby probably put there like an idiot.

The first thing Melba did when she finally turned around and saw them was pour two glasses of sweet tea. She didn’t hate Carlos, and she appreciated his humble respect for her Southern cooking, the way he complimented her biscuits and sweet tea. His first glass had been in her kitchen, and she was sure the one she poured wouldn’t be his last.

Tammy felt for the first time a little bit of what Saturday night’s adventure might mean. This warm kitchen—this kitchen with its memories of milk bubble-blowing contests with J.T.; of learning to make biscuits with Granny Jean; of watching Momma’s back as she fixed and fixed while she and J.T. sat at the table Grandaddy made for Momma’s first wedding, to Daddy; of slumping over math homework—might never again feel as much like home. She’d had a single-wide trailer on Nana’s land in Cartersville for about six months, but it wasn’t home yet, and that dinky kitchen where she made dinner for Carlos and Rio and Mike Sanchez sometimes when they came to visit had no atmosphere, could never be home. Momma would be angry, and she might tell them to stay away. Maybe for good. That afternoon, studying the back of her mother’s curly brown head as she chipped away at the eggs, Tammy felt more love for her than she ever had, and suddenly the weekend’s rebellion seemed a bit childish. But there was Carlos Paez at the kitchen table, sinewy arm crooked, guzzling golden-brown tea. Looking like a man. Like a husband. Like a papa.

“You two look like you been up to no good.” Bobby yawned as he walked into the kitchen, scratching his belly through a white t-shirt.

“We got married Saturday night.” Carlos beamed.

“What the—” Bobby started, jokingly, when a look from Melba told him he’d better not even think about cussing. So he just laughed.

Melba smiled, barely amused. She had noticed something in Tammy’s countenance she didn’t like, and though she thought this elopement most likely a joke, she didn’t want the truth just yet. Bobby would make a scene if it were true. He’d had just enough beer to make him testy.

“Carlos has certainly acquired a sense of humor, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has. We really ought to take you on the road, Baby,” Tammy shot him a look.

“A joke? Oh, okay. Tha’s right. Jus’ kidding.”

“Wait a second, Carlos,” said Bobby, looking, maybe for the first time, into his twinkling black eyes. “I’ve never known you to joke, Son…”

R.I.P.

2007-09-05T20:39:00.000-04:00

I can remember his voice on Sunday mornings as a child, while I struggled to find a pair of lacy socks with the lace intact.

His E.E. program forms a big part of my memories from those early eighties years at Evergreen: Mom and Dad's blue books with the fish globe, Momma's little pin with the two questions, the ring of cards with all the great verses and illustrations for sharing the gospel, regular Tuesday night visitation.

The program was formulaic, yes, but those two simple questions are still great tools for getting to the heart of the matter:

1. Have you come to the place in your spiritual life where you know for certain that if you were to die tonight you would go to heaven?

2.Suppose you were to die tonight and stand before God and He were to say to you, "Why should I let you into My heaven?" What would you say?

I'm glad he knew the right answer to them.

Goodbye, Dr. D. James Kennedy.

Seeing

2007-09-04T13:57:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm already bored with blogging, so I've been digging through some old stuff to find post material. This little piece is something I wrote back in 2004 for a short homework exercise. I think she just gave us the title, "Seeing." This is what I came up with:

“Y’all know I’m gonna flunk all them,” Dr. Dillard’s shocking statement rang out in Southern twang across the blank white space that was room 209. We had just heard again the shuffle of five or six pairs of feet down the linoleum of the hall, once again noticed the empty chairs where young men had been at the beginning of class. Old Dr. Dillard, more than legally blind in both eyes, with just enough vision to see something on a page if he stuck his face up really close to it with a magnifying glass, could not notice, could not inspect the empty seats. But he knew all the same. He had heard even better than we girls had those shuffles out of class, noted even more than we did the absence of male voices. All semester long, each of the five or so males in English 102 had made his exit long before class ended. At first, they left after the break, but towards the end of the semester they became more brazen, leaving after a few minutes if they chose to come at all. On this particular day they left right after an announcement about end-of-the-semester matters, just into the first few minutes of class. So he shared his plan.

I was always confused when I talked to my friend Traci about my feelings for Dr. Dillard. She had him in another section and absolutely adored him, even choosing to take him the next semester for 201. But I couldn’t stand his class. In fact, one of the most entertaining moments was when he dared those selfsame deserters with a question that was all too a propos: “Well, why don’t you just leave instead of sittin’ here list’nin’ to this lecture that goes on and on in a boring way-ee?”

I hated the way he made his coffee on his desk with those newfangled Folgers Singles, slowly dipping the bag up and down with his Stevie Wonder expression. I hated the way he slowly swept his tongue over his thin lips and lizard teeth. I hated the 68 he gave me on my first paper, even though I did end up with an A in the class. I hated the ugly age spots on his face and hands. But most of all, I hated the silence. He talked, then silence. He talked again, then silence. Nobody contributed anything to class, and that meant more of his boring lectures, more fighting the impulse to fall asleep on a man who couldn’t see it happening.

One day I realized that my hatred wasn’t really about his habits at all (though his teeth were quite ugly, and he licked them every day). It was really about my relationship with him, and even my relationship with his disability. The truth was, I didn’t know how to deal with him. As a freshman, I expected to either love and respect my teachers, or to dislike and be annoyed by them. Dr. Dillard didn’t fit into those neat categories. Instead, I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry that people tried to take advantage of him. I felt sorry that he couldn’t see. I felt sorry that his teeth were so pitiful, that he didn’t know how ugly he was.

And I didn’t know how to answer the question of why his class was so boring. I guess it didn’t occur to me (and even in my discussions with Traci it just didn’t seem possible) that he got a dud class, that even the most lively, spirited, seeing professor might not have inspired those boys who always left, those girls who wouldn’t speak. Instead my pity turned to irritation, and I obsessed over those little idiosyncrasies as if they were a real reason to dislike him, a real reason to write him off as a “bad teacher.”

But on this last day of class before the final, something changed. In his simple declaration to the rest of us of how he was going to have his revenge on those sneaky twerps, I glimpsed for just a moment a vision of the teacher I might’ve had, had his students been the class they should’ve been. My pity melted away, and I saw him for who and what he was. And in that moment of just pride, of joyful vindication, he had something of nobility about him. In that moment, he was almost beautiful.

Oh well.

2007-09-03T15:05:00.000-04:00

This is sad.

Here goes.

2007-09-03T02:45:00.000-04:00

Well, I guess I'd rather be a part of the club than not. I'm really jealous of Heather's list idea (Number Your Paper), so perhaps I'll have a list blog, too. Or a two-sentence-entry blog of random thoughts. Then when I get to 152 posts...SILENCE. I may not even last that long. But we'll see. Writing something every day is bettter than nothing.

I know none of my dear friends will have to ask the reason for the name, but lest any reader not recognize it and think I've suddenly gone Hallmarky, check out the inspiration .