I don't know if it's my favorite season, but I sure love spring. After a long, harsh winter there are few things more wonderful than seeing the first buds on the trees, the first grass-cutting, the first Chaco-wearing days of the year.
Spring is a fresh start. It's a beautiful taste of hope. It's a reminder of God's promise that He will make all things new.
I had a harsh life-winter that began in May. When I say "this summer," I generally mean the time between graduation in May and when I moved back to Baptist Country in January. "This summer" is synonymous with "life winter"--the harsh season that makes you wonder if spring will ever come again.
I grew up on the Great Lakes region. We start getting snow around Thanksgiving and it doesn't usually stop until March. A white Christmas is expected. A white Easter is not unusual. After being buried in white nastiness for five months out of the year, you do begin to truly wonder if you'll ever be able to leave your house without a parka, ear muffins, and gloves. You dream about days when your first appointment of the day is not with the snow blower. You stop praying for snow days after spring break.
Harsh winters make spring all the more enjoyable. Suddenly the temperature reaches 50 and people are outside in shorts and t-shirts. The smell of spring makes everyone crave hamburgers. People realize walking to the mailbox will not result in frostbite.
Spring.
Hope.
Around here, the same time when the temperature soared to above freezing, I went inside to a new job. I'm still a freelance writer but this job involves showing up for work four or five days a week. I don't love my alarm going off every morning, but I do love my job. We laugh, we tease, we eat Reese's peanut butter cups with smiley faces.
The work is within my qualifications, the pay more than I was making before, the people great, and the company ideal.
Spring.
Hope.
I declared 2012 the year of hope, and by February I was pretty sure I had used up my annual quota.
Then the flowers started to bud, the snowmen began to melt, and the temperature rose. Hope was restored.
What is spring bringing for you?
<>< Katie
Showing posts with label Chacos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chacos. Show all posts
Friday, March 23, 2012
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Does this match?
Even though I'm not doing anything particularly strenuous during the day, I'm ready for bed by the end of it. The other night, I trudged back to my apartment sometime between 8:30 and 9. I was ready to take a shower, put on my pajamas, and chill for the next few hours. It was going to be great.
Then I remembered the prayer walk at 10pm. I took a shower and opted against walking around campus in my pajamas because they're really classy. I put on a "better," comfy outfit instead. My only non-pajama sweatpants are bright blue, and they match literally nothing. I call them my dentist pants because they look like scrubs. I didn't want to dirty another shirt, so I pulled on a brown wife-beater tank top. Ok, not runway attire but not bad for lounging around either. Until I put on my black Chacos and red pull-over polar fleece. Except at the prayer walk it was too hot for the polar fleece, so I tied it around my waist. Oh, and my hair was still wet from the shower. Maybe my pajamas would have been a better choice.
Honestly, I didn't really care. Or at least I didn't think I did. It was dark and people could only see my silhouette. However, the further we prayer walked the more annoyed with myself I became. Why did I have to bring the polar fleece? (Oh, yeah, I'm from the north were the temperature drops dramatically at night. I forget it doesn't do that here). Why did I buy/ why do I wear the dentist pants? Maybe some other shoes would have been a better choice. Why am I so awkwardly skinny?
It was in that awful self-loathing session that I realized I am comfortable in who I am.
Huh? Let me explain.
Even though I looked like a dope, I didn't run from a social event. In fact, I made jokes about wanting to return to the 90s and the drown rat look I was sporting. I can laugh at myself. I dropped my socks in the toilet for goodness sake!
As I was thinking about this I realized that in the days and months to come girls who have worse image problems than I do are going to walk these same sidewalks. My heart broke for them. What may be a love-sass for me might be devastating for them. I began to petition to the Lord to heal their insecurities, give them comfort, and show them acceptance. Let them see that they are beautiful on the inside and out. Let them feel loved.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: tell her she's beautiful.
"You are altogether beautiful, My love; there is no flaw in you."
- Song of Solomon 4:7
I love you all,
<>< Katie
Then I remembered the prayer walk at 10pm. I took a shower and opted against walking around campus in my pajamas because they're really classy. I put on a "better," comfy outfit instead. My only non-pajama sweatpants are bright blue, and they match literally nothing. I call them my dentist pants because they look like scrubs. I didn't want to dirty another shirt, so I pulled on a brown wife-beater tank top. Ok, not runway attire but not bad for lounging around either. Until I put on my black Chacos and red pull-over polar fleece. Except at the prayer walk it was too hot for the polar fleece, so I tied it around my waist. Oh, and my hair was still wet from the shower. Maybe my pajamas would have been a better choice.
Honestly, I didn't really care. Or at least I didn't think I did. It was dark and people could only see my silhouette. However, the further we prayer walked the more annoyed with myself I became. Why did I have to bring the polar fleece? (Oh, yeah, I'm from the north were the temperature drops dramatically at night. I forget it doesn't do that here). Why did I buy/ why do I wear the dentist pants? Maybe some other shoes would have been a better choice. Why am I so awkwardly skinny?
It was in that awful self-loathing session that I realized I am comfortable in who I am.
Huh? Let me explain.
Even though I looked like a dope, I didn't run from a social event. In fact, I made jokes about wanting to return to the 90s and the drown rat look I was sporting. I can laugh at myself. I dropped my socks in the toilet for goodness sake!
As I was thinking about this I realized that in the days and months to come girls who have worse image problems than I do are going to walk these same sidewalks. My heart broke for them. What may be a love-sass for me might be devastating for them. I began to petition to the Lord to heal their insecurities, give them comfort, and show them acceptance. Let them see that they are beautiful on the inside and out. Let them feel loved.
I've said this before and I'll say it again: tell her she's beautiful.
"You are altogether beautiful, My love; there is no flaw in you."
- Song of Solomon 4:7
I love you all,
<>< Katie
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Tractor on Fire; Katie on Tractor
When it comes to household jobs, cutting the grass is my favorite. I get to fly around the yard, write, and get paid for it. Sweet!
I'm quite a sight when I cut the grass. Today I am wearing a blaze orange shirt, not quite matching the orange of my tractor, and brown shorts with black Chacos (I'm looking to enhance the Zorro-like tanlines on my feet). To top it off, I'm wearing my notorious cowboy hat, I have a blue Off! fan latched to my shorts, and my iPod is strapped to my thigh using the elastic band intended for a runner's arm. Yeah, really pretty.
I'm lost deep in thought, memories, and stories that may someday be blog-worthy when all of the sudden I hear this nasty noise. It kind of sounds like I ran over something, but I haven't. I keep going and there is a second noise, not as loud as the first. At the third noise, I stop the tractor. I see Mom inside the house walking towards me as I turn it off.
"Did you hear that?" I ask.
She assures me she has and asks what it was. Like I know. Then she tells me the tractor was smoking.
I hop off the tractor. "It's on fire," I say. "Yes, I see a flame." Keep in mind, I hate fire. Been there; done that. Lived to tell the tale; have the scars to prove it.
Mom runs to get the fire extinguisher, her trademark move. From a reasonable distance, I watch the grass burn. There is only one flame, but it is bigger than you would see on a candle.
"Do I even know how to work this?" She asks as she pulled the pin out of the fire extinguisher. She pushes the levers together and it blows a fog-like gas. Well, the wind take it and it showers me with fire extinguisher fluid.
The flame goes out, our tractor needs to be serviced, our fire extinguisher needs to be inspected, and the grass still needs to be cut. Oh, and I smell like Off!, grease, freshly cut grass, forget me nots, smoke, and fire extinguisher.
When we tell Dad what happened, he just laughs. And laughs. And laughs. He's now outside trying to fix the poor piece of flaming machinery. I told him to scream if he needs me to call 911. All quiet in the front.
I'm fine, by the way. A little traumatized and just as pyro-phobic as ever, but it's just another day in the life...
<>< Katie
I'm quite a sight when I cut the grass. Today I am wearing a blaze orange shirt, not quite matching the orange of my tractor, and brown shorts with black Chacos (I'm looking to enhance the Zorro-like tanlines on my feet). To top it off, I'm wearing my notorious cowboy hat, I have a blue Off! fan latched to my shorts, and my iPod is strapped to my thigh using the elastic band intended for a runner's arm. Yeah, really pretty.
I'm lost deep in thought, memories, and stories that may someday be blog-worthy when all of the sudden I hear this nasty noise. It kind of sounds like I ran over something, but I haven't. I keep going and there is a second noise, not as loud as the first. At the third noise, I stop the tractor. I see Mom inside the house walking towards me as I turn it off.
"Did you hear that?" I ask.
She assures me she has and asks what it was. Like I know. Then she tells me the tractor was smoking.
I hop off the tractor. "It's on fire," I say. "Yes, I see a flame." Keep in mind, I hate fire. Been there; done that. Lived to tell the tale; have the scars to prove it.
Mom runs to get the fire extinguisher, her trademark move. From a reasonable distance, I watch the grass burn. There is only one flame, but it is bigger than you would see on a candle.
"Do I even know how to work this?" She asks as she pulled the pin out of the fire extinguisher. She pushes the levers together and it blows a fog-like gas. Well, the wind take it and it showers me with fire extinguisher fluid.
The flame goes out, our tractor needs to be serviced, our fire extinguisher needs to be inspected, and the grass still needs to be cut. Oh, and I smell like Off!, grease, freshly cut grass, forget me nots, smoke, and fire extinguisher.
When we tell Dad what happened, he just laughs. And laughs. And laughs. He's now outside trying to fix the poor piece of flaming machinery. I told him to scream if he needs me to call 911. All quiet in the front.
I'm fine, by the way. A little traumatized and just as pyro-phobic as ever, but it's just another day in the life...
<>< Katie
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