Retouched

As I was looking for a photo to use for my new LinkedIn account, it was suggested that I use one of the individual shots from the family portraits we had taken at Christmas time.

I remember that day. It was the dead of winter, a bad hair day, and I had three new pimples. Not ideal for family portrait day.

The photos turned out great. My eyes jump off the page; my skin is blemish-free. Everyone says they're beautiful, stunning... and they are. In a worldly sense.

Honestly, they make me sad. It's not the fault of the photographer; he did a great job. The retouchings are pristine, flawless, beautiful.

But is blemish-free and radiant blue eyes really what defines beautiful? In today's society: yes. As unfortunate as it is.

It has bothered me before but seeing my own face match those with "perfect, clear skin" punches me in the gut.

Do I like having red splotches on my face? No.
Do I shutter when I look back at photos taken on a particularly bad day? Yes.
Does this make me proud? Absolutely not.

I've heard it said one of the hardest things to trust God in and with is physical appearance. In seeing those retouched photos, I feel like I'm telling God, "You didn't do a good enough job; good thing my friend PhotoShop is here to help You out."

I don't want that attitude, and I don't want anyone else to be forced into that attitude.

It's not scriptural.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling, beautiful in every way."
Song of Solomon 4:7 NLT

"You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you."
Song of Solomon 4:7 ESV

(Sorry, I couldn't pick a translation... I love them both).

<>< Katie

PS: I am not condemning retouched photos; I am just expressing some concerns of my heart. Neither am I bashing the photographer. Someday I'll get married, I'll hire the same photographer (after all, he's my uncle), and I'll ask him to retouch my photos.

Providing Today's Entertainment

Well, we did it again.  Mom and I single-handily entertained everyone we encountered today.

It started innocently enough: I needed new glasses.  After church, we went to the mall and meandered towards the eye doctor's office.  Well, they didn't have any appointments until 2:15, so we ventured into the mall.  An hour and half later, we returned.

It was the same ole spiel.  "Can you read these letters?  What numbers are in dots?" I almost have that book memorized.  "Take your contacts out.  Now can you read the letters?  This puff if your eye is going to make you jump but it won't hurt.  Have a seat right here.  The doctor will see you shortly."

So there we sat.  Me half blind; Mom laughing at me.

The doctor came out and called my sister's name.  I almost, automatically, stood and corrected him.  People confuse my for my sister all of the time.  But there was another patient standing, so Mom and I just laughed.

Then he came back and asked for someone with my dad's name.  "Actually, this is Katie," Mom whispered to me.  We had another good laugh.

I've been going to this same place in the mall for years, but this was a new doctor I'd never met before.  You figure if he was working Sunday afternoon he probably wasn't very high on the totem pole.  However, every time he came back, we noticed he had a smile.  Well, Mom noticed. I just saw him as a big purple and black blob, but I think we have matching purple shirts.  We figured he was enjoying his job.

Finally, the doctor came out and called my name.  With a hand outstretched, he introduced himself.

"I can't see you," I said with a laugh.  He chuckled, I found his hand, and we shook. 

Then he led me back to the exam room.  "Just feel around until you find the big chair," he said.  My turn to laugh.  I'm not quite that blind. 

The exam went well, albeit not uneventful.
Doctor: Healthy blood flow.
Katie: Oh, good.
Doctor: No signs of glaucoma.
Katie: Oh, good.
Doctor: Your prescription needs to be updated but all looks good.
Katie: Oooh, yay!
He laughed.

To do: Entertain Opthamologist.  Check

Next on the to-do list was the more daunting task of picking out new glasses.  I narrowed it down to two but could not decide between them. 

Number one...
or
number two...

Finally, I put them both on at the same time to compare the two.  Well, someone saw me with two pairs of glasses on (and contacts back in by this point) and just started laughing.

To do: Entertain other patients.  Check.

The last thing we had to do was check out.  The store was super busy that day, so by this point Mom and I had been there for over an hour (not including the almost two hours we stalled prior to my appointment).  We were ready to go home.  Meaning we were more giggly, if that's possible.

Just in case the conversation between Mom and I wasn't enough to entertain the clerk, we threw her some jokes, too.  Most of which I don't remember.  I do remember she had a sheepish laugh when I told her I loved how her glasses matched her shirt.

To do: Entertain sales clerk.  Check.

Then she handed us the bill, and I was thoroughly confused: why were we paying to be their comic relief on a Sunday afternoon?

<>< Katie

"Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it." Hebrews 13:1-2

"Two in the Bed and the Little One Said..."

Everyone was still over watching Glee one Thursday night last year, but I had a different agenda: avoid the sixteen people in the living room and get to bed.

I accomplished my mission and was ready to head into dream-world when the bedroom door opened, shining light into my dark room.  I thought it was my roommate.  Until I saw a head pop up at the foot of my bed.  I slept in a loft last year, just far enough away from the ceiling that I could sit straight up.  The only people that climbed up there were me and whoever was attached to the head at the foot of my bed.

The head became shoulders and she army crawled towards me.

"Katie," she hissed.  "Are you asleep?"

I considered faking it, but I could not stifle my laughter.

"I didn't get a good night hug."

Melia crawled all of the way up to the head of my bed, gave me a hug, crawled backwards, and tried to climb down the ladder.  The ladder was built for me, and I am literally eight inches taller than she is.

This started a long-standing joke about how Melia was going to sleepover one night and sleep in my bed.

"I get the wall," she always called.  If someone was falling six feet out of bed, it was going to have to be me.

Over the summer, we shared a double bed one night.  But there was no wall side.

Last weekend, we had three friends visit us, all of whom needed places to sleep.  Our futon folds down to sleep two, but the third was out of luck.

Katie: Melia can sleep with me.
Melia: Seriously?
Katie: As long as I get the wall.

My bed is only four feet off of the ground this year, but that's still not a fall I want to make.

On Sunday night, Melia and I jumped into my bed and were pleasantly surprised to discover we both fit.  We had an agreement.  If either one of us couldn't sleep, we were going to take a spare blanket and sleep on the loveseat.  No hurt feelings.

Jennifer: If you guys can't sleep, wake me up.  One of you can sleep in my bed, and I'll sleep on the floor."

Jennifer seriously can sleep anytime, anywhere.  There are nights I'm up working on homework with the light on, music playing, and paper shuffling when I look over and notice she is asleep.

Melia: Do you have enough space?
Katie: Yup.  Do you have enough pillow?
Melia: Yes.  If I get too hot, I'm just going to do what I did this summer and throw all of the covers on you.
Katie: Perfect!

In the morning, Melia and I compared notes.  We both slept well.  I wasn't cold, first time ever.  The only real challenge was rolling over, but I only got poked in the eye once.

Jennifer had different notes.  She got a horrible night's sleep.  Quite possibly because she was afraid she would wake one of us up if she rolled over.  Now that's selflessness!  To be afraid to roll over at night because one of the girls in the other bed might wake up.

<>< Katie

Happy Birthday, Homeland

For the last ten years or so, my church has done a patriotic musical every Fourth of July, and I have made it part of my Independence Day celebration.  One of the songs we do is entitled "Salute to the Armed Forces" where we sing the song of every branch of our military.  When their song is sung, the veterans are told to stand.  The congregation and choir alike applaud them for their sacrifice as we sing together. 

It's a powerful moment.  Or string of moments.  It's amazing to be in the congregation as amen and women all around you stand and are honored for their willingness to give.  One year, I sang in the choir and sitting in the second row was a solider in his dress blues.  I don't know if there was a dry eye in the building.

This year, something a little bit different happened. After we applauded, without the prompting of the choir or the director, the entire congregation moved to keep the beat with our hands.  I wasn't quite sure how to handle this in my no clapping, barely sing along Lutheran congregation.  We were all clapping together and singing at the top of our lungs.

In ten years, that has never happened before.  It happened at both performances this year.  Wow.

Those men and women who stood and could not stand deserve more than a round of applause.  So many more gave the ultimate sacrifice in laying down their lives so that I can sit here and type this sentence.  So many of them suffered horrific injuries, physical and emotional.  They've experienced more than I can ever imagine and they did it all for us. 
Army.
Navy.
Coast Guard.
Air Force.
Marines.
Thank you!

Happy birthday, America.  I am so glad to call you my homeland.

<>< Katie

Single-Handedly Entertaining the World

At some point when I was in middle or high school, my sisters and/or I needed physical(s) for school and into the doctor's office piled our crew.  I can only imagine the dread that poor doctor felt walking into our loud room. Well, it quickly disappeared into a genuine smile. Without being obtrusive and preventing what needed to be done from getting done, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. A joke here and there, a fit of laughter now and again, and the room was full of smiles.

“He wishes he could be a fly on the wall in our house,” Mom said about the doctor as we walked out to the car. Of course, we asked how she could tell. She explained the authentic smile and the twinkle in his amused eyes.

Since Mom mentioned that, I’ve seen the same smile and shimmer in the eyes of other people. A store clerk here; a passer-by there. Last week I saw it on the neighbors sitting on their pier.

The five of us had gone for an hour and a half boat ride where we chased bald eagles, spied on turtles, and stirred up wake with our pontoon boat. The ride had to come to a close as our stomachs growled in hunger, so we brought the boat in for lunch. A light breeze glided across the lake and we came in too far away from our pier to dock on the first try. Mom leapt off but couldn’t grab the boat and pull it in manually.

Dad backed up and we tried again. We’d been teasing him that for four days he brought the boat in perfectly on the first try but on days five and six he started to lose his touch.

On the second try, Mom grabbed the bow and almost fell into the water between the boat the pier. I might add that by now we were all rolling in laughter. Laura leapt onto pier but failed to grab the stern. The bow was all but tied down while the stern tried to sail of to sea again. Which, of course, was amusing because normally the stern, the part of the boat that steers, is easy to control while it’s the bow that misbehaves. Well, we decided coming in stern towards the lake wasn’t going to work, so (with the bow still tied down) we swung the boat around and successfully parked bow-out. Problem: the propeller was digging in the sand. They untied the bow and Dad, Christina, and I went back out in the lake and spun the boat around.

On try three, we crashed into the pier head-on. Oops. Try four we couldn’t grab hands with Mom and Laura. Dad offered up a fishing pole for extra length but we decided that wasn’t the best idea. Try five and all of our energy stretching between the boat and the pier as we held onto each other for dear life, we finally successfully docked the boat without throwing anyone into “the drink."

That’s when we realized our problem: this was an alcohol-free boating experience. Every other time when Dad docked, he had already downed a beer or two. No one fell into the drink, but Dad needed a drink. From their pier and in between uncontrolled burst of laughter the neighbors offered Dad a beer.

It’s no wonder we have a tendency to be the loudest people everywhere we go: we enjoy ourselves. We’re not going to let a little breeze stop of us from an amusing boat ride!

<>< Katie

Tall and thin isn't great

I normally try to keep the blog a complain-free zone.  Today you're going to have to excuse me while I throw a temper tantrum.

"Oh my gosh, you are soooo skinny!"
Every single one of us have said it at some point in time.  Please, let's every single one of us erase this sentence from our vocabulary.  As well-meaning as it may be, it is often not well-received.

1. You wouldn't walk up to someone who's overweight and say, "Oh my gosh, you are sooooo fat."  Would you?

2. A lot of times it's followed up with a concern--either verbally or mentally--about how much the "stick" eats.  I understand and appreciate the concern.  Eating disorders are a problem in today's society, absolutely.  But do you really think your question about how much he/she eats is really the best way to approach the (suspected) problem?  I have a close friend who has strugged with an eating disorder.  She says comments, even complements, on her weight now are well-meaning but they make her cringe.  She hates words like "healthy" and "well" because of the connotations they have, even if those connotations are ones she's put on them.

As someone who has always been skinny, the question about what I eat is down right obnoxious and, frankly, borderline rude.  If you want to know about my eating habits, watch me devour a steak dinner.  It was delicious the first time.  There is no possible way I'd like to taste it a second.

3. "Try finding pants that fit." 
That's usually my response to people who feel the need to give me this counter-productive complement.  I've written many a blog-rant from fitting rooms as I'm choking back tears of frustrations.  It happened again today.  Before we left on our shopping excursion, Laura, Mom, and I took measurements.  My waist?  Yup, ended in a .5.  Hips?  --.75.  Inseam?  --.25.  It's no wonder clothes don't fit me!  We arrived at the store, and I picked out a pair of jeans one .5 larger than my measured waist.  They were great... if I were going for a muffin-top look.  I searched for pants one size bigger (which is really two sizes since all of the pants were even numbered).  Perfect, if I wanted to store a book in the back of my pants.  Mom miraculously was able to find the odd number, the middle size.  Too small in the front; too big in the back.  Just my luck!  Discouraged, we left, and I realized I have one alternative to this constant fight: nudist colony.

Please, I beg you, just leave the weight subject alone. If you must make a complement about a physical aspect of a girl's body, pick her hair, her eyes, her smile.  Tell her she's beautiful but don't use her weight to justify your opinion.

Thanks for letting me vent.  I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you agree or if you think I'm crazy.

<>< Katie

The Spin Cycle

I have two plastic bracelets on my right wrist as reminders of my busy, fantastic weekend. One glows in the dark. It was my admission ticket to a school dance and it now represents how badly Chris and I* stunk up the dance floor on Saturday. We concluded school dances were invented just to make people uncomfortable. I thought maybe it was just me but, no, it's not, it's the whole thing. If you don’t have a date: what do you do? If you do have a date: where to you put your hands, where do you look? Either way: why are those people making babies in public?

"Something wet just hit me in the face."
"It was either sweat or spit, take your pick. Ohh! Or urine. Can you see what color it was? Maybe it was blood."
Yuck!

My other plastic bracelet is hot pink, a much better dancing experience. Matthew, Hillary, Chris, and I went to a music festival on Sunday and spent a couple hours in the afternoon contra dancing, square dancing, and waltzing. Let me just put out there that I have never been so sticky and sweaty in my life, and I didn't know it could get this hot, much less in May.

I was very nervous about this since I'd never been contra dancing before. A lot of my friends talk about wearing flowing skirts and taking Dramamine before they go. Well, I was in jeans and there was no Dramamine in my personal pharmacy. I also had no idea what I was doing but I knew my hand was going to have to go onto the shoulders of sweaty strangers. Yuck!

Lucky for me, the first couple we were partnered with knew what they were doing. In contra dancing, there are two people important to you: your partner (Chris) and your neighbor (changes). My first neighbor showed me how to swing correctly. His last instruction was, "and look me in the eye." Excuse me, sir, but you are forty years my elder and six inches from my face. Looking you in the eye is not very high on my priority list today, sorry. I did it and it was awkward.

When I started writing this blog, I was going to muse aloud about the awkwardness of eye contact, when it's socially acceptable, when it's done poorly, etc. I was also going to ponder why it's acceptable to make eye contact while contra dancing but not ok while slow dancing.

Well, I figured out that one. On the plywood make-shift dance floor I quickly learned why I must face the awkwardness and look my neighbor in the eye: if you don't, you are going to get dizzy, but when your eyes are locked with the other person the world around you is spinning but you are focused on one place. I began to loathe the people who refused to make eye contact with me. Staring at his ear is not quite as effective.

The hardest part is coming out of the swing because, well, the room's still spinning and you are not. In one the dances we did you swing your neighbor then swing your partner. Finding my partner and swinging again without falling over was quite a challenge sometimes. That cannot be healthy, and, boy, am I out of shape.

On the last swing of the day, an elderly gentleman swung me, we locked eyes, and I felt like I was flying. Somehow, we even found the breath to exchange hellos. Like all good things that, too, came to an end and it was time to find Chris. Lucky for me, his arm was around my waist and I was flying again before I felt drunk. When the song was over, I stood there with my arms out trying to regain balance but I'd do it again. Every sweaty man I had to touch was worth those two swings.

When we locked eyes and began to move, nothing else mattered. The barn spun behind us but our eyes remained stable (no pun intended). The music continued but we were stopped in a single moment of time.
That's how God wants to dance with you: lock eyes and push out the spinning world. Maybe that's not possible in a literal fashion but can't you focus on Him amidst the brouhaha of everyday life? Let Him lead and never take your eyes off of Him.

Oh, and please don't contra dance on a cruise ship. You really might fall.

<>< Katie

*Nope, still not facebook official so shhh or I’m not blogging about him again.

Peace

I walked away from my desk and something white on my chair caught my eye.  At first I thought it was a piece of paper, but when I picked it up I instantly recognized it as one of the words from our fridge.  We have those "create-a-sentence" words stuck all over our fridge.  With three English majors living here I thought they'd get used more but they really don't.  For a long time our fridge has read:

Jesus drinks wine.  Amen.
Cry when you give blood.
Sister rejoice and embrace hope.
One red fish.

I chuckled to myself as I picked up the magnet pondering how on earth it got to my desk chair, but then I read it: PEACE.  I wanted to pocket it rather than returning it to the fridge.

At the end of the semester, peace is in short supply and high demand.  Even though I still have another year, every day is a day closer to graduation and I have no idea what I'm going after that.  Every wedding invitation I receive in the mail leaves me pensive about my own someday.  That all is if I live through the rest of this semester.  Two more weeks of papers, presentations, and finals before a 16-hour drive home that makes me leap back into my homelife at full speed.  Will I be healthy by then or is this not a cold?  What internship will I be doing this summer?  How will that go?  Will my horse with the Kentucky Derby?

Big questions + little questions = lots of questions

But ultimately, it doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter who put the peace piece on my desk either because it was a God-send and I needed it.

Peace,
<>< Katie