The Post in Which the Author Laments

It is the end of an era.  Saying goodbye to my parents in what we now affectionately call "The Crying Parking Lot" seems like forever ago.

"One Sunday afternoon in June" is very quickly becoming "a Monday morning in May."  That very expensive piece of paper is almost mine.  But I don't want it.

I'm not ready to leave.  I'm not ready to get a big girl job.  I'm not ready to start over.

I love it here.  It's why I prayerfully chose this place.  God has grown me and used me here.

I'm not the same woman I was four years ago when we cried in the parking lot.  All too soon I'll be crying in a different parking lot.  Pulling away from a place that has shaped me, formed me, and made me who I am.

As my peers discuss what dorm they're living in next year, I ponder what state (country?) I'll be in.  As they plan their schedule, I look at the classes I wish I could take.

When my parents, sisters, and I said goodbye, I walked back to my dorm while their van pull away.  I never looked back.

Will I be able to do the same in a month?

Based on how easily the tears filled my eyes tonight, no.

I refuse to count the days until I walk across the stage. Instead, I'm being pulled towards it kicking and screaming. Even my pullers are screaming.

"I'm going to have a hard time when you graduate."
"Are you sure you don't want to add an seventh major and stay a little while longer?"

But, unfortunately, it's time. 

The rites of passage passed and the mile stones crossed.  Those "one day in the future" events have become items to be crossed off the to-do list.

Yet still it hurts.

I'm comfortable here.  Four years will do that.

I cannot walk across campus without stopping to chat.  I know the chain of command for almost every problem and situation.  I'm not afraid to jump to the top of the chain, I know the loop holes, and I call people by their first names.  I keep emergency numbers in my phone, and I have used them.

This is my school.
This is my home.

I understand now why people linger long after graduation.  Part of me hopes I become one of them.

<>< Katie

And to think, this post was supposed to be about my final youth trip this weekend.

Sorry, friends. Thanks for letting me be nostalgic today.

Amber and I purchsed our flights to China on Friday! Now my life doesn't end until August. But I still don't have any idea what I'm doing when I get back.

Reading Day

Little secret: I am not athletic.  Sometimes if I'm by myself I walk so fast that I'm winded by the time I get where I'm going, but that's the closest I ever get to running.  Sports are not my strength.  I played basketball in 5th grade and I got really good at catching the ball...with my nose.  I spent enough nights at the eye doctor getting my glasses fixed that I realized the WMBA was not in my future.  Fathers are supposed to teach their daughters how to throw and catch; somehow I missed that lesson.  In seventh grade I took up tennis because I had a weapon against the ball.  It wasn't long before I figured out my strongest spot on the tennis court was at the net because there's minimal running involved in a volley.  I played for six years but then I graduated high school and now the most exercise I get is ten minutes on the Wii Fit.  Knowing this about myself, I don't know why I ever thought this was a good idea.

Classes were cancelled on Friday, so we hosted our biannual kickball game.  Last year the English department started a new tradition where we play kickball once a semester.  For a year we played teams that basically boiled down to English Education vs. English Writing.  Well, then the science department got jealous and in a cowardly way challenged us to kickball, calling themselves the superior department.  If they were so superior I don't know why they needed to bring the math department with them in order to beat us but whatever.  They won this past fall, and Friday was our opportunity to earn our ball back.

We had more players than they did, so some of our players didn't get to play in the field.  Elizabeth and I took ones for the team and just kicked and cheered.  My first two kicks I was out before making it to first base.  My third kick I made it all the way to second but we already had two outs and the play at the first made three.  My fourth kick I managed to eventually get all the way home scoring a point for the good guys.  English won 16-12!

Sometime in the two minutes between when I got back to my apartment and when I was planning on getting in the shower, Chris called. 
"Come play ultimate frisbee!"
Little known fact, it was one of my secret goals before graduating to play ultimate frisbee.  It's kind of our school's favorite game, so I didn't think it would be right for me to graduate without playing.  Even though I have one more year I figured now was as good a time as ever; plus, I was already sweaty.  Oh, and still fighting this cold, minor detail.

"I'm not very good at frisbee," I told Chris.
"That's ok; I am," he said.  Between the two of us we could be two average players.
I held my own and even touched the frisbee a few times.  I didn't score, but Hannah (the girl I was guarding) didn't score either... except the first one which didn't count because it was part of warm ups.  I really did enjoy myself and the "Oh, my gosh, I'm so out of shape and thirsty" feeling that I had for an hour.  But I lived.

After getting cleaned up and eating Japanese for dinner, a few of us went to see a movie.  It was 8:00 and I could have gone to be (mind you, I hadn't yet been awake for 12 hours that day).  I almost made it all the way through the movie, too, but in the last ten minutes I made a mad-dash from the theater.  Since I'm pretty prone to bloody noses, no one really thought anything of it.  Nope, it's going to be a long time before I eat Japanese food again.  :-(  Other than for those few minutes, I feel fine; it's weird.  Whatever.  Although, more than that I'm more upset my no-puking streak has to start over at just shy of three years.  Before that random stomach bug in the middle of July (who the heck gets sick in July?  The kids I babysat...) it had been six and a half years.  That's still my record.  Oh, well.  One day I will break it!

Happy Reading Day, Katie... next year you should stick to reading on Reading Day.

<>< 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.

The Pledge

I was already wearing khaki pants when I pulled on the gray polo with my alma mater's name embroidered on it.  I grabbed the navy blue polar fleece pull-over just in case the temperature dropped.  As I was walking out the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and couldn't help but laugh.  For years I complained about wearing a uniform to school every day and now here I am, years later, putting it on by choice.  At least it wasn't Friday.  It must be the private school advantage: we know how to dress ourselves in red, white, and blue.

Just for kicks and giggles, I contemplated writing the Honor Code on the top of my test.  "I pledge I will not lie, cheat, or steal.  Nor will I tolerate those who do."  For nine long years "I pledge..." was written at the top of every test I took accompanied by my signature that sometimes included all of the letters to my name.

Now, here I am, years removed from the pledge, the uniform, and the salmon colored bricks, yet they are forcing their way back into my life one collared polo at a time.  Some habits die hard, I guess.  However, it dawned on me today that it's all a lie.  I cheat.  I steal.  I tolerate it from myself and from others.

I am a writer.

I stretch the truth or make it up completely, I steal material from every day conversations, and I tolerate this only because I am a writer; this is what I'm paid to do.  Lying, cheating, and stealing are encouraged.

Eves drop.  Put something in your purse that doesn't exactly belong there (as long as it's only words, Grandma!). Let the tales of others appear in your work.  Don't feel bad about it.  After all, "The Code's more like guidelines than actual rules."

Ok, maybe that's a bit of hyperbole.  That doesn't mean real life is off-limits.  For example, a green laser was repeatedly shot across campus and directly into my eyes apartment this evening.  It gave me a nice headache.  When I write about this, the owner of the green laser pointer will be strangled and his laser buried at the bottom of the lake.  Just sayin'.

Lie, cheat, and steal material in the name of fiction.  Ok, I promise I won't do it while wearing the plaid skirt that makes me look like a Catholic school girl.

<>< Katie

Jenny the Cow

First off, Hannah hates me because I didn't blog yesterday AND I cut in front of her in the snacks line last night. Sorry, girl, I just needed some chocolate. Will you forgive me? Can I be un-voted off of the island and back into Amber's car?

Anyway.
I've been cranky, irritable, and frustrated this week. I'm sore from ice skating on Saturday; it baffles me the number of people that have never skated on a natural body of water. Irony is that the first time all winter when my hands have actually been warm was while I was ice skating. I'm sick of being freezing cold; maintenance can't fix my air conditioner but the room temperature has peaked at 63, so they gave me a space heater. Oh, and if you are one of those brave souls who gave up chocolate for Lent and suddenly have this overwhelming desire to remove this temptation from your life, I am willing to take one for the team and will not object your sending it to me. :-)

For these reasons, I feel the need to write a blog that will make me smile. We all have those stories that have influenced our life. Perhaps we aren't even characters in the story but it still merits regular retellings. This is one of those for me because it was a classic bedtime story while my sisters and I were growing up. Of course, some creative liberties have been taken through the years but the basis of the story is true. Without further ado, and I'm pretty good at ado-ing, this is "Jenny the Cow" as told to me by my father.

<>< Katie

I was in class just like any other day. The teacher was talking about something, but I don’t remember what since I wasn’t listening anyway. All of the sudden there was a strong rap on the door. The teacher answered to a police officer who asked if I was in that class. Now, I’m not a perfect little angel; I get into my share of trouble but nothing bad enough for the cops to be involved. Plus, I had no idea what I’d done. Silently I followed the officer towards the front door of the school.

Am I being arrested? What the heck? I wondered to myself.

As we crossed over the threshold and into the parking lot, I realized the cause of the commotion. Standing in the middle of the school yard stood my cow, Jenny. Yes, I think Jenny wanted to try out for the soccer team. How did she get here? What was she doing here? Why was she here? I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but I didn't have time to figure them out either.

Standing a few feet from my beloved Jenny was a police office poised to shoot. I panicked. How do you prevent an officer from shooting your cow without getting shot yourself? I had no idea.

"Don't shoot!" I heard a distant wailing. I looked up towards my house and saw my mother running down the hill flailing her arms. "Momma's here, Jenny, come to Momma."

I was mortified. Surely the entire school was watching from the window. I think a stray cow in the middle of the soccer field warrants a break from useless math. In case having my cow visit school wasn't bad enough, my over-weight screaming mother was not helping the situation. The officer's arms were still extended, finger on the trigger.

"Don't shoot! I'll get her to move! Don't shoot! Jenny, come to Momma, Jenny. Momma's here. Come to Momma, Jenny," my mother's cries continued. I don't understand why she can't sound a bit more grown up, even if she is just talking to the cow. For a brief moment, I almost wished I was back in class, bored to death.

Mom drew nearer to us, the police officer failed to lower his gun, and Jenny refused to move. He wouldn't really shoot Jenny, would he? He can't shoot her, can he?

I didn't know. All I really knew was that my mother was running out of ideas and the cop was growing impatient. In the distance, I could see a yellow truck approaching our brouhaha. Instantly, I recognized it as my dad's. How many people do you know with a big yellow trucks? On second thought, how many people do you know with cows at school? Pa pulled over to the side of the road and barely shifted the truck into park before he hopped out of the cab. The focus shifted from Jenny to Dad.

"Jenny, there's Dada, go to Dada," Mom whined.

Much to our surprise, Jenny did run to Pa. The officer lowered his gun, my mom stopped screaming, and I breathed a sigh of relief. On to our next problem: how are we going to get Jenny home? Luckily, Pa already had that all figured out. He opened the tailgate and Jenny hopped into the truck bed. He drove Mom and Jenny home. Sadly, I was sent back to class.

Welcome to Heaven

Wednesday is National Cut Schools' Grass Day. All schools' grass must be cut every Wednesday. The idiot with the lawn mower who woke me up at the crack of dawn on Monday has missed such memo. However, by cutting the grass, he eliminated the ambulance tracks from Friday. We lost one of our own, and the suddenness of it all has really ripped apart those who knew him. Prayers would be much appreciated for his wife, family, and department.

Thanks!
<>< Katie

"In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you." John 14:2

He's nuts!

I can't claim this thought as my own. My sister came up with it, but I thought it was pretty good and felt the need to share. She was all embarrassed about it, but it's actually pretty accurate! (The more I think about it, this didn't seem like a new idea: so maybe it was mine, but I forgot about it... I don't know).

There's this one coach at school who is crazy! Absolutely crazy. He kind of came with the woodwork; he's one of those people that if you go to that school, you know him. He's been there forever. I was in the last grade to have him in the classroom, and I had him for two years. That means I've worked with him for EIGHT years. Two in the classroom and six (plus) on the court. That's enough to see any one's quirks, and this coach has more than anyone I can imagine! Everyone loves him, but no one understands him. He's got a very creative teaching style both on the court and off. Half the time his team has no idea what he's doing, but he knows. Half the time his team has no idea what he's talking about, but he knows. Even though the team doesn't see it, there's enough trust to believe there is a method to his madness.

Do you trust God enough to believe there is a method to his madness? Even though you don't know what He's doing, He knows. Even though you don't know what He's talking about, He knows. His plans are better than ours, even if they are a bit peculiar. Maybe it's not the way you would have gone about it, but He has much more experience, so let Him do what He wants.

<>< Katie

"Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." Proverbs 3:5