Fear of Rejection

I've always struggled with fear of rejection.  Part of it comes from eight long years of middle and high school feeling like an outcast.

But overcoming the fear of rejection is more than having a place saved for you at the lunch table.  More than hearing the words, "Katie, we'd love for you to live in our apartment."  More than, "Will you go to the dance with me?"

It also involves a graduate school saying, "We see potential in her and want to grow her."  It's an employer saying, "We want her on our team!"  It's someone, anyone, saying "I believe in you."

Fear of rejection is still very real in my life, even if my name is shouted joyously when I enter the caf.  It still has a bigger hold than I'd care to admit, a bigger hold than I thought it did six months ago.

But in Christ I've found someone who says, "I believe in you."  I've found acceptance.  And it comes from the Creator of the Universe.  What more can one want?

Maybe I don't know what comes after China, but I am slowly learning to say, "It's going to be alright."  And do you know why?

Because God IS good.  ALL the time.

Even when it's hard to believe.  Even when you get seven rejections in five months.  Even when the world says, "She's not good enough."  Even when you're alone at the lunch table.

Make a Difference

The following is a story requested by Wess Stafford of Compassion International requesting people tell stories about a time when an adult encouraged you as a child.  A moment that has stayed with you.  It is part of the push to get adults to make a difference in childrens' lives.  See the whole story here.

During my junior year in high school, I ran for a position that required a certain number of support signatures before I could even get my name on the ballot.

Approaching me for another reason, my adviser (who now lets me call him by his first name) saw the petition in my hand. He grabbed it from me and reached to his breast pocket for a pen.

“Can I sign this?” he offered.

I was taken aback. We were told a signature would require a polite, well-timed request followed by a semi-brief interview. Brian asked me if he could sign my paper not vice versa.

“I’m not even going to ask you those silly questions. I know your heart is always in the right place.”

Woah!

If I wasn’t caught off guard before, I was then.

“Your heart is always in the right place.”

Always?

I might have chosen “sometimes,” “periodically,” or “occasionally.” Yeah, those would definitely be more accurate. But no, he said “always.”

“Your heart is always in the right place.”

While I still don’t quite believe that statement, it was wonderful encouragement at that time and has been an excellent challenge since then.

I would love to hear your stories about some encouragement you received from an adult!  Little moments matter, especially to little people.

<>< Katie

One Year Ago Today

I don't think I'll ever forget my last night in Costa Rica.  I lived there for a month taking Spanish classes and living with a tico family.  My final night, a big group of us went out to dinner.  My host parents, my host aunt  and family, one of my classmates, and myself.  We went to a restaurant that serves all of the food on one plate and you kind of grab the food and eat it with your fingers.  Yeah, not a germ-o-phobe's favorite restaurant.  Top if off with the fact that I felt like crap and it was not a pleasant night.  (I blame the chloroquine...next time I might take my chances with malaria).  I tried to eat but really had no appetite.  To distract myself from the nausea on the ride back, I started making a mental list of all of the memories/ stories/ things I'd learned that I wanted to share with Sra. Wright, my high school Spanish teacher.  Learning a language is one of those things you remember learning every detail, at least for me.  There were so many things I wanted to talk to her about, so I decided I was going to make a list on the plane ride back.

When made it home safely (that's actually a big surprise), and I stood in the family room contemplating checking my email one last night or waiting until I got back to the States.  I decided to go for it.  It'd be quick and then I'd go to bed and pray I was feeling better in the morning.  Well, it wasn't as quick as I had wanted it to be.  In fact, I learned that on the plane I'd be writing a different letter to Sra. Wright.  One she would never receive.  She'd passed away two days earlier.

The plane ride back was a roller coaster.  Sitting behind me on the plane was not just a student from my high school but someone that graduated with me... took Spanish with me.  I asked him if he'd heard and he said, "Yeah, it's a bummer."  A woman dies and you say a bummer?  That's worse than when I told a professor I was in a car accident on a way to her event and she said bummer.

I regretted not visiting Sra. Wright all of those times I'd visited my Alma Mater.  She'd asked about me, but I never made it down to see her.  I regretted not going in the one week I was home before leaving for Costa Rica.  (Again, I blame the chloroquine... nine weeks of nasty pink pills meant nine weeks of feeling nasty).  It helped me to know she hadn't been at school that day, but it didn't help much.  I regretted not emailing her to tell her I was still using my Spanish and going to Costa Rica to learn more.  I regretted not thanking her for taking the time to teach me.  I regretted not being able to look her in the eye the last time we spoke.  Her jaundice grossed me out.  I'd known she was sick, but I never knew she was that sick.  The word "cancer" was never shared, at least not with me.

I'll be honest, she was never my favorite teacher.  I was disappointed when I saw her name on my schedule for the fourth consecutive year.  In fact, there were many days I'd "Go to my locker" and get distracted by friends who had a free period; at least once a week I'd hear, "Katie, go back to Spanish."  However, even the teachers we don't always appreciate leave lasting impacts on our lives, especially when you see them every day for four years.

Earlier this week, my sister Christina asked me to explain the difference between "por" and "para."  I never get those two right, but I explained it to her the same way Sra. Wright explained it to me countless times.  In fact, one day in class the example we were doing was a post card written to a teacher years after Spanish class thanking the teacher for teaching the difference between por and para.  Sra Wright kind of laughed, "Please don't ever send me a post card thanking me for teaching you the difference between por and para.  Por and para can't be taught... they must just be learned."  That didn't stop her from trying.

The same idea didn't stop her from trying to teach us the difference between "ser" and "estar" either. Remembering this brought tears to my eyes.  She said, "Estar is used with changing things.  The soup is hot- estar.  Today I'm sad- estar.  The one I don't really understand is death.  To me, death isn't a temporary thing but the Spanish use estar."

Death isn't a temporary thing.  Life is the temporary thing.  How do we spend it?  Running a million miles an hour too busy to notice the little moments or investing in children and teaching them something they have the capabilities to use for the rest of their life?  Being too stuck up to laugh at yourself or stopping class to remark about the "delightful aroma" of fart in the room before leaving and locking your students in it?  Do you put up with their "Senora, how do you say (insert some super random word here like "lipgloss" or "headphones" or "@")" or do you cut off their fun?

Thank you, Sra. Wright, for taking the time to teach us the difference between "por" and "para" but, more importantly, thank you for taking the time to invest in us.  To show us we can do it even when we don't think it's possible.  In the words of the Celine Dion song sung at Sra. Wright's funeral, "You gave me wings and I could fly/ you touched my hand I could touch the sky/ I lost my faith you gave it back to me/ you said no star was out of reach... you saw the best there was in me..."

Muchas gracias.

<>< Katie

Potter

Tuesday wasn't exactly a great day. There was nothing major that went wrong and a lot of good things happened but it was kind of one of those days. It wasn't until the fourth person asked me if I was ok that I realized I had let the "one of those days" mentality take over. Of course, then I was mad. At myself. After being out of bed for five minutes this morning I knew it was going to be one of those days. I had the opportunity to make it a good day with some bad events rather than a bad day with some good events. And I failed.

At our Tuesday night worship service my friend Brad spoke. Now Brad's a potter so his "speaking" was really giving us a visual of Jeremiah 18. He made a tall jug out of clay and then smashed it. I knew ahead of time he was going to do that, but it was still cool to see all of his hard work smashed. He reformed the exact same clay and made a bowl instead.

Brad: See, this bowl a whole lot better, more practical than the tall, long thing that I didn't really know what it was.
Andy: That’s what they called me in high school.
Katie: Tall, long thing no one really knows what it is?
Amy: Katie, did you get that, too?
Andy: And they called Amy a bowl thing.

Each one of us is different but each one of us is going to be used. Maybe right now I’m in a tall, long shape where I’m stuck in the old way rather than the new form.  That doesn't mean I cannot be used or reformed.  In fact, today is Wednesday and I am the same piece of clay I was on Tuesday, but I am willing to let the Potter shape me in a new way. Are you?

"Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?" Romans 9:21

<>< Katie

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

To Poetry, An Ode

It's no big secret that I don't like poetry. This semester I have to take a class that will involve some poetry. A lot of poetry. Much more poetry than I would like in my entire life is shoved into this one class. Little known fact: I changed my concentration because I didn't want to take a poetry writing class. Yes, any poetry is too much for me. I've been assured that someday poetry will just "click" in your brain and you'll want to read every poem you can find. That's the same thing I was told in high school about chemistry, and I'm still waiting. My goal this semester is to gain an appreciation for poetry. I have no need to call myself a poet; however, I should appreciate poetry.

One of the reasons I dislike poetry is because it doesn't follow traditional grammar rules. In fact, it strives to break them! The nerve! In high school, I was in our poetry club (gasp!), and we had to read poems aloud. That's why I always got after Nick for never punctuating his poems because reading those poems required big breaths. Now, I can talk for a long time without pausing to breathe but reading is a different story. Please put periods and commas in your poems!

Now, a poem.
Written earlier this semester to give myself a starting point for how bad my poetry skills are. Please don't laugh. :-)

"To Poetry, an Ode"

Oh, how I loathe thee.
Why must your torment me incessantly?
Are your frustrations never ending?
Why, oh, why?
For I am a writer,
not a poet.

Give me full-lines,
give me verbose,
give me dialogue.

Hold your couplets,
no need for rhyme scheme,
vanish your pentameter.
It pleases me not.

Free me from your confines,
for I am suffocating, yearning
to breathe again.

Oh, poetry, how I loathe the,
please let me be free!

<>< Katie

Daily Mullings

I don't know what to write about today. I wrote a blog about smashing glass against the fire place, and I'm proud it as a writer but it doesn't have a point. I might post it anyway. I've toyed with the idea of explaining why my sister has two fish named Earwax but I think that's a "you had to be there" story and no quality of writing will do it justice. I could blog about Lyme disease since that's something that's become close to my heart and my aunt and uncle's dog was just diagnosed with it (missed by the first vet, big surprise there...). Or I could make reading this blog worth your time unlike the book I'm reading right now.

As of yesterday when I went to the bookstore, I am currently reading The Condition by Jennifer Haigh. Supposedly it's about a woman with Turner's Syndrome, a disease I did a case study on in 9th grade. Well, I'm 126 pages into it and I'm not quite sure what it's about. Way too many details about too many people. I understand explaining the lives of the five people in the family since they are all adults, but the lives of every person each individual has ever met is a little bit of overkill. Why am I reading this? I don't want you to ask the same about my blog. That is, assuming you're still reading. Is there anyone but Melissa here?

Oh! Storytime!
Since the story involves Bob you have to hear me like Bob hears everything I say: supersonic speed in a pitch so high only dogs can understand (I've been frequently told I'm "Telemundo in English").

A few weeks ago, I was the only attendee of HIGH SCHOOL Bible study. This isn't the first time this has happened, but in all previous instances I was still, well, the target audience. This particular week Bob had been prepared to teach on messianic prophesies as found in Zechariah (that's means everything in Zechariah the predicted Christ's coming). It was time to start and Bob looked around the room, "There's no one here," he announced.

"Am I no one?" I retorted.

"You know what meant," he said with a smile. Of course I did. I've only known Bob for seven years; that's enough time to know anyone's quirks (trust me, we both have plenty).

The two of us took a big step in our relationship and sat at the same bar table to investigate these passages. Even with both of our brains put together we could not wrap our minds around some of these passages. "But how does this predict Christ's coming?" "Are they talking about Christ here or not?" "Why do we insist this is Christ? This part came to fruition but not the rest of this." "What does this mean?" "The study Bible said THAT?"

Yeah, not a very educational but incredibly challenging. It was relaxing to wrestle with these ideas without a facade. Without either one of us needing the answers. Both of us were willing to admit we didn't understand.

"Maybe it's a good thing no one came today," he said at the end of our time.
"I came."
"That's what I mean. You're probably the only one who's ok leaving with more questions than answers," he said and paused. "I feel like a failure."
"You're not," I assured him. He was right: I was ok leaving with more questions than answers.
"I'm a failure. You're a failure," he said with a laugh. Thanks for the support, Bob. :-)

Learn to be ok with questions. They don't all need to be answered but that should not stop you from asking them.

What does this mean?
<>< Katie

"I know your heart"

Today is Brian's birthday. Brian was my advisor for three years, but he did more than over see my grades. He fed me (homemade popcorn, doughnuts, etc.), supported me, prayed for me, prayed with me, stuck Bible verse in my locker, and let me hide in his office when the day didn't go well.

I remember one day in high school, I needed to collect 15 signatures to support me in running for an office. A mixture of those signatures had to be students of varying ages as well as teachers. I hated working up the courage to ask teachers to sign my paper. It's not that I didn't think they would, it's that I didn't want to ask.

One day, Brian came up to me and wanted to buy a candy bar I was selling as a fundraiser. I put down the piece of paper awaiting signatures and went to get Brian his candy bar. He yanked the sheet off the table and started pulling out a pen.

"Can I sign this?" he asked. Of course, I wasn't going to say no. Normally teachers were supposed to ask students about why they wanted to hold this title, what were their qualifications, could they be objective, etc. The awful interrogating questions that drive me nuts. Here, Brian had not only not asked me the annoying questions but offered to sign my sheet without me having to ask. He then added, "I'm not going to waste my time with the questions. I know your heart is always in the right place."

He walked away with his candy bar, and I walked away with my signature, yet my brain was mulling over so much more.

"I know your heart is always in the right place," his words echoed in my mind.

Was that true? Is my heart always in the right place? Of course not. But apparently it was in the right place often enough to convince them. Ever since then, his words still echo in my mind.

How many people know your heart? Are you being open enough and honest enough with people for them to know your inner-thoughts? Are you allowing them to see your true self? At the same time, is your heart true? Do you strive to make sure it's always in the right place (isn't that something we can all work on)?

Happy birthday, Brian!

In Christ,
<>< Katie

"Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousand rivers of oil? Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgressions, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." Micah 6:7-8

December First

There are few specific dates I remember of certain events (besides boring birthdays).
July 2, 2000, was when our basement flooded.
March 6, 2007, was when my cat died.
You know, the random things.

December 1 has two memories attached to it. I think it'll be a day I tell my grandkids about. I seem to tell someone every year. My mom has taken to rolling her eyes and groaning, "I know, on December 1st..." Sometimes I wonder if I'll have a child born on December 1st or something.

On December 1, 1998, we were allowed to take our jackets off at recess. That means it was approximately 60 degrees

On December 1, 2006, we had a snow day. Enough snow fell that they couldn't plow the roads fast enough to make them safe for school buses.

What a contrast.

Have happy day! I wonder what God has in store!

<>< Katie

God's Sense of Humor

Last night, I went to bed hearing thunder off in the distance. Before I fell asleep, the distance had gone and the storm was here. Torrential rains poured down on my house, lightening flashed, and thunder roared. I listened to the sounds of nature, praying they were a simple thunderstorm and no more. I contemplated checking the weather to see if tornadoes were anticipated. Tornadoes have a tendency to appear when least expected, and I expected them last night therefore there would not be any. After all, God is in control and if a tornado blows my house over, in His loving arms I'll be. This storm made me think back to one several years ago.

I was still in high school one evening when a storm rolled through. We'd eaten dinner but no schoolwork had been done when the power went out. Our power goes out quite frequently. It's created problems and since then we've put in a generator. However, the generator only powers certain rooms and appliances (the sub pumps, the refrigerator, the furnace, etc.). Needless to say, my bedroom and computer aren't on the generator. It was going to be incredibly difficult to get my homework done in a dark bedroom. It would be just as hard to get my homework done in the lighted kitchen where my sisters were panicking and the radio was blaring.

Frustrated due to my overload of work and inability to do it, I opted not to do any homework for the few hours we were without power and just sit and enjoy the storm. Grumbling and moaning about the lack of power, I sat on the couch in the front room and watched the lightening, listened to the thunder, and peered out into our eerie neighborhood sans electricity. The lightening was lame and when I whispered,
"God, this is a boring storm" a huge bold of lightening flashed and thunder cracked shaking the whole house. He would make a liar out of me! The lightening got much more interesting after that.

Finally, I stopped my complaining and began to thank God for the nice break from the world. How I needed it because I was feeling overworked, underpaid, and not appreciated (just a perk of being middle class and educated). If taking the power away was the only way He could get my attention, so be it. Thank You.

At that very moment, the power came back on and a floor light was shining brightly into my eyeballs. Wow, You're funny. Lesson learned.

<>< Katie

"The men were amazed and asked, 'What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him [Jesus]!'" Matthew 8:27

Uno Mas

This started as a game with my friends from high school, but I'm pretty sure I've never played with them. :-) My church friends now love it, and we play every chance we get (we even played in a bus once!). It involves going around a round-about repeated while giggling and screaming "Uno Mas! UNO MAS!" ("One more! One more!").

It's really fun (and funny). The problem is: you waste gas and don't go anywhere. You drive in circles again and again and again until the passengers get dizzy, the driver is bored, or another car comes.

Sometimes do you drive in circles repeatedly with God? Keep passing by the same spot but never really going anywhere? Sometimes you have to hit the turn signal and exit the round-about. It's not easy. Driving in circles is much more fun but moving on is much more productive.

<>< Katie
Disclaimer: Do not play on big round-abouts with lots of cars nor at busy times of the day. Round-abouts in parking lots work very well. This blogger is not responsible for any injuries, dirty looks, nor tickets as a result of playing Uno Mas.