Christmas Miracles?

There's something about this perticular holiday season that isn't sitting quite right with me. It's come too quickly. It's been 50 and 60 degree weather. I can't seem to focus on anything. It's just been a little off.

Two days ago, we found out that one of the teachers at our school was diagnosed with lung cancer, and that she would be in the hospital for treatment over the holiday. She had been sick with pneumonia since before thanksgiving, and just wasn't getting better. When we heard the news, there was sortof an inaudible gasp, and lots of "that just plain sucks."
I left that faculty meeting, feeling nothing any different than I've felt that entire day but, "man. What crummy news."

The very next day, we find out that her cancer is very terminal and not only have they moved her to the hospice wing of the hospital, but they don't anticipate her making it past the holiday. And again, for the past three days I am made of tin. I feel nothing. I'm sad, sure, but nothing really interferes with my daily thoughts or (lack of) emotions. I just have no reaction.

I wasn't too worried about this--I don't really react to things emotionally very often or well. I was more wondering *when* it would hit me. And if it would be too late when it did.


I came home from school today, and I called my mom to see if she and dad were in Tulsa yet. They're coming down this Christmas so we can all be together when Niki and Matt have their baby. My mom says that she and dad haven't been having the best day. Apparently when they woke up this morning and went to the hotel parking lot to thier car, someone had smashed out a window and taken everything out of it. My dad's golf clubs. My mom's medicines. All of the christmas presents they were bringing down. It's all gone.

My first reaction to this is total and complete anger. My parents are two of the kindest and most generous people I know (especially at Christmas) and somebody stole it all away from them while they were sleeping. My second reaction was sadness, because I know my parents, and they are going to try to fix it when they don't need to.
But my reactions were borderlining hysterics (for my empty tin chest, that is), and it really bugged me that I was reacting so much to "stuff" that can be replaced. I already know that it's all just "stuff."

So now, of course, I'm a horrible person for crying about vandalism and theft and not even batting an eye at cancer. But I think that my reaction to the break-in was the culmination of everything else finally spilling out. I'm learning more about myself every day, and I think as far as my emotions go I can only give all or nothing. And unless I have something (or several somethings) that pushes me to the point of overflowing, there's no sign of life.

All that being said,Miracles are miracles--whether they happen at Christmas or not. And I really don't think God times them to make our holidays happier. So pray for KC Randolph, her 9 year old boy, and the rest of her family. And praise God that you get to be with yours.

Mr. Orkin--the Man of My Dreams

One of my students today in classed asked me about my "special someone."
I told him that my only "special someones" were my family and my students. He promptly responded to this with a confident, "Ms. Herron, we need to find you a good man. Kyle, John, and I will get right on that."

My students have always been particularly curious about my personal life--information of which I never divulge to them. Last year I had a giant ORKIN poster on the front wall and the kids asked me where I got it. I replied that I got it from the Orkin Man, and one of the kids asked, "you know the Orkin man!?" Before I could even answer, another student says, "yeah! he's her boyfriend!"
Of course, I couldn't resist. "Yes, actually we've been dating for quite some time. He's the real reason I moved down to Oklahoma." Most of the kids definitely knew I was joking. And the ones who didn't, I assured I was serious, queuing the former to interject that we were getting pretty serious and actually probably would be getting married soon. And I just stood back and enjoyed this life outside of school that my students had created for me. Eventually, one student asks if he can call me Mrs. O. I just laughed, and so it began. Kids I didn't even have in my classroom would see me in the hall and say, "hey Ms. O!"

It's a lot of fun to let my kids be the authors of my imaginary life. They come up with the funniest things.
I tell that story because today the kids asked about Mr. Orkin. They asked me in the hall if Mr. O and I were still dating, and if they could come to the wedding. I told them absolutely! I said, "when I get married, you are all invited! It will be in Michigan--but you'll all be driving by then, so you can just carpool up!"
"Ms. Herron!" Came the reply, "that's so long from now! Why can't you just get married next year? You should tell Mr. O to work on that, and he'll get you a ring next year and then you two can get married."
Well, Mr. O--wherever you are--you get on that. My kids are waiting!

If You're Happy and You Know it :)

when the moon lights my path; laying in bed and watchin tv with my mom; jennifer's laugh; when drew times his farts; getting monthly decorative pedicures; running in 50 degree weather; the color red; great danes; classical guitars; fishing; giving high fives; gullible students; vanilla ice cream; holding hands; learning all the words to my favorite songs; going on really long drives; Michigan; birdie putts; Michelle's incredible analogies; my childhood; my sister is having a baby; my dad's saggy pants; camping; dressing like twins; swimming in lakes; seeing the stars; the antennae farm in OKC; whistling; fart noises; finding out ways man reflects the image of God; giving back scratches; Rasheed Wallace; making the first footprints in freshly fallen snow; scraping ice off my windshield; walking, running, or golfing in pouring rain; blowing dandelions around; Frogner Park in Oslo; thunderstorms or any other type of severe weather; logic puzzles; giving the perfect gift; being hugged-down; kisses from little kids; christmas lights; really really large American flags blowing in the wind; flip flop tan lines; roller coasters; knowing i am loved; cornbread with butter; planning my future with my best friend (even if we know it's just pretend)

In-Laws vs. Out-Laws: The results

It was a close match, full of trash talk and amazing birdie (and eagle) putts.

Team In-Law finished about 45 minutes before team Out-Law.

But, they must not have taken their time.

Grandpa Norm sank the birdie put on 18, leaving team Out-Law with a final score of 10 under.

Team In-Law stood around the green, watching in anticipation as the put fell straight into the cup with a solid click.

"Where did that put you?" Stevie asked me.

"Ten under," I replied.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" came the wails from team In-Law. They had missed the exact same birdie putt only 45 minutes before leaving them with a score of 9 under.

Numbers are numbers.

And almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

But in Herron Family Golf, team Out-Law carries on the founding tradition of kicking the In-Law's butts.

Stay tuned for next year! :)

team In-Laws

team Out-Laws :-D

Sometimes You Can't Break Tradition. No Matter What the Weather.

Sometimes tradition completely overrules common sense. And sometimes it totally should.
Case and point:

Today is my family's annual Thanksgiving tradition:
The In-Laws versus the Out-Laws in the Herron Family Post Thanksgiving Golf Scramble.
The Out-Laws are anyone who bears the last name "Herron."
My Grandpa, me, Drew, the "real" Uncle Steve, and my dad.
The In-Laws are the ones who are blessed enough to be part of the Herron family, but not actually Herrons.
Uncle Gene, Charlie, the "fake" Uncle Steve, Stevie and Chance.

This is a huge competition every year, and the Out-Laws are undefeated. This year looks like it's going to be tough, though, because we've got Stevie (Suzio) from Livonia joining the In-Law team and he's got quite a little game there. Gene is fresh off a practice round at Southern Hills (you know, where Tiger Woods won the PGA here in Tulsa.) and there's not proof yet that his "secret" personal trainer wasn't a certain "Ill-Phay Ickelson-May." Charlie might not have much of a golf game, but he's got a gun and badge, and a perfect Mickey Mouse impression that is enough to throw anyone off kilter.
The In-Laws also have the weather in their favor--because Jeff Herron is definitely not a cold-weather man. And today the temperature rings true at a whopping 38 degrees.

It's going to be a tough match, but my grandpa bought a trophy, so we're sure this will amp the drive to succeed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Time for Some Witty Banter

Some days I am just so taken by the versatility of Cream Cheese.

I mean, first of all, it is kindof like spoiled milk. It's sour, and smells a little off. Is it cheese? Is it pudding? Is it a spread? Is it something you eat with a fork? Can you slice it?
It comes in a tub--or a block. That's the first clue you have something beyond our realm of comprehension!

I've had cream cheese on a bagel.
I've had cream cheese in a taco dip.
I've had cream cheese in a fruit dip.
When will it end!?

Not anytime soon, I can assure you. Because this very coming holiday where we celebrate the birth of our relationship with corn (and Native America--we've had our ups and downs), I am going to be concocting my very favorite cream cheese application of all time: pumpkin dip.

Chew on that, my friends. Tacos, to fruit, to pumpkins spread out on a little graham cracker (preferably gingerbread flavored).

Cream Cheese: the new hero of culinary art.
I see an Iron Chef coming!

There's a Hole in the Bucket

They always leave.
They always leave and it's happened so many times it almost stopped hurting.
There is so much risk and responsibility in building relationships. And I used to be much more at ease with just sitting and listening. I would know my friends inside and out, amd they would know me.
And then high school ended and we all split up.
Correction:
And then high school ended and they all stayed friends and I went to a different college.
I pushed and pushed to keep those bonds but I grew apart from them and it took a really long time to be okay with that.
I made a few very close friends in college. Friends that you start talking, and 5 hours later you realize it's time for curfew. Who could come home with me for a weekend on a whim. Slowly, one by one, they all disappeared too. First Jenni. Than Caleb. Than Tim, and Jason, and Kara.
The unrealistic thing about college is that growing up creates different paths. And different paths create distance. And distance creates so many independent memories that you can't share and the only way to make it not hurt is to just harden.
I hardened somewhere between Tim and Jason. I got so sick of knowing people and then having them leave. I got so tired of sharing, then then to lose a friend to Ohio. Or to a wife. Or to Australia.
For a while it's still okay. There's phones. And e-mails. And the occasional special occasion. But anyone who tries to tell you that everything stays the same is blowing sunshine up your shorts.
After college, it took me a long time before I would take anything beyond the acquaintance level. I had two very very close friends back home in Livonia with whom I was able to share and in return listen and know.
And then I left. By the time I left I was already pretty calloused. And I stayed hard for a long time here in Oklahoma.
And slowly but surely I formed some thick relationships. Only to lose one to Texas. One to Kansas. And one to Ohio. Lost one to a girl, and devastatingly, one to the heartbreaking truth that she just can't stay here anymore.
And things will never be the same again.
Who wants me next? To take with you when you leave?

Clocking in on Wednesdays

It is Halloween.
It is Wednesday.
Where is everyone in Oklahoma? At church.
Since when does going to church on a Wednesday become something that is completely un-miss able? When your options are trick-or-treat, or go to church--that's when.
Apparently it is not okay to miss church on Wednesday night for this tradition once a year. And I'm not okay with that.
I'm not okay with being measured to the plumbline of picking Halloween over God. I'm not okay with the fact that if I chose to stay home and hand out candy to the pagans (gasp!) I'm judged by it.
I'm not okay with the expectation of showing up to church on Wednesday nights for appearances sake. So people don't think I'm "falling away" or something dreadful because I chose to dress up like Batman and enjoy myself. On a Wednesday. Not at church.
I remember many occasions in my youth where the announcement would be made that church would be on Thursday this week instead of Wednesday. Sometimes because of things like Halloween.
Welcome to the Bible belt, Kari.
Nobody is any holier here, but they sure do pretend to be.

New Year's Resolutions

Why is it that whenever we want to change something in our lives, we wait until the new year?
Or next week?
Or even "tomorrow morning"?
What is it in our nature that makes us feel like a new day brings a new chance? Is it just because they both have the word "new"?

I do this a lot. I do something (or don't do something) I wish I hadn't (or should have) done, and I say "it's okay. . .tomorrow is a new day." I'll do it tomorrow, and I won't mess it up next time.
It's always next time.
Next time it will be better.

And tonight, I was contemplating what I am going to do tomorrow (that I should have done today), and I realized that just because the sun is down, it doesn't mean I have to wait until it has to come back up. Why not NOW?
Anything I can't stop to do NOW, I'm pretty sure isn't important enough to wake up early to do tomorrow.

What am I waiting for? How much more fresh would a start be 8 hours premature!? Who needs a new day for a new resolution? Who needs a new YEAR? Do it NOW. Don't wait. Because the longer you wait, the longer the enemy has to delay your further. And we all know, if you didn't do it today; you're not going to do it tomorrow. Or next week.

I wonder how many times God told his people to not delay. . .and how many times it landed them in trouble when they didn't listen. . .

My Hero

I think I have a somewhat unhealthy preoccupation with heroes. I think about them all the time. Every story I've ever written has something to do with a hero--and I don't just mean a protagonist. I mean an actual hero. A character who saves the day.

I started writing a novel my senior year in high school. It was going to be amazing, but I never finished it. There were two main characters: Blue, and Rocket. Blue was a girl who was graduating high school and very ordinary. Everything about her was ordinary, and she did nothing special. She didn't like her family. Her sister was deaf, so she couldn't really understand her. Her house was un-homey, and her life was ordinary. Her best friend was herself, and always felt like something was missing. Someone was missing. And every day she would wait, because something earth shattering was going to happen.
Rocket, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of Blue. He was a hero. He flew around on eagles and watched the world from above and fixed things. He flew in and out of peoples' lives and solved their problems. He was fast-paced, and kind hearted. He gave all of himself to everyone he met and their lives were never the same when he left. Rocket was born a hero, and didn't know how to be anything else.
In my story, it is very obvious that Blue needs Rocket to fix her brokenness. And they almost cross paths like every other page. But they never do. Rocket is the only person who could help Blue, and he can't seem to get to her. She knows there's a hero out there, and she waits for him every day. . .but he never comes.
In the book, we see a lot of Rocket's heroism; and we see a lot of Blue's emptiness. But how it comes to be is that Blue isn't even real. She is an ongoing dream that Rocket has created, and her brokenness represents the parts of himself that he can't fix--even though it's his daily job to fix lives. He can't get to her because she is part of himself. He can't fix her because heroes aren't about self, they are self-sacrificing. Should Rocket ever turn his attention from the world and to himself, to heal his wounds, he would stop being a hero.

Heroes are heroes for two reasons: they are born, or they are made.
If a man is born to be a hero, it is his duty to save. It's his sole purpose for being, and he saves whether he particularly wants to or not. He does it out of obligation. He does it because it's his job. These heroes include Superman, firemen, arguably even Mario.
If a man is made to be a hero, it is other men who have lifted him up to be such. He is a hero because he loves, and makes those around him feel safe. These heroes include dads, martyrs, and like cancer victims.

I am more fascinated by the first type of hero--the one who can't escape his fate. The type of hero who probably does like the intrinsic benefits of saving, but must save anyway. No, but will save anyway, even if the save is not merrited. Even if all common sense and consequence says to let the victims suffer. The real heroes drink the bitter cup, climb up into the tree, and save the world.

Twilight Zone. . .

The strangest thing just happened:

I was on Pistons.com looking at the new roster, and the new number 3 is named Rodney Stuckey. Meanwhile, I am watching Lifetime, and the TV show I was watching had just ended, and a movie has just begun. Jason Alexander is schmoozing some rich people and introduces himself as Philip Stuckey. I don't recognize the movie, so I watch for another minute--because the name Stuckey sounded very familiar --but I realize that it's because I was just reading about Rodney Stuckey 2 seconds prior.

And the movie is Pretty Woman, I realized about 2 seconds later when I saw all the shoulder pads on the women. . .and confirmed 2 more seconds later when I saw Richard Gere.

What are the odds of encountering the name Stuckey twice in the course of 30 seconds?
I'd like some mathematical computation on that sucker. . .

Like Sands Through the Hourglass. . .

Okay, embarrassingly enough, I am writing this article based on some thoughts spurred by today's episode of Days of Our Lives.

There is a storyline involving two characters. One is a genius-smart guy who entered the show as a huge nerd. The other is a smart, confident, and recovering rebel of a girl. As you may have guessed: he is in love with her, and she thinks he's a big dork. Their relationship has progressed over the past year or so, and he has stayed dedicated to her and has been able to eventually change her mind about him. The two have been dating for a while. He is incredibly addicted to her, and has compromised his morals on more than one occasion "out of love" for her. She is dedicated to him, but he always is afraid of losing her so he tries very hard to keep her.
Well, today, they got in a big fight and I guess they're broken up. She leaves, and he stays behind. And another character comes up to him and says "It's none of my business. . .but if you really love her, go after her. And fight to keep her."

And this is where the soap opera ends, and my thoughts begin.

I think that it's pretty safe to say that there is a common theme in the media that says as long as you're in love, if you persevere you'll get the girl. And this theme is based on the idea that girls want to be pursued. Girls like to be wooed, and swept off their feet.
Typically, in a movie, if the guy follows the girl after she's just dumped him they will get back together. If he shows her he's not going to let her go--that he won't give up on her (read: won't let the other guy have her)--than she will see this act of chivalry and come running with open arms.

But I watch movies like "You've Got Mail" and I think to myself, "if any guy ever followed me with such persistence, I would most definitely be freaked out."
I think it's important to note the difference between a girl wanting to be pursued, and a girl being pursued by a boy she wants pursuing her. If you are a boy, and you think that persistence will win you the girl, you have been watching too many movies. Because if you pursue a girl who does not want you, she will think you're creepy. I think that girls are very specific in whom they will allow to come after them. However, if you don't pursue a girl because you are afraid she'll think you're creepy, but really you're the guy she wants to be chased by, you won't win her either because she'll be too mad at you for not wanting her.

Confusing? Yes.

So here's what I think:

I think that girls aren't really in it for the pursuit. Because any girl will tell you that when she's not into a guy and he won't leave her alone, she wonders why the losers flock to her. I think that rather than being pursued, girls just want to be remembered.
They don't really want to be chased after, they want to be on your mind.
As a girl, I'd much rather know that you saw something that reminded me of you, than that you miss me so much you wish I was right there with you.
I'd rather hear "I miss you" than "When can I see you again?"
Girls don't want to be forgotten.
Even when the loser stops pursuing a girl, she'll wonder why he moved on so quickly. Did he forget about her for someone else? She doesn't want the pursuit, she wants to occupy the boy's mind.

So what to glean from all this?
Girls are confusing.
And don't forget about us--we want to be important: not desired.

Never Ever Ever Give Up

Since I was in high school I had dedicated my summers to learning a new skill. When I was a junior, the skill I wanted to learn was jumping in the air and clicking my heels. After I mastered that, I moved on to something I'd always wanted to do: ride my bike without using my hands.

I spent several summers following my senior year in high school working my hardest to accomplish this feat. I am not terribly good at balancing, and the best I could ever do was get about 3 pedal pushes in before I either hit something or fell over.

About 3 years after I had been working on my balancing act, I went to Huron County to stay the weekend with my friend, David, and his family. He and I went out one day and rode his parents' bikes around the town. We were out on the country roads, and his mother's bike was incredibly balanced. I slowly lifted my hands off the handle bars, and successfully rode for probably about a quarter mile! It was probably one of the greatest days of my life. I had accomplished my goal! I could not wait to go home and try it again on my own bike.

Until I got home and tried it on my own bike, and could not do it anymore! Devastated and defeated, I continued pouring my summers out trying to learn to ride my bike without holding onto my handlebars.
Sadly, this lasted another 4 years. 4 years taking us to last night. August 7, 2007. At Lake Hefner, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

I had taken my bike out to lake to ride around it. I rode around it once, and coming up to the last 3 miles of my second lap, I started to get tired. I sat back up on my seat, and cautiously lifted my hands from the bars. I pedaled, and pedaled, and was still up! I was riding my bike without using my hands! I started to relax, and the path started to curve slightly. I shifted my weight and successfully took the curve. I started laughing, and clapping my hands. I looked at the miles markers as I rode past: .5 miles! I could not stop giggling, I was so excited! I yelled (embarassingly loudly), "I'm the greatest person in the world!" as I rode past the stake marking my 1 mile accomplishment.
I lowered my hands to the bars so I could stop to cross a driveway. And just to make sure I wasn't dreaming, I lifted them of again. I rode in front of the lighthouse. I rode around the curve, in front of the restaraunt. I rode past people jogging, rollerblading, walking their dogs, laughing and cheering the entire time. I am pretty sure I am officially a no-hander-bike-rider! Just like I've always dreamed!

It only took me 7 summers of trying. And I finally got it! Perseverance pays off, my friends. Now my next goal? I've sortof always wanted how to learn how to do the worm. I've got 2 weeks of this summer to get started! And I'll keep you updated! :-D

Hopefully this time it won't take me 7 years!

Short and Sweet.

God definitely decided to give me a little lesson today.
You know how when you're little, in Sunday school you learn about praying to God and that he always answers your prayers? Even if he doesn't answer it how you want him to?
So true. So so very true.
Last August, I was down to my last bit of money--I had nothing left. And I prayed really hard for just something like $200. I can't remember exactly why, but that was the amount I needed. I was at school, and my principal asked me if I'd started shopping for my classroom yet and I told her that I couldn't do anything because I didn't have any money until our first paycheck. She informed me that the PTO would reimburse me for some of my classroom spendings if I turned in receipts, which would be nice if I even had the money in the first place. So nodded and walked off. About five minutes later she came back with a check for $200 in her hand. She said the PTO gave me the money up front after she explained my situation, and I would be fine as long as I turned in the receipts as to how I spent it.
That prayer was answered very quickly (ie. the day after I prayed it), and very specifically.
It's funny how we forget how powerful, and merciful God can be.

About 4 months ago, I was having surgery on my jaw. And there was an unexpected $900 payment I had to make. And I didn't have the money. I prayed and prayed for it, but I ended up having to use my credit card to cover it. No big deal, but I'm not gonna lie--I was a little disappointed.
Fast forward 4 months.
I come back from being away for over a month and start going through my mail. I've got lots of junk mail, a couple bills, some magazines, and then there is a letter from my insurance company. I open it up and read that my account has been audited and I have overpaid and they are sending me a refund check. A refund check for $600!
So now, $600 less poor, I look back and realize that praying for something to happen is never all in vain. But I have to know it isn't always going to be the next day. It's not like I need the money, even now. But I think what I need is a reminder that my timeline and God's timeline don't always line up. Heck, they're probably not even parallel. I'll bet they're skew (pull out that 6th grade math book, quick!)
Even though I thought I needed the money then, I have managed to be okay. God has provided the entire time.
And now he's reminding me that he listens.
And that his timing is the one that matters.

Kari's Trip to the Dentist

I was prompted to write this entry after sharing this story. So here is my entry. I will call it "Kari's Trip to the Dentist."

I am 23 years old. I am pretty fun, I love to laugh, I don't like to be touched, and I have a huge crush on Bruce Willis. Don't worry--I'm not writing a personal add. If I was, I wouldn't intimidate future hopefuls with the fact that they will never (ever, in a million years) be as handsome, hilarious, witty, and balding as my man Bruce. It's okay, it happens. This is why it's not a personal ad.
So anyway, that little personal information about myself leads up to this fact: I am not ticklish. I pretty much have never been. In fact--most of the time, if people try to tickle me I end up with bruises because for some reason there is this idea that if I don't laugh they the perpetrator is obviously not squeezing or pressing hard enough. [FYI: that is a total rumor. If you ever find your tickling skills brought into question, don't press harder. That in fact is probably the exact reason you are a horrible tickler: you are hurting instead of tickling] So anyway, I am not ticklish. Not on my feet, not on my back, my "love handles" (as I so UNaffectionately call them), my legs or my neck. Not in my armpits, not on my belly. I'm just not ticklish.
Except. . .
on my lips.
What!? Your lips? How is that possible? What do you mean?
I mean that I can not hum for prolonged periods of time.
I can not play any sort of reeded or blowy instrument.
I can't do that amazing elephant sound with my lips.
I can't play kazoos
because my lips tickle way too badly I can't bear it.

So that being said, I went to the densist today. I LOVE going to the densist--oral hygine is pretty much my favorite type of cleanliness. I will probably judge you based on the cleanliness of your mouth, in fact--so watch that. Okay, I haven't actually done that to anyone before, but there's always the chance.
Anyway, so the dentist went well. I got my teeth brushed and cleaned, and then out came the floss. The hygenist was threading the floss through my braces, and it was brushing up against my lip and I sat calmly in the chair.
Each pass of the floss over my lip, the tickle is welling up inside of me and my eyes start to water. I grab the arms of the chair, keep my mouth open, and she continues to floss. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to take a break. My lips were so out of control with tingley ticklishness I could not stand it. I told her I needed a second to collect myself.
I wiggled my nose, and turned my lips in so I could use my braces to scratch them. It was a little embarassing. But once I calmed down, I assumed the position and she continued flossing.
For someone who loves to laugh as much as I do, the unbearable feeling of my lips being tickled is something that is not funny to me. Unless it causes awkwardness, and an ability for me to share it with others.
I hope my humiliation and uncomfortableness was able to bring a smile to your normal and UNticklish lips. :)

Happy flossing!

On Having, Giving, and Showing Respect

We have all been told that we are to show respect.
To our parents, our teachers, authority, among other things.
And we are told to give our respect to speakers, our leaders. . .
In fact, one might say that a good life motto might be to always be respectful.
It seems like a reasonable endeavor: to be full of respect, that we might give it when necessary and show it with our actions.
But what about just having respect?
If we are to be full of respect, where does it come from? Is it just there? Do we already possess it? If we give it, does it come from the overflow of have?
Think hard about the people you know. Is there anyone in there you just don't respect? Anyone who makes you roll your eyes when you think about him? I've got one or two. People who I just have no admiration for on any level. I have no respect for them and I don't know where to get it.
This is confusing to me because I give respect even when I don't have it, and I show it even when it's not there. So where does it come from, and how do I get it? Is faking having respect as good as showing respect? Or is it not really "real" respect?
I've got plenty of respect for many people--surely it carries over, right?
Am I required to have respect for everyone, or just to be respectful of everyone?
Maybe I should just stay away from those who I don't respect.
That's respectable, right?

Some Things in Life Don't Come Naturally

David Hazard taught me to brush the roof of my mouth when I brush my teeth
Kyle Martin taught me how to pretend my car is a stick, when indeed it is automatic
Eric Sharp taught me that chickens don't have lips and worms are asexual
Andy Mascaro taught me proper concert stance
Jennifer Lair taught me how to slide on icy surfaces without falling
Beth Manoogian taught me how to do a cherry-drop off of the monkey bars
Julia Siciliano taught me how to sing in key
Mike Lefler taught me how to do a front flip on a trampoline
My dad taught me to appreciate coconut
Justin and Erin Cornell taught me to appreciate (and play) soccer
Meschelle Wagner taught me how to put a gentle leader on a dog
Gordon Shetler taught me the art of mixing the perfect slurpee
Kara Nulty taught me to be more outgoing
Kara Tipton taught me that kissing is solely for the purpose of looking for an extra taste of food
Kali Herron taught me how to make my hair big
Drew Herron taught me how to use a straw to make fart sounds come from my armpit
Grandma Merilynn taught me how to make thanksgiving stuffing
Stephen Kellat taught me how to be a better listener
Niki Herron taught me how to stay cool and collected when something goes terribly wrong
My mom taught me to always rinse dishes before putting them in the dishwasher
Kelly Mouchet taught me how to play piano based on what note was which key
Claire Sparkman taught me how to sew
Grandma Ellen taught me how to crochet
Nicole Kasper taught me how to swim
Lindsay Gould taught me I could run, even when I'm tired, and still be okay
Ms. Buda taught me that math can make sense, and that doing your homework is important
Mark Phelps taught me that it's okay to fight with God
Rosemary Mittlestat taught me the importance of bringing joy to others
Laurie MacKenzie taught me how to raise the pitch of my voice when I get really excited

Among other very important life lessons, these people and the lessons I have learned from them have played an important role in my growth and development.

Love Letters

There's something about a letter that lights my heart on fire. Letters melt me, and I save them and read them over and over and over again. Even in the e-mail form, I will randomly open up the file and just read it. Very often more than 5 times. There is something about a written word specifically for ME that I can not seperate myself from. Be it 5 words, be it 2 pages, I can not get enough of letters.
Ever since I was young I would always check the mail--hoping for something in there with my name on it.
I have, with the advances of technology, become a compulsive e-mail checker. I check my email probably over a hundred times a day. Each time just hoping that somebody has written me something. Whether it's Kara with a "Hey! I miss you!" or my mom with a 3 paragraph e-mail written with every grammatical and spelling error known to man just to freak me out. A note to say good morning, or have a great day. I save them all, and read them all day long.

I know many people who don't like written communication, because they can't know the inflection or it seems so impersonal. But I think it's just the opposite. I think that in writing lies the real truths of someone's heart. It's one way to know people most deeply, and to build the words in the way they will best convey exactly what those truths are.
If you've ever been moved by the words of a song, you can understand the impact words can have.
If you've ever gotten goosebumps while reading a story, or painted a picture with only words, you can see the power of language.
If you've ever smiled at a letter from a friend because you can just imagine him or her telling you (and probably acting out) the story right before your eyes...

Writing can be impersonal. We're taught in school to make it formal. So break those rules once you graduate, for goodness sake! Write what you think, and when you think it. Share it with people who can use it to know you.
I tell you what, you're probably not going to know me very well by just talking to me.
You're going to know me by reading things I've written.
You're going to know me by the letters I write to you.

I think if somebody is trying to be known, one of the best ways he or she can do it is to communicate it in written form.
The thing that I need to remember is that not everybody can understand everything about a person from letters on a page, though. Not everybody can understand the inflection, or the joy, or the pain, or the love, or the laughter by just reading the words.
Some people need to meet you.
To see you.
To touch you.
And so while you may have shared everything you possibly could have shared, not everybody is going to get it. And so you've got to talk on the phone sometimes. Or meet up somewhere. Sometimes you have to go out of your way to keep up with people, or you're going to lose them for good.
In a perfect world, the written word would be good enough. We could hang on every word, and know every intimate detail from the intimate little letters of everyday life.

But the world is far from perfect, and for some people a book of love letters isn't always enough. But I will keep writing.
And I will cherish words written to and for me.
And I will learn and know you more through your words.

Marathon Sunday

Last fall, Jennifer and I decided we wanted to train to run the OKC Memorial Marathon. We put our schedule on the fridge and marked off our days as we trained. We made it about 9 weeks before we both just got so busy we couldn't keep up any longer. The holidays came, and Oklahoma saw a lot of snow and training became less and less important.
I never registered for the marathon, because it costs a lot of money. That was probably my first mistake--because it made letting my slacking become less of a big deal.
Jennifer signed up to do the relay with her siblings. I didn't really have anything like that available to me as an option, so I had just put it in the back of my head as something I'd work harder to do next year. I kept casually running in my free time, about 2 or 3 miles. Not really trying, just running without a goal of any kind.
Then I had my jaw surgery. I was on a liquid diet for 2 weeks, followed by soft foods for the following 4. It was after the first week of not being allowed to eat anything I realized that I really wanted to run. I had to wait until I could get some sort of nourishment in me before I could, so when I got the chance I headed out to the track to see if I could make it a couple miles.
I did.
And I was hooked.
I made out a schedule of how I would spend my days training. I set an ultimate 5K time goal, and a plan to work my time down to it. And with the end in mind, I have been able to come back into running stronger than I've been in years.

So this morning was the marathon.
I knew I wasn't running in it, but when I woke up this morning for church, something wasn't right. I didn't want to go (which is really rare for me lately, because I LOVE my church).
I didn't want to go because I felt like there was something else I needed to be doing.
So I put on my sunblock and shoes and drove out to the lake. I took a deep breath and started my watch and I took off.
I knew there wasn't going to be a reward, or a finish line, or a bunch of very convenient drink stations. But there was me, the sunshine, the water, and the 9 mile path ahead. There was motivation to run.
Even though I didn't pay to run for victims of the bombing, I ran for them.
And I ran for Rosemary
and Aunt Kim
and Mr. Porecca
and Katie Kirkpatrick.
I ran because I can, and sometimes I just have to remember what working hard feels like.
To teach me something about pain.
To remind me that if I stop, I can't finish.

I press on toward the goal to win the prize in which God has called me heavenward in Christ, Jesus.
Sure, there wasn't a reward at the end of my run. But the reminder that once I've finished pounding out the steps, wishing it was over; I have rest for my weary legs.

This morning was Marathon Sunday.
You draw the parallels. I know you can find them.

May 3, 2005

I wasn't really sure who to write this to. But I had to write something. Let something out, because sometimes you just need somebody to talk to. And there's not really anybody sometimes.
And there's this song that we sang senior year. Half-time, I mean. It was

I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you
O my soul, rejoice!
Take joy, my king, in what you hear.
May it be a sweet sweet sound in your ear.
My prayer, dear Lord, is that I may be a brighter light so they see you in me.
When I grow weak to the Devil's charms, shelter me in the strength of your arms.
I'm coming, God, when your trumpet calls, to live with you where no
tears will fall.
Until that day, keep my eyes on Thee, so with the angels I'll sing eternally.
In Jesus' precious name, Amen!

And I was thinking about Katie. Because she sang it, too. And then I
thought about the words. And how easy it is to sing notes, and
harmonies.
But what I guess I didn't realize is that God heard her.
He heard her say "I'm coming, God, to live with you"
and he called her.

How unprepared can I be? I sang that song for a whole year, and thought I was praying to God the whole time, but I can't imagine myself still singing that prayer if he actually called.
Do you think she knew what she was asking?
Do you think that's why she was such a bright light even when we were all in pain for her? Because she knew that it wasn't just a song?
And she knew that God was going to really actually hold her to the words of her prayer--and she was ready for it?
She's obviously singing with the angels, and there's clearly no tears where she is. But then why is praying that prayer and meaning it so scary to me?
Am I not trusting in God enough?
How can I let go of things I have here so I won't be so scared of saying prayers like that
and actually meaning them?
Saying "just give it to God" is much much easier said than done.
At what point are you actually putting your life into God's hands, in contrast to just letting go of responsibilities and being a chump?
Because I feel like I need to make sure that things I do are for the
glory of God, but how do you justify it?
What's even the difference between justifying actions, and squeezing God into your decisions? I can't stop making decisions about school and jobs just because "if God wants it to happen, it will happen anyway." That's not what he wants, is it?
So when I pray for God to guide me, and for my decisions and actions to be to his Glory--how do I know what to decide?
I don't know about you, but I've never seen any writing on a wall or had prophetic dreams.
I don't know if God wants me to stay here or move away.
I know that God is in charge.
And I know that he will provide.
But there are times when his idea of providing are completely different than mine, and it makes me afraid to even let him.
Everything I'm supposed to do is easier said than done.
So any advice on how to do it anyway?
Especially when the idea of his plan doesn't always seem like it's the greatest?

And that's where I am. And I'm feeling sortof stuck.

Before I started this blog, I wrote an e-mail to Patrick Mead because I had a lot on my mind and I had no one to talk to. Every once in a while I get to thinking about Katie Kirkpatrick. I'm sure anyone who knew her can relate to that. She just doesn't ever leave. The impact she made in 21 short years was deeper than many together can make in an entire string of lifetimes.
I was reminded of this e-mail today, and I wanted to share it. Because sometimes I just don't feel ready to answer God when he calls. And it's a reminder to me that if I ask for it, I'd better be ready for him to answer. Because he surely will.

Oklahoma, OK.

Well, almost exactly a year ago I had come back home to Michigan from a spring break trip to Tulsa and The Alamo. Before I left I was working at Barnes and Noble and taking physics classes at Wayne State. I had also started subbing in Livonia, and had been frantically applying all over the Metro-Detroit area for open teaching jobs. While I was in Edmond for a short visit, I was hanging out with Becca and Eric Sharp and Becca mentioned that they were looking for summer care for Connor, Autumn and Dillon. She asked if I might be interested. To be honest, I was very interested because I was feeling rather slumpish up in Michigan. She and Eric talked about it and started crunching numbers and she said that she would get back to me.
I had been back home for a couple days and Becca called me and said that they weren't able to pay me what they had hoped to, but I could live with them and eat their food and maybe it might even out some. I said I'd do it, and that became the moment: the point of no return.
I immediately (rather than doing my homework, like a good girl) started researching jobs in Edmond Schools. I made sure all of my applications online were complete.
By April 21st (after I finished acing my physics final--2 weeks early) I had my car packed up, had a date set to meet with my best friend for lunch to say goodbye, and my map. I got in my car and started driving. That was it. I was leaving Michigan. My parents had been in Oklahoma for spring break with my brother. My dad wanted me to wait until they got back before I left. I didn't, and the truth is I wouldn't have left if they'd gotten home first. I would have let myself get talked into staying. So we made plans to meet at a hotel in Effingham, Illinois. Once I left that hotel the next morning, that was it. The first time I was leaving home, first time without my parents, first time out on my own. It was empowering, frightening, exciting, and so new.
Now to make some friends. . .
I kindof put myself out there and met a few people. I'm not terribly outgoing but I had people pretty persistently persuing (woo, look at that alliteration!) relationships with me. I was finding myself surrounded by many peers who I could laugh and hang out with. Oklahoma wasn't so bad after all.
Yeah, that was the honeymoon. About a month later, when I realized I didn't get to watch every Pistons game and that grass in Oklahoma isn't soft or green in the summer, and that I hadn't found a church I liked, and that my parents weren't around, and that I missed my brother--the Oklahoma wasn't holding a candle to Michigan. Everything I saw was not as good as Michigan.
Most readers of this blog have followed my journey from Michigan to Oklahoma, and it's no secret that I hold a grudge against the state of Oklahoma for not being Michigan. I don't need to go into much more detail about that. But as the one year anniversary of my move from the shoulder to the armpit, it's interesting to look back on everything.
A lot has changed. I have changed. My relationships have changed. I've gained some new ones, I've loosened some old ties, I've found a place for myself in a place that I don't really see myself belonging. I have realized that the Herron's are famous in this state. I've realized that I will probably never meet a boy who hasn't already had a crush on at least one of my sisters before even knowing I existed. I have realized that so many things are uncertain, and sometimes I have to force myself into commitments or I won't make them. As much as I want to leave, I know that I can stay here and be happy if I need to. I've got a good support system. I've got Jennifer--and she understands (and lets me sleep on the sofa bed with her even though both of our beds are perfectly empty and inviting). I've got soccer on Saturdays. I've got Becca and Eric any time I need them. I've got Niki and Matt if I feel like I need to get out of this place. I've got my church--where I'm not just a face. I've got the best group of 6th grade kids you could ever imagine (give or take one or two). I'm doing pretty alright. I'm doing pretty great. It's been a year, and I couldn't tell you where it has gone. I'm in Oklahoma. And I'm okay.

It's Not You, It's Me.

Someone once told me that if he could describe me in two words they would probably be "relentlessly cheerful."
I suppose I could credit this to my childhood hero of Maria from The Sound of Music. Or maybe to my abnormal super power of not being capable of staying angry. Perhaps I eat entirely too much ice cream--which is difficult to be glum while consuming. Whatever the reason may be, people who meet me line up left and right to jump on the bandwagon of affectionately coining me as cheery.
I can honestly say I don't see much of a problem with this. I really honestly am cheery freakishly often. I don't think this stems from an abundant happiness, however, but rather a lack of being able to feel much else. Or at least the inability to recognize the other feelings, and then the defectiveness of owning them once I figure out what they are.
If you have ever read anything in this entire blog, you already know that I am constantly trying to reason through ways to be closer to God. You will also know that I really struggle with reading my Bible. I think I have a better than average understanding of the connection between spending time with God and feeling close to him. There is an obvious link between knowing God and knowing his word. I know this full well--and I am pretty sure I could preach some effective sermons on the topic, assuming the church wasn't struck down for having a woman in the pulpit. I know this stuff. Inside and out.
But today, in a calm empty day of an uneventful Spring break, I sat down and let myself be totally honest. I lit some candles (ambience, if you will), got out my prayer journal (neglected for almost a month now), and I started reading. There were six entries. I had just stopped writing in it because I just decided I didn't want to take that time and sit and think and pray. I just simply didn't want to.
Did I have other things I would have rather been doing? No.
Did I run out of time? No.
I just didn't want to sit and spend time with God.
I went to the store and bought some pens. The pens where the ink is liquid inside, and you can see it swishing around. I love those pens. I am not a doodler--but if I see one of those pens, I will find any excuse I can to find something to write with it. I bought those pens and put them next to my prayer journal.
I went running. I ate some yogurt. I drank a bunch of water. I walked in and out of the room as the journal and pens sat on the table. I did a couple Sudoku puzzles (which I don't even like to do). I played around on a yoga ball. I checked my e-mail a couple hundred times. I lit some candles. I blew them out. I lit them a few more times, and played around in the wax. I sat on the couch and stared at my journal. I watched the pens--waiting to be used. I finally picked my journal up and started to write.
I didn't really have a prayer. I mean, I need $900 by tuesday and I don't know where I'm going to get it from. I am going to have a giant gap in my teeth for two weeks and I'm afraid people are going to laugh at me. I'm in love with a boy who not only lives far away, but is in love with someone else. I miss my family. I want to adopt every shelter dog in the world. And I'm trying desperately to form new relationships at a new church.
But I didn't have a prayer. I didn't even bring any of that up. I forced myself to sit down and just spend time with God. It was very glaringly obvious to me that I had to force myself to sit down and talk to God. Not just force myself--but bribe myself. With wonderful new pens.
I know that spending daily time with God will bring me closer to him. I was in a youth group, I went to youth rallies. Not a new concept. But here is where I started wondering if I can want and crave to come and meet with God just by forcing myself to do it daily. How does that not make it something I resent?
I know full well that the reason I've been feeling incomplete lately is because I haven't been spending time with God. But what I wanted was to stop knowing why, and start doing my part to fix it.
The worst part about the whole entire thing is that I'm so distant from God, and I'm not even squeezing in the sinful desires of the flesh. I'm not even getting a good sinful helping out of it. I'm not skipping God so I can go live it up pagan style; I'm just skipping God.
How do you think God feels about the fact that before I can willingly come to him, I have to force myself to? Does that feel as awful as it sounds? How does God deal with constantly being not loved? Does he ever get lonely? Does he ever feel used? So I'm supposed to pray for God to help me feel closer to him? So I don't have to feel so bad? What's in it for him?
I am pretty sure God wants me to be honest with him. And I'm pretty sure that me being so distressed is probably making him sad. And every alter call at any youth rally will tell you that God just wants to comfort me and hold me and love me--despite all of this. But frankly, I don't really feel comforted. I already know it's going to be okay. And I already know that in a few hours I'll be back to my normal cheerful self. But siting and telling all of this to God, I did not feel any comfort. All I felt was sad.
I was spending time with God, and all I felt was sad. I was perfectly happy running, blowing out my candles, eating my yogurt, having a quiet day. I was my normal cheerful self until I sat down to spend time with God and then all I felt was sadness.
Everything I've ever been taught about God tells me that this is okay. But what am I supposed to do with it? Chalk it up to some quality time spent with God? I'm not gonna lie--if spending time with God is going to make me so sad, why would I keep it up to try to even make it a habit?
Maybe I felt sorry. Maybe I felt guilty. But without resolve I ended my prayer with an apology. Maybe God was going to have to feel unwanted for a little while longer--until I genuinely let him close enough to change me.
Please don't let me hurt you. . .you're God. You're tough. Don't feel bad. Because we'll work this out. We can fix this.
I know it.

Working it Out

In my family there are 4 children. I was thinking this morning about how well my parents tried to always keep things even and fair between all of us. They did a really good job.
When we were younger, my dad used to tantalize us with the reward of getting to make muffins. Looking back on it now, I realize that it was probably that he wanted muffins and to not have to make them so he would put the spin on it so we would rather die than not be able to make muffins. Anyway, he would take us to Kroger and we'd race to the muffin mix aisle and stare at the endless boxes of JIFFY muffin mix. We would each get to pick a flavor (apple cinnamon was my usual choice) and we'd go back home. This where it got tricky, however. 4 boxes of muffin mix would make a ridiculous amount of muffins--that wasn't responsible. So we'd get to make 2 boxes. It was usually a vote--decided by the two of us who had to sit in the back seats during the trip to the store. But so as not to be exclusive, whoever got to pick the flavor got to crack the egg. The ones who didn't get to crack the eggs got to stir and put the mix in the paper cups. Everybody got to do something, and we all reaped the benefits.
We had a conversion van--2 captain chairs and a back seat bench. With 4 kids, my parents early on devised a rule that you have assigned seats for the month. So calling seats as you leave the church building and racing to get to the van first to claim your throne became just a way to stay in shape--rather than a guarantee to not have to sit in the back. February was the worst month to have the captain chair--because you only got it for 28 days--29 if you were lucky. And long family vacations you wanted to time out just right so you could be in the back when the bed got put down. I realized pretty quickly on those 3 hour rides to grandma's house stuck in the back seat that the only one of my siblings I never got to sit by was the smallest one. This realization usually occured as Kali would lean her head against the window and put her stinky stinky feet across the seat in my direction. Despite the annoyingly fair arrangement of the deal, there was always something to complain about.
Isn't that how it is? I wonder what I'm going to do when I have my own kids. I, personally, am rather attached to the phrase "well, life's not fair. . ." Would I have accepted that when I was younger? Probably not. Maybe it was because my parents worked hard to make life as fair for us as they could. Maybe it's because nobody likes to get the short straw. But there's always a short straw, and somebody has to draw it. Karma? I hardly think so.
How do you get over the fact that you don't deserve everything you get?
Does it really always even out the fact that you get things you don't deserve?

I Have Hidden Your Word in My Heart--and I Misplaced It.

I like to think that I love God.
I know I love God, but I'm not gonna lie--I struggle with making daily scripture somethin meanigful to encorporate daily into my life. I get bored, or I will read a whole section without actually noticing what it is about. At first, I fell into the trap that I would miraculously find some daily inspiration. But let's be honest--that doesn't happen every single time we crack the Bible and read it. Then I started thinking that if I only could make a habit of reading scripture daily that just that time set aside would help change and mold me to be more like God. So I'd read--just anything--and hope that eventually I would find myself walking closer to God. Next, I picked a Bible study to help me have a focus. I pray, I read, but I don't change. I thought that spending a lot of time with God would help me be more like him. It happens with people, why not with God?
I'm a lot like David. Which--if you know anything about me, you know that I am not a fan of David. Maybe I'm not a fan because I'm a lot like him. I hate how he's supposed to be this role model because God chose him, but he doesn't make very good choices. I hate how even while he's making stupid choices, he's still Psalming it up to God--praising him, asking for his help, and complainig about his enemies. He is a man who, by his choices, you wouldn't be able to tell that he was a follower of God; but in secret he is continually in communication with God.
I am a lot like David.
God chose David, despite all of his running, selfishness, distraction, and inability to see his own fault. So what makes David a man after God's own heart?

I can't help but notice the overwhelming love David had for the "law of the LORD." He wrote entire Psalms about it. Check out Psalm 1, 19, and 119. He loved God's law. There's no denying, David had an undeniable crush on the law of the LORD. I think the thing that sets me apart from David--what makes him a man after God's own heart, and me just a distracted Christian who tries and quits--is this love of law that I seem to lack.

What does loving law say about David? Think about it: why do our parents make rules? Sometimes it's because they know things about life that we don't. They protect us, and they care for us. Could loving God's law possibly mean that David took solace in the fact that God knew how to order life better than he did? If I could somehow learn to love God's law more, perhaps it would help me give up the thoughts that I can have control. If I love God's law more maybe I'll be able to respect his timing, his decisions, and his will more.

I'm going out on a limb and saying that God's law is the Torah. Isn't that what Torah means? So now, I'm not just loving rules--I need to love God's word. I need to delight daily in it. I need to let it make me giddy. Just like David. Dance around playing my little lyre (where can I get me one of them?) and repeat scripture all day long.

Sound a little sarcastic? Probably because I struggle with making scripture interesting. I would LOVE to love to read the Bible. I would love to know God's Law inside and out. Dance around and sing psalms joyfully to God. But how does wanting to love scripture make reading it more interesting? If I'm going to take my daily Bible reading seriously, what has to change?

Someone oh-so-cheesily once said, "We don't read the Bible to master it. We read it to have it master us."

Loving God's law challenges me to believe that God knows more about me than I know about myself. And I know myself pretty well. So by reading the Bible I will not only learn who God is, but I will learn the divinity of his plan. I will learn who I am, and where I fit into his plan.
I can't read the Bible for daily motivation or hoping that the answer to my dilemma will be in the scripture of the day. I can't read the Bible for advice, I have to read it as a call to action.

If scripture tells me God's plan for me, I have to not just hear what he says but put it into practice. God's will for my life is his ultimate plan which is revealed in my actions coming from my hearing of his law. Transitive property anyone? My life is laid out in God's law.

Loving God's law was the center of David's existance. Something about David--despite all of his straying, running, hiding, and falling--was after God's own heart.
I like to think I love God. I like to think, also, that despite all of my running, hiding, falling, and quitting that something about me is after God's own heart. The thing that sets David apart from me is his love of God's law. Now to move past the struggles of reading God's word to master it, and just read it to love it.

I'll let you know.

Home, Home on the Range

Last night, something in the air made me particularly homesick. We'd had a soccer game earlier that night and I was angry about it and I just wanted to talk to somebody. . .but there wasn't anybody. I think this was the top of the hill, and my little snowball started rolling.
I lay in my bed wondering what actual friends I've made since I've moved down here. I've met people, I've hung out with people, but I'm not sure if I've found someone I can just call anytime and say whatever I need to say.
I moved down here because I needed peers. I needed a change because in Michigan, I had friends but they were all several years older than me, and all married--some with children. I needed people in my same stage of life. Oklahoma (for whatever reason) has them. And two nights ago I was reflecting on what it was about peers that I really needed.
I needed to move down here. God provided me with a job, a house, and the security of a familiar town. But last night I realized that I just wanted to be home.
I want to see my parents every day, and my brother, and my dog. The familiar sight of my street as I'm coming home from wherever I've been just gets me all excited inside. I want grey skies 3/4 of the time, and green grass all the time. And I want a brown February that's too cold for comfort. I want to feel like I'm in a place I can consider my home.
I still feel like I'm living in a dorm room--I've got my TV in here, the bathroom in here, my music in here, I have roommates. I spend most of my time in my room. If I was at home, I'd wander from family room, to living room, to game room. Watching TV's, reading books, sneaking fruit roll-ups from the pantry when mom isn't looking. When I'm at home, there are neighbors coming in and out. I can walk down the street into a neighbor's house and sit down with their dog and watch tv. I don't have that here. And I can't get over it.
I still can't get over the bad attitude I have about nothing about the churches being remotely familiar. Last night--dreading Sunday morning service, I lay in my bed and cried. I was so homesick, I couldn't do anything else.
I woke up this morning on my own. I looked at the clock, and my alarm hadn't gone off. I quickly showered and changed. I was mad that I overslept because I was planning on going to class at church this morning, and I missed it. But I was glad I hadn't missed church altogether. I know that God is going to help me get over this, but it's not going to happen if I just stop going to church altogether. So my roommate and I left and made it in time for service. Then it happened:
The preacher gets up and announces that he's going to introduce today's guest speaker. Today's guest speaker, who was one of his professors at Abeline. Today's guest speaker who was in town for a week teaching a Bible course and headed out of town today. Today's guest speaker who currently teaches Bible classes at Rochester College, up near Detroit Michigan. (My ears perk up.) Today's guest speaker: Dr. David Fleer.
I was so happy I almost started crying. Dr. Fleer had preached at Livonia for about 6 months when I was in high school while our church was looking for a new preacher. Dr. Fleer delivers some of the most entertaining, yet poingnant seromons and lectures I've ever heard. I love Dr. Fleer because you can see the sparkle in his bright blue eyes from the back of a dimly lit auditorium as he's preaching and whatever he says you can't help but hold on to. Finally--for the first time in the 9 months I've lived down here, something was familiar.

God moves in mysterious ways. I'm not so sure he's trying to tell me anything right now about where I am being the right place. But I know I've comitted at least the next 2 years to living down here. And it's going to be hard. But God keeps me remembering that he will take care of me. And that even when I'm down, he will take the time to remind me that he knows. He understands. And he's working, and moving, and will do what it takes to keep me on track. To keep me from giving up. Or shutting down. Or quitting. I like to quit. He listens, and when I'm homesick, he'll send a day that smells like Michigan--just so I can be reminded that it's okay for home to be somewhere else right now. He'll send a message to remind me that even though I'm far from comfort, he came with me.
I've said it before: I will probably never be able to call Oklahoma "home." But at least, now, I know that it can feel like home if I'm open enough to let it.

Living in my Memories

These are just some things I like to remember.

When we were little, we used to eat Cheerios and Rice Krispies for breakfast. My dad used to let us put a spoonful of sugar in our cereal. My favorite part was drinking the milk afterward and having that grainy sugar left in the bowl. My dad used to tell us that Rice Krispies were the only cereal that talked. We'd get really close to the bowl and listen.

My mom worked from like 4am until dinnertime when we were little. My dad would pick us up from the babysitter's house and we'd go to the park. I can't honestly recall if this was just a one time occasion or if it happened more often. We would play on the swings. A white car pulled up the curb and my dad would say "that car looks really familiar. I wonder who it could be?" We would run over and it was mom! She still had on her uniform and she would come join us. The ice cream truck came--we were never allowed to get ice cream truck ice cream because it was so expensive. But this time we got to. I picked the red white and blue sno-cone. And I dropped it in the sand. My dad got really mad.

Niki and I used to fight over which one of us got to play with Kali. I don't think it ever occured to us that we could all three play at the same time. I always wanted to play church. We'd pull out the saltine crackers and medecine cups of water and try to break off the smallest piece of cracker humanly possible. It seemed like that's what the point of the cracker was--to take the smallest piece possible. I would lead singing. My favorite song was "Oh Jordan's Stormy Banks." I had the whole thing memorized--which was probably good, because I used to think that the top line of the music went with the first two verses and the bottom line went with the last two.

One Christmas, we were all at Uncle Dick and Aunt Fran's house. I was probably in kindergarten, mostly because that's how old I was when my mom made the dress I have on in all the pictures. All the cousins wanted to watch E.T. and I was scared to death of him. I thought he was so scary to look at, I sat in my cousin Geoff's lap and he covered my eyes for every scene with E.T. and I watched all the other ones. Later that evening, we went into the basement and opened presents. My grandma had gotten everybody Lee Press-On nails. Mine were red, and amazing. Niki, and a few other cousins got ones that had a snakeskin pattern on them. I traded half my nails with Niki because I felt bad that she had to get the ugly ones.

I remember the exact moment in my life that I first realized that my name was not spelled as it should be to pronounce. I was in 2nd grade, and for attendance we had these little tags that if we were in school we had to pull them off the hook and put it in the basket. That way the teachers knew who was absent by whose tag was still left hanging. I'd been reading for the past couple years, but I was just starting to get really good at it. I'd started reading Nancy Drew and The Boxcar Children. One day I went to pull my tag down and I realized that it read 'Kari.' That did not spell "Kaudi." It finally occured to me why I had to explain my name to teachers. I was devastated. I went home and begged my mom to let me change the spelling of my name. She informed me (at times like this, I think it's okay for moms to lie) that children can't change their names until they are in 3rd grade.

I had worn my dad down. We were getting a dog. He wanted a Sheltie, and had somehow convinced me that this was the best dog one could possibly own. I was sold and excited. Mom wasn't so much. We went to this old couple's house and there were three puppies. I saw the one I wanted--his name was Brutus. He was $275. That was expensive--even my 8 year old self knew that. We met the daddy dog of the puppies, his name was Skippy. His hair was gray. We went to another house, but those dogs there just weren't the same. Not to mention they were WAY more expensive. So we went back and got little "Brutus." We put him in our recycle bin that we had brought from home and went to some pet store. My mom didn't want a dog. She didn't want the hair, and didn't want to do all the work. She went in to the store--I remember thinking that it was our way of making up to her that we got a dog she didn't want. We were in the van, while she was in the store, trying to think of names for our new puppy. My dad, for some reason, had something against the name "Brutus" and couldn't wait to change the name. His only idea was Alex--for Alex Keaton from Family Ties. My dad secretly looked up to him for being a republican with hippie parents. He's been a Michael J. Fox fan ever since. My dad decided that we should let mom name the dog, to make her feel better about it. She named him Zach. He was the best dog ever.

I had a really good friend my freshman year of college. We had nothing in common. He listened to country music and drove a big red suburban. He took good notes in psychology, however, and I was really dumb in the subject. He somehow convinced me that it was a good idea to go roller blading with him and it soon became a nightly event. We would go almost every night at 10 and we'd get in his truck and drive to the parking lot behind the Rochester Hills public library and roller blade all through the downtown area. It was great fun--my first college friend and we knew almost everything about each other. It was very comforting. When it got too icy to roller blade, we would still go on our nightly adventures. We went to Meijer and bought some vanilla ice cream (the best flavor, clearly) and went underneath this bridge downtown and we sat and ate our ice cream. We shared a pair of mittens and took our shoes off and put our feet in the freezing Clinton River. I haven't had a friend like that since him. Sometimes I don't think I ever will.

I left Michigan, on my own withouth my family, for the first time in April. I had my car packed up with everything I needed that would fit and I was moveing to Oklahoma. I waited until my parents were gone for spring break before I left--because I knew if I waited until they were back I wouldn't have left. We met in Effingham, Illinois as they were driving back up to Michigan. When I left that morning, I was the fursthest from home I'd ever been, with no plans of going back anytime soon. I was driving through Missouri, listening to a CD of my friend Eric's favorite songs that he'd made for me. The song went,
a song for when you go
to keep you company
a song for when you go
far away from me
a song for when you go to California
west of the city lights, across America
a song for when you go out on the interstate
under the power lines
I knew I wasn't going to California, but the truth was that I realized that I was gone. It was the strangest feeling. And I missed my friend. And I knew it wasn't going to be the same anymore. But that feeling of fear, expectation, lonliness, hope, and freedom is one that I will never forget.


I wish I had more pictures of my mom but she always would rather take them.

Everybody Read This NOW

my wonderful and very smart friend, Kara, wrote this in her Xanga, and it's brilliant.

http://www.xanga.com/sweetlittlegal/565447612/people-judge-me.html

I'm It!

I never was a very fast runner. Either that, or I just really never had anything to run away from (er. . .from which to run away?). So I have been tagged by my first youth minister (sounds better than "old youth minister") to share 5 things you may not know about me.

1. I was expected to be little Seve Herron (named for Spanish golfer Seve Ballesteros) until I entered the world and to everyone's surprise I was a girl, according to my dad. My dad says I have a swing that people can't take lessons to mimic. I attribute it to my almost namesake.

2. I am so afraid of moths that if I see one flying around the room I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no possible way it could go into my ear short of actually leaving the room. In other words, I shrug my shoulders up, put my hands by my ears, and watch its every move.

3. My dentist has lectured me on more than one occasion about how I brush my teeth too often.

4. One summer I ate nothing but red-white-and-blue pops--some days eating as many as 5. I was very picky about it, too. I would ONLY eat the America's Choice brand (Farmer Jack store brand).

5. I have dedicated a very large portion of my summers in the past (and will continue in the future) to learning how to ride my bike with no hands. I've only succeeded once for a stretch longer than a quarter mile, but the bike was really well balanced and I later learned that it woldn't have tipped if I had two legs on one side of me. So I still am trying to learn, but my average is 4 pedals before I crash, tip over, or grab the handle bars.


Okay--I didn't say they'd be interesting.
I tag:
Kara
Kali
Sandy
Blake and
Niki (except you can't read hers unless you have a myspace)

Fill Me Up

This was going to be a different post. But it's not. It's this one.

I don't know what it feels like to be hungry for food.
I do, however, know what it feels like to be full of food.

It's no secret that I thoroughly enjoy to taste food. I relish in the opportunity to try new and delicious new concoctions, and savor old favorites.
My favorite food group: without question the grain group. Pasta, pancakes, panera. . .you name it.

Dear God in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.
And I promise I thank him daily for it.

Here's the trap I daily fall in:
We pray for God to give us our daily bread. But he already has. We've grown up proclaiming "man shall not live by bread alone, but by every wo-or-rd that proceeds from the mouth of God. (singing alelulia)" Boys even get to proclaim it twice as much, as the girls just sing alelulia over and over. But unevenness aside: we know. We know that praying for our daily bread has nothing to do with the food we eat, but rather the Word of the Lord. And God has already given that to us. We don't need to even go out and find it daily--it's all in one place.
My problem is that I'm already full. I don't want any more bread. I'm stuffed, I'm busting at the seams, if I stuff anything else inside I'll explode (or at least I feel like I will, and I have no desire to actually find out if physics will be defied on account of a little more stuffing).

I'm so full of Dostoevsky, SVU, grading papers, violin, Guster, and (of course) bread, that I don't want any more. I do what every nutritionist, WeighDown Workshop leader, doctor, and mother tells you to do: stop when you're full.

I stop without even receiving my real daily bread. And it leaves me hungry. And I don't understand hunger so I interpret it as boredom. And in my boredom I teach myself how to knit, and watch entire seasons of Everybody Loves Raymond, and have a 65% win rate after 300 games of Free Cell. I write songs, and I invent new pancake recepies that taste like flan. I read 900 page books and see how many songs I can hold a wall-sit through. I clip my toenails, I vacuum my carpet, I play with my fake uzzi, I make dramatic picture documentaries of my car's emergency mirror replacement surgery for Facebook. Today I even pulled out all of my Rasheed Wallace basketball cards and sorted them in order of my favorite picture.
It all left me too full to eat any more bread.

I say a prayer every night to God and I always say "I love you, God." But sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't also be praying to my books or pizza and proclaiming my love to them, too.
I always wanted to love God more than I love myself. Well, that's easy if you don't think you're all that great. But what about loving God more than I love Raymond? I'm pretty sure I do--but shouldn't actions speak louder than words?

Soooo, with that in mind, all I can do is ask for forgiveness, thank God for my daily bread, and eat it FIRST. Before I even have the chance to fill up on any of that other stuff, I have to eat the real stuff first.

fill me up, bread of Heaven, fill me
enlighten me, Bright and Morning Star
build me up, Master Builder, build me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM
and heal me up, Great Physician, heal me
inhabit me, Gentle Comforter
and use me up, Holy Master, use me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM

AMEN

Strangers with Kari

This post is inspired by Patrick Mead's most recent post at his website.
Last night, nearly 1500 churches in Oklahoma closed their doors due to the weather. Something in me really wanted to go to church today. I was really annoyed that churches were closing because of snow and ice. Maybe it comes from my continued grudge I have with Oklahoma for not being Michigan. Maybe it comes from the fact that I'm learning to be hungry for God's word, rather than cookies. Maybe Satan was giving me yet another excuse to not go to church by making it even easier than just sleeping through it.
Whatever it was, I wanted to go to church today to worship God with Christians there for the same reason.
My roommate, Jennifer, wanted to go to church today also. Whatever her reasons were, I was glad that the two of us were going to find one and go together.
We watched the names of closed churches scroll by on the news. All Sunday services cancelled. Then we started noticing a couple of them having an 11am service, or a 2pm service only. We started watching to see if we could find one near where we live in Edmond. We looked at Baptist, Methodist, even a Korean church. Why not? Churches of Christ were closing their doors. People gathering to worship God was what we were looking for. Much to our dismay, the open churches were quite a distance. We noticed that North MacArthur Church of Christ was not on the list. I've worshiped there a couple times before, which is why I thought to look for it. It's about 15 miles from where we live. We decided that we were going to call them and if their doors were open we would drive out.
How does this relate to Patrick's post?
His post talked about how his son drove to church in icy weather not because of a conviction to be at church, but because of the community at his church that he couldn't bear not being part of.
Community.
Did North MacArthur have a community that Jen and I couldn't bear not being a part of? No. We didn't know those people.
So why did we brave the dangerous roads and falling sleet to drive out there?
I can't speak for Jennifer, but I have lately been church hopping.
I'd only been going to Memorial Road because I made some friends who all went there. There wasn't anything about this church I liked, though. From the start.
At first I stayed because I felt convicted because Screwtape said that a good way to keep us from God is to keep us shopping for the church that suits us. But after reading Patrick's post today, I figured out why I was willing to risk my safety to find a place to worship.
I wanted Community.
I wanted any kind of community I could get.
And when I'm at a church of over 3000 people, even though I have 5 or 10 friends, there is no community to me. I think I finally cracked and even started church hopping in the first place because I just longed for the community I'd been lacking for nearly the last 8 months.
I needed it so badly.
Some people from Memorial Road were having house church today, because church was closed. That would have been easy. But I didn't want easy. I wanted community. And I wanted to rise up and go to worship God in fellowship. Whether or not I knew the people didn't matter. They didn't close their doors, and that was welcoming enough for me.
Maybe I'll find a church down here that I'll go to because I can't bear to be apart from the family. I haven't yet, but it doesn't mean I can't build and form relationships.
I want to be part of a church, not just a member.
It's hard because I already grew up with the most perfect church at Livonia I could have ever asked for. But until I move back up there, I've got to be ready to serve here.

I Feel So

Sometimes I forget that I feel things.
Maybe it's because you can't tell I do by looking at me.
But I do.
I feel happy.
I feel blessed.
I feel under rested.
I feel ugly.
I feel proud.
I feel forgotten.
I feel vandalized.
I feel tricked.
I feel loved.
I feel stalked.
I feel bloated.
I feel calm.
I feel like only my dad knows how special I really am.
I feel like if I wait long enough, things will end up perfectly.
I feel impatient.
I feel like I have a lot left to learn.
I feel inadequate.
I feel dishonest.
I feel wooed.
I feel swept away.
I feel rich.
I feel annoyed.
I feel bitter.
I feel resolved.
I feel jealous.
I feel like I want to avoid entangling aliances. Or jobs. Or commitments.
I feel like running and never stopping.
I apologize to anyone who tries to figure me out and only gets my enthusiasm.
I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve.
But I really am not a robot. I promise.

Potentially Walking in a Winter Wonderland, Maybe, In a Couple of Days. Perhaps.

It's no secret that there are many things that bug me about Oklahoma. But one of the biggest things is how freaked out everybody gets about the weather. If there is a slight rainstorm on the south east corner of the state, all television programs (no matter what they are--inclusing NBA Finals, MLB Post Season, Days Of Our Lives etc.) will be interrupted no fewer than every 4 minutes to inform people in the Oklahoma City Metro that there is some rain falling on a zoomed in area of the map of some city in Oklahoma that not even native Oklahomans have ever heard of.
If there's the chance there might be lightening or Thunder, don't even dream about getting a whole picture on the television, because they will put the tv show up in the corner and make the entire screen a doppler photo of the storm and its movement.
This is from a state that is supposed to be one of the tornado magnets of the country. You would think with a history of frequent tornadoes, the state would be like "oh, it's just a little thunder." But instead, they go the other way.
I guess we "only have until Friday" to prepare for a possible weekend winter storm. They would have given us longer, but it's "moving rather quickly." Are they serious? It's Tuesday night. They wish they could have given us more notice for 1/2 inch of expected ice 3 days away? They were even nice enough to show a map of Oklahoma with three colored bands sweeping across it. The green meant "heavy freezing rain," the red meant "light freezing rain," and the other part meant just "really cold" I guess. So make sure this weekend you're "not driving anywhere in the section that's RED."

Now, I'm not downplaying the danger of driving on ice. That's perfectly legitimate--especially in a state that doesn't have the resources to handle it. Which, for the record, I find very odd because everyone I've talked to talks about how Oklahoma might not get snow for winter, but there is the constant need to scrape and/or chip ice off the car windows. Anyway, sure--driving on ice is dangerous. Be careful! I do think, however it is silly to wish we had more than 4 days warning for a possible winter storm that might hit 2/3 of the state by this weekend.
If this storm still looks probable in 2 days, I'm willing to bet that by Thursday night all school closings will be announced for Friday.

Is there such a thing as a weather hypochondriac? Because the state of Oklahoma should test the sugar pills to cure it.

This Stupid, Stupid Wind.

Sometimes bad days just happen.
Everybody says that bad days happen when bad attitudes are present, but I don't think that's always true. Sometimes bad days just happen--and no amount of positiveness can make them better. No amount of theraputic running, guitar playing, reading, eating (which I didn't do, thank goodness), or crying can make them less bad. Bad days come every once in a while, and we just have to stand back and take them.

I woke up this morning with every positive intention to have a wonderful Wednesday.
I did ten jumping jacks to get me moving, and went to the corner to do my little morning Bible study. I reflected a little, prayed for a good day, prayed to teach well, make good choices, and to be blessed. Feeling good, I started to get ready for my day.
I decided that I should stop dressing so casually for school. I own dress clothes and shoes--I should show my kids (and myself) enough respect to dress nicely. I even put on pearls.
Then, I washed my face. This is where it all started to go wrong.
My face has been peeling lately--I'm not sure why. I've been moisturizing it like crazy morning and night, and it's just been pink and sore and peeling. I washed it, put on moisturizer, and it was worse than it had been all last week. My eyelids were peeling, my chin was flaking, my cheeks were red. I knew if I even tried to put on makeup, it would just look like I had flakes of makeup all over my face. So I hid my peely eyelids with my glasses, and I left my face as it was (and if you've ever seen my face before I put on makeup, it's not a pretty sight. I've got what you call "really bad acne.").
It's okay, though. I look nice, I'm ready for school.
I open the door to go start my car, but it's not too cold outside, so there's no need this particular morning. I enjoy my bowl of Grape Nuts, brush and floss my teeth, grab my bag, and head out the door. I walk up to my car and I notice something funny.
My rear view mirror on the driver's side is hanging by its wires, and the red casing is smashed off and missing. Somebody hit my car, broke my mirror off, and then left it.
I sigh, get in my car, and think to myself, "this isn't so bad. I made it from Detroit to Oklahoma City without a hitch. Praise God for keeping me safe." You think I'm being cheesy--but I really did. I called my dad and asked him if insurance would cover something like this and he said he'd call and they'd get hold of me. I very carefully (because I use that mirror a LOT) drive to school.
I got to school 40 minutes early, so I can get all my ducks in a row. It's hard coming back from a 2 week vacation where school is the last thing on my mind. I set up for the day, and start to relax. My face looks pretty awful, and my allergies are making my eyes look really glassy, but kids don't notice those things, do they?
The day went by very quickly. I was very thankful for that--because I just felt so tired.
After school, my basketball girls usually hang out in my room until practice at 4:15. Today was no different. I started organizing my next two weeks--making copies and lesson plans--and one of the girls says, "can I use your phone to call my mom and tell her about late practice today?"
Late practice? What? Well, aparently, practice wasn't going to start today until 5:15 and would go until 6:45. Why didn't anyone tell me? When am I supposed to get my run in? I didn't plan for dinner, I still needed to take pictures of my car before it got dark. . .wasn't going to happen.
I made the most of the time (all 3 hours of it) and got all my copies made and lesson plans done through next Friday. That felt good.
I thought practice would NEVER end, but as all things do, it did. I got in my car to drive home. It's already too late for church, so I decide I'm going to run.
I get out of my car and look around the street to see if I can find the remains of my mirror casing. As I'm picking up the shattered pieces of my car, I start to feel really hurt. It hurt my feelings that somebody broke my car. I took it really personally.
And then Kali calls. I remember that she asked me if I could feed the dog she's dog sitting tomorrow night, but I can't. So I tell her it's going to be impossible between school, practice, and the Pistons' game tomorrow night. She asked why I couldn't do it after I got back from the game, and I said because it was 1) going to be too late, and 2) out of my way. I asked her why she couldn't do it--after all, she had taken on the responsibility. She said she was going to be spending the night in Lawton. I told her what I thought about that: basically you shouldn't make other plans if you've committed to doing something. She said "well, maybe I can find somebody else." I said, again, "Kali, it's your responsibility. You're getting paid to do this. "
(In case you don't know me very well--one of my biggest pet peeves is when people shirk their responsibilities.) "Don't commit to things you can't follow through."
I'm getting kind of upset, but then she takes the cake. "Well, I'm sorry for ever even asking you"
A guilt trip? You're trying to send me on a guilt trip for not taking over your responsibilities while you go off and do something else? No way. If I could have done it, I would have. No questions asked. But I couldn't. So she's trying to make me feel bad for not biding my time to her schedule?
Well, it worked. I was miserable. I was angry, I was frustrated, and I was tired.
I went for a run, and it all started to fall down. I ran harder and harder, and with each step I delivered more and more deliberately. And the more I pushed myself, the harder and faster the wind blew. . .in my face. Angrier than ever, I pounded through it, thinking about my skin, my car, 3 extra hours at school, shattered pieces of my car lying in the street, my sister's selfish behaviour, and this stupid wind. This stupid stupid wind.

Sometimes bad days just happen. They just start to spiral, and the only place to go is to sleep.

I have one continuous comforting promise, however:
God is in control.
That means I'm not.
Bad days will come and go, but God doesn't leave.
And I'm okay with that.