sometimes i really really dislike my parents.

I still get goosebumps just thinking about it

How incredible was it when Anakin and Padme got married (in Attack of the Clones) and the background music was the Darth Vader march. Ohhhh, if that isn't enough to send shivers down your spine.

Deep Thinking on the Herron Front

I think the highlight of my weekend was when my dad went to Kroger to get some potato salad on Sunday because we were grilling out, and he came home with one of those jell-o rings that you always see in the store, but have never actually seen anyone purchase.

Things I'm going to miss about Michigan

You might have to scroll down because I don't know why there's this huge gap there.

This is my friend Jill. We're pretty tight.	So tight, sometimes it's hard to fit both of us in the picture.
we're usually good at flossing
	sometimes we like to eat cake together.
occasionally it can get a little out of hand, though	(or out of mouth)

a story about a hero

i imagine it to be somewhat of a sunny day that we last walked down that road. it ended right at the river, where the locks were. there was a bridge over them, and to our left that you and i had walked across many times prior to that day. sometimes we would throw our un-popped kernals from our cracker jacks over into the water. you told me once that you swore the fish liked them. i never doubted you for a second. you knew your stuff. i never told you, but it was one of the main reasons i liked to walk with you every day. i always learned something new from you. every single day.do you remember that night that we ran down into the subway just to hear the man play his violin? there was nobody there, and surely, you said, that it was a shame that more people couldn't listen to this glorius music, as it would probably be able to cure many of the problems in the world. and then i fell and skinned my knee, and you had to carry me home.
there are times i remember sitting on that old rusty swing in the park with you. (you know, the one that we swore would break if we didn't take our shoes off first for fear they might be too heavy?) it was always nice sitting there by you. we'd feed the ducks and watch the people walk by. you always knew people. you knew everything about them before they had time to hide their thoughts. we'd sit there, and tell stories, and you'd smile. i always loved it when you smiled, because i knew that it wasn't just you smiling. it was like the whole sky and everything beautiful went into your smile and shone out your eyes and your fingertips, and even your toes. (it's probably a good thing we always took our shoes off, because they'd have probably not been able to hold in your radiance and i'm sure would have shattered into a million pieces under the pressure.)
growing up in forever together was something that i treasured with all my heart. i never really got inside of you, but it was okay because you were completely within myself. so no matter where i was, or where you were, we were always there, and always living. as many other lives as you saved, i knew you loved each one new, and each one more than anyone alive is capable of loving. once, i accidentally got jealous, because you were gone and i had made you your favorite dinner and you missed it. i sat and searched for my comfort, but when you got home you showed me my selfishness and kissed my forehead and calmed my heart. i know that a hero has many important things to do, and i realize that many people are in need of a hero besides myself. you've already made my life perfect. you just complete it by loving me more and more every day.
on occasion we would walk through the park and climb in the trees. you once showed me how to watch out for others. somehow you managed to catch me when i fell, only to smile and hold me right back up. we sat up there for one week and i watched you. i watched you think, and i watched you sleep, and i watched you ache and i watched you give. at the end of the week, you helped me down from the tree and we walked down the road to the river.
you must have known it would happen. you must have, i can not imagine you not knowing. i can not imagine you not knowing that that day we were to walk to the river would, indeed be our last. you must have known, when you told me you had to tell me something, that things were not going to turn out how you wanted them to. i can not imagine you not knowing that i was incorrectly thinking it would be just like any other day with you. shortly to be followed be another one, and another always, til the end of the world. i can't imagine how you must have felt knowing that that car wasn't going to stop. and i can't imagine how you must have fought with God when he told you to let me walk to your left. i can not imagine how much your heart ached to not be able tell me it didn't matter that my shoe was untied, because the river wouldn't mind my informalness.
but alas, i will never be able to walk with you again, as i am laying broken on the pavement. you saved my life, you know. just in time for me to be able to go home. that's why they call you a hero.
every once in a while, when the sun is going down, i watch you walk through the park to the tree we climbed together on so many occasions. i watch you, oh my broken-hearted warrior and i stay there right by your side always. i will always be behind you, carrying the pieces of your heart and holding them so tightly that none will ever be lost. you are complete within me, and i am now completely within you. therefore you are at last, complete within yourself, and although you walk the road to the locks with no one by your side, the path narrows over time, and you'll continue down it forever on and past eternity. that's why they call you a hero.

It's 3 am and your mom is crazy

I guess mid-life crises are hitting earlier and earlier these days. Either that, or I'm going to live to the ripe old age of 44.
Slowly but surely I'm getting things done, and I've had to make an extremely conscious effort (but I believe it will turn into a routine soon, so I'm not complaining) to have Jesus time before I do anything in the morning, and after I do everything before I go to sleep. Because even when I can't seem to give up everything to God to take control of, I can at least remind myself to do it on a daily basis. Sometimes I need to be reminded of things. Hey, what can I say....I'm only me.

And now I'd like to talk about something near and dear to my heart. Syncopation. You heard me, friends. I LOVE syncopation. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it's when the upbeat gets the accent in a piece of music. Some classic examples are the line "so you can laugh all you want to" in Ben Folds' song Philosophy; that part in the bridge of Green Day's Church on Sunday; the high hat every other drum run in Wilco's I Am Trying to Break Your Heart; the song Jesus Christ Superstar depending on how you tap your foot....there's lots of it out there. Radiohead does it a lot, and so does Coldplay. Let's be honest, it's such a great thing that I'll bet most musicians know the trick. My favorite types of sycoptation aren't just when it occurs, however, but when you're listening to music while you're running and you actually have to do a stagger run because the beat changes. It's so great. I mean, if you're not careful you'll trip and fall, but with practice you can develop the skill to time it out.
Which brings me to my next point....golf.
Golf is a seemingly leisurely activity that slightly out of shape men play obsessively and watch through their eyelids better than any other televised or live activity known to man--including opera. I'm not kidding. My dad will be snoring in a chair with the golf channel on, and the second the channel changes he snorts awake with a muffled "hey! I was watching that!"
Anyway, so on Tuesdays I play on a golf league with a bunch of men and one other woman from my church. It's set up in match play, so you play best score per hole and there's like points for the person with the bigger handicap so it's a pretty fair match.
Now, here's a little background: I played for my highschool's golf team for 4 years, and I kinda floated by, keeping varsity rank but not really trying very hard. I didn't have a real drive (ha! drive!) to compete, and eh...whatever.
Okay, background check over. So, tonight I was playing Mrs. Bennett and I had to give her a stroke on every hole, and 2 on one. Which means if I wanted to beat her and she got a 6 on a hole, I'd have to par it because she gets that one stroke on me (which gives her a 5) and to beat that I have to get a 4. Which stinks, becasue I'm pretty good at bogey golf. So today I realized that I have become the comically ironic "competitive golfer." I smugly congratulated her good shots while in my head I was screaming "miss! miss! miss!" I hit every green (except for like 2 or 3) in regulation, but let's be honest--I'm awful at putting--so I struggled my way through a pretty decent round of 48. Pretty much a great score for me--but I left the course so frustrated because it wasn't good enough. So much for being a leisurely stroll with a stick in my hands and a ball at my feet.
Speaking of 48, my dad's 50th birthday is coming up. Which means my birthday is coming up. Which means Camp Indogan is coming up! I'll leave you all (and by you all I mean Ashley, Jared, Stephen and myself) with some fond memories of Camp Indogan.

Ahh, who could forget when the 'Yota reached her landmark 75000?

Sigh. Tear.

Or when these boys all stuffed pillows down their shirts and danced
to a Weird Al Yankovic song?

Or when this girl came to chapel withe the worse case of bedhead
known to man?

And banquet is the time where everyone puts on their
Sunday Best!

And we eat a good home-cooked meal fit for a camp full of kids!

Oh, Camp Indogan, how we love you!

My Parents Are Funny.

One would think that if something were really important to a person that he would be able to treat it like it was important. In all honesty, I have a hard time taking myself seriously. Be it a side effect of not many other people taking me seriously, or the root of the aforementioned; I can't muster up the will power in myself to do the things I'm supposed to be doing.
I guess if you want to get technical, it's not really up to me to determine what I'm "supposed to be doing," but I guess what I mean is that I can't seem to set and reach reasonable goals.
I can't create the courage in myself to speak assertively to people who take advantage of me. And I can't finish a project any sooner than an hour before it needs to be done, let alone start it much sooner. I don't take responsibility for my shortcomings, but rather try to find the loophole in the process so I can make it look like someone else's fault. Because it always is. I find times where I am sitting on the floor, not looking at anything in particular or even thinking about anything really, and hours will pass by and I will be unmoved. Those hours could have been spent in prayer, in scripture, cleaning, running, practicing my guitar, or any random piece of activity that is anything more productive than sitting on the floor. And yet while I ponder these alternatives to sitting, as I sit, I can't seem to move to do them.
Is this apathy? Is this laziness? Is this some sort of post-graduate slump that is medically recognized so I can have a loophole and not have to blame myself for my lack of..well...anything? I am a very organized person who has the messiest room and office you will ever see. I feel the need to always be on a schedule, and if I'm not than things won't get done. If I don't make a list of things to do and physically cross things off of my list to get them done, I will not do them. Plain and simple. And if I skip over something on my list, the entire list is now null and void and I am just as lost as I would have been had I not made the list in the first place. I can clean very well. However, if things are getting a little messy, I will say "I'm going to clean this on Monday," and those three days until Monday I will not bother to put anything away. What's the use? I'm going to tear it all up to clean it anyway, right? (That's how I clean, by the way. I have to destroy everything first so I can make sure that the organization of the room at the finale of the task has nothing out of order.) I have to rearrange things often, or I won't have an excuse to keep things neat. If I lived in my perfect world, I would have cereal, broccoli, hommus, and yogurt in my refigerator and not have to worry about anything else except the occasional pancake or two. I don't require variety, I require order. My life does not have order, and it leaves me feeling somewhat lost on occasion. Moving to Oklahoma is seemingly a "fly by the seat of my pants" operation, but I'm calculating Plan A, B, C, D, E, F, and G for what will happen if such and such doesn't work out. I took a drawing class in highschool and we had to do a drawing using a technique called pointalism where the entire picture is made up of black dots of various densities to create illusion of darker and lighter shades. I started my picture, which was to be my masterpiece, and much to my dismay I could not make those dots all the same. I couldn't keep my shades of dark consistent throughout and in portions of the picture where there were very few dots to create a white or grey piece of the puzzle I calculated and squinted and measured where I would put those few precious dots so as to not throw off the balance of the hue. Halfway through the picture the two week due date came rolling through and I could not bring myself to finish. I couldn't stand knowing that some of those dots were not where I wanted them to be, and I couldn't stand that my picture was not exactly calculated and perfect. So what did I do? I went home the night before the project and traced a bird and outlined it in dots. I got an A on the project, and it only took me an hour. I hated drawing class. Every single project, no matter what we drew, went the exact same way. I would look around the class at the other students' drawings and I couldn't understand how they could think what they drew looked like the bottle and grapes sitting on the table in front of them. I see no thick outline on the bottle, and there weren't 9 grapes, there were 14. And they weren't that size either. What is the point in trying to draw those objects if they're not going to look EXACTLY like the ones on the table!? I turned in 4, maybe 5 of the projects that we had to do in the class. I turned in the ones that met my expectations. I didn't turn in the ones that didn't. For an elective class, I didn't do very well--that's for sure. Actually, that's pretty much the story of my life. If something goes according to plan, I keep going. If it doesn't, I scrap it as if it had never started. If I start a Bible reading plan and for some reason miss a day (you know, due to sitting on the carpet doing nothing instead), I tend to look at it like I never started in the first place, so what's the point to keep going. I can't catch up. What is this daemon I've created in myself? Why do I know it's there and still not do anything about it? For fear of failure? Perseverance is the key. I've learned that ever since I was little. But perseverance goes hand in hand with stubbornness and that is something that I lack. Initiative. What's that? Obedience I'm pretty good at. Tell me what to do, how to do it, when and where to be...I'm all over that. If you put me in a group and tell me to "problem solve" I'll kick your butt. Or I'll create a plan and take charge of the group. Or better yet, break from the group and do all the work on my own. What am I missing? I'm not stupid. I know that I can't take control of everything. I know that God is in charge. I know that if I would ask him for help than He'd more than gladly give it to me. I know that when I learn his word and am in the Bible daily that things have a way of ironing themselves out--and even when they don't, he still holds my head afloat so long as I seek him and cling to him. I know all this stuff. I've been learning it since I was little. I've been reading about it, hearing about it, sharing it with other people--you name it. Yet my problem lies in the fact that I still find myself sitting on the floor. I don't think I'm prideful, and I'm not afraid to be humbled. I don't think I'm afraid to humble myself. I definitely am always talking to God, and being alone with him. So why am I not making the connection? What can I do to just give it all up? I make my lists upon endless lists, and no matter what order I put things on them, I can't find the proper balance of importance so I can start. Am I crazy? Tell me there are people out there who aren't institutionalized who can relate. Because the people who I meet who say "oh, I'm just like that with the list thing," have NO idea. They actually complete what's on their lists. Their rooms and desks are immaculate. I'm anal, only I'm still inside the colon. It's a mess. Sometimes I think that if I had some major crises that would force me into taking some sort of action that I'd be more successful. That I'd have some sort of motivation. That's why I'm such a procrastinator. The best pieces of writing I've ever handed in were the 20+ page papers written the night before they were due. I look back and read them now and wonder how I even got the knowledge to write them in the first place! That pressure and that stress push me to success. Right now I'm so in Limbo that I have no drive to do anything. What's my carrot? What sort of fire can be lit under my bum? I have all these things to do and I want to plan them out second by second, penny by penny, and there are just too many variables that I am left with either an empty page or twenty different pages of possible outcomes. Yet no plan of action. I would love to get married, but Lord help me if I ever have to plan a wedding.
And so what I want is advice. I need somebody to tell me what to do. And I don't think becoming an Orthodox Jew is my answer--although I'll bet I'd be good at it (aside from the whole Jesus is my Savior part). Yeah, it's nice when people listen and nod and blah blah blah, but seriously, tell me how to fix it and I'll do it! Point me to the Bible verse that will be my revelation and I'll paint it on my eyelids so I can see it in my sleep. Zap me with motivation so I can just do nothing but pray instead of sit. It's not like I'm asking you to do the work for me. Just begging you to tell me what to do! I'm smart enough to know what's reasonable and what's not, so I know better than to take everything at face value, but I don't learn anything when you just listen to me. I learn by listening to others. (Which suddenly makes me understand why I love classes that are lecture and hate ones where I have to do group work).
Ugh.

Beefing it up

I have finally come to grips with the fact that the Pistons lost game 7. It took me a while. A few tears, a couple shouts, several days of denial....but my dear sweet Pistons, your turn this year is over. You did well (off and on) and I'm proud of you.

In other news, Mom and Drewey are in the midst of their 2nd week in Honduras and I'm pretty sure they're doing fine. Mom's all over physical labor, and Drew can haul his oats when he needs to.

I got to spend yesterday with Jill, Corson, and Braden and that was a ton of fun. I am going to have as hard of a time leaving Corson as I did when Autumn left. They both were/are at that age where they know who I am now, but when displaced they're too young to remember. That hurts, because one of my favorite parts of life is when little kids learn who you are. When I go down to visit the Sharps, Connor remembers me, but Autumn only does from the last time I visited. So at least from moving down there, I'll gain that relationship back. But I'll lose my basketball-loving buddy. So when I come back and he's bigger he's not going to remember all of Drew's and my efforts to make sure he knew the starting lineup. It's a little sad for me.

But that's okay, because changes just need to take place sometimes. And change is good.

Collapsing Sandcastles.

Why can't I just be grateful for what I have? I have a job, a house that I don't have to pay for, I have food and clothes and parents who care for me. And so why do I need to move away so badly? Plans here in Oklahoma keep falling through and it's leaving me miserable. And I called my dad and he tried to explain to me that it's not my job to let people walk all over me and cancel things that I spend my own money on. And I don't know if I'm just being a sucker and letting my dad talk me out of things, or if I'm just being ungrateful and leaving for Oklahoma because it's what I want to do. But I've let myself be talked out of moving to Oklahoma since highschool. And every year I get a new opportunity that I let myself get talked out of to stay home. I really really really feel like I'm ready to move and I just want to start being idependant and things keep messing up. So should I just stay home again?
I'm so worn out. I don't know what to do. I just feel like I'm getting older and more tired the longer I stay at home and I'm getting worn out.
I just really don't know what to do.
If it was God's plan for me to be somewhere I'd know it, right? So how can I be so sure that I need to be in Oklahoma, but have everything blow up? How can I keep getting chances to come back every year, and when I finally decide to do it have it not work?
I'm so confused and frustrated, and frankly crushed.
I'm having a really difficult time discerning between parents who don't want to let go, and parents who aren't being supportive. I feel like it doesn't matter to them what I do with my life, as long as I'm living at home and helping out around the house as necessary.

And if I never remember anything else my parents told me, I will always make sure I remember whose child I am.

Mom and Drew (and a bunch of other Livonia people) are in Honduras right now. They are safe, and pray that they continue to be!
Daddy's at home all alone, because I'm in Oklahoma, so I hope he doesn't get too lonely. Usually when my mom's away and I'm home he always wants to go do stuff. And when it's late and we can't really go do anything he sortof paces around. I'm in Oklahoma until Saturday, so I wonder what he's doing with himself! Mom always says "you are definitely your father's daughter," and so he's most likely staying up late for no reason and eating ice cream. Maybe eagerly waiting to watch the Pistons tomorrow night.
I'm in Oklahoma, trying to get more job interviews but things are proving tricky with loss of Kali's car (it died earlier today) and lack of returned phone calls from Principals asking me to make sure I notified them when I was in town. God's definitely got a plan, though, and I'll fall into it wherever I fit.

PC is the latest trend.

Unfortunately it's completely un-PC.

The patient in room 7613 would like their medecine.
If you clearly know the gender of the patient, why would you just not use the correct pronoun so you can keep the singular identifier consistent with your pronoun?
Or there's
If your child needs to use their locker during classtime, know it's going to affect their citizenship grade.
It's like the teacher shortcut to a generic letter. UNfortunately, it's not "politically correct" to just select one or the other singular pronoun. And heaven forbid you have to write "his or her." That takes sooo much extra time! I've got an idea! Let's just send home a letter that's poorly written!

And there's the whole "we don't refer to black people as black people. It's not "politically correct." Well, what should we refer to them as? African American? Hmm, last time I checked, Africa isn't the only place where people have dark skin. And so what are white people then? Do we need to call them all Polish American? Because clearly Polish people are white. And therefore all white people must be Polish. SERIOUSLY, people, this is a problem. So when a black person is filling out a college application and it says to check the box for ethnic/racial makeup statistics and the options are "white," "African American," "Native American," "Asian," and "other" how accurate are the statistical makeup charts if the population is 5% Albanian, 35% Hatian-American, 5% African American, 5% Hispanic, 10% Asian, and 40% White and the school session begins and there's the same amount of black people as there are white? Oh, that 35% that you didn't know about are just "other" We only count African Americans in our statistics.

It's a problem that we try to avoid offending people by putting them into categories that sound a little more "professional" and sacrificing diversity and heritage at the same time. And with the "his/her" gender things, we're sacrificing our dignity as educated people. We learned how to make our subjects and pronouns agree in middle school, friends. Let's not sacrifice it just to save face (and keystrokes).

I guess I seem a little bitter, but I have a really hard time growing up sometimes being told that the Upper-Middle-Class White man is the enemy and is trying to take over the country. I will not be at fault for being white, and I will not be held accountable for people who might not be wealthy and just happen to be not white. That's not my fault. The best I can be is who God made me, and I will NEVER be told that it's not good enough. I'm sick of movie stars and other charity causes telling me what I need to do and who I need to give my money to. I'm sick of hearing speeches and reading articles about how the United States is a bully of a country and our President is a moron. I love my country, and I am blessed to be here. I love and support President Bush, even if he does or says something that I think maybe wasn't what I would do. What is the big deal with being politically correct, if it's not even living up to its name?
Politics and correctness sortof don't always go hand in hand. Politics is politics, unfortunately often correctness aside.

Ah, the fond memories of childhood..

Remember when I used to dress Awesome?

You know, when I was the queen of style?

Even little kids wanted to dress like me?


Well, it's time to reveal my secret.
All of my fashion genius when I was younger is attributed to my dear seester, Kali.

My fashion Guru.

We'll all float on, good news is on the way.

I shouldn't post things about my mom, even if I don't understand why she does some things.
I know better than that.

I love my mother, and she's just as perfect as any other person out there. If not even just a tiny bit more.

Don't you think it would be nice if you'd stop living life through your kids?

I really really don't understand why my mom just picks fights for no reason. And I really don't understand why she wakes up, gets out of bed, and comes downstairs just to do it. I guess it might make a little sense if it was about something like a messy room or not picking up after ourselves...but to wake up, stomp downstairs to yell at Drew for not telling her earlier that he forgot his colored pencils in his locker is a little unnecessary. Right?
I'm thinking...okay, so Drew's project isn't finished. He should have remembered his pencils so he could get it done early rather than finish it during class (which is designated for students to finish their projects, by the way). Maybe he should have been working on it earlier, so he could have found out earlier so maybe she could have gotten him more pencils? Is the principle she's trying to hang on to that he should have been working on it earlier? I guess that could make sense, but it hardly merits waking up, trudging downstairs and raising her voice. It's not her project anyway. It's his. If he doesn't get a good grade it's not a reflection on her--it's on him.
I guess I will never understand why it always seems to matter more to the parent than the student what the "grade" is. Parents don't seem to understand that it's not the grade that counts. It's the learning. If you slack and get a bad grade--suck it up. It's what you earned.
Parents get so caught up in whether or not their children will graduate with honors that many will even lie to get grades changed. I will say that students who want those honors will work for them. Effort doesn't go unnoticed. Unfortunately, forcing it upon your children doesn't make them want to try harder. And in many cases, when that success is acheived, the parents take the credit. I mean, it's great to have parents actively involved in their child's education, but seriously. Let your kids make their choices.
And for goodness sakes, don't feel like you've got to be in control so much that you wake up from sleep to go make sure your child realizes that You're the Parent.
We already know, thanks.
That's why we honor and obey even when you're not making sense.
We know.
You raised us well.
You don't have to remind us constantly that you're the boss while we sit and silently wait for you to finish.
That's why we take you shopping to get your input on clothes we wear.
That's why we smile and eat your meat loaf even though the very idea of a "meat loaf" is the most undesireable dish ever invented.
We love and respect you already.
We know you're older and wiser and have been through it all.
We know that you learned the hard way to not procrastinate.
We appreciate that you try very hard to not let us make similar mistakes that you did.
However, it's not going to keep us from making them.

I can't convince you that fried bologna with peanut butter is delicious, no matter how many times I've eaten and enjoyed it. You have to taste it for yourself or you'll never believe it.



In other news:

Go Pistons! :-D

Although I will say I get a little offended when they refer to Darko as the "Human Victory Cigar." That's unkind.

Just keep the faith that your ship will come in

Dear Pistons,

You're killing me!

Love, Kari

in other news:

I was thinking about my dad on the drive home from the OK state of Oklahoma and as I'm quite sure many are aware that I admire my father quite. So I was remembering a time when he was pretty ticked at Kali, and it was the same day that our church was doing the sendoff for the seniors. The parents of the seniors write their child a letter and the elders read it. Dad was pretty ticked and didn't want to write the letter, but mom made him. And then at church, they decided that instead of having the elders read it, that they would make the parents read them. So my dad goes up to the front and starts reading. He starts out by saying that it was a difficult letter to write--for more reasons than one--and he read on. But I remember very distinctly his voice starting to break and his hands begin to shake. He stopped to take a breath, and read on. Slowly and broken, his eyes glistening. To date, this is the 2nd time I've ever seen my dad cry. Through the tears welling up in my own eyes I looked around at the rest of the people in the auditorium, and many of them were sniffling, wiping their noses, or unabashedly letting the tears fall.
So I was thinking about Jesus. And you know that one part in the Bible where it says that he wept? You know, over Lazarus? I was thinking about it today; and if the tears of just a normal man's heart breaking can bring an entire room full of people to feel just a shadow of that heartbreak, I wonder if entire towns and trees and mountains didn't fall to the ground when Jesus wept. Our Lord's heart was so broken that he wept, and I can't imagine how it would feel to just feel a shadow of it. It was hard enough to see my dad cry.

Drop it like it's hot. And if it's a pancake, pick it up quick!

Wouldn't want to waste a precious pancake.

In other news:

I had my first job interview today. I interviewed for a 2nd grade teaching position in an "at risk" school in a suburb of Oklahoma City. The principal explained to me that 100% of the population of the school lives in poverty, and that the lives that the kids live at home are things that I wouldn't even be able to dream up. (Doesn't sound like very plesant dreams, nonetheless.) So the biggest part of me is so excited. I want to be a teacher to teach children. I want them to learn not just school things, but how to be good people in the world. I want them to want to come to school, and love reading and love math, and have adults in their lives that they can trust. I want them to have a teacher who isn't in it for the summer vacation--because that's not fair.
And then the logical part of me knows that I've grown up in upper-middle-class white suburbia, where the schools are all wealty. The schools are wealthy and the teachers still didn't always want to be there. What makes me think that when I have to spend hundreds of dollars on my own teaching materials, have 2nd graders calling me bad words all day and most significantly leave my comfort zone that I'll actually love my job enough to keep going back to it? I want to love my job soo much. That's why I want to teach. Because it's something that I could see myself doing every day until I'm like 70. I think there's a little part of me that is afraid that if I teach in a school where children are poorly behaved that I won't want to do it forever.
But the bigger part of me knows that God gave me this borderline-annoying enthusiasm because he needed me to use it. So I guess now we just sit back and wait for the decision--and hopefully more offers just in case.

It feels pretty soft to me.

If life's not beautiful without the pain, well than I would rather never ever even see beauty again

That's a line from a song that I really really like. And It's my favorite line. But I don't think I think like that. So why it's my favorite line of the song, I couldn't tell you.

I had a boyfriend once, when I was in high school and my first year of college. He didn't treat me terribly well sometimes. (In all fairness, I probably wasn't as nice as I should have been to him.) But last night I dreamed about him, and I don' t think I like it when that happens, becasue it sortof scares me that I dream about being happy with somebody who made me so sad for so long.

So I think that saying you'd rather never see beauty again if it meant that you wouldn't have any more pain is kindof like selling your soul to the Devil in a way. Like cutting a deal. Being pain free isn't a good deal, in my opinion. Because it kindof reminds me of being calloused.
So maybe if I gave up everything ever that was beautiful, only so I couldn't ever feel pain again I would probably be missing out on more than just being hurt. God is beautiful, and Love is beautiful. Grass and bears and cake and moms and babies. Those are all beauty. Can you imagine how dull your life would be i you couldn't feel anything? I imagine it would be pretty empty.

Maybe it's my favorite line because it reminds me that life is beautiful, and that pain is something we need to happen so we can keep the rest of our senses in tact.

On Stories

Every good once in a while, there is a book that I will read that will be written in such a lovely way that my heart burns with each word. There's this feeling I get sometimes when I read, and it litterally feels like my heart is melting in my chest, while pounding with such force that my breath is just taken away. Some authors just have a way with words, and eloquent speech that I can't help but hold my breath as I imagine the scene unfolding in my mind.
I'm working on writing a book called Index Card Stories and I can only hope that just one of them will make any reader feel this for just one second, because I think it is something that every writer should strive for, but very few actually achieve.

My two favorite authors who do this consistently well are Fyodor Dostoevsky and C.S. Lewis.

If you have never read anything by Fyodor Dostoevsky, I would encourage you to read The Heavenly Christmas Tree. If you don't know what I'm talking about with the heart stopping breath stealing literature, I feel like this might give you a taste of it. And if you'd like a big gulp, read The Brothers Karamazov. It is, by far, my very favorite book I've ever read. Ever.

And as for C.S. Lewis...I've read quite a bit of his writing, but the experience I remember most vividly is from The Magician's Nephew (The first in the Chronicles of Narnia). I think this is mostly because when Aslan is introduced, during the creation of Narnia, it talks about him just walking. Step by step, across the land, as it swelled up and burst out new life.
I don't know if I can explain this well, but I want you to try to close your eyes and sortof tense up your jaw, pushing your lower jaw and tongue up toward the roof of your mouth. It should make a "whoosh" sound that you can only hear in your head. Just a small swish, or if you will, like the sound of a footstep.
When I was very young (like 3 or 4 years old) I used to do this a lot, only I never realized that I was making that sound myself. And I would hide from it because I was sure that a lion was slowly walking down the hall with every swoosh sound I heart. Very rhythmic and smootly, walking closer and closer. And the more nervous I would get, the more tense I would become, and the louder the sound would be in my head. Which made me feel like the lion was coming closer with every step.
I'm not sure what made me grow out of this, or why I even thought it was a lion in the first place, but I grew out of it and lived a pretty normal childhood. No worries.
Anyway, so when I was 17 I started reading the Chronicles of Narnia, and the chapter where it introduces Aslan, and it describes him just walking--silently, closer and closer--filled me with so much peace. Mainly because I immediately made the parallel from Aslan to God. And I'd have to say that not many things can compare to the way I feel everytime I read the Creation Account of Narnia, because I can put myself there. I can hear the sounds, feal the fear and peace simultaneously and I love it.

I hope that every person has at least one book, or part of a book that will create that feeling. Because once you experience it, reading becomes an adventure. And from those adventures come our future authors.

Me and Napoleon are headed for our one year anniversary. It's really exciting. You can send us gifts or money--I won't be offended. Maybe even a little card.

Something I just realized

I don't think that moms actually want your opinion when they say, "what do you think?"

Keep your mouth shut Kari!