Autumn In the Field

I wrote this a week or two ago for a descriptive essay assignment in English class. It's pretty much just a culmination of my childhood memories of autumn days that I spent in a field near my old house. Anyways, I hope it turned out okay, and I'm super grateful to my English teacher for her great advice and constructive criticism in my rough draft which helped me write this final draft. So, here it is. "Autumn in the Field."

Looking out her window, the young woman could see many things which made up a scene that she had come to know well. She knew every tree, every hill from this view that had become familiar over the past five years, and she now felt at home in the midst of a setting which had at one time been unknown to her. The leaves sailing gently down to the wet bark dust reminded her of autumns in her past, and the picturesque place that she was once a part of. Alone with her thoughts, soon she was there again, in the field she had occupied often as a child, taking in her surroundings of years before.

She rested atop a steep wave, floating above an expansive sea of grass which stretched out long and wide before her eyes and below her person. Down the slope in front of her and beyond the knoll where she sat, lay countless short pieces of green, a natural carpet that rolled on for acres before reaching its end as the edge of the field ran under rows of vertical wooden planks on the other side, the numerous carpet fibers seemingly tucked snugly beneath the fence posts. A soft wind bent down and brushed the ground, pushing the tops of the small springy strings up and down, back and forth, ever so slightly that they became a mass of flickering candle flames. As the girl leaned back, placing her palms behind her for support, a stiff green spear stood out proudly from among the soft, docile blades which made up the majority of the vast field, and jabbed the edge of her thumb forcefully, all but puncturing her skin.

            She returned her hands to her lap, the dark blue denim beneath them feeling warm against her cold fingers. A sudden gale picked up and glided over this ocean like a sea breeze, but instead of harshly hitting her nose and cheeks and smelling of salt water, the wind’s icy fingertips gently touched the girl’s face with the crisp scents of autumn trees, fog and nigh-frozen ground, and the savory smells of lingering chimney smoke and various plants so sweet they could almost be tasted. Just before departing, what remained of the breeze swept past, and with its tail tapped each of the dry, brown leaves on the tall, robust oak tree standing behind her, sending a few soundlessly to the hard dirt below and rattling through those still attached to limbs.

            Directing her sight toward the ground from where the tree sprang up and was rooted, she noticed how the oak’s numerous legs pierced the dirt and became trapped in the tightly packed earth, leaving only a few knees visible above the surface. Were it not for its feet being buried under countless inches of heavy soil, the mighty oak may have shaken off the mosses and dirt which plagued it and held it captive, and ran free, but as it was the tree was completely powerless to move the smallest distance, and resigned itself to the wills of nature, standing as a solid statue against any rain storms or forces of wind that may come against it. She reached out to press her hand against its trunk, and found the bark to be as rough and hard as it appeared. Her eyes rolled up and up, following the tree trunk higher and higher until she had to tilt her head back to take in the uppermost portion. The top was sparsely decorated with the odd leaf here and there, as well as with dots of moss, some of which were the dark green hue of pine trees, the rest a peculiar shade of grayish aquamarine, much subtler than the vibrant colors which brightened the patches of sky peeking ‘round the edges of leaves and limbs above her.

            Brilliant shades of pink and purple ran together like a watercolor painting in the western sky, set off by the shining wide arch of bright golden yellow that occupied the lowest portion of the horizon and touched the darker strips of color on its upper border, the lower part alluding to the warm ball of light from where it originated, now out of sight below the point where the sky met the mountains. Delightful colors penetrated the cotton-like clouds near them, their light permeating through the fluffy balls of water vapor and saturating each with a distinct hue. Gradually the sky became dimmer and the colors combined to create a dark, mysterious purple-gray dusk just above the distant mountain range. As the girl saw that daylight would soon disappear altogether to make way for twinkling illuminated dots to appear overhead, numerous as the blades of grass and sprinkled throughout the wide dome of sky, she realized that she, too, must vacate the outdoor world, and she left the cold, empty field, unaware that her future visits to this place were to be limited in number.

            Now she awoke at once from her nostalgic daydream, wondering at this flood of precise memories. It had been so long ago since she had actually beheld this scene, yet it came back to her mind instantly when thought upon. Would she ever have the opportunity of revisiting that sacred place of her youth? Only time would tell. For now she would step outside and become a part of this newer, yet extravagantly beautiful setting that she currently inhabited, and ponder the similarities and differences between this fall and autumns of old.

           

           

           

Camp

A couple months ago, I had the incredible opportunity to help at a nearby summer camp for families, and it was…amazing. Please forgive me if this seems a bit rambly…I’m not going to take much time proofreading this or revising, because unlike most of what I’ve posted so far, this is not really any kind of formal composition, but rather a description of what was quite possibly the most fulfilling weekend in my life so far. Also, I'd like to tell you up front that this is a long post. No, seriously, this is the longest post I've added so far, and (hopefully) the longest that I will ever add to this blog (I usually try to avoid droning on and on and putting people to sleep), and if you would much rather read something on this blog that you could easily get through in a minute or so (and I can't say that I would blame you), please skip over this and find something that you might actually enjoy. However, in the case that you'd like to kick back for a few minutes and hear about a teenage girl's seemingly insignificant weekend which turned out to be an awesome adventure and life-long memory, and possibly an inspiration for her future ministry, stay tuned.  So here’s a look at family camp; well, through my eyes anyway.

All summer my sister, who was coordinating the activities for kids at camp, had been at a loss for anyone to help her over the camp weekend. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to lead the games, etc, but she was already teaching a class and due to the physical impossibility of being in two places at once, really needed at least 2-3 other teens and/or adults to work with her.  One of my best friends generously offered to help, and my sister gladly and gratefully took her up on it. Meanwhile, I had been contemplating going to a different camp (attending, not helping) which happened over the same weekend. I had already been there two years prior, and had an amazing time getting to spend time with people my own age (when you’re homeschooled, being with peers can be a rare luxury), discovering God more, and having a much-needed break from family (don’t get me wrong. I love my dad, mom, big sister and three little brothers dearly…but when you’re around them ALL THE TIME…well, it was nice to be away for a week). Last year, I had planned to go to that same camp once again, but as luck would have it, came down with a virus the day before I was to leave. So this summer, I was really hoping for a nice, quiet, relaxing week away from my family for the first time in two years. Alright, alright, a teen camp’s probably not exactly what one would call “quiet” or “relaxing,” but you know what I mean. Long story short, I discussed this with my parents, who said that if I really wanted to go, I probably could, although it would be really nice if I would stay and help my sister instead. Now, I could take this opportunity to say that I chose to teach at family camp purely out of the goodness of my heart, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. I mean, I would have helped her even if my only reason for doing so had been the desire to get my sister out of a pinch…however, I cannot honestly say that that was the entire reason behind this vounteerage (I don’t think that’s a word, but work with me here).  Truth be told, I had always wanted to work at a camp, from the time I was about six years old, so in a way, this was a dream come true. But apart from all of that, after praying about it I felt kind of like God was nudging me toward volunteering (I could also feel my sister nudging me in that direction…no, really, she literally nudged me). But seriously, it was like He was saying that there was work for me to do there for Him, and that it would be very meaningful. So while my sister ran around to various craft supplies stores, and filled a Rubbermaid bin with miscellaneous camp necessities, I packed clothes, etc. for camp, and grew increasingly excited at the prospect of the coming weekend. When we pulled into the camp parking lot, we were heralded by the old sign that had been there for who knows how long, and it was like vague déjà vu, as I had been there years before as a little girl when my mom was volunteering at a different camp event. What I noticed first were the differences. They seemed to have done quite a bit of remodeling in the past decade or so, and at first glance, I didn’t even recognize parts of it. The second thing I noticed was the size. I mean, it’s a pretty big camp, but it seemed a lot smaller now than it had when I was seven (things look a lot bigger when you’re in second grade.) My sister immediately pointed me to the gym, where my friend and I would be leading the more active games. We had barely been there fifteen minutes when ten preschoolers showed up, some ready for fun and socialization, others not so much. Soon, however, everyone was having a great time on the playground, their favorite being the merry-go-round, and I had settled into a feeling of contentedness, and concluded that leading gym time was a lot easier than people had made it sound. The hardest part was keeping four children swinging at the same time, but even that was easily taken care of by my walking back and forth behind them, giving them each a push when they needed it. One little girl chattered away, telling everyone about her special blanket, her Barbies, and other possessions that are important to a five-year-old girl. Another little girl, aged four, loved telling me about her family, especially her little sister. The oldest boys enjoyed just seeing how high they could each swing, while the younger two were fascinated with the slides, climbing up the ladder and sliding down countless times over the course of the morning. Soon, it was time to switch off age groups. My friend led the preschoolers to their other class and stayed there to help them with painting and story time. While the little guys were lining up to walk to their next class, however, all fourteen of the elementary-aged kids had eagerly run over to the gym from their quiet story and craft class, and when I re-entered the gym, I felt more than a little overwhelmed. You see, I had somehow gotten it into my head that because they’re older, are able to better participate in group games, and can readily communicate any needs they may have, that the older kids group would be even easier than the wiggly, energetic preschoolers…I was DEAD WRONG. It wasn’t that they were intentionally not listening, or trying to ignore me, it was just that the sheer noise of fourteen kids (twelve of them boys) bouncing basketballs in a closed, echo-y gym, shouts of joy and indistinct chatter that made my loudest attempts at getting their attention inaudible. It was also then that it occurred to me that my sister had promised that she would give me a whistle in case I needed it, and that I had never received said whistle. Eventually, I managed to be heard enough above the din to make sure that everyone who needed to use the bathroom had done so, and gathered everyone to go outside. Now, I didn’t used to be a real advocate for “head checks,” feeling the counting of the number of people, rather than knowing them by name, somewhat impersonal. However, I had done several “head counts” with the preschool class, as well as learned all of their names, and had felt pretty confident that I would be able to do the same with the older crowd. To my disappointment in myself, I never did learn all of the elementary kids’ names, and found myself counting heads every thirty seconds or so; but I think given the fact that it was a class of 14 and I only knew them for two days, I did pretty dang good about getting to know them personally, and should probably cut myself some slack. Also, it was a good thing that I counted so frequently, because on that first morning, three turned up temporarily missing when they ran out the gym door and up the hill and didn’t come back until much later (at which time their parents spoke with them). That was definitely the most nerve-wracking part of the whole experience. Although I figured that they’d probably be fine, as they seemed pretty accustomed to the camp and appeared to know where they were going, it was still scary not having any idea where they were for about forty minutes. Anyways, the treasure hunt that we had planned didn’t pan out, because while half of the group was discussing various tactics on how to bring the three runaways back, and planning an ambush on them, the other half was curiously searching for and finding treasure hunt clues outside, until they had uncovered every last one. Can’t say as I blame ‘em, though…despite my best efforts, I’m sorry to say that their first gym class was probably pretty boring, between the missing kids, the difficulty of efficiently moving a group that large through each activity, and their wide variety of interests, each with their own idea of what would be” fun” to do. In the end, we all just went to the playground where they could each pursue their own activities, provided that they stayed within view. Throughout all of this, there was a little seven-year-old boy who followed me around, asking me to play this game or that with him, which I gladly did while keeping an eye on the rest of the group. His favorite game was Twister, and we played round after round of that until the end of class. After the older kids’ gym session, my job for the day was over, and I got to spend the rest of the day having lots of fun with my friend, including a massive glow-in-the-dark Capture the Flag game which played out under a beautiful meteor shower. The next morning, I awoke feeling more prepared, and only a little bit stiff. Right after breakfast, my friend and I strolled over to the gym just in time for the little guys to file in for gym time, most of whom seemed more relaxed and ready for the day than they had the previous morning. I have to admit that it did seem only slightly hectic at a couple of points during this morning’s class, because while the day before had been sunny and suitable for our spending most of the time on the playground, today it was drizzly and a bit cold, and as we were stuck inside with limited activities, it was a little difficult to find things that would interest every age and every attention span (which differs greatly among 3-6 year olds). But, alas, I think they enjoyed themselves, and I felt so fortunate to be able to witness their little “jokes” and the witty conversations that they had amongst themselves, which none but them could fully appreciate. After the first session was over, I watched with a touch of sadness as they walked out the gym door to their next and final class at camp, and it occurred to me at that moment that though camp had barely started, it was also nearing its end, and any memories that they had made thus far in gym time were all they were going to acquire; for this year, at least. Again, the elementary class ran in and I could not help but admire the enthusiastic energy that they held for almost everything they did. Whether that was basketball, bingo, tic-tac-toe or twister, each one seemed to harbor an inner strength and passion for whichever game they chose. After all had arrived and I had again resumed the near-constant counting of occupants to ensure their safety, one of the camp directors walked in and, in what I can only assume was in response to the previous day’s scare when a few kids up and left, kindly offered his game-leading assistance, for which I was very thankful. Don’t get me wrong, I loved leading gym time and didn’t mind teaching alone in the least. But there was a sense of relief when his voiced reached much further than mine ever could so that the entire gym could be easily aware of the activity plans for the morning, plus they could actually see him, as opposed to me who stood about 2-3 inches shorter than the tallest student. And so, thus we continued out to the field which was growing steadily warmer, and prepared to play our version of a “human board game.” By the end of the game, all but two of the kids had left in pursuit of monkey bars, swings, tetherball and slides, but they were all having a blast, and it was a lot of fun to see them explore and play. It was during this time that something that was a strange combination of awkward and adorable happened. The little boy (the Twister fanatic) had been following me around the entire class time, and occasionally bringing me beautiful bouquets of dandelions and other flora. As I stood near the merry-go-round, on which over half of the class had crowded on to, the little boy stood up, jumped into my arms, and by reflex (I have little brothers who do that sort of thing all the time), I caught him. He proceeded then to profess that he loved me, and asked for my hand in marriage…I replied that, no, I would not marry him, but tried to say it simply and kindly, and figured that he had been kidding and would let the matter drop. He did not, and asked me many more times if I would marry him, or at least be his girlfriend, at which an 8-year-old on the merry-go-round exclaimed: “She probably already has a husband!” I avoided pointing out obvious reasons why I am not married, and attempted once again to move on to other subjects. Eventually he stopped asking, but by that point several of the other boys had started teasing the little guy, and I felt more than a little bad for him. But after a few minutes, everyone seemed to forget about it, including him, and the rest of that gym time was fairly uneventful. I taught them a really fun game that I had learned at the camp I attended two years before, and was glad that they seemed to be having a ton of fun. As the morning drew to close and they left to join their parents for lunch, I again felt much the same way that I had earlier upon the preschoolers’ departure, except this was different in the way that unlike the little guys, these kids did not hug me good-bye, look back and wave or show any other sign that they might share some of the same sentiment of something coming to an end. And while it wasn’t as if I’d never see them again, as I would actually run into many of them throughout the rest of the afternoon, I was no longer involved in their games, interactions or fun, at least not in the same way. I began to pack everything that we had used over the course of the past two mornings into the “camp bin,” that my sister had put so much time and thought into, when a third grade boy, the same one who had assumed me to already be a married woman, and had also been one of the three who had gone “adventuring” the previous morning, asked if I would play basketball with him for a little bit. I, knowing next to nothing about the sport, agreed while apologizing in advance for my lack of knowledge and skill. I’ll tell you right now that he won fair and square, 6-0, which probably could have been readily predicted from the beginning. I did, however, learn quite a bit about basketball during the experience, as he explained some of the rules, gave me tips, and even tried to let me win a couple of times. After about ten minutes, his dad came to pick him up and he walked out the door, just as the others had. Well, that was it. It was over. Though camp would continue for the rest of the day, with many more activities for kids, adults and families, this “job” to which I had been assigned was completed, and all too soon. Now when one of the kids ran up to me and exclaimed: “Teacher! Teacher!” it was bittersweet, because in just a few hours I would leave, and even if I did teach there again the following year, they were going to have a full year of new experiences, new memories, and life between now and then, and the majority would probably not remember this weekend at all twelve months from now. Still, the afternoon was enjoyable, if not fairly mundane and relaxing, which was great because to be honest, I was pretty exhausted. My sister was still in her classroom cleaning up, and my friend, who had been begged by my brothers to take them to do some of the other kids’ activities, went with them to do just that. My parents returned with my youngest brother to where we had stayed the night, and settled in for a much-needed nap, while I found myself alone, surrounded by near silence and a deserted playground, and took full advantage of this and played on the swing for a long time, staying there until a while later when my sister treated my friend and I to smoothies, and thanked us again for our help over the weekend. After the drinks were finished, my friend, my sister and I got to spend some relaxing girl time together, and played in the water until almost dinner time. When dinner was finished, the last event of the day was to take place, and I had planned to drop off my littlest brother at the nursery and go help my sister with the kids’ evening movie. In the understatement of the century, however, my brother had separation anxiety, and would not let me leave him, so I gathered up him and his diaper bag, and took him to the playground where we played tag, went down the slide, and I showed him how to turn somersaults in the grass. After a while, he became tired, and wanted me to push him on the swing. After I sat him down and pushed him for a little bit, I rested in the swing next to him, and what beheld us to the west was a glorious sunset, bright yellow with touches of pink and grey, and as the toes of my shoes grazed the dirt beneath me, I realized not for the first time since I had arrived how incredible it was to have the opportunity to be there. And by that I don’t just mean the water slide, or capture the flag, or any of the other fun afternoon events, as fun as each of those things were. It had been simply amazing to watch the kids have fun together, to walk up the beautifully forested hill each day, to be able to show God’s love to the children, and now to gaze upon the western sky, as the colors became deeper and then lighter again, while frogs croaked and crickets chirped, and the faint smell of campfires and pine hung in the gentle breeze. Not only was all of this awesome and humbling, it was a true blessing to know that I was meant to be there, that this was part of God’s plan for me, and that whether or not I ever do this kind of ministry again, at least for that weekend He used me and fulfilled me in a way that I could never have been otherwise. As my family drove home that night, the last two days felt too short, and I think I realized what I already knew: I would love to do something like that all the time. Who knows, maybe someday I will. But for now, I remain content in the knowledge that I was a small part of this ministry, and have discovered that God can use even my limited abilities for something that is both fulfilling for me and that glorifies Him.

Sea Foam Memories

Last time I went to the beach with my folks, it took me back to my first memories of visiting that and other beaches, and I wrote down some of what I remember from when I was a kid. I might add more to this later on, or I might not. If I do, maybe I'll structure it a bit better and turn it into a story at some point, but most likely I'll leave it as is, at least for now.

Tiny drops spattered my face in my earliest dream-like memories. I felt the wind push my hair from one side of my face to the other, while foamy waves crashed just beyond the shore. The air was cold and damp, though I remained warm, my dad's soft coat wrapped around me as I huddled close against his shoulder, nearly falling asleep.
........
Many return visits later, I could no longer fit inside Dad's jacket, but held his and Mom's hands as we walked along the beach, which was littered as always with seaweeds, broken shells, and burnt driftwood left over from recent bonfires. We didn't mind when the sharp gusts of wind stung our ankles with blown sand, and we paused frequently to pick up smooth black rocks, just the right size for my tiny hands, and cast them as far as we could toward the waves, their entrance into the water going unheard over the constant roar of the sea.

Holding The Light

I first wrote this a few months ago, yet since then have revised it a lot, so that now it's quite different, but I think in a good way, from  how it was in its original state when I first put pen to paper...or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be. It's essentially about 'discernment,' which when used in the context in which I mean it, means hearing God's voice, knowing His presence, and essentially just knowing which way He wants me to go. If it doesn't completely make sense, I apologize...I love writing with metaphors, but am definitely a novice (if that) at writing in general,  so please forgive in advance any confusion that may ensue...

The tree trunks felt damp, their bark absorbing the droplets of water that cascaded from the above, having collected on the leaves during the last rain storm. He strained his eyes, struggling to feel his way through the heavily wooded forest as it was late dusk and the light was very dim, moving slowly as he continued, for fear of becoming even more disoriented. Once in a while he caught a quick glimpse of brightness from somewhere around him, a vision of light that was there and gone with such speed that he questioned the honesty of his own eyes. On occasion the moon was visible through the rare patches of empty space in the tall roof of greenery above him as it came out of the clouds, but he neglected to notice its presence as he continued searching for light everywhere except where it resided, so roots and stems wrapped themselves round his feet and pulled him to the forest floor while clouds hid away the moon once more. Lying in the mud, his head resting atop thick moss, he attempted to locate any kind of illumination, but as he rose and placed his feet back onto the ground he remained hopelessly unaware that all about the spruces and pines, fireflies were dancing. Every now and then the corner of his eye would catch a faint glow, but so consumed had he been with his search, that by the time he realized what his eyes had briefly beheld, it was swallowed up by darkness. All light seemed inconstant, but he knew it was not so; it was always there, but not always visible to him. It was his eyes that were fickle, rarely looking in the right places for light; his sight that never remained fixed upon following the light when found. He wished he could focus his eyes upon it and let it show him the way out, or if not, that he could capture the light and hold it in his hands, letting it cast its shine ever before him to make his surroundings clearly visible and lead his way ahead, constantly drawing him closer to freedom.

The Nook

So, I'm thinking about writing a short-ish story, but have no idea if I have the time or abilities to do so without creating something that absolutely nobody would ever want to read...but, if I do, this is probably pretty much what the first page will look like:

She turned left, rounding the corner, which would introduce to her feet for what must have been the millionth time the narrow path that led her up the steep forested hill each day. As she began the ascent, she once again noted with approval the inconspicuous position of her trail.

            It could not nearly be considered a road; in fact, slight as it was, it was hardly a path. These traits, coupled with its considerable distance from other human inhabitation, ensured the near complete solitude that the young woman held so dear. Few dared travel the larger main trail up the mountain, for hearing false tales of terrifying creatures that called the woods their home, and even if one did venture up there, it was unlikely that their eyes would be keen enough to spot the path’s entrance unless they were determinedly searching for it, for its mouth was all but hidden from view by thick, tall pine trees and its almost unnoticeable width could have just as easily been the creation of a forest animal.

Breathing deeply as she neared the crest of the hill, Caire caught a glimpse of her dwelling up ahead, where she had resided as long as she had been alive.

Grandma

This is pretty much the first real essay I ever wrote, which I wrote for English class last winter...I suppose it really doesn't require a backstory, or much if any explanation at all for why I wrote it, as I figure it probably for the most part explains itself. So, enough with the preamble. Here's the essay.


            My grandma loves me. She always has, and I hope she always will. It has been nearly three years since she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a memory-robbing, mind-destroying disease. There is no prevention, no cure, just medication that slows down the process. Like a frayed cloth unraveling, she slowly, slowly loses abilities that she took for granted a few short years ago.
            A lot has changed in recent years. A while before Grandma was even diagnosed, my family noticed that she was not exactly herself. She became very forgetful, sometimes moody, and much less social than she was previously. Finally she was not safe living alone anymore, and she came to live with my family and me. After that, she started thinking she saw people in her daydreams that had passed away many years before, hearing their voices, and remembering visiting them just an hour earlier. It soon became clear to all of us that it was quite possibly something more serious than just old age. My parents took her for a check-up and found out that we had been right. The doctor diagnosed her and that was that. No more pretending, hoping, praying that she was okay. The disease was there, and it was real. Her doctor prescribed a medication for her, which made her seem like her usual self…for a while.
         Eventually she started showing signs of the illness again, and again we were confronted with an enemy that could be battled but not defeated. We could not see it, hear it, or touch it, but we could sense its effects. She continually lost her mental and social capabilities until she would no longer go out to eat with us, or even go to church, something she had done all her life. But despite all the confusion and sadness that surrounded these changes, one thing remained constant: She loved me, and I hoped she always would.
            Grandma doesn’t live with us anymore, but in a nursing home not far away from me, and I visit her often. Her home is different every time I go there. At times it is bustling with activity, like a bee hive, with people walking around, talking and laughing or playing games together. Other times, it is as still and quiet as an abandoned lake; no noise or movement to cause ripples, just people sleeping or reading the newspaper silently.
        My grandma and I know many of the people that live there by name and enjoy listening to them recall their life stories. There is a woman who has climbed several mountains and has some really amazing pictures to prove it. Another tells me what it was like when she was a child, and how hard it was for her parents to keep her and her eight siblings in shoes when they were growing up. There are many others, whose life experiences are far greater than my own, and each of their stories is like a photo album, preserved and treasured forever by those who hear them. It is sad, though, that many of them, like my grandma, are forgetting much of their life stories, and the mark that they have made on the world.
        My grandma also likes to tell me stories about her past, and I love listening. She has told me of the first time she met my grandpa when she was fifteen years old, and about many of the places they visited when they went traveling together after they were married. Some days, she will tell me a story, a memory that is so clear and precise that I become like a child listening to a fairy tale, enchanted by it. Yet other days, she will begin sharing a memory, and the memory becomes tangled with another memory, as a fishing line may catch on another and twist into knots until it becomes impossible to fix. Sometimes it feels as though she is far away, in a world that only exists inside her mind and other times she is completely there, with me in real life. No matter where she is, though, she always tells me she loves me.
            For a while when I visited, we would play “Chinese Checkers” or “Bingo”, her favorite games. Eventually she forgot how, so we found other things to do when we are together. We watch “Shirley Temple” movies and take walks together, but mostly just talk. She asks me the same questions, and tells me the same things over and over again, but I don’t mind. Inside her thoughts, she is whirling backwards through time. Although an elderly woman with many grandchildren and a few great-grandchildren, she now usually sees herself as a much younger woman, and sometimes she doesn’t even think of me as her granddaughter. Sometimes I’m an old school friend, a cousin or a niece, but I’m always Aubrey, and she still loves me.
       Recently, Grandma’s doctor told us that the medication had done all that it could do for her. Now it was only making her more anxious, and not helping her memory much anymore. She stopped taking the pills a few months ago and since then every time I visit her it seems like her mind has degenerated even more from the last time I saw her. But as it gets harder and harder for us, her family, to see her losing abilities so quickly, it gets easier for my grandma. She now rarely realizes it when she forgets simple things and when she does, she doesn’t get upset about it like she used to. I am glad for her that she is more at peace than she was before, and enjoys being a part of her world, even though it isn’t always reality. At least she is happy.
         I don’t know how Grandma will be a year from now. Will she still be able to walk and communicate? I wonder if she will know my name, and that she loves me. What other changes are going to happen inside her mind? Will she even be around? One thing I do know is that through my whole life she has loved me, and she loves me still. And I love her with all my heart. I know I always will.

Sunset

You have probably already guessed what inspired this, judging by the title above. I've always loved sunset and dusk, and became even more aware of why this time of day is so special when I was helping at a camp a few weeks ago, and could think of no better way to spend the early evening than quietly watching the sunset among the beautiful setting. So, when I got home, I wrote about it...and this was the result.

Could time remain frozen here? Perhaps the Earth may cease rotating for a brief hour, prolonging this wide painting before my eyes, holding still the canvas which stretches across the horizon, extending its reach behind the distant hills. Even as the colors’ vibrancy slowly fades, peace slowly grows like the shadows cast by enormous pines as they creep ever further ‘cross the open grass. Every living thing appears at rest, though not absent, as they feel their contentedness with the fulfillment of the day. This time is a blessed in-between, filling the gaps between consciousness and unknowing, blazing light and silent darkness, with small signs of life still about, yet none that show anything apart from quiet joy. All things under the sky turn a softer shade of their true color, and are tinted by the reflections of whichever chosen watercolors were used this time in the sky overhead, and gazing about myself, I regret my inability to pause the sun’s downward motion, which has left as quickly as it had risen in the early morning, though am also grateful that I have once again been reminded of why out of all the day, sunset is my favorite.

Losing Confidence

Yet again, I am posting an essay (or whatever one may call it?) that I have already posted on FB before...but, by reposting what I've already shared, I'm hoping to also be able to better explain the story behind the story, or what inspired its existence. This one came into being as a way to show how a lack of confidence affects our decisions (or indecisions), and how confusing and tiring that can be. For me, it's always been hard to distinguish God's voice (I have a LOT to learn in the way of discernment), and many decisions do not come easily because of it. Of course, praying always helps, but it can still be very confusing at times, so that is sort of my own reason for writing it, although it may be taken differently depending on the individual. Sooo..... here it is.

He stood at one side of a bridge, his shoes teetering up and down in uncertainty over the dividing line between damp earth and the first wooden plank. His indecisive nature was the result of a war within him, with both possible choices trying to conquer the majority of ground, each side attempting to win his favor. But this battle had been in motion for an incredibly long time, and went in a sort of back-and-forth direction. Every time he became almost sure of his choice, his mind made up, the opposing side would then advance, causing him to lose faith once again. Eventually, this tug-of-war had resulted in a stalemate, leaving him more confused than ever. Maybe he had taken a wrong turn, and this wasn’t the right bridge. Perhaps he had become lost in the trees a few miles back and should retrace his steps to the last point of decision in his journey. He had already had to cross several bridges, ranging in variance from foot bridges that crossed narrow streams to massive structures that spanned major rivers, and each time he had been unable to come to an immediate decision about whether or not to cross, and had wished that he could return to a more familiar place. Either way, he felt he would be making a mistake, and that he would show little enthusiasm for whichever option he chose. Whether or not he was making the right choice, he knew that each of his steps in either direction would become a question, a worry that he had been wrong. His wavering spirit was becoming overwhelming, and he wanted to recover his confidence, but this confidence always seemed far behind him, only discovered when it was no longer felt necessary. This bridge was no exception, and as he stood there, he thought back over those previously covered. But no matter how much he wanted to , he could not turn around, or move backwards at all for that matter, because while fear and doubt tugged at him in the direction from which he came, his need to keep going pushed him forward with equal strength, so that despite the immense pressure on him, he remained motionless. So for now, he was stuck on the brink; his toes resting on wood, his soles planted in the dirt.

Lilah's Adventure

               

The reason for this short story is simply sentimental. When I was about five years old, I lived in a valley surrounded by beautiful hill/mountain ranges, which were visible from our driveway and front yard. Well, one day I was feeling adventurous and thought it would be oh so fun to explore the "wilderness" of the hills, and to hike over them to the other side (this was partially fueled by stories my grandma would tell me about the trips she had taken with my grandpa, and all of their own hiking experiences). Anyways, I don't remember all of the details, so some things were made up for the sake of the story's being told at all (otherwise there would be huge gaps where my memory lapses). But for the most part, yes, this is a true glimpse into a little girl's imagination. Enjoy! (if possible). But if you find yourself falling asleep, well, I understand and apologize.

                One day many years ago, in early spring when clouds rarely exited the skies, and the buds that were transforming into roses were just beginning to bloom, in a place surrounded by green hills where dogs barked, bells tolled and the smells of flowers, fresh cut grass and hay hung in the air, a child lay sleeping. The sun boldly attempted to push its way through the accumulating grey, and consequently sent soft rays into the child’s bedroom, warming her face and bidding her wake. Lilah peered through the blinds as she sat up, wondering if today would bring blue skies, wind, rain or, as was the recent trend, all three.

                She jumped down from her bed, and ran out the front door to see if Dad had left for work yet, and noting the absence of his car, she concluded that she must have slept late again. Just as she was turning to go back inside, she looked to the left and something caught her gaze. She stared at the hills that she had known her whole life, that had never changed and had probably even been there before she was born. But today they seemed different somehow, smaller. In fact, the longer she looked at them, the smaller they became, until she felt sure that she could easily climb over them in an hour.

It was getting cold outside, so Lilah turned and left to return indoors, but still the thought did not leave her mind; to tell the truth, the thought grew. She started to imagine what could be on the other side of the hills. Maybe there was a dragon, guarding its castle. What if the castle had a princess? Maybe there was an entirely different world waiting to be discovered, and no one knew it. There had to be some secret hidden over there, because on many occasions Lilah had noticed the large amount of clouds over there, even more than were covering the sky over where she lived. Maybe it wasn’t clouds at all, but smoke from the dragon!  When the wind blew, she loved the way the grass bent down, revealing tiny wildflowers. Perhaps over there, where the dragon and the princess live, there were whole fields of these flowers, or even waterfalls with secret caves behind them, and real mermaids! These ideas got bigger and bigger, and soon they got so big that Lilah got another big idea, call it inspiration if you will. She was going to hike there herself. She was going to uncover this unknown place, and take her friends and family there when she returned.

Of course, no one can go on such a big journey without careful planning. Lilah spent an entire afternoon thinking about what she would need to take with her. She had hiking shoes from camp last summer, and was relieved that they still fit. She would also need to take water, graham crackers and pb&j sandwiches. She wasn’t exactly sure now how long this trip would take her. She had initially believed that an hour would suffice, but now, looking at how steep these hills were in places, she doubted she could fit such an adventure into such a short amount of time. Not to mention the time she would spend there, in that mysterious place. She would probably need a jacket. And a sleeping bag. Come to think of it, a tent would be great too.

 While she was dreaming, imagining what a spectacular adventure she was about to embark upon, Dad’s car pulled into the driveway. That’s it! She knew she was forgetting something. She would need his help, not only with getting supplies together, but also for his permission. She could only imagine the trouble she would be in if she went on such a perilous journey without asking, even though she was doing it in the name of discovery.

She ran up the walkway, nearly leaped over the front step and followed her dad inside, all the while explaining her plans, and that she just needed him to allow her to go. Dad looked thoughtful, as if contemplating whether it was a good idea for a 5 year old girl to travel to unknown magical lands by herself. He seemed to reach a conclusion, and told her that she could go, but she would have to wait until she was a grown up. Lilah sighed. Well, this definitely put a damper on things. Here she was, all excited about the prospect of being a pioneer in new territories, a discoverer of new things, and an adventurer to the unknown and she had to wait until she was all grown up. She proceeded to ask her dad how long until then, and he told her she would be a grown up at age 18. Lilah sighed. That was so far away! But in the meantime, she would fill her days with adventures a little closer to home, and see what else she could discover about the world right around her. “And someday,” she promised herself, “ I will climb those hills. When I’m 18, I’m going to see the princess.”

The Wrong Fit

I posted this essay on FB a while back, about a month ago, and before I share it I just want to explain its origins/why I wrote it. Like many writings, it can be taken differently (especially the symbolism) by different people. My personal reason for writing it was more of a reflection on past experiences. There's a saying that you've probably heard at least once before: "The grass is always greener on the other side." Well, from my perspective, I used to think that the average person my age, their daily routine, in other words, their "normalcy" was something that I really wanted. When I was younger, I was unable (as well as somewhat unwilling) to look beyond what is considered a "normal" life in our society, and to realize that  although my situation, (my school, home and social lives) are not exactly what I would think of as absolutely "normal" or average, really it's where God has me, it's my life, and I don't think any other would "fit" me, as although many doors are closed through it, just as many are opened by God, giving me opportunities to serve Him and to be who I'm supposed to be despite the different setting. As I grew up, I finally realized that the "shoe just doesn't fit," and that I'd wasted time I could have spent learning and growing into who I am, instead of who I wished I was. For others, the shoe may mean something else, but the same question remains: Is the "glass slipper" on the shelf really meant for you? And is it worth it?


 She tilted her head upward, gazing once again upon the glass slipper that she had at one time admired, but now had lost all reverence for. She had heard terrific stories about such objects, glamorous tales aimed to convince the listener that possessing one would be the beginning of an entirely different life, and would lead to a “happily ever after.” The slipper had not been cheap, however, and she had paid dearly for it, certain that it would be worth the price to wear a fairy tale. But she had not been surrounded by magic or filled with joy when she tried it on for the first time. Rather, disappointment had plagued her as she tried without success to place her foot into it. After hours of determined shoving and pulling at the shoe, she had finally become weary of the struggle and had given up, forcing herself to accept the fact that it would never fit her; that it was not the right size. Exhausted and disgruntled, she had placed her treasured item on a high shelf, a combination of longing and awe flowing through her with every glance in its direction. But months had now gone by and the wonder that had possessed her as she had beheld it for the first time had slowly faded, and as dust had collected on the inside of the shoe a faint sense of loathing had built up inside of her, so that now every time she strode past the place where it was kept, or her eyes went briefly over it from across the room, she felt only failure for never having achieved what she had hoped for so much, and regret over the time and effort wasted because of its presence. Now she reached above her head, lowered the slipper to eye level, and with her hand, brushed off the worst of the dirt. Again she noticed its smoothness, its perfect shape and the way it sparkled as the sunlight coming through the window penetrated it. However, this time she saw something else as well; it was useless, and of absolutely no value to her. It served no purpose as it stood idly before her, the source of nothing but silent taunting. At this, she may have thrown the shoe against a wall in anger, or returned it to its shelf in denial, but did neither. Instead, she allowed it to slip slowly from her fingers, feeling the freeing release wash over her as it touched the ground and shattered.

So, I started a blog.

In retrospect, I am giving myself a facepalm, and wondering why in the world I almost called this blog what I did. If you must know, I came very close to naming it "Writings of a Homeschooled Pastor's Kid." But after mulling it over, I figured that a blog should reflect a person, and how they see themselves, and realized that when I describe myself, a "homeschooled pastor's kid" is one of the last facts about me that I would use. Put simply, yes, that's what I am, but no, it's not WHO I am...so, in lieu of that terrible idea, my blog is called "Generational Misfit," and I shall explain that presently. I'm kind of a traditional girl, but by that I don't mean to give the impression that I have extremely conservative beliefs.(My views on many things are actually fairly liberal, within the boundaries of my faith.) But I am a bit old-fashioned style-wise, and love taking the time to enjoy the simpler things in this life. In essence, contrary to much of Gen Y, I'd rather not spend my free time at the mall, or at a movie theatre, or really inside any city building(Yes, those things are fun on occasion, but not something I'd hope to do very often.) Instead, the perfect day for me includes any or all of the following: my fave music, reading, music, going for a long walk, music, baking and music. I also love wrapping up in a quilt of an evening, sitting by an open window (especially if it's raining), sipping tea or hot chocolate and reading by candlelight. In a nutshell, sometimes I think I was born in the wrong time period, even though I know God has me here for a reason. I'm also a bit outdoorsy, and don't think I'll ever outgrow climbing trees, romping in the mud, or dancing in the rain (when no one's looking ;-) ) Anyways, you should also know that if I seem a bit random in my future posts, it's because, by nature, I am. Randomness and dorkiness seem to go hand-in-hand and I am living proof of that. But basically, I would much rather "think out loud" here, "ramble," if you will, than end up talking to myself (because some would consider that insanity). So...yeah. I guess that's all for now.