By The Grace of God

At 3:00 a.m. this morning, I woke up. Not by accident, mind you, as a general rule I have no problem sleeping. However, this Friday, my wonderful little brother Alex was bound for West Point (for a month of military leadership training) and I had volunteered to drive him to the airport to catch his 6 a.m. flight.

By the time I pulled into my parents' driveway at 4:01 a.m., I was ready to go. Alex was standing there with his ruck sacks (is that what they're called?), and Erika was there as well. She wanted to hang with the older sibs, and I was definitely looking forward to her company on the drive back from the airport. If I had been all alone, I was afraid I would have been rather weepy. (I always get a little bit emotional saying good bye at airports.)

But, on the way to the airport, I had a change of itinerary. It wasn't planned. And I would do anything to erase it from my Friday.

I was driving in the left lane, there were two cars ahead of me and a semis on my right. I was going about 70 mph. Suddenly, the two cars in front of me switched to the right lane, and there, ahead of me by about 100 yards, was the reason they had switched lanes.

Two cars were pulled to the left side of the road, but the second car hadn't pulled all the way off the road. His bumper stuck about 2 feet into my lane. There were semis and cars to my right. I couldn't get over, and I was afraid I would hit the car if I stayed in the left lane.

Slamming on my brakes, I turned into the median, hoping to avoid the vehicles parked there on the left side of the road. Unbeknownst to me, there were a group of about 7 teenage guys standing on the left side of their parked cars. As I swerved into the median, I saw them, right before I hit.

The boy I hit is probably about 18, and 135 pounds. His head bashed into my windshield, and he flipped from the top of my car, down my hood, and in front of my car.

I cannot, with words, express the terror that comes from hitting another human being. All I remember is screaming, crying, burning rubber, grass tearing, and the dull thud his body made against my car. I thought I had run over him, and all I could think was, "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, help."

Before my car had fully stopped, I had flung open my door, and ran to the guy. He was already sitting up, looking dazed.

911, a police car, an ambulance, and fire truck later, it was determined that he had suffered no more than a scrape on his arm. My car has over $3,400 worth of damages. It is by the grace of God that he survived and I am incredibly, inexplicably grateful and awestruck.

Pray that there won't be any lasting consequences to this guy's health as a result of being hit. Pray that the insurance would be resolved. The two cars didn't have any car trouble or other explicable reason for being parked where they were. By the time the sheriff showed up, they had moved their cars and it was their word, against mine. I don't currently know how the damages will be payed for, but I do know that I am extremely grateful that the boy isn't hurt.

God is incredibly gracious.

Bear: Oh, Courtney, I feel old inside!

Me: Really? What exactly does that feel like?

Bear: Hmmm... It feels wrinkley.

"You mean, like on vacay? Road trip!!!" (Legally Blonde)

I left town this weekend for a good-ole' relaxing "vacay" with some of my favorite chicas. We drove up to Chicago and spent three days roaming the streets (in a very Baptist style, I promise), and came back thoroughly relaxed and rejuvenated. While "Shilly" and I agreed that we were (and I quote) "made for city life" there were several things that served to make us at least mildly content with our current suburban lifestyle. They are as follows:

As a general rule...

You don't see fluttering yellow mini-dresses, accompanied by 7 necklaces, insane heels, and too much make-up on men in Lafayette.

A lunch of a goat-cheese tart and chicken doesn't cost you $30.00

And your favorite skirt in the store isn't $500 and made from cashmere.

But...

It was wonderful to have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to see. We shopped, talked, ate (wonderful Korean food!), watched movies, and (as a general rule) did nothing productive for three days. Hallelujah.

Thank you, ladies, for a wonderful trip!

Different Roomie...

Okay, so in the past 12 months I have had two different roommates. I don't think I can, in the limited space of this blog, express how really, truly, completely different my two roommates are from each other.

Jen and Leah.

Jen is short and blonde. Leah is tall and brunette. Jen is quiet until you get to know her. Leah is never quiet. Jen- mild. Leah- spicy. And while Jen and I would spend hours extolling the benefits of early-intervention, and play-therapy in speech pathology, Leah and I spend hours telling our "rude bag-boy at Walmart" stories. See? Very different.

Well, about the time that my little tiny, cute roommate moved out, and my tall gorgeous roommate moved in, another person moved in next door. Another FIVE persons, I should say. Another five MALE persons, of college age and decidedly raucous personality. I actually didn't notice that much about my new neighbors (except for the fact that their couch was nicer than mine...), until they forced themselves into my attention.

They like rap. Which is great. I like rap. Every now and then I pretend I'm totally gangsta' while I'm driving (to the hilarity of those around me) and I roll down my windows and pretend to know how to beat-box and say, "what up, homey?" But I don't possess the speaker system to listen to rap the way these individuals do. When they first turned on their $2,300 stereo, I thought we were having another earthquake. The water in my glass was vibrating. The glasses on the counter-top were rattling, and my TV was shaking.

Every night, we experience a small, very loud, earthquake on S**** Drive. And I was frustrated, but helpless.

Leah was not so helpless. She yelled at the wall. (They failed to hear her because of the $2,300 speakers mentioned above.) She shook her fist in vehemence. (They failed to see that because of the wall.) And she called the police.

I was appalled. Horrified. And totally and completely sure that I was going to be murdered in my bed by my neighbors because of my roommate's audacity. I begged her not to. I said, "Wait ten more minutes, maybe they'll stop."

She remained unmoved.

The police came. The music stopped. Peace reigned. And I humbly thanked my roommate for stopping the earthquake while at the same time preserving my life.

But last night the earthquake started again. Unfazed, my roommate rose from her comfy chair, strode across the room and banged her fist on the wall. Hard. Repeatedly. Until the music stopped. She turned to me with a smile, "It stopped!" but I was sitting on the couch, trying to hide under my blanket, scared and glowering.

"Great! Now they know who called the police on them. I'm going to be murdered in my bed... at the very least my car will probably be saran-wrapped and egged."

So, if you don't see me on Sunday, it's probably because the worst has happened. I want red roses at my funeral.

Or maybe just some help pealing gooey saran-wrap off my car...

Amanda's comment while watching a Frank Sinatra movie in which one of the heroines couldn't think of anything worse than not being married:

"I think leprosy would be worse than not getting married..."


**Haha! Love you, Bunny! Always there with perspective...**

Sunday School: Ashley

I sense that there will be considerable posts about my current Sunday School class. Never have I seen such a colorful conglomeration of children. They are not a unified class. They are an incredibly unique hodgepodge of individuals. Once again, for the sake of the little ones (whom I love) I have changed all the names.

To begin with, the copier jammed. I have trouble changing the batteries in my flashlight, so untangling sheets of paper from the bowels of a copier is hardly my forte. The little flashing screen on top of the printer kept telling me to grab the paper in "Tray 4b." But there was no way my hand was going to be able to convolute into the shape needed to rescue the internal shreds of paper. I knelt. I crammed. I wiggled. I pulled. All because I wanted to print a coloring page of Joseph and his amazing coat.

When I finally returned to the class room I was slightly late. And there, twirling around (with occasional trips on her soon to be infamous flip-flops) was "Ashley." Ashley never sits still. Ashley is usually medicated. And Ashley skipped her medication this Sunday. Of that I am sure. Thinking to be a brilliant, intelligent teacher, I decided to channel Ashley's rampant energy by giving her a task- she was quite proud of her crayon box responsibility.

When several other children arrived, I gave them jobs as well. But, finished with her crayon box assignment, Ashley decided that she didn't like other people having jobs. Growling (yes, literally growling) at me, she furrowed her brow, kicked off her flip-flops, stalked to the closet (which she had gotten the crayons out of), and shut herself in the closet.

I stalked right after her. I open the door to find her glaring up at me with obvious antipathy.

"Ashely. It's other people's turns to have jobs. I need you to come out, pick a desk, and sit down."

She says nary a word, and just continues to glare.

"Ashley. Come out of the closet." She doesn't budge.

"Come out of the closet, or there will be consequences. You know what the bad consequences of a bad choice are in Ms. Courtney's class. Come out." No change.

"Ashley, come out of the closet." (Unfortunately, at this point I realize that I'm telling a 7 year old to "come out of the closet" and that phrase, with all it's connotations, suddenly makes me want to laugh. Hence, I was unable to sound appropriately severe.) She sullenly complied.

She put her flip-flops back on. ("Yay!" I thought.) And then promptly kicked them off. ("Boo!" I thought.) And this pattern was repeated throughout all of Sunday School. She kicked off (and then replaced merely to kick off again) her flip-flops numerous times in the short 1 1/2 hour I spent with her. She refused to stay in her desk- preferring, instead, to pirouette around the room, tripping or falling over those same flip-flops. However, by the time we were 20 minutes into Sunday School she was very controlled. I had a very visible rewards system that she liked, and as a result she reduced her cavorting to a tolerably low amount.

But at one point of her goodness, she suddenly arose. Panic flashed across her face. She rushed up to me (while I was teaching about Joseph and Pharaoh), kicked off her flip flop, stuck her toe up in the air and wailed,

"I think it's dead! MY TOE IS DEAD!"

I did not laugh. Promise. Because her attention never stays on any one thing for a very long time, it was relatively easy to convince her that her toe was in fact not dead, and she went calmly back to her seat. I continued to contain my laughter, since I still maintain that if it's a big deal to a child, then it should not be treated as meaningless by me.

But if anyone had seen me, driving home from church, they would have wondered what on earth was so funny...

My "DinkyDo"!

Yay! I could just jump up and down with joy at this very moment. Office protocol, however, frowns upon such demonstrations of jubilation, so I will try to confine my enthusiasm to a blog post.

I made an offer a few days ago on a little tiny home, here in West Lafayette. I asked much less than the listing price, and much less than the prior owner had paid initially. I did not expect my offer to be accepted. I expected it to be laughed at.

But they accepted!!!

I am now the proud owner (almost- still have final papers to sign) of the little, sweet, dinky place pictured above. It's dinky, but it will more than do! (I think I shall call it the "DinkyDo"...)

More comprehensive pics will follow (complete with paint chips and questions about lighting, taste, and shade), but I have to show you just one more thing...

THE APPLIANCES!

I love stainless steel appliances. I've had a weakness for them since the sixth grade. (I know, not many 6th graders notice appliances... I'm odd.) The former owner just installed them right before he had to move. I'd feel sorry for him, except for the fact that he moved to California...

This whole process has been a stretch for me. I was completely and utterly terrified by the enormity of my purchase, but it was a wonderful time to grow in my prayer life and my trust of God. My father has been incredible helping me through all the acronyms and percentiles that plague this industry. I never would have had the courage to see it through without him.

(Well, maybe the appliances would have given me courage...)

:)

Drew, sitting on a bench, looks up at me and says, "Courtney, you will never be cool."

"Why won't I?" (Needless to say, I'm hurt...)

"Because you speak English. And cool people speak rap."

I JUST MADE AN OFFER ON MY FIRST HOME!!!

Lord, help... I can't breathe...

****

Sweat bands, Chris Tomlin, and Treadmill Whiplash

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, athletic. I can't even claim general interest in athletics, other than that of an animated spectator. I've never desired to play softball, or be able to slam dunk a basket. I am embarrassingly bad on a tennis court, and incapable of getting a soccer ball in a goal. These activities hold no appeal to me.

But I do want to be able to wear shorts this summer without gut-wrenching embarrassment, so about a week ago I started running.

I used to run quite regularly two years ago, but since then other things (life, mainly) have kept me from running. I never enjoyed it. I barely missed it. (Except when I was in the midst of that I-just-ate-my-weight-in-pizza flabby feeling...)

Now, exercise enthusiasts, don't mock me, but I did an amazing thing this week. I ran every day. Yes. I did. Granted, each day was only about 2 miles, but I still am quite impressed with me. In fact, I might have been getting a little cocky. Which is why God allowed Thursday to happen...

I woke up at 5, donned my athletic gear, and drove to the Community Center to make use of the fitness facilities. I calculated that given everything else I needed to do before work, I only had about 30 minutes on the treadmill and 30 on weight machines. I got crackin'.

Half-way through a great Chris Tomlin jam, I get an oozy, drippy feeling. I believe most people refer to it as "sweat" and I avoid it at all cost. So here I am sweating and running. Double bad combo.

I'm in a quandary. Three scant feet away from me is a fan. But it's not on. I know (from past experience) that if I stop my treadmill to go turn on the fan all my settings, speeds, and work will be deleted from the treadmill console (if I don't restart in less than .037 seconds from the time when I paused).

But I'm a college graduate. I came up with a solution.

I jump, agilely, off the treadmill, leaving it running. I dash over the to fan, turn it on "high" and dash back to my treadmill- still jammin' (all the while) to my dear friend, Mr. Tomlin.

Cocky, sure of my self, confident that I solved the problem, and sure that I was lookin' good despite the sweat (this delusion was helped by the fact I was younger than everyone else in the workout room by about 37 years), I walk to the back of the treadmill, and step on.

BANG!

I was down so fast, I didn't even know what had happened. Turns out, when you're focused on turning on the fan, to reduce sweat, while at the same time checking to make sure your sweat band is attractively positioned, all the while rockin' out to "How Great Is Our God" you forget that you left the treadmill running. And when you think it's off, and you try to get back on, it causes a serious problem.

My problem manifested itself in me, face planting half-on/half-off the treadmill, while every hair in my legs (no, I had not shaved yet), was ripped out by a relentless rubber belt.

When I finally righted myself and surveyed the damage, I found myself to be the proud possessor of two very swollen, purple knees, multiple rubber tread marks up and down my legs, (the kind Wiley Coyote got when assaulted by the Road Runner) and bruised palms. I was also in possession of a great deal of humility.

Meekly, I climbed back on my treadmill and completed my run.

Lessons learned? You hurt all over the day after a treadmill accident. Don't even bother checking your sweat band- no one looks good in them. Distracting music can be fatal to the condition of your knees. And I am probably the only person who can make treadmill running as dangerous as mountain biking...

New batch of 2nd graders: "Annabelle"

Her name is (for the sake of privacy) has been changed to "Annabelle". Her real name is more girly and ruffly than "Annabelle", if you can imagine that, but I've decided to give her a pseudonym in case her posterity should come across this entry...

I teach second grade Sunday school. This past Sunday I got a new class. Excitement was rampant. Everyone was a little nervous and excited about the new situation. (Me probably more so than the kids...)

Everyone is sitting quietly in their chairs (they're generally so scared of me the first few weeks that they behave- but this quickly changes...), everyone but my dear friend "Annabelle." She is standing in the back of the room. There are only two empty desks in the entire room and she's staring at them both. I've told everyone to sit down and become quiet several times already. Finally, I make a direct comment to her...

"Annabelle, please sit down."
She looks intensely perplexed and states,"I can't."
I look intensely quizzical and ask,"Why not?"
She answers,"I can't choose which desk to sit at..."

The desks are the same height. Same color. Located side-by-side. There is not a single thing to differentiate between the two except for the fact that desk number 1 is a foot further to the left than desk 2. They are identical- totally, completely, without a doubt. Identical.

"Well, why don't you just go ahead and pick one. Sit down." I say (with complete ignorance as to who I'm talking to).
"I can't! I just can't make a decision! It's such a hard choice!" And her forehead wrinkles up as she lifts her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
"Go ahead. I don't think it matters. Just pick the one you like best." (I have now started talking in my fake-chipper-teacher voice that I whip out when verging on laughter and frustration.)
"No. I can't. I like them both. I have no idea where to sit. This is a very hard decision." And she stands there, confused, refusing to pick a desk.

I turn to the rest of the class.
"Okay everyone, this is desk number one, and that one is desk number two. How many of you think Annabelle should sit in desk number one- raise your hands" Three people raise their hands. "All right, how many of you think Annabelle should sit in desk number two?" Twelve people raise their hands. (The other 17 children sit there wondering what's going on, and forget to vote...) "Okay, Annabelle, the class thinks you should sit in desk number two. Sit down in desk number two."

The look of consternation lifts from her face. She smiles, and acquiesces to the class's decision on "the best desk" and sits in desk number 2 for the rest of Sunday School. (Except for the multiple times she got up and came to my desk to correct me, or tell me something entirely unrelated to what was currently going on.)

What with dear "Annabelle", Harrison who wears argyle and has a comb-over, and Trista who refuses to stay in her seat for longer than 3.2 seconds, (and these are only 3 of my 35 very unique 2nd grade students) I think this year will be rather interesting...