Pine needles, golden flickers, fuzzy warmth...

Stretching out her legs was impossible. The flannel pj's with their footies were too small. Mom was always worried about cold feet. What, she wondered, would happen if her feet got cold? She wiggled underneath the sleeping bag. Bax had taken the couch. She had argued the point that she was a girl, and thus should have the couch, but such arguments rarely worked with her younger brother.

One strand of lights on the Christmas tree had a missing bulb, and the top third of the tree blinked erratically as a result. The golden light flickered like fire on the fireplace doors. She twitched again. And again. She scrunched her eyes closed and then flicked them open again. Nope. Stockings were still empty. Of course. Dad wasn't that fast.

She wiggled closer to the tree. Why did they call it "sleeping under the tree"? They weren't really under it. They were next to it. It would be more fun to lay under it, looking up through the branches, but Mom had protested when she had tried to squeeze under. She wiggled her nose. The yeasty smell of cinnamon rolls came from the kitchen. Christmas should come more than once a year.

She sat bolt upright at the first dong of the clock. Bother. Only 3 a.m. It was going to be many more hours before anyone else got up. 5 a.m. was probably a good time. People on farms got up at that time every morning. And people on farms didn't even have presents waiting, at least not most days. Another twitch. What time was it now?

3:02. She exhaled noisily. Maybe Bax would hear and wake up to share in her agony.

Nope. Not a move.

She lay back down. Turned to her other side and tried to fall asleep. The end of her sleeping bag crackled on wrapping paper, and she wiggled away from the tree. Christmas Eve was the longest night...

Ticking clock, cinnamon, Christmas 1992...

Tonight, as always, Julie-Bop had commandeered my jewelry, in particular, my silver necklace. She was playing with it, abusing it, pulling at it, when all of a sudden the clasp broke and the necklace fell off. Scooping it up, she threw it into my lap and then turned away, eyes innocently cast upward in a "how on earth did that happen?" face.

"Julie." I said soberly. "What happened?"

"Oops."

"Yes, it is an 'oops.' What happened to my necklace?"

"B'oken."

"Yes, it's broken. The poor necklace."

At this point a look of great remorse and pity comes over her face. She leans over the broken necklace and pets it saying "awww."

Yes, some children mourn the death of a pet. My little sis mourns the death of jewelry.

What on earth would we do with out our Bops?

We'd probably have a lot less fun...

And if there were no us, parenting would probably be easier for Dad and Mom...



Such good examples.

6 a.m. lesson

God, in all of his wisdom, power and love (yes, His love must be somewhere in this) is letting me fail.

Every vestige of competence that I ever thought I had, or laid claim to, is slowly, painfully, but steadily being stripped away. The things that I gloried in, the levels of competence that I achieved, the security I had amassed- it's all being removed, one layer of complacent pride at a time.

The day I thought I was an amazing student- God obliterated hopes of an A with a solid D. When I wrestled for approbation in my clinical competence, I was verbally derided as having failed. I thought my joy and happiness were unquenchable- until I went through the longest period of depression I have ever known. Turning in papers that I had written (and I love writing, I can do writing) only to have them given back with a C average. And it goes on.

And after I'm sobbing, after I'm angry, after I climb out of the hopeless abyss of failure (again), I wipe the tears from my eyes, pick up whatever I just threw across the room, straighten whatever I just crumpled in my arms, and remember... "not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God." And as I turn, devoid of one more crutch, one more layer of complacency and pride, I hear, "Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens? Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket, or weighed the mountains on the scales and the hills in a balance?" And my anger at a great God sobers me.

Yet despite that greatness..."He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart." Even though the end goal of this life is not my happiness, not my joy, not my glory, not my success. The end goal of this life is "not [that we] preach ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord." And that "We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body."


But that's very hard to remember at 6 a.m. when you see your grade...

Starbuck's Greatness

Today, while waiting in line for my Wild Sweet Orange herbal tea, I happened to glance around me.

In front of me were five Asian men.

Behind me were three more.

Just me and a bunch of Asian guys in line for expensive beverages.

I now know who Starbuck's is marketing to- culturally dependent girls, and rich Asians.

Foolish wishing...

There are days when discontent creeps in, like a skulking fog, begging me to want more, to cry over spilled milk, to pout like a spoiled child over my current position. And on those days, in the thick, gray dampness, time seems to stand still. It's not (as it has been before) an obliterating depression, and it's not a sensation of acute misery. It is, instead, a steady, persistent wish for another time in my life. A time that has not yet happened.

And the blatant frivolity and thanklessness of my desires accosts me. Here I am, granted but one life with which to serve, one life with which to glorify my Father, and I, instead of pursuing with passion the time in which I live, look forward (and occasionally backward) to another point in time.

Today is beautiful. Today is glorious. Today is the day "that the Lord has made" (despite the cliche that children's songs have made that statement). And today I am thankful... thankful for a couch and a shoulder, thankful for a hug from my mother, thankful for a hot breakfast, thankful for rest, thankful...

And by being thankful, I have become oh-so very content...

That being said, Emily Dickinson and I are pretty much on the same page... **grin**

IF you were coming in the fall,
I ’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I ’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I ’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I ’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

My Rainy Day Song...

Because on rainy days, I want rain boots, a fire in the fireplace, and sappy music...

Long Version/Short Version

Short story or long story? Which one? I'll give you the long first... It's more fun to write.

I'm a felon.

The state of Indiana said so, and as we all know, the state is never wrong. (Ha!) Okay, so the state is wrong a lot. In one of their errors they suspended my license for driving without insurance. I know! It would be a horrible, terrible, almost unpardonable offense- if it were true. My dear father has made sure that I'm very well insured for quite a while. So, the state messed up.

Thursday morning, before class, Alex and I headed to Indy to correct this problem. (Thanks for driving this reprobate, Bax!) We arrived at the BMV (which, by the way, is in  a totally jank part of town.). I would like to know what on earth the state is doing will all those reinstatement fees that it's collecting from innocent drivers. I can tell you what they're not doing. They're most definitely not fumigating their deteriorating BMVs. They're also not fixing the sidewalks outside of said establishments. I stood in a puddle, in a line, with my dear brother, outside the BMV waiting for it to open. As the line lengthened behind me, the grizzled man in front of me turned around,

"Watch'er doin' here?" he queried.

"Oh, just waiting for them to open." says I. (Like it isn't obvious, and like I'm going to tell him my real reason...)

"Ain't we *%^& all?" (he had a great vocabulary which I only feel comfortable depicting in symbols.) They !@**# messed up my license and took it away." Sympathy flooded my face.

"Ahh. Wow. That's rough."

"Yah! I mean, come on! I was arrested, but it wasn't that big a deal. Just me @#$% second offense. @#$%* D.W.I!" Anything resembling sympathy vanished from my face. A DWI?!?! TWO DWIs?!? Are you kidding me? In Europe they take away your license after one offense. Due to this, the Europeans have developed two different tactics to handle this problem- the English just take "cabbies" everywhere. The Germans learned to stomach their liquor better- through careful training, the German builds up an immunity to alcohol. A German has to drink a LOT of beer to be drunk.

I have no sympathy for people who endanger others with their driving. (I listened to this guy talk to a BMV lady, he's got a pretty rough road ahead of him. That's going to be a hard road to remediate. I hope he does...)

Anyways... after a lot of hassle, the BMV lady, looking over the insurance paperwork asked,

"Honey, which one of these cars is yours?" (She was black, and had the greatest dialect EVER.)

"The Nissan Versa."

She throws her head back, pushes her chair away, and raising her hands in surprise says,

"Shoot, Giiiirrrrl! You drivin' a 2007? And you's in college?"

The other ladies around her turn (the other customers were left unattended for the remainder of this conversation...).

"Yeah," I admit, "I'm the oldest, and--"

"Awww! Ladies! She a daddy's-girl!" (They all make clucking sounds of understanding) "That do it every time! You sho' got him!"

"Yah, giiirrrl!"

"Lucky, shuga!"

"I wish my daddy does that!"

After they all finished chiming in, I shrugged,  embarrassed, "Yeah, he kind of spoils me..."

"I should say he do! Well, there you go, honey. You all done. You legal!"

So, the short story? I went to the BMV and I'm a legal driver.

Woot.

Apparently Catholic/Protestant conflict didn't end in the years following the Great Reformation...

A sudden epiphany

I have been whining quite frequently.

To be honest, I've justified my whining by an intense conviction that I was really, truly suffering, and that life is really, truly hard. Although I'm not particularly fond of where I am, I have been blessed (a fact I've been overlooking). In order to realign my priorities, my focus, and revive my comatose thankfulness, I've added the list you see in the margin of my blog. The goal is to add to it once a day, even on the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad days.

I have been blessed.

A fact I often ignore.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.

And be thankful.

Colossians 3:15

So... story.

When I was a senior in high school I developed a crush on this guy. And, like most senior girl in high school, I thought it would be just wonderful if this guy would take me to the prom. But, like most guys, he was completely oblivious to this desire, and ended up taking someone else, and I was left all home-alone and corsage-less.

Well my dear reader, it is four years later. And I'm dating that boy.

I'm happy. And for Halloween we went as...

Prom Queen and King! What else?

I finally got my corsage... 

Lucid Panic Attack

So.

Last night I had my first panic attack.

A panic attack is defined by Webster's as: a sudden feeling of acute and disabling anxiety. 

I think more descriptive persons (no offense, my dear Webster) have given more details. Common symptoms are an inability to control breathing, crying, posture, etc.

Well, yesterday evening, I got a call from my parents. Apparently my license has been suspended because I was in an accident without insurance (remember that fateful July crash? Yah...). Let me be very clear about something- I do not drive without insurance. No. Not at all. I am fully covered, even beyond the state minimum. But somehow, the state still doesn't know that...

Because of my infraction, my license was suspended and I owed the state $150 to reinstate it.

Enter panic.

I don't have $150 dollars, I barely have $15.  And SUSPENDED!?!?! What!?!?

I started to cry. (Typical girl reaction.) And then I started to cry harder. And then the breath started coming in and out at an incredibly rapid rate. Then it stopped coming in and just kept going out. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing and hyperventilating uncontrollably.

But the strange thing was that my mind was very calm (after the initial panic). I'm sitting there, barely able to breathe, and the following thoughts are going through a very lucid, controlled mind:

"Am I having a panic attack? Huh. I can't breathe, that's a sign... I shouldn't be panicking. That's not biblical. I need to get this under-control. Mom's NANC certified. What would Mom say? I wonder what I can do to make this stop. What do people do in the movies? Brown paper bags. Wait... I don't have a brown paper bag. This is ridiculous. I should be able to stop. What are my patterns of sinful thinking that are perpetuating this? What am I saying? I haven't been thinking about anything more than brown paper bags. Oh! Breathe through my nose! That would be a good idea!"

Thus ended my incredibly odd "panic attack."

I wonder how many people invoke the name "NANC" (National Association of Neuthetic Counselors) while hyperventilating...

Beloved Boppy-Ju!

Julie informed everyone at the lunch table on Sunday that she was going to marry Leah (Miller). We looked at her. Surprised.

She also said that Josh (Streitmatter) was an alternate choice.

Little Bops is a definitely ray of hilarity in our family.

She loves feeling eyelashes (and calls them by their full name). She even knows what mascara is for.

She requests that we take her picture when she's doing any and all activities and then poses accordingly.

She'll put on a fake "yes, I'm interested" face when she listens to you. She even has an accompanying "Hmmm." Which shows that she could care less, but she's being polite. (Rather like the First Lady at an oil summit.)

She can count on her fingers from one to five.

When asked what animal makes what sound ("What sound does a kitty make?")- she'll grin at you, do a half-wink, and then give you a completely wrong answer. She thinks this is hilarious.

She has to be convinced that an item is "cool" before she'll wear it. (Yes, you literally have to tell her how amazing it is, and how incredible she looks in it.)

She's our Boppy.

And I love her- lots and lots!

**kisses**

Rant

I'm done.

I don't want to do this any more.

I hate grad school.

I'm tired.

God is the only way I can possibly survive 2 more years of this.

Help...