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...

Paul- he's my home-boy!

About a year and a half ago, I was hospitalized due to some stomach complications. As many of you know, I have an autoimmune disease in which the immune system in my stomach decided to go hyper-active and destroy my stomach lining. (See! Even in my disorders I'm an over-achiever!)

After the hospitalization and a serious round of some nasty steroids, everything appeared to be fine.

However, the medicine that is currently being used to "control" my over-achieving immune system is not working as it should. This results in two negative outcomes. One- I get sick at the drop of a hat (or at the hint of a cough) because the medicine is an immune system suppressant. For that reason I've been sick since school started. Two- my ulcerative colitis is completely uncontrolled and I'm severely anemic.

This, combined with the stress, work, and hours of graduate school are making me very **ahem** unwell. (I hate admitting that!)

I have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday. Would you please pray?

Pray that miraculously, I would get suddenly, and instantaneously better. "You have not, because you ask not."

And pray that the reason why I have this autoimmune disease would become crystal clear- that I would use this "opportunity" to its fullest. I don't know why God has decided this would be a good thing for me, but I do know:

"To keep me from becoming conceited... there was given me a thorn in my flesh... to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." (II Corinthians 12:7-10)

**I like to think that Paul's thorn in his flesh was in his stomach, just like me... Paul and I- we're autoimmune disease home-boys. Fo' sho'.**

Only in my major...

After saying "Good morning," and exchanging a few pleasantries, the girl behind me asks:

"Courtney, is your cold gone?" I smile, nod, and say, "Yes, almost, but not quite. Thanks for asking." She replies,

"Well, I thought that might be the case. Your fundamental frequency is still lower than normal."



Other people would just say that my voice sounded like a smoker's...

I need counseling. And a life.

What on earth is happening to me!?!

You would think that an "A" would be an acceptable grade.

But NO. It's NOT.

I need to graduate SOON.

I'm off to lead a review session for a class in which I know perhaps as much as the students. If we're lucky.

Hence I shall cling to the wisdom of my dear friend Socrates, who stated:

"I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.”

So there, students!

Scotch tape those facts to my brain, baby!

I feel like everything I've learned in the past 48 hours could just tumble out of my brain and be lost forever.

And I think I'm okay with that, provided it doesn't happen before (or during) the 2:30-3:20 time slot.

When you start asking for espresso shots in your already very black coffee, you need to evaluate your career decision-making paradigm.

I'll be honest.

Today I hate grad school.

Hate it so much that I would love to do many other, seemingly less-desirable things instead of become a speech pathologist:

Semi-driver, toll booth worker, french fry maker, bathroom cleaner, clown, manicurist, sweat-sock tester, brussel-sprout grower, migrant cranberry-picker, fishing-bait gatherer, salesman, chemical-vat cleaner...

You get the idea.

Quote of the week(end)

Someday... Hmmm...

Parasitic Compliment

Purdue believes in orienting their new graduate students. That's why we have to go through a 40 hour week of "show diversity!" and "show diversity!" and "show diversity!" presented in 17 different work-shops.

The very last day of orientation (Friday), we were all crowded into Loeb Playhouse, and I looked around.

I was, for the first time in my life, noticeably a minority. My graduate program is (has and will always be) composed of upper-middle class, white females. I would venture to guess the average demographic of the rest of the room's individuals (excepting the twenty-two females mentioned above) was a split between asian and mid-eastern males. My IQ was probably half of the average.

We got a spiel from the mayor about how great it was to live in West Lafayette. (Note: if the mayor has to give a spiel to convince you how great it is.... doesn't that make you suspicious?) Then the dean of graduate admissions stood up and told us how amazing we all were and how lucky Purdue was to have us, etc., etc. It was almost like high school graduation...

And then came the chair of the graduate admissions council.

"You, now, students, are contributing to the fount of knowledge. You will increase the breadth of mankind's understanding. You will give back to the system that you, for so long abused. No longer are you undergraduate parasites sucking on the body of knowledge."

I sat there in stunned silence. My new friend (also white, female, upper-middle class- we minorities have to stick together) was stunned as well. We gazed at the speaker in shock. We glanced and each other with a "Did I hear that right?" look. Did the man forget that 87% of the room had been said "parasites" a few short weeks before? At the end of the speech, the MC said,

"Thank you, Dr. --------. Dr. ----- is a professor in our entomology department."

Then it made sense.

If he is an entomologist, I'm sure he finds parasites fascinating...

Two months and counting...

A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. 

(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

While grading...

Question: what are the three most common phonetic features?

Student's answer: stops, fricatives, and laxatives. 

While discussing C.S. Lewis' "Mere Christianity" at 7 a.m.

Meg: Do you think that Jesus won games when he was growing up? He's God. He knew what was going to happen...

Laura: I bet he won Monopoly.

Meg: Probably won everything.

Laura: I never win at Monopoly. Stupid Monopoly.

Emily: I don't think that they had Monopoly...

Meg: Did he let other people win?

Courtney: He could have cheated really easily. I always cheated at Monopoly.

Meg: And then there's the question of his belly-button. Was it an innie, or an outie?

Emily: Did he even have a belly button?

Laura: Of course he had a belly button, he was born. Duh.

Kelli: Can you imagine having other children after having the perfect one?

Laura: Now there's a complex for you- 'Why can't you be perfect like your big brother, Jesus!'

**Back to the perfection of Christ...**

Why I study, why I don't sleep, why I'm living for life after graduation...

I expect to pass through life but once. If therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again. 

(William Penn)

Feelings...

It is my belief, as an (amateur) writer, that feelings cannot be portrayed in words: happy, sad, angry, etc. Their very nature prohibits such descriptors. Feelings are complex mental pictures complete with sensory input from all five senses that we create and associate with a variety of stimuli. One doesn't feel "happy" in the two-dimensional sense of the word- one has a certain sensation that one associates with happiness, a location, a color, a smell, a scene- real or imagined. Sometimes this sensation is clearly apparent, other times it is buried, and all that one can grasp is that saying "happy" isn't sufficient.

But sometimes one has to try to write it. So pardon my feeble efforts...

And I did a little dance in front of my computer...

Now, as you all know, I'm a graduate student. I'm currently into my fifth year of "higher-level" education. During the past nine months, however, I've been attempting something that I've never attempted in my life (nor had any desire to attempt)-

Financial independence. 

I have the most generous parents. (No, seriously. They are. I'd put them up against any other parent out there.) Thanks to them, while I DID work during my undergrad, it was only to cover sundry expenses like books, school supplies, and the occasional shopping binge that I could hardly refrain from. (It's hard! Especially when there's a shoe sale...) But after graduating in December, I decided to try something new. I decided to try to **drumroll please...**

SUPPORT MYSELF.

I know. It's a bit shocking. But my parents only signed up for four years of higher education. They didn't bank on a daughter who wanted more letters after (and maybe before) her name. (Doesn't Dr. Courtney, Ph.D. sound fun!?!) So I decided to try, as hard as I could, to take care of all my expenses.

I think my father can attest to the (often lack of) "successfulness" of my adventure. There were months when I spent only $30 on groceries and was so sick of peanut butter and white bread after that I haven't eaten it since. (I went home almost every Sunday for lunch and leftovers...) Then there was that time when I thought I was in the black and bought throw pillows. Only to realize that I hadn't paid the electric. (Had to call Dad for that one...) There was the computer, which I desperately needed, but could only have bought on an installment plan (once again, Dad to the rescue), and so it continues.

But, during that time I also- started a savings account, paid for my $1,000 insurance deductible on my car, set up my own health insurance, and paid for everything else (food, clothes, utilities- except those mentioned above...) all on my own. (I know! I'm so grown-upish.)

And it was a little tight at times.

But today, while balancing check-book and paying bills, I came across a startling discovery. PURDUE IS PAYING ME. Don't look at me like I'm dumb. I knew that they would. They said they would when I got my teaching assistantship. But although I crunched the numbers many times, I still came up with a rather small monthly pittance.

But I did my math wrong!!! (This will probably be the only time I'm excited about that.)

I have enough now to pay the bills, and put (a little) money in my savings account without bothering the parents! Whoo-hoo! It's not much, but it's more than I've lived on for the past 9 months, so I'm grateful. 

And yes, as soon as I realized what had happened, I did a dance in front of my computer screen.

God is amazing! 

(Have I said that before?)

Compliments of a teacher friend... :)

Teacher: One of these days I'm going to have an overhead projector that likes me...

Student: Or a guy...

Teacher: Go do your reading.

"Those people..."

Per the advice of a very wise friend and mentor, I have been reading the book of Jeremiah. The reason for such a perusal should be evident- I'm a people-pleaser. And no where else in the Bible (at least in such condensed, brutal form) does one find more reason to despise the very humanity that one will (paradoxically) so promptly worship. I am the greatest of sinners in this regard. While mocking the depraved man, I will, the very next moment be held sway by his judgment, subject to the very opinion I so openly ridicule.

But while reading the following:

"Only acknowledge your guilt- you have rebelled against the Lord your God, you have scattered your favors to foreign gods, under every spreading tree, and have not obeyed me," declares the Lord.

I was struck by a horrible, gracious epiphany.

While labeling "others" as errant humanity, I had neglected to place myself in that same category. I viewed myself as outside the problem- let's look at other people. Let's look at God. What does that tell me? In my thinking I was above and outside of the categories of analysis that I had created.

But I am that humanity.

I am that depravity.

I am the faithless Israel.

And it does no good to lump others into the "shouldn't fear or please due to inherent wickedness" without also including myself. For, until I have a grasp, or at the very least, a taste, of my own depravity, I will see no need to turn to God to fulfill my desire for approbation and pleasure. Until I realize that I, in and of myself, am, along with the rest of humanity, completely depraved and faithless, I will see no need of the purity, faithfulness, and goodness of God. I will, though perhaps rid of the tyrant of pleasing others, unconsciously, seek to find my reward in the pleasing of myself, rather than in the pleasure of God.

Which was when I read:

"Return, faithless people," declares the Lord, "For I am your husband. I will choose you- one from a town and two from a clan- and bring you to Zion... I myself said, 'How gladly would I treat you like sons and give you a desirable land, the most beautiful inheritance of any nation.'"

How gracious of a God who is so often forgotten- that he would choose, and subsequently endow the chosen with blessings. Is there any other worth pleasing?

(Text: Jeremiah 3)

I just really wish school was over...

And when I'm done, I'll probably wish I could go back.

Irony.

Par-Tie!

In our first, collaborative Cardigan party, we threw a bash for Tank and Bunny. They both are celebrating their "golden birthdays" this week. Tank is turning 22 on the 22nd, and Bunny is turning 23 on the 23rd. Everyone at the party had to wear a tie- and we danced and drank (ginger ale! Promise!) the night away.

The Cardigan Mafia will have to strike again.... maybe on my birthday?

;)

Facts about (almost) Speech Pathologists

A speech-language pathology student is:

An (almost) professional individual who identifies, assesses, and provides treatment for individuals with speech, language, and swallowing problems, in addition to getting limited amounts of sleep, drinking copious amounts of coffee (which is bad for the vocal folds they claim to protect), and developing a wardrobe which must be at once professional enough to satisfy "business dress" and comfy enough to allow crouching and crawling in. (There is no such wardrobe.)

What do speech-language pathology students do?

Treat speech, language, and swallowing disorders in individuals of all ages, from infants to the elderly. Struggle to find time to grocery shop- until all that remains in the cupboards is JiffyMix and peanut butter. Evaluate and diagnose speech, language, and swallowing disorders. And wonder when daily reading will not consist of 200 pages regarding phonological development.

Where will speech pathology students work?

This is work. After this I'm not working again EVER.

In a few, scant days, my roommate from my sophomore year of college, will be getting married to a very wonderful Curly Haired boy. Congrats, my Lady! While it must be admitted that the bride-to-be and I were (and are) quite different, it must also be admitted that her approach to wedding planning has been quite refreshing.

No fuss.

No girly frills.

And an emphasis on the action of what she's doing, not the means through which it is taking place. A focus on the future together, not the first few hours wedded bliss- seating charts and bird seed. Thanks, roomie.

And don't worry, if it rains you have several options:

Do the bedraggled, artsy bride- very avaunt-garde. Quite stunning. You're one of the few people I know who could do this quite amazingly.

Or make sure you have a photographer that can make dampness look like a party.

And then, of course, I'll bring some rain boot just in case the other two fall through.

Congrats, Lady! Multiple and continuous blessings on you both.

An Idol of The Mouth

I have been totally and completely, unavoidably overwhelmed by the commencement of graduate school.

(Part of it could be the total lack practice in the studying area since December... Studying is like a sport- you have to practice to stay competitive.)

But my completely overwhelming week took a sudden and drastic turn for the better.

I was meeting with the "Cardigans" when I became aware that...

**drum roll, please**

STARBUCKS PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE IS BACK.

I know. I was in shock too.

My one of my favoritist beverages is back on the market- just in time for my favorite cool, crisp, leaf falling, sweater wearing, scarf-shopping season.

Hallelujah, Jehovah-Jireh. The Lord does provide.

**Lovin' livin' with the bro, even though I miss my room-age. Things are so different living with a boy!
(I know, I know- "duh!")**

Me: What does one wear to a wedding when one's date is wearing a mint green suit, and the the bride is anti-flowy, silky chiffon frou-frou?

Girl roomie: Hmm... well all you really own is flowy...

Me: I know! But I want to branch out and blend in. Besides it's outside and all dresses I own only look good with heels.

Girl roomie: You're right. Your three inch black stilettos.

Me: Exactly.

Girl roomie: That's a toughie. Maybe you should look around a bit. See what's out there?

Me: Ooooh! Good idea- shopping?

Girl roomie: I'm free Thursday and Friday morning. We can get Starbucks.

Me: Let's go Friday. Gosh, I hope I figure something out. If not... well, you know-

Girl roomie: Right- it's all about the bride anyway.

Me: That's what I was thinking. Now... what do you think about...

(conversation continues for 20 minutes.)

*********

Me: What does one wear to a wedding when one's date is wearing a mint green suit, and the bride is anti-flowy, silky chiffon frou-frou?

Al: A simply cotton dress with basic sandals. Put something in your hair and just don't care.

Me: Wow. You're good. And fast.

Al: Besides, everyone will be looking at your date anyway... Have you ordered the pizza?

Me: You're amazing.

Feeling guilty about the goodness...

I've made some mistakes. This is true.

But how totally, completely, unbelievable is it that after I've made those mistakes, after I've gone running back to God, He doesn't wait a while (so I can prove my merit) to lavish goodness on me. He just showers it. In abundance. Without any requirements on my side.

I, treadmill mentality of grace firmly in hand, think, "Wow. This isn't good. I haven't done anything. God's being good to me, after I had ignored him for so long. Shouldn't I have a period of mourning? A period of suffering? Why on earth is He being so very kind to me?"

And I feel guilty because everything is so inexpressibly good. I feel that I shouldn't be this happy. That I shouldn't be this content. That everything shouldn't be so wonderful.

But I am happy. Things are good. GOD is good.

How amazing. And sobering...

It is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy Spirit, who have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the coming age, if they fall away, to be brought back to repentance, because to their loss they are crucifying the Son of God all over again and subjecting him to public disgrace.

(Hebrews 6:4-6)

I think I wasn't informed...

So.

I'm starting graduate school today. Yup.

I'm cool. I'm calm. I'm collected.

**I just lied...

I still don't have a finalized class schedule, I just sent out an e-mail that should have been sent out at least 24 hours ago, I've never even met the professor that I'm T.A.ing for, and apparently somewhere along the way someone forgot to tell me that I needed to have 25 hours of clinical observation recorded.

**trusting God. trusting God.

And, one more thing- in addition to not telling me my schedule, my professor, etc.- NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS A PHYSICAL REQUIREMENT TO THIS MAJOR!!!

There is.

You should see my classmates. They're all drop-dead gorgeous.

I think I'm going to flunk graduate school...

Would you like fries with that?

You're wishing you were a Blake, aren't you?

It's a Blake family tradition... and although it may lay dormant through a large percentage of the year, it usually erupts like an out-of-control rash when we have birthdays and/or Christmas.

We like to wear hats.

"Aww! How fun, and cute!"

Nope. Not really.

Because not only do we like to wear hats, we prefer to wear hats of our own creation. Hats that no one else would ever think to wear. And hats that should never be hats in the first place...

Dad started it. For as long as I can remember he's worn packaging, wrapping, even the present itself. And clearly he never learned the "don't put bags on your head" rule...

I'm a follower. What can I say? Besides, it was pink. (You can also see I'm quite excited about my knife set. Who wouldn't be?)

Erika likes to create hats with a more rackish feel to them. Way to experiment with wrapping paper, sis.

Originally Julie just copied my original design, but she's smart. **refraining from Asian generalization... refraining from Asian generalization...**

So she created her own hat. What can I say? She's brilliant and unafraid of new things. Bravo, Bops, bravo!

Yeah... so some families do crafts, canoeing, board games and normalcy. My family? We do hats with a strong dose of crazy.

Eating now... Humble Pie.

I will be quite horribly, bluntly honest:

I am a proud person.

You're probably rolling your eyes going, "Well, yeah!" but for me this is a startling revelation. (Well, not entirely, but the grossness of my pride, its very largeness is unbelievable!)

I don't like to be wrong. I don't like to make mistakes. I don't like to have to justify myself and my decisions to others. I hate, hate, HATE it.

I would like for everyone to just blindly accept that I'm amazing, that I make amazing decisions, that what I do is amazing, and that all-round amazingness just exudes from my persona (kinda like a bad cologne).

But this is not the case. And I'm finding that the pride coupled with my intense desire to please people can make my life incredibly miserable at times. So I have a new mantra:

"Am I pleasing God? Am I pleasing God? Lord, help me see, give me wisdom. Am I pleasing you?"

Based on the answer to that question, I then move forward in one direction or another. If I am pleasing God, it doesn't matter what else is going on. It doesn't matter what others think- as much as I may love and desire to please them. And it doesn't matter one, stinkin' iota if I'm not giving off "amazingness cologne." (Who wants to be compared to bad cologne anyway?)

So I'm just going to have to swallow my pride. Admit that I have a tendency to be a total, well, ahem... donkey. And get busy changing and growing in Christ-likeness. I really wish I wasn't quite so flawed... **sigh**

Plastic Fruit and a Perfect God

**I'm quite happy. Quite content...**

God is the perfect God. How gracious of Him to extend to us not only mercy, but also grace. To not only withhold the terrors and troubles, but also to shower the love in tangible, touchable, real ways. How gracious of Him to not be just, and just alone, but also love. Either one without the other would be a thing of terror, we would not want a just God without love, nor a loving God without justice, but the entirety of both, expressed in one being- this is how great our God is.

Jeremiah, chapter one, states that Israel was "worshipping what their hands have made." Derisive criticism and laughter at such blatant stupidity is often how we greet this centuries-old idolatry. Until we remember the things that we ourselves have created and subsequently worshipped- money, possessions, careers, families, relationships... the list continues. We ourselves have made gods with our hands. And we worship them, almost without knowing, subconsciously. They worm into the fiber of our lives, insidiously affecting the way we think, talk, and live. We worship "what our hands have made."

And we've never dreamed, created, or made a god who could be both eternally just and eternally loving. We worship things that are weaker than we are. Of what value is that? It's as though we are a child is content with the "lunch" he or she has made- with plastic fruits on little play plates, while over in the kitchen sits a delicious feast (with goldfish crackers!) created by a parent. No child would argue that their lunch is more fulfilling. No child would argue that their lunch would make them feel full while tasting superior to the parent's offering. No, the simple value found in those plastic replicas is that they, the child, made that meal in and of themselves. Such it is with our false worship of our "gods" and the ignoring, or minimizing of The God. The God perfect in justice and love. The God who can alone fulfill and bring true joy. The God who is so vested in us that before He "formed you in the womb" he knew you. Yet, despite such knowledge, we continue, content "in worshipping what our hands have made."

How very, very sad for us, and our plastic fruit.

Ah... Friendship...

The Lord Restores Joy...

You turned my wailing into dancing;

you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.

O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever.

(Psalm 30:11-12)

**unashamedly, unabashedly happy**

Living Vicariously... through my Bunny

I have a sneaking suspicion that in another life I was an elementary school teacher. However, an uncanny affinity for language, anatomy, and hospitals led me more to the speech pathology field. But, that's not to say that I haven't, at sundry moments along the way, wished that I was a El. Ed. major. Last night I got the chance to live vicariously through Bunny, who will be a 6th grade teacher at FCS this fall. Bunny needed help with her bulletin boards, and one of my many suppressed El. Ed. tendencies is in my passion for bulletin boards...


This would be the bulletin board crew. (Ammy, Bunny, Worms) We're kinda like Charlie's Angels, only with construction paper and staples...

Look at the nice little touch! "Ammy" is holding in place the swing that I so thoughtfully placed on our magnificent tree. Bulletin Boards 101: Details make a bulletin board- mark it down. Bulletin Boards 202: Sacrifice all for the board. I stapled my hand for that branch it's hanging on.

This would be the finished product! The clothes pins up the side are students names- this will serve as a kind of job chart. The motto is "Branching Out In The Right Direction" (I know- it's totally cheesy! I came up with it!) and all the grass, leaves, and tree trunk are 3D. So much fun! (Aside from the two stapled fingers, Bunny wailing "It looks nasty" when the first paper was put up, and nearly nailing my chin on the frame when I fell off my chair three times.)

Before we miraculously intervened. I hope someone thought this was beautiful...


Thank you, Jesus for friends who have fun jobs I can mooch off of.

Question:

I've been considering getting (don't keel over) a nose ring. Not a literal hoop- but one of these dainty sparkles:

Thoughts...?

:)

Do you remember?

**dedicated to those who have been friends for such a long time that they remember...**

Do you remember when Aaron Prelock was the hippopatomus in the church play and wore a glittery mask?

Do you remember serving cake in 13 weddings between 2004 and 2008? And do you remember the infamous wedding of 2007 when the punch ran wild?

Do you remember getting lost 17 times your first week on Purdue's campus?

Do you remember water balloon fights in the desert of Peru?

Do you remember the turtle costume? My dress was bright yellow...

Do you remember rain and soggy sleeping bags every Alpha and Omega?

Do you remember when I always used to say "doy!" at the end of every sentence?

Do you remember when Starbucks was a new thing... and that one conversation-outside-cold-awkwardness- funny man?

Do you remember when we wanted eight boys? Now we only want 5...

Do you remember fireworks every fourth... and that one time after watching Spiderman?

Do you remember the picnics in ATM drive-thrus, graveyards, parking lots, movie theatres?

Do you remember how I turned down the clarinet player while hiking?

Do you remember why?

Do you remember ice skating... especially winter break freshman year?

Do you remember when we were still barely friends?

Do you remember when my blog posts were original and entertaining?

I wonder what I shall remember about the next ten years...

College Stupidity, #1 Memory Lane, West Lafayette

I'm a safe, sane, tame individual. This much is true.

I (as a general rule) obey all traffic laws. I pay my bills. I don't buy the expensive, fun shoes, because others are more practical. I rarely invest in any form of fun jewelry. I go to bed on time. I don't drink coffee more than three times a week. I eat fast food about once a week max. I go to church. I don't swear (unless under great duress). I don't do extreme sports. And I usually confine my reading to the classics.

All that to say, I'm a "safe" person.

But I have pockets of craziness...

The other night, I'm driving. I drive a stick-shift, and as much fun as that is, I often get bored- even with the radio on. I can't imagine what people with automatics do... But I digress.

I was driving down 52 for probably the three thousandth and eighty-first time in my entire life, and I started wondering what I could do to make this trip a little more eventful. Bunny is in the car with me, and we've just picked up Taco Bell. I turn to her,

"Pass me my burrito." Bunny the responsibly responds, "You're driving. Stick shift." I grin,

"I know. Pass it."

She complies, and I'm now eating a burrito and driving. My phone rings. Without setting my burrito down, still driving, I reach over and answer the phone, at the same time, I hear the radio (turned way down low) start to play my and Bunny's theme song. So, on the phone, eating a burrito, driving and stick shift, I reach over and turn up the volume- whoo-hoo!!!
Then (phone, burrito, volume, stick shift) I turn to Bunny and say, "Take a picture!"
That's when this was taken...

Today I drove off with a coffee cup on top of my car, and I thought, "Courtney, how irresponsible and careless!"

Then I remembered. Ah... how much can change in two years...

Bear Wisdom

Well, Courtney, it comes in handy- matureness does.

I don't care what you think... and I say that in love.

I'm sick, tired, totally and completely over, and never going back to the way I was before.

I must be honest. You all know me. (I'm assuming this... if not, "Hi! Nice to meet you!") I am a horrible, shameless people-pleaser. If you've read any of my past blogs, you know that this is true. You know that this is my pitfall, and you know that it's what I've been wrestling with for the past month. (And what I should have been wrestling with for the past 10 years...) But here's the deal...

I'm done with:

Waking up in turmoil because of possible problems or angry, bitter confrontations.
Watching every movement of a person's face for disapproval while I'm talking.
Trying to organize and control others' reactions to me.
Doing things that I hate simply because I want to be loved.
Making myself physically ill because of arguments and disagreements.

And I'm ready to:

Passionately serve God with every breath in my body.
Love others self-lessly, but AFTER I love my heavenly Father.
Hand over my controlling tendencies and realize that how I want people to respond may not be how God wants people to respond.
Realize that as long as I act according to what my Father desires, I don't need to worry about others' reactions.
Rest entirely in Him as the only one to give me true peace.
Make Him the center, the focal-point, the drive, the over-seer, of everything I do, think, say, or aim for.

I know, these are **duh!** statements, but they are ones that I have grossly and horribly neglected to the detriment of my service to God, and my growth in Christ-likeness.

Only by aligning my focus entirely with Christ, only by making pleasing him my one desire, only by stripping away all the scaffolding of human approbation and support that I have built so ceaselessly around my life and my way of thinking- only then can I truly love others. The problem is, I re-ordered the first and second commandments: I put loving people before loving God. Consumed with other's and making them happy, I ignored my God, and failed to please him. Now I realize, only when loving God comes first, can I truly love other people.

So I will pray for wisdom, I will find my truth in His Word, I will seek godly council, I will wrestle with the Holy Spirit, I will develop a finely-honed, tender conscience, so that I may be sure that my decisions and life are first and fore-most pleasing to God and (if necessary) to God alone. After that, I need not care how others respond.

And then I think I can biblically say,

"I don't care what you think!"

And say it in love.

I love my Starbucks... :)

Wordless...

To you, I know not what time has done,
Mistakes, dark pages mixed with burst of gold,
Stories that are eager, but slowly told.
Time wears me, my thoughts, before I’ve begun.

Begun to see what had been given,
Begun to see what I hold inside
Remorse, crashing, thundering, dead tide.
Consumed by the flippant joy of living.

You I left waiting, holding the best,
Ignoring, while you wait day after day.
While I wandered, groping my selfish way,
Struggling, striving, and finding no rest.

Till you gave me a mountain unseen,
And my eyes were opened to my neglect,
My selfish consumption of life I regret.
Neither hot nor cold, but in between.

Love me. Love me still. Love me always.
I am hurting, I am broken. I cry.
Mistakes are marching, marching always by.
Hold me. Help me. Restore my lost days.

Capture. Redeem. Transform. Make brand new.
My life as a symphony soaring aloud.
My heart is humbled, it stands poorly bowed.

Let it stand yet to sing, only for you.

But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me. (I Corinthians 15:10)

If I had an office mate, they would probably express their "appreciation" of my talents by duct-taping my mouth shut to avoid pulling their hair out

Today an incredibly high spurt of giddyness bubbled over while sitting at my desk, diligently working...

I started creating my own dance (while sitting in my chair and typing) singing (complete with electric guitar sound-effects),

"Hey, now, you're an all-star, get the game on, go play!"
**bowow-chicka-bowow-chicka-bowow-wowow!** (those would be my sound-effects...)

I'm sure my co-workers feel a great fondness for me right now.

I can also rap the verses... But I'll refrain... (heehee! Did you get the pun!?!?)

I think I need to cut back on my coffee intake.

I am... contented and happy

I really have nothing to blog about... Nothing hilarious. (Well, maybe several, but not enough time to do them justice), nothing traumatic. Just life. And I'm enjoying it. Sure, in some places it gets a little hum-drum, but God is keeping it from being too boring by pointing out my many areas of sin. But He's also helping me grow, which is what makes Him so wonderful. Right now I'm learning, growing (hopefully!), and enjoying the simple pleasures...

making rice crispies with "Bear", teaching Julie-Bop to tango, washing my car, girl night at the coffee house, random texts from my Bunny, scrap-booking with Dawn, vacuuming, making blueberry muffins (that burned!), going to Bible study, doing laundry...

Praise God that He gives normal, routine days. Praise God that He helps me grow through it all, and even though the growth may often be hard- praise God that he never leaves me and continues to give me joy.

Yes, I am very happy, very contented, very convicted, very growing (hopefully), and very, very glad to have such a loving heavenly Father.

I get an unholy glee watching cocky guys, in huge trucks, pull despondently out of gas stations with $4.29/gallon advertised.

II Peter 1:3-11

His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.

For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But if anyone does not have them, he is nearsighted and blind, and has forgotten that he has been cleansed from his past sins.

Therefore, my brothers, be all the more eager to make your calling and election sure. For if you do these things, you will never fall, and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

My Arch Nemesis- My Mailbox

From previous posts, it's probably pretty safe to say that all my readers know by now that I'm not the brightest bulb in the socket. I am, in all reality, often very slow. This would be a horrible thing to live with were it not for the fact that my stupidity usually reveals itself in abjectly hilarious ways...

So, I moved into my new place. I'm ecstatic. Someday I'll have to write a blog post about my battles with the utility companies. I became slightly less ecstatic. I locked myself out. More of a damper on my enthusiasm. I didn't have hot water. My enthusiasm grows still more feeble. By the time I trudged out to get the mail, my confidence in my own abilities and my excitement about my new condo were but paltry flickers.

It was dark. Incredibly steamy. I was barefoot because I had been wearing high heels all day. I was tired. Achy. All I wanted to do was harvest a new set of bills from the mailbox and return to my air conditioning. Now, I had no idea which mailbox was mine. I had a key. And the number 7 scratched on a paper by a realtor who was trying to be helpful. I assumed my mailbox was number 7, and I assumed that my key would open it. There are two boxes situated down the street which must house my mail. Or so I think.

I approach the two doors a little warily. I'm very bad with locks. (See reference to general stupidity in first paragraph.) In front of me I see a door, with one key hole down in the right corner. I try to insert my key. It won't go. I try the box next to it. Same deal. Both boxes have two large doors, locked by only one key hole and my key doesn't fit in either one.

I'm stubborn. I stand on my tip-toes and push. I angle the key from below, crouching in the street trying to find the right angle. Several times the key goes in, but it can't do anything once it's there. Finally, I stuff it in, wrap one arm around the side of the mailbox, dig my toes into the grass by the side of the road. My toes get squished in the mud, I get a cramp in my arm. And the key does not move. Frustrated, I give up and go inside.

Several days later I decide to try again. I've decided I'll give myself one more chance before I go and ask my elderly neighbors how I open the mailbox. But given my neighbors' general consensus on the ignorance and foolishness of youth (they're all about 70), I decided to have one more try before drinking from that cup of humility.

I go through the same ordeal as last time. Same result. The difference being that this time about 7 cars drove by while I was attempting. I blushed- mortified that my senior citizen neighbors could watch me wrestle with an inanimate object while they gaze at me from their Buicks.

I was talking on the phone to Bunny, when I suddenly snorted with exasperation, kicked the mailbox, and yelled, "Arrrgh! I can't figure this thing out!" (Yes, I was sinfully angry. No, at the time I didn't care.) When I told Bunny what was going on she, without a pause, said,

"Don't mailboxes have two sides?" Pulling my feet out of the dirt, unwrapping my arm, jerking my key out of the lock, I walked around to the other side of the mailbox...

And there were 30, neatly marked, individual tiny doors. One of them had a number 7 on it.

Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the socket...

WHOO-HOO!!!

Recently, Drew and I have been working on his letters. On his last visit to the optometrist, he was told (to the surprise of his parents, teachers, and me!) that his optic nerve was actually growing. (For those of you who don't know... he's always been able to see out of his left eye, but to such a small extent that it serves no purpose.) The optometrist recommended glasses.

Needless to say, we've been doing eye exercises ever since (we did some before, but they had more meaning now!). We looked at picture cards, we looked at colors, and recently I've been trying to teach him what the letters of the alphabet look like. He knows the ABC song, but he has no idea what the physical representation of each letter is.

Well, today we had learned all the way through letter J. (That's almost half!) I wrote the letters thick, large, and dark on pieces of white paper, and he can tell me (with about 85% accuracy- yes, I actually calculated that) what the letter is. Each of the letters stands for something to help him remember, visually, what it is. ("D" is for a big cream-filled "Donut," and "B" is for two "bunk-beds"- the letters are supposed to look like their cue words.) Today he was doing so well, and had mastered so many letters that I had an idea...

"Bear, here. Look at these three letters together. What are these?"

"C."

"Right... next one?"

"A."

"Okay. And the last one?"

"B."

"All right. Can you sound it out for me?"

"C-A-B. Cab!"

MY BEAR CAN READ WITH HIS EYES! WHOO-HOO!!!

Confession... one of so many faults...

I have a horrible, all-consuming, awful habit.

I want people to be happy.

I know. It sounds good, doesn't it? It sounds wonderful. It sounds self-less.

It's not. At least not entirely.

Back underneath this desire for everyone to be happy, is a little black, nasty, moldy sin. It's called people-pleasing. It's really people worship. It's idolatry. It just sits there. It's unobtrusive. It doesn't peek it's head out very often, and (as stated above) it's covered by a very, very good thing. But it's still there. And it's still nasty.

I, deep down, want to please people more than I want to please God.

If you walked right up to me and asked me, "Courtney, do you want to make someone other than God happy?" I would look horrified. "What!?! Want to please anyone other than my heavenly Father? What can you possibly be thinking? Of course not!" But it's true.

The problem with this particular sin is that it's morphing. In high school it was all-engrossing. In the early years of my college I battled it- fought it. Hated it. I struggled with wanting everyone to like me. Everyone to approve. Everyone to be happy with me. The problem with that is that there are too many everyones. And I shouldn't want some of them to be happy with me. So I beat it. I hated it. And (I thought) conquered it.

But all it did was creep further back into a corner of my personality, it changed its shape, and gradually crept into the crevices- entrenching itself in my life. Insidiously. Now, while I really want everyone to be happy- I realize the impossibility of that. It's not an all-engrossing goal. And I realize that it's never going to happen. But as I said, it's not gone. It just shifted from the majority to a select minority. And it grew stronger.

The shocking realization (which really shouldn't be that shocking) is how much I value others' opinions, (and how much my life shows that value) versus how much I value God's opinion, His judgment. This skews my perspective, my purpose, my passion, my life.

What can I plead to my Heavenly Father? What can I beg? That my focus, my all-consuming passion be Christ. That He be the only thing in my sights. That His glory be the only thing I'm striving for. That pleasing Him, making the man who hung in torture on slabs of wood, his life's blood rushing out of him in painful, slow agony- He who felt the wrath of God- who felt the worst sense of displeasure- pleasing him should be the one and only focus of my life.

Help me, God.

How great is our God.

"Because he loves me," says the LORD, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."

(Psalm 91)

Musings...

Sometimes I wonder if I like myself. (Oh, I know I love myself. The Bible says so. I believe it. But sometimes I wonder if I like the person I love...)

I wonder at what age I'll pass as "senior" at the bread store. $.44 a loaf is good...

Whatever happened to some of my best friends? And why didn't I appreciate them more when they were here?

I need to find my lighter so I can burn my new candles.

Making a torte sounds like fun right now.

I should probably not get so distracted at work...

My Quest

It should be noted, that I'm not an artistic person. In fact, I lack common sense in regards to color, combination, texture, and depth- all of which (I am convinced) are necessary to achieve a pulled-together, elegantly furnished, tasteful room. I have friends who excel in these areas, but I, sadly, am lacking in such skills.

However, I lack a lot of skills, and I rarely let that keep me from doing anything. If I only attempted the areas I am skilled in, I would be confined to a large easy chair, sipping Diet Coke, and reading 19th century female authors. I am incredibly good at that.

So today I attempted to decorate. I say "attempted" because my first few feeble fumbles have just been taken. I say "feeble", because they were small steps in a certain direction, and I say "fumbles" because those few small steps were probably wrong according to every decorating, interior design law and mantra that has ever been known. Yes. But I tried...

I bought candles.

Don't pooh-pooh my purchase. I know you're sniffing. I just heard you mentally deride the agony I've gone through to select three pillar candles. Yes. Only three. But you must understand the process...

Firstly, they must go on my mantle, so, to look adequate in that space they must be substantial. On a long aisle, with nothing but mounds of scented, dyed wax, one begins to think that anything over three inches is substantial, but this is not so.

Second, color must come into consideration. I now have a red wall. Do you have any idea how many different colors of red there are? I'm sure Markus didn't until he was forced to hold twelve different variations of the same hue up at seven different angles to determine which would be best suited to my new abode. However, this leaves me with a very particular color red. How is one to know if the candle I hold in my hands matches the shade of my wall? God forbid that it be one shade off! Could my future guests stand to be in a house with glaringly mismatched candles? I think not! So I walked down the entire aisle and pulled off every single red candle. I then lined up in a row and compared. The orange-red tints were discarded, the purply reds were tossed aside, until the perfect crimson candle was discovered and placed safely in my cart. After that work, it was guarded jealously.

Third, one must consider texture and shape. There are square, round, pillar, balled, rough, and smooth candles. You may find the perfect height. You may determine the correct shade. But if you have made an erroneous judgment on texture and shape- you might as well have not even commenced the quest for candles. I was forced, during this period of my search, to lie flat on my stomach, in the middle of the aisle, in order to reach the best cream candle on the bottom shelf. (I kept my purse on my shoulder to prevent my credit card and driver's license from being stolen, but then I also kept a foot hooked around my shopping cart to keep an infamous villain from absconding with my previously discovered "perfect" crimson candle. I'm sure I looked amusing...)

Fourth, and lastly, one must look at the whole picture. If one has found the best crimson, the best cream, and the best sienna, then one must make sure that all these bests look best together. Such a thing is not always possible. I'm still mourning the loss of a beautiful chocolate brown candle. But what could I do? Its rough, dark exterior marred the appearance of the cream pillar (and after scrambling all over the floor, I wasn't about to put that one back.)

Some people might council paying attention to scent, in addition to color, texture, shape, and size. While this is optimal, and preferred, it is not always possible unless you have 45 minutes to spend on the candle aisle, and unless (unfazed by the glares of store personnel) you can glibly, without shame pull every candle off the shelves and replace them all in different locations. Apparently I have too much time, and not enough shame... My hands smell like 37 different cream candles.

I think I might be obsessively compulsive...

Note to Self: Blind Boys Don't Care About The Color or Style of Your Car

I went to pick up Drew the other morning. Because of my accident I've been driving my family's minivan. It's green-ish, taupe-ish, and very economical and middle-aged looking. It was either that or my brother's motorcycle, and since I was deemed "unable" to drive the bike, I got stuck with the mommy-mobile. (Actually, in our family it's the daddy-mobile, since Mom likes the Cadillac, and my dad is very self-sacrificing.)

Anyway, I'm driving through town, ruing the day that I neglected to learn how to drive a motorcycle, and feeling incredibly mature and matronly- emotions I can only attribute to my vehicle.

I pull into the Viars.

Drew clambers in. It's much easier for him to get into than my little compact and he exclaims, with incredible awe,

"Whew! Court! You've got a sweeEEt ride!"

I'll have to let my father know... He's got a "sweeEEt ride."

If you know anything about decorating with style and economy, I would greatly appreciate your tips and secrets. I'm kinda new to all this...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

As a general rule, I am not an incredibly graceful or lucky person. In fact, I may even be characterized by unnatural klutziness. Entirely without intention, I tend to wind up in the worst possible situations, which I myself create or encourage. It's like a disease they haven't invented a vaccination for. I'm completely helpless to help myself. I rely almost entirely on luck and the goodwill of others. Unfortunately, my luck ran out this week...

Friday morning. I was in an accident. See post below. It was horrible. But little did I know it was only the beginning...

Several hours later, I learned my car would cost me $3,400 to repair, and that three of my friends were struggling- one's husband was going to jail, one needed intense medication for a health problem, and one had a possible brain tumor.

I was also set to move into my new home in less than 12 hours, and I had packed nothing. Nothing. (Except my winter sweaters...)

I prayed. And got to packing. Halfway through my packing I started crying. No, I was not distressed, my eyes were just watering uncontrollably. I ran to the mirror and was distressed to see my right eye red and swollen. Tears were streaming out of it. (If you've ever cried with just one eye, you know how odd it feels.) I was distraught. I have very large eyes. (Bug eyes, I believe they've been called.) And when one is even slightly red it's very noticeable. This one resembled a cherry tomato more than anything else. Resolutely I wiped my tears and kept on packing.

Fully packed, 11 hours later (yes, I'm superwoman! And also incredibly poor and belongingless...) I was ready to conquer the world. Or at least my small corner of it- 203 T---- T--- in West Lafayette...

I moved in. I was proud. The only furniture other than my bed was my bookshelf. My movers were happy (Thanks Dad and Markus!) but my new abode still looks un-lived in. (Except for the kitchen. Kitchen goods I have!) After everyone had gone, I went outside to pull weeds. I am such a good home owner.

And I locked myself out. No phone. No keys. No garage code. No shoes.

At 10:00 at night I had to go meet my next door neighbors (Jim and Charlotte) and ask to use their phone. They were very nice. Grandparent-like. We sat on the porch (waiting for the locksmith who was going to charge me $100 to open my own door) and chatted. He used to be the Director of Human Resources at Purdue. I know! I was impressed too.

About 11:00 p.m., realizing the expensive locksmith was a total loser (apologies to all other locksmiths), I called my dad. He had spent all day moving me. But he drove back across town and broke into my house with a credit card. I had no idea my father had a criminal past...

Sunday was fairly uneventful except for the fact that I was told my insurance deductible was $1,000. I did not handle my new-found poverty with complete grace. Yes, I cried out of my still puffy eye. And, while crying, realized that my other eye (the left eye) had begun to itch and turn red.

By 8 p.m. both eyes were fiery red. And the left eyes was so swollen that I could barely see out of it.

Monday I had a doctor's appointment. My new medicine and antibiotics for my eyes cost me a whopping $566.34. (My parents are currently transferring health insurance...) My eyes watering (now from shock, and from illness), I stumbled out of Target. I could probably have been declared legally blind...

Tuesday the water company confused my request to turn-on my water, and instead they turned my water off. To make matters worse, when I discovered this I had just spent a good hour in my flower gardens ripping out rocks and digging- I was covered in mud. And shower-less.

I just sat down on my stairs (remember, I'm chair-less, couch-less, table-less, and all round furniture-less) and howled with laughter.

Someday I'm going to write a book about my life... and this will make a great chapter.