anna – Page 5

Passing Out in a Public Place: The Lifetime Art of Fainting

June 26, 2013 by anna 4 Comments

Each person in my family has at least one fainting story. We also have some amazing IBS stories, but I’ll spare you those for now. The following lessons are ones that I learned through trial and error. These are only a small percentage of them. Oh, and this post is not for the faint of heart (pun intended).

Lesson #1–Never skip a meal.

I was 9 years old when I began my fainting legacy. It all started with the Homeschool Field Day where I was signed up to run in the 50 yard dash. I was so excited that morning before we left, that I forgot to eat my usual bowl of Raisin Bran and banana. My only goal was to beat my arch-nemesis Sarah (because she was mean and bossy and a know-it-all). I ran my little heart out and placed 3rd. Much to my chagrin, Sarah placed 2nd and was all too happy to remind me of that months later.

After the race, I started to feel sick to my stomach. I started puking and told the nearest adult who assured me, “You’ll be okay honey. You’re fine. Go find your Momma.” So off I went. A few steps into that journey (that felt like a lifetime), I learned what it felt like to go unconscious for the first time. Five more blackouts and two pukes later, I was crawling army style, drenched in a cold sweat, to my Mom’s feet. Knowing full well that I was the least dramatic of her children, she immediately whisked me back home. She was a nurse in her pre-children years, so I’m pretty sure that any medical situation that arose made her feel alive. And as a side note, being a nurse and having 9 children, go hand-in-hand.

Lesson #2–Fainting is not “as seen on TV.”

When I imagine people who faint, I imagine fragile-looking southern belles holding fans, and placing a delicately gloved hand to the forehead whenever something gritty occurs. I also imagine the little sigh that always accompanies the TV faint. This, I assure you, is not the case. Fainting, is an ugly business.

Lesson #3–If you pass out and happen to be skinny, people will assume that you’re anorexic.

I was about 17 and had just passed out in the middle of a 2 hour choir concert, wearing an oversized black sequined robe (it looked like a sequined tent). A man caught me and brought me backstage where a woman gave me orange juice, saltines and an excellent lecture about how anorexia kills people. Had I eaten today? Yes? Well, obviously not enough to sustain a wren. Oh, and Jesus loves you for who you are on the inside…

Lesson #4–Scratch what was learned in Lesson #1

I once fainted while visiting my friend Heidi in the ICU (earning me the eternal nickname “fainting girl” with her family). That one was a really bad one. I had just eaten lunch moments before we entered her room and after about 10 minutes, I passed out. A very good-looking male nurse picked me up and placed me in a chair in the hallway. It took me about an hour going in and out of consciousness to fully come around. I didn’t even get to visit Heidi.

Lesson #5–Fainting mostly occurs in the most embarrassing/inconvenient places possible.

The most recent one was last night. We were having dinner on the river walk in San Antonio. It was a lovely balmy evening. We had finished dinner, and I knew something wasn’t right. As the minutes dragged on, (and according to Ethan and my face became paler), our dinner companion began telling a gruesome story about having his back stapled after an accident. Normally, not a problem. Last night, however, big problem. To me, that’s the worst thing about fainting. Everyone thinks that it’s because of something they said or did that set you off. So, I waited until he was done with his story to whisper to Ethan “I’m going to pass out.” Ethan knew what that meant and prepared himself in case I fell. Our dinner companion thought I meant I was tired.

It always starts with ringing in my ears, tunnel vision and voices become unintelligible. So, I lay my head in my arms on the table, and began the vomit/swallow routine (I refuse to puke in the middle of a restaurant). By the time I felt well enough to raise my head, all of my hair and clothes were soaked through with sweat as if someone had just thrown me in the river. Our dinner companion seemed a little freaked out. And to me, that’s the worst part. It always freaks people out. On the other hand, it sort of reminds me of superhero movies where the hero is secretly battling the enemy who is trying to gain mind control or Super Man, trying to hold up against kryptonite. Haha.

So there you have it. If you ever faint, and feel embarrassed, think of me 😉

Filed Under: Personal Tagged With: black outs, fainting, homeschool, Texas

Reusable Shopping Bags and the Art of Conveyor Belt Strategy

May 20, 2013 by anna 3 Comments

(This is my impression of the cashier’s “just die” look.)

Today I bravely took my reusable shopping bags to the grocery store. I didn’t take all of them, just eight.

Normally, I go down the street to the ghetto market that shall not be named, grab a cart, plunk my bags inside and nod to the armed security guard who stands at the doors. I pick out my items and find my way to the registers. I’ve learned, at this unnamed store, that I must first put my reusable bags on the conveyor belt before the groceries; otherwise, the bagger and cashier will “not notice” the bags in a large pile in front of them and will “accidentally” only use the plastic bags.

There is a definite strategy for placing things on the conveyer belt. Here are the three golden rules to follow:

Do not piss off the cashier right away. Fruits and vegetables have PLU codes that must be typed in or looked up should never go first. They should not be left for last either as this gives the cashier an impending sense of hopelessness.
Do not piss off the bagger. Grouping like items beforehand is a must. If it is smashable, breakable, or in some way fragile, make sure that it is following the fruits and veggies or its own clearly defined pile. Never, under any circumstances place fragile items after frozen or refrigerated items. They will not make it.
Do not avoid weightlifting. If you have ever used reusable bags, you know that to try and please you, the bagger–out of both spite and accommodation for your green anal eccentricities–will load the bag up as much as possible. Therefore, one bag will be 50 pounds and the other 3. If you do not hit the gym regularly, consider measured piles.

The problem is, I had to learn these rules through trial and error. I should have realized sooner that it was my reusable bags that made the baggers suddenly scatter to the winds every time I plopped them there. I finally became aware of my errors the time that I was the recipient of the unmistakeable “just die” look that the cashier gave me when her baggers disappeared and I handed her the bags. To drive home her point of temporary hatred, she made sure to place all of the canned foods on top of bread and tomatoes, and the jug of milk on top of the eggs and bananas. This certainly taught me a valuable lesson. Never expect anyone chewing gum in an ill-fitting vest to do her job. Who would have ever thought that being environmentally conscientious would be inconvenient?

From this lesson, I have learned to announce boldly before the bagger darts away “I will bag it myself.” This method has proved great results. The baggers still leave (now thinking I’m anal, but happily bowing out), but the cashier smiles at me and doesn’t throw all of the fragile stuff around.

Fast forward to last Thursday. I brought my 8 reusable bags and headed to Giant. It was refreshing that when I came to the counter, not only did the bagger do a great job and was very friendly, the cashier was nice and I got a discount for each of my bags. They also had a raffle for anyone using reusable bags. It was nice to not be punished for trying to do something helpful.

And to top it all off, the cashier very thoughtfully asked, “Hey, do you know you have something white on your face?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I have poison ivy. The white stuff is supposed to be there.”

“Oh, okay. I thought maybe that was it.” She shrugged. “But you know how you want your friends to tell you when you have broccoli in your teeth? That was what I was trying to do.”

I bet at the unnamed store, the cashier would have just kept stealing sidelong glances and said nothing.

Filed Under: Personal Tagged With: customer service, eco-friendly, Giant, Publix rocks

Poor Lillian

April 24, 2013 by anna Leave a Comment

Everyone knows what that look means and Lillian Crandenburg was an expert at detecting it. You see, Lillian was a plain thin woman (bless her heart) with dish-water brown air and dull grey eyes. She never struck anyone as anything more than your stereotypical recluse librarian. And that, in fact, was what she was.

Every Tuesday morning, on her way to the Piggly Wiggly, she walked past “Trish’s Hair Salon.” As if by some blessed miracle, this was when Trish’s place just so happened to be fully booked. Filled with makeup wearing women sporting large unmoving hair and french manicures, the place was buzzing with life–not good life necessarily, but life nonetheless. Now, if you’ve never experienced the talk that goes on in a hair salon, you’ve never gossiped. It’s the kind of gossip that your Sunday school warned you about as a child and the kind that the preacher admonished yearly from the pulpit after some small scandal erupted from such talk.

“Oh, here she comes,” said Bertha-May in a half yell, half whisper so as not to be heard by Lillian but of course by everyone in the salon. These women loved three things: games, gossip, and tradition. And when the three could be combined, something close to perfection was at hand. So, as always, a scrap of paper was drawn from a fish bowl to determine the name of the lucky woman in the shop who would then bestow upon poor oblivious Lillian, the newest, most creative and wild hairdo she could imagine. Many times, this included complimentary accessories and clothing that would accentuate her new do. From teal mohawk to purple spikes, everything was tried. This fine tradition was now on its sixth month and still going strong. Normally, this assessment would usually last for at least fifteen minutes, if not more.

This particular morning, providence smiled on Rita Fischer. “I think,” she said thoughtfully, “that a nice mahogany hair color would bring out her eyes–you know, make them sparkle. And maybe some makeup would help too.” Everyone turned towards her in disbelief and Trish gave a small gasp. Never before had anyone put forth a good idea. After a quick moment of awkward silence, Trish spoke up.

“You know, Rita, you’re raght. She needs a makeover–a real one. What da ya say she becomes our liddle project?” Most of the women excitedly nodded in agreement and a few clapped in jubilation; some skeptics held out for a couple of moments, hoping that Trish was being sarcastic. One after another, women shouted out ideas and tizzied around the shop devising immaculate plans for the new and improved Lillian Crandenburg. That’s when Mrs. Mauricia L. Myers graced the shop with her presence. Everyone froze in silence as if Saint Mary herself had just walked into the room and stopped time. She raised her right eyebrow (well plucked, penciled, and arched I might add), opened her mouth to say something as if about to inquire what was happening, and closed it again, realizing that she did not care to know.

“Can I help you?” Trish managed from across the room.

“I’m here on behalf of the women’s auxiliary. I’m wondering if I might give you a brochure to let your–” she paused for a moment glancing around the chaotic room, seeming lost for words. “–patrons know about the fundraiser and charity auction in two weeks. It will be held at MacIntire field at two ‘o clock in the afternoon and will go into the evening.”

For the first time in her life, Mrs. M.L. Myers felt out of place. No one around her was talking, and they made it obvious that she was the current focus of their attentions. This was precisely why she made it a point to only give her business to the salon down the street–they practiced social etiquette. She hurriedly stuffed a few flyers into Trish’s hand, raised her lovely eyebrows, turned and walked out the door before anyone had time to explain the silliness. As the door shut, the noise once again rose as the women got back to planning. Poor Lillian; she was really in for it this time.

A few days later, the well-meaning women with too much time on their hands and too little to think about, put their devious plan into action on Lillian’s behalf. By some kindness of fate, Bertha-May (as oblivious as always)–while spying on Lillian from behind the grapefruits in the grocery store–noticed that Lillian was thoroughly engrossed in a romance novel. After reporting this to the ladies, the vote to send Lillian mysterious love notes was unanimous. Thus, Bertha-May took it upon herself (with the occasional grammatical and spelling help of Rita) to write these love notes. She always liked to sign them Your Secret Love. I know this is cheesy, and if other women had known, they would agree, but Bertha-May thought that a little extra effort was needed in Lillian’s desperate case.

After a week and a half of love note sending, Bertha-May grew frustrated that every time she had “accidentally” run into Lillian, Lillian said nothing about the “Secret Love” nor did she mention any odd mail. This exasperated Berth-May to no end. And being the tactless woman she was, decided to straight up ask her. Thankfully, right before she was able to blow her cover, she was interrupted by Mr. Lawson asking her about something. To this day, she still doesn’t remember what he was babbling about.

Now it was two days until this charity auction was about to take place and the girls’ plan was in full swing. Bertha-May had sent the last note from the secret love which was the most imperative of the letters. I never read it myself, but I heard Bertha-May and Rita brag about their collective genius many times afterward. It read something like this:

My Dearest Darling Lillian,

Although it has not been a long time that I have written you, I feel as if I must meet you and reveal myself to you face to face. Since I have been so open with you, I must meet with you in person and know if you feel the same way towards me. If you are willing, meet me at 3 o’ clock at the charity auction this Saturday. Wear a red dress with a yellow flower pinned to your left lapel. I too will be wearing a yellow flower.

I hope to meet you there.

Sincerely,

Your Secret Love

Now this is as cliched as the dickens, but the ladies thought it to be a fine piece of work. A few days prior to the note, Rita had contacted her sister’s college roommate whose husband had a cousin who was a former Abercrombie and Fitch model who was older now and desperate for work. Plans were set and ready to go, and now all the girls had to do was dress and groom Lillian. Rita took it upon herself to invite Lillian to a free makeover session at Trish’s on Saturday afternoon before the auction. She made sure to drop a few names of other homely women in town that would serve as props to make the scene look a bit more authentic. She thought Lillian seemed excited–she raised her eyebrows slightly and made a slight grimace, which Rita took to be her smile.

To the surprise of the women, Lillian arrived at exactly 1:30 at Trish’s on Saturday. All of the women tried to act non-chalant as they brimmed over with pure elation at the site of Lillian being dolled up. And to think that they had done such a good deed for such an outwardly unexcited person. She did get “all prettied up,” as the women like to say.

Trish gave her that mahogany color that really did make her eyes sparkle and the makeup that made her prettier. Some of the women later admitted they were glad that Lillian didn’t look this good on a regular basis, because if she did, they would have to be more careful about the watching of their husbands.

The last and most crucial part was the dress. Lillian had come not only homely because of her face and hair, but because of the ugly sack she called a dress. It was red but only in theory. Ten years ago, it might have been a nice shade of red, but as it was, the dress was tired and worn and really, very ugly. The only glimmer of hope came from a small yellow flower clumsily pinned on her left shoulder. Rita thought it best to get Lillian to spill the beans about the love letters and she would happen to solve Lillian’s problem of the ugly dress for her. Yet, as Lillian would have it, she never once mentioned the letters nor of her reason for getting beautified. Finally, Rita just said that all the women could go and pick out a dress from the consignment shop next door. She helpfully steered Lillian right to the dress that had already been picked out for her. Lillian kindly tried on the dress (didn’t like it), but pretended to like it for Rita’s sake–she just seemed to like it so much. Rita was envious. She wondered why this woman didn’t normally wear something to show off her nice thin figure. People like Lillian were just plain wasteful and ungrateful.

The women walked with heads held high as they slowly followed Lillian. The couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. Was she excited? If so, she surely didn’t show a bit of that excitement to them. Was she nervous? She couldn’t be with the way that she carried herself with such calm, defiant dignity.

Once at the auction, Lillian stood alone as the women purposefully dispersed themselves amongst the crowd. At exactly 3 o’clock, a voice came over the loud speaker announcing that the auction of good-looking men would begin soon. Everyone made their way to the stage, excited to see these fine specimens. When Mr. former model stepped on stage, all the women were silent–knowing that only Lillian was allowed to bid. Lillian stood motionless for a moment, and noticing that no one else was bidding for this man with the yellow flower, bid a dollar. After winning, she nodded at the women and escorted her budget-friendly prize away. Where they went was anyone’s guess. The women were indignant at her ungratefulness. They assumed that she didn’t even realize how hard they had worked just to make her feel socially accepted.

An hour later, the Secret Love (named Ralph, for those curious) resurfaced without Lillian. The women figured that Lillian was bored by him, paid him a little sum and had left him to spend it at the charity auction.

The funniest part to this whole story is Lillian’s secret that only I knew. The silly plotting of the small town women played perfectly into her own plan. She had waited a long time for this, and now she had gotten what she wanted–and no one even knew–except for me, of course. I could never tell them though, I would become just like Lillian: the center of a small town’s world.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: southern fiction

Pets, Introversion, and Adoption

April 5, 2013 by anna 9 Comments

We got a cat about a month ago and named her Koshka (the Russian word for ‘cat’) because naming a cat ‘cat’ makes me smile. We would’ve gone for ‘dog’ for complete irony, but ‘Sabaka’ is too long a name 🙂

Pre-Koshka, I never would’ve labelled myself as a “cat person,” but I’m coming to see that I was just always in denial. This doesn’t mean that I go around using my exaggerated baby voice calling her my “Fluffykins, or Baby-poo,” but it does mean that I like having her as a little companion. She’s very friendly, independent, quirky, and just a tad bit mischievous as all cats should be. Did I mention that she’s independent? (This is very important). Ethan says that I like her because she’s the cat version of me. Hmm…

I’m very happy that I got her, but honestly, I was extremely hesitant to get any kind of pet after last year’s dog-sitting fiasco. The worst part about dog-sitting this shih-tzu was not that it immediately ran into a busy road as soon as I got it to my house, or that it peed wherever it felt like, or even that it barked all night long for 3 consecutive nights (0% exaggeration). The worst part was, it never left me alone for a moment. I felt as if this little dog was invading every last inch of my life; it followed me EVERYWHERE and whined when it couldn’t. Yes, I felt violated by a little shih-tzu.

So what’s the big deal, you ask? Out of that list, you choose that as the problem? Yes, because you see, I am an introvert working off a deficit of never being alone.

For most of my life, growing up as the oldest girl in a large home schooled family meant that I was constantly caring for young children and as any caretaker of young children knows, they rarely leave you alone unless they’re getting in trouble. Also, in our house, although 10 out of 11 of us are introverts, being alone was considered by my mother to be both unneeded and very selfish. We had no locks on the doors, and all of us shared rooms: there was no place for personal space and privacy was non-existent. Eventually, all of us found some way to be alone. I played music and started running–because no one wanted to run with me. All of my brothers found different ways to be alone: some through gaming, others through spending time in the woods. I don’t say this to put down large families, simply to explain why I have such a great need now to be alone.

For me, I can only be creative when I’m alone. Having my alone time is not imperative every day, but if I’ve had several without ample alone time, I am physically and mentally exhausted. Life would be much easier if I was an extrovert. I’ve many times wished I was one (it would make parties much less awkward).

Teaching piano and voice lessons on a schedule that I create, helps me to plan in time to be alone. It’s ideal for me. I have time to be creative, to reflect, write, compose and whatever else.

All this to say, my need to be alone plays a very important part as Ethan and I are discussing the possibility of one day adopting kids. I’ve done a good bit of child-rearing and it seems that alone time is not part of parental vocabulary; especially not for a woman. For those mothers who are introverts, what are your strategies for being alone while child-rearing?

On a slightly different note, this is a wonderful TED talk on the subject.

Filed Under: Personal Tagged With: dog sitting nightmare, home school, introvert, TED talk, the musical home

Gym Reflections

March 11, 2013 by anna Leave a Comment

One of my more matching outfits while being beat by Amos.

One of my more matching outfits while being beat by Samuel the Amish guy in a 5K.

During the winter time, I’m a wimp so I go to the gym to workout rather than running in the cold. Normally, I choose hours that only coincide with the 70+ crowd because the place is quieter, the people are more fun to chat with and it fits better with my schedule. But on occasion, I find myself as part of the 25-40 gym rat group that is going there to hook up or to impress everyone around them.

On a few occasions, I have gotten the obvious look over–not to be mistaken by the non-obvious look over out of the corner of the eye, or the obvious look over after the girl has already walked away to see if the legs and butt match the face. No this is the one that’s right in front of you with eyebrows and the up-down head movement followed by a smile or some sort of tongue movement. It is then accompanied by oily “hello” or some kind of dumb question. If it’s a dumb question, I give them a matter-of-fact answer and walk away. If it’s a “hello,” I go into what I like to call my dead fish phase. It’s the “hello” in response but with the unfocused eyes, not quite looking at the guy and keeping the rest of my face slack with the excitement of a dead fish and then turning and walking away as if cousin to a zombie. I know. I’m mean, but let’s be honest, a girl needs to have some sort of plan for sleeze. I figured out long ago that saying “I’m married” means nothing to the men who are acting like this.

Once in awhile, you meet a guy who just doesn’t get the hint. To him, I dedicate this letter.

Dear Male Gym Rat:

It’s flattering that you think I want to know your name and all about your job. It’s amusing that you think I’m there to “check you out checking me out,” but that is simply not the case. I dress in the shorts, one of the oversized 5k T-shirts that I’ve amassed over the years, bandana, and non-matching shoes because I am there to work out and not to look good doing it. I’m not there to impress anyone.

I’m red-faced, sweating more than three of the matchy-matchy girls behind me and I probably smell too. I’m glad that I look like I’ve been working hard…because I have. You might have better luck with the matchy girls who are wearing makeup, have cute and perfect hair and whose shoes match every part of their outfit. As a bonus, they don’t sweat–they glisten.

Also, it does not win you extra brownie points to tell me how many times a week that you are at the gym, what you lift, and how far you run. Since you “happened” to choose the treadmill next to mine, I know that I run faster than you on my bad days (and I’m no speed demon).

Sincerely,

The girl who doesn’t look good when she runs

So now that spring is right around the corner, I’ll be happily doing the outdoor thing.

Anyone have some funny gym stories?

Filed Under: Personal

A Time to Love

February 12, 2013 by anna 1 Comment

The first time that Alex called me was late one Saturday night. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was a Georgia number, so I decided I should probably answer.

“Hey Anna, this is Alex.” I recognized his low voice and was surprised that he called me. He was my sister’s best friend and I knew him through her, but we had never talked on the phone before.

“Lydia, [my sister] gave me your number. She always talks about you and says you’re good at encouraging and praying and stuff and…I could really use that…someone to listen, ya know?” He sniffed and I could tell that he was crying.

I didn’t really know what to say. He was making me sound like Mother Theresa.

Lord, please help me know how to encourage him, I pleaded. I don’t know what to say.

“I am supposed to live for a reason,” he told me, referring to his miraculous recovery from a gunshot wound to the head a few months previous. Tonight though, he was in pain and was depressed and slurring his words. “I know I’ve got a drug problem. I just need cleaned up.”

I have no idea what I said, but every few weeks for months afterwards, we would talk and I would pray with him. He was sincere, kind, thoughtful, and struggling. We talked about forgiveness, redemption, courage, and love. He wanted to do right, but he didn’t fully believe that he deserved God’s forgiveness or that he could muster the courage for permanent change. “It’s easier to do the stuff that I’m used to doing,” he mentioned in one conversation. “Change is a lot harder.”

He was right. Change is hard.

One afternoon, he called, excited because he was planning on starting rehab. “I just have to wait until the insurance money comes in, then I can go.” He talked about what he would do with his life after he got cleaned up, he had big plans for his future.

A few days later, I got the news that he had died of a drug overdose. The news hit me hard, as it did all those who know him. Ironically, the day after his death, the insurance money arrived.

“Why?” I asked my husband through tears that night. “Why do I let myself hope that maybe this time will be different? Why do I let myself love people when I know I’m just setting myself up to get hurt?”

He hugged me. “Isn’t loving the best way to get hurt?”

It’s been a little over a year, and he is still on my mind and heart. Although I still wonder why things turned out the way they did, I do not regret getting to know him, even for a moment. He reminds me that none of us are that different. We all have our own struggles that we face and it’s good to reach out. Are we willing to reach out to others?

Rest in peace, Alex.

Filed Under: Personal

Thank you

January 31, 2013 by anna 2 Comments

In my family, being invulnerable and impenetrable is the ideal. Emotion is weakness. This was one of our unspoken rules. We thought that by not feeling, we were being strong and couldn’t get hurt. My personal motto was, “If I don’t expect anything from anyone, I’ll never be disappointed.”

Thankfully, my story does not end there. Throughout my life, there were people that cared enough about me to shove through my barriers. So, in lieu of “Gratitude Week” and “Mentoring Month,” I would like to show my gratitude to some of those who took the time to pour themselves into my life in a meaningful way.

Aunt Mary

You know the stereotype of the spinster librarian that goes home to read, watch British comedy and feed her 7 stray cats? Yep, that’s my Aunt Mary. Only, this is her Clark Kent visage. In real life, she feeds, shelters, and clothes the homeless, sings in a choir, and is basically awesome. Aunt Mary has always been my hero. She is kind, wise, has a witty sense of humor, an explosive laugh that makes you know when you’ve said something funny, she is a master at self-deprecating humor, and although she denies this, she has a great patience for mere mortals.

Growing up, she taught me to not be afraid to be different; after all, she wore a T-shirt proclaiming her love for Polka. She never treated me as if I was merely an ignorant child like many adults did. She taught me the importance of taking care of any creature that God brings along your path–no matter how small or mean. I can’t say I was terribly sad when her meanest cat died. It would wait around corners for you to walk by and would lunge at you when you were least expecting it. What was that cat’s name?

The Hardin family

The first time that I visited the Hardin’s home was on a Sunday afternoon after church. I’ll never forget how joyful Mrs. Hardin was as she danced around the kitchen preparing lunch and singing made up words to a hymn. As we were about to sit down to lunch, she stopped mid-song and wondered aloud if to sing silly words to a hymn was blasphemous or possibly sacrilegious. I didn’t know what either of those was at the time, but I shrugged and said I didn’t think so.

We ate Mrs. Winner’s fried chicken, mashed potatoes and drank sweet tea. I remember because I had never had Mrs. Winner’s before (too expensive). That’s when I noticed that they didn’t start grabbing food right away like we did at home. I grew suddenly nervous, realizing that I had no idea how to eat a meal with proper manners. I looked at everyone else at the table and mimicked as they placed their napkins in their laps and ceremoniously passed the food around. I continued the mimicry throughout the rest of the meal, hoping that they wouldn’t notice.

The more I got to spend time with their family, I saw that although they were not a perfect family, they loved each other, laughed together, read the Bible together and prayed together. Before I met them, I did not know that such a family existed. I thought that the every-man-for-himself mentality was normal.

Larry and Penny

That’s what we’ve always called them since I was about 4 (I think). Larry and Penny have gone out of their way, almost my whole life to show that they care about our family. When my brothers and I were young, they would take us hiking in the GA mountains, camping, and on fun day trips where my brothers fought the whole time in the back seat (poor Penny).

Together, they’ve taught me how to listen and how to love people (even when someone is difficult to love). They’ve taught me the importance of self-reflection and understanding the “why” of me so that I can understand the “why” of others better. Above everything else, they taught me thoughtfulness towards others.

Mrs. Pollard

Mrs. Pollard was my piano teacher who inspired me to become a teacher. She had a soft voice and unlike some of my previous teachers, even if I didn’t do well on a piece, she would find something encouraging to say. She was humble, and the gentlest person I’d ever met. At the end of each lesson, she would ask me if I had written anything new. When I had, she would ask me to play it for her. She would sit next to me with her eyes closed and sometimes, I would finish to see that tears ran down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she would say. “That really spoke to me. That was beautiful.” It was this belief in me as a musician that gave me the courage to go on to study music in college.

Ms. Graves

Ms. Graves was my Sunday school teacher for a few years during high school. The first time I met her, I thought, this woman is totally kick-butt (I was a good girl, so I didn’t think of bad words like “ass” back then). She was in her 50’s, had short cropped hair, leathery weathered skin, and at the time was a brown belt in Karate working towards her black belt. I came to learn later that she was a former horse trainer that had a heroic story of saving her horses in a flash flood that devastated her farm and ultimately left her bankrupt. And unlike many people, that didn’t stop her. Nope. By the time I met her, she was doing well as a real estate agent and taught me a few things about the real estate market. She encouraged me to do what I thought God was calling me to and to let nothing stop me. After 2 years of teaching Sunday school, she felt called by God to be a missionary to Costa Rica, thus, she sold everything and went for several years. Talk about teaching by example.

Who broke through your barriers? Who were the people that made a difference in your life?

P.S. There are many others who had a great impact on my life, but for the sake of brevity have left out. To them, I am no less grateful.

Filed Under: Personal Tagged With: hero, heroes, mentored, mentors, missionary

God the Father

December 14, 2012 by anna Leave a Comment

If I were to ask you, who is the Advent season about? You would say _____. If you said, Jesus, great! You get an A+. For me this Advent season, it seems no matter what I do, God keeps reminding me of His part in this story. He keeps drawing me back to himself as the loving Father. I’d like to share with you a few parts of this year’s little learning Advent-ure 😉

It all started in a small village in France in late October. Everywhere we went, we saw families together. And not just together, but children happily holding their parents hands or siblings hands while the whole family took a walk. Fathers, Mothers and children would play in the park together (I’m not talking about the parents talking to one another at one side of the playground while the kids nearly kill themselves on the jungle gym, I’m talking about actually running around with their children and playing with them). Teenagers were even willing to hold the hands of their parents. If this was just one family, that would be one thing, but it’s a whole other thing that it was nearly every family nearly every evening. Seeing these families wanting to be together gave me a joy and a hope that I couldn’t seem to explain. It brought to mind the handful of times that my parents played with us kids; we loved it and were sad when those rare times ended.

Next, came Berlin at the beginning of November. There was a speaker there named Dr. Neufeld who spoke about parental attachment and how today’s culture no longer supports parental attachment but instead opts for peer attachment. This means that parents must work harder than times past to have their children’s hearts as they grow older. He writes from his perspective of working in the field, but also as a father of teenage daughters. From this book, I have come to understand so much about myself, my family and why kids with parents are growing up with an orphan kind of mentality. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who has kids, is thinking about adopting, or anyone who wants to understand themselves better. It’s called Hold On To Your Kids by Gordon Neufeld. The point of this book is that to remain close with your child, you must purposefully be physically, mentally and emotionally close. It helped me to understand why seeing those families in France meant something.

A few weeks ago, I received a newsletter update from the co-founder of the foundation “The Harbor” that Ethan and I visited in St. Petersburg, RU a few years ago. It’s a foundation that takes in orphans/street kids that have “graduated” at the age of about 16 or 17 (this really means that they are given a small sum of money and sent out to the streets to figure how to survive on their own). The Harbor is a Christian organization that gives these kids a place to live, food to eat, and more importantly, teaches them useful working skills and about the love of God. In the newsletter, Melinda Cathey talked about how she had once asked the kids, “What do you think of when you hear the word Father?” For a long time, no one responded because most of them had not experienced having a father. Those that did, only had negative associations.

And yesterday, it all came together as I was meditating on the first words of the Lord’s Prayer “Our Father.” Here’s what God brought to mind about Himself.

God knows me and wants to be known by me.

God wants me.

God provides for my every need, without exception.

God is not grudging in his gifts.

God knows my every desire and longing.

God takes the time to comfort me.

God loves me, without any conditions attached.

God never leaves me.

God protects me.

God is not unjust.

God forgives me when I mess up.

God makes no excuses.

God is not afraid.

God does not mock me.

God does not give up on us.

God gave up his only son, so that all of his other adopted sons and daughters might have life.

Perhaps the word Father mostly has negative associations for you too. Perhaps these descriptions of God sound nothing like your dad. I would encourage you to remember that although this season is about the gift of the Son, it’s also about the gift of the Father who wants more than anything to be close to you.

“He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.” (Eph. 1:5-6) Now that’s an amazing gift! Merry Christmas!

Filed Under: Faith and Religion, Personal Tagged With: adoption, Advent, Bible, Christmas, Father God, God's love, jesus, Jesus the son, Love

The Greater Good

November 16, 2012 by anna Leave a Comment

Dear Journal, ~~Today~~ Day 1

Today I am thinking of Ben and Alaya because one of the Society guards saw my wall and realized I knew how to read and write, so he gave me a small piece of charred wood and some bark. Ben taught me how to read and write. He said I must be really smart to do all that at three. I’m six now (I think), so I’m much smarter than I was then. I wonder if they’ll bring my writing to Ben. I hope so.

Alaya never knew how to read because she was too little when her parents died a few days after the world ended. Ben told me all about that. When his Uncle was a child, there were things that did all of the hard things for you: computers so you wouldn’t have to think much, cars and trains and planes so your legs wouldn’t get tired going far away, guns so that you could kill people without touching them, and air conditioners to make things cold. Ben said that his uncle taught him all of those things after his parents died in one of the earthquakes. He told Ben that because people were so lazy, they would never figure out half of the stuff that they had before. Ben said Uncle was a pestmist. I’m not sure what that means, but I think annoyed.

“Things are very basic now,” Ben always told me. He said, “One day, people will figure out how electricity works again and they’ll figure out how to make the engines that made cars go. But until that happens, it’s our job to wait. My uncle told me that after volcanoes erupt like they did when he was a boy, things start to grow after a hundred years or so. I guess I probably won’t see that happen, but maybe you will.” He winked at me.

Ben’s really smart. He works for the Society. It’s his job to make a library out of any old books that people find around the world so that maybe they can start making smart things like air conditioners again.

I have to go. I have to dream now.

Dear Journal, Day 2

I did not like my dream yesterday. It didn’t help me do what they wanted and it was scary. I dreamed about the big black bird that sometimes sits in my square patch of grey sky. He sits, watching me with his small black eyes and clicking his beak like he wants to eat me. In my dream, he came down from the window and flew around the room trying to peck out my eyes. When I woke up, there was a dead black bug beside me.

That’s why I’m here. To help the Society make a new world. Ben and Alaya tried to hide me, but the Society found me. Alaya told me “If they ever find you, Rya, they’ll use your gifts until you’re all worn out. That’s why you need to stay hidden with us.”

Sometimes I got tired of never going anywhere. Alaya said she was sorry that I had to sleep in the secret closet, but I didn’t mind. I had all of the things that my dreams created, so it was very nice. They let me keep my dream plants and insects in there with me.

“You better stop having so many nice dreams or you’re going to outgrow your closet,” Ben told me and laughed. Ben smiled a lot. Not like everyone here. No one is happy here. I’m not happy here. Even my grey walls cry.

Dear Journal, Day 7

There is another child here! I heard him last night! He was crying and his voice echoed around. Alaya told me that I was the only child she had ever heard of and that after the world ended, no one was able to have kids, so my mom must have been special. I wonder if this boy is special too, like me. Alaya and Ben always liked to tell me about the night they found me. Ben is so funny. My favorite time they told me the story was the day they acted it out.

“Okay, you sit over there Alaya.” Ben said pointing to the chair at the table. “And Rya, you have to be over there at the far end of the room which stands for being outside. Okay?”

Alaya began. “Ben, do you hear something?”

Ben crouched down on the floor with an exaggerated look of curiosity. After a moment of listening, he stood upright and said, “Nope.” He began walking and froze in place as Alaya shushed him with a finger to her lips and a very intense look on her face. “I definitely hear something.” She grabbed her prop which was also the weapon that she used in real-life and stood up. “I think it’s a cat,” she whispered.

Ben cupped a hand over his mouth so that I wouldn’t see it, but he made a terrible sound that was supposed to be a cat. I laughed and Alaya gave him a look of “Really, Ben? That’s the best you can do?” and pointed him towards his weapon.

“I hear it,” he said in too excited a voice.

“Let’s go. Maybe we’ll get a good meal,” Alaya said.

She was very good at making you think she meant it. I think that is exactly the way she did things the night that she found me.

They made a walking motion toward me, Alaya keeping the serious searching look and Ben put his hand to his ear and mimed listening. As they came closer, Ben whispered to me that I should make a quiet crying sound. I did and they acted as if they discovered me. Ben looked surprised and Alaya looked concerned. She seemed to look me over very carefully and then looked around to see if this was some kind of trap.

“It’s a kid.” Ben stammered.

“Let’s get her inside before anyone else finds her.” Alaya said. Ben handed his weapon to Alaya and picked me up. Throwing me over his shoulder, they walked back to the table. Ben set me down and I laughed.

Alaya smiled. “I don’t think that you carried her back like that, Ben.”

I remember her smile because she didn’t use it much.

“I’ll never forget what a surprise it was that you just came from nowhere.” Ben explained. “You were about one year old, we think. When I picked you up, Alaya noticed that the ground where you sat was green. Nothing else was green. It was like it is now–all ash and dust and withered things. We knew right then that you were special.”

I don’t want to be special. I wonder if the boy is special too? I hope that I can see him. They haven’t let me come out of my room since I’ve been here. I think I’ve been here…a long time.

Dear Journal, Day 13

Today, I did really good. I dreamed really good things and when I awoke, there were several green and beautiful plants growing beside me. The Society guard looked very pleased and said that I could have all of the writing stuff that I wanted. I wasn’t too sure if I should, but I asked him about the other boy.

“Which one?” the guard asked.

I think my heart stopped for a moment. “There’s more than one?”

“Sure. There are four of you. Two girls, two boys. Four is the number of hope, you know. You four will save us.”

I don’t know if I want to save everyone. I want to go back to Alaya and Ben.

Dear Journal, Day 17

Today, I heard the guards talking about the one little boy. I think the boy has nightmares because the guard said that things were getting dangerous.

“What was I supposed to do?” my favorite guard told the other. “The thing was coming at me and even in books I’ve never seen anything like it. So I killed it.”

“You know that we’re not supposed to interfere. These four are supposed to make our world new, no matter what they bring.”

Bring? Is that what they call the things that come from our dreams?

Today I was thinking about Alaya. I miss her so much. I cried last night because I thought of the day the Society found me. It was the middle of the afternoon and Alaya had asked me to read to her while she finished sharpening the weapon that she was making for me.

“Ben’s got plenty of book smarts,” she told me, “but we’re alive because I keep us that way.” Her weapon and the one that she made for Ben were made from old road signs. She named them Lyrh. Hers was red and had an “OP” and Ben’s was yellow and had part of a black squiggle. Ben showed me pictures once of swords and Alaya’s weapons are kind of like swords–maybe a little wider. The one that she was making for me was small, very light and silver. Alaya said that it was not ideal, but it would have to work until she could find better material.

Ben and Alaya never agreed about one thing. Alaya didn’t trust the Society. She said that they just wanted to hold the power, not to help anyone but themselves. Ben disagreed and always said that it was the Society that paid him in regular food supplies. It was only enough for two people, so Alaya always went out at night to find more food. Sometimes, I read books to help me dream about plants we could eat. It only worked once.

Anyway, Ben had brought back a book from his library and said that I would like it because it had really nice pictures to go with the stories. So I started reading. It was a story about two very stupid children who go wondering into a forest and start trying to eat a witch’s house. The pictures were nice though. I was finishing the part where the one boy with the weird name is in the cage, when someone knocked on the door.

“Quick, take your book and Lyrh in with you and hide in your room.” I did and when she was satisfied that I was hidden, she opened the door.

Three women with high, too cheerful voices said that they wanted to just check in and see how she was doing. Alaya gave a cough and said that she was very sick. The women made sympathetic sounds, but unlike people normally would, they did not go away.

“May we come in?” The leader asked. I recognized her voice. Alaya said that she called herself Mina and Ben worked her name into sentences like “She is Mina than you.”

“What is this?” Mina asked, and I heard Alaya’s Lyrh being slid across the wood table. “You know this is illegal.”

“It’s…art.” Alaya said.

“Mmm…hmm,” Mina responded. She didn’t sound like she was listening.

I heard someone drawing close to the secret panel where my closet was. “Mina. Do you smell that?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

Mina took a deep breath. “I do. What an odd smell. Sweet.”

A moment later, the panel opened and I had to shut my eyes because the light hurt them. Someone pulled me out.

“A child!” Mina cried. “I knew that you and your silly husband were keeping a secret from the Society. How can we help one another if we keep such secrets?” She squeezed my arm tight and looked down at me. For the first time, I saw that she was hideous: like the witch from the story.

A moment later, Alaya grabbed me and ran out the door and into the dusty brown and grey. I did not remember what the outside looked like in the daytime because the few times I left the house, it was pitch black. I felt like I was in a dream. We ran, but after a few minutes, I realized that there was nowhere to hide. Everything was bare as far as I could see–except for the huge cement building in the distance that was the Society and a few tiny scattered shacks like ours. From behind one of the shacks, some Society soldiers made their way toward us. We were trapped.

Alaya knew it too. She picked me up in her thin arms and dropped to her knees. She squeezed me tight to her chest–it was hard to breathe. The dust flew up around us and it made me choke. I had never seen her so afraid before or seen her cry. Her tears made brown marks on her dusty cheeks.

That’s how I’m here now.

Dear Journal, Day 25

Today, I got to meet the other children. I was led to a room that is at the end of several long hallways. The nice guard told me that all of us needed a break. He was right. The last few nights, my dreams only created dead things.

When we came into the room, it was filled with all of the plants that I had dreamed and many more that I think came from one of the other children. I stood for a moment, trying to take the deepest breath I could hold because the air was good and sweet. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs and when I opened my eyes, I saw the other three children in front of me. At first, we weren’t sure what to do or what to say, but after a moment, I told them my name. Only one of the boys had a name. He called himself Pit.

Something moved behind the children and I saw something like in books–it was some kind of animal. It was large and furry and had enormous wings. It was a beautiful blue color and made a soft purring sound.

“It was from my dream,” said the girl. She seemed very proud of it and said that it was friendly.

The rest of the time, we played. At least, I think that’s what play is like.

It was the best day of my life. I’m going to dream now.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: apocalypse, child-narrative, communism, Friday Fiction, post-apocalyptic, sacrifice

The Joy of Reading: A Brief History

November 12, 2012 by anna 1 Comment

While Ethan and I were on vacation, I read through several wonderful books and it made me think back to a time when I would not have used the words “wonderful” and “books” in the same sentence. Here’s my reading story.

When I was learning to read at the age of six, my Mom had me read aloud. I could never focus on the story because every other sentence had to be re-read to correct inflection that indicated punctuation. “I couldn’t tell that was a question,” Mom would say, impatient. “Your voice has to go up at the end. Read it again.” Let’s just say, it made me hate reading.

In 3rd grade Sunday School, we had a teacher that we called Sergeant. To this day, I have no idea of her real name, but I do remember the fear she instilled in us and how I always imagined her carrying a horse whip under her arm. She was a fierce and attractive woman in her thirties who always wore pencil skirts, her hair in a tight bun, and never cracked a smile. At the beginning of each Sunday school hour, she would have us read our lesson silently. I was a slow reader and never got through much of it before she called time. I learned to read the first and last paragraph and if I had time, to skim through the middle parts just to get the gist of things. After that, she would randomly call upon students to answer questions about the lesson, or worse, to read aloud to the class if they answered incorrectly. One morning, my worst fear came true.

“Miss Squires,” she called me out in her loud and drill sgt. voice (she always used our last names only). “That is not the answer. Please read to us the 2nd paragraph of this morning’s lesson.” I believe I made it pretty well through the first few sentences, but because I was slow she interrupted and gave a quick summation of what the answer should have been.

“Mr. Cook!” She pointed to next boy. Poor kid. He was even more shy than I was. “Please read the next paragraph.” He cleared his throat, and read in a barely audible voice while looking straight down at the book in his lap.

“You’re mumbling, Mr. Cook! Please read so that everyone can hear you.” The first two words of his next sentence were a bit louder, but overall, the same monotone mutterings continued. I do not remember learning anything except that mumbling is a very, very bad idea. Needless to say, this experience did not inspire much of a love for reading either.

It was not until I was twelve that I came to enjoy reading. On Christmas Eve, the year that my Dad lost his job, an anonymous stranger left us Christmas presents. We didn’t think we were going to have any presents, so we were ecstatic. I unwrapped my present to find an American Girl book set. Obviously, I thought, whoever gave me this gift did not know me; otherwise, they would not have given me books–especially not such girly books. But out of respect for that good deed (and because my mom forced me), I read them and found them to be…tolerable. They were the series about the tomboy during the Revolutionary War. And even though I never picked up another American Girl book, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had never before read a whole book. So whoever you are, thank you for opening up the world of books to me.

After that, I started reading Nancy Drew and the condensed books in Reader’s Digest. I only read the survival stories, but it showed me that there were other interesting books in the world. At sixteen, I decided to read through the public school’s summer reading list that was printed in the newspaper every year. I started with Crime and Punishment and loved it. I learned great words like simpleton and dullard (perhaps not too useful in making friends, but interesting nevertheless).

After college, I’ve averaged around 2-4 books a month. My favorites are fiction, biographies and memoirs, but I’ve also been known to read a dry nonfiction every once in a while. So over the last month, my favorite books I’ve read are:

The Road

The Time Traveler’s Wife

The Book Thief

What’s your story and what are some of your favorite books?

Filed Under: Personal Tagged With: First Baptist Atlanta, strict disciplinarian, sunday school