On Not Being Enough

I didn’t know what to feel when I got in my car.  I’m not sure exactly why I wanted to cry when I shivered as I turned the key and didn’t know how to feel.  I didn’t really want to listen to the fabulous Amy Poehler read her audio book, but since I had no outlet that seemed appropriate, I listened to her talk about the sucky thing she’d done for which she had since apologized.  (Side note, this story, and this book are fantastic, a thing I realized even in the midst of other shit.)

I hadn’t gone to the ninth grade basketball game to feel better about myself, I’d gone because there was a former student that needed to know I still cared about him.  People caring about him were pretty few in his life and I couldn’t bear to disappoint him.   Even though he didn’t actually realize I was there until hours after the game.

Last year, I told my students that I would try to come see any games they were playing in, if they gave me their schedule.  We don’t have middle school sports (boo!) and I had no way of knowing which local league they were playing in.  He was the only one who did.  And I didn’t really want to go—his games were on Saturdays and they were far away from my house in elementary school gyms and I had other plans, usually out of town.  But he kept asking.  He kept telling me that I hadn’t been to his game.  So, the very last one, the only time I was in town, I went.  Well, I tried to.  The directions from Google and Garmin were super sucky and I eventually had to ask people at a different school and lucked into finding it.  I was ten minutes late when I should’ve been twenty minutes early.  Which he mentioned later.

Then he made the rising freshman basketball team in the spring and I went to see more games.  Somewhere in between sitting on an elementary school gym floor in the winter and bleachers that first spring time game, I realized I was the only one who ever came to see him play.  His mom was probably at work, I’m not positive.  All I know is, she wasn’t there.  Ever.

So I came.  Usually I convinced Sher she wanted to come if it was possible, but if it wasn’t, I went alone. I love basketball, but I don’t love 14 year olds playing enough for the amount of times I went to see them play.  I wasn’t always there on time.  Which I usually got grief for, since he started and it mattered to him that I hadn’t been there to see it.

Luckily, for me, I had two other students on the team who were also in my homeroom and who I’d developed a pretty good rapport with as well, and one of their mom’s came up and told Sher and I what wonderful people we were to come and see the boys play.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t to see her son.  She was there to see her son.  I was there to see the skinny black boy with the flat top and half-blond-dyed hair who never had anyone there to support him.  I mean, I loved seeing her son play too, but I wouldn’t have come to multiple games to see someone who has a supporting, loving family. 

I came to see the kid who needed a cheerleader and someone to encourage him.  I stayed past the coach’s speech to make sure he had a ride home and usually gave him a little money for food.  He broke my heart the time he asked me for a dollar and when I asked him what he would buy, he shrugged.  “Whatever they have in there,” he said, jerking his head towards the concession stand.  When I offered him a second dollar, he hesitated.  “I don’t want to ask too much.” (I gave him the second dollar in case you’re feeling hungry on his behalf.)

So I made plans with Sher to see the boys play as actual freshman this week, and was delighted to see how all of them have grown and matured.  But there was only one that made me check the time and make sure I was there before the tip at 4, just in case he started (he did). 

So when he was walking up the bleachers, in his dressed up outfit required of all the team, and he saw me with a half grin, I wanted to wrap him up in a hug and instead simply motioned for him to sit down beside me.  I brushed Cheetos crumbs off his white shirt and tie and navy sweater and watched him eat knock-off Oreos. 

I asked him how classes were going, found out he was failing three, and that he thought high school was great because there was a lot more freedom.  Apparently he had successfully skipped a homeroom type period yesterday without too much trouble.  He ate more cookies and told me he hadn’t realized I was there.  “Ms. Miller told you I was coming,” I said, pointing to Sher. 

“Yeah, but,” he shrugged. 

“I saw you start.  I made sure to be here on time,” I teased him.
“Really?”

“I was sitting right behind your coach and heard him talk about how you were starting because he had faith that you guys would set the tone for the rest of the game.”

He ate more cookies, and after he had made it through half the pack, I asked if he had eaten anything else all day.  He shook his head and told me he’d given lunch away because it hadn’t tasted good.

I circled back to the failing grades and told him he needed to start asking for help.

“I don’t know who to ask.”

“You can always ask me,” I told him. “You have my e-mail.  You e-mailed me a

few months ago.  It just said, ‘Hey, Ms. Short.’”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed.

Sher and I left at half time and I told him that I thought he had home games next week and that I’d try to come to one of them. He nodded in a way that I knew he had heard me, but wasn’t going to necessarily count on it.  Which means I really have to follow through next week. 

So I got in my car and wanted to sob as I thought of him eating those damn cookies, one after the other.  There’s so much I can’t do for him.  I can’t make sure he has healthy food. I can’t make sure he does his homework.  I can’t encourage him to work hard on and off the court. I can’t help him make good decisions or choose good friends.  I can’t make sure knows that someone cares about him and cares about what he’s good at and what he loves. 

I can go to basketball games and let him know that he matters to me, even when I don’t see him everyday.  I can’t say I’ve done a tremendous amount of good in his life. I can say I want to try to show him that people can be trust worthy and kind and love him in a way that requires nothing more of him than to be himself.  I’m not sure I’m succeeding.  I’m not sure how to feel about any of it.  Which is why I wanted to cry, could think of no one to call who would simply understand without an explanation and who would tell me how to feel. I don’t know how to feel.  So instead I drove him and made a mental note to pick a different day to visit Jade and the baby next week (if you’re reading this Jader, let me know which day besides Tuesday is good), and listened carefully enough to Amy to stop trying to figure out how I feel and why I think crying might be helpful.             

I’m not enough.  I’m not supposed to be.  But I’m not quite okay with that when I come face to face with a kid I love simply because no one else does.  And I realize that even me loving him isn’t enough.

In Defense...

In Defense of the Cheesy Christian Novel.  And Why I Will Never Write One.  Probably.

I haven’t posted anything lately, but it’s not because I haven’t been writing.  I have been writing.  A lot in fact.  37,000 words in one month.  Interestingly enough, that’s not meeting the goal that I had, or rather that National  But it’s 37,000ish more than I would’ve written otherwise.  Certainly it’s a freaking ton more fiction than I’ve written in years.

Novel Writing Month sets, which is 50,000.

Speaking of which, in preparation for this month, I went back to the last major fiction I had attempted, which I worked on, fairly religiously my first year of teaching.  I would go to the Coffee Grind and sit and write for a few hours.  It was actually pretty spectacular, other than the part where the reason I did it was because I didn’t really have friends. 

But anyway, going back to that novel made me laugh at some moments, it made me wince at others and it made me oddly proud for brief sections.  (As a side note of how much has changed in nine years, I had people waiting for pictures to be developed and others leaving a message on an answering machine.  Yikes.) But I never finished that novel that I started, for several reasons, the largest of which is that I never figured out (and still haven’t) how to tie up the main part of the plot that is driving the story.  The point of the story is the character development, but there was a fairly major vehicle that I would really need to resolve.  Have no idea how to do it.  Never knew where I was heading with it while writing.  Yikes again.

Yeah, this one is not great.  Whoops.

Another thing I did this November was weirdly go back to reading Dee Henderson.  Dee Henderson was (slightly shamefully) one of my favorite authors when I was about 20.  Maybe even earlier than that.  But she wrote a series of Christian romance novels that, in the Christian community were fairly acclaimed.  And to my credit, I hadn’t really even thought about them in the last ten years.  My reading tastes had matured, I assumed. 

But for some unknown reason, I went back to them.  At first it was just the one, then it was two more, and before I knew it, I had not only re-read my favorites, but was starting to read her new stuff that I had never read before.  It was my shameful little secret.

But, pride got in the way, because in order to come close to my reading goal on Good Reads and not look like I’ve become basically illiterate, I might have to post what I was reading on that site and put it out there. 

And then I started to wonder, why was I so ashamed?

No, these novels are not great works of classic literature.  Yes, they are slightly too staged and the characters handle things slightly too perfectly and their lives are slightly too exciting.  But, the thing is, there must be a reason I was so enjoying them.  So here is my defense—these books offer a little glimpse of how it would be nice for life to be.  And since I’m reading them as a mini pleasure escape for a few hours—not as something I want to think too hard about—that’s okay.  Also, the theology, at least in Dee’s stuff is solid.  Granted, I’ve never met anyone who came to you with a blunt, honest, well articulated question about the core tenant of Christianity out of the blue, but the core of what she’s getting at is spot on—the power of prayer, does God love us, why do bad things happen, how do we handle things when the world gets us down, how do we react when people we love get hurt? Those are real questions.  And though some of her situations might seem forced, her theological answers and the relationships she develops between characters never are.  So I go back to them, like an old blanket for the past, and feel warm and wrapped up in it. (That said, Undetected was just blah.  Did not care for it.)

But all that to say, my old novel from ten years ago would fit much more easily into the Christian novel world (it’s not a romance though) than anything else.  And that’s the other reason I don’t think I finished it.  It would be a pretty great Christian novel.  If I was willing to make it a romance, it could probably win a RITA or a CHRISTY award.  But I don’t think I want to write a Christian novel.  Because the thing is, in large part, only Christians read them.  And I’d rather write a boundary-crossing novel that is written by me a Christian that anyone can read and not feel the need to classify it as any way but a novel.  And it would be so much harder to make it that.

So Rachel and Liz, Sophia and Mark, my most detailed, complex creations, flounder in an unfinished world.  That might only be finished because of them, because I feel invested in the relationship part of the story, in their stories, and I want to finish it for those fictional characters who feel so real.

When people have asked me if I’d ever write something that would be a “Christian novel,” I’ve always said no.  But silently in my head, I think I’m saying, “I mean, probably not anyway.”  

Of House-Elves and Children's Tales, of Love, Loyalty, and Innocence, of pg 709 and beyond...

I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tonight.  Since a week or so before school started I’ve been listening back through to the books after having put them aside for a year or two, and now that I’ve finished them once again, there is too much in me to merely go to bed without getting out of me how I feel about these books and why.

There is so much I love about this story, so much that just makes my heart happy, so much that is wonderful and lovely, always.  And I am not surprised that this time through, I have found some things that are new.

Snape.  So much hatred and confusion, so much meanness and sadness all in one name.  After finishing the last book for the first time, it changed everything—or almost everything—about the way I saw Snape.  But for some reason, especially in this read through, I saw him differently—maybe I was looking for him even more.  If the fate of this world hangs on one character, it is not Harry or Dumbledore, but Severus Snape.  If he does not protect Harry, does not look out for him, does not always want to keep him safe, Harry would not survive.  And there is one reason he does it—the eyes of the woman he will always love stare back at him everyday at Hogwarts once Harry enters the school.  And that is enough.  A detail so small we all overlooked it right up until the moment that Snape’s memory revealed it was the most important detail of the entire series (Jo, you take my breath away as an author.) There is not much about Snape’s life that is not awful, and hard, and difficult.  In a terrible home situation, he finally has a bright light in Lily, and he cannot hold that light enough to become light himself.  Certainly he makes choices, bad ones, but his pre-Hogwarts life is pretty awful, and after Lily chooses James, he lives in a small personal hell.  A hell that grows hotter when he has to look at Lily’s eyes and see them inside his worst enemy, see constant proof that he lost her, every single time he looks at Harry.  And he loves Lily enough to protect him.  The courage of that man.  The love and the determination.  Set beside a man who also knew a lost love, knew how one true, deep love can affect you your entire life, and it’s clear why and how Dumbledore was able to understand the deeply troubled Severus Snape. 

            In reading back through the series, I can forgive Snape for almost all the small awful things he does to poke at Harry—or really at James—and make Harry’s life difficult along with his fellow Gryffindors. But what continues to bother me, what is not acceptable, is how he treats Neville.  Bullying him at every turn, making fun of him.  Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but I just can’t do it.  And if it was—as some have suggested—because he hates that the Longbottoms were “spared” when the Potters were chosen by Voldermort—that’s just too far Severarus.  You can sort of hate Harry, but leave Neville alone.  But, considering, for a time, Snape was almost as bad as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, one offense alone is not so bad.

            There is just so much to love in these books—have I mentioned that? I love that it’s a classic quest story and that there are allusions to the canon of literature everywhere you turn around.  But mostly, I love how it all fits together so perfectly.  One of the reviewers said, “Harry Potter is so right in every respect it almost seems as if J.K. Rowling had no choice in the matter.” And this is how I feel.  It’s so easy to forget that she had power over this story.  She could’ve changed it and twisted it and made it into something that would’ve given her more gratification or given us less enjoyment.  She could’ve made it tawdry or cheap at the end or so confusing that we didn’t understand or refused us catharsis.  Maybe a man in a million could unite this story.  Thankfully, it was safely in Jo’s hands all along. 

            The story teller in me is amazed, is overwhelmed, is awed, by how perfectly this tale fits together—by how the exposition is so seamlessly woven in, that the details are perfect, and always just the right touch.  

            If there is an imperfection, it is the thing that always bothers me about the last book.  Why does the deluminator bring Ron back to Hermione and Harry? There is no foreshadowing, no hint of its power to do that.  Sure, it means he understands Ron, sure it means that Hermione is Ron’s light (I guess), but it just doesn’t quite fit.  And it is only because everything else fits so perfectly—pieces sliding into holes carved out just for them, that this slightly clumsy fit seems just a little off to me.  But perhaps it is like the Persian rugs, always woven specifically to include one small flaw, just to remind us that the maker is human, rather than divine.

            I told my aunt once that I would go to see Michelangelo’s David every day if I lived in Italy.  She asked me why, saying it wouldn’t change.  But, my response to her was, I would change.  And therefore see it differently.  The thing I saw differently in this story was the fairy tale—The Tale of the Three Brothers—and Hermione’s disbelief in the Hallows.  This summer during CTY Andi said something to the kids about believing in fairy tales—how, do you think that maybe, it might be good for us to believe, even in some small way, that a fairy tale could be true.  I wouldn’t have been able to put it into words that well, but it so perfectly expressed how I felt.  There is small part of me that believes in things like fairy tales and deep magic, the kind Tom Riddle never understood.  So it made me laugh to realize that this world of Hogwarts is created so perfectly and completely that they too have their own fairy tales.  Tales of magic that even those who are never far from a magic wand do not believe in.  That Hermione, who knows better than anyone how much magic there is in the world, could disbelieve in this magical fairy tale.  And the world turns out to be a better place because of the truth of that tale.

            There are so many things I love about this story—all seven as a complete story—but it is the ending that gets me every time.  It is the moment that Harry circles Voldemort, knowing of the power he holds, and he offers him one last chance.  Harry stands there and offers Voldemort repentance, if he can merely grasp it.  If he can only humble himself and decide to understand what he has resisted for so long.  Voldemort cannot lower himself to be a mere human who could need to repent from evil.  But the point is---Harry offers it to him.  There is something right, and cleansing, and full about that moment.  Just in the same way that getting these thoughts out on paper so that I can sleep leaves me feeling right, and cleansed and full. 

Some Things Last Forever

Mid September I went home to grieve and show support for one of my oldest friends who lost her mother.  I went home to see Virginia and try to find words to say when there are no words that can make it better.  I’ve been pretty bad about keeping in touch with the group of girls that ended up there to support a family we grew up loving.  I hadn’t seen Virginia in months, hadn’t talked much to Brianne in the entire two years she lived in Colorado, hadn’t touched base with Kristen in ages.  And yet I never considered not going home that weekend.  Because there are some people who are always part of you.  Yes, there may be other friends who are more visible in my life in the moment, but part of how I act around them, part of almost every relationship I’ve built since them is built upon those first friendships that remain part of who I am.

I met Kristen in kindergarten, Brianne in first grade, and Virginia in sixth.   Ginny and I went to basketball camp and shared a seat squished together on the bus of away games after we went to Sheetz to get subs before the team left.  These girls tricked me into coming over to watch horror movies at Gin’s house and I watched Psycho before falling asleep before The Exorcist even started (thank you Jesus, that can only have been a miracle).  I have a vague memory of once painting letters on our stomachs for some unknowable reason since we never left her house that night, and being dared to eat dog food which made me want to throw up. 

There were adolescent fights, backyard bonfires, and elaborate dinner/killer English test study parties.  There were homecoming after parties and weird, three-legged rabbit pets. 

Now, today, we live in different places, though since Brianne has made it back to the east coast, things are a little easier to coordinate.  But it’s so much less about actual time and distance than it is about the ties that bind you to people.

Several people have told me lately that they think I’m brave—the way I’ve gone on a solitary writing retreat or flew out to California to teach for a few weeks.  Going to Yosemite without knowing anyone.  And maybe those are sort of brave things.  Certainly I wasn’t brave enough to do them five or ten years ago.   But these three women have never been among those who thought there was anything particularly special or daring about those actions.  These are the girls who encourage it, knowing how good those slightly scary experiences are, because they’ve had them as well.  These are the girls who taught me to be brave.  These are some of the first friends—certainly the longest-standing friends—and there’s something truly comforting about how totally accepted I am with them.

            I don’t know if everyone has this experience—certainly there are people who change tremendously between child and adulthood—but these women have known me through enough that I think it would be pretty hard to surprise them.  No matter how much you change, I think there is a part of you that remains the same, and if someone loves that deepest inner part of you, they see the career changes and long distances moves as the trappings they really are. 

If I am brave at all, if I willing to step outside my comfort zone, I owe that, at least in part, to the girls who—weirdly, now slightly ashamedly—were, and still remain, the Womanites.   Some things last forever, even in this world where everything must pass away.  So I went home to hug and try to show support to someone who can never be erased from my life—not even if I wanted it to be so.  I sought and didn’t find words that could comfort or ease her pain.  I hugged her tight, which was the only thing I had. 

Some things last forever.  Friendship, home, peace.  And love.

For Real

I haven’t put anything up on this blog for a long time.  I’m not really sure why, truthfully.  It was a good challenge for myself—trying to write something short about once a week-- one that was healthy for building my writing muscles and satisfying personally, and didn’t take up a tremendous amount of time.  But I stopped. 

So when I was considering this and trying to decide what, if anything, else I should put up, I had a thought.  A crazy, terrifying thought.  What if I wrote about the things that I was really feeling, the things that were really going on in my life right now.  Not some small thing that I could observe from afar, not something from my professional life that I could hold at a distance, not some small compartmentalized piece, but the raw, difficult parts of my current life.

It was an exhilarating late night thought that I fell asleep determined to do and woke up afraid of considering. 

It’s strange, because I value vulnerability in my life—I value people who are willing to be real with me and transparent about the hard things going on and how they’re overcoming or struggling with them.  I wrote a piece about how vulnerability, even among close friends, really takes practice and how incredibly valuable it is for us.  Though I didn’t share that piece with anyone.

So let me be a little more real, let me share a little more fully.  I am in a rough season of life right now.  It’s not a disaster, it’s not a pit of despair, but it’s pretty tough.  And I’m not entirely sure why I’m in this particular season or when it’s going to end.  But it is the season where everyone in my life who is really important to me is currently in a different phase of life. It’s not tremendously surprising that at almost 31 years old my closest friends are married, having babies, and/or are in love.  But, I am not any of those things.

It became clear to me this weekend when I went on a triple date with people—most of whom I know pretty well and enjoy—that it was going to be rough.  It had nothing to do with the people there and everything to do with the reality check which sounded a lot like, “You’re totally alone,” ringing through my brain.  The single buddy I’d had for more than a year was now one half of a couple, and frustratingly, to a guy I still don’t feel like I’ve really had a chance to get to know. 

I want to know him, I want to be excited about him for her, I want to fully understand what’s so great about him so that I can rejoice with her, I want to be able to spend time with him and love that she’s found somebody great.  And I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to do all those things before too long.  But, having only known him a week, I still feel like I barely know him.  I certainly didn’t help my cause that I was distracted by the raw suckiness of the situation of feeling like I was the odd man out on a triple date rather than feeling like I was hanging out with friends. Because to be totally real, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like the tag along friend, the extra person on a date and it’s not awesome but not always awful.  But the feeling I had at that moment—the one that said it would be my future forever-- was particularly sucky.

Normally, if I get to spend time with people I love, no matter what we’re doing, I’m in good shape.  But for three days I spent time with all sorts of people I love, doing things I normally enjoy and kind of hated life.  I didn’t really understand why at the time.  I don’t fully understand even now exactly why it hit me so hard.  I just know that it did. 

I got up early to talk to God about it.  Jesus may not have suffered through his closest girlfriends getting married, but he knew what it was like to feel alone, to feel forgotten, to feel misunderstood.  So we talked.  At no point did a great light shine down and illuminate my future path clearly enough for me to say that in two years and four months, I will be wed.  That’s the sort of thing I still don’t know.

Speaking of things I don’t know—I have a pretty long list of them: I don’t know why I have to go through this particular season. I don’t know why it hurts quite so much right now. I don’t know what I need to learn from this or how it’s going to grow me.  I don’t know what’s so damn wrong with the idea of me falling in love. I don’t know why I have to always feel like it happens for everyone else but me, and I don’t know how long I’m going to have to walk this out.  I don’t know how this season is going to end.  I don’t know exactly what God’s timing is.

Despite that, there are a few things I do know: I know this is not for nothing.  I know, that, like every other season, it too will pass.  I know I wouldn’t trade any of the friendships I’ve built to avoid feeling sadness when something happens for them that I want for myself. 

I don’t know why God has me in this moment in time or what he’s doing through it.  But I know my God. I know that He is good. 

Ash told me this weekend something true that gave me such great comfort (though it might not sound like it at first): He didn’t promise us that it would be easy.  He didn’t promise us that it would be comfortable.

What he promises us is that He loves us.  He promises that he will provide more than we can possibly ask or imagine.  He promises that he works all things to the good. 

The list of what I don’t know might be longer.  The hurt might be sharper.  But what I know is enough.

“I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of living.  Wait for the Lord.  Be strong and take heart.  Wait for the Lord. “

P.S. The correct response to this post is not sympathy.  If you say, “I’m so sorry!” to me, I will punch you in the face.  Also, the equally, or perhaps even more annoying, sentiment that is something along the lines of: “You’ll find a great guy/God will provide you an amazing husband” is also totally unhelpful.  You do not have the authority to promise that.  Not for me or for anyone.  More on that soon :) If you’re not sure what the correct response is, but want to say something, how this made you feel is a great start. 

Confidence in Darkness

"There is confidence everywhere in Ash Wednesday, yet that does not mean unmixed and untroubled security. The confidence of the Christian is always a confidence in spite of darkness and risk, in the presence of peril, with every evidence of possible disaster…" Thomas Merton

One of the things that I miss the most about attending a liturgical church is that there is no formal church year.  Nondenominational churches don’t really do the whole waiting of Advent, fasting of Lent, or long ordinary time throughout the summer, and I like the rhythms that come with the different church seasons.  My two favorite are Advent and Lent, not always in that order.

There is a coldness, a holy darkness, a sense of divine expectation in Advent that seems to mirrored in the long cold nights of December.  There is purposeful waiting in this time, not simply a stillness, but a stillness that is about to burst forth into brilliant light and action. 

Lent is more stark.  It feels like the trees look outside right now on Ash Wednesday, the official first day of the Lenten season.  There’s something—especially this winter—that feels dead outside right now.  Once the latest batch of snow has melted away yet again and the not quite alive grass and trees become highly visible the land seems dead.  The potential of life to come doesn’t quite seem to be there yet.  But I know that it is.

That’s what I love about Lent—the discipline, the denial, the moderation, and the general starkness--it doesn’t seem to lead to abundant life.  But the ending of Lent is the most abundant life out of nothingness that ever occurred in this universe.  And so Lent is also a time of waiting, of waiting for life to appear in the midst of nothingness.  Not necessarily even of despair, but just of ordinary time—for the amazingness of life to appear.

Some time in high school, or maybe even in college, I started giving up something for Lent regularly.  My current church does a three week fast in January to get started for the year, and I enjoyed that as well, but this one is a little more intense and I like to still keep it up.  This year, unlike most other years when I’ve given up chocolate or sweets, I’m giving up alcohol.  It’s a strange choice for me, and one I didn’t really consider before, but one that I’m determined to do for several reasons.

#1 It’s a new challenge and something that I haven’t given up before so I’d like to try it.

#2 It’s going to be a specific challenge socially.  Around here, for people my age to meet up and try to get to know each other, it frequently happens over drinks.  And so to avoid that I can have two choices I suppose—avoid people altogether, or directly address why I’m not drinking.  Not drinking on a date, not drinking at a going away party, not drinking over St. Patrick’s Day weekend.  Honestly, personally, I’m not really that upset about any of those things.  The real test of willpower is to be able to be out with people who are consuming alcohol and hope that they will understand that I’m not judging them, but that I’ve made a different personal choice for the next 45 days.    People that I know and love can handle it pretty well I’m sure.  And since I practically made a career of turning down alcohol before I turned 21, I’m pretty sure I still remember how to do it.  But it will be interesting to see how it changes the dynamic of things. 

I’m not going to lie—I’m going to miss movie, popcorn, and wine nights with Meg.  But somehow I’m pretty sure the most important part of that combination isn’t the part that will have to be missing (for me) for the next seven weeks.  It’s the person or people that I spend time with, it’s the life that’s already there.  We don’t hang out as an excuse to drink, we happen to drink while we spend time with each other.  It’s just a slight perspective switch, but an important one to remember for the next 45 days.  I’m going to miss it, I’m going to notice it—it wouldn’t be worth giving up if I didn’t—but I’m hoping that Lent isn’t (this or any other year) defined by this one thing I’m abstaining from, but by the life I lead—knowing that to walk by faith is worth it, even when I can’t quite see where the path is leading.  Knowing that out of giving something up there will come an increase of blessing.  Being sure that while even the weather seems to have given up on spring and new life this year, there will come a light and a life that nothing can ever defeat.   Lent is about preparing for Easter.  Because Easter, in its truest, most potent form, is not something we can handle without serious preparation.  Life out of death doesn’t just make sense when it’s just us on our own.  

Here's March!

Best book of March: Killing Kennedy.  I had never really understood the whole Kennedy mystique quite the way that a lot of people from my parents' generation understood it, but after reading (okay, listening to) this book, I finally began to understand.  Well written, giving background on the Kennedy family as well as talking about the day he died, I loved this non-fiction. (Side note, Manhunt, about the search for John Wilkes Booth was the other great book of the month.) 

March 1: The scene is set, and the tea party is ready to go for tomorrow to celebrate the then Aimee Meier.  

March 2: Tea party ladies.  All sorts of fun people had gotten together to celebrate Aimee and I was just glad the whole shindig was finally over!

March 3: Momma Meier was still in town and ready to help Aimee work on the bunting in our living room after all the festivities were over for the weekend. 

March 4: Bunting has arrived in our house! Aimee wasn't entirely certain how she was going to use it or how much she was going to need, but it was certainly enough to string around our living room a few times! 

March 5: Tyson's Corner for research.  I was actually in the mall executive offices (which I didn't really know existed) tonight to talk to them about snow removal, and since we were expecting a snow storm overnight/tomorrow, I stopped by a few stores and asked what they were expecting that to mean tomorrow.  

March 6: Snow had come! And it was finally, finally producing a snow day (which was the first non-rain day off I'd had since working for Fairfax County). 

March 7: George Mason is getting ready for graduation--after purchasing my cap and gown I also picked up my tickets so that Mom and Dad would be able to come to my ceremony on Saturday morning. 

March 8: Welcome to North Carolina.  I had been accused of taking pictures in my car while driving too often, so I decided to be responsible and have Molly, my navigator on our way to down to see E-beth, take the picture of the "Welcome to North Carolina" sign.  Which produced a worse picture than any I've ever taken while driving. 

March 9: One of the stops on the best, most detailed tour of Chapel Hill possible was the old well, which is still currently working.  Perfect picture, too bad the game against Duke later was as far from perfect as possible. 

March 10: Anybody want to go to a wedding? Our invitations all showed up in the mail today :) 

March 11: Meg Squared Monday--Megan and I were getting in the groove of going to our Small Group together on Monday nights at DC Metro church, and we were loving the Andy Stanley series "The New Rules of Love, Sex, and Dating." 

March 12: Disgustingly gray morning on my way to work.  I think.  This road doesn't actually look as familiar to me as I would expect it to, but I can't imagine where else it would be.  The funny part was how lovely and sunny it turned out to be later in the day. 

March 13: Library of Congress.  Okay, don't tell, because you aren't allowed to take pictures here.  But I turned the front camera on my phone and silently laid it down and took a picture straight up.  It didn't hurt anyone or anything, I promise.  And it's just sooooo pretty. 

March 14: After several months of working on it, I finally finished the sweater I had been hand-making.  It wasn't as perfect as I would've wished, but it was an accomplishment none the less. 

March 15: Delivery! I had purchased a subscription to The Washington Post on Living Social for about $13 for 6 months of Sunday deliveries.  That seemed reasonable because I thought I could actually read the paper once a week.  I had signed up though and then was upgraded for free to everyday.  I couldn't really pass that up, and the next thing I knew, first thing in the morning this was here on my doorstep. 

March 17: The thing I was most frustrated about in working for Banana Republic occasionally was the amount of good basketball I ended up missing.  It seemed like inevitably when there was a game I really wanted to watch, I had to work.  So on St. Patrick's Day, which also happened to be the day of the ACC Championship, I had to work.  I put this shirt on over my dress until the last second when I had to clock in on my shift.  (It didn't help--they lost to Miami.) 

March 19: Picture of kids.  Sorry.

March 20: I loved the Shannon wanted to (or was at least very willing to) fill out brackets when it was NCAA Tournament time.  I only freaked her out a little by secretly taking this picture while she filled in her teams :) 

March 21: I don't care that most people think this coat looks completely ridiculous.  I know that the hood is kind of obnoxious.  It keeps me so unbelievably warm and as a coat fits me so well that I'm going to keep wearing it on cold days. 

March 22: Okay, so we put up the March Madness basketball game on the Smart Board.  I was lunch time and it was totally optional for the kids to come watch. 

March 23: So the most popular choice of what to do on the first day of Spring break is probably not to get up before sunrise and take pictures, but I was sort of thinking there would be some cherry blossoms.  But unfortunately it had been so cold out that I was a few weeks early.  But this city is still beautiful.  

March 24: Harrisonburg for a cloudy Sunday with Jess and Robin and Loretta.  I went with the little Smith family to take the L-dog for a walk in the park with some of her doggie friends!

March 25: Snowy Monday.  This is the single time I've been bummed about a snow day.  We had off all week anyway, but Shenandoah County didn't.  The whole reason I had come so late in the weekend was so that I could go to Central on Monday, say hi to a few people, and then go to the Northern Campus Middle School to go see my old principal, Chris.  And so the snow day meant none of that happened. 

March 26: My printer is finally working again! Okay, it's not like it's really a miracle or anything, it's that I finally stopped being such a cheap skate and bought ink for it. 

March 27: I had to stay in Northern Virginia for a few days this week because I had class even though we were off work.  This particular class, Teaching the Reading of Literature had done a really cool activity with a graphic novel.  Tracing a picture and then writing about what we had done, in order to slow down our reading of this almost wordless book.  

March 28: Bath time toys.  A sure sign that Timmy is staying with Mom and Dad during the hectic Holy Week schedule that Ab and Ben have. 

March 29: I was helping Mom babysit Mr. Timothy and we went out to play outside a few times even though it was pretty chilly for the end of March.  Tim was all suited up in his plaid jacket, hat, and mittens!

March 30: It was a little warmer today so Tim and I didn't need to dress quite as warmly as we had been yesterday.  We did some Easter egg hunts and kicked around a huge blue ball to the joy of Timothy as he squealed with laughter when we ran after it.  

March 31: Easter Sunday Tim.  He was all dressed up and ready to go to not only our church service but also for our lovely Easter dinner when Abby and Ben were finally done with their most hectic church week.