"same same but different"

I rubbed my feet quickly over the hot dry dirt just feet away from the foundation of the house. I looked at the beginnings of a home, taking in the rice paddies in the background, the smell of green everywhere, and the vision of the entire community looking on as we began our work on the first house. As I gazed at the beauty before me, a sight that I really could not have been prepared for, I realized how much it took for us to get to that point. This journey started a long time ago, with Dr. Vernon meeting with Thai last year to talk about details for the trip. Then came the support of the Miller Center, and all of the student interest, and interviews that seemed to last for days. And somehow it came down to 10 of us. Not to mention the travel to Vietnam itself. A bus to Little Rock. A flight to Dallas. A flight to Tokyo—a 14 hour flight, that is. You can find out a lot about yourself on a flight that long—for me, I could probably drink cranapple juice till the cows come home, fall in love with jazz music every time I listened to it, and be absolutely incapable of falling asleep without a pillow. Anyway, following another 6 hour flight to Ho Chi Min City, a 6 hour bus ride to Rach Gia City, and a 30 minute boat ride to the village, we made it. It was an overwhelming feeling to be standing there, to be standing in Vietnam. I still can’t believe it happened, I am still trying to piece everything together and figure out exactly what I am taking with me from that trip, and what I was able to give. It’s not easy, and even after a week of being back home, I am still struggling to find the right words to describe the experience. It was so much more than words could even describe.

Vietnam is a place far greater than what textbooks, travel guides, and even what Google image will portray. It is a place that I think is best experienced when there are no expectations. When you expect the unexpected. I had notions of what Vietnam would be like. But deep down, I really had no idea. I didn’t know what it would feel like to be there, what it would be like to be on that side of the world. I felt it the minute we stepped off the plane. First, it was hot. More than that, once we got into the city, it was entirely different from anything American. And once we made it out to the village, the aura of Americanism was so far removed that we, as a group, seemed to be the only remnants of anything American. One of the best experiences was this actually, because we got to witness and experience how life can be lived so differently and yet so beautifully. Sometimes I think Americans assume they have a monopoly on how people should live, but once you step outside that constriction it is very clear that other ways of living should not only be accepted, but whole heartedly embraced.

Being with the kids was where my heart fell in love, where my deep gladness was met completely. Running around with no shoes on, holding the hands of beautiful young boys and girls, and laughing was perfect. I didn’t feel as though I was there to help them, they were helping me. The kids were reminding me of what it feels like to just live. To just laugh and smile and appreciate the hot sun on my skin. It was glorious. Tam, Kao, Lee, Aun. The best part was that the language barrier didn’t even matter, in fact, it made things even better because we had to rely on our body language and facial expressions to communicate. It was okay that we couldn’t really have a conversation through linguistic abilities, we compromised by teaching each other how to count to 10 in Vietnamese and English and by learning new words. My head hurt so bad after our first day in the village—I spent so much time with the kids laughing that I had a headache. Some of the kids go to the school close to where we were working, while others attend school in other villages and areas in the Kien Giang province. The school we were near was small, rustic, and in very much in need of care. There was dirt scattered across the classroom floor, the desks were cramped together, but when we walked by and heard the earnest voices of students learning, the physical structure hardly phased me. The first time I had to use the school bathrooms though, was an experience that I will never forget. The smell, the sight, my senses came alive after my first bathroom trip back there. There is a little nook, behind the yellow school that you go in and can find two “stalls”. You sit. You squat. And you go. If you need to wipe, bring a piece of graph paper with you, otherwise you are out of luck. I learned pretty quickly how spoiled I have lived my entire life, and I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have the luxuries that I am surrounded by. Going to the bathroom in a pan-like bowl makes you think about things like that.

Our time at the village was spent running around with the kids, talking with people in the community, working on the two houses, and helping to prepare lunch with some of the women from the women’s union. I had this amazing opportunity twice during our trip, and it wasn’t exactly like cooking with mom. The women with other family members squeezed into one of the huts to cook the meal. The women spend the entire meal cooking and squatting simultaneously. Their squatting ability is unbelievable, and it hurt my knees just watching them! We didn’t contribute that much to the actual cooking of the meal, but I think more important things were accomplished. With Ngih we were able to communicate, and we discussed beauty, womanhood, and other cultural differences between America and Vietnam. Our cultural differences are so bold and so obvious at times—what beauty is to society is drastically different, what relationships mean to the Vietnamese are sometimes different, and how women are looked upon in society can be different too. What I liked best about watching the women cook was watching them create and nurture a love so strong that it expounded throughout the entire community. They take the mealtimes very seriously—this is a time for bonding, building relationships, and enjoying each other’s company. Of all things, I think this is what seemed most important to the community—they love each other, and everything they do is to ensure service to others in the community. With all the children running around we couldn’t really tell whose parent was whose—they were all responsible for the kids, for each other, and for the stability and success of the community.

I don’t really know when it was, when it happened, or how it happened. But there was a point mid-week when I was in the village that I literally forgot where we were. I didn’t forget that I was in Vietnam; rather, I forgot that I was in what we might deem a poor community. Yes, Vietnam and the rural area we were in is a poor area, especially by American standards. But that is because our standards are measured differently, our notion of rich and poor is greatly different from that in Vietnam. The thing is, when I forgot where I was, in the sense that I was in poor area, I realized that POOR is and should not be the defining factor of this community. Support, strength, love, loyalty. That is what is in this community. The bonds between families and children and parents are stronger than much of what I have seen my entire life; this community has inspired me to come back here and create stronger communities with my family, friends, and other people that I have connections with. This community, like my whole experience in Vietnam, has encouraged a journey of self-discovery too. It’s incredible how you can travel halfway around the world and learn more about yourself than you ever could at home. I think that is why I love to travel, why I want to be a traveler. In Vietnam I felt alive. I felt I was more myself than ever before, being a woman who loves to laugh, loves to eat, and loves to be with other people. I loved connecting with people I would never before have had a chance at knowing, and also being able to take this journey of self-discovery and integrate it with a spiritual journey. When I held the hands of a mother of one of the families on a boat ride back to the village, I felt utterly and purely connected to God. God is alive in Vietnam, in this village, and in the people we met. I am reminded of how big God really is, how He transcends every notion we hold. This journey helped me understand a little more about myself, and experience God in a new way. When I mean God, it’s in the most the divine yet personal way. God flows through places, nature, and people. I may not understand much about God, but I think I understand this. I have witnessed this, I have felt it. God is just magnificent, beautiful, and so interconnected with humanity and our entire sense of being.

I want to go back. It was hard to leave, harder than I could have ever imagined. Saying goodbye was felt by my entire body, my heart, and my mind. In 10 days I immersed myself in a place so different from anything I have ever known, but it was still so similar to everything humans spend their lives looking for. I found companionship in the Vietnamese students, and I felt that some of the students we were with understood me more than people who have known me for years. I found acceptance in the village, particularly with the women, who embraced our journey as women similar to their own existence as women. I found peace and serenity deep in the delta of Southern Vietnam, where the trees surrounded my entire vision, and where the sounds of bugs nature swooned my heart. The sounds of the forest were like a song, and I think it was like that feeling of finding a song on the radio that you just can’t stop listening to. The song, though in ways unlike anything I have ever heard, was also somewhat reminiscent of the sounds I hear on warm late nights in Arkansas. It reminded me of everything I love about home, of why I am completely taken by living in the American South.

Oh, the South. Our group spent much of our time at reflection discussing community, and how community is so different in diverse contexts. At the end of our time in Vietnam though, we did make the point that communities that work for each other and are inclusive can actually be found in America, despite popular opinion that America is solely a country with exclusive communities that only work for themselves. These communities, in my own personal experience, have been found in the South. I try writing this without idealizing or romanticizing the South, but I don’t know if I can be completely practical. It’s in the South where I found the group of friends that made my heart whole, where I found a community in Pascagoula that had the strongest and most communal-like attitude that I have ever witnessed, and where I met Roslyn, a homeless woman in Birmingham who has encouraged me to love, and to stay true to my heart. Can you find this in other parts of America? Of course. It’s in Colorado. It’s in California. It’s everywhere, when you look hard enough. I just know there is something about the South, and at times in Vietnam, I was reminded of the communal experiences I have had there.

Of everything I learned and experienced in Vietnam, there are a few things I know I am taking with me, and forever will change the way I live my life. I am motivated to take more seriously the communities around me, and to be willing to value these communities more and more, contributing by helping those around me in whatever way they need. I am ready to try to live a more simple life. I don’t think simple is always more beautiful, I just think that when you take out the clutter, when you remove the things that are merely distracting, you can find God, find love, and even find yourself. I am forever carrying with me the faces and laughter of the children. They are why I want to do what I want to do. I am determined to see the world after Vietnam. I want to see how other people live, how other people feel God, and how other people see the world. This world is big. That much is clear. Another thing that sticks out in my mind is realizing how different it is to be poor in America and to be poor in Vietnam. I have heard over and over again how global poverty is much worse than poverty in America. While this stands true from a material and hunger standpoint, it was Mother Teresa who noted that poverty in America, poverty from her experience in New York City, is a deeper poverty. They might have more “things” than the poor in other countries, but in America, they are often ostracized. The poor are not always welcome in America; they are even ignored, putting them on the margins of society. I am certainly not promoting the idea that the global poverty experience is easier, I just am reminded from what I have seen in Vietnam that poverty is not a concrete word. It means more than one thing, and it isn’t the same for our world, different countries, and even individuals.

It’s so Hendrix-Lily. It’s so PFC. It’s just so typical. On paper, we were the ones bringing the help. We were the ones materially, physically, and emotionally supporting this small little village in rural Vietnam. And of course, it became much more. The relationships we built were reciprocal. We may have brought some physical help, but I think the more important thing we were able to give to this community was just showing them that we cared. That we value the Vietnamese people as people, as equals in this great world. I think they might have expected to see a sense of superiority with Americans coming into their village, but they didn’t. We treated them as the same, because they are. When it comes down to it, we are all the same. In return, they gave us so much more than we could have imagined. They welcomed us with open arms, with great hospitality. They taught us their language, their beliefs, and their ideas about life. They opened their hearts, and this instigated a relationship, a bond. We got so much in return, so much more than we could have ever provided, and I know that everyone of us has been changed by Vietnam. We aren’t the same people anymore, and I have enjoyed the ride and know this has altered my worldview forever.

One day as work came to an end, I came back to our meeting place in the village holding hands with Tam. We sat under the tarp they put up for us to eat meals under and we chatted away like old friends. Like everyday during the rainy season in Vietnam, the rain came like clockwork. Just before 4 o’clock the clouds shifted a little and it began to rain. The rain fell from the sky in a trance, for just a few moments I could do nothing but stare at the rain around me. The sun didn’t move an inch, it was glowing on us just as before, only now we were surronded by the harmonious sound of rain hitting the soft soil of Earth. We looked at each other, and like an obnoxious 5 year old, I raced towards the opening of the sky to catch a few raindrops to throw on Tam. We had a rain fight, and before I knew it, we were all dancing in the rain, throwing water at each other, and laughing like crazy. Even Alex Vernon managed to sneak up on me and get revenge by dumping a bowl of water on me. We were soaked. We were drenched. We were happy.

Happiness is like the old man told me

Look for it, but you’ll never find it all

But let it go, live your life and leave it

Then one day, wake up and she’ll be home

Home, home, home
-The Fray, “Happiness”

homecoming

newell's grocery store.

welcome to colorful colorado.

stormy and sunny sky in eastern colorado.lance in his new hat from vietnam.

cherry creek state park
green grass.chillin.
BBQ.

welcome home.

alive

It was a spectacular day.

Not in the normal day to day activities but in something more.

It was the weather. It was the feeling in the air. It was the atmosphere. It was everything.

I went running this morning at 7 and the feeling of the wind meeting my face was exactly what I needed. To see the sun glistening over all of Arkansas, and all over the world is humbling, it makes me feel alive. That's why I think I loved today so much. It made me feel alive.

I feel alive when I am laughing so hard, I can't stop. When my brain starts losing oxygen because I havn't taken a breathe--when my abs are actually getting a workout from my deep, raucous, and obnoxious laughter. Laughter makes life so real, so in the moment.

I feel alive when I'm in the mountains. Whether we are driving and passing the undescribable views, or whether we are climbing to the peak, and the snow capped Rockies are the backdrop to my world. It's those damn mountains, with their jagged edges and sentiments of tranquility that remind me of how human I am. And also, how grand God is. The world is at our fingertips, and we are only one small part. When millions of trees, animals, and flowers are surronding you, and all you can see for miles is the forestry of the mountains you know this. You know that you are small, so small. But you are loved. So loved.

I feel alive when I sing. I'm not good. I'm not the next Kris Allen. No, by any vocalized standards, I'm pretty bad. But, driving along the long stretch of highway and singing "Come on Get Higher" or "Fearless" especially after a Sunday morning after church is just amazing. With your hand reaching for the world outside the window, it's like you can breathe in life. It's like you are in another realm of happiness.

I feel alive when I am with kids. They touch my soul, they know my soul. Nothing makes me happier when I see an adorable child and they smile back at me. It's like confirmation for everything I love in this world. They love without any hesitation. They energize me, they bring me lots of smiles, and they warm my heart.

I feel alive, really alive, in the presence of love. When I have that connection with someone, where you can feel their heart. I do mean that. I love when you can be completley yourself around someone else, and they can do the same, that is love. When you witness love, between a mother and child, between friends, between complete strangers, that makes me feel alive.

This year at school has come to an end and I couldn't describe how many moments I have truly felt ALIVE. Practically, everyday. I live in one of the most beautiful states, learn from incredible educators, engage in conversation with amazing people, and have had the chance to grow, but not in the way that is linear, in a way that it is a journey and this is just apart of it. Saying goodbye was much harder this year. My friends, are just, apart of me now. It hurt my heart more than I expected, but I'm looking up. The end of the school year is opening up the door to a summer where I will be challenged, and where I will be exposed to something totally new. A summer where I really can expect the unexpected. I can already taste the sweet scent of hot summer air. Here's to being alive.

This world makes me feel alive.

And even when it rains outside, even with the sun is not shining, still let it shine.

Feel alive. Be alive.

mi familia

I have really good friends.

The kind that will go to almost every field hockey game to cheer you on, even if they have no idea what is even going on.

The kind that will take crazy pictures and videos with you, and will add them 20 minutes later on facebook.

The kind that sing at the top of their lungs right along with you, so nobody can actually realize how bad of a singer you are.

The kind that laugh at your jokes, just so you think for a moment you are some kind of funny.

The kind that will hug you, listen to you, laugh with you, all because they love you.

The kind that take the good with the bad, and love you because of exactly who you are.

The kind that want to share life with you, because they know that life is beautiful and is even more beautiful when shared with other people.

Exactly two years ago I decided to choose Hendrix College as the place to go to school and get some higher education. I knew it was a risk, but I felt so right about it, so at peace about it, that I couldn’t ignore that feeling. I knew God was taking me somewhere special, but I didn’t know it would be something like this. I didn’t know how much my life would change from Hendrix College.

I have found what makes my heart go wild, I have seen things I never thought I would see, and I have been places I never thought I would go. I am so lucky, so blessed. My life perspective has completely changed and I feel more myself than I ever felt in my entire life. At Hendrix I found a home away from home. I am happy here, and I could not have asked for more.

One of the best parts of this home?

My friends, obvi.

We have become a family. How could we not? We eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. We talk about classes together. We do homework together. We watch movies together. We have conversations for hours on end about anything and everything. We dance together. We live together. My family of girls here is something I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for. Just a few weeks ago we had a discussion about how things would have been different for us if we did have boyfriends. If we were in relationships at the beginning of college, we thought about how this would affect where we are now. Of course I want a man, but really, that will come when the time is right. The time may not be right at this current season in my life because I am exploring my life with a great group of friends. It is them that keep me sane, keeps me laughing, and makes everyday so much better than I could ever imagine.

My group of friends are in one word: quirky.

But my goodness, they are fun. Our little family is filled with exciting, interesting, brilliant, and some of the most beautiful people that I ever met.

Ali: I remember reading a field hockey article about her during the summer before freshman year. The article spoke to how talented she was in the goal, and it made me question why the heck I ever thought I could play college hockey. How could I play with someone so skilled, so talented? Needless to say, I was intimated even before we met. I remember the first week of preseason Ali and I didn’t talk much, but when she threw up due to the heat and dehydration during practice I felt a great sense of concern. I don’t know when it really happened, but over the course of the season and towards the end of first semester we started to become really good friends. I always wanted to sit by her on the bus, and we slowly got to know each other. And, once I met her mother, I was so glad we did. I think Camille is just fabulous.

Anyway, once Ali and I became roomies halfway through freshman year I knew it was legit. We always have so much fun together, and I feel so comfortable around her. I can ask her anything, do anything, say anything, because once you live with someone all those barriers come down. I rely on Ali more than I do a lot of people, because I know she always has something to say that provides a new insight or perspective that other people may not think of. She doesn’t think of the world and of life in the typical way, Ali can see an issue or situation, and approach it in a way that I would never think of. Ali is a passionate person, quite a bit more subdued than myself, but I think that works well in our relationship. I do the stupid things, Ali laughs, and we just crack each other up. Ali inspires me because she speaks her mind, and holds nothing back. She doesn’t care what people think, and I think God put that influence in my life so I could learn from her. Luckily, I have.

Ali is reminiscent to me of the blue of the ocean, not limited to one hue, but has layers and layers of colors, ranging from turquoise to a deep, enticing navy blue (hello, this will be my wedding color someday LOVE IT). Ali is a complex person, someone who doesn’t give away everything about herself at first meeting, but someone that you can learn something new about everyday. I love that, it inspires me. Ali has a big heart, and I feel so lucky to have even a little piece of that, she has changed my life and I know that she has come into my life for a reason. She is my field hockey soul sister, my roomie that somehow puts up with my quirks (yes, write a handbook, Michelle will need one!), and one of my best friends. I love you Ali.

Jordana: One word: Habitat.
Sorry, but that WAS the best OR trip. Ever.
I remember meeting Jordana on that trip, and after just one evening of a bunch of us girls gallivanting around the roads in those beautiful Arkansas “mountains” I knew we would be great friends. The first thing I remember ever thinking about her was how cool her name was. What I didn’t expect, was for such a cool girl to behind the name.
After OR trip we started hanging out, and I was so happy to meet someone like her. First of all, she laughs at stuff that I say, which is a major plus. More than that though, she has this vigor and approach to life that keeps you coming back for more. Jordana is from the city, but she doesn’t think she is better just because she is from a super duper cool place; in fact, I admire how open she has been to embracing the wonderful state of Arkansas. Deep down, I think she has a little southern girl in her, even if she never admits it. Jordana and I were immediate friends, and I have had some of my best times at Hendrix with her. Everything from Wal-Mart trips, to Jewish dinners, to walking around campus, has been infinitely more fun because of Jordana. If I need a boost, I go to Jordana because she genuinely cares about people and what they are going through. Sometimes I think Jordana should write a book. Not only is she an amazing writer, but I think she would have good stories to tell about herself, and other people. She seeks to know people, not to merely know people for the sake of it. It’s a quality about her that I love.
When I think of Jordana I can’t help but think of her personality being similar to that of a red scarf. Okay, laugh. But keep in mind that I adore scarves. They keep you warm and fuzzy, and can be made from the most elaborate material that tells a story. I don’t think of a plain red scarf of course, I think of a scarf that you would find from a vendor in the city. A scarf that has intricate gold patterns, and has been beautifully crafted—it is one of a kind, one that nobody else would have. I think of red because Jordana is bold. Not overbearingly so, but enough where she stands out (I also think she looks good in red, but that is beside the point). Red is a color of love to me, and Jordana has a lot of love to give. I never thought one of my best friends would be a New Yorker. Especially a New Yorker without an intense accent. Oh well, weirder things have happened. Love you, Jorgy.



Lauren: I met Lauren for the first time when she visited as a prospective student and field hockey player. She was quiet, actually, really quiet, but I didn’t think it was weird. I just figured she was really shy and who wouldn’t be scared on their prospective visit? I was so excited when I heard she was coming to Hendrix, not gonna lie, I definitely facebook creeped her and thought she would be a great addition as a player to the team, but also as a friend.
As it turns out, I was right. I never anticipated growing so close to Lauren but I am so glad I did. I cringe when I think back to one of our first team practices—after it was over, I rushed up to Lauren, asked if she was a Christian, and then invited her to our women’s bible study. I try so hard not to be awkward sometimes, but I guess you can’t really help who you are. And then when Lauren came over to Ali and my room after the epic Olive Garden adventure (3 bowls of pasta, yo) something was there. Little freshman Lauren was watching a movie with us, and it just seemed so natural. Needless to say, we all started hanging out together and our friendship grew quickly. I love that I can call Lauren “Lil Beast” because it makes me feel motherly. She calls me “Beast” and though it doesn’t exactly make me feel like a WOMAN if you know what I mean, I know that us having these nicknames was just the start of our relationship. The great thing about Lauren is that everything she puts on the field is exactly what she puts into life. She is determined and passionate. It has been motivating for me to have her in my life; she makes me want to work that much harder, to finish that much stronger. Lauren is like the little baby in the group. Not just because she is a freshman…I don’t know that is just how I see her.
Thinking of some engrossing metaphor for Lauren was hard. I meditated about what Lauren makes me reminisce about, and then I finally thought of Lauren as a tire swing. Yes, that sounds weird and strange but Lauren has a child-like quality about her. She is a little kid at heart, and even when she is freaking 90 years old she will still be watching power rangers with her great grandchildren. When I see a tire swing, I think of long summer nights just going back and forth on the swing, loving the sun, and embracing exactly where I was in life. Lauren does this—she clinches every day as a chance to love others, as a day to live life. Green is Lauren. She is happy, heartwarming, and has a spirit of vitality. Lauren is youthful, but despite this, still has a sense of maturity that you can see in her when you really get down to it. I have learned a lot from Lauren and I am thankful for all that she has done for me. I love you Lil Beast.


Michelle: If you’ve ever met another person where you have had an immediate connection, an indescribable connection, a connection so strong that you knew it was fate that you were to meet, then you might understand what I felt about Michelle when I first met her. She was the girl who lived next door—in the big, spacious study room no less. I recall sitting in my room feeling ready to make friends. I don’t know why, but I got up, closed my door, and started walking around. Right away, I saw her room open with a bunch of people sitting on the couch. I remember thinking I should go introduce myself. What else did I have to lose? When we discovered later that we were on the same OR trip, well, the rest is history. We were instant friends—our first night of the OR trip was spent laughing. Literally. She laughs so hard, and so loud, and it sounds like a squeal. But her laugh is like music to my ears. I can’t even describe how our friendship evolved, it kind of just did. We danced to Pussycat dolls, took weekly shower sing-alongs, and talked about life in a way that was new and refreshing.

There was one time that Michelle slept over in my room one night. We stayed up till gosh, early in the morning, just talking. We talked about everything. It was amazing, and one of my favorite conversations ever. After that, I think I began to know her on so many more levels and I began to realize what a strong yearning Michelle has to find beauty in life, and it has affected me more than she would probably ever realize. Michelle radiates love and God. She really makes the people around her happier, and has this astounding ability to just live. So much of how I have grown since the beginning of freshman year is because of her. Soul mates, I do believe, exist. I also believe Michelle is my soul mate.

Michelle makes me think of a pink flower. It wouldn’t be a big, obnoxious flower that draws attention from all of the smaller flowers. It would be the flower that is yearning for sun, growing steadily, and exuding a bright pink. It would be the flower that you would never want to pick; it would be just too beautiful. More importantly, if Michelle was a flower, it wouldn’t be just found in gardens. It would be grown in the wild, where the sky was limitless, and the fields of green were vast and boundless. I love you Michelle.

Rachel: Can I just say that the fact that Rachel was Mrs.Frizzle for Halloween this year speaks to what an awesome person she is? Yes, hella awesome right thurrr.

I met Rachel through my old roommate. We hung out a lot the first few days of our college experience. Rachel was warm and welcoming from the moment I met her, and I remember loving how red her hair was. I would soon discover though, that there was a lot more to Rachel than just her kindness and her red hair. Rachel is brilliant. She loves history, which immediately brought us together. She is also from Arkansas, something she FOR SURE needs to be proud of. Represent my friend. I think I realized we were going to be great friends once she, Michelle, and Jordana started hanging out more.

One of favorite things about Rachel is the way she plays Apples to Apples. Or rather, the way she ridiculously plots against everyone else in Apples to Apples. Ha. You can find out a lot about a person in Apples to Apples and anyone that has trump cards like festering wounds is someone special. I love that she plays goofy, it is absolutely ridiculous and hilarious. Rachel is pretty much like that outside of Apples to Apples, she embraces being eccentric, and I think it has made me even crazier. I feel perfectly fine acting insane around her, and I’ll admit that I think Rachel is just as crazy, she just hides it better. I also love who Rachel is in the very core of her being. She truly has the best of intentions, and she is kind to everyone around her. I believe she is gorgeous, stunning, and I wish she gave herself more credit. God has provided her with so much beauty, and I can’t wait to see where life takes her, and what she does with all of the gifts she has.

When I think about Rachel, I can’t help but think of the glorious Arkansas Razorback. Rachel holds so many similar qualities to the razorback…ha, just kidding. Actually, when I think of Rachel, I can’t help but think about the tips of the Rockies. The Rockies are so awe-inspiring, and so mysterious, and honestly, Rachel is mysterious too. She isn’t mysterious in a way like an Edward Cullen, but rather she doesn’t always express how she is feeling. Still, I know Rachel, like me, has a special place in her heart for the mountains. Rachel exemplifies the color of baby blue, someone who is gracious, kind, and stands out no matter where they go. I think the mountains perfectly accentuate the color of blue, especially, at the peak of the mountain, and I think Rachel is finding that peak in life. But maybe it really isn’t about getting to the peak, as much as it is about the climb. Rachel is climbing, and she is going somewhere spectacular. I love you Rachie Poo.

i want to fall in love

"God has set within you a femininity that is powerful and tender, fierce and alluring. No doubt it has been misunderstood. Surely it has been assaulted. But it is there, your true heart, and it is worth recovering. You are captivating."

--Stasi Eldredge, Captivating

I want to fall in love.
It’s pretty simple.
I want a man to look me in the eyes, and not just look but see. And not just see, but know. And not just know, but understand. Not just understand, but adore. Not just adore, but love.
Is that a lot to ask?
I mean, really?
I want a man to hold me in his arms so that when I need to escape the sadness and cries of the world I can go to him. I want to melt like a little marshmallow in sweet, enticing hot chocolate. I want his arms to protect me, to nurture me, to embrace me.
I also want to hold hands.
Not the hand-in-hand friendly old fashioned kind of way. I want our fingers to hold onto each other and we can walk with an extra bounce in our step, because together we can do anything.
We can go to parks. To anywhere.
I will go anywhere.
I want a man that laughs at my jokes, can make me laugh too, and will smile just because he wants to. I want a man who will ask deep questions, and will know that none of us have the answers, but will have the discussion because we like to be sophisticated wannabe intellectuals. We’ll even go to Starbucks, just because we love the aroma of coffee and the sensation that envelops your mind when you enter a coffeehouse.
I want a man who will want to eat ice cream for no reason at all and even better, will eat it and watch football at the same time. Even if he doesn’t like the Broncos, I want a man who appreciates the fun in just relaxing and watching the game.
I want a man who likes to read, because he’ll have to something to do when I read Nicholas Sparks.
I want a man who will travel. Travel to Wal-Mart—or if he is a anti-consumerist and looking to rebel—the Farmer’s market. But also I want us to travel far away. New York. Mississippi. Canada. Europe. Africa. Asia. I want to see the world and I want my man to see it too. We will see it differently, and we can relish in our unique perspectives.
I want a man who balances my extroverted, crazy, ridiculous personality and can tell me when I need to take it a decibel level down.
I want a passionate man, a man who stands for something. A man who sees life as an adventure and wants to go on it with me. A man who loves God, and will share this love with me so we can spiritually grow together. I want a man who deeply loves, a man who shares his dreams, a man who makes me whole.
I want Dennis Quaid.
Ha. Joke.
I want a man, but maybe I want the wrong man. Maybe it’s an idealized, unrealistic man—a man that is constricted by the norms of society, a man that is a puppet to my limited vision and understanding of the world. A man who exists on the big screen, but not here. Not in this life.
I could believe that. I could believe that I’m living in the clouds. I could forget what I yearn for and instead search for what doesn’t make my heart move.
But I can’t.
I can’t honestly and truthfully abandon what I am looking for in a man because I have seen love like this.
I’ve seen the adoration that is shared between my parents and step parents.
I’ve felt the mesmerizing look of my grandma to my grandpa.
I’ve exclaimed at the husband and wife who come into Dairy Queen every Sunday after church; he holding onto his cane with all his might, and using his other hand to touch the hand of his wife. She of course has a walker, and needs that touch of love to make it to the next step.
I’ve witnessed the completely smitten and affectionate glances between the Farthings’s at church. He even sang karaoke to her at the Valentine’s Banquet, as she looked on with tears rolling down her cheeks.
It exists.
Love does exist.

I havn’t had a boyfriend.
Sure, you could count Donny in 4th grade, Erik in 6th grade, Matt in 8th grade, and Corey in 11th grade, but these weren’t real. These relationships had hardly anything other than the fleeting emotion of a teen crush. I haven’t been involved in a serious relationship with a boy—a meaningful relationship. I know it’s a matter of time and that it will happen when it is supposed to happen. Mommy tells me this quite often. But patience is hard.
I can’t help but wonder, is it me?
What am I doing wrong?
Am I not pretty enough?
Am I just too loud and overbearing?
Am I just downright uncool?

What is the reason that I have yet to be pursued , to be adored, to be loved by a boy?

I am trying really really hard to come to terms with it.
To accept that it will happen.
To trust God.
Again, easier said than done.

For now, I will keep my eyes and heart open. I won’t lose faith and I’ll hope that one day I’ll have a real good story to tell my grandbabies about how I met good ole gramps.
I’ll try and realize that right now I am blessed with the opportunity to explore life, the world, and my heart. I am on a journey at Hendrix, and right now it may not be the time in my life to have a man. I have the most wonderful group of friends, here and at home, have a family that is the rock in my life, and am seeing the love of God more and more everyday. I’ll try and understand that a man will come in due time. At the right time. When it is meant to happen.

And…
If I’m 30 and still single, well maybe by then gay marriage will be legal in many places..ahem…Michelle? You game?
Ha. Joke again.

I’ll try and not worry. When I see a couple with that special spark in their eye I’ll breathe in, smile, and know that timing is everything.
I’ll continue to watch The Bachelor with my girls, laughing at the absurdity of what that show demonstrates about “falling in love.”

And I’ll walk and gaze at the sky as I always do, say a prayer, and look at the beauty around me. And know, that I am never truly alone.
Ever.
<3

redemptive love

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it. ~Clarence Budington Kelland











People talk about gifts that God gives them and blesses them with—strength, passion, love. Some of these are like flowing rivers, constants that shine through people all the time. I know people like this. When I think of determination I think of mommy, when I think of strength I think of Grandma Genevra, and when I think of courage I think of my dad. There is just something about associating beautiful characteristics to the people around you. What happens when these characteristics are not enough? What happens when words cannot evoke the perfect sense of feeling, the right description of qualities? More importantly, are these words just a figment of our imagination, a creation to attribute others with boxed in traits?

Regardless, God does equip us with abilities and with His love, so that in our lives we can exemplify His love. Lately, what I have witnessed is His power to give you feelings and abilities you may have never known existed.

When I first found our my dad had gotten in trouble, I didn’t know what it meant and to what extent he was in trouble. My parents were already divorced and when my mom told me that dad was coming over to dinner, I knew something was up. Dinner? Talk? What words were going to be exchanged? I feared more words would be splattered like a snowball thrown against a barren tree, in which the snow would fall and spill over, like our family. When he came it was weird. But it also felt okay—my parents were cordial, warm even. We ate and sat down in the living room and he spoke. It’s a blur now—the words from his mouth are beyond me, like a fuzzy dream that no matter how hard you push to remember, you just can’t. He came to tell use he got a DUI. Drinking Under the Influence. He got it a couple days prior to this. He had been driving in his beloved black ford truck, and drinking beforehand, when he slammed into the side of the road. Nobody got hurt. No other car was involved. He didn’t even get physically hurt. His car was totaled. And because of the offense he had to spend the night in jail.

He had to go to jail.

Jail. My father. My daddy. In jail.

My whole body went numb. How could he do this?

God it was so bad. But it was bad enough that is happened. I couldn’t concentrate for the next few days, I was completely lost and wanted nothing more than to escape. It was worse though, how I responded. I was angry, disappointed, sad, but mostly angry. I tried to tell him everything was okay and that I wasn’t mad at him. I tried so hard not to be. Everything started to return to some sense of normalcy, but I felt I was carrying a heavy burden. A burden that weighed heavily because I was still so angry. Everytime my dad and I would disagree or argue, I would throw everything back in his face. I would use my anger as a weapon and try to feel better from my dad’s guilt. It was awful, and I cringe when I think about how I used to be. I am not proud of that person, and I am disappointed. I think apart of it was how high I held my dad up; I put him on a pedestal, I wanted to be everything that he was. So, when this happened, it all came crumbling down. Yet, maybe I had to go through all of that to learn who I didn’t want to be. Maybe going through that opened my eyes, trust me, it opened my heart.

It took years for me to forgive. To truthfully release the anger in my heart, the burden on my back, and the regret in my soul. I don’t recall exactly when it happened, but I knew God had given me an attribute that I never knew I could have—the ability to forgive. It was a long road there. I went through emotional hell, and put my dad through it too. I blamed his mistake, and his alcoholism for the divorce. Granted, it was apart of it, but his issues were in no way the only reason my parents’ marriage fell apart. They fell out of love, they weren’t happy. The drinking was more of a result of the unhappiness, if anything. The words of bitterness leaving my tongue were not me—I knew that—but it kept happening anyway.

Yet, healing and forgiveness came along one day. It didn’t happen in an instant, it was a long time coming, but when it came everything changed. My world wasn’t a battle as much as it was a sincere effort to find love. The best part is that my heart transformed. You might say I woke up, and I smelled the coffee! I didn’t use my anger as a means to build a wall up from my dad, instead, it tore the wall down. God gave me the ability to forgive my dad. I thank God for that.

I needed that more than anything. It’s a funny thing to feel anger leaving your body. It’s like taking the first jump into the pool on a scorching hot summer day. It’s refreshing and nothing has ever felt so good. That was the beginning of my challenge. Forgiving my dad and investing new joy and love into that relationship became a priority that topped all other things. We went golfing, to Chipolte, and of course spent many lazy Sunday afternoons throwing the football around outside. With anger subsided I could tangibly see all the beauty that my dad’s heart entails—his witty sense of humor, his devotion to his family, and his strange personality that always embarrasses me, but I have grown to admire, and at times emulate. The challenge of forgiveness did not completely diminish though, because I could feel it in my heart. Not the forgiveness I found to give to my dad, but the forgiveness of myself. Forgiveness, you see, can at times be two-fold. It goes both ways.

I forgave daddy.
I did.
But me?
How could I put him through that?
What kind of daughter does that?

I would watch my friends with their dads and I would feel horrible. Like, something was eating at my insides. Because I felt terrible for not supporting him when he needed me most, and for letting him down.

This was something I had to reconcile. I prayed. Over and over.
But my heart wouldn’t budge.
I was holding myself in contempt and didn’t think I deserved to be forgiven.

To this day I feel a tinge of guilt for spewing anger at my dad when he made that mistake; that mistake that changed him, and made him better. I feel guilty for choosing anger instead of love.
But somehow along this journey I have found peace. I have found solace, and it brings tears to my eyes, because it has been the most redemptive and freeing emotion that I have experienced. This peace has set me free. God once again, has provided that which I though was impossible.

I have forgiven myself.

As the cans of beers have slowly dwindled away, due to my dad’s steadfast commitment to get his drinking under control, my heart has slowly, but surely come to find contentment. God is so good, and I am so blessed to have been through all of this. It’s taught me about myself, daddy, life, and God. As I relinquished my guilt, I can look back and literally see how God was working in my life. Right around the time I was able to forgive myself, was the time I really found Jesus. God works in funny ways like that.

I’m embracing my life fully knowing and at the same time, being utterly unaware of God’s magnificence and His abilities. I have experienced the beauty of His love and power, and I now know that anything is possible.

My dad is one of my best friends. He is quirky, funny, weird, hilarious, loving, and strong. That man, he is so strong. The things he has been through are unbelievable, and yet through it all he becomes a better person everyday. I am lucky, so lucky, to have him as my dad. I wouldn’t be me without him. I wouldn’t be loud. I wouldn’t be fearless. I wouldn’t be strong. My dad got me through not just this struggle, but just about every other struggle I have faced. My dad is my hero.

No regrets.
No bitterness.

It’s the only way to live. <3>

a puddle of thoughts

Michelle splashed in puddles today.
She wrote some poetry about it, and conversly, was reminded of this piece that I wrote.

I wrote this one year ago. Literally, to the day. Hello, that is freaking cool. Ironic. And a reminder of how much can really happen in a year.

It was the first "blog" I ever did. : )

I woke up this morning to the sound of pattering on the window. It didn't occur to me that it could be raining outside, but as I glanced out the window I quickly realized that I would be wearing my black and white polka dotted rain boots today. I threw on my winter jacket that always reminds me of the slopes at Copper Mountain, and walked to the cafeteria so I could make my infamous egg creation (ahem, for those unaware, this consists of a couple scoops of scrambled eggs, salsa, green peppers, tomatoes, and cheese.) Yes, I take my food seriously.

As I walked to the cafeteria and encountered a multitude of puddles I couldn't help to reminisce when I was little. My grandma would pick me up every Wednesday from Ponderosa Elementary School. She would wait for Lance and I, and once we got settled at her house we took our weekly trip to the frozen yogurt shop. She would always encourage us to get something healthy, but being Grandma she never said anything when I got the item with the most chocolate. We would go to the Hampden Library and check out books..and movies...and have a movie marathon that night. My, how time goes. We don't have sleepovers anymore. My grandma has lost her ability to walk and cannot even function independently on her own anymore. Luckily for us, God has blessed her with a strong heart. She doesn't give up, and I can only hope to get that from her one day. Anyway, that was a tanget. The puddles I walked through today on the way to breakfast reminded me of one particular instance when she picked me up. I must have been in 2nd grade or something, and it had rained quite a bit one afternoon. As I was walking towards her welcoming and gentle arms I came upon a huge puddle. Unlike many of the other kids who were splashing and crazily jumping in all of the puddles, I stopped. I looked for an alternative path and chose to walk around the puddle refusing to get wet. My grandma embraced me into a hug that I will always treasure. She looked at me with her deep blue eyes and told me, "Heather, honey, you are so cute. You aren't like the other kids who are jumping around. You went around the puddle. Just wait till you are older when you won't want to stop jumping in puddles." I had no idea what she meant by that. I thought she was crazy..why would I ever want to get messy and wet in a puddle of rain?

10 years later I get it. I mean, at least metaphorically it makes sense. Jumping around in puddles is about more than just getting wet. To me jumping in a puddle means taking a chance. It means taking risks, trying new things, and being a little crazy. My grandma predicted it right on target. As I am on my journey here at good ole Hendrix College I had a realization this morning. I love jumping in puddles. I love being crazy. I love growing in my experiences and in my relationship with God.

Ever since I have been at Hendrix you could say I have been jumping in puddles since I got here. I got involved in field hockey at the college level, am involved with things I never could have imagined, and have seen things that I would never have thought of before. I can't really describe it. It's not a physical change that I am going through. I would say my journey has been greatly spiritual, emotional, and quite frankly, soulful. I don't feel like the same person anymore. I don't walk around the puddle--I don't try for perfection all the time, and I am enjoying the journey more now. I have realized that the JOURNEY is what really matters. Because in the end, we choose who we are. Before I was so wrapped up in not messing up, I never wanted to make any mistakes. But now...I don't know. I feel so loved by Him. I feel His presence everywhere and know that it doesn't matter if I make a mistake. My Maker is with me always; He loves me for who I am and not what I do or do not do. Hendrix has opened my eyes. To other people, to the world, to diverse viewpoints, to LIFE. God has had this whole plan for me. To think about it is so overwhelming..

Michelle made a great point when we were talking last night. We talked about what it took for us to both end up at Hendrix, living next door to each other on 3rd floor Veasey no less. God planned for us at every moment--from Michelle going to the college fair and discovering Hendrix, to me finally deciding to come play hockey at Hendrix and take a chance on Arkansas. Everything happens for a reason. THERE ARE NO COINCEDENCES. I think that has truly become apparent over the past few months. It has been so hard being away from home. So hard. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my dog. I miss those freaking mountains! But..going to Hendrix was a lot like jumping in the puddle. I could have taken an easier route and stayed in CO. I could have done that. I would probably still be happy. But I came to Arkansas. I jumped in that puddle and I could not be happier. Goes to show that Grandma's always know what they are talking about. Always.

In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. Proverbs 16:9 NIV

hope for the hopeless

My body lost every sense of feeling.

My heart started beating faster.

It sunk deeper and deeper.

In just a few short moments I thought my world was going to crash down.

After hearing the voicemail from my mom my instincts kicked in and I knew something was wrong. It was more than the instincts though; it was the quivering voice of my mom. The sobbing heard over a brief 10 second long message. Something had happened. I called back shaking.

Lance was in the hospital. The emergency room. He had been drinking, and evidently had way too much. That’s all I knew. I assumed the worst. I started having flashbacks. What had been the last thing I said to him? Did he know that I loved him? My friends quickly were by my side and I’m pretty sure I would have broken down right then and there if it wasn’t for them. I was scared. More scared than I have ever been, and as my breathing got heavier and heavier with every breath I knew I had to get out of there. We were in the middle of formal, at the Statehouse Convention Center in Little Rock and I felt stifled. I wanted to run. Run home and hold my brother and make everything right. More than anything, I wanted to tell him that I loved him. I did the next best thing—we prayed. Michelle prayed as my friends hung close to me. The words were like a song to me, speaking every emotion that I felt. As we walked out towards the car, I didn’t feel relieved. I didn’t stop worrying helplessly about Lance. However, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I was supposed to take Rachel home just outside Little Rock to Sherwood, and then take us back to Hendrix. As the hair on my arms rose from the frosty air of night and the emotion swirling inside of me, I felt okay. I felt that getting us back safely to school could be done. And I was going to do it.

It was the longest drive I have ever been on. Sure, it takes well over 13 hours to drive from Aurora to Conway, but this drive seemed longer. I was urgent to get back and call my parents. I wanted to know exactly what was happening with Lance, but I knew if I answered the phone on the way back, it could be bad news, and I might have a breakdown. I just kept driving. We didn’t say much in the car. Some songs came on the radio and I sang them. I sang them with everything I had because I thought if I sung the words hard enough I might wake up from this nightmare. Maybe it would all go away. My brother was in trouble and I couldn’t help him. It was eating at me.

Everything turned out okay. Relatively okay, anyway. Lance had too much to drink and got in trouble, and had to be taken away to the hospital. He will have to deal with the consequences, but all things considered everything is alright. I had to tell myself that over and over again today. I told myself that at Greenbriar this morning. Everything is going to be okay. Everything happens for a reason. God will bring us through this. I have never been so scared, but I also have never felt so grateful. God was with my brother. I believe that. He is always with us.

I got goosebumps a lot at Greenbriar this morning. My mind was on Jesus, and coming to His presence, but it was also on Lance. His face, his voice, it couldn’t escape me. As the goosebumps engulfed my body I can’t help but think Jesus was reminding that His love will sustain me. That despite how helpless I felt, I could still have hope. Because at the end of the day, Lance made it out unharmed. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually he will struggle for awhile. But he is here. By the grace of God he is here. Amen, Hallelujah.

This isn’t the first problem my family has encountered. Ha, oh no. My family has been through a lot, and probably more than anyone on the outside could understand. My family is so far from perfect. So far. Not that I have ever wanted the perfect family. What would I learn from that? I love my family for exactly who we are. Exactly for the love we share, and exactly for the feeling I get when I am around them. We have never been normal though. The closest thing to normalcy may have been the summer days when I rode my bike around the neighborhood with Lance, and we squealed with delight when we got our chili cheese dogs from the barn store, along with a large slushie to finish off the meal. I remember those days like they are fresh in mind, like they just happened. That was about as normal as it ever got. It’s not that I didn’t have a wonderful childhood—I did—but we went through a lot as a family. I know my mom and dad loved each other for a long time, but I also remember when it started to fade. My mom was unhappy, my dad was unhappy, and the tension continued to build and build. My mom turned to anger, my dad turned to alcohol. They never put any of these things before their love for us, but in their attempts to escape their unhappiness, our family started to fall apart little by little. My brother and I began to fight and though we were once best friends, that seemed like a distant memory. The summer before my freshman year in high school it happened. They told us they were getting divorced. To be honest, I am surprised it didn’t happen earlier. I was upset. Still, I knew it was the right thing. People have tried to tell me that divorce is wrong. In a sense it is. It is wrong to have a family endure everything a divorce entails, but until you have gone through it, you don’t know how it feels. My parents needed a divorce. For the sake of my brother and I, and for the sake of their happiness, they needed a divorce.

5 years later I can’t help but be appreciative at everything that has happened since then. My relationships with both of my parents have been drastically improved and strengthened. Lance and I have grown closer again, and both of my parents are in happy marriages. Healthy marriages. I also found God. I mean, I really found God. I am lucky for everything to have turned out so well. I know that with some of my friends, divorce has been much uglier, and has resulted in them dealing with the negativity for years and years afterwards. It is apart of me, and will be apart of me for the rest of my life, but it was a blessing in disguise. Trust me.

We’ve had our problems. But God has always got us through them. He has always helped us in a time of need, and I have no doubt the same will be true with Lance. Because even though my family has had problems and was broken at one time, we are still tied together by our boundless love. I can list off the problems my family and I had to deal with throughout my 20 years of existence, but doing so would ignore the beauty, mystery, and love that my family has also experienced. We have seen astounding places in the world, they have supported me at every field hockey game, we have watched Denver Broncos games together, yelling until our voices were sore, we have laughed during family game nights, and we have shared our dreams. And of course, we always had (and still do) our interesting political debates. Even now, as a self-proclaimed democrat, who admires Obama like woah, the debates are still good. Actually, they are better. There’s nothing like hard-core Republicans criticizing the newly converted liberal.

This to will pass. Lance is going to be okay, and even though he may be hurting now, I am hoping this will be a wake up call for him. I am realizing just how important my family is to me. Despite the imperfections, the problems, and the silly drama every now and then, I realize that no family is perfect. That’s completely beside the point anyway. My family is about love, and no matter how hard it gets, I can’t ever forget that.

The best part about family? It keeps getting bigger. Not because of my extraordinarily large step and extended family, but because of the people that are entering my life. My friends are apart of my family, and to me, that is a beautiful thing. It just keeps getting better.

You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them. --
Desmond Tutu

photograph

It’s hard to look through photographs and not smile. It could be the awkward middle school days, of weird clothing, glasses, and braces. Or maybe it’s that picture with your dad, his strong and comforting arms waiting for your arrival down the slide at the park. Pictures evoke emotion, memories, and nostalgia. Often times, I have found this emotion to be unprecedented, like a tidal wave has overcome me with feelings I didn’t know I had.

Over break I went through lots and lots of pictures. I have always been a “picture person”, keeping pictures of everything all over my room. I decided it was time to clear through the mess and find the pictures that I really loved. There was one picture in particular that I found that I had never seen before. I remember the park pretty clearly in my mind, or at least I used to. From the beginnings of my preschool days I would have sworn to you that the park was called “Heather’s Park.” This was not in labor to sound conceded or stuck up, literally my daddy told me the park was named for me, and as silly as it seems now, I believed him. I believed him because I believe everything he says. He is my dad, and in some ways I have always had this unyielding adoration for him. In this picture, we are at “Heather’s Park” and if I close my eyes I can almost take myself back there. The sweet scent of grass after it has just been perfectly manicured, the scratchy and itchy feeling of the sand against my small bare feet, the chirping of the birds, chirping as though they are singing about the beauty of cool Colorado summers. I remember it all. My dad has his typical shorts and tee and a baseball cap on, as for myself, I was wearing one of many colorful flowery outfits that I loved as a child. I am coming down the slide. I’m guessing I was going pretty fast—I was a pretty adventurous child, and I can’t imagine myself not wanting to go down the slide at a ridiculous speed for a tiny 40 lb. child. I have a grin on my face—one of those grins where you can see everything, even the tiny gaps from missing teeth that the tooth fairy has already come to fetch. I am truly happy, and when I look at that picture I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of love from my dad. I went and showed him the photo after I found it and he chuckled to himself. “Those were the days,” he slowly remarked with a sly grin, “the days where you were even crazier than you are now.” I laughed and we embraced, and I couldn’t remember when I had ever loved my father more than in that moment.

Everything changes. This is a good thing. Without change, we could not grow, and without change, God could not work in our lives. Complacency is appropriate at times, but I think when it comes to living you can only be complacent to a point. It’s important to be satisfied for what you have, because God puts everything in our lives for a reason. But I think there is also a point where you recognize that things will not be the same forever, and you have to enjoy that moment for what it is, cherish it, and embrace the future. Photographs, I think sometimes bring me back to the past and I long for what once was. Yet, things cannot be the exact same as they were before. I want photographs to be representative of beautiful times in my life, and allow me to realize the great blessings I have had, but I don’t want them to be tools for me to avoid living in the now. I think sometimes when you are brought back to the past, you can scrape off the edges. Your past and memories can be remembered in a better light because the days and days and years and years slowly wipe away at the emotions you don’t want to remember. I cant tell you this first hand. I vaguely remember the tough times, and when I think of them, I quickly put them out of sight. I take out a photograph of my family that was once together and I try and remember what that was like. Before we were broken. Reflection is a wonderful thing. A needed thing. But, when I think back on the past I want it to be because I am embracing the future, not because I am living a life of regret for what did or did not happen. Everyone says it. Live for today. But words are just words until they are put into action.

I love photographs, that much is clear. Come to my dorm room and look at the 6 x 6 wall of photos I have hanging up. Come to both of my homes in Colorado and you will find pictures all over the house. Heck, go to my facebook and you’ll see that I have well over a 1,000 pictures online. I love photographs because there is something beautiful about snapping a memory. I love photographs because you can reminisce about the crazy times you once had, or look back and remember when you get to a point that remembering isn’t as easy as it once was.

Because when I look at the picture of my dad and I, I remember. I remember his arms catching me as I came down the slide, enveloping me into a great big bear hug, and his words ringing softly into my tiny ear, “I love you.” That is the beauty of photographs. Being able to tell a story of emotions that will never be forgotten. I love you. I love you. I love you. That is unforgettable.

spiritual autobiography: climbing the mountain of faith

I wrote a spiritual autobiography over a month ago. I deeply enjoyed writing it; it challenged me, and also allowed me to really see how God has been working in my life. It may not be best work to date, but I loved the experience. Dr. McDaniel simply said to write about our spiritual or religious experiences in our lives. This is what I came up with.

Climbing the Mountain of Faith

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me’.” – Matthew 25:40

I grew up in a place where love was easy. There was the unrequited love from my dysfunctional, yet somehow perfect family, the adoring, unyielding love from my dog, and the “I love you no matter how weird you are” love from my friends. Yet, love in my life extended well beyond relationships. My whole existence, from the earliest moments of youth, to the rebellious days of being a teen, had one important continuity: my love for the outdoors. As a 10 year old wanting to prove my acquisition of independence, I would ride my bike down the shady sidewalks of suburbia and would feel the cool Colorado air against my face. I felt free. My countless trips to the Rocky Mountains helped me realize the passion for nature’s splendor that I have always had. The smell of mountain rivers and the serenity of small mountain towns has fascinated me since I was young. My brother and I would run unreservedly and barefoot along the river bank in Frisco, Colorado and I would glance up and become mesmerized by the magnificent mountain encompassed by the pure blue sky. I experienced moments of awe; I was in the presence of something much bigger than myself. Of course, there were the soccer fields too. I could never forget how my dad would yell for me, “the bulldog”, as I aggressively pushed through the swarms of girls trying to get to the ball. The grass stains were notorious in the Newell household; we loved “being one” with nature at every possible opportunity, even if it meant falling face first in the grass. All of this love made growing up so fun and meaningful. It is a major part of who I was as a child, who I am today, who I am becoming. Yet, it was not until the later stage of my crazy teen years that I actually came to form my own worldview. It was not until my teen years that I fell in love with Jesus Christ.
It seems weird looking back now. How could I have grown up with so much love in my life, and not realize how deeply love was intertwined into my existence? I only went to church on the important days, like Christmas and Easter, during the years when I was younger. Though I had the belief of a supreme being instilled in my mind, I had no idea what that meant. To me, Jesus and God seemed like very cool ideas. Like, about as cool as getting ice cream from the ice cream truck. It was all so hypothetical to me. Most of my religious experiences did not provide all of the roots that I would really need to grasp the idea of God.
This all changed my freshman year of high school. My family experienced a divorce, I had a minimal sense of identity, and became lost among the social norms of high school and teenhood. Soon after though, I found myself in the warm, hospitable presence of something divine and extraordinary. We started going to church regularly, and at the Christmas Eve midnight candlelight service my heart opened. I finally let God in. It wasn’t Him that had been missing my whole life; He had been there the whole time. Before, even with all the love surrounding me, I never felt apart of something so remarkable. I didn’t sense or feel God—God ruled from above, and to me, the separation was distinct. As I sang that night, I felt differently, and I knew that Jesus was my Savior. My whole existence—physical, emotional, spiritual, mental—was flooded with indescribable emotion. My notion of love amplified to the biggest degree imaginable; this was more than just the love of family, the love of nature, or even the love of others, this was the love of Jesus. For once, love could not be boxed in or defined, it was simply just there.
Once I became a believer, it wasn’t as though I transformed overnight. Believe it or not, I didn’t become a healer for the sick, I didn’t have further revelations of the good news, and I certainly didn’t behave any better. In fact, coming to understand what being a follower of Jesus entails has taken much longer. Slowly though, I did begin to develop perceptions of the world, and how I wanted to live my life. The most inspirational part of Christianity, to me, is how Jesus lived his life. He saw no social constructs; he saw no “other”. His ministry revolved around loving all people. I have found great inspiration from this because the Bible tells us, “Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit” (1 Corinthians 12:4). Through life experiences, I have found that my spiritual gifts are to serve and develop relationships with others. Specifically, I have found my calling in loving the less fortunate and building relationships with those who often times have been rejected from society. I feel strongly this calling exists because when I am with the homeless and the poor I sometimes struggle to find the right words to say. Somehow though, God provides and the words flow.
I remember having a conversation with a woman I met in Birmingham. I was with a group from Hendrix, and we were helping serve breakfast as apart of a church’s homeless ministry. She walked into the room with such radiance. Her smile was electrifying and she lit up the entire room. She sat down at a table to eat breakfast, and I felt compelled to join her. This woman, Rosalyn, spoke to me about her journey through life and conversely wanted to know mine. God was there in that moment. He blessed that conversation, and I think back on that experience as validation for what the rest of my life could look like. I feel like in these moments I am genuinely living from the center and experiencing a moment of what Buddhists might call karma yoga. By extending my heart outwards to those around me, I feel complete. The doing of selfless action helps me grow closer to not just that individual, but to God as well. By serving others I am inherently serving God. I feel that when I am in service, I am closest to sympathetically conforming to the mind of Christ.
One notion that I have come to experience through the grace of God is the mystery of his ubiquity. When I first started exploring my relationship with God, I thought I had God all figured out. Of course, in delving deeper into a spiritual communion with God, this could not be the furthest from the truth. I have come to acknowledge that God is infinite, while the world is finite. I cannot put the power or love of God into a few measly sentences. God is much bigger than we can even know. This has become the stepping stone to giving meaning to my worldview and life; because God is everywhere, everything is apart of Him. I recognize God in people, in things, in nature, and throughout the hustle and bustle of everyday life. This has allowed me to grow more intimately with Him because I know He is with me at all times, through the good and the bad. I trust that He has provided the people and situations in my life because He has a plan for me. It’s overwhelming, astounding, and filled with His loving hand of grace, and it makes me fall in love with Him all over again everyday. Because I can feel God in most anything, I have developed more of an inner peace. Little things do not bother me so much, and I can be myself. I am happier. I am kinder. I am more grateful. And even when life feels unbearable, I know He is with me every step of the way.
Wu wei, a Daoist term, oddly enough can describe a lot of how I feel in the presence of God. When I am praying, singing, or even just living in the moment, I feel an incredible burst of spontaneity. Not spontaneous in the sense where you might randomly go on a two- hour road trip, but in the sense that my self-desire falls away and I am just living—it is when I am genuinely, wholly me. When nothing is calculated, and I am just as I am. This past summer I made the decision to be baptized. I felt it was a necessary step for me in my journey of faith; I was ready to make an outward commitment to God. As the words of my proclamation flowed out of my mouth to the congregation looking on, my pastor unhurriedly dipped me in the water. It felt like the most natural thing in the entire world. Just me and God. I hold that moment dear to my heart because it was one of the most intimate moments I have ever had with God.
One of my favorite passages in the Bible is from Psalm 23: “the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul.” I love that God restores my soul. I have felt renewal and restoration many times in my life. One point of restoration has come more recently, particularly in regards to my notion of Christianity. My perception of Christianity has always been apart of the exclusivist approach. I was under the impression that heaven was a glorious place reserved for Christians. For only Christians. I didn’t consider the value of other religions. I thought that my path in believing in God was the truth, the only truth. I began to be exposed to people different from me. People who lived life so beautifully and yet they weren’t Christians. Or maybe they were Christians but were considered “radical Christians”. Apparently you can be Christian and a Democrat. Or maybe they didn’t even profess a religion. Whatever they were, they were different. How could I reconcile this beauty with my belief that Christianity was the only way? God is bigger than Christianity. I began to question how my worldview actually fits in with the world, and this discovery has led me to believe that there are many paths up the steep mountain to God. Christianity cannot be the only way. God loves all of creation. Jesus is one way to the Father, I just happen to think that there are many ways. I love that Jesus is my way. I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for it.
I don’t have all the answers. After growing with God for the past six years I have not only recognized this, but have accepted this. Still, I believe I have begun to tap into the magnificence of faith. I have found that my faith is not only having faith in God and His love for the world, but also having faith in people. My grandma, Genevra Rose Newell, demonstrates to me what having faith in people is all about through how she lives her life. She treats everyone she meets with fierce compassion, and she would do anything for the people she loves. Every Wednesday when I was young, we would walk hand in hand around the park to feed the geese with wonderbread. It was a spiritual experience for her; she valued spending time with loved ones more than anything in the world, and being able to do this outside in nature brought the most heartwarming smile to her face. Her smile was like her heart being projected to the outside world, vulnerable and yet unwaveringly passionate. She would talk to me about anything and everything. I remember her telling me about life and all the great things I could encounter. She believed in me, and told me I could do anything as long as my heart was in the right place. I think she was talking about God. I think she wanted me to find Him. Now that I have, I am eager to grow in my relationship with God and discover and experience the plan He has for me. The journey has been long, rough, and difficult at times. But it is my life, and the glory of God always wins. He is taking me somewhere inconceivable, so really, the spiritual journey has just begun.