This week=20 hours of work, plus full-time school, plus a social life. Me=Pooped. Today was stressful above-average. That may have had something to do with the fact that I saw a dead body before 9 a.m. Or it may be that my 24 oz. to-go mug of home-brewed morning roast coffee and hazlenut creamer just didn't fully wake me up. Too much homework? Or is it the fact that I went on a date last night and despite my fervent hints at being "exhausted", he kept me out to 10:30 p.m. playing tennis, eating frozen yogurt, and talking? Yeah, I'm spoiled.
Regardless, at the end of the day, I've lived a full day. I can tuck up the covers and know my rest is well-deserved. Except...I forgot to put my laundry in the dryer. Crap. Well, honestly at this level of exhaustion, I don't need sheets; I could fall asleep on solid wood. I certainly proved that in church tonight (oops)....
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Blogging Again! What I've been doing for the last 5 years....
For the past five years I've written pretty much every night. I'd get through my day and I'd make a decision - do I pillow my head and be unable to recall tomorrow what I did today - or do I write about it? So although I haven't written here, I've written. Page after page - now collecting dust in wide-ruled 10 cent notebooks in my parents attic. It has driven me and constantly made me think - wait, could I be doing more with my life? I don't live at my parents anymore. Yay - I can finally say that! I can also say that I've broken up and been broken up with. I've "dropped out" of college and gone back to college. I've been a financial counselor, a translator, a nanny, a photographer, a tutor, a barista, a billionaire - o wait, not that last one.
I can't write about the last 5 years. I like to write every night for a reason - undiagnosed short-term memory loss! But I CAN write about today. Today I bumped into an old friend - ok a really cute old classmate. He reminded me of freshman year, cutting up in class, writing lame sonnets to each other, always giving the English 103 literature teacher a different interpretation to "chew" on that he had never heard before. Nate asked me out to an artist series event but I had already agreed to go with someone else. I always wondered, how would that night have gone differently if I had just said - what the heck, you're more fun? Instead, my date accidentally took me to the men's restroom line and I ended up getting felt up that night by a guy who thought my leg was his girlfriend's leg. I think I deserve a do-over.
Anyway, eventually, he got in his circle and I got in mine and I forgot about him until last week when I ran into him while I was on a date (I tried to act like I didn't see him). Then today in a coffee shop I ran into him again, swallowed my pride, and said hey. It was like the sun rose twice today - he just brightened up my day. Then I ran across his blog tonight -- it's just as old as mine is. I forgot how good he was at writing and it inspired me. It made me think....why not share what I'm writing since I'm going to write anyways. There's really no point in hiding it - I've become sickeningly interesting with all my insights on life - it's a little selfish to keep that to myself, don't you agree? :)
Where I am now, I'm a little starved for people. Like, there are people everywhere, but then again they are just masses of PEOPLE - everywhere. When I ran into Nate tonight, I'm just positive I was too much. His energy fed off my energy and vice versa and it was like an atomic bomb of energy. I'm so used to being around people that lately in the last couple weeks I'm just WEIRD around people. I'm too excited to be their friend! I probably shouldn't be working at a funeral home.... Oh yeah, I work at a funeral home now. Relax, I work at a cubicle writing obituaries. I confess- I just started working there and I still get a little freaked out. But it's a job! Still, no late hours for this girl!!
The crazy thing with my whole mulling over friendships is that I'm totally cool with solitarity. I like my space...my independence. I almost like my plain-Jane moments with my notebook and my coffee and my old glasses. In that moment I'm free to be anything. I'm not cut from a mold or desiring the interference of society to form me into a certain trophy. But then again, I need people. When I'm with people - my world brightens! I see purpose in the world - to help others. I am thrilled to be recognized, to build relationships, and to make a difference. Some (like my brother's dumb friend) would say that's a defect - a flaw. I'd say it's who I am. I'd say that people are my life. THere is nothing sadder in my mind than wasting a day. A day filled with ONLY knowledge and education and training and money is a day lost. A day forging relationships is a day I can leave behind, confident that it's ok if it's my last.
Oh my. My brother's friend just texted me and said his new plan to woo girls is - "Look nice, smell nice, BE nice." This is the same friend that brought peach pie over tonight for movie night. I literally felt like I was selling my body in return for peach pie. To me there is nothing attractive about sweatpants and a t-shirt (which is why I wore them!). But he had already seen the movie and was just....watching me. I even called him out on it and then he spends the rest of the night texting me telling me all my flaws and how he's totally over me now.
There will always be haters. There will be those people that want you to be just like them. I say break free, don't be pottery - mold it, don't chase dreams - make dreams come true for others, don't divide your heart - multiply it.
I can't write about the last 5 years. I like to write every night for a reason - undiagnosed short-term memory loss! But I CAN write about today. Today I bumped into an old friend - ok a really cute old classmate. He reminded me of freshman year, cutting up in class, writing lame sonnets to each other, always giving the English 103 literature teacher a different interpretation to "chew" on that he had never heard before. Nate asked me out to an artist series event but I had already agreed to go with someone else. I always wondered, how would that night have gone differently if I had just said - what the heck, you're more fun? Instead, my date accidentally took me to the men's restroom line and I ended up getting felt up that night by a guy who thought my leg was his girlfriend's leg. I think I deserve a do-over.
Anyway, eventually, he got in his circle and I got in mine and I forgot about him until last week when I ran into him while I was on a date (I tried to act like I didn't see him). Then today in a coffee shop I ran into him again, swallowed my pride, and said hey. It was like the sun rose twice today - he just brightened up my day. Then I ran across his blog tonight -- it's just as old as mine is. I forgot how good he was at writing and it inspired me. It made me think....why not share what I'm writing since I'm going to write anyways. There's really no point in hiding it - I've become sickeningly interesting with all my insights on life - it's a little selfish to keep that to myself, don't you agree? :)
Where I am now, I'm a little starved for people. Like, there are people everywhere, but then again they are just masses of PEOPLE - everywhere. When I ran into Nate tonight, I'm just positive I was too much. His energy fed off my energy and vice versa and it was like an atomic bomb of energy. I'm so used to being around people that lately in the last couple weeks I'm just WEIRD around people. I'm too excited to be their friend! I probably shouldn't be working at a funeral home.... Oh yeah, I work at a funeral home now. Relax, I work at a cubicle writing obituaries. I confess- I just started working there and I still get a little freaked out. But it's a job! Still, no late hours for this girl!!
The crazy thing with my whole mulling over friendships is that I'm totally cool with solitarity. I like my space...my independence. I almost like my plain-Jane moments with my notebook and my coffee and my old glasses. In that moment I'm free to be anything. I'm not cut from a mold or desiring the interference of society to form me into a certain trophy. But then again, I need people. When I'm with people - my world brightens! I see purpose in the world - to help others. I am thrilled to be recognized, to build relationships, and to make a difference. Some (like my brother's dumb friend) would say that's a defect - a flaw. I'd say it's who I am. I'd say that people are my life. THere is nothing sadder in my mind than wasting a day. A day filled with ONLY knowledge and education and training and money is a day lost. A day forging relationships is a day I can leave behind, confident that it's ok if it's my last.
Oh my. My brother's friend just texted me and said his new plan to woo girls is - "Look nice, smell nice, BE nice." This is the same friend that brought peach pie over tonight for movie night. I literally felt like I was selling my body in return for peach pie. To me there is nothing attractive about sweatpants and a t-shirt (which is why I wore them!). But he had already seen the movie and was just....watching me. I even called him out on it and then he spends the rest of the night texting me telling me all my flaws and how he's totally over me now.
There will always be haters. There will be those people that want you to be just like them. I say break free, don't be pottery - mold it, don't chase dreams - make dreams come true for others, don't divide your heart - multiply it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Spoiler alert
A lot of my mornings are quiet now. I wake up late, and I don't go to work, because for the first time since eleventh grade, I'm not working a minimum-wage job. You could say I'm having a two month vacation from life-- college, bills, parents, and fast food restaurants that crave my employment-- a vacation from all of it while I stay at my sisters.
Ironically, when I'm not faced with stressful home quarters or college schedules or urgent bills that disappointingly look like checks, I don't really want to write. What is there to scream out against or rally to the cause for? For these two months, I've ridden on a virtual free ride of late mornings, poker nights, holding my baby niece, back-to-back seasons of monk, the office, friends, CSI.... All things I would dream of once I finally fell into bed at 2 a.m. after work during this last year of college. And yet, now that most conflict is gone, I don't feel the need to fight or be challenged or the passion to write.
When I look at my sister, I understand her reason to write. I've always blogged about crap. But she never even considered a blog account until she had a reason to write. That little reason that has her writing also has her up at painfully dark hours, calming her little reason while throwup leaks down her shirt and into her hair, and has her twisting her back at impossible angles to be the perfect everything to everyone when I know all she wants is time with her little girl.
Anyways, that should explain why I haven't been writing even though I have endless time on my hands. Yes, be jealous all you want, but it's back to reality in two weeks and I'm sure I'll have plenty of heated things to say about the job market, and the horrors of living at home at the age of 20, and how exciting single life is supposed to be, bla bla bla. Now that I look back on all this, I get the sense that I am incredibly spoiled. Maybe.
Ironically, when I'm not faced with stressful home quarters or college schedules or urgent bills that disappointingly look like checks, I don't really want to write. What is there to scream out against or rally to the cause for? For these two months, I've ridden on a virtual free ride of late mornings, poker nights, holding my baby niece, back-to-back seasons of monk, the office, friends, CSI.... All things I would dream of once I finally fell into bed at 2 a.m. after work during this last year of college. And yet, now that most conflict is gone, I don't feel the need to fight or be challenged or the passion to write.
When I look at my sister, I understand her reason to write. I've always blogged about crap. But she never even considered a blog account until she had a reason to write. That little reason that has her writing also has her up at painfully dark hours, calming her little reason while throwup leaks down her shirt and into her hair, and has her twisting her back at impossible angles to be the perfect everything to everyone when I know all she wants is time with her little girl.
Anyways, that should explain why I haven't been writing even though I have endless time on my hands. Yes, be jealous all you want, but it's back to reality in two weeks and I'm sure I'll have plenty of heated things to say about the job market, and the horrors of living at home at the age of 20, and how exciting single life is supposed to be, bla bla bla. Now that I look back on all this, I get the sense that I am incredibly spoiled. Maybe.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
New Faces
The day a baby is born, someone in the family looks beyond the scrawny legs and blue-veined skin and begins peering at that baby, trying to deduce who in the family she looks like. Meet Addison--the carbon copy of my sister, her mother.
My sister likes to think Addison got her stubborness from her. I'll give her that. Never have I met a more stubborn person than my sister. I had to laugh when I heard her telling Addison that she might be just as stubborn as her mommy, but mommy is bigger and has the advantage. But where does she get her expressiveness from? Maybe Aunt Andi? Regardless, nannying today went well. Quiet and agreeable--so that was a nice change from last night when I witnessed her vomit into my sisters arms about three times and then deliver an astoundingly dirty diaper which I think I will be able to smell all week. While I looked on in flinching horror, I couldn't help but be impressed by her mother. Patient. Just rocking her back and forth and giving her all the pity she could desire. So I was thankful that Addison decided to reflect that attribute of her mother today. Patience.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Knowing your fears
I am terrified.
The emergency numbers are on the table, and beside it is my cellphone, and then beside that is a back up cellphone in case the first one doesn't work. A signed paper is in a bag, verifying that I have the right to request medical treatment. This sits beside a box of special equipment I need to grab if there are problems. I would prefer that thunder is crashing around me, ominous darkness threatens the view of the mountains outside the bay window, or a dark-clothed figure is breaking down the door. But, alas no. Instead, deceptively calming nursery songs are playing, the low hum of oxygen rumbles in the kitchen, and the click-click of a swing rocking back and forth attempts to lull me into a false sense of security. And within that swing, lies the source of my fear-- all nine pounds and some odd ounces of her.
"Hah, Addison," I say as I plop myself on a couch directly opposite her. "Now if you sneeze, I'll know," I warn, watching her intently. She doesn't seem to care, as she stares in fascination up toward the whiny bell music that is coming from her swing. She clutches the oxygen tube coming from her nose, and I take out a book and pretend to read.
In my head, I've been writing about Addison for about two weeks. This year when I first wanted to write about Addison, I wrote an article about her for my column in my university newspaper. But I was limited to 500 words, and frankly realized that the four thousand other students my age would probably be too focused on studies, dating, and career seminars to care about a baby born with special needs. I was wrong, though. People were fascinated with a baby who constantly fought against the odds of pulmonary hyptertension, transient lukemia, two holes in her heart, and down syndrome and would ask me for updates and stop by my dorm door to see new pictures. All year I had been recieving updates on Addison from a distance, praying for her, and getting excited to see her and it was two weeks ago around the time of exams that I began realizing with some alarm that in a matter of days I would be able to give others the udpates, since I would be nannying her for two months.
So here I am. Changing diapers for the first time and holding and bottle feeding a baby for the first time. All while watching my sister, who tells me laughingly, "I'm no baby expert either. I only started learning three and a half months ago."
The emergency numbers are on the table, and beside it is my cellphone, and then beside that is a back up cellphone in case the first one doesn't work. A signed paper is in a bag, verifying that I have the right to request medical treatment. This sits beside a box of special equipment I need to grab if there are problems. I would prefer that thunder is crashing around me, ominous darkness threatens the view of the mountains outside the bay window, or a dark-clothed figure is breaking down the door. But, alas no. Instead, deceptively calming nursery songs are playing, the low hum of oxygen rumbles in the kitchen, and the click-click of a swing rocking back and forth attempts to lull me into a false sense of security. And within that swing, lies the source of my fear-- all nine pounds and some odd ounces of her.
"Hah, Addison," I say as I plop myself on a couch directly opposite her. "Now if you sneeze, I'll know," I warn, watching her intently. She doesn't seem to care, as she stares in fascination up toward the whiny bell music that is coming from her swing. She clutches the oxygen tube coming from her nose, and I take out a book and pretend to read.
She whimpers and I come half way out of my chair. "Please, go to sleep," I beg. Five minutes later, I witness only slightly delayed obedience. I've been with her for four days now, but this is the first time I have been left alone to be solely responsible for the life of a tiny little miracle.
In my head, I've been writing about Addison for about two weeks. This year when I first wanted to write about Addison, I wrote an article about her for my column in my university newspaper. But I was limited to 500 words, and frankly realized that the four thousand other students my age would probably be too focused on studies, dating, and career seminars to care about a baby born with special needs. I was wrong, though. People were fascinated with a baby who constantly fought against the odds of pulmonary hyptertension, transient lukemia, two holes in her heart, and down syndrome and would ask me for updates and stop by my dorm door to see new pictures. All year I had been recieving updates on Addison from a distance, praying for her, and getting excited to see her and it was two weeks ago around the time of exams that I began realizing with some alarm that in a matter of days I would be able to give others the udpates, since I would be nannying her for two months.
So here I am. Changing diapers for the first time and holding and bottle feeding a baby for the first time. All while watching my sister, who tells me laughingly, "I'm no baby expert either. I only started learning three and a half months ago."
I've never been much of a baby person and lately I've had that "ew" expression on my face, simply blown away by the large noises, sounds, and smells a baby can produce. But my favorite part is watching the way people react to Addison, with tons of baby faces and questions, and watching how resilient and flexible my sister has been, even after Addison's heart surgery in Boston this last week. The fact that she's back at work while I'm here with Addison is an obvious testimony to that.
So I guess this is another thing on my list that I've never done before and thought I could never do. It was Saturday morning cartoons that gave me an interesting perspective on overcoming your fears. I was just walking by the television when I caught a phrase from one of those hopelessly uninteresting blue bunny characters. "Well the more you know about something, the less you'll be scared of it!"
One extremely messy diaper, change of clothes and long bottle feeding later, and I'm sure I'm well on my way to knowing Miss Addison.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Due to the lameness of my URL...
Go ahead and check out my new blog for new posts - denialin.blogspot
Sunday, June 21, 2009
02/15/09
02/15/09
At Vespers I was randomly seated beside an older woman in our huge university amphitorium. While we were waiting for the ‘show’ to start, the woman started an interesting conversation with me.
“Are you a dorm student?” she asked with wide, kind eyes.
“Yes. I live in Sunday.”
“Ah! Nell Sunday! I lived there for 2 years!”
“When you were a student?” I prodded.
“Yes. I had the room that had 6 windows, right in the middle of the hall on third floor.”
“I’m on third floor!”
She continued,“Nobody wanted that room because the middle room had to answer the one phone on the hall.”
“Wait, there was only one phone? For the entire hall?”
“Yep.”
“So I imagine that was crazy with boys calling girls all the time.”
“Oh, no! Boys never called the girls! That phone was just for calling home! No, boys would send us notes through note mail.”
“Note mail? Like the P.O. box?”
“No, note mail.”
“Oh, like night mail! Wow, nobody sends notes anymore. Generally people send candy and dating invitations.”
“My {the name of the old gentleman seated next to her} wrote me a note every day.”
“Aw, that’s really sweet. How did you two meet?”
“Dining Common. Back then we had required seats in the Dining Common and we were served family style. Then when dating couples would walk back from the dining common they would follow the date line.”
“The date line?”
She nodded knowingly, “Or they called it the snail trail. Back in that day couples weren’t allowed to loiter after dinner. The boys were to walk their dates back to their dorms and then say goodbye. So dating couples would walk that treck real slow.”
I never caught the woman’s name.
Right after the show ended and I bidded the woman adieu, I ran to Nell Sunday where I was supposed to wait for my extension ride to a Nursing home.
I went with my friend Katrina, who confessed she was nervous because she worried that people down south didn’t like people with brown skin and wouldn’t like her, a native of Guam, in the nursing home. The minute we walked in, I wanted to laugh, because a huge white woman in a white chair right in front of the door was holding a black baby doll. As we proceeded through the crummy, run-down nursing home, I saw Katrina’s eyes brighten as she saw that most of the nurse’s were African American.
A little service of people collected in the dining room of the Nursing Home and we were almost immediately greeted by a woman who insisted ‘we girls’ give her a big hug. I was the second to hug the woman, which meant that when the hug broke off Katrina had moved on, but I asked her what her name was. She gave me a long drawn out name and from that I remember only ‘Julie’. She was such a character. Not very old. “Guess how old I am?” she was excited to ask.
“41,” I teased.
“Hah. I wish. 57.”
Really quite young for a nursing home. I learned later that she had been abused by her husband who pushed her down the stairs and gave her brain damage.
As we sang, she leaned over and solemnly said, “You and I, we make quite a team.”
Then, from her messy little compartment underneath her walker, she pulled out a small ziploc bag of candy and said, “Here.”
“Did you want me to open it for you?”
“Naw it’s fer you, hun.”
She had a southern accent.
The preacher got up, a young seminary guy full of wind and pomp, and began to preach on the role of the Church. I looked around at the drooling faces sagging in every possible way – all shadows of the past – and wanted to laugh that the sermon was about Peter and the role of the Church.
But Julie didn’t seem to mind. She raised her hand to share with us a poem about Heaven being a beautiful place that she was going to some day. She ended her “free verse poem” with some comment about the wonderful Bob Jones University students. The seminary leaders of the extension squirmed before her simple words, looking uncomfortable and impatient, like little boys getting scolded.
As the sermon progressed, she got out her pictures and showed me a picture of her and a startlingly old woman.
“This,” she pointed with delight, “Is my roommate!” I had a sudden picture of me and my roommates and found irony in her joy over a 96 year old woman and my attitude toward my young roommates. “Here, you can keep this picture.”
My collection of things from her was beginning to grow.
She leaned over half-way through the sermon and asked me, “Are you datin a boy?”
I laughed, “Nope, I’m as single as they come.”
“Whal, I have me a man. His name is Marvin. He’d be here but he’s upstairs because his left side is paralyzed. But he told me the other day that he loves me.” She held my hand as she said this and I didn’t really mind.
“It’s nice to be loved,” I added impartially.
“You pray for me and Marvin and I’ll pray that you will find yourself a man.”
All of this, said so solemnly, so slowly, with that sweet southern drawl. And yet, she had fire in her. She had a desire to live and I heard it in her voice when she told me she was divorcing her husband.
But then she was sweet again when she held up her Bible and said that some students of BJU had gotten together to get that for her and she never forgot it. I noticed it didn’t seemed to be used much, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she used another Bible for reading since the print in that one was so small.
“I’ll bring my glasses next time,” she told me reassuringly.
As we left, Katrina nudged me and whispered, “You coming back?”
“Yeah, if you are.”
“We have to! Did you hear that woman’s poem?? Oh, they need us!” Her blind enthusiasm made me smirk and our ride home was much more animated because there was actually something to discuss that we all had in common.Indeed, the ride home is always more animated.
At Vespers I was randomly seated beside an older woman in our huge university amphitorium. While we were waiting for the ‘show’ to start, the woman started an interesting conversation with me.
“Are you a dorm student?” she asked with wide, kind eyes.
“Yes. I live in Sunday.”
“Ah! Nell Sunday! I lived there for 2 years!”
“When you were a student?” I prodded.
“Yes. I had the room that had 6 windows, right in the middle of the hall on third floor.”
“I’m on third floor!”
She continued,“Nobody wanted that room because the middle room had to answer the one phone on the hall.”
“Wait, there was only one phone? For the entire hall?”
“Yep.”
“So I imagine that was crazy with boys calling girls all the time.”
“Oh, no! Boys never called the girls! That phone was just for calling home! No, boys would send us notes through note mail.”
“Note mail? Like the P.O. box?”
“No, note mail.”
“Oh, like night mail! Wow, nobody sends notes anymore. Generally people send candy and dating invitations.”
“My {the name of the old gentleman seated next to her} wrote me a note every day.”
“Aw, that’s really sweet. How did you two meet?”
“Dining Common. Back then we had required seats in the Dining Common and we were served family style. Then when dating couples would walk back from the dining common they would follow the date line.”
“The date line?”
She nodded knowingly, “Or they called it the snail trail. Back in that day couples weren’t allowed to loiter after dinner. The boys were to walk their dates back to their dorms and then say goodbye. So dating couples would walk that treck real slow.”
I never caught the woman’s name.
Right after the show ended and I bidded the woman adieu, I ran to Nell Sunday where I was supposed to wait for my extension ride to a Nursing home.
I went with my friend Katrina, who confessed she was nervous because she worried that people down south didn’t like people with brown skin and wouldn’t like her, a native of Guam, in the nursing home. The minute we walked in, I wanted to laugh, because a huge white woman in a white chair right in front of the door was holding a black baby doll. As we proceeded through the crummy, run-down nursing home, I saw Katrina’s eyes brighten as she saw that most of the nurse’s were African American.
A little service of people collected in the dining room of the Nursing Home and we were almost immediately greeted by a woman who insisted ‘we girls’ give her a big hug. I was the second to hug the woman, which meant that when the hug broke off Katrina had moved on, but I asked her what her name was. She gave me a long drawn out name and from that I remember only ‘Julie’. She was such a character. Not very old. “Guess how old I am?” she was excited to ask.
“41,” I teased.
“Hah. I wish. 57.”
Really quite young for a nursing home. I learned later that she had been abused by her husband who pushed her down the stairs and gave her brain damage.
As we sang, she leaned over and solemnly said, “You and I, we make quite a team.”
Then, from her messy little compartment underneath her walker, she pulled out a small ziploc bag of candy and said, “Here.”
“Did you want me to open it for you?”
“Naw it’s fer you, hun.”
She had a southern accent.
The preacher got up, a young seminary guy full of wind and pomp, and began to preach on the role of the Church. I looked around at the drooling faces sagging in every possible way – all shadows of the past – and wanted to laugh that the sermon was about Peter and the role of the Church.
But Julie didn’t seem to mind. She raised her hand to share with us a poem about Heaven being a beautiful place that she was going to some day. She ended her “free verse poem” with some comment about the wonderful Bob Jones University students. The seminary leaders of the extension squirmed before her simple words, looking uncomfortable and impatient, like little boys getting scolded.
As the sermon progressed, she got out her pictures and showed me a picture of her and a startlingly old woman.
“This,” she pointed with delight, “Is my roommate!” I had a sudden picture of me and my roommates and found irony in her joy over a 96 year old woman and my attitude toward my young roommates. “Here, you can keep this picture.”
My collection of things from her was beginning to grow.
She leaned over half-way through the sermon and asked me, “Are you datin a boy?”
I laughed, “Nope, I’m as single as they come.”
“Whal, I have me a man. His name is Marvin. He’d be here but he’s upstairs because his left side is paralyzed. But he told me the other day that he loves me.” She held my hand as she said this and I didn’t really mind.
“It’s nice to be loved,” I added impartially.
“You pray for me and Marvin and I’ll pray that you will find yourself a man.”
All of this, said so solemnly, so slowly, with that sweet southern drawl. And yet, she had fire in her. She had a desire to live and I heard it in her voice when she told me she was divorcing her husband.
But then she was sweet again when she held up her Bible and said that some students of BJU had gotten together to get that for her and she never forgot it. I noticed it didn’t seemed to be used much, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she used another Bible for reading since the print in that one was so small.
“I’ll bring my glasses next time,” she told me reassuringly.
As we left, Katrina nudged me and whispered, “You coming back?”
“Yeah, if you are.”
“We have to! Did you hear that woman’s poem?? Oh, they need us!” Her blind enthusiasm made me smirk and our ride home was much more animated because there was actually something to discuss that we all had in common.Indeed, the ride home is always more animated.
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