Land O' Lakes

Disclaimer: This post isn't about butter. Sorry for the misleading title :)





To me water is almost as important as air. I don't particularly like to drink water, which isn't a good thing because one day I will probably forget and dehydrate into a shrivled prune. I don't relish water in a glass. I yearn for the unbridled and untamed; sparkling and pure liquid crashing over the precipice of a waterfall or lapping along the shores of the sea. What I love the most are lakes. There is a quaint charm about lakes that I can't quite put into words. I was born in the landlocked state of West Virginia, but there was always a hidden desire within me for water, even if it was just a creek or pond. When my family moved to New York I was able to go to Camp Cherokee and indulge in the heartstopping beauty of Lake Saranac. I have fond memories of boat rides and canoe trips across that lake, discovering the picturesque islands. I remember camp fires at the edge of its clean and mysterious shoreline, singing camp songs and watching the sparks of the fire leap and frolic in the chilly night air. There is something so magical about a lake. During the day they are often crowded with boats, but when the sun begins to set and shadows tangle and mesh with fading rays of sunlight, a calmness enshrowds them that gives peace to the soul. One of my favorite things to do is sit on a dock at dusk and breathe in the scent of trees and campfires, listening to the tiny waves lapping the rocks and sand along the shore.

Today I drove with my mom to take our animals to the vet. Maine is such a beautiful state. We passed at least four lakes, and even though I was unable to stop and enjoy their beauty, I still felt the tug at my heart. I think there is some kind of magnetic field in every lake that pulls me to it, whispering my name in hushed tones that only I can hear. I love the water. I love skimming across its surface on a wakeboard or watching the silvery drops fall off my paddle as it breaks the serene surface next to my canoe. I have many beautiful memories on lakes. They will always be apart of me, and whenever I see one I will always long to drop whatever I am doing and embark on another adventure in its welcoming depths. I dream of one day owning a small cabin on a lake somewhere. Maybe just a dream, but then again, a lake to me is more dream than reality, an escape into the perfection of nature. . .

lesson in needlework

I wish it were socially acceptable for a 22-year-old to cry at the doctor's.

I've always had a big fear of needles. I'm not sure when it started, but it goes back a very long time. I think it might have something to do with the nurse who told me, as an inquisitive 5-year-old, that the shot wouldn't hurt. . . and we all know the ending to that story. I felt lied to. And from then on, I hated nurses, doctors and needles. I was usually a healthy child and didn't need to visit the doctor much. In fact, after I got most of the required shots, I don't think I went much at all. However, the times I did go, my parents actually bribed me. Now, that probably sounds ridiculous to most people, who by the age of maybe 8 have grown up enough to understand proper etiquette at the doctor's office, but it's true, I was bribed. When my parents decided they wanted to spend a year in Romania as missionaries I had to get more shots. The bribe? American Doll books I'd been wanting for quite some time.

My most embarrassing doctor's moment occurred at the age of 12. My parents wanted me to get blood work done to see if I had Celiac's Disease, something my mom had been diagnosed with. Needless to say, I wasn't enthused about the visit, but somehow found myself in the office. Please let me explain exactly why I do not like needles or blood work. Even though the actual pain is minimal, there is logic to my fear and loathing. First of all it's the prep work that begins the frightening process. The snapping of that terrible little armband that proceeds to cut off your circulation and make your veins juicy for the pricking. Then there is that quick swipe of alcohol, and before you know it, they're asking you silly questions that are supposed to distract you but don't, and you feel that sickening stab and all you can think about is that there is a giant needle in your arm and it shouldn't be there.

Back to my embarrassing moment. Of course they began to prep my arm for the savage injection, and fear began to overwhelm me. Most kids would probably have whined or asked how much it would hurt, but I responded in a much more direct manner: screaming and kicking. I wish I was making this up, but I'm not. I can't remember all of the details, probably because I have tried to erase the memory, but I do remember that my parents actually had to come into the room and hold me down while they took my blood. Yes, at 12 years old. The doctor asked my parents, and I quote, to 'Please control your daughter.' I'm quite sure he had much more to say, but I've also long since forgotten.

Fast forward 10 years. I've decided to spend some time in Honduras working as a missionary at an orphanage. There are of course medical precautions to my stay, including the consumption of malaria and typhoid pills, as well as shots and blood work. Yesterday I got my blood work done. I had been dreading the appointment ever since it was made, but knew it was essential and was determined to suck it up. I sat down in the chair, my body feeling a bit weak and my mind spinning at top speed. The nurse began pulling vials off of a small shelf, not one or two, FIVE. I wasn't sure if that meant I'd have to fill all five of them with my blood. . . I was hoping not. I waited. . . the dreadful prep work began and my arm throbbed beneath the arm band. Of course the questions began too and I felt the sickening jab of the needle and tried to concentrate on the fact that it would be over soon. I didn't even answer half of the questions because I was so intent on getting out of there. And I did, of course, without much damage, except that my arm did hurt.

I'm glad I've learned to suck it up when I have to. It would have been a bit silly to cry and scream, especially at 22. I've learned, and continue to do so, that life isn't always pleasant. That doesn't mean we have to make a big deal about it though. Really it means somethings are painful and difficult, but that's just part of living and in order to live life to the fullest, we have to take the bad with the good. I don't have to enjoy getting blood taken or shots, but I do have to do it, without a fuss. It's for my benefit anyway.

-Hannah

God's mercies are new every morning

A dark, stone steeple looms over the decaying city, a reminder of the grandeur of times gone by. I stare out my window, thoughts and worries mingling together as we drive by empty lots and ugly apartment buildings. I’m in Paterson, NJ, part of an impromptu visit to a friend from Southern. We’ve just spent a few hours at a park, which was a peaceful escape from the loud rap music and shouting that characterize other parts of the city. Her friends chatter in Dominican Spanish {I add Dominican because it means I struggle to understand the jokes or the words}. It’s been a crazy week and I can barely remember what’s happened, but I’ll try to recap for the sake of this blog.

Last Sunday: I graduated. It’s already a week ago, but it seems like it never happened. I remember waiting to hear my name and walking across the stage, and after that it was a blur of photos and goodbyes. My high school friend Di had flown in from Boston for the weekend, and my parents and aunt and uncle were also there.
My middle name should be nostalgia. I hold onto the precious memories of the past, clinging to them with determined fingers, hoping to at least retain shreds of what once was. I’m a spontaneous person, but change often fills me with sadness. My four years of college had come to a close. I wasn’t a freshman anymore, in fact, I was an alumna, which Southern kindly reminded me of with a silver key chain placed on my chair at graduation practice. Couldn’t they at least wait until I’d shaken hands and received my diploma? After graduation I headed home to pack. I say home because that is what Collegedale has become for me. Poplar #3. We’d had countless potlucks, game nights, late nights, study nights, friend nights . . . the memories were so sweet.

Post-graduation plans have included a trip to China to visit my friend Lu. I’d booked my ticket and been naive enough to think I could get a visa once I arrived in China. However, I soon realized the ridiculousness of that thought and found out I’d have to go to Washington, D.C. to apply for one at the embassy there. So I added yet another thing to my to-do list. Thursday came. My car was packed and I was ready to head home. I hung out with Michelle and Ana all day, with a few quick goodbyes here and there. The plan was to drive all night and arrive in D.C. in the morning.

Why do all good things come to an end? I got in my car, said my last goodbyes and hugged people I wouldn’t see for a year, and started the long drive. A strange sadness crept through my body as I drove away from so many happy memories. That night was horrible. I was so tired, and even though I tried to play upbeat music to stay awake, my eyes were heavy and dry. I had to pull over and nap at least three times, but I finally made it to D.C.
Let me just say that GPS saved my life that day. The Chinese embassy had relocated so I drove to the new location, in traffic that might have once frightened me and would still give my mother a heart attack. As I crossed the road, excitement filled me, and I said a quick prayer that God would work out all of this visa nonsense. After a long night of driving and little sleep, I was in a surprisingly good mood; however, the door to the embassy was shut and on it was a note saying they were closed for the day. I wanted to laugh, but that emotion was short lived because I quickly felt discouragement overwhelming me.
So, a quick phone call led me to Paterson where I’ve been spending the weekend with my friend Shirley and her family.

LATER: Monday I took a bus into NYC to give it one last shot. I got to the embassy at 11:30 and the lines were quite long. I found the express line after some confusion, and realized they were actually giving out same-day rush service visas, even though I’d heard it would take at least 4-6 days. I was afraid to get my hopes up, but I immediately began to pray that if it was God’s will, that He would enable me to get a visa. I quickly made friends with the man in front of my and the girl behind me. The hours in line went by quickly and I forgot my hungry stomach and tired feet. I kept praying. Someone told us they would probably make us come back the next day, but I kept hoping God would work a miracle. Finally it was my turn and I crossed my fingers as I explained that my flight was supposed to leave the next day. The lady didn’t even seem to hear me. She signed a receipt and I asked her incredulously if she’d given me a same-day visa. It was too good to be true. I high-fived my friend, taking one last look at her in her tan hat, aviators and purple streaked hair.
God is good.
I’m in my friend’s apartment in Boston and my flight leaves in eight hours. I’m going to get some sleep.
China here I come.

no escape

There is no way to escape the thoughts of a troubled heart.

But there is someone who longs to take our troubles and give us a peace that passeth all understanding.

If I spent all of my time worrying about tomorrow, about 10 days from now, about a year from now, I would miss out on these beautiful moments of the present.

I love listening to music. I let each note wash over me like the waves of the sea. I savor each sweet melody until it fades away. . . .

away. . .

away. .

away.

my unspoken plea

A poem I wrote in high school.

Shall I wish on a star?

Or chase the leaves of a tree

Will my brain take me far?

Will I ever be free?

I aim to be happy and young

For many a year to come

But there’s a song that’s still unsung

That remind’s me where I’m from

So here I hang

Suspended on useless thought

Kept alive by every pang

Of what I’ve seen and sought

I’m beautiful and wasting

With empty palms at my side

It’s what’s to come that I’m tasting

But I’ll never sacrifice my pride

Look to my blue eyes and see

That there is still an empty place

Listen to my unspoken plea

And lend me some of your elegant grace.

defective coding

I wanted to. . .

a: run
b: go back to sleep
c: pretend I'd lost my mind
d: strangle the inventor of CSS

Mostly all of the above, with a strong emphasis on the last one.
It was a rainy Thursday and I came to class prepared. I hate Web design. Most of my Web design experience comes from manipulating MySpace layouts, not creating something from scratch. However on the exam we had to look at a picture and then recreate it in Dreamweaver, styling it with CSS. I didn't even know where to start. I heard people saying they wanted to barf and cry, but honestly I felt so at peace. I decided I was going to do the best I could. I started piecing things together, and yet all of my styles [coding in CSS] were not showing up in my pages. I tried everything I could think of and nothing was working. There was one point where I felt panicky and my heart somersaulted and skidded to a grinding halt.

And all of a sudden I found the piece of missing code. I hadn't linked my CSS and my HTML sites together and so even though I was typing the right code, no one else could see it because I wasn't linked or connected to the source code.

I think this can apply to the way I live my life. I can do and say all the right things, and even have all of the pieces of my life in the right order, but if I'm not linked and connected to Jesus, my source [code] of peace, joy and love, people will only see me, a broken link, not the radiance of my Creator.

Coding is a very time consuming process, especially for someone like me who is just learning. Each piece of the page can take hours, especially if a tiny piece of the coding is wrong. Even a missed period or a bracket can throw everything off. We may think we have our lives together, especially if we do all the "right" things, but if one piece is missing, Jesus, the code will not work.

As humans we are born with defective coding, thanks to sin. Jesus is the master coder and designer who wants so desperately to repair our broken links and defective coding so we can become more connected to Him. I thank God for His patience. Just like I had to have patience and spend hours working on my test, trying countless ways to make things work, He spends a lifetime on us. He even spent His own lifetime, coming to earth to bring us the best gift we could possibly receive, salvation and life everlasting.

. . .

I did finish. It wasn't perfect, but I was proud of myself for persevering and finishing as much as I could. The rain continued outside. Friday afternoon. A load off my shoulders, accomplishment at my fingertips and a light heart.


[Hannah]

nostalgia

The heat rolled off the thick, parched pavement in slivers of black and silver. My father, who doesn't enjoy temperatures above or below 62 degrees, was facing his worst nightmare: A broiling southern afternoon in mid-August. We were crammed into my '93 Chevy Cavalier, my mother in the backseat and my father and I in the front. This was it; this was my grand entrance to college, and I was making it drenched in sweat. My dad was full of surprises, including a bold and desperate decision to use the AC, and just 21 hours later, we were here.

First thought: Huge. The campus that is. The heat was unbearable. Thatcher #381.
And it all began in a heatwave,a heartbeat. I had no idea those were the first days of a love affair. Oh, I complained about worships, Campus Safety, Sabbath morning check. I whined about the cafe food, which is still exactly the same as it was four years ago, only the mashed potatoes are a little creamier. I stumbled out of bed at 2 a.m. because someone had decided to straighten their hair, burn lampshades, incinerate popcorn and scald five course meals. I knew all the soccer teams, Fluffy, Furia, Hot Boys. . . soccer fights, broken legs, red cards. I'd fallen in and out of like with Besst Wraps. Eaten in the old KR's. I'd watched the leaves change, rain dance and flowers open. I'd changed majors. I'd learned the distinct smell of buildings and dorm hallways. I'd inhaled the scent of sugary blueberry muffins on crisp, winter mornings. I'd spent hours on homework and semesters on memories. Little by little I was falling in love, but all too soon it was time to say goodbye. He left, I cried. I found friends that were strong, a God who was stronger and a love that was longer. I lifted my voice to the heavens with fellow students at vespers-the best part of my week. I played softball, hockey, soccer. Two years, three years, it was my last year. Graduation? I saw new faces in familiar places. Time was drawing closer. Leaving was the plan, with more than I came with. Here I am, so close to the end; a beginning just around the bend. Honduras for mission work, yet I'm leaving so much behind. I'm clinging to these weeks, hours, minutes, moments. Southern has become my second home. Pull out my hair, papers to write, classes to hate, boys not to date. I've learned a trade, friends I've made, and I've found me. For now I'll be leaving, leaving behind college, a life I've learned to love. Days are growing warmer, another heatwave, a million heartbeats. I'm letting go, hanging on.


I'll be back.

[Hannah]