Today, I helped my family move my little sister into the dorms at K-State for her very first year of college. She is living with our cousin, who often feels like our third sister, and they are living in the same hall where I spent my freshman year - one of the most memorable years of my life. Spending time doing that today made me think of all of the things that three years of college and being on my own has taught me, and I'm primarily writing this for the benefit of my 'two' little sisters, although I'm hoping they figure out most of it for themselves.
1. Call your mom, call her often, and do exactly what she says. She is always right.
For probably the first six months I lived in the dorms my freshman year, I could call my mom when I couldn't find something and she would remind me where we had packed it before I could even think about it. She always knows how to fix things when I'm sick, the answer to my friendship problems, she proofreads important e-mails, and helps me when I have to learn how to do adult things, like shop in sections of the grocery store that are not cereal and noodles, get a stain out of a shirt that I was sure I had completely ruined, and she even gives her opinion on outfits via text message when I have a presentation.. or a date.
2. Contrary to what the six year old you says, you cannot have ice cream at breakfast.
Okay, at least not everyday.
Occasionally I go to my old high school and speak with seniors who are preparing to transition to living in a dorm and the one question I can always count on is - how is the food? I am usually faced with a room full of wide eyed seventeen year olds when I even begin to list the options available to them - but just because your mom is no longer preparing healthy foods for you should mean you stop eating them. You should only have ice cream for breakfast, at most, once a week. Otherwise, stick to cheerios. Also, eat fruit.
3. Accept the fact that honestly, the little things don't matter all that much.
I guarantee you that at least one of the following things will happen to you over the next nine months:
-you will oversleep and miss a class
-your printer will decide to go on strike at the most inopportune time, forcing you to admit to your prof that you did, in fact, wait until the last minute to write that 12 page paper.
- you will get caught in the rain and show up to class looking and smelling like a wet dog.
Accept that these things will happen to you, and you could either let them ruin your day, or you could be thankful for extra sleep, the opportunity to show your professor how respectful and adult-like you are when he turns you away, or a nice shower on a hot walk to class (or at least deodorant).
4. Accept the fact that you will mess up.
Along with the above lessons, accept the fact that you will forget an assignment, you will miss a meeting, you will forget to take that stupid online quiz that's due at midnight (me for the entirety of my time in sociology 101), learn how to make yourself better, and move on. Use a sticky note, an extra alarm, a reminder on your phone, but figure it out and don't worry about it.
5. Accept the fact that your college best friend will not know everything, or really anything, about you, until you tell them.
It is very difficult to transition from being with your high school best friend, who likely has known you since at least middle school, if not before, to someone who you may meet in a dorm or Greek house. You will live with this person and they will see your ups and downs, but they do not know all the things about you like the embarrassing person you were in middle school or that one guy you had a crush on all the way through high school. Realize and appreciate that new friendships require work.
6. For the love of all things good and holy, at least skim the book.
The amount of reading that is listed on the syllabus alone in some of my classes is enough to make me want to drop out, but please do not assume that you can get by without reading like you did in high school. You probably don't have to read all of it, but make sure you read enough of it - because a 42 on your first psych test might be a hard hole to dig out of.
7. Do fun things. Specifically, intramurals.
My freshman year I got stuck on a volleyball team because they needed an extra player and it ended up being one of my favorite times of the week - a time that I was REQUIRED to stop doing homework and go play an active and participatory sport. We ended up winning semi-finals with only five people, one of which was struggling from a very late night out the previous evening. Hey, even if you suck, that's the point.
8. Take at least one road trip during your college career.
Seriously, everyone needs the opportunity to bond with others by cramming people into a car, sleeping on each other's shoulders, navigating with your cell phone loses service, (even though grandpa always lectures me about bringing an atlas, which I can barely fold properly, let alone use) and seeing your gas light come on an hour from the nearest rest stop. It's a good time.
9. Find at least one type of event, sporting or otherwise, that you enjoy watching or doing and go watch it or do it.
It is truly amazing what a sense of school pride does - if you're feeling a little lost on a big campus, it's easy to meet people with common interests if you just start showing up to things you either like to watch or participate in, and then do those things.
10. Do not, if at all possible, burn popcorn in your dorm room.
All those friends we just talked about making in #9? You will no longer have them. Burnt popcorn in a dorm is like a dirty diaper on an airplane. It just lingers.
*Note: If you do find yourself in this situation, put the popcorn in the refrigerator.
11. Germs are everywhere.
I shouldn't even have to say this, but if you drop your toothbrush in the community shower, go buy a new one. That day. Before it's time to brush your teeth again.
12. Embrace the utter chaos that is now your life.
For some people, it's extremely difficult to let go of the scheduled day and predictability of high school and get used to having so much time to yourself and being on your own to get things done- (I am one of those people) but believe me, you will find an independence you never thought you had, capabilities you didn't know existed, an appreciation for your family at home, and, with any luck, a fire to try new things and be prepared for new change ahead.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Inside Out [Hong Kong, 2015]
One of the toughest things I think I learned during my time in Hong Kong this week was that things didn't work the way I expected them to. I didn't have culture shock going over to Hong Kong, but I definitely have it coming home. I expected this trip to be easier since I've been there and done it before, but I should have known better. I should have known that God always has big plans when I think things are going to be easy.
Since I've been home, many people that I've seen in the last three days I've been home have approached me excitedly with the phrase "Tell me about your trip!" and as much as I appreciate that - I always find myself at a loss for words. It is easy to think of the fun sightseeing things we did, the funny stories, the embarrassing encounters, the tough language barriers, but it is hard to truly tell them about my trip. About what I did, what I learned, where I really was, but most importantly, where God was.
When the term 'missionary' is deemed upon you, by yourself or others, several stereotypical pictures enter your mind and likely dictate the way you live life for the length of your trip. I carried a backpack everywhere I went. I expected a lot of language barriers, I expected trying new foods, I expected uncomfortable sleeping arrangements and long, tiring days. What I didn't expect, was how much easier it felt to be a missionary in Hong Kong than it would be in my hometown of Topeka or even in Manhattan, Kansas.
As I'm writing this, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Manhattan, and I look like those around me. The people in this shop are a combination of students, people here for lunch during their work day, and people who are likely retired and catching up with friends. The diversity of America makes it common to see people of different races and ethnicities in coffee shops, restaurants, shopping malls, and other places, and you probably never give them a second glance. If I were sitting in this same environment in Hong Kong, I would immediately look different because my skin is a different color. I would stand out from the crowd, and I would likely be stared at. We experienced that quite a bit in Hong Kong (Chloe and Izzy can tell you about their experience at the temple we went to where they were asked to take pictures with group after group of people - solely because they looked different than those around them) In Hong Kong, I stood out everywhere I went because I was white, because my choice of clothes was different than the millions of people who seemed to surround me at all times, and because I had frizzy, curly hair instead of dark, straight hair.
When we were in the market, I watched seller after seller try to show me the many different styles of necklaces that are popular in Hong Kong specifically for the Buddhist religion (necklaces that are analagous to a cross for Christianity) hundreds of them lining the walls of the shops. Upon asking, I would find one or two at the end of each row that were crosses - showing the mere unpopularity that it was to be a Christian in Hong Kong. When I wear that cross necklace on the MTR, shopping, out to eat, or even just walking down the street, it makes me different from 80% of the people of Hong Kong because I did not choose the most popular necklace - I chose the one that did not look like everyone else.
This morning, when I woke up, took a shower in my own, warm shower, got dressed in my room larger than some Hong Kong apartments, and put on my silver cross necklace from home, I realized that I look like most of Manhattan - because crosses here are more of a fashion statement than a way of life.
I've heard for years that God made me to be different, that the idea of being a follower is that you are not 'one of this world' and in Hong Kong, I could attest to that. When I was in a temple, I saw people practicing a religion that didn't make any sense to me. I didn't understand the complexity of the worshipping of different gods, offerings, or burning things. But I was a missionary - and I wasn't supposed to fit in.
Upon coming home, I've found myself to almost have reverse culture shock. It's hard to realize that I'm not supposed to fit in here either, but I do, most days. It is easy to let Jesus shine through you when you are the odd one out, the one who looks different, the one who doesn't know what's going on. People think you are interesting, uncommon, and fun, and they want to know about you. It is easy to teach children who are interested in you because your hair is curly and they have never seen curly hair before.
It is hard to come home and teach children who do not find me as interesting because they've seen me before. It is hard to find the patience some days for those children when they have seen hundreds of other teachers that look like me, act like me, and for all intents and purposes, I am one of the crowd. It is hard to let my life live through my actions when I am one of the crowd in America and know that very rarely will people notice me before any other one person around me. Now that I don't live with a mission team in a Christian school anymore, it is hard to need God. Please do not think I am saying that I can handle things on my own - because I am not.
There is a song on the radio right now called "Glow in the Dark" by Jason Gray, and a line in that song says "The more broke you are, the more light shines through." It is 'easier' to need a God when I am alone, when I am the minority, when I am constantly humbled because I can't even talk to those around me. It is easier to need God when I have no idea what I will eat that day that won't make me sick, how I will work when my body feels like it is shutting down, or how I'm supposed to play with four year olds who don't speak English, let alone tell them a Bible story. Once I got home, I found that my to-do list hit me in the face. My graduate school applications are waiting, I am helping my sister get packed to move to school, I need to order my own books, and society tells me that I can essentially do 'this life' on my own. I am excited to start classes, see my friends, and they are already asking about celebrating my upcoming birthday, and to be honest, my daily worries and problems are few and far between - my immediate 'need' for God is very small. It is easier to the missionary in Hong Kong who feels like I can only rely on God to do daily tasks than it is to be the daily missionary in Manhattan, Kansas who finds things occasionally that require God's help, because then I end up having to reconnect with Him first.
In Hong Kong, I learned that it is not hard work as a Christian to stand out - although being an overseas missionary brings challenges that I cannot even fathom, I simply learned that the work becomes harder than I realized when you look and act like everyone else on the outside. I think that the idea of being a missionary at home (reaching people through your chosen profession, and place in life) is the place where an equal amount of work is required - you have to work very hard to be different.
Although I would love to go back to Hong Kong (I left most of my heart there the first and second visits) I cannot see myself ever serving overseas for an extended period of time. I do not think God made me to do that, but I am okay waiting for that instruction if it comes. God taught me over the last few weeks about the importance and difficulty of working for Him when I do not look different or dress differently than those around me - working from the inside out.
Since I've been home, many people that I've seen in the last three days I've been home have approached me excitedly with the phrase "Tell me about your trip!" and as much as I appreciate that - I always find myself at a loss for words. It is easy to think of the fun sightseeing things we did, the funny stories, the embarrassing encounters, the tough language barriers, but it is hard to truly tell them about my trip. About what I did, what I learned, where I really was, but most importantly, where God was.
When the term 'missionary' is deemed upon you, by yourself or others, several stereotypical pictures enter your mind and likely dictate the way you live life for the length of your trip. I carried a backpack everywhere I went. I expected a lot of language barriers, I expected trying new foods, I expected uncomfortable sleeping arrangements and long, tiring days. What I didn't expect, was how much easier it felt to be a missionary in Hong Kong than it would be in my hometown of Topeka or even in Manhattan, Kansas.
As I'm writing this, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Manhattan, and I look like those around me. The people in this shop are a combination of students, people here for lunch during their work day, and people who are likely retired and catching up with friends. The diversity of America makes it common to see people of different races and ethnicities in coffee shops, restaurants, shopping malls, and other places, and you probably never give them a second glance. If I were sitting in this same environment in Hong Kong, I would immediately look different because my skin is a different color. I would stand out from the crowd, and I would likely be stared at. We experienced that quite a bit in Hong Kong (Chloe and Izzy can tell you about their experience at the temple we went to where they were asked to take pictures with group after group of people - solely because they looked different than those around them) In Hong Kong, I stood out everywhere I went because I was white, because my choice of clothes was different than the millions of people who seemed to surround me at all times, and because I had frizzy, curly hair instead of dark, straight hair.
When we were in the market, I watched seller after seller try to show me the many different styles of necklaces that are popular in Hong Kong specifically for the Buddhist religion (necklaces that are analagous to a cross for Christianity) hundreds of them lining the walls of the shops. Upon asking, I would find one or two at the end of each row that were crosses - showing the mere unpopularity that it was to be a Christian in Hong Kong. When I wear that cross necklace on the MTR, shopping, out to eat, or even just walking down the street, it makes me different from 80% of the people of Hong Kong because I did not choose the most popular necklace - I chose the one that did not look like everyone else.
This morning, when I woke up, took a shower in my own, warm shower, got dressed in my room larger than some Hong Kong apartments, and put on my silver cross necklace from home, I realized that I look like most of Manhattan - because crosses here are more of a fashion statement than a way of life.
I've heard for years that God made me to be different, that the idea of being a follower is that you are not 'one of this world' and in Hong Kong, I could attest to that. When I was in a temple, I saw people practicing a religion that didn't make any sense to me. I didn't understand the complexity of the worshipping of different gods, offerings, or burning things. But I was a missionary - and I wasn't supposed to fit in.
Upon coming home, I've found myself to almost have reverse culture shock. It's hard to realize that I'm not supposed to fit in here either, but I do, most days. It is easy to let Jesus shine through you when you are the odd one out, the one who looks different, the one who doesn't know what's going on. People think you are interesting, uncommon, and fun, and they want to know about you. It is easy to teach children who are interested in you because your hair is curly and they have never seen curly hair before.
It is hard to come home and teach children who do not find me as interesting because they've seen me before. It is hard to find the patience some days for those children when they have seen hundreds of other teachers that look like me, act like me, and for all intents and purposes, I am one of the crowd. It is hard to let my life live through my actions when I am one of the crowd in America and know that very rarely will people notice me before any other one person around me. Now that I don't live with a mission team in a Christian school anymore, it is hard to need God. Please do not think I am saying that I can handle things on my own - because I am not.
There is a song on the radio right now called "Glow in the Dark" by Jason Gray, and a line in that song says "The more broke you are, the more light shines through." It is 'easier' to need a God when I am alone, when I am the minority, when I am constantly humbled because I can't even talk to those around me. It is easier to need God when I have no idea what I will eat that day that won't make me sick, how I will work when my body feels like it is shutting down, or how I'm supposed to play with four year olds who don't speak English, let alone tell them a Bible story. Once I got home, I found that my to-do list hit me in the face. My graduate school applications are waiting, I am helping my sister get packed to move to school, I need to order my own books, and society tells me that I can essentially do 'this life' on my own. I am excited to start classes, see my friends, and they are already asking about celebrating my upcoming birthday, and to be honest, my daily worries and problems are few and far between - my immediate 'need' for God is very small. It is easier to the missionary in Hong Kong who feels like I can only rely on God to do daily tasks than it is to be the daily missionary in Manhattan, Kansas who finds things occasionally that require God's help, because then I end up having to reconnect with Him first.
In Hong Kong, I learned that it is not hard work as a Christian to stand out - although being an overseas missionary brings challenges that I cannot even fathom, I simply learned that the work becomes harder than I realized when you look and act like everyone else on the outside. I think that the idea of being a missionary at home (reaching people through your chosen profession, and place in life) is the place where an equal amount of work is required - you have to work very hard to be different.
Although I would love to go back to Hong Kong (I left most of my heart there the first and second visits) I cannot see myself ever serving overseas for an extended period of time. I do not think God made me to do that, but I am okay waiting for that instruction if it comes. God taught me over the last few weeks about the importance and difficulty of working for Him when I do not look different or dress differently than those around me - working from the inside out.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
My Grace is Sufficient for You
Over the last few weeks, many people have been asking the question about what we will be doing when we land in Hong Kong next Friday night. I have found it difficult to try to sum up the two weeks that I've been so excited about since July 28, 2014 - when we got home from Hong Kong the first time. We will be spending a week doing two sessions of Bible School, one morning and one afternoon, with sightseeing and time with friends from the school in the evening, and then a week working at a kindergarten camp at a different school with afternoons and evenings to sightsee or do as we so choose. This looked slightly like our schedule for last summer when we left, and I expected it to be nothing more than that - a few sessions of bible school, and maybe meet some new Hong Kong friends along the way. I was very wrong, however, boarding the plane in tears on our way home - knowing how big of an imprint that city and it's people left on my heart. I felt like I had 'unfinished work' to be done there, and I wanted nothing more than to have stayed longer.
As next Thursday, July 16th, has crept closer and closer, I haven't truly thought much about the trip. I've felt God put it on my heart to pray for a 'thirst' to learn about this place and it's people - last year and in almost all other situations in my life, I've found that I'm almost always most comfortable being in the background - listening to others talk and tell stories, and just simply watching. This year, I've realized my 'want to want' to make friends, learn about a new culture, and truly leave pieces of my heart in a city I may never return to.
People often seem shocked when they hear about this trip - they comment on the long plane ride, teaching kids who may not speak the same language that I do, and the true uncertainty of what lies before me in the next two and a half weeks. What people do not ever seem to grasp, however, is that it has nothing to do with me. People don't understand or don't know how much courage God poured into me before we left on our first trip - and how much I am hoping and trusting he will give me again. They don't grasp how much patience he gave me when I spent so much time trying to talk to kids who only knew a few words of English, where my strength came from on days that I did not think I could chase one more child down the long hallway or handle the heat and humidity anymore - but people will also never understand the pure joy that God filled my heart with when I watched my friend Natalie explain the gospel to Hong Kong first graders in broken English and lots of charades.
Last year during our time in Hong Kong I was given the opportunity to lead a devotion on our last morning there. My name was chosen randomly out of the three teams there and I was the only person from my team that was to do it, probably for fifty or sixty people. After a few months of thinking it over, I decided to share the story of how God had worked in my life over the last two years between high school graduation and then traveling to Hong Kong - those in between events of which included losing a friend to murder, watching my favorite five year old in the whole world battle cancer, and try to figure out why a heart that had never had a desire to go overseas for any reason, suddenly, in November of 2013, wanted to go with seven people I didn't really know, and maybe a little because of the requests from my friend Natalie.
As I was preparing for the devotion through the week, I could feel myself getting more and more nervous - those what if questions ringing in my ears so I couldn't hear anything else. What if I get up there and forget everything? What if it doesn't make any sense? Worst of all, what if I start talking about these people and these challenges and I start crying and don't make it through?
The night prior to the devotion I had skipped out on a dinner with the rest of my team simply due to exhaustion and one of my teammates stayed back with me. When he asked what I was planning on doing for the devo the next morning, I began sharing - and we talked for about four hours that night before the rest of our team got back - he asked question after question that pulled things out of me that I hadn't really thought about; all circling back to how losing a friend to murder in early 2012 got me to Hong Kong two years later. The next morning, he motioned me over before we went downstairs and he had found a verse to share with me; 2 Corinthians 12:9, the verse that reads "For my grace is sufficient for you, and my power is made perfect in weakness" - and I immediately felt the pressure to be perfect release from my shoulders. He prayed with me and then sent me on my way to get ready.
The devotion flowed that morning perfectly. Maybe because it actually went well, and maybe because I was too nervous to remember any of it, but regardless, it worked. I had spoken with the pastor ahead of time and he was translating in the event that some of my story didn't make sense to my new Hong Kong friends, or if I was speaking too fast (which likely happened) and I did not shed a single tear or really feel anything until I was done and seated - and then it felt like the floodgates opened. I felt both of my temporary 'parents' arms around me and I breathed a sigh of relief - it was over, and I could practically feel God working to unfold things - both in my heart and with new relationships being formed.
Looking back on the situation, so many things about that span of 24 hours have God's working hand in them. The very next morning, our last morning in Hong Kong, the passage in 2 Corinthians was 'the' verse for church that day - of all the verses in the bible they could have picked, it was that one. I can still see the look on his face when Ray turned around in astonishment and smiled at me. Looking back, while he was sharing with me and praying with me in my time of fear, I remember thinking about how he seemed like he had it all together - surely he knew this verse from other times in his life and was only sharing it with me knowing it would help. Later, he told me that that wasn't the case at all - as I was frantic for my devotion to go well, he was frantic to find words of comfort for me - and that is what he found - our weakness being made perfect in God's power.
This morning in church, 8,000 miles away from Hong Kong and almost a full year since that devotion, that verse came up again and I realized it was exactly what I needed to hear before leaving in just ten short days. Our Gospel reading this morning was out of Mark 6, where Jesus instructs his disciples how to go out - by taking nothing with them, and being dependent only on God's grace every day. The combination of the two passages seemed like a perfect idea to take as I was packing and preparing to head to Hong Kong in ten days. Although I've been there once, the worrier in me does not find that sufficient evidence to not think of every single thing that could go wrong while I'm there. What if I get sick? What if I find that I cannot eat the food there? What if I don't discover that until the food is already in my body? What if I have trouble adjusting to sleeping there? What if I don't jet lag well? What if, what if, what if?
Our pastor talked this morning about how God is most present and brings his deepest blessing when He seems most absent. I thought of my first time out of the country, with people I didn't know, thoughts of loss and grief still in the back of my mind, and then thought how God managed to bring his blessings in that situation. He continued to talk about how people truly do not know the redeeming power of being broken and weak.
Truthfully, that is the best thing I could have heard this morning as I am preparing travel overseas for a few weeks. The mental packing list paired with the 'what if' list seem to be at the forefront of my mind all the time and until the plane actually leaves Chicago O'Hare next Thursday, I'm really not sure I'll feel any better. But when Pastor was talking this morning, I thought of the little girl in my class last year, Faye, who I held such a strong bond with even though I only got to be in the classroom for three days. Faye spoke very little English, but she would contentedly sit next to me and color, asking for 'blue' or 'green' usually not even using the right color name. She held my hand whenever we walked anywhere, and God gently reminded me then that He doesn't need a week of me - as I thought of Faye this morning, I knew that I do not need to bring lots of material items, my very best teaching skills, or honestly, even a bible. I learned that these kids only expect my presence, and with that, God will work through me.
So for those who have been asking - we will be teaching Bible School, we will be working in a kindergarten camp, but we will mostly be relying entirely on God's grace and strength for day to day interactions. For those who have been asking, I know I speak for myself and a few others when I say that we are at least a little nervous. The only thing that has changed for me this go around is that I know to not expect to 'only' go through the motions of what's on my schedule - knowing my God will do much, much more. For those who have been asking, we would love prayers over the next few weeks for health, safety, patience, and bodies that feel well rested even when they aren't. We are expecting to be tired, we are expecting to not really know what we're doing all the time, and we are expecting to feel out of place. However, we are so excited to go back to a life changing place and do life changing things with the only One who really changes lives.
As next Thursday, July 16th, has crept closer and closer, I haven't truly thought much about the trip. I've felt God put it on my heart to pray for a 'thirst' to learn about this place and it's people - last year and in almost all other situations in my life, I've found that I'm almost always most comfortable being in the background - listening to others talk and tell stories, and just simply watching. This year, I've realized my 'want to want' to make friends, learn about a new culture, and truly leave pieces of my heart in a city I may never return to.
People often seem shocked when they hear about this trip - they comment on the long plane ride, teaching kids who may not speak the same language that I do, and the true uncertainty of what lies before me in the next two and a half weeks. What people do not ever seem to grasp, however, is that it has nothing to do with me. People don't understand or don't know how much courage God poured into me before we left on our first trip - and how much I am hoping and trusting he will give me again. They don't grasp how much patience he gave me when I spent so much time trying to talk to kids who only knew a few words of English, where my strength came from on days that I did not think I could chase one more child down the long hallway or handle the heat and humidity anymore - but people will also never understand the pure joy that God filled my heart with when I watched my friend Natalie explain the gospel to Hong Kong first graders in broken English and lots of charades.
Last year during our time in Hong Kong I was given the opportunity to lead a devotion on our last morning there. My name was chosen randomly out of the three teams there and I was the only person from my team that was to do it, probably for fifty or sixty people. After a few months of thinking it over, I decided to share the story of how God had worked in my life over the last two years between high school graduation and then traveling to Hong Kong - those in between events of which included losing a friend to murder, watching my favorite five year old in the whole world battle cancer, and try to figure out why a heart that had never had a desire to go overseas for any reason, suddenly, in November of 2013, wanted to go with seven people I didn't really know, and maybe a little because of the requests from my friend Natalie.
As I was preparing for the devotion through the week, I could feel myself getting more and more nervous - those what if questions ringing in my ears so I couldn't hear anything else. What if I get up there and forget everything? What if it doesn't make any sense? Worst of all, what if I start talking about these people and these challenges and I start crying and don't make it through?
The night prior to the devotion I had skipped out on a dinner with the rest of my team simply due to exhaustion and one of my teammates stayed back with me. When he asked what I was planning on doing for the devo the next morning, I began sharing - and we talked for about four hours that night before the rest of our team got back - he asked question after question that pulled things out of me that I hadn't really thought about; all circling back to how losing a friend to murder in early 2012 got me to Hong Kong two years later. The next morning, he motioned me over before we went downstairs and he had found a verse to share with me; 2 Corinthians 12:9, the verse that reads "For my grace is sufficient for you, and my power is made perfect in weakness" - and I immediately felt the pressure to be perfect release from my shoulders. He prayed with me and then sent me on my way to get ready.
The devotion flowed that morning perfectly. Maybe because it actually went well, and maybe because I was too nervous to remember any of it, but regardless, it worked. I had spoken with the pastor ahead of time and he was translating in the event that some of my story didn't make sense to my new Hong Kong friends, or if I was speaking too fast (which likely happened) and I did not shed a single tear or really feel anything until I was done and seated - and then it felt like the floodgates opened. I felt both of my temporary 'parents' arms around me and I breathed a sigh of relief - it was over, and I could practically feel God working to unfold things - both in my heart and with new relationships being formed.
Looking back on the situation, so many things about that span of 24 hours have God's working hand in them. The very next morning, our last morning in Hong Kong, the passage in 2 Corinthians was 'the' verse for church that day - of all the verses in the bible they could have picked, it was that one. I can still see the look on his face when Ray turned around in astonishment and smiled at me. Looking back, while he was sharing with me and praying with me in my time of fear, I remember thinking about how he seemed like he had it all together - surely he knew this verse from other times in his life and was only sharing it with me knowing it would help. Later, he told me that that wasn't the case at all - as I was frantic for my devotion to go well, he was frantic to find words of comfort for me - and that is what he found - our weakness being made perfect in God's power.
This morning in church, 8,000 miles away from Hong Kong and almost a full year since that devotion, that verse came up again and I realized it was exactly what I needed to hear before leaving in just ten short days. Our Gospel reading this morning was out of Mark 6, where Jesus instructs his disciples how to go out - by taking nothing with them, and being dependent only on God's grace every day. The combination of the two passages seemed like a perfect idea to take as I was packing and preparing to head to Hong Kong in ten days. Although I've been there once, the worrier in me does not find that sufficient evidence to not think of every single thing that could go wrong while I'm there. What if I get sick? What if I find that I cannot eat the food there? What if I don't discover that until the food is already in my body? What if I have trouble adjusting to sleeping there? What if I don't jet lag well? What if, what if, what if?
Our pastor talked this morning about how God is most present and brings his deepest blessing when He seems most absent. I thought of my first time out of the country, with people I didn't know, thoughts of loss and grief still in the back of my mind, and then thought how God managed to bring his blessings in that situation. He continued to talk about how people truly do not know the redeeming power of being broken and weak.
Truthfully, that is the best thing I could have heard this morning as I am preparing travel overseas for a few weeks. The mental packing list paired with the 'what if' list seem to be at the forefront of my mind all the time and until the plane actually leaves Chicago O'Hare next Thursday, I'm really not sure I'll feel any better. But when Pastor was talking this morning, I thought of the little girl in my class last year, Faye, who I held such a strong bond with even though I only got to be in the classroom for three days. Faye spoke very little English, but she would contentedly sit next to me and color, asking for 'blue' or 'green' usually not even using the right color name. She held my hand whenever we walked anywhere, and God gently reminded me then that He doesn't need a week of me - as I thought of Faye this morning, I knew that I do not need to bring lots of material items, my very best teaching skills, or honestly, even a bible. I learned that these kids only expect my presence, and with that, God will work through me.
So for those who have been asking - we will be teaching Bible School, we will be working in a kindergarten camp, but we will mostly be relying entirely on God's grace and strength for day to day interactions. For those who have been asking, I know I speak for myself and a few others when I say that we are at least a little nervous. The only thing that has changed for me this go around is that I know to not expect to 'only' go through the motions of what's on my schedule - knowing my God will do much, much more. For those who have been asking, we would love prayers over the next few weeks for health, safety, patience, and bodies that feel well rested even when they aren't. We are expecting to be tired, we are expecting to not really know what we're doing all the time, and we are expecting to feel out of place. However, we are so excited to go back to a life changing place and do life changing things with the only One who really changes lives.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Hope for the Journey (Camp Hope - 2015)
I remember getting the very first phone call where cancer affected my life.
When I was in the seventh grade, my 'family', the group of people I had grown up with in my neighborhood - jumping on trampolines, swimming, and playing hide and seek, grew by one. Our
'Baby Luke' was born in October of 2006 with a heart condition that caused him to be put on the transplant list. When he was put on that list, I remember impatiently waiting for the phone call that he would have his heart. That phone call came one morning when I was already at school - that Luke was in St. Louis waiting on his surgery to be done that very morning - I remember feeling anxious for this little tiny baby, that I still had yet to meet. I learned so much about family during this time - Luke's two older siblings spent substantially more time with us and my parents would accommodate having four kids instead of just two since Luke was spending so much time in St. Louis. When Luke came home from the hospital right before Christmas that year, I held him for the first time when he still had an oxygen tube in - I remember thinking how valuable and beautiful he was as his eyes stared back at me - how he had been through so much in life before he was even eight weeks old.
Five years later, the phone call came with the news that Luke had cancer. Although always knowing it was a possibility after a transplant, it broke my heart knowing that the little boy who loved Starburst Jelly Beans just as much as I did and could get so much joy out of confusing the older kids with his imagination games when we 'couldn't follow the rules' would have this terrible label on him.
Luke went into remission in the summer of 2012, right before I started college. The last time I saw him was on his first day back at church after several months off - I tried to snap a picture on my phone of his very first day - he had been unable to be out often because of his suppressed immune system, but on his first day back at church, he essentially sprinted down the aisle to get to the children's sermon. In fact, the picture was blurry. If there was one thing about the kid that never changed, it was his determination.
In October of 2012, after an infection, Luke passed away nine days after he turned six. The little boy who taught me about strength, love, and still makes me partial to anything Spider-Man had only had six years to do his job here on earth - that phone call came late Monday night during my freshman year of college, and by Wednesday afternoon I was packed and on the road - back to the family that had been together to see this little boy since day one. We had so much fun watching old videos of him singing in the car, telling knock knock jokes, and talking about his dreams, his personality still seeming to fill the room.
A year and a half later, I applied to volunteer at Camp Hope for the first time - a friend from high school had recommended it to me, but other than that, I knew nothing about it, only that it may hit me a little close to home, as it was a camp for kids who had or have had cancer. I thought about Luke, often struggling with the idea that he would have loved camp - it wasn't fair that I could go and he couldn't. The camp also had to be relocated because of a fire my first year, the chosen relocation onto a college campus - admitting to myself that I was a little more than scared to go is probably an understatement. Would I possibly be able to handle seeing so many kids like Luke, and they weren't even at a camp? Thankfully, I couldn't believe how wrong I was. The week was filled with games that seemed to make camp stand out - bubble soccer, hamster balls in the pool, a mobile game den, and even a color run and a paint fight. I was truly amazed, both my first and second year, what can be deemed magical when you are in the presence of a child.
On Wednesday morning of this week, mid camp, I had taken a trip into Great Bend to run some errands and was sitting in a coffee shop when the song Long Black Train came over the speakers - I never hear that song on the radio, but I could feel the tears well up in my eyes as I could hear Luke's tiny but bold voice singing one of his favorite songs in the back seat of the car - one of the many videos we watched to put together a group of videos for his funeral.
This fall it will have been three years since Luke passed away - and I know for a fact that he is a huge part of my fuel and love for Camp Hope. Whenever I spend one on one time with a camper I can still hear his little voice asking 'will you play trains with me?' and when I watch a camper do something for the first time, I remember seeing Luke learn to jump for the first time - we were playing a game on Xbox Kinect and he was trying to help - he got so excited his feet left the ground - something he had never been able to do before because of some delayed motor skills development. Jumping had always seemed so trivial to me, but we screamed and yelled like we had just won the lottery.
As the week went on, I paid special attention to the fuel of each and every person working or coming as a camper - most of them vastly different. During my first few days at camp last year, I thought it was the 'camp' atmosphere that drew these kids back year after year - at home there is no way to play hungry hungry humans, have a color run in your back yard, and you don't see a mobile game den very often. But after awhile, I realized that although that makes camp exciting, that isn't the root of it.
The root of it is truly hope, and that's all. The games, the friendships, the lack of bedtime, it's all grounded in hope. My first year I wondered how on earth it was possible to be a counselor at a camp where kids were sick - watching Luke be sick and remembering seeing him like that broke my heart, and I was afraid that it would be a week full of 'fake' hope - but that is certainly the last thing I found. I found that the hope really has nothing to do with 'hoping everyone will be perfectly healthy and everyone's lives will have no flaws' - but it has more to do with finding hope in a place you never expected to find it - these kids find hope on the journey, they don't search for it as an outcome.
I saw kids find hope this week as they got to run through stations of paint being thrown at them, and then have a paint war with their friends with essentially no boundaries. I saw kids who got to swim three or four days in a row and have a water fight in the dark, and kids who got their faces painted and hair done for the dance on Friday, find hope in that chosen day and the activities that lay before them. I saw kids of all ages who seemed to be able to share their hope with others - I know it certainly worked on me. The kids decided that it was not about the next treatment, test, or result, it was only about the next five minutes, ten minutes, or hour of life. I saw younger campers develop relationships with older campers who no longer struggled daily with the affects of their sickness - offering, possibly indirectly, a relationship of empathy and love in a friendship that could only be truly understood between them.
I went to camp expecting it to tug at my heart strings knowing the journey that some of these kids had before them, but I found that they mostly were teaching me about my own journey, why I want to work in the medical field, and why working with kids is important to me. They taught me about tough situations, being thankful, and the importance of laughter. They reminded me of the way that being around Luke could make me forget about any stress I had in my life - his wishes to help and do things himself and his constant pleas for more games were a true example of how sometimes, it's really not about the destination, only about the now. I was reminded about the value of family at camp - Luke had a way of bringing everyone together, ever since he was born, and at camp, I had that same feeling of family, even though I've known everyone there for a whole two weeks. Although all the kids in the camp had one major life illness in common, I found that the hope at camp stretched far beyond the six letter word 'cancer' that had gotten me there in the first place. Many people, campers and volunteers alike, were dealing with other trials and tough situations in life. The more I listened to people's stories, the more I found other people, not just the kids, who were coming to camp and finding hope in the journey instead of at the destination.
When I was in the seventh grade, my 'family', the group of people I had grown up with in my neighborhood - jumping on trampolines, swimming, and playing hide and seek, grew by one. Our
'Baby Luke' was born in October of 2006 with a heart condition that caused him to be put on the transplant list. When he was put on that list, I remember impatiently waiting for the phone call that he would have his heart. That phone call came one morning when I was already at school - that Luke was in St. Louis waiting on his surgery to be done that very morning - I remember feeling anxious for this little tiny baby, that I still had yet to meet. I learned so much about family during this time - Luke's two older siblings spent substantially more time with us and my parents would accommodate having four kids instead of just two since Luke was spending so much time in St. Louis. When Luke came home from the hospital right before Christmas that year, I held him for the first time when he still had an oxygen tube in - I remember thinking how valuable and beautiful he was as his eyes stared back at me - how he had been through so much in life before he was even eight weeks old.
Five years later, the phone call came with the news that Luke had cancer. Although always knowing it was a possibility after a transplant, it broke my heart knowing that the little boy who loved Starburst Jelly Beans just as much as I did and could get so much joy out of confusing the older kids with his imagination games when we 'couldn't follow the rules' would have this terrible label on him.
Luke went into remission in the summer of 2012, right before I started college. The last time I saw him was on his first day back at church after several months off - I tried to snap a picture on my phone of his very first day - he had been unable to be out often because of his suppressed immune system, but on his first day back at church, he essentially sprinted down the aisle to get to the children's sermon. In fact, the picture was blurry. If there was one thing about the kid that never changed, it was his determination.
In October of 2012, after an infection, Luke passed away nine days after he turned six. The little boy who taught me about strength, love, and still makes me partial to anything Spider-Man had only had six years to do his job here on earth - that phone call came late Monday night during my freshman year of college, and by Wednesday afternoon I was packed and on the road - back to the family that had been together to see this little boy since day one. We had so much fun watching old videos of him singing in the car, telling knock knock jokes, and talking about his dreams, his personality still seeming to fill the room.
A year and a half later, I applied to volunteer at Camp Hope for the first time - a friend from high school had recommended it to me, but other than that, I knew nothing about it, only that it may hit me a little close to home, as it was a camp for kids who had or have had cancer. I thought about Luke, often struggling with the idea that he would have loved camp - it wasn't fair that I could go and he couldn't. The camp also had to be relocated because of a fire my first year, the chosen relocation onto a college campus - admitting to myself that I was a little more than scared to go is probably an understatement. Would I possibly be able to handle seeing so many kids like Luke, and they weren't even at a camp? Thankfully, I couldn't believe how wrong I was. The week was filled with games that seemed to make camp stand out - bubble soccer, hamster balls in the pool, a mobile game den, and even a color run and a paint fight. I was truly amazed, both my first and second year, what can be deemed magical when you are in the presence of a child.
On Wednesday morning of this week, mid camp, I had taken a trip into Great Bend to run some errands and was sitting in a coffee shop when the song Long Black Train came over the speakers - I never hear that song on the radio, but I could feel the tears well up in my eyes as I could hear Luke's tiny but bold voice singing one of his favorite songs in the back seat of the car - one of the many videos we watched to put together a group of videos for his funeral.
This fall it will have been three years since Luke passed away - and I know for a fact that he is a huge part of my fuel and love for Camp Hope. Whenever I spend one on one time with a camper I can still hear his little voice asking 'will you play trains with me?' and when I watch a camper do something for the first time, I remember seeing Luke learn to jump for the first time - we were playing a game on Xbox Kinect and he was trying to help - he got so excited his feet left the ground - something he had never been able to do before because of some delayed motor skills development. Jumping had always seemed so trivial to me, but we screamed and yelled like we had just won the lottery.
As the week went on, I paid special attention to the fuel of each and every person working or coming as a camper - most of them vastly different. During my first few days at camp last year, I thought it was the 'camp' atmosphere that drew these kids back year after year - at home there is no way to play hungry hungry humans, have a color run in your back yard, and you don't see a mobile game den very often. But after awhile, I realized that although that makes camp exciting, that isn't the root of it.
The root of it is truly hope, and that's all. The games, the friendships, the lack of bedtime, it's all grounded in hope. My first year I wondered how on earth it was possible to be a counselor at a camp where kids were sick - watching Luke be sick and remembering seeing him like that broke my heart, and I was afraid that it would be a week full of 'fake' hope - but that is certainly the last thing I found. I found that the hope really has nothing to do with 'hoping everyone will be perfectly healthy and everyone's lives will have no flaws' - but it has more to do with finding hope in a place you never expected to find it - these kids find hope on the journey, they don't search for it as an outcome.
I saw kids find hope this week as they got to run through stations of paint being thrown at them, and then have a paint war with their friends with essentially no boundaries. I saw kids who got to swim three or four days in a row and have a water fight in the dark, and kids who got their faces painted and hair done for the dance on Friday, find hope in that chosen day and the activities that lay before them. I saw kids of all ages who seemed to be able to share their hope with others - I know it certainly worked on me. The kids decided that it was not about the next treatment, test, or result, it was only about the next five minutes, ten minutes, or hour of life. I saw younger campers develop relationships with older campers who no longer struggled daily with the affects of their sickness - offering, possibly indirectly, a relationship of empathy and love in a friendship that could only be truly understood between them.
I went to camp expecting it to tug at my heart strings knowing the journey that some of these kids had before them, but I found that they mostly were teaching me about my own journey, why I want to work in the medical field, and why working with kids is important to me. They taught me about tough situations, being thankful, and the importance of laughter. They reminded me of the way that being around Luke could make me forget about any stress I had in my life - his wishes to help and do things himself and his constant pleas for more games were a true example of how sometimes, it's really not about the destination, only about the now. I was reminded about the value of family at camp - Luke had a way of bringing everyone together, ever since he was born, and at camp, I had that same feeling of family, even though I've known everyone there for a whole two weeks. Although all the kids in the camp had one major life illness in common, I found that the hope at camp stretched far beyond the six letter word 'cancer' that had gotten me there in the first place. Many people, campers and volunteers alike, were dealing with other trials and tough situations in life. The more I listened to people's stories, the more I found other people, not just the kids, who were coming to camp and finding hope in the journey instead of at the destination.
Monday, May 25, 2015
The Angels in my Path (5/25/12 - 5/25/15)
Sometimes I wonder how many situations I've been in where I've been unkind to people. Sometimes I wonder about it, and then sometimes I actually THINK about it, and when I actually think about it, what I come up with can be quite depressing. Perhaps many of my Seaman friends reading this will remember the pain that May 25 holds for us - or maybe you won't, because I know in my brain, things seem to be fuzzy and kind of in a weird order. Maybe you have certain parts of your memory that are especially vivid and you don't want them to be, or maybe you have some that you've struggled to remember for three years and have only faded more. Many of my memories from May 25 have started to fade, or are completely gone. But what I do remember after three years: the Jimmy John's guys and the lady from the news station.
Three years ago yesterday, my life felt like one of those thousand piece puzzles that you just finished and is resting peacefully on your kitchen table. I felt like all of the things in my life made sense - I had my high school diploma, knew where I was going to college, knew what I wanted to do, and was excited about my future - a future still distant enough that I didn't need to be nervous for it.
Three years ago today, it felt like someone took that puzzle and dumped it, face down, and I watched the pieces scatter as a big wind picked up. The next two and a half years were spent picking up the pieces and figuring out where they went. I was at work when I got the phone call that Brenna had gone missing - but unable to leave, as the time passed, I felt more and more weary about the situation at hand. My phone continued to buzz from friends who were in the same situation - trapped at work and worried sick, wondering if anyone had any more information. I was able to leave work early and I joined hundreds of others as we walked up and down streets, searching through ditches, fields, and shrubbery, alternating between being sad, but then going back to talking about college because we were sure this wasn't real. By the late hours of the evening, hundreds of people had migrated slowly to the caution tape that had been posted where her glasses had been found on the side of the road. The feeling of hearing police yell into an abandoned building for my friend and seeing a helicopter swoop low over the field to search for her when she had sat the row behind me at graduation just days before is engrained deep into my brain, but also my heart.
I remember vividly getting the phone call from my mom where she told me that Brenna was gone. My phone was on it's last leg of battery by that time of night and there were surely close to 1000 people out searching - making it near impossible to stay near my parents. I was, quite literally, knocked to my knees and I only remember hitting the side of the truck that was parked next to where I was standing. I remember getting through the sea of people and the only two people on the planet I wanted to see were my parents, but it felt like it took hours to find them - when in reality it was probably only a few minutes. As we stood in the field that was filled with my best friends, I watched them, one by one, get similar calls from their own parents who would show up shortly after. Many staff from our school were out there and I saw my best friends fall sobbing and shaking in the street. The next morning, I woke up and it took all the energy I had to move myself to the couch. My mom came in and she made a comment how it was probably time I try to eat something - I truly admire her for her patience with me during that time of convincing and the car ride across town. I know 17 year olds can be unpleasant, but I know for a fact that day that I had long surpassed the grounds of 'unpleasant'.
Please note that I do not share this so that anyone has to relive it, or that I think these are important details three years later. What I do think matters, however, is the boldness of the situation compared to the seemingly small acts of kindness that follow it.
It wasn't until we walked into Jimmy John's that day until I realized that I was still wearing my pajama pants, hadn't combed my hair, and my eyes were still swollen with tears from the night before. The guys at Jimmy John's that day showed only genuine kindness - continuing to comment on the beautiful weather, asking about our plans for the weekend, and seeming to not notice that we were probably very unkind, and possibly very checked out. When my mom paid for our sandwiches, they made manual change and never touched the register. With her questioning look, he responded that the shop wasn't actually open - but they had bread ready and were happy to serve.
It is possible that them making our sandwiches outside the normal store hours meant nothing to them; they weren't intending to be especially kind, or maybe they were but it was only because the weather was gorgeous and they were in a good mood. Maybe they and seen the news. Maybe they guessed who we were, or maybe I had a Seaman shirt on. Maybe the pajamas and tear stained face gave it away. All I know is that they didn't have to, and they did.
Later that day, people flooded in and out of my house to make scrapbooks and watch the news together. Among those people was a woman from a local news station. I don't remember her name, or what news station she was from, or really anything else about her. What I do remember about her was her genuine care for our situation. We had been contacted by several other stations over the course of a few hours to be interviewed, and none of them struck me as anyone who cared about our hurt for more than anything but a good news story. What I liked about her was that she asked several times if I wanted her to leave, or get out of the kitchen, and she asked politely more than once if it was okay we be interviewed. When a few of us agreed, she patiently moved all of her equipment to the front steps per our requests to give us our privacy in case a breakdown occurred. Her questions revolved around our memories, giving us a chance to share the things we loved most about Brenna, not the case, the situation, or any opinions of things that would have made a better 'story'.
To the blonde woman from the news station who covered this story three years ago - thank you for your genuine care for my friends and me. Thank you for not pushing us, and truly caring to develop the story of my friend as a person and not just as a news story. I never thought that would be hard to find, until I was in that situation, and I realize we were very lucky.
Over the course of that summer, it was easy to see hundreds of cars throughout the day with the letters "WWBD" printed in the back - the letters we had picked a day before her funeral after finding out the the Phelps had decided to protest. the phrase "What Would Brenna Do" became a sign to be printed on cars, among other things, to show a member of our family, and someone that you could catch a smile with in a parking lot - knowing that you had shared the same pain only a few weeks before. I now know how important the example set by the Jimmy Johns guys and the lady from the news station really was - Brenna wasn't a miracle worker, barely had her high school diploma, but she definitely would have made someone's lunch when having the ability. She definitely would have gone out of her way to treat them with kindness. And she definitely would have taken extra and gentle care for their situation, even if she didn't understand it.
People always say that the first year of a loss was the hardest. If you prove to yourself that you do everything once, then surely you can do it again. For us, though, the first year, or at least the first nine months, just meant getting past the legal side - It was not until January of 2013 when it was truly 'over' and I came home from work that day to read an article on CJ Online that tore me to pieces - but I could also breathe a sigh of relief because there would be no more court dates or hearings - it was finally over. Additionally, when the grief journey came to an abrupt halt in October with the loss of our sweet Luke, I felt like raising the white flag with God. The sweet boy who had won my heart with his life sized imagination and our shared love of Starburst jelly beans was suddenly gone - two people who loved life with their whole hearts - suddenly gone in five months of each other. God, where are you in this? I knew this meant that our 'one year clock' was potentially starting over - but this time, I didn't have much confidence in it's ability to keep ticking.
I wish I would have known in those really terrible first months with the court dates, another funeral, and days when seeing a K-State rowing shirt on campus nearly ruined my day that the best really was yet to come. I wish I would have known that grief would not always have such a stronghold on my life, and that I would eventually make it to the other side and would eventually lead a bible study, find the best group of friends I'd ever had, and be a part of a mission team to Hong Kong the summer after my sophomore year of college where I met a family who continues to impact on my life and journey with Christ. I wish I would have known that helping write an obituary in a yearbook for my friend would have helped fuel my love for writing three years later. I wish I would have known that the Jimmy John's guys and the lady from the news had it right all along.
To the guys at Jimmy John's that day, and to the lady from the news station who covered our story - Whether it be considered a 'random act of kindness', just going out of your way to make an extra sandwich when you didn't have to, just the way you did your job, or true care for a hurting group or kids, I still appreciate that three years later. I know for a fact that the actions of complete strangers got my day started off on the right foot - the first day on a very long road of emotionally draining days. Your kindness was the very first of many footprints of the angels in my path that has helped me accomplish so many things that I could have never, ever done on my own. To the guys at Jimmy John's and the lady from the news- thanks for starting out that journey with a perfect example of how to make it through. Nothing big, nothing hard, but definitely something important.
Three years ago yesterday, my life felt like one of those thousand piece puzzles that you just finished and is resting peacefully on your kitchen table. I felt like all of the things in my life made sense - I had my high school diploma, knew where I was going to college, knew what I wanted to do, and was excited about my future - a future still distant enough that I didn't need to be nervous for it.
Three years ago today, it felt like someone took that puzzle and dumped it, face down, and I watched the pieces scatter as a big wind picked up. The next two and a half years were spent picking up the pieces and figuring out where they went. I was at work when I got the phone call that Brenna had gone missing - but unable to leave, as the time passed, I felt more and more weary about the situation at hand. My phone continued to buzz from friends who were in the same situation - trapped at work and worried sick, wondering if anyone had any more information. I was able to leave work early and I joined hundreds of others as we walked up and down streets, searching through ditches, fields, and shrubbery, alternating between being sad, but then going back to talking about college because we were sure this wasn't real. By the late hours of the evening, hundreds of people had migrated slowly to the caution tape that had been posted where her glasses had been found on the side of the road. The feeling of hearing police yell into an abandoned building for my friend and seeing a helicopter swoop low over the field to search for her when she had sat the row behind me at graduation just days before is engrained deep into my brain, but also my heart.
I remember vividly getting the phone call from my mom where she told me that Brenna was gone. My phone was on it's last leg of battery by that time of night and there were surely close to 1000 people out searching - making it near impossible to stay near my parents. I was, quite literally, knocked to my knees and I only remember hitting the side of the truck that was parked next to where I was standing. I remember getting through the sea of people and the only two people on the planet I wanted to see were my parents, but it felt like it took hours to find them - when in reality it was probably only a few minutes. As we stood in the field that was filled with my best friends, I watched them, one by one, get similar calls from their own parents who would show up shortly after. Many staff from our school were out there and I saw my best friends fall sobbing and shaking in the street. The next morning, I woke up and it took all the energy I had to move myself to the couch. My mom came in and she made a comment how it was probably time I try to eat something - I truly admire her for her patience with me during that time of convincing and the car ride across town. I know 17 year olds can be unpleasant, but I know for a fact that day that I had long surpassed the grounds of 'unpleasant'.
Please note that I do not share this so that anyone has to relive it, or that I think these are important details three years later. What I do think matters, however, is the boldness of the situation compared to the seemingly small acts of kindness that follow it.
It wasn't until we walked into Jimmy John's that day until I realized that I was still wearing my pajama pants, hadn't combed my hair, and my eyes were still swollen with tears from the night before. The guys at Jimmy John's that day showed only genuine kindness - continuing to comment on the beautiful weather, asking about our plans for the weekend, and seeming to not notice that we were probably very unkind, and possibly very checked out. When my mom paid for our sandwiches, they made manual change and never touched the register. With her questioning look, he responded that the shop wasn't actually open - but they had bread ready and were happy to serve.
It is possible that them making our sandwiches outside the normal store hours meant nothing to them; they weren't intending to be especially kind, or maybe they were but it was only because the weather was gorgeous and they were in a good mood. Maybe they and seen the news. Maybe they guessed who we were, or maybe I had a Seaman shirt on. Maybe the pajamas and tear stained face gave it away. All I know is that they didn't have to, and they did.
Later that day, people flooded in and out of my house to make scrapbooks and watch the news together. Among those people was a woman from a local news station. I don't remember her name, or what news station she was from, or really anything else about her. What I do remember about her was her genuine care for our situation. We had been contacted by several other stations over the course of a few hours to be interviewed, and none of them struck me as anyone who cared about our hurt for more than anything but a good news story. What I liked about her was that she asked several times if I wanted her to leave, or get out of the kitchen, and she asked politely more than once if it was okay we be interviewed. When a few of us agreed, she patiently moved all of her equipment to the front steps per our requests to give us our privacy in case a breakdown occurred. Her questions revolved around our memories, giving us a chance to share the things we loved most about Brenna, not the case, the situation, or any opinions of things that would have made a better 'story'.
To the blonde woman from the news station who covered this story three years ago - thank you for your genuine care for my friends and me. Thank you for not pushing us, and truly caring to develop the story of my friend as a person and not just as a news story. I never thought that would be hard to find, until I was in that situation, and I realize we were very lucky.
Over the course of that summer, it was easy to see hundreds of cars throughout the day with the letters "WWBD" printed in the back - the letters we had picked a day before her funeral after finding out the the Phelps had decided to protest. the phrase "What Would Brenna Do" became a sign to be printed on cars, among other things, to show a member of our family, and someone that you could catch a smile with in a parking lot - knowing that you had shared the same pain only a few weeks before. I now know how important the example set by the Jimmy Johns guys and the lady from the news station really was - Brenna wasn't a miracle worker, barely had her high school diploma, but she definitely would have made someone's lunch when having the ability. She definitely would have gone out of her way to treat them with kindness. And she definitely would have taken extra and gentle care for their situation, even if she didn't understand it.
People always say that the first year of a loss was the hardest. If you prove to yourself that you do everything once, then surely you can do it again. For us, though, the first year, or at least the first nine months, just meant getting past the legal side - It was not until January of 2013 when it was truly 'over' and I came home from work that day to read an article on CJ Online that tore me to pieces - but I could also breathe a sigh of relief because there would be no more court dates or hearings - it was finally over. Additionally, when the grief journey came to an abrupt halt in October with the loss of our sweet Luke, I felt like raising the white flag with God. The sweet boy who had won my heart with his life sized imagination and our shared love of Starburst jelly beans was suddenly gone - two people who loved life with their whole hearts - suddenly gone in five months of each other. God, where are you in this? I knew this meant that our 'one year clock' was potentially starting over - but this time, I didn't have much confidence in it's ability to keep ticking.
I wish I would have known in those really terrible first months with the court dates, another funeral, and days when seeing a K-State rowing shirt on campus nearly ruined my day that the best really was yet to come. I wish I would have known that grief would not always have such a stronghold on my life, and that I would eventually make it to the other side and would eventually lead a bible study, find the best group of friends I'd ever had, and be a part of a mission team to Hong Kong the summer after my sophomore year of college where I met a family who continues to impact on my life and journey with Christ. I wish I would have known that helping write an obituary in a yearbook for my friend would have helped fuel my love for writing three years later. I wish I would have known that the Jimmy John's guys and the lady from the news had it right all along.
To the guys at Jimmy John's that day, and to the lady from the news station who covered our story - Whether it be considered a 'random act of kindness', just going out of your way to make an extra sandwich when you didn't have to, just the way you did your job, or true care for a hurting group or kids, I still appreciate that three years later. I know for a fact that the actions of complete strangers got my day started off on the right foot - the first day on a very long road of emotionally draining days. Your kindness was the very first of many footprints of the angels in my path that has helped me accomplish so many things that I could have never, ever done on my own. To the guys at Jimmy John's and the lady from the news- thanks for starting out that journey with a perfect example of how to make it through. Nothing big, nothing hard, but definitely something important.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
To The Nostalgic High School Senior
I remember my last week of high school very vividly - starting Monday morning thinking about how this was probably the last time my mom would ever make my lunch, and how it would be exactly how I liked it, before I started having to eat the 'dreaded' dorm food, before living in a room the size of a coat closet, and before sharing a bathroom with 40 other girls. I remember going to my senior breakfast where we 'tailgated school' and played frisbee in the parking lot, my last day of dance team where I got to hand down my treasured job of co-captain and prayer leader before each game. I remember riding my bike to school with 30 or so other seniors on my last day, and crying my way through the halls as I found each individual teacher to get my infamous 'yellow sheet' signed stating that I had no unreturned books, missing assignments, or unresolved squabbles and was good to go for Sunday at 4:00.
I remember driving home from my last graduation party on Sunday night around 2:00 and seeing the sign at Mother Theresa Catholic Church that simply read 'Congrats to the Grads" - it was dimly lit and one of the letters was crooked, but as I finished my drive home, I realized how incredibly content I felt with my life at that very moment. That week I started working for the summer at my favorite job - not too concerned about college, mostly worried about what that evening or weekends' plans were. But I remember, as August crept closer, feeling more nervous. What would happen to the family that I had been apart of for 13 years? Would it feel different to go home again? Would I still be close to my sister? I had been saying that I was 'ready to move on' for months, but what if I didn't like college?
To the nostalgic high school senior; I promise it will all work out. That dorm room you are about to move into seems small now, but within a few days it will seem like the homiest place in the world. That bathroom may seem scary, but I promise you will be forced to bond with those other girls by brushing your teeth in the morning together or trying to figure out why there's a red velvet cake on the floor in the bathroom (yes, that happened). You will meet your RA and they will be your 'mom away from mom' when you need them, but your real mom will still always your number one phone call away, and trust me, you will utilize that. You will learn to appreciate your car when you have to park it three miles away from the dorm and that run to the store is unavoidable at 2 a.m. because you NEED Chinese (and it's probably pouring down rain). You'll learn how little time it actually takes you to get ready in the morning when you've been up since two studying (or listening to your roommate talk about her date last weekend)
To the nostalgic high school senior, your high school will always hold a special place in your heart, and trust me, nothing is as special as reuniting with your high school friends and catching up on significant others, who has changed their major the most, and who hasn't actually ATTENDED their sociology class this semester. It will feel different to go home, but it will feel like the most comforting thing in the world - after being away for a few weeks, Betty Crocker couldn't make anything as good as your mom can and suddenly YOU are the one annoying your younger sibling because you want to spend time with THEM.
To the nostalgic high school senior, suddenly, your college friends become a part of your family. When you run out of gas, suddenly they are a lot closer than your parents. The first time you really, really mess up anything on your own, they are the ones you run to. And when the fire alarms go off every hour and a half because of a leaky pipe during finals week, THEY are the ones who truly understand your pain.
To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise you that the best part about college is choosing your own niche. Choosing the people you hang out with, the classes you take, the way you spend your weekends. Your freedom dictates your happiness and success, and you have the opportunity to choose whether or not you will 'like college.' I promise you that your professors are nothing like the English version of Professor McGonnagal.
As I'm writing this post, I'm sitting on the floor of the library, drowning in my own physics and neuroscience notes. I have dishes from dinner three hours ago that need to be taken home and washed, a cup of sweet tea that's getting me through tonight, and a Royals game to watch with some friends that I'm pretty excited about later. College is a little less predictable than high school, we just got kicked out of the library for an hour because of a 'leak' (whatever that means) with nothing but our phones. But, hey, memories, right?
To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise it will be okay. You will make friends, some for keeps and some not so much. You will make grades, some for keeps and some you could have done better. But I promise you that the memories, whether it be a college game or a Chinese food run at 2 a.m., will be well, well worth the nerves.
I remember driving home from my last graduation party on Sunday night around 2:00 and seeing the sign at Mother Theresa Catholic Church that simply read 'Congrats to the Grads" - it was dimly lit and one of the letters was crooked, but as I finished my drive home, I realized how incredibly content I felt with my life at that very moment. That week I started working for the summer at my favorite job - not too concerned about college, mostly worried about what that evening or weekends' plans were. But I remember, as August crept closer, feeling more nervous. What would happen to the family that I had been apart of for 13 years? Would it feel different to go home again? Would I still be close to my sister? I had been saying that I was 'ready to move on' for months, but what if I didn't like college?
To the nostalgic high school senior; I promise it will all work out. That dorm room you are about to move into seems small now, but within a few days it will seem like the homiest place in the world. That bathroom may seem scary, but I promise you will be forced to bond with those other girls by brushing your teeth in the morning together or trying to figure out why there's a red velvet cake on the floor in the bathroom (yes, that happened). You will meet your RA and they will be your 'mom away from mom' when you need them, but your real mom will still always your number one phone call away, and trust me, you will utilize that. You will learn to appreciate your car when you have to park it three miles away from the dorm and that run to the store is unavoidable at 2 a.m. because you NEED Chinese (and it's probably pouring down rain). You'll learn how little time it actually takes you to get ready in the morning when you've been up since two studying (or listening to your roommate talk about her date last weekend)
To the nostalgic high school senior, your high school will always hold a special place in your heart, and trust me, nothing is as special as reuniting with your high school friends and catching up on significant others, who has changed their major the most, and who hasn't actually ATTENDED their sociology class this semester. It will feel different to go home, but it will feel like the most comforting thing in the world - after being away for a few weeks, Betty Crocker couldn't make anything as good as your mom can and suddenly YOU are the one annoying your younger sibling because you want to spend time with THEM.
To the nostalgic high school senior, suddenly, your college friends become a part of your family. When you run out of gas, suddenly they are a lot closer than your parents. The first time you really, really mess up anything on your own, they are the ones you run to. And when the fire alarms go off every hour and a half because of a leaky pipe during finals week, THEY are the ones who truly understand your pain.
To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise you that the best part about college is choosing your own niche. Choosing the people you hang out with, the classes you take, the way you spend your weekends. Your freedom dictates your happiness and success, and you have the opportunity to choose whether or not you will 'like college.' I promise you that your professors are nothing like the English version of Professor McGonnagal.
As I'm writing this post, I'm sitting on the floor of the library, drowning in my own physics and neuroscience notes. I have dishes from dinner three hours ago that need to be taken home and washed, a cup of sweet tea that's getting me through tonight, and a Royals game to watch with some friends that I'm pretty excited about later. College is a little less predictable than high school, we just got kicked out of the library for an hour because of a 'leak' (whatever that means) with nothing but our phones. But, hey, memories, right?
To the nostalgic high school senior, I promise it will be okay. You will make friends, some for keeps and some not so much. You will make grades, some for keeps and some you could have done better. But I promise you that the memories, whether it be a college game or a Chinese food run at 2 a.m., will be well, well worth the nerves.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
To my Favorite Guardian Angel - Happy 21st Birthday, Brenna
I think that of all the days in the world after someone dies - the anniversary of that day, the holidays without them, the everyday things that make you think of them - birthdays are definitely the toughest. Today would have been Brenna's 21st birthday - the last of the milestone birthdays we would have all celebrated together.
This day usually falls each year right around the first thunderstorm, when the trees are changing, and as the weather is finally starting to warm up. (emphasis on finally) The first year, I remember thinking a lot of "Will this ever go away? Will it stop being the first thing on my mind in the morning? Will I stop being reminded of it every time I see the Lion King or Tangled, or hear any words associated with loss, or drive anywhere in Topeka, or see a K-State rowing shirt on campus? - everything seemed to remind me of her.
There was a time in life when I wondered if we would attempt to do something in her honor for her birthday, but it hasn't happened. We've now all moved on to college and her day falls in the middle of the most challenging part of the semester. I made it to the cemetery once over Memorial Weekend the year after she died with a few friends, but otherwise, I know there's several people who have never been out to see her, and I usually just drop by on my way back to school. One of the hardest lessons I had to learn through this process was that everyone grieves differently - and for us, 'different' meant 'not together.'
The trickiest concept to grasp, I think, is that loss is the tough part - not death. It is days when you would be celebrating (like their 21st birthday) that hit you like a ton of bricks. It is getting used to the fact that they are not there - and sometimes, that takes a lot longer than you 'think' it should - and the world is still spinning. It is seeing the articles that catch you off guard on Facebook, like the ones I saw today, written by people so very far away who never heard her positive and yet demanding requests to take a picture, or heard her contagious laugh, write about their thoughts on the death penalty.
Over time, it gets easier though - her birthday tends to resurface all the old pictures that I forgot about - some memories that have even left my mind. That night at the lake, the time we went on a scavenger hunt and managed to fit six people in a porta potty, and even pictures at events that had no reason for photos - but knowing her, the camera was always there. I've never been so thankful for a friend who required so many pictures at so many annoying times. My favorite picture of Brenna and I was taken seconds before I walked on the basketball court for a half time routine during a Hayden game. I was thinking, 'uh, Bren, I kinda gotta be somewhere?' and she kept saying 'no, it'll just be a quick second!' And I'm so glad she was so insistent.
My favorite memories of Brenna may be that time that someone unintentionally called her fat in eighth grade English (it seriously was unintentional) and she promptly slapped him in the face with a binder. Brenna got a high five from our teacher and the boy got sent out in the hall for insulting a girl. Later in eighth grade, she was over for New Year's, and my mom offered her some Sparkling Cider, to which Brenna told my mom that she didn't drink, not realizing it wasn't real. (The girl knew how to stick to her values and I always admired her for that) I think our whole class of 150 knew when she got a discipline sheet and did it in the bathroom so her parents wouldn't find out (we all knew those weren't fair or a good form of punishment anyway, right?) She also tagged my car junior year (when some other friends found out she had never been tagging) ... in the rain... to wish me luck on the ACT. She was a true friend - through thick and thin. :)
This weekend I went home for Easter and on Sunday night went up to the high school to run the track - a place I hadn't been in several months. There was a long time after Brenna died when I didn't like going to the high school. The familiarity of it used to make me sad - knowing that for future reunions or really anytime we get together, there would always be a hole, and not just because she already had earthly plans. I would think of our desks pushed together in seminar to 'do math homework' - or mostly just laugh and giggle and get ourselves in trouble. I thought of her familiar face always sitting front row of the band section at the basketball games and it made her easy to pick out while I danced at half time - the comfort of knowing that even if I messed up, she would still think I was great just because I could spin in circles without falling over.
If I could ask her anything today - just have a five minute conversation with her - it would be How? How did you do it? The positive attitude, the consistent shining of the light of Christ, the constant happiness, that huge smile. How can I be like you? When we went in the Monday after she died to work on the yearbook and begin putting together a memorial page/article for her, that how question sat in my heart like a huge weight. How were we supposed to contain her in one page? Most of the school knew her, so how were we supposed to portray the person she was to each of them? And for those who didn't - what could we possibly say in one page? Pastor Cogswell made the gentle suggestion at her funeral that the letters on our cars should not be What Would Brenna Do, but instead, What Would Brenna Want?
Perhaps I should work so hard to live a life like that - where I could not be fit on a page, not because I am important, or well known, but because the investment in others stretches far beyond what I can see.
Happy 21st, Brenna - you are loved more than you could have ever known.
This day usually falls each year right around the first thunderstorm, when the trees are changing, and as the weather is finally starting to warm up. (emphasis on finally) The first year, I remember thinking a lot of "Will this ever go away? Will it stop being the first thing on my mind in the morning? Will I stop being reminded of it every time I see the Lion King or Tangled, or hear any words associated with loss, or drive anywhere in Topeka, or see a K-State rowing shirt on campus? - everything seemed to remind me of her.
There was a time in life when I wondered if we would attempt to do something in her honor for her birthday, but it hasn't happened. We've now all moved on to college and her day falls in the middle of the most challenging part of the semester. I made it to the cemetery once over Memorial Weekend the year after she died with a few friends, but otherwise, I know there's several people who have never been out to see her, and I usually just drop by on my way back to school. One of the hardest lessons I had to learn through this process was that everyone grieves differently - and for us, 'different' meant 'not together.'
The trickiest concept to grasp, I think, is that loss is the tough part - not death. It is days when you would be celebrating (like their 21st birthday) that hit you like a ton of bricks. It is getting used to the fact that they are not there - and sometimes, that takes a lot longer than you 'think' it should - and the world is still spinning. It is seeing the articles that catch you off guard on Facebook, like the ones I saw today, written by people so very far away who never heard her positive and yet demanding requests to take a picture, or heard her contagious laugh, write about their thoughts on the death penalty.
Over time, it gets easier though - her birthday tends to resurface all the old pictures that I forgot about - some memories that have even left my mind. That night at the lake, the time we went on a scavenger hunt and managed to fit six people in a porta potty, and even pictures at events that had no reason for photos - but knowing her, the camera was always there. I've never been so thankful for a friend who required so many pictures at so many annoying times. My favorite picture of Brenna and I was taken seconds before I walked on the basketball court for a half time routine during a Hayden game. I was thinking, 'uh, Bren, I kinda gotta be somewhere?' and she kept saying 'no, it'll just be a quick second!' And I'm so glad she was so insistent.
My favorite memories of Brenna may be that time that someone unintentionally called her fat in eighth grade English (it seriously was unintentional) and she promptly slapped him in the face with a binder. Brenna got a high five from our teacher and the boy got sent out in the hall for insulting a girl. Later in eighth grade, she was over for New Year's, and my mom offered her some Sparkling Cider, to which Brenna told my mom that she didn't drink, not realizing it wasn't real. (The girl knew how to stick to her values and I always admired her for that) I think our whole class of 150 knew when she got a discipline sheet and did it in the bathroom so her parents wouldn't find out (we all knew those weren't fair or a good form of punishment anyway, right?) She also tagged my car junior year (when some other friends found out she had never been tagging) ... in the rain... to wish me luck on the ACT. She was a true friend - through thick and thin. :)
This weekend I went home for Easter and on Sunday night went up to the high school to run the track - a place I hadn't been in several months. There was a long time after Brenna died when I didn't like going to the high school. The familiarity of it used to make me sad - knowing that for future reunions or really anytime we get together, there would always be a hole, and not just because she already had earthly plans. I would think of our desks pushed together in seminar to 'do math homework' - or mostly just laugh and giggle and get ourselves in trouble. I thought of her familiar face always sitting front row of the band section at the basketball games and it made her easy to pick out while I danced at half time - the comfort of knowing that even if I messed up, she would still think I was great just because I could spin in circles without falling over.
If I could ask her anything today - just have a five minute conversation with her - it would be How? How did you do it? The positive attitude, the consistent shining of the light of Christ, the constant happiness, that huge smile. How can I be like you? When we went in the Monday after she died to work on the yearbook and begin putting together a memorial page/article for her, that how question sat in my heart like a huge weight. How were we supposed to contain her in one page? Most of the school knew her, so how were we supposed to portray the person she was to each of them? And for those who didn't - what could we possibly say in one page? Pastor Cogswell made the gentle suggestion at her funeral that the letters on our cars should not be What Would Brenna Do, but instead, What Would Brenna Want?
Perhaps I should work so hard to live a life like that - where I could not be fit on a page, not because I am important, or well known, but because the investment in others stretches far beyond what I can see.
Happy 21st, Brenna - you are loved more than you could have ever known.
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