Sunday Snippets

"I shall start at the beginning.  Though the beginning is never where you think it is.  Our lives are so important to us that we tend to think the story of them begins with our birth.  First there was nothing, then I was born. . . .Yet that is not so.  Human lives are not pieces of string that can be separated out from a knot of others and laid out straight.  Families are webs.  Impossible to touch one part of it without setting the rest vibrating.  Impossible to understand one part without having a sense of the whole."
--The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield

~~~~~

"So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous hand."
--Isaiah 41:10

~~~~~

"On my friend Jean's wedding day over thirty years ago, she asked her mother, 'Do all brides feel this terrified when they're about to get married?' and her mother replied, even as she calmly buttoned up her daughter's white dress, 'No, dear.  Only the ones who are actually thinking.'"
--Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage, Elizabeth Gilbert


Happy Sunday!



P.S.  This is day four of my twenty-one day blogging adventure.  So far, so good.  Then again, it is only day four. . . .


Coming up Monday: Spring Break 2012--Our Trip to Montreal! See you there.

What I Just Finished....

A student recommended that I read The Thirteenth Tale.  I said I would when I had time, and she promised to bring it whenever I was ready.  As it turns out, I never really was ready.  The not being ready has to do with my own personality and the fact that I'm still an almost-drowning-gasping-for-air first year teacher.  So one day, the persistent tenth grader brought me the book.  No rush, she said.  I didn't rush.  I think it took me a month to actually start the book and quite a while after that to finish.

At first I found the novel to be wordy and a bit overly descriptive, as if Setterfield danced around what she trying to say by weaving such elaborate descriptions that once I'd finished the description it was hard to remember what was being described in the first place and whether or not it was important at all to the story.  Admittedly, some of this confusion comes from the fact that I was trying to read just before bed and would allow myself to doze off a bit, become confused, and have to reread.

I probably would've given up on the book if I didn't trust this student's literary recommendations so much.  Anyway, I soldiered on.  I reread what I'd forgotten.  And, finally, when I had committed to reading the book at an hour in which I was not likely to fall over from exhaustion, I discovered the glorious gift, that one so rarely finds, of a truly good story wrapped up the pages of this novel.

In her novel, Setterfield weaves vivid descriptions with such powerful emotion that captivates the reader wholly as she tells the story of two strange sisters.  The story is good; it is full of mystery and confusion and love and twists.  The protagonist is a lover of literature, so bits of the classics are thrown in here and there.

This novel is a prime example of why I love literature.  It is superbly written and reawakens a reader's thirst for words, that thirst most real readers have--to experience, to feel, and to understand.

P.S.  This is day three of my twenty-one day blogging adventure.  So far, so good.  Then again, it is only day three. . . .


Coming up Monday: Spring Break 2012--Our Trip to Montreal! See you there.

Spring Break 2012: Montreal!

For Spring Break this year, my family and I headed up north to Montreal to visit my cousin Sony (her real name is Sonya, but I called her Sony when I was little, so I'm calling her Sony now).


Coming up this week I'm going to tell you all about our trip.  We laughed a lot, had some interesting taxi experiences, ate good food, shopped, walked, went to museums, and I kind of fell in love with the city.  It had an Americanized Europey kind of feel, or maybe it just felt like Canada. 

Here's Melvin hanging out in Hub's suitcase while we packed.  What a cutie.

Stay tuned for more adventure!



P.S.  This is day two of my twenty-one day blogging adventure.  So far, so good.  Then again, it is only day two. . . .

Time Management and a Blogging Adventure

Lately I've been thinking a lot about time management.

As a first year teacher, I frequently feel like I can't breathe or as though I'm doggy paddling in a deep ocean as quickly as I can so that the next wave won't completely drown me.  It's not always that bad, but sometimes it is.  Okay, most of the time it is.  There's just tons to do and more to learn.  It's been a wonderful experience, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I've been thinking about all of the different things I need to make time for in my life:
reading, spending time with Hub, having friends, breathing, writing, working, church, etc.

All of these things are valuable, and I want to do all of them more.  I just always struggle to find the time, and believe me, I am a professional time waster as well as a time finder.  I sort of have a split personality that way.  I am procrastinator, too.  I work really well under pressure because there isn't any more time left to waste, but I don't want to live that way.  Not anymore.

I'm slowly starting to realize that I'll only have time for the things I make time for. So, I'm going to start by making time for writing.

I've heard that it takes 21 days to truly form a habit, so here's the adventure part of this post's title.  You know; the one you forgot about already because of my ramblings.

I'm challenging myself to 21 days of blogging...daily.  As in, one post per day for twenty-one days.  Yes, hold the phone; turn off the television.  I'm going to try for ONE POST PER DAY FOR TWENTY-ONE DAYS.  (oh, brother, why'd I say that...)

I don't know if it'll work, but if it doesn't, I'll try again.  I'll keep on trying until I've made time for the writing that I want to do, the writing that I need to do, because the truth is I don't want to wake up when I'm eighty and wish that I had written more or loved more or appreciated more.  I want to wake up when I'm eighty and feel happy that I took advantage of every opportunity and blessing that came my way and that I tried new things and discovered joy at every turn.

Here's to Day One,

Another Year's Gone By...

Now it's been four years since we lost Donnie to himself.  I spent the day with tenth graders visiting a Jewish synagogue and a Muslim mosque.  All day my thoughts floated back to my dear friend who would have been so, so good at teaching these kids about God's truth and the love Jesus has for them.  My heart is too full to write a new post about my precious friend, so I'm reposting what I had to say last year on this day.  The truth is, my thoughts and feelings are the same.  This year the process of grieving Donnie's death hasn't moved much.  Sometimes grief goes quickly and then slows down and then picks up its pace again.  Right now I'm moving slowly, but at least I'm moving.


--------

I was in high school before Donnie and I became friends. First, he visited my church and then my home. My parents reached out to him, and he reached out to us.  It wasn't too long before Donnie spent Saturdays with us.  Then, he found his way into suppertime and sleeping on our couch.  He came to our family birthdays and Christmases.  Santa even dropped some gifts off at our house for him.  He quickly became an important part of my life.  More like a brother than a friend, really.  


I've never had a brother, so I could be mistaken, but I've heard that they show up at inconvenient times and irritate you and tell stupid jokes and make you laugh and make you want to hit them in the face and they're sometimes quite messy, but more than anything you love them so deeply that the thought of losing them takes your breath away.  Isn't that what it's like to have a brother?  I imagine it is; at least, that's what it was like having a Donnie.  Donnie was all of those things to me, and even more.  We would sit and talk for hours.  We would solve the world's problems and talk about our families and our friends and our God and our weekends and our schoolwork.  He is the only person who ever made sure to ask in nearly every conversation if Hub was treating me right.  We dreamed big dreams together, had a lot of fun, laughed a lot of laughs, and cried a lot of tears.

I was in college when Donnie died.  It was Saturday, and he shot himself between the eyes.  

It was the first time I'd experienced such loss, hurt, confusion, and anger all at one time.  In one breath I could bid him good riddance for his selfishness, and in the next,  I'd beg him to come back for a do-over.
Never will I understand why he decided to end a life so full of promise.  If he was at the end of his rope, I would have given him mine.  So many people would have.  He was, he is, so deeply loved and so deeply cherished.


Sometimes I dream that the buzz at the door is him, and I'll answer, and he'll come inside.  He'll sit on the couch, and I'll offer him something to drink. We'll spend the afternoon talking and laughing, and Hub will come home, and I'll fix dinner, and Donnie will eat three plates, help me clean up the kitchen, and be on his merry way again.  But that never really happens.


Sometimes I wish that when I picked up the ringing phone, it would be him on the other line calling to see how life is in Kentucky.  But that never happens, either.


Sometimes I imagine that I'll get a letter in the mail apologizing for missing my college graduation and my engagement and my wedding and a promise to come and see me soon.  But that never happens.


They won't ever happen, these things I dream of and imagine and pray for in the still of the night.  These things won't ever happen, and it's his own fault.  It is a dark and unsettling place when the person you have lost, the person you so desperately want one more conversation with, is the same person who caused all of this pain in the first place.


Sometimes I look up to heaven and I think, "Donnie Ferguson, if you can see me right now you'd better be sorry, buddy. I hope you see all of us down here and you feel bad for what you've done and all of this pain you've caused.  Because you should.  You should feel terrible."


And then other times I look up to heaven and thing, "How is it that a person so loved by so many could feel so desperate, so alone."  And I feel guilty for his death, like it was my fault somehow because I wasn't right there the moment he needed me.


Most of the time, though, I just hope and pray that he is happy.


Before I ever had to think about it, I knew that losing him would take my breath away.  That it would rip me open and scrape me out and shake me up.  I was right.  I carry on, though.  I carry on knowing that if he could go back and change the circumstances of his death, he would.  I carry on knowing that if he could see the pain and the torture he had caused the ones who loved him, he would put the gun down and back away.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.  And maybe I am wrong, but I know who Donnie was and how much he cared, so I believe that if he really understood the consequences of shooting himself in the head, he wouldn't have.  He would have stayed alive and protected the people he loved, the people who loved him.


When I tell my children about my precious friend, I will make sure that they know his death was not the definition of his life.  That although he had many struggles; he had many more victories.  I will make sure they know that even though he had a temporary, life-altering, and terrible lapse in judgement that he was a brilliant and loving human being who changed my life, and many others, for better.  More than anything, I will make sure that they know they are loved and cherished, no matter what, and if the desperation ever comes, that suicide isn't the way.  

Because suicide never heals.  It only creates more anguish.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please call 

1-800-SUICIDE 

or visit 

www.hopeline.com 

because there is always a way out, even if you can't see it just yet.