In May 2009, author Rick Riordan released The Last Olympian, the final book in the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. The series introduced young readers to Camp Half-Blood, a summer camp to train half-bloods—human children of the Greek gods. In the final chapter of The Last Olympian, the oracle, Rachel Elizabeth Dare, delivers a new prophecy, leaving Camp Half-Blood readers spell-bound and expectant for a sequel series.
And Riordan delivered.
On October 12, 2010, Rick Riordan debuted his latest young fiction masterpiece, Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero.
Readers acclaim Riordan’s authorship by placing The Lost Hero number one on the New York Times best-seller list for the sixth week in a row. Impressed? What if I told you that book one in The Heroes of Olympus series isn’t the first time Riordan’s name has hung on the Times best-seller list? The current number two (with a twenty-nine week reign on the Times best-seller list) is The Red Pyramid, book one of Riordan’s Kane Chronicles.
Why is The Lost Hero ranked #1? Because Riordan grabs his readers from page one: “Even before he got electrocuted, Jason was having a rotten day.” From that point on, there was no putting the book down. The Lost Hero introduces the fans of Camp Half-Blood to three new heroes (well, two heroes and a heroine), while keeping us connected with old friends. Questions buzzed in my head as I searched for answers from page to page. Who was Jason and what was his connection to Camp Half-Blood? Why can’t he remember who he is? Who are Piper and Leo? And, where is Percy?
“Jason has a problem.”
Riordan first introduces Jason, a fifteen—or is it sixteen—year-old boy who suffering from a major case of amnesia. He can’t remember who the girl holding his hand is (she claims to be his girlfriend, Piper), how he got on the school bus in the middle of the desert, who he is, or where he came from. Amidst all the confusion, Jason finds himself in the midst of a mythological world that seems strangely familiar.
“Piper has a secret.”
Starved for attention from her movie-star dad, Piper uses her soothing voice to manipulate others to give her things—for free. Her smooth tongue landed her in the wilderness school—a private school for troubled teens, but Piper is troubled by more than her honey-tipped tongue. Since being separated from her father, she constantly dreams of his capture and torture. A voice as smooth as her own offers her father’s freedom, but only at a high price. Will Piper betray her friends to free her father?
“Leo has a way with tools.”
Leo constantly tinkers with metal objects—mechanical marvels are quickly created (and destroyed) as he thinks. His quick wit and sarcastic humor help Jason and Piper relax as the trio faces the unknown. A startling discovery at Camp Half-Blood shows Jason, Piper, and the others that Leo is more than a clown.
The Lost Hero takes fans back to Camp Half-Blood and continues to train “campers” in Greek mythology. The book introduces more gods (Hera, Aphrodite, and Hephestus take center stage). But Riordan doesn’t stop with Greek mythology. With a slight twist of his pen, Riordan introduces the gods Roman connections through Jason. While Annabeth (Percy Jackson and the Olympians), Piper, and Leo continually reference the Greek attributes of the gods, Jason instructs on their militaristic, Roman characteristics.
Whether you’re an old fan of Camp Half-Blood or a new recruit, The Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero will keep you on your toes. In just 550 pages, Jason, Piper, and Leo lead you on a chase against time from coast to coast with stops in New Mexico, Quebec, California, and New York. Once you start reading, you won’t want to put the book down until it’s finished.
The wait for book two, The Son of Neptune, due to release fall 2011, seems as painful as fighting off mythical creatures between summers. Nevertheless, a wait lies before Camp Half-Blood fans. Maybe now we’ll be able to focus on our school work (which isn’t likely)—or maybe we’ll pick up Riordan’s Kane Chronicles and dive into Egyptian mythology while we wait. After all, book two of the Kane Chronicles (still to be titled) is due to release in the spring of 2011.
Showing posts with label advanced writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label advanced writing. Show all posts
01 December 2010
22 November 2010
roots of the home team
Fans across the nation unify in one loud, off-key rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” in celebration of America’s favorite pasttime, baseball. I can’t remember a summer passing that didn’t include baseball. The soft thud of a ball trapped in a leather mitt and the metallic ping from the collision of the ball and bat were the soundtrack of my summers. From backyard pick-up and church little league games to family excursions at major league games, baseball filled lazy summer days.
For me, baseball and community are synonymous. Backyard baseball games included all the kids we could gather in our small, downtown Independence community. The group of eight to twenty of us trooped half a block down to McCoy park’s ball diamond on hot, Missouri summer afternoons. The older boys would carry the ball bags filled with metal bats, extra balls, and a variety of old, worn-out gloves. Everyone else carried water, sandwiches, and sunflower seeds. Once at the field, the water and sandwiches were stored in the shade of a large oak tree and forgotten until lunch. We ran to the field, ready to start the game. We never really picked teams—we simply divided ourselves by family and street. No one was incredibly talented, so the teams came out pretty even. What we lacked in talent, though, we made up for in spirit.
Both the infield and outfield lacked players and few of us could throw the ball from the outfield to the pitcher (in fact, few of us could throw the ball with accuracy, let alone distance). My older brother, Jarid, usually pitched for both teams, as he was the only kid in the neighborhood who could get the ball over the plate. To speed up the game, he volunteered Craig or I to run home and drag our t-ball stand to the field. I struggled to carry the black, rubber stand the half-block to the park, but I didn’t complain. The stand doubled my chances of sending a line drive out to the right of centerfield with moderate accuracy. Games ended with the shrill blast of Mom’s silver whistle calling us home.
At home, my brothers and I continued to practice and improve our baseball skills. Dad led us to the private ally or up to the vacant lot and threw balls to us. By the time I was eight, I caught grounders, pop-flies, and line drives with moderate accuracy—the boys well exceeded me in skill, but they never minded that I tagged along. Dad taught me to love baseball and I despised anyone who told me that baseball was only for boys.
Dad coached one of our church’s little league teams from the time I was six until I was fourteen. I spent June to August at the baseball complex with Dad’s team. Throughout the years, Dad coached both of my brothers from t-ball, into coach’s pitch, and finally into fast pitch ball.
Baseball, for the Lawsons, was a family affair. Dad coached, Mom was the statistician, Craig and Jarid played, and Crystal and I kept the boys hydrated and prepared. In late May, we met with our new teammates as Mom and Dad handed out jerseys. The boys crowed around the table as they were handed white knickers and a jersey, hat, and socks of matching colors. Each boy ran to change as soon as he received his uniform—even Crystal and I dressed as part of the team. Dad taught us from the beginning that the team was our family and our family was a team. We did everything together, even baseball.
While Dad taught the boys the simple mechanics of baseball, he taught me to love and serve those around me. Tri-City Baseball League was an outreach program. Pastors and church members ran and coached the league, but the focus was to reach the community. While other coaches stacked their teams with talented ball players from secular leagues, Dad requested his team be built around boys from single-parent homes.
While our teams included three to five church members, boys from the community created our core. While he wanted to win (and had a winning record throughout his years as a coach), Dad desired to be a role model to the young men on his team.
Our team was our family. As much as I loved watching the games, I looked forward to spending time with the boys and their families off the field. Practices and games always extended into picnic lunches. The church families enjoyed the fellowship, but the single-mothers relished in the relaxing free-time and watched their sons interact with the fathers of the other boys. I smiled to myself as I watched Dad interact with his team. His action proclaimed one truth: life isn’t about baseball, it’s about impacting others.
I still love going to baseball games—especially when one of my brothers are playing. I spend most of the game on my feet, cheering on my favorite team with a cap on my head and a Pepsi in hand. But don’t be deceived—as much as I love watching the game, I go to the games for the atmosphere. Moms overlook their son’s errors, dads critique every play, fanatical fans disagree with every call, and teenage sisters ignore the game while they socialize with friends.
Baseball is community—people interacting and impacting each other.
For me, baseball and community are synonymous. Backyard baseball games included all the kids we could gather in our small, downtown Independence community. The group of eight to twenty of us trooped half a block down to McCoy park’s ball diamond on hot, Missouri summer afternoons. The older boys would carry the ball bags filled with metal bats, extra balls, and a variety of old, worn-out gloves. Everyone else carried water, sandwiches, and sunflower seeds. Once at the field, the water and sandwiches were stored in the shade of a large oak tree and forgotten until lunch. We ran to the field, ready to start the game. We never really picked teams—we simply divided ourselves by family and street. No one was incredibly talented, so the teams came out pretty even. What we lacked in talent, though, we made up for in spirit.
Both the infield and outfield lacked players and few of us could throw the ball from the outfield to the pitcher (in fact, few of us could throw the ball with accuracy, let alone distance). My older brother, Jarid, usually pitched for both teams, as he was the only kid in the neighborhood who could get the ball over the plate. To speed up the game, he volunteered Craig or I to run home and drag our t-ball stand to the field. I struggled to carry the black, rubber stand the half-block to the park, but I didn’t complain. The stand doubled my chances of sending a line drive out to the right of centerfield with moderate accuracy. Games ended with the shrill blast of Mom’s silver whistle calling us home.
At home, my brothers and I continued to practice and improve our baseball skills. Dad led us to the private ally or up to the vacant lot and threw balls to us. By the time I was eight, I caught grounders, pop-flies, and line drives with moderate accuracy—the boys well exceeded me in skill, but they never minded that I tagged along. Dad taught me to love baseball and I despised anyone who told me that baseball was only for boys.
Dad coached one of our church’s little league teams from the time I was six until I was fourteen. I spent June to August at the baseball complex with Dad’s team. Throughout the years, Dad coached both of my brothers from t-ball, into coach’s pitch, and finally into fast pitch ball.
Baseball, for the Lawsons, was a family affair. Dad coached, Mom was the statistician, Craig and Jarid played, and Crystal and I kept the boys hydrated and prepared. In late May, we met with our new teammates as Mom and Dad handed out jerseys. The boys crowed around the table as they were handed white knickers and a jersey, hat, and socks of matching colors. Each boy ran to change as soon as he received his uniform—even Crystal and I dressed as part of the team. Dad taught us from the beginning that the team was our family and our family was a team. We did everything together, even baseball.
While Dad taught the boys the simple mechanics of baseball, he taught me to love and serve those around me. Tri-City Baseball League was an outreach program. Pastors and church members ran and coached the league, but the focus was to reach the community. While other coaches stacked their teams with talented ball players from secular leagues, Dad requested his team be built around boys from single-parent homes.
While our teams included three to five church members, boys from the community created our core. While he wanted to win (and had a winning record throughout his years as a coach), Dad desired to be a role model to the young men on his team.
Our team was our family. As much as I loved watching the games, I looked forward to spending time with the boys and their families off the field. Practices and games always extended into picnic lunches. The church families enjoyed the fellowship, but the single-mothers relished in the relaxing free-time and watched their sons interact with the fathers of the other boys. I smiled to myself as I watched Dad interact with his team. His action proclaimed one truth: life isn’t about baseball, it’s about impacting others.
I still love going to baseball games—especially when one of my brothers are playing. I spend most of the game on my feet, cheering on my favorite team with a cap on my head and a Pepsi in hand. But don’t be deceived—as much as I love watching the game, I go to the games for the atmosphere. Moms overlook their son’s errors, dads critique every play, fanatical fans disagree with every call, and teenage sisters ignore the game while they socialize with friends.
Baseball is community—people interacting and impacting each other.
08 November 2010
the reading rainbow
Every summer morning while I was growing up, after finishing my sugar-coated Cheerios, I sank into my family’s burgundy couch and turned on PBS. I impatiently waited through the 1990s children’s commercials for Skip-Its and Ballzakits. Finally, LeVar Burton appeared on the screen and I began to sing, “Butterfly in the sky, I can fly twice as high, just take a look it’s in a book, The Reading Rainbow.” My imagination soared with the butterfly; LeVar Burton was my hero.
Books are a huge part of my life. Chills run up my spine as I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter, even in the middle of a hot, Missouri summer. Little Women always teaches me a new lesson, and I fall in love with Mr. Darcy when I pull Pride and Prejudice off the shelf before the start of every semester. Life without books would be . . . empty and void. I keep Tribeca and Barnes & Noble in business—I can’t leave those stores without a new book in hand. Last fall, Dad complained that he nearly broke his back carrying my 50-gallon tub full of books from the basement to my room on first floor. “You need to get rid of some of these books before you graduate,” Dad grunted as he dropped the tub on the floor. My emphatic reply? “I can’t get rid of my books, Dad!”
Dad surprised me this summer by suggesting I research Barnes & Noble’s NOOK, a competitor of Amazon’s famous electronic book, the Kindle. I was hesitant at first—nothing can replace the pure bliss of turning the page of a book. An electronic book? No thank you. But then again, this was Dad suggesting a way for me to buy more books, so I did some research.
The original NOOK matched Amazon’s Kindle in every way—instant wireless access to over 2 million books, paper-like text, long battery life, lending options, and note taking and highlighting features. The difference between the two products? Amazon created one and Barnes & Noble the other. That's it. But this fall, Barnes & Noble is raising the bar.
On November 19, 2010, Barnes & Noble will release the NOOKcolor. The NOOKcolor screen fills the once gray world of electronic reading with color—16 million colors on an LG screen, to be precise. With continued wi-fi capabilities, Android 2.1, and 8GB of storage, the NOOKcolor is taking a giant leap forward, leaving the Kindle and iPad behind.
The NOOK’s sleek design invites the reader to get lost in a book. At eight inches tall and five inches wide, the NOOK is the size of a typical book cover. At half an inch thick and weighing under a pound, the NOOK’s light weight tempts the reader to carry it everywhere. The seven-inch color touch screen allows readers to access over a million books and magazines with the touch of a finger. The screen runs at a high resolution and is back-lit, making reading easy on the eyes, no matter the time of day.
But looks aren’t everything.
The NOOKcolor sports techie features that make the most refined reader drool. Each NOOKcolor comes equipped with wi-fi—no annual fee (it’s part of the original expense). The unlimited wi-fi allows readers to download their favorite books, or that new release, regardless of location. Owners of NOOKcolor also stay in touch with the world with one-touch, instant access to social networking sites like facebook and twitter.
Like the iPhone, NOOKextras allows the reader to download applications outside of books. Readers tune in to Pandora radio or upload their own MP3s to enjoy their favorite music while they read. Want a break? Other applications include games like Sudoku and chess.
Need to work on the go? No problem. The NOOKcolor uses Quickoffice, allowing readers to view Microsoft Office documents as well as saving and transferring PDF and JPEG files. Whether reviewing the job at home or during the long commute to the office, Barnes & Noble’s NOOKcolor keeps businessmen connected.
With access to over two million books, downloadable applications like Pandora and Sudoku, and on-the-go access to Microsoft Office, the only fear a NOOKcolor owner has is space. The vast 8GB will seemingly slip away fast, but don’t panic—simply slide a memory card into the back of your NOOKcolor and, viola—unlimited space.
I’ve grown up and life has changed, but I can still fly. PBS no longer airs The Reading Rainbow. LaVar Burton only appears on my screen when I watch Star Trek reruns on the science-fiction network. I can’t remember all the lyrics to my favorite childhood show, though I can still hum the tune. For me, there’s a new reading rainbow: the NOOKcolor.
Books are a huge part of my life. Chills run up my spine as I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter, even in the middle of a hot, Missouri summer. Little Women always teaches me a new lesson, and I fall in love with Mr. Darcy when I pull Pride and Prejudice off the shelf before the start of every semester. Life without books would be . . . empty and void. I keep Tribeca and Barnes & Noble in business—I can’t leave those stores without a new book in hand. Last fall, Dad complained that he nearly broke his back carrying my 50-gallon tub full of books from the basement to my room on first floor. “You need to get rid of some of these books before you graduate,” Dad grunted as he dropped the tub on the floor. My emphatic reply? “I can’t get rid of my books, Dad!”
Dad surprised me this summer by suggesting I research Barnes & Noble’s NOOK, a competitor of Amazon’s famous electronic book, the Kindle. I was hesitant at first—nothing can replace the pure bliss of turning the page of a book. An electronic book? No thank you. But then again, this was Dad suggesting a way for me to buy more books, so I did some research.
The original NOOK matched Amazon’s Kindle in every way—instant wireless access to over 2 million books, paper-like text, long battery life, lending options, and note taking and highlighting features. The difference between the two products? Amazon created one and Barnes & Noble the other. That's it. But this fall, Barnes & Noble is raising the bar.
On November 19, 2010, Barnes & Noble will release the NOOKcolor. The NOOKcolor screen fills the once gray world of electronic reading with color—16 million colors on an LG screen, to be precise. With continued wi-fi capabilities, Android 2.1, and 8GB of storage, the NOOKcolor is taking a giant leap forward, leaving the Kindle and iPad behind.
The NOOK’s sleek design invites the reader to get lost in a book. At eight inches tall and five inches wide, the NOOK is the size of a typical book cover. At half an inch thick and weighing under a pound, the NOOK’s light weight tempts the reader to carry it everywhere. The seven-inch color touch screen allows readers to access over a million books and magazines with the touch of a finger. The screen runs at a high resolution and is back-lit, making reading easy on the eyes, no matter the time of day.
But looks aren’t everything.
The NOOKcolor sports techie features that make the most refined reader drool. Each NOOKcolor comes equipped with wi-fi—no annual fee (it’s part of the original expense). The unlimited wi-fi allows readers to download their favorite books, or that new release, regardless of location. Owners of NOOKcolor also stay in touch with the world with one-touch, instant access to social networking sites like facebook and twitter.
Like the iPhone, NOOKextras allows the reader to download applications outside of books. Readers tune in to Pandora radio or upload their own MP3s to enjoy their favorite music while they read. Want a break? Other applications include games like Sudoku and chess.
Need to work on the go? No problem. The NOOKcolor uses Quickoffice, allowing readers to view Microsoft Office documents as well as saving and transferring PDF and JPEG files. Whether reviewing the job at home or during the long commute to the office, Barnes & Noble’s NOOKcolor keeps businessmen connected.
With access to over two million books, downloadable applications like Pandora and Sudoku, and on-the-go access to Microsoft Office, the only fear a NOOKcolor owner has is space. The vast 8GB will seemingly slip away fast, but don’t panic—simply slide a memory card into the back of your NOOKcolor and, viola—unlimited space.
I’ve grown up and life has changed, but I can still fly. PBS no longer airs The Reading Rainbow. LaVar Burton only appears on my screen when I watch Star Trek reruns on the science-fiction network. I can’t remember all the lyrics to my favorite childhood show, though I can still hum the tune. For me, there’s a new reading rainbow: the NOOKcolor.
30 October 2010
can you hear me now?
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t hear you.” As soon as those words cross my lips, I see the other person’s reaction. I wince as their eyes roll & a deep, frustrated sigh escapes their lips. “You’re just not listening, Lynnae. Pay attention.” They repeat their question & I answer accordingly, but my mind slips back to a time they don’t know.
I contracted chicken pox from Jarid, my older brother, when I was eighteen months old. Mom says she couldn’t place the tip of her pinkie anywhere on my body without touching the bright red blisters. They covered my face, arms, legs & back, they were between my fingers & toes, down my throat, & in my ears. Just looking at the pictures makes me itch. The common childhood disease passed quickly, but the effects changed my life.
Mom held me, a screaming three-year-old, in her arms as she called the doctor’s office. “I need an appointment for Lynnae. . . . No, not in two weeks. Today.” Mom knew the office would close soon—it was Saturday—but she was desperate. I had been screaming for an hour. My ears where throbbing. Though I don’t remember the pain of that first experience, I remember others. The pain is indescribable. Mom finally haggled the nurse into an after-hours appointment that day. Eventually, the pain subsided & I stopped screaming.
That doctor’s appointment started years of monthly ear appointments. The chicken pox I contracted at eighteen months developed into Otitis Media, water on the ear in layman’s terms. The screaming was my eardrum bursting for the first time—my left eardrum would burst another three times & my right eardrum twice before I turned eight.
Unlike most kids my age, I loved going to the doctor’s office. Books & toys filled the waiting room—hour long waits seemed to fly bye as I read Dr. Seuss’ Lorax & caught up with Ranger Rick in Highlighter. The waiting room slowly emptied as I waited my turn. Finally, a nurse with red hair called my name, directed Mom & I to a room filled with medical equipment, & notified us that, “Dr. Hahn will be right with you.” I sat in a leather chair with more contraptions than a dentist’s chair & waited for Dr. Hahn.
A few minutes later, Dr. Hahn entered the room. Dr. Fredrick Hahn is one of my favorite people: I always smiled when he entered the room. A white laboratory coat covered his sixty-something year old, slender six-foot figure. The troll with neon blue hair peeking out of his pocket would seem strange, until you noticed that Dr. Hahn’s hair, though white, seems to be styled the same: a mix of Einstein & Doc Brown from Back to the Future. He completes the look with a headb& connected to a circular mirror that leaves a red indention on his forehead.
During the appointment, Dr. Hahn cleaned my ears with a metal funnel & tweezers & checked the condition of my eardrum. He always allowed Mom to look in my ear & explained to both of us, in medical & layman’s terms, the condition of my eardrum. Before the appointment ended, he dictated the details of my visit to his computer—just by talking. To me, Dr. Hahn just the man who took care of me & called me his favorite red-headed patient, to the world, Dr. Fredrick Hahn was the foremost ear doctor: leagues ahead of his colleagues.
Mom & I left Dr. Hahn’s office & headed down the hall to my hearing test with Dr. Hare. The room looked like a recording studio: an outer room with sound equipment for the audiologist & a sound-proof room for the patient. I saw Mom & the doctor through a thick glass window as I sat in the sound-proof room with headphones on & the testing began. Static buzzed in one of my ears while I repeated words to Dr. Hare. “Oatmeal, airplane, thermos,” he read each word distinctly, separating the syllables. The yellow paper covered his lips, stopping me from lip-reading. I cheated anyway. After five years of testing, I had the list memorized. I knew my hearing was declining, but something in me didn’t want him to know. If I couldn’t hear one syllable, I simply guessed the word from what I did hear. He fluxuated the volume, testing my hearing range. In my least favorite test, Dr. Hare used beeps instead of words. The beeps reverberated in my brain for hours afterwards.
In October 1996, Dr. Hahn delivered devastating news. I needed surgery. The bursting caused my eardrums to lie across my middle ear bones. Fluid built up beneath the eardrum & caused two of the three bones in my left ear to deteriorate completely. Without surgery, I would lose hearing in my left ear completely. My world shattered. Within a few weeks, Mom worked with the doctor’s office to schedule my first surgery: December 30, 1996.
The morning of the surgery, Dad & Mom drove me the half-mile to Independence Regional Hospital. A nurse directed us to a cold, white room in the children's wing. She blushed & apologized as she handed Mom an adult's hospital gown, "Sorry, we're out of gowns in her size.--Oh, & she'll have to remove all of her clothes for surgery." My eyes bugged out of my head--all of my clothes? I couldn't understand why I had to remove my underwear when they were operating on my ears. Mom just laughed & helped me change. The gown swam around me. Mom wove the ties in & out of the arm holes & around my waist for a snug fit. After I changed, nurses prepped me for surgery. Sticky pads connected me to a heart monitor—I couldn’t move without tangling cords.
Then, we waited for Dr. Hahn to arrive. We waited for an hour. Literally.
Dr. Hahn arrived at 8:30 am, flashed a smile & donned his white lab coat. I tried to act brave as I left my parents & a nurse wheeled me to the operating room.
When I got to the operating room, a male nurse transferred me to a new bed. Horror filled my heart as he lifted me off of the bed--what if my gown separated? My heart stopped thumping only when I safely reached the operating table. The anesthesiologist strapped a cherry-scented breathing mask to my face. For the next three hours I endured the horrible scent of cherry-flavored medicine. Disgusting. Before I had a chance to evaluate the room around me, Dr. Hahn’s head appeared above me, “We can begin. She’s asleep.” I panicked. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” my head screamed. The world began to spin around me. I fell asleep staring at the cold operating lamp above me.
I awoke in a panic. “Where am I? Why am I connected to all these wires?” I struggled to roll over & untangle myself. “Good morning, Sunshine!” I almost wet the hospital gown I was wearing. As I rolled over, Dad leaned forward & placed his face just centimeters form my own.
The surgery was a success. The following June Dr. Hahn performed the same surgery, a tempanoplasty, on my right ear. I still have moderate hearing loss, but it could be worse.
I can hear you now—most of the time.
So the next time I ask you to repeat something don’t get angry or frustrated. Though sometimes I don’t hear, I promise I’m listening.
I contracted chicken pox from Jarid, my older brother, when I was eighteen months old. Mom says she couldn’t place the tip of her pinkie anywhere on my body without touching the bright red blisters. They covered my face, arms, legs & back, they were between my fingers & toes, down my throat, & in my ears. Just looking at the pictures makes me itch. The common childhood disease passed quickly, but the effects changed my life.
Mom held me, a screaming three-year-old, in her arms as she called the doctor’s office. “I need an appointment for Lynnae. . . . No, not in two weeks. Today.” Mom knew the office would close soon—it was Saturday—but she was desperate. I had been screaming for an hour. My ears where throbbing. Though I don’t remember the pain of that first experience, I remember others. The pain is indescribable. Mom finally haggled the nurse into an after-hours appointment that day. Eventually, the pain subsided & I stopped screaming.
That doctor’s appointment started years of monthly ear appointments. The chicken pox I contracted at eighteen months developed into Otitis Media, water on the ear in layman’s terms. The screaming was my eardrum bursting for the first time—my left eardrum would burst another three times & my right eardrum twice before I turned eight.
Unlike most kids my age, I loved going to the doctor’s office. Books & toys filled the waiting room—hour long waits seemed to fly bye as I read Dr. Seuss’ Lorax & caught up with Ranger Rick in Highlighter. The waiting room slowly emptied as I waited my turn. Finally, a nurse with red hair called my name, directed Mom & I to a room filled with medical equipment, & notified us that, “Dr. Hahn will be right with you.” I sat in a leather chair with more contraptions than a dentist’s chair & waited for Dr. Hahn.
A few minutes later, Dr. Hahn entered the room. Dr. Fredrick Hahn is one of my favorite people: I always smiled when he entered the room. A white laboratory coat covered his sixty-something year old, slender six-foot figure. The troll with neon blue hair peeking out of his pocket would seem strange, until you noticed that Dr. Hahn’s hair, though white, seems to be styled the same: a mix of Einstein & Doc Brown from Back to the Future. He completes the look with a headb& connected to a circular mirror that leaves a red indention on his forehead.
During the appointment, Dr. Hahn cleaned my ears with a metal funnel & tweezers & checked the condition of my eardrum. He always allowed Mom to look in my ear & explained to both of us, in medical & layman’s terms, the condition of my eardrum. Before the appointment ended, he dictated the details of my visit to his computer—just by talking. To me, Dr. Hahn just the man who took care of me & called me his favorite red-headed patient, to the world, Dr. Fredrick Hahn was the foremost ear doctor: leagues ahead of his colleagues.
Mom & I left Dr. Hahn’s office & headed down the hall to my hearing test with Dr. Hare. The room looked like a recording studio: an outer room with sound equipment for the audiologist & a sound-proof room for the patient. I saw Mom & the doctor through a thick glass window as I sat in the sound-proof room with headphones on & the testing began. Static buzzed in one of my ears while I repeated words to Dr. Hare. “Oatmeal, airplane, thermos,” he read each word distinctly, separating the syllables. The yellow paper covered his lips, stopping me from lip-reading. I cheated anyway. After five years of testing, I had the list memorized. I knew my hearing was declining, but something in me didn’t want him to know. If I couldn’t hear one syllable, I simply guessed the word from what I did hear. He fluxuated the volume, testing my hearing range. In my least favorite test, Dr. Hare used beeps instead of words. The beeps reverberated in my brain for hours afterwards.
In October 1996, Dr. Hahn delivered devastating news. I needed surgery. The bursting caused my eardrums to lie across my middle ear bones. Fluid built up beneath the eardrum & caused two of the three bones in my left ear to deteriorate completely. Without surgery, I would lose hearing in my left ear completely. My world shattered. Within a few weeks, Mom worked with the doctor’s office to schedule my first surgery: December 30, 1996.
The morning of the surgery, Dad & Mom drove me the half-mile to Independence Regional Hospital. A nurse directed us to a cold, white room in the children's wing. She blushed & apologized as she handed Mom an adult's hospital gown, "Sorry, we're out of gowns in her size.--Oh, & she'll have to remove all of her clothes for surgery." My eyes bugged out of my head--all of my clothes? I couldn't understand why I had to remove my underwear when they were operating on my ears. Mom just laughed & helped me change. The gown swam around me. Mom wove the ties in & out of the arm holes & around my waist for a snug fit. After I changed, nurses prepped me for surgery. Sticky pads connected me to a heart monitor—I couldn’t move without tangling cords.
Then, we waited for Dr. Hahn to arrive. We waited for an hour. Literally.
Dr. Hahn arrived at 8:30 am, flashed a smile & donned his white lab coat. I tried to act brave as I left my parents & a nurse wheeled me to the operating room.
When I got to the operating room, a male nurse transferred me to a new bed. Horror filled my heart as he lifted me off of the bed--what if my gown separated? My heart stopped thumping only when I safely reached the operating table. The anesthesiologist strapped a cherry-scented breathing mask to my face. For the next three hours I endured the horrible scent of cherry-flavored medicine. Disgusting. Before I had a chance to evaluate the room around me, Dr. Hahn’s head appeared above me, “We can begin. She’s asleep.” I panicked. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” my head screamed. The world began to spin around me. I fell asleep staring at the cold operating lamp above me.
I awoke in a panic. “Where am I? Why am I connected to all these wires?” I struggled to roll over & untangle myself. “Good morning, Sunshine!” I almost wet the hospital gown I was wearing. As I rolled over, Dad leaned forward & placed his face just centimeters form my own.
The surgery was a success. The following June Dr. Hahn performed the same surgery, a tempanoplasty, on my right ear. I still have moderate hearing loss, but it could be worse.
I can hear you now—most of the time.
So the next time I ask you to repeat something don’t get angry or frustrated. Though sometimes I don’t hear, I promise I’m listening.
24 October 2010
kansas city lights
Christmas in Kansas City, for my family, begins the day after Thanksgiving. My parents rise early on Black Friday, not to beat the crowds to the department stores and malls, but to select the perfect tree for our living room. The sun is just breaking the grey morning sky when they return home with their prize. When I hear them enter, I jump out of bed and run to the large, grey radio in the kitchen. Within a few minutes, to Mom’s and my delight and my brother’s groaning, Christmas music fills the house.
As soon as we are dressed, my sister Crystal and I climb up a rickety ladder to the sweltering attic to pull Hallmark boxes full of ornaments and decorations into the living room. We untangle strands of white, blue, and red lights, select ornaments, and decorate the tree. By lunch, the tree stands by the front window, displaying it’s Christmas glory to the neighborhood. After lunch, Dad accompanies Craig, Jarid, and I to the attic to find the lights for the house. Mom hears thumps and laughter float through the ceiling as the four of us string the house with lights. Within a couple hours, a bead of white lights ices the house.
When I leave for school a few days later, I leave knowing that Christmas has come to Kansas City.
When I return home for Christmas break in mid-December, Kansas City greets me with snow and the twinkle of millions of lights. Sometime in the first week home, Mom and I drive around the city just to see all the lights on the houses. From the poor district where I grew up to the ritzy houses downtown, all of Kansas City celebrates the season with lights. Reds, greens, blues, and whites ice the eaves of the houses. Some race around the structure, others twinkle on and off, but most emit a steady, constant glow.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Kansas City.
The highlight of my Christmas holiday includes a family trip to downtown Kansas City and the Country Club Plaza. The Hallmark complex, located in the center of downtown, hosts a myriad of holiday family activities: ice skating, shopping, fine dining, and theatres. The grey December sky contrasts the illumination of the Mayor’s Christmas tree, our first stop. My family and I stand bundled beneath a 40-foot tree, gazing up at the slightly twisted pine strung with wooden ornaments and white lights. Eight-foot Nutcrackers guard the tree and the children play on a large train that surrounds the base. Bare trees iced with lights line the sidewalk up to the outdoor ice rink where a hundred people laugh as they skate in circles. The crowds thicken as we leave the biting winds and enter Crown Center.
The doors of Crown Center open to a large food court where a community high school or church choir sings Christmas carols. Mom and I hum along as we listen. My family wanders from store to store with no goal in mind except the annual visit to the train store. Crown Center and the Hallmark complex are connected by a little hallway that houses a train store. I remember visiting the train store every Christmas since I was five. Christmas would not be complete without watching the trains race around little villages and through tree-covered mountains.
As much as I love the lights and buzz of Crown Center, nothing compares to the Plaza lights. As Dad drives us a few blocks south of downtown, we are transported to Old World Spain. Buildings mimicking Sevilla, Spain, rise on both sides and the streets are lined with cars from around the world. Dad maneuvers the car between people, cars, and horse-pulled carriages to find a parking spot on the upper level of a parking deck. Christmas greets us as we step up to the snow-covered railing under the sky. Christmas music spills from every store and the sidewalks buzz with patrons as they shop for the perfect gift. The sharp clip-clop of horse hooves on the pavement sounds natural and drowns out the blaring car horns.
It’s Christmas in Kansas City.
Christmas is more than the sounds of Christmas music, laughter, and horses. As I step out of the car, I silence the noise around me and around. The real Christmas beauty isn’t captured by sound but by sight. Dad and I look down the street, not at the people, but at the lights. Thousands of Christmas lights outline the Plaza’s Spanish architecture against the black December sky. For a few minutes, the world disappears--it’s just Dad and me standing by the railing looking at the stars and Christmas lights.
As we drive home, Karen Carpenter’s smooth alto fills the car, “Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays.” I have to agree. For me, nothing is better than Kansas City’s light.
It’s Christmas in Kansas City.
As soon as we are dressed, my sister Crystal and I climb up a rickety ladder to the sweltering attic to pull Hallmark boxes full of ornaments and decorations into the living room. We untangle strands of white, blue, and red lights, select ornaments, and decorate the tree. By lunch, the tree stands by the front window, displaying it’s Christmas glory to the neighborhood. After lunch, Dad accompanies Craig, Jarid, and I to the attic to find the lights for the house. Mom hears thumps and laughter float through the ceiling as the four of us string the house with lights. Within a couple hours, a bead of white lights ices the house.
When I leave for school a few days later, I leave knowing that Christmas has come to Kansas City.
When I return home for Christmas break in mid-December, Kansas City greets me with snow and the twinkle of millions of lights. Sometime in the first week home, Mom and I drive around the city just to see all the lights on the houses. From the poor district where I grew up to the ritzy houses downtown, all of Kansas City celebrates the season with lights. Reds, greens, blues, and whites ice the eaves of the houses. Some race around the structure, others twinkle on and off, but most emit a steady, constant glow.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Kansas City.
The highlight of my Christmas holiday includes a family trip to downtown Kansas City and the Country Club Plaza. The Hallmark complex, located in the center of downtown, hosts a myriad of holiday family activities: ice skating, shopping, fine dining, and theatres. The grey December sky contrasts the illumination of the Mayor’s Christmas tree, our first stop. My family and I stand bundled beneath a 40-foot tree, gazing up at the slightly twisted pine strung with wooden ornaments and white lights. Eight-foot Nutcrackers guard the tree and the children play on a large train that surrounds the base. Bare trees iced with lights line the sidewalk up to the outdoor ice rink where a hundred people laugh as they skate in circles. The crowds thicken as we leave the biting winds and enter Crown Center.
The doors of Crown Center open to a large food court where a community high school or church choir sings Christmas carols. Mom and I hum along as we listen. My family wanders from store to store with no goal in mind except the annual visit to the train store. Crown Center and the Hallmark complex are connected by a little hallway that houses a train store. I remember visiting the train store every Christmas since I was five. Christmas would not be complete without watching the trains race around little villages and through tree-covered mountains.
As much as I love the lights and buzz of Crown Center, nothing compares to the Plaza lights. As Dad drives us a few blocks south of downtown, we are transported to Old World Spain. Buildings mimicking Sevilla, Spain, rise on both sides and the streets are lined with cars from around the world. Dad maneuvers the car between people, cars, and horse-pulled carriages to find a parking spot on the upper level of a parking deck. Christmas greets us as we step up to the snow-covered railing under the sky. Christmas music spills from every store and the sidewalks buzz with patrons as they shop for the perfect gift. The sharp clip-clop of horse hooves on the pavement sounds natural and drowns out the blaring car horns.
It’s Christmas in Kansas City.
Christmas is more than the sounds of Christmas music, laughter, and horses. As I step out of the car, I silence the noise around me and around. The real Christmas beauty isn’t captured by sound but by sight. Dad and I look down the street, not at the people, but at the lights. Thousands of Christmas lights outline the Plaza’s Spanish architecture against the black December sky. For a few minutes, the world disappears--it’s just Dad and me standing by the railing looking at the stars and Christmas lights.
As we drive home, Karen Carpenter’s smooth alto fills the car, “Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays.” I have to agree. For me, nothing is better than Kansas City’s light.
It’s Christmas in Kansas City.
15 October 2010
happy birthday to who?
September 23, my baby brother, Craig, celebrated his twentieth birthday. Throughout the day he received birthday wishes in a variety of forms: face-to-face greetings, the buzz of a text message, and posts on his facebook wall. Craig and I celebrated his birthday together eating Taco Bell and laughing at all his undesired attention. Friends, family, and strangers contacted him nonstop wishing him well on his birthday. As outgoing as he is, Craig hates receiving that much attention. While we laughed at his ridiculous responses, Craig delivered food for thought. He suggested that we wish Mom happy birthday, since, “she did all the work.” I almost choked on my Burrito Supremo. Mom?
Craig’s thought haunted me. Why don’t I wish Mom “Happy Birthday”? Yes, Mom birthed me, but what she birthed in me is greater. Nearly every aspect of my daily life connects to an idea or belief she instilled in me. Without Mom, in essence, I cease to exist. She created me.
First, Mom birthed in me the desire to serve. Mom serves everywhere. As I grew up, Mom worked at home to help pay the bills. The hum of her sewing machine filled the house. She never complained about working, in fact, she loved helping Dad. In 1996, her Alma Mater, Tri-City Christian School, hired her to teach art classes. Since then her roles have grown to include computer classes, office work, alumni coordination, and running the lunch room. Her impact on hundreds of students in the past fourteen years amazes me. She makes herself available to both staff and students, no matter how busy her schedule. She serves wherever she is asked, never expecting or wanting praise. A smile always adorns her face—even when life seems to be spiraling out of control. As I watched her minister, I learned that the reward of serving outweighs self-promotion.
Mom also taught me to overcome my fears. As a young child, thunderstorms terrified me. The booming sound of thunder sent me running to Mom—even in the dead of night. Dad’s strict “no child in my bed” rule left me crouched on the floor by their bed, trembling in the darkness. Mom always knew I was there. Her hand stretched out of the darkness and connected with mine. The terrifying booms faded and I fell asleep beside her bed, tightly grasping Teddy and her hand. Her hand comforted me—gave me courage to face the unknown. When I found out I had to have ear surgery, I clung to Mom’s hand. She sat with me, holding my hand and encouraging me with Scripture. While teaching me to overcome my fears, she birthed in me the necessity to turn to Christ for all things.
Craig’s comment set my mind in motion—I considered all that Mom birthed in me. When I returned to the dorm after dinner with Craig, I got on facebook and wished Mom happy birthday. I thanked her for not only birthing Craig, but also for birthing so much of my character as well. Two weeks later Mom sent me an e-mail that changed my life.
On October 4, Mom celebrated her fortieth spiritual birthday. My “happy birthday” made her think about her spiritual birthday. She shared that, like Craig, she had no part in her spiritual birth. Her salvation was a result of Christ’s labor of love on the cross.
Once again, “happy birthday” set my mind in motion.
On December 17, 1996, one week after my eighth birthday, Mom became my spiritual mother. With trembling knees and a heavy heart, I talked to Mom about salvation as Dad and the boys packed for a hunting trip. She took me to her room, wrapped her arms around me, and pulled out her old leather-bound Bible. Nothing else mattered. For twenty minutes she turned the thin pages and labored over me. She led me to Christ.
Her labor of love didn’t stop there. Every day we celebrate our “happy birthdays” together by sharing what God continues to teach us about Himself. The email I received on October 5 showed Mom’s deep love and compassion for me. I stopped in awe as I read her email. She is the reason I celebrate my spiritual birthday. Christ has, and continues to, use her to grow me in Him.
I never expected Craig’s birthday to incite so much thought, but it did. Who do you wish “happy birthday” to? Who has impacted and shaped you?
For me, the answer is Mom.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Craig’s thought haunted me. Why don’t I wish Mom “Happy Birthday”? Yes, Mom birthed me, but what she birthed in me is greater. Nearly every aspect of my daily life connects to an idea or belief she instilled in me. Without Mom, in essence, I cease to exist. She created me.
First, Mom birthed in me the desire to serve. Mom serves everywhere. As I grew up, Mom worked at home to help pay the bills. The hum of her sewing machine filled the house. She never complained about working, in fact, she loved helping Dad. In 1996, her Alma Mater, Tri-City Christian School, hired her to teach art classes. Since then her roles have grown to include computer classes, office work, alumni coordination, and running the lunch room. Her impact on hundreds of students in the past fourteen years amazes me. She makes herself available to both staff and students, no matter how busy her schedule. She serves wherever she is asked, never expecting or wanting praise. A smile always adorns her face—even when life seems to be spiraling out of control. As I watched her minister, I learned that the reward of serving outweighs self-promotion.
Mom also taught me to overcome my fears. As a young child, thunderstorms terrified me. The booming sound of thunder sent me running to Mom—even in the dead of night. Dad’s strict “no child in my bed” rule left me crouched on the floor by their bed, trembling in the darkness. Mom always knew I was there. Her hand stretched out of the darkness and connected with mine. The terrifying booms faded and I fell asleep beside her bed, tightly grasping Teddy and her hand. Her hand comforted me—gave me courage to face the unknown. When I found out I had to have ear surgery, I clung to Mom’s hand. She sat with me, holding my hand and encouraging me with Scripture. While teaching me to overcome my fears, she birthed in me the necessity to turn to Christ for all things.
Craig’s comment set my mind in motion—I considered all that Mom birthed in me. When I returned to the dorm after dinner with Craig, I got on facebook and wished Mom happy birthday. I thanked her for not only birthing Craig, but also for birthing so much of my character as well. Two weeks later Mom sent me an e-mail that changed my life.
On October 4, Mom celebrated her fortieth spiritual birthday. My “happy birthday” made her think about her spiritual birthday. She shared that, like Craig, she had no part in her spiritual birth. Her salvation was a result of Christ’s labor of love on the cross.
Once again, “happy birthday” set my mind in motion.
On December 17, 1996, one week after my eighth birthday, Mom became my spiritual mother. With trembling knees and a heavy heart, I talked to Mom about salvation as Dad and the boys packed for a hunting trip. She took me to her room, wrapped her arms around me, and pulled out her old leather-bound Bible. Nothing else mattered. For twenty minutes she turned the thin pages and labored over me. She led me to Christ.
Her labor of love didn’t stop there. Every day we celebrate our “happy birthdays” together by sharing what God continues to teach us about Himself. The email I received on October 5 showed Mom’s deep love and compassion for me. I stopped in awe as I read her email. She is the reason I celebrate my spiritual birthday. Christ has, and continues to, use her to grow me in Him.
I never expected Craig’s birthday to incite so much thought, but it did. Who do you wish “happy birthday” to? Who has impacted and shaped you?
For me, the answer is Mom.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
04 October 2010
blank pages--journal 5
A blank page inspires me. Whether plain or lined, the page asks me to fill it. The scrambled thoughts in my head surge down my arms to my fingers until they spill onto the page. The ambiguous cloud of thoughts forms structured lines of processed thoughts. The page fills as letters form words, words form sentences, and sentences form paragraphs. My thoughts become reality: I am writing.
I speak through writing. To whom do I speak? Myself. Yes, I enjoy talking to others. In fact, Dad says sometimes I hardly know when to shut up, but sometimes I need to talk to myself. Writing my thoughts down allows me to think through them more clearly. I balance the pros and cons; I think through situations from multiple angles. I write. I don’t edit or evaluate what spills onto the page. Nouns don’t always agree with their verbs, and that’s ok. I simply write, letting the thoughts flow, unedited.
Writing nails my feet to the floor—keeps me from floating away on cloud nine. Evaluations come later, when I take the time to read my thoughts on the page.
Every year Dad feeds my writing habit by giving me a new journal. I prefer leather-bound, lined journals. The leather binding gives flexibility and the lined pages satisfy my obsessive desire for neatness. Journals of various shapes, colors, and sizes line my bookshelves. The thoughts that fill the journals vary as widely as the journals themselves. My personality fills every journal, every page, and every line. Journaling bans nothing. I write about everything—my hopes and my fears, my dreams and my disasters. Thoughts escape and live as I write them down.
Words, once absent, now fill this page. What will fill the pages of my next journal? Words, thoughts, life—me.
I speak through writing. To whom do I speak? Myself. Yes, I enjoy talking to others. In fact, Dad says sometimes I hardly know when to shut up, but sometimes I need to talk to myself. Writing my thoughts down allows me to think through them more clearly. I balance the pros and cons; I think through situations from multiple angles. I write. I don’t edit or evaluate what spills onto the page. Nouns don’t always agree with their verbs, and that’s ok. I simply write, letting the thoughts flow, unedited.
Writing nails my feet to the floor—keeps me from floating away on cloud nine. Evaluations come later, when I take the time to read my thoughts on the page.
Every year Dad feeds my writing habit by giving me a new journal. I prefer leather-bound, lined journals. The leather binding gives flexibility and the lined pages satisfy my obsessive desire for neatness. Journals of various shapes, colors, and sizes line my bookshelves. The thoughts that fill the journals vary as widely as the journals themselves. My personality fills every journal, every page, and every line. Journaling bans nothing. I write about everything—my hopes and my fears, my dreams and my disasters. Thoughts escape and live as I write them down.
Words, once absent, now fill this page. What will fill the pages of my next journal? Words, thoughts, life—me.
28 September 2010
the secret garden--journal 4
The long drive home and back to college this weekend gave me plenty of time to read The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgeson Burnett. The nine hour drive Sunday afternoon married the messages of the morning and the fantasy world of Misselthwait Manor in my mind. My thoughts compared the beauty of the secret garden to the peace I have in Christ.
I have always loved the story of The Secret Garden. I remember watching the movie over and over again in elementary, but time passed and I forgot about the beautiful garden. The story captured me once again after hearing Broadway’s version on an ipod at camp this summer. As soon as I returned home, I bought the CD for myself and listened to it religiously during the first two weeks at college. I finally bought the book last week and determined to read it during my trip home this weekend. And I did.
The magic of the story returned as soon as I opened the cover. Peaceful thoughts filled me as I delved deeper into the book. I could hardly wait to turn the page and read by the glow of a flashlight when the sun went down. Nothing could keep me from the words on the page. Well, almost nothing. As I read I was reminded of a verse I heard in Sunday School. Matthew 11:28 says, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and hare heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
For Mary Lennox and Colin Craven, peace and rest are represented by the “Magic” of the secret garden, but that is not true peace. God is peace. He promises the heavy-laden and overburdened ease and relief. He knows and can give exactly what is needed.
Distress is a part of life. Like Mary and Colin, I become overwhelmed with circumstances and only see the gray, dead world around me. Selfishness blinds the beauty that surrounds me; it separates me from the peace I have in Christ. If I listen to the voice of God and cultivate my soul to grow in Him, a secret garden will grow within me.
I have always loved the story of The Secret Garden. I remember watching the movie over and over again in elementary, but time passed and I forgot about the beautiful garden. The story captured me once again after hearing Broadway’s version on an ipod at camp this summer. As soon as I returned home, I bought the CD for myself and listened to it religiously during the first two weeks at college. I finally bought the book last week and determined to read it during my trip home this weekend. And I did.
The magic of the story returned as soon as I opened the cover. Peaceful thoughts filled me as I delved deeper into the book. I could hardly wait to turn the page and read by the glow of a flashlight when the sun went down. Nothing could keep me from the words on the page. Well, almost nothing. As I read I was reminded of a verse I heard in Sunday School. Matthew 11:28 says, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and hare heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
For Mary Lennox and Colin Craven, peace and rest are represented by the “Magic” of the secret garden, but that is not true peace. God is peace. He promises the heavy-laden and overburdened ease and relief. He knows and can give exactly what is needed.
Distress is a part of life. Like Mary and Colin, I become overwhelmed with circumstances and only see the gray, dead world around me. Selfishness blinds the beauty that surrounds me; it separates me from the peace I have in Christ. If I listen to the voice of God and cultivate my soul to grow in Him, a secret garden will grow within me.
20 September 2010
first impressions--journal 3
As I was reading “The Mousetrap,” a mystery play by Agatha Christie, thoughts of first impressions came to my mind. “The Mousetrap” traps the characters and audience in the newly opened Monkswell Manor guest house during a snow storm. First impressions cause Mollie and Giles Ralston, the owners of Monkswell Manor, to question the character of their guests. Secrets hide the truth and a twist ending surprises all. Though the Ralstons and their guests are creations of Agatha Christie, assumptions based on first impressions occur often in real life.
Each new segment of my life brings change. Some changes I run to with anticipations, others I crawl slowly toward, afraid of the outcome. Whether I run with anticipation or crawl with fear, change involves people and first impressions. New semesters bring new roommates, camp brought new coworkers, and each camp week brought three to nine new campers. My first impressions of these new people are as varied as their individual personalities. My initial reaction to new people often parallels Giles’s attitude: everyone is weird.
Counseling at camp this summer showed me the flaws I make with first impressions. Every Monday for nine weeks, I met and made assumptions about new campers. I based my assumptions on church membership, dress height, and weight. Before I knew her name, I mentally evaluated the joy and trials my camper would bring to the cabin. The second week of junior camp brought four bubbly, hyper girls to my cabin. I anticipated a fun, stress-free week. I was wrong. Every day was filled with the constant giggling of four disobedient girls. Frustration filled me as I reprimanded them at every turn. My first impression was dead wrong. The angel-faced eight-year-olds I welcomed on Monday morning brought me to my knees multiple times throughout each day. By the end of the week, I realized that second impressions deceive as well. The four girls God sent me that week were what I needed to become more like Christ.
Each new segment of my life brings change. Some changes I run to with anticipations, others I crawl slowly toward, afraid of the outcome. Whether I run with anticipation or crawl with fear, change involves people and first impressions. New semesters bring new roommates, camp brought new coworkers, and each camp week brought three to nine new campers. My first impressions of these new people are as varied as their individual personalities. My initial reaction to new people often parallels Giles’s attitude: everyone is weird.
Counseling at camp this summer showed me the flaws I make with first impressions. Every Monday for nine weeks, I met and made assumptions about new campers. I based my assumptions on church membership, dress height, and weight. Before I knew her name, I mentally evaluated the joy and trials my camper would bring to the cabin. The second week of junior camp brought four bubbly, hyper girls to my cabin. I anticipated a fun, stress-free week. I was wrong. Every day was filled with the constant giggling of four disobedient girls. Frustration filled me as I reprimanded them at every turn. My first impression was dead wrong. The angel-faced eight-year-olds I welcomed on Monday morning brought me to my knees multiple times throughout each day. By the end of the week, I realized that second impressions deceive as well. The four girls God sent me that week were what I needed to become more like Christ.
12 September 2010
water--journal 2
As I was reading a quote by Helen Keller this weekend, I was struck with the impact my words have on myself and those around me. The life of Helen Keller has always interested me, so I jumped at the opportunity to read The Miracle Worker, a play on Keller’s childhood, for one of my dramatic production classes last year. Keller lived in a dark and silent world almost from birth. Until Anne Sullivan arrived and began to teach her, Keller never knew the beauty and wonder of the world that surrounded her. Sullivan’s games brought light to Keller’s world. Years later Keller looked back on the day she first understood the language Sullivan was teaching: “The mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that ‘water’ meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, joy, set it free!”
Words are powerful. I can affect a friend’s attitude just by my words. Keller said that words “awakened my soul, gave it light, joy, set it free.” What I have to say can bring light and joy to others. Counseling at a Christian camp this summer gave me opportunity to watch God use my words to brighten the lives of others. When my own wisdom and words failed, which was often, I delighted to see God speak through me. One Friday evening I was able to sympathize with a camper because of a personal trial God had already brought me through. God gave me the words she and I both needed so we could in turn give glory to Him. As I related my story to her, God brought verses to my mind. Ephesians 3:20-21 says, “Now unto Him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us, unto Him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end, Amen.” The words of God’s promise awakened, brightened, filled, and freed me in the same way that the knowledge and understanding of ‘water’ impacted Keller.
Words are powerful. I can affect a friend’s attitude just by my words. Keller said that words “awakened my soul, gave it light, joy, set it free.” What I have to say can bring light and joy to others. Counseling at a Christian camp this summer gave me opportunity to watch God use my words to brighten the lives of others. When my own wisdom and words failed, which was often, I delighted to see God speak through me. One Friday evening I was able to sympathize with a camper because of a personal trial God had already brought me through. God gave me the words she and I both needed so we could in turn give glory to Him. As I related my story to her, God brought verses to my mind. Ephesians 3:20-21 says, “Now unto Him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us, unto Him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end, Amen.” The words of God’s promise awakened, brightened, filled, and freed me in the same way that the knowledge and understanding of ‘water’ impacted Keller.
06 September 2010
castles in the air
Writing has always been a passion of mine, so a required class titled 'Advanced Writing' tickled my fancy. What could possibly be more fun than a class about writing? Each week I have to turn in a journal assignment that begins "As I was reading __________ this weekend, a thought struck me . . ." Being the planner that I am, I was anticipating writing my first journal entry on a new book I am reading, but my plans were changed when Mandy Jo gave me a journal she bought for me in China.
The cover reads 'DREAM' in big, bold, red letters. I was excited just by the cover--I love dreams! --but the real treasure are the pages between the covers. Pictures of sea & landscapes fill the book with little quotes on life & dreaming sprinkled along the way. Of course, there is pleanty of room to write as well. Mandy Jo could not have selected a better gift!
Homework was a quick & easy task this weekend & I soon found myself bored. Reading was an option, but I really wasn't in the mood. As I scanned my desk, my eyes caught the little DREAM journal. What fun it would be to fill those blank pages! I sat at my desk for five minutes or more contemplating what to fill the blank spaces with. Then it hit me. Why not write down my dreams--the realistic & fanciful, plausible & impractical--in the book filled with quotes on dreams?
Almost immediately, a quote by Henry David Thoreau came to mind. With the aid of google, I quickly located the entire quote, which, in turn, sparked the idea for my journal entry this week. Below is the entire quotation (I love the whole passage) & part of my writing assignment. Be encouraged! Dream big & build your castles in the air!
Thoreau’s encouragement brings to mind so many of God’s promises to me, particularly those of his thoughts for me and His will for the direction of my life. Jeremiah 29:11 tells me that God has thoughts and plans for my life that exceed my wildest dreams. The castles He would build for me are far greater than any I could build for myself.
I am, without a doubt, a dreamer. I desire to accomplish great things with my life: I want to change the world! Thoreau’s quote sparked thoughts of my “castles in the air.” My castles have changed shape and size over the years. Why? because of Psalm 37:4, “Delight thyself also in the Lord; and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.” As I have grown closer to my Lord I have learned that Psalm 37:4 is not saying that I should only obey God so I will get what I want, but rather that the more I delight and grow in my knowledge of the person of God, the more I will want what God wants for my life. I want to have built great, majestic castles in my dreams and I want to see them become a reality, but more than anything, I want God to be the master architect of my life. He helps me craft beautiful castles and gives me the ability to build the foundations I need to bridge fantasy and reality.
The cover reads 'DREAM' in big, bold, red letters. I was excited just by the cover--I love dreams! --but the real treasure are the pages between the covers. Pictures of sea & landscapes fill the book with little quotes on life & dreaming sprinkled along the way. Of course, there is pleanty of room to write as well. Mandy Jo could not have selected a better gift!
Homework was a quick & easy task this weekend & I soon found myself bored. Reading was an option, but I really wasn't in the mood. As I scanned my desk, my eyes caught the little DREAM journal. What fun it would be to fill those blank pages! I sat at my desk for five minutes or more contemplating what to fill the blank spaces with. Then it hit me. Why not write down my dreams--the realistic & fanciful, plausible & impractical--in the book filled with quotes on dreams?
Almost immediately, a quote by Henry David Thoreau came to mind. With the aid of google, I quickly located the entire quote, which, in turn, sparked the idea for my journal entry this week. Below is the entire quotation (I love the whole passage) & part of my writing assignment. Be encouraged! Dream big & build your castles in the air!
“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavours to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favour in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” (Thoreau, Walden)
Thoreau’s encouragement brings to mind so many of God’s promises to me, particularly those of his thoughts for me and His will for the direction of my life. Jeremiah 29:11 tells me that God has thoughts and plans for my life that exceed my wildest dreams. The castles He would build for me are far greater than any I could build for myself.
I am, without a doubt, a dreamer. I desire to accomplish great things with my life: I want to change the world! Thoreau’s quote sparked thoughts of my “castles in the air.” My castles have changed shape and size over the years. Why? because of Psalm 37:4, “Delight thyself also in the Lord; and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.” As I have grown closer to my Lord I have learned that Psalm 37:4 is not saying that I should only obey God so I will get what I want, but rather that the more I delight and grow in my knowledge of the person of God, the more I will want what God wants for my life. I want to have built great, majestic castles in my dreams and I want to see them become a reality, but more than anything, I want God to be the master architect of my life. He helps me craft beautiful castles and gives me the ability to build the foundations I need to bridge fantasy and reality.
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