“A young cowgirl named Megan Marie
grew restless on the Gulf
A girl filled with wonderlust
who really meant no harm
She changed her clothes and shined her boots
and combed her dark hair down
And her mother (should have) cried as she walked out
Don't take your guns to town, daughter
leave your guns at home, Meg
don't take your guns to town”
Johnny Cash’s Billy Joe ended up getting shot in a shoot out in the Big City. Things clearly went better for me in California, which is almost a four letter word in my head, but left a bitter taste in my mouth.
My first rendezvous with California was in 2007, when I flew to L.A. and reunited with fellow teen missionaries I had met in China the summer before. They were wonderful, but I saw firsthand how nasty Hollywood was. It took me a couple years to figure it out, but I left the state in a funk due to unrealistic expectations of the place and its people.
I went again a year later, after my only college boyfriend broke up with me on the phone, before Christmas. I decided to test out my first car (bought 10 days beforehand), and take advantage of a month without work and college courses, on a restless cross country road trip meant to distract my heart. 3,500 miles later, I learned my friends in California weren’t friends anymore.
These were forgivable So Cal offense. But on the next two trips, it went too far: California stripped me of my gun (and my perceived gun).
Before my last semester of college, in the summer of 2010, I applied for internships across the world. I prayed God would only open one door, to guide me where he wanted me and when. Lo and behold, puzzling Providence sent me to L.A. for a couple months. Maybe it would be good for mine and California’s fragile relationship: I hoped against intuition that living as a local and touring So Cal would mend our fragile bond.
Not so much. I wound up feeling more homesick than when I lived in France. I line danced to Lady Gaga with gay urban cowboys at aptly named Oil Can Harry’s. I experienced infamous standstill highway traffic, at 3am, on a weeknight. To be fair, I camped in the Sequoias by myself (first time going solo, success!), developed a love for Santa Monica and Venice beaches, and spend some unforgettable days with even more unforgettable people.
It seems I trusted my employer and designated mentor a little too much, responding to their questions about my safety with confidence in the company of my grandpa’s revolver. I guess L.A.P.D. aren’t even allowed to carry firearms anymore, due to its controversial history, and only local S.W.A.T. are packing heat. Appalled at my gumption, they threatened to end our contract and send me back to Texas, or to take my gun away, which most gun-owners agree, is like taking a firstborn child away. Sunrise of the first morning I was eligible to move back, I drove Pas to Pas in 14 hours, straight: not looking back in the rearview at Pasadena, I sped on to El Paso.
I promised myself I’d avoid this wonderful state that, for many reasons, continues to represent a joy-sucking vacuum to me. Then my best friend moved to San Diego.
I spent several days with her north of the city, then several in the Gaslamp Quarter with another friend at a hostel, and flew back to Texas after a week. I arrived a bit late to the San Diego Airport and joined the masses waiting to inch through security. There was such a delay in getting people through that they were calling people to the front of the line based on departure times (mine was first, which heightened my awareness of how little time I had to get on the plane).
I already had the belt, jewelry, shoes and sweater off; laptop was out of its case in my hands; my liquids were separated in the permitted baggie before I got to the airport. This girl had it in the bag.
Which was exactly the problem. Chrissy gave me an early birthday present of an iron key holder, in the shape and scale of a revolver. My hand-me-down Samsonite was stopped on the conveyor belt as the TSA screening agent gasped. She called over an agent, and I instantly knew: good Lord above, they think it’s a real gun.
“Can I help you guys find something in my bag?,” I asked, hoping to speed things up.
They ignored me, and whispered back and forth. They called over an older supervisor, who stared at the screen for a minute.
My panic subsided when I thought he was using this opportunity as a teaching tool for novice and dense employees, as he said “You can tell it’s not real because you can see through it…”
But they kept staring at the screen. And then agent #3 got on a walkie talkie, requesting backup. Two people had made it through the x-ray scanner like me, and were waiting on my suitcase to clear so they could grab their things. A long, irritated line of other travelers threatened me with their eyes, still back on the other side.
Agent #4 came up, and he was even older than the ones before. He made a show of putting gloves on, and got on his cell phone. A passive aggressive lady behind me chuckled painfully, “So you’re the one holding up the line, huh?” I stuttered out an embarrassed apology.
Agent #3 had stepped away and back to his pay grade, but threw in his two cents.”It could be worse. It could be real.” After staring at him for a while I concurred, “Yes, you’re right. If it was real, this would be a real problem.”
But it wasn’t. And they knew it! But they treated it like a real firearm- not saying any buzz words to give away what it is, not touching the bag, not talking to me or listening to my description of the “item.”
Agent #5 responded to #4’s call from a flip phone. After repeating the same process, finally, someone touched my bag! He was the oldest of them all, and moved like it. He brought my bag over to the official “you’re in trouble” table.
Before even opening the zipper, he explained how my birthday present was liable to make me check my bag, get strip-searched, have the real police called, get arrested, have a date with a judge, pay a fine. Oh, and miss my flight, which was minutes from heading out. I hastily agreed to whatever he wanted, to move things along.
Fortunately, my “one and only option” transitioned into an agreeable option #4.
“Don’t show this to anyone in the airport or on the plane, so you won’t have to dispose of it, and can still make your flight.” Not having planned to show strangers my latest wall decoration anyways, I respectfully agreed and booked it over to my gate. I like to think that no one behind me in line missed their flights, either...
Somehow, I made it out of California once with the real revolver and yet again with a fake one. The natives were shocked at my possesions, but too afraid to do anything except scowl to my face and say things behind my back. Not going to try for a third strike, that’s for sure!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
changes in lattitudes, changes in attitudes
I think my biggest reverse-culture shock since coming back from Georgia is working in the schools. Just reading the rules for substitutes was shocking- literally every sentence of the 22 page handbook contrasted with my teaching experiences in Georgia (except both don’t want my handgun on the premises). Here are some of my fav examples:
U.S. versus Georgian public school systems
-Need I.D.: In Georgia, my students’ neighbor’s cousin’s uncle’s friend’s bread maker could identify me, on a moving vehicle, in a completely different region of the country. While I was there, for the first time the Ministry forced its employees to have a photo and license information on record.
-No smoking for anyone on campus: My gym coach in Gurjaani, also a local rugby player, smoked in the classrooms and hallways. I became notorious for personally plucking cigarettes from older boys’ mouths on the school grounds at my village school, because no one else cared to stop them, ever.
-Taking attendance: ya, they just didn’t do that.
-Parent visits: In the U.S., a parent can’t just show up at school and do what they want. Kids can’t have birthday balloons (latex allergies apparently are real), can’t have presents or food delivered, and can’t be picked up without proper I.D. and excuses.
In Georgia: My first grade class had parents standing outside the classroom for over 3 weeks after the first day of school, encouraging their kids to leave class to come have a 4th snack after 2 hours at school.
-“Students should not have access to the teacher’s files:” Does having random students carry around one book with every grade and attendance recorded (not much was; but still, the book existed) for 3 grades of students fall into this category? Especially since it was the only copy, written in pencil, and the upperclassmen in high school stole their book for a couple days?
-“General announcements are made on each campus in the morning:” We had no idea minute-to-minute when early releases would be due to soccer (I mean football) matches. It was unclear at 1:56 if a 2:00 concert was still scheduled that day.
-Existence of an “equipment used” paragraph in the job description: It was a big day if we had enough chalk for the day to write on the one third of the chalkboard that worked.
-Existence of “employee and student discrimination” paragraph: Calling the male students homosexuals in an effort to get them to behave isn’t acceptable in the U.S., it seems…
-No personal time on computers: In Georgia, our employer encouraged the opposite; if our schools had internet, it was often the only place in the area that had it at all.
-“Substitutes shall not form romantic or other inappropriate social relationships with students.”
In Georgia, I knew a guy who was my age that not only fell for his 11th grader, the principal’s daughter, but pursued marrying her for a couple months. To be fair to the majority of foreign teachers, this is also the same guy who likes sampling the red light district of every country he visits.
-No religion: celebrating Georgian Orthodox religious holidays, in class.
-No alcohol among students or consumed on premises: This was laughed at in Georgia, as none of the above is illegal or socially unacceptable. My third week of school was my birthday, and the 9th grade class along with some teachers and the principal busted out champagne for me instead of class in third period (everyone partook). School was let out early so the teachers could throw me a party, with more champagne, wine and cognac. My last day of school, the 5th graders gave me a bottle of wine and 8 traditional alcohol drinking vessels as gifts. I lived with my host sister, whose friends and families often invited me to get-togethers where moonshine flowed freely.
-Fire emergency drills: Students ran the fire in our wood-fueled heaters (if we were fortunate to have wood that day). Occasionally, students threw classroom supplies and curtains into the furnace, and weren’t disciplined. Not dangerous compared to the daily throwing of firecrackers in and out of the building and classrooms.
-Encouraging students who are struggling: telling slower students they cannot learn to their faces and behind their backs.
-Employee evaluation: my principal in Georgia forced my over-worked and under-paid co-teacher to do my evaluations for her, forging her documents.
-No profanity: In my first class period of my first day of teaching ever, in my village school in Georgia, an older boy welcomed me into the classroom by swearing at me and personally, explicitly, offering to broaden my sex life. It was in Georgian, which I didn’t know at the time, and no one (including my co-teacher) stopped him or stood up for me.
U.S. versus Georgian public school systems
-Need I.D.: In Georgia, my students’ neighbor’s cousin’s uncle’s friend’s bread maker could identify me, on a moving vehicle, in a completely different region of the country. While I was there, for the first time the Ministry forced its employees to have a photo and license information on record.
-No smoking for anyone on campus: My gym coach in Gurjaani, also a local rugby player, smoked in the classrooms and hallways. I became notorious for personally plucking cigarettes from older boys’ mouths on the school grounds at my village school, because no one else cared to stop them, ever.
-Taking attendance: ya, they just didn’t do that.
-Parent visits: In the U.S., a parent can’t just show up at school and do what they want. Kids can’t have birthday balloons (latex allergies apparently are real), can’t have presents or food delivered, and can’t be picked up without proper I.D. and excuses.
In Georgia: My first grade class had parents standing outside the classroom for over 3 weeks after the first day of school, encouraging their kids to leave class to come have a 4th snack after 2 hours at school.
-“Students should not have access to the teacher’s files:” Does having random students carry around one book with every grade and attendance recorded (not much was; but still, the book existed) for 3 grades of students fall into this category? Especially since it was the only copy, written in pencil, and the upperclassmen in high school stole their book for a couple days?
-“General announcements are made on each campus in the morning:” We had no idea minute-to-minute when early releases would be due to soccer (I mean football) matches. It was unclear at 1:56 if a 2:00 concert was still scheduled that day.
-Existence of an “equipment used” paragraph in the job description: It was a big day if we had enough chalk for the day to write on the one third of the chalkboard that worked.
-Existence of “employee and student discrimination” paragraph: Calling the male students homosexuals in an effort to get them to behave isn’t acceptable in the U.S., it seems…
-No personal time on computers: In Georgia, our employer encouraged the opposite; if our schools had internet, it was often the only place in the area that had it at all.
-“Substitutes shall not form romantic or other inappropriate social relationships with students.”
In Georgia, I knew a guy who was my age that not only fell for his 11th grader, the principal’s daughter, but pursued marrying her for a couple months. To be fair to the majority of foreign teachers, this is also the same guy who likes sampling the red light district of every country he visits.
-No religion: celebrating Georgian Orthodox religious holidays, in class.
-No alcohol among students or consumed on premises: This was laughed at in Georgia, as none of the above is illegal or socially unacceptable. My third week of school was my birthday, and the 9th grade class along with some teachers and the principal busted out champagne for me instead of class in third period (everyone partook). School was let out early so the teachers could throw me a party, with more champagne, wine and cognac. My last day of school, the 5th graders gave me a bottle of wine and 8 traditional alcohol drinking vessels as gifts. I lived with my host sister, whose friends and families often invited me to get-togethers where moonshine flowed freely.
-Fire emergency drills: Students ran the fire in our wood-fueled heaters (if we were fortunate to have wood that day). Occasionally, students threw classroom supplies and curtains into the furnace, and weren’t disciplined. Not dangerous compared to the daily throwing of firecrackers in and out of the building and classrooms.
-Encouraging students who are struggling: telling slower students they cannot learn to their faces and behind their backs.
-Employee evaluation: my principal in Georgia forced my over-worked and under-paid co-teacher to do my evaluations for her, forging her documents.
-No profanity: In my first class period of my first day of teaching ever, in my village school in Georgia, an older boy welcomed me into the classroom by swearing at me and personally, explicitly, offering to broaden my sex life. It was in Georgian, which I didn’t know at the time, and no one (including my co-teacher) stopped him or stood up for me.
everybody's working for the weekend
To fund my many misadventures, I became a substitute teacher at my old school district. But unlike teaching in Georgia, the faculty, staff and students at the schools I now work at not only understand English, but have access to internet and like to fire or sue folks who yap about certain things. Here goes living up to the reasonable and wise expectations laid out by my employer…
First day: I got a wake-up call at 8am for an assignment as a 5th & 6th grade PE teacher. Turns out, these poor pre-middle schooler’s have 10 class periods. Ten! I wound up spending 5 periods watching kiddos play Knock-Out basketball, 3 listening to band concerts, 1 assisting the first “inclusion” class I’ve experienced, and 1 sitting in front of the principal’s office.
I was given the best weather for an outdoor athletic class! How great, to not have to wake up earlier than I need to for work, and only have to throw on comfy workout clothes to meet dress code? When they ran the 5 minute warm-up with pop/dance music bumping from the half-blown speaker, I remembered doing the same thing to 90’s power-pop. Not gonna lie, I got into it and was grooving by myself next to a florescent green cone. For lunch, I ate epic leftovers and almost took a nap sitting back in a chair with my legs in the sun, rethinking the hours of country dancing spent the night before.
You don’t return to your old stomping grounds of 18 years expecting to be anonymous; but really, this was ridiculous déjà vu. I was subbing for a girl who graduated a year before me. A guy who I used to know, whose mom I remember as a teacher, was coaching alongside me. The head coach was the same woman who’s been around since before I was a student, and even though it had been 11 years since she’s seen me, she remembered me. Thankfully, she didn’t remember the awkward, sweaty, insecure girl that I once was.
When the band came out to recruit new performers through a concert (including a rendition of Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance,” which I could not distinguish 3 times in a row), my former band director was there. We shook hands, because I guess I’m an adult now and that’s what’s professional.
In my 9th period, I helped 5th grade kids brainstorm for “Trail of Tears” board games. One kid was excited about borrowing the concept of Monopoly for his theme: land on certain spaces and get/ or lose land. I didn’t know if it was insensitive to say that in history the American Indians always lost and the government always won in that game, so I just said “great idea!” instead.
For the 10th class period, I delivered notes across the school, and again saw how little has changed in 11 years. My old 5th grade teacher had been named teacher of the year. Saw the cheesy Hawaiian shirt on the back of the same guy who teaches “Oceans” class (so good to grow up on the sea!). I passed by the library, recalling with some embarrassment the daily school news broadcasting program I used to be a part of there. I remembered (with more embarrassment and a grin) when I gave a strategic wink during the school-wide video sign-off, as a confirmation to a boy who liked me that I would indeed be his girlfriend.
I wrapped up the day wasting time in the office, sitting next to a kid who got a talking-to about a rumored after-school “ruckus” and “scuffle.”
Excited to see what’s in store next!
First day: I got a wake-up call at 8am for an assignment as a 5th & 6th grade PE teacher. Turns out, these poor pre-middle schooler’s have 10 class periods. Ten! I wound up spending 5 periods watching kiddos play Knock-Out basketball, 3 listening to band concerts, 1 assisting the first “inclusion” class I’ve experienced, and 1 sitting in front of the principal’s office.
I was given the best weather for an outdoor athletic class! How great, to not have to wake up earlier than I need to for work, and only have to throw on comfy workout clothes to meet dress code? When they ran the 5 minute warm-up with pop/dance music bumping from the half-blown speaker, I remembered doing the same thing to 90’s power-pop. Not gonna lie, I got into it and was grooving by myself next to a florescent green cone. For lunch, I ate epic leftovers and almost took a nap sitting back in a chair with my legs in the sun, rethinking the hours of country dancing spent the night before.
You don’t return to your old stomping grounds of 18 years expecting to be anonymous; but really, this was ridiculous déjà vu. I was subbing for a girl who graduated a year before me. A guy who I used to know, whose mom I remember as a teacher, was coaching alongside me. The head coach was the same woman who’s been around since before I was a student, and even though it had been 11 years since she’s seen me, she remembered me. Thankfully, she didn’t remember the awkward, sweaty, insecure girl that I once was.
When the band came out to recruit new performers through a concert (including a rendition of Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance,” which I could not distinguish 3 times in a row), my former band director was there. We shook hands, because I guess I’m an adult now and that’s what’s professional.
In my 9th period, I helped 5th grade kids brainstorm for “Trail of Tears” board games. One kid was excited about borrowing the concept of Monopoly for his theme: land on certain spaces and get/ or lose land. I didn’t know if it was insensitive to say that in history the American Indians always lost and the government always won in that game, so I just said “great idea!” instead.
For the 10th class period, I delivered notes across the school, and again saw how little has changed in 11 years. My old 5th grade teacher had been named teacher of the year. Saw the cheesy Hawaiian shirt on the back of the same guy who teaches “Oceans” class (so good to grow up on the sea!). I passed by the library, recalling with some embarrassment the daily school news broadcasting program I used to be a part of there. I remembered (with more embarrassment and a grin) when I gave a strategic wink during the school-wide video sign-off, as a confirmation to a boy who liked me that I would indeed be his girlfriend.
I wrapped up the day wasting time in the office, sitting next to a kid who got a talking-to about a rumored after-school “ruckus” and “scuffle.”
Excited to see what’s in store next!
“The sea hates a coward” -Eugene O’Neil
I found this on an overpriced-plate in a local boutique that targets middle-aged women. Usually decorative quotes on household items isn’t my thing. Which is unfortunate, because I’m from the south. And a Christian. And a female. And a Beck/ Menard descendant.
But this quote struck a chord. It wasn’t trying to affirm an insecurity or doubt. “The sea hates a coward”- it’s an insinuation that I’m lacking, already a coward who needs to toughen up; not an affirmation that I already know how to “live, laugh love,” that I already boldly “dance like no one’s watching.”
It rang true, like a warning. Like a challenge, a prove-this-wrong-if-you-dare.
My friend gave me a gift that has altered the entire course of my year, and arguably the rest of my life, in ways yet to be seen. I have one year to travel for free around the U.S., and almost free anywhere in the world. This quote is like a call I’m responding to in 2012- sprinting towards dreams and seeking out things I’m uncomfortable with (and that I’ll never want to try when I’m older, having lost the gumption and ignorance of being young). People tell me I’m brave. Which is silly, because I’m just as timid, but I just do the things I’m anxious about anyways.
Take snorkeling. You’d think growing up on the Gulf of Mexico, lifeguarding and drinking more salt water accidentally than fresh water intentionally, that snorkeling would be a piece of cake for me. Breathing under water is one of the most terrifying things to me.
A couple years ago, my friend Carissa and I rustled up some well-used snorkel gear to join a channel where local endangered turtles like to swim. As soon as I put on the goggles and snorkel, I started hyperventilating. In my freak-out, I wound up accidentally kicking a turtle, and promptly gave the whole thing up.
A couple weeks ago, I wound up in the Florida Keys with my friend Chris. I wanted to take on snorkeling a second time, but properly. We researched places, showed up an hour early, and joined an experienced crew that brought us 6 miles offshore into the Atlantic. I was enthralled by Sombrero Reef, a 30 acre protected area around a rusting, floating lighthouse.
Still trying to get used to a shortie wetsuit, I half somersaulted into the waves, and bobbed up gasping from the winter water. I couldn’t figure out the fins. My goggles were too loose, too foggy, and full of water. Apprehensive but unashamed, I snagged a pink pool floatie to help me calm down and gain confidence that I may survive the ordeal. After all first-timers and children were enjoying the coral and colorful fishies, I still hadn’t put my face in the water. When I did, I tried talking, with little success. Water got in through the top of the snorkel and I freaked. Instead of blowing out air, I tried sucking in water through the mouth piece, again with little success. I finally posed for a photo with the underwater camera, and instinctively smiled (and choked). Seems I could have learned a thing or two last year from Georgians who refuse to smile in photographs.This went on interchangeably for over an hour, as I kept swimming into and kicking the patient Chris, who is a certified scuba diver. Being within a couple feet of a handful of barracudas didn’t calm me down, either.
Most exhausting, stressful, gorgeous and enthralling experience in a long time. There was one moment when the current was swaying me back and forth that I noticed the fan coral was dancing to the same rhythm. For 20 cheesy, timeless seconds, I felt connected at the core to God and all creation in an entirely new and simple way. It was like magic.
I’ve already been battling for courage on the sea this year, and it’s barely February. I’m riding on finances that are the lowest I’ve worked with since puberty. I started a job that has extremely opposite and higher expectations for me than my last one. I’ve had to re-remember the girl I was a year ago, before I went to Georgia and changed in some ways that I’m not ok with. I’m struggling with going out a limb relationally, choosing ever so slightly to hope amidst swirling doubt that things do work out sometimes.
If you want to check in on my flitting around when you’re bored- even I barely remember where I am week to week- keep coming back here for more stories. Here’s to greeting every year, and especially the one at present, with strength that comes from God and surpasses our looniest daydreams!
I found this on an overpriced-plate in a local boutique that targets middle-aged women. Usually decorative quotes on household items isn’t my thing. Which is unfortunate, because I’m from the south. And a Christian. And a female. And a Beck/ Menard descendant.
But this quote struck a chord. It wasn’t trying to affirm an insecurity or doubt. “The sea hates a coward”- it’s an insinuation that I’m lacking, already a coward who needs to toughen up; not an affirmation that I already know how to “live, laugh love,” that I already boldly “dance like no one’s watching.”
It rang true, like a warning. Like a challenge, a prove-this-wrong-if-you-dare.
My friend gave me a gift that has altered the entire course of my year, and arguably the rest of my life, in ways yet to be seen. I have one year to travel for free around the U.S., and almost free anywhere in the world. This quote is like a call I’m responding to in 2012- sprinting towards dreams and seeking out things I’m uncomfortable with (and that I’ll never want to try when I’m older, having lost the gumption and ignorance of being young). People tell me I’m brave. Which is silly, because I’m just as timid, but I just do the things I’m anxious about anyways.
Take snorkeling. You’d think growing up on the Gulf of Mexico, lifeguarding and drinking more salt water accidentally than fresh water intentionally, that snorkeling would be a piece of cake for me. Breathing under water is one of the most terrifying things to me.
A couple years ago, my friend Carissa and I rustled up some well-used snorkel gear to join a channel where local endangered turtles like to swim. As soon as I put on the goggles and snorkel, I started hyperventilating. In my freak-out, I wound up accidentally kicking a turtle, and promptly gave the whole thing up.
A couple weeks ago, I wound up in the Florida Keys with my friend Chris. I wanted to take on snorkeling a second time, but properly. We researched places, showed up an hour early, and joined an experienced crew that brought us 6 miles offshore into the Atlantic. I was enthralled by Sombrero Reef, a 30 acre protected area around a rusting, floating lighthouse.
Still trying to get used to a shortie wetsuit, I half somersaulted into the waves, and bobbed up gasping from the winter water. I couldn’t figure out the fins. My goggles were too loose, too foggy, and full of water. Apprehensive but unashamed, I snagged a pink pool floatie to help me calm down and gain confidence that I may survive the ordeal. After all first-timers and children were enjoying the coral and colorful fishies, I still hadn’t put my face in the water. When I did, I tried talking, with little success. Water got in through the top of the snorkel and I freaked. Instead of blowing out air, I tried sucking in water through the mouth piece, again with little success. I finally posed for a photo with the underwater camera, and instinctively smiled (and choked). Seems I could have learned a thing or two last year from Georgians who refuse to smile in photographs.This went on interchangeably for over an hour, as I kept swimming into and kicking the patient Chris, who is a certified scuba diver. Being within a couple feet of a handful of barracudas didn’t calm me down, either.
Most exhausting, stressful, gorgeous and enthralling experience in a long time. There was one moment when the current was swaying me back and forth that I noticed the fan coral was dancing to the same rhythm. For 20 cheesy, timeless seconds, I felt connected at the core to God and all creation in an entirely new and simple way. It was like magic.
I’ve already been battling for courage on the sea this year, and it’s barely February. I’m riding on finances that are the lowest I’ve worked with since puberty. I started a job that has extremely opposite and higher expectations for me than my last one. I’ve had to re-remember the girl I was a year ago, before I went to Georgia and changed in some ways that I’m not ok with. I’m struggling with going out a limb relationally, choosing ever so slightly to hope amidst swirling doubt that things do work out sometimes.
If you want to check in on my flitting around when you’re bored- even I barely remember where I am week to week- keep coming back here for more stories. Here’s to greeting every year, and especially the one at present, with strength that comes from God and surpasses our looniest daydreams!
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