Out of all the days I've spent at home this summer, today was the day I wanted to look my best. After all, I was getting my license renewed, and I did not want to look like a homeless person for my photo. So, like the typical American girl (that I am usually not), I woke up an hour before I was planning to leave, straightened my hair, put on my best makeup, brushed my teeth two or three times...
Fortunately the photo was not excruciatingly embarrassing, and I am now free to drive through America's streets and highways for at least another five years. But something went wrong this afternoon, and instead of looking pretty all day I ended up looking like a wet dog, with my hair sopping-wet and my shirt soaked as if I had jumped in a lake.
It wasn't intentional, let me tell you. My mom, sister, and I did not go on an afternoon walk thinking that it would rain. It had rained last night and this morning, but the dark clouds were moving away so we figured that it was over and done with.
But, as we were walking down our steep hill and back towards the house, we started to feel sprinkles. Then bigger raindrops. And then came the monsoon. Rachel and I tried to run uphill, but the rain was coming down too hard, so we started to walk back instead.
Walking in the rain reminded me of a few Canadians I befriended during freshman year of college. I was a quiet Midwestern girl who had come to Dordt not knowing a soul. My floor was comprised mostly of Canadians from the far-off province of Alberta. They talked about "Edmonton" and "Lethbridge" as if these cities were right next door. They were just as lost when I talked about "Chicago" or "Saint Louis," though. Their Smarties were not our Smarties, and their washroom was not the laundry room at all but the bathroom, I soon found.
But one thing I could hardly ever understand was my one friend's love of rainstorms.
Every time it would rain at Dordt, she would run into my room and say, "Sarah! Let's go puddle jumping! It's pouring out there!"
I would look out my window and shudder. The storm would usually be raging outside, complete with thunder, lightning, and buckets of rainwater. I come from tornado and flash flood country; I survived the '93 Flood and went for a week without electricity when I was in the third grade. Going out into the rainstorm for me was like my Canadian friend walking outside wearing a t-shirt and shorts during a fierce blizzard. It wasn't going to happen.
So, I laughed at the irony when I was walking today and it started to pour. I held out the palms of my hands to feel the raindrops. The water created paths as it trickled down my sunglasses, and I could barely see past them. My sister's shirt was soaked all the way through, and my mom and I couldn't help but laugh as she tried to ring it out. My running shoes were making squishing noises as I walked up the pavement. A car drove by, and we scooted to the side to make sure that we didn't get hit with another puddle. That made the three of us laugh even harder, because we were already soaked to the bone.
Debra Ollivier says in her book Entre Nous that the classic French woman finds happiness and pleasure in the ordinary moments and "evocative power in the seemingly mundane" (5). I think that my Canadian friend--whether or not she realized it--taught me that. I used to think that she was crazy for wanting to go out in a rainstorm. But at the same time, she was just trying to live. As Ollivier points out, doing something like that is just another way of embracing life. So, that's what I did today.
4. Go for a walk in the rain.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
3. Finish painting my chair.
When it comes to art, I have a terrible habit: I rarely finish what I start. My mom can list off a series of paintings, drawings, and projects that I haven’t completed.
Take the stained glass window that I created in an eighth grade art class, for instance. I completed three of the six window panes on the piece by May, promising my mom (who happened to be my art teacher) that I would finish the rest during the summer. I even wrote up a contract, proclaiming that I would complete it. It has been seven years, and I still haven’t fulfilled my contract for that window.
Today, however, I finished up a project that I started last summer. Mom had bought a rusty stool at a garage sale and had spray-painted it green. I had the bright idea to make another art project out of it: a reproduction of the Van Gogh painting “The Olive Trees” on the seat of the chair, hopefully to be completed by that day. But, once again, my ambition did not match up with reality. One year later, the only part of the chair completed was the yellow sky. That’s it.
I figured that it was time that I start completing some of the things I started. So I pulled that chair out of my garage today and started painting. I didn’t bother with matching my painting to the original this time around; it was more fun to be spontaneous. But you can judge for yourself how it turned out. It was just exciting to:
3. Finish painting my chair.
Before (with the trees added):
After:
Take the stained glass window that I created in an eighth grade art class, for instance. I completed three of the six window panes on the piece by May, promising my mom (who happened to be my art teacher) that I would finish the rest during the summer. I even wrote up a contract, proclaiming that I would complete it. It has been seven years, and I still haven’t fulfilled my contract for that window.
Today, however, I finished up a project that I started last summer. Mom had bought a rusty stool at a garage sale and had spray-painted it green. I had the bright idea to make another art project out of it: a reproduction of the Van Gogh painting “The Olive Trees” on the seat of the chair, hopefully to be completed by that day. But, once again, my ambition did not match up with reality. One year later, the only part of the chair completed was the yellow sky. That’s it.
I figured that it was time that I start completing some of the things I started. So I pulled that chair out of my garage today and started painting. I didn’t bother with matching my painting to the original this time around; it was more fun to be spontaneous. But you can judge for yourself how it turned out. It was just exciting to:
3. Finish painting my chair.
Before (with the trees added):
After:
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
2. Go to church regularly.
For the first time since Christmas break, I went to Central Presbyterian—my home church. My family and I took the white shuttle bus from the old parking lot of Layton’s Restaurant—as we have done since I was in the ninth grade—and walked up the concrete stairs to the Gothic-style church.
After listening to Pastor Dan’s Mother’s Day sermon and reveling at how angelic the church choir sounded, I played babysitter for eight rambunctious 2-year-olds, seven of which were boys. Mom read them the story of Hannah and Samuel, while I coaxed them to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” When my sister Rachel put a little cupful of Goldfish on their napkins at snack-time, they closed their little eyes and bent their heads down to pray first before eating.
Today I did something similar: I helped Mom keep track of twenty Kindergarteners at a time while they used black Crayolas to scrawl images of their hands on white paper. I had two tables’ worth of children to watch over, and they weren’t the easiest.
I told Cass three times to keep drawing, but she seemed more intrigued with what McKenzie had to say than with coloring her handprint red. Ben told me that he was left-handed and whispered sweetly that “Barak Obama was left too.” Lexi kept poking Lucas and telling him that he was drawing his hands all wrong. Dylan wanted me to point out exactly what and how he should color.
I was helping Elijah color in his yellow background and asking them questions about middle names when the topic of religion came up. Funny how the most off-limits topics can be so normal for Kindergarteners. I had originally asked Elijah what his middle name was. Ben instead had answered.
“I have two middle names,” he said shyly.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool. Are you Catholic?”
He stared at me for a second before nodding slowly.
Elijah looked up at me with his bright blue eyes and smiled. “My daddy is Catholic,” he said. “I’m not, but I cross myself whenever I eat.”
I dropped the yellow crayon and picked up the red one. “I see,” I said carefully. “Do you guys go to church?”
Lexi looked up at me. “No,” she said emphatically, as if church was the last place she’d want to be.
“Me neither,” echoed Lucas.
“I do,” said McKenzie.
“I do sometimes,” said Elijah. “On Wednesdays. But my daddy never goes.”
To be honest, I was shocked by their responses. No matter how tired my parents were on a Sunday morning, they made sure that my sisters and I were wearing frilly dresses and bows and were either playing in the nursery or sitting in the pew listening to a sermon. Missing church was not an option.
To this day, I am thankful for that sacrifice my parents made. It is unbelievable to me to think that some parents would not take their children to learn more about God.
So, I decided upon another thing for my list. I’m not in Sioux Center—and it’s something I do on a weekly basis anyway—but I still think it’s important to remember.
2. Go to church regularly.
I want to make sure that I keep going to church so that I can keep my faith strong and continue down the path that my parents have taught me. I also want to go so that when I someday have children, I will be as dedicated as my parents were toward cultivating young faith. I want my children to pray like the 2-year-olds I watch in nursery and not look at me with surprise when I ask them about church.
One of my English professors said that going to church should become a habit. Even if a person doesn’t want to go, he or she should go anyway. One never knows what he or she will pick up from the sermon or from a song.
I agree whole-heartedly. I’m no saint, but I want to do my best to praise the Lord for the good he has bestowed upon my life. So, this summer, I plan to go to church as often as I can.
After listening to Pastor Dan’s Mother’s Day sermon and reveling at how angelic the church choir sounded, I played babysitter for eight rambunctious 2-year-olds, seven of which were boys. Mom read them the story of Hannah and Samuel, while I coaxed them to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” When my sister Rachel put a little cupful of Goldfish on their napkins at snack-time, they closed their little eyes and bent their heads down to pray first before eating.
Today I did something similar: I helped Mom keep track of twenty Kindergarteners at a time while they used black Crayolas to scrawl images of their hands on white paper. I had two tables’ worth of children to watch over, and they weren’t the easiest.
I told Cass three times to keep drawing, but she seemed more intrigued with what McKenzie had to say than with coloring her handprint red. Ben told me that he was left-handed and whispered sweetly that “Barak Obama was left too.” Lexi kept poking Lucas and telling him that he was drawing his hands all wrong. Dylan wanted me to point out exactly what and how he should color.
I was helping Elijah color in his yellow background and asking them questions about middle names when the topic of religion came up. Funny how the most off-limits topics can be so normal for Kindergarteners. I had originally asked Elijah what his middle name was. Ben instead had answered.
“I have two middle names,” he said shyly.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s cool. Are you Catholic?”
He stared at me for a second before nodding slowly.
Elijah looked up at me with his bright blue eyes and smiled. “My daddy is Catholic,” he said. “I’m not, but I cross myself whenever I eat.”
I dropped the yellow crayon and picked up the red one. “I see,” I said carefully. “Do you guys go to church?”
Lexi looked up at me. “No,” she said emphatically, as if church was the last place she’d want to be.
“Me neither,” echoed Lucas.
“I do,” said McKenzie.
“I do sometimes,” said Elijah. “On Wednesdays. But my daddy never goes.”
To be honest, I was shocked by their responses. No matter how tired my parents were on a Sunday morning, they made sure that my sisters and I were wearing frilly dresses and bows and were either playing in the nursery or sitting in the pew listening to a sermon. Missing church was not an option.
To this day, I am thankful for that sacrifice my parents made. It is unbelievable to me to think that some parents would not take their children to learn more about God.
So, I decided upon another thing for my list. I’m not in Sioux Center—and it’s something I do on a weekly basis anyway—but I still think it’s important to remember.
2. Go to church regularly.
I want to make sure that I keep going to church so that I can keep my faith strong and continue down the path that my parents have taught me. I also want to go so that when I someday have children, I will be as dedicated as my parents were toward cultivating young faith. I want my children to pray like the 2-year-olds I watch in nursery and not look at me with surprise when I ask them about church.
One of my English professors said that going to church should become a habit. Even if a person doesn’t want to go, he or she should go anyway. One never knows what he or she will pick up from the sermon or from a song.
I agree whole-heartedly. I’m no saint, but I want to do my best to praise the Lord for the good he has bestowed upon my life. So, this summer, I plan to go to church as often as I can.
Monday, May 11, 2009
1. Consolidate.
My summer began two days ago, when Rachel, my dad, and I made the journey home. It will be a quick vacation for me--I return to Dordt's campus on June 1st--but I think it is much-needed.
From the moment I got home, my first thought was that I needed to get rid of things. If I learned anything from moving out of C5 during this last week, it's that I have far too much stuff. Most of what I own is comprised of t-shirts that I'll never wear and papers that heighten my nostalgia when I pull them out.
Basically, I own a lot of crap. And it's high time that I start purging myself of them.
Besides that, I'm a woman without a real home this summer. Half of my things are sitting in a corner of Southview 206, while a lamp and a bin of my things are in a friend's basement and my pompasan is in another friend's garage. That's not even including all the stuff in my parents' basement.
My roommates were shocked by how much I owned. My sister was appalled by my horrible packing skills. And so came my first rule of the summer.
1. Consolidation.
It's a slow process so far. I've filled up one trashbag full of my shirts, shoes, stuffed animals. I'm allowing myself two suitcases full of stuff to go back to Dordt. I even deleted a bunch of Facebook "friends" that I don't actually know.
My friend Heather said that everything she owns can fit into her little red car. She also knows of people who can fit all they own into a backpack. I don't think I'll ever be able to say that I can do that, but I'd like to try.
From the moment I got home, my first thought was that I needed to get rid of things. If I learned anything from moving out of C5 during this last week, it's that I have far too much stuff. Most of what I own is comprised of t-shirts that I'll never wear and papers that heighten my nostalgia when I pull them out.
Basically, I own a lot of crap. And it's high time that I start purging myself of them.
Besides that, I'm a woman without a real home this summer. Half of my things are sitting in a corner of Southview 206, while a lamp and a bin of my things are in a friend's basement and my pompasan is in another friend's garage. That's not even including all the stuff in my parents' basement.
My roommates were shocked by how much I owned. My sister was appalled by my horrible packing skills. And so came my first rule of the summer.
1. Consolidation.
It's a slow process so far. I've filled up one trashbag full of my shirts, shoes, stuffed animals. I'm allowing myself two suitcases full of stuff to go back to Dordt. I even deleted a bunch of Facebook "friends" that I don't actually know.
My friend Heather said that everything she owns can fit into her little red car. She also knows of people who can fit all they own into a backpack. I don't think I'll ever be able to say that I can do that, but I'd like to try.
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