Camp Memories

I miss the summer. I miss the staff. I miss being surrounded by Christians who were strong in their faith but still weren't afraid to admit their struggles. I miss our boss accosting us about our devotions, joking but also serious. I miss the end of Wednesday night talent shows, I miss hug lines, I miss those moments right before chapel started when the kids were watching us sing, dance, goof off. I miss "I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane." I miss shaving cream fights, bag pipes, Braveheart. I miss the intimacy--with kids, with the staff, with God.

It was so much easier then; the pressure, the heart-pounding need to get in the Word just so I could make it through the day... it's not as urgent now. It should be frantic, a desperate thirst. Now when I'm not surrounded by Christian friends, not required to lead. This summer, I felt so close to God, because he was breaking me, over and over, breaking me and building me back up. Now, His presense is still with me, but before... it was easier then.

This summer, I was challenged, and nearly drained--physically, emotionally, and spiritually. There were a few nights when I cried myself to sleep just from sheer physical and emotional exhaustion. But I clung to Christ during those weeks, needed him desperately.

Now, my days are shorter, slower, quieter. I'm not challenged physically, emotionally, or spiritually, so its so easy to slip into a fatal misconception of self-reliance. It's a daily battle for me.

I won't be back at camp for the summer of 2008. I'm going abroad to study in Ireland. The weeks are painfully close-- I would only miss one or two weeks of camp. But I know how crucial those first weeks are. I plan on visiting when I can, coming up to help set up for 2.0 week. I'll miss it terribly, but I know that this trip is an opportunity that God showed to me. I can't pass it up.

I content myself only by hoping to return for the summer of 2009.

Impression

Uncle Walt, this powerful play
is but a search for moments,
a quest for that fleeting
impression of significance found in a
meandering path through autumnal woods,
a brass quartet in a university cathedral,
a sudden refraction of the sun through green leaves.

We play our parts dutifully, all the while
wondering when the next fleeting moment
will happen upon us. We read in hopes that
a string of lovely words will call the feeling back.

What verses can I give, Uncle, but for my
rendering of these moments? I'm just a
girl, older than she used to be, leaning back in her
chair in a crowded classroom, taking in the flavor-filled
words of the Romantics like a child might
suck in a soft breath
on a snowy morning.

Teaching

Maybe it's silly to be inspired by a movie. Maybe not. But ever since I saw The Dead Poet's Society, I never looked at teaching in the same way. I first saw the film in 9th grade. At that point, I still had no desire at all to be a teacher. The closest I ever came to wanting to be a teacher was to be a college professor, a job where research and writing are almost just as or more emphasized than classroom teaching and student advising. But a pragmatic English teacher told me, my 10th grade year, that if I wanted to be a writer, "I better look for another job."

At the time, I was offended and disheartened by her words. I thought she meant them as a slight on my abilities, but I understand now that she was just speaking realistically. Most writers don't start out as poets or freelancers or novelists, but take to the pen while working another job. That got me thinking. I'd never really thought about another job. I just wanted to write, see my name on the cover of a novel. So throughout high school, my objective was to explore quote "real jobs" and pick one so that I could eat and have a house while I tried to break into the publishing world.

But in 11th grade, I had my first experience with great teaching. Like Mr. Keating of the Dead Poet's Society, Ms. A was an English teacher, passionate about poetry and literature, but just as passionate about students. When I shuffled into her AP English course my junior year of high school, I was riddled with insecurity about my writing.

Months before, I had recieved a rejection letter from the South Carolina Governor's School of the Arts. I had applied to their Creative Writing program while my best friend had applied for Visual Art. She was accepted; I was not. For a long time, this hovered over my head, made me insecure about my writing, my ambitions, my future. Now I can talk about that period of my life with a smile, without a wince or without avoiding eye contact.

Ms. A encouraged me from the beginning. The first writing assignment I did for her wasn't great, but she wrote all over it, giving me suggestions, praising what I did well and offering tips for improvement. The next one I turned in recieved a perfect score, much to my surprise. She asked us to self-evaluate our work. When she read my critique, she wrote that I was much too hard on myself.

Ms. A recognized my lack of confidence, even though I was one of over a hundred students on her roster. And she did all that she could to build it back up.

Starting in elementary school, schools teach you to explore career options so you can be a productive member of society. Perhaps getting a job is over-emphasized, but that's how it is. They start give you career quizzes in grade school, so you can get an idea of what your skills are, what career you might enjoy the most. Every test I took told me I should be a teacher, but I always waved it off.

It was until I met a really great teacher who changed my life, that I really understood the job. That I finally acknowledged the call. I was 18 when I decided I wanted to teach, do for students what Ms. A did for me. I don't pretend to have misconceptions about it. I'll be paid enough money to live just above the poverty line and gain little respect for pursuing a low-salary, if noble, career. I've already begun to feel the stereotypes. I'm in the Honors College at my school, where there is little respect for the School of Education. My dad was skeptical at first, too. There's such a stigma out there for the quote "best and the brightest" to go into teaching, which just blows my mind. Would you rather less motivated, less passionate, less knowledgeable teachers craft the next generation?

"You could do anything, Hillary," my father told me when I first approached him. "Are you sure you want to teach?"

I wasn't sure at the beginning; I'm sure now. If I can do what Mr. Keating did for Todd, what Ms. A did for me, for even one student, than I will feel fulfilled. If I can make students laugh, make them push themselves to succeed, make them explore their imagination, see beyond the words on the page of a textbook, then I can do a great thing.

Besides, what other job leaves open weekends, evenings, and two and a half months in the summer to write the next Great American Novel? ;-)

Independence

I've fought for it my whole life. As a child, I feigned it. Learned to read quickly so I could do it alone. Rode my bike around the block, angry at my parents and pretending I didn't need them. I rode back once I was bored.

As I grew older, I immersed myself into studies and hobbies and friends, but not fully in the latter. I allowed myself many acquaintances, with whom I could laugh and joke and smile, and then a handful of good friends with whom I could also cry, curse, and question. I bickered with but truly loved my parents and my family. I always loved my brother, but sometime in high school, he snuck under my skin and I discovered I liked the kid a lot, too. Not much I wouldn't do for him.

But still, I sought after the independence. I jumped at the chance to go to a residential high school for my junior and senior year. When spurned, I told myself it was the blow to my ego, the fact that my best friend was going and I wasn't, the sudden lack of confidence I had in my talent that had me reeling. But really, it was the fact that I was still stuck under my parents' roof, still dependant on them.

I went away for college, a hundred miles away. I earned enough scholarships for a full-ride and more. To show my independence. Jumped at the chance to have my car at school so I could have some more independence. Planned and paid for a trip to the land of my ancestors' overseas on my own. Going on my own.

I live in such a way to demonstrate my independence. Especially as a woman, I feel the need to prove it, make it tangible for everyone else. Show that I am capable of doing things on my own.
During my twenty-something years, I've had opportunities to get involved with guys. I never did. I've gone on casual outings that I swore weren't dates, gone to dances with a date and as a date, but never with a man that I loved. In fact, I think I can safely say that I have never been in love. A few have come close, but no cigar. I've always held that I haven't met the right man, and I still believe that, but with age comes understanding, even if its indirect.

Though I long with every other single gal to be loved and cherished, I can now see that the true, violent, ineffable love that I've always yearned for would take away all the independence I've created for myself. To love is to need. To be in love is to require another person's smile to have one yourself, to hear their breathing so you can manage your own. And I've been terrifed of that. Terrifed of needing another human so much that I can't do without them.

And it can't just end there. To love is to be loved, in the ideal, and to be loved is to be needed. It terrifies me to imagine another person needing me like they need their heart to beat. I'm scared to fail him, scared to hurt him, scared to need him in return.

I'm not afraid of love. I love many people in my life. But I'm not going to give love freely, nor take it freely.

I can understand this love because though I have never been in love with a man on this Earth, I have been loved and have loved a Man above this Earth. If there was a person or entity that I can't imagine living without, it is God through the man Jesus Christ, by whom I am dearly loved. I fail so often in this relationship that I know I will fail harder and more often in a romantic one, and that frightens me. And a romantic relationship will be with another flawed human.

Knowing a bit more about love makes me more guarded of my feelings, more careful in keeping my emotional distance from many. But I'm not emotionless. Once I love, I love fully. That may be what scares me the most.

A Perfect Day to Muse, take 2

I wrote this once already, and the post didn't go through. How annoying. Trying again...
It is a perfect day to muse. Saturday. Rainy. Dreary. Lazy.

So Long, LiveJournal

I used to write on LiveJournal. That little corner of cyberspace put up with my musings, complaints, and questions for several years, but it's time to start fresh. Some of those days, I hope to stay in the past. The other ones will live in my memory. So farewell, LiveJournal.

The Worst?

Last weekend, I made a few new friends. They asked me where I was from, what I did for fun, etc, but one guy wasn't satisfied with these questions. He wanted a different sense of my character. So, he asked a different question.

What's the worst thing you've ever done?

I was stunned for a moment, first by the intimacy of the question, and then by my trouble in giving an answer. I've done plenty of things that I consider bad, but not "the worst" that he was looking for.

I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs. I made a promise to my future husband that so far, I've kept. I do my best never to break the law but always please my parents.

My new friends were unsure of what to think of me. They started to poke fun at me, joked that I probably had a whole section of Heaven reserved for me. I felt an anger I didn't understand begin to form. I was strangely defensive.

I speed all the time, I insisted. I got an unusual ear piercing after my father expressly told me not to. To me, these sins were big indeed.

They laughed, and everyone else at the table answered the question with much more colorful answers. I was still angry, oddly offended, strangely disappointed in my chaste answer to his question.

Should I not have been proud? Grateful for the God's help in my struggle to avoid certain sins?
I wasn't.

Let's get one thing straight. I'm sinful.

Maybe I don't fill my body with nicotine or alcohol or drugs. But I've filled my mind with filth. I've never killed another human, but I've killed many reputations with gossip, and murdered many with hatred. I've kept my body pure, but I've slept with many men in my heart, consumed by lust. I can lie without blinking, cheat without wincing, curse without blushing.
Don't ever tell me I haven't sinned. Don't cheapen my redemption or Redeemer. I have sinned much and been forgiven much. Thank God.

Changing Gears...

Each day, Dublin and I get closer. I can almost sense the Atlantic shrinking. I can't wait to be there.