the rose of kiev

The Holiday Season has been progressing in complexity during my life. The first 14 years were the simplest because we simply shuffled between my dad's family (a special version of laughter and tensity) and my mother's family (the bigger the gathering, the more step-relatives I never knew I had). Complications increased when my parents marriage ended, but after 8 years of that schedule (Christmas Eve in Mansfield with mom, then back to Columbus with Dad for Christmas morning) we had finally adjusted. And then I went and got married and threw in a whole other family on top of it all. This was Dave and I's first year negotiating what, in my family, is already an area of extreme territorialism. Yeah, there were a couple fights. In the end, my gracious Dave volunteered we spend Thanksgiving with my father's family. For the first time in a few years 3 of the 4 children were going to be at my grandparents' Akron home with most of the grandchildren, so I called my Nana to t

Prayer has wrought a mess of good havoc in my life. A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how praying had boosted my self-confidence and given me a " holy spunk ". One of the essential ingredients to that lesson was the taking away of both a fear of Man and a desire to please Man; they were invaders in place of holy desires to fear and please God. An unexpected new issue has arisen in the wake: Apathy. And a resulting lack of motivation. I couldn't place where it came from at first, mostly because it neatly coincided with the end of Fall Quarter. But as the days passed, the apathy remained in atypical forms. I usually pack my schedule full of hangouts with different people, cramming in coffee with someone at every gap in my day. But for some reason now, even with multiple whole days free from work and school because of the break, I would feel no compulsion to schedule time with even a single person. It was such an uncharacteristic thing that I started asking questions about

One year and four days ago, I woke up quietly at seven in the morning, wide awake long before my alarm went off.  The metal rungs of my bunk were cold against my feet as I climbed down. Energy was surging in me, a great and quiet pulsing.  The house was quiet that last morning; all the girls were still asleep.  The stairs creaked under my steps as I went to the first floor bathroom.  I pulled aside the brown shower curtain, and reveled in the hot water.  If it could be washed or shaved or scrubbed, I did it all twice.  I came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam; it was cold outside, but the sun came warmly through the dining room window.  I ate a bowl of cereal at the sunlit dinner table .   The quiet throbbed with anticipation.  After I had rinsed out my porcelain white cereal bowl, I laid down in the tan leather couch to edit my vows in green ink.  Then the floors began to creak, doors slammed open, and the happy shrieking began.  But for an hour, the morning before my wedding ju

I wore a uniform from my first day of 6th grade all the way through to my high school graduation.  For seven years, my only clothing options were a limited number of colored polo shirts, navy blue or khaki uniform pants, and a plaid skirt.  Technically I could've worn a jumper too, but the socially cognizant stopped wearing those the day they left the 6th grade. Options to stand out were rather limited, and with that high school herd instinct, not many wanted to.  Even though we got to choose our own shoes and socks, there were a lot of girls wearing black Mary Janes and white knee highs those years in order to fit in.  I, however, chose my shoes specifically because of their uniqueness: a pair of purple Converse All-Stars.  It was my small way of defying the status quo. Some people think the words "God" and "church" equate with losing your individuality, and a mandated rigid conformity.  If that were the case, I can say honestly that I would not still be here.

In her life, my grandmother has tried many tactics to get the love she longs for from her family.  She'll throw a fit at my brother's ballgame to draw attention.  She will show up unannounced on doorsteps.  Many Christmases I've received a set of "Thank You" notes under her tree.  She is generous; and often that generosity comes with fine print.  She works very hard in all the wrong ways to get the affection she's so desperate for. All my life she's been like a woman holding a handful of water, not understanding that the tighter she grips, the more drips away; rather than having more control, she only has less of it to hold. My grandmother is an intelligent and well-read woman who has been in church almost every single Sunday of her life.  I have no doubt that she's read and heard and been taught the story of the prodigal son many times.  And I wish so badly that she could've really listened to it and heard what the story had to say about who God i