Livin' on a Prayer

Growing up, it was never a question in my mind, "what kind of car will I get when I turn 16?" I never had the expectation of my parents gifting me with a car, not because I had an older sister who also didn't get one, we both just always knew it wasn't going to happen. I was perfectly okay with that, and I still am to this day, because we had something better.

My mom drove the family car and my dad had a work truck, but we were lucky enough that we also had a farm truck, a 1987 Dodge Ram, to be exact. My sister and I both knew when we got our license we would "inherit" Old Gray, and he would become our school vehicle.

My sister was less than pleased, and I can't entirely blame her! Old Gray wasn't pretty. He was a dingy, dark gray complete with rust spots randomly dispersed along his metal exterior. Even better, because he was the farm truck, he also came with a hay spike attached to the bed. Every girls dream car, right?

Thankfully, by the time my sister graduated and it became my turn to drive Old Gray, everyone in my grade had already met him and anticipated his return. Sometime through the years classmates even gave him a new nickname, The Tank. Therefore, I was ecstatic to get to drive Old Gray to school. He made me unique. He made me feel big and powerful, plus with the hay spike on the back, no one would dare mess with me. It also helped that we lived in a small farming town, so it was somewhat normal for kids to drive trucks to school. My FFA advisors always "joked" that our dad was genius, because if we had a wreck, the truck would be perfectly unharmed, AND Old Gray would intimidate any boys from coming near us (insert eye roll here).

Apparently, The Tank didn't always feel the same excitement about me driving him. My best friend, Emily, often rode with me, and we said many a prayer in Old Gray. He was old, worn down, rusty, and I often flooded him while trying to start him up. Emily and I first tried sweet talking him, telling him all the newer, fancier, female trucks in the Ag. Department parking lot weren't going to be impressed by him if he didn't start for us. When that didn't work, and it never did, we'd pray. Sometimes it would take a few minutes, (it felt much longer!) but The Tank was trusty, and in the end always started back up.

I'm thankful my parents made my sister and I drive the old, farm truck. I learned how to parallel park like a beast in Old Gray. He taught me to be perfectly happy and content with not having the newest, nicest, shiniest car in the parking lot. I learned to laugh in times of frustration when vehicles don't start. If I could, or should I say, if he would make it here, I would still drive him to school, even if that meant daily livin' on a prayer.

Beginners Luck, Board Games, and Best Friends

Every once in awhile, I have a small group of friends that get together for game night. However, we are all a bit stuck in our ways and like routine, so we always play the same board game, Rail Baron.

As far as I know, it is not a commonly played game anymore. I'm not even sure what game to compare Rail Baron to, maybe, kind of, a cross between Monopoly and Risk, at the very least, the time it takes to play is comparable. You have to travel all over the continental United States on railroads, you purchase railroads, and you pay taxes when you are forced to take a railroad owned by another player. Basically, it is a game of strategy.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to even find the game. Rail Baron is no longer sold in stores, they stopped producing the game in the early 1980's, and to buy it on Amazon or Ebay can range anywhere from $60 to $275. Somehow, or because he knew it was worth the money, (and it brings back memories of an internship he did in Eastern Europe), Jory managed to get his hands on the game. From there, he introduced his wife, Brianna, to it. They started talking about it so much, finally, they let me join in the fun, too. To my astonishment and sense of satisfaction, I won my first game, although maybe it was just beginners luck.

Documentation of my first game win!
Sometimes, Ragnar eats our money.

Needless to say, it has become a frequented pastime amongst our group. We quickly recruited Jory's brother, Kurry, because the game is better with more than 3 players. Occasionally, we allow others to come join us, but we are a little particular, and don't let just anybody in. The four of us are competitive, and some of us (ahem, Jory!) are arrogantly confident in our strategy. Our banter throughout the game often consists of picking on each other (as best friends should), and we are ruthless when it comes to getting what we want. Joining in our gang is not for the weak at heart or easily offended.

Last night, we let a new member join our group. I think she might become a regular, seeing as she joined my club of "First Time Winners." It was the perfect ending to a crazy week of school: friendly banter between best friends and a board game. Last night, was a Rail Baron kind of night.

Lazarus and a Blue Jacket

When people think of the color blue, it is likely, they think of the sky. In Pod 34, they might think of Mrs. Crouch’s homeroom. Others may think of bluebirds, Cookie Monster, or blueberries. The list could go on and on. However, I think of my blue Nike jacket and how I had to allow God to be my joy after a tragic day in 2012.

Blake was a cute 3 year old boy at our church. Throughout high school, and weekends I went home during college, I helped in the nursery. Over the years, I had his 2 older sisters, him, and his little sister, Faith.

February 16th started like any other day at Ozark Christian College, until 8:43am when my sister called. Her words were short, but far from simple, “Cait, Blake died.” My heart sank and my stomach felt like it was in my throat. She continued to say it was a car wreck, but something seemed fishy and stories weren’t lining up.

Throughout the course of the day, the final news I received was hard to take in. If it were a car accident, it would have been sad enough. I understand that because Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, they brought sin into the World, and it ultimately brought death, sometimes all too soon and tragic. I had experienced death in my own family before, but Blake’s was different. In the end, it wasn’t a car wreck, it was child abuse. Blake’s mother’s boyfriend had a temper. Blake’s mother covered up for her boyfriend. Blake’s 3 year old sister, Faith, had to be the witness to testify her brother’s murder. I was crushed, confused, heartbroken. This was beyond any sadness I had ever experienced in my 20 years of life.

I could end there. Sad and tragic, but that would be cheating God out of revealing His comfort in times of mourning. You might also be left wondering what the color blue and a Nike jacket has to do with anything.

I ached to be back home with my hurting church family. I tried hard not to question why God would let something so gruesome happen to a small child. I forced myself to see the little blessings God would show me each day. I don't believe it was a coincidence that back in January when I had to choose my exegetical topic for Life of Christ class, I had chosen Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. I had learned it was one of three times in the Bible, where it references Jesus crying, and it was over the death of a friend. Most people know the verse, John 11:35, "Jesus wept." Wept, or in Greek, dakryo is a shedding of tears. Even Jesus, who knew in minutes he would be raising Lazarus from the dead, and in the coming months he himself would conquer the grave, shed tears of sorrow over death. I clung to that knowledge, believing and trusting God knew what He was doing.

Now for the blue part. Blue is the ribbon color for child abuse awareness. With the help of modern technology, a high school girl in our youth group organized for people to wear “Blue for Blake” the day after his death. Unfortunately, blue is not a common color in my wardrobe but I lived in a dorm of girls, so my best friend let me borrow her blue Nike jacket. Between the tears Brianna saw me shed for days on end and me continuing to wear her jacket for several weeks, she ended up giving it to me.

Five years later, when I think of the color blue, I still think of Blake and I still wear that blue Nike jacket. When I wear the jacket, it reminds me to pray for Blake’s family, especially his sister Faith, who saw way more than the eyes of a three year old should ever see. It reminds me of witnessing my church family step up and shower Blake’s grandparents with love, prayer, and support in the midst of their tragedy. It reminds me of the kindness and generosity my best friend showed me in a time I was hurting and searching for answers. Blue reminds me of the strength and hope I had to find in Jesus in order to find joy in life after tragedy. Now that I am a teacher, it reminds me to have a little more grace and compassion for the kids who walk through the doors of my classroom. It reminds me that sometimes what appears to be an ordinary, blue, Nike jacket becomes way more than what the makers intended it to be.

A sweet moment with Faith from Blake's memorial service.

No More Staring Out the Window

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring." ~Rogers Hornsby

To some people, this quote means absolutely nothing. To others, the diehard baseball fans, it means a long winter is ahead, as they anxiously await the return of baseball. I fall under the latter category of people, but to me, it also means a little bit more.

For the past several years, my daddy has texted me this quote the day after the St. Louis Cardinals end their baseball season. First, you must know, my family tends to be pretty optimistic, even when life throws us curve balls, we are "the glass is half full" kind of people. So, even when baseball season ends sooner than we would hope, my dad follows up Mr. Hornsby's quote by texting me a thank you to the Cardinals for another great year of entertaining our family.

Then, throughout the winter, when my dad texts me goodnight, we follow with a countdown. No, not until Opening Day, but a countdown to when pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training. Months. Weeks. Days. Hours. Lucky for us, we know our countdown isn't entirely accurate, because Yadier Molina will be sure to show up days ahead of schedule. But to be fair, we countdown to the actual report day. Eventually, our countdown changes to Opening Day (currently: 32 days, 12 hours, 59 minutes), but I won't get ahead of myself!

Right now, I am perfectly content. Pitchers and catchers reported 16 days ago. Spring Training games are well underway. My Cardinals are back in their red jerseys with the Birds on the Bat plastered across the front. The long, cold, baseball-free season of life has come to an end.

Finally, my daddy and I are no longer staring out the window and waiting for spring. Spring. Is. Here.

Here Goes Nothin'

Writing. I am starting to understand how my students feel when I tell them to free write. They often shift in their chair, stare at their paper, and twirl their pencil around their fingers, while I walk around reminding them to just write something. Now I feel as though the tables have turned. It's my turn to do the writing. My mind is blank. I'm staring at a computer screen. If I had a pencil in my hand, I would be twirling it around my fingers.

However, if I'm honest, my mind isn't completely blank. I have plenty of thoughts spinning around in my head. I have past stories to tell, from my mere 25 years of life, as well as new stories that happen every day. It is more out of fear which causes me to not want to write. If there is one phrase to summarize my life, I think credit would be given to Theodore Roosevelt for saying, "Comparison is the thief of joy." I all too easily compare myself to others. Am I smart enough? Am I talented enough? Am I pretty enough? Am I good enough? Am I... enough? All of my doubts and insecurities creep into every thought spinning around in my brain. Inwardly, my normal joyful and optimistic personality is crushed into a million pieces, while outwardly I try to put on persona of confidence.

Writing. It forces me to be open with people. It makes me come out of my shell and allow people to see a side of me I typically save for my close, inner circle of friends and family. I have built a trust in them, so I feel comfortable showing them my quirky personality. They don't deflate my joy, because I know they won't judge me. They won't make me feel stupid, untalented, ugly, or unworthy. But, YOU, whoever is reading my "Slice of Life," I might not know so well. YOU might judge me. YOU might steal my joy.

Most days I have to remind myself I am enough. God created me to be unique. He made me smart enough, talented enough, pretty enough, and good enough to accomplish whatever it is He has planned for me. I just have to be brave enough to try new things, because sometimes in life we have to push ourselves outside of our comfort zones and dare to do the things that intimidate us.

So, here goes nothin'.

For a month, my pen (so to speak) will be hitting the paper. I will choose to let God control my thoughts when comparison creeps in to take away my joy. In the end, I might just become more understanding of my students when their minds go blank while writing. Because, for a month, their teacher will shift uncomfortably in her chair, stare at her computer screen, and wish she had a pencil to be twirling around her fingers.