That's Gonna Be Such a Great Story!

This time of year, everyone stresses over making everything just right: the right present, for the right person, and the right food at the right time and the right colors on the right sized tree so things will turn out right and everyone will be happy. 

Well, folks, I'm here to tell ya that it is not going to all be perfect. They may have already gotten that present. You might burn the pie. The cat may pull the tree over. And you know what? That's the beauty of it. We don't tell stories about the perfect Christmas, we tell stories about the time the lights went out in the middle of slicing the turkey, the time so-and-so got stuck in a blizzard and didn't get here til midnight, the time the baby slung mashed potatoes at grandpa's face. 

It's the little imperfections that make the memories, the mangled mash-up of so many people together that somehow weaves itself into a beautiful tapestry that we look back on with joy. It's the hiccups and the "whoopsies" that make it beautiful. 

Or, in this case, the wrong verse, the wrong song, or a random solo that really make the performance:

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Mornings in Maternity

Being a senior in high school, the question of my future plans is one I am very used to answering. However, to many of those asking, my answer is not one they're used to hearing. I am going to be a midwife. Yes, deliver babies. No, I don't think it's gross. It's amazing.

This semester, as part of the Health Career Institute, I spend my mornings at a local hospital shadowing on the maternity floor. Many well-meaning people have gotten in over their heads by asking me "What happened at the hospital today?". While I go off excitedly about watching a c-section, they slowly turn a pale green and avoid eye contact, trying desperately to change the subject before puking. Okay, maybe it's not that bad, but I have chosen a career path that involves things many people would rather not think about. This is understandable, but I'd like you see the joy I find in this work.

First of all, I get to wear scrubs! Quite possibly the comfiest uniform out there - no lie. Second, I get to hold babies. This is the best de-stressing therapy out there. I see the fast days and the slow ones, the happy new families and the difficult situations, the smiles and the tears.

Some days are sad. I sit under the dimmed lights, listening to the muffled radio that streams from the overhead speakers as it is punctuated by the beeps and boops of monitors - the sound of a tiny spirit fighting for a chance at life. I will never understand why some have such a rough start.

There are also days when I see a new life come into the world. As tiny pink hands flail and the first scream shakes the air, I simultaneously want to jump for joy and burst into tears. I have now seen three Cesarian sections and three vaginal deliveries, and there is no doubt that the wonder will never fade.

These are the days when I get to watch miracles happen before my eyes. This is why I want to be a midwife.

Taste This World

Taste this world, rub it on your face.
Bite into it like a slice of watermelon,
as juice dribbles down your chin.

Touch this world, put your fingerprints on it.
Stroke it softly like it’s a tiny kitten,
then roll in it like a loft full of hay.

Listen to this world, press your ear against its door.
Hear its tiny pitter-patters, its rambunctious roars,
heed its call, like the sea speaking through a shell.

Smell this world, bury your nose in its petals
Breathe in deep like you’re at a picnic
and there is bar-b-que on the grill.

Look at this world, peer into its depths.
Stare, mesmerized, as though you are a child
who is seeing his first firework show.

Don’t be afraid to dive in real deep,
Absorb all you can, myriad adventures await
if you’re brave enough to taste this world.

A Walk to the Sycamore

I sit on the couch with my legs scrunched under me, twenty minutes into a new book. As I glance up momentarily, my eyes dart to the window and the woods outside. A thought and five minutes later, I have bundled up, tromped across the gravel of our driveway, and disappeared into the woods.

Book tucked under my arm, I follow the path meandering along the bluff and to the creek. Once I turn away from the water and its gentle gurgling, I hop the sagging electric fence and strike out over the resilient thistles and tufts of orchard grass in the neighboring farm's cow pasture. I make a bee-line for the sycamore by the little stream - my sycamore. Its thick, warped trunk juts sideways before sending up three separate branches, forming three perfectly smooth seats. I've come here so often: to pray, to sing, to cry, to pick off bits of bark and throw them into the water and think of nothing.

I choose the middle seat this time, and scramble up onto the wide bench. Stretching out my legs to prop them on a small branch, I dive into a little girl's story and let the world slip away.

As the light grows dim, I pause to survey the sky and gauge how much time is left in the day. The view that meets my eyes is breathtaking. Mist crawls up the banks of the creek and seeps lazily across the fading green grass. A fiery, red-orange sky burns with an intensity that only the sun can manage, turning the leafless trees into stark, skeleton-like silhouettes as dusty purple clouds edge in.

I gaze. The longer I let my mind be idle, the louder I can hear the thud of heavy thoughts, pushing their way to the front of my mind.

No.

I close the book, draw my knees to my chest, and let the tree around me become the living walls of my sanctuary. I thank God for the beauty of a sunset. I watch, blissfully empty, until all that is left of the flaming masterpiece is a fuzzy halo of pink on the tops of the distant mountains.

Sliding off my perch, I stand for a moment and straighten my fuzzy hat, complete with pompom. Then, with a sigh, I head back up the hill - back to life.

It Was Not a Good Day for Pigs

Warning: if you are easily grossed out, this might not be a post for you.

It is very rare that my alarm goes off before six in the morning and I am excited to be awake. Yet, there I was, bright eyed at 5:45, piling on layers of old clothes - on the first day of Thanksgiving break. Why?

Tradition - that of my family, and of others.

Before I was even a thought in back of someone's mind, my grandfather was unhappy with the amount of fat in the hams he bought to smoke. Logically, he decided to raise his own pig. Since I can remember, butchering on Thanksgiving is a family affair at my grandparents' Arkansas home. The cleaning, anatomy lessons (we are a medical family, what do you expect?), the scrapple, chasing each other around with various "gross bits", wrapping the meat: I have memories of all of it.

However, for various reasons, including the fact that my grandfather is now almost 90 years old, we have not butchered a pig in several years. He did raise some, but they were taken to a butcher rather than butchered at home. Lucky for us, we have recently gained connections to another, rather closer and larger, pig butchering.

So, for the first time in a while, our Thanksgiving included pork rather than turkey. Yesterday morning we bundled up and headed to my boyfriend's grandparent's farm. When we rolled in the driveway at 7:30, the affair was in full swing: one pig being scraped, two others already down, and numbers four and five waiting on the trailer. Not being prone to shyness, I grabbed a knife and jumped in.

Let me tell you, this was a fine-tuned process that we simply did our best not to slow down. Once dead, the pig was scalded, scraped, hung, gutted, rinsed, and halved. Once this was done, the halves were brought into the garage where each household sectioned and cleaned their pig to their liking. My jobs included scraping, carrying organs to the "to be cooked" bucket, cleaning kidneys, skinning and cubing lard, watching the lard cook down, and grinding, mixing, casing and marking sausage.                     

But I can't talk about my jobs without also including "eating" in that list. Oh yeah, that is a duty. Before the pigs were even in the kettle, I was asked "you hungry?". Hunger really has nothing to do with it, though, when you have access to a table holding bacon-wrapped water chestnuts  whoopie pies, veggies, apple cider, and three kinds of pie. A little after noon, one could hear the word being passed around: "The kettle's off, help yourself". The few interested in a liver sandwich (yes, I tried it, and it was good!) got theirs first, but everyone gradually gathered around the tray that the meat chunks were being forked onto. Each grabbed a potato roll and filled it with the bits they chose before adding butter or salt and digging in.

Once lunch was over, it was back to work, as we cranked out sausage, pon haus, and cracklins. By the time all the accoutrements were washed up and all the meat was packaged, it was around five o'clock. We talked, looked through the museum of farm equipment above the garage, gathered our share of the pig, and headed home. All were tired, but very happy.

Whether or not this sounds like fun, and regardless of how grossed out you are at this point, try to see how beautiful the bigger picture is. I'm not even talking about how cool it is that in a world of processing and lack of understanding as to the origin of what is on our plates, a family decided to go back to the home-grown way. I'm thinking of the joy of tradition, of teaching and learning, of an accomplishment that you can taste for months ahead, of coming together and working alongside each other. That is something to be thankful for - unless you're a pig.

I had to make myself a little taller to mix the sausage, Colby doesn't seem too happy about that :)

Hannah shows off her muscles while cranking sausage into its casing.

the meat picking crew - notice the bag of rolls for eating

Blessings

Forgiveness, second chances,
just one more day.
Double rainbows,
extra P on my PB and J.

Dancing eyes to laugh beside,
a little more speed
to put the joy in a joy ride.

A good book
for a rainy day,
someone to tell me “it’ll be okay”.

The chance to smile,
legs to run,
and water to chug once I’m done.

The God I pray to,
the sun in each day,
roof over the bed in which I lay.

So many people
from everywhere,
who love this girl more than her fair share.

What am I thankful for,
you say?
For every second
of every minute
of every hour
of every day.

When I Get Brave

When I get brave, you're gonna know it by the way I walk,

Because when I get brave, I'm gonna be a Jesus freak.

When I get brave, I'm gonna go sky diving.

When I get brave, I'll wear a scarf every single day of the week, just cuz they're comfy.

When I get brave, I won't disappoint people.

When I get brave, I'm gonna flip out on those kids at lunch who will not stop cussing.

When I get brave, I'll hug trees - all of them.

When I get brave, I'm gonna grow out my hair until it sweeps the ground.

When I get brave, I'm gonna rock a baby to sleep.

When I get brave, I'm going to sing as loud as I want no matter who is around.

When I get brave, I'm going to run into the middle of a war zone and pray until people stop hurting each other.

When I get brave, I'll get lost in the woods.

When I get brave, I will trust.

When I get brave, I'll climb to the top just to see the view.

When I get brave, I'll do a drum solo.

When I get brave, I'm going to hug you, and I'm not going to let go until I'm good and ready - so you might want to clear your schedule.

When I get brave, I'm gonna run a marathon.

When I get brave, I'm gonna go to an orphanage and adopt every single child.

When I get brave, I'll look people in the eye.

When I get brave, I'm gonna buy a ball gown - oh yeah, and cuz I'm brave, I'm gonna wear it to dance in the rain.

When I get brave, I'm gonna walk a tight rope - and look down.

When I get brave, I'll do art.

When I get brave, I'm gonna say "I love you " again and again and again.

I hope that someday I'll get brave.

Why TCK's Need TLC

To those of you who know me, it's not big news that I am weird. Well, I am here to tell you, there is in fact a reason for that:

When I was five, my parents packed up me and my sister and hauled us off to Central America. We went under an organization called Mennonite Central Committee, which focuses on relief and development in third world countries (go to www.mcc.org to learn more). In the tiny country of El Salvador, my dad re-built earthquake-resistant houses and taught permaculture, while my mom home-schooled us girls. After four years, our term was up, and we moved back to the States. That's it.

...Except its not.

I'm different. I have been completely immersed in another culture - so much so that my nine-year-old self liked to think I was "Salvadorean" rather than "American". Shortly after returning, we spent a weekend at a re-entry retreat, where they gave me a name for what I had become: a Third Culture Kid. Culture #1: United States + Culture #2: El Salvador = Culture #3: my own personal little culture made from parts of each.

So what does that mean? Well, for starters, I'm bilingual! This is very handy when entering a competitive job market or, say, taking an AP Spanish Language test.

I'm also pretty flexible. This has become more true through the years. I have a comfort zone, but being outside of it isn't really stressful, and is actually kind of normal. 

But the thing about being made in two different places is that, while I can fit pretty well in both, I'm not a complete fit for either. The whole "belonging" thing doesn't work too well for me. This was pretty hard while I was going through middle school, where everyone is convinced that your value comes from being part of some clique or other. I put myself through misery, trying to fit my odd-shaped self into standard-shaped holes. 

When I hit high school, I thankfully realized how pointless fitting in was, and gave up on it. I'm comfortable in my own skin, and am so happy I had the opportunity to live overseas. When you grow up outside of your home country, you are able to look in on it with an objective view and see that it is not so much about "our country" as it is about "our world" - a mindset that seems to be sort of uncommon.

So when you notice that I'm just a tad bit weirder than usual, remember this: I'm a TCK. I don't quite fit anywhere.

I Started This Against My Will

I didn't want to start a blog. I had no intention of doing it. Sure, I might have thought about it, and yeah, it makes sense for someone who enjoys writing like I do, but I didn't have time. Plus, the thought of people reading my ponderings and judging what I wrote and maybe not liking it was too scary. So, I didn't start a blog.

Along came senior year, and with it the thought that I better quick take the classes I want before I go to college and things get serious. Creative Writing? Why not?! I'm good at writing, I like it! Lets do it! Little did I know that one of our assignments was to start our own blog. So much for "it's too scary" - the alternative of a whopping zero was much scarier.

I think taking this class was one of the best decisions I made this year. It blocks out a time and says Remember all those ideas skittering across your mind that you never take time to put on paper? Write 'em! It made me start this blog, which I now love adding to (and which people actually like!). It made me conquer my fear of my writing being critiqued. It made me imagine stories. It made me try all kinds of new things, like Diamante Poems:

Hardcore

intense, dedicated

unswerving, uncompromising, enduring

spirit, journey, growth, identity

accepting, serving, loving

humble, selfless

Mennonite

A Campfire With Jesus

"Once we're in heaven, we can all sit around the campfire with Jesus and He will explain it to us." 

When I heard this comment, I momentarily left the conversation in my youth leader's living room and went off on my own tangent. What would I ask Jesus? Since I often organize my thoughts by lists (probably a side affect of my type-A personality), I immediately begin listing things. I'm sure it will be much longer by the time I make it to heaven, but this is a list of my current queries for God:

- How do you feel about "Jesus Junk"?

- What should we do if someone break's into our house and puts a gun to Grandma's head?

- How many species have we yet to find?

- Why cancer?

- How does it feel to have people fight wars in your name?

- Was there anyone who ever really got the picture?

- What was the first sunrise like?

- How hard is it to sit and watch us mess it all up?

- When we fiddle with your design, how much is too much? (modern medicine, makeup, animals, etc)

- Just how big is the universe?

- Can I please have a hug?

Make It Up

I struggle with makeup. The mention of it brings to mind the words "fake" and "plastic". It's very easy for me get up on a soap box and preach about being yourself and loving your body, to say that if someone likes you, it should be for the real you instead of something you build every morning - and then I go touch up my mascara.

I didn't wear makeup until my sophomore year of high school. I can't remember my mom ever wearing any, so it must have been my older sister and cousin who brought it to my attention. I started with just mascara, then eye shadow, then eye liner. Currently, I stick to mascara and a little eye liner most days.

Every now and then, I pause in my routine, one finger pinning my eyelid still, my nose two inches from the mirror, and wonder Why am I doing this? If I am perfectly created in God's image, why do I feel the need to do this every morning? Even the word itself makes me inwardly recoil: makeup. Am I using this stuff to "make up" the image I wish I was? Ugh. Or am I just "accenting" what the Lord has given me? I try to talk myself into believing the second option, because that doesn't incriminate me as being dissatisfied with God's creation.

There are days when I look in the mirror and think "Dang, girl! You lookin pretty fine!" and skip the make up and feel wonderful. But there are also days when I look in the mirror and think "Oh boy..." before attempting to paint on some confidence.

So what do I do on those days?

Field Hockey (My Love Story)

One week ago today, I played my last high school field hockey game. It didn't feel any different, and I still haven't processed that it is over. I got myself psyched up, went hard, and played the game I love. But this time, when I walked off the field, I wouldn't be going back to this team - not this season, not next season. And it breaks my heart.

Fifth grade was my first year of public school. Making friends wasn't terribly hard, but after spending four years in a 3rd world country it's pretty much impossible to fit in  - and that's a whole other blog post. The time that I finally felt I belonged was during the floor hockey tournament. Every fifth grade class makes up a girls and boys team to play in a tournament against other classes. We named ourselves the "Grenadiers", chose a captain, and made t-shirts and friendship bracelets and posters. I played defense, and found my first "hockey high" when we won our first game. We lost the second game, and I sobbed as I walked across the parking lot afterward. I remember blubbering something along the lines of "But Dad, I just want to keep playing!". It was then that the idea of field hockey lodged itself in my mind. If I joined that team, I could play not just a few games, but a whole season! And that was the first glimpse - it was love at first sight.

I attended a summer clinic, and the August before seventh grade found me bugging my mom to hurry up because I needed to be early to try outs. I played two years under the guidance of Coach Smith, who, in her own words, turned me into a "little scrapper". How that woman put up with 30 or more middle school girls for that long is beyond me, but she was an amazing role model. In 7th and then 8th grade, I slowly fell for the fierceness and intelligence of the game. That was the first date.

When I nervously moved into my first high school workout, Coach Smith was there too. As the new junior varsity coach, she cheered me through the daunting first 4-3-2-1 run. It was also then that I got to know Jen Everetts, who has become one of the most influential people in my life. Head coach of GA Field Hockey, she is a force to be reckoned with. I moved up to varsity my junior year, and was so proud to yell "Devil Pride!" before each game. I was falling for this sport, and falling hard.

This year was my senior year, and it was like no other year. Not because of the wins, because for the first time since I came to the high school the team didn't make districts. I came into preseason the most in shape I had ever been and came home from each practice filled with an energy that didn't make sense when compared to the physical work I was putting in. I was taught a huge lesson in teamwork when we hit a slump after the first few games. The frustration and helplessness I felt at being part of an excellent team who had a terrible record did not leave when I walked off the field, but instead permeated my entire day. I learned that even if you have eleven talented athletes on your side of the field, you will get run over if you don't work together. After playing what Coach called the best game she had ever seen her team play, I was enveloped in euphoria. I invested heart, soul and body in this team. This year, I married field hockey.

As I look to next fall, I am almost certain that I could not stand to go through the month of August knowing that somewhere, girls are sweating their way through preseason - and I am not among them. I need to play. What college hockey will hold, I am not sure. I can only hope that I will find something that can compare to what I have been part of at this school. I really enjoy the sport, but it is Coach and my teammates that made me fall in love with it.

The feeling of accomplishment when you walk off the field so sweaty that turf sticks to you. The ringing thud of the ball hitting the back of the cage. The knowledge that you are part of something so much bigger than anything you could have done on your own. That is field hockey, and that is my love story.

When I Run

I hated running. I really did. This is kind of ironic, seeing as I am in my 6th season of field hockey - a sport that entails a whole lot of running. Trying to condition during the summer each year was pretty much torturous. Sprints? Even worse. I am short and solid and not built for speed. So on the day during preseason of my junior year when coach asked us to drop our sticks and line up on the end line, I immediately started to dread it.

Ohhhh are you kidding me!? Just try not to be last, Mariah, don't be last. I dug my cleats into the rubber of the turf and set off down the field with my face set in a grimace. To the end of the field. Back. End. Back. I was tired. My calves burned. My chest heaved in ragged breaths.  As I started my 3rd sprint, I was overwhelmed at the thought of continuing, but as I hit the fifty yard mark, something surreal happened: a voice pierced through the doubt and fatigue swirling in my mind and said words that I will never forget:

Stop. Look at your body. Look at what it can do. Your lungs fill and empty, your muscles tighten and relax, your arms and legs pump. This is a gift. You can RUN. 

I lifted my head, and a grin spread across my sweaty face. I lengthened my stride just to feel the wind in my hair. I was a being made by no less than the Creator himself. Who was I to be miserable? I was a miracle!

As I conditioned this summer, that moment of joy stayed with me. I started to enjoy running. Not in the adrenaline-junky, eight-miles-at-a-time way, but I enjoyed it all the same. During an internship in Philadelphia, those three and a half miles along the Schuylkill in the evening were a welcome escape from the confines of a tiny apartment, as well as a chance to stop thinking a mile-a-minute and focus only on the pounding of my feet and the rush of my breath. Even at home, runs became less of a chore and more of a routine - a chance to be reminded of the ability I had been given.

This preseason, when I felt too tired to keep going, when I was tempted to jog instead of sprint, when what I had done seemed like enough, I reminded myself of that moment. I smiled, lifted my head, and rammed it up a gear.

When I found the beauty of my body, when I finally saw the gift I had been given, when I could thank the One who gave it, then I could rejoice in each step I took.

I liked to run.

Dr. Seuss Wisdom

Even When it Sucks

I like to think I'm a pretty positive person. I do my best to look on the bright side, and try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes this can be translated to naivety, but I would rather be sometimes naive than always cynical. Therefore, I strive to look for the sunshine in each situation.

Then, of course, there are the days when it just sucks - and by "it" I don't mean life, because I have it genuinely good. However, sucky days happen to us all, good life or not. You wake up late, there is nothing to pack for lunch, you forgot about that assignment, the traffic is awful, that test is so hard, people walk all over you, and, on top of everything, its raining. It looks different for everyone, but I know you are nodding your head right now and picturing your version of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Its on days such as these that I am not a very nice person. You may say "Well duh! Bad day equals bad mood! Its expected!", but is that so true? Do inconveniences and annoyances give us license to set aside our cordiality and compassion?

As I travel along in my faith journey, this question presses at my mind. Would Jesus take a day off? Did he ever wrap himself up in a blanket with a mug of tea and post a sign outside the door saying "shove off, I feel crappy and am gonna nap all day"? No. He looked beyond himself to what others needed.

This morning, when I rushed out the door into a cloudy day that felt way too busy, I was very tempted to label it a sucky day and proceed with the appropriate moping. Instead, I took a deep breath, turned on the car radio, and smiled. It didn't feel sincere at first, but by mid-morning I could feel a difference.

I realized that it is only a good day if I make it a good day. It is my choice to look for flaws instead of seeing beauty, to cry rather than laugh, to be irritated rather than amused, to huddle under the eaves instead of dancing in the rain.

This is what I am working on: making it a good day - even when it sucks.

Us Mennonites are Real Hardcore

Its funny how one single word can so drastically change how people view you.

To those around me, I am just another girl: a bit quirky, sometimes loud, energetic, and rather nerdy. Just a girl - until they ask what church I go to. So many times I have heaved a sigh before replying, and then braced myself for the exclamation of "Mennonite?! Really?!". This is often followed by questions somewhere along the line of "So do you drive a car? Why don't you wear a little bonnet-thingy and a skirt? Are you allowed to have a boyfriend?". Even after my practiced explanation of Mennonite vs. Amish, many are confused and even skeptical.

However, out of all the reactions I have experienced, perhaps my favorite was the hesitant query by a girl at my lunch table this semester: "So...at your church...are there any.....hardcore Mennonites?" I paused and held up the "rock out" hand symbol before bursting into laughter. "Hardcore Mennonite"? Really? I went on to explain that the word she was looking for was "conservative", and that yes, there were in fact some people at my church who wore coverings.

The question I am often then confronted with is "Well then what are you?". Since the opposite term is "conservative", I have sometimes declared myself to be a "Liberal Mennonite", but that term carries too many pre-conceived notions and prejudices with it. Thanks to that timid question, I have now found a name for what I hope to become: a hardcore Mennonite.

"Hardcore" is defined as "unswervingly committed; uncompromising; dedicated". These terms describe the faith that I hope to grow and that of many people that I admire.

So, in answer to your question: Yes, there are most definitely hardcore Mennonites at my church.