Ten years

I began asking to get my ears pierced when I was three.  My mom had such pretty earrings that beautifully complemented her outfits.  I used to hold her jewelry up to my own ears, marveling at how improved I looked.  Earrings to me were the essence of beauty.  I asked over and over again if I could get my own earrings, and was always given the same old predictable, disappointing response, “When you turn thirteen.  We want you to be old enough to be responsible for them yourself.”

Those ten years took an eternity.  I think my parents would agree that I was mature for my age, and probably would have done just fine with earrings at an earlier age than thirteen.  But by then it was law, and consistency in parenting is very important.  (This we are discovering.)  Still, I ticked each birthday off and always thought, “X many years left until I can get my ears pierced!” 

Ten years is a very long time.

Ten years ago this weekend I moved into my freshman dorm on the campus of Roberts Wesleyan College.  That terrifyingly wonderful day tasted like an odd mixture of the first day of summer camp and going to jail.  This great fear of the unknown, which looked from all angles to be a pretty wonderful unknown, was entirely unexplored.  For somebody who had been homeschooled K-12 and never sat in a real classroom, college posed a greater mystery to me than most of my fellow freshmen.

I knew my roommate already, having met her at an honors weekend the campus had hosted a few months earlier.  We didn’t know each other at all, but hit it off during the weekend and decided that we should be roommates to avoid the risk of being paired up with psychopaths.  As potential honors students, this turned out to be a very good strategy.  Meg was bubbly, excited, self-assured, and smart.  We didn’t hold many of the same interests, but we coexisted nicely as roommates who didn’t need to be BFFs.

Still, other than a couple of professors and upperclassmen, I didn’t know a single soul in this new place.  My parents worked diligently over the day to help me unpack my belongings and set up my room in a way that looked homey.  My dad, ever the craftsman, went to Lowes at least twice to purchase materials to create extra shelving.  My mom made my bed with tears in her eyes, placing on top of my favorite comforter a new stuffed dog to keep me company in the ensuing weeks.

During one trip of unloading the minivan, she whispered in my ear, “You know. I think you should get to know that girl.  She just looks like she would be a good friend.”  “That girl,” Megan, ended up being an instant kindred spirit, and a friendship that has continued to this day.  My mom has a great eye.  She also pointed out the gal living next door as a potential friend.  Adrienne turned out to be a fellow flutist and music major, which linked us inextricably to the other.

I remember other things about that day.  I remember one pair of olive green pants hanging in my closet.  They just disappeared later that year for no good reason (the psychopathic roommates perhaps), but I specifically can picture them in my dorm room that day.  I remember praying with my parents in the parking lot before they drove away, the three of us blinking back tears.  (Well, not so much Dad.  After all, he had conquered the shelving problem.)  I remember walking over to dinner in the cafeteria, still unsure of where to sit or what to do.  I plunked myself down next to another intimidated-looking girl and faked confidence, introducing myself and initiating conversation.  She looked as shy on the outside as I felt on the inside.  Years later, she would remind me of this exchange and what an impact it had on her.  I remember bumping into Mrs. Shewan in the cafeteria, one of a handful of people I actually knew.  She gave me a hug (I later learned that these hugs are rather rare) and bubbled about how excited her family was that I was moved in.

I remember longing for deep conversation and getting beyond the small talk.  I hate small talk.  What a waste of time.  There was an awful lot of it in those first days and weeks, but it did paid off.  So many friendships.  So many lasting memories.  Such an impact in my life.  It wasn’t but a week later that I had met my future husband and my best friend.  The cry of my heart before leaving was that Roberts would provide me with friends.  True friends.  The kind that last a lifetime.  The Lord answered those prayers abundantly.  And it all seems like it happened yesterday.

Ten years is a very short time.

Insomniac

So I'm in bed once again tonight, unable to fall asleep. The past weeks have been fraught with change. Decisions, information, questions. And I can't figure it all out, although I'm sure trying awfully hard to, particularly when I should be sleeping. So I pulled out my tablet and decided to tap out my frustrations, and with it my suspicion that these circumstances are revealing a weak part of my character.

I hate change. I hate it at all levels and I always have.  My poor mother couldn't get rid of me in the womb, probably because I was clawing to anything I could grab to avoid eviction from my first home.  I hate little changes.  I hate when the layout on Facebook changes and I can't figure out where anything is. I hate when my evening plans are altered at the last minute. I hate when the grocery store stops carrying my favorite kind of popcorn. These things shake me. And they're small.

Big changes are immobilizing. I'm the type of person who's pretty good at everything I try.  There's a reason for that. Before I try anything I sit back and watch good and long and figure out as much as I can about how it works before I dare try my hand at it. I research, think, reason, and then, maybe, I'll give it a go.  Usually all that anticipating pays off and people say I'm "a natural." I'm not. I'm just a decent observer.

So if you ask me to leave my job to do something completely new, or move to a new city, or think about something challenging in the Bible (sell everything...really?!?) I will fight it with every fiber of my being. I don't know if I'll survive. And I might not be good at it, which would clearly be the end of the world.

VWH and I are facing some change this year. Change that doesn't even mean leaving the state! But it does necesscitate leaving our house. And moving to the other side of the city, which means being father away from some of our dearest family and friends. Twenty minutes shouldn't really make too much of a difference, but it's CHANGE. So I'm squirming and fighting and not sleeping.

I think back to the biggest changes of my life. There have been a few. Leaving for college was a biggie, especially a college that was six hours away from my homeschooled life. I knew I wanted to go, but I cried and dreaded and mourned. Deciding to marry my husband was a pretty big one, no? I knew in my head that I wanted this incredible guy, but the swirl of change surrounding it was terrifying. Having our first child...how are we going to afford, will we have room, will our marriage suffer, what about work, etc, etc.  Commence dragging feet. Change=Scary.

I know scary doesn't necessarily mean failure. Or disappointment. Or even maintaining status quo. College, VWH, and James made, and continue to make, me THRIVE. I had to be talked into each of those things a bit, but I haven't regretted any of them for a moment. 

So why can't I trust people who tell me that it will be OK and that new changes can be a good thing? I mean, I have already survived big changes and seen how amazing they can be! But I still don't feel any different about new ones. I don't trust others enough. I probably don't trust God enough. And then I don't trust myself either, because I suspect that I'm not thinking clearly about the situation. It's a fragile and lonely dwelling place.

Lord, I ask you to fill me with truth. I ask for your eyes, and the eyes of others. Free me of the chokehold I put around those fleeting things I deem 'safe and secure.'  I ask for courage to let go of the petty things I hold too close. Help me to recognize wisdom, and receive it in humility. In gratitude I praise you for your blessings and abounding love.

Humor me

It’s time for me to once again put on my hat of sports commentator.  I just love this hat.  Bear in mind that I’m not a professional athlete, nor did I play sports in college, nor can I currently run more than like a mile at one time.  But that never kept me from speaking my mind about professional sports and pretending like I know at least as much as the doofuses (doofi?) on TV.  I know the most about professional football (boys are impressed), figure skating (can rank the jumps in order of difficulty, plus recognize them before takeoff), and gymnastics (my truest love, and the one I actually have dipped a toe into experiencing first-hand).  So naturally, when these sports are on television I make it a priority to clear my schedule and watch, ideally in solitude.  This eliminates unnecessary small talk about uniform color schemes, what kind of snacks are in the kitchen, and whether or not nude stockings look better over skates or not.  Honestly.

Last night I spent two hours absorbing every iota of NBC’s coverage of the 2013 P&G Gymnastics Championships. (The ‘national championships’ for you laymen out there.)  I didn’t tape it like I usually do, because the year after an Olympics is typically a snooze.  Everybody peaked 12 months ago, so the field is littered with either exhausted, half-in-shape older gymnasts, or younger, inexperienced ones.  At most you may have one or two who were born in the wrong year and whose careers will peak now and wane before 2016 rolls around.  But that’s just depressing to think about.  So, anyway, I didn’t tape it.  But that didn’t keep me from taking notes and commentating.  In many ways I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of performances.  It was not a splat fest by any means.  I know you’ve all been on pins and needles waiting for this.  Here’s my report card from the 2013 National Championships…

B+ to Simone Biles, all-around winner of the national title.  An up-and-comer, Simone had a total crash and burn a month ago at the U.S. Classic (a qualifying meet for nationals).  After a pep-talk from Queen Martha she bounced back and led this competition from the get-go, increasing her lead to almost 2 points before giving almost all of it all back on her final routine of the competition.  The pressure got to her once again, but her gymnastics and talent is off the charts.  She’s built like Mary Lou Retton with the mental toughness of a pre-London Gabby Douglas.  It will be interesting to see if she can hold out for another three years to Rio.  I suspect not, but time will tell.  An immediate asset in vaulting and bars.

A- to Kyla Ross, veteran at 16, and returning member of the Fierce Five.  Kyla is the only Olympian who continued training without break and it showed.  She floats.  Her grace, extension, and consistency will win her many international favors.  I look for her to do well at the upcoming world championships in Belgium.  Glorious bars and beam—hoping for some added difficulty in the next few years.

A to McKayla Maroney, other competing member of the Olympic team.  McKayla has survived a devastating Olympic vault final, numerous leg surgeries, and one viral meme in the past year.  She only competed vault and floor at these championships, but won both events and showed a new level of determination and awareness in her performances.  I look for her mental toughness to grow and for her to transition into the real leader of the United States team.  She wants redemption for her silver medal on vault in Rio…Maroney is the new Sacramone.  We’re impressed McKayla!

These three ladies are virtual locks for the world championship team.  Honestly, with only two per event, they don’t even need a fourth member.  I see the team shaping up like this:

All-around: Biles, Ross (if both hit, both could, and probably should, medal)

Vault: Maroney, Biles (if both hit, they’ll go 1-2 in the world)

Bars: Ross, Biles (possible shot for a medal, particularly for Ross)

Beam: Ross, Biles (this one depends much more on the rest of the world, but one could sneak in)

Floor: Maroney, Biles (both have a real chance for a medal)

So who does that fourth spot go to?  That, my friends, is what that final selection camp is for on the sacred Karolyi ranch.  Martha has tons of options to consider.  She can take another all-arounder and see what, if any, impact that individual makes.  She can take a specialist, although they’d have to be through the roof just to beat their American teammates.  So perhaps her best bet is to take somebody who needs the experience.  Somebody who isn’t going to peak in 2013 or 2014, but very well could by 2016.  If that’s the case she’ll want somebody young with lots of potential.  I’m not going to make a guess at this point, but if anybody reads this and actually cares, feel free to comment.

A bonus B goes to Nastia Liukin, for her surprisingly good commentary for NBC.  Nastia’s all grown up now, and whatever commentating training she’s done is paying off.  (Maybe she sits in her living room in solitary confinement and practices too.)  Obviously, I would have been willing to step in there and hold my own, but, you know.  Five Olympic medals compared to my 2 puny years of gymnastic lessons in middle school is a hard sell to Tim Daggett.  Still, if he could have watched me commentate I’m sure you would have heard things like “unbelievable, shocking, unreal, mind-blowing, out of this world,” and, my favorite, “if you had told me four years ago that Julie Smith would come in and commentate better than Elfi or Nastia I would have said, no way, it couldn’t happen.”

Oh, did anybody see the 13 year old on floor?  And did anybody hear what Tim said about her?  Yikes.