(photo by Naomi Smith)
Mom said she wished there was some
way I could stay longer.
Instead,
I left her.
Really,
I knew there was a way I could've stayed longer in our two story white house on
St. Anthony Street. But I chose not to and now, as I watched the flat dry land
flicker past me through the window, I hated myself for it. I was going, she was
staying. This, I thought, must be a mother’s pain – watching her necked,
dimpled and soft skinned babies – leave her.
Life is filled with leaving. Like the time the
first one left, the second and third all the way through the seventh - Each
sibling with a different destination, each with a worthy pursuit. Mom sent them
all away with bright eyes – glazed with courage - but her hugs were quick. I
helped boot them off too, usually with a sleepy embrace on a dark morning - a morning
much like this particular day’s – so early that the dew was still crystallizing as I shivered in the parking lot line to catch the 7 o’clock bus back to
Lubbock.
I
remember watching them leave all those years, we felt them leaving too. The old
cement walls in our house grew a little taller with every departure, the stairs
above my bed creaked less; silence didn't always feel like a gift. One day, it
was my turn to go. I wonder what the rooms sounded like the day I made my way to
collage through west Texas’ cotton landscape, an ocean view of white as far as
my expectant eyes could see.
Five
years later and here I was making the same trip; so familiar. The view was
uglier and emptier than ever and my face, faintly reflected in the glass was
equally as pail as the dead-grassed-plains. But I had to go back, I had to -
one more time. I pondered the decisions that
waited for me in Lubbock. There were people
I knew I needed to say good-bye to, more people to hug. There were things worth
finishing before I had to leave, again.
iGreenPod in the Making
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The Three Amigos
As a
side note and a beginning thought, I’d like to draw special attention to the last
couple of photos I’ve posted. Did you know my family does things like a herd of
ants? One ant in an ant herd finds food, tells the rest and then they all
follow by traveling out to get the same food. Stay with me. I have a feeling that was the
lamest analogy EVER. What I mean is this; One day, one of my family members decided
to buy Chaco’s. Before I knew it, everyone in my family owned a pair and before
I knew whether or not I liked them, I bought a pair too. Some went for basic
black, a few liked the toe strap, some preferred the slip on style and others
in my family may not want to wear Chaco’s on their feet but my bet is that it’ll
show up as their next tattoo. A few years later, one of my brothers started
racing bicycles in college….so the rest of my family started hoarding bicycles.
Now we believe in cycling instead of driving cars. We cycle for leisure, competition,
birthday parties and family reunions. I don’t have my bike anymore because it
was stolen but I left my bike rack on my car for 6 months after just so that I people
would think I was a cyclist. This year, some of you will be getting a 2012 Newton
Holiday Greeting with a picture of Newton’s on……
bicycles.
When
one of my sisters started a new hobby in photography she bought a really nice
camera.
Now,
every female in my family straps on a camera of the same kind or one of equal
quality before we go for walks. Conversations aren’t even interrupted by the
camera because they have become a natural integration into our conversation. But
I don’t really own a camera. I choose to use the Skype camera on my computer
because I can take a picture and save it directly to my desktop without a flash
drive or memory card. It’s sort of hassle free. It takes pretty good photos and
only a lot of adjusting and readjusting to get the right place in focus. Everything
shows up opposite on the screen, which is kinda cool and makes me dizzy. When I
move the object right, it looks like it’s going left. I can’t figure it out but
without a good mystery life and photography would be boring. I don’t feel like
writing any more about my pictures although I’m thinking about posting my
pictures on Facebook and I’ll let the images do the rest of my talking. You can
send them to all your friends. The more “likes” I get, the more possible it
will be to get my Skype photography business up and running. So, I will really
appreciate your help. The more supporters I can rally behind me the better. Right
now my portfolio is made up of self portraits, in a variety of poses of course,
and church bulletins…alright, Let me tell you about The Three Amigos.
In my
last post I told you about a 13-year-old-boy.
I’m going to tell you about a thirteen year old boy again-but a
different one.
It
was Sunday and the 13-year-old-boy called attention to a title on the bulletin,
“The Three Amigos.” Perhaps more significant to me, but as I reflect on the
story of The Three Amigos and the uniqueness of this boy’s short but full history,
I am curious.
Loyalty,
companionship, comradery and adventure – all words that ring true to the story
of The Three Amigo’s. Where have those things been true in his life? Where have
they felt absent? Maybe it explains the way he is quick to attach himself to a
person, almost cling to them.
He
pointed to the title and then to himself, me and my 32-year-old-boy who sat on
the other side of me. That day, we were The Three Amigos. We were a part of
him.
He’s
the kind of boy you’d imagine finding on a baseball field. His tan skin would
never get burnt-just more tan and his hair would turn increasingly sun-bleached.
He’s the kid you identify on the football field by his shoes. He wears football
cleats 2 sizes too big-not because he has to but because he chooses to. Sitting still could be his biggest nightmare
and when he tells you that he hates you what he really means is, you’re the
only one I trust to hold my anger without retaliation. That’s why his voice was
all the sweeter, off-tune and mumbled, when he began to sing beside me in
church yesterday. I hope this boy will someday fully understand that the one he
was singing to is,
The
One big and kind enough to hold all of his anger. I hope too, to be a part of
him for longer.
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| "Melonie Park Rocks my mind around to flip it to love god and to make good choices" (Melonie Park is our church) |
A Boy,
13 years old.
Last Sunday I sat in a pew lined with Texas Boys Ranch boys. and boy, was it interesting. There was a 4 year old boy to my
right, a 13 year old boy in front of me, another 13 year old boy beside the 32
year old boy on my left and a few 6 and 7 year old boys down the way. The 13 year
old boy in front of me wouldn’t stop tapping the 4 year old boy sitting next to
me on the head with a spongy torpedo until the 32 year old boy told him to
quit. The 4 year old boy liked it when the 13 year old boy hit him on the head.
It made him giggle. And when I pulled him back in his seat, hoping he might be
still, he asked the 32 year old boy if he could play games on his iphone. When the
32 year old boy said no, the 4 year old boy asked him if church was almost
over. And when church was finally over,
the 13 year old boy sitting in front of me (who got up to go to the bathroom about
5 times during the sermon) shoved his way past the other boys. He kept handing
me a blue piece of paper. I disregarded the 13 year old boy’s paper because he
had been doing nonsense type things all morning. The blue paper fell and the 13
year old boy put it in my bible again. I went home and forgot about it. I found
it today. This time, I read it. And while Michael Haverdink’s testimony was an
awesome one, it’s the raw thoughts of a 13 year old boy that are imbedded in my
heart tonight. Just as loud and full of meaning.
How true are his words? I don’t know for sure.
But, I am sure that he wanted me to have it.
And I do have it. And I’m thinking of that 13 year old boy
and his precious life.
I spent my semester working SO HARD-no, playing hard with the most entertaining, encouraging and energetic team for my Advertising Campaigns class. we had good times and learned stuff too.
here's some special insight into our campaign for Cardinal's Sport Center
Campaigns Internet Video
the team that raves together, stays together.
here's some special insight into our campaign for Cardinal's Sport Center
Campaigns Internet Video
the team that raves together, stays together.
EPIC
we were planning for an epic ski trip. the kids were
stoked and so were the leaders. our first day on the
slope was pretty sweet. lots of falling, laughing,
belly-crawling, hopping - i learned a lot of ways
to get cruising.
i broke my wrist.
for those of you who think wearing a cast is glorious,
it is.
quite, quite glorious. but besides getting to choose the
color of your cast, wearing one isn't really fun. it itches,
kinda smells, your roommates put your hair in ponytails
for you (nice ones of course) and you can only give one
handed high-fives.
but,
this tragic, tragic experience gave me the opportunity
to experience the church's love in a vibrant way.
i saw it; was overwhelmed by it.
that's pretty epic.
Just Read
Apparently I went through a phase in my life when I announced to everyone that I wanted to be a Fashion Designer.
And although I do like somewhat cute clothes, it seems an appropriate time to clarify:
No. I am not going to school to study Fashion Design.
After four years as an Advertising major, I have decided to major in Advertising.
Surpriiiiiiiiiise. What a shocker.
Yay, now everyone can stop checking in on my Fashion Design academia and continue stereotyping me as a person going to school to learn how to become morally corrupt and devious.
Awesome, because advertising is all about lies. And let’s be honest-the only thing I enjoy more than cute clothes is a really good lie.
*(If you took seriously that last statement-don’t)
Audience of One
Every couple of weeks I get a card in the mail.
I recognize the swirly-twirly handwriting. Yes, I do.
It’s mom’s handwriting.
Pealing back the envelope flap, I wonder which picture she cut out of Anthropology’s latest catalog this time. Then I find, pasted on a piece of cardstock,
a picture of a shoe, or a purse and on the other side, more of that loopy writing.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been reminding myself what mom reminded me in her latest cardstock treat.
That,
I live for an audience of one.
I don’t need to perform.
The level of performance the world demands of me does not equal the life I’ve been invited to by a kind Master. Under Him, I experience joy in giving my best.
But only because of what He already gave me.
It’s cool to have a mom who, after hard phone conversations, sends me reminders of things like that.
Smarter Than That
I sat behind my computer, the lights turned down to dim. Exposed beams overhead and dark draperies oddly split the room in half. The basement lab was a place where a lot would go down and I was sure I would learn a lot.
I leaned forward at my desk, attempting occasional eye contact with him. My body language clearly said, Yes, I am here. Notice me. Know I am intently listening to your words.
But his words felt brutal.
“Don’t try to make friends with each other because in this business, everything is a competition.”
I don’t usually like making friends anyway.
“You all may do good work, but in the real world,
there’s one winner.
Only 4 students will receive an A in this class.”
Oh, ok because that’s what I was hoping you would say.
We are taught in advertising that people form an opinion in one tenth of a second and that the average person only scans a message for an eighth of a second.
In that case, I get less than a second to gain a person’s trust and to evoke pleasant feelings in them-
After my first hour in class, my opinion of him was most definitely formed-intelligent, dogged and completely un-relational.
Even the way he carried himself-silent and expressionless, no eye contact, focused and cold with a long indifferent stride-told me he could care less about my existence.
Passing him in the hallway was like passing a cement wall and greeting him was like high-fiving a cement wall-after you’ve done so, you ask yourself why you did it. Yes, he was intimidating and his responses were terse and unpredictable. I was lucky if he spoke five words to me and I began to wonder if my first impression of him would change.
It did, it has. Completely.
I sit behind my computer, the lights turned down to dim. It’s just me. Him and me this time and rows of empty chairs-sitting in silence. And then,
“Mercy, right?” he asks, still staring at the screen before him, “What do you want to do with your life?”
Is he really talking to me? Yes, he must be because I am the only one in the room!
I share, he advices, and later as I hover over my quiz, lingering over each question, my name is murmured from behind. I glance over my shoulder and he quietly waives me to the back.
He tells me it looks as though I am struggling. I say I am.
He tells me not to over think the questions. I’m going to have lots of tests where I’ll have very little time and will need to be able to get something down on the page. I say ok.
He hands me a blank copy of the quiz, tells me to bring it back next class and looks me firmly in the eyes.
“You are smarter than that.” He whispers.
In advertising I have less than a second to create a connection with an audience. With people though, I am reminded that sometimes making a connection requires more time. Be patient, i tell myself and,
give it at least 3.
A glass cake stand on our front porch
Meghan walked across our hard wood floors to answer the knocking at the front door.
“They might be moldy.” They said.
Laura and Justin stood on our front steps, a cupcake-filled glass cake stand in hand, and Laura explained.
While we were gone for Christmas vacation, a glass cake stand filled with a dozen cupcakes appeared on our porch. Laura recounted how she retrieved the stand and took it home across the street where the treats were safely placed on top of her refrigerator.
Weeks went by. The glass cake stand was forgotten, the cupcakes untouched-waiting on top of her refrigerator.
Until now.
Laura and Justin sweetly handed Meghan the awkward sized gift, along with a rumpled white paper. Confused glances and smiles were exchanged.
“Want to babysit sometime?” Justin chimed in with a grin.
I came home to find the chocolate cupcakes in a glass cake stand on our kitchen counter. I took one, decided they were too dry and crumbly to be a product of Meghan’s baking expertise.
What was that white spot on the chocolate icing? I threw the rest away.
Noticing a rumpled white paper on the counter, I paused and read,
“Thank you so much for the Oreo balls. They were delicious!
Have a very merry Christmas!
P.S. we’re going out of town tonight. We’ll get our dish on the 29th
-from your neighbors, Amber and Sam.”
I smiled to myself as I remembered back to just a few weeks before.
A few weeks before, Katie and I searched through cookbook after cookbook, wanting to find a holiday recipe. We finally found right one and two large batches of Meghan’s oreo balls made their way from our kitchen counter into three little white boxes.
“Merry Christmas!” we wrote, “from your neighbors, Meghan, Katie, and Mercy.”
The three little white boxes were placed on three different porches, waiting to be found.
One box on Laura and Justin’s porch,
One box on Sam and Amber’s porch,
One box for Shelly and Paul-filled with enough oreo balls for their red headed children.
For days I watched as Shelly and Paul’s holiday treats did not budge from their door-side spot and we soon realized Shelly and Paul were out of town. We would bring the box back to our house, of course. But, the next day their front porch was empty. No box. Perhaps our mailman thought they were for him, we laughed, wondering what really happened to them.
Today, Shelly called out to me from across the street.
“Hi Mercy!...Thanks for the oreo balls. They were delicious!”
“O good” I said, “I wasn’t sure if you got them.”
They were delicious,
they were delicious,
they were delicious?
Going inside I began to think. I wondered if our oreo balls had also been left on top of someone’s refrigerator for three weeks. Did Shelly get a moldy, dry version of our oreo balls? Were they as delicious as that cupcake I ate yesterday?
But it doesn’t really matter.
Mostly I’m glad Shelly remembered my name,
that Laura and Justin were watching out for our house while we were away,
and that the Christmas oreo balls meant so much to Amber that she wanted to leave us a dozen cupcakes in her glass cake stand on our front porch.
I won’t tell Amber her cupcakes were moldy. I won’t even tell her we got them just a few days ago. I’ll probably say something like, “Thank you so much for the cupcakes. They were delicious. We did have a very merry Christmas. How’s life?”
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