What They Didn’t Tell Me about the Kenya- Somali Border

                   Our bus rocks back and forth while we drive down a broken-bricked road on our way to the riverbanks. Kenyan music plays on the radio as the traffic buzzes around us. I look down to reach in my bag, and when I look up again, an 18 wheeler-type car is coming straight for our vehicle. I glance around our car is surrounded. We have nowhere to go. We are going to be hit. I close my eyes, brace for impact, and squeal knowing I am going to die here. I tighten my grip on the unfortunate person who is sitting pale faced next to me and begin to pray. Several seconds pass, before the person speaks “um miss, you can let go now.” I look up and see the roads are clear and embarrassment floods my face. “Sorry” I mumble, knowing that this will not be the last time I have to tell them this.  I think to myself “I have already been in Kenya a week. I can’t believe I am still scared of their driving. What is wrong with me? ” However, I quickly assure myself that I have every right to be scared as our driver runs a red light. “Um Paul,” I yell from the second seat “I am not sure if you noticed, but there was kinda a red light back there. “ Paul looks at me with a big grin and says “Oh no child, we only put those lights there for the foreigners.” He winks and then noticing the look on my face says, “Don’t worry my child, you are safe with me.” 

                 That did not make me feel any better, and in fact I was getting car sick, so I tried to go to sleep. When I woke up to our host was telling us that we would be stopping at a gas station. I look around excitedly looking for a Buc-ee’s or at least a shell station, but I didn’t see one. We turned into this little parking lot with one gas pump and one room- the bathroom.  This bathroom obviously did not win an award on cleanliness, but since it was the only one in the town (and yes I did ask), I had no choice.

                 As we made our way towards Somalia, the temperature drastically changed. We went from cool weather to hotter- than –hot-weather. I looked around and all I saw was dirt. We drive for what seems like miles and finally we stop. “Hey guys we’re here” our host yells. I look around, confused by what I see, because I am not quite sure where here is.

           All I see is a building that looks like it is wrapped in tin foil and has tents in the backyard. “Is this where we are staying?”  I think.  As though he heard my thought, our missionary begins to unload our stuff and hands us our tent equipment.   The group of girls immediately goes to work trying to put up our tent (key word trying) without any help. We finally got the tent to stand up (after thirty minutes), and after we walk inside, it collapses. A chorus of groans is drowned out by the boys’ laughter. Our pride could not stand in our way any longer so we begged the boys to help us.  They had the tent finished in five minutes (to our dismay and their delight). 

                That evening the local pastor welcomed us into his bat-infested home for dinner. We ate a lovely meal of beans and rice, before he informed us that we must go to bed as soon as it gets dark. “The banks are too dangerous at night. Do not wander. Stay inside your tent.” His tone conveyed it all; we nodded our heads in agreement, as a solemn promise.   We did, however break that promise when we found a bug as big as Godzilla in our tent. Thankfully, Joy, who is five-years-old, saved us from our utter doom by slaying the giant monster so we could go back inside our tent. 

            The next morning, we were greeted by small Muslim children who were walking to school. We learned that many of these children would walk at least six miles every morning to get to class on time. I couldn’t believe their dedication. After classes stated, we loaded up into this wagon-trailer and began to take the route that these children took every morning. We dodged thorn trees as our driver drove under them laughing.  I watched wide eyed as it cut the people’s (who did not have time to duck) skin and clothing and I wondered what it did to the children as they walked by.  We often had to get out and push our wagon-trailer as it was stuck in the mud or giant ruts. I looked around at the looming trees and giant rocks and I couldn’t help but notice how scary it was. These kids would often walk home alone at night. “Did they ever get scared?” I wondered

                        Our host broke though my thoughts, saying “This path that we are driving on was cleared by two brave girls, ten years ago. These girls wanted to see what was on the other side and what they discovered was a remote people group. This people group consisted of those that have fled from Somalia and have found refuge on the Kenya-Somali border. They are uneducated and that is why we are here. We are going to build a school for them.”

   I looked at the huts that were built of twig and mud, some houses were even in trees. I saw young children spilling out of homes half dressed or with holey clothing.  “These are children we are going to be  helping” our host said and  I smiled at the thought.

                      We pulled into a small clearing and everyone jumped out. I was handed a machete (yes a machete) and a large metal pole, that the Kenyan’s called a limbo, to make holes in the ground. The Kenyan Master’s Commission instructed us to take the machete and plunge it into the ground to loosen the dirt and then take the limbo and beat the dirt into the ground before we took our hands and scooped the dirt out of it. We were then to repeat this process until the hole was as wide and deep as a third of the limbo.  I began to dig. 

                Halfway through the third hole as I reached my hand in to scoop the dirt, a man from the Master’s Commission pulled me back, he grabbed the limbo and began to beat the ground as he yelled in Swahili.  “He found a scorpion,” one of the guys translated.  I looked as the small crumpled creature was brought up from the depths. “You are very lucky” one of the guys whispered, “One bite from that tiny scorpion and you would have been dead.”

                                     I stood there in shock not quite understand all that happened before I ran to grab my water. As I finish the water in my bottle, a small hand reaches out trying to grab it, startling me. The child begins to babble in Swahili and I was surprised that I could understand some of it. The child asked “White person, can I please have your water bottle?” I hand it to her and she rushes off.  Aaron, one of the men from Master’s commission, leans over to me “Did you hear what she said afterwards?” “No, all I understood was Asante (thank you)” I reply. “Well she said ‘the crazy white person gave me this’” he laughs as an insulted look appears on my face.  “Why did she want my bottle. It was empty” I ask. “Tabitha” Aaron says his voice growing serious,”I am not sure you understand, with that bottle she can get water from the river. She now has a way to carry it and will not be thirsty.”  “From the river?” I ask thinking of the brown swirling streams of dirty water filled with germs and parasites.  “To them the water is not dirty, it is life” Aaron explains.

                         As I sit there thinking about this statement a young Muslim girl sits down next to me. Through a translator I learn that her name is Miriam and that she is fourteen. She had gotten married to a man in his forties and was about to have his child. She told me that the child was going to be a boy and she was going to name him Jesus, because he would be the next great prophet.  My heart broke for this young girl as I thought back to the man I had met on the river banks. This man sat down next to my team and when asked if he was a Christian he asked for a piece of paper. He wrote down the word yes and then after we saw it ripped it into a million shreds and threw it in the river.

                    For them knowing Christ means death or even worse (according to African culture) their entire family would reject them. It is really easy to sit on the other side of the world and hear people speak about the dangers of the Kenya-Somali border, but it is another thing to go and see for yourself. Yes, there is pirating off the banks of Somalia and there are scary giant, poisonous bugs and snakes.  And yes, there are some people who want to kill all Christians, but there are others who are thirsty for education, water and eternal life.  Everything else (long car rides, sleeping in tents, thorn trees and giant or deadly bugs) all  seem so insignificant in comparison. These are thing that no one told me, but I had to learn for myself. 

The Eye Of The Storm

                I still remember the day, my father looked at me with his big brown eyes and said “Tabitha, we are going to have to evacuate. I am sure you know that the storm has turned for the worst. I need you to pack enough clothes to last you for a couple weeks, but only the things that are important to you. “I glanced at my father fearfully, this was the first time I have ever had to leave my home. “Dad, will our home be here when we get back?” I asked him hopefully.  He replied “Baby doll, I honestly do not know.” I ran to my room with tears in my eyes and stared blankly at my suitcase. Where would I begin? I looked at the wooden dresser my softball coach had made me for my birthday; it was too big to fit in our car. I glanced at my first place trophies for softball, although they were special at the time, they were of no value now. The tears fell down my face. How could I pack my entire life into one suitcase? When would we come home? What would find when we did? Would my house be here? My mother walked in the room and hugged me as we both cried. She whispered “I know honey. It’s going to be okay. “I slowly composed myself and began to throw clothes in my suitcase, before snapping pictures of my room, just in case everything was destroyed. Early the next day the luggage was loaded in our vehicle as we prepared to leave as soon as the word was given.

                        My parents felt as though I should still go to classes so I sat silently in the classroom praying that the storm would turn, but knowing that it was growing closer with each passing second.  I glanced around to watch the phones of my classmates that were tracking the storm’s progress. Nick read off of his phone “The Weather Channel says that the eye of the storm is going to hit Quintana Beach, and if does the wave surge will flood our entire town. “ We glanced at each other with nervous eyes knowing we might never see each other again.

                 At lunchtime, we all filed outside and sat on the ground. On a normal day we would have been laughing and having fun, but instead we talked about all the things we would miss about our tiny town.  I realized I would miss my home where I had grown up.  During this lunch time conversation we were interrupted parents showing up early to announce that it was time to leave. We tearfully hugged each other, and said our goodbyes promising to find a way to contact each other, even though we knew this was going to be impossible.  

            I climbed into the car with one final wave, and before we drove away we said a prayer asking God for safety.  We had chosen a destination that was only four hours away, but because of  all the evacuation traffic it took us twenty miserable hours.  When we  reached the hotel we went to sleep praying that the hurricane would spare our town.  

           The next morning when I woke up I was delighted to find that the hurricane had shifted in the night. The chances were slim, but there was a possibility that the storm would not touch our town.   My eyes stayed glued to the TV for hours as I watched the hurricane hit the shore. I saw the film crew be hit  by the waves on Galveston Island (which is less than forty minutes from my home) as they ravaged the shore. I saw my favorite house’s concrete gates be ripped from the foundation. As the day progressed, I saw homes that were flooded and flipped upside down. With each image I prayed, but no word was heard from my town. My heart was breaking; I wanted to know what was happening to my house and to all my friends that had stayed behind.  My family wanted to know so badly if we would have a place to return to. Three days later after several sleepless nights word came that it was safe to begin to travel back home. We learned that our home had survived. and that the damage had  began twelve miles down the road.

            As my father drove he stopped several times so we could see the damage that had been done by the hurricane.  I cried as I saw the concrete slabs where houses once stood. I saw children’s toys scattered on the ground among the broken glass. I saw lines that marked how many people were survivors and how many were found dead in the houses. As I stood there overwhelmed by emotions, I could only think that this could have been us.  God had spared my home and most importantly my family.  My mother and  father wrapped their arms around me and my sister to comfort us as we cried. This is a day none of us will ever forget.

Timing Is Truly Everything

        

I remember when I first saw him, I was fourteen. To me, he looked like someone who had stepped from the heavens and graced the mere mortals with his very presence. He had just moved in to town, but was welcomed in like a celebrity. Within weeks he went from “the new kid” to captain of the football team. He was respected by all and loved by many. Although I was well known in the town, I did not seek popularity, so I only met Travis because he came to my youth group. He was a senior in high school and I was only a lowly freshman. He seemed to be perfect and with one glance of his icy blue eyes I was frozen in place, because I felt as though he could see to the depths of my soul, because he always knew what I was thinking .He was my warrior.   He protected me when I felt weak and afraid. He listened to me when I felt low and  always gave the greatest advice.

As the year went by Travis became a part of the staff at my youth group and we continued to be friends. I watched as he dated countless girls (but in my heart I always knew they would break up) and would be there to encourage him when they did. When I finally graduated high school, he sat through my ceremony as a proud almost boyfriend. We had been friends for four years so no one was shocked when we finally admitted we liked each other (his grandmother just asked so when we were getting married).

We thought we had life all figured out. We would date for four years while we were both at Southwestern and we would get married right after we graduated (as was expected of us). It was no surprised when a week after I graduated Travis asked me to officially be his girlfriend. He had to wait till after graduation because staff was not allowed to date the students. When I opened my mouth to say “yes” something came over me and instead I told him that I wanted to pray about it. Surprised at my answer, he gave me a week to decide, and I started praying.

Every time I prayed I heard the same answer “wait.” I was frustrated, because why would God tell me to wait when this was all part of the plan? The next day I began to hear awful rumors about my almost boyfriend. He was accused of doing drugs, sleeping around and drinking alcohol. I tried to deny them all, because I did not trust the sources, and had never seen him behave in this manner, so how could they be true? When I asked him about the rumors he quickly had a response. “Honey, you know they are just jealous. I never dated her. Why would you believe anything she says? Don’t you trust me? Have I ever lied to you before in the four years you have known me? If you believe this then how well do you know me? Do you really think I would do those things? Baby, I love you and I would never hurt you.” I wanted so badly to believe his excuses, but for some reason I couldn’t. I began to pray harder as the days flew by, but I kept hearing the same word “wait.”

                 Tuesday night, the day before I was scheduled to give him an answer, my world came crumbling down. My friend Summer  from work,  came up to me with puffy eyes asking if she could talk to me in private. We walked to the parking lot and she began to tell me that she slept with Travis. She told me that on Monday she had just agreed to go with him and his friends to the movies. When she found out all his friends ”canceled” ( later we  found out they were never invited in the first place) she agreed to go alone. I sat there with tears in my eyes and in my anger I called him on the phone. When he finally picked up I said “How could you?” He hung up and in five minutes he was in the parking lot to defend his honor. 

     As his eyes blazed he began to tell me the countless excuses I heard before only now I knew the truth. “You lied to me. I trusted you and you chose to hurt me” I said through teary eyes. His tone lowered as he took a different approach and he began to harshly whisper “I never loved you. Didn’t you realize that? I just used you to cover up my secrets. You were the perfect decoy. Who would ever believe a good girl like you would be dating a guy like me? I could live my life the way I wanted and no one suspected a thing until now.” My eyes widened  as I spoke through sobs “Travis, I don’t understand why you did this. You hurt me, but I don’t hate you. I wish I could blame you, but I can’t. Travis, I won't stop praying for you, but I will never speak to you again. ” Travis’ eyes full of frost burned into my soul as he yelled words I choose not to remember . I stood there trying to decide what to do, but I felt lost.   I ran to my truck and jumped in locking the doors and began driving away as he tried to open the truck  doors. I cried and screamed out to God not knowing where to turn or what to do, I felt trapped.  I fought every emotion imaginable and wanted to miss every church event. However, when the time came I went each time. 

       It was not long before the lies began to unravel and Travis’ perfect image crumbled to the ground. He could no longer stand being in the room with me, so he left our church and I have hardly seen him since. I still pray for him, because I want him to do well, because I saw the potential that  he had. He was a leader who had a kind heart, but was corrupted by the very things that he allowed to control him. I wish I could say that he is doing well, but I don’t know this for sure.
             As the for  Summer, we remained distant friends, until she moved away. She returned this  summer for her sisters wedding, and I saw her for the first time. It had been three years since I had seen her last and she was pushing a stroller. When I walked up to say hi, the child with an unknown father, glanced up at me with piercing blue eyes. I was so startled by his features that I dropped the phone I was holding in my hand.  Summer and I  made distant small talk and when she walked away tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt so sorry for her, because she would have to raise this small child all alone. 

         A wise man once said " When gods die they die hard" (Wednesday wars).   Like the statues of the broken  gods,  a person will be cracked and marred by the things that control them. I wanted to see Travis as a sort of demigod because he seemed to be perfection personified, but inside he was weak. He did not put his trust in the God he claimed to love, but instead he was controlled by addictions that wanted to consume him. The addictions did not stop until they had controlled every part of him. Like a hurricane it demolished every piece of his life until nothing was left standing. The years have healed my heart, but he is still broken. Although this was a huge storm in my life at the time (and I did not see how life could move on) it is rather small now. I see how horrible my life would have been if God had not encouraged me to "wait" for his answer. Timing is truly everything. 

My Love for Literature

                

    I was three years old when my family first thought I could read. My parents and I had gone to visit my grandparents for the day. I, being a typical three-year-old, had wondered off to entertain myself. When my grandmother walked in to her bedroom, she found me holding my favorite book and “reading” out loud.  She called for my parents to come quick as she ran to grab her camera. As she snapped pictures, my parents began to laugh. My grandmother did not understand why they had laughed until my mother began to explain that I was not really reading the book, but had memorized it. She took the book out of my small little hands, and I continued to recite the entire book from memory. I even paused in the places where the pages should be turned.
                 My love for reading must have come from my parents, because my dad would often read to me before bed. I would give him a stack of books that were my favorites for him to read. I remember him complaining that we had already read certain stories and he was sure I had other books to read. I would refuse a different book, and when he had read my favorite part, I would take the book out of his hands and tell him it was time for another story. There were many times that he begged me to let him finish the story, but I never let him  (He recently admitted to me that he would take the books back to his room to finish them after I had fallen asleep.) 

          When my mother read to me she inserted my name in most of the stories. I was the heroine, which made me feel invincible. When I learned to read, I, sadly, learned that my name was not inside every book, like I had thought, but was hardly in any.

          By the time I was really reading (and not memorizing) I was hooked. I would read every chance that I could get, in the car (which would explain why I never knew where I was when I started driving), on a boat, at the beach and even at softball tournaments. Reading was like breathing to me.  I could not put a book down.  It became so addictive to me that my mother would threaten to ground me from reading, if I did not hurry up, and put my socks on so we could leave.  This threat was normally followed by the exclamation, “I am a horrible mother.”   She never grounded me from reading but I was occasionally given "reading time limits." 

               As I grew older my love for reading expanded to where I was reading anything and everything I could put my hands on. By the time I was twelve I had read most of the "age appropriate" books in the library, plus most of C.S Lewis' works.  My parents decided to have me enrolled in a high school senior English class, just to see if I could handle it. During that school year, I was introduced to classics such as Beowulf and The Epic of Gilgamesh.   I liked all the stories,  but I fell in love with  mythology. I just loved seeing the different world views  and  finding elements  that they took from the Bible and from history.

             As the years have gone on my love for mythology has grown. I am probably the only college student who would get up super early on Sunday mornings before church (okay maybe it was just eight am, but still that is early) to talk with one of my friends who still believed in the gods about mythology. Through mythology I have been able to share what I believe with him (although he is is still not a Christian, he is beginning to ask more questions about God, and why I believe the Bible is true).  Literature helps people to relate to one another regardless of religion or culture. 

                        When I went to Africa, I taught English to Muslim children from ten to fourteen years old. The children loved stories and when I sat down I began to repeat the stories I had memorized from my childhood. I just loved watching their eyes light up as they heard about Peter Rabbit and Adam Raccoon. After I had finished telling all the fictional stories I could, and the children were still begging for more I was able to share stories from the bible to these Muslim children. I loved hearing the kids beg for me to tell the story of Jesus one more time. And as I did I realized that literature opens doors, because with out mythology, I would have never been able to speak to my friend about God. And without stories I most certainly would never have been able to teach those children in Africa about Jesus. 

 

As the Weights lift: Just Another Day at Powerhouse Gym 

    The tale I am about to tell is true. The names of the people involved have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

              It all started with me walking in the door to work.  If I had known about the events that were going to take place, I would have called in sick.  It seemed like it was going to be such a normal day. I was kindly greeted by the bodybuilders that we affectionately call “juice-heads” (just not to their faces) and tripped over equipment as I made my way slowly to the front. Everything seemed perfectly fine, until I walked to the desk.

                 As soon as I reached the front desk I was met with arctic glances. I felt as though I had stepped into a soap opera. Everyone at work was on edge and no one was smiling.  The co-owner Riley was even more angry than normal. He came out of his office to yell curse words, before stomping back  and slamming the door. I glance over to my friend Lacey and whisper "what is going on?” She quickly informs me that Riley’s car had been stolen from the beach that weekend. It was taken and used in an armed robbery and a few home invasions, before the car was found on the side of the road completely totaled.

             I let out a small groan knowing that since Riley was having a bad day we would all be having a bad day. I try to smile and lighten the mood, but it didn’t help. Riley marched from his office and looked at me before barking “I’m going on my break. My phone doesn’t work. So don’t call me.”  I try not to laugh as I tell him to have a good time.  

         Once Riley leaves Lacy skips over and in her usual manner blurts out “I always thought Josh was gay, that is until he got married.” I look at her in shock and ask her why she would possibly think that he was gay. She responds that since Josh was always checking himself out in the mirror he must be gay. The moment she states this Josh walks through the door yelling “I’M WHAT?” I quickly interrupt to tell Lacy “He is not gay, but he is a narcissist. “ I was hoping this would help smooth out the situation, but it did not.  Josh looks at me coldly “what did you call me?” I laugh and tell him to go look it up in a dictionary.

      Fifteen minutes later the door to the smoothie bar flies open. Josh barges in yelling “I am not a whatever you called me. Take it back.” I laugh and go on talking to another trainer named Michael. Josh steps behind the bar and begins to get closer to me. We stand toe to toe and nose to chest. He points his finger at me and says “how dare you call me such a bad word.”

                    Michael gasps and looks at me in shock “I have never heard her cuss before.  What did she say?” He begins to list off some  curse words and with each word Josh would shake his head and say “no it’s worse.”  After running out of expletives Michael asked me what I called Josh. I told him and then explained how it was not a curse word.  The boys leave in silence with throbbing brains.

                  Thirty minutes later, I hear  "You Narcissist “  being yelled across the gym. Michael responds “Josh, we don’t say those bad words here. If you say it again I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap.” Josh replies “Narcissist.” Weights hit the floor as people gasp. Seconds later I hear screams coming from Josh as Michael chases him around with a bottle of soap. Michael, although smaller is much faster, but John is stronger.  Thankfully, Colton their boss interrupts them before any serious damage is done.

                Riley returns later that evening. His mood has not improved, in fact, it has gotten worse. He walks into his office and slams the door.  A few moments later, police are standing at my desk. I smile at them politely and ask them what I can help them with. They inform me that they are looking for Riley. I point hesitantly at his door and warn them that he is not in the best mood. They tell me that they know that, because Riley had threatened to “smash in “the AT &T man’s face if his phone was not fixed by the time he got off work. I feigned a shocked expression, and said “I am sure he was just joking,” but I knew he was serious.   After the police met with Riley they let him off with a warning, because they felt sorry for him since his weekend was so awful.

                Soon it was time for Lacy and Riley to leave work.  And although I had grown accustomed to working the night shift alone this night I felt uneasy.  Suddenly, hands covered my eyes and my entire body tensed up. No one said a word and I tried to figure out whose hands were holding me. I silently began to pray, because I just knew I was being kidnapped. After a few moments a familiar voice breaks through my thoughts  whispering “guess who” into my ear.  I whirl around to face my foe and yell “Ben why would you try to scare me like that. I thought I was going to die, because I  knew those were not Lacy’s hands.” I punch him on the shoulder firmly. He pretends to be hurt, and then shouts “I do not have girl hands. My hands are manly. My hands are strong. ” Ben leaves the room trying to comfort his wounded ego.

             Finally it was time for me to close. I had just started counting the money when I realize that there is  a man standing there watching me. I  had remembered seeing him several hours earlier when he  asked me what time I got off work, but I had never replied. I turn around again and he has disappeared.  I walk to the back to grab the things out of my locker and I see him standing outside the door. Panic strikes my heart, because he is waiting for me! I quickly act as though I have forgotten something at the desk. I scan the gym looking for someone I know, but they have all left.  I spot a man who looks nice and safe (meaning he does not have  any visible gang tattoos or piercings) so I quickly walk over to him and ask him to walk me to my truck. He laughs and says “you’re joking right?” I just shake my head and tell him “I am normally fine walking to my truck alone, but I just need someone to walk with me tonight. Please. “   He looks at me as though he suspects I  have a hidden agenda.  “This is not me hitting on you. I promise. You’re cute and all, but I really just need you to walk me to my truck” I explain quickly.  I’m still not sure if it was the fear in my eyes or if he just wanted to finish his workout , but he agreed to walk me to my truck. As he begin to walk with me he  realizes why I had asked him. He slips his arm around me and talks to me like we are dating.  When I get to my truck he hugs me and says “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Justin.” I whisper my name and a quick thank you before getting in my truck to drive home.

           On the way home I begin to laugh. I remembered how when I first started working at the gym we had coined the phrase “Anything can happen at Powerhouse.” When we created this slogan we did not mean it would all happen in one day, but it did. I wish I could tell you that every day at powerhouse was not as eventful, but it was. We learned to be on our toes because we never knew what was going to happen. When I left work to return to school I was on first name basis with the police. I also had convinced several of our trainers to take an English class so that they could learn other "curse words."  My story about my day at work  may sound like a soap opera to many people,  but to me it was just another typical day at the gym. 

           It all started with a phone call that brought me to my knees. I had just gotten off work when I looked at my phone and saw I had an abnormal amount of missed calls, texts and voicemails. I looked at my phone but in my rush to get home I decided to wait till I got to my house to respond to everyone.  I had just walked in the door when I got the call that changed everything.  When the phone rang, I just knew something was wrong.  It was my best friend calling at midnight on a school night which he hardly ever did. I stared at the phone for quite some time afraid to pick it up.  When I finally answered it, I heard his voice quiver and he told me “Steven has been in a wreck.” I hung up not wanting to hear anymore, because I already knew what was coming next. My parents walked in the room and I saw their tear stained faces and I fell to the ground.  Through my tears I yelled “did he survive?” My mother just shook her head no, as tears flowed down her face. I began to sob, “He couldn’t have died. It must be a mistake” I screamed.

 Images began to flash in my mind of memories with Steven. He had been my friend since kindergarten.  He was the only one who was allowed to call me goofy nicknames.  He was the one who would call me before school just to sing that dreadful song “Hey There Delilah “every single morning at 7 am. How I hated that song. I hated it so much that he decided to start calling me Delilah, just to annoy me.  But no one could ever stay mad at Steven. He was the type of guy who brought flowers for no occasion. He would wash your car without being asked. The memories ended and I knew there was no way he was dead.

             I didn’t want to believe it.  I had just seen him the day before. He waltzed into my work in his normal charming manner singing “Hey there Delilah” as loud as he could.  Embarrassed, I laughed and rolled my eyes. We talked for hours, before he hugged me goodbye and promised to be at my graduation that weekend.

       I began to cry harder as I realized he would not be there. “There must have been a mistake” I said as I picked up my phone to call him hoping he would answer. I was trying to fight the thoughts that I knew were true.  My mom grabbed my phone and hugged me saying “Tabitha, it’s true. Steven is gone, but not forever. You will see him again in Heaven.”

     Before I knew it we were in the car on the way to his parents' house and I tried to control my tears. I ran out of the car and saw my best friend waiting and fell in his arms. The days passed like a blur and I lost total track of time. I sat through the funeral and graduation, but they felt like the same event. There were no posters saying “Way to go Delilah, you did it. I’m so proud of you. ” Instead, there was a sea of faces all trying to pretend nothing had happened.

     Although it has been years since Steven died the event still brings me to tears.  “Hey There Delilah” is now one of my favorite songs and  I miss the moments I had with him, but I know I will see him again.  I know when I get to Heaven he will be there singing “Hey there Delilah” and I will roll my eyes, because I will get to hear it everyday for the rest of eternity. Eternity is a long time, maybe by then he will have learned to sing on key.  

    The Journey of a Frustrated Writer

               As a child growing up writing was always hard for me. I was the type of kid who trembled at the thought of writing, because I believed that my writing had to be perfect. I remember sitting down and crying when I was practicing my print, because it did not look like my mother’s handwriting. I often would become so frustrated that I would erase the paper so hard it would rip.  I was an avid reader and believed that I should be able to write just as well as C.S Lewis or J.R.R.  Tolkien and was frustrated when I could not.  At that time I did not realize that it took practice and dedication to create a story.  I soon found out that there were many things about writing that I did not understand.

               For instance, I did not know that it often takes time for a good idea to develop. It takes patience and maturity for an idea to fully grow. However, often times it’s the writer and not the idea that has growing to do.   This semester, I am going to challenge myself to write a story that has been on my heart for many years. I have found so many notebooks filled with four or five sentences that were discarded, because I could never find the right words to say. Often times my emotions were completely wrong, so I would abandon the story promising to come back to it at a later time. However, I never did. I began to think that I would never write the story, because I did not do it the moment the idea came to me. I would hear stories of people who had journals lying beside the bed in case inspiration came to them, and I would feel guilty.  I began to think that I could never be a writer.

                      As a child I loved storytelling, and I am told I had a very creative imagination. I remember the time when I was about four years old and a cat showed up in my yard. Still to this day, I am convinced that it was not a cat, but a very dangerous panther.

               Although I had this active imagination, my writing was dull and boring. I allowed my education to get in the way of my writing. I tried to conform to every other writer’s style but still felt like I came up short. My friend once told me, “Tabitha just write the way you talk to me, because you are writing this for me.” From that moment on my writing style changed and I found my voice. I learned that writing was a form of storytelling.

          Storytelling for me was fun and adventurous.  It was my way of leaving my world and stepping into someone else’s. When I read I was braver and stronger than I was in real life. It was a form of exploration, and I loved it.  I guess, eventually I became brave enough to start exploring in real life. When I am on missions trips all the guys flip a coin to see who has to go with me. It is not because I am a mean person, but it is because I am fearless and love to explore. I always hear something along the lines of these words: “Tabitha I do not think this a good idea. Maybe we should turn back. This is normally about the time in the horror movies when someone dies.” I always laugh and proceed with what I am doing without a care in the world. There have been some close calls while I have been exploring (a mad crazed dog, a mad crazed person and a few holes in the ground), but we always manage to just barely escape. I leave with my heart pounding with excitement and joy. While on the other hand, the other person is normally glaring at me and sometimes muttering something under his breath.

         However, through this journey I have learned that that is the sign of a writer. Ralph Fletcher says, “ The writer goes out into the world (or descends into the inner world) and returns with both fists clutching a mass of words, ideas and characters, places, stories, insights, possibly poisonous, hopefully not, and waves them, still squirming, still alive, before the started reader” (What A Writer Needs,  161).

             A good writer is someone who can turn the simplest things into a life-changing moment. They are not perfect, but they take what they are given and express it to the world.  Although I still sometimes dread writing a paper, I have learned that writing is a powerful tool, and without it, I am powerless.  I am no longer writing just for me, but I am writing for others. My story does not just affect me, but it affects others too.  If I am ever going to teach someone else to write I need to practice and learn to love writing. I do not have to be a perfect writer, but I must stay true to myself and allow my ideas to grow. Maybe one day I will be a published writer after all. 

Never Just a Letter

                

                                                                  Never Just a Letter

                 The time has finally come I just knew it. I raced outside to check the mail and as I sorted through the pile I found a letter addressed to me with your name on it. Full of excitement I ran back to my room to read the words that bridge the miles between us.  As I begin to read I hear your voice and I see your smile. I hear you say that you miss me and wish I could visit, but for a brief moment, I’m by your side.  Through the letter I see you writing poetry like the people you have studied for years. I see you drawing pictures in hopes that one day you too will be famous. I hear you playing music with your band and being yelled at by your neighbors for being too loud. I smile as you roll your eyes and make a sly comment. I see the books piled up on your desk as you push off homework to write me this letter.  I pick up the pictures that have fallen in my lap and I see the people and places that are dear to you. Your loopy handwriting explains in detail why these things are important and they become important to me too. I close the letter quickly afraid to finish it too soon. I inspect the cover to find you have drawn me a portrait with the new pens your sister bought you. The letter explains that it is the garden view from your window.   I finish the letter as you wave goodbye. Now it is my turn to pick up the pen and paper and transport you here to me.