~Mamaw~

Mama tells me that when I was little, people at church meetings and such would ask her and Daddy if they really had a daughter named Katie, because I never seemed to be with them.

You see, we live right next door to my Mamaw's house - just a corn patch apart - and for years I spent a goodly portion of my days and nights with Mamaw. If I had a choice between Mamaw's house or going somewhere else, the somewhere else would have to be pretty glamorous indeed to warrant missing out on time with Mamaw. In fact, once we were coming home from Texas, and Mama and Daddy told me and Laura we could go to New Orleans for a night as a treat, but I bitterly resisted, because oh-my-word-I'd-been-away-from-my-Mamaw-for-a-whole-week. (However, Laura insisted, and on to New Orleans we went. It broke my five year old heart for a few minutes.)

I have so many, many memories of Mamaw's house - playing bingo and uno with her after supper, her teaching me valuable tid-bits about the fine art of cooking, watching Shirley Temple movies, her telling wondrously long stories about her childhood, but three particular memories separate themselves from all the others, like three rare orchids in amongst a field of everyday daisies.

The first is her prayers. To an uncoverted, energetic scamp of a child, it did seem like those prayers lasted hours. And she never, ever failed to pray with me before bedtime. I regret to say that I spent most of that time imagining that the patterns in the couch fabric were rivers and lakes, and my finger the boat, or hatching a glorious plan for the next day. But the fact that she prayed so faithfully, and so openly, just as if Jesus was right there in front of her, did make some sort of impression on me, and I often squirmed inwardly in the knowledge that prayer didn't mean as much to me as it did to Mamaw.

Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I would stand on the edge of the bed and hold out my arms, calling "come and get me, Mamaw!" and she would come and lift me down, teasing and talking all the while she got my clothes and helped me get dressed. This went on until I was far, far too heavy to be easily lifted, and Mama laid down the law and said "No more picking Katie up!" It broke my heart. (Incidentally, I got my heart broken on an average of about twice a week back then. I was a very, ahem, special child.) Then, she'd ask whether I wanted biscuits or pancakes for breakfast, and let me tell you right now, my Mamaw can make some mean pancakes, and her biscuits are worth their weight in gold.

The third memory, as vivid and dear to me as almost anything else in my life, is her putting her hair up on curlers. She would dip her comb in water, tap it against the edge of the glass, comb a small section and roll it tightly up. Mine was the great task of handing each curler to her, (such a responsibility swelled my little soul no-end, I assure you,) and watching, mesmerized, as her head turned into a knobby, green mass of prickly curlers.

A few days ago, Mamaw had surgery, and she isn't able to do much for herself right now, so we're all taking turns staying with her. Sunday night, I stayed the night with her, for the first time in too long.

Before she went to bed, she took my hand in hers and prayed, just as she did every time for as long as I can remember. Only now, I don't squirm inwardly and trace the couch patterns with my finger. I sit beside her thanking God for such a grandmother... for such a sister in Christ.

The next morning, I helped her get dressed, and my heart was wrung by a queer sort of pain when I realized I'd never jump out of bed into her arms again, ready for anything.

And a little part of me hurts badly while I watch Mamaw get older. That part of me wants things back the way they were, when she was the one taking care of me. But another part of me, the deeper part, is so blessed by seeing her grow older the way she has lived her younger years - relying on God, loving those around her with everything she says and does, and taking food to everybody and his cousin in the community. (If I had a dollar for every pie she's baked for somebody else, I probably wouldn't have to worry too much about college tuition.)


A little later, I settled her onto a comfortable bench, and I carefully rolled her soft grey hair, exactly as I'd seen her do it so many, many times. Dip the comb in the water. Tap it against the edge of the glass. Comb a small section of hair. Roll it tightly onto a curler.

Only this time, she was the one handing me the curlers.

Wednesday's Word

"Soap."

For one thing, I like the way o and a look side by side. No clue why, but there it is. And secondly, when I think of soap, I think of this, which makes me laugh. And I like to laugh.

Plus, the actual THING, not just the word, is amazing. Think of what a stinkier, darker, danker world it would be without soap. Think, and give thanks.

The last day...

...Not of the world, not of the year, not even of the week.

But it's my last day to be 17.

I've really loved being seventeen. Sixteen wasn't a good year for me; I made some stupid decisions and was a long time regaining emotional and spiritual ground lost in one summer. But God made it a ploughing year, and seventeen has been all the better for it, I think.

When I was ten, or twelve, or even fourteen, I truly believed that by the time I reached eighteen, (EIGHTEEN! It's ancient!) I'd have lots of things under control. My control. I'd only speak kind words, I'd love my family with my actions as well as my heart, I'd know exactly where I wanted to go in life... down to the last mile.

Well, all I can honestly say is that I was a silly child, because the only thing I can really rely on as far as self goes is that I can't do a single thing right. Nope, nary a thing. My tongue is just as sarcastic as ever, my good intentions are as weak as ever they were.

Depressing, isn't it? When we realize that what we can certainly count on as far as self goes is sin, sin, and more sin, it may come as a real shock. It shocked, (and greatly disappointed,) me. When I was little, I fully believed that merely growing up would give me the tools I needed to be a good person, to love others, to sacrifice my own wishes. You know, like the girls in the books.

But, no. No, not at all.

The older I get, it seems that sin gets subtler and harder to beat, in a way. An angelic nature hasn't dropped gently out of the clouds and enveloped me any time recently.

In a way, I'm a bit bummed. I mean, after all, those girls in the books made it look so darn easy.

But at the core of it all, I don't want to rely on self... even if relying on self could produce some outwardly good results. Self can be a deceptive little devil, and you can fool everyone with the polished outside.

The inside, the heart, is a different matter. Christ is all my hope for overcoming my weaknesses and failures, and He is faithful. He does give strength; He does bless my efforts and give me a desire to please Him. That is ten thousand times ten thousand better than looking to growing up for happiness and goodness.

So, eighteen isn't the magical age I once dreamed of. And I'm kinda sad about leaving seventeen forever. ::sniff::

I've found that the bottom line is no matter what age I am, no matter what the year before me holds, Christ is sufficient. He is good.

And I'm excited about growing up. I really am. I think I'm a bit like Wendy, who

"...was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls."

The pursuit of... Fall-ness.

This evening, AnnMarie and I set out to discover Fall. She's been hiding in the most unforgiving way - the scamp! - sending us cool days and browning leaves as a sort of peace offering in lieu of her true self. Well, sorry, Madame Fall, but half-hearted peace offerings don't cut it for this young lady!

So, out we rode, windows rolled down, hair whipping in the wind, singing at the top of our lungs, (and you should hear AnnMarie sing hymns opera style at the top of her lungs. It's quite a treat.)

Winding around all the forgotten backroads of Tippah County, we found Fall. The Really, Truly, Actually Fall, not her demure ghost who has been haunting this particular sliver of the world.

The sun, sinking in a rich burst of color, lit up the newly ploughed-under fields that are standing ready for the hard frosts [we hope] are coming, and we saw crimson, orange, and yellow trees galore, not too much overshadowed by their jealous, drab, sister-trees. Brilliant red sumacs, like painted saloon girls, flaunted their showy colors on every fence row, and the air sweeping in the windows smelled like leaves, hay, rain, and occasionally cow manure.

It was a golden evening, a perfect evening, (even if AnnMarie didn't much appreciate my rendition of U2's "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.")

We came home, windblown but triumphant, knowing that Autumn hasn't deserted us altogether, but is simply playing hard to get.

Wednesday's Word

People, I love words. I mean, absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, love them.

And I'm a Strevel, so I use lots of words with lots of regularity. (Ask anybody. Seriously, anybody. They'll back me up on that.)

But there are a few words that send shivers of delight up and down my spine, either because of how they sound, or because they communicate their meaning amazingly well, or simply because of how they look written out on paper. (If you've never given thanks for the gift of words, and particularly beautiful words, shame on you. Just think, we could be like the Germans, whose words are all guttural and harsh.)

There are multitudes of wonderful words out there, swirling around in books, through the air, in our minds, or yet to be born. Doesn't that send a little thrill through you? (If not, you probably won't get this post at all, and I'm oh, so sorry for you, because you're missing out on one of the most delightful parts of life.)

Thus, Wednesday's Word is born. Too much alliteration drives me crazy, but I like a little here and there, and Wednesday's Word seems just enough to make you think, "Oh, alliteration," but not enough to make anyone roll their eyes and say, "oh, please."

Every Wednesday, I'm going to share one of my favorite words, and maybe tell why, or perhaps use it in a sentence, (because use-that-word-in-a-sentence is fun,) or occasionally give the quote or passage that I feel uses the word to the best advantage or that made me first fall in love with that particular word. (Example: "Upon." I love the word "upon" because I think of "once upon a time...," which is the single most brilliant story opening known to man, I do believe.)

My reasoning behind why exactly I like a certain word may not make sense to you, because it's rather difficult to put half-developed thoughts and impressions down in black and white. But a long time ago, my literature teacher told me that it was better to communicate thoughts haltingly than to not share them at all.

Without any further ado,

"Whisk"

"Whisk" makes me think of, well, whisking. And I don't just mean the kitchen utensil of which we have five. I mean quickly - lightly, like the wind - moving something, or moving yourself. The word itself brings to mind swiftness and movement, and I like words that suggest movement.

I suggest you use it just once in place of "fast" or "move" today.

"Whisk that filthy creature off my clean porch, will you?" sounds much better than "Get that animal off my clean porch."

See?

I KNOW I'm not the only person out there who is bothered by this.

You know when you check out at any store, anywhere, at any time, with any cashier, and they hand you your change, bills and coins, and the receipt at the same time? Just all loose and spread out, not nicely folded and wallet-ready.

Now, I wouldn't raise a fuss about it if I just had time to put the coins in my coin pocket, fold the bills to fit them in my wallet, stow the receipt somewhere it's supposed to go, and get my bags cleared out at the same time, but I simply don't have those skills. And I wouldn't mind standing there, efficiently folding and tucking, if the people behind me and the cashier wouldn't watch me the entire time I'm disposing of all the loose change, looking at me like they want to skin me alive and burn all my groceries with the fires of their indignation. So usually I get all flustered, cramming it in any which way, and managing to drop at least three quarters and pennies in the process. What I really want to do is turn around and tell the impatient person behind me "just wait, honey child. Your turn is coming, and you are going to repent of every baleful look you've cast my way these last few seconds."

I've also tried walking away immediately and trying to put it neatly away while gathering groceries and pushing my cart, or handling all the bags in my hands. Nope, doesn't work.

And somehow the thought of waiting til I get to my car to put stow it, walking all across the parking lot clutching a handful of cash and coins and bags doesn't really appeal to me.

So, I mostly just look stupid while checking out.

Yeah, we have a bit of work left.

I'm teaching Phoebe two days a week, and we're learning everything from the presidents to the months of the year, from what slavery means to what apostrophes are, from what the civil war was to what the word "should" looks like. (And seriously, of all those things, I'm most concerned she'll never fully remember "should." It doesn't seem to be making any impression in her mind.)

Me: "What's this word?"

Phoebe: "Said!"

Me: "No. Sound it out, and remember that the "L" is silent."

Phoebe: "Shh-uuu-dd... shall!!"

And so forth and so on. You get the picture. Never has so little been misread so much by so few.

Anyway, today we talked about a president's limitations, and what he can and can't do.

Me: "And sometimes, presidents get impeached."

Phoebe: "Oooh, I like peaches!"

the silence before sleep

I love the silence before sleep.

Lying in the dark, at first noticing nary a sound but mine and mama's breathing, I begin to be aware of all the little, inconsequential noises that hide during the busy, loud day, as they awaken gently and begin to remind the world that they're here too - a wall creaking, a scittering little mouse rushing across the attic floor, the placid gurgle of the fountain outside our window, a lone autumn cricket chirping sadly about the by-gone days of summer, the refrigerator humming, the fan on the front porch whirring away - all these swell quietly into a peaceful symphony of night time noise.

Yet all these sounds put together don't mar the silence. I could still hear a pin drop, (or a bobby pin fall from the bedside table, as happened last night,) cutting the air with a sharp ping. The sounds are there, but they're so quiet and undemanding that they almost go unnoticed.

I can think beautiful thoughts and dream darling dreams while lying still, or I can simply listen to this unobtrusive orchestra. It doesn't require my attention, nor does it make me want to drown it out by thinking or speaking.

It's merely there. Surrounding me every night. Waiting to be heard.

Dear Geometry,

You are a deceiving, two faced serpent, and I don't like you anymore.

So there.

Disgustedly,
Katie

Aaaaannndd...

...college application and college resume' are finished! (By the by, there are few things in life I have found to be as stupid and self-centered as the required college resume'.)

Plus, I've decided on my two audition pieces, and will now commence to practice them until I 1. never want to hear them again, or 2. play them well enough to impress the music department, or 3. neither of the above, or 4. both 1&2. Can you tell that I'm preparing for multiple-choice ACT and SAT questions?

So, a few tangible steps have been taken, and I am relieved/happy/depressed-at-how-far-I-still-have-to-go.

Next comes the ACT. And the SAT. And then the ACT again. Because yes, I've signed up for three times. Because yes, I'm slightly paranoid.