The Toe Bridge

So anybody who knows my family, or even knows about my family (we are legendary), can attest to the fact that my father is a pretty funny dude. I guess that might be an exaggeration; some people might not find him funny. But if they don't find him funny, then chances are that I don't particularly care about their opinion. Because he is my daddy.

One thing that my dad told me when I was a young child is much more hilarious now than it was then. Like, a million times more hilarious. He kindly told me all about toll, I mean toe, bridges. Yes, apparently the first time I heard about toll bridges, I perceived the sounds incorrectly and called it a toe bridge. My father decided that was the perfect opportunity to share with me about the dreaded toe bridges.

Toe bridges were bridges that collect a fee when you drive over them. You wonder, "What kind of fee?" Well, toe bridges collect any visible toes before allowing the occupants of the vehicle to pass over the bridge.  This is because toe bridges are actually made out of toes, and there needs to be a constant supply of toes in order to build more toe bridges and to make repairs.

And I believed him. Let me just remind you that I was young child. 

Young Me took this all very seriously, which I'm sure my father thought was absolutely hysterical. He explained that no one would confiscate my toes as long as I kept them hidden when we stopped at the toe booth. If I was wearing closed toe shoes, I was safe. If I was not, then I was supposed to hide my toes under the seat in front of me in order to avoid my toes being seen. 

The worst part: I actually complied. Whenever we went over a toe bridge, I would hide my toes. Thankfully, it didn't take very long for me to realize (only like 20 years) that toe bridges were not made out of toes, and that no evil toe booth workers were scanning the back seat looking for little feet.

It did become a fun little game for my family, though. Little sister and I were young enough at the time to still play along whenever we came to toe bridges, even though we knew it wasn't actually real. It has persisted as a joke in my family to this day. 

I'm just telling you that to warn you in case you ever travel anywhere with my family. If you ever see us hiding our toes and talking about a toe bridge, we really aren't completely weird. 

I Can't Be the Only One

Earlier today at the speech and hearing center, I was swapping funny stories with some girls about falling in public. You know, just straight up falling down like an idiot when other folks are watching you. I've done my fair share of falling.

For example, there is a very steep hill that essentially separates the student parking lot from the speech and hearing center. Instead of walking about a million steps out of my way to avoid the hill, I just avoid walking a million extra steps and head straight down the hill. Now, I know what you're thinking, and you're absolutely right. There's not any way I could avoid falling on that hill at least once, and thankfully it has only happened once (so far). I thought I got away without anyone seeing me fall, too. That is, until I'm sitting in the classroom and a friend walks in and asks if I am okay. (I was mostly okay. My pride was a little injured).

But that's not the only time I have fallen in public. Oh no. When I was getting my undergrad degree, I had to walk up these nice, wide steps to get into the building where I had an advising appointment. Sounds simple, and it typically is. But for some reason, on that day, I could not handle walking up any steps. And so about halfway up, I just fell. Notebooks and papers flew everywhere, and I'm pretty certain that everyone on the concourse saw it. And only one guy kind of offered to help (it was only kind of because I managed to jump up and pretend it didn't happen almost immediately).

Yet another time, I tripped when I was walking from my place to one of my undergrad classes. It was about a mile, and so I was just leisurely enjoying the afternoon. And then I saw him: a hot guy on a lawnmower, mowing a lawn that was right beside my sidewalk. So I tried to act really cool in hopes that this guy, who I would never talk to, would think I was just a really cool person. Now take that sentence, and understand that absolutely none of it worked out in that manner. We actually did briefly communicate, but it was only because I tripped directly in front of him. He couldn't exactly ignore that. And he couldn't exactly think I was really cool, either.

But the best (or worst) falling story I have has to do with when I was walking to school one day in undergrad. There was this fairly busy four-way stop along my route, and there were these 3 or 4 concrete steps leading down to it. I was carrying my books/notebooks, like a good little college student, when my feet just zipped out from under me right in the middle of the stairs! The books and notebooks flew everywhere, and my butt actually got scratched up from the pavement. Thankfully, I don't think anyone actually saw my fanny, but that still doesn't fully remedy the fact that somehow my fanny got injured. I used my superior situation-recovery skills to immediately jump up and pretend it didn't happen. 

However, that didn't really impress any of the cars that were waiting at the intersection (or the people inside of them). For real, y'all, folks were just staring at me; no cars were moving. It was so embarrassing, because I had to walk across the street in front of them. I know exactly what they were thinking, too. "There goes that girl who injured her butt by falling down stairs at a four-way intersection. I can't wait to tell everyone I know about this."

Musings on Spiritual Gifts (Can I Please Have Them All?)

So I have always been curious about the different spiritual gifts mentioned in Scripture. It is fascinating how each Christian has these different God-given gifts that allow the Church to function as one giant, complex, unified body. I've actually been pondering a lot lately about what my spiritual gifts are and how I will be used by the Lord.

Just last night I went to a church meeting where we took a short spiritual gifts test, and I scored high in a few categories and pretty low in some others. Of course, this was just a short and informal test. I do not rely on it to inform me of what gifts the Lord has blessed me with, and I do not think it is the final word in the spiritual gifts department.

But what cracks me up is how I want ALL the spiritual gifts. There are gifts that I know I do not possess. I am pretty sure I do not have the gift of hospitality. I have neither spoken in tongues nor interpreted any tongues. If I've performed a miracle through the power of God, I am unaware of it. And I've never prophesied. And according to 1 Corinthians 14:1, I should really want that gift, like, a lot. 

I hope I don't look like this in real life.

I understand that if we all had the same gifts then the Church could not function as God intended. Each Christian would just do the exact same thing as every other Christian. There would only be one committee in every Baptist church. How could life go on without a Committee of Committees, a Toilet Paper Committee, or a No Skirts Shorter Than 3 Inches Above the Knee Committee? But really, so many jobs that the Lord calls His children to do would never get done or would be done poorly. So it is good that there are many gifts and that we are blessed with different ones.

I still want them all, though.

Just A Typical Football Post

So y'all know that I go to the best football school in the entire world (this is hardly an exaggeration). The school is pretty nifty when it comes to football, in case you haven't heard. As in two-national-championships-in-the-last-three-years kind of nifty. That phrase was hyphenated and italicized because if I were to read it aloud to you, I would read it really quickly and with emphasis.

Before I write anything else, I just want to state that I graduated from a rival university. It is fabulous, I loved going to school there, and I can't wait to visit that lovely town again. I even went to football games, cheered for them, and had a fabulous time! But let's just be honest: my current school kinda wins the football battle against my former school. I know that there are years in which this is not true; I don't wanna hear about it again because I've heard about it a ridiculous number of times. But currently, this is true. And also the number of national championships between the two teams indicates the truth of my statement.

But really, because of the whole football greatness thing, games exist solely on either end of the stress continuum.

On one end, opponents decide that football just really ain't their thang, and they just play child games while my team whoops 'em. It gets kinda boring. There's not any stress or tension, and so everyone just leaves at half-time. Who doesn't like to pay a million dollars to watch half a game?

That's for real supposed to be a drawing of a sleeping person, but there's a reason I'm in school to become a speech pathologist and not an artist.

On the other end, a team actually shows up to play Big Boy Football, and nobody knows how to react. As the game progresses and the teams actually struggle against each other to win, all us fans are falling out of our seats and pulling out our hair. It suddenly becomes more intense and stressful than finals, elections, and hurricanes. And if a loss actually occurs, then it's like the entire world has ended and we can't ever face anyone who cheers for another team. Because they'll call us losers. Like they've never lost a game (except for all those games that they've lost).

Let's just be honest, football is always kind of stressful. I'm super nervous for the players. When I hear their helmets hit each other, it's just awful. I'm certain that I've seen way more concussions occur than I should have ever seen simply through watching football. Every time someone is tackled my blood pressure rises until everyone gets up and walks away from the scene of the attack. I know, no need to be dramatic, but really there's a need to be dramatic. Those poor fellows could get really hurt! That's probably an intensely girly thing to state, but whatever.

So the moral of this post is to watch football or don't live in the Southeast.

The Most Stupid Blog Entry Regarding Cooking Ever

Cooking is something that I once swore I would forever hate. However, it has become almost a hobby of mine now.

I don't know if that means I actually like cooking or if I like avoiding schoolwork. Maybe both. I'm not certain. But they main point is that I have become a pro at cooking for one. It'd be nice to cook for more than one, since every recipe ever calls for enough ingredients to feed an army. However, I'm not exactly in the situation to cook for more than just myself, so therefore I cook for one!

I mean, I have been loving cooking me some chicken breast with olive oil, casseroles, pastas, and desserts. It's been a regular cooking festival in this apartment this semester. There is just one thing I cannot seem to master: cooking without getting stuff everywhere!

The above picture is supposed to be me, in my kitchen, after making spaghetti.

However, I am a clean person, and the mess drives me nuts, so I clean my counters and wash the dishes right away after making and consuming my supper. And that brings me to another point. How on earth can so many pots, pans, dishes, and utensils be used when making one meal? It just doesn't seem fair! 

The above picture is of a meal, and then the 20 million dishes in my sink after cooking that one meal.

It is kind of a pain in the butt to cook a good meal. However, I have learned that it is worth it. This is the first time I have had my own kitchen, so it has been a blessing. When I was getting my undergrad degree, I lived in a dorm thingy for 4 years and did not have a kitchen. So now that I have one, I love it. It is time consuming learning to really cook for real, and I might make some really atrocious meals, but I'm just glad to now be able to make those atrocious meals! 

Ultimately, cooking is good. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know it. But I do wish that I could just eat ice cream for every meal. It requires much less dish washing.

Look Yo Age

Appearances play a fairly substantial role in life. I think that everyone can agree with that. Personal presentation can make or break a career. I might not have a career yet, but that's what graduate school is for, correct? And I do try to look like I am a professional (try is probably the key word in that sentence). However, I can't seem to convince some folks that I really am my age.

I'm 22 years old. Now, I know that is no by no means ancient (except that I'm basically an old maid by Southern standards). However, I do get caught off guard by the number of people who seem genuinely surprised that I am how old I am! 

A year or so ago, I had to go to the bank and open a new account. (The following conversation is an approximate summary of the actual conversation).The lady at the desk scrutinized me and asked, "Are you at least 18? How old are you?"

"I'm 21."

"Are you sure?"

"Well... yep."

"Show me your ID."

"Okiedokie."

*Examines ID, returns it to me, and doesn't acknowledge my honesty*

Now, on this particular day, I was probably wearing very casual clothes, minimal makeup, and had my unbrushed hair in a ponytail. I know that sounds really cute; it's unbelievable how single I am. But anyway, the point is that I was not fixed up and therefore perhaps looked younger. You know, because younguns don't wear makeup or something. I don't know; just go with it.

However, just the other day, I had a child ask me how old I was. It may or may not be relevant that I was all fixed up on this occasion, because I had clinicals. We were talking about something or another, and she just abruptly asked me about my age. The conversation went something sorta like this: *Interrupts natural flow of conversation* "Um, how old are you?"

"I'm 22."

"Oh... okay."

"How old do you think I am?" *Hopes that she doesn't say anything older than my true age*

"I guess like 19-ish."

"Well... nope."

"Okay."

It was a really great conversation, and I know you're glad I shared it with you.

Now don't get me wrong; I know that 19 years old and 22 years old are not separated by a large number of years. I'm pretty horrible at math, but I can calculate the difference between them (probably). And I definitely prefer to be perceived as young rather than old. Hopefully people will continue to perceive my appearance as young as I age. 

I guess I'm just curious. What do people perceive my age to be, and why do they perceive it to be what it is?

Maps are great if you can read them

It's not any fun getting lost. I've discovered this many times since moving to Tuscaloosa. Now, I've always been aware that I have a less than stellar sense of direction. Just so you know, if we are taking a road trip  do not appoint me as the navigator. But these past two weeks have been ridiculous. It is almost as though the universe has plotted against me regarding my need to arrive at a place and my inability to do so.

It all began when I needed to go to a very small town in Alabama for a wedding. Vernon is a little place, not too far from Tuscaloosa, but far enough that I got desperately lost and drove nearly to Columbus, Mississippi. My mother and I were trying to get to a wedding rehearsal. We were supposed to arrive by 6:00, but let's just say that at 6:15 I noticed a sign designating that we were a mere 17 miles from Columbus. Also, the roads in Mississippi were terrible. 

Mississippi: making Alabama look a little bit better in the eyes of the rest of the nation. 

Just kidding, Mississippi. Y'all are alright. 

Anyway, that was just my first lost adventure (and granted, the most severe) since moving to Tuscaloosa. Some of the others have occurred on campus at the university. I might have had an excuse the first time I walked with some girls in my program from the building in which my classes are held to the student center. We didn't know the most direct route (or really any route; we just knew the general direction). The distance between the two buildings is pretty great considering that they are on the same campus. I mean, it probably shouldn't have taken us like two hours to get there, but we did stop by a museum-y thing for a while. So perhaps we are excused.

However, then we walked a second time, and got lost again. It didn't take quite as long to arrive this second trip, but we also didn't go to any museum-y things.

And then we did it a third time! We've gotten turned around 3/3 trips we have taken from our building to the student center. This last trip, we estimated that we walked for an hour and half. That's just walking time; it does not include any time we spent in the bookstore or at our pit stop in the rec center on the way back to our building.

None of this includes the multitude of times I have just driven in the wrong direction on the correct street, or in the correct direction down the wrong street. It's just not cool. 

I'm thinking I need to hire a guide to lead me around. Anybody interested in the job?

On a completely different note, this blog has had over 1,000 views (not including my own)! I mean, that's not too shabby for a college girl who writes sporadically and without purpose.

To Granddaddy

My favorite song right now is the hymn "In the Garden". I have the Brad Paisley version of it, and I can listen to it over and over again. But what is important is not that it is my favorite song, but why this is my favorite song. This song helped me so much after my Granddaddy passed away. I encourage you to look it up and listen to it while you read this, especially if you're unfamiliar with the lyrics to the song.

My love for this song is not upbeat, but it is uplifting. It doesn't make me exactly happy, but it does give me joy. I often cry when singing this song; it is bittersweet. In fact, it taught me what the "bittersweet" really means. For whatever reason, this song was used by the Lord to give me comfort.

My Granddaddy loved being outside. His home and his land were extremely important to him. His huge yard in SmallTown, AL was his Garden of Eden, in a sense. I heard "In the Garden" shortly after Granddaddy's funeral, and a very distinct mental image blossomed.

I imagine my Granddaddy, as he was when I was a little girl. He is not sick, frail, and weak like he was before    dying. No, rather he is healthy and independent. He is back in his hometown, the place he loved. The place I love because of my grandparents. And he is sitting in his backyard, near some flowers. And that is where my Lord comes to meet him. I can't see the face of God; since I can't imagine that detail, He is more or less just Light. But He comes to my Granddaddy, in the garden, the backyard. He walks around my Granddaddy's yard with my Granddaddy, and He tells my Granddaddy that he is His own. And the joy they share as they tarry there... Well, my imagination only goes so far. I can't comprehend, due to the fact that I am alive.

That is how I imagine my Granddaddy meeting God, the very second he left his body. The very second the hospital ceased containing him. The very second that medicine, doctors, and machines no longer had any power over him. Of course, no one can absolutely know if anyone else is saved. You can only be sure of yourself. But from the way my Granddaddy tried to live his life and the way he openly claimed Jesus as his King, I am confident he is genuinely a Christian and his soul is in Heaven. This hymn allowed me to connect the passing of my Granddaddy's soul from Earth to God's Kingdom.

As I sit here writing this, I have never died. That is obvious. I do not know what it is like to meet God after death. I do not know what my Granddaddy experienced with death.The above scenario is my imagination, a symbolic creation to represent my belief in God and how He gathers His children to Heaven after their death. However, I do believe that God used it, or even perhaps gave it to me, to comfort me. I know that my Granddaddy came to the garden alone, but God met him there. I miss my Granddaddy; I love him so much. And that, mixed with the absolute, pure, complete joy that my Granddaddy felt when he met God in the garden, leaves me joyously sad, if you know what I mean.