"Legends of Rhododendrons" Segment 1

Here is a segment of the work-in-progress-novel I am writing. I thought that I would share this a portion at a time with you all. It totals 23 pages as of right now. Maybe your comments will inspire me to work on it some more. Actually, a lull in the huge course load I have with school would be inspiration!

Mothers always tell their children not to touch the hot stove. It will burn. My frantic mom made this torturing experience inaccessible to me throughout my childhood. It was as if my small, petite mother spent all of her hours maneuvering just behind me, in the hopes to catch my hand before I made contact with the scalding metal stovetop. Later down the road of my years, I remember telling a friend my greatest dream in life was to finally be burned. At least I’d know for myself that the stove was hot.
Growing up, there was constantly that sheltering, as well as my hunger to break loose. My parents were real Christians. They weren’t these secularized religious slugs that don’t follow the words of their God. In fact, they followed to the utmost. They lived out the commands of Jesus, loved their brother Christians, and did not falter from their convictions. I think this is what drove me away the most. I knew that I could not live up to their God. Even with His forgiveness, I did not want to live in constant pursuit of holiness. I did not want to always be growing in my “walk” with their God. I knew that it had to be true—I was not stupid—I just couldn’t commit. My rebellion was finally complete when I ran away at the age of sixteen, moved in with my secret boyfriend, and thought that my life could only get more exciting.

“Hello?” My mother’s sweet voice pierced my mind from the other side of the phone line. “Hello?”
“Mom…” Sweat caked my palms as I gripped the phone with the force of Goliath.
“Oh, my,” I could hear the tears forming in her dull green eyes. “Jack, it’s Eve!” Her voice was somewhat muffled from her pale hand sliding over the receiver.
“Mom, how are you?” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it.
“Evey, we’re doing fine. Where are you? We’ve looked everywhere.”
“I moved out of Chris’s house a long time ago, if that’s what you’re asking.” Still the words were stuck in my throat, like a piece of food caught in my windpipe. I was stalling.
“We knew that months ago. Are you okay? Are you hurt? In trouble?” I could hear my dad saying something in the background, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Tell Dad I’m okay,” thinking that may ease his pacing. “I’ve moved around a lot.”
“Eve, baby, what is going on?” My mom’s panic was starting to subside. I was going to stay on the line long enough for a conversation this time.
I could not push out the words that screamed in my mind. They needed to know, and I needed their help. Looming around me was the question of what would be the cost. Would their gentle nudging towards their truth push me out the door again? I had nowhere else to turn. The weeks of partying subsided as Chris and my relationship soured; the quick studio jobs singing backup for artists that would go farther, faster than me became few and far between. I was evicted, and the burning words that would not break loose still had to be said. One step at a time.
“Mom, I want to come home.”

Two Poems

Both of the following poems were written in Chicago, but at different times. I'll admit that I am a Chicago-lover (the city, not the musical or band). I've spent a lot of time there. Amazingly, while walking down Michigan Avenue I saw the same man playing the saxophone on the same street corner on two separate occasions, several months apart. I was in completely different moods one those occasions, so I wrote from different perspectives.

Passing

In the city’s wind a man stood alone
With his music, saxophone swaying
The passersby. Rushed steps clapped
The sidewalk, pushing their way through
The crowd. Now and then a coin is thrown
Into his musty case. Once I walked by without
Noticing his upturned collar to fight the cold.
My shoulder brushed another’s
And I turned back to listen and stare.
His fingers, covered from the remains
Of old gloves, pressed and released.
His sad face echoed the song, evening out
The fast tempo of Chicago’s Michigan Avenue,
And I added my dollar to the shallow case.




Stopping to Listen

On a sun soaked corner a man stood alone
With his music, saxophone sounds gliding
On the afternoon breeze.
The city’s congested screams quieted
As his musty case was caught in my view.
I recognized the threadbare gloves
He wore while his fingers pressed and released.
I waited for his song to end, its whistling tones
Bouncing to the fast tempo, and his eyes squinted
In a smile. I dropped my dollar into the shallow case,
Wondering why his song had changed.

Ridiculous Things

Okay, so I was sitting around with my family last night after we cleaned up our dinner mess, and I asked my husband what his plans were for tomorrow. He proceeded to tell me about normal Saturday activities we had been anticipating. "What?" I said. "Isn't tomorrow Friday?" My husband said no, it was Saturday. I continued to argue that it was Thursday, and tomorrow was Friday, and nearly convinced him. However, we looked at our handy cellphone calenders, and sure enough, he was right. See, this is what comes from not teaching for a week. I lose days. I have been messed up since. It is like Friday never existed for me this week.

This is the view outside my front window. I looked out this morning with fresh eyes. The sky had completely cleared over night, and I just stood in awe of the amazing work of my Lord. God's creation is always before us, but we so often do not really look. The thing is, this creation of God is his testimony to the world that he exists. "For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse" (Romans 1:20). So, if we have the perfect knowledge of the truth of Jesus Christ, shouldn't we praise him for the testimony of his creation? What an awesome God!



"Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God." Psalm 90:2

A Gift from Mekelle

Here is a video we made for my parents' birthdays this summer.

Plugs

Hey, check out my links on the left hand side of this page. I just got a blog up and running for the Elementary students, so spread the word. I also have links to some ministries and my husband's myspace, where you can hear some songs that we wrote.

Snow in Spring: A Mountain Ride

Edges are one thing that I cannot get used to. It is the great expanse, the drop, the wide nothingness which causes my stomach to squeeze into a tight fist. This mountain, Roan Mountain, did not seem too high, but as we skirted along roads that became icy on our way up, the edges began to sharpen in razor clarity.

Down below the winding curves of slick pavement and crystal trees, the world was green and new buds began to flower. Not here, not this height. Not where your car dances between clouds and frozen branches. I wanted to return to the safe, the green.

But it captured me. The starkness of the clear, clear blue against speckled white caught the air from my lungs in awe and wonder. Who wanted to be stuck at the bottom in dull and muted evergreen when crisp, clean blue could catch your breath away?

But there is always an edge. There is always a border to how high we can reach. We could touch the clouds, but could we reach the sun? This edge was at Carver’s gap, closing off the top of the mountain until summer. Look, though, look. The expanse, the wideness of the sky stretching out like an endless sea. That is the place with no edges. If only we could keep going.

Just Some Pictures

This is our new house in Montana. See the for rent sign? Yeah, that ain't there no more!








Crazy hair during a Missouri summer.











You turn your back for one second, and you end up with a princess running around.








You remember Clint. This is in Cody, Wyoming at the Buffalo Bill Cody Museum. Yes, even while on vacation I try to learn something.

Funny student Antics

Stephen wrote, "Who led the COMITY for the DEILARATION of independence?"

and, "In what year did CHRISTIFER Columbus dicover the new world?"

and, "When was the TRETY of Paris SIGHNED?"

and, "Eye deklair it is knot mi fawlt!"



After reading outloud in the customary student monotone, I told the class that they are horrible readers. Drew declared, "I'm not horrible readers!"

My Testimony

As many testimonies given by those living in the “Bible belt”, I grew up in a Christian home. I prayed the sinner’s prayer at age twelve, went to church at Dardenne Presbyterian Church ever Sunday, was involved in church choir and youth group, and could probably name all the books of the Bible in order, forward and back. Maturing as a young adult, I did not drink or smoke, do drugs or use profanity in my speech. From all outward appearances, I was a great Christian kid. However, as the lyrics to a song I wrote later in life testify, “I would go to church daily, and show the world I was thinking of You. And all things appeared beautiful, but deep down was dead man’s bones.” I was an expert at wearing masks. Though outwardly I was the model Christian teenager, inwardly I had not been born again.

Instead of being the Christian that I set out to appear to be, I was a sinner and knew it. I did not give my parent’s much trouble, but I was rebellious at heart. When I started dating—exactly at the age my parents had regulated appropriate, sixteen—I was immediately caught in a lustful lifestyle. Throughout high school and into college I surrounded myself with friends that exuded sexuality. We didn’t party like other kids, but were overly flirtatious and affectionate with one another in such a way that earned unsavory reputations with peers.

As a Junior in high school, I started dating the boy that would ultimately turn my heart to the Savior I desperately needed. Cliff was the perfect mask to add to my collection. He was respectful, well mannered and well dressed. However, my relationship with him was not as wholesome as appearances showed. Quickly, we were fornicating, with promises of marriage after high school and college were finished. We dated three years, and through the emotional affects that physical intimacy incurs, I placed all of my identity, my hope, and my trust in this fallible human being. My conscience pricked often, though I was not willing to give up my sin. Ultimately, it took Cliff’s initiative to break off the relationship that finally woke me up to the spiritual condition I was in.

The break up was extremely difficult. Here I had put all of my trust in this young man, and he had failed me. My hopes were dashed, and I felt hollow and empty. I was used and unclean. I felt like giving up, and even contemplated suicide. In these desperate moments, it was my college roommate, a true Christian that encouraged me to seek the Lord. In the midst of my turmoil, I gave up my life to Christ. I pledged to God, in that moment, that I would follow Him wherever He would lead, and would trust and obey Him in all that He would show me.

From that point in my life to the present, this commitment to following God entirely has pushed me forward from faith to faith. I found joy in serving others in the Lord, been inspired by His word to write songs for His glory, and have learned the importance of loving Brethren in the Lord. God led me to marry my wonderful husband, Clint, who has been one of the greatest teachers and exhorters in my life. The Lord has challenged me with His word, and I have been willing to go where He will send me. I do not know where I would be in life if it were not for the renewing blood of Jesus Christ that brought me out of the darkness of sin into this new life where I die that He may live through me.

Deipnophobia

Here is a short story I wrote in college. When I was your teacher, I didn't let you see this creative side of me, but language and writing are really my passions. So, I thought I'd let you in on my world. The purpose behind the topics I choose to write about centrally revolve around the idea that without God, people's lives are filled with chaos. Though some of my stories do not have a "Christian" theme, I hope I represent how lost we are without Him.

Deipnophobia- A fear of dinner conversations

There were Gerber daisies in a jar on the table that morning. The huge blooms of orange and crimson red watered down the rest of the colors in the small kitchen of our first floor apartment. Those flowers were used in Jeff and Sarah’s wedding the day before, and at four o’clock the next morning their brightness was an offense to my eyes. I pulled my suitcase to the front door, and the old familiar squeak of its wheels made me halt for silence. The slick interior of my leather jacket, I had pulled it on over the pajama tank top I had not thought to change out of, felt colder on my bare shoulders in that moment. Slowly, I turned to place a small box next to those daisies when Kyle stumbled into the glow of fluorescent lights.

* * *

Eight weeks before the wedding, nearly in love, we had thought that moving in together was the best idea. Kyle’s apartment was two blocks from the campus where I taught voice, and we practically lived in each other’s places anyway. Kyle and I decided to just live like roommates—split the rent, groceries, electric bill. I ordered cable to be installed, so I paid for that. It was simple, and perfect. At first. In the beginning, we started out being super-polite to one another. He always put the lid down on the toilet, and I made the bed every morning. Kyle and I were constantly fawning over each other, and we cooked a meal together at least once a day. Two weeks after I moved in everything changed.

We had dinner with some friends of Kyle’s from the office; they all were programmers. Of course, I had nothing in common with them. I started to zone out as the appetizers were being served. Kyle had ordered me the spinach artichoke dip, even though he abhorred it. I was in the middle of my second dip when out of Kyle’s mouth spewed, “It’s almost as good as being married.” My mind boiled over. I had never been married, never wanted to be married, and had no intension of ever getting married. Living together was safer, better. How could he even suggest an alternative? I began to picture Kyle, twenty years from now: his gorgeous black hair thinning, his splendid gray eyes dim with complacency. Marriage was comfortable, convenient. After bills, mortgages and kids all the love and excitement dissipates. Didn’t he see that? I know that I saw it every holiday: Christmas with Mom and Jack, or Thanksgiving with Dad and Allison. No, I would never be like them. Least to say, after Kyle’s remark I didn’t remember the rest of the meal.

In the six weeks following the restaurant ordeal Kyle became more and more obvious in his intentions. The subtle hints dribbled out of his lovely mouth consistently as he continued to talk of married life. Each purposeful phrase bit at the back of my mind, and began to fill the air around me. Around the time the leaves were beginning to change in early October we went to the mall, and he tried to persuade me into a jewelry store to “just have some fun.”

“Come on,” he urged, “it’ll be fun, aren’t diamonds a girl’s best, um… pal, or something like that?”

“Best friend, babe, best FRIEND. Anyway, I don’t base my identity on stupid clichés,” laughing, I tried to pull him away from the rows of glass display cases.

“Whatever, you’re the one who dragged me here to go SHOE shopping,” he sneered and pulled my arm back in the direction of the shining stones.

“That’s different; I needed shoes for the wedding.” He then raised his eyebrows at that comment, and tugged my arm suggestively. “Kyle, no. Look, I just don’t want to go.” I yanked my hand away from his grip, and walked down the mall corridor. The rest of the day was ruined while I tried to play happy, and Kyle gave me the cold shoulder.


Further and further my mind recessed at Kyle’s persuasions. I battled constantly between my love and devotion to him, and the resistance to his new personality changes. The politeness we experienced when first living together began to sag on Kyle’s part in the third week of our living arrangement. My first class starts at 8:30 a.m., while Kyle doesn’t have to get to the office until nine. So, I always get up at seven and let him sleep. My alarm is set for 6:40; the coffee pot in the kitchen is set for 7:10. This way, I can press the snooze at least twice, the coffee is ready for me when I step out of the shower, and I can drag myself to my closet-of-an-office by eight to prepare any material for the day. One particular morning after the alarm buzzed for the second time Kyle poked his head out of the mound of quilts and blankets on his side of the bed, and practically yelled, “Can’t you get up when it goes off the first time? I’m trying to sleep!”

“Well… why don’t you just put every blanket we own on your head so you can’t hear me?” I stormed out of the bed after my lame comeback. That morning I was exceptionally hard on the poor soprano that took up my first half hour block.

A week later my dad called the apartment to invite us over for a mid-October barbeque. Hastily, before discussing the situation with me, Kyle accepted the invitation. Of course, it was the beginning of senior recitals, and three of my students had theirs scheduled that same week.

“But you certainly have time for one barbeque,” Kyle plainly spoke. I did not. However, one practice was cancelled and another was moved to the next morning at seven, and my dad was appeased.

The evening went well enough, though forced inside by the unexpected, bitterly cold wind. Allison was personified by that wind, but that was nothing unusual. She scurried around the recently remodeled kitchen with practiced grace while my dad spouted off small talk for an hour before retreating to the state-of-the-art entertainment center to watch some sort of sport. I had absolutely no interest in it, but that did not stop Kyle from following in line after the bid golden retriever Allison bought Dad two years ago. That left me staring blankly into the over polished face of my stepmother as she chattered on about the wealth and happiness she married into.

“I could never imagine living any way than the way I do right now,” she whined. “Your daddy has been so good to me. Look at my new kitchen, isn’t it wonderful? And to think, just eight years ago I was just one of his paralegals, and he lived in that shabby thing on the old side of town.”

I sneered silently, adding nods and grunts at appropriate intervals to appear as if I were listening. All the while, I knew that this fake woman was living off my real mom’s sweat that earned Dad’s way through law school.

“Oh, Rachel. Don’t look so glum when I am so magnanimously happy!” I don’t think that she really knew what “magnanimously” meant. We left at 10 o’clock that night, and Kyle proclaimed that the evening was a great success.

The suffocation kept billowing in when last Tuesday night I was watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I was all intent with my popcorn and Diet Dr. Pepper. Now, I am usually a person that doesn’t mind snuggling up to someone, especially Kyle, while watching a video. I rather enjoy his warm body as a pillow, and his fingers stroking my shoulder length auburn hair. However, this is not the case with Indiana Jones. All of my family and friends know that I must sit cross-legged on the floor, five feet from the TV, in order to be thoroughly engrossed. Personally, I believe whole-heartedly that this is the only way any sane person can watch this great trilogy. And yes, Kyle knows this as well. Yet, in the middle of the part where Indiana punches out the Nazi on the blimp, Kyle decides it is an appropriate time to get all mushy in my face. I swear that when his head got in the way of the TV, and his hands starting roaming, I nearly slugged him. It was just a little too much.


We still cook at least one meal together a day, but the atmosphere seems distant and cold. I retreat to the music room in the evening, playing my keyboard for hours to relieve the stress that has been building. Sometimes, Kyle comes in to talk. I caught him two days ago standing in the doorway. His face, with its pale tone and splash of freckles on the bridge of his nose, was washed over with a sad awe. I could not completely make out his eyes due to the Cowboys ball cap pulled down over his black curls.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve been practicing this piece for the winter faculty recital.”

“No,” he protested. “You are beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

The morning after Jeff and Sarah’s wedding, Kyle stared at the box I was setting down, and said, “What are you doing?” He looked at the box and not at me.

“I’ve got to go,” I set the small velvet box on the cold table. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Rachel,” he yawned halfway through my name, and it came out sounding like Ray-el, “don’t leave.” He never covers his mouth when he yawns.

“What else is there for me to do? Why should I stay if I don’t want this life?” My sentences were slow and deliberate. I remember how hard it was for me to formulate each syllable. For the last four weeks I had been gathering together the strength to say them, and I just wanted to be done with it all.

Rubbing his eyes, he finally looked up to meet my gaze. I couldn’t hold it. Kyle was always able to tear down my walls. “Please. If you’re not ready, it’s okay. I just want to be with you,” Kyle’s gray eyes brimmed with tears. He had been so sweet the day before. At Jeff and Sarah’s wedding he had been the best man, and I was the maid of honor. He was ecstatic when we walked down the isle together, was very complimentary of my forest green gown, and beamed when he caught the garter at the reception. Then, in the middle of his toast at the reception he stood up on the table. In the midst of gasping relatives, Kyle proposed, handing me that little velvet box. Of course I had to say yes, he bullied me into it. Hours later he reached out for me as I edged toward the door, “Tell me what I have to do to change your mind.”

I looked back to the doorknob, that shiny gold portal of deliverance from this mess. If I could only turn the knob, even touch its cold metallic handle. I needed out. “Kyle, you don’t understand. You can’t do anything.”

I reached down for the handle of my suitcase. One step closer to the door. The air seemed to close in around me. The entry way to the apartment was shrinking while Kyle’s pleading eyes filled all my senses. I wanted the cool November air on my face. I needed the drizzling rain to coat my hair. The doorknob was inches from my grasp. Gathering my strength, I took one last glance into those beautiful gray eyes, “Goodbye Kyle, I’ll get the rest of my stuff in a couple of weeks.”

Turning back around, with suitcase in hand, I reached for the doorknob. A faint reflection of orange and crimson red gleamed on the gold surface just before my hand wrapped around its handle. With one deep breath I took the seemingly liberating step out of the Kyle-saturated air. Two steps later rain hit my face.