Languages

I speak several different languages.
I have only lived in two places my entire life, Oklahoma and Texas, but my vocabulary is large in four different languages.


Hick comes from mah roots. Sometahmes wheen Ah get real tard or wheen Ah'm talkin' to one a mah famly members, Ah talk hick. Ah lose all dignity from mah speech and let words fall rahght off a mah tongue. Ah don't even re'lize it 'til somebody 'round me gives me a strange look. Then ah clear mah throat and move back into the proper way of speaking.
I can keep up with the business world in my speech. I can go from talkin' all hick-lahke to speaking professionally at the sound of a ringtone. When I need to put on the business suit, I clean up pretty well. I still have a tinge of hick in my voice, but I use it for charm. Who can resist a sweet Southern Belle? (I just batted my long eyelashes atcha.)
Another language I speak isn't too foreign to most. Those who took Calculus and Physics in high school--hold on, let me adjust my classes--speak and understand nerd-speech. I used to be able to keep up with the best of them when it came to derivatives and meters per second squared, but after three years without math and science, I speak more along the lines of commas and apostrophes. I speak grammar-nerd, which may very well be the worst of all nerd-speeches.
The last language I've accumulated over the years has words such as propitiation, sanctification, and salvation. Common conversations discuss daily devotionals, being called into a ministry, and the latest worship music. Since I've been speaking this language since the ripe age of birth, I tend to graze over phrases like "died on a cross for our sins" without taking into consideration what I am saying and what my audience is thinking. This language is the most important of my languages because if I never explain the words I say, and if I can never put in to different words what Jesus means to me--without speaking Christianese--I will never help build the kingdom of Heaven, or God's kingdom, or get people to go to Heaven--whichever makes most sense to you.


Languages come with cultures, and cultures define the boundaries of languages whether they mean to or not. Therefore, on any given day, I am a part of four completely different cultures--and for that I am grateful.

Senioritis: Overwhelmed

I don't mean to do it, but I am constantly treading water.


I wish that were a literal statement, especially in the holiday season of eat-all-ya-want-workout-later, but in every other area of my life, my life seems to sink under the water.
I'm not whining; I'm just stating a fact.
The problem with this fact is that I'm the only one to blame. I pile tasks on myself like they're nothing, but at the end of the day, I don't have much progress to show for that pile. I may have knocked ten tasks off of my to-do list, but I am still not nearly close to the end of it, making the to-do list for the next day even longer.


That is probably the best way I have ever described the weight of being overwhelmed, and let me tell you, it's no fun. I like to have my hands in everything, I like to be everywhere with everyone doing everything, but I am one person who can be in one place at one time.
Boo.

I have a lot of decisions coming up. I have a lot of papers that are due. I have a lot of responsibilities that I am currently avoiding for the simple fact that I don't know if I can pull myself away from my task at hand to go pray about those decisions and to go write those papers. This blog is actually one of those marks off of my to-do list.


I understand now why seniors drop out during the last semester in college. I understand now why Kenny Fickling hardly ever came to class his last semester--yes, I just put him on blast, but I'm sure he won't mind; it's the truth. I understand why planning a wedding during one's last semester is the worst idea ever--no, I'm not planning a wedding, and Aaron was wise to not ask me to plan one.
I simply want to lie on the couch in my long sleeved flannel and sweat pants, flip on a movie, and eat popcorn for weeks on end. After three and half years of pushing myself toward papers and perfection, I deserve it.


Instead, I'm gonna go pray. Cliche? Nah, I just know that I don't know how to keep myself afloat, but the good Lord does. I need a little peace and clarity in my mumble-jumbled head.

And I'm gonna eat cookies and cream ice cream, just in case you wanted to know.

Sweet Stormy

I'm not a pets kinda girl.


Cats are obnoxious, and big dogs scare me. Little dogs need attention; birds are annoying; fish need changed water; gerbils just smell. If something causes a house to have a specific odor or something runs at/to me in the yard, I don't like it.


I like cows and pigs, chickens and horses. They need food and water and no lovin'. Granted, a horse needs to be ridden from time to time in order to be in constant rideable shape, but he/she doesn't bug me by neighing until I get the saddle and bridle.


With that said, you'll be surprised to know that I have found a sort of loving adoration for my boyfriend's childhood dog, Stormy. Stormy is an eleven-year old German Sheppard who lives in Aaron's parents' front yard.


Apparently Stormy used to be the mean, fearless protector Kendra, Aaron's younger sister. Stormy would growl at whomever would be with Kendra and sometimes chase people away--I like to think that she chased lots of boys away on Kendra's behalf. I imagine Kendra bringing a nervous boy home to meet the parents and telling him he had to get passed Stormy first, which sometimes didn't happen because I've heard stories of her growls and bites. When Stormy didn't like someone, that person knew.


I don't normally pet Stormy--because she's an outside dog, she smells--but every time I step onto Marty and Sherry's porch, I greet that sweet, old dog, and she seems to smile up at me. She's never attacked me, so I'd venture to say that she likes me, which is a relief because I'd probably pee my pants if she even growled at me.


One day, Stormy will be gone, sadly enough, and The Littles will mourn the loss of a long-time beloved friend. And instead of standing off to the side like an anti-pet person would, I'll be sad, too. I've not know her all eleven years of her life, but I love seeing her every weekend; she's the perfect piece of comfort to my sweet second home.