How a Mosquito Made Me Skip My GRE

What do a little black dress, my first GRE test date, a 10 hour silent ride in an F-250, and mosquitos have in common?

Two years ago this week, my grandma suddenly passed away. I had made a weekend home-visit during the last weekend of July where she came over for dinner and listened to stories of my trip to Disneyworld with Annie. Everything was fine. Everything was normal...or so it seemed (my mom has speculated grandma was experiencing some symptoms but not saying anything about it--she had always been a tough cookie). 10 days later, she showed up to the hairstylist disheveled, late, and with a hefty dent in her back bumper. 10 days later she began hospice care and 4 days later she passed away. Holy dang.

At first they thought she had a stroke...she had had one about a decade ago, so it was possible. But she got worse not better. She was poked and prodded and would lose consciousness and come back and would forget who my mom and aunt were and then remember a few hours later...it wasn't good..and they didn't know what was wrong or what to do. When she began her decline, my mom told us all not to worry, people often get worse before they get better. But then she wasn't getting better because they still didn't know what was causing the problems but the words "west nile virus" were being whispered. Still, my dad told me to stay in St. Louis because I was scheduled to take the GRE in less than a week. [Insert gigantic amounts of inner turmoil and the rawness of knowing this was the wrong thing to do.] The next day mom decided they'd be discontinuing medical intervention and signing grandma into hospice care. Everything was happening freaky fast. I was feeling awful for not being there, even though I knew there was nothing I could do if I were there. That morning, I texted my dad and asked when Andrew, my older brother was coming home--he had no GRE to worry about but was also preparing for his second year of law school--dad said he was already home. Immediately struck with a tsunami of guilt and pain, while trying to keep myself pulled together, I called my dad and wondered aloud if he and my mom even wanted me to come home because it didn't feel that way. After a few minutes of clarifying conversation (they had written down the incorrect date for my test, thinking it was monday that week rather than thursday) we planned that I would tuck-n-roll into my uncle's truck the next morning as he and his wife drove to Michigan from Dallas.

We met my mom at grandma's house and immediately went to the hospital. My brother and sister hadn't been allowed to come to the hospital and my mom advised me that "grandma didn't look like grandma, she looked like an old lady...and she's got bad hair" but my heart wanted to say goodbye. I stood in the hall as my uncle went in. Whatever it is that comprises my core of emotion and connection dropped inside me like a brick. Mom came out and stood with me...and I cried. I said goodbye from there, I wanted to remember my grandma with clean, poofy, well colored hair, and fresh red lipstick--I figured she'd want me to remember her that way too.

She passed away 36 hours later surrounded by all three of her children. Upon her death, the CDC could do the necessary tests and determined she had, indeed, been struck down by the West Nile Virus. My mom thinks it ironic that such a tough woman was brought to her grave by a mosquito.

I wasn't even close to the woman. This wasn't the grandma who spoiled you with candies and gave you three hugs before she left every time she came over. I was only 8 when my grandpa died and 11 when my grandma had her first health scare, other than than our first dog needing to be put down when I was 13 and out second dog being continuously ill, I didn't know the face, the smell, the feeling of death or illness. I was 21 years old, 5 days from beginning my senior year of college, and unsure if I would be able to handle the deaths of my other set of grandparents...the kind who spoil you with your favorite foods and drive two hours to take you out to lunch even on your half-day break from working at summer camp and give you three hugs when they arrive and when they leave. I think about it all the time, but no amount of preparation is going to make those days any less surprising and excruciating. I feel deeply, I always have. It's because I love deeply too.

The Love Struggle: Engaged or Disengaged?

Not the engagement marked with a sparkly ring that leads to white dresses and well-tailored suits and cake tasting and place settings and hundreds of phone calls.

The engagement of paying attention, of making eye contact, of listening and actually hearing...opposed to the disengagement of feeling bothered, cut off, disinterested, and apathetic. This has been the topic of my week...or maybe better said as my choice of the week.

I've been babysitting two boys (ages 10 and 7) which really means I've been conducting 8 hours of play-therapy for a significantly reduced rate. I have no significant memories of babysitters that were harmful to my sense of self or esteem. However, no memories of the contrasting effort exist either. This gives me pause...childhood is short and the time in which the child is highly impressionable and malleable is even shorter, yet those who interact with children often lose this knowledge before saying 'hello.' From my experience as a small human as well as my later experiences as a coach, babysitter, and social worker, I've born witness to child/adult interactions mostly disengaged. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm not saying anyone is a bad parent or babysitter or nanny or coach or teacher or whathaveyou. I'm saying that we just aren't paying as much attention as we should.

When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tihuman and/or people around them. From the day of conception, the attachment process begins. It can be built or it can be destroyed. Though it is not a linear process, we certainly hope there is more building occurring than destruction.When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tiny human and/or people around them. When tiny humans cry, they are held and attempts are made to comfort. And pretty much whenever the tiny human does anything, the tiny human makers get genuinely excited.

And then the attention and excitement wane to occasional annoyance and a struggle for control. There's a lot of hearing larger humans tell the smaller humans what to do, where to go, how to act, etc. While this is certainly necessary to some point, there's a line that many people straddle between guiding and ordering, myself included.

On Monday, I decided my ten 8-hour days would be profitable for these boys. To have fun is a no-brainer, but "Emily camp"as they are calling it, has a richer goal: to infuse each activity with meaning and to intentionally create hundreds of teachable moments and opportunities for growth.

How?

• I'm asking open ended questions and listening carefully so I can mention parts of their answer in later conversation (it really helps that I'm an auditory learner). 
• The boys are given choices galore and when they say "I don't care," we develop a pro/con list quickly in our heads to initiate choosing and problem solving. 
• The games we play have a connection to gross motor development, memory, or creativity. 
• The praise "good job" has been exiled from my lexicon for the time being. Rather, I articulate praise, recognition, and accomplishment in tricky ways that let the boys know I actually saw and was paying attention to what they were saying/doing.
• We've had a conversation about what is included in a full apology and that sometimes it's better to say "I'm not ready to apologize yet" instead of saying it without meaning it.
• We have activities about feelings and how to respond to them effectively. 

There's probably more but that's the gist of it. I could let them play video games and watch tv all morning while I read then eat lunch while standing or walking around to turn on music or play with the dog then go to the basketball court and let them play while I sit on the opposite side of the hoop and swipe through facebook or pinterest on my phone. I'll admit that I've done that before and sure, I get paid the same amount as I do as when I'm truly engaged, but the boys connection to me is so much stronger because I pay attention to them and am teaching them things and building up their specific strengths and I've already noticed a bit of a change in behavior. 

Now, here's my struggle: I can do this for 8 hours a day then go home to my apartment where I don't have to give anyone direction or pay keen attention or remain entirely positive and at an even keel, but I'm not about to sign up for the 24-hour shift. So, how are parents supposed to do it? I don't know.  They get to go to their jobs all day and do whatever they do and then after hours at work, I'm asking them to come home and be fully attuned to their small humans...that's a china plate resting on a goose's head. I don't have an answer. Perhaps, that's why I'm staying on birth control until I figure it out.

Smitten with the Mitten

Dear beautiful, creative, courageous readership,

May I offer you my most sincere apologies for essentially disappearing for the 10 days without a word. I took an impromptu trip to Michigan (aka my parents' house) led by a craving for two flavors of ice cream native to the Great Lakes state: superman and Traverse City Cherry.

Before booking my flight, I had spent about 5 hours scouring the internet in hopes of encountering a company that could send these delicacies to my in Boston, but, alas, I found no such option. It turned out to be pretty good timing--my parents didn't have anything planned and I had some time off work and school--cha-ching! So I booked a flight. And I didn't bring my computer.

Visiting my parents/hometown/high school friends carries with it lukewarm nostalgia and the awkward anxiety you might feel watching a red, white, and blue lights flashing in your rearview mirror. I moved out when I was barely 18 and though I visit twice a year [Christmas and sometime in the summer] so to keep up on my 6-month dental visits I've realized it's been really difficult for my parents to keep up with how I'm changing and growing up." Thankfully, I'm a different person than I was when I left as well as halfway through college and even last summer, and it's challenging for my parents to assimilate that into their understanding of me as their daughter. That makes relationship hard for us both. We speak a different language. We want different things out of life. It's better now than it has really ever been but I doubt we will ever be any more than superficially close.

All the relationships are tough...yet I'm figuring out how to make them work. It's been 5 years since I moved out and, in that time, the longest time I've back was the 2 1/2weeks last August prior to the Boston move. This means I don't have many opportunities to see my Michigander friends and because I've always been one to choose quality over quantity ("quality time" is my #1 love language), lengthy one-on-one outings sprinkle my visits home instead of parties and bars and 'going to the game.' Some call it introversion. I call it intentionality.

So, I saw Jackie and Angela and my grandparents and Toni (and met her boyfriend, Lou). I cuddled with my parents' puppies, Rugby and Lance. I finally got to go up north and see the log cabin my uncle purchased in February. I saw my brother post-bar exam and he gave me a tour of his new digs in downtown Detroit. And, of course, I ate ice cream at least once a day.

And in return for me gracing the state with my presence, Michigan unleashed the mosquitos specifically craving my blood. Worth it.

Friends, that is the reason behind my absence from the interwebs. Next time, I promise that I will tell you in advance. 

An Ode

For the past week, I've been working on writing a poem. Turns out, however, that the poetry gods did not bestow their gifts upon me at birth. Coming to grips with that limitation this week has been extremely difficult, harder than my last long training run on Friday (22 miles that turned into 25 when Kels and I missed a turn). 

Though that sarcasm mainly fuels that last thought, it's not completely false. I simply don't like to not be good at things, hence my stubborn determination. 

I had intended my poem to speak volumes but I struggled to find ways to convey the whit, sincerity, and transparency of its subject matter.

to my cousin:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KELLY

I'm sorry I couldn't write you a poem

but you still deserve to know what I wanted to share;

When we were younger, I thought you were much older, wiser, and put together. I thought you had all the answers, or at least enough that I could learn what you knew and be totally fine. In time, as we both grew, I began to see your questions, struggles, imperfections. And when those things broke the shiny veneer I had constructed over you, I was not disappointed, instead I appreciated your authenticity as you tried to figure out what your authenticity actually looked like authentically. 

When I was in high school and you were just beginning college, I remember believing you had your life all figured out and you were capable of doing the work to figure mine out as well. Now that I'm a few years past that 'just beginning college' time, holy cow am I sorry for thinking what I thought. At 18, I didn't know who I was or what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be or really who I didn't want to be and I certainly wasn't capable of figuring that out for someone else.

Now we may be 700 miles apart and maybe even further in the not-so-distant future, but I've shared moments with you I haven't with many. Simple moments: crying on the phone because my parents inability to understand me hurts so bad, photoshoots on train tracks, making birthday surprise cupcakes,  feeling connected though few words are shared. 

You're not my best friend but you're certainly my favorite cousin--go ahead, tell Brent. 

TRUE BEAUTY 

shines from the soul and warms the world 

with its kindness, compassion, and integrity

Text from last night...

Obsession.

Join the club.

Confession time:

I'm Emily and I've always wanted to be a Disney Princess.

I'm Emily and I've always been trying to be someone other than myself.

I'm Emily and I've always been concerned about what others wanted from me.

          I'm Emily and I'm just Emily.

          I can't be a Disney Princess. 

          I can only be me.

          I can only control pleasing myself.

I love water--lakes but not oceans.

I love walking on sand but hate the feeling of dry sand on my feet (or anywhere else).

I'm really good with words but I find it hard to talk about my problems.

So what if I'm a little quirky...you are too.

You do you and I'll do me. 

Shit happens.

Yeah, I said it. 

and I swore on the interwebbs.

And when shit hits the fan, you've gotta cover your own head and run your little legs to safety. Sometimes you just have to do what's best for you and not be overly concerned about what that means for everyone else. It's not selfishness. It's not arrogance. It's survival and self-care and identity.

Shit has hit the fan.

It's not that we're in a fight 

but this is bigger than a disagreement or just an "issue."

Because it matters.

to me.

I cannot engage my parents in relationship right now. I just can't. It hurts too much and I'm too keenly aware of their ability to hurt me even more. For now, I don't need to. In fact, I think it would be silly and even unhealthy to try--certainly inauthentic. 

I've gotta figure out where I stand and to feel precisely how I feel--and know that it's totally legitimate. Trying to "fix" this--the big "this" isn't going to work right now. I'll do me.

No matter how much I feel compelled to take care of the entire mess, we all know that would be ineffective and unhealthy. Eventually, maybe I will have cleaned up the mess by doing it piece by piece, but first I need to take care of me. I need to be me. I need to simply do me. I need to stop worrying about what other people want me to do and if I'm disappointing them. And so do you.

You do you and I'll do me.

I'm sick and tired of doing things to satisfy people when those things do not simultaneously fulfill me. 

“The one who sets about making others better 

is wasting his time, unless he begins with himself.” 

– Ignatius of Loyola

the journey is the destination

When I was on a home visit two weeks ago, I mentioned to my mother that I was thinking about graduating a semester early. If I don't take at least 18 credits a semester, I get bored and I could have all my requirements taken care of with just another semester and a half. Sitting at the kitchen table, as I walked to the faucet to refill my waterbottle, my mom said,"Emily, slow down. You've always been trying to rush life. You need to just let it happen." 

There an alarming truth 

and a bit of parental wisdom.

She's right.

I have a control problem. 

I also have a short attention span and a free spirit. 

From a very young age, I've seemed to focus on the end goal rather than the process by which I achieve said goal. During the years I swam competitively, I constantly had pieces of bright colored paper with numbers taped to various focal points in my bedroom. These numbers were my goal times for the season. I did not make step by step, short-term goals. I set a big ones that were far in the distance, far from my reach. The goals were always attainable but often not fully attained because I would become intimidated. I focused on what was ahead rather than what was right now. 

My friends Annie and Chris recently bought TOMS whose pattern reads "the journey is the destination." When Annie told me about the shoes, I liked the saying but I hadn't reflected on it until now. 

What am I missing by living in the future?

Why can't I just enjoy this moment?

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what I'll do after I graduate in two years--will I go straight to grad school or will I volunteer for a year like I wanted to after high school? Where will I go to grad school? Am I going to want a Ph. D. or can I settle for a masters? Will I ever move back to Michigan or is that history? When would be the ideal time to get married? I've been thinking of what classes I want to take to get the best education suited for the field I want to enter.

I always rush through life.

Fact is, I'm gonna miss this.

Someone told me that undergrad is the time when you're supposed to read. You're supposed to read everything you can get your hands on. You're supposed to take any class that sounds even remotely interesting. The classes you take the most of are what you'll graduate with a degree in but that's not something to put your focus on. You aren't expected to have it all figured out as an undergrad. You aren't supposed to be a grown up yet (reference my previous post to gain an understanding of the defining characteristics of grown-up-ness). I understood the words this person was saying but not the concept. As I have witnessed my peers in action for the past two years, it seems as though most of them have it figured out. Most know what they want to do with their life, or they at least have a solid idea, and most certainly know what they do not want to do. But tonight as I thumbed through the Curriculum Vitae of a few professors, I realized that this air of confidence many of my peers seem to exude about their future plans is a total farce. 

These professors are some of the most brilliant and fascinating human beings I have ever known. Both are theology professors. One studied political science at Yale in her undergrad...now she teaches theology. The other played football and studied religion and business administration. After graduation, he went on to successfully work in the business world until religious life caught his heart. Then, he became a Jesuit and furthered his education in theology at Yale, Notre Dame, Oxford, and in Rome. These people I have grown to admire and trust had absolutely no idea what their lives were going to look like when they were my age. They did what they wanted and let life happen. 

This is one of those things that is a choice--a daily choice--but its a decision that is completely up to me. One of the most common things my campers last summer heard me say was "I want you to learn to live in the moment." Good going Em, perhaps you need to listen to yourself. 

Let life happen.

Perhaps the most simple yet difficult task I've ever been charged with. 

"The beauty of the Christian tradition is that it holds grace and human finitude together." JHR

Behind door number 1...

I've been in Michigan for the past three days in anticipation of my brother's college graduation this weekend.  My plane landed on Monday at 6:02 pm EST and it all began...actually, it began on the plane.

A baby a few rows behind me was crying. Not just crying but wailing and I wasn't havin' it. I sat there and pressed my face against the window and closed my eyes..."Daddy, please comfort that child. Please just do whatever you have to do to make her stop crying. Daddy, I'll pray the entire flight if that's what it'll take too get you to make her stop. We can talk this entire time if she just stops." I got out my journal and began to write and simultaneously the baby's shrieks ceased. "Shoot. Well, okay. You've got me now. Since I said we could talk, I've got some things to say..." That was the first time in a long time that I prayed undistracted, 

My life has seen its fair share of bumps on the road in the past four months and I'm not really one to march into conflict head on. In fact, I have a tendency to run away from the tools that can help me. In this case, it was God. There was a dramatic shift. I went to daily mass for the past two years but in the past few months, there have been weeks when I found myself needing to be coerced into attending Sunday mass. I filled an entire journal (about 100 pages, front and back) in five weeks this fall but have only written about 30 pages in the past 10 weeks. Clearly, things got shaken up.

Being here this week, though, has reminded me of what used to be. You see, I've only been at my parents' house for about 12 weeks out of the last 2 years...104 weeks and I've been here. Because I go to school 700 miles away, I only make it home around the holidays when the dorms are shut down. I'm not complaining; I'm just offering perspective. This short period of time in Michigan means that I do not see my friends from "childhood" very often. When I do come home, I get to see a select few people for just a short period of time. Often these visits make or break my view of the trip.

That was a lot of background.

What I want to say is that this week, I've gotten a wake up call. Monday night I spent with my friend Claudia who I hadn't seen since August. It was clear that we hadn't seen each other or talked in awhile. As we conversed over dinner and continued at her apartment, it became clear to me that she had no idea where I was at. She knew about some of the bumps in the road but seemed to ignore the possibility that they had actually affected me. I'm not the same person I was when we last saw each other but she definitely expected me to be.

I don't really know how to decide if that's a good thing or not.
Maybe a little bit of both.

The next afternoon, I had lunch with Kim, a woman who used to work for my parents. She could tell that I had changed, that life had changed me. She listened and understood. Kim took me as I was. Then she took my hands and very directly told me to stop running. She reminded me of what my relationship with God used to look like and honestly told me that she knew that I knew running away wasn't going to get me anywhere and she knew that I wanted to turn around.

These aren't the only two. Since Monday evening, easily half a dozen people/situations have directed me to where I know I should be.

It's like God's been knocking at my door for the past two or three weeks and I acknowledged that He was there and I acknowledged my desire to open the door but I didn't. This week, I opened the door and let God explain why He's been knocking.

My best friend, Franny

Yesterday, I found out that I have a best friend I never knew about. Her name is Francesca but I call her Franny (you can too). See now, my cousin reminded me of this friendship yesterday morning when she emailed me about a song Franny wrote for me. I promise you, I'm really not that bad of a friend. I really didn't know she knew me this well until I listened to the song. Listen in...

In all seriousness, it's super cool that the one song I've ever known to have my name in it speaks of things I speak about. Very cool people, very cool.

Just sayin'