You never stop learning the important lessons....

I've been learning a lot about myself lately. Working in an elementary school has certainly lent to this "growth spurt."

For example, I've been learning about the kind of parent I'll be. I mean, we all hope to be the stellar parents that the Hallmark movies show us, but when it comes right down to it we're human and we're bound to make mistakes. That doesn't mean I can't learn from the parents at my school--the good and the bad.

Some parents make a point of coming to eat lunch with their kids once a week--I think this is a neat idea, though maybe a bit unrealistic depending on the work situation. I do think I'll try to make it at least once a month though...just so I can see how the kids all interact together.

If a teacher tells me my child may have a learning disability, I will be the first one to sign off on the paperwork--I'd rather know the name of the beast and face it head on then let it terrorize my child out of fear that it may be difficult to tame.

Medical issues. We'll get them taken care of. 

We're going to read. I'll read them bedtime stories and then I'll work on their reading with them--like my parents did for me. 

If the teacher or administration says my kid has a behavior issue in school I will believe them. Kids aren't always perfect angels. 

And I think I'll figure out some way to make sure the teachers knows he/she is appreciated. (We have parents that bring their teachers things to keep them motivated and inspired--calendars and sticknote pads with quotes, etc.) 


Most profoundly though, I've learned that I have a love for broken things.

Some of the kids I love the most--care about and worry about the most--are the ones that have behavior issues and struggle with reading and math. Now, this comes mostly from working with them the most. I can't tell you how sick I feel though when a little girl is so lonely at home that she can hardly bear the thought of going into a crowded classroom where she has no friends--and she's clutching at my fingers, hoping that I will just listen to her. So I get hugs from the kids that need the most love...and I can't say that I mind.

It's funny, these same kids that are stealing my heart now are the kids that drove me nuts when I was in their classes with them. I always hated how the troublemakers got the most attention... but when I look back on it, they probably needed it more than I did. I didn't go home to a mom that was so preoccupied she couldn't read me a story. I didn't go home to a sister that told me she hated. I didn't go home to find out that my dad was going to jail. My home was always filled with love and support.

I didn't understand that then. I'm glad I'm still learning now.

I do dread other people's remarks...

The following post may seem disjointed and possibly slightly bipolar...for that I am sorry. 


I didn't get the job at the car dealership. Even though I wasn't fired and was just not hired, it feels like I was fired because I wasn't hired for the job I have been doing (and doing well) all week. The worst part of the whole thing is that I'm still going to work on Saturdays and I'm going to be training the lady they hired on Monday.

It would be a lie to say that I didn't cry in Brian's office, I did. Not an ugly cry or anything, just watering eyes and a red face. I am grateful that I was able to hold in the sobs until later. Normally I can keep myself pretty well put together for this sort of thing...it's just a bad week, though.

When I come to work on Monday people are going to ask if I've heard about the job yet...and I'm going to have to tell them that I'm training the new lady. And I want to tell them so much more. I want to tell them to treat with the same kindness and courtesy that they treat me. The Service people really liked me and told me over and over again that they wanted me to be hired.

God and I... we're still working on this issue of trust. I thought I was finally understanding, but apparently not. While I was talking to Brian about the job situation he told me that everything happens for a reason, and then asked me if I was a faithful person. He told me about his life story, and that just about made me want to cry more. He's a devout Catholic, and while I don't agree with everything about their denomination I could see the light of Christ in him. Yet another reminder from God that He is in everything, and that He has something better for me.

Brian told me that he really does believe that everything happens for a reason. So do I, so do I feel the Divine Hand at work.

There have been people in my life recently trying to force this on me. It's not that I don't know it, but I don't always need to hear it. For some reason Brian's adamant confession didn't bother me as much as someone telling me to be content with where I am. Honestly, with all do respect, I know that I should be content with whatever phase of life, but this one is so incredibly hard. I'm doing everything I can to try and stay positive, but a year of rejection is hard to swallow. It's hard to get past the disappointed hope. It's hard, so don't tell me to be content, tell me you understand.

I'm reading some great literature right now that is really helping me to embrace this God-lesson of trust. Ann Voskamp, you should follow her blog, wrote a wonderful book called "One Thousand Gifts." You should find it and read it if you're struggling with anything remotely like this or any kind of disappointment. She understands how hard life can be and how hard it can be to be content.

There was so much anger built up inside last night that it kept leaking out of my eyes and my face was so tired from the salt-drenching. When it came time to actually go to bed, I couldn't do it. I couldn't close my eyes because I didn't want to face today. But here I am, sitting at the desk that I will have to abdicate come Monday. And I'm smiling the best that I can.

I could never save myself...

There's an itch inside me. (I mean this both literally and figuratively.)

Many (if not all) of you know that I was badly sunburned a few weeks ago. Well, it's mostly "faded" now, and the pealing is mostly all gone.... but the itching. The itching will not go away. I'm lucky I have any skin left with how itchy I've been. People will comment on my sunburn (still) and I don't know if it's actually residual red from the burn or from my constant scratching. Maybe both.

Just as the itch on my skin is irritating, so is the itch in my soul. The difference is that I have not been able to scratch away the discomfort therein. Instead, it goes on bothering, becoming more incessant and more irksome everyday. Everyday, another part itches.

I would like to say that the answer to this itchiness would be to write....and I do believe it would help. As I told a dear friend in a note the other day: I have not had time to write, and therefore have not been writing everyday. Perhaps the stagnant waters of my soul started here. I was not moving the waters, becoming still in the routine of the day-to-day. Even now, I think to myself that I should be reading for a class instead of engaging in this potentially cathartic activity.

There are other things.

How do you swallow the words of nights past? Take it all back, let things play out the way they were meant to. Why did you ever open your mouth to begin with? I lack the grace to take these things in stride.

How do you console a friend that has just told you her dad in terminal? That he cannot speak to her the way he used to? She tells you not to cry for her, but these tears have been pushing for days, and this is just the news that wants to send them over the brink. You can spend all the time in the world working on homework for your Death, Dying, and Trauma class, but when those hard questions come up you just may not have the answers. I don't know if my arms are brave enough to help you carry this. 

How do you carry a friend's secret? Carry it wrapped up in your heart, tucked away. Let everything that is negative bounce off your shield, leaving dings and scratches. I don't know if I'm strong to hold up forever.

A friend once told me I had strong arms. Arms that could help one bear their burdens with a simply hug. All I want is for someone with strong arms to hold me. Tonight I couldn't stand the silence of my dorm room, so I slept. I went to work. I got back to the dorm, knowing I would be alone again. So, I decided to go for a drive, thinking it would make my heart feel less heavy in my chest.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. My friend now has a strong set of arms that will hold her through all things--in their vows he mentioned that he would be her shield. It gave me chills.

Now, I sit here, thinking of all the things I need to do, just wishing, praying, for some strong arms. For someone to be my shield. Because in that car ride I realized that when I am in need is when I give the most. I asked the Walmart lady if she was having a better night...only to get a long explanation about how it was worse than the other day. And even though I felt like my heart would burst, I gave her a smile anyway and told her that I hoped things would start looking up soon. I need someone to protect me for this emotional fatigue.

I am so itchy. And I just want it to go away.

"Hold fast, help is on the way." [Casting Crowns]

I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.

Like butter scraped over too much bread...

What am I doing tonight?

On the floor, on my stomach, typing away at Morning Star -- there's an engagement! I'm excited that such an emotional scene last night could evolve into something so expected, but not at that moment. It's all about timing. I'm sipping coffee, writing, and yes, half watching Magnum PI.

And you know what? I have a headache. Normally I'm pretty decent at multitasking, but I'm not tonight. My brain isn't keeping up with what I want to be doing. Part of that is from lack of sleep--I was up rather late last night, writing. The night is still young though, and so I'm looking for ways to keep myself awake. (Hence the decaf coffee. I know, it's decaf, but it's hot.)

I started a new workout program this week, and I'm really excited about it. But it's way more intense than what I had been doing, and so I'm a little sore in the shoulders. And I've been having chronic stomach pain every evening. (Just a general ickyness.)

Then there's the upcoming GRE. That's got me more than just a little stressed out. Last night, a friend reminded me that not all colleges care about this test. In fact, the school I'm most interested in said that it wasn't a requirement, but what recommended. Why am I taking it then? Hopefully I'll do well on it. I need to study. I mean, I really need to buckle down and study. There are so many other things that occupy my mind though... I know that while I'm testing I'll start thinking about Elves and Fantasy worlds... but I should study anyway, and put forth a strong effort.

I also didn't get a letter in the mail on time today. And that upsets me. When did I start slacking with putting letters in the mailbox? That's not even the worst of it, I have letters backed up waiting for responses from the end of June. I should do that. I really should, and I know I should. So why haven't I?

There are pictures that need to be taken. I need to get my Etsy account all squared away with product pictures. Maybe my cousin will be a bag model for me...I'll have to call her sometime soon.

And now I am indescribably thankful that I did not get a job this summer.

Nerd factor of the night: I'm drinking coffee from a Lord of the Rings mug...that I designed. It's pretty sweet, not going to lie.

"You don't even have to talk about what you're talking about. If you know what I mean." [Magnum PI]

Were hearts made whole just to break?

Rejection. It's been the tune of my summer. And believe me when I say that this has nothing to do with romance, again. No, it's something a little more shallow, but still a bit painful.

I've been filling out job applications like no one's business. To no avail. Either I don't meet the requirements (how do I not make the requirements at a bookstore?) or they aren't hiring (even though they're handing out applications like cheap candy).

Now, I suspect the requirements I'm not making having something to do with going back to school in the Fall. Who would have thought that going to college would cost me job opportunities? Didn't think of that negative. 

Who would have a big sign when you walk into their store: "Pick up your application today!" if they weren't actually hiring? Talk about false hope...

As bitter as I am about this this morning, it has given me a lot to think about. How could the constant "no" be teaching me? What should I be learning from this experience?

Well, when I get to graduate school applications I probably (and by "probably" I mean "definitely wont") get into every school I apply to. And when I am in grad school not everyone will like my writing style or subject matters. When I get to the publishing world, not every agent will like my stuff. And when I have an agent, not every publisher will like my story. When I get a publisher, not every editor will be helpful. When I'm done editing and book is published, not every reader will enjoy my fantasy either. There will always be disappointments.

Perhaps this summer I am learning to handle those issues. I am preparing for my life. Why didn't anyone tell me the start pistol had fired?

I'm going to leave you with a short poem I wrote last night, when I was trying to work out the next seen in Morning Star. It's just a ditty, really, it needs work. But it's a start.


It is not for lack of paper,
That I do not write.
I have drawer upon drawer
Of books waiting to be written.

It is not for lack of heart,
That my voice is silent.
I have tear after tear,
Of love and pain to be heard.

It is for lack of courage,
That I shrivel in fear.

But stand up,
Silent poet,
Be strong.

You raise me up...

Thinking about family this morning.

It hurts a lot when someone you love is so badly wounded--spiritually, emotionally, and physically.

You ask yourself: "What could I have done to prevent this? Could I have reached out to her more? Could I have made sure she had someone in her life that would listen without judging? Why wasn't I there for her? Why didn't I step up to the plate? When she contacted me, why didn't I follow up?"

And then you make the decision: "In the future, I will be there for her. I will make an effort to be a light in her pain. I will do everything I can to protect someone that is older than me...but that doesn't mean I can't fight beside her. I will tell her whenever I can that I love her--always have, even when we were so distant from who we used to be. And I will pray for her regularly, often, and fervently."

That future? It starts today. Today, I start fighting an "elephant."

"There is no life - no life without its hunger; Each restless heart beats so imperfectly; But when you come and I am filled with wonder, sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity." [Selah, is the version that I know, but I think Josh Groban actually wrote the song? Maybe?]

If my heart says I'm sorry, can we leave it at that?

So... I called to talk to my mom today. It wasn't anything big. I just wanted to run some plans by her for next Monday.

The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.

I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You sound angry."

Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....

"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"

Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.

She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.

And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.

I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.

I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.

I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?


"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]

I'm not into the idea of me without you...

Today was a weird one.... In a good way. I guess. It's hard to explain, but I'm going to try.

I was a "victim" in the emergency response test that my college town had today. Actually, it happened on campus, so I guess it was just the college...but everyone else was there too, like the ambulances and firefighters and yeah...everyone.

When I got to the campus center at 8:30 this morning, they gave all 17 of us victims a tag. Mine said that I had no breath sounds on my left side, was making gurgling noises, was confused, and was reluctant to follow instructions. So they made me really pale (as if I wasn't pale already) and gave me some blood splatters around my mouth... and later sprayed me with this water and glycerin mixture to make me look sweaty. One of my favorite moments of the day was going out to the bathroom to check out how I looked. (Some people had huge gashes into their foreheads and some had burns, ect.) While I was walking, a boy scout looked at me and asked, "Woah, did you get punched?" No, and I laughed. Then he turned to one of his fellow scouts and said, "Man, I should have brought my first aid kit!" I laughed then, but now I hope that someday he carries that enthusiasm for helping people (sort of?) into his life. Maybe he'll be a doctor someday.

Then the put us in our places, I was sitting against a wall. The first responders were boy scouts, I think that mine was terrified of me. He kept saying that everything was going to be okay, quietly, and scooting back. He may have been whiter than I was, but I can't be sure. I wanted to reassure him, but I couldn't. I talked to several boy scouts actually. I was one of the only people in my area talking/able to talk. So, because I was supposed to be confused, and the gurgling was not pleasant, I kept asking if other people were okay. It was kind of silly, because I knew what everyone's injuries were, basically. I knew Dottie was actually dead. I knew that Alicia would be okay.

One of the older scouts came over to check on me when he realized the 12 year old wasn't doing much talking to try and keep me calm. He told me to take a deep breath and count the ceiling tiles... first of all, I had told him I couldn't breathe well, that was on the card. Anyways. I told him I didn't like counting, I wasn't a math major. ha. I was just being difficult. And now, a moment of reflection. How many times has God "checked on me" and said to me, "Anna, be still, and know that I am here. Count the tiles while I take care of you. Be calm." And I said, "God, I don't like being still, I don't like being calm. And dang it, I don't like counting!" Had I actually counted the tiles, I would have probably felt better. 

That scout must have gone and got another one to sit with me. This new one, Evan, sat with me for quite a while. He was 17, going to get his Eagle Scout hopefully, so I told him that my brother was his age and getting his Eagle.  If I hadn't been a victim I probably would have actually enjoyed that conversation. The weird thing? He had a beard. A legit beard. How does that happen to a 17 year old? I guess my brother is just particularly baby faced... hm. Needless to say, I thought Evan was older than he was. He was actually a comfort... Because he didn't look terrified. And when I asked him if the other scout was his boss, I think I heard laughter in his voice when he told me, "No, he just knows more about what is going on." I wanted to laugh. But I couldn't break character.

At about the same time, one of the ladies from Noah's Rescue, the crisis dog center, came up to me with her dog Bella. She stayed with me for the remainder of my time on the floor. She kept me distracted, and it was actually hard for me to be stressed out when that dog was there, she was so calming. I saw them loading Dottie up onto a gurney, and I don't know if I screamed or just yelled, but I know I said, "I think she's dead! Oh my God, she's dead!" And I actually cried. I wasn't expecting it, but it happened. And those tears felt good. I cried while Darcy, Bella's handler, stroked my hair and told me everything was going to be okay. I know she was talking about the scenario, but I felt it resonate deep within. As I cried and felt God whispering to my soul, "I told you I would take care of you, didn't you believe me? It's okay to cry, I'm picking up the pieces."  I was finally able to act the way I had been feeling inside for the past couple weeks, confused and finding it hard to breathe. 


Finally, after about twenty minutes of me waiting after the medical personal arrived (so probably 40 minutes after the drill started) a firefighter woman approached me and asked me what was wrong. I told her I was having a hard time breathing. So she checked my tag and had me lie down without moving my neck or head, I think she assumed a spinal injury, and I was definitely thinking a broken rib had punctured my lung...but whatever, they have to keep all the bases covered. I was still crying a little when she had me laying on the floor. And I heard her get up and tell one of the other firefighters that I was in critical condition and needed to be on the next ambulance. My first thought was, I have been here for forty minutes. If this were real, I would probably already be dead, drowned from my own blood in my lungs. And they spent forever on Dottie, someone who was already dead... I did find out later that they resuscitated her, so that's good.

It's funny, I don't know if this is normal, but when you get that into acting, you actually start to feel the way you're acting. I could feel my breathing changing, and when Bella showed up I could feel it leveling back out. They did finally get loaded up on a gurney and taken out to an ambulance.

When we got outside, it was still snowing. I was laying on my back and it was snowing on my face. It was a new experience. And it was beautiful. If I hadn't been terrified of them dropping me, I probably would have enjoyed that moment. I ask/tell my firefighter "Is it snowing? It's beautiful..." I also told him several times not to drop me. I do that to God, too. "Don't drop me, Lord. I'm scared of falling." And He tells me, "I would never drop you. Look at this snow. I made it to make you calm. You asked for the rain, and I gave you something far more beautiful."


And then I got to the hospital and it was all good. I know, lame ending. But the test wasn't about the doctors being competent but about the system working. Bella and Darcy stayed with me all the way to the hospital. I loved them both for that.

The moral of this story? I was able to throw myself into this acting job, my first ever. And I was able to release a lot of emotions that I have been bottling up for a long time. And it was good. I got back to my room and slept. Purging and refreshing. Thank you, God.

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." (unknown)

Let the tears fall down... let them soften this ground

I fell on the ice today and apparently landed on my left side.

My left arm is in quite a lot of pain, and it makes me realize how much I use it.

I called my Daddy right after I got back to my room. And it was almost instant tears. I've never wanted to be home more than in that moment. Because home means knowing. And home means help. And home means being with my mommy, and my daddy, and the best little brother in the world. Home means that I can get out a cherry-pit pack from the freezer and not have to carry around a towel. Home means stronger pain killers than Advil. Home means not having to climb up into bed. Home means someone will kiss it better. Home means not having to walk (on the ice) to get supper. Home means comfort. And that is a beautiful thing.

By the way, today was definitely, "Stop blowing holes in my ship" kind of day.

"Get back up, get back up again." [TobyMac]