My Thoughts Are Not Your Thoughts

Anyone who knows me well enough can tell you that it has been one of my biggest childhood dreams to work for Fox News Network in Washington D.C. That's a big aspiration for a 4th grader, you might say, but my daddy raised me right. As a little girl I remember riding home from school with him in his truck, Sean Hannity blaring loudly over the radio. When the commercials would finally come on in between segments, he would ask me what I though about political issues, fiscal issues, and even the moral issues that had just been discussed on air. At age 9 I knew where I stood politically, and all I wanted to do was tell other people how I felt about it and possibly persuade them to agree with me.

As a nine-year-old, I never thought in my wildest dreams that an opportunity to intern for Fox could possibly be in my future. It was always one of those things you kind of just think about, or push aside as a wish, but don't really think will ever come true.

For those of you who don't know, a little over a month ago I was accepted into a program through my school called "The Washington Fellowship". Basically this program acts as a professional development course as well as an aid in helping students get interns at extremely well known companies, networks, political offices and even research centers in D.C. For the last month and a half I have been tutored and trained under a professional career adviser who has helped with my resume, different cover letters, answered any questions I have and has let me practice my interviewing skills. Not only has he advised me with these skills, but he also acts as my personal "Yoda" (as all the career people like to call him). So as soon as I apply for an internship, he calls, he emails and he gets me on a first name basis. He makes my applications personal so the chances of me getting a good internship go though the roof.

This past Thursday I had my first mock interview with a panel of interviewers. After my interview was over, I conveyed that I was willing to do just about anything to get it in with Fox, but I wasn't sure they would have any interest in my application. I mean, why me right? Seems like that's the question I'm always asking myself. My coordinator responded with some encouraging words about Fox and then asked me if I knew who Lila Rose is and if I would be interested in interning for Live Action.

Lila Rose?! Are you kidding me? Of course I know who she is!

Rabbit trail really quick. Lila Rose works for a pro-life organization called Live Action whose goal is to save the lives of innocent unborn children and to take down as many Planned Parenthood's as possible in the process. In doing this, she is in charge of sending in fake pimps with child prostitutes to these clinics all over the country. She plants hidden cameras on the pimps and young children who are supposed to be no more than 14 or 15 years old and then these pimps ask the clerks behind the counter to aid in giving these young women abortions (which is clearly illegal because a) prostitution is illegal, b) sex abuse is illegal, c) "owning someone and selling them for sex is illegal and d) any person under the age of 18 must have written permission from a parent to get an abortion. The sad thing about this is, that Ms. Rose came to find out that more times than not, Planned Parenthood officials were allowing all of this to go on behind closed doors, committing fraud, and murder in the process. Ms. Rose has put an end to multiple PP clinics around the country by proving this to government officials and has saved potentially millions of lives. She is someone I truly desire to emulate, and I would die to work under her.
 
 It's always funny to me how the Lord does things. This last week also happened to be what Liberty calls, "Missions Emphasis Week" where they bring in speakers and missionaries who have literally reached the ends of the earth with good news of the Gospel. This being like my 5th missions week at LU, I was kind of annoyed with it, and actually became discouraged.

Honestly, I don't feel called to go to Haiti or Korea or South America and tell people about Jesus first hand. I am definitely not opposed to the idea, but I just don't feel like that's what God as in store for my life. So I kind of hated it when today's speaker basically said that every thing else other than missions is pointless. Not gonna lie, it was really discouraging to hear that all of my dreams, my desires, my goals, my wants: they were all for nothing. How could she say that? Was she nuts? Was she so right to assume that all of my good, but perhaps slightly selfish dreams of being an anchor on Fox News were . . . selfish? Selfish? Wait a second. . .

. . . I thought back to yesterday when I told the coordinator in my interview that I would do "pretty much anything" to get the internship at Fox. Pretty much anything. Wow. Let's do a reality check really quick. Was I willing to do pretty much anything for Jesus? Was I willing to put my life in his hands, give it back to him, serve him with it? Was I willing to give up my childhood dreams of working for one of the biggest news networks in the world for the sake of furthering the Kingdom of Heaven?

Just then it hit me like a ton of bricks when I took the speaker's advice and brought it a little closer to home. When I sat back and evaluated my motives for wanting to be on Fox, they always seemed to point back to me. Not that anything is wrong with that desire, it's just that if I were to pick between an internship with either Lila or Fox, which one would I pick and why? And that was exactly the question I had to ask myself. You see, the speaker wasn't trying to attack my dreams, she was only trying to make sure they were aligned with what the Lord had in store for me. And if you look hard enough, there are ministries everywhere you look. People need help, and it's not too hard to find them.

I have always known deep down that I don't have greater passion than putting an end to abortion. It is something that disgusts me more than anything else in this world. To not take an opportunity such as this would be like spilling good milk down the drain: wasted and ineffective.

I was convicted this week. Majorly convicted. What's more important to me? Being a face for a news network or potentially saving millions of lives and sharing the Gospel and ministering to abused and terrified women who have no where to turn?

And oh, for the record, I haven't gotten offered an internship from either place. Not yet. But God is going to do something big with me.

Number one thing I learned this week: God's plans are greater than mine.

Isaiah 55:8 "For My thoughts are not your thoughts and My ways are not your ways" declares the Lord. 

To Honor Those Who Honor Freedom

This is a story I wrote about three different American heroes last week for the newspaper I work for in honor of Veteran's Day. To my dismay, it did not get published, because apparently the editors thought that a stories about Hurricane Sandy were more important. But I know many people asked about it, so I just wanted to put it up because I think it is the best piece I have ever written for the Champion. Not only that, but I think it is extremely important to remember those men and women that have served and continue to serve our country every day. So here it is.

MILITARY MEN RETURN TO LIBERTY AFTER BEING DEPLOYED

Often times, military men and women are shown little respect, forgotten for their valiant service and heroic acts of honor, and ignored. These few men, heroes for their acts of service and love for their country explained what it is like to come back to college in the United States after being deployed overseas.
For one 26-year-old Marine, transitioning from the front lines of a battleground to a classroom environment started out as a challenging endeavor. The simple habits of civilian living that were once normalities were all of a sudden a complete culture shock to him.
“Just getting back into the swing of things has been a little more difficult. Most military guys, especially those who have been deployed have to turn themselves off to what they’re doing because while we’re deployed it’s working 24/7—everything is life or death, so when you come to school, it’s hard to shut that down and not stay up all night working when your friends are overseas staying up all night patrolling. It’s kind of a challenge to let yourself rest especially after coming back from a deployment,” U.S. Marine Corp. Sergeant and Liberty junior Jared Delello said.
Delello was deployed twice while enlisted in the Marine Corp—once to Iraq in 2007 and once to Afghanistan in 2008.
While it may be easier for a younger military man such as Delello to make friends with other college students on campus, 42-year-old U.S. Army Sergeant Bruce Wasson said he has struggled with connecting with students and finding colleagues his own age not only to seek counsel from, but to also develop friendships with.
“I have had a couple professors that have taken a particular interest in who I am as a person and understanding my background and that’s helped me kind of fill in that gap of feeling like an outsider, and being an older student here at Liberty,” Wasson said.
According to the director of the Military Affairs Office, Emily Foutz, Liberty University is currently educating 229 residential students and over 18,000 online students who have either served, or who are currently enlisted in the United States Military. One thing that has helped Wasson feel a little more comfortable is the aid of the office counselors which is conveniently located right on campus on the second floor of Green Hall.
”The Military Affairs Office is very quick to answer your phone calls. They will go out of their way to help you resolve a tuition issue, registering for classes, they’re easy to contact, they’re easy to talk to. They meet my particular military needs and that’s been very helpful,” Wasson said.
Apart from being a sergeant in the Army, Wasson is also a licensed minister who is involved in church restoration. Wasson said that he likes to fix problems in the church with military strategies; the military gave him a set of leadership skills that he is able to use in everyday life, whether it is training men to go into harm’s way on a physical battle field or a spiritual one.
David Mitchell, Liberty junior and staff sergeant in the U.S. Army said that military students are people too; sometimes they’re a little more outspoken and confident in leadership positions than others.
Mitchell said that they most of the time, they (military students) need help with learning to overcome and talk about past experiences. He said that the Student Veterans Group is not only a great way to get connected with other veterans and military students on Liberty’s campus, but it is also a great outreach and a way for students who want to support soldiers fighting overseas.

A Conquered Fear

I've never been one to think unnaturally tanning your skin as something that is actually enjoyable or attractive for that matter.  I mean haven't you ever seen Final Destination 3? After watching the scene where two girls are tanning together in the same room in tanning beds that encapsulate them completely from head to toe, and then literally getting fried to death in the beds because of an electric problem gone bad,  I have NEVER had the desire to go tanning. The thought of being trapped in a capsule of light for minutes on end TERRIFIES me. Elevators scare me enough, and I get claustrophobic pretty easily. I've never been ashamed of the paper white shade of my skin, and I am also afraid of getting skin cancer at an early age. However, I am going to Florida for Spring Break this year and a friend told me that I should get a "base tan" so I don't burn like a lobster the first time I sit in the sun for ten minutes. After much persuading, and reassuring me that two or three times in a tanning bed won't kill me, I decided to go with a group a group of girls to Sun Tan City right here in Lynchburg.
So there I went. Having not the slightest idea what to expect, I went right up to counter inside the salon and asked about what kind of bed I should use for my very first time tanning. The very orange girl at the counter obnoxiously chewing her gum handed me a form and a pen and said "Fill this out". I proceeded to fill out a form that asked questions about what color my eyes are, and if I freckles or not. And then I came across the part where you have to sign your name pretty much saying that if anything happens to you, you're not going to sue the company for any harm done to you by the tanning beds. So reluctantly,  I checked the box and signed my name on the dotted line. The orange woman tried to sell me a tanning package, and I told her that I just wanted a glow for Florida so I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the other orange and very beautiful dark looking women on the beach. Looking me up and down, she said, "Hunny, one week is not going to turn your pale skin bronze." I thought to myself for a minute about what rude comment I could hurl back at her, and how I didn't want to look like a raw carrot like she did. If "bronze" is attractive nowadays, that's okay with me, I'll keep my ugly white skin. You can keep your orange-ness.

So anyway, minutes later, I finally get called back into the tanning room. I go inside, and close the door, not really sure what to do next. I kind of look at the bed, look at the hooks on the side of the wall, look at the bed, look at the hooks, and finally realize that I have to something, there's no backing out and looking like a chicken on front of all my friends now. Instead of removing any clothing, I call Lori, my roommate, who is sitting outside waiting for her turn to tan. "Lori! What do I do in here!?" I asked. "Do you have all your clothes off?!" she said. I looked down at my body. "Well no!?" I whispered. My hands were getting clammy now. Sweat seemed to be dripping off my forehead. "Well take them off!" She yelled. "Even my underwear?" I asked, "Yes, even your underwear!" When I had finally taken off my clothes, Lori told me to get into the bed and close the lid over my body. Still on the phone, I asked her what to do next. She said to turn on the bed and I asked her if I was going to burn and how did the bed know when to turn itself off. Lori told me the obvious, and I finally got off the phone, extremely embarrassed and still trembling with fear. I counted down from 5 in my head and turned on the bed. The noise and brightness of lights startled me so bad that I shook the bed and let out a whimper of terror. So I began to bake in the human fake baker. Eight minutes, seven, six, five . . . four. The scene from Final Destination played over and over again in my head, but I tried to shew away the thoughts. Soon my fears subsided. And then I started to enjoy the heat, remembering the hot Florida sun and hearing the waves crash against the beach. Maybe tanning wasn't so bad afterall.

Then, right as I started to enjoy myself. . .BAMMM! The bed shut off! And I was awakened from my dreams on the beach! I pushed open the lid of the bed and climbed out. Felt like I was emerging from an egg or something. Like is this what little chickens feel like when they're being born? Hm. Maybe. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked up an down at myself. My freckles seemed to have risen to the surface of my skin. That's it. I wasn't tan, just freckly. Just freckly. 

I wobbled back outside to the waiting room, never more happier to see the actual sunlight in my life. "How was it?" The girls asked, excited. "Hated it", I said.

The funny thing is, I went two more times this week. And I guess it's kind of addictive in a strange way. Whodathunkit. My ginger self in a tanning bed. I did it, I conquered my fears.
That's right my friends, I have temporarily come over to the dark side: literally.

To Hard To Forget

Something I'm Proud Of

Here's a some song lyrics I wrote almost 4 years ago that I always wanted to put to music but never got around to it. A couple months ago, my little brother asked me for some words to put to his guitar chords so I gave them to him. The man I wrote this song about is now recently married. Funny how things work out. Enjoy. 

It's too hard to just forget you
I thought you were an honest guy
But your the one who said "I love you"
and i keep asking myself why
Why did you leave
What did i do
Seems everything
reminds me of you
But then you let me down
and you walked away
and you left me alone..
why couldn't you stay
O why couldn't you stay?

I pull out that old box
every once in a while
and pictures of you
should not make me smile
But oh, how they do
and images trigger
depictions of you.
please just come back and say
i want you again
please, why can't you stay


I reach for your hand
But you just aren't there
I cry out your name
But you just don't care
You never did
Maybe you will
But something pains
Inside me still
O I just want to hold you
Please don't go away
Please don't leave me like he did
Why can't you stay?
O why can't you stay.

I never even saw it coming
But there you were
already running
already leaving
you still decieving
me, still believing
your stupid words
your stupid games
and now all i've got left
is this empty pain.
Why can't you stay? O why can't you stay.

Old memories come back
and oh, on and on they keep lasting
and dreams are still passing
Words you told me
still run in my head
promises vowed and stupid things that you said
but they keep replay in my mind
over and over again
And I've still got this pain
But why can't you stay?

Please why can't you care
please why can't you be there?
You never did then
Now maybe you will
because something still pains inside me still
Because i just want to hold you
please don't go away
please come back to me.

This Old House

They say a house has to be at least 25 years or older to be considered an "old" house. But to me, the house that I grew up in is older than what feels like a lifetime. As a young child I remember catching frogs in the pond behind my house until it was dark outside in the summer, capturing lightning bugs in mason jars and eating a worm I dug out of a mud pie because my neighbor told me it would give me super powers. I remember the first and only time my dad and my Uncle Joe went swimming in that scum layered, green pond and coming out covered with leeches. Summers were magical in this house, and my memories are endless.
   Winters were just as fun as summers on Hinchey road. When the pond finally froze over and the snow had been cleared away with a bulldozer, it was time to break out the ice skates. Dad bought me hockey skates one year before Christmas and taught me how to ice skate on the pond. I always told him I wanted the figure skates instead and sometimes I would even pretend to be a figure skater, attempting to do twirls and spins when no one was looking. When it really snows in Michigan, basically every school in the state is closed for two days. Literally people cannot get out of their drive ways. Jack and I loved playing in the snow. Every Christmas we would hook up the toboggan to the back of dad's old four door pick up truck with some rope and he would take us in the back forty acres and drive in circles until we either fell off or our hands were too cold to hold on anymore. I used to love going outside after a fresh snow fall and scooping it up from the cleanest place I could find. Then I would bring it inside, put sprinkles and whipped cream on it and eat it out of a bowl like ice cream. I'll never forget Mom's snow animals either. Mom, Jack and I created a life size whale out of snow one year. There are pictures of us sitting on top of it, almost four feet high.
   Mom has told me that when I was little I used to love to make cookies for my dad on Valentine's day. She told me about one particular time that my sugar cookies were more special than usual because I had added a secret ingredient to them. Apparently I had been mashing the dough of the cookies with my fingers, stuck one finger up my nose and shoved it right back in the cookie dough and said "Boy is daddy gonna love these". Yes, you guessed it right, shes has it on video.
  Birthdays and holidays were my favorite when they were celebrated at my house because that meant that Mom had to do all the cooking. The day before somebody's birthday she would stay up all night baking and frosting a spectacular 3D cake of some sort. One year she made a standing up 3D race car cake for my brother, the Elmo cake was pretty cool too. Mom always made everything from scratch, and to this day, she is the best cook in Livingston County.
   In the middle of the kitchen was a small table with two hand painted chairs that my mother had probably painted at least a dozen times. My brother and I sat at that tiny table everyday until I was at least 12 years old. We would eat at it together, play games, and everyday my little adorable brother would draw a picture of something. One day, Mom and I caught him singing his own version of "Jesus Loves Me" to himself while he was drawing. He was probably only three years old at the time. Mom has it recorded on a tape somewhere.
  Mom designed everything in our house, from the curtains, to the comforters, to the striped walls and the hand made couch covers, my mother is one of the most talented and creative people that I have ever known. She hated "store bought" anything. Everything had to be custom, or it was tacky to her. Dad would come home from a long weekend vacation somewhere or a work outing and the dining room would be red instead of yellow, the floors would be stained black and white checkered instead of their natural wooden brown color, and the furniture would be completely reupholstered. Of course dad was usually upset or annoyed with her at first, but soon it didn't come as a surprise to him when something was completely decorated differently the next time he came home.
  I remember watching the birth of my first horse out by the barn one spring day in April. My Papa taught me how to ride, how to train and take care of the horses he boarded for his friends and neighbors. Riding was my favorite thing to do in the fall. I loved the adrenaline rush of racing the horses down the road and through the fields, most of the time riding bare back with nothing but a bridle and an old pair of cowboy boots. I used to climb up on top of the metal fence, shake a bucket of grain and yell at the top of my lungs, "Butterscotch!" and she would come running up over the hill, along with the rest of the stampede. A grown man was more afraid of her than I was. Horses didn't intimidate me much, I had been raised around them my entire life. Growing up on a farm had its advantages and disadvantages as well. We had goats and chickens, horses and barn cats and of course dogs. There would occasionally be the wild animal that Mom would feel sorry for and bring home to sort of "bring back to life" and love. Of all the animals we had in my house from the baby bunny named Christopher that Mom caught in the woods to the chickens running around in the basement, I would have to say the craziest animal we ever had was a two day old fawn that was found in the middle of the dirt road driving home from school one day. It was so tiny and frail laying in the middle of the road and it was no surprise to any of us that my mother's bleeding heart wanted to keep the poor thing. She was like a little kid that was at the pound desperately wanting to take home a cute little puppy. Well, we brought the little thing home and I gave her the name Eleanor. People never believed me when I told them that my mother's new pet was a baby deer that she carried around like a dog in the front seat of her car everywhere she went. Eleanor used to cuddle up to my very vicious, small Jack Russell Terrier, fondly named Lulu. Now Lulu wasn't exactly the epitome of a fun loving, caring dog that everyone adored, not to mention she hated any other living, breathing, animal that even glimpsed her way for a second. But for some odd reason, Lulu was a mother to Eleanor and treated her as her baby. You would find them snuggled up next to each other in a blanket behind a doorway in the house at night before bedtime. I swear the sight was the darnest thing.
  There was something about coming home to my house that gave me comfort, or a kind of "phew!" feeling after traveling back from a long vacation or being gone all throughout the day. For a long time, the walls in my bedroom were painted cherry red and I had a red and white duvet cover to match that my mother had sewn when I was little. On the walls hung art that Mom painted when she was a teenager and my white dressers and maple wood bed were hers when she was a kid. I remember the new wood floors that my daddy installed and the way that they creaked loudly when I would try to tiptoe into the living room on Christmas morning to peak at what Santa had brought me. As I got older, the color of my bedroom walls changed from red to yellow, yellow to lime green, and finally lime green to watermelon pink which is what they still are to this day. I loved pictures of any kind, from magazine ads and celebrity shoots to old pictures of the family and shots taken in Paris and London of my grandmother. My walls were covered with them from the ceiling to the base boards until a few years ago when Mom decided to take them all down and repaint again. Now, almost a twenty year old, I still come home to visit my hot pink room with bright yellow curtains and an eighties picture of Johnny Depp hanging on my old memo board.
  As a kid, I loved to be alone. Because my house was practically in the middle of no where, this was not a difficult thing to do. When I was little I used to run away from my parents up in my tree house that Dad built me when we first moved in. It was complete with a pole and a yellow slide and a ladder leading down into a sand box where I hid all of my treasures that were usually found in the pond. I'd take a blanket and some candy from the candy jar and usually stay up there until I got tired or hungry or my German Shepherd would come and get me and bark til I came down. When I was probably 12 or 13 I started "running away" a little further down the street to the old cemetery on the corner of Schafer and Hinchey. I used to read the gravestones and sit under the huge oak tree and write poems or read chapter books there. I love that old cemetery and I cried the day that they cut my oak tree down because it was growing to far into the road. I still walk down there every once in a while to think and even pray.
   In Michigan, there are 7 months of winter, 2 months of summer, a month of fall, and 2 months that I like to call the rainy season, also known as spring. Since my house was built on marsh, rain made the pond overflow and spill into the yard, causing the back yard to be a swamp until late July. Since before I can remember every birthday party I ever had was rained out. It rained like it snowed in Michigan. My friends and I used to put our bathing suits on and stand under the gutters on the front porch and wash each others hair with the water that collected on the roof during a thunderstorm after jumping in just about every puddle we could jump in on Hinchey road. I remember taking the old go-karts out on the dirt roads and sloshing through the mud all the way around the block until finally we were covered from head to toe in swamp water.
  The older I became, the more I desired to leave that old farm house and never come back. I suppose most teenagers go through the same experience. I never ran too far away from home though, and I always came back. My teenage years on the farm seemed endless sometimes, but I wouldn't trade my memories for anything.
  I remember getting ready for my very first date. I was sixteen years old with lipstick and red hair that hung to the middle of my back. I had spent all day looking into the mirror that once hung above my crib, perfecting the art of makeup. He was finally here, and I was finally ready. Tucker's green car pulled in the driveway and I could tell my daddy wasn't the least bit excited as I was. Tucker came to the transparent front door and I opened it, my hands shaking and sweaty. Of course, there was Dad, sitting at a bar stool just waiting and staring. Dad sat there then, and has always sat in the same stool, waiting for my dates to arrive.
 So, in a nutshell, my house has become my home- I suppose it's not because Momma painted the walls a dozen times, and redecorated the basement, but because of my memories made there growing up. I'll miss that house dearly because I blew out the candles on my 5th birthday there, learned how to ride a bike in the driveway, got a sunburn on the back deck, took a shower under the gutters in the rain, lost my dog under my bed, and knelt beside my bed and became a Christian.
  My memories will go on, and my house will stay put. Perhaps a little girl or boy will occupy my old room with the faded wooden floors, and the yardstick written in the closet on the wall. But wherever I am, whatever I do, the little yellow house with the big oak tree out back, and the address missing on the mailbox will always be my home.