Reverse

For my new job, I have started taking the commuter rail into the city. On my first day, I was fairly excited. Taking the train into the city made me feel like I had a big girl job. I was working for an international company! I had a business casual dress code! It all felt very grown up. So, I plopped down into an empty seat on the train, set out my ticket, and then pulled out my reading material- acting as though I were an old pro at this routine.

As soon as we started moving, I realized that in my haste to settle in on the train, I had selected a seat facing opposite of the direction we were going. I was going backwards. Although initially surprised, I didn’t think twice about the matter. Until about ten minutes later.

Let me explain a bit here. When I was younger, I thought motion sickness was a sham. I had a few cousins who could never sit in the back of the car, for fear that they would get sick or feel ill. I’m pretty sure that I gave them the stink eye, feeling sure that this “motion sickness” was merely a clever excuse to sit in the coveted front seat of the car. I never had a problem with spinning rides. I get nerves at the thought of extreme roller coasters, but I will happily go on the tea cups or the tilt-a-whirl time and time again while my friends are busy waiting in line to have a machine hurtle them down towards the earth.

So, back on the train, my queasiness from going backwards was unexpected. Maybe it was the sun shining through the trees into the moving train, creating a strobe light effect on the pages of my book. Maybe it was sitting backwards for over 30 minutes. Determined to not be one of those “motion sick people,” I endured the entire ride and refused to change spots. Was it horrible? No. I know people experience much worse than I did. But, was it uncomfortable? Yes.

Forced to put my book aside, I pouted, “Humans aren’t meant to go backwards.” That’s the only reason I don’t feel good. Then I thought about it more. Humans aren’t meant to go backwards.

As a society we spend billions of dollars trying to reverse time. We dye our hair to prevent the grey from showing. We slather on anti-wrinkle creams. Yet, ultimately, these tools fail and we show signs of getting older. We move forward, we age. We can’t go back to looking exactly the way we did when we were younger. It’s not right. I think that we’ve all seen people who use surgery or other means to look the way they did 20 years earlier, only to have the look seem all wrong. Why? Because they don’t look their age. You just aren’t meant to look 22 when you’re 55.

Similarly, I think we do harm to ourselves when keep going backwards by trying to live in the past. We relive hurts, wallow in sorrows, and renew our pain. We get so laden down with the hurt in our past that we prevent ourselves from experiencing joy in the present. Everything is viewed through an unfortunate filter that warns us not to get hurt like last time. I can’t count the number of times I have tried to help a person out of a situation when they start explaining, “I would, but…,” “Maybe, but…,” and then follow the statement by sharing a story from their past holding them back. I think we all have had experiences that leave us battered and tender, afraid that moving forward will only give us more bumps and bruises. Sometimes it feels safer to just curl up into a little ball and lie down, you’re so tired and so hurt.

I think the danger is letting that moment last too long. Letting that moment take over. Instead of learning from the experience and moving forward, we allow the moment to define us and hold us back. “What I if I had said this instead?” “What if I hadn’t made that choice?” What if, what if, what if? Our overwhelming desire to alter the past can interfere with our ability to successfully navigate the future.

I’m trying not to live my life going in reverse. I can’t take back things I’ve said or hurts I’ve caused. I can’t erase painful memories or pretend that experiences that made me sob never happened. Ultimately, continually focusing on these moments in my past will leave me disoriented and more than a bit nauseous. Motion sick. It’s only when looking forward that I can have renewed hope, fresh experiences, and repaired relationships.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I have to admit that moving back in with one’s parents is a humbling experience in your late-twenties. (Ugh, am I not even in my mid-twenties any more?) Yet, that is exactly what C. and I are doing at the end of August.

You see there was C. quitting his job last fall… and then the economy took a turn downward… and then the the student loan that needed to be paid off… and then the rent that went up… and then… and then…

And then we were faced with a debacle: Continue to live our independent lifestyle and have C. commute with traffic to a different state each day or move in with a gracious parent and have me commute against traffic to a different state each day. Our bank account will clearly benefit from Option B.

I’m thankful that my mom didn’t hesitate to welcome us into her home. I truly am. Plus, I think that she can benefit from having us around, as we will be able to help her with the gardening and house repairs that have overwhelmed her in the last year. I’m not just saying that to justify the move or cling to some shred of dignity.

Nevertheless, the transition is difficult and it has made me realize how selfish and worldly I can be sometimes. I want my own apartment/home. I want to be contributing to my 401(k) regularly. I want to take vacations to ski in Colorado or join a friend when she offers me the chance to join her on a work trip in Hawaii. I want a kitten. I want to start saving to support starting a family. I want to buy a new computer because my current one is clearly dying. I want… I want… I want…

It’s challenging not to compare myself to friends who went into more lucrative careers. People who are now buying homes or are going on 10-day vacations to Italy. (Note: I am still happy for them and their accomplishments. I don’t want anyone to feel like they have to downplay their accomplishments when I’m around.)

But then I have situations happening around me that that make me chastise, “How dare I feel bad for myself!” I’m not trying to figure out whether or not I have citizenship in this country. I’m not declaring bankruptcy. I didn’t have a miscarriage that turned into a life-threatening situation. I have a full-time job and a part time business. I have a loving husband. I have food in the pantry and fridge.

As the song goes, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you get what you need.” I’m praying that this is true. I pray that the upcoming months don’t give me what I want. (Ooomph. That’s a hard prayer.) I pray that they give us what we need: the opportunity to be fruitful and fulfilled in our jobs, church, and community. The chance to be refreshed. C.’s dad recently prayed for us and prayed that we feel refreshment like a waterfall rushing over us. And that’s what I need. I need it more than a kitten, burgeoning bank account, or family ski vacation. I need the promise of Isaiah 40:29-31.

He gives strength to the weary and increases power to the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

Here For The Party

My friend, N. grew up on a sheep farm. I met N. while in college through a friend. Eventually, he infiltrated my group of friends and lived next door to me in one of the dorms. For those of us in college who grew up in suburbia, we were fascinated with the sheep farm. It was almost mythical. Plucking chickens? Using baby monitors to listen for sheep going into labor in the middle of the night? We enjoyed stories of the farm and N. happily obliged us with tales of his farm experiences. He was proud of his farm upbringing. In fact, his college entrance essay was entitled, “My First Sheep.”

So, naturally, when N. invited D., C., and I to visit the farm during lambing season, we jumped at the chance. No, we didn’t know what lambing season was… but it sounded neat and we imagined liking lambs. So, off we went. (Learning Moment #1: Lambing season on N.’s farm takes place annually in the late-winter/early-spring. All the baby lambs for the year are born during this period. They are usually born as twins, but sometimes triplets or single lambs.) D. and I were prepared with a list of names for the new babies. We wanted to be honorary aunties.

On the farm there’s a barn, hayloft, some chickens, a donkey, and oodles of sheep. (Learning Moment #2: Connie the Donkey is used as a guard donkey. Her loud braying scares away coyotes and other predators.) Our trip to the farm lived up to our expectations. We saw gooey, little lambs born only an hour before our arrival. N. gave us a sheep shearing demonstration, as well as a tutorial regarding why chickens are more idiotic than sheep. We learned to use special soap to get off the oil on our hands that we got after petting all the sheep. We ate lamb for dinner. Circle of Life and all that.

After college, I didn’t really think I would return to the farm. However, fast forward to 2010, and D. and I were once again treading on the farm’s grounds. Why? Farm Party 2010.

N. developed Farm Party four years ago. Each year, N.’s parents go away for a weekend and give him run of the property. The event started as a relatively small gathering and involved tours of the farm and a campfire. However, over the years the event has grown in popularity and developed into a more elaborate affair. D. and I had heard enough about it that we were curious. However, when my husband heard about the event, he demanded to know why we hadn’t gone in all the previous years- it sounded just that amazing. So, that was that. We resolved to attend this year’s Farm Party. This year’s theme? “Sheepin’ it Real.”

We dressed up in all sorts of farm glory- cowboy boots, red checkered shirts, cowboy hats, star-shaped belt buckles, and John Deere caps. For good measure, D. and I put out hair into pigtails. We’re adults, we promise.

The afternoon was amazing. We arrived and helped to prep oodles of fruit for fruit salad or move bales of hay. When the events finally kicked off, N. and his sister has a sheep shearing race. The competition was theoretically based on time and quality. However, when it was time for a public vote, it was clear that most of N.’s friends were not going to vote for him based on principle alone. Plus, seeing his sister take down the giant sheep she sheared was kind of amazing.His sister has won every year that they have done this competition. And rightly so.

Next, there was the beverage scavenger hunt. Teams pre-registered and brought 12 cans/bottles of their beverage. Then as the contestants were brought on a hayride, the hiding committee took their drinks and hid them around the farm. The first team to find and drink all of their beverages was declared the winner. At this point, I planned on being part of the hiding committee based on my ability to squirrel things away efficiently. Yet, this was not meant to be. Instead, I was trying not to pass out. (Learning Moment #3: Don’t let the excitement for being on a farm allow you to ignore your need for liquids and ventilation. Dehydration and heat stroke can lead to blurry vision and fuzzy hearing. It’s disconcerting and bad.)

After recovering from my episode and watching people scurry around the farm, we watched some boys shoot off the potato guns they had made the previous day. Some friends went out into the field with baseball mitts and attempted to catch the flying bits of potato. They were not particularly successful. Some people chose to take part in the Redneck Slip ‘n Slide. This was accomplished by lying down tarps and covering them with water and baby shampoo. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, getting covered in suds and grass blades.

Finally it was time to eat. There was a 150 lb. pig roasting in the front yard. And it was delicious. I’m a big fan of the pig roast.

Naturally, C. made it his job to make friends with all the critters on the farm. He happily patted the sheep, conversed with the donkey and fed it some watermelon, and picked up chickens like it was his job. (And the chicken, The Lone Ranger, would not let just anyone pick it up. The Lone Ranger got it’s name based on the fact that it’s the only chicken that smart enough to figure out how to escape its coop. It wanders around the farm all day doing it’s own thing. Yet, at the end of the night it will find a human and sit in front of it, expecting to be brought back to the safety of the coop. It will then escape again the next day.) Throughout the afternoon C. kept exclaiming, “I just belong on a farm!” He felt right at home.

Moral of the story, Farm Party was great fun. It’s no wonder that N. looks forward to Farm Party in the way that most other people look forward to Christmas. It brings him such joy to have all his friends in one place, enjoying the place that he loves. He was a great host. In all likelihood, he is probably already planning for Farm Party 2011. C., D., and I are tentatively planning too. Want to join us?

Fairytale

I’ve always loved stories.

Growing up, you could reliably find me in some corner of the house, under some blanket, or snuggled in bed with a book. According to reports, I even pretended to read when I couldn’t. When I was 3 years old, my grandmother watched in amazement I took up the newspaper from the kitchen table, spread it out on the floor, plopped on my stomach, and proceeded to serenely gaze over the plethora of words in front of me. As a result, I immediately got labeled as the most intelligent grandchild. (Poor grandma just didn’t understand that I was simply mimicking what I saw my parents do every morning, sans the rolling on the floor.)

As I grew older, my tastes in literature changed and matured from the Berenstain Bears to The Babysitters Club to Nancy Drew to Jane Austen to Fyodor Dostoyevsky. However, my love for fairytales never really diminished. There’s something reassuring about a “Happily Ever After” and something wonderful about magical fairies or charms that help to save the day. There’s something comforting about being saved in the end- either by one’s own wiles or with the aid of someone special.

"The Witch Must Die" An interesting read for fairytale enthusiasts.

(To those of you ready to object: Yes, I know that the original tales are generally more unhappy and cautionary. And yes, I know that romanticized fairytales are what can give girls unrealistic expectations about love and men. Oh, and yes, I realize that feminists sometimes get all cranky about the women always needing to be saved by a man. I know. I know the arguments. I’ve taken numerous Children’s Lit. courses and I own a book entitled, “The Witch Must Die: The Hidden Meaning of Fairy Tales.” I know the psychology of the stories. I know their origins. However, this post is not meant to be a thesis regarding the merits or pratfalls of fairytales. I’ve written those papers and this is not one of them. This post is about the fact that I enjoy the stories and they have meaning to me. Ahem. Okay, I’m done digressing now.)

Anyway, I am naturally drawn in when people reference fairytales. So, when I saw an article entitled “Goldilocks and Youth Ministry,” I had to read it. I was immediately curious- What does the trespassing little girl have to do with ministry? Well, the author, Chris Durso, makes an interesting connection between the classic tale and reaching out to students. I won’t steal Chris’ thunder by detailing the article’s contents here or by going into an analysis about the author’s experience. Instead I’ll let you read and come to your own conclusions. Also, be sure to check out the comments section, which is particularly interesting given the article’s stance on how to treat people.

Take a look and let me know what you think: http://bit.ly/asVde4

Wipeout

For a year and a half, J. and I have been going to the gym. Initially, even though it was my own idea, I was very much against it. On the day that we went to go sign up, J. repeatedly has to ask me if I was okay, since I was pouting so much.

(I harassed J. to be my workout buddy since she was just as unfit and reluctant to go the gym as I was. This was key. Did I want to go to the gym with someone who’s already a workout super star? No, because I didn’t want to feel inept. Did I want to go with someone who considers a visit to the gym to be the highlight of her day? No, because I wouldn’t be able to patiently tolerate such enthusiasm. I’m just being honest.)

The rational part of me knew that working out would be good for us- cardiovascular fitness, ability to climb a set of stairs without huffing and puffing, etc. etc. However, the sloth-like part of me did not relish the idea of running on a Treadmill like a gerbil in a wheel, nor the idea of waking up early to work out before work. I like my sleep. Don’t judge.

Astoundingly, we have stuck with our workout regimine rather than giving up in exchange for a few more precious hours of sleep each week. When we go to the gym, we spend about 25 minutes on cardio equipment and then 30 minutes doing the little circuit with flashing lights telling you when to move to and from various weight machines and step aerobics areas. There are 10 blocks for steps and 10 weight machines. Red and green lights tell us when to go, stop, and switch stations. We huff and puff and endure the best we can.

Yet, there is one thing that even we, the unathletic and unfit, have no patience for- the germy people.

Common courtesy says that you should use the prominently displayed paper towels and disinfectant spray to sanitize whatever equipment you’ve used when you’re done using it. There’s usually a great deal of sweaty-germiness going on. That sweaty-germiness is transferred to the machine wherever your body comes into contact with the machine. Hands, butt, back, shins, abdominals, forearms, and more.

However, there are some people that, for reasons unknown (Obliviousness? Selfishness? Laziness? Spite?) do not wipe down their machines. J. and I are astounded (ASTOUNDED!) when we witness this. Seriously? You’re really not going to do anything about the pool of sweat you left on the rowing machine seat so that later an unsuspecting person will sit in it?

Sometimes, J. and I are directly affected by the sweaty-germy people if they are ahead of us in the aforementioned 30 minute circuit. As a result of this happening to us numerous times, we have come up with a plan to educate the germy. You know, because we’re magnanimous like that and all.

Should we identify a germy culprit, we make sure to position ourselves ahead of him (or her), so that he can see us. Then after we’re done with the station, we go to the paper towels and spray and ostentatiously use the towels and wipe down our station. Paper towels get ripped from rolls with flourish. Spray bottles of disinfectant are used to produce clouds of mist. We continue to do this at each station, even if our paper towel does not need rewetting.  Usually, the germy learn their lesson within three or so stations and begin using the sanitation supplies provided to them. Success! Hygiene! Yay!

Now, you must be thinking- This sounds pretty passive-aggressive. Why don’t you just go up to them and suggest they use a towel? There are several reasons. 1) How would you like to be told by a stranger to remember to wipe up the filth you left behind? No, we wouldn’t use those words, but that’s the message. It’s awkward and embarrassing. 2) As has already been established for me and is also true for J., we just don’t like interacting with people and try to avoid it on various levels.

Are J. and I ridiculous? Maybe. Are we helping the germy? Yes. With our passive-aggressive intervention, we are preventing the germy from the ire of other gym members. We are encouraging our gym community to be a happy and healthy. What’s so wrong with that?

All You Need Is Love

This has been a year of weddings. A friend from college got married to kick off 2010, one of my teenagers got married in February, C.’s sister is getting married this June, a cousin of mine is getting married this July, a college friend will be married mid-July, plus my college roommate is getting married at the end of July. As a result- I think about weddings quite a bit.

The wedding industry is ridiculous. And lucrative. They tell you about all these things you need to have: rehearsal dinner, rehearsal outfit, coordinating bridesmaid dresses, save-the-date cards, bachelor parties, bachelorette parties, engagement parties, bridal showers, place cards, programs, venues, photographers, videographers, musicians, favors, centerpieces, etc. The fact that all those came to mind without pause should be an indication of just how much time and money can be spent on the wedding stuff.

Now, many of you know that I’m a planner at heart. I like organizing things. And you probably also know that I’m frugal. I hate spending more money than I need to. I just hate spending money in general. So, when it comes to events, like weddings, that can eat up lots of your money, I do my best to cut costs where I can. Often, planning ahead can save you money- when doing last minute rushing around you’re more likely to spend lots of money just to get something done. Plus, I want a level of excellence associated with my efforts- not, “S. is known for doing things in a so-so fashion because she waits until the last minute.” Yes, part of this post is about my ego.

Sadly, there is an upcoming wedding where my well-meaning, frugal self is being thwarted. I’m attempting to plan some festivities for the bride; however, the other people assigned to the task are less than responsive. It’s like a group project for school and the group is doomed because there’s that one kid in your group who is never available to get together and work on the project- either because they just don’t want to or are legitimately busy.

So, here’s my situation: I’ve tried asking my co-planners if they need help with anything, but I hear nothing back. They don’t respond over half the time when I’ve asked for input. They don’t respond when I’ve made suggestions about favors, themes, food, price, etc. How can I plan a fun time without either a) taking over, since I’m not the maid of honor and the girl that is relishes her title or b) waiting until the last minute to realize nothing is done, thus causing unnecessary costs and stress?

My hilarious friend M., who knows all sorts of things about weddings, their traditions, etiquette, etc. had this to say:

I think it’s imperative that you’re up front with your budget – this is what i would say to her:

Dear MOH,
Lookie here, strawberry shortcake, being an MOH isn’t all fun and games, so here’s my budget and here’s the time that I can help.  If you can’t get your act together to plan these things, don’t come crying to me.
Love,
S.

Or at least that’s what I would say in my head.  In real life, I would run around like a crazy person picking up all the pieces and pulling things together so that everyone was happy.

So, is that it friends? Is becoming a last-minute crazy person the polite course of action? Or do I just need to calm down and let go? Am I such a psychopath that you read this post and you’re wondering what my problem is?

Forever Young

Since turning 22 or so, I have had difficulty remembering my age. This does not bode well for when I’m older and senile.

I don’t know what’s so hard for me to remember. For exactly the first half of any year, I am one age. For the second half, I am another. Yet whenever people ask my age, I have to do some math, which is not good considering my poor math skills. Usually, I’m just happy knowing I’m somewhere in my late-20′s. Perhaps my inability to remember my age is linked to my ambivalence regarding my birthday and associated celebrations. Heh.

Anyway, recently I have started to feel old. Not because my body is breaking down or my memory is fading- but because of the people around me.

One of my former students, who is now a freshman in college, got engaged. Engaged! Yay! I’m very happy for her because I think it’s a healthy relationship and the guy is great and they’re waiting a couple of years to get married. Nevertheless, one of my students is engaged! When did she get old enough to be engaged!? Then, as I was browsing through Facebook the other night, I saw that another of my former students had gotten married. Married! Yet I remember being a leader in youth group when he was a junior in high school.

Meanwhile, one of my other students had a baby. A baby! The baby is beautiful and she has a doting and capable mother. Yet, the fact that one of my students is now a mom is an obvious reminder that I am getting older.

Now I realize that all of these young folk are, well, young. They got engaged/married/pregnant while they were young. Nevertheless, I know that this will continue happening. More and more of my former students are going to announce that they are engaged/married/pregnant.

I’m not sure yet how this impacts me. I’m not freaking out about getting older, or anything like that. No mid-life crisis so far. However, it seemed worth recognizing that I am getting older. My (former) students are getting older. What does that mean? Should I be acting more grown up? What does that even mean? What kind of role do I have in the lives of former students who are becoming capable adults? Do I have a role at all? At what point does a leader-mentor become simply a friend?

Blah Blah Blah

As you may very well be aware, I’m a stubbornly independent individual. To a fault.

In seventh grade, we had to do this leaf project. Collect leaves, correctly ID them, mention their scientific name, and find its seed. You got one point for every correct ID, scientific name, and seed. And I insisted that I didn’t want any help from my parents. And thus I nearly failed the project. I think I got a 67 or something. It wasn’t good. In fact, I still can’t tell you the difference between a beech or a poplar. I can’t even distinguish types of birch trees from one another. Yet, I’m still (relatively) proud that I got my 67 on my own, versus my little brother who got an A+ with my mom’s help. (Side note: My mom is now awesome at identifying trees. My brother is as bad as I am.)

Therefore, you can imagine my annoyance when people don’t treat me as an independent individual. One of my pet peeves is when people pass messages through my husband instead of dealing directly with me. Yes, I understand it’s more convenient for people, at times, to deal with C. He just tends to be more accessible than I am. Yet, it still annoys me.

When C. was in ministry, this happened a lot. People just passed on messages to tell me about meetings, pass on compliments, or offer dinner invitations. However, the problem is that C.’s mind is a whirring, jumbled vortex of information. There’s a lot in there. Names of students, meeting times, lectures, fundraising ideas, leader training materials, etc. There’s a good chance he’s not going to remember. Not because he’s irresponsible or forgetful, per se, but because, well, why would my meeting be important for him to remember?

It’s like meeting with Friend A and, as you part ways, Friend A says, “Oh, tell Friend B that I say ‘Hi!’ the next time you see her!” And you say, “Sure thing.” But really, what are the chances that you’re going to a) remember and b) do so?

What was worse was when C. got confronted about something that I did or said. This is the one I really don’t understand. Yes, I am under C.’s authority, but that doesn’t mean he hears every conversation I have or knows all of my actions. It’s unfair to corner him and ask him about my behavior or why I did something, when he may not even know what’s going on. C. is then put in the position of wanting to defend me while trying to figure out the situation. Then, he later has to bring up the topic with me as some kind of messenger-middle-man. That’s not fair to him and I don’t feel like it’s particularly respectful to me. I’m just going to find you and talk to you about the matter anyway, so why not talk to me directly? Sigh.

At any rate, if you invited us to dinner in the last three years but never heard back from us, please don’t be offended. Chances are I just never knew the invite existed.

What a Wonderful World

All of the posted comments I’ve received in the last week (yes, all two of them!) have made me realize that a) I’m not just talking to myself and b) I’ve neglected the blog.

Now, you may be wondering, “S., what’s so important in your life that you’d be willing to keep us, your beloved audience, in waiting for so long?” Well, let me tell you.

I’m opening a travel agency.

No, really. I am.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have an unhealthy obsession with travel. Pair that with a best friend, D. who encourages such nonsense and voila- our travel agency was born. Our plan is that I will be the primary travel consultant who arranges travel, while she will do the more administrative work, such as making sure we pay taxes and checking to make sure that we don’t break laws.

The name of our company is Magical Mystery Tours. Why the peculiar name? Allow me to include an excerpt from our website, which is still in development:

“Magical Mystery Tours’ co-founders S. and D. met nearly 10 years ago as next door neighbors on their freshman hall at B. University.  Both were psychology majors, and didn’t have all that much traveling experience at that point, with the possible exception of some trips to Disneyworld and a trip to China on S.’s part.  Since their time at B., they’ve collectively been to 5 continents, 41 states, and 22 countries.

Magical Mystery Tours began when D. was chatting with a lawyer friend who was lamenting about how busy he was. She insisted he needed a vacation, but was met with the response that he didn’t have the time or energy to plan a trip.

Always enthusiastic about traveling and faced with a potential traveler who had a proper sense of adventure, D. convinced him to let her plan a trip. As a bonus, they decided that he wouldn’t find out the details until he showed up at the airport. He gave her travel dates, a budget, his credit card info, and after a few months of delightful anticipation (and consulting with S. to get the best travel deals), the first Magical Mystery Tour was born!

The trip was fun to plan and those who heard about it showed a healthy combination of curiosity and interest in getting set up to go on their own trips.  This seemed like the perfect opportunity to provide others with similarly surprising and exciting adventures.”

So, we plan Magical Mystery Tours and we also do more traditional travel arrangements too. We’ve already booked my sister-in-law’s honeymoon and have lined up a few others. We can do corporate travel, air, hotels, rental cars, cruises, travel insurance, and more. I’m proud to say that we’ve already saved people quite a bit of money! Like I said, our website is still under construction, but in the meantime we are happily booking tours and vacations. If you need help with travel plans, simply leave a comment to this post asking for assistance.

I’ll be sure to keep you updated regarding MMT and other goings-on in my life.

Let’s Get It Started

In my senior year of high school, I was ecstatic about the opportunity to start anew. I had this idea that going to college would give me to chance to be the classy, confident lady (who I thought was) buried within me, which my middle school and high school histories prevented from emerging.

Yet, when the day came for my parents to drive me to college, I shed tears of uncertainty. I didn’t know if I would make friends. I wasn’t sure if I would like being away from my family. Maybe I wouldn’t enjoy being in the middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania.

Throughout that first year of college, I entertained the idea of transferring to a different school. I just wasn’t sure that I fit in. I wasn’t sure if I was in the right place. I had underestimated the time it would take for me to grow comfortable with a) where I was, b) who I was, and c) the people around me. Of course, everything turned out okay. I made friends with the people on my hall. I joined clubs and organized campus events. One of my friends from college was the maid-of-honor at my wedding.

Thus, later as an adult, when I moved to NH with my husband, I was more prepared for what a new start would entail. I knew the transition would take longer than I had anticipated. That I make friends slowly and cautiously. Indeed, it took me over a year to find my go-to friends.

As C. and I stand on the precipice of another change in our lives, another opportunity for a new beginning, I can look back on my experiences and am more prepared for what may be ahead of us. I remain full of excitement and know that it’s okay to be nervous. I know that my friendships will evolve slowly and that I need to be patient as they form. I know that God will take care of us no matter where we are. I’m confidant that change will be good.