The need for a sweater amongst other things...

"Can you sense the Creator, world?

Seek him above the starry canopy.

Above the stars He must dwell."

Unable to justify watching yet another episode of Planet Earth while my nine weeks old puppy chewed everything in my condo as a display of rebellion, I left the birds of paradise to themselves and searched for the leash. Hubbell, the driving force behind this walk, is overcome with delight in his victory and mercifully leaves my converse sneakers in expectations of bigger and better things. The black trash bag on the kitchen floor catches my eye and I am disgruntled with the idea of taking out the trash again. Hubbell begins to chew on my cowboy boots indicating the urgency for departure, so we're off. The trash will wait.

As we walk down the corridor of the complex, Hubbell relieves himself on the sidewalk, enforcing the idea that I have absolutely no idea how to house break a puppy. We do the customary greetings of the neighbors behind their glass doors: "Yes, it's a beautiful day", "No, I can't believe Senator Kennedy died", "Yes, Hubbell is bigger than the last time you saw him" and so on, and so forth. In actuality, I lied. I can believe Senator Kennedy died. Working in the health care field has given me an insight most people may not have and it is this: a lot of people die at age 77. It's more common than my neighbors realize.

After Hubbell and I dispense pleasantries, we embark on our stroll. Breaching from the protective canal of the condo, I am greeted by the whispers of fall. Immediately I realize that my choice of a strapless apron dress was no longer appropriate for the imminent season change. Whether it was out of laziness or stubbornness, I don't know but I didn't retreat for a sweater and carried on as Hubbell danced at my feet. I feel slightly maternal as I watch him jump up and down clumsily, remembering when I brought him home from the pound last week. His motor skills demanded some fine tuning-his gait easily confused for that of a drunkard's when we had first met. Fall's approach is being proclaimed as I see small brown and yellow leaves on the egg shell colored pavement. Hubbell is in pure ecstasy as he has recently developed a strange fascination for leaves. Going to the park after the leaves fall is going to blow his mind. I can't wait.

Every now and then the sun wins out against the shade and it seductively warms the skin on my back and neck. I turn towards it to in hopes of greeting it with my vulnerably exposed chest and face, but it lingers no more. Hubbell has tangled himself in his leash and distracts me from the foreboding breeze. And for the first time, it occurs to me that the season is going to change. Summer is going to end and fall will begin. Maybe it stems from my love of a new school semester or the time I spent in Northern Ireland, but this particular seasonal change will always give hope for new beginnings.

Hope has been the sustenance of my soul the past three months. The inscription of "one hope" on my right wrist becomes prominent in my sight for a moment and I allow the book of Ephesians, chapter four to mechanically recite through my mind. ...just as you were called to one hope... the commandment to not crumble underneath the weight of grief gives the power needed to set my eyes on Christ's promises. I think of the hope of life restored, and how I feel like I've been waiting in the twilight the last few months. What I hope for is for the dawn to come and my joy to return. To relish once again in the joy of my salvation, the thing I've battling for these long days.

The period of meditation is interrupted as Hubbell sees a neighborhood dog he had befriended a few days earlier. He joyously runs to greet his friend only to be received with a snarl and a bite to the face. He retreats to my feet and sits on my cowboy boots looking to me for affirmation. I can't help but think for a split second what a great sepia toned photo that would make. The neighbor apologizes for her dog's outbreak, saying that she doesn't know why her dog doesn't like Hubbell anymore. I resonate with my dog's pain for a moment before she looks at Hubbell and says, "don't worry, Hubbell. It's all part of growing up." At first I thought she was giving me the sage advice and then checked back into reality to say, "oh, no worries, he's fine". Hubbell by this time has escaped to the door and is scratching to get back to shelter.

We walk in and I give attention to my hunger for the first time. Immediately I crave a Green Teaser from 9 Fruits. Realizing that it is 20 miles away and they're closed, I admit defeat and prowl through the refrigerator. When nothing jumps out at me from the fridge, I begin to convince myself that I could probably just make a Green Teaser at home. Then I recall a recent failure with some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and decide to avoid another kitchen humiliation. Baby carrots and hummus instantly are the most appealing candidate and I settle into the couch with Hubbell at my feet. Sigur Ros' Hvarf-Heim is crying in the background as I respond to unanswered emails. Hubbell gnaws on a carrot I experimentally gave him with the result being my dog will eat carrots. I laugh a little out loud and thank God for sending me such a precious creature to let me love. Still working on the carrot, I pick up Hubbell and kiss the top of his head. And for the first time in a long time, I feel joy. Not circumstantial happiness, but joy. I know that the dawn is going to come and that in His sovereignty, Christ is lovingly growing me up. Hubbell's carrot falls to the floor and he looks at me with his soft and eyes and I say to him,"it's ok, Hubbell Bear. It's all part of growing up".

*Snow White and the Seven Lieutenants* Brooks Brother Stock * Cousin Marcus *Aunt Virginia*

My brother is a proud graduate of the United States Military Academy. West Point. The name is often said in reverence. Robert E. Lee and Eisenhower walked those hallowed halls. And now a new generation is coming through. A new generation is now representing its tradition of honor and duty.
Through his term at West Point, we became very close to his cadet friends. Getting to know them shed a new light on the military for me. I no longer view them as somber, intimidating beings. No visions of Greek mythological warriors are conjured. More Disney like visions comes to mind. At first I envisioned Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. But now I see it more accurately: it’s Snow White and the Seven Lieutenants. There would first be Dopey. Dopey was my brother’s roommate for two years. Tall, good looking, cocky, Dopey reigned from Sin City itself and he was their prince. He drank too much, smoked too much, and cursed too much, yet there was a delightful playfulness to him. Some might call it immaturity, but it was contagious nonetheless.
Being raised in Las Vegas, Dopey never claimed to be well versed in the ways of the wilderness. This was often a topic point of taunting for my brother since he had been raised in the backwoods of Tennessee; some form of Davy Crockett’s blood flowed through his veins. Staring out his window on a cold February day, he spotted a groundhog. Deciding to educate his roommate, he called Dopey to the window.
“Look out there, teach you something about wildlife.”
Dopey struts over to the window, scans the horizon before exclaiming:
“Oh my god a baby bear!”
If the story had ended here, it would have been worth a chuckle. But there are more lieutenants left in this story. One of these is Cuddly. Cuddly was raised in the Bronx in a large Italian family, including a godfather. A godfather who could make offers people couldn’t refuse. Cuddly was a foot shorter than Dopey and built like a fire hydrant. And Cuddly loved hugs. Over a long fall weekend Cuddly joined Dopey in our home. While our family teased and jested with Dopey about his baby bear comment, Cuddly immortalized the story. During our lighthearted mocking, Cuddly pondered,
“I just want to know what that groundhog was doing there anyways. Isn’t he supposed to be building a dam somewhere?”
The sound of absolute disbelief was deafening. Realizing the disturbance of common knowledge in the room, Cuddly leaned to Dopey and whispered:
“I think we’re surrounded.”
Unfortunately Dopey could not last as the brother’s roommate. The smell emanating from their room drew the attention of their superiors who decided that they were compromising the very sanitation of the floor. Possibly the sanitation of the whole Army. Weapons of mass destruction were fermenting under their bed. Germ warfare was growing under their sink. Dopey was moved and my brother received a new roommate: Drunky. Now Drunky, Dopey and Cuddly were all very close friends with a strong unifying bond: alcohol. Lots of alcohol. My brother had been used to a drunken roommate after rooming with Dopey, but Drunky was a slightly different drunk. Drunky was a sleep-peerer.
Drunky was a contradiction within him. Ranked twelfth in the class, he was upheld as a brilliant mind. He had the mind of MENSA member and the bladder of a Clydesdale horse. My brother watched in wonder over the next few semesters as his roomie would stumble in wasted and pass out on his bed. While my brother poured over his books studying, Drunky would sleep. Finally, nature would beckon Drunky. He would rise from his nest in a daze and then stammer in the dark for a moment. After being readjusted to being vertical, Drunky would then proceed to urinate, usually on his bed. And then he would climb right back into his toilet chamber of choice for an evening of wet sleep. Drunky did not limit himself to the bed. There were times when it was his closet. The hat he needed for formation the next morning. His backpack, anything within two feet had at sometime been peed on by Drunky.
To truly appreciate the characters in my brother’s life would require knowing my brother. He would be Grumpy. Serious, accomplished, well spoken, my brother would have made Patton proud. He studies hard, works hard. And he scares the hell out of little children.
His entire life exudes excellence. Especially his wardrobe; after watching Grumpy dress for the past few years, I have decided to buy a large amount of stock in Brooks Brothers. He owns all their sweaters. And he owns duplicates of the same sweaters in order to have “back ups”. This is a man with a plan about sweaters. I know very few guys who own ties. I know less that own more than one. I witnessed Grumpy buy thirteen at one trip. Because you never know when you might have to wear thirteen suits at one time. But to be fair, he wears them. When home for breaks, I would slump down the stairs in my sweats to find him gussied up in a sweater with a collared shirt and tie.
“Big plans today, brother?”
“No.”
While Grumpy’s wardrobe may be plentiful, his conversation skills with his sister are not.
“Well you look all dressed up.”
“Just getting my day started.”
“You look like a professor.”
“Not all of us are comfortable attiring our lives in sweats, Katie.”
Granted, I knew better than to provoke him. But while his conversation skills with me are limited, my utmost desire to harass him is not. I am what my grandmother calls a "ridge runner".
I have found that I happen to be one of the few who enjoys the danger of provoking Grumpy. There’s a fine line between being civil and being verbally torn to shreds. Running along that ridge, feeling the thrill of doom is something very few people toy with. My little cousins not being among them.
Our grandparents were blessed to have eleven grandchildren spread very far apart in age. My cousins are at least ten years younger than me, so it feels more of an aunt/niece relationship. And they adore me. If I were their aunt, I would be that cool aunt that everyone loves. Upon arriving at family gatherings, they sprint to the car to greet me. Their hearts are full of hope of the joys that are to come. But they must restrain themselves. Cousin Marcus has exited the SUV. As Cousin Marcus approaches, a dark cloud falls across their faces. Their running stops. There are no more smiles on their faces. They fall into rank and stare hopelessly at their shoes as he approaches. In complete unison they sing,
“Hi, Cousin Marcus.”
He inspects his platoon. Examining them head to untied shoelaces toe. Once the scrutiny is complete he answers them, “children” and walks on. After the shadow of the angel of death has passed, they run into my arms for comfort. They have survived another passing. The lamb’s blood on the doorpost was sufficient once again.
While Grumpy is not good with children, or even decent, adults love him. One in particular: Crazy Aunt Virginia. Crazy Aunt Virginia was Dopey’s aunt. Being that my brother and Dopey had played out the odd couple scenario to a tee, our families enjoyed each other’s company. So naturally, they invited our family to their family reunion. Dopey’s family hails from New Jersey. A large, Irish Catholic family that is loud and usually not sober. And Crazy Aunt Virginia is one of the matriarchs.
My sister was sitting on the outskirts of the reunion. Seeing as how it wasn’t actually our family reunion, I could understand her discomfort. Someone needed to break the ice. Enter Crazy Aunt Virginia. I don’t know how much she had had to drink at this point, but I like to think none. It makes me happier to believe she always lacks so much tact. She walked right up to the table, extended her hand and declared, “I’m Crazy Aunt Virginia, how the hell are you?”
We are delicate Southern Belles, sweet little flowers that have been nurtured with cotillion and pruned with social grace. We thought this was hilarious.
She stared at my sister before she decided to impart wisdom in her thick New Jersey accent, “you look just like your brother, you poor thing. Never shave your head.”
About this time, Grumpy comes to make his greetings to Crazy Aunt Virginia. She latched on to him before informing us, “This is your brother, Will. I’m going to go kick his ass on the dance floor.”
And that she did. That you did, Crazy Aunt Virginia.

*Leadership 9-1-1*Jumping hotline*

Nursing school covers a broad spectrum of subjects. Although nurses are held responsible for the physiology of their patients, it must be handled in a gentle manner as well. The undergraduate program requires extensive sciences and psychology classes to meet these demands. But to make sure we are giving our clients holistic care, we must take our leadership classes as well.
For eight hours a week, we sit through seminars on the power of being a leader in nursing. How to be the most professional nurse we can be. Making sure we recognize our leadership possibilities was placed in higher priority than other subjects. Subjects such as pharmacology for example.
Besides despising being forced into boredom and laden with busy work, I question the applicability of this information. At exactly what point is this going to help save a life? When in my entire career am I going to have a patient code and a physician bark at me, “quick, what are three ways you can be an example to your fellow employees?” Where in reviving a patient do my personality space requirements better his survival rates? Obviously I have a lot to learn about nursing.
Fortunately I have professors dedicated to walking me through this journey, or jumping through it when necessary.
Using some of their better judgment, the administrators decided that having a three-hour lecture on mental health first thing in the morning was best for everyone. There is definitely no better time to talk about suicide than at eight a.m.
Luckily they had the right lady for the job. Professor Cat Lady. Professor Cat Lady must not be confused with the Dog Lady. The Dog Lady is like a dark void in the universe, sucking all the patience and joy out of those who come in contact with her. Professor Cat Lady is a soft glow of light, emitting warmth and trust.
Professor Cat Lady was walking us through the reasons for suicide, the signs preceding suicide and the methods of suicide. After two hours of this monotony, we started jotting down personal notes on the methods. Her next power point slide spoke of jumping as a method. She looked around the room and mistook our boredom for confusion.
“Oh, this doesn’t mean jumping as in hopping” she explained to these senior students. “More like jumping from something high.”
Just to make sure that we were completely clear on this point, she began bouncing up and down saying, “see, this won’t kill someone.”
Believing that there must have been a language barrier of sorts she proceeded to bounce around the room chanting, “suicide attempt, suicide attempt, suicide attempt.” She then approached the podium and faced her audience silently. Assuming that we were in fact idiots she wanted to assure us, “that didn’t actually kill me.” The administration has entrusted my professional future into her hands.

*Odysseus: Registered Nurse *Hogwarts Mental Health Institution *Disciplining the Mind * Trick or Treat with Reality *Psychiatric resort*

All epic heroes must go through a rigorous journey. They must be faced with daunting obstacles and meet ruthless brutes. Their lives will be filled with sights and sounds never experienced by the mere mortals that we are.
I am an epic hero. Like Odysseus before me I have battled the fiendish evils of nursing school. I have met biochemistry and I have survived. And as Odysseus explored the strange worlds of the sirens, I too fraternize with the secret societies of this world. I go to clinical rotations.
My service in the psychiatric hospital has left me with great respect for the brave psychiatrists in this world. Every morning, these mental warriors take their sanity into their own hands as they descend into an unseen world of mystery and magic. It’s like Hogwarts with straight jackets.
I find myself less impressed with the Harry Potter movies after my time in the psychiatric hospital. Imitation is not as remarkable once you have experienced the reality. Wizards? Unit G. Flying furniture? Equipped with restraints. Suspicious doors filled with wonder? Only the staff has keys. Harry Potters? Rooms 146, 138, 210 and 183. Psychics? Units C and I. Mysterious voices? Always. Potions? Every morning at eight and then again at two. Throw in a broomstick and a physician named Dumbledore and J.K. Rowling would have been sued for plagiarism.
One has to question the judgment of those living across the street from this facility. Or the one next door to it. Or the facility next to that. I had always heard the hackneyed phrase in real estate, “location, location, location.” I did not realize that this translated “mental institution, mental institution, mental institution”, for there are in fact three mental institutions within two hundred yards of these apartment complexes. So obviously the view isn’t great. The neighbors are not very sociable. I’m starting to think that they are being overcharged, no matter what they are paying.
Maybe there are some benefits to living across from a mental hospital. Maybe these are parents who really needed help disciplining their children.
“Eat your vegetables or you’re going across the road.”
“If you don’t stop bouncing off the walls I’ll send you to a place with padded walls.”
“You sass me again and I’ll commit you.”
I wonder if they ever took the opportunity to celebrate holidays with their reclusive neighbors. Especially Halloween. The residents of these hospitals must look forward to it every year. For once a year, everyone sees his or her delusions. Imagine the bonding as they pass their hallucinations from door to door. It must be a real time of gloating to the psychiatrist.
“Dr. Dumbledore, I would like to introduce you to the pirate that I’ve been telling you about.”
“Nurse Voldemort, have you met this pink rabbit? See, despite your medications and poisons she came back.”
“Oh hello doctor! I have a question, do you see the giant fairy over there? Me too. All the time.”
Although when one considers the traditions of Halloween, I often wonder how the hospitals are not crowded. Where exactly is the line drawn? It’s OK to dress up as mystical creature and bother people at their homes for candy and food. But it’s not OK to see mystical creatures and bother people on the streets for food? So who is splitting hairs and sending people to the mental institutes?
Between the group therapies and the bologna sandwich parties, I find myself actually somewhat envious. How wonderful would it be to cut loose and just enjoy life uninhibited? No social rules whatsoever. All attire, speech, ideas are totally free from regulation.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, I do not wish to be committed. I just wish there was a happy in between. Maybe like a psychiatric resort. Check in for a weekend. Enjoy the serenity of Christmas songs played during breakfast. Play your tennis with some obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Release some energy during a group therapy. Claim to be carrying Michael Jackson’s baby. Cheat during Bingo. Take some Xanax with your French Toast. No judgment, no rules. Just check your sanity at the door.

The road to Jesus * Spiritual ESPN * Rooming in a volcano *

Getting to the small Church of Christ university was not in the original game plan either. There was a hip liberal arts school up North that I dreamt of everyday during high school literature. It was progressive, artistic, and expensive and it scared the hell out of my strong conservative parents. It was the paradise I sought.
On the road to this paradise, I was sidetracked by a quick pit stop in Northern Ireland that lasted a year. It’s amazing where we get led throughout our lives and I was taken to a ministry house in a religion torn country to work with the local youth. But my hip, progressive art college would not hold my scholarships for a year; in stepped a local college in my hometown of Nashville with plenty of scholarships. My pit stop was now a detour, a detour to religious awareness.
Prior to attending this university, I was naïve. I assumed that all denominations were all on the same team and Jesus was the captain. As it turns out, the denominations are in some sort of recreational league and Jesus is the prize. Unfortunately, there were no referees present for the past few centuries and some foul play has occurred. If I had been paying more attention to the spiritual ESPN, I probably would have known this.
Spiritual EPSN. There is a notion that has been overlooked for far too long. Such a missed opportunity for commentators, replacing Terry Bradshaw with John Wesley and Sir Thomas Moore.
Wesley, “And here goes the Archbishop Albert for the sale of indulgence and, wait. What’s this? It’s Martin Luther with the interception!”
Moore, “That Luther is really up and coming these days. He has been really strong on the Reformation lately, real key player. I can see him being MVP this year for sure.”
Wesley, “Oh, well there’s no doubt about that, Tommy. But you can’t underestimate Archbishop Albert in this game, he’s a dominating figure with real experience. Keep in mind, Luther is a rookie!”
Moore, “I hear you, Jack, I hear you. But wait! Oh my goodness! He is nailing the thesis to the door! He’s nailing the thesis to the door! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Wesley, “Protestants win! Protestants win! Protestants win the pennant!!!!”
And the crowd goes wild! Ahhh!
Obviously it couldn’t run on basic cable, but it would have been helpful nonetheless.
Rooming with seven other girls in a dorm suite is about as logical as living at the base of an active volcano. While the rent is probably more than reasonable, the fact of impending disaster does not justify it. Enter freshman year of college.
Being the only non-Church of Christ girl in our suite and having missed being briefed by spiritual ESPN, I was rudely brought to reality.
Enter roommate. While discussing our general background, she discovered the fact that my church used instruments. This caused the dorm to go into an uproar. Everyone was on emergency conversion mode. I could not understand the distress of not being Church of Christ. So I asked.
“What is the difference between Church of Christ and say, Presbyterian?”
They were in conference for a moment before gently informing me, “no real difference, just that Church of Christ will go to Heaven and everyone else will go to Hell.”
Now, I’ve never actually been engulfed by a rushing wave of hot magma, but I imagine that it is somewhat more enjoyable than my living arrangement for the rest of the year. As always, this is Adam and Eve’s fault somehow. Roommates must have happened as a consequence of sin entering the world.

25 Randon Things

1. I have never parallel parked a car.

2. I once went to Slovakia by accident on my way to Austria.

3. I have to check my car door 3 times to make sure it's locked and closed before I can leave it.

4. I used to love Hanson's music...I still do.

5. I didn't get my first kiss until I was 21.

6. The biggest "impulse" buy I ever made was my town home.

7. I didn't submit my life to the Lord until I was almost 17 and am still learning to submit daily.

8. I sleep with the fan on year round and am very particular about having plenty of space on my side of the bed: I'm thinking my future husband might need to get his own bed.

9. I love New York City in the winter-but don't care for it in the summer.

10. I delight in giving gifts to other people but am typically very poor in receiving compliments-not sure how that works.

11. I'm the most adventurous homebody you'll ever meet. I don't want to go 4 miles downtown to a club but can't wait to get 1,000 miles away to some forgotten jungle/beach. I am just as content to work a puzzle at home as I am to go white-water rafting.

12. My name is Katherine Elizabeth but I like to be called Katie Beth. Or KB. Or KBG. Except by family, I like my family to call me Katie or Cousin Katie. When people other than family call me Katie I feel slightly violated.

13. I am not a feminist in any sense of the word.

14. I once cried reading a Peanuts strip because they were so mean to Charlie Brown.

15. Some of the most satisfying moments of my life have been at the end of a hard run/soccer game/etc. in the intense heat-I absolutely love feeling physically spent and sweaty at the end of a challenge succeeded.

16. I hate, hate, text language. I will never use: lol, u, r, wtf, or any other poor excuse for proper English.

17. My cousin once told me I am a conservative hippie-I'd have to agree.

18. I love to sleep. To quote "The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood": "I crave sleep. I can taste it, taste sleep and that it was as delicious as a BLT on fresh French bread."

19. I write in all of my books.

20. My house is always cluttered and I like it that way-I'm more content in organized chaos.

21. My poor memory has been one of my greatest struggles of all time. If you've ever seen my left hand, you know how hard it is for me to remember things. Comprehending organic chemistry was easier than being able to remember it by the next semester. Because of this great deficit, I am often referred to as "Dorrie" from Finding Nemo. Feel free to laugh about it, I agree fully.

22. The best salad I've ever had was at Jepetto's in Salt Lake City. And they have an one handed guitar player there who was amazing.

23. I am happiest when our family gets together in the protected aura of the old farm-our mighty clan gathers from Nashville to South Carolina and raises a beautiful racket that absolutely delights the heart and sets the spirit free. As much as I love to roam, my rogue heart will always long for Cookeville, TN and the tender memories experienced there. The sweetest laughs and most refreshing cries I have ever expended have been on that sacred land, whether it was in the context of meals that lasted too long, Rook games, Lonesome Dove nights, Naughty Santa with the infamous knife, back yard football or late, late night talks.

24. I love road trips-doesn't matter to where, I just love them.

25. I sleep next to a Starry Night. Not under one, but next to it.

A college journey * MacFarland as Mecca* Mutant Race *

To keep with the trend, let me just say that college isn’t what I expected either. I don’t know why I was envisioning four years of Ferris Buller’s day off. Or maybe embodying some sort of Saved by the Bell motif, but it didn’t quite happen.
Being the irrational dreamer at heart, I originally chose English as my career path. I was going to sit at trendy coffee shops and discuss controversial novels with guys that were tall, dark, and mysterious. Men that were secretly pursuing their love for music all the while masking their passionate love for me as we drank freshly brewed java. Within my delusions I dreamt of liberating oppressed people by buying exotic coffees that were sold by fair trade markets. Being an English major was going to fulfill all of my hopes and dreams, possibly even my wildest romantic fantasies. I was going to change the world through grammar.
The first year of college quickly broke my rose-tinted glasses. The guys weren’t dark and mysterious. They weren’t even tall. No wild musicians posing as a mild-mannered Clark Kents by day. Turned out I didn’t enjoy coffee. And the books weren’t controversial. In fact, we did not read the books as much as grammatically dissect them. For weeks upon weeks we discussed to the point of agony the proper use of participles and margin etiquette. Man’s punishment package in the garden of Eden now seems to include English grammar.
I had been pushed to the brink of my sanity by disjunctive pronouns and elliptical constructions. I fled the English department as if it were on fire, and a little disgusted with myself that I acknowledged my correct use of simile. Past the History department, past the Art department, I ran until I had reached the taboo region of campus: the Science department.
During my time as an English major, the Science department was always viewed as a Bermuda triangle of sorts. Every year young students went in, but were never seen again. Their disappearances, while saddening, could not be dwelt on. We had to learn from their mistakes and avoid taking anything that ended in “–ology”. This can be quite a challenge considering these are required classes for graduation and being the creative minds that we were, we became resourceful:

“Biology is against my religion. We are not allowed near anything dead, so dissections would be impossible.”

“My parents were divorced due to chemistry: the lack of it. The entire subject is so painful my therapist advices I avoid it for good mental health.”

“I’m on a terrorist watch list, I’m legally not allowed within one hundred meters of any lab with chemicals in it.”

Obviously all English majors are pathological liars, but the deans of the Science department were happy to excuse them. For it is no secret that Science majors think all English majors are idiots, thus beneath them. If survival of the fittest did in fact rule, the English majors would have died out sometime after Jane Austen.
But after my experience with hyperbole for the last few weeks, I was now staring at the Biology building as if it were my Mecca. This too is a challenge considering that it was a small Church of Christ school. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and entered a world without windows, a world without ventilation. To say that it smelled as if something had died would be untrue. To say that it smelled as if something had died, been cut up and preserved in formaldehyde would be accurate.
The receptionist leaned over her desk suspiciously. Obviously no one had entered that building of their own accord in years.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

Bracing myself, I approached slowly. There were always rumors floating in the outside world that the ones in this building had over time been morphing into some sort of super human race. A race of mutants that would one day emerge from the windowless fortress they dwelt in and descend upon the liberal arts department in order to breed. Because although they were thought to be inferior to the Science majors, they could not argue with the fact that the English and Art majors were mostly female.
With this knowledge in mind, I approached the guardian of the lair. I looked around, the bland walls, the plastic furniture, nothing trendy or chic. While this repelled me, it also convinced me that no one in this entire building would ever want me to discuss Shakespeare’s use of iambic pentameter again. This was the courage I needed to address the lab hag:
“I want to do something in this building now.”
She eyed me, cautiously. “Where did you come from?”
I took a step further into the shadows, closer to her, boldly stating, “From the English department.”
There was a hissing sound coming from her cave, she could not hide her disdain for my kind, my breed. But she had to weigh the fact that I was indeed a female, and it would most definitely be beneficial during the super mutants re-population of the Earth. After some hesitation, she sneered at me:
“Third floor.”
And thus, I became a Nursing major.

An Introduction

It seems to me that life doesn’t turn out how we would have planned. Or how we would have guessed. How we would have feared? Maybe. But once we get to the point of realization that life has in fact “turned out”, some sort of erosion process has occurred. Upon this point, we not only come to accept our position in life, but we can hardly imagine desiring it any other way.
And during this journey, we begin to develop philosophies that shape us and those around us. Cookie-cutter phrases that help decide which path we take in life. One of these beliefs is that you cannot categorize people-there are no stereotypes. But I have come to embrace my category: I am mediocre. Even from a young age I knew that I was never the worst student in the class, nor was I the brightest. Even at my academic peak in the third grade, Melissa Harmon read more books in the library’s read-a-thon than I did. I still remember when she passed the test for “Swiss Family Robinson” and I didn’t. It was the closest I ever came to being number 1 in the class.
And so the pattern continued, I was never the fastest or the smartest or the funniest or the biggest troublemaker. I don’t lead a life where I can attach a lot of “-est” to my titles. And that’s OK. I hope that I have finally come to the place in my journey where I realize that although I’m not going to finish first, I’m still traveling on this adventure called life.
There’s a peace in having self-actualization. It’s comforting. The only experience I can compare it to be walking into an old cathedral. Embarking into the vestibules of these inspirational structures and realizing just in fact how small the part you have played in the universe. Hundreds of years and thousands of hands have gone into shaping something much bigger than you.
And in the serenity, there is a certain freedom. This is how I view my life at the moment: this freedom to be what I was created to be. To be my own cathedral, to leave something behind that will help others on their journey. Even if it is mediocre.