I really feel the need to blog, though there's nothing specific that I want to write about.
So people, you've been warned.
Today, I used my green serrated knife to cut up a pumpkin. THE green serrated knife. The first time I used it, I sliced open my knuckle. (Remember that lovely incident?) Tonight, as I was cutting through this darn pumpkin, I thought to myself, Okay, Erin, be careful. But you know what happened?
I cut myself.
Afreakinggain.
This time, though, I cut my finger (a different one!) at such an angle that the wound basically closes on itself. Because of this, I refuse(d) to go to Urgent Care for stitches. After all, it only bled for about fifteen minutes. And this time, I couldn't see bone. That's always a plus.
I baked the pumpkin, and now have a wonderful dish of it to use for muffins. Speaking (writing) of baking, I'm participating in a "craft fair" type of thing this weekend. The whole idea of it is to produce art (in the broadest sense of the word) that others can buy. Here's my art: muffins and dishrags. Yes, I'm being serious. I'm making cranberry apple muffins, apple muffins, chocolate chip muffins, pumpkin muffins...and more muffins. I've crocheted a bunch of dishrags, too. Totally random, I know, but variety is the spice of life...or so I'm told.
I wore moccasins today, which was a dumb idea. I got a late start this morning and didn't even bother to look out the window. It was raining. The rain turned to freezing rain, which then became very wet snow. I didn't have time to go back to my room until 3pm, at which point my feet were so sopping I could wring out my socks. Clearly, moccasins are not rain/slush/snow shoes. I feel like after 3.5 years of college, I should have known that before now, or at least have been intelligent enough to act upon my knowledge. Sheesh.
My sister and I both left our formal dresses at home, so Momma mailed them to us. Last night, I submitted my very last supplemental application for grad school. I couldn't be more delighted that this ridiculously long process is officially over. It's really hard to type with a piece of gauze taped around my index finger. I'm ready for the semester to end. I even hung up Christmas lights around my apartment today and decorated a foot-high tree in hopes that they will make the end of the semester come sooner. I bought a suit this past weekend for my interview (!) next Friday. Let me tell you something: finding a suit these days is tough. I ended up getting a black suit, since finding a navy blue skirt suit was literally impossible, even at Macy's. It stinks, though, because apparently female applicants that wear blue tend to be the ones that get accepted. Weird statistic, I know. But y'all have figured out by now that I'm just a strange cat.
Yes, I did just refer to myself as a cat.
My stomach is rumbling, but I'm pretty much out of food. If I go to Target to get more food, I'll end up spending $60 on stuff I don't need but think is so cute or is such a good deal. Seriously, that store is going to be the death of my checking account. That being said, I think I'll just stick with the gurgling stomach.
I probably should go to bed. Honestly, though, I just don't feel like it. Is that bad? Probably. I've been fighting apathy like crazy this semester. There are an incredible number of things that I just don't feel like doing that I've forced myself to do anyway. I think I've struggled against some of that each semester, but this semester is especially bad. (Can I use the word semester one more time in this pseudo-paragraph, possibly? And in case you're wondering, I call it a pseudo-paragraph because I don't indent, don't have a topic sentence, and certainly don't have any sort of nicely-phrased transitions. Grammatically, this blog is a disaster. I use short, choppy sentences. I jump around from topic to topic, at least in this particular post. I write fragments instead of complete sentences. I leave out commas because in real life I wouldn't pause as I'm saying it; therefore, I feel no need to write any differently than I speak. Oh, and I make use of ridiculously long parenthetical remarks.) The Christmas lights just fell again. Stinkin' 3M hooks.
Sometimes, I just wish Jesus could physically wrap His arms around me. Today's chapel was presented by Middleton's Psalms class, and it was so good. They discussed a Psalm(s) of lament, and man, it's nice to have confirmation that I can express my frustrations to God when necessary. I mean, believe me, I do. I'm more honest with Him than I am with anyone else in my life, and as you should be able to tell from reading this blog...I'm a very straightforward person. I tell it like it is. Sometimes I feel like I'm almost too blunt with God. But if He knows it all anyway, then why not? As was mentioned in chapel, too, lamenting can be a healing process and actually serve as a way to draw closer to God and worship Him. That all being said, I still really want Jesus here in the flesh. It's so much easier to spend time with someone you can meet for lunch, high-five on the way to class, do homework with, and hug. I understand that that's the point of this lovely thing called faith, but dahhh.
I just want Him to hold me right now.
12/02/2010
11/21/2010
A Legacy
The more I learn, the more I'm thankful for.
When I was taking Genetics, for example, I gained an overwhelming appreciation for not having any debilitating/life-threatening genetic problems.
Developmental Psychology, though, didn't really strike me as the kind of class that would make me ridiculously thankful.
But it has.
We just submitted papers on Friday about our personal development. While my life hasn't been a walk in the park, I certainly like to think that I've come out okay. I've had some ups and some major downs, but with the help of family, I've made it through some of the roughest years of my life.
With the help of family.
We've spent the last several classes talking about family and parents and parenting and siblings and all that jazz. We've had in-class discussions about growing up with siblings and "helicopter parents". I sat in class on Friday just totally overwhelmed that I was given the opportunity to be part of such an incredible family.
And no, I'm not receiving compensation of any type for saying this.
In fact, I'm the only one who even knows I'm awake at 2am writing this.
Let me introduce y'all to my family:
I have a mom. I call her Momma.
I have a dad, too. I call him Daddy.
I have two younger sisters that I call Lane and Beef.
I have two younger brothers that haven't really earned nicknames yet.
My family is only screwed up in the sense that I never know how to explain my sibling situation to people. You see, I have two sisters that look just like me, or so I'm told. I have a brown-skinned, brown-eyed brother who lives with our parents and has been legally made a Nichols. I have another little brother, also brown-skinned and brown-eyed, who looks nothing like the first brother, doesn't live with our parents, and has yet to be legally made a Nichols.
But he's my brother, nonetheless.
The US government doesn't recognize this yet, and the Guatemalan government won't let him leave the country yet, but he's ours. He's a Nichols. He's been my brother since I laid eyes on him in August 2007. I don't know him well, he speaks a different language than I do, and we temporarily live in different countries, but he's one of us. When people ask how many siblings I have, I tell them four. Because it's true, despite the complexities.
So that's my (immediate) family.
Momma and I have been close since I was fourteen. I remember so clearly the day she became my friend. Neither of us were expecting it. It's not that we didn't get along, because we did--at least, as well as most mothers and fourteen-year-old daughters did. But this day, things changed. I had been struggling a lot emotionally, and had reached my breaking point. It became evident physically that I was not okay emotionally. Momma, being the sensitive, attentive person that she is, noticed immediately and knew she needed to intervene.
She drove me home from church separately; for some reason my family had taken two cars to church that day. We didn't really talk or say much. She missed the turn to our house, though, and kept driving up the highway, heading North. It was then that the conversation began. I don't remember much of what either of us said, but I remember her telling me how desperately she wanted to help me and how much she loved me and wanted me to be okay.
Sheesh, I'm tearing up just writing this.
I don't remember how our conversation ended, either. But when we finally made it home that day, I stepped out of the car with a new friend. We started having late-night talks. (In high school, "late night" meant after 10pm.) I trusted her explicitly, and she trusted me, too. Years passed, and our relationship deepened. I shared my life with her. Having her as a constant in my life was one of the main reasons I didn't completely lose it emotionally.
Toward the end of high school, she and Dad allowed me to begin making decisions for myself, since they knew someday I'd be on my own. I had more of a say in what movies I watched. I could choose what I ate. I picked out my own clothes. I got to decide if I wanted to sleep or go to church. They began to trust me with smaller things because they knew they had done everything possibly to raise me to make good decisions. From them I learned to trust God, forgive others, use a hammer, have self-control, say "please" and "thank you", persevere even when quitting seems better, mow the lawn, pick a perfect watermelon, do laundry, sew on buttons, change a tire, show patience, enjoy nature, bake muffins, listen intentionally, and love unconditionally. (Among other things.)
They had given me roots. When I was ready, they gave me wings. When I left for college at age seventeen, I proved to them that I had learned to fly.
Since then, I've soared.
My mom has never had to worry about calling me. In fact, I've had her ask me if I'm trying to set the record for the number of times you can call someone in a single day. Since that Sunday in the car, she's been my best friend. I call her for advice. I call her to vent about life. I call her to see how things are at home. I call her to celebrate good grades and share disappointment in bad ones. I call her to have her talk me out of (or into) doing something. I call her to tell her about cool stuff at Target. I call her just to talk.
I've never had that stereotypical father-daughter relationship with my dad, but we're close in a different kind of way. Rather than talking, our relationship is about doing. Daddy has been the one to go running with me, show me how to build things, and teach me how to build a good fire. It's because of him that I enjoy being active and love being outside: he took me skiing with him when I slowed him down, let me run with him when I belonged in pointe shoes, took me camping when I was miserable to be around, and always told me to keep going when I got discouraged. He's an incredible judge of character, and even though he didn't always approve of the guys I chose to date, he allowed me to learn for myself. He still gets visibly upset every time I go back to college. Before this year, Dad would almost always come to pick me up for school breaks. Every time, I would talk his ear off for the first hour-and-a-half while he drove, just nodding and listening. Eventually, I'd fall asleep. I would so enjoy those times in the car with him, just the two of us. It was the greatest way to start off my breaks
My sisters are both crazy. Lane and I have definitely gotten closer over the last five years, though we're not superclose. As Beef has gotten older, she and I have started to have more frequent conversations and fewer shouting matches. Even though the three of us choose not to tell each other everything, there's definitely a sense of trust. More than anything, we can laugh together, quote Gilmore Girls together, and have finally reached the point of actually enjoying each others' company. I love my brothers more than they'll ever understand. One of my favorite things is when Cristian wraps his arms around me, lays his head on my shoulder, and says, "Luh-loo, Ayin." Bringing him (and eventually Brandon) into our family was one of the greatest gifts my parents ever could have given my sisters and me. It's not without its frustrations, but it's not without its joys, either.
So many children don't have the opportunity to grow up in the nurturing environment that I had. So many teenagers spend countless hours arguing with their parents. So many people have been hurt and scarred by their families. The more I learn about families and parenting, the more I'm grateful for the way I was raised. There simply aren't enough words to express my thankfulness.
The challenge for me is to someday continue the incredible family legacy that my parents and their parents have established.
When I was taking Genetics, for example, I gained an overwhelming appreciation for not having any debilitating/life-threatening genetic problems.
Developmental Psychology, though, didn't really strike me as the kind of class that would make me ridiculously thankful.
But it has.
We just submitted papers on Friday about our personal development. While my life hasn't been a walk in the park, I certainly like to think that I've come out okay. I've had some ups and some major downs, but with the help of family, I've made it through some of the roughest years of my life.
With the help of family.
We've spent the last several classes talking about family and parents and parenting and siblings and all that jazz. We've had in-class discussions about growing up with siblings and "helicopter parents". I sat in class on Friday just totally overwhelmed that I was given the opportunity to be part of such an incredible family.
And no, I'm not receiving compensation of any type for saying this.
In fact, I'm the only one who even knows I'm awake at 2am writing this.
Let me introduce y'all to my family:
I have a mom. I call her Momma.
I have a dad, too. I call him Daddy.
I have two younger sisters that I call Lane and Beef.
I have two younger brothers that haven't really earned nicknames yet.
My family is only screwed up in the sense that I never know how to explain my sibling situation to people. You see, I have two sisters that look just like me, or so I'm told. I have a brown-skinned, brown-eyed brother who lives with our parents and has been legally made a Nichols. I have another little brother, also brown-skinned and brown-eyed, who looks nothing like the first brother, doesn't live with our parents, and has yet to be legally made a Nichols.
But he's my brother, nonetheless.
The US government doesn't recognize this yet, and the Guatemalan government won't let him leave the country yet, but he's ours. He's a Nichols. He's been my brother since I laid eyes on him in August 2007. I don't know him well, he speaks a different language than I do, and we temporarily live in different countries, but he's one of us. When people ask how many siblings I have, I tell them four. Because it's true, despite the complexities.
So that's my (immediate) family.
Momma and I have been close since I was fourteen. I remember so clearly the day she became my friend. Neither of us were expecting it. It's not that we didn't get along, because we did--at least, as well as most mothers and fourteen-year-old daughters did. But this day, things changed. I had been struggling a lot emotionally, and had reached my breaking point. It became evident physically that I was not okay emotionally. Momma, being the sensitive, attentive person that she is, noticed immediately and knew she needed to intervene.
She drove me home from church separately; for some reason my family had taken two cars to church that day. We didn't really talk or say much. She missed the turn to our house, though, and kept driving up the highway, heading North. It was then that the conversation began. I don't remember much of what either of us said, but I remember her telling me how desperately she wanted to help me and how much she loved me and wanted me to be okay.
Sheesh, I'm tearing up just writing this.
I don't remember how our conversation ended, either. But when we finally made it home that day, I stepped out of the car with a new friend. We started having late-night talks. (In high school, "late night" meant after 10pm.) I trusted her explicitly, and she trusted me, too. Years passed, and our relationship deepened. I shared my life with her. Having her as a constant in my life was one of the main reasons I didn't completely lose it emotionally.
Toward the end of high school, she and Dad allowed me to begin making decisions for myself, since they knew someday I'd be on my own. I had more of a say in what movies I watched. I could choose what I ate. I picked out my own clothes. I got to decide if I wanted to sleep or go to church. They began to trust me with smaller things because they knew they had done everything possibly to raise me to make good decisions. From them I learned to trust God, forgive others, use a hammer, have self-control, say "please" and "thank you", persevere even when quitting seems better, mow the lawn, pick a perfect watermelon, do laundry, sew on buttons, change a tire, show patience, enjoy nature, bake muffins, listen intentionally, and love unconditionally. (Among other things.)
They had given me roots. When I was ready, they gave me wings. When I left for college at age seventeen, I proved to them that I had learned to fly.
Since then, I've soared.
My mom has never had to worry about calling me. In fact, I've had her ask me if I'm trying to set the record for the number of times you can call someone in a single day. Since that Sunday in the car, she's been my best friend. I call her for advice. I call her to vent about life. I call her to see how things are at home. I call her to celebrate good grades and share disappointment in bad ones. I call her to have her talk me out of (or into) doing something. I call her to tell her about cool stuff at Target. I call her just to talk.
I've never had that stereotypical father-daughter relationship with my dad, but we're close in a different kind of way. Rather than talking, our relationship is about doing. Daddy has been the one to go running with me, show me how to build things, and teach me how to build a good fire. It's because of him that I enjoy being active and love being outside: he took me skiing with him when I slowed him down, let me run with him when I belonged in pointe shoes, took me camping when I was miserable to be around, and always told me to keep going when I got discouraged. He's an incredible judge of character, and even though he didn't always approve of the guys I chose to date, he allowed me to learn for myself. He still gets visibly upset every time I go back to college. Before this year, Dad would almost always come to pick me up for school breaks. Every time, I would talk his ear off for the first hour-and-a-half while he drove, just nodding and listening. Eventually, I'd fall asleep. I would so enjoy those times in the car with him, just the two of us. It was the greatest way to start off my breaks
My sisters are both crazy. Lane and I have definitely gotten closer over the last five years, though we're not superclose. As Beef has gotten older, she and I have started to have more frequent conversations and fewer shouting matches. Even though the three of us choose not to tell each other everything, there's definitely a sense of trust. More than anything, we can laugh together, quote Gilmore Girls together, and have finally reached the point of actually enjoying each others' company. I love my brothers more than they'll ever understand. One of my favorite things is when Cristian wraps his arms around me, lays his head on my shoulder, and says, "Luh-loo, Ayin." Bringing him (and eventually Brandon) into our family was one of the greatest gifts my parents ever could have given my sisters and me. It's not without its frustrations, but it's not without its joys, either.
So many children don't have the opportunity to grow up in the nurturing environment that I had. So many teenagers spend countless hours arguing with their parents. So many people have been hurt and scarred by their families. The more I learn about families and parenting, the more I'm grateful for the way I was raised. There simply aren't enough words to express my thankfulness.
The challenge for me is to someday continue the incredible family legacy that my parents and their parents have established.
11/16/2010
Of Melatonin and Mountains
I have finally figured out what day it is.
And what time it is.
...kinda.
As much as I love to travel, my little pineal body (or pineal gland, whichever you prefer) just can't handle it. It simply cannot decide when to produce how much melatonin. Poor little thing.
Sorry for the science lecture. Sometimes, I just can't help myself.
I just got back from a weekend (plus three days) in Colorado. Let me just tell you something: Ben Franklin was wrong when he said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." Clearly, he had never traveled farther west than the thirteen colonies. (Well, you know, since the land hadn't been explored yet.) Let's face it: the Rocky Mountains are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Seriously. Look at this and tell me otherwise:
I know. I'm speechless, too. Even photos cannot describe the majesty that is nature. I could look at this every day for the rest of my life and never tire of it. In church on Sunday, the pastor talked about Romans 1:19-20 during his sermon about apologetics. To paraphrase, Paul basically says to the Romans, "Look around you! The natural world points to me as Creator God. You are without excuse for your unbelief, because My creation shouts of My existence." When I first read this in high school, I was taken aback. Even now, it is a hard idea to fully understand. Does God really say that all men, even those who have never been verbally told of His love and sacrifice, are accountable to Him? The answer is yes. Does that mean that we Christians should be any less proactive in our sharing of the gospel? Absolutely not.
That was somewhat tangential; I apologize. (But we're still working with applications of differentiation in Calculus, so keep in mind a few things a) I have tangents on the brain and b) tangents are really useful.) But next time you see something like this (my probably-messed-up-somewhere panoramic from the summit of Pike's Peak):
...think of God. Our Creator. Our Lover. Our Friend.
Yeah, it's proof that He loves us.
And what time it is.
...kinda.
As much as I love to travel, my little pineal body (or pineal gland, whichever you prefer) just can't handle it. It simply cannot decide when to produce how much melatonin. Poor little thing.
Sorry for the science lecture. Sometimes, I just can't help myself.
I just got back from a weekend (plus three days) in Colorado. Let me just tell you something: Ben Franklin was wrong when he said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." Clearly, he had never traveled farther west than the thirteen colonies. (Well, you know, since the land hadn't been explored yet.) Let's face it: the Rocky Mountains are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Seriously. Look at this and tell me otherwise:
I know. I'm speechless, too. Even photos cannot describe the majesty that is nature. I could look at this every day for the rest of my life and never tire of it. In church on Sunday, the pastor talked about Romans 1:19-20 during his sermon about apologetics. To paraphrase, Paul basically says to the Romans, "Look around you! The natural world points to me as Creator God. You are without excuse for your unbelief, because My creation shouts of My existence." When I first read this in high school, I was taken aback. Even now, it is a hard idea to fully understand. Does God really say that all men, even those who have never been verbally told of His love and sacrifice, are accountable to Him? The answer is yes. Does that mean that we Christians should be any less proactive in our sharing of the gospel? Absolutely not.
That was somewhat tangential; I apologize. (But we're still working with applications of differentiation in Calculus, so keep in mind a few things a) I have tangents on the brain and b) tangents are really useful.) But next time you see something like this (my probably-messed-up-somewhere panoramic from the summit of Pike's Peak):
...think of God. Our Creator. Our Lover. Our Friend.Yeah, it's proof that He loves us.
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