Palmtree Contemplations

After dinner I decided I wanted to take a walk, so I did. I walked down the Mayfield stairs to the basement and went out the back door, humming a hymn to myself. Instead of taking the road, which would have been too easy, I walked down the trail behind Mayfield. Hard rocks ground in my feet, and I had to watch my step to be sure I didn't step on any really sharp ones. The trail led downhill to the baseball diamond. I carried my chinelos in one hand and let myself walk very slowly, savoring the feeling of thick green grass against my bare feet. I have discovered that a great way to feel at home is to get my feet really dirty.      I crisscrossed through the grass by the intramural fields and ventured into a patch of sweet smelling white flowers. The act of plucking them off their stems in bunches and burying my nose in them brought back beautiful memories of flowers at home. I gathered a bulky bouquet and kept walking. When I reached the rugby fields, I turned my head so...

       It had been a long morning. Linen changes are linen changes, but linen changes in the summer heat of Missouri. Well, that's another thing. After a a whole summer, I have come to accept it with a smile.      Anyway, my last linen change that day was in the motel. The linen combination for the motel room is very simple: 4-4-1. I grabbed four towels and four washcloths, swung a bathmat over my shoulder, and headed to the room at the other end of the motel from where I was: Room 201.       I rapped my knuckles on the door and called out, "Housekeeping." No response. I pushed my key in the lock. It wouldn't turn. I tried again. It still wouldn't turn. Finally, I jiggled the key, pulled it a centimeter out of the lock, and turned it. Success. I kicked the door as I turned it (most of the doors at this camp respond very well to kicking, I've noticed) and began changing the towels.      The door opened when I was ha...

"I hate everything in the world!"        These are the words of Mrs. Paddy, a character in the play The Curious Savage . Mrs. Paddy is a very interesting woman. She gives up electricity for Lent, and likes to paint seascapes, even though she's never been to the sea. The most important thing to remember about her, though, is that she hates everything. Throughout the play she stands up to loudly declare, "I hate everything in the world..." followed by a lengthy list of everything she hates. Every time she stands up to spew forth her hatred everyone in the room ducks for cover. I don't blame them.        I am terrified that I will become Mrs. Paddy. It seems everyday I find something new to dislike. I hit my hand several times while I was making beds today. Guess what I hated? The beds. The other day I hated the heat. A few weeks ago I hated the music on the radio. And everyday I declare my dislike for the food here. More than that, I find myse...

*Note- The books on this list are not listed in order of importance. Also, if you read any of these books, do not like them, and want to have an argument (ahem) discussion about it, by all means let me know. I will willingly argue (ahem) discuss the merits of any of these books. 1) Goose Girl by Shannon Hale- I have read a lot of fairy tale "rewrites", but this one is definitely one of the best in the genre. Every person I have ever given it to loved it (except for my Mom, who doesn't really like fantasy) 2) The Pianist- I like this because it is true, and very sad to read.  3) On Writing Well by William Zinsser- If it is possible to be in love with a "how to" book, I am in love with this one. 4) A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini- I like this book because it shows beauty and perseverance in the midst of adversity. 5) The Chosen by Chaim Potok- Nothing really happens in this book, and yet so much happens. Potok is a master at creating tension...

       At home, we lived in our bathing suits during the summer, and stood dripping at the door every evening during the school year. Swimming was like singing: we did it frequently and we had fun doing it. I can still remember the way my right foot always curved over the corner of the boat dock just before I dove into the coffee black water.        Because we lived twenty miles away from the river port city of Manaus, we saw huge ships coming and going nearly every day. I remember floating on my back at sunset when the water was still and smooth. Underwater, I heard the distant churning and whirring of a ship's motor. I sat up, and looked downriver. There, cutting across the water was a ship loaded with boxes and crates. Where it was from did not matter. What mattered was how big the waves were going to be when they reached our side of the river. When I was younger, I was sometimes afraid of the waves. I thought that the waves would keep coming ...

         The idea of the Pact began during a long walk. It was the end of my senior year, and Kelsey and I were talking about the future. We knew we were different from a lot of other kids our age. We have known that since we were young. We were excited about graduating, going to college in a different country, and being challenged in new ways, but also apprehensive about the culture we would be facing. Our nervousness was on several levels: language, unspoken rules, food (if we would like it or not), clothing, and boys.          "I have a hard enough time understanding boys as it is," I said.          "I know. Add a culture barrier and it's back to the very beginning," Kelsey said.          "Where we know nothing."          "Yeah, exactly."           There was also the question of whether or not we were even spiritually mature e...

             This is what my father taught me: read the Word every day...and at night when you can not sleep.            Every morning before school we sat down as a family and had family devotions. Light filled the kitchen where we all sat around the counter, our plates and cups empty save for a few crumbs of toast and drops of orange juice. I can still hear Dad's deep voice in my head reading the thrilling accounts of the prophets, the poetry of the psalmists, and the sermons of my Savior.         I inherited my father's knack for waking up in the night. On many such occasions, I awoke to see the glow of a candle reflecting off our tin roof. If I stood up in bed and peeked over the wall, I could see the source of the light. It was always Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, with a huge book stood up to protect his candle from drafts, and his Bible open before him. It always comforted me to know t...