To All Who Wait

It seems to me, from the time I was born with the maiden name "Waite" I was destined to live a life of waiting.  And (because of my name) no one ever wanted to let me forget it.

The orthodontist I saw during my teenage years cleverly told the same joke every month for 26 months: "Hey, Waite, have you been...waiting long?" to which he'd chuckle and probably congratulate himself on his wit...TWENTY-SIX TIMES.

Walking through the junior high halls, one teacher would always yell, "Wait!!! Wait, Waite!" and then laugh and laugh and laugh.

You see, everyone seemed to have a joke about waiting--and everyone was sure they were the first one to ever tell it. 

Awesome. 

When I was very young, my mom used to read me a book called "Leo the Late Bloomer" and at times, I felt like that was me. Because, often it seemed that everyone around me lived life while I waited for it.  I was one of the youngest in my class, which meant I was the last of my friends to go to dances, to drive, to date.  Some of my friends were married before I had my first kiss.  Some of my classmates had four or five kids before I was even married.  People my age had finished their families before I had even started one.

I have reflected recently on waiting, and have realized that waiting is one of the most common human threads that binds us ALL together.  Indeed, all of us, in one way or another, get the opportunity to learn how to wait.

We are all waiting.

Waiting for marriage.  Waiting see two lines on a pregnancy test.  Waiting for our child to see what matters most and change.  Waiting for a sick loved one to have improved health.  Waiting for our loved one who is suffering to pass on. Waiting to regain our own health.  Waiting to overcome a bad habit. Waiting for a first chance at love. Waiting for a second chance at love when the first one didn't work out. Waiting to get our degree, to find a job, to get out of debt, to own a home.  Waiting to see those we've lost again someday.

I think it is easy when we see someone waiting to want to help them, reassure them.  During some of my most painful waits, people offered a generous amount of well intentioned consolation.

"It's all going to work out."

"It's just because there's something really amazing in store."

"Remember, if it doesn't work out now, there's always the next life.  You'll get everything you want eventually."

I know that no one was trying to patronize me.  They weren't trying to make things worse.  But please tell me, if it is feeling difficult to wait almost ten years for a husband, how is waiting until I'm DEAD supposed to be comforting???

I KNEW that it would all work out someday.
I KNEW that there was something good in store.
But sometimes, even knowing all of that, it was the waiting that still made it hard.

For everyone, everyone, who has been in that same boat at least once, or happens to be sailing along in it now, I want to share my own very personal story of waiting.

It it not to patronize you.
It is not to say that everything will work out.
It is not to give you hope for some distant eternity.
It is simply to share my own experience because I feel it is right and it is time.

I have a hard time sharing personal things.  Most of them I feel are called "personal" for a reason.  In a day when people publish everything from their dieting journeys to their exact steps to getting pregnant to the fight they had last night with their spouse, I feel I know far too many intimate details about my neighbors and acquaintances than I had ever hoped to know.  Some of them, in fact, I wish I could erase forever.

In addition, I am more comfortable laughing at life or joking about the difficulties than talking very seriously and openly about them.  It is hard to be real when acknowledging the challenges we sometimes face.  Nevertheless, I feel I should share a piece of my own journey of waiting, in the hopes that it will help someone else along their own journey they are on. 

As most people know, it took me awhile to get married (If, of course, you're measuring my life in "Utah years").

When I was in high school my peers predicted I was going to go to one semester of college, get married, live in a house with a white picket fence, and immediately have six children.

I didn't.  

I went to college.
I lived in Alaska and Guatemala.
I served a mission.
I eventually graduated.
I taught school for four years.
And then, at the age of 27, I got married.

Now, to anyone outside of the Rocky Mountain West, that sounds about right.  But to me, it felt OLD.  That almost decade I was away from home was interspersed with wedding announcements, long weekends with no dates, being a bridesmaid many times over, terrible set ups ("He's single...you're single..."), great dates who said they'd call back and never did, baby showers, and people who stopped asking about my dating life and started asking about my career, as though they'd already given up all hope.

During all that...waiting...I remember distinctly sitting in church one day and listening to a story the speaker was telling.  It was about a woman whose daughter wanted a ballerina jewelry box that they happened to be giving the little girl's cousin for her birthday. She was crushed that her OWN MOTHER was giving someone else what she so desperately wanted herself, unaware that the mother had already saved an even larger one away for her daughter as a Christmas present.  The story ended with her turning to her daughter and saying, "You never know.  You might be next."

The words, "You might be next" entered into every part of me and filled me with an overwhelming peace and reassurance. 
God had not forgotten me. 
He had a plan for me. 
And who knew? 
Perhaps I was next.

Within a month, I met Paul.

As soon as a person gets married, the next question all the people who have been wondering if they'll ever get married want to know is "When are you having kids?"

By the time I got married I didn't have very many reasons not to go ahead and have kids:
I was graduated.
I had a job.
I had no debt.
I loved children.
And, on top of all that, based on my family history, I knew it might be difficult to get pregnant.

Paul and I would frequently discuss the topic and try to decide when the "right time" was.  I distinctly remember going on a walk one evening and telling him that it felt like the right time.  He agreed, and we decided to start a family.  It was a somewhat scary decision that required some faith, but I was positive that because it was right, it would happen.  Besides, it was perfect timing.  If we started our family then, I'd be able to have a baby at the beginning of summer, which would really be ideal.

I was so sure things were going to work out, I started scouting KSL for deals and even bought a crib and changing table.  I mean, haven't you ever seen Field of Dreams?  If you build it, they will come! 

And yet, the months passed.  And passed.  My brother and his wife announced they were having another baby.  My friends started having their second babies.  One friend announced a third, another her fourth, and even one her fifth.
And I was living in a house with a crib and a changing table.
And still no baby.

After a year, I went to see a specialist.  I went through testing.  Paul went through testing.  Once all the results were in, I went back to see the doctor. I remember sitting there, nervously, as he walked in.

He looked exhausted, as though he'd spent the entire night delivering babies.  He probably had.  He flipped open my file, scanned it, and then looked straight at me and matter-of-factly said, "Well, it doesn't look good."

He went on to explain that both of us had some problems and that while there were some options available, "Doing nothing (was) not an option."

I was crushed.  I had wanted him to just give me a simple problem and then give me a doable solution to fix it.

Shortly after that, we moved to Logan.

Do you know how difficult it is to explain to the people helping pack your moving truck why you're moving a crib and changing table when you don't even have a baby?  
Awkward.

And so, we moved, and our lives moved on.

According to my doctor in Utah County, I was supposed to have a specific surgery before we tried any fertility treatments--and with my knee surgery this December, moving schools and grades this year, and having Paul studying all day and night--it looked like that wouldn't be happening until summertime. 

Besides that, who has an extra $10,000 sitting around to pay for treatments (since clearly, having difficulties having children is not a medical condition, so it isn't covered by insurance)?

Fall passed.  The holidays came and went.  Spring began to peek its head around the corner.  I was looking forward to Spring Break when I'd get to see one of my best friends in North Carolina and surprise her for her birthday.  (Her husband flew me out.)

It was during that week in North Carolina that I realized I could be pregnant.

I texted Paul on Friday and asked him to pick up a pregnancy test for when I got home.
"WHAT?!" he replied.
"It's probably nothing," I reassuared him, not wanting to get our hopes up. "Traveling probably threw me off."

I arrived home Easter morning.  The first thing I did was run upstairs and find the pregnancy test (actually, there were four of them.  Leave it to Paul to want to be sure...).

As I was waiting for the lines to appear, I just knew it was going to be positive.

It was.

So there, on the day that we celebrate the Savior Jesus Christ and his Atonement, the day we remember miracles and new life, and the day we focus on the grace and mercy of God, we received our very own miracle.  And then we cried.

It still makes me cry.

Sometimes God, in his infinite mercy, grants us the wish of our heart.

A few people told me I "deserved it."
"Deserving" has nothing to do with anything.
I know plenty of people who have waited much longer and deserve a child much more than I do who are still waiting.
And, I also know plenty of people who don't even deserve to adopt a dog from the pound who nevertheless have a houseful of children.
See, life isn't about what we "deserve." 
But it certainly is an opportunity to be thankful for what we've got.
And I am very thankful.  

I told my aunt and uncle the news when they were in Logan one weekend, and my uncle asked an interesting question: "Who are you now or what have you learned that you would have missed if you hadn't had this experience?"

I thought about it for several weeks.

In the nearly two years of waiting, what would I have missed?

1. I would have missed the chance to come to know God through the people around me.

2. I would have missed my self-proclaimed, non-religious co-worker telling me that she was praying for me...and then reminding me that it was a really big deal.  I was so touched by the image of her praying for me at night.  I am still touched by it. 

3. I would have missed a friend who also had a difficult time having children wrapping her arms around me and and simply saying, "I love you.  And I will pray for you," and feeling that love fill me. 

4. I most likely would have missed some of the children I taught and was able to give my whole, entire heart to.

5. I would have missed the moment when someone I love very much informed me that they had been saving part of their paycheck every single month to pay for me to go through fertility treatments.  Who does that?  I mean, we all see people who struggle, but how many of us step up and give our own resources to actually be the answer to their prayers?

6. I would have missed the extra time I had with Paul, and coming up with crazy date nights every week (don't worry...those will continue).

7.  I would have missed the time it gave me to simply become more than I was before.

And what might I not have learned during the periods of  waiting that I've done the last decade of my life?

1. I might not have learned as deeply as I have to have faith in God's promises.  I may not have known for myself that He will always, always follow through.

2. I might not have learned to find the purpose in every stage of my life (even if I never expected the stage to last so long) and to make contributions wherever and I am--despite where I might wish I were instead.

3. I might not have learned that happiness comes from choosing a happy life more than it comes from objects or events, and that we can be happy wherever we are on the journey.  

4. I might not have learned that "Happily ever after..." the way we imagined as children may not exist, but choosing to be happy, productive, and fulfilled today always does.

5. And finally, I might have missed the opportunity to learn so intimately how to be compassionate toward others who struggle.

Because ultimately, that is what this entire lesson has been all about: how we treat each other during times of struggle.    

In our struggles, we always want to one up each other, as if to prove no one REALLY understands us, because we have it worse.

I mean, how DARE someone talk about how difficult it was to get married at 27!  They don't know what it's like to be 35!  Or 45! Or to be trying to get married AGAIN, the second time around. 

Or, who has the gall to talk about how sad it is to not get pregnant for 2 years.  Try seven, SEVEN!  Then you'd understand what waiting means.

Don't pretend we all haven't done it in one way or another.  I mean, once after church, I told Paul that the next pregnant person I saw, I was going to kick in the knee.  Hard.

I see now that life is not about one-upping each other in our difficulties or accentuating the fact that nobody understands what we are going through.  If there's anything I've learned, it's that nobody has to truly understand our own journey to still be willing to hug us, to pray for us, to love us, to lift up our hands when they hang down, and to work God's miracles in our lives for Him.  As we let ourselves be loved--even, and sometimes especially, by those who never, ever will understand--we see miracles unfold.

So perhaps my story isn't really a story about me, but rather a story of all those who blessed me along they way.  It is a story of how I (and each of us) in turn can lift that hands that hang down and be an answer to the prayers of those around us.  After all, we all wait. 

As we wait, let us lift those who wait beside us, whatever "waiting boat" they may be in.

And let us never be afraid to let others love us and lift us and help us--even when they may never truly understand.  Because if we do, we may miss some of the most beautiful miracles of all. 

Homelessness 101

Remember how Paul and I made emergency preparedness packs?

Remember how we've been all about the survival stuff?

Well, it's a good thing, because last week, we ended up homeless and sleeping in a car.

With me around, ANY day can be an emergency.
It's always best to be prepared.

If you haven't done THAT one for date night yet, you haven't really lived.  But we?  We got it checked off the bucket list.  Oh yeah...

"How does a trip to go to Paul's brother's wedding end in homelessness?" you might wonder.  Good question.  I'm going to let Gail Halvorsen, the Candy Bomber, answer that.  He is famous for saying, "From small things come big things," and boy was he right!

Here's how it started: We have known for awhile that Kris (Paul's brother) and Eli (his sweet finance) were planning to get married in Wenatchee, Washington, and I just so happen to have relatives about two hours away in West Richland, Washington.  Being the incredibly cheap frugal person that I am, I thought it would be a great idea to stay with the relatives.  You know, we could catch up with them and not have to pay for two nights in a hotel?  Win-win.

However, when I called my family to ask if we could stay with them, they informed me that they would be out of town that entire week.  Graciously, though, they still offered us their house and emailed me detailed instructions as to where to find a key, where to sleep, etc.  There was a reminder to be careful with the key because the doors lock automatically, so we'd have to be careful not to get locked out.  That would be terrible! I thought, and made a mental note.

We began our trip without any problems.  We went to my relatives' house Friday night, found the key, put it on my keyring, had a great night's sleep, and got up and went to the wedding Saturday.  We made it there with time to spare, had a fantastic time at the wedding (despite the surprising heat) and then stayed for hours at the reception, eating, talking and dancing.

Yep, zombie wedding cake topper.  Totally unique!

The trip between Wenatchee and West Richland had no direct freeway route, so we were winding our way home through orchards and vineyards and canyons just as it began to get dark.  As we twisted along the path, I felt myself start getting terribly car sick and one look at Paul told me that after the big meal he had eaten at the reception, and the way his eyes were drooping, he wasn't going to make the slow trek back to the house we were staying in without falling asleep.

So, we did what any responsible, car sick, exhausted people would do: we pulled into a gas station under the lights of an enormous neon sign (which frankly was better for safety than for sleeping), and we tried to take a nap.  Which worked.  Kind of.  As well as you can sleep curled up in the back seat of a car with a jacket for a pillow.

We woke up around midnight.

Paul was ready to hit the road.  I, however, was ready to find a bathroom.

Immediately.

Except that this gas station was NOT a normal, open-24-hours-a-day sort of a gas station.  That's right.  At 11:50 pm, it was closed.

So, we found another.

Closed.

We drove to a third.

Closed also.

And there we were, in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  Our options were running out.

Emergency List Item #1: Toilet Paper?  Check.  Because desperate times call for desperate measures. That's why it's called an emergency pack.

With everything somewhat taken care of, we wound slowly back through the canyons and twisting roads, switching drivers and singing loudly to my boy bands CD (okay, that one was just me) finally arriving at my relatives' house about 2:30 am.  As we pulled onto their street, I turned to Paul and said, "I don't know if I've ever been so happy to see a house in my entire life."  I was sick, I was exhausted, and I was ready to crawl into a real bed and just sleep.

As I got out of the car and stumbled around back to the garage, I had a terrible sinking feeling and I knew I'd done something terribly wrong.

See, we had a key to the house from INSIDE the garage.  But we didn't have the outside garage door key to get into the garage.  And I?  I--for some unknown, unspeakable reason--had locked that door.  And we had gone out the FRONT door that morning.  Meaning that right now, at 2:30 am, the garage door was still locked.

From small things come big things.  Like one little lock.  Which was pretty darn small.  Being stuck outside someone else's house in another state at 2:30 am, however, is not.

When I told Paul, he didn't yell.  He didn't get mad.  He hugged me, laughed, and then went back to the car to look for a flashlight.

Emergency List Item #2: Flashlight. Check.

Yeah, my mom found us flashlights that also have an emergency whistle.
Pretty cool, I know. 

Because what simplifies breaking into someone else's house in the middle of the night more than actually being able to see what you are breaking into with your awesome LED flashlight?

That's not suspicious at all...

With a flashlight to guide us, we tried the credit card trick with my school ID.  On every door.  Multiple times.  The doors won.

We decided to try to take the window off of the garage.  Emergency List Item #3: Tool kit.  Check.

My tool kit is from Mr. Mitchell, my high school math teacher.
One more reason small towns are the best. 

It wasn't a bad idea, I suppose (short of the cops showing up and Paul standing there with a window in his hands at a house we didn't live in), but it didn't work either.

We tried all the windows in the house to see if any of them might be open.  They were all secure.  Very secure.

We started to get creative.  We went through everything from calling a locksmith in the morning to just leaving everything behind and taking ourselves and the car home.  (Too bad all Paul's textbooks for this semester were on the kitchen table...)

Finally, Paul noticed that they had one of those electronic garage door openers mounted to the side of the garage.

BINGO!  

In the morning we would simply call my relatives (who would hopefully be back inside cell phone range), get the code, and our crisis would be averted.

Relieved, we prepared to bed down for the night. We had few options: the back lawn, my relatives' trampoline, or the car.  Worried it might get cold, we chose the car.

Emergency List Item #4: Blankets.  Check!

My emergency blanket?  A high school graduation gift from Cheryl Okelberry.
See, Hazleton was really saving the day!

For three blissful hours--cuddled up with our emergency fleece blankets--we learned what it means to attempt to sleep in a car.  3:30-6:30 am passed like a dream.

By 6:30 am we were ready to carry out our plan.  After eating and drinking something, that is.  Emergency List Items #5 & 6.  Thank you, Cliff bars and water!

Unfortunately after taking wedding photos and using our battery-sucking GPS, our cell phones were both dead.  VERY dead. That was when we realized our emergency packs were missing critical Item #7.  We had no car charger for our cell phones. (Go buy one right now.  Yes, you!  Go!  Now!)

Quickly, we drove to the nearest Walmart (which we fortunately had located the day before while buying sparkling cider) and bought a car adaptor.  Admittedly, it was cheap and barely worked, but, as my brother likes to say, "It got the job done."  And that really was all we needed.

Waiting until it was a semi-decent hour in Arizona, I called Brent to see if he could get us the garage code.  The conversation went something like this:

"Hey Brent!"
"Uh, hey!  How's it going?"
"Good!"
"Did you find everything you needed in the house?"
"Yeah, we did.  The house is great.  But, uh, there's just one little problem."
"Yeah?"
"Well....I...uh...accidentally locked the outside garage door and locked us out. Like we have the key to the house, but not to the outside garage door."
(Long silence)
"Are you sure it's locked and not just stuck?"
"Yep, pretty sure...So, I was wondering if we could get the code to get into the garage."
"Well, that's not going to work very well."
"Why not?"
"Because the garage door opener is broken.  And I don't remember the code."
"Oh................
(Second long silence)"
"Well, it might just need new batteries.  Go get some AAs and call me back."

And so, Sunday morning we went back to Walmart again to get some AA batteries.  You know how they talk about the Sabbath and the ox in the mire?  I think that day our whole herd fell in.

http://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-878290-stock-footage-cow-in-a-puddle-walking-away.html 

Armed with a whole pack of batteries, we returned to the house only to discover that the garage door opening key pad actually took D batteries.  Right....

I was laughing and wondering how the story could possibly get better when a neighbor came over with a set of keys in his hand. I was so happy I could have kissed the man.  He explained that Brent had called him and asked him to unlock the house. They'd been neighbors forever and had housesat each others' houses through the years, so he had a set of keys,

Convinced our drama was over, I watched as he tried to put the key in the lock.  It didn't even go in.  He tried the other lock.  He tried the other door.  No luck.

"Hmm....I don't think I ever got their new keys when they switched locks," he said.

Of course not.  That would have been too simple.

So there we stood--smelly, still dressed in wedding clothes, my hair all over the place--stuck and running out of ideas.  Imagine a full day with a hot outdoor wedding, a reception, an episode napping at a truck stop followed by a long, carsick sort of trip back to West Richland that ended in a night in an enclosed car, mashed in the back seat breathing the same stinky air for three hours doing something that sort of kind of resembled sleep.  And then think about how you'd look.

We were probably a desperate sight.

Fast Forward 12 hours.  Things were looking grim. Of course, how would you know?
I couldn't take a picture because...oh yeah!  My phone was dead!

Luckily, just as I was giving up hope, the neighbor returned, dangling a second set of keys. I held my breath.  I didn't even dare to imagine the key going into the lock...but it did.  And just like that, the door was opened.  And the angel in heaven sang.

I stepped gingerly in the front door, feet away from a hot shower and a bed, as though it had been nothing more than a bad dream, I wasn't homeless anymore.  As exciting as it had been for the whole six hours we'd been homeless (I know, we're pretty hardcore), I was more than happy to let it go.

And Paul? Do you know what Paul said?  "Wow, honey.  With you, life is always an adventure."  And then he laughed, kissed me, and sent me to shower.

I knew right then, if we can be homeless for date night and still be madly in love, we can do anything.

And knowing me, we probably will.

What I Learned About God From SAGE Testing

This post, contrary to what you may think, is not about standardized testing.  It is not about the pros and cons of SAGE.  Nor is it about Common Core, public schools, charter schools, government conspiracies, or why you should home school your child.  It is about life, and how I am understanding it more deeply the longer I teach.

Last week, in addition to Valentine's Tea, the Teddy Bear Picnic, AND Parent Teacher Conferences, we had SAGE testing.  (And we did it all in four days, very fairly earning the four-day weekend that followed.)

For those who are unaware of what SAGE testing is, let me explain briefly.

Because education is a state right, states are given the ability to choose how they will assess their children.  Utah has adopted a test called the SAGE test.  Remember the old bubble sheet tests we used to take?  It's the computerized version of that.  It has several parts, and as part of the Language Arts portion of the test, 3rd graders are asked to write 2 essays on a computer and submit them.

That is what we were doing last week.  (Before the sugar and teddy bears hit.)

Without going into anything too nitty-gritty, the general idea of this writing test is that kids are given a scaled score based on what they write.  A proficient score is about a 406.  About. ;)

So, hoping everyone had eaten a good breakfast last Tuesday morning and hadn't played Minecraft until 2:00 am the night before, I got all of the students logged in a let them begin their tests.  They all had slightly different prompts, and began writing.

I walked around, glancing at the papers they were furiously writing on (or staring blankly at).  Some looked at the test before them and examined it carefully.  They made plans on paper and revised them before beginning to type.  Others plowed straight in, typing like mad chickens. (My old computer teacher, Mr. Asbury, called that "hunt-and-peck typing.")

Soon, hands began to go up as students whispered to me, "I'm done!"

One boy, who has honestly won every genetic lottery known to the human race from looks to money to athleticism, pointed a finger at his screen and said, "I'm finished."  I peeked at the screen.  There were three lines.  Three.  From the child who has been reading and writing since HE was three.  A child who reads about 500 pages a month.  A child who is writing an entire book in his little journal at school.  And he writes three fairly pathetic lines and says he's done?

I don't think so.  I stared at him hard.  "Is that your best?" I asked in my serious business voice.  And he and I both knew that he would not be submitting quite yet.

Why?  Because I know him.  And I know he is capable of so much more than that.  And deep down, he knows it too.

A few minutes later, another hand shoots up.  It is a student that keeps me awake at night.  He is a child I worry about every single day.  Does he have sufficient food?  Is someone putting him to bed at night?  Is there anyone to read him a story? Does he even own books?  I know in my heart that if life is a lottery, somehow this child--through no fault of his own--has already lost.

I glance down at his computer screen.  There, typed in the space for the answer, I see three lines.  Three cohesive, full sentences that actually have something to do with the prompt.  It feels like a miracle.

I ask, "Do you have anything else you want to add?"

Proudly, he shakes his head no.  "I put everything," tell tells me, and then goes ahead and submits his piece.

I imagine this test from the children's view.

I am a terrible teacher.

I am horribly unfair.

I have just high-fived one student for writing three lines while giving another a soul-searing stare for the exact same thing.

I admit, I do not treat children equally.  I never will.  Because equal does not help any of them become who they are capable of becoming.  But I do believe in being fair.  And part of fairness involves knowing and loving a person enough to do what I feel is best for him or her.

Children like the first student are--metaphorically speaking--born at a score of 220.  So when they hit my room, scoring something in the 500s, I may be tempted as a teacher to think I hit a home run.  I didn't. That kid was on third base when I got him, already stealing toward home.

Children like the second student, however, may still be at the plate, just trying to get a hit.  And if they barely make it to third, I may think that because they didn't score a run, I have clearly failed.

Both counts are entirely wrong.

Of course, we do care about the score.  Developmentally, 406--that magical SAGE number--is a benchmark for a 3rd grader.  But upon learning more about testing, I discovered there is much more to this test than the overall number.  A large majority or the test is simply about progress.

I know each of my students, and I know what they are capable of.  I also know that they cannot progress unless they reach to their own limits.

And so it is with each of us.

The test we go through are not simply to see where we are as people, but are also to recognize how much we've grown.  Whether we are trying to get to first base or are rounding our way to home plate, whether we are a 90 or a 560 on the rubric-ed scale, we are expected to progress, so grow, to somehow prove that everything we've been learning has stretched us into someone different than the person we used to be.  We have changed.

And yet, as an educator, I am compelled to recognize that education is not solely about progress.  Being a third grader with a score of 90 is not sufficient.  It is not passing. It is not proficient.

But a child will never get to 406 or 560 or 700 without first improving, and a 90 may be his or her first step on that journey.  Sometimes the realization of how far we have yet to go is overwhelming, to the point of being crushing and we feel that we will never arrive--we are already too far behind.  However,  "…a critical message of hope...is that each of us will receive the necessary time to work out our salvation." (Allan D. Rau, "Be Ye Therefore Perfect": Beyond the Perfectionist Paradigm," in Religious Educator 12, no. 3 (2011): 37-57.) 

It is simply not a race against time or against each other.

As I have contemplated this over the last several day, I think I understand a little more now than I did last week about how God must feel about us.

He knows us.
He knows what blessings and privileges and helps we have or haven't had.
He knows perfectly what we are capable of--what we have mastered, what we have previously achieved, what we have learned since then, and what we still need help with.
He doesn't expect us to be the kid in the chair next to us.
He doesn't expect us to get a 406 three months after we got a 105.
He doesn't shame us when we have given the best of whatever is in us, even if it is still nowhere near what is expected for where we "should" be or where everyone else is.

The beautiful thing about God is that he doesn't hold us up against everyone else.  He holds us up against ourselves and helps us in every way He can to make the progress necessary to be able to return to him.  And while we struggle and progress, one line or sentence at a time, He always loves us.

“He is not waiting to love you until you have overcome your weaknesses and bad habits. He loves you today with a full understanding of your struggles. He is aware that you reach up to Him in heartfelt and hopeful prayer. He knows of the times you have held onto the fading light and believed—even in the midst of growing darkness. He knows of your sufferings. He knows of your remorse for the times you have fallen short or failed. And still He loves you.”

“He knows everything about you. He sees you clearly—He knows you as you really are. 

“He loves you not only for who you are this very day, but also for the person of glory and light you have the potential and the desire to become.

“More than you could ever imagine, He wants you to achieve your destiny—to return to your heavenly home in honor.” (Dieter Uchtdorf: “Live the Gospel Joyful”)

As we muddle through this life, students stuck together, side-by-side through our individual journey, each facing our own exams and test, it is critical to remember that we are not the Master Teacher.  We do not know, truly, who our fellow test takers are, what they have been through, what they have experienced, what they have already brought to the table, and what they are capable of.

Rather than judge each other, let us help each other progress, recognizing that we are each in different spots on our journey.
Let us worry more about making our own progress--whatever that may be--than in pointing out how "unfair" our lives may seem.
Let us not become so pleased with how much "better" we are than others that we become complacent and stop progressing ourselves.

We all must take the tests of life. We can crawl under our desk and cry hysterically about it (yeah, that happened…), we can give a half-hearted, pathetic effort that we convince ourselves will be "good enough," or we can give everything we have (without being concerned by what everyone else around us is doing), thereby realizing that we have learned and grown and become better.

Thank you, SAGE testing, for so vividly reminding me of what this life is all about.

Redemption

As a child, I was somewhat obsessed with fairness.  I wanted a fair world, where good was always rewarded and bad was always punished.

It was all so simple to me back then: Everyone should get the same amount of dessert, have the same bedtime, and get to do the same fun things (spoken like a true second child).

Always following my complaints about some type of unfairness, I would inevitably hear my dad's calm voice echoing the oft-said phrase, "Life's not fair, Melissa."

Eventually my crusade got to the point that my dad, unable to take my declarations of, "It's not fair!" anymore, threatened to fine me $1 every single time I used that phrase.  For a child who was even more obsessed with money than fairness, it did the trick fairly quickly.

This past year, there have been days that have echoed with my cries of, "It's not fair!' and a Father's replies of, "Life's not fair, Melissa." (At least not yet.)

See, sometimes I expect a world where people find true love just because they're looking for it and people who "deserve" babies will be the ones who have them and honest people who work hard will get hired and only nice people will be promoted.  I subconsciously expect people who take care of themselves not to get sick and people who are still needed not to die.  I think people with faith should always have their prayers answered how they'd like and that miracles should come to all who believe.

Frankly, with subliminal expectations like that rolling around deep down inside of me, life will never cease to let me down--because a perfectly fair world is just not our Earthly reality.  No one EVER said it would be fair.  In fact, the more I learn about life, the more life confirms that no one is exempt from what feels terribly unfair.

Responsible, capable people who have been wanting children for years struggle with infertility.  Wonderful parents die from unexpected diseases or accidents, leaving young children behind.  Innocent children are abused.  People in under-developed countries die from hunger while their first world peers eat at buffets.  Diligent students fail finals.  Lonely people struggle to find companionship.  Planes go down in storms.

All of us who pass through life will learn something about the word "unfair."

In the last few months, I read the biographies/autobiographies of three exceptional, successful people who all had one thing in common--they experienced "unfair" firsthand, and recorded their accounts.

There was a famous neurosurgeon--who became the youngest director at Johns Hopkins, an Olympic athlete who was likely to be the first man to run a four minute mile, and a successful businessman/religious leader/father who was preparing to welcome another child into his family.

Despite this, all of them suffered.

They suffered from abandonment, imprisonment, and death.
They suffered from rage and hate and despair.
They suffered from bullying and loneliness and PTSD.
They suffered at the hands of circumstances beyond their control.
They suffered at the hands of other people who chose to hurt them.

And they suffered in ways that were completely and entirely unfair.

Ben Carson, one of the most respected pediatric neurosurgeons of all time--revered for his work separating craniopagus Siamese twins--was abandoned by his drug-dealing father as a young boy. His somewhat illiterate mother, who had only a third grade education, struggled to raise him and his brother against the economic and racial challenges of the day.  In addition to these challenges, Ben fought the demons of his terrible, uncontrollable temper that often led him to physical aggression.

Louis Zamperini, an Olympic athlete who went on to be an inspirational speaker and run a camp for troubled youth, had been taken as a prisoner of war following the crashing of his plane during his WWII Air Force service.  During the course of the war, he went through four Japanese prison camps where he endured horrific abuse, suffering, and disease.  In addition to the battle of imprisonment, upon returning home he also fought the demons of alcoholism, PTSD nightmares, and the obsessive need for revenge.

http://www.army.mil/media/278989 

Chris Williams, a devoted father of four-soon-to-be five, had everything he knew taken from him in front of his eyes when, without warning, a drunk driver hit him head-on, killing his wife, his unborn baby, and two of their children.  In a matter of seconds, he was left a single father of two grieving children.  Courageously, he fought the demons of loneliness and anger that would try to engulf him.

As I reflected on these three stories--a Black neurosurgeon, an Italian runner, and a White businessman--I first thought that these were stories of survival.  

We celebrate and read about these men because they are survivors.

But, in one way or another, are we not all survivors?  What is surviving more than continuing to wake up each morning, breathe, and just keep living?
That is surviving.

The 2009 census concluded that 63% of Black children grow up in a home that does not have two parents. (http://www.census.gov/prod/2011pubs/p70-126.pdf) Yet most of them still make it to adulthood.  It appears that they are surviving single parenthood.

Records show that 67% of American prisoners of war held by the Japanese did not die in Japan, but eventually returned home.  They, indeed, survived the war.

And despite what people continue to say about dying of a broken heart, anyone who has lost a loved one (or several) knows that we, in fact, continue to wake up day after day and survive.

No, the stories of these men were not stories of survival, because there is nothing innately remarkable about surviving itself.
Rather, they were stories of redemption.

Each of these men--a Seventh Day Adventist, a Catholic turned born-again Christian, and an LDS Bishop--were, through faith in Jesus Christ, redeemed.  At a low point each of them heard or read the word of God, prayed, and exercised faith in the healing power of Jesus Christ.

And He healed them.
Not just made them feel better.
Not just made them forget for a moment.
He healed them.
He changed them.

Ben Carson recalls that his temper went away, never to return.  Louis Zamperini's nightmares stopped entirely--for the rest of his 97 year life.  Chris Williams felt an overpowering forgiveness for the boy who had taken his wife and children and was able to, in his words, "Let it go."

“Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.” ^{(Helaman 5:12)}

I am not sure I have words to express how powerfully their messages of Christ and His power touched me.  I only know that these are real people who discovered that Christ "bind(s) up the brokenhearted, open(s) the prison to them that are bound…and give(s) unto them beauty for ashes."  (Isaiah 61:1, 3)

Without fail, each of these men had experiences that led him to know that he was known by God.  That  he was not alone.  That God remembered him.

Among the ashes of their once-standing hopes and dreams, He gave each of them back beauty.  They felt his promise:
"Yet will I not forget thee.  Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me." (Isaiah 49:16)

As we celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ this December, I was able to vicariously feel through their journeys what redemption is all about.
Jesus Christ redeems us not from our circumstances, but rather from ourselves. 
We can be redeemed from hurt and pain, anger and frustration, despair and addiction.
We can be redeemed from what hasn't been and what may never be.
We can be redeemed from the burden of our unmet expectations and the shattered pieces of our souls.
And as we are redeemed, we can literally be changed into new people.
#Because of Him.

"All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ."  (PMG pg 51)

A new year is beginning, and with it will come so many things beyond my control.
I am certain there will also be many things that won't be fair.
After all, life isn't fair.
And finally I understand.
Life wasn't meant to be fair.  It was meant to be redemptive.
Truly, "we are helpless without the Atonement of Jesus Christ."  (PMG pg 51)

Rather than looking to this year as another year of "survival," I instead want to write my own story of redemption, through my faith in Jesus Christ.  And that, at least, is something that (even in an unfair world) I can control.

Happy New Year!

Moving: I Might Need That Some Day!

I love my grandma. 

I love the legacy that she left me. I love how she pretended she invented Oreos and how she snuck downstairs every afternoon with a Diet Pepsi and bag of microwave popcorn to watch General Hospital.  I love that she could create anything she put her mind to and do it well.  I love how she used to take me to yard sales during the summer.  I love how she took us to plays and musical events.  I love the parts of her that I see in me.

But, despite all that, there was at least one thing I was determined not to carry on when she passed away. After cleaning out her house room by room, closet by closet, drawer by drawer, and shelf by shelf, I vowed I would never hold on to anything I didn't really need ever again.

Cleaning out a house can change a person.  Especially if said house was lived in by two people who both lived through the Great Depression.  Even more especially if at least one of those people loved yard sales, clearance racks, and deals.  (At least I can now say I come by it honestly, right?)

I was quite sure that the life-altering mission of cleaning out a person's house entirely (I mean, down to the carpet and walls) had changed my own hoarding life drastically.

Upon returning home from my last trip cleaning out the house, I went on a giant purge of our one-bedroom basement apartment, organizing everything and giving things away to charity that--if I were to really be honest with myself--I knew deep down would never fit again.
(I convinced myself that if by some miraculous parasite or other disease/miracle they ever did fit again, they would be so out of style that it wouldn't matter anyway.)

Bottom line: I let a lot of things go.

I think it was the happiest week of Paul's life.

So, I felt relatively unconcerned when it came time to move.  I mean, how much stuff could there be? (I feel like there should be some type of ominous mood music that should come on right about now.)

We decided to start early to avoid the typical last-minute crisis I usually find myself in upon moving.  I got boxes.  We started packing.  We got online and rented a truck.  Just to be safe, we chose U-Haul's "Two Bedroom Apartment" option--you know, just in case.

The day drew closer and the boxes piled up more and more.  We got a call from U-Haul telling us that every single truck in that size had been taken and that we were going to have to go all the way to Santaquin to get a truck.  But, because of the inconvenience, we would be upgraded to a truck for a small house.

I know, it's big.  You don't have to tell me...

Everything seemed to be coming together flawlessly.  The boxes were packed.  People were coming at 6:00 pm to help us load the truck, and we had an even larger truck than we'd planned, so there was no need to worry.  All we had to do was get the truck and be home by 6:00.  I would clean the apartment while everyone packed, and we would be on our way to the land of the Aggies.

I should have know it was too perfect.  There should have been more foreboding.  Something should have whispered, "It gets worse before it gets better."  Because, oh…it got worse.

As we left to get the truck, Paul asked which car we should take to get it.  I said that we should take his, because it was the one we would be hooking up to the back of the U-Haul.  We could drive his car down together, hook it up to the moving truck, and he could drive us back to our apartment.  We rode down to Santaquin, speculating about the move, talking about the nostalgia we were feeling, and wondering about the next chapter in our lives.

We arrived at the U-Haul place and not more than a few minutes later were ready to go.
"You don't have to, like, learn how to drive these?" I whispered to Paul.  "I mean, this thing is a beast.  You could kill someone with this."

"I guess not," he whispered back.

I feel like I should have had one of these.
Except it probably shouldn't have said "John."

It was then we discovered the first glitch.  Santaquin didn't have the piece of equipment needed to tow Paul's car.  Because of that, we would have to drive to Provo and pick up the car towing dolly there.  Which, I quickly decided in my head, meant there were two vehicles (Paul's stick shift car and the moving truck) and two licensed drivers: one capable of driving either vehicle, and the other a potential hazard to all human-kind in either of them.

I think we all know who the hazard was.

"Which one do you want to drive?" Paul asked me.

"I'll take the truck," I said.  "It's just to Provo, and then we can hook up your car and you can drive home."

And just like that, I was behind the wheel of an enormous vehicle designed to carry an entire small house.

I felt like I was driving a school bus.  I held my breath every time I changed lanes, praying I hadn't ended the life of some poor person on a motorcycle who had snuck into my blind spot.  As my sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel and sweat began to bead on my forehead, I looked probably looked like my fourteen-year-old self trying to think of something clever to say to my crush, who had just asked me to dance.

I reminded myself if would all be over in just a few miles.

I still wish it had been.

We pulled into the Provo U-Haul, signed the paperwork, and got the car dolly hooked to the moving truck.  However, for some reason (that I can't remember now) we didn't end up hooking up Paul's car.  I think it was because he was going to need to unhook it as soon as we got home so that we could load the back of the moving truck and that just seemed like extra work to all of us.

I toyed with the idea of driving Paul's car home rather than the truck (which, of course, now had a car dolly attached), but considering I had killed his car at least 7 times in the U-Haul parking lot while trying to move it (oh the shame!), my pride relegated me back to the driver's seat of the U-Haul with my heart beating even more rapidly than before.

I mentally went through the route, trying to find as few turns as possible, unsure how wide my turns would be. (Can't you just see those "Wide Turn" signs they plaster all over the back of semis which show them turning and taking out three other cars?)

I chose a route home, knowing I would only need to make two main turns--one out of the U-Haul place, and one left-turn onto State Street.  From there, I would slowly take State Street's right lane all the way home.

Had that worked, we would have driven home, packed, and moved with both our marriage and our sanity still intact.  

Of course, that would have required me realizing that there were not two turn lanes.  By the time I realized that, it was too late.  I was already in the lane going straight.  The light turned green, and I headed down the wrong road, desperate to find a place to turn around.  I pulled into a neighborhood, thinking I would just--you know--flip around, head back to State Street, and continue with my original plan.

Have you ever tried turning a U-Haul with a car dolly completely around?  Well, if not, let me tell you a little secret--it's not quite the same as driving a car.  While back up, my concentration was jolted as I heard a frantic honking and saw Paul right behind me.  I put the truck into park and jumped out into the middle of the street yelling, "What?!"

"You're about to break the hitch off!" he said.

And that was the moment when the stress and the worry and the anxiety and the massive truck got to me.

And I snapped.

"Fine--You drive it!"  I said.  I threw the keys at him in front of at least three cars who were now blocked by my running U-Haul parked diagonally in the middle of the road.

I understand it was not my best move.
You don't have to tell a crazy person they're crazy.
I think irrational people know they're irrational.
But when you snap, you snap.

So, Paul carefully got the truck out of the precarious situation I had put it in and began driving.  Which left me alone with his little, Dodge Neon stick shift.

But, not to panic.  I know how to drive stick shift.
Sort of.
On one vehicle.
That I drove a few times when I was 16.

Which, unfortunately, turned out to be a volatile combination for a person during rush hour traffic in Utah County.

I killed it…and killed it….and killed it again.

Every alternate route I tried to take only led to bigger roads and multi-laned intersections.  Despite my frantic prayers, I hit nearly every light red.  And I killed it about 14 times every time it turned green.  Every turn felt like a left turn.

I have never seen so many people yell, wave, or honk.
I could have set a record.
Maybe I did set a record.

Yes, Google Images.  It was kind of like this.
http://ericpetersautos.com/2013/12/18/americans-dont-drive-2/angry-driver/

It was so bad someone behind me turned their hazard light on (I couldn't find Paul's) while still managing to simultaneously yell at me.  I could read her lips in the rear view mirror.

Backed by a throng of angry drivers, I lurched all the way to Orem where I finally pulled into a church parking lot and yelled into my phone at Paul, "Come….Get….Me…."

In the end, I was the one who drove the U-Haul home after all.

6:00 came, but no one showed up.

7:00 came, and still no one.

My saintly aunt and uncle came and began to work.

Finally, some men showed up.  I came out and things looked packed.  I came back and the van was nearly empty.  I came out an hour later--repacked.  Thirty minutes after that, they were unpacking again.

Apparently, despite my adamant declarations that I was NOT a hoarder (I only kept things I needed), I had somehow accumulated what U-Haul considered to be more than a house worth of stuff.  And so, the game of "Montoya Furniture Tetras" continued until after 11:00 pm, lit by the headlights of cars, shining into the jam-packed truck.  Bless all those men, who most definitely cursed me. They even packed our mattress.  As I lay on the bare carpet that night, I was too tired to even complain.

I would love to say that the next morning we closed the door to our first apartment and drove blissfully off into our future, but...we didn't.  Paul drove away and I stayed behind, waiting for my parents to rescue us by bringing their truck to take one last load.

The rest we gave to D.I.

I have now had four months to reflect on how two newlyweds can have that much stuff--all of which (at least at the time) was deemed "necessary."

1. U-Haul is not founded by someone LDS who believes in food storage or by someone who at least believes in being prepared for the end of the world via zombie apocalypse.  It obviously wasn't founded by anyone whose in-laws kindly gave them about twenty #10 cans of food storage and 50 pounds of wheat.  And I'd be willing to bet that the founder doesn't have two 50 gallon water drums.  Or 5 cans of powdered butter.

Let me say one thing: When the world ends, I will be here, sprinkling powdered butter on my wheat and thinking of you.  Then we'll talk about "necessary."

Yes, I have over 1,000 servings of powdered butter.  

2. U-Haul has never met a teacher who is moving her classroom.  Especially a classroom with a theme.  Charlie, the three-foot tall mascot/class pet had to come.  The bookshelves had to come.  The giant stars and lasso?  They had to come.  The books, the chair, the files, the filing cabinet?  It was sort of a BYOB type classroom (Bring Your Own Bookshelves, that is.)

Really, it was for the children.  Remember my motto?

Anything for the children….

Stars? Mailboxes?  Organizers?  Oh, it all had to go!

Of COURSE the books came.  And the bins.  

Yeah, I even had to bring a filing cabinet!

3. U-Haul doesn't plan on someone to try to recreate a TLC home makeover show for a family member while they are in the process of moving.  I'm fairly certain that people who are moving from a small, one-bedroom apartment probably don't think it's a great time to begin collecting an entire extra living and dining room's worth of furniture for someone else, because we all know that's just crazy.

In fact, the little boy who lived by us said to me one day in a puzzled voice as I was bringing a coffee table home, "Wait…Aren't you supposed to be taking things out of your apartment when you move, not bringing more things in?"

Ha!  That's what you'd like to think, isn't it?

Well, I only have one thing to say to that.  When I saw the look on my sister' face, it was worth it.  Totally.

"Everything but the kitchen sink?"  Close.
More like, "Everything but the couches."

4. U-Haul doesn't realize that Facebook now has yard sale pages.  Or that some people are genetically predisposed to love a great deal.  Or to stock up on things that they will need.
Maybe.
Someday.

My co-worker wanted to buy me a bumper sticker that said,
"I brake for yard sales!" 

I'm working on it.  Really, I am.

So, the good news is that we made it.
We are here.
It all fit just fine.
And we love it.

Charlie the horse loves it too.  Somehow, I knew he would.

Look how happy he is!  The kids LOVE him!

Unremarkable, for $1000

I think based on past posts it has been made clear just how I feel about doctors.

I love them.  I really, really love them.  With all of my heart.  And I trust them implicitly.  And sometimes, I lie.

The truth is I don't like doctors, hospitals, or anything related to medicine, and I make my husband Paul surprisingly irritated every time I talk about it.

But what can a person expect?  I mean, is it my fault that I'm always the person who has highly unusual experiences that professionals can't seem to diagnose?  Like the virus a couple years ago that bewildered Instacare and a dentist finally solved by pulling out his college textbook?

Yeah, that was awesome.

Really, I am certain that the medical professionals who attend to me are much more competent than my atypical cases make them appear.

So, in keeping with my history of strange incidents (having metal drilled out of my eye, having a jawbone that grew too long on one side, the second worst orthodontic case Dr. Haymore had seen second to the girl with no front teeth, a virus that leveled me, two root canals following a history of perfect dental health), life--seeming to know my love for storytelling--continues to provide me with more than my fair share of these "experiences," and this year has been no exception.  My knee must have decided that life was getting a little too boring and it was time to spice things up.

It's shocking how spicy one little knee can turn out to be.

I will give you a somewhat brief synopsis of the last year-and-a-half of my life.  And by brief, I mean it will only be slightly better than living through the entire 16 months yourself.

It all began last August.  Paul decided to surprise me and take me on a hike to Timpanogos Cave for my birthday, which should have been a great idea.  Unfortunately, it wasn't.  Soon after the hike, my knee began to swell up.
Really swell up.
People at work began to become concerned.  ("Do you need…a rolley chair to push yourself around?"   "Have you been to a doctor?"  "Should I call a doctor?")

I, however, was convinced that medical intervention would do nothing for me.  Everything I knew, had read, and had discussed with people who actually knew about knees told me that unless I had torn or broken something (which I was quite certain I hadn't), there was nothing I could do but RICE it (rest, ice, compression, elevation) and give it time.  Which I did.  Four whole months worth of time.

Finally, when my sister started telling me around Thanksgiving that it looked like rising bread dough and that it wasn't normal (Can't you just hear her?  "Uh….I don't think that's normal….") I decided it may be time to seek help.

This pretty well sums it up.

I went in to a well-known knee doctor who took an X-ray, told me to never do any physical activity again, and then mercilessly drained my knee and injected it with cortisone using a needle that felt like it could be related to the Seattle Space Needle.  The whole time the doctor talked about how December was the "Black Friday" of knees and he'd done over 20 injections just that day, as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

Although he was somewhat concerned his "bandaid approach" wouldn't work for long and he'd be seeing me again, I, in Pollyanna-like fashion, crossed my fingers, hobbled out of his office, and resumed life--now with a medical excuse for my lack of exercise (Which, frankly made me much less guilt-ridden about my sloth-like lifestyle).

And so, life moved on a things went fairly well…
Until this October.

Paul and I went to a Pumpkin Walk here in Logan near Halloween for one of our dates.

Note the key word "Walk" in "Pumpkin Walk."
Yes, folks, we took a nice autumn stroll, admiring pumpkins, squash, and zucchinis that created delightful characters and scenes, but in the days following--before I could say "Happy Halloween" to 113 Elsas--my knee had swollen again.

My old co-workers should be happy to note that this time I did not wait four months before going in. I found a new doctor (And by that, I mean Paul found a doctor, made me an appointment and let me know when I'd be going, because really--of the two of us, he makes a much better adult) and within days I was back on an examining table, puffy knee ready to be drained.

I felt a bit of deja vu as fluid was removed, cortisone was injected, and I was on my way.

Don't be deceived, however, at how simple and easy I make it sound.  When the doctor told the PA, "Could you grab me an 8?"as though it were no big deal, I should have run.  One-legged.

Perhaps the medical community is simply trying to pacify wimps like me and had me in mind when they created their needle numbering system.  You see,  the larger a needle is, the smaller its number is.  Diabetics use needles in the 30's.  When they put an IV in my hand, that needle was a 20.

So when the doctor leans over and says, "Could you grab me an 8?" as nonchalantly as he orders a burger and fries, what he really means to say is, "You see that sharp PVC pipe over there?  Grab that for me, would you?  Yeah, we're definitely going to want one of the largest needles available for human use to drain this knee here."

This, my friends, is a 20.

Do you know how large the largest needle used on humans is?  A six.  That's right.  SIX.  And they used an eight.

It wouldn't have been so concerning except for the high school girl who was shadowing my doctor.  The look on her face told me things couldn't be good.

While draining the knee, the doctor informed me that perhaps my knee cap was crooked and some physical therapy would get it back into place, solving whatever was wrong with my mysteriously problematic patella.

A few days later, I spent 90 minutes being shocked, iced, stretched, and massaged.

When I woke up the next morning, my knee was the size of Rhode Island.  

I'm starting to see why they were thinking my knee cap was in the wrong spot...

So, I spent all of Thanksgiving break on my parents' couch--except when I would get out of the house via the neighbor's crutches and then (once we got to a store) would make it to a wheelchair or one of those really awesome Jazzy-type scooters they advertise during every commercial break of The Price is Right.  I am so glad I ran into someone from my graduating class while driving it.  I've come a long way in eleven years.

That's right--From high school senior to senior citizen in just 11 years.
I've always been a bit of an over-achiever.  

If I'd known the driver was included,
I would've gotten a wheelchair years ago!

Eventually, Thanksgiving break ended and I went back to the doctor.  He had only one thing to say: MRI.

I had only one thing I heard: One thousand dollars.

Bless you, high deductible insurance plan.  Bless you.

And so I debated. Should I have it done?  Or should I just buy a Jazzy scooter and live out the rest of my life in peace?

It was a tough call.  The Jazzy was pretty amazing.

My biggest fear was that they would do the MRI and find nothing, leaving me without money or answers.

"That is highly unlikely," Paul told me over and over.  "You can barely move.  Your knee is huge.  It will definitely show something."

So, I got an MRI.

It was a strange experience to be lying in a tube that made noises like a rocket ship preparing for take-off while in the background Karen Carpenter's voice calmly crooned, "Merry Christmas Darling…"into the headphones they'd provided.

Don't worry--Just preparing for my future flight to outer space.

An MRI is not painful.  It's not scary.  It's just terribly nerve wracking because right before going in, a nice medical person will say something like, "Now remember, this is an extremely sensitive machine and any movement will cause the images to be blurry."

So all I could think of for twenty minutes--every time I itched or needed to sneeze or got terribly uncomfortable--were blurry pictures of ancient ancestors and Abraham Lincoln on a Civil War battlefield who had clearly missed the memo about staying still, and how much it would cost if my MRI was blurry and had to be redone.

Needless to say, I stayed perfectly still.

Upon reflection, I think had I been buried alive (which likely would have felt similar to an MRI) I would have at least been allowed to sneeze.

After the MRI, I was desperate to know what was wrong with me.  (Or at least what was wrong with my knee….)  When I got to the doctor's office the next week, the woman reading the report pulled out a white sheet of paper, scanned it and declared, "Well, it looks…completely unremarkable."

Unremarkable?

UNREMARKABLE?!
There are few things in the world worse than paying $1,000 to find out you are completely and utterly unremarkable.
I have a list of people who willingly would have told me that for free!

My meniscus was fine.  My ACL was fine.  My cartilage was fine.
Yet somehow, I was clearly not fine.

I had two options:
1. Be a gimp for the rest of my life
2. Get a scope and hope they could find and fix something.

I called my old doctor to get a second opinion.  He was out of town for over a week, but his nurse said the note he'd made on my chart said he was afraid my knee was severely deranged.

From unremarkable to deranged in the same week?  No wonder I couldn't trust doctors!

What was I to do?

Life is full of tough decisions.  I decided on Thursday to go with the scope.

Unfortunately, this picture was PRE-drugs.
Clearly, I am not unremarkable...

By Monday, I was lying on an operating table fading away as anesthesia coursed through my body.

My next conscious memory was repeating to Paul over and over, "I'm doing great!  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  How long was my surgery?  Oh, an hour?  I feel so much better than the last time I went under.  I'm so with it.  I even told the doctor 'Merry Christmas.'  Was my surgery thirty minutes?  No?  An hour?  Oh.  Did I tell you I told the doctor 'Merry Christmas'?  Do you know how long I was in surgery?"

"Merry Christmas!"

During the hour-long surgery, it was discovered that I have a tissue disease which makes my tissue grow too much.  The tissue in my left knee grew delightful little "fingers" that snuck into places they shouldn't have been.  The photos they gave me (as a fabulous souvenir, I assume) make my knee look like an underwater adventure teeming with coral.  Coral, that--of course--had to be sliced, drilled, and vacuumed away (At least that's how the 37 seconds of the video of my surgery that I actually stomached watching made it look).

So, the good news is, I will not have to pay $10,000 to continue my life as "Unremarkable."  I may have been "Unremarkable" for $1,000, but for only $9,000 more, I have moved up in the ranks to "Unusual" and "Uncommon."

I'll take it.

That's what I'm going for here: Not bigger, just better.
Once I start exercising again, that is.  

I'll also take the punch card I was pushing for in the doctor's office.  You know?  Tenth visit free? Buy-one-get-one-free physical therapy? Or at least a surgery t-shirt that says "I Survived."  Because so far, all I've gotten are a DVD of the surgery, a Dove chocolate bar, and a bottle of Lortab that helped me set a new personal-best record for number of times I've thrown up in one day.  (Word to the Wise: "Norco" is code for "Another horrible form of Lortab."  When they ask how your pain is after one pill, don't say five.  Five will only get you more nausea-inducing drugs.)

I had a hard time taking them seriously
when all I could think of was Brian Regan.

So, if you see me hobbling on crutches sometime during the next few weeks, don't feel bad for me.  I hobble with pride.  I am part an elite group of people with freakish knee tissue--which is infinitely more interesting than "Unremarkable."

Happy Holidays!
God bless us, everyone.

Me?  I'm playing Tiny Tim
for Christmas this year.