RIP orchid

Would a black thumb be the opposite of a green thumb? Because I just made "black thumb" the title of this post and now I'm not 100% sure if that makes sense. It just sounds like frostbite. Anyways, I was trying to make a clever title about how I'm THE WORST GARDENER EVER. And I don't even have a garden! I have three potted plants that live indoors. For my birthday, last summer in June, I asked for an iPhone and for some house plants. Why? I don't know. Well, I know why I asked for an iPhone - because iPhones are awesome. But the plants? Like... why. I thought it would be nice to decorate the apartment with some green shrubbery (or at least a cactus, and orchid, etc), but I couldn't even keep my plants alive for the entire fall semester. And one of those plants was a cactus. Now what does that say about me?

The death of my orchid almost brought me to tears. Whenever someone would come over and say something like Was that an orchid? Where are the flowers? Is that orchid dead? I would pretty much die a little bit on the inside... just as my orchid had died. Even though it's January now and I'm pretty sure my orchid "died" in August, I'm still a little bit depressed about it. You'll understand why once you see this picture of what my orchid looked like originally... it was so beautiful! Even now, my dead - actually let's call it my sleeping orchid is perched on the middle of the mantel in my room. Can't. Let. Go.

Orchid in its prime

A note about how I actually received this orchid as a birthday present: the day before my birthday, my mom and I were in Walmart and when she wasn't looking, I picked it up from the orchid display and put it in the cart. Sneaky, I know.

Twenty years of blueberries

I wrote this piece for my Creative Writing Nonfiction class last spring. It's always been one of my favorites! We had to write about a place that gives us contentment. 

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This year is our twentieth year at Camp. Our twentieth year. As much as I bring it up at every meal, at every pause in a conversation, no one seems to understand the gravity of this statement with my emphasis on “twenty.” Every year since I was born, my grandparents rent a house on Lake Winnipesaukee. Even though we live about five minutes away from the lake, to stay in a cabin all the way over in Moultonborough is still a special treat and everyone can’t wait for that third week in July—the week that we call “Camp.”  While the first year was only my grandparents, my parents, my mom’s brother and his wife, and me (a one-month old baby), my brother, sister, and two cousins have joined us in the ensuing years to make it a group of eleven.

I can’t pretend that every day of every year we’ve ever been at Camp has been wonderful. We’ve certainly had terrible weather, temper tantrums, sibling turmoil, searing sunburns, and occasional sickness, there’s never a moment when someone isn’t counting down the days until we pack up four cars and one boat before heading off to Camp. Wild blueberry bushes, pine pitch trails, rickety clotheslines, and those dreaded seventies couches wait for us every year. It’s all been there for the past twenty years (in case you’ve already forgotten the number).

I. The blueberry bushes

I reach for another handful of those deliciously sweet blue things. I’m a little over a year old—harnessed into the backpack on my dad while he picks the wild blueberries and lifts them up to my sticky, warm hand. I stuff them into my mouth for what must be the hundredth time that afternoon. Mom warns Dad that I might be reaching my blueberry limit. Dad calls back to say, “okay!” but still hands me a few when she’s not looking. My belly is bloated and I feel slightly ill, but nothing can stop me from leaning against the constraints of the backpack straps to reach another nearby bush, ready for the picking.

II. The kitchen

“Is this enough?” I hold up a cup of sugar over the bright orange mixing bowl, looking up at Grammy. She smiles and nods her head as she helps Emily, now five years old, measure the flour. I dump the overflowing cup into the bowl and reach my hand over the counter to sneak a few blueberries.

“Hey, now those are for the muffins!” Grammy doesn’t even look over. How did she know what I was trying to do? I needed to work on my stealth. At nine years old I thought I was pretty sneaky, but Grammy had some tricks of her own, apparently. Walking over and wiping off flour on the apron Emily and I made for her last year, she comes to read me what’s next on the recipe.

III. The living room

            The couch has yellow and tangerine checkers. The rug is mustard-colored—or at least we hope that was the original color and that it didn’t just “turn” mustard over time. Even the chairs are mismatched furniture that none of us would ever buy for as living room in the 2000s. After the nightly “sunset cruise” we take around the lake, everyone piles into the living room, a slice of pie and ice cream in one hand and a good book in the other. We leave the windows open to listen to the loons while Papa and Dad read newspapers, Auntie Diane reads her magazine, Grammy and Mom read what seems like a bunch of “boring books” to me. Emily and I are reading Harry Potter even though I should be starting on my summer reading homework for seventh grade next month.

            “What was that? I think I hear one!” Papa sets down his newspaper and Grammy gets up to stand by the window. We all set our books down and listen, ears straining to hear the call of the loon and the answer from another.

IV. The boat

I squint harder in the sunlight, my sunburned cheeks facing upward as I try to balance my book above me while still laying on my back. The problem is the combination of the bright summer sun, my arms get tired from holding my book above my head, and it’s hard to flip pages when they all start falling down when I lose my grip on the left side of the book.

The boat rocks back and forth, back and forth as the midday waves of the cove woosh woosh woosh against the side of the boat. I sit, or lay, on the back, skin upturned toward the glaringly bright sky, lightly covered in a sad amount of sunscreen—something my mom would most certainly shake her head at.

“Megaaaaaaan!” Oh no. Here she comes. My mom ambles out of the tiny lake house that surprisingly holds eleven people.

“Mom I can’t hear you… these waves are too loud…”

“Put this on. Your cheeks are already on fire.” She tosses a greasy bottle of Banana Boat down to me and it hits the floor of the boat and the cap pops open. Grumbling, I shake a little bit of the sliminess on my arms, careful not to get it on my new bikini. Rolling myself back over to my book, I grin and resume the cheap love story that has consumed me for the majority of the afternoon.

***

Whether I’m sitting through Spanish class, running at field hockey practice, finishing up an essay, doing various tasks at work, I’m always thinking about the next appointment on the schedule, the ensuing classes I’ll take next semester, or even the next time I’ll get a haircut. There’s always something to think about and there’s definitely something I can worry about, whether or not it needs my worrying—and normally my thoughts are focused on questions that are completely out of my control. One of the places where anxiety vanishes is amidst the sounds of jet-skis during the day and loons at night. Contentment is found with my boisterous family playing cards on the picnic tables at dusk or snorkeling around the beach during the heat of the day. A sort of contentment that disregards slight sunburns and family bickering, but reminds me that if I had the choice to go anywhere in the entire world, there is no place I’d rather be then laying on hot leather seats, struggling to hold up my story, only to finally set it down and listen with closed eyes to the thump of the waves hitting the boat and rocking it back and forth, back and forth. 

Track baby

This is a "braided" essay for the Intro to Creative Writing class I took freshman year (Spring 2011). I had to weave together three different ideas - I chose the Olympics, babies, and being the daughter of a track coach. 

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Sometimes the combination of the spinning, the torque, the whip, the grip of smooth soles is just too much. It’s too much to remember to switch your feet at the end, to start your spin with a slight hop to get the right trajectory angle at the finish, to release the discus from the index finger. Once it leaves numb hands, the act of watching it fly away as either a success or failure ends in a slight smile or shake of the head.

Men’s discus was included in the first Olympics of 1896. My first Olympics was in 1992. Well, my first year of life was also in 1992. My dad would pick me up out of my soft pink crib, cradling my swaddled newborn body down to flick on the summer track and field events, watching ­­­­­ Attila Horváth and his 226 foot discus throw as my watery cries subsided at two in the morning. I’m not sure why the sight of a huge Hungarian man and his discus yell calmed my week-old self.

My dad gave me a one armed hug when he dropped me off at college, after we heaved my many suitcases, shower caddy, bed sheets, and decorations up the flight of stairs. He quickly walked to the car, looking off as if the trees across the road were of incredible interest to him.

There’s always something different wrong each time I throw. In field hockey (and other sports, I’m sure) it's called “pass and pray” when you don't think about where the pass is going to go and if anyone will actually receive it. You just hope it will happen. I go to track with the intent of improvement, but more of a hope that it’ll just happen. Gazing up into the clouds while everyone else is practicing their spins, I act as if I’m just imagining what I have to do—no need for any of this “going through the motions.” The fifteen seconds I'm in the circle ends quickly, with a shrug of the shoulders if it's all right and a grimace if it just shot off into the woods.

Last year my dad told me that he won the Meet of Champions the last year throwing discus. I asked him why he didn’t tell me that seven years ago. If I had known in fifth grade that my dad was actually sort of cool I might considered myself as a little discus prodigy.

I get nervous around babies, especially those that are so tiny they are borderline dollish. Toddlers are fine, with their little personalities and capability of interaction. But as long as a baby isn’t able to toddle, I’m not interested. Their miniature wrinkly fingers and soft foreheads are just asking for damage, with their poor squinty eyes and untouchable delicateness. Once they are able to crawl my aversion is lessened—once they can fend for themselves. Or at least they can waddle around on the floor, gaining speed and also acquiring a bit a rug burn.

The excuse of “just a bad throw” is used often, glancing at my intense college coach to see if he gives that quick nod or if he’ll shake his head in disgust; but he has those reflective sunglasses so I can never tell if he’s looking at me or not. He probably wonders why I always stare at him, intently looking for any sign of praise or correction. Or maybe he’s never looking back at me—I wouldn’t be able to tell. His eyewear only reflects my wide eyes, searching for anything I can grab onto for stability.

When babies start walking: increased danger. That’s when it’s time to invest in some of those cupboard clips—the kind that secure the wooden doors shut so that Baby doesn’t down a bottle of anything poisonous. You know it’s bad when they’re gaining inches, creeping up on the next milestone. Struggling to shuffle along the chestnut wood, baby shoes clunking along shining tiles.

When my dad came to my first college track meet I told him not to do anything to embarrass me. He promised he wouldn’t.

My dad told me that I shouldn’t whip my arm around to throw before my feet were placed correctly. I promised I wouldn’t. 

Sometimes I look at the creases in the palm of my hand, my knobby knuckles and purple painted nails and wonder how these are the same hands that I’ve had since I was born; the same fingers that were once wrinkly and reddish purple—evidence of my dangerously delicate baby stage.

He’s always loved to watch the Olympics—hollering from the couch when unbelievably huge athletes with rippling muscles throw a seemingly impossible 230 feet.

My fingers are numbed by the thick chill of a March Saturday morning. My sleeve is yanked up over my fist as I breathe hard little huff huffs on my immovable, bent fingers. Prying them open, I roll back my stiff shoulders and position my feet the way I would set up my fifth grader feet—always the same. Whirling through the motions with little focus on everyone watching me through the clanging iron cage, I release it. Index finger still tingling, I squint. Standing motionless in the circle with my arms limply dangling, I watch as my discus cleanly soars up and arcs down before the clouds hit the tree line.

Sometimes inches are important. In baby steps they seem like the world as baby waddles towards the fastened shut cupboard. Usually inches mean improvement. Progression, advancement, evolution—a new personal record. Inches are simply numbers combined to distinguish between a school record and just an average toss; tiny notches on the measuring tape.

I tell him I didn’t hear what the distance was and he smiles, squeezing my shoulders. I tell him I forgot to switch my feet, and also to spin quickly when I hit the wheel. I wonder if ­­­­­ Attila Horváth from Hungary’s father yelled at him if he didn’t get that extra inch. I don’t think he would have given his son a one-armed hug and said, good effort; we’ll get ‘em next time. If he did, he probably wouldn’t have said it in English. Or maybe he wouldn’t have been able to fit his arm around Attila’s shoulders by then.

Throwing the hammer last year - April 2012

Connection

This essay was for my Creative Writing Nonfiction class last spring. I like most of it but there are a few parts that I'd probably change now. As you'll soon find out, it's about why I love to write. :) 

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When my parents picked me up from my fourteen-day hiking expedition, they stood outside of our silver van and gaped at my poison ivy-ridden legs, my puffy face (swollen from bug bites), and my unwashed, matted hair that I tried to disguise with a haphazard bandana. They hugged me—wincing as they did so—and couldn’t wait to hear about the entire trip. Overwhelmed at the daunting task of telling them everything about my trip, I let out a huge sigh and exclaimed that I couldn’t possibly tell them right away, but I’d write about it in the morning.

Twelve hours later, after I had showered twice, washed my face with some Neutrogena, reshaped my eyebrows, put on a few layers of Calamine lotion, and painted my nails a bright shade of pink, I was ready to write. I was ready to tell them about my journey and I planned to write a blog post for every day that I was gone.

A note about my blog: only my mother and a few of my best friends read it. One friend reads it because she bullied me into sharing the link with her. My mom reads it because she likes to know what I’m up to at school. She enjoys the occasional pictures I post along with a short blurb about how I fell off the treadmill at the gym last week or how I was walking back from library when a goose popped out of the grass to hiss at me. It’s in this blogging manner that we keep in touch and she gets a better understanding of what I do all day. While we often talk on the phone and I can sometimes give her a quick story, she prefers when I write out the whole thing on my blog (with pictures, of course).

So, it’s here that I’m cleaned up and ready to start writing. Well… after I go on Facebook one more time—you never know who might need to talk to me! Okay, maybe Twitter too. You never know who’s on Twitter but not on Facebook! Maybe I’ll go on Pinterest. I’m always up for a good craft. Click, click, click. Never mind, crafts are too hard.

I pull out my journal from the trip. It’s smeared with dirt and is smudged with mosquito blood. I flip open to what seems to be halfway into the journey: “Lost my bug net this morning and almost died. My poison ivy looks wretched and I’m wondering if my parents will pay to have the possible scars removed. This backpack makes me feel like a pack mule. I don’t think I’ve felt such utter despair.” Hmm… I struggle to mold my notes into something my mother will enjoy reading. It’s time to check my email again. Mom hollers from the living room:

“Megan, how’s it going? I want to hear how your trip was. I want to know if you survived.”

“Mom. I’m sitting in the kitchen. You know I survived.” Rolling my eyes, I refresh the page.

“I know, but it’s more exciting when you write about it! It’s funnier that way.”

I’m not sure when everyone decided that what I had to say was funny or interesting. I do think it’s because I’ve always been a good observer. Being a writer is like being a constant observer. You have to watch other people, watch yourself, and watch yourself interacting with other people. Part of why I enjoy writing is because I was always the shy, quiet girl in the corner. The girl who chuckles at everyone’s jokes but rarely volunteers any of her own funny lines. The girl who sits near the commotion but never contributes to the conversation. It’s in this part of my childhood that I learned to watch and listen. Sometimes my life is one continuous story of conversations, emotions, and group dynamics. It’s through watching others that I’ve learned how to be perceptive to how people act. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know how to create a character that’s a second grade boy, bullied by the third-grader in the lunchroom. I wouldn’t know how to create a character that’s worried about getting a date for prom, a brother who longs for attention from his older sisters, or any other scenario that requires believable details.

For me, writing is a way to connect. Not only is it a way to sort through my discouraged thoughts on a hiking trip, but it’s also a way to share this snapshot of my life with people who are curious. Just as write about my own life to connect with my friends and family, writing fiction is a way for me to connect with that boy in the lunchroom, for example. When I watch my friend open the birthday card I gave her with a long, scrawled message on the back about that embarrassing time when we met, I’m connecting to her. When I type out a funny email to my parents or grandparents after a crazy week at school, I connect to them. Or even when my mom is sitting at her computer as she wipes away the tears of laughter as she reads my blog post about day number thirteen, we’re somehow connected through that.

Now even if the only two people that are curious about my writing are my best friend and my mom (and I know they’ll always be pestering me to post something new) I’ll have a reason to write something for them. While it may be a struggle to finally discover what I’m trying to say after an hour of logging on and off Pinterest, I know that my mother’s laughter from the living room will always remind me why I love to tell stories: because I love to connect to people.   

Before I left for Gordon in August 2010

Flashback to middle school

Lake Winnipesaukee with Heather - the summer before 6th grade!

March 2012 - Why am I making the same face...?

Amy and I before a cross-country meet in 6th grade. We're cute.

Soulfest - August 2011

Since I've been talking about middle school so much (in real life and now on this blog), I figured I'd post a few pictures of myself from middle school with two of my oldest friends, Amy and Heather. Heather and I became best friends in first grade when I asked her if I could sit with her on the bus and she said no. But since I was a pushy little kid, I still sat with her and made her be my friend apparently. Amy and I became best friends during cross-country because we were always last so we would end up walking with each other during the race/practice and chat the whole time. Anyways, these pictures always crack me up and I love that we are still friends even though we were super awkward in middle school.

Want a kiss?

My official badge

One of my hobbies over my two month Christmas break (in addition to watching Netflix, making hot chocolate, and pinning stuff on Pinterest) is subbing at a middle school. Although I'm not an English Education major - I'm just English - I sometimes wish I hadn't completely ruled out Education when I was choosing a major. My dad works at a middle school and so he encouraged/bullied/harassed me into applying to be a substitute over break. I applied, had a little interview, and then this past week I was asked to sub on Tuesday for sixth grade, then Wednesday and Thursday for eighth grade. 

Waking up at 6am when I had previously been waking up at 10-11am was exhausting, but hanging out with middle schoolers all day was even more exhausting! When I finally came home on Thursday afternoon, I collapsed in the kitchen and said to my 13 year old brother, "Michael - how do you hang out with middle schoolers all day. They're awful." I was looking for some sympathy but instead he just looked at me and said "Yeah I know. I knew you'd be eaten alive. That's why I didn't want you to be a sub in Gilford." Good to know that my brother supports me... but seriously, he's like dead set against me subbing at Gilford. I thought it might be good because he could tell all his friends to be nice to me. It probably won't happen though.

Anyways, so on my first day of subbing for 6th grade on Tuesday, I was a pretty nervous and didn't sleep the night before (because what if they hated me? What if they all turned against me and locked me in a closet?) but when my alarm went off at 6am, I leapt out of bed and hurried to get ready in the teacher-outfit that I had picked out the night before (note: I realized that I only have a few pairs of pants that aren't jeans. I have a black pair, a maroon pair, and a pair of grey jeans that I wore on the last day because I tried to pretend like they weren't actually jeans). So when I was finally in my first class at 7:30am, with twenty 6th graders looking up at me, I was still a little bit nervous but I was ready to get the day going. In all of my classes that day, I started off with "I'm Ms. Wernig, Mr. Wernig's daughter. You guys have had Mr. Wernig, right?" I had to clarify that I was his daughter because when I observed at the middle school last year, there were a handful of kids that thought I was his wife. Gross. 

When I mentioned that we were related, one girl looked at her friend and mouthed they have the same nose while tapping her nose with her index finger. Now this may not seem like a big deal... but if you know what a Wernig nose can look like, you would've been a little annoyed too. It's not a cute little button nose, to say the least. 

Overall, the sixth graders were pretty cute and mellow. There was one boy that said "Hi Ms. Wernig" or "Bye Ms. Wernig" or "See you after lunch Ms. Wernig" whenever the class left and returned from lunch or form another class. They were interested in where I went to school, if I wanted to be a teacher or not, etc. I told them that I would decide if I wanted to be a teacher after I was done with this whole subbing business. One girl said, "You don't look old enough to be a teacher. How old are you, sixteen? Seventeen? Do you drive a car?" Like I said, they were pretty cute. As cute as middle schoolers can be. 

The same can't be said for the next two days that I spent with the eighth graders. I had always heard that seventh grade is the worst grade. It's like they don't have the lingering cuteness of 5th and 6th graders but they're still not the "cool" eighth graders. But Michael is in seventh grade and he's pretty cool and not annoying. But after those two days with eighth graders... I'm pretty sure eighth graders are the worst. It's like they think they're really cool... but the problem is that no one in the world - except for these eighth graders themselves - think that they're cool. I get it - they're trying to figure stuff out and so naturally they're going to be awkward and strange and odd and sometimes just plain weird... but do they have to be so sassy?! Seriously. I'm pretty sure middle school in general is a breeding ground for awkwardness and attitude but eighth graders must be the worst offenders of this. Here are a few conversations that I heard in the hall at the beginning of the school day: 

"YES we have a sub in Mr. White's room!"

      "Who is it?"

"I don't know, but she's a young-un!"

      "Is she hot?"

"Who's that hottie substitute?"

       "It's Mr. Wernig's daughter!" 

Like I said... awkward. This wasn't something that happened over the past week but it was pretty funny - when I was there last year, one boy told me, "You're a lot prettier that Mr. Wernig."

So other than the fact that all of these eighth graders seemed to like my teacher outfit, they had so much attitude in the classroom! Like blatantly ignore me when I'd tell them to be quiet. They would look up at me, narrow their eyes and glare at me for a few seconds, and then turn their chairs around to continue talking to their friends. They'd try to convince me that they always leave the room without a pass, they always play board games in class, they always write on the board instead of do their work, they always play on the piano keyboard in the back of the room during a silent reading workshop. 

At the end of the day on Thursday, a boy came up to me and said "do you want a kiss?" and I pretty much fell out of my seat and said "WHAT?" Then he asked me again and put a little Hershey's kiss on my desk and ran back to his seat. I guess the eighth graders aren't all bad... Anyways, it wasn't too terrible and I do get paid for doing this, so I'm hoping to go back for a few days next week too. Then maybe I'll decide if I eventually want to be a teacher or not. ;)

Links to Instagram and Twitter

Two posts in one day - I know, it's hard to believe. But I've been working on my blog layout and I'm not sure what happened to my Twitter link on the side along with some of my pictures. In case you're concerned... here's a link to my Twitter: https://twitter.com/mwernig

I like Twitter because it's like all the Facebook statuses without the annoying parts of Facebook (random stuff that people like, when people comment on their friends' stuff but you don't even know their friend, etc). So it can be kind of cool. I only have 300+ tweets though because I don't really tweet that much... 

Another thing that I wish everyone could see is Instagram. I love this even more than Twitter because once again, it's like all the pictures that you see on Facebook without the annoying Facebook things that I mentioned before. And as a bonus... you can search for different pictures. For example, if I want to see other people who are obsessed with their cats, I would simply search #cats #instacats #catsofInstagram #fatcats and so on. That's why Instagram is cool, obviously. I'm pretty sure that even if you don't have an iPhone, you can still see my pictures through this link: http://followgram.me/mwernig

In case that link doesn't work, here are a few of my favorite pictures I've posted on Instagram so far. :)

My fish, Blueberry Muffin

Farmer's market in Newburyport

Visiting Julie in PA

York Beach, ME 

Lake Winnipesaukee, NH

Jacksonville Beach, FL

Field hockey banquet with Emily

View of the lake from Alton Bay, NH

Blueberry bush in our garden! 

Lilacs at Grammie and Papa's

Family picture

Italy prep

My mom picked these up at the library... I've only looked at one of them yet.  There's too much to learn!

I'm pretty sure that everyone at home assumes that I've dropped out of college. When they see me at the grocery store, working at the Youth Center, or running other errands, they say, "So... what're you doing these days? Are you going back to school?" Then I quickly explain that yes, I'm going back - well, I'm not going back to Gordon this Spring - but I'm going to Italy. Then usually then respond with "Oh, are you doing anything there?" (probably wondering why I'm not in school but I'm going on a vacation in Italy for four months) I then continue to hurriedly explain that I'm taking classes there... I just have a suuuuuper long break. 

So even though I still have a month until I leave on February 22nd, I feel like I'm going to leave any day now because it's all I ever think about and the only thing people ask me about! Also, three of my roommates from the fall are already abroad right now (Kelly in Scotland, Kayla in Uganda, and Becca in New Zealand), so I feel like it should be almost my time to go now... but I still have weeks before I'll really start to pack all the little things.  

And this is embarrassing... but ever since my grandparents bought me a suitcase set for Christmas, I've been putting clothes in and out of it, trying to plan out how much I can possibly take with me. Whenever I go shopping (which has been a few times over break because I love shopping), I am torn between buying clothes that will be good to bring with me, or saving my money to buy clothes once I'm there. Seriously... it's a constant battle every time I go into the store. Usually I "compromise" by saving my money and then going back the next day to buy it. So really I'm just saving my money for 24 hours.  But that's still saving it... Sort of.

Some of the stuff that I have so far...

Pretty much this pile changes every day because I'm always wearing these clothes, they're in the laundry, etc. 

Anyways... now I've revealed that I'm a weirdo who packs for a trip 1-2 months before the actual trip. I think the main reason why I'm so concerned with packing is because it's one of the only concrete things I can do to prepare. I don't know what Italy will be like - the people, the food, the classes, being away from home/family/friends - but I do know how to pack! So I'm pretty sure I'm just channelling my nervousness into packing because it's something that I can do right now. And it's a nice challenge - trying to fit the maximum amount of outfits in the best possible way, along with toiletries and books and other important stuff. I love it. So I'm sure I'll pack and repack my suitcases a few more times before it's actually time to do it for real... but oh well. I have a ton of free time now since I dropped out of college, right? 

Summer journal entry

Last day of the Mission Trip: 8/2/12

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We waved goodbye to them as they piled into the twelve-passenger van (which did not have nearly enough seats). They stuck their small hands out the windows, hollering, "we will miss you! we love you!" Jasmine was sitting in the front seat with another small girl on someone's lap. She was crying and wouldn't look out the window even though we were all smiling and waving. I stared at her until she looked up at me.

"Bye Jasmine!" I shouted, hoping she could hear me as I waved energetically. She gave a small wave back and sadly dropped her head again. VBS was over for the summer, and we wouldn't see each other again. I never like goodbyes. I don't think many people like the, but this wasn't even a "see you next Christmas!" kind of goodbye, with a promise of being reunited. We has only known them for four days, but somehow when they all piled into that too-small can, they stole our hearts in that short amount of time - a mere week. But how? Was it their eagerness for attention and play and the way the instantly loved us, wanted us to pick them up and hold them? But even with the shy, scared ones - they captured us just as the outgoing, boisterous children did. We wanted them to trust us, smile at us.

Just a few days before, Jasmine wanted to fall into my arms and have me catch her while Emily snapped a picture. She closed her eyes, crossed her arms, and fell back onto what could've easily been the hard cement floor if I hadn't caught her. I had just met her - she came right up to me: "Hello! My name's Jaz. Jasmine. Like the princess. What's your name? May-gun?" She skeptically looked up at me, unsure if I was joking with her about such as strange name: May-gun. She then smiled. I promised her I'd see her the next day at VBS but I ended up at the construction site before I headed over to VBS for the end of the day.

"Hey! I was lookin' for you today!" She stood in front of me at VBS, hands on her hips. I stumbled over my excuse and tried to explain how I was actually painting at the construction site but she didn't want any of it: "You told me you would be here!"

One of my favorite pictures (Jasmine is wearing the white shirt)

I sat down at the picnic table when Jasmine asked if she could paint on my hand. And since I'm the biggest pushover... I said yes and let her paint a little flower, a heart, some polka dots. Soon the other kids abandoned their basketball games and chalk drawings to see what she was doing. A few more of them picked up the paintbrushes and started painting on my arms and eventually all around my neck once there wasn't anymore space on my arms. They wrote their initials, "love,' "blessed," and "Jesus loves you."  

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End of journal entry