Sometimes there are just no words.
I love language.
I love to read. I love to write.
I love to tell stories. I love to hear stories.
I love to ponder and contemplate and wonder.
I chose to be an English major based solely on the fact that I’m endlessly fascinated by words and their meanings, how we can twist them and manipulate them and string them together to create something beautiful and meaningful. What incredible power a simple word can have! A few letters combined in the right sequence can lift a person up or strike him down, change his life for the better or completely destroy him. Our most precious traditions have been passed down and recorded by voice and pen; the stories that make us who we are are composed of words that echo in our very souls.
The tragedy of it all is that words fall short when they’re needed most. At the moment I want to harness the power I know them to have, I realize that all of it dwarfs in comparison to the idea I wish to convey.
So, I can’t tell you exactly how I met God today. Just know that He’s here, and He’s really lovely.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Well, at least I can drive a Zamboni.
When my boss, Carolyn, offered me the opportunity to get certified to drive a twelve-passenger van for YouthFest next week, I jumped at the chance for obvious reasons.
Alright, there really was no reason for me to want to do it. She asked me. I figured, why not? I had every confidence that I could get that great beast of a van to hug the curves of the Appalachian hills like my Cobalt in no time. And it’d be a fantastic opportunity to hang out with my group of kids on the way to and from the worksites every day.
So, yesterday, Jordan and I drove over to Mount Vernon where I was to meet Charlie for my driving test. I met Charlie about a month ago when he gave me my original set of driving privileges for the Cobalt and the minivan. He’s a salty, middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair and a mustache, and I’d been warned that he’s a tough cookie. At our first meeting, he stood in his black windbreaker, scrutinizing me over a glowing cigarette, not looking particularly happy to be standing in the freezing rain with a girl in a J.Crew blazer and flip flops who didn’t know how to check her own oil. He warmed up to me, though; we chatted about car shows and guns, and I reckon he actually grew tolerant of me (thanks for that, Dad).
He greeted me with a smile - of sorts - when I showed up to commandeer the twelve-passenger van yesterday, saying, “I’m terrible with names. I know you as the Flip Flop Girl.” I’ll take it.
I think the omen I should have heeded was my initial inability to start the thing. I actually had to be shown how to turn the key in the ignition. I should have gotten out, right then and there. But, no.
We were driving for about two minutes, and Charlie told me to head up towards the top of the hill and back over a small bridge in front of one of the CAP offices.
I cast a sidelong glance. “Playing with fire, aren’t we, Charlie?”
“No, no. I trust you.”
I slowly began backing it over the bridge, keeping the bright yellow sides of the concrete in my mirrors. Let the record show that, while backing into parking spaces is CAP policy, I’m absolutely terrible at it. My housemates can attest to this. Every ounce of my energy was focused on not falling off of that bridge.
Charlie’s cell phone rang loudly. We both sort of jumped. Charlie chuckled and said, “Means you hit something.” I laughed nervously as he answered it.
And then I hit the dumpster.
We looked at each other with expressions of shock. Mine incorporated a fair amount of horror. We both jumped out and ran around the back of the van. At first glance, I didn’t see any damage, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. Then Charlie pointed at the taillight. Well, what was left of it.
I can actually hear the collective groan coming down from the Island.
He had me continue driving for about a half hour around town. I did a fair enough job. I even backed up pretty well later on. He concluded that there was nothing wrong with my driving, and proceeded to make excuse upon wonderfully thoughtful excuse for my first little car accident. Alas, upon speaking with the legal representative, he was unable to pass me. He had every intention, though, of re-testing me in the morning and giving me privileges. “Be back here tomorrow at ten,” he said. I headed over to Jordan in the minivan, feeling like I’d just failed a midterm and needing some Mom-like encouragement. We picked wildflowers and got ice cream. Thanks, Jordan :)
Anyway, I got to Mount Vernon at ten o’clock this morning to be greeted by Charlie and Carolyn in the parking lot.
“They’re not going to let you test again,” Carolyn said, as kindly as she could.
“Oh.” I was absolutely mortified.
“It has nothing to do with your driving,” Charlie jumped in.
“Right,” agreed Carolyn. “After your little mishap, they want to take the twelve-passenger van off of the fleet for a while so that they can really determine how safe it is. Nobody’s going to be allowed to drive it.”
I was the first person to test in the twelve-passenger van. Pretty sure I’m the first person to get into an accident during her driving test. This is why we can’t have nice things.
I dragged my feet back to my minivan, feeling oh-so-sorry for myself. I’d had every intention of keeping the broken taillight a sweet little secret between myself and a few people. By next week, I’d be driving that thing like an old pro, and no one would be the wiser. No such luck. I’d have to swallow my pride and reveal the casualty to everyone in the Elderly Services program and in my house. Ugh.
Needing to get some work done, I headed to my office and organized the papers from the nursing students’ visit last week. Then I decided to visit a few of the homes to which we’re bringing YouthFest kids so that I could let them know when we’d be stopping by to turn their domiciles upside down.
On Monday, we’re going to see Maggie. I love Maggie.
I called before leaving Booneville, and she said that she’d be expecting me. I backed into her gravel driveway, now completely paranoid when going anywhere in reverse. Even moonwalking has lost its charm. I let myself into her screened-in porch and tapped on her front door. I received no answer.
I let myself in, looking to her usual spot at the kitchen table. She wasn’t there. All the lights in the front of the house were off. I felt panic start to rise in my chest, but then I heard a small squeaking sound in a back room.
I walked across the kitchen and into the hallway, where I could see Maggie sitting at her sewing machine, concentrating intently on winding a bobbin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, lady,” I smiled.
She jumped up a little, caught sight of me, then broke into gales of high-pitched laughter. I trotted into the room and hugged her neck. She grasped my arm, laughing into my face, and yelled, “You little booger! Bless your heart!”
And just like that, my day was made beautiful.
Alright, there really was no reason for me to want to do it. She asked me. I figured, why not? I had every confidence that I could get that great beast of a van to hug the curves of the Appalachian hills like my Cobalt in no time. And it’d be a fantastic opportunity to hang out with my group of kids on the way to and from the worksites every day.
So, yesterday, Jordan and I drove over to Mount Vernon where I was to meet Charlie for my driving test. I met Charlie about a month ago when he gave me my original set of driving privileges for the Cobalt and the minivan. He’s a salty, middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair and a mustache, and I’d been warned that he’s a tough cookie. At our first meeting, he stood in his black windbreaker, scrutinizing me over a glowing cigarette, not looking particularly happy to be standing in the freezing rain with a girl in a J.Crew blazer and flip flops who didn’t know how to check her own oil. He warmed up to me, though; we chatted about car shows and guns, and I reckon he actually grew tolerant of me (thanks for that, Dad).
He greeted me with a smile - of sorts - when I showed up to commandeer the twelve-passenger van yesterday, saying, “I’m terrible with names. I know you as the Flip Flop Girl.” I’ll take it.
I think the omen I should have heeded was my initial inability to start the thing. I actually had to be shown how to turn the key in the ignition. I should have gotten out, right then and there. But, no.
We were driving for about two minutes, and Charlie told me to head up towards the top of the hill and back over a small bridge in front of one of the CAP offices.
I cast a sidelong glance. “Playing with fire, aren’t we, Charlie?”
“No, no. I trust you.”
I slowly began backing it over the bridge, keeping the bright yellow sides of the concrete in my mirrors. Let the record show that, while backing into parking spaces is CAP policy, I’m absolutely terrible at it. My housemates can attest to this. Every ounce of my energy was focused on not falling off of that bridge.
Charlie’s cell phone rang loudly. We both sort of jumped. Charlie chuckled and said, “Means you hit something.” I laughed nervously as he answered it.
And then I hit the dumpster.
We looked at each other with expressions of shock. Mine incorporated a fair amount of horror. We both jumped out and ran around the back of the van. At first glance, I didn’t see any damage, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. Then Charlie pointed at the taillight. Well, what was left of it.
I can actually hear the collective groan coming down from the Island.
He had me continue driving for about a half hour around town. I did a fair enough job. I even backed up pretty well later on. He concluded that there was nothing wrong with my driving, and proceeded to make excuse upon wonderfully thoughtful excuse for my first little car accident. Alas, upon speaking with the legal representative, he was unable to pass me. He had every intention, though, of re-testing me in the morning and giving me privileges. “Be back here tomorrow at ten,” he said. I headed over to Jordan in the minivan, feeling like I’d just failed a midterm and needing some Mom-like encouragement. We picked wildflowers and got ice cream. Thanks, Jordan :)
Anyway, I got to Mount Vernon at ten o’clock this morning to be greeted by Charlie and Carolyn in the parking lot.
“They’re not going to let you test again,” Carolyn said, as kindly as she could.
“Oh.” I was absolutely mortified.
“It has nothing to do with your driving,” Charlie jumped in.
“Right,” agreed Carolyn. “After your little mishap, they want to take the twelve-passenger van off of the fleet for a while so that they can really determine how safe it is. Nobody’s going to be allowed to drive it.”
I was the first person to test in the twelve-passenger van. Pretty sure I’m the first person to get into an accident during her driving test. This is why we can’t have nice things.
I dragged my feet back to my minivan, feeling oh-so-sorry for myself. I’d had every intention of keeping the broken taillight a sweet little secret between myself and a few people. By next week, I’d be driving that thing like an old pro, and no one would be the wiser. No such luck. I’d have to swallow my pride and reveal the casualty to everyone in the Elderly Services program and in my house. Ugh.
Needing to get some work done, I headed to my office and organized the papers from the nursing students’ visit last week. Then I decided to visit a few of the homes to which we’re bringing YouthFest kids so that I could let them know when we’d be stopping by to turn their domiciles upside down.
On Monday, we’re going to see Maggie. I love Maggie.
I called before leaving Booneville, and she said that she’d be expecting me. I backed into her gravel driveway, now completely paranoid when going anywhere in reverse. Even moonwalking has lost its charm. I let myself into her screened-in porch and tapped on her front door. I received no answer.
I let myself in, looking to her usual spot at the kitchen table. She wasn’t there. All the lights in the front of the house were off. I felt panic start to rise in my chest, but then I heard a small squeaking sound in a back room.
I walked across the kitchen and into the hallway, where I could see Maggie sitting at her sewing machine, concentrating intently on winding a bobbin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, lady,” I smiled.
She jumped up a little, caught sight of me, then broke into gales of high-pitched laughter. I trotted into the room and hugged her neck. She grasped my arm, laughing into my face, and yelled, “You little booger! Bless your heart!”
And just like that, my day was made beautiful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Stars
“The sky was clear - remarkably clear - and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.”
- Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd
This past week, I had the pleasure of working with nursing students from the University of Scranton. They stayed up at Camp AJ with the WorkFest crews, and my fellow Elderly Services volunteers and I took them to a different county under our jurisdiction each day. The students visited our participants in the context of health fairs in each county before coming with us for home visits, during which they checked blood pressures, heart rates, and medications. Their gentleness and passion for their work is absolutely inspiring, and they brightened the days of every person they met this week (mine included!).
This past Thursday, I’d mentioned to a few of the students that, if they wanted, I could take them up on a hike that evening to the rock above camp. We’d finally had a beautifully clear day after a week of cloudy skies, and I wanted them to see the stars. Almost all of them decided to come, so my housemate Lucas and I set out with lanterns and flashlights up the hill. The students were good sports; they kept us laughing the entire way with repeated outbursts of “BRIDGET, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!” We promised them it would be worth the minor struggle.
It was.
We got to the flat top of the rock and picked our spots. We hadn’t been there long when one of the WorkFest groups came up and joined us. It was crowded, but there was enough sky for everyone. The heavens were heavy with brilliant stars, and the inky black branches surrounding us twisted their way toward them achingly. It looked as if they’d pierced the suede canopy of deepest blue above, leaving pinholes that let the universe shine down on us with the glorious exuberance that has inspired stargazers since human beings first thought to look up.
“Isn’t it crazy to think about how long that light has been traveling from those stars to us?” I mused. “For all we know, some of these stars are probably...”
“…dead,” Lucas finished.
After a few minutes of silence amid the chatter of the students, Lucas turned to me and said, “Do you think we could be like stars? You know, having the impact of our actions last after we’re gone?”
I can say this to every person who has come to work with CAP through WorkFest or the University of Scranton these past few weeks: you are stars. Your enthusiasm, energy, and willingness to go the extra mile have not gone unnoticed and they will never be forgotten, neither by the participants you helped nor by the volunteers with whom you worked. The time you spent here may have been short but, I promise you, the effect of your presence in eastern Kentucky is a priceless blessing that won’t go away. So, thank you for shining your light so radiantly.
A quick shout-out is in order. Erin, Terry, Regina, Christy, Kirstin, Tricia, Lindsay, Caitlin, Megan, Emily, Johnson, Nicole, Barb, and Marilyn. It was such an honor to get to know you and to work with you. You’re all amazingly talented, passionate individuals, and you kept me laughing (and snorting) all week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Come back any time. Sooner rather than later.
- Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd
This past week, I had the pleasure of working with nursing students from the University of Scranton. They stayed up at Camp AJ with the WorkFest crews, and my fellow Elderly Services volunteers and I took them to a different county under our jurisdiction each day. The students visited our participants in the context of health fairs in each county before coming with us for home visits, during which they checked blood pressures, heart rates, and medications. Their gentleness and passion for their work is absolutely inspiring, and they brightened the days of every person they met this week (mine included!).
This past Thursday, I’d mentioned to a few of the students that, if they wanted, I could take them up on a hike that evening to the rock above camp. We’d finally had a beautifully clear day after a week of cloudy skies, and I wanted them to see the stars. Almost all of them decided to come, so my housemate Lucas and I set out with lanterns and flashlights up the hill. The students were good sports; they kept us laughing the entire way with repeated outbursts of “BRIDGET, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!” We promised them it would be worth the minor struggle.
It was.
We got to the flat top of the rock and picked our spots. We hadn’t been there long when one of the WorkFest groups came up and joined us. It was crowded, but there was enough sky for everyone. The heavens were heavy with brilliant stars, and the inky black branches surrounding us twisted their way toward them achingly. It looked as if they’d pierced the suede canopy of deepest blue above, leaving pinholes that let the universe shine down on us with the glorious exuberance that has inspired stargazers since human beings first thought to look up.
“Isn’t it crazy to think about how long that light has been traveling from those stars to us?” I mused. “For all we know, some of these stars are probably...”
“…dead,” Lucas finished.
After a few minutes of silence amid the chatter of the students, Lucas turned to me and said, “Do you think we could be like stars? You know, having the impact of our actions last after we’re gone?”
I can say this to every person who has come to work with CAP through WorkFest or the University of Scranton these past few weeks: you are stars. Your enthusiasm, energy, and willingness to go the extra mile have not gone unnoticed and they will never be forgotten, neither by the participants you helped nor by the volunteers with whom you worked. The time you spent here may have been short but, I promise you, the effect of your presence in eastern Kentucky is a priceless blessing that won’t go away. So, thank you for shining your light so radiantly.
A quick shout-out is in order. Erin, Terry, Regina, Christy, Kirstin, Tricia, Lindsay, Caitlin, Megan, Emily, Johnson, Nicole, Barb, and Marilyn. It was such an honor to get to know you and to work with you. You’re all amazingly talented, passionate individuals, and you kept me laughing (and snorting) all week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Come back any time. Sooner rather than later.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Earl and Sarah
“How’re ya feelin’?” I asked as I approached the trailer.
“Mostly with my fingers,” he replied with a grin that was barely noticeable on his mouth but that twinkled in his eyes.
I met Earl and Sarah at the home of one of my participants last week. They aren’t a part of the CAP elderly program, but they had requested that I come by their place to see if we’d be able to bring some Youthfest volunteers to help them out. They admittedly are the kind of folks who hate to have to ask for help, but they need it badly right now. Earl has cancer and a limited amount of time left here, and he wants to leave his wife with as light a burden as possible.
Earl is a handsome older gentleman with the posture of a military general and the easy-going manner of your favorite uncle. He wears a bright plaid shirt, dark blue jeans, and an old trucker cap. His face is long and square, and it would be stern if the corners of his mouth didn’t twitch upward and his eyes didn’t light up at the telling of a joke. He’s a born story-teller, a retired semi driver who’s traveled the country, experienced the lonely romance of the American road, and who has decided that his hollow is the only place in the world worth living in. The first time we met, we talked like we’d known each other for years. He told me stories about his travels to New York, slipping in funny anecdotes and close calls. At one point, Sarah walked by, and his wry humor gave way to genuine emotion. “That’s my world,” he said to me, looking straight into my eyes. “I could have spent my whole life looking and I’d never have found another woman like her.” He spoke with the self-assuredness of a man who is completely aware of his own mortality. Not only is he resigned to it. He’s at peace with it.
I stopped by their trailer for the first time today. I probably would have missed it if they hadn’t come out to greet me, flanked by three friendly mutts; I thought it to be abandoned. The place is in pretty rough shape. It doesn’t have a bathroom or running water. The yard is littered with debris, and the trailer itself is in a total state of disrepair. My stomach twisted into a knot as I thought of how difficult it must have been to stay warm there this winter, and how they would never have thought to complain or to ask for help before now.
Earl strode up to me, excusing himself to see a friend who lived up the hill. The effects of his recent surgery were painfully evident; the tip of his nose was gone, replaced by gnarled stitches and dirty gauze. Sarah smiled and invited me inside to sit with her and her son and to discuss what the Youthfest volunteers could handle. In keeping with their personalities, Sarah and her son didn’t ask for much. Only for the yard to be tidied a little bit. Perhaps the kids could dig to find the water line that had been covered up by run-off from a rainstorm. That’s all.
They showed me around the property, pointing at different areas that needed particular attention. Sarah extended her arm and swept it across the yard, saying, “This is the homeplace. He refuses to move. He was born here, he was raised here, and he’ll die here.” I smiled and told her that I was sure that the volunteers would love spending time with her and Earl, and that they would be more than happy to give the couple a hand. I explained that, while the work itself would be both challenging and rewarding, the kids would gain so much from conversations with the two of them.
“Earl’s such a great story-teller,” I told her. “He’s a wonderful person.”
“I know it,” she said with a sad little smile. And she really did.
As soon as I’d gotten out of range of the trailer, I cried. I can’t even tell you for sure why, exactly, I was crying. The situation itself is undoubtedly sad, but there was an emotion stronger than sadness working in my heart. I felt overwhelmed by Earl and Sarah - in a good way. Their life is one of extreme material simplicity. Earl’s been handed a slow and painful death sentence, and Sarah’s condemned to watch him go, only to be rewarded by a new kind of poverty, experienced by herself and not with her soul mate. But they smile. And everything about their relationship with one another speaks of love, respect, and gratitude. With the house literally falling down around them, they focus on each other, and they’re happy.
I can’t wait for the Youthfest volunteers to meet these two. They’re in for a treat.
“Mostly with my fingers,” he replied with a grin that was barely noticeable on his mouth but that twinkled in his eyes.
I met Earl and Sarah at the home of one of my participants last week. They aren’t a part of the CAP elderly program, but they had requested that I come by their place to see if we’d be able to bring some Youthfest volunteers to help them out. They admittedly are the kind of folks who hate to have to ask for help, but they need it badly right now. Earl has cancer and a limited amount of time left here, and he wants to leave his wife with as light a burden as possible.
Earl is a handsome older gentleman with the posture of a military general and the easy-going manner of your favorite uncle. He wears a bright plaid shirt, dark blue jeans, and an old trucker cap. His face is long and square, and it would be stern if the corners of his mouth didn’t twitch upward and his eyes didn’t light up at the telling of a joke. He’s a born story-teller, a retired semi driver who’s traveled the country, experienced the lonely romance of the American road, and who has decided that his hollow is the only place in the world worth living in. The first time we met, we talked like we’d known each other for years. He told me stories about his travels to New York, slipping in funny anecdotes and close calls. At one point, Sarah walked by, and his wry humor gave way to genuine emotion. “That’s my world,” he said to me, looking straight into my eyes. “I could have spent my whole life looking and I’d never have found another woman like her.” He spoke with the self-assuredness of a man who is completely aware of his own mortality. Not only is he resigned to it. He’s at peace with it.
I stopped by their trailer for the first time today. I probably would have missed it if they hadn’t come out to greet me, flanked by three friendly mutts; I thought it to be abandoned. The place is in pretty rough shape. It doesn’t have a bathroom or running water. The yard is littered with debris, and the trailer itself is in a total state of disrepair. My stomach twisted into a knot as I thought of how difficult it must have been to stay warm there this winter, and how they would never have thought to complain or to ask for help before now.
Earl strode up to me, excusing himself to see a friend who lived up the hill. The effects of his recent surgery were painfully evident; the tip of his nose was gone, replaced by gnarled stitches and dirty gauze. Sarah smiled and invited me inside to sit with her and her son and to discuss what the Youthfest volunteers could handle. In keeping with their personalities, Sarah and her son didn’t ask for much. Only for the yard to be tidied a little bit. Perhaps the kids could dig to find the water line that had been covered up by run-off from a rainstorm. That’s all.
They showed me around the property, pointing at different areas that needed particular attention. Sarah extended her arm and swept it across the yard, saying, “This is the homeplace. He refuses to move. He was born here, he was raised here, and he’ll die here.” I smiled and told her that I was sure that the volunteers would love spending time with her and Earl, and that they would be more than happy to give the couple a hand. I explained that, while the work itself would be both challenging and rewarding, the kids would gain so much from conversations with the two of them.
“Earl’s such a great story-teller,” I told her. “He’s a wonderful person.”
“I know it,” she said with a sad little smile. And she really did.
As soon as I’d gotten out of range of the trailer, I cried. I can’t even tell you for sure why, exactly, I was crying. The situation itself is undoubtedly sad, but there was an emotion stronger than sadness working in my heart. I felt overwhelmed by Earl and Sarah - in a good way. Their life is one of extreme material simplicity. Earl’s been handed a slow and painful death sentence, and Sarah’s condemned to watch him go, only to be rewarded by a new kind of poverty, experienced by herself and not with her soul mate. But they smile. And everything about their relationship with one another speaks of love, respect, and gratitude. With the house literally falling down around them, they focus on each other, and they’re happy.
I can’t wait for the Youthfest volunteers to meet these two. They’re in for a treat.
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