On the Matter of Sacrifice

I just finished reading a book called “Revolution in World Missions,” and it has got me thinking. Time and time again, there is the issue of sacrifice. It is not anything sadistic, like human sacrifice, but self-sacrifice. Sometimes, I think I’m doing pretty well. I don’t have a job currently, so monetary sacrifice isn’t a primary focus. Even when I do give out of what I have saved, however, I feel fine about it. It was a sacrifice. But really, how big of a deal was it?

Giving the portion of money I did, however big or small, is not going to make me go hungry. It will not impair me from walking around outside with securely covered feet, or make me colder when the winter months come around. It doesn’t keep me from occasionally going out with friends or even from the luxuries of dessert. What, then, am I truly sacrificing? I have known that I am blessed in so many ways. I have a great family, amazing friends, Godly leadership, and I know no important material want or lack of sustenance. I wonder what it is that I have actually been sacrificing. The only thing that comes to mind is time. Even with that, I know it has not been enough.

Now, that feeling, the internal push to give, do, and sacrifice more, is even stronger. It is a feeling that says there is so much room for growth, and then more room beyond that. There is a deep challenge here. This kind of sacrifice is directly tied to giving, though giving alone may not be sacrifice. The way I look at it, giving is not enough unless you give and give and give and until you finally meet some kind of actual sacrifice. I am not saying we must go hungry to do right, but I hardly understand how we can give ourselves a pat on the back for something that took no effort. I don’t mean to sound preachy here. Mostly, I am talking to a mirror.

There is so much think of. There is so much self-evaluating to do. On top of that, there is so much potential to change for the better.

The Thespian In Me

                I had been in high school theatre for all of one year and I loved it. Being in church musicals in elementary and early junior high was a completely different matter. Here, there was more challenge. People weren’t looking for some cute to kids to prance around stage; they were looking for skill and a good performance.

                Not wanting to have to go through the Theatre Arts class that only worked out of a textbook and did the occasional skit, I decided that I wanted to audition for the Theatre Production class. It was the end of my freshman year and I had had encouragement from friends in theatre to just “go for it.” I prepared a monologue and came before the drama teachers for audition. It actually went pretty well. They put me in the Theatre Production class for the following year and I looked forward to it through the summer. When my sophomore year started, auditions started up right with it.

                The first play was a comedy that everyone was excited for. It turned out that I actually snagged a role! This was a big deal for me since I was the new kid and there had been plenty of previous members who were not cast. When the next show came around, a melodrama, I was cast again! Already, I was a part of the old theatre crew. Practices were long and happened most days of the week, but it seemed worth it. By the end of the year, it was UIL time, the ratings and competition between schools. Even with the small cast the play held, I still got a role. It may have been a smaller role, but I was a part of UIL! It was huge that they trusted me to be a part of this.

                Practices were really getting to me now. I hardly had the time to do all my homework when I got home every evening. I knew that the next year was going to be tougher than this one, but I wanted to keep with it. As scheduling turned out, however, I had to make some adjustments. I was not able to fit the production class in my schedule. I reassured myself and others that I would still be a part of drama; I just couldn’t be in the class. Besides, there were people involved in the plays that were not in the class. It was possible.

                At the beginning of the next year, we had auditions. I was given a significant role and was pretty happy about it. From the audition sheets, I had pretty much decided that this was the role I wanted. When the read-through day came, everyone who had a part was given a copy of the play. We sat in a circle and read our way through our parts. My part was not exactly what I expected. There were areas that, although not bad, I wasn’t comfortable with. Actually, I was pretty sure I didn’t care for it. Situations in the play were awkward and I felt even more awkward at the idea of portraying it.

                On top of that, when I got the rehearsal sheet for the month, I could not even see how I would be able to fit all the practices in with all the homework I would be getting. The previous year had been hard enough. This year would be harder.

                After talking it over time and time again with my parents and other people I trusted, I made the hard choice. I had to tell my drama teacher that I could not accept the role after all. I was embarrassed by the situation I felt I had created, but I knew it was necessary. It was unfair of me to have auditioned in the first. Still, I just had to keep working from where I was.

                I never ended up getting back into drama that year or any of the years since. I loved it while it lasted, but it seemed unpractical to try and be involved in drama with all the other things I had to do. Perhaps there will be times in my future that I can bring out the Thespian in me once again, but I will try and be content with my dorm-room theatrics for now.

Now and Later

I was given more at birth than just a name. I am not the eldest but the youngest, so I don’t have the biblical birthrights and that go to the firstborn. This is not discouraging to me, though, because the Bible is filled with examples of God using the younger of the children to do great things for His kingdom. What I would consider to be my own birthrights are different qualities and giftings that God has formed in me. He has proclaimed to my heart and to others since I was a child that I would sing for Him. I also believe that He has instilled within me a lifelong love of writing. I have learned over the years that God can use anyone He calls, whether they are the most talented or not. So, while I may have a longing to be great at whatever I do, I know I cannot become discouraged when others are better. God measures me by His own standards and by how I use what He has specifically given to me. It is instead for me to work at being a good steward of these gifts.

I have noticed that, for some reason, people tend open up to me. I believe a big part of it has to do with the fact that I am a listener by nature. Even so, I am still surprised when I realize someone has chosen me to be someone they talk to. These people trust me, and I do everything I can to honor that trust and be a positive influence on them. Even when I may not have the answer, I try to point them toward where the answer may be held.

There is also a totally different side of me, as there is with all people. In complete contrast with my tendency to be meek and shy (especially in group settings) is my flat-out silliness. I love to laugh and make my friends laugh, even at my expense. I am, like my dad, a complete goof at times. Unlike him, however, I can lack the boldness to bring it out whenever I want. Although I have come out of my shell tremendously over these years, I still have a hard time with getting to that comfort level with new people or in large groups. As it tends to go, the larger the group, the harder it is.

All in all, I am still developing. I have hopes and dreams, yes, but I want to stay flexible. Whatever God has for me I am sure is better than anything I can come up with on my own.

Name-Sake

The history of my name doesn’t have much substance to it. I wasn’t named after a great biblical character or anyone in my family tree. There is, however, a little back-story. As it goes, my mom was leaning toward the name Amber, but my dad was really vying for the name Shana. The origin of the name Shana is uncertain, but is said to be Yiddish for “beautiful.” It is also said that it may be a variant of Shoshanna, which is Hebrew for “lily” or “rose.” While my mom also liked this name, there was already a young girl at church who had the name Shana, and my mom didn’t want me to be dubbed “Shana number two.” To fix this, my parents simply altered the sound of the name and contacted a baby naming service to find out what spelling would be best. My middle name, Christen, is a female variant of Christian and I am very glad to have it. The sound doesn’t flow when paired with my first name, but I like it just the same. My last name, Nix, is most likely of German origin and can mean two things. The first one, which the family members from my dad’s side are less fond of, is that Nix is a sprite or water fairy. The other is that it means nothing. Literally, nothing. It can vary within the German language to also mean “no” or “zero.”

One day last semester, a friend humored me enough to say that in Hebrew, the word Shanae translates to “year.” This same person tends to trick my gullible self all the time and I have since been told that he was probably just at his normal trade during the conversation. While I was still under his influence, however, I came to be entertained with the idea that if this were the case, then my first, last and middle name put together could come to represent the first coming of Jesus. However much I stretched the concept, I liked that my full name could mean “year zero” when “Christ” came. Well, it was pleasant while it lasted. Whatever my name here may or may not mean, I am much more interested in what my heavenly name will be. Now that is something to look forward to!

Keep the Land

As the age-old saying goes, “What goes around comes around.”  This usually refers to relationships between people, but it is equally as true regarding the relationship between man and nature. We are dependent on the land. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. There is a connection and a balance between all of the life on the earth. In light of this, it would seem reasonable that each man would respect the nature that surrounds him, but it is not so.

Nature teaches that there is a balance which everything revolves around. Just comparing two predator-prey species shows this. When the fox population grows, the population of rabbits begins to decrease. After a while, there are not enough rabbits to feed the high number of foxes. The number of foxes begins to, in turn, decrease as well. As their numbers dwindle, the rabbits have fewer predators hunting them. The number of rabbits rises. There is now more food for the foxes that will yet again grow in numbers. It all starts over again. It is a cycle that is always weaving above and below a median line as if seeking some unspoken balance. Without meaning to, these animals show how intertwined life is.

Alan Paton said about land “Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed.” Across the planet there is the problem of abusing land. Desperate farmers till, plant and harvest the same fields again and again, stripping the soil of life. In not too long, these over-worked fields become dead and useless. This problem is especially prominent in third-world countries. Lands that were once fertile turn to desert. In efforts to produce more, the problem of deficiency becomes worse. Village societies struggle even harder to survive.

There is an understanding that needs to be reached. The delicacy of the balance of nature needs to be realized. Ways to revive the land can be taught to people ignorant of alternative methods. It all starts with being aware. A respect for the relationship between man and nature can be developed so that good goes out and good comes back. It won’t work without this.

The Car

One steers a car as one would maneuver through a shopping mall- staying away from collisions but keeping the destination in mind. Not daydreaming at the wheel, but quietly focused, taking in what is happening around. The car is not for getting, but for going to what lies ahead. Like an easy book, it waits on the driver, and then, it’s off! It moves forward, followed by a cloud of gray. The road succumbs, making way for the hovering machine. Still, after taking to the road so many times, I still wonder at this phenomenon- secret coils and chambers of energy creating motion. Beyond this, I am amazed at the idea that this design is under my power, that my shifting hands and pressing foot control it, that we together make a forward-moving force.

A resolve seeps into my mind and stretches to my two hands and my foot. It is the focus of a goal that has doubled over nervous energy. This is what leads me to turn the key and shift into drive.

Not the Fake Stuff

I had been so wrong about snow! I had never had too much chance to be right about it anyway. The southern area of Houston is not graced with this mysterious phenomenon too often. Snow is what I had seen in movies. Snow is what had fallen in lumps from the sky two Christmas Eves before when my cousins were all over at my house. Snow is what we had scrapped from the cars and readily squashed into dense balls which we hurled at each other for hours. Snow was white and watery and instantly turned to slush when it hit the ground. It was, I imagined, like the shaved ice that my family would get on a hot summer day, just without all the rainbow colors that dyed our lips and tongues.

This pre-conceived idea is what got me laughed at when the first “snow” came to my new home-away-from-home in northern Texas. The stuff was gritty. Sidewalks and grass were covered with what seemed like the most miniature version of hail possible. Frozen H2O had fallen from the sky. It was snow enough for me, which was reason to celebrate! I popped the lids off of my plastic storage bins and my friends and I used them as sleds to go down the mole hill behind my dorm. When I came across my friends from the north, however, they chuckled as I referred to the white grit as “snow.” Over and over, they informed me that this was not even close to actual snow. “When the real stuff comes,” they said, “we will let you know.”

Thankfully, this was not long in the waiting. Just a couple days later, I looked out the window and it seemed like the air had turned into a whirling white storm! Every soul was outside in a minute, relishing the falling snow. Pretty soon, I realized that this was completely different from what had fallen two days before, as well as what had graced Houston a few seasons ago. This new snow was like frozen dust! My mind was completely blown. As it accumulated beneath my feet, I felt as though I was walking through fields of bleached baking flour. I had never imagined it would be so soft. Even more mind-boggling, it seemed to completely lack moisture. Even the coldest snow-cones were wet to a degree. This, however, was dry, and I could not make sense of it.

My efforts to form snow-balls were futile. This cold powder would just fall out of place the moment I released the pressure of my palms. How in the world does it stick? People in movies make snowballs all the time! My northern friends explained that it would be much easier to form snowballs in a day or two. They were completely right. The next day, all I wanted to do was be outside, wallowing in the soft, frozen water and blow time making spheres of it. The whole school seemed to have this same attitude, only with a little more gusto. By midday, World War Three had erupted! At first every-man-for-himself, the game soon changed to pit dorm against dorm. It was all-out war in the courtyards and walkways. For hours we threw, ducked, teamed and schemed until our energy came to an end.

The day was a success. I had experienced real snow for the first time. It may not have been to the same degree as people closer to the poles trudge through, but it was enough for me. I was beyond satisfied. At the same time, it has also awakened in me an eagerness for the future winters. Now that I know what to expect, I can’t wait for the next time we get a real snow.

Granted

                I am from Houston, which isn’t too far away from the Gulf of Mexico. I have seen many tropical storms in my life and know what a hurricane can do to a city. Mainly the TV taught me that from a safe distance. Hurricane Katrina was all over the news before it hit New Orleans, and remained on it for months after. The pictures of devastation filled the screen and my mind from day to day. While I was thankful that my home had not been hit the way so many others were, I knew that it wasn’t impossible.

                Rita came the year after Katrina. Every person had the memories and fear of Katrina still alive in their hearts. They were still too fresh and it was much too soon to have to deal with another devastating storm. What I remember most about Rita is the leaving. It had never been so hard to leave home. The plan was for my family to drive to San Antonio to stay with my Dad’s side of the family. We were taking my mom’s side with us.

Aunts, uncles, cousins and the like piled into cars packed to the brim with clothes, food, necessities, valuables and keepsakes. There is only so much you can fit into a car. Earlier that day, my family had gone through our belongings and painstakingly chosen what we would bring. My parents counseled us to choose wisely, because it may all that we would have left after the storm hit. This process is a lot harder than it sounds.

“What will I bring?” I thought to myself. I had asked myself this question many times before in life as a kind of entertaining thought, but this time it was different. Then, it was more of just choosing my favorite things which doesn’t carry too much weight of thought. Now, I knew that if I did not take something with me, it may be lost forever. Every solitary item that passed through my hands also passed through my heart. I know that it is not good to love material things, but these things had life. They had stories, connections, and carried memories. Nevertheless, most of these had to be let go.

We took with us what we thought was most valuable. Amongst our chosen items were the home videos, photo albums, heirlooms, dolls, favorite stuffed animals, and crafts we had made as children. After we had loaded all this and much, much more into the car, it was time to leave. There my family stood on the sidewalk, looking at the house that we knew may not be here to greet us when we came back home (if home is even what it would be called anymore). Tearing myself from that spot was one of the most sobering things I’ve had to do. It was time to leave. We needed safely and shelter. At the core, we knew that my family being safe and together is what really mattered.

After we left, nothing went according to plan. We didn’t even get close to San Antonio. It took four hours just to get to the other side of the city! Although my dad’s side didn’t like it, our whole caravan took refuge at my cousin’s house, which was still located in Houston. Also against our expectations, we had fun there. It felt like a family reunion! I should have seen it coming, though. No matter the circumstance, when my family gets together there is no stopping a good time. To top it off, the storm had plans of its own. It wasn’t nearly as fierce as the weatherman suggested and did no great damage to our city. Pretty soon, it was time to go home. Our hopes were strengthened yet again when we saw that our house took on no more damage than the average tropical storm inflicts. All of our worrying and fears were put to rest.

Even though nothing traumatic came of this experience, we still learned through it. What is truly important in life was magnified in our understanding. Every solitary thing we had, while keeping its status as a material possession, was new to us. We were thankful for the many blessings that now made themselves obvious before our eyes. What we had taken for granted before was now precious. Even the truth we already knew shone brighter than before. Yet again, that is what it all comes back to. Truth.

Sound It Out

The first memories I have of reading are of my sister and me sitting Indian-style behind the lazy-boy in our living room. Really, you couldn’t even call what we were doing reading; it was more of a flipping the pages of a picture book while a recorded voice read the mysterious black symbols that were laid out in a row. I wanted to be able to read these symbols myself. I knew that someday, I would. For now though, I humored myself with attempting to follow along as the voice dramatically told the story of Hansel and Gretel. It was only occasionally interrupted with the “ding” that meant it was time to turn the page. Detailed pictures covered every page. As I sat looking at the beautiful house made of candy and treats, I would think over and over about which ones I would eat first if I were there.

Then in grade school came the alphabet. My mom had worked with me before and reading came more easily to me, so there was not really a struggle. I marveled at how neatly the teacher could write out the lines, dashes, and letters on the blackboard. She handled that chalk like it was a magic wand! However, I distinctly remember that awkward phase between learning the simple sounds of the alphabet and then learning how they can change. I was too young to be taught yet that certain letters, when put side by side, made a different sound. The fact that vowels could create multiple sounds was also beyond me.

One day I went home from school greatly disturbed. My mom didn’t know how to spell or read! She had messed up my name! The way I had always heard it was “Shuh-nay,” but that was completely wrong. It was a tragedy. In my confusion, I resolved to find out how my name actually sounded. I knew how to write it out and spell it, and by this time I understood the sounds that every letter makes. I had to go somewhere private to work on my little project. The garage, I decided, would be the perfect place. Walking out through the kitchen, I stepped out onto the small brown rug that covered the cement flooring just outside the door. For the next few minutes, I poured over what my name really was. Using all the tools I learned in class, I began to sound out the letters. It took me a while to be able to say them all in a row without having to pause and think. Once I was sure I had it, I stepped back into the kitchen where my mom was.

“Mom” I called to get her attention. “My name doesn’t spell ‘Shuh-nay.’ It says ‘Sss- Huh- Ah- Nn- Ah- Eh.” I divided the letters and put emphasis on each sound as I struggled to say it correctly. Shanae. The name was a sham.

It wasn’t until much later in school that I was taught how letters have many sides, and not until after that did I see how free the English language was. There were so many rules, rules upon rules, and exceptions to each of them. It was definitely more than my first grade mind could comprehend. However easy or confusing the process was, once I had it down, I loved it. I could read. This ability led me to be quite the bookworm as a child. Reading time in class was one of my favorite parts of the day. I would delve into another world in this chunk of time, and reluctantly be pulled away at the end. Even at recess, I would sometimes choose to sit by a tree with my book rather than run with the other kids.

Still, this wasn’t true of everyday. I believe I was quite balanced, though shy. Books were something I didn’t have to be afraid of. They were my friends that I could call upon whenever I wanted. Reading was a source of adventure, comfort and escape. I am glad that I developed a love for reading and learning early on in life, and I know I will keep this love to the end.

Where Rubber Meets Mud

The rain was coming in torrents, shooting almost horizontally from the huge gusts of wind. In the night, lighting flashed in and out of the clouds like the sky was in a debate. Thunder rumbled in the ground beneath my feet. It was wonderful! This rain was a long time coming, but now that it was here, it made up for its absence in one big dramatic production.

All I wanted to do was run right through it. Skip down the walkway, climb up the hill, and dance in circles with arms stretched out, loving every drop that burst upon my skin. Such were the thoughts of my heart, but I contented myself with a few dashes across the patio behind my dorm. There were people more daring than me, practically rolling around in the sand of the volleyball court. Every person outside wanted to soak it up, just as the parched earth was surely doing itself.

I was restless and in the mood for adventure. As I made my way back inside the lobby, I spotted a friend of mine that I knew was probably feeling the same way. He always has something up his sleeve. Some people had already had their fill of the rain and were coming back inside. Even though he had just walked in, I didn’t believe that he was one of them.

“Tony!” I shouted out across the lobby. “You’re already done?”

 “Naaw!” he exclaimed in his Louisiana accent. “I’m not done!”

“I wanna GO!” I said over and over. I could hardly restrain myself from bolting out the door. “I wanna GOOOO!”

“Yah, man! Let’s do it!”

As we talked, I didn’t even know what we were actually making plans for. A-run-across-campus was about as adventurous as my mind was getting at the moment. I should have known that he had something better in mind. Within half a minute, I realized that I had just included myself in his plans to go mudding! The truck was leaving in a few minutes, so I had to dash to change right after I recruited a few more girls for the trip.

My heart was pounding. I had never done anything like this before. Was it dangerous? Would we be back on time? Is it even legal? I pushed past all these thoughts and my own churning stomach as we approached the shiny black truck. I imagined that it wouldn’t be so shiny once we got back. Should I, or shouldn’t I? My thoughts went back and forth as the time wound down. It was do or die. I decided to go for it and stepped up into the truck. It took a little more persuasion to convince the other girls to do the same.

As we drove off, I kept questioning the situation. I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t know what to do once we got there. I didn’t even know the driver! Wow! This was pretty bold for me. I silently said a prayer that we would all be safe, and after that I stopped worrying.

The boys in the front seats were big talk; the girls in the back, easy prey. The guys kept bouncing lingo off each other to make this trip sound dangerous. Even though it may have made me a dud, I would translate their big fish and flat-out lies to the girls on either side of me. They were worrying enough as it was. This truck, I learned, was only two weeks old and there was no way that its owner would do anything to damage it, even though he tried to make us think things would get pretty crazy. This became one source of comfort for us girls.

As we turned off the main road and neared the query, my pulse quickened. Although the rain had stopped, the ground was still soaked. My Louisiana friend guided the driver through the black wilderness; between bushes, across massive puddles, up and down hills, then out to a clearing. Anticipation was rising. We were in the bottom valley of the query, with limestone walls rising up on one side and bushes lining the rest of the perimeter. Kevin, the driver, steadily made his way through this area, trying to get a feel for the ground below.

Suddenly, with one swift motion, the truck started spinning through the gravel mud. Whoops and hollers were mixed with high pitched screams as we turned in circle after circle. I was cracking up when the truck finally stopped turning. I checked in with the girls beside me. It wasn’t as bad as we thought. Yes, it was a rush, but at the same time, there was a surprising sense of control. I hadn’t felt endangered at all! The man behind the wheel had it covered. Tony and Kevin kept finding their way through impossible trails that seemed to come out of and lead to nowhere. Time and time again the truck would be launched in a tailspin, sometimes a little more crazy than others. A few times the ground was extra slippery and the truck bed got uncomfortably close to the limestone wall in mid-spin, but we would recover with a sign of relief and an unspoken resolution to steer clear next time.

All too soon, time was up. We started our way out of the winding trails and back on to paved road. Us girls talked about how it wasn’t nearly as terrible as we had been expecting, which prompted the guys to inform us that this had been an easy trip. The truck was new and the ground wasn’t muddy enough. Normally, things get a bit more out of control. However, these daredevils hadn’t had their fill, and we soon realized that we were not headed back to school. We were off to site B.

This location felt like Call of Duty mixed with Super Mario Cart. In the middle of a field, there was a concentrated section of long cement blocks piled high in huge stacks, row after row. It was almost as if they had been set up for this very purpose! They were giant and ominous, forming a daring course as we drove and slid our way through their halls. Is this really happening? I am really here right now? I could hardly believe it. It was like something you’d see in a video game, not an after-school excursion. The driving was more intense, but I still felt a brazen confidence that kept me from freaking out. Far from it, I was having a blast! Right turn, slide. Left turn, spin. Got a little close that time! We went in and out of this concrete city, down a couple ditches, then back up the other side. With a few more bumpy trails and jolts that were sure to wear down the shocks, the night drew to a close. For real this time. We drove straight from the field onto the main road and headed back to school with time to spare.

What a night! A spur-of-the-moment decision made for quite the adventure. If this was an easy trip as the guys said, then give me a crazy one! I’m hooked. For now, I’ll just have to wait around for another rain.

Just Trust

In the second semester of my senior year, my dad pulled me out to the back patio to have a talk. I could almost feel what was coming, but that didn’t make it easier…

All my life, I was the academic child. I loved school, loved learning, and always strove to do my best at everything I put my hand to. I invested who I was into my schoolwork. Even my friends were from my AP classes! Beyond our character traits, we also knew each other by our rank. I was number nine out of more than seven-hundred in my graduating class. Academics were part of my identity. That is why it was so hard when, towards the end of my grade school career, my dad told me that I may not be able to go to college.

How can this happen? Graduation is so close and I have been working for this my whole life! For the last two years I spent untold amounts of time researching colleges to find out where I should go. My heart had already been pulled to Southwestern. Now, after everything, I was being told that all of it was going to be taken away from me? This is not how it’s supposed to happen.

These were my thoughts and emotions as my dad explained that, since losing his job a month before, college didn’t look like a possibility. We would have to live off what we had left. If I wanted to go to college, I would have to support myself. I knew that there were students everywhere who did that, but I had no chance to plan for it. Still, I was determined to go. But even if I did find a job and worked through college, how could I afford a private one? My dreams looked like they were slipping away. As my dad stepped back inside the house, I remained in the backyard and tried to hold back the tears. I was unsuccessful.

In the middle of my distress, I remembered a word that a dear friend had brought to me from God. Just a week before, he came to my family with messages he said God had spoken to him. I recalled part of what he said to me… “You don’t need to worry about college. God will be with you.” Those words meant even more to me now. I had to trust God. That is easier said than done! Through the following week, emotions and worries tried to plague me at every corner. I would make myself stop and remember what God promised, and have faith that He would take care of me, whatever that meant.

“Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me.” Those are the words of Jesus in John 14:1. This time in my life made it more of a challenge than ever to not worry, but trust. It’s all I could do. About a week after the talk with my dad, I got a phone call from a strange area code. I was completely surprised to find that it was a lady calling from Southwestern, the school I wanted to go to. She told me, right then and there, that I had received the University Scholarship! This was huge! It would pay for all my tuition expenses for four years. I cannot even express the joy that filled me. All the glory belongs to God! It was Him who brought this. I made sure people knew it, too. That summer I had the opportunity to speak to my youth group about trusting God, giving the testimony of how He worked in my life. He is true to His word! I am so thankful for what He has done, and how He provided for me when it seemed like there was no hope. I pray that it continues to be an encouragement to others.

Share the Love

                Everyone wants to feel connected to their family. We want something to hold onto that reminds us of the love we share and the time we spend together. This may be found in Grandma’s flatware, Dad’s tool box, the antique game board or the tattered bedtime storybook that was finally put to rest itself. While these sentimental items can be tucked away in little boxes or displayed on a glass shelf, I find that what carries some of my dearest memories is something that cannot be polished, presented or preserved. It can only be re-created.

                It is my family’s tradition for the girls to gather in the kitchen and, through a group effort, make what we light-heartedly call “puppy chow.” For us, it is generations of festivity all packed into one tasty little morsel. It is present and to be expected at every family gathering.  It is the pre-show to the red, white and blue fireworks. It sits in a bowl next to the pumpkin pie and Watergate salad. Puppy chow is what gave us a white Christmas in the snowless land of south Texas. Even when the calendar gives us no excuse to break out the holiday spirit, we can follow a whim and make a day of it regardless. That is one of the things I love about it. No matter the time or season, puppy chow creates an environment that is sure to lift our spirits.

                It is like magic. There may be nothing special about the chocolate or powdered sugar itself, but there is something very special about the process. If we want it to be its best, it calls for teamwork. We each have roles that work in harmony, and we in turn are in harmony with each other. The time that we spend in the kitchen together is filled with smiles and laughter. We concentrate and are very careful while trying not to crush the delicate cereal squares as we stir in the melted chocolate, but we can’t take ourselves too seriously when we later shake these same squares in a big bag of powdered sugar. That is one of my oldest memories of making this fun desert. My mom would put powdered sugar in paper grocery bags and then pour in the still-warm squares. My brother, sister and I would parade, bags in hand, to the front yard and shake those things as hard as we could. Our little bodies were probably shaking just as much as the paper bags! It was for fun. It was time spent together. That was enough to make it a family tradition.

                When we make it still, we are just as giddy as we were then, laughing as we hold tight and try to keep from making a white cloud. That is what goes into it: laughter, along with tradition, family, love and honest-to-goodness fun. There is no constraint, no limit, and nothing to keep us from enjoying ourselves. We are all a part of it and so is anyone we share it with. Its ability to be shared is one of its greatest features. When we give people some of this dessert, we are sharing with them a bit of our family, our love and our memories. We give openly with the mindset that we are spreading joy to whomever will delight in it as we do. The recipe is no secret. It can be recopied as many times as needed. It does not have to be divided in an estate or fought over between sentimental siblings. It can go with each of us. The experience and the bonding tied to it are the things truly sought after. Old memories can be unlocked and new memories can be created. It is life.That is the beauty of “puppy chow.”