I want to believe.

I want to believe in something.  Anything.

This morning my grandmother died.  It is sad.  I have cried my mascara off more times than I can count today, but I also know it's okay.  My grandfather's birthday is July 12th.  Of course she wanted to be with him!  The one thing she wanted to do before she died, was see her grandson get married.  Dan was married on July 1.  (Oh, and she wanted to drive an eighteen wheeler.)

Now she can be up in Heaven and tell Grandpa and Uncle Stephen all about the wedding.  She can tell them how beautiful Allie looked, how happy everyone was, and how she danced.  Then she and Grandpa can drink their Dewar's and never worry about another person taking the glass of "seasoned ice."

But I have a hard time really believing the whole Heaven thing.  At this point, I don't really believe in anything.  But I want to.  I want to believe that I will have a place to go someday.  And I want to believe that my place will be the same as everyone else that I love.

When I was five years old my grandfather and my cousin on my mom's side of the family died.  I didn't really comprehend it, but I remember the butterflies.  Aunt Patty, my godmother, became very interested in butterflies.  She had butterfly everything.  Now, keep in mind, I was five, so I could be exaggerating.  I remember butterfly t- shirts, prints, clippings, books, and pillows.  I remember everything having butterflies.  I don't know who explained it to me, but I was told that Aunt Patty believed that the butterflies were the people who had died, and she wanted to remember them.  Well, that was crazy to me.  I have always been more of a mathematical and scientific person, and even at five years old, I knew that butterflies weren't people.  And I knew that butterflies were not Papa and Mary Ellen.

We went to a Catholic church regularly, but what does that really mean as a kid?  For me, it meant that in second grade I had to confess my sins.  So, I cried.  And then I told the priest that I had hit my brother and fought with him after I was told not to.  He was nice.  He told me to say a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers, and that I could receive my first communion.

At this point, I was in an elementary school that had a butterfly house.  Now I knew for sure, one hundred percent, that butterflies were not Papa and Mary Ellen.  I had seen them hatch from their cocoons.  So, I still thought Aunt Patty was crazy.

When we moved to New York, to different churches and religions, and took part in the "Church of the Month Club" I questioned more and believed less.

My senior year in high school my Uncle Stephen died.  I didn't understand.  He was so young.  He was leaving behind a family.  If God really existed, how could he let this happen?  I had to force myself to believe he was no longer in pain, in a better place.  What that better place was, I didn't know.  But he had very strong faith, and I knew he was in that better place.

Exactly three months later, my grandmother, Gigi, died.  I was even more confused.  She had a new hip.  She was perfectly healthy.  While she was 87 years old, it wasn't her time.  My mom told me "times like these are when we need to believe in something."  Instead of listening to her, I just became angry and upset.  It didn't make sense, and how could I have faith in something greater that would allow this to happen?

My mom told me to explore religion in college.  She knew I would have plenty of options and opportunities, and I should take advantage.  I did just the opposite.  Tulsa was overwhelming and only turned me off from religion even more.  My friends told me stories about the materialistic things they had prayed for and received.  These people who were, in my eyes, very religious, were praying for cars?  And getting them?  That wasn't the type of religion I was looking for.  Then there were people waiting for their first kiss until their wedding day for God.  Wrong again.

One day, out of the blue, a butterfly landed on my hand as I hung onto my oar handle.  It was a beautiful butterfly, and I was sitting in bowseat in the middle of the water in Catoosa.  I was having a challenging time with rowing, school and everything else, and I knew, at that very moment, that it was Gigi.  I began to believe in butterflies.  Even in Thailand, there are butterflies.  They are never here when I ask for them, but they always show up when they know I need them.  They have landed on my feet, my hands, my arms, or just nearby to let me know they are there.  I believe.

Maybe Aunt Patty and I are both crazy, but I truly believe in butterflies.  The problem is, "Butterflies" isn't an option in the Religious Views category of a match.com profile.  I need something more.  I believe I was in my motorcycle accident to go home early and see Grandpa before he died, but why am I not home now?  Why didn't I get to see Grandma?  I need more than a hope that Gigi will pull some strings for me, and let me come hang out with her wherever she is.  I don't know what, where, or when I will find it, but gosh, I really want it.

Me? A Writer?

My good friend Dave just asked me to be a guest blogger on his new blog.  Dave is a writer.  And I happen to think he is great.  I love reading his work, and I feel honored when he sends me new chapters for books that never happen, or random short stories that he has yet to finish.  But, when he asked me to blog for him I didn't understand.  Why me?  Yes, I have my own blog.  But as my faithful followers, who range as far as my mother, father and godmother, know, I am not even very good at keeping my own blog.  Why would anyone want me as a guest on their own blog?  Save yourselves!  Don't ask me.  But he did.  On facebook chat.  The new blog is called "Reluctant Adult Perspective" and began about a week ago.  I asked him how often I would be expected to write and what he wants from me.  He said: 
"you just need to write something somewhat introspective. 
maybe about being far from family."    


While I was honored that someone whose writing I adore would ask me, I had to ask him why.  His response: 
"you're a writer with an interesting story."  


Wow, a writer.  Me?  Before I had time to digest what I considered to be a huge (and unexpected) compliment, he followed with this: 
"and you refuse to grow up and are stalling your life by living in thailand, or is that wrong? 
sounds like reluctant adult material to me."


Oh, snap.  There it is.  I'm a reluctant adult.  I am stalling my life by living out here.  In so many ways I had convinced myself that I was doing just the opposite.  Have I tricked myself to believe a lie?  Isn't that what pathological liars do?  Aren't they people who begin to think that fictitious events actually occurred?  I believe I am living my life in fifth gear, but am I just stalling out?


Maybe Dave is right.  But since this conversation took place on Wednesday, I haven't stopped thinking about it.  My conclusion: it doesn't matter.  Okay, I'm a reluctant adult because I ran away to Thailand.  I can deal with that label.  But is that any different than my friends still nannying?  Or my friends still content with working at the same restaurant they worked at in high school?  What about the people ski bumming and the people still going to school for something they aren't totally convinced they want to do?  Or my friends with "grown up jobs" openly wishing they could be back in college, partying, living off of their parents and somehow managing decent grades without ever attending class?  We're all reluctant adults.  


The people that pat me on the back for running away to Thailand, only do so because in some way or another, they want to do the same thing.  I can't count how many people have told me, "Gosh, I wish I could do what you are doing."  Or, "I should have done that before my life started happening." "Now's the time," and "you will never regret this."  Of course I have my good days and my bad days, but I won't regret this.  My life is going to start eventually, whether I am ready or not.  For now, I'm content stalling.  

A few firsts... and hopefully a few lasts

The first of my close friends got married at the end of April.  And I was a bridesmaid for the first time.  It was great.  But it was also a bit crazy.

My parents and I flew to Charleston, SC on Wednesday before the wedding.  They have friends in Charleston from medical school and were planning to visit for a few days before the wedding.  They were also able to take a quick trip down to Augusta to see Aunt Jamie's choir rehearse with the director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  I, on the other hand, went to work.  

Laura Beth, the bride, is in occupational therapy school in Charleston.  She finished her last of six finals on Wednesday morning at around 10 am.  When I arrived at noon, my parents brought me to her apartment, and quickly bid me farewell.  We had less than 24 hours to pack up her apartment and completely move her.  And, as my parents saw, she had a very long way to go.  

Packing I can handle.  But this packing was more complex than I was prepared for.  Some of Laura Beth's things were being packed and prepared for her sister who will be moving into an apartment at Clemson next semester.  Some of Laura Beth's things were being moved to a new apartment on the other side of town.  And the rest of Laura Beth's things were being put in a moving truck to be brought down to Pensacola, Florida, where her now husband has an apartment.

While I wanted to be independent in the packing process and just "get 'er done," I couldn't.  Every single thing I wanted to pack had to be cleared with Laura Beth.  She had to tell me what corner or box or car or moving truck to put everything in.  I felt useless.  But, I must have been somewhat productive, because we finished.  

We packed up and moved out of one apartment, moved into a new apartment and a moving truck.  And we were finished by Thursday afternoon.  I am going to give myself another pat on the back for that one.  

We drove out to Fripp Island, where the wedding would be taking place.  As my friends and fellow bridesmaids arrived, I lost it.  I was a total wreck.  Tears were streaming down my beet red face for the majority of the weekend.  But, somehow, I was the only one of my friends not to cry at the ceremony.  As crazy as the weekend was, and it was, just ask my parents, it was absolutely wonderful.  I saw four of my best friends from college.  I met Allie's fiancee.  I saw Jackson, Lindsey's son, who is 3 years old already, and tearing up the dance floor.  But most importantly, I saw Laura Beth get married, knowing that she could not be any happier.  I am thrilled for her.

So, it was my first friend's wedding, and my first bridesmaid experience.  Allie will be getting married next April, and I will be a bridesmaid again.  And I know that I have lots more weddings and bridesmaid duties ahead of me.

It was also the first time I packed someone else's apartment in 24 hours, and well, my fingers are crossed that it was the last time for that.  I also hope that it will be the last time that the framers mess up my wedding gift....

The last name was supposed to be MEYER...  Yeah, I cried about this too.  Gosh, I need to pull myself together.

"Thai Style" at its finest

Days before I left Thailand to come home, we had Sport Day.  Don't let the name fool you, there was very little sport going on.  The day was a competition between government schools throughout the northeast, and only involved teachers.  

The day began for me at 3 am.  I was dragged from my bed, forbidden from putting on my sling, covered in makeup and hairspray, and sewed into my "Thai style" outfit.  Yes, I was forced to be part of the parade.  The parade is the most elaborate and important competition of the day, and therefore my white face needed to be put on display.  I just went along with it.

A photo with the director of the school.

Check out the makeup and fake eyelashes!  I think it was more makeup than I have worn in my entire life.  Combined.

One of my very good friends in Thailand, and a teacher at my school, Golf.

The man behind the makeup.

When the parade was finished, we were bussed back to the hotel to change into our issued uniforms, pink polo shirts and athletic pants.  Even though I scrubbed a few layers of skin off of my face, there were still traces of makeup, but back to Sport Day we went.  Immediately the vice director handed me a paper coffee cup filled with beer and told me to drink up.  While taking my first sip, she wrapped a sequin and feathered number around me and pushed me to the stage.  I was then forced to partake in the second most important competition of the day: cheering.  But once again, don't let the name fool you.  The competition was more about silly costumes, simple dance moves, and karaoke than anything else.  I won't lie, I loved it.

Sequins, feathers, sunglasses and beer.  What else could an American girl in Thailand ask for?

Dancing, excuse me, cheering away!

This is a photo from the dinner and closing ceremony of Sport Day.  From the left, Teacher Sue, one of the third grade teachers I work with, and a Manao's future owner candidate, Paul, and Teacher Lawan, the head of the English program, and my co- teacher last year in grade one.