Tinted Glasses

Here I am.  It's me.  Standing right in front of you.  The girl you've known so long; almost three years now.  The girl you think you know so well; better than almost anyone.  It's me.  The girl who doesn't dance very well; who lacks a certain rhythm.  The girl who cannot sing, at least not in front of a crowd.  The girl who can't let go and has trouble being free.  The girl who seems so shy, you never know what's on her mind.
Here I am. It's me.  Standing right in front of you.  You look into my eyes, deeper than most ever try. Your gaze makes me believe that you really do see me, the girl you think you know so well.  But is the girl you see really me?  Or is she the girl your tinted glasses make me out to be?  The things you see in me are true.  But they are only pieces of the puzzle; most certainly not the whole picture.  Take off the glasses and you're mind will be blown by what you find.
Here I am.  It's me.  Standing right in front of you.  The girl you don't know at all.  The girls who loves to let loose on an afternoon drive or in a cold mountain stream.  The girl who would drop everything just to go on a crazy adventure with you.  The girl who's wittier than you'll ever realize because often it's over your head.  The girl who doesn't need to be crazy, because she's comfortable with herself .  The girl who can get along with anybody as long as they can get along with her.
Here I am.  It's me.  Standing right in front of you.  But I won't be here for long if you can't learn to see me right. I won't be here for long if you can only see the qualities I lack instead of the ones I possess.  If you can't love me for me, the real me, not just the one you see, then I will no longer be here, standing in front of you.  Take off the tinted glasses or watch me walk away.  There you'll be.  Just you.  Standing alone as I walk away from you.

One Thousand Words

They say one picture can be worth one thousand words, and up until this point I believed it was true.  But as I stood upon that great hill, engulfed in wondrous nature and timeless history, I thought to myself that if a picture is truly worth only one thousand words, than a even a million pictures could not do justice to the scene before my eyes.  
Our adventure began with breakfast at the wee hour of 4:45 a.m. Forty-five minutes later we were lined up along the streets, tickets in hand, waiting to load the buses that would take us to Machu Picchu.  Hundreds of people were waiting in line with us, just as eager and just as tired.  The line we waited in was moving faster than the sun was rising and we were lucky to have made it onto a bus shortly after entering the line.  The bus ride was an adventure in and of itself and of the thirty minutes that it took to get to the top, I had visions of dying a terrible death during every single one of them.  The roads were nothing but packed dirt and loose pebbles that snaked sharply on the side of the steep hill like neglected vines overtaking a home.  The American mind is inclined to believe that there would be room for only one bus on the road at a time, however the Peruvian mind is inclined to think otherwise.  We passed multiple other buses on our bumpy journey to the top, each time praying we would scrape by without tipping over the sheer edge.  By the time we reached our destination at the top, we were met with a rush of relief.  Our adrenaline levels were soaring higher than the altitude as we waited in line to enter one of the world wonders.   As we walked through the gates, hearts racing and minds excited, it took only seconds to understand why this is in fact a wonder of the world.  
The morning sun was still hiding behind the towering mountains waiting to make its debut for the day’s new crowd of tourists.  Waiting for the sun’s arrival, the ruins were faintly lit by a light dusk but was clouded by the morning mist.   The mist hung around the valley and the ruins while it encircled the peaks, providing an extra dampness to the already humid climate.  We walked briskly through the ancient, hilltop town and made friends with some of the llamas on our way to the other side.  At the other side it was time to wait in line again for our entrance to the main event, our hike to Huaynapicchu.  While we waited for our turn to pass through the gate, we were accompanied by many others as well as the rising sun.  Waiting in lines has never been as peaceful and beautiful as this was.  We watched anxiously as we could see the tiny rays creep over the top of the giant, rigid hills and expand every second.  A few minutes later the whole valley of Machu Picchu, was fully illuminated by the white-hot rays of the sun and it felt as if the real action of our day could begin.  Shortly after the arrival of light, we were able to begin our journey to the top of the main peak and we set off excitedly.   Hiking to the top required much concentration as it was incredibly steep.  The side of the hill was laced with an uneven and decaying staircase that weaved its way along the outer shell of the mountain.  With each step you could feel the burn in your calves and thighs, but knowing that each step was bringing you closer to the top made the burning sensation worth it.   At any given moment you could not only stop to take in a breath, but also to take in an impeccable view of gigantic, skeletal mountains surrounding and protecting the heart of the valley, one of the world’s breathtaking wonders.  With every step closer to the top, the beauty and wonder were only compounded.  When we had finally lunged our way to the top it was only to discover that the top was quite literally just a pile of rocks being held together at the peak by invisible forces.  With one wrong move one could easily find the quickest way back to the bottom.   Up there on what felt like the top of the world, we sat on the edge of rocks and enjoyed a scene that would seem impossible if not right in front of our eyes.  To call it breathtaking seems harshly inadequate because of the intricacy of God’s creation but also because of the high altitude.  
Our journey back down the mountain gave new light to the phrase, “it’s all downhill from here.”  Physically it was obviously all downhill but metaphorically it seemed that nothing could trump the view our eyes had just been blessed with.  Almost halfway down I stopped at some ruins that looked as if they could have been an ancient home.  It was small and humble and falling apart, but the view from the window beheld a priceless overlook of Machu Picchu.  Machu Picchu is a fairly large civilization but from this high up it was merely the size of my palm.  Looking down on that wondrous culture I was looking forward to getting back down there to immerse myself in the history and the view I had enjoyed from the top.  We continued crawling back down the mountain and into the city of the Incas, this time illuminated by the afternoon sun and free from the morning mist.  The afternoon was spent immersed in Incan culture and stunning beauty.    Words and pictures can never be enough to fully describe the events and grandeur of that day.  Just in case, in an effort to help you see the beauty, in conjunction with a few pictures, here are my one thousand words.   

Sacred Valley

It's no wonder they call the valley sacred.  With it's majestic mountains and it's ancient ruins, it truly is a place of wonder.  The mountains stand taller than any I've ever seen and act as protectors of the valleys and their inhabitants.  the valleys are filled with farmers who work tirelessly to harvest the plethora of crops around and peddlers who spend their days in their tiendas at the markets waiting for the tourists to come crawling through.  The Urubamba River weaves its way through, bringing life and refreshment to the beautiful sacred valley.  It is considered sacred not only for its stunning beauty but also because it is saturated with the history of the people of this country.  here in this valley are many ancient ruins of the once powerful empire of the Incas.  The Incas spent years constructing their dwellings out of rocks and the structures thereof are something of a spectacular feat., well beyond their time.  Thanks to time and the Spanish Conquistadors, sadly all that is left of these marvelous wonders is ruins.  But as one walks through these ruins it is not difficult to see the elegance that was once there and see the fruits of their hard labor.  being in these ruins was the closest to time travel I´ve ever been.  Touching those perfectly chiseled rocks that have stood immovable for hundreds of years, each one with a story to tell, felt almost as if we'd gone back in time.  People may wonder where it gets its name, but if you visit yourself you'll understand that it truly is a sacred valley.

Knights in Peru

As knights in Peru we've been blessed with many amazing experiences.  At 11,000 feet high, in an ancient imperial city, it often feels as though we're on top of the world.  From the culture to the scenery our minds and our eyes are never left for want.  There is so much history, from which we are learning and with cultural differences our eyes are being opened to a whole new world.   Majestic mountains with thousands of years worth of secrets, surround the city and watch over its inhabitants.  Each day I see them my heart grows fuller and prays that the image will stay fresh in my mind forever.  They say traveling is the only thing you buy that can make you richer, and I truly believe it.  For although my bank account is now empty, my heart and my mind are full.  

Although many lessons have been learned the most important of them all has nothing to do with history, culture or natural beauty.  The most important lesson learned was in the most unlikely state.  Over the past few days many of us have fallen ill and being sick in foreign country can open up a whole new level of discomfort.  It was during this discomfort that I was reminded that the gospel is true on no matter which continent.   During my weak and fallen state I was brought back to comfort with the power of the priesthood.  Oh how blessed I am to have been reminded that no matter what continent I am on, or what language is being spoken around me, Christ's love and gospel is steadfast and immovable.  The same yesterday, today and forever... no matter where you are!  My heart is full of gratitude for my worthy knights in Peru.

My Mountain

From the bottom to the top, from the canyon to the face, my mountain is mine, and in my heart has a place.   My Mountain stands tall, just the way I like, up there so high, I can’t wait to hike. My mountain is jagged, and has weathered many storms, though some are rough, I love all its forms.  My mountain has been burned but it never crumbles, instead it cleanses, and remains so humble.  My mountain is home to many animals around, and a plethora of plants, to it are bound.  My mountain is laced with many rivers and streams, replenishing the earth and everyone it seems.  My mountain is peppered and dotted with lakes, some are big, some are small, but none of them fake.  My mountain is capped with pure, white snow, feeding the rivers and lakes down below.  My mountain is strong and this valley protects, from multiple storms standing high, so elect.  My mountain can be cold, but with the right gear, warmth can be found with no reason to fear.  My mountain has secrets, some I have found, others not yet, but surely I’m bound.  My mountain lets me trod all over its tracks, and never complains only smiles right back.  My mountain waits for me to get to the top, and when I am there, I sit and I stop.  My mountain shares with me a spectacular view, a view I wish I could share with you.  My mountain is not perfect, but I have discovered, its beauty and grace with much more to uncover.  From the bottom to the top, my mountain I have climbed, my mountain is mine because I’ve given it my time.  

From the bottom to the top, from the heart to the face, we are all mountains, in our own special case.  I am not very tall and that’s quite okay, I’m just the right size in my own special way.  I am quite jagged, and I’ve seen many storms, but they’ve made me who I am, in all ways, shapes and forms.  I have sadly been burned but I try not to crumble, I learn from the bad and try to stay humble.  I keep inside a home for those I love, and pray for them always to God above.  I have tears that turn to rivers, though sometimes just streams, but I let them flow and I eventually beam. I’ve been blessed with lakes of experiences and skills, to help those around me and bring them some thrills.  I have been capped with a hardworking mind, to feed the desires that my heart may find.  I am not always strong but I put forth effort, to protect those I love from ever getting hurt.    I am sometimes cold, of which I’m not proud, but with the right smile, my snow can be plowed.  I hold others up, let them walk all around, and never complain, for to Christ I am bound.  I wait for someone to get to the top, but most of the time people just stop.  I have access to a beautiful view, through my eyes only, but I can share with you.  I am nowhere near perfect but deep down inside, I am a good person with nothing to hide.  From the bottom to the top, this mountain you can climb, I’ll surely be yours if you’ll give me some time.  

The Imperial City

Cusco, Peru was the capital city of the Incan Empire hundreds and hundreds of years ago.  And now, although the city has changed, it is not difficult to see why. The city is cradled in a beautiful valley that rests 11,000 feet high in the midst of majestic mountains.  Not far from the city, the Urubamba River rushes through keeping the lands fertile.  Literally thousands of crops are grown here and every one that I´ve tasted has been delectable.  There is never a shortage of crops for food and this area has been overflowing with natural resources such as silver and gold.  The temperature is never too extreme in either direction and the scenery never leaves your eyes unsatisfied.  Every day in Cusco I see the friendly faces of the locals, smell the delicious food, soak in the gorgeous background and walk through ancient ruins of the Incas as well as more recent Spanish architecture and I think to myself, "This truly is an Imperial City".

Traditional

One of the best parts of visiting the islands was getting to fully experience traditions of their culture.  We started off with a very traditional lunch of quinoa soup, fried cheese, various sweet potatoes and beans.  I can honestly say it was one of the best, most authentic meals I've ever had the pleasure of putting into my mouth.  Shortly after the meal we were taken on a hike to some of the ruins at the top.  There at the top we soaked in the beauty as well as participated in the tradition of walking around the temple 3 times, each time making a wish.  Later that evening we were treated to another traditional meal which remains unidentifiable, but still good and then we were taken to the town hall.  When I say 'town hall' keep in mind that that doesn't mean it was big... we were crowded with maybe 100 people in there.  There we were treated to a fiesta with a live band and lots of traditional dancing.  The dancing mostly consisted of holding hands and moving around in a circle.  But with our American spirit we improvised and added some of our own moves, much to the shock and awe of the sheltered locals. The most traditional part of the evening however, was definitely the clothing.  Our housemothers dressed us each in the traditional clothing that they wear every day.  I wish I could accurately describe the clothing but all I can say is that it was heavy and constricting... but still fun to wear for a short time!  Hopefully pictures can help me in describing this part...

Heaven on Earth

I have been blessed with opportunities to travel to many places around this world.  Throughout my travels to over 12 countries, over 20 foreign cities and regions, and a good portion of the United States, I have never found a place that surpasses the true beauty of my home valley.  Until now.  This past weekend we took an excursion by boat through Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world, to some of the best kept secrets in the world.  Our excursion took us through many floating islands and past normal islands and landed us on the island of Amantani. Amantani rests in the Peruvian side of the lake with just a few thousand inhabitants.  I fell in love with the beauty of this island the second our boat pulled into the dock.  The island is flourishing with beautiful flowers and trees and the slopes of the hills are covered in cascading terraces where they plant their vast variety of crops, off of which they live.  The homes are perfectly and simply constructed out of cement with tin or grass roofs.  Each one resting on various levels of the side of the hill, possessing its own unique and breathtaking view of the lake with smaller islands and jutting mountains off in the distance.  Standing at the ruins at the highest point of the island can easily make one feel as if they are on top of the world.  I've never felt closer to heaven than when I stood there taking in the view of the water reflecting the orange and red clouds as the sun set behind them.  Waking up in the morning and looking outside my door directly to this spectacular view, I thought to myself, this truly must be a heaven on earth.

If only the picture could do it justice

view out to the lake from my room

ruling the island ;)

Legend of the Uros

The Uros are a group of people who live on floating islands in Lake Titicaca, Peru.  the floating islands are quite literally just that... floating islands.  The people who live on them, the Uros, make the islands out of totora reeds that grow in the lake.  There are many layers of reeds, criss-crossing, to make the foundation that they live on.  Even the huts that they dwell in and the boats that they travel in are well constructed with tightly  wound reeds.  The legend of these strange people that float around on a lake their whole lives is simple and goes like this:  They believe that their ancestors existed before the sun and the moon.  They were immune to drowning and being struck by lightning.  They only lost their superior status when they disobeyed universal order and mixed with human beings.  Since then they have been scattered but remain on their various floating islands as the Uro tribes.  As we visited these people and their minuscule islands that were maybe 100 feet wide, it felt as if we'd gone back in time.  Each family lives in a tiny hut with one bed.  There is little to no electricity throughout these islands and they make nearly all of their own clothes as well as many beautiful handicrafts.   The lives of these people revolve simply around surviving.  Throughout their lives, their islands must be constantly added onto with more reeds as the bottom layers slowly disintegrate.  Although I don´t believe in the legend of their ancestors, I believe that if you can live in the middle of a massive lake on nothing but reeds for your entire life, you truly can be considered legend.

Night Bus

Chair on a bus is your bed for the night,

What a dreadful thought, oh what a great fright.

An eight hour drive, with no end in sight,

In this chair on a bus, your bed for the night.

The seats lay down so it is not so bad,

But when we get there, I will be so glad.

Eight hours of this and I could be so mad,

But the seats lay down, so its not so bad.

He lies beside me and keeps me so warm,

From the cold that surrounds me in a swarm.

An eight hour drive, with hopes of no storm,

And he lies beside me, and keeps me warm.

It’s with great effort that I fall asleep,

But once I fall, I fall so very deep.

Eight hours of this, and I try to count sheep,

Only with effort will I fall asleep.

The morning has come but we see no sun,

The day has begun and soon will be fun.

An eight hour drive and we’re finally done,

The morning is here, without the bright sun. 

Universal Laughter

"Everybody laughs the same in every language because laughter is a universal connection." - Yakov Smirnoff

Often during our nights in Cusco, Peru we find ourselves wandering the streets through plazas and markets, thoroughly enjoying the beauty and the culture.  As we do so I am frequently overwhelmed by the language being spoken around me.  While there are many words that I recognize and a few phrases I can say, my brain gets scared and exhausted from the constant failed translations.  People are talking in various speeds and tones all around me and I struggle to understand.  It is all I can do to decipher a small portion of what they say.  But if nothing else, I've learned from my plethora of traveling experiences that the most important languages are not spoken with the mouth or deciphered by the mind.  The most important languages are felt.  Throughout this world there are billions of people who learn and speak various languages, but one thing every single one of us has in common is a human heart with which we can communicate through feelings.  

My favorite part about our nights in Peru, and the days for that matter, is the connection we make with the people that we don't always understand.  Young girls often like to approach Brady, because he is tall, handsome and fun, and try to sell him whatever they have to offer that day.  Although he can communicate almost perfectly with them, I am usually confused.  But one thing that I understand perfectly is the laughter that is always exchanged.  The words that they speak don't always make sense... but when I hear their giggles I understand them perfectly; I know exactly how they feel.  The exchange of laughter with smiling eyes can be communicated across any language or culture perfectly with the hearts that we've all been blessed with.

One Hand

If we give ourselves unto Christ, he promises to never leave us alone.  My testimony of this promise has grown tremendously strong over the last few years, particularly through my international travels.  When I was 19 years old I moved to Austria by myself to live with a family I'd never met before.  Although physically I've never felt more alone, I knew that Christ was with me spiritually.  As an adventurous soul I found myself wandering around the European continent often.  I loved visiting other cities and taking in all the history, scenery, culture, and beauty!  Often my ventures would get me into a slightly troubled situation such as wandering down a dangerous alley, taking the wrong bus or train, and getting lost in a foreign country.  But never did I feel that I was in real danger because I felt Christ with me at all times.  If I was alone I could feel His presence at my right hand always.  He would often guide me through cities and help me out of the silly predicaments I wandered into.  Sometimes He would even bless me with a friend to stand by me and wander with me physically.  But no matter what, he was always there, someway, somehow guiding me with one hand.
Last year when my unquenchable thirst for traveling got the better of me again, and I wandered to India by myself, no doubt He was there.  He sat by me in the airport as I endured a 14-hour layover in Italy and guided me to safety and health when I became sick and stressed during another layover in New-Delhi.  When finances fell through, He blessed me with good Samaritans who took great care of me and when I thought I was going to be lonely for the whole trip, he led me towards new, very special friends.  He sat with me as I helped the suffering and He walked with me as I walked through a lifelong dream of seeing the Taj Mahal.  Again He was there, protecting me and guiding me with one hand.
 Now as I sit in my room in another foreign country on a totally new continent for me I can't help but see His influence and guidance in my life yet again.  I feel Christ with me as I wander through the streets of Cusco, Peru.  I feel his calming influence as I restlessly want to experience everything this city has to offer.  When I wander too far into the street I feel Him pull me back to safety.  This time He is with me in more than spirit form.  He is with me in the form of an old friend; one I already have a deep love and respect for.  He is still here, guiding me and protecting me, through my best friend, with one hand.

Tomorrow's Shower

The water laces through my hair and trickles down the back of my neck.  The icy drops send shivers all down my spine, chilling me to my very core.  My hair is lathered with shampoo so my chances of getting out now and looking presentable are long gone.  I must brave the cold long enough to eliminate all the bubbles.  I stand there shaking violently, and brace myself for another rush of freezing water.  Just before I plunge, the water begins to warm ever so slightly.  I slowly move directly under the water as it continues to get warmer and warmer.  Ahhh... the first warm water I've felt in days.  It almost seems too good to be true.  Immersing my head under water I begin to wash out the shampoo and then, just as quickly as it came, it is gone again.  The warmth has disappeared and the ice-water sends sheer prickles through every pore of my body.  Desperately I wash the soap out of my hair as quickly as my trembling hands can manage.  Then, as quick as a panicked cat, I jump out of the bathtub and scramble to get dry.  Perhaps I'll be brave enough to condition in tomorrow's shower.

Launching into the Deep

In a beautiful commencement speech given at Southern Virginia University on Saturday, Mitt Romney spoke to the graduates about launching into the deep.  ¨Launch into the deep and your nets shall be filled.¨  He then discussed all that that phrase may entail such as graduating from college, getting married, having children, joining the work force.  He explained that as we move on to new facets of life we must launch ourselves with our faith and ambition in order to truly be successful.  Sitting in the boat will only leave you starving.  But launching into the deep water with your net will enable you to find food.  I watched as many new graduates, some of them being close friends of mine, started a new journey into uncharted waters.  Each of them hungry for success, prosperity and new adventures.

Today that speech remains fresh on my mind as I begin a new journey of my own.  Just over 24 hours ago I boarded a plane that would take me to a new country, lead me to new experiences, and ultimately launch me into the deep.  I have launched into deep waters before but this is a new ocean with new fish to gather.  Fluency in German will not help me here and nor will my knowledge of European and Asian countries.  This is new territory.  I don´t understand the language; not even close.  And I certainly don´t understand various cultural and safety rules.  It is too late to swim back to shallow waters so here I am in the deep end.  With a net in my hand I will plunge deeper and deeper until I begin to satisfy the hunger that I have for this culture and language. 

Ticket to Ride

Roller coasters have always been a thrill for me.  I love the building anticipation as it starts and slowly makes its way to the top.  I love the sinking feeling in my stomach as the car crawls over the first hill and how my insides lurch as I begin to feel the rush of the descent.  Feeling the wind rush through my hair as we race down the tracks is exhilarating and refreshing at the same time.  I love the thirty seconds of up, down, and around excitement.

As much as I love roller coasters, I hate yours.  Roller coasters were meant to be ridden with friends but you've created your own and then sent me on a ride alone.  At first it was okay because I like roller coasters.  The beginning thrill was fun but roller coasters weren't meant to be ridden for too long and yours has no end in sight.  The never-ending exhilaration of the hills and loops is making me dizzy; nauseous even.  Which is quite an accomplishment I must say; it usually takes a lot to make me sick on a ride.  You've built up the anticipation greatly but now instead of lurching with excitement, my stomach is just lurching.  The rush is not refreshing it is only sickening.  I can't handle these up and down motions for much longer; if at all anymore.  I love you but if you keep making me ride this roller coaster alone I'm going to puke.  Join me on a different ride or watch me jump off of this one.  You might think that I won't survive a jump but you have no idea just how resilient I can be.  You've given me a ticket to ride, but if you don't reconstruct this ride soon you're going to watch me cash in your ticket for a ride that's worth experiencing.  One that gives me that exhilarating rush that I love and deserve.

Eleven

I have been with the brown eyed girl since the first time she picked up a volleyball.  However, I remained hidden in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart for many years until she became ready to acknowledge me.  Ours is an unlikely relationship, you see, she is slightly obsessive compulsive and I... am a dreaded odd number.  Nevertheless, before she was willing to accept me, I was there.

I was there during her first rec-league volleyball match in 6th grade, the year she was home-schooled.  It was then that she realized she was actually good at this game.  Before then, she had believed volleyball to be nothing but a 'wimpy girl' sport.  But it was during that first match that that attitude began to change.  She realized that with a little hard work, practice and intensity, volleyball was just as good as any other sport... in fact it was better.  And I was there.

I was there when she joined her first club volleyball team, Mountain West, in 7th grade.  It was this team that introduced her to the real world of competitive volleyball.  It was on this team that she learned just how hard she would have to work and just how fun volleyball really could be.  During this season is when she first fell in love with the thrill and pride of getting a bruise.  Bruises and blood, to her, meant she was working hard.  This team also brought with it many trials to her doorstep.  Trials that taught her how to be a teammate and a leader; trials with coaches that prepared her for experiences in her future.  It was during this season that she became addicted to the game.  And I was there.

I was there for the next two years of club volleyball in the 8th and 9th grades.  These two years provided her with great leadership experience and sharpened her volleyball skills.  Many hours of many weekends were spent on various volleyball courts, leaving her mark in the form of bloodstains on almost every one.  Here she had the opportunity to work with teammates of varying personalities and skill levels which taught her how to work with many different kinds of people and how to adjust to various situations.  She still didn't know it but I was there.

I was there for her during her freshman season at North Cache.  She is one who easily slips under the radar at school, but as the starting setter for her team, she could no longer hide.  People began to recognize her and soon labeled her the volleyball girl.  This season helped her earn new levels of respect from her peers as an athlete, a leader and a person.  And I was there.

I was there when she returned to her home state of Montana and joined the Hamilton High school volleyball team.  Although she was the shy, new girl, it took only one practice for her to earn the respect of her new teammates and it was in the first game that she earned admiration from the crowds both home and opponent.  I was there when she slammed her head into the pole and had to get stitches.  But thankfully she had still not welcomed me yet... that was a bloody mess I didn't deserve.  This team is where her confidence soared to new levels as she surpassed expectations and made the varsity team.  Perhaps my proudest moment of her is when she aced the star player of the number one team... in front of the rogue, opponent crowd.  This season was the hardest she had to deal with up to this point.  She dealt with a coach who didn't have control of a team as well as with senior teammates who were jealous.   But she survived and only grew stronger because of it.  And I was there.

Her junior year at HHS was possibly one of the best in her high school career.  The biggest reason being... this was the year she finally accepted me.  But also, she had earned the respect of almost all of her teammates as well as the position of floor captain.  Living in a small town, it wasn't long before many members of the community had heard of her abilities and came to support her. This season she was surrounded by mostly fun, talented, and supportive teammates along with a new coach for whom they all had respect.  This was the year that she fought her way to lead the conference in aces, even scoring 11 in a row in one game; our favorite number.  It was this season that she became notorious for running into chairs, tables and even cheerleaders while chasing volleyballs during some hard-fought matches.  Only this time I couldn't avoid the bloody messes.  Proudly standing on her back, despite the blood, I was there.

I was still there with her during her senior year, which was a fun but tough one.  Fun because she was the team captain with good teammates surrounding her but tough because we weren't sure if this was going to be our last year together.  This season was an exhausting one as almost all of their matches went to five games.  I was drenched in sweat or blood or both after almost every single match.  But I didn't mind because I knew she was working hard and enjoying what could maybe be her last season. The end of the season came all too soon and I was there to soak up her tears at the final whistle of the last match of the season.  Although the end of the chapter was sad, beaming with pride at her election to all-state, I was there. 

I was there in spirit as she got a scholarship offer to play for Montana State University Northern and we worried that we would be temporarily separated.  But by the grace of God, we were able to stick together.  Two old friends, taking on a new team.  This year turned out to be the hardest she would ever endure but we endured it together.  She dealt with being abandoned by a coach, temper problems of a new coach, and teammates with no morals.  To go into details of the struggles of this season would take days... but it sufficeth to say that it was miserable.  But at least we were miserable together because through all the tears, extra blood, stress, and pain... I was there.

I was there when she decided to join another team after taking a year and a half break.  This time she ventured out to Southern Virginia University and although it was far, she brought me with her.  This season got off to a rough start with the switching of coaches and not knowing anyone on the team but ended up being tolerable.  The new, inexperienced coach switched us back and forth between positions so much I swore she was getting whiplash, but we survived together.  This season taught her many lessons but the biggest was about being grateful for opportunities despite difficulties.  Through all the lessons this season brought her, I was still there.

I was there for her final season as a competitive player, although she didn't know it was her final season right away.  This year brought another new coach that would be her favorite and new friendships with old and new teammates.  By far this was the most enjoyable season we'd had together.  Although it wasn't without its trials, it was this season that made all the trials of the previous ones worth it.  She created beautiful memories with her teammates and coaches and experienced a lot of consistent success.  She even earned 'athlete of the week' honors for the country following a particularly successful weekend leading to ultimately being named an honorable-mention all-American.   She was surprised to receive such honors but I was not.  Standing on her back and in her heart, more proud than ever before, I was there.


Last week it became official.  Official that we would never step on the court together again in an organized, competitive setting.  Letting go of volleyball was one of the hardest decisions she's made, but it was a good one.  Volleyball has taught her so much.  So much about competing, learning, fighting, enduring, working together and life.  She has had many great experiences paired with many bad ones and each taught her something that has made her who she is today.  Although she never imagined life without volleyball she looks forward to new experiences and sharing her volleyball experience with other young girls and boys who love the game like she does.  After thinking, struggling, and praying she has finally decided that it's okay to hang up the knee pads.  And even though I will miss our time together greatly I will always be there in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart as her longest, favorite teammate and favorite number.  Number Eleven.

Learning to Reject the Novocaine

He injected the needle into the lower, right side of my gums.  Instantly I could feel the intended effect already beginning to take place.  But I fought it.  I fought it so hard.  To me there is nothing worse than being numb.  Even if not being numb means feeling pain.  I'll take pain over numbness any day.  When he pulled the needle out I could feel the right side of my face start to tingle.  A tingle so terrifying to me because it was slowly taking away my ability to feel and ultimately my ability to control a part of myself.  Slowly, but still too fast.  The moment of complete numbness came swiftly and whisked away the control I once had over the right side of my face.

Novocaine.  What a terrible substance.  Many like it during dentist visits because it blocks one's ability to feel pain, thus making the experience a less miserable one.  However, that is exactly why I hate it.  Taking away my ability to feel pain takes away a portion of my control.  Feeling that pain helps keep me humble and aware of what is going in my own mouth.  It helps me understand and judge what I am capable of.  It forces me to stay mentally strong and learn to deal with pain in instances that I cannot inject myself with novocaine. 

As I sat in the dentist chair yesterday, beyond irritated that half of my face was numb, I had nothing else to do but think.  I couldn't help but let my mind wander to the fresh and prevalent disaster that occured in Boston.  I reflected on the tragedy and people's reactions to it and as I did so I couldn't help but notice a connection between my feelings toward the Boston Marathon bombing and my hatred toward novocaine. 

While under the influence of novocaine, one can only feel in the injected area under the most immense pressure.  All other levels of pressure go undetected and ignored.  As a society I feel as if we are all sitting in one big dentist's chair allowing our systems to be penetrated with novocaine. People are suffering to some degree all around us every day.  Right in front of us.  But we don't see it.  We just ignore it.  We have been force fed novocaine through the media, poloticians and many other facets of society for so long that the majority of us are desensitized.  Our gift and ability to feel has slowly been warn down so that all that's left, if anything, is a slight tingly feeling.  Pathetic.  Only under the most immense pressures of the world, such as a national disaster, are we able to feel anything again.  Only when a bomb goes off at a national event that effects hundreds, do we seem to remember that we are capable of feeling.  And even then it never seems to last long.  A few days later and everyone is back to what has become normal.  Slightly tingly. 

Why is it that we are all so quick to take the novocaine of society?  Why do we accept the desensitization that is happening to every one of us every minute of every day?  We have been given the ability to feel, physically and emotionally, but we spend a good portion of our time and energy trying to dull those abilities.  Why?  We want to avoid pain, so we dull it.  We ignore it.  And we continue to do so for every little injury that we might sustain until we are struck by something so large we can no longer ignore it.    Pain reminds us that we are in control.  It helps us learn and grow and endure.  It helps us become stronger.  While ignoring it only makes us weaker. 

My thoughts and prayers go out to those who are suffering as a result of the Boston bombing.  But my thoughts and prayers also go out to every single one of us every single day in hopes that someday we will learn to say no to novocaine.  In hopes that we can learn to deal with pain instead of avoid it or ignore it.  In hopes that we can learn from pain instead of be surprised when it gets out of control.  And if we can learn than maybe, just maybe, we can slowly eliminate the amount of disasters that occur in our world.  If we can deal with pain, if we can learn from it and grow from it then we will be making ourselves physically and mentally stronger, making society physically and mentally stronger and better equipping ourselves to deal with such disasters as the tragedy that occurred in Boston just two days ago.

Three Hours

The world tells me that I am wrong and that three hours is much too long.  

But when they talk I get quite sad, because three hours just isn't that bad.  

He hung up there and died for me, on that great cross on calvary.

He died for me to wash my sins, and that every battle I might win.  

By my side each day He stands, as I explore all His lands.

Every day I feel His blessing, as He calms my constant stressing.

When I am hurt and feeling low, he heals my wounds with a radiant glow.

He hears my cries and wipes my tears when I succumb to many fears. 

Every path I walk, He walks with and I know His love is no myth.

He died for me that I might live, a better gift He could not give.  

So they can tell me that I'm wrong and that three hours is much too long.

I go for Him and I am glad, because three hours just isn't that bad.  

Tale of the Dock

Summer is my favorite time of year because, well, summer is my time.  My time to offer my services and my time to shine.  Summer is when people love me again.  Winters are cold and long but most of all they are lonely.  People don't want me in the winter because the water beneath me is frozen.  In the winter, I am useless.  Nothing but a few pieces of wood nailed together, freezing alone in the cold, waiting for summer to return.  But in the summer I am a valley favorite.  I am no longer just a few pieces of useless wood.  I am a masterpiece; I am a launch pad.   A launch pad that springs the regular visitors into some of the warmest water in the valley.  I am a launch pad where memories are made.  It is my back that the kids, and an occasional adult, stand on when they need an afternoon break.  They use me for their creative experiments; some successful, others failures in the form of back flops.  But all great memories.   There are many groups that come throughout the summers; some young, some younger.  But all fun-loving and free-spirited.

The most frequent visits come in the dead heat of the summer afternoons.  But there are a few who like to visit me at night.  Often these late night visitors come in pairs and it is during these visits that they share some of their deepest thoughts, desires and fears with me.  I could write a book about the hearts of the teenagers that have come through this valley. But they confide in me and trust me so I keep their secrets engraved in the slivers of my spine.  They sit on my back pondering life and building friendships, and I am happy to be the sounding board and foundation for so many of their philosophies, plans, ideas, and relationships.

I have been here for years watching my regular visitors grow older and welcoming new visitors.  Some have moved on to live the dreams they've discussed on my shoulders and others will inevitably follow suit.  But I will always be here, waiting for old friends to come back to tell me how they've missed me during their cold winter months and waiting for new friends to come and discover the relief I can offer from the blazing sun and the intense pressures of the world.  Here I stay waiting for every summer to offer the best of my services.  I wait here for my time to shine and be the best version of myself; to be the best dock I can be.

The Best Kind of Sunshine

The worst kind of storm is the one that follows a beautiful, sunny day.  Had it been rainy and cloudy already then the dreariness would be routine; normal even.  But because only just yesterday you could feel the warmth of the sun soak into your skin and the light-hearted feeling of the baby blue sky soak into your soul, the storm feels more intense than it would have, had it come another day.  The rain feels wetter than usual and seems to saturate your clothes, skin and hair, seeping its way into your very core, drowning your soul that was so care-free yesterday.  The darkness of the clouds seem to shield more than just the sun.  They appear to dim the light to your soul and block any glimmer of hope and joy.  Though miles away, the crashes of the thunder feel as if they are in your own mind, shaking the contents of your skull.  The lightning bolts appear so high in voltage it is as if they strike your heart, electrocuting you; paralyzing you.  They say that lightning never strikes the same place twice but when these storms hit it is as if they are old addicts coming back for you, the drug they can't help but desperately abuse.  

Weathering these storms that seem to take everything away from you is the hardest thing we've been asked to do in this life.  Through the rain, the clouds, the thunder and the lightning we must try to remember that we were never promised that it wouldn't be hard, only that it would be worth it.

Just as any drug supply eventually runs out, every storm eventually begins to fade.  The rains begin to fall lighter allowing your soul to catch a breath.  The clouds begin to break, making way for a glimmer of light.  The thunder is slowly dulled providing an avenue for you to hear again; to think again.  The voltage of the lightning is weakened making you aware and in control of your limbs again; of your heart again.  It is only after enduring these storms that we can experience the best kind of sunshine.  

Swingsets

I remember as kids playing on the swing set.  Aiming high with your feet toward the sky.  You on one swing and your best friend on the other.  Every time you and your friend would begin in opposite motions.  One going forward while the other's going backward.  But slowly, as you each manipulated your motions and speed you would gravitate towards the same rhythm and motion.  After some effort the two of you would be swinging perfectly in sync.  Your perfectly synchronized rhythms formed a connection and it was in that moment as a kid that time seemed to stop.  Nothing else mattered in that moment on that playground except you and your friend.  It seemed that the two of you could carry on like this forever, perfectly in sync.  But inevitably, the perfection always came to an end.  Either one or the other would get caught by a breeze, or brush their foot on the ground and their rhythm would be altered.  Soon it was back to opposites and only with a great deal of effort could you two get back in sync again.

You are my best friend in so many ways and although we are grown, I feel as if we are still kids playing on a swing set.  We are opposites in more ways than one and our motions seem to always be in opposing directions.  When I was moving forward you were pulling backward.  When you began to move forward, I was at a standstill.  I feel as if I can move forward with you now but I can see your motion starting to change again.  I feel as if we are missing that perfect moment of synchronization by only seconds. If we just get into rhythm we can figure this out one way or another.  Because in that moment, in this world, nothing else will matter, except you and me.   I wonder if we will ever get there and it scares me to think not.  I can feel a breeze holding me back and I can see your foot lightly brushing the ground.  The wind and the earth can be fought but I can't do it alone.  Only by combined efforts will we ever find our rhythm.  I'm putting forth mine and I'm waiting for yours, praying it comes.  Praying because no kid wants to swing alone. 

The House on Fifth Street

I drove by your old house tonight.  The one that is home to more memories than we can possibly comprehend.  As I stared at the house my brown eyes absorbed the scene and filtered the images to my heart.  My heart opened up and swelled with the memories that we have in this house.  Not two, not three, not even a hundred... but thousands of memories.   I glanced at the front door and with a smile on my face I recalled all the times that the two of you would race to it when you knew I was coming.  As I would wait by the door for my two best friends to answer, a common thought that would wait with me was, "I wonder if they'll have clothes on this time..."  Nine out of ten times that the door would open, you would both be there welcoming me with nothing but your underwear, a bow in your hair and a huge hug.  And then we were off.  Off to a world of our own where we would play for hours.  It was in this world of our own, inside this home, that the foundation for our friendship was built.  The narrow, steep staircase that led to the basement also led to our own chamber of secrets.  It was here that we felt safe and secluded enough to share the deepest desires, philosophies and secrets of our toddler hearts.  The bedroom on the main floor served as your fortress.  A fortress that you both welcomed me into on multiple occasions for some of the best sleepovers of my childhood.   It was in this fortress that we had our first late-night conversations and nail-painting parties.  Even the bathroom holds a certain sentiment in my heart as I recall the innocence of us three best friends bathing together after a long day playing out in the yard.  Ah yes, and the yard.  The yard adds a key element to the beauty of this house and to the beauty of my memories of it.  Tonight I saw that big tree and I could see that old teeter-totter sitting underneath it.  It seemed so real in fact that I could practically feel the teetering motions as I reflected on the hours we spent on that thing.  "Teeter-totter, bread and water..."  My eyes then wandered to the stream that runs beside that big, beautiful tree and flows through to the back yard.  For years the three of us have been known as water-lovers and much of our friendship has been spent jumping into ponds and streams, racing down water slides and late-night lake swims... but here, in this stream is where it all began.  I could almost see the three of us splashing around in the tiny stream that seemed like a raging river at the time.  We would race to catch water bugs, have splashing competitions and ultimately just enjoy the cool, clear water in the hot, summer sun.

Eleven years have passed since you left that house but it still seems like yesterday that we were conquering the world from fifth street.  The three of us have grown older since then (wiser too, might I add) and so has the house.  With time and experience the house has grown more beautiful.  We are not there anymore but the house still serves as the headwaters for memories of other children and families that have occupied it.  We too have grown more beautiful with time and experience in mind, spirit and body.  It has been over twenty years since our friendship began and since then we have had adventures together and on our own.  Each of us has set out to conquer the world in our own way using some of the philosophies we discussed with the brilliance of our four-year-old minds in that chamber not so long ago.  We have had our own educational experiences as well as traveling experiences.  But through it all, that foundation we built in the house on fifth street remains unshakable.  Even now, when one of you is serving a mission for our beloved Heavenly Father in the deep south, the other about to graduate college as a talented photographer, and me ready to set out on yet another international adventure... the foundation of our friendship remains ever standing firm.  Just like the house on fifth street, our friendship has been there for years providing comfort, love, fun, and memories and will remain in my heart for eternity.

The Perfect Heart

Today I found myself doodling on a piece of paper... again.  I find myself doing this often.  Anytime there is an extra piece of paper and a pen lying around, I'm bound to use it.  I'm famous for drawing flowers, stars and the occasional squiggly thingy but every once in a while I branch out to try new things.  Sometimes I stray from my norms to draw a heart.  Well, I try anyway.  Tonight was a heart-doodling-attempting kind of night.  As I was drawing these hearts, only half way successfully, I was getting a little annoyed with myself.  I could feel the stares of my parents' eyes as they watched me silently struggle.  I looked up at them and exclaimed, "I'm on a quest to draw the perfect heart!  I can only ever seem to get half of it looking decent!"  They laughed a little, shrugged their shoulders and continued on in their conversation that I wasn't listening to.  I then started to think about the perfect heart.  What is it exactly that constitutes the perfect heart?  Is it that it is perfectly symmetrical?  Is it the size?  Is it the shape?  The color?  Who is it that defines 'perfect' anyway and why am I so obsessed with it?

Pondering these questions I realized that the same could be asked about our hearts.  Our real hearts.  I, like many others, am in the dating phase of life.  The phase where my main focus is to date, find the one I'm supposed to marry and start a family.  On our individual quests for a mate, I think we often get caught up with finding the one with a perfect heart.  But again, I ask, what is it that constitutes the perfect heart?  Is it one that is always happy and never sad?  Is it one that is never angry or conflicted?  Or is it one that will always beat to the same time and tune as mine?  If any of us are so inclined to think that the answer to any of these should be yes, then I am inclined to think that the perfect heart does not exist.  Imperfection is in our very nature and we all struggle with various imperfections on a daily basis.  A search for the perfect heart would be a hypocritical one.

 I must recognize my own imperfections (like my inability to draw a perfect heart)  while searching for a heart that will be a companion to mine. We must all recognize our own and as we do so we will be more willing to accept those of others'.  Tonight I realized that a flawless, perfect heart is not what I should look for but one that tries his best.  One that seeks after the right things and works hard despite all the imperfections.  And most of all, one who can accept both of my imperfect hearts; the one inside of me and the one on my doodling paper.

Princess

She stands on the stage and stares back at the faces who nominated her, the ones of her classmates, the ones who put her here.  She looks at the crowded blur of people and wonders why she is standing in front of them.  This is not her scene and they know it.  The crowd looks back at her in the long, stunning dress and are overtaken by her beauty.  Her silver necklace provides a beautiful accent to her dazzling red hair but to her it is suffocating.  Suffocating because she doesn't like jewelry and she doesn't like dresses.  It is far too superfluous for her taste and is quite a stray from her usual style of t-shirts and jeans.  The biggest thing bringing her comfort in this moment of confusion is her trusty pair of Nikes.  They go everywhere with her and tonight is no exception.  Perhaps she should be wearing something a little more glamorous but she's already sacrificed a great deal of comfort for the dress and necklace, so the shoes stay.  For the most part they stay neatly tucked under her long dress but occasionally they peak out to remind people that although she is out of her comfort zone tonight, she is still the girl they love.  In a moment they will announce the winner.  The winner of the crown and the winner of the title, "princess."  She waits with the crowd and her fellow nominees and then she hears it.  Her name.  They have called her name and she has won.  The crown is hers; the title is hers.  She is their princess.  She steps forward to accept her crown and give a smile to those that voted for her.  As she does so she wonders still how she came to be here.  Even with her beautiful brown eyes and her sparkling red hair she has never considered herself a beauty queen.  She doesn't waste time with makeup and hairspray and she certainly doesn't enjoy all the glamour and glitz that inevitably accompany nights like this.  But the crowd doesn't wonder.  They know exactly why she is here.  They put her here.  To this crowd a princess is so much more than just outer beauty.  Their princess is one who has beauty eminating from within her.  Their's is a princess of class, of integrity, of humility.  One who is a great leader and who genuinely cares for others.  One who isn't afraid to be herself.  Their princess... is her.

Kindred Spirit

I remember the day and so does he.
It was the day we met that set us free.
The mem'ry written on our hearts in ink.
No more searching for that one special link.

We were fifteen and became such great friends.
He knew and I knew it'd last 'til the end.
Eight years have passed and he remains the one,
Who reads my mind, and will never be done.

He holds a key to a place in my heart.
Turning it oft even when we're apart.
Our mutual brown eyes create a pathway,
To our own world, where our friendship stays.

He talks to me, when no one is around.
Another like him will never be found.
He doesn't speak loud, others can't hear it,
But I feel love from my kindred spirit.

The Puzzle I Call Life

Ever since I was a little girl I have always loved doing puzzles.  I love examining each piece with its unique shape and design.  I love the sense of satisfaction I feel when I find a piece that fits perfectly with another to compliment the beauty of each other's detail.  I always start with the edge pieces to lay the framework for what will soon be a work of art.  Then I work inwardly, focusing on the most intricate and difficult sections first.  When those are finished I can focus on the less difficult but equally beautiful sections of the masterpiece.  Occasionally, throughout the course of work, I come across a particularly stubborn piece.  One that does not seem to fit anywhere.  But it has to, I know it has to so I persevere.  I compare it to the picture of what it is supposed to look like and sometimes it helps right away and sometimes it doesn't seem to.  Sometimes I will take a break to find the easier pieces but I always come back to the stubborn ones because they must have a place.   Ignoring them would make for an incomplete work, which is not an option.  Eventually, when I inevitably find where they belong I realize that the piece was not stubborn but rather I was.  I couldn't see what is so clear now, because I was either focusing on the wrong thing or not focusing at all.  But regardless, that picture remains at my side just in case I need its help.

Currently I am working on a 3000-piece puzzle and it is by far the most difficult one I've attempted yet. Every time I sit down to work on it I can't help but to think about how these puzzles of mine seem to parallel my life.  Just like the puzzle I, as we all have, started at the beginning to lay the framework.  My edge pieces are made from the lessons I learned as a child both from experiences and from parents and mentors.  As I grew older I began to work inwardly on some of the more intricate details of my heart and mind.  I piece my thoughts and experiences together to form my beautiful feelings and beliefs.  With more experience and time my puzzle grows and already I can see the potential masterpiece it can one day be.  I have come across many pieces that don't seem to fit and questions that don't seem to have an answer.  But I know that they must because my guide would not have brought them to me if they didn't.  I turn to my guide often  for help and sometimes I hear His answers right away and other times I do not.  I often turn to the smaller issues of life as a break from the larger ones but I always find my way back to the pieces that don't seem to fit.  My guide, my example, always helps me fit the pieces together in the end and I always realize that it was my own inability or lack of willingness to see that ever held me back in the first place.

As I continue to work on my masterpiece I will always keep my guide at my side.  He has never failed me before and I know that He will always be there to help me piece together this puzzle I call my life.

Spring

Fires in the Bitterroot usually mean one thing... miserable summers.  Our smoke-filled summers make for some unpleasant memories of evacuations and an increase of hospitalizations due to smoke inhalation.  But perhaps the most devastating part of the Bitterroot fires is missing out on the beauty that God has surrounded us with.  As Bitterrooters I think we often forget that fire doesn't always bring misery and destruction.  It is April now and as I look around the valley I see tiny plumes of smoke and my senses are filled with the faint smell of burning fields.  These smoke plumes and smells comfort me and remind me that spring is coming.  It is just around the corner.  Soon the falls of Como and Skalkaho will be roaring once again, filling our precious river, streams, and lake to capacity.  The trees will be full and green again, mirroring the envy of those who do not have the privilege of living here. 
This time the fires do not signal danger or destruction, they signal the beginning of a glorius spring in our beautful corner of the world.

Cracking the wall

The touch of your warm hand sends through my body a pulse.  A pulse that travels through every nerve until it finds its way to my heart, where it is abruptly halted.  Halted by a thick glass wall that surrounds my heart.  My heart beats steadily inside, protected from outside forces.  Forces that they call love.  Love, as if I even know what it is supposed to mean.  It means to me heartbreak and disappointment.  Disappointment because no man has ever been able to break the wall.  The wall only grows thicker with every attempt.  Every attempt is different.  Different because some use bricks, some use hammers, some use daggers and some do not even try.  Try something less fierce.  Fierce will only anger the wall.  The wall that is so terrifying already.  Already many have failed and I have lost hope.  Hope that true love will crack the wall open before it becomes impossible.  Impossible is just around the corner, approaching swiftly.  Swiftly coming to seal the wall forever.  Forever is a long time to be alone.  Alone, trapped in a glass wall, looking out and longing for the happiness I see around.  Around the wall your pulse waits.  Waits for me to let you in.  In the wall is where I want you, but I need your help.  Help me let you inside.  Inside the wall I fight but my heart fights back.  Back in time it reminds me of a time from before.  Before now, when you thickened the wall.  The wall waits for you to prove yourself worthy.  Worthy of another attempt, while on the inside I scream.  I scream to you that you are worthy but the wall is sound proof.  Proof is all my heart needs to crack the wall.  Cracking the wall will not come by force, but by your gentle touch.  Your gentle touch is all I need.  All I need to tell my heart that it is okay.  Okay for you to come inside the walls.  The walls that only you can crack.  A crack that can only be formed by the pulsating brought by the touch of your warm hand.  

 

A tale as old as time.

He is my best friend.  The one I depend on more than almost anyone.   He's my comedian when I need to laugh.  His shoulder is my handkerchief when I need to cry.  He is my sounding board when I need someone to listen.  He is my voice of reason when my emotions take over.  He is my best friend.  But only my friend.  Everybody tells me he loves me.  Of course he loves me.  He's my best friend.  They say he loves me in a different way.  What do they mean?    He is my best friend.  Like a brother.  Why is that so hard for people to understand?  They say he looks at me differently.   But I don't see it.  They are crazy.  They don't understand our relationship.  Our friendship.  But the insinuations have infiltrated my mind.  As we spend every day together I begin to doubt.  We play together.  We laugh together.  We eat together.  We stress together.  Does he love me?  Am I the crazy one?  No.  I am not crazy.  I can't be.  I ignore the insinuations because he is just my best friend.  

A year has passed and I do not live close to him anymore.  I miss my best friend.  I miss laughing with him.  I miss stressing with him.  I miss staying up all night talking about nothing with him.  Do I love him?  Of course I do.  I love him as my best friend.  But do I love him more?  No.  I can't.  Everybody says I do, but what do they know anyway?  They are not me.  They don't understand.  They are crazy.  It gets harder to ignore them.  But I persist.   He is just my best friend.

I saw him for the first time in months.  He is the same.  He is still my best friend.  He makes me laugh.  He listens to me.  He talks to me.  He is still my best friend.  The insinuations return.   He loves you, they say.  No, I think, he cannot.  But maybe?  I see the look in his eye.  The one they told me about.  I ignore the look.   He just missed me that's all.  Just like I missed him.  He holds my hand.  Friends don't hold hands.  Not like this.  I try to ignore but I can't anymore.  My wall of ignorance begins to melt at the touch of his warm hand.  He is just my best friend.  Right?  I don't know anymore.  I ask him.  I wait for him to tell me that I am just his friend.  Like his sister.  But the answer I wait for doesn't come.  Everybody was right.  I was wrong.  They were not crazy.  I was.  He is more than just my best friend.