I Love Cows

I really do.

I'm not talking about the Chick-fil-A cows either.  (Although, I really do love their chicken salad sandwiches, and I'm a picky eater.)  I love bovines, American domestic beef cattle to be precise.  From the big, burly bulls, to the tiny newborn baby calves.  I love them all.  Even the mean ones.  Actually, I especially love the mean ones because they are the ones that can teach you the most.

I am an Ag teacher.  We are a rare breed of teaching professional.  Ag teachers get to wear boots and jeans to work rather than uncomfortable shoes and dress pants like all the "more serious" teachers.  Ag teachers LOVE to get dirty, and I'm not talking about "Oh, shoot, there's dirt on my pants" type of dirty.  No, I'm talking about the "there is something on me that's slimy, gross, and I'm not really sure where it some from" kind of dirty.  Ag teachers get to teach inside as well as outside.  (Yes, I have a farmer's tan.) 

The fact that I'm an Ag teacher blows my mind when I think about it.  It's surreal when I realize that I get paid to play with animals and kids.  (Yeah, I teach them stuff along the way, but the kids don't realize they're learning.)  What does my job have to do with my love of cows?  Simple.  I teach my kids by training them to train cows.  

Yeah, let that statement sink in a little bit...

My students are mostly foster kids.  Each one has a different story, but they are all wonderful kids who need a second chance.  They need love.  Plain and simple.  They also need something to love.  That's where cows come into the equation.  

  Cows are dumb.  Cows are big.  Cows are forgiving. 

Cows require patience in order to train them.  Patience is something that most of us are lacking in.  People love to talk about patience.  They love to point out when others are lacking in patience.  Sometimes people wish they were more patient, but that's usually when they are so used to getting what they want immediately all the time and actually have to wait for once in their lives. Then there's always the saying, "Patience is a virtue," that always makes me cringe.  (Why IS patience a virtue!?  Why can't "Hurry the heck up!" be a virtue!?  People would be so much more virtuous if that was the case!)  

Anyway, since cattle are dumb, they require patience to train.  The simplest little thing must be done fifty thousand times in the gentlest of ways in order to teach them.  If you're not gentle, they run away.  If you're not willing to teach them fifty thousand times, they will never get it.  I have to train my students with the same gentle repetitiveness in order for them to train the animals.  I have figured cattle out.  They're easy.  People? Not so much.  I'm not too proud to say that I learn just as much as my students do when we are down at the barn working with the cows.

The fact that most cattle are massively large means that a person has to have certain gifts in order to train them.  One, you have to be physically strong.  You have to be able to pull this animal that can get up to 1400 pounds using nothing but a rope and its cooperation. They run you into things like posts and fences.  Your arms and shoulders get tired from pulling on the stupid rope when the animal refuses to move.  Every now and then, the massive animal will step on your foot, and you have to push it off using your puny 150 pounds of pain and adrenaline infused body.  It's work.  It's sweaty, physical work.  I've had rugby practices that were easier than when I was training a steer to lead.   

You also have to have an unusually large amount of trust when working with large animals.  Trust is a foreign thing to most of my students.  Think about it, these kids have been abused/neglected by those who were supposed to love and cherish them.  They learned at a very you age the only person you can trust is yourself, and everyone else is out to get you. That's a very hard thing to break down once it is learned, but you HAVE to trust when working with these animals.  The students have to trust the animal that it's not going to intentionally harm them, even though that might not always be true.  They have to trust themselves in what they are doing, but beyond all of that they have to trust me.  Most of them have never even seen a live cow, must less touched one.  Now, they have to train these beasts, and they have to trust me and my knowledge to get it done.  Every time I think about it, it's humbling.  One of my boys who has worked cattle with me for three years said to a rookie who was complaining, "Hey, she's gonna be tough on you, but she knows what she's talking about.  Just listen to her.  Do what she says.  Oh yeah, and if things go bad, she'll save your life."  Humbling.

My favorite part about cows is how forgiving they are.  I'm not sure if it's because they are just not conscious of your mistakes, or if they have a short term memory, but they seem to masters of forgiveness.  Even if you get finished pulling them around by a rope, poked them in the side with a stick, or put them in a squeeze chute to do Lord knows what to them, they forget it.  A little bit of food, a gentle word, and pet on the head is all it takes for them to be your friend again.  I kinda wish humans would forgive as easily, but then I remember how often those who have committed the offense are willing to give a gentle word and a comforting touch to those they have offended.  It's pretty rare.  

So, that's why I love cows.  They have taught me so much, and it's amazing to see them teach my students the same things that I needed to learn when I was young.   

   

The Day My World Changed

My boyfriend just texted me asking, "Where were you when The Towers fell?"

I just sat at my table in the little cafe where I was working on my computer.

Silent.  

Remembering.

Feeling the ache in my heart.

Wishing that day had never happened.

Knowing that day changed me, the world, and everyone in it.

It was my senior year high school.  I had endured all of the ridicule and exclusion of being an outsider in that tiny East Texas town, and I finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I was going to graduate.  I was going to college.  I was going to be an engineer.

 I was going to make a ton of money and never come back.

That was my plan.  That was my world.  That was all I focused on.

Even though I was from the city, I excelled at working with animals and just working hard in general.  It was second nature.  I'm not sure why.  Perhaps, my country roots ran deeper than I chose to believe at the time.  Every elective class I had my senior year I filled with some sort of vocational ag class.  I even took welding.  (Yes, I was the only girl in the class.  And, yes, I felt like I had something to prove to this bunch of boys and my fairly chauvenistic ag teacher.)

That morning, that sweaty September morning, I was in the ag shop in coveralls that were too large for me, wearing a welding helmet that hurt my head, and perspiring more than I had ever perspired in my life.  I was welding a deer stand.  Unlike the rest of the class that had teamed-up, I was working by myself.  I don't remember if I had made that decision, or if it just worked-out that way, but I was all alone.  I had just finished building the ladder and was checking it to make sure everything was square when the ag teacher came out of his office.  The class was all juniors and seniors.  There was no need for him to hover over us.  We knew what we were doing, so he rarely came out of his office.  He asked us to all gather around, so we stopped what we were doing and went.  He said, "Something's going on guys.  I don't know what it is, but it's in New York, and it's a big deal.  Wrap everything up."

That was it.

That was all we were told.

So, I followed his instructions.  I put all of my stuff away, took the oversized dirty coveralls off, and waited to go to my next class.  Finally, the bell rang.  As I walked across campus to get to my senior English class, I asked a friend if he knew anything about what was going on.  He said, "Yeah, there was an accident in New York.  A plane flew into The World Trade Center.  You know, those two huge buildings you always
see?"

Yeah, I knew them.  Three short months earlier I had been on an amazing trip with some friends to New York City.  We stayed at Times Square, saw four Broadway shows, went to Ellis Island, climbed the spiral staircase to the crown of the Statue of Liberty, and stood on the veiwing deck of one of the Twin Towers.  I bought a I <3 NY t-shirt.  It was a trip of a lifetime.  I took tons of pictures, and a lot of those pictures had The Towers in them.  I felt like I could see the world from that viewing deck.  Nothing but city and sea.  It was awe inspiring.

My English teacher was old school.  She believed in challenging her seniors, and if you didn't pass her class you didn't graduate.  I loved her class.  I loved being challenged, and English was my best subject.  My teacher also had a dry, witty sense of humor that wasn't appreciated by most, but I understood it and loved it.  There was only one computer in her classroom.  As my friend and I walked into her classroom, we saw all of my classmates surrounding that computer as the image of the smoking Towers emerged slowly on the screen.  (That was back in the days of dial-up.  It took such a painfully long time for the image to download.)  The image shocked me, but I didn't really feel a sense of doom or dispair.  I still thought it was an accident, and that's what I thought for the rest of the school day.

Then I drove home.

I turned-off my truck and walked inside to find Mom sitting in the living room directly in front of the TV crying.  My mom doesn't cry.  She's like me.  There's only one set of circumstances that makes us cry: when we are pissed and can't do anything about what has pissed us off.  She looked at me with red eyes and said, "They're jumping.  They have lost all hope, and they're jumping."  Right as she said that, my eyes fixed to the TV screen and watched some small object fly out of the window of the tower that was still standing.  A few minutes later, that tower fell too.  There was nothing but a huge pile of steel and rubble with human beings, innocent Americans, dying in that heap.

Something in me broke.

A sense of vengence welled-up within me.  I had learned from the newscast that some group from Afghanistan claimed to be responsible.  I was about to turn 18.  I decided to fight.  I was going to join the Army and fight.  My plans went out the window that moment.  I stopped caring about money or being a success.  I just wanted to fight.  I wanted to fight for those who weren't able to fight for themselves. I wanted to wear a uniform with an American flag on it, carry an M-16, and fight.

A few years later, I did.

I went to Afghanistan.

And I fought.

And I came back.

And the world had changed.

Many people have forgotten what happened that day, but I will never be one of those people.

I will never forget.

Eleven years later, I still remember 9/11.



The Things I Hate

OK, so I've been accused to being "too deep."  I cannot deny this accusation.  Heck, I was voted "Deepest Thinker" in high school my senior year!  Please, do not think I am saying this to make myself sound smart.  I'm not.  In fact, most of my friends and family are much more intelligent than I am.  I guess I just get lost in certain thoughts, especially when it comes to thoughts of God or life in general.  These thought processes seem to come out even more when I am writing, so to remedy this issue I have written a short list of things that I severely dislike or hate.

1. Onions

I don't really know when my aversion to onions started.  It's just always been that way.  Raw onions just have too strong of a flavor for me to enjoy.  They're gross. I can't stand them. Their taste lingers in your mouth, and their smell is overwhelming.  I don't care if they are sweet onions, red onions, yellow onions.  I don't like them. Cooked onions are slimy. The texture of cooked onions sends chills down my spine just thinking about it.  They don't even look appealing to me.  They look like translucent earthworms, or burned earthworms when you "caramelize" them.  

I will stop eating whatever I just took a bite of if I detect an onion in it.  I will try to pick the onions out (which I am a master at doing) or power through and eat the dish.  More often than not, if I can't pick the onions out, I will just go hungry.  This happened many times when I was growing-up.  My mom is an amazing cook.  Her food is full of flavor.  She LOVES cooking with onion.  There are very few dishes I remember that she would not put the onions in just for me.  (My Momma's enchiladas are A-MAZ-ING!  She would always point out which ones were onion-free in the pan before she put them in the oven to cook.  I would hang-out in the kitchen when I knew she was making enchiladas just so I could get this vital piece of information that would affect my dining experience.  If I wasn't there when she was rolling the enchiladas, then it was a guessing game that I typically lost.)

Here's the thing, now that I am in charge of feeding myself, I cook with onions.  Many times I tried to recreate my mother's dishes without adding onion, and they just didn't taste the same.  Finally, I caved and learned to mince the onion so small to where I was unable to detect the onions in any way shape or form other than the flavor they gave to the dish once they were cooked.  Now, I will actually cook onions when making fajitas or something that people expect to have onions with, but I will never eat those onions myself.  This is my adult compromise with onions.  Still hate them, but I will not exclude them from my life completely.

2. Scorpions

Scorpions are evil and must die.  All of them.  No exceptions.  

I do not have a fear of scorpions, so don't expect me to freak-out, scream like a little girl, and run away when I see one.  I do however have a deep internal need to kill a scorpion every time I see one.  No joke, I saw one in my bedroom last summer and thought for a moment to grab my .380 pistol and shoot it.  (I didn't, in case you were wondering.  Reasoning set-in, and I didn't think a stupid little arachnid was worth shooting a hole in the floor of my house.)  I saw one outside while I was working in my front yard, and I smashed it with the hammer I had in my hand.  There was no thinking involved.  My instinct told me to smash it, so I did.  (Did you know that if you smash a scorpion with a hammer, it will be vaporized?  Seriously, there was just a greasy wet spot where a scorpion used to be.)

Again, I don't know when the aversion to these creatures began, but it's there.  They're just creepy!  Pincers.  Curly, stingy tail.  How they seem to crawl on their bellies like a snake.  The adults with hundreds of tiny scorpions chilling on their backs.  Yeah.  All of it.  Creepy.  I was stung by one that decided to take up residence in my rugby bag last spring.  I was trying to pack for a weekend-long tournament, reached my hand in, and POW! SEARING pain in my hand!  You can bet I checked that bag a bit more thoroughly every time I used it after that little incident.  

One day while I was reading my Bible, I was super excited to have my inborn desire to destroy these creatures supported by scripture.  Luke 10:19 says, "Look, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions and on the full force of the enemy, and nothing will hurt you."  This scripture puts scorpions and snakes in the same category as demons.  Makes sense to me. I will gladly step on a scorpion!    

3. Moving 

Unlike the other items on my list, I know when I came to realize that I hated moving.  August 22, 1997, my family and I packed-up our house in Phoenix, Arizona and moved to East Texas.  Now that I'm older, I realize this was the best decision for our family, but a young girl really doesn't care about that sort of thing when she's going through it.  Nope.  I didn't care that we would be saving money by not having to pay a mortgage.  I didn't care that I would probably do better in a small school.  I didn't care that I would have different opportunities being raised in the country rather than in the city.  I really didn't care.  I just wanted things to stay the same.  So, I learned that it didn't matter what I wanted, things were going to change, circle of life, gotta go where the Lord takes you, yadda-yadda-yadda.  (It took me six years after we moved for me to forgive my parents.  I was a freshman in college before it hit me that my life was truly blessed when my family moved to Texas.)

Fast forward fifteen years.  I have been given an amazing opportunity to be a part of a new ministry, but I have to move from the house I have been in for the past year in order to do my work effectively.  The place I live in now was a total wreck when I got there, but over the past year it has been transformed into a place that is very comfortable to live in.  Well, I was asked if I was willing to move last Wednesday, and I enthusiastically said, "Yes!"  I don't regret the decision.  It was the right one, and it makes total sense for me to move...BUT I HATE MOVING!  As I started to break down my bedroom suite the other night, I began to recall how many times I have had to move.  I have moved 13 times in the past 15 years, and 12 of those have been in the past 10 years.  When I did my calculations, I counted my entire Army experience as one move, so the actual number could be in the 20's.  I have rented a storage unit in the College Station area for the last seven years!  Seven years!  I should own that space by now!  (Side note: my roommate doesn't think this storage unit really exists.  It's like Aladdin's Cave or something.  She'll say, "Oh, we need such-and-such," and I'll say, "Oh, I have that in storage!" but I rarely go to my storage unit to get such-and-such.  So, she thinks I'm just making it all up.)

This severe dislike of packing my stuff up and moving really stems from the desire that I want a place to call home.  I know I am always welcome at my parents' home, but it's no longer where I truly belong.  (Sad by-product of growing-up, isn't it?)  No, I want a place that I can look at and say, "This is my home.  This is where I live life."  I hope this next move will stick longer than a year.  If it doesn't, I'm just going to sell everything I own and buy a travel trailer. If I am meant to be a vagabond, I will be one of the best, and I'll never have to pack my junk EVER AGAIN!  

So, that's the short list of things I hate.  I don't dwell on these things, but I do admit the fact there are things in this world that I do not love and enjoy.  More people should be willing to admit this.  Now, back to more deep thoughts.

Losing Control

"I have found that a number of sick people do not wish to get well at all. In fact, their whole identity is BOUND up in being sick, and they are literally afraid of the changes that would take place in their life if they were made whole."- Jack Deere

 This quote hit me at the very center of my being.  

I was a sick person, and my identity was false.

I know the type of fear the quote refers to: the fear of change. 

 It's the fear of losing control of your life.

BUT...

That's EXACTLY what we are SUPPOSED to do! 

In the Bible, Jesus says,  

 "Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life because of me will find it."

For pretty much my entire life, I have tried to control everything.  

Situations.  People.  Emotions.  Everything. 

It was so difficult and tiring planning and scheming and trying to come up with the best possible solution to all of life's problems. It was my nature.  Problem was that I was actually pretty good at it.  Ever since I could remember, I would think and plan, think and plan.  Most of the time my plans worked.  If they didn't, if I failed, I took my knocks, picked myself up, and figured-out a way to get the results I wanted the next time around.  My tactics would change, and I would usually get the result I desired.

Every single time I did this, I would gain a little more control of my life, but I became more and more unsatisfied as I went along.  Good enough was NEVER good enough!  I always looked for more.  Little did I know that every time I looked for more, I actually would lose a piece of myself.  I became more and more conformed to the image of this world. I was confident. I was successful.  I looked like I knew what I was doing.  Nothing and no one could stop me.  

The biggest problem of having control of everything, is that you wholeheartedly believe the lie that you have control of everything.  This is sick thinking, and it will lead you to become a sick person.  I say this from experience:  I became the sickest person I know.  

God was the only one who could heal me.  He's the only one who could make me whole.  He broke down every stronghold I created.  He shined light on every dark lie I believed.  He freed me from my old ways of thinking.  I began to lose control of my life.  Which may sound horrible, but in reality my life has never been more amazing or fruitful.  I didn't just lose control, I gave Him control of my life! When you truly surrender your life to God, He will do things that you cannot begin to even imagine!  I wish I could go into great detail about all of the things He has done recently that have taken my breath away in awe, but that list would be endless.  Just take my word for it...I'm serious...

 Lose all control, and give Him your life. 

You won't regret it.  I promise.

He will lead me to still waters...

One of the biggest changes in my life happened two summers ago.  I had spent a whole week serving on a team during a 220 Youth Leadership Conference.  My job during the conference was to pray.  That might sound easy enough, but it was definitely out of my comfort zone.  For those of you who don't know, prayer is work.  I was more physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted after that week than I ever had been before in my life.  (No, I'm not exaggerating.  I slept for about 14 hours straight when I made it back home after 220.)  Everything I did was behind the scenes and very personal.  This one week in the middle of the summer gave me the opportunity to face some big things in my life, one of which was my fear of the future. 

I was very concerned with what I was going to do after I graduate from Texas A&M.  Concerned might be putting it too lightly...I was horribly afraid of not finding an adequate job in today's economic recession.  Many of my recently graduated friends were unable to find work in their respective fields.  I feared that all of the time and money and blood and sweat and tears that were put into my education were going to be for nothing.  One of the few reasons I didn't volunteer to stay in Afghanistan (Yes, soldiers are given that option towards the end of their deployments.) was because I believed that I had a brighter future waiting for me back home in Aggieland.  I looked forward to being able to spend my time focused on studying (...and being a "normal" college student) when I got back versus working numerous "penny jobs" to pay for rent, food, and books.  In my bones, I felt like it was all going to be for nothing, and I was going to look like a fool.

Well, while I was at 220 I found a peace about the future I couldn't explain.  I knew that it had been resolved that God had it under control (I needed some reminding of that), and I needed to keep my heart and mind open to the wonders He had in store for me.  Two weeks after 220, a friend called me up and asked if I would give her a ride to church on Sunday.  I had to take a different route than I normally do to pick her up, and while I was driving down Highway 21 I saw a billboard for Still Creek Ranch.  I had never heard of this place before, and I am not one to typically pay attention to billboards as a go speeding past them while I drive a few miles over the speed limit, but this billboard stood out for some reason.  To be honest, I didn't think much of it.  My reaction was, "Huh, cool.  There's a ranch for kids out here somewhere." 

So, I went to church that evening and listened to my pastor tell a story about how he has learned over the years to listen to The Spirit when making decisions in life.  It was a good message, but my thought process was, "Man, I wish The Spirit would move like that for me.  To just know what you're supposed to do because The Spirit says so, that sounds great.  Life would be so much easier that way, I bet."  Well, when I got back home that night, the picture on the billboard would not get-out of my head.  Finally, I gave-in and did a Google search for the place.  As I read the information on their website, I started to fall in love.  I learned that the ranch had been founded to give foster children a safe and stable home environment.  The ranch had horses, show cattle, and other animals for the kids to work with.  I'm not very good with kids, but I know how to work with animals.  (My degree is in Animal Science.  I know animals from the inside-out, literally.)  I thought it would be a good idea to volunteer, so I found myself looking all over the website for the ranch's contact information. 

Early the next morning, I called.  (This is out of character for me because I absolutely HATE calling people and places I am not familiar with.)  A sweet woman by the name of Mandy answered.  Immediately something changed within me from simple curiosity to full-blown purpose.  When Mandy asked, "How can I help you?" I blurted out, "I think I am supposed to work for you!"  ...and then I kinda, sorta started to cry.  (I cry A LOT.  I hate it almost as much as calling people I don't know.)  Rather than hanging-up on this obviously crazy person, she invited me to come out to the ranch and talk to the director whenever I got the chance.  I waited a whole four hours before I got in my truck and started driving to Still Creek, and most of those hours were spent figuring-out what to wear.  (One more thing I typically don't do.  I usually care less about what I wear, but this time it mattered for some reason.  After hours of deliberation, I wore boots, jeans, a t-shirt, and kept all of my piercings in.  I wanted to go as myself, not some dress-up, polished version of myself.)

When I drove-up to what looked like the main office building, I realized I hadn't prepared myself at all for this.  I was walking in empty handed.  No resume, no credentials, no nothing.  All I had with me was this "God thing" that I knew I couldn't fully explain.  I was met with warm smiles as I walked through the front door.  "Hi, I am looking for Mandy.  We talked on the phone this morning."  One of the warm smiles belonging to a tiny woman erupted with, "Are you KD!?"  "Yes ma'am."  "We were just talking about you!  You came at the perfect time!  It has been hectic around here today, but I swear this place calmed down only ten minutes ago.  Hey, Mom!  This is the girl I talked to on the phone this morning who has been lead to come work for us."  The oldest lady in the room said, "Oh, well why don't we go to my office, and let's have a chat?" She motioned me towards a door.  I followed her and found a seat as she sat behind her desk and Mandy and another woman entered the room.  The thought, "Great. Three witnesses to my lunacy.  This is going to be awkward," floated through my head.  The lady behind the desk introduced herself as Margaret, the director of Still Creek Ranch.  "KD, I am glad you have come to us today.  Before we begin, I want to say a quick word of prayer.  Is that OK with you?"  "Yes ma'am." 

My insecurities melted away and were replaced with boldness and excitement as Margaret prayed.  When she was finished she simply asked me to tell everyone about myself.  I put it all out there.  All of it.  My experiences at A&M, in Afghanistan, and even my experiences at 220 spilled out.  At one point, Maragret brought everything to a screeching hault, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "KD, stop.  There's a small problem."  (Of course there's a problem.  I'm crazy.  Absolutely crazy.)  "The problem is not that you are supposed to work here, you are."  (Huh? What?  I don't get it...)  "I can feel the anointing.  No, the problem is that I don't know where I am going to put you!  Your experience and talents can be used all over this place!"  I just sat there.  Numb.  I had no clue what the appropriate response was supposed to be, so I just sat there in silence.  As if on cue, the quiet woman who I hadn't been introduced to jumped into the conversation and said, "Margaret, I need a teacher." 

My head spun.  I vowed, at a very young age, that I would never become a teacher.  My mother was a teacher, my grandmother was a teacher, numerous aunts and uncles on both sides of my family were teachers.  One thing I had always known was that I did not have what it takes to be a teacher.  I am not patient, I have always had trouble explaining how to do things, but the worst of all was that I feel strange being around young kids.  None of that adds-up to being a good teacher, but a quiet voice said, "Open your heart."  Before I knew it, I was being led out of Margaret's office by this woman who's name apparently was Danielle.  It also turns-out that Danielle was the principal at the small school at Still Creek.  As we walked through the building she told me that the school's purpose was to give the ranch kids the opportunity to excel in academics in a Christian environment.  The really neat part was how she introduced me to the kids and staff we encountered as we walked through the school building.  Instead of saying, "This is KD Page.  She MIGHT be working for us in the fall," she said, "This is KD Page, and she's GOING to work for us in the fall." 

The tour ended when we made it back to the office.  Danielle offered me a salary, room and board at the ranch once I graduated from A&M, and even medical benefits!  I was overwhelmed!  I told her I needed to take a little time and pray about everything.  I did just that, and three days later I was signing a contract to be a teacher at Still Creek Christian School.

That was two years ago.  I still look back and see how only God could make that happen.  I remember many nights staying awake wondering how He was going to use me (broken, messed-up, crazy me) to do His will.  After years of striving and working to do things on my own, He led me to a place of peace and purpose. 

He led me to Still Creek. 

Finding Yourself is a Lie

I'm not sure who coined the term "finding yourself," but I think that person didn't know what they were talking about.  It's commonly used to refer to a young person who is searching for their purpose in this world.  In America, it's usually someone who is college age and does not seem to be conforming to the established set of actions that leads to success in our culture.  (You know, get good grades in high school, go to college, graduate, get a good job, find love, get married...do all of that stuff, and you'll be happy.)  I tried it that way and here's where I found myself:

-I found myself changing majors after 3 semesters because I realized I didn't want to be an engineer.  (I am rather fond of natural light and social settings that don't include awkwardness and rescue inhalers.)

-I found myself hungry because I spent all my money on tuition and fees. (I had been working three jobs at the time, and still didn't have enough money for food.  Seriously, there was only mustard in the fridge and crackers in the pantry.  Those two things don't mix well, lemme tell ya.)

-I found myself in the Army recruiter's office signing my life away because they would pay for my college tuition.  (It made sense at the time...I was hungry.)

-I found myself engaged to a guy that said and did all the right things when I was around him, but conveniently forgot that we were promised to be married while I was away for Army training.  (I gave the ring back to his father.  Turns out the guy didn't even pay for my engagement ring on his own.  Yay for love...)

-I found myself in an up-armored Humvee with a .50 cal machine gun mounted to the top in Kabul, Afghanistan going to rescue men and women who had been in the blast radius of a suicide bomber.

-I found myself back in college unable to focus because of the images and sounds of battle that constantly haunted me. (I am fairly certain my Calculus II professor had mercy on me and gave me a C.)

-I found myself at rugby practice because I knew that was the only way I could take my anger out on other people without going to jail.  (Best part: they weren't afraid to hit back.)

 I found myself broken down and depressed because I believed the lie that if I worked hard enough and endured long enough that I could have the American dream.

I was lost.

 

What's really sad is that I experienced ALL of those things AFTER I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.  I knew that believers were called to a different purpose in this world.  I knew that believers in Christ were supposed to follow his teachings and not live according to the way the world lives.  I KNEW that, but I didn't DO that.  I thought that God would just go along with what I wanted to do and everything would be happy and grand.  It took seven years of trying to do everything on my own and failing before I started to wonder if this was really what God had planned for my life.  I started asking questions like, "Was He really cool with the way I was living?" and "God, do You have something else planned for me and my life?"

 

No, He was not a fan of the way I was living.  I was a two-faced Christian.  When I was around other people, especially around other Christians, I would say and do things a certain way.  I called it being the "Diet Coke KD Page."  I was still me, but without the "bad stuff."  Behind closed doors I let the "bad stuff" control me.  It took years of living that way before I grew tired of the double-life.  It also grew increasingly difficult to keep the two lives separate.  The "bad stuff" started to overflow into the good.  Finally, one night a good Christian friend asked, "What's wrong?"  I'm not sure what came over me, but I started confessing everything that was going on in my life right then and there.  I realized that I had been living in fear of judgement of other Christians and had never felt safe enough to be honest about what I was doing.  When the confessing was over, instead of treating me like the horrible person I was, she did what she could to help me out of the pit I had gotten myself into.  My life truly changed that night. 

That night I knew I had to start living for Christ.  When the transformation of self to Christ happens in a person's life, there is no turning back.  My view of the world started to change.  How I spoke to and treated others began to change.  More importantly, my thoughts and desires changed.  I found myself responding to the Creator of the Universe rather than running from Him. I didn't understand His impossible love for me, but I knew I wanted it more than anything the world had to offer.  Above all, I wanted to live for Him.

 

Finding yourself is a lie.  It's a waste of time too.  After all those years of searching, I did not find myself.  In fact, I was completely incapable of finding anything on my own, much less myself.  Instead, He found me.  He found me the way I was, broken and ashamed and covered with failure, and He loved me anyway.  The amazing part is that He loved me so much that He began changing me into the person I will become.  I know that person will be strong, joyful, and blessed beyond measure.  How can I be so sure of that?  He promised me, and I know He always keeps His promises. 

 

 

What's In a Name?

My parents are brilliant.  Plain and simple.  They are brilliant.  Mom is a master teacher.  Dad is a rocket scientist.  Now, I'm not sure if all parents do this when they are about to have a kid, but mine were very picky about the names that their children were going to have for the rest of their lives.  They wanted my brother and me to have strong, historic, unique, versatile names that (thank all that is good) were difficult to mock.

My brother was named Jason Talon.  

I was named Kathryn Delain. 

The first names are both classic names.  (Mine is actually my mother's middle name.)  Our middle names are fairly unique.  My brother, Talon, was named after a character in one of Louis L'Amour's books.  (Louis L'Amour is one of my Dad's favorite authors.)  My middle name was made-up because Dad was dead set on my middle name starting with a D, but it had to be unique.  Delaney was too cutesy, I guess, so the -y was dropped and spelled it Delain.  There you go.  Good, strong names.  One common.  One unique.  Both working together to adequately describe the people they belong to. 

Here's the cool part:  my brother and I can easily go by our initials.  J.T. and K.D.  That's why Dad wanted me to have a middle name that started with D.  Everyone knows that Kathryn (or Katherine or Catherine) is usually shortened to Katie (or Katy), but the plan was for me to go by my initials, KD.  And that's exactly what happened until I went to kindergarten. 

Now, obviously, my parents love me.  They were very active in my early mental development.  I can't remember one night when I was young that someone didn't read a story to me.  I remember counting things that I saw outside the windows while the family was in the car.  I learned my letters, numbers, shapes, colors, and the basics of reading before I even stepped foot in a classroom.  (It's one of the many benefits of having parents that are brilliant.)  I knew how to write my name because Dad and I went over it one afternoon at the big, yellow kitchen table.  I wrote my name over and over in different colors of crayon on a huge white piece of construction paper.  KD must have been written forty to fifty times on that piece of paper.  It was something that any kid would be proud of.

 However, my days of being KD were cut short by my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Emmons.  (Now, I was a good student.  I talked a little bit more than the other students, and I am almost positive that I was louder than most, but I know I was smart.  In fact, I would get in trouble at school because I would get done with my work quickly and bother the kids around me.)  The day came when we were supposed to learn how to write our names.  I was excited!  I already knew how to write my name!  My Daddy had taught me!  So, when I got the piece of paper with the practice lines on them I started writing KD over and over as neatly as my little hands could.  This was going to be a masterpiece!  I could already hear the praises from my teacher and my parents.  When Mrs. Emmons made it around to my desk, I proudly showed her the work that I had done.  Instead of the expected praise, I heard, "Oh, dear. Sweetheart, you don't have it quite right.  You spell your name K-A-T-I-E."  Now, as a kid, I took instruction fairly well.  Correction...not so much.  (Something that is still quite true over twenty years later.)  I quickly told her that, no, SHE was wrong.  My Daddy taught me how to spell my name and it was KD.  One thing led to another, and I ended-up crying in timeout.  I am fairly certain that was the day that I lost all faith in the public education system because I went by Katie or Katy all the way until I made it to college.

College was a time when I could finally be "myself."  I could finally be "KD," and that's exactly who I became.  I was independent, strong-willed, and too smart for my own good.  I had expertly learned how to cover all of my insecurities in one way or another during my life leading-up to college.  I had a rock hard shell and steely determination.  I was a force to be reckoned with.  I was in the Corps of Cadets and the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band.  Participation in those organizations opened the doorway to being a soldier in the United States Army.  While I was overseas in Afghanistan, I got the brilliant idea to become a rugby player.  When I made it back to The States, I did just that.  I ran around in cleats and hit people for fun.  It was great, but after a while the shell became a burden and the determination turned to drudgery.  

In desperation and frustration, I stopped trying to be the person I thought I was.  I had already rejected the thought of trying to become the person others thought I was, so I had only one option to pursue: to start seeking the person God had created me to be.  I can honestly say that has been my pursuit for the past year and a half.  Amazing things have happened, and that's why this blog exists: to journal those things.  

I can't say that I have done any of this on my own.  One, God's been opening doors and waiting patiently for me to walk through with Him in loving obedience.  Two, I have been learning to live in Christian community.  

Part of living in community with other Christians is that people enter your life that say and do things that will convict and challenge your ways of thinking and doing things.  If God wills it, one will stand out just for you and begin mentoring you.  Fortunately for me, that's what happened when God put Miss Carol in my life.

I love the conversations Carol and I have.  She challenges me.  She asks questions that many other people either have never thought of or are too afraid to ask.  I've never felt the need to hide the truth or be anything other than genuine with her, and I've learned a lot because of our relationship.

At the end of one of our conversations, she asked a strange question.  "Have you ever thought of changing how you spell your name?  KD is a rather masculine way to spell it.  Why not any of the other ways?"  Of all the things we talked about that night, my mind fixated on that question.  I explained my parents' logic behind my name, but she wasn't impressed.  Mrs. Emmons and the entire public education system had ruined "Katie" or "Katy" for me, so those would just not do.  My mind started to consider all of the possibilities that I could be called other than KD.  One stood out above all of the others.  Kate.  That name is special to me.  In fact, I have answered to it all of my life.  For some unknown reason, whenever Mom or Dad needed to ask a quick question or let me know something important they would say, "Hey, Kate..."  It was always said gently, but it always got my attention immediately as if something special was about to be said.

So to have an outward and obvious way of showing the change in my life, I would like to be called Kate.  I know it will be strange for people who have always known me as KD (or Katie...or...Katy), but it would be appreciated.  In fact, I know that sometimes in the Bible when God raised someone up and changed them for His purposes, that person's name changed.  Abram became Abraham.  Saul became Paul.  

It's time for KD to become Kate.