friday

i will write more later. i haven't forgotten about you blogger. imagine how xanga must feel.

monday morning

i'm here at work. early. i leave for fargo this friday and i wanted to take some extra time. i'm going to be spending this first hour not checking my email but writing to friends near and far. i'm so thankful for those friends who have supported me through the years. i never feel like i have the words to appropriately thank them. here's to friends who are far away from me. may they know how thankful i am.

friday

it's fifty eight of....or two till nine. and it's friday. finally. it's a blustery 45 degrees here in omaha. next week at this time the high will be reaching towards 90 degrees. what is up my friends? i have a post from my xanga that i'd like to share...it's about global warming gear.

well when i remember my xanga password i'll be sure to share.

it's friday. it's really friday.

okay. it's going to take much more time to find that blog. but here's a funny part of a blog. a list of terrible lifetime movie titles that i compiled from friends and my brain.

my mom's a carnie: circus moms
beatings my mom gave me
my mom loves my boyfriend
my mom is my dad
stacey's mom
my dog is my mom
mom has muddy butt
my mom is colder than nebraska
Not Without My Children's Children
Not Without My Chanel No5
My Mom is a Mexican Pro-wrestler Named "Nacho Libre" (Spanish with Subtitles)
My Father Was a Snowplow Driver and My Mother Parks in the Street
Why Men are the Devil, All Men are Dogs
I Was a Teenage Xanga-Addict
My Mom Is My Boyfriend
All Women Hate Men For Good Reason, and the sequeal, Why Women Should Kill Their Husbands

oops

remember that one time that i had a blog that talked about weight loss? oh yeah. this one. i'll get back to that soon. i have some interesting observations.

so. i thought i'd write a little bit from my journal.

hebrews 10:39,

but we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved.

-staring the red sea down.
the rushing waves that crash on this shore, those greet me.
the foam from the sea rushes to my toes.
dare i step in.
i look to my left, my right.
nothing.
will there be a sign?
i take a step back.
then i hear those familiar, haunting voices. NO! i scream.
the hair on my back sticks straight up.
i catch my breath. clutch my heart.
because now i hear Him.
i close my eyes and feel for Him.
i find Him.
i'm in the midst with only Him.
my love. my savior.
i walk with Him.
no need for words.
no need to explain.
He rescued me.

what's new

this morning 50 cent was in my dream. i was making him an omelet. i'm not really sure why it was for him. i do know why i was making an omelet. last week i made kenley and crocker omelets. that was a lot of fun even though kenley's was more scrambled than omelet. hee.

my personal quote of the day

on dreamweaver,

dreamweaver shouldn't be called dreamweaver. there's nothing dreamy about it. it should be called damnweaver.

about the author

i'm at home in lexington. i love finding little jewels of memories in my family and in my home. when i walked into our computer room, i found a book called 'different poems' by jara sturdivant. 1989 was a pretty pivotal point in my writing career, obviously.

as an eight year old, who was apparently gifted in elementary school, i had the privilege to attend a special summer session called young scholars. it was here that i learned different art techniques, studied different languages and wrote.

so, i picked up this book. i actually remembered when i wrote it and made it. it was a big deal to be able to have my own book. cardboard and some creative wallpaper made for a magical piece of art for an eight-year-old....and even now, a twenty-six-year old.

i read through this book of poems. i noticed when i wrote haikus. i noticed when i was attempting to fill pages. i noticed when i drew with great attention and detail. i saw that even then i had my favorite color, green.

at the end of the book, i wrote a section called 'about the author.'

'jara sturdivant was born in indiana. she is living in tennessee in 1989. she's 8. her hobbies are: swimming, fishing, collecting dolls and stamps, lots more! she loves poems. she has another book called the Farmer Learns his Rabbit Lesson. it's surly a good book.'

i'm not sure what surly means in that sentence. i'm thinking i spelled out what i heard...it's really a good book. so now in 2007 i wonder what i was thinking about when i wrote this book (and the other book, i still have that one, too). i wonder if i imagined reading this as an adult. i'm not sure. but i look back and think about the things that i loved as a child and wonder how those are playing out in my life now. i still write stories and even poems, i just keep them private. i still like being athletic. i'm not in tennessee anymore. but a part of my life is in tennessee...deeply rooted.

so i look at this little book,as amateur as it is, and i think, that this is a piece of my story, a piece of my history. i was an awkward little girl. i didn't fit the stereotypical anything. i had quirks. i had strong opinions. i had a speech problem (ask me about how i pronounce my Rs). i had friends. i had lonliness. i had joy and sadnesses. i had big questions about the world. i had doubts about the world. i loved God with my childlike faith and when i prayed for freckles, i got them.

where are our eight year old selves. what would they think of us? would they recognize us? would we recognize them?