Ready, Set, Sophomore!

           

Let me start this by saying that this blog post has gone through more introductory paragraphs than posts I have put on my blog. So much has been going on in my life and in my heart; I have been dying to write. However, the insanity that makes me wants to write is the same insanity that keeps me from doing so. I have now been back at school for almost two months (I think?), but the majority of this post’s content refers back to the first couple weeks of school. By the end of a couple weeks, I had already felt as if I had managed to run a spiritual, emotional, and mental marathon, complete with twists, turn, and hills galore. It is incredible the work that God sometimes does in such short spans of time…

            To start out with, I was really struggling with the idea of coming back to school. To put it in less polished terminology, I did not want to come back to school. At.All. From face value, this did not make much sense. I loved my Freshman year. I love Clearwater Christian College. My grades were fine, I have made wonderful friends, and I have a fantastic support group down there (including my Starkey family which I love). Looking at the big picture, there was no reason for me to feel such resistance to going back. But I did. Past posts have discussed the hard time I had those last few weeks of last semester. For the first time since I was, like, nine, I felt some serious homesickness, and I was completely worn to the bone with work. Though God really did teach me a lot through that rough patch, it still left a foul taste in my mouth, and that was what came to mind whenever I thought of returning to school. Unending work. Late nights, early mornings. Always pushing. Never stopping. Work. No rest. Pleasure always saturated with guilt (because, of course, I could be using that “free” time for all the work that’s pressing on my back…there is no such thing as “free time”). I think you can get an idea of why school was so terrifying to me. I just did not want to go through that pain again. I knew in my head that there were reasons why I loved CCC, but those reasons were a little hazy behind the fog of exhaustion that was my last few weeks of freshman year.

            But, like it or not, time came for me to be back at school. I knew that my fear and anxiety—my sin—needed to be worked on…big time. Especially since, amidst all this inner conflict, the fact that I was about to be a Discipleship Leader (DL) in my dorm unit was staring me in the face. Oh, how unqualified. I had just come out of a summer that was wonderful and, as always, a growing time for me, but it had also involved some serious spiritual questions, fears, and frustrations that I have not had to deal with in years. That stepping stone had just finished and then BOOM—back to school, the most trying place I could ever be. As the day to be back loomed nearer and nearer, I began trying to work on my attitude. One of the things I reminded myself of was the attitude I adopted before I started school last fall: I have to go to school, whether I like it or not—I might as well let myself enjoy it! (A little glimpse into the heart of a drama-queen—sometimes, when things look bad, we amplify that bad for dramatic effect and end up not letting ourselves see the good because we’re so busy making the bad sound bad. Not that we think the bad is that bad, we just want other people to understand that it’s not good… I’m probably confusing you further… moving on…) As my father and I rode across the causeway and I looked out at the palm trees and the water, I began praying. Only God could fix that faithless attitude of mine. Now, sometimes—oftentimes in my case—God likes to take His time with His lessons. Teach me faith and patience….

But sometimes, God sure does work quickly.

Within that day I was reminded of some of the reasons I love CCC. My dear friends drew me in and lightened my heart. The next day, a Sunday, I got to go back to Starkey and feel that lovely embrace of the body of Christ. DL sessions helped me re-focus on the most important aspect of school—and life: God. Serving Him. Glorifying Him. Finding contentment in Him.

            Then the semester hit me. Like.A.Truck.

            I don’t think I have ever felt so inadequate for a task in my entire life. Looking at my syllabi, I had no idea if it was humanly possible to do all the things I was being asked to do. Crazy school schedule (as much as I love my teachers—and they’re great—sometimes I think they forget that their class is not the only class I’m taking… you know how that goes, I’m sure, especially if you’re a college student). Lots of work hours. Being a DL. Hoping to maintain healthy relationships with the people I care about. All this while still trying to take care of that minor detail called staying alive. I will tell you right now, my heart felt like it was free-falling. I was exhausted. And school had barely started.

            I had to make some scary, big-girl decisions. One thing was that I had to go back to my boss and tell him that I couldn’t work all the hours he assigned for me. For many of you, you may be wondering what the big deal is about that. Well, for a people-pleasing perfectionist who dreads confrontation and even the suggestion of disappointment of others, this is a HUGE deal. CALL-MOM-AND-CRY-OVER-THE-TELEPHONE-WHILE-YOU-EXPLAIN-YOUR-CRIPPLING-FEAR-AND-SHAME big deal.

            I was still sinking, still free-falling. But God was working, as He always is. One night after a DL meeting, my dear friend saw my exhausted face and run-down demeanor, and she asked me that simple, thoughtful question:

“Hey, girl. Are you doing alright?”

            I almost shrugged it off. Did she really want the truth? Besides, I had homework to get to. One of the many reasons I was so down to begin with. But something in me pressed the truth to my lips.

 “No.”

 She asked if I wanted to talk. The truth was, I needed to talk. I knew that. I had very recently accepted the fact that I really needed help. I needed biblical counseling and encouragement from someone. But I didn’t feel like I had time to deal with my problems. But I couldn’t say no. I was too low to refuse. I poured my heart out to her. I explained one of my deepest struggles—What’s the point, and is it ever worth it? I know those question are worldly. They’re not based on the promises of God, and they reflect lack of faith and understanding. Yes, I get that. I knew it then, I know it now. That knowledge only made me feel worse. I worked and worked and worked, but once a test is completed, there’s another chapter to be tested. I complete this semester, there’s another waiting right behind it. Stay up late to finish schoolwork, just to wake up to another day of pressure. I was being crushed. I felt so alone. So helpless. And so guilty.

            Isn’t it crazy how God sometimes leads you to people who can understand what you are going through? Honestly, I didn’t imagine any of the other DL’s being able to relate to what I was going through, and I felt horrible going through it for that very reason (and others). We shared each other’s burdens. We talked about biblical answers to our questions. We were there for one another. And what a difference that made! No, all my questions were not answered, but I didn’t feel so alone and helpless anymore. I had encouragement from a sister in Christ, and I had thoughtful, biblical encouragement from her.

            The next day was a Tuesday—the one day of the week where I have a large chunk of nothing in the middle of the day. I typically use this time for either devos or a nap. That day it was devos. I sat down to 2 Peter. Nothing out of the ordinary—I had been going through 1 and 2 Peter. But the passage that day was 2 Peter 1:3-15. You know, sometimes I get frustrated with my devotions. Just being honest. I’ll be struggling with something and I’ll go to the Bible—search through the Bible—but nothing seems to help. Then there are those days that God smacks me in the face with the truth I need. That Tuesday just so happened to be one of those days. However, at first, it looked like it was going to be another dry day. And I needed a not dry day. I read the passage… then re-read it… then re-read it. I was looking at the words, but they were not sinking in at all. My mind was getting jumbled with all the phrases, and I couldn’t grasp a coherent thought. Add to that the fact that all the things crowding my life were fighting for attention in my brain. So I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down in bullet form all the things buzzing through my brain. Then I put it aside and purposed to not think about those things right then. Then I had such a marvel idea: what if I applied all those lessons I learned last year in Biblical Interpretations about how to study the Bible (way to go, Lydia—it only took you a year…)? Phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence, thought by thought, God’s word pierced my heart and showed me my faults—and how to fix them. There were answers! There were rebukes! There were instructions! There was hope! God showed me that He has provided me everything I need to live righteously; I just need to apply those things.

            It is still a struggle. My life is going at break-neck speed, and it is not going to slow down any time soon. Honestly, I want to drop out of college at least once a day. It’s hard to see how any of this can be worth it. But God opened my eyes to something important. And another thing; He brought to my attention that I am living my life.

Let me explain myself…

            Sometimes, I feel like I’m just preparing for my life. I mean, isn’t that what school’s all about? High school exists to “prepare you for college,” and college exists to “prepare you for life/your future/your career/insert-inspirational-challenging-noun-here.” But somewhere in all that motivation, they forget to mention that, while we have a lot to prepare for, we are living our lives right now, too. I have this bad habit of always wanting to look ahead. To plan. To be in control. In doing so, I don’t look around. I will neglect to spend time with someone because I have to get ahead on my school work so I can get good grades so I can do fine in nursing school so I can get a good job in a hospital so I can… You see what I’m getting at? I’m always doing things for the future. I am always thinking of how what I am doing now will help me in the future. Which is all well and good, except I never invest in right now. What about what God is teaching me right now? What He’s doing for me right now? The people in my life right now. The experiences of right now that I will never get again. My point is, God is starting to teach me the thing that everyone in my life (my dad, my mom, my friends) has been trying to teach me for years—balance. Now, I do not have it all figured out yet. I mean, I do need to study—my parents would not be too fond of me starting to fail tests…. Not to mention that it would probably throw me into an emotional pit. Yea, let’s not do that. But God is teaching me about what’s most important, and that thing is not school. Sometimes, it’s okay to put off homework so I can talk to a hurting friend. Just because an assignment “could have been better if I had more time” doesn’t mean that it’s bad. It does not even mean that I was irresponsible with my time. It just means that there were other important things that needed done too, and I had to “give and take” a little.

            Honestly, it’s hard to put into words the many lessons that God has taught me over these past couple of months. Perhaps I could do it, but I would need about a day set aside for just writing, and it would probably result in a small book. As much as I would love to spend an entire day writing, I don’t have time for that. And you’re probably not that interested in A Book on the Inner-Workings of the Brain of Wynette Lydia Huguenin. Oh my. Even the title is frightening. But maybe this post will give you a small taste. I must say, it was lovely to be able to write all this out. I hope it is coherent, because it is the work of many sporadic, short writing sessions over the span of a couple weeks. I have no lovely conclusion for this to summarize my thoughts and wrap them with a pretty bow. My apologies to all you English majors and teachers out there. Only this…

“I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious…”

~Emily Dickinson~

Part 3~Far Better than the Beginning

Do not think that I was always miserable during that first year or those that followed it. They were hard—incredibly—but there was always light that leaked in. There was always laughter, and I have beautiful memories from every year. Ninth grade changed a lot of things, especially in my class. My dad started “Partnership in Prayer” at our school; once a month, during the Thursday chapel hour, our 7^th-12^th graders would break up into small groups and have prayer time, snacks, and a small devotion  

End of Freshman Year 

led by a teacher/staff member. That year all the girls in my class were with Mrs. Dunn. We all bonded in that small room off of the sanctuary. We opened up to one another. One of the boys in our class asked our Bible teacher if he could share something God was teaching him during class. We were stirred up; we changed. Remember Lindsay Cate, who, in eighth grade, would think up things to do just to make me mad (like flirt with the boy I had an embarrassingly big crush on—oooooh middle school…we’ve all been there—unless you haven’t yet, of course)? She personally invited me to her birthday party (and it wasn’t even one of those invite-the-whole-class-even-the-people-you-don’t-like parties—it was actually an I’m-only-inviting-a-few-people party). Less and less snide remarks were made in youth group. I matured a lot too—that really helped.

Yes, there were days that my whole body ached with missing home. Many tears were shed, and I would wonder why it had to hurt so badly. I knew there was a point to all of it, but I really wanted to be told what it was—like, right then.

I was told. Over time, I was told.

I was told by late night conversations with dear Berean friends. I was told standing on a stage, taking part in entertaining with the art of drama. I was told on long bus rides to competitions, games, championships, mission trips, field trips. I was told standing in front of peers, friends, and family, giving my valedictorian address, looking down to the smile of my co-valedictorian, my friend. I was told when that green and yellow tassel was finally turned, and I could see how all those emotionally 

So many memories
in that short Berean bus

 and mentally draining efforts had paid off. I was slowly told, and the farther I went, the clearer the past became. I could see how God placed me exactly where I needed to be. As hard as it was—is—for me to be the only kid in the family who can’t claim even one year at TCHS, I know that Berean was the best thing for me. My personality and my style of learning—I needed Berean. I learned so much there, and not just academics. I was taught by my friends and my teachers. My friends; sometimes I think about the past and laugh. I think of the people I used to not get along with that I now love spending time with. Over time, Rachel and I developed traditions in youth group, like the water drinking contest after the Christmas gingerbread house contest (Rachel won every year). Or, my personal favourite, watching The Lost Valentine at my house after the church’s annual chili cook-off with the girls in the church (the best part is seeing the newbies cry—or, more accurately, crying along with the newbies). Of course, with me at college in Florida and her at Bryan, we really can’t keep up with the traditions. But we do still sing together when we get the chance (in fact, we’re singing this Sunday since I leave again for camp next Friday). Both Rachel and Lindsay Cate were some of the first to call me last year when “Lydia finally got a boyfriend!” In fact, Lindsay Skyped me so she could hear the whole story.

Traipsing around NYC with these lovely ladies
Brooklyn and Lindsay Cate

Aside from a rough patch during sophomore year, Brooklyn has remained a dear friend. She and I continued being the class nerds, but don’t let that deceive you. She’s drop-dead GORGEOUS and super cool and talented (and she was popular—yea, one those nerds: the pretty, popular type;) she's pretty great).She’s currently working like a crazy woman—taking summer classes and working a summer job. Because she’s one tough cookie.

Where am I going with this? I’ve actually started asking myself the same question. Seems that I’ve just begun to rattle on about life. But, you see, that’s kind of what I mean. The end of the matter—it’s so much better than the beginning. Not that this is an end. I mean, I still live in Chatt. I haven’t died. There’s no set “end” to moving away from somewhere (I guess until you move somewhere else? I don’t know…). But I’ve come to the point where I am content. I can look back and praise God for what He did. And not just the praise that comes amid the storm—when you praise God because you know He is good, even though you can’t see the sun. Those praises are great. But this is the praise that comes when the clouds have rolled away and the flowers that were watered during the storm are in bloom. When you can see the fruit with your own eyes.

Over this school year, I, for the first time, missed Chattanooga. I was so excited to go home. To my home in Hixson. To my crazy green and blue room. I missed my family most of all, but I found myself calling Chattanooga home. West Virginia is still home. It will always be home. That mountain blood runs deep. I grew up there. My first memories are there. There I lost my baby teeth, made my first friends, learned how to ride a bike, walked to the store when we needed more lights for the Christmas tree (which was pretty much every year), learned how to ski. There are things Tucker County holds that Chattanooga never can. But they both hold places in my heart. I’m thankful for them both. I grew up in West Virginia; I continued to grow in Tennessee.

Pride held me back for quite some time. I wonder how different those first few years would have been had I been more patient, less prideful. Yes, the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.

And the end of this matter is much better than its beginning.

Part 2- The Beginning of the Matter... and moving towards the middle.

We arrived at our new house the next day, June 3^rd; we left for camp two days later, on the fifth. Camp was my constant. Despite everything changing, camp was there like a beacon in the summer. It may sound weird calling camp a constant—you see, it’s a young camp, so it’s always changing. New buildings. New staff. But it’s always camp. Always home. I’m expecting it to be different—that’s part of what camp is! But I had never changed where I lived before; that was much different.

I was back in TN by July. This is when the real work began. I soon learned that making friends was going to be harder than I thought. Before I moved I was nervous about it, but I thought, hey! I do this every year at camp. It’ll be alright… Wrong. Making friends at camp is much different from making friends at your new place of residence. You see, at camp, everyone is meeting new people. You’re all in this new, exciting experience together, and you’re expecting to meet and interact with people you don’t know. Sure, there are those who come with friends, but most of them branch out and make new friends too. It’s camp! Coming to TN was much different. I was barging into their preexisting lives. I was new—they weren’t. They had their friends; they didn’t have to branch out and try new things. I was the new kid. I was an intruder.

At first it wasn’t so bad (of course, at first I barely knew anyone—there wasn’t much opportunity for it to go bad). Our church had VBS (a new thing for me—I was used to Neighborhood Bible Time which is much, much different), and I was partnered with the girl in my church who was also going into 8^th grade: Rachel. We actually made a pretty decent team that week, and she encouraged me to do something waaaaay outside my comfort zone: she told me to try out for middle school volleyball.

Fun fact about Lydia Huguenin: I have zero coordination. Zero experience. Zero athletic ability.

She and her mom told me to just come to practice—I didn’t have to join if I didn’t want to. Just try. “Besides,” they encouraged me, “our team isn’t even that good. You’ll be fine. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have experience.” (BY  THE WAY, they got 2^nd place in the championship that year. So yea… so much for “we’re not that good.) Anyway, I tried. And I joined the team. Volleyball turned out to be a major blessing in my life, but it often felt like a curse.

Blessings: it was there that I got to know people, felt involved in something (gives you a sense of belonging, no matter how misguided), and it was there that I met my best friend—Brooklyn.

Curses: I’m terrible at volleyball—that became painfully obvious very quickly—, only Brooklyn liked me, aaaand I’m terrible at volleyball.

It was actually because volleyball that my mom introduced me to that verse, Ephesians 7:8 “Better is the end of a thing than its beginning, and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.” I was struggling with making friends, struggling with this sport that I was no-good at (it’s rather uncomfortable to recognize that you’re the worst player on the team), and struggling with missing my home. In one of my cry-fests on my mom’s bed, she gave me that verse as an encouragement. I had to remember: the end will be better.

Volleyball allowed me to know people before going into the school year. So I wasn’t a hopeless mess that first day—but about as close to it as I possibly could have been. Somehow I found my way in that mess… but it was an ugly ordeal.

I was not popular. I’m not talking about the “oh, she’s new and quite so no one really notices her” type of unpopular. I mean the “we hate her” unpopular. You’re probably thinking I was just a hypersensitive middle school girl over-exaggerating my misery. Weeeeell, the reason I knew everyone hated me was because they later told me. Honestly, I didn’t even know how disliked I was until later. We’ll get to that.

Part—well, most—of my unpopularity was my own fault. Remember how, in my last post, I mentioned how I didn’t want to let go of WV? Yea. That was pretty intense. In case you don’t know me well, let me tell you: I’m very stubborn. I don’t let go of things. I hang on until I’m pried away from the object or injured. And that’s how I was about WV. That was home, and I determined that it would always be home. In turn, I concluded that TN would never be—I wouldn’t let it. I feared that, if I were to accept TN as home, then I would lose WV. So I was cold. Distant. TN couldn’t accept me, because I refused to accept it. This place was strange. Different. Therefore, in my mind, inferior. I hated it. In fact, it wasn’t until this past year that I would say, “I’m going home” when talking about going back to Chattanooga. I used to say “I’m going back to where I live,” “back to my house,” or something along those lines. “Home” was a sacred word. One reserved for West Virginia. One, in my mind, TN couldn’t take from me. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—call it something that it wasn’t. My sister and I were recently discussing how both of us dealt with the move. You see, my parents easily could see how hard it was on Priscilla. I already mentioned that she has a much sweeter disposition than I have. Therefore, she shows pain differently than I do. She was much more willing to show her weakness and pain outwardly (I am not saying that as a bad thing; please don’t think that I consider my sister weak or inferior—nothing can be farther from the truth). I am different. I grew callous. Cold. Angry and bitter are really strong words, and I’m not sure I got to that point, but oh, I was dancing on the line for sure. Never angry at God. Never angry at dad. Angry at this place. This place that I didn’t understand, didn’t appreciate, and straight-up didn’t like. I was in a lot of pain. Priscilla mentioned that I was probably in just as much pain as her—the move was probably just as hard for me—but I displayed it soooo differently. Where in Priscilla you could see the pain and the hurt, all you could see in me was fierce determination. That was, of course, if you could see the real me, like Priscilla could. I mentioned before that I knew how to put on a face. That’s what those first few years were—putting on a face. Answering all the well-intended questions with a smile and a polite answer. “How do you like it here?” “It’s very different.” (that was my go-to answer; I do my very best to not lie, but I couldn’t really reveal the truth).

The people there told us that it never snows in Chattanooga
Priscilla and I were determined to prove them wrong
We prayed for this snow for a very long time
It wasn't much, but it was a beautiful gift

So there was one of the reasons people didn’t like me—I didn’t like TN. Another reason: I loved WV. Honestly, this one wasn’t quite fair. You see, people thought I was really annoying. One of the reasons was because I only ever talked about WV. “Back in West Virginia….**insert something here**” People got really tired of that. In fact, it became a joke in the school to talk about “back in West Virginia” just to mock me. I wasn’t amused. Of course, I never really let people see how much that hurt me. But, believe me, it did. They were mocking me and the one thing most precious to me in four simple words. I get it—they were sick of hearing it. But what I was frustrated about was, what else was I supposed to talk about? They talked all about back-in-seventh-grade or back-in-sixth-grade. Why? Because that was what they had their stories/memories from. We talk about our fond memories. They did. I did. The difference: none of these people were there for mine. And, frankly, no one cared about mine (which they had no reason to, so I don’t blame anyone for that).

So, let’s see… I was terrible at sports, I was different, I was loud and clumsy, I was annoying, and I wouldn’t shut up about WV. Put it all together and what do ya got? Most disliked girl in the 8^th grade. Looking back now, I’m amazing at how much I didn’t notice, and how much I shrugged off. I didn’t hear most of what they said about me, and, honestly, I didn’t think much about all the boys’ pranks. The fact that they scuffed up the floor just to bother me (I have a pet-peeve about scuffs, and I would walk down the hallways rubbing them off with the sole of my shoe—those shoes wore down fast) and tripped me as I walked through the classroom actually didn’t bother me as much as they probably wanted it to. I was used to being teased, so I didn’t detect all the malice that went into it. I was able to laugh it off… for a while. I did start getting fed up with it after a while and would respond to the line of feet stuck in front of mine as I walked through the classroom with, “Excuse me, but I’m very good at falling down on my own; I do not require your assistance.” But, like I said, I didn’t catch on for a while. I lived in blissful ignorance for some time. All I could sense was that I was having a hard time making friends. It wasn’t until a girl came up to me and said, “I’m so sorry Lydia. It must be so hard knowing that everyone is talking about you behind your back,” that I started to catch on. I’m actually laughing now, just thinking about it. Bless that girl. I don’t even remember who it was. She seemed to feel so bad for me. So remorseful. I just thanked her and walked on. In my head, though, I was thinking, “oh… they’re talking about me behind my back…” Suffice it to say, it was news for me.

February of our 8th grade year:
Brooklyn invited me to go
tubing with her youth group

Graduation: Co-valedictorians
Told you we're nerds;) 

But thank God for Brooklyn. Brooklyn was the one girl in the class who actually liked me. She and I had a lot in common. We’re both very dedicated to grades. We both have strong personalities. We were both tiny (at that point, 4 foot 11 inches and around 95 pounds). And, honestly, neither of us was very popular. We were the class nerds. Two peas in a pod. Our biggest differences were the fact that she was/is athletic, and while I was brown-haired, brown-eyed, still-in-the-awkard-stage-I-had-been-in-ever-since-I-could-remember, she was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty (which she still is, I might add). By the way, she will deny the “beauty” part, claiming that I really was pretty and she looked weird back then—don’t listen to her, k? Back on track… besides Brooklyn, there were only a few other people who liked me (or, at least, didn’t hate me). One of them I never really got to know, a couple of them I didn’t get to know until later, and the other was a guy who had a crush on me for a reasons I’m sure I will never understand. I already told you, I was still in the awkward stage—big time.

Senior Year, National Fine Arts Competition
It's beautiful to see how God grew us and brought us
together. 

I mentioned in ~Title Page~ that I no longer hold any ill feelings towards those who didn’t like me. That is very true. In fact, one of the girls who disliked me the most, Lindsay Cate, is now very dear to me. I mention her name only because I’m pretty positive she wouldn’t mind. In fact, she and I sometimes have “remember-in-8^th-grade-when” conversations in which we talk about the things we did, how we treated each other, and how stupid we were about things. She’s told me about all the things she did to make me miserable; some of them are actually quite amusing. Those are fun conversations. I’m not even lying.

Singing with Rachel before I left for camp last summer
It's what we do 

An interesting fact about Rachel: we didn’t get along well for a long time (don’t worry—we totally do now), but we were always brought together by music. Rachel and I both love to sing (she can also play the piano), so we would sing together in church all the time. No matter what was going on at school, no matter how irritated we were with one another, no matter how mad we were, somehow, someway, we could come together and sing as if there was nothing in the world wrong. And it would seem that way whenever we practiced and whenever we performed—at least, I know it was that way for me. And even when our relationship was bad, we still could have a blast together… it was complex..

During all this time, the hardest thing to deal with was missing WV. This place was strange. And hot. I was set against it, so I didn’t find many positive things about it. And all that time I was working so hard at holding on to WV. I remember one youth activity where we were all in the gym and Rocky Top started playing. In case you don’t know the song at all, here are some lyrics:

Rocky Top you’ll always be

Home sweet home to me

Good ole Rocky Top

Rocky Top Tennessee

Right in that chorus I broke down. I ran to the bathroom and cried. Rocky Top… rocky top will never be home to me. They don’t understand. They’re out there singing about their home… and I’m miles and miles away from mine… I just wanted to go home. I wanted to see my friends. Breathe that mountain air. Soak in the sunset. Feel the grass—real grass—under my feet. Walk those broken sidewalks. Country roads, take me home to the place I belong. West Virginia, mountain momma, take me home, country roads. I remember one day in P.E. I caught the whiff of the breeze coming in from outside. I don’t know if it was my mind playing tricks on me (I missed home so badly, it probably was), but I smelled snow. I closed my eyes and breathed it in deep. For a moment, I put myself back in WV. I could see the snow piling on our yard. I could smell it. Feel it. I opened my eyes. I was back in the gym with the army of green-shorted middle schoolers walking around and around the court. It was like moving all over again. The pang of loneliness—realizing that you’re not there anymore. Won’t be there. Can’t be there. Another lap around the gym. Alone.

Youth group was the worst. People would fight with me, just to get me riled up. They would say things about WV. They would talk about the superiority of TN. I was also to blame; I got frustrated. I fought with all my might. Fought until I was sick to my stomach and on the verge of tears, I fought. I worked so hard to not be conformed to it all. I never said y’all. I made a point to say “soda” or “pop.” I resisted feeling cold, afraid of losing my “tough, mountain girl blood.” So stubborn. So resistant. So proud.

I remember sitting in bed one day (I don’t remember when it was—it may have been a year or more later) when it hit me. You see, I always imagined—hoped—that I would be willing to follow God, even if He sent me to the wilds of Africa. I would serve Him. Do His work. Do what it took to be involved with those people and their culture. Love them. Then it hit me—this was my Africa. It was so subtle that I didn’t recognize it. If it had been Africa, I probably would  have been more patient/understanding/submissive. Everything would have been different; Africa isn’t America—you can’t expect it to be the same, and you can’t treat it the same. It’s not! It’s not bad—just different.

Tennessee isn’t West Virginia.

You can’t expect it to be the same.

You can’t treat it the same.

It’s not.

It’s not bad—just different.

I finally recognized my folly—my sin. I had been in the wrong the whole time. God wasn’t asking me to forget West Virginia. Yes, it was home. Always would be. But God placed me in TN. It was time to accept that. Time to let go of the bitterness. Time to accept TN. Time to learn to appreciate, yes, even enjoy, what God had given me. Time to love.

Yes, it hit me. No, I was not very good at it. I’m still not very good at it. But I had started a journey of learning and growing…

A journey I will talk about more in the next post…

I’m sure you’ve had more than enough for now.