Friday, June 6, 2014

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 7th-12th 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.

Monday, June 2, 2014

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

We arrived at our new house the next day, June 3rd; 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 8th 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 2nd 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 7:8Better 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 8th 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-8th-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.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Part 1 ~ The Beginning of the Beginning of the Matter

Centennial Point, Tucker County, WV
The story begins a little earlier than you may suspect: summer 2007. I was 11. It was the very beginning of the summer, and dad sat us down for a little family meeting. I don’t know about your family, but we didn’t have family meetings. Like, ever. So I was pretty nervous. What could this mean? I don’t know what all I dreamt up in my over-active imagination, but I never imagined my dad would tell us what he did that day. My brother, Timothy (the eldest of us four children), had just graduated high school. Next school year Elizabeth would be a high school senior, Priscilla a freshman, and I would be in seventh grade. Soon we would all be leaving for Camp Grace, the camp that we had been going to since 2004. Timothy and Elizabeth were counselors—Cilla too, maybe? I was a camper still, but I also babysat for a couple weeks. CG is home to us. Good glory, I’d been going there every summer since I was eight! I practically grew up there—but more on that later.
Dad sat us all down, and told us that he, so, of course, we, were going to be moving. We didn’t know where. We didn’t know when. But we would be moving sometime in the near future. On the way to camp, we were going to make a stop at a church in Pennsylvania that was considering taking my Dad on as its pastor. Something might come out of it. Something might not. We were just going to visit. We couldn’t tell the people there why we were there—only that we were visitors. In fact, we weren’t allowed to tell anyone except for a few (and I mean a few) people about the fact that we might be moving. There was no benefit of shaking things up with news of a move that would happen who-knows-when to who-knows-where. So started the silence. Honestly, maybe I should have seen this coming. We joked about moving. You see, my mom had started asking us stuff like, “How would you feel if we were to move from here?” We would look at her like she was crazy, and ask her, “Why? Are we moving?” Of course, she told us very honestly that we weren’t—she was just wondering. (I wasn’t being sarcastic there. It was very honest. We weren’t moving yet. She just wanted to know how we would react should the time come.) So we would joke with dad, “Are we moving, Dad? Mom keeps saying…” blah blah blah. We wouldn’t think anything of it. Nor did I put much stock in the looks my dad would share with my mom after we made those jokes. I didn’t see it coming…
The church in PA didn’t chose my dad, but there was another church interested in him. We were still sworn to secrecy. I almost laugh when people tell me that I can’t keep secrets, because I kept the biggest secret I have ever known for a year. I couldn’t share it with my friends. I couldn’t even talk about it at camp. Someone might say something... you know how things spread. Eventually, the church that was interested in my dad, Berean Baptist Church in Chattanooga, Tennessee, wanted our family to come and candidate. It was later in the school year (my 7th grade year—early 2008). My dad had already been down and had preached to the nomination committee. Now they were pretty sure they wanted him, and they were ready to present him (and our entire family) to the church for them to vote. So to Tennessee we went. Still, we couldn’t tell anyone why we were going to Tennessee. It was a family vacation. That’s all I could to say. Of course, the people at Berean knew why we were there. My dad preached. They asked us all questions. There was a reception. We stayed at the house of a family in the church. I don’t remember my exact feelings while we were there. Somewhere in the nervous but curious zone. People told me all kinds of things—who at the church was my age, what class I would be in at the school, such and such. Then we came back home. I believe that we were to know the church’s decision by the next Sunday afternoon? I could be wrong (it was 6-some years ago). I remember the day we were supposed to get the call. Oh, how I remember that day. I was so sick to my stomach. As much as I feared moving, I feared the rejection even more. I didn’t want my dad to go through that again. I wanted him to be accepted. We were moving—that was decided. So please, please, please, let this be a yes! I was in Priscilla’s and my room; we were both so nervous. Neither of us really spoke. She was on her bed. I was on the floor, embroidering (I was in a weird, embroidering stage of life). Eventually, dad got a call. Oh, the nerves. Then mom (I think it was mom) came in and told us that the church had said yes; we were moving to Chattanooga.
I can’t remember exactly when that was. I don’t remember how long it was until my dad told the church. I think he wanted to give them a two-month notice, so that would make it the end of March? Beginning of April? I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, there was more waiting. I knew we would be moving in the beginning of June. I remember sitting with my friends one day, and they started making plans for the summer. “We can do it this summer! Yea, we’ll all get together and have this picnic!” It was torture. They would ask my input. I would say it sounded nice, but I’d have to see. What else could I say? I wasn’t going to lie, but I wasn’t allowed to say, “I WON’T BE HERE! PLEASE, LET’S DO IT NOW! I’M LEAVING. FOREVER.” So I smiled. It was probably during that time I became very good at putting on a face. I could smile and act like everything was perfect, while, inside, I was dying. It cut to the core, but they couldn’t tell. So life went on… until that Sunday. My dad made the announcement after the service. We would be moving June 2nd, 2008 (my dad was not going to move us until my oldest sister, Elizabeth, graduated). I was crying. My sister was crying. My friends were shocked. I’m pretty sure my sister’s best friend left the service without a word. I remember going home and calling my friends who weren’t at church. I mean, I was a 12-year-old girl who had kept a HUGE secret for a whole year. You’d better believe I was telling all those people I had had to keep it from for so long. They were surprised, but they didn’t have much to say. That was that. The news was public. The packing began.

Community Bible Church
Now I’m going to backtrack a little and tell you just how important Davis, West Virginia, was/is to me. Davis is a little mountain town in Tucker County. There is one stoplight in the entire county. There are two Elementary/Middle schools—one down the mountain, in Parsons, and the other in Thomas, up on the mountain next to Davis. There was one high school—Tucker County High School—in the entire county (didn’t know that was abnormal until we moved to Chattanooga). Even if you weren’t in the high school, you were still a part of it. Everyone went to the football games in Friday nights, and homecoming was a county-wide event. This place was a community in every sense of the word. Good gracious, half the county was related somehow! Exaggeration… probably… (but no, we’re not inbred). My family moved there while my mom was pregnant with me. Technically, I was born in Maryland, because the nearest hospital was 30 minutes away, across the state line, in Oakland, Maryland. But I came home the next day, so if I ever told you that I was “born and raised in WV,” that’s because I was trying to not bog you down with technicalities. My friends were there. The church we were at, Community Bible Church, was my church family—and it was right up the road from the parsonage. I had known those people my entire life, and they had known me. Everybody knew everybody. Old people talk about “When I was a kid, we could play outside and walk/ride bikes around the town without having to worry about being kidnapped,” etc. etc. I just look at them and think, “Uh, so did I.” Davis was like that. There was one guy who was a creeper, but everyone knew who he was; you avoided him, and I’m pretty sure he had someone watching him to keep him in line. So, yea. I would tell my mom, “Hey, I’m going to ride my bike,” just to call her from my friend’s house, five minutes later, to as her if I could stay there for the afternoon. Life was like that. It was beautiful. Speaking of beautiful... highest elevated incorporated town in WV? Davis. Largest Waterfall in WV? Blackwater Falls, Davis. Most beautiful place my father has ever lived in? Davis. I’m a mountain girl. My feet were tough from running around barefoot. I loved the cold. I loved to ski. Small town girl pride. Mountaineers are always free, baby!
Blackwater Canyon


My mom homeschooled us kids until high school, where she sent us to TCHS. I, of course, had not reached that point yet. However, in WV, you’re allowed to send your homeschooled child to some classes in the public school. So I, like my siblings before me, had gone to art at Davis Thomas Elementary Middle School since I-don’t-know-when. Once I got older, I also went to band and, eventually, virtual Spanish there. I was involved in the school there. I knew my classmates. My classmates knew me.
And I was losing it, moving to a city (technically we live in Hixson, a suburb of Chattanooga—but, again, trying to avoid technicalities).


Me and Beth 
Reunited-April 2009
I was terrified. I was heartbroken. But a part of me was ready. There was drama. It was middle school, okay? You see, I have a very **ehem** strong personality. I’m an acquired taste. I’m not one of those people who everybody loves and wants to be friends with. No, that was my best friend, Bethany. She’s wonderful—always has been. To drive home my point, last school year was her senior year, and she won homecoming queen (btw—I’m super proud of her). You see what I mean? So in my little cluster of friends, Beth was the favourite. She gets along with everybody, which very well she should! But, as the years had gone on, I had felt my friends kind of slipping away from me—like they didn’t care for me that much anymore. In fact, I felt like they liked my sister, Priscilla, better than me (she’s another one of those everybody-loves-her people; an absolute blessing, that lovely lady is). We had been friends since early elementary school (when I was very little, all my friends were boys…but that’s a different story). I felt like I was losing them anyway; that hurts—especially for a lonely, awkward, insecure 6th/7th grader! So part of me was being prepared to move away. My friendships weren’t as close as they had been. But I didn’t want to let go. Ooooooh, how I didn’t want to let go!


But I saw the need. I could see it in my parents. This was the right thing… it was time.
For the record, I never doubted my dad on his decision. I never became angry with him. I never blamed him. I knew—I know—that my father is a wise, godly man. He was seeking the Lord’s direction. If he felt this was what our family needed to do, then this was what our family needed to do. But it hurt. Like nothing else, it hurt.
My home
(Taken during a trip back to visit--March 2010)
June 1st, 2008 we packed up the Penske truck. I remember that night, as I went to sleep, I saw my room as I had never seen it before: empty. Walls stripped of all the pictures and shelves, furniture moved out, things packed in the truck. I never realized how big that room was, with its funky blue carpet, crumbly walls, and old, floorboard heaters (which are splendid to rest your feet on in the winter, by the way). I looked around and said goodnight to the room I had spent so many days in playing Barbies with my sister or friends. I had pulled out one of my baby teeth in that room—all by myself! It was there that my sister and I had done schoolwork—and distracted each other. Dance routines with Cill and Caroline were choreographed in that room. Fashion shows with friends, Oregon Train reenactments with my siblings… From that room I could watch the bus drop off kids or watch the snow pile up… from that room I could see the church.
The next day we packed ourselves up and left. I remember looking out the window and staring at our house until we turned and I couldn’t see it anymore. I watched all those familiar buildings pass by, just like all the trips we had taken before. But this trip was different. This time, we weren’t coming back. I soaked it all in until we passed through Parsons. Parsons was the end for me. I couldn’t recognize much of anything past there—it was all mountain roads. So as we passed the county courthouse, right across from Sheetz, I knew that that was goodbye. That was the end. The next time I would be there—whenever that would be—I would be a visitor. I had no clue what was in store.

Twelve years old, and my life was about to completely change.