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.