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.