Plants are condescending; anyone who has ever tried to make anything sprout up from the ground knows exactly what I mean.

The house I grew up in boasted a half-acre fenced-in yard surrounded by woods, and within that fence the front and back yards were always green and lush with life. My father can make anything grow. He would spend hours out there during the day when I was a kid tending to one island of beautiful bushes and trees he had planted twenty years previous and kept alive, and then move to another patch of flowers across the yard that seemed to bloom year-round regardless of whether or not they should. When summer came around I would join him, breaking up the roots and soil of some new potted plant he had brought home and putting it in the ground. They always grew with uncanny eagerness. As a child it seemed, at least through my eyes, that the plants knew my dad when he approached. It was as though when he walked over and bent down to take their leaves into his fingertips and inspect their color, they would lean ever-so-slightly into his hand.

When I entered junior high and high school my pre-pubescent love for gardening waned and eventually gave under the weight of malls and make-up and the general male population. It was not until I got to college that I even realized I had retained close to nothing of the green thumb my father gave me so many years before. It took several things happening around the same time to bring this to my attention: first, the summer after my sophomore year was the summer I stopped showering or shaving regularly and befriended a group of well-meaning (but equally as smelly) hippies who grew their own vegetables. We would sit around in our natural stench during those hot summer nights on their porch with lit cloves dangling from the corners of their mouths philosophizing about how ‘humanity is disconnected from the earth and nature.’ I would lean back in my chair, nodding in agreement and resisting the urge to scratch my underarm where the hair was beginning to get long and itch. The second thing that happened was at the end of that summer when our friend Danny moved in with my roommate Nanci and me. He had a green thumb that his grandmother gave him as a kid like my father had given me, only Danny was smart enough to till and harvest it each year. It wasn’t long before the front porch of our apartment was covered in countless blooming potted flowers, lush little bushes, and thick vines which stretched up the side of our building with vigor. My desire to take part in this miraculous and natural process–to once again become ‘one with the earth’–became so strong that when Danny went out of town for break that following Spring, I eagerly accepted his request to water the plants. “No problem, darling,” I said, “they’re in good hands with me.” I had overgrown armpit hairs and I rarely showered: surely this meant I was a natural at gardening!

By the end of the week everything was dead, I was in despair, and Danny was pissed and chain-smoking.

In fact it wasn’t but three days into Danny’s absence that everything began to wilt, so that by his return they were brown and crunchy. To make matters worse, it took a mere two days for him to get everything I had killed back to life, revealing me as the problem, not the plants. I had a black thumb. This eventually became the pattern for Danny, his plants and me over the next two years. That following summer we all moved into a fantastic house with a massive deck that ran the length of one side of it and a huge, beautiful yard. Danny brought all the plants with him, and soon added more. Every time he left town I would water them, they would die, and when Danny got back he would spend a day or two bringing them all back to life. On Saturdays I liked to sit out on our deck to write, and Danny would come out periodically to tend the plants. He would walk up to different ones, reach out his hand like my father would and take a leaf under his fingertips. The plants would perk-up and seemingly lean into his hand.

“Condescending little bastards,” I would mumble under my breath, and Danny would look at me with a cigarette hanging lazy from his lips and just laugh.

I eventually started showering and shaving again, but I still felt the desire to reconnect with the earth. Deep down I began to resent my black thumb. Even deeper down I blamed the plants–they knew it was me watering them, and they died every time just to irritate me.

Excepting a short-lived and final attempt at growing some potted romaine lettuce (it lived less than a week) I finally accepted about a year ago that my dreams of ever having a garden of my own one day need to be abandoned. For Christmas this year I gave my father a rather large gift card to the local nursery with surging but secret agony. Just before New Year’s Eve we took a trip together to that nursery to look at a few pricier plants he was anxious and excited to buy with his gift card. He was a kid in a candy shop; I was Tim Robbins wading through sewage in “Shawshank Redemption.”

So this past May when Lovely asked me to water her garden while they were out of town, I panicked. “I can’t!” I exclaimed, barely letting her finish her sentence. Her garden is massive–and beautiful. Azaleas, hydrangeas, rose bushes– “I’ll kill them.”
“Oh,” she said, slightly confused and rightfully so. I had just agreed to take care of their elderly golden retriever, Bear. But I explained to her about Danny, about my black thumb. “I see,” she said. “Are you sure?” I was sure. As a result when they left for their first of several trips this summer, Lovely had to pay the neighbor’s daughter to come over every day to water the garden. This is incredibly embarrassing, and even more so if we cross paths when I go out to get the mail. I knew it was best for everyone though, and soon the sharp sting of embarrassment receded to its normal, duller level of simple, bitter shame.

But a few weeks ago, just before they left for their last and longest trip–a two-week family vacation to their lake house in Michigan–I got an e-mail from Lovely while I was at work.

Anna–
You sure you don’t want to give watering the garden a chance? I’ll pay you the same as the neighbor. $**/wk. Think about it.
–Lovely.

I stared at the screen. It was a tempting offer, and I could use the money. Finally,

Lovely,
Okay, I’ll do it. But under one condition: you have to show me exactly what needs to be done.
-Anna

The night before they left we took an hour to walk through every part of the front, back, and side yards. These will need it only every three or four days. These just once next weekend. These here every day, and those every day–but no need to worry about these at all. I should probably write this down, I thought, but I never did. They left the next morning and I spent the first few days slowly reclaiming my roots in the garden each evening, little by little. When at the end of the first week everything was not only alive, but thriving, I went from fearing that time to looking forward to it. That first weekend I had a trip planned to visit my cousins in Lexington and I was worried about leaving the garden for that long, but at last minute Lovely had to come back for the funeral of a friend who had been sick and passed away. The circumstance was heartbreaking, but the timing was good. I left Friday morning, she flew in that afternoon. She flew out Sunday morning, I returned that afternoon. She later said that it worked out perfectly because the garden helped keep her busy between funeral and flight. On Monday of the second week I walked back out into the garden and felt natural and easy as I picked up my watering routine where she left off.

Then, on Tuesday morning, everything changed. I walked down the driveway in my pajamas with my coffee to grab the paper, waved to the neighbor across the street doing the same, and turned around only to see it: a patch of flowers on the side of the house that were wilting. It was too late in the morning to water them without risking them being scorched, so I decided to tend to them diligently after work, which I did. I went to bed that night feeling confident in all my new-found gardener’s wisdom that they had simply needed just a little extra lovin’.

The next morning they were dead.

By the time I got home from work, so were half their friends. “No!” I shouted as I ran frantically at them with the hose, and then followed what seemed to be an endless trail of death that stretched all the way around to the back yard. I called my mother in tears and shouted in unleashed hysterics, “I killed them, Mom! I killed them all!!!”
“WHAT?!?” she screamed. After taking several minutes to figure out what was going on, and then several more to calm me down, my mother finally reminded me that not only was there a heat wave sweeping across the Southeast, but there was also a dry spell, “so just water everything extra and it will be fine.” That night, what would normally take me about an hour to do I elongated to two. When I woke up Thursday morning everything was alive again, but barely. When I got home, it was all dead again, along with a young, very pathetic-looking tree which had decided to join them in the afterlife.

Then I saw the pattern. Alive in the morning, dead in the evening, and I realized: I was at war.

My hysteria quickly turned to rage. As I marched across the yard with hose in hand to begin another two-hour watering regiment I suddenly stopped and leaned over some brown-budded flowers laying flat on their sides as though they had been trampled, and shouted, “You will live! YOU WILL LIVE!!!” and then hit them at full-blast. This was also the evening that Bear stopped joining me in the garden, probably because I decided to get him with water at high speed at one point. I saw him trotting through a flower bed I had been scrambling to save, so I turned the hose on him. He gave me a stunned and irritated look, and then trotted defiantly over to a patch of dirt, rolled in it, and headed back up into the house and strutted through the kitchen, leaving a massive trail of mud and dust for me to clean. I deserve that, I thought, and kept watering.

By Friday the front, back, and side yards were beyond repair, at which point I replaced anger with alcohol. Lovely and the rest of the Hill family–including their three children Lively, Amiable and Youngin’, who had been gone all summer and barely knew me–were all coming home the next day. That night I stood out in the garden wearing a white cardigan and tank top, bright pink pajama shorts and old flip-flops with the hose in one hand–the hose-head locked in the “on” position– and my umpteenth Magic Hat Pale Ale in the other. I sprayed endlessly into a large patch of brown somethings and and sang Adele’s “Someone Like You” at the top of my lungs into the bottleneck like it was a microphone. This was defeat, and I had decided to go down sloppy and singing.

The morning the Hills were due to return I was too hungover and in despair to go outside. I let the dog out but did not join him down the driveway to grab the paper. I refused to see it. I spent my time instead cleaning the inside of the house from top to bottom as penance–dusting, sweeping, mopping, doing dishes, vacuuming. All the while I rehearsed a speech I planned to give Lovely about how I could not take the money she had offered me. “Why not?” she would say. “Because I am the bringer of destruction and death,” I would reply as I led her out to her dead yard. I then imagined her falling to her knees sobbing at the sight of the ruins, at which point I would turn around and head back into the house to pack my bags a week premature.

I finished cleaning in just enough time to change my clothes and come walking down the stairs as they opened the front door.
“Hi!” they bellowed with smiles and hugs. I smiled back and held down the vomit of failure.
“How are you? How have things been here? Everything go okay?” Lovely asked as she set down her purse and walked toward the kitchen–which led to the back deck, which overlooked the back garden.
“Oh . . . good. Great. Everything’s been good.” The muscle behind my right eye was twitching uncontrollably.
“Yeah?” she smiled. “Good! And how’s the garden? How’d you do?” She was already walking toward the door and before I knew it she had her hand on the knob and was turning it. My stomach turned with it. Here we go, I braced myself, and then raced to catch up with her.
“Hey, Lovely, wait. I need to tell you something–”
“Oh, my!” She was standing at the edge of the deck looking out. I ran up next to her, and began my speech.
“Yeah, about that. I tried to salvage it–”
“It looks beautiful!”
“–but I’m the bringer of destruc–huh?” I turned my gaze from her face to her focal point: it was alive. Everything was alive. The flowers were standing tall, the bushes were green and full, all of it was alive. My jaw dropped wide. She paced the length of the yard from end to end, stopping every few feet to put her fingertips under the leaves of this flower and that one. They leaned into her hand. A few minutes later we walked back up to the deck toward the house, and Lovely gabbed and gabbed about their trip as we went. I followed close behind simply nodding and smiling. I walked into the house behind her, wiped my shoes on the mat, and turned to shut the door behind us. As I did, I paused briefly and surveyed the perky vegetation standing tall and bright all around.

“Condescending little bastards,” I mumbled, and shut the door.

-Anna

Well, this was embarrassing.

My special gift to the world is that if there is ever an opportunity in any given situation for there to be a “that girl,” I will be her. “That girl at the party who pulled a muscle trying to Dougie,” “that girl at the baseball game who fell a row of seats attempting to catch a foul ball,” and “that girl in the supermarket parking lot who was projectile-vomited on by a stranger’s baby.” All have been satisfied by yours truly. Thus I decided there was no reason not to satisfy the role then. We were at a rehearsal dinner; it needed a “that girl.” As I passed I made eye contact, awkwardly flipping my hair. “‘Sup?” I said with a cock of the chin and kept walking. I was wearing a black, form-fitting cocktail dress, three-inch heels, and had a food baby the size of a bowling ball. Digesting was suddenly an extreme sport; I had to sit down.

As with most rehearsal dinners the food was fantastic, spirits were high, and lit candles were lining every table, window sill, and every other surface within reach that could hold them. I’d spent most of dinner sitting next to my friend Jill, who was nine months pregnant, eating equal portions as her and the two of us remarking with rabid fervor that if Joe, who had left is plate on our table, didn’t come back soon we were going to ravage his baked-potato like nothing the world had ever seen. His loss, he left it there. We then leaned back, laughed and talked, letting our tummies pooch-round–hers filled with baby, mine filled with food. My care factor for propriety was low, and by the time I overheard the above conversation I was just finishing a very short-lived attempt at walking off my second-helpings of sliced pork.

After the celebrations I helped the groomsmen clean and break everything down and then headed back to the groom’s house to get in my PJs, practice guitar for the following day’s ceremony, and drink wine and enjoy the company of all those in the house. By the time I did hit the wine portion of the evening it was me, the groom, Jeremy, a few groomsmen, the groom’s sister, Hannah, and the groom’s parents’, Sonya and Brian, gathered in the kitchen enjoying the fact that I’d clearly had one too many and arguing back and forth about not going to bed.
“All right, guys. It’s time. Go upstairs, I insist,” Sonya said, giving us all her best stern voice behind a huge, high-spirited smile.
“I don’t want toooo!” We all whined in succession. “You can’t make me!”
“Now,” she said firmly, “let’s go.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. Like, my name is Sonya and I am such a valley girl, like, totally!” I mocked. I blame the wine.
“Oh em gee, like so totally go to bed,” joined Hannah, who had no wine to blame.
“Oh, whatever!” Sonya said, laughing. “Go now!” We all shuffled through the kitchen, dragging our feet behind us.
“Noooo,” we continued as we dispersed and made way to our respective beds/sofas. I, however, with wine still in hand, decided on a last stand. I reached the second step of the staircase, turned around, looked at Sonya at the bottom and shouted, “No! You can’t make me!!” Then I threw my head back, “I’M AN ADULT!!!” and I stomped my way upstairs to bed as she and the others all laughed.

My relationship with this family is rather dynamic, and is unlike my relationship with virtually all other friends in my life. I was first introduced to Sonya as somewhat of an ‘older peer.’ She was a doctoral student in the Religion Department at Florida State, and I was an undergrad. Then I began attending the same church and I met her husband, Brian, who instantly became a friend and someone I went to for advice. A few months later their youngest son, Micah, began attending the youth group while I was the youth intern. That same summer I met their oldest son, Jeremy. And finally came their middle daughter, Hannah, who had the unfortunate circumstance of having to associate with me in public by way of the other family members. But we grew close quickly, and soon she was giving half of her bedroom to me every time I visited Tallahassee. She and I bonded over multiple “guy vs. girl” prank wars, among other things.

So really, to come in town for Jeremy’s wedding and stay at the groom’s house with all the groomsmen was not strange to any of us. Likewise, to stand at the foot of the stairs in my pajamas with a raging food baby hanging out and a half-empty third glass of wine in hand insisting via shouting to the woman to whom I’d both gone for advice as well as had lengthy discussions about the evolving tradition of lament in Judaism and Christianity after the Holocaust, that I am an adult, and I refuse to go to bed…well, this was not particularly strange to any of us either.

The next morning was an expected but somewhat organized scramble. Everyone in the house was rushing to get ready and head to the church on time for pictures before the ceremony. I woke up last, drank coffee and ate breakfast, then headed to the church in my pajama shirt and a pair of jeans for the musicians’ practice. After practice I rushed back to the house, showered and dressed, and turned around and headed back to the church for the ceremony.

I watched the service from the south transept with the rest of the worship band, hidden from the view of those in the pews but at a perfect angle to watch the bride and groom from in-front exchange vows and rings. As I sat with the other singer, Lindsey, watching Angela say her vows, Lindsey leaned over and whispered, “She’s getting married.”
“I know,” I gushed. You see, what made this wedding so special is not only how dear and precious the groom and his family are to me, but the bride as well–Angela. I spent several weeks in Uganda with her during the summer of 2009. It was a vulnerable experience, and she, Lindsey and I shared it with each other. So for the two of us to sing at Angela’s wedding was an honor, to say the least. More still, when we returned from Uganda Angela and I spent the summer living and working together, growing closer each day. That was the same summer I met Jeremy… and Jeremy met Angela. That was my girl right there. She is precious to me. And she was getting married to a wonderful man whose family held a special place in my heart. I could not have asked for a better match among friends.

As we sat my eyes glided over to Jeremy. He had elation written all over him. Just a few days before I had lamented that he and I had not been able to talk on Skype for a while and check-in on each other. It was the week before his wedding, and I know we both really wanted that time but we got busy and distracted. But the night before, somewhere after putting on PJs and before the wine took me over, Jeremy came into the kitchen, sat down next to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. I leaned back on him as we linked arms and sat in silence. He knew I love him. He knew I was proud. My lament disappeared.

Fr. John preached a beautiful sermon on why we say, “I will” and not “I do” in our wedding services. He also reminded all of us of the commitment we made in the ceremony to do all within our power to keep these two committed to one another and together, to which we all said, “We will.” The music cued. The band began and Lindsey and I stood to sing our hearts out as we led the ending procession. Afterward everyone went downstairs to the ‘cake and fruit’ reception while the bride and groom took more pictures. When they finished, Angela walked over to me and a few friends. We had been watching the shoot from the back of the church together.
“Whew! This dress is hot!” she said, fanning her ball-gown poof.
“Aww,” we said, giggling.
“You’re married!” said a friend.
“I know!” she replied with glee.
“You know what’s so great about it, though?” I said. “So often when I go to friends’ weddings all anyone can say is, ‘I can’t believe they’re married!’ But it doesn’t feel that way with you two. It just . . . make sense.”
“I agree,” said a friend. “It just seems so natural. It feels very ‘right.’” Angela glowed. We helped her fan her dress a few more times to get some air to her poor sweating legs underneath all the slips, and then made way with the bridal party and family to the reception.

Finally, after we had our fill of cake and fruit, and the bride and groom greeted every last guest; after the room was empty and we gathered our stuff; after all the ladies finished rubbing their feet and putting their heels back on and freshening their make-up, we loaded our cars and headed to a beautiful wooded plantation for the private dinner reception where we danced the night away.

Will I do all within my power to help these two remain committed to one another for the rest of their lives?

I will. It just seems so natural, so right. So say we all?

Anna

Living with Gentle and Lovely Hill has been a wonderful experience which has afforded me multiple opportunities to meet very interesting, and sometimes rather affluent, members of the Nashville community. One of those individuals is our next door neighbor, Ray Stevens. Yes, I mean the Ray Stevens, the famous country singer of our parents’ generation and the man who is known to be country music’s ‘funny guy.’

While Ray owns the house across from us, he is not currently living there because he is renovating. But from day one I have known that that is his house. Unfortunately, I never seen him. Our schedules go something like this: each day I leave for work around 7:15am. Some time not long after, Ray arrives and begins working on the house. When I arrive home from work around 4:30pm or 5:00pm, Ray and his crew are long gone for the day.

“Lovely,” I said to my hostess about halfway through my internship, “I have yet to meet Ray Stevens.”
“Really?” she said with slight surprise, “Well he’s over there every day.”
“I know,” I sighed “but he always gets there after I’ve left for work, and leaves before I come home. And when I do come home for lunch I never see him. I have to be honest, I really want him to sign my guitar. I mean, I’d hate to pass up such an opportunity.”
“Oh, I agree, that’s a great idea” she replied. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t seen him, but it makes sense. Well, next time I see him over there during lunch time I’ll have to call you so you know.”
“Yes, please! You can be my partner on the ‘Ray Stevens Look-out Squad.’”

Now, I confess I am neither a Ray Stevens fan nor a country music fan even in the slightest. I confess also that it has been rather difficult at times trying to navigate through the city which holds the Country Music Hall of Fame while having not just a distaste, but a strong, strong aversion to almost all country music (disclaimer: this aversion does not extend to various forms of folk, bluegrass, or southern rock). Regardless, a legend is a legend, and Ray Stevens is in fact a very well-known name in the country music world–known enough that even I had heard of him. Moreover, I was not going to spend my entire summer living next to him (technically) without, of course, getting my guitar signed by him if I could at all help it.

After I had enlisted the help of Lovely I began carrying a permanent marker in my purse to have ready-at-hand in the event that I spotted him. And sure enough, just a week later she called me with a crucial tip.

“Hello?”
“Hey, Anna. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I just wanted to let you know that I just pulled out of the driveway to run errands, and when I did I saw Ray pullin’ in. So I know you said you weren’t coming home for lunch, but I think you should reconsider.”
“Amazing!” I exclaimed, checking the clock. It was 10:45am. “I’ll just take an early lunch in a few minutes and head home!”
“Okay! He’s driving a —–. Good luck!”
“Thanks!” The ten minutes I was moving like a mad dog. I checked my purse several times to make sure the permanent marker was where it should be. I admittedly did an internet image search of recent pictures of Ray, memorizing his face just to make sure I approached the right man when I walked over. Then I grabbed my keys, grabbed my guitar (which I’d brought to work that morning for a class I taught) and barreled home.

I arrived just after eleven o’clock and decided not to pull into our driveway since it leads around the back of the house. Instead, I pulled off and parked on the street in our front yard (common in our neighborhood). This not only put me directly across from his driveway so I could check for his car, but it also put me next to our mailbox, giving me a good excuse as I could fake like I was checking the mail on my way in (for a visual, click here). However as I got out of my car I noticed that his was not there. I saw trucks, I saw cars, but not the one Lovely said to be on the lookout for. Great, I thought, in the fifteen minutes it took me to drive across town, he left.

My simple diagram

“Hi,” I said, with a smile and a very impressive mimic of the Tennessee ‘wide-mouth’ accent. If you want to charm a local it’s best to sound like one. “Is Mr. Stevens around?”
“No, ma’am, he’s just left.” This was disappointing.
“Oh, okay. I live across the street. I was just hoping to catch him. Thanks,” and I turned to walk back to my yard and into the house. But then–
“Oh, well he should be back some time. I don’t when, but he’s supposed to be back,” the man said with a little more trust in his voice.
“Oh,” I smiled, “well, great. Thank you,” and I went on my way. I walked inside the house pretty frustrated with the world’s timing. I only had about twenty minutes for lunch since I’d have to account for driving all the way back across town. I set my stuff down, walked into the kitchen and immediately began making a sandwich. But as I pulled the bread out of the bag I looked out the window and saw Ray Stevens’ vehicle back in the driveway! Ah, ha! He must have driven up just as I came in the house! Of course. Oh, please don’t leave! Please don’t leave! I didn’t want to go running over there like a mad woman, so instead I decided to wait it out, eat my sandwich and casually “catch him” when I left for work again. So there I sat, munching on ham and cheese and stalking him from behind the curtains in our dining room, constantly checking to make sure he hadn’t left. And when I finished my sandwich I very calmly grabbed my purse and headed back out to my car. But as I was making my way across our yard I saw Ray: getting into his car, and begin backing out! You have got to be kidding me! My timing was truly impeccable, but I was careful not to express this on my face, and kept walking.

As I opened my door, however, I saw that he was merely letting out a truck that his car had been blocking-in. This is perfect! I’ll just catch him when he gets out of his car.

The latter half of that thought was not necessary, because soon his car was slowing down, and when he was next to me he rolled down his window. He wants to meet the new neighbor, I thought. This could not have worked out better in my favor. I began subtly fishing for the permanent marker and braced myself for neighborly introductions.

“Hi,” I said enthusiastically as he slowed to a stop.
“Hey, there. Could you not park in front of my driveway?”
Wait . . . what?
“It’s really hard to get these trucks in and out if you’re parked there.” His face was a little thinner than it was in pictures and his voice was short and rather direct.
“Oh,” I said, blushing. This is not what I was expecting and certainly embarrassing. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t normally park here. I just came home for a quick lunch.”
“Yeah, ok. Well, I don’t know where else you could park, but it’d be good if it wasn’t here. It just makes it real difficult to get in and out.”
“Oh, right. No, I’ll just park in the driveway next time. I’m Anna, by the way,” and I held out my hand and he shook it. “I’m living here this summer with the Hills.”
“I’m Ray,” he said with a nod.
“Nice to meet you. Yeah, I’ll not park here. Sorry about that.”
“Thanks, ‘preciate it.” His car began rolling to pull into his driveway but I could not help myself–
“Ray Stevens, right?” I said with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My mom is a big fan!” I said. I’m an idiot. Ray gave a final nod and then continued up into his driveway.

The permanent marker was burning a hole in my purse, I could feel it, but I decided that perhaps I would get his autograph another day.

Anna

I arrived in Nashville two hours later than I had intended. It takes eight and a half hours to drive from Tallahassee, but I gained an hour from the time change. I sat on the Hills’ screened-in porch waiting for them to come home. I had spoken with Lovely Hill on the phone a few moments before, and they were on their way home from a dinner engagement with a friend.
“If you make it home before us,” she’d said, her light voice dancing through the speaker on my cell phone, “there’s a porch on the side of the house. Make yourself comfortable; we won’t be far behind you.”

The white-wicker furniture is decorated with white and green striped cushions to sit, and blue and yellow floral pillows to top. There is a coffee table, a bench, a side table with a lamp, and several chairs. However my eye caught the white-wicker porch swing, and I was sold. I sat swaying back and forth for only a minute or two before a car pulled into the driveway. I stood up, walked over, and greeted the people who would be housing me for the duration of my internship in Nashville: Gentle and Lovely Hill. A sweet couple that are probably in their mid-50′s, they were all smiles and each hugged me in turn.
And then, “Boy! Do you hear that?” Lovely exclaimed. And suddenly I did. A loud–really loud!–buzzing noise was coming from, well, all around us. “It’s the cicadas! They only come out every thirteen years! Don’t worry, though, they’ll be gone in a few weeks,” she said with a slight laugh. They showed me in the house and my room, told me how glad they were that I am here, and helped me unload my car and take my luggage upstairs.

Cicadas are large, loud bugs. They aren't harmful, and they don't bite, but they are disgusting.

As we sat and talked, I knew instantly that I would like living with the Hills, and wanted that much more for them to like me back. I tried to be on my best behavior–keep smiling (which wasn’t hard), say the right thing, listen well, and don’t stumble over simple vocabulary (which happens when I’m nervous). Lovely and I sat in chairs beside each other chit-chatting, with Youngin’ on the sofa talking as well. Gentle sat in a chair across from us, quietly observing and quirking a soft, crooked smile every now and again–but not too often. Every few minutes he would say a word or two and then go back to observing.

After an hour or so, they offered to let me retire to my room to unpack, watch TV and fall asleep. I turned on a miniseries I’ve been following, hung about two shirts, and soon knocked-out cold on the bed, confident entirely that this was going to be a great summer.

I woke up around 9:30 the next morning, and the house was already alive and bustling. I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas and a long cardigan, with glasses on and tousled hair. As I rounded into the kitchen I saw two young ladies my age who I knew must be Lively and Amiable. Lively, the eldest daughter, arrived late last night, and Amiable the middle daughter, had come over earlier that morning. They were both sitting in the den watching TV. Youngin’ was still asleep.
“Good morning!” Lovely was cutting fresh peach into her cereal, and Gentle was pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” I replied. The morning sun was beaming through, sending light in all directions and causing me to wonder whether or not I’ll need coffee; the sunshine was waking me up nicely enough. In the end the smell of the brewed grounds overcame me, so I poured myself a cup anyway.

We spent about an hour and a half doing more introductions while we had our breakfasts. I still wanted to impress them, so was sure to be as amicable and pleasant as I could be before 10:00am. I may look ridiculous in the morning, but I’ll be darned if I was going to be ridiculous as a first impression. Lively mentioned that she was moving in just a few days to Illinois, and asked if I would like to join her and Lovely on a late-morning hunt for a dresser and nightstand. I said I would, and then we all ran upstairs to quickly change, brush our teeth, and go. Lovely and Lively took the long way to the furniture stores so I could see different parts of Nashville. Need-to-know-shortcuts here, and “cutest little boutique” there, I loved what I saw and enjoyed the company. After the third furniture store, we found what we were looking for, loaded it into the back of our SUV, and headed home.

When we pulled into the driveway we three climbed out and chatted our way into the house. Lively had to meet someone shortly, so she ran upstairs to change, and I followed to go use the restroom and put my things down. A successful morning, I thought a few minutes later as I was washing my hands. I haven’t said or done one embarrassing or careless thing yet, I don’t think. I looked into the mirror and checked my outfit.

And suddenly, there it was. Holding on tight to the back-center of my lace overshirt was a giant, disgusting cicada. It didn’t move, and neither did I. My stomach churned and I quickly thought through all of my options. Taking off my shirt wouldn’t do because it might get caught in my hair on the way up. Reaching back and touching it was not even to be considered. And the angle was too awkward to swat it off.

I slowly turned and walked out of the bathroom. I took long, languid lunges down the hallway towards the stairs, and saw Bear and Lively both at the bottom of the staircase as I started my way slowly down each step. They were headed to the kitchen; I followed, first slowly and then breaking into a run about halfway down.

“EeeeeEEEEEHHHHHH!!!” I shouted as I neared the bottom, “Uhhh, I need assistance!?!?!” I tried at first to sound proper. But finally, “WAAHHHHH! I NEED HELPPPP!!!” I came running into the kitchen, and was met by the entire family, all wearing concerned expressions. “IT’S ON ME! IT’S ON MEEEEE!!! WAAHH!!! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!!! MEHHHHH!!!” I had lost all control and was violently flailing my arms and knocking my knees together as I turned around revealing the giant cicada-turned-passenger on my back.
“AHHHHHH!!!!” Lively screamed, and was instantly in the other room.
“Oh my!” Lovely exclaimed.
“Gross!” said Youngin’, with a slight laugh. Gentle, however, remained composed, and walked right over, pulled the cicada off my shirt. He showed it to Bear, who seemed entirely uninterested in it, and then walked to the back door and tossed it outside.
“Thank you,” I exhaled, and everyone went back to what they were doing. I stood for a moment or two blushing and awkward where they left me, and eventually shuffled into the den to watch TV.

In the beginning of every valuable relationship it is always important to make a good, lasting first impression. And while I flipped through the channels, twitching every now and again because it felt like the cicada was “still on me,” I knew that, if nothing else, I had at least left my mark.

My mom's on the left. I get all my sweet moves from her.

This one’s for you, Mom. Thanks for being amazing, and for imparting your great personality to my sister and me so that we could grow up to make fun of you.

Notable Quotable 1:
This conversation occurred two weeks after I informed my mother that I was going to be spending a portion of my upcoming summer in Uganda.
[phone rings]
Me: “Hello?”
Mom: “Anna!”
Me: “Mom?”
Mom: “I just want you to know, I was talking to Joanne, and Joanne has a friend whose daughter went to… I don’t know! One of those countries in South America! Like, Mexico! And she got a parasite! And this parasite started eating her insides, and they did all these tests, and they thought they were rid of it and then it came back! And then it was eating–I don’t know, her bones or something!–And they did more tests, and surgeries! And more surgeries! And they thought they were rid of it–and then it came back! And now, she’s an adult, MARRIED, with CHILDREN, and the parasite is back!! AND IT’S EATING HER FACE FROM THE INSIDE!… And I just wanted you to know.”
Me: “Thanks, Mom.”

NoQuo2:
[phones rings]
Mom: “Hello?”
Me: “Hey, mama, whatcha doin’?”
Mom: “Nothing, what are you up to?”
Me: “Well, I have two pieces of news for you that you might not like.”
Mom: “. . .okay?”
Me: “Well, first of all, I might be going to Guatemala this summer.”
Mom: “And?”
Me: “And . . . I’m getting my nose pierced tomorrow.”
Mom: “. . .”
Me: “Hello?”
Mom: “. . .”
Me: “. . . Mom?!”
Mom: “I have no comment.”
Me: “No! You can’t do that!”
Mom: “Well what do you want me to say?! THAT IS YOUR FACE!”
Me: “Wait–”
Mom: “WE WILL TALK ABOUT GUATEMALA IN A MINUTE! THAT IS YOUR FACE! YOU’RE GOING TO PUT A HUNK OF METAL IN IT?!
The next day…
[phone rings]
Me: “Hel–”
Mom: “BAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! BAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
Me: “Mom? Mom! Hello? What’s so funny?!”
Mom: “I just told your dad about your nose ring! BAAAHAHAHAHA! YOU SHOULD’VE SEEN THE LOOK ON HIS FACE!!! BAHAHAHA!”

NoQuo3:
Several weeks after we finally talk about Guatemala…
[phone rings]
Me: “Hello?”
Mom: “IDON’TTHINKYOUSHOULDLEAVETHECOUNTRY!!!”
Me: “What???”
Mom: “I WAS WATCHING THIS SHOW ON TV, ‘MONSTERS INSIDE ME’ AND–”
Me: “EW! What?! Mom!! What are you watching?!?! GO BACK TO OPRAH!”

NoQuo4:
Me: “Hey, Mom, so I’ve been thinking about the Peace Corps lately–”
Mom: “Oh my God! Why can’t you be normal?!”

NoQuo5:
Me: “Mom! I have to tell you about this GORGEOUS guy I met today!”
Mom: “Oh geez… Let me guess. I bet he does weird things to small animals with a fork.”
Me: “WHAT?! Who are you right now?
Mom: “Bahahahaha! Man, I’m funny.”
Me: “Thank you for believing I could be attracted to someone normal.”
Mom: “. . .hahahahaha!”

NoQuo6:
Mom: “You know, your father told me yesterday that he’s NEVER had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
Me: “What? Are you serious?”
Mom: “I know, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
Me: “That’s so weird!”
Mom: “Tell me about it. Next thing you know we’re gonna find him sniffing bicycle seats at the local elementary school! Hahahaha!”
Me: “Hahah–wait . . . what?”

NoQuo7:
Last year, while driving to Durham to look for housing…
[phone rings]
Me: “Hello?”
Mom: “Hey, I was just calling to check on you.”
Me: “Oh, I’m about 45 minutes from Durham. I’m almost there.”
Mom: “And what are you going to do when you get there?”
Me: “Well, I’m heading to my friend Lindsey’s house. She’s letting me stay with her while I’m here.”
Mom: “Oh. Does she live there?”
Me: “. . .”
Mom: “Anna?”
Me: “Yeah, I don’t get the question.”
Mom: “Does your friend Lindsey live there?”
Me: “No. No her house is just the place she keeps her stuff. She’s quite rustic, and prefers to sleep outside in the wilderness.”
Mom: “All right, there’s no need for the tone.”

NoQuo8:
Me: “I’ve been thinking a lot about other places I’d like to visit around the world.”
Mom: “You mean like, Italy? or France?”
Me: “Yeah, I definitely want to see Europe. I also really want to go to India one day, too.”
Mom: “INDIA?!?! PEOPLE CRAP ON THE STREETS THERE!”
Me: “Well, people crap on the streets in New York City.”
Mom: “THAT’S DIFFERENT!”

- Anna -

I confess I am always a bit afraid of touching things in waiting rooms at doctor’s offices, hospitals, health centers. Any day is going to be the day I get staph infection in the crack of my elbow skin, I just know it. This September marks ten years since my mom has been sick, so I’ve frequented quite a few of these. Wear long pants. Rest the elbows/arms/hands on your lap, not on the arm rest. I’m the only person I know who sits in a waiting room like I’m standing at attention. But everyone is neurotic in some way or another, right? So be it; no MRSA for me. I hear squeaking on the freshly waxed linoleum. A nurse wearing crocs and a set of scrubs with baby ducks all over comes walking into the room with a clipboard in hand.
“Anna?” she calls, looking up at me.
“Yes,” I say.
“The nutritionist is ready for you,” I stand up, grab my purse, and I follow her in.

When I walk into the nutritionist’s office I am greeted by a woman in her late 40s, with long, light brown hair. She stands a mere 5 feet, 4 inches tall and is no bigger than a size 2. She holds out her hand to shake mine, all smiles.
“Hi, Anna. I’m Nancy,” I shake her hand and return the greeting. “What can I do for you?” she asks as we sit in our respective chairs. She pulls out a piece of paper with a pen-in-hand, ready to write my nutritional life out on a chart.
“I don’t know how to eat,” I say. If I’m going to do this, then I’m going to do this. So I began . . .

I started my first diet when I was 12 under my mother’s supervision. I was rounding into puberty, and as my body changed it became clear that, while I wasn’t a chubby kid, if we weren’t careful I was going to be a heavy teenager and likely an even heavier adult. I was around 5’3 already (I was 5’7 by the time I reached 14, and am now 5’8-5’9, depending on the Steak ‘n Shake I’m in), and I weighed around 135lbs. My mother did not have to do this with my older sister because my sister was athletic. I, however, was musical, and when most people doodled I wrote poems. I was the girl in middle school and high school who “had a lot of feelings.” Sports weren’t quite my thing. In the end I lost about ten pounds that summer, and so began the habit which has been maintained with encouragement ever since: chronic dieting.

Most of my male friends comment on how annoying it is when women talk about being on a diet, usually because they’re always on a diet. It bugs men, and rightfully so. But what men don’t realize about me at least, and I suspect many of my female friends, is that this is how I was taught to eat. So to chalk it up to simply “being worried about being fat” is to over-simplify a deeper issue. The issue being: eating has a ‘points system.’ We’re taught to calculate–count calories, fat grams, meals, hours since we’ve eaten, pounds–whatever it is!–and if the number is too high, we’ve “lost the game.” It’s a sensation of failure that I cannot begin to describe, because you only play it with yourself, and you play it every day.

When I was fourteen I went on another diet and lost another five pounds.

My sister, my cousins and me when we were kids. I'm on the far left. My sister is on the middle-right.

My freshman year of college things began to escalate. If you have read any of my previous posts you would know I’ve struggled with anxiety attacks for multiple reasons, and this was another. I began having spells where I would absolutely panic when I got dressed in the morning. I would begin pulling everything from my closet, put on one outfit, take it off, put on another–over and over until I’d exhausted everything in my wardrobe. Sometimes the anxiety would make me cry. I was failing and couldn’t handle it. Eventually I would settle on something frumpy and comfortable because if I didn’t I would be late to wherever I was going, and then I would leave and feel upset all day. For the entirety of my four years of college I remained within the same ten pounds, going up and down and up and down and up and down. All in all, I can divide the seasons of my life in pounds. Call out any year between the ages of 12 and today (I turn 23 on Wednesday), and I can tell you exactly how much I weighed.

In addition to all of this, when I was 13 my mother developed Diabetes, which is a food-related disease. Since then she’s also developed high cholesterol, high blood pressure, undergone several amputations, and in 2009 she had a heart attack. And in late 2010 my father had a heart attack of his own, and we almost lost him. There are heavy people on both sides of my family, including my mother’s aunt who passed away at over 300 pounds, and an uncle on my father’s side who was around 400 pounds when he passed away. My fear of gaining weight and eating incorrectly was about more than just weight-control. Illness seemed like this inevitable end looming over me that I could not escape.

Finally, toward the end of my senior year of college I realized that I’d gained about four or five pounds, and was the heaviest I’d ever been. I started going to the gym several days of the week, and “watching what I ate” (whatever that really means–well, it means more chronic dieting), but found that nothing was working. After two months of consistently working out and “being good,” I weighed the same. Suddenly, eating became stressful. Well, that is an understatement. Eating was an overwhelming feat. And I began to hate it, because every time I ate it I felt like I was only going to gain more weight, and no matter what I ate or how well I portioned, I had the feeling that I was “wrong.” I was “losing” at something that should be so simple, and I couldn’t figure out how to win.

No longer was the natural, necessary process of eating natural, and because it was necessary I resented it. I couldn’t do it right, and I dreaded feeling hungry because it meant facing my own fears and my feelings of failure at a normal human activity.

So, just a few weeks after I turned 22, I stopped eating. I did not stop eating because I thought it would make me thin or help me lose weight. Everyone knows you have to eat to lose weight. I stopped eating because I couldn’t do it anymore. I hated eating, I didn’t enjoy food anymore, and I couldn’t face feeling like a failure all the time. Not even the very closest people in my life knew, but it didn’t take very long for my mother to intervene and sign me up for WeightWatchers. She said it would help me eat and lose any weight I wanted in the process. I enjoyed it at first, though every time I would walk into the meetings, the crowd of overweight women in their 40s and 50s would always greet me with a smile and slight suspicion. But since the scales and graphs from WeightWatchers also insisted that I was overweight, I felt I belonged there. However, as the summer continued I realized how starving I really was, and soon gave up and went back to eating regularly, with chronic dieting here and there, but the anxiety factor mostly under control.

When I moved here to Durham, NC for my Masters program this last July, I established routine–did well for the first several months.

Two weeks before I stopped eating (on the right).

Thanks a lot. In the process of trying to lose those ten pounds I have gained four. When the panic sessions started again while I got dressed and the chronic dieting got out of control I finally decided I’d had enough.

“. . . I measure portions by the portions of the people around me. I don’t know when it’s okay to be hungry and when it’s not, or how long after a meal I should eat again. I don’t feel like I’m allowed to be full. So I made an appointment with you because according to the lady doctor my BMI is 26 and it needs to be between 18 and 24 but I’ve gained four pounds trying to lose ten and I can’t seem to fix this in a healthy way and I hate eating and I don’t know how to eat and I don’t know how to overcome this and I’m miserable . . . and I’m so . . . tired.” Exhale.

By that point Nancy had stopped writing and was just looking at me.
And then she won my heart:
“Well, first of all, you should know that people make a big deal about everyone’s BMI being between 18 and 24, but we’re also finding that those with a BMI between 25 and 29 live longer. So your lady doctor is wrong. And in case you were wondering, you’re not fat. Secondly, how many points a day did WeightWatchers give you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Scribbling some math calculations on her pad, “Well, no wonder you were starving! That’s not nearly enough calories for a day. Here’s what we’re going to do . . .” We went through everything I eat in a day, all the things I like to eat–and want to eat–and how to get me off a chronic dieting way of life. “The goal is to teach you how to eat,” she said. “You will probably lose weight, but we’re going to stop caring about that. Deal?”
“Deal.”

The week my doctor insisted I lose ten pounds (on the left).

It came easy, believe it or not, and I enjoyed the walks. After a few days breakfast became enjoyable, and actually relieving and freeing. The goal is not to change what I eat, but learn how to eat what I’m already eating, only properly, and to incorporate more foods, not fewer. I also tried to follow some of the other advice about other meals into lunch and dinner. I was trying not to treat this like another diet. Yet five days after the appointment I was writing a final paper at a friend’s house and a few of us decided to make a run to Whole Foods for dinner. There it was, the buffet (which costs an arm and a leg) filled with dinner choices. As I stood with my tray trying to decide what to grab, my heart started racing and my breathing quickened. I looked at my friend Laura, who was with us, and she saw the panic on my face. Then I smiled and said, “Thou shalt not make eating difficult. Thou shalt not make eating difficult,” though my hand was shaking, and I made my selections and got into a check-out line.

I went for my one-week check-up yesterday, and Nancy and I went over what worked, what didn’t, and where to go from here. I won’t be able to see her again until August because of my internship in Nashville this summer, so she gave me her email address and a pep-talk.
“This,” she said enthusiastically, “is going to be such an awesome summer for you. You’re beautiful. You’re young. You’re going to go to Nashville, and you’re going to have a good time, meet cool people, walk around the city, and you’re going to eat great food, and you’re going to enjoy it! Right?”
“Right.”
“Uh, uh. It’s gonna be awesome, right?!”
“It’s gonna be amazing!”
“Good!”

So here I am. Munching on whole grain crackers with cheese instead of Ritz. I just answered a text message saying “yes” to an invitation for frozen yogurt, and I don’t feel bad about it. I have a bit of a stretch ahead of me, and unlike most of my blogs I cannot tie this one up with a pretty bow at the end. But that’s okay because life doesn’t always have neat resolutions to the stories we write.

And this is the story of how, at the age of 23, I am learning to feed myself.

- Anna -

*Credit for this blog post is owed to two people: Anne Lamott, whose chapter “Hunger” in her book _Traveling Mercies_ gave me the courage to write this post. And my friend Stephanie, who showed me the chapter, and then made me the best grilled cheese sandwich and garlic green beans I’ve ever had.

     If the world were on a string
I would pluck it
     and let it ring out and dance
upon the expanse of my being
until its note was the only note I knew.

     I would write symphonies
in its its key and
     violin cacophonies.
‘Strings for a string’ I would call it
and audiences would laugh at my cleverness.

     I would take that string and make
sure no one used it like any ol’ string.
     For they might lose it–or it might lose
its sound for them and they would play it wrong
or, worse, not play it at all.

     ’Cause any world that’s on a string
is meant to ring in the key she rings
     and we’re to pluck and
play along and let it
     tie us up and
          spin us ’round and
                         hold tight on to it
     until our movement
          ends.

But do not clap yet; she is not finished.

-Anna

We were sitting on the porch of Leander Hall, the visitors’ quarter where my room was, watching the snow fall while we rocked on the rocking chairs.
“So I heard from a friend that apparently the Pittsburgh Steelers do their summer training here!” I said at some point. “Is that true?” St. Vincent’s College is attached to the monastery, and there is a relatively sizable football stadium on the grounds. Matt had just given me an unofficial walking tour of the college campus. When I saw the stadium I was reminded of what my friend said and I had to ask.
“Yep. That’s true,” he said. “They come here every year, actually. And have for a long time.”
“That’s so crazy!” I exclaimed. “Do you ever get to see them?”
“I’ve seen them from a distance. It’s pretty cool.”
I paused and thought about how much my mom would flip if she knew. She is a big Steelers fan. “Ha, you know what just occurred to me?” I looked at Matt with a playful grin.
“What?”
“Every year when they come here you all probably stand around saying to each other, ‘Dude! I totally just saw one of the Steelers!’ Meanwhile they come here every year, and while they’re standing around at practice they’re saying to each other, ‘Dude! I totally just saw a monk!’”

I always found that statement to be strange. It was as though my faith could be “lost” or “misplaced” in the same way that one loses a set of keys or a pair of glasses. However there I was, Fall semester sophomore year, and little by little, without any idea as to when it had begun, I was losing it. Each morning when I woke up I felt like I had less of it than I did the day before, and I could not figure out for the life of me how to recover it or where I may have placed it in order to retrieve it. But what caused most of what ended up being almost a two-year struggle to “find my faith again” was not difficult theological questions, or the long history of scribal errors in our holy writ, or antagonistic professors (a stereotype which I never saw fulfilled by my wonderful professors at FSU), or even the messes that are our long history of anti-semitism, the oppression of women, and the holy wars. No. None of that was it.

I was “losing my faith” because I realized that the faith upon which I had built my entire life looked nothing like what I found in my text books. Martyrs, creeds, saints, desert fathers, theological crises, liturgy, eschatology, women mystics, ancient traditions, sacraments–entire empires of people!–what was all of this?! who were they? This looked nothing like the white walls, “rockband worship band,” bright lights and sound boards, individual devotions Christianity I had always known.
I did not recognize my own religion.

Now, before I continue, I want to make very clear that this is not a post that is meant to bash the tradition I grew up in or the people in that community. They were good to me, and as I write many faces come to mind of people who loved me dearly and whom I loved in return. Nor do I want to paint the caricature that there was never mention of the above topics. But it was not like what was suddenly in front of me. And though I have been gone for years, I do think it is fair to say that when I was there, there was very little emphasis on such things. [I am currently calling to mind a conversation I had not long ago with a rather prominent individual in the community who looked at me completely puzzled when I mentioned the Nicene Creed; they had never heard of it. And another conversation when I was asked by someone else if Anglicanism is a cult, which I found hurtful since I had just been confirmed; but this person had never heard of that, either.]

Nonetheless here I was: a Christian, studying a Christianity I had never heard of. I was hurt, I was confused . . . I was so, so angry. And my troubles began much at my own hand. Immediately out of my anger I began to violently and wrongfully sever ties with everyone I could whom I saw as connected to my evangelical life. They are liars, I thought, also wrongly, pastors and leaders especially. They cannot be trusted. They have lied to me and what they haven’t knowingly hidden from me has been kept from me because my church has thrown it away. Friend by friend I cut myself from away. Those I did not suspect of malice I reduced to ignorance, and left them to their fate of being led blindly for the rest of their days.

By the time I rounded around to Spring semester sophomore year I was without community, without a church, or hardly anyone associated with my religion whom I trusted, and I had yet to find anything that “looked like” that Christianity I felt had been denied me. Soon, as I pushed away on one side and lost on the other, I began to pick up something new: anxiety attacks. Mostly I had them right after I got up in the morning. It was always the same thought. It was not that I did not believe in God anymore or did not want to believe in God. Rather it was that I felt like God had left. Disappeared to who-knows-where, and I did not know how or where to find God again. Maybe I misplaced God with my faith and my keys. And with the disappearance of God everything I had built my life, my hopes for the future, my career goals, my ‘day-to-day’ upon – that disappeared with God, too. And that is when I would begin to have an anxiety attack, because it was just me sitting at the edge of the bed and no one else was with me.

Then I met Matt. It was the Thursday of the first week of classes that Spring. I had three classes back-to-back on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Matt was in the first and third classes with me, and on that first Thursday, after “class one,” he made the connection and approached me. We began talking, which then turned into walking and talking as I had to get to my second class. Thus began a tradition which was maintained for every subsequent Tuesday and Thursday for the next 16 weeks: he walked me to class. He was Catholic, and while I still self-identified as a Christian, he had no idea what was happening in and around me. In fact, I made sure not to tell him. I was afraid that if I told him it would ruin the friendship, which I could not let happen. He was the only stable connection I had to Christianity, and I wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

For the most part we would talk about general things going on in our lives, but often we would talk about faith. Well, really he would talk about faith and I would listen. I hung onto what he said like it was water, and I was in a dry and weary land. He never preached. He mostly just thought out loud. But when he spoke I felt like I could hear martyrs; I could hear ancient tradition; I could hear genuine questioning and struggling that was unafraid; I could hear assurance. What was most intriguing to me about the pair we made was that I am a raging extrovert (which usually leaves me embarrassed), and Matt is a raging introvert (which usually leaves him miserably lonely), and yet most days it was most helpful for him to speak and for me to be silent. I was never embarrassed, and he was never lonely. Matt was not “un-cool” or “socially awkward,” but whenever I try to describe him to someone, the best I have come up with to say is, “It is as though he was perfectly fit for a place I cannot figure out. It feels like he was abstracted from elsewhere. He could get along just fine in our world and in life. But I always felt like he had an adventure waiting for him in some place I cannot articulate.”

I looked forward to every Tuesday and Thursday. On the days when class was cancelled or schedules were somehow changed, we would meet anyway. That un-official fifteen minutes was holy, set apart. My anxiety attacks stopped, and I soon began to feel my heart and spirit healing. Somewhere about halfway into the semester, Matt, who was an English major and graduating that semester, finally answered the one question he had always skirted around every time I asked it.

“So what do you want to be when you grow up?”
…and finally one day he said, “A monk.”
“Oh,” I looked at him a little shocked, and then I smiled. “Okay then.”

Once he made his big confession everything just got that much better. He would talk openly about his desire for the monastic life, and I was all the more intrigued to hear. Whenever I think about that semester, every memory I recall is sunny.

After he graduated we wrote e-mails back and forth to keep in touch. Finally, the July before my senior year he wrote me one final e-mail telling me he had been invited into a Benedictine monastery in Pennsylvania. He had to leave right away, and would not be allowed to use the internet for the next year. But, if I was willing, we could write letters.

So for the next twelve months we wrote our friendship out by hand. I have dozens of letters in a folder in my room: letters about his first year as a monk, about my job as a youth minister, about how I was soon to be confirmed Anglican, about his discernment at the monastery, an entire letter in which he tried to convince me of transubstantiation (he gave a valiant effort, ha), and about how I missed Uganda so much it hurt.

Finally, after three years of communicating through e-mails and letters (and then e-mails once again), I was able to visit him last month. It was over Spring break, and I drove the 8 hours to St. Vincent Archabbey in Latrobe, PA. When I arrived I called his room to tell him I would meet him in front of the basilica. And as I stood on the steps taking in the mountain view, I heard someone say my name. I looked over, and saw Matt rounding the corner in his habit. There it was: the adventure I knew he was meant for. It was so right. It was good. From Friday afternoon to Monday morning I joined with him in the monks’ life at St. Vincent’s. Prayer three times a day, and walking and talking all day in between (an activity with which we were perfectly content). He showed me where he liked to pray, liked to study, and where he worked. We joked about the monastery cat and the Pittsburgh Steelers. It was wonderful. It was ‘sunny.’

On Saturday night at dinner I was telling him about school and he asked me about Field Placement (the required internship for my graduate program) and what kind of placement I requested for the summer.

“I told them that I want to walk people to class for the summer.”

He looked a little confused and asked me to explain. So over the next 10 minutes I began to tell him all about what he had meant to me that semester. I told him about my struggles, and my pain and loneliness, and how to this day some of my attempts to repair those broken relationships have not been successful because of just how angrily and violently I went on my rampage. I told him that his friendship was the reason I had remained stable, and that he taught me more about ministry than anyone I had ever known. And I told the Field Placement office about him because I want to spend my summer doing for others what he did for me.

“Wow. Really? Wow. I had absolutely no idea,” he said, blushing, and I laughed.

I spent four glorious days at St. Vincent’s. During my last Morning Prayer there, I sat in the pew next to Matt and chanted the psalm along with him and the other monks, thinking about how I was proud of him for being courageous enough to do what he has done with his life. I thought about all he had done for me, and the amazing friend I was not expecting when I needed him most. I thought about how God had not disappeared. Matt is my proof.

As we rounded the end of the chant and stood in unison for the Gloria Patri, I, like an idiot, broke into a huge grin.

And together we bowed, and sang,

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son :
and to the Holy Spirit;
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be :
world without end.

Amen.”

-Anna

Cashier: “Hi, how are you?”
Me: “I’m well, thanks. How are you?”
Cashier: “I’m good thanks.”
*awkward pause; he continues to ring-up my groceries*
Cashier: “So are you a student over at Duke?”
Me: “I am, actually. I’m a Master’s student.”
Cashier: “Oh, cool. What are you studying?”
Me: “Divinity, actually.”
Cashier: “Oh, like Christianity and stuff?”
Me: “Well, yes, though my main focus has always been Judaism.”
Cashier: “So are you like a Christian who studies Jews?”
Me: “Uh, yeah. I’m a Christian.”
*pause*
Cashier: [lowering his voice] “So, is it just me, or does anyone else think that the crusades were totally justified?”
Me: *blank stare*
Cashier: “I mean, what’s the big deal about defending yourself when they’re taking over your holy land?”
Me: *blank stare*
Cashier: “I mean, you gotta admit: it wasn’t as big a deal as everyone acts.”
Me: *blank stare*
*pause*
Me: [taking my receipt] “Uh, thanks.”
Cashier: “Have a great night!”

Scenario 2
Situation: Sitting at the bar of a restaurant with my sister, having appetizers and drinks for a ‘Sister Night’
Occurred: December 29, 2010

Creepy man on my left: “So do you live around here?”
Me: “No, actually I’m just in town visiting my family. I live in North Carolina.”
Creep: “Oh, you work up there?”
Me: “Uh, no I’m in school.”
Creep: “Yeah? What are you studying?”
Me: “I’m getting a Master’s right now in Divinity.”
Creep: “Seriously? But what are you gonna do with that kind of degree??”
Me: “Well, you can do lots of things. I mean, I could work in non-profit, or study genocide or something.”
Creep: “Genocide? Man, I’ll tell you all about that. Here’s how it works–’cause I majored in political science over at the community college. Let’s take Africa, for instance . . .”
Me: *blank stare*
Creep: “You got the ‘Oogey-Boogey’ tribe over here, and the ‘Jaboogey-Boogey’ tribe over there. And they’re running around all naked and primitive, and don’t know the difference between nothing.”
Me: *blank stare*
Creep: “And one of the guys steals a coconut from someone in the other tribe, and they start fighting. Then the whole tribe gets in on it, and one tribes slaughters everybody in the other tribe and Americans have to go in there and just sort out that nonsense.”
Me: “Really? Is that right? Wow, it’s amazing how simple that was. So have you, like, been to Africa and stuff then?”
Creep: “Aw, nah, darlin’. Nobody actually goes there.”
Me: “Really? . . . Well, I’ve been to Africa . . . and you’re an idiot.”
Creep: *blank stare*

Later that evening . . .

Creep 2: “Hey, girl. Can I sit next to you?”
Me: “Uh, sure.”
Creep 2: “So you live around here?”
Me: “No, I’m just in town visiting from North Carolina.”
Creep 2: “Oh yeah? You in school or working up there?”
Me: “I’m a Master’s student at Duke, actually.”
Creep 2: “Yeah?! That’s awesome! What are you studying?”
Me: “Divinity.”
Creep 2: “Divinity?? So you wanna be a nun?!”
Me: *blank stare*

Even later that evening…

Creep 3: “So what’s up with you?”
Me: “Uh, nothing.”
Creep 3: “You just hanging out?”
Me: “Uh, yeah. Just in town visiting my family, having a girls’ night with my sister.”
Creep 3: “Oh yeah? Where are you from?”
Me: “Here, originally. But I live in North Carolina now.”
Creep 3: “That’s cool. You in school up there or something?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m a Master’s student at Duke.”
Creep 3: “Oh cool. What are you studying?”
Me: “Divinity.”
Creep 3: “Huh? Divinity? Like, you’re studying to be a nun?”
Me: *blank stare*
Creep 3: *blank stare*
Me: “Yes. Yes, I’m studying to be a nun. You’ll have to excuse me, I need to go practice my vow of silence.”

[Note: This was not the first time I've been asked if I am going to be a nun. This was just the first time I was asked more than once in the same evening. The total number of times I've been asked this question is somewhere around 10.]

Other unsuccessful conversations
Creep: “Religion? Oh, well, I don’t believe in God.”
—–
Creep: “Philosophy? No way! ‘Cause I got my own personal philosophy about the world being on like all these different planes of reality and stuff. . .”
—–
Creep: “Divinity? So you’re like, a priest?”

Theoretical Situation
Scenario: What I will say next time someone asks what I study (courtesy of my friend Russell)

Theoretical Creep: “So what do you study?”
Me: [slowly locking eye-contact] “Taxidermy.”
Theoretical Creep: “Uh, really?”
Me: “Yes. I just really love the aesthetics of a stuffed dead animal. Don’t you?”

-Anna-