Best Friends

I was scared on my first day of school. I remember walking up the steps, stopping halfway. I looked back at my mother in the car; she smiled and motioned me inside.

My classroom was the first one inside the door on the left. I was in awe of so many children. But my teacher was pretty and nice and treated me like I was gold. And I quickly found my first best friend.

Cindy was a sweet and tender child. Her joy of life was not dimmed by the leukemia she battled. She attended school when possible but was mostly a home-bound student. So I wasn't able to see her and play with her much. But we were best friends, and we reveled in the time we had together.

On her birthday, Cindy and her mother came to class so we could all celebrate together. I hadn't seen Cindy in a very long time. The teacher said that Cindy had to have extra shots so she could be around all of us. It made me sad that she had to endure pain just to see her friends.

But her mother had brought a beautiful cake with mounds of chocolate icing. I was so excited: chocolate was my favorite. I hopped from one foot to the other in anticipation. I was the first one in line for my share of the cake with the luscious chocolate frosting.

When Cindy handed me my plate, I took the biggest bite of cake that my mouth could hold. And gagged. The icing wasn't chocolate. It was licorice.

When Cindy died, my mother clipped her obituary from the newspaper. I still have it. Her photo is grainy and unclear, but it's my Cindy.

From the clipping, I know that she experienced exciting events in her short life. She toured Washington, D.C., as a guest of two members of the House of Representatives. She was also an on-stage guest of television stars Carol Burnett and Gomer Pyle during a live performance. And she was named Junior Queen at the local hospital during National Hospital Week.

I've thought of Cindy often throughout the years. I remember that she was always smiling, even when she wasn't well. And I remember that connection I felt, when Cindy became my first best friend. Many times I thought about putting flowers and a note on her grave, but I never did. And now she's far away.

And I suppose I've recounted all this to say one simple thing: Cindy, I remember you.

The Most Important Job

This morning as I read my Bible and worked through my prayer beads, I reflected unexpectedly on my Christian heritage. I accepted Jesus into my heart when I was 4 years old, ample evidence of a Christian home. I have always been certain of my salvation.

Although my daddy was an ordained minister, my family didn't attend church regularly when I was growing up. Nevertheless, my parents ensured that we were well-grounded in the conservative Christian faith.

We watched Day of Discovery on the television and listened to Radio Bible Class on the radio, and we did our individual daily devotions using Our Daily Bread.

We memorized Scripture through Bible Memory Association and went to camp every summer. I remember memorizing in Primary Books through Adult Books, and I went to camp for the first time when I was old enough by camp policy: nine. I was there every summer for nine years.

When I was 15, my parents allowed me to leave home for a private Christian boarding school. It was the most freedom I had ever had, and my faith continued to blossom.

When I was 17, they encouraged me to travel to British Columbia as a summer missionary, a privilege I obtained through my attendance at boarding school.

Yes, my family was flawed, in some areas excessively. Yes, discipline was harsh and, by today's standards, completely unacceptable. Yes, a portion of my damaged psyche arose from my childhood.

But a parent's greatest mandate from God is the salvation of their children once they reach the age of accountability, and a parent's subsequent greatest responsibility to their children is Christian education. My parents fulfilled the assignment God gave them or I would not have survived to the age I am now.

Have I had crises of faith? Of course. Almost every day I doubt and question. And though I miss my parents terribly, I'll see them again, and I'll have the wonderful, the exquisite opportunity of thanking them for doing their job, the most important job of all.

(Written July 31, 2009)

Serenity

Today is a beautiful day, and so far I've accomplished much. This is my first post of my first blog. And there is irony here:  I never understood the attraction of blogs. Give me a beautiful journal and a smooth pen and I am incredibly inspired...I've written in journals since I was ten years old. They're fun. They're therapeutic. They're peaceful. What pleasure could be gained by looking at a computer screen and typing on a keyboard?

But somehow the creative, yes, creative, power of the internet has motivated me. Because my real world is very small, and I have little control over its size. The internet world, though, reminds me of who I used to be, before the overworking, before the depression, before all the deaths. I can explore genealogy and archaeology, I can visit long-distance family, I can study the stars and the seas. I can even make my real world bigger.

So I begin. I expect to post heavy thoughts, useless trivia, family history, and precious memories. Maybe I'll even post photos, and links, and original poetry. If I'm very fortunate, perhaps I'll find fragments of my former self and start to paste them together.

But nothing will ever completely replace a beautiful journal and a smooth pen.

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and some absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays." -Ralph Waldo Emerson