The Rest of Martha's Story

I appreciated that at the Women's Session of the LDS General Conference last night, Linda K. Burton included Martha from the New Testament as a "certain woman"–a woman who knew the identity and power of Christ. I found it interesting that Martha was mentioned because I'd just learned something new about her a couple of days before.

Like many other women in the LDS church, I have been bothered before by Luke's story of Martha in Luke 10. I resented the fact that Jesus reprimanded Martha for handling her hosting duties.



But Jesus did no such thing. He never told Martha that she shouldn't have been serving. When Martha asked Jesus to tell Mary to help her, what Jesus said, in modern terms, was, "Martha, you worry about a lot of things. But Mary has chosen the most important thing." Then an interesting word that I can't modernize with a single substitute: "And it shall not be taken away from her." The phrase "shall not," from my understanding, literally means "shouldn't." But its use in the scriptures is often more imperative than that. So what Martha could have heard was "must not" or even "will not."

I think Jesus meant to do more than gently reprimand Martha with this statement; I think he was giving her a promise. And while my evidence is far from surefire proof, I'm convinced that Martha took it that way.

My evidence comes from John's story of Martha, Mary, and their brother, Lazarus–the story Sister Burton referenced in her talk. I'd always appreciated the testimony Martha bore in this chapter, but I never appreciated some of John's other details until the other day. At this point, Lazarus had died, and "many of of the Jews" had come to to Martha and Mary's house to comfort them. Even while in mourning, Martha doubtless had hostess duties to attend to again.

But when she heard that Jesus was on his way, she left her guests and went straight to Jesus. How about that for change of priorities?

And that's not even all. While she did express her grief that Jesus had not been present sooner to prevent Lazarus' death, Martha followed with three confident statements–three statements that say even more than meets the eye.

"But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee." I don't need to worry about what happens next.

"I know that [my brother] shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day." My brother hasn't been permanently taken away from me.

"I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world." I know that you are the most important thing.

Jesus' reproof and covenant–yes, covenant–had not fallen on deaf ears. Jesus had covenanted that if Martha would put Him first, her most precious things could not be taken away forever. Despite the fact that neither her brother nor her Master had yet emerged alive from their tombs, Martha testified of these truths.

And then what? In the beautiful opposite of her actions in Luke 10, Martha went to Mary to ask her to come to Jesus, too. This perfect resolution makes me want to pump a victory fist. As does John's approving note in the next chapter that "they made him a supper, and Martha served."

I'm so grateful to Jesus and Martha for reminding me that serving–all of our necessary duties that bless ourselves and others–are good and needed, but that focusing first on Christ and bringing others to Him is our insurance for present and eternal joy.

Strength Faithened

You know those times when the connection between your brain and your mouth is momentarily snapped? You end up saying things like:

“Will you stow to the gore and get me some ghosted rarlic?”

Hopefully you’ve said something similar and I’m not just a weirdo English major who’s read Shel Silverstein’s Runny Babbit too many times. (Well, I am, and I have. But let’s move on.) Generally, linguistic slip-ups like these just fing a smile to my brace. But one particular instance of this “Runny Babbit talk” stands out in my memory as genuinely important.

If I remembered who said it, I’d give them credit, but I don’t. All I remember is that I was in a religious setting and someone, quite by accident, used the phrase “strength faithened”. Of course they’d meant “faith strengthened”, and that’s how I took it at the time. But the Runny Babbit enthusiast inside me stowed the original words into one of my mind’s numerous fandom boxes.

Fast-forward a few years. I’m living on my own, hundreds of miles away from my parents and childhood home—supposedly a big girl. Yet I’m in my parked car bawling into the steering wheel.

Nothing earth-shatteringly awful had happened to me or any of my loved ones for a very long time. I was healthy, financially safe, and surrounded by great friends. But I had some questions I felt only God could answer that I felt weren’t being answered, despite the fact that I’d “done my homework”. So I was ticked.

I gave the longest, wettest, ventiest prayer I can ever remember giving that night. I’m not proud of the things I said. After listing my woes and frustrations and questions and crying enough tears to fill both my car’s cup holders, I finished with the following summary:

“I feel like I’ve always been a pretty strong person—always been able to keep going when things got tough. I’m still trying to be strong, but I feel like that’s not getting me anywhere. I can’t go on like this.”

I returned to my apartment with no more answers than I’d started with and went to bed. The sleep brought me a little peace and a lot more sanity; I woke up ready to view the previous night rationally.

So I started thinking. I remembered what I’d told God about trying to be strong. And then to the top of my mind floated that Runny Babbit-esque phrase: strength faithened. But why? As I let my brain keep sifting, pieces of my prayer echoed back to me. One word stood out in each of them:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, but you don’t seem to understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, but it doesn’t seem like you’re giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, but these experiences don’t seem to be helping me.”

Did I really know the things I said I knew? I searched within myself, but didn’t have to ponder long—I knew I did. I'd known them for years. That was part of the problem: each of those truths was a given, so basic, too simple. How could they possibly help me with my complicated problems? That’s when an image unfolded in my mind, and I realized how hard I'd been making things on myself. .

I saw my questions or burdens as a boulder blocking my path, my personal strength as a lever, and my faith as a fulcrum. With every “but” in my prayer, I was choosing to ignore truth. I was kicking aside my faith and trying to be strong without it. And that was about as effective as poking a boulder with a stick.

Without faith, my strength was useless. The only way I was ever going to move the boulder was by placing the lever on top of the fulcrum—in other words, letting what I believed be the foundation of my power. I needed my strength faithened.

So I went to work. Instead of dismissing the truths I'd known since my childhood, I clung to them. I repeated them to myself every time concerns threatened to overwhelm me. It didn't work immediately. But when I chose again and again to actively trust what I already knew, every “but” eventually became a “so”:

“I know You’re wiser than I am, so you must understand what I’m going through.”

“I know You want what’s best for me, so You must be giving me what’s best.”

“I know I’m supposed to be learning and growing, so these experiences must be helping me.”

Things were still hard. I still didn’t have the answers I wanted, and I didn’t like living without them. But my path had been cleared.

And so, with strength faithened, I move forward. 

What I’ve Learned About Dating From Job Hunting

I hate job hunting. It’s a boring, whiny, and universal statement, but true. I recently relocated despite having no promising job prospects in the area, and I’ve spent about as much time searching for work as my psyche can handle.

Why did I move to a city jobless? Because it’s where my boyfriend lives. And, at the risk of getting a few choruses of “Duh”, I really like my boyfriend. He is completely worth the six awkward years of dates and non-dates and not-supposed-to-be-dates-but-ended-up-as-dates I had to go through before finding him.

When I thought about it, I realized that job hunting and significant other hunting are similar. Stunningly so. Maybe I’m just slow on the uptake and everyone else figured this out years ago, but the parallels were quite illuminating to me.  

Honest but Confident

In creating my resume, I’ve had a hard time finding the balance between talking myself up and truthfully depicting my talents. For instance, I’d listed the Excel program as one of my skills. But after taking (okay, bombing) an online Excel test, I realized that I’d forgotten a lot of what I’d learned. Thus, I moved Excel from my “Expert at” list to my “Familiar with” list. After all, I’d hate to get a job and find that I’m expected to set up crazy formulas I’ve never used in a spreadsheet.

Talking myself up was even tougher. I mean, can a few volunteer hours for an arts organization count as public relations experience? But my mother reminded me that I had done legitimate PR work for this organization and done it well (hooray for people who pump us up!). She convinced me to include the position in my resume.

These same principles apply to dating. Granted, we’re not “selling ourselves” to potential dates the same way we are to potential employers. But we will be giving ourselves: our strengths, our weaknesses, our personalities. The people we date—or at least the ones we date seriously—need to know what they should and shouldn’t expect from us. But in honestly acknowledging our shortcomings, we must also keep our confidence. Because we are awesome! It hurts us not to believe that. And our potential dates may miss out on knowing us if we don’t let our awesomeness show.

Looking in More Places

  

I had a phone conversation with my younger (and married and impressively employed) sister the other day. She asked how the job hunt was going; I said I was doing it online and had found limited success.

“Most jobs aren’t posted online, Sis,” she told me. “The only way I got my job was by talking with everyone I knew. That’s when I started hearing about positions I’d never even caught a whiff of when I’d been searching exclusively online.”

The idea of leaving the ease and security of my computer didn’t thrill me. I grumbled a bit before realizing that I’d done the same thing years before in terms of my social life: I’d glued myself into my comfort zone. Only after being dragged to a dozen not-my-thing social events with not-my-type people had I made the variety of friends I enjoy today. Most of my favorite dates came from this pool of people.

We can’t expect to find our special someones within our comfort zones. Whether it’s joining a new club, hanging out with people we haven’t before, or simply leaving our movie caves, we have to not only keep looking, but look in more places.

Picky vs. Selective

  

Timing also makes things tough. Ideally, I could get a job in my field that will yield relevant experience, but I also need to start making money before my savings are drained. I’ve found myself asking, “How long can I wait? At what point should I stop being choosy and take what I can get?”

A fair question, too, in terms of finding a spouse. On one hand, most of us know (or think we know) what we want. But we’d rather not wait years for the perfect candidate—if he/she even exists. So what do we do?

First of all, we’ve gotta be open to more possibilities than the “ideal”. Just like I could miss an exciting marketing job if I only type “writing” into my search bar, we could pass up great relationships by refusing to go on dates with people who may not be our preferred type. I don’t have to take every job I apply for, and we don’t have to marry all the people we go on dates with (thank heavens). No need to be too picky.

But we shouldn’t drop a spouse the same way we quit a job if things aren’t going well. For relationships, we have to make a list of the nonnegotiable traits we need most in a life partner: religion, work ethic, outlook on life, whatever. And we can never give up on finding someone with those traits, no matter how long it takes. That’s not being picky; that’s being selective. It’s something we can’t afford not to be when choosing the person to build our lives with.   

Don’t Freak Out!

  

Job hunting will always suck. Always. And no matter what job I finally acquire, it’ll have drawbacks. But chucking my laptop across the room in frustration won’t improve my chances or my well-being.

Neither will freaking out about our love lives (or lack thereof). I know as well as anyone the insane levels of clumsiness, tedium, and pain reached in dating. But we can’t dwell on those. Isn’t the whole point of dating to find someone who makes us happy? We will—as long as we don’t give up.

So I’ll write another cover letter. I’ll ask another friend if they know of anybody in my field who’s hiring.  I’ll put on the slacks I hate ironing to look presentable for another interview.

Then I’ll come home and kiss my boyfriend. :)  

Disney Princess Hunger Games

Originally appearing in a blog for one of my Lit classes at BYU last year, now resurrected in my personal blog. Names have been changed. Sorry the picture isn't of better quality. Hope y'all enjoy the post, anyway. :)

“It’s gotta be Mulan.”

“Why not Merida? She’s got some sweet archery skills.”

“But does she also have hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, and the brains to wipe out an entire army with a single cannon and some snow? I don’t think so.”

It’s our second round of Disney Princess Hunger Games in as many days, and the Gamemakers of Apartment 9¾ are hard at work. We’ve got two whiteboards out: one with a map of the New Orleans arena (drawn by Wes, a native of that city) and the other with a list of characters and events. I’m not sure whose baby this idea was, but we’re the village raising it.

We’re pretty weird. But it’s a good weird . . . I think.

Courtney, our Head Gamemaker, sits Gandhi-style (as opposed to Gangnam Style, although Courtney does have talents for dancing) atop an end table, marker in hand. “The map is done, yes?” she asks Wes, who nods and holds up his work.

“‘Waterlogged ghetto’?” Daniel asks, peering at said region of the map.

“Chalmette,” I tell him. “My turf. But it was dry long before I got there, Wes.”

“It is pretty ghetto, though,” he says, dodging the elbow I shove at him. “Except for the Brad Pitt houses.”

Leann wrinkles her nose. “Multiple summer homes in one city? Typical Brad Pitt.”

“They’re not his houses,” I clarify. “After Hurricane Katrina, he paid to have all these apartment-style houses built in the spot that had been hit the hardest—gave them away. Nice of him. They were supposed to be trendy, but mostly they’re just ridiculous.”

“Right?” Wes says. “Their bright colors are pukeworthy.”

Stephanie creeps into the room—probably trying to hide her dressy shirt and curled hair—but gives herself away when she steps on the now-empty bag of Leann’s homemade popcorn. We finished it long ago—I don’t think Leann ate more than a couple handfuls.

“Look who’s all ready for her date!” Courtney squeals.

“You look great!” Gretchen tells Stephanie. “If he compliments your hair, you can thank me. Are you leaving right now?”

“Almost. I’ve just gotta put on my legs.” She rolls up her jeans and straps on her braces.

“Aw—you’ll miss Mulan winning the New Orleans edition,” I tell her.

Jake winces for me. “Actually, Mulan is dead.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since we lit the city on fire.”

“I thought we’d decided on a swarm of nutria rats.”

“That’s not ‘til later.”

A knock at the door fails to interrupt us. “Come in!” we all shout without looking up. In walks Tanner—one of the cutest guys in the complex. Someone who, in my brain’s idyllic fantasy world, actually thinks I’m borderline cool. I remember what we’re doing and wince.

“What are you guys up to?” he asks before spotting the whiteboards. “Oh my gosh—Disney Princess Hunger Games? Are you guys serious?” Before we have time to answer, he rushes on: “Rapunzel is going to win, right? She’s got crazy arm strength from hauling her stepmother into her tower all the time.”

Yeah, we’re a good weird.

Coolest Christmas Present EVER!!!

Okay, I must be the luckiest girl alive! In addition to all my other wondrous Christmas gifts, I received something that most people wouldn't find very cool but that I find amazing. Remember my list of favorite books from a couple posts ago? Well, my mom knew that I wanted my own copy of one of my favorites, "These is My Words." But she went the extra mile, to say the least. My last present Christmas morning was a small package sent from an address in Tuscon. I recognized the sender's name immediately: Nancy E. Turner! She is the author of "These is My Words," so I unwrapped the package with much excitement. Lo and behold, there laid a brand-new copy of the book, and it was signed by Nancy herself! The message read, "For Katie, Merry Christmas and all best wishes! 'Keep your eyes on the horizon . . . ' Nancy E. Turner, December 25, 2010." I kept the package as a souveneir and thanked my mom many times over. She has been Nancy's e-mail pen pal for a while (so jealous!) and apparently asked her to sign the book for me. I'm now rereading the book and enjoying it very, very much. Hooray for my mother, and hooray for Christmas!

The esteemed author, Nancy E. Turner

The lovely book

Final Personal Narrative

Here's my final draft of my personal narrative. Hope you enjoy.  :)


Knowing Dad

The postlude sent mellow reverberations through the chapel as I stood up from my seat. I elbowed my sister a signal to wait up for me and slid past her; I had a question for Dad. On my way to the organ, he threw in an impromptu scale in the bass line, and I chuckled. Just short of the stand, our teacher caught my eye and I reluctantly paused.
 “Thank you for your comments today,” he said happily. “Very insightful.”
Modesty required a demure smile and shrug, and I answered, “Thank you for the lesson. Missionary Prep is always my favorite.” With an apologetic glance at the organ, I finished, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just have to ask my dad something.”
He did a double take. “Jon is your father?” he asked in mild surprise, barely waiting for my nod. “Really? I had no idea! Although, I guess I should have guessed—you look just like him.”
“Yes,” I rehearsed, “with the round face and dark hair . . .”
“That’s right,” he affirmed with enthusiasm. “Gee, what a great man he is! I’m always telling people how friendly President Pike is to everyone. And talented, too—those hymns today were amazing, weren’t they? He must work so hard, what with his job and church calling and position on the City Council and all. You are very lucky to have him as a dad.”
I turned in time to watch Dad make a registration change and a key change simultaneously.
“I know.”
*    *    *
A few days later, on our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family reunion, our Suburban took a slight detour. We were using directions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than the instructions had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines off the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate. In his defense, he’d been driving for six hours straight with six kids in the back quoting “Monte Python” and “Spongebob” the entire time.
“So what now—are we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?”
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn. Mom threw me a smirk the first time Dad checked his side view mirror.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing complete strangers say things like, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The appraisal of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
    She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
    I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
    “I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
    “I have?”
    “Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
    This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
    “Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
    I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
    “Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after you were born, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
    My mind began sifting through memories at top speed for evidence—was this all true? But it didn’t take much thought for me to realize what I’d always felt. I turned to my mom with only one more question left to ask.
    “Where’s Dad?”
*    *    *
    The closing credits of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” climbed smoothly up the darkened T.V. screen. I glanced at the bed to see Dad carving a slice of cheddar with a finesse to match Chopin’s.    “Hey, Scat-Kat,” he said after spotting me. “Whatcha doing?”
    I moved to stand beside the bed. “Nothing. Just came to say ‘hi.’”
    He hummed a satisfied reply and turned his attention back to the television. “You missed the movie,” he stated.
    “That’s okay.” I took a seat next to him and laid an arm across his shoulder. “Love you, Dad.”
    He tilted his head back to look at me. “I love you too, Sis.”
    A smile sent my lip-corners rising.
    “I know.”

Evaluative Conclusion

Well, it's been an interesting first semester here at BYU and in my Writing 150H class. This has been my first experience with a blog, so I've had to learn a few things. First of all, I learned that blogging is neither as hard nor as strange as it sounds--maybe I'll keep blogging in the future. I learned about visual rhetoric and how it can apply to blogs--which fonts are readable, what colors are most attractive, and most importantly, to include lots of pictures (which is something I've improved in). Theme, I've found, is also important to blogs, so I've tried to keep within my chosen theme of the written word for most of my blog. I've learned how to "follow" people on blogs and how helpful it can be to listen to comments on your work online (it's convenient that way). Although I've had my frustrations with the blog (namely that it won't let me cut and paste from Word documents on my computer--grrr!!!), I would say that it has been a positive experience overall. So blog on, world!  :)

Slightly new direction on my paper

So I know you're all just dying to hear even more about my "Wuthering Heights" paper, so here goes. I met with my English professor today to discuss what I had of my paper so far. To make a long story somewhat shorter, she wants me to shift the direction of my paper. Instead of talking about Catherine' wicked nature and how she makes everybody miserable in general, she wants me to bring everything in to focus ultimately on how Catherine's death benefits Cathy and Hareton. I can still include most of my stuff on Heathcliff and the Lintons, but my paper will still be quite different than I'd originally planned on. Even though it's going to take more work that I had hoped, I appreciated my professor's input and willingness to meet with me individually. I'm excited to finish the paper and see how my changes will (hopefully) affect my grade in a positive way.

Yet another paragraph . . .

There will only be one more paragraph after this one, I promise.

Of all of Catherine's bad character traits or lack of good ones, there are several that would have made her a very poor parent. Although Catherine does seem to possess the positive qualities of an active mind and, to some extent, loyalty, her spitefulness is quite pronounced and her religious ethics virtually nonexistent. More importantly, however, are Catherine's extreme and often demonic passions, especially when comes to her obsessions (such as Heathcliff and herself). William A. Madden points out that Cathy may have inherited some of this from her mother: "[Nelly] describes the second Catherine as having a capacity for intense attachments 'which reminded me of her mother,' the important difference being that the younger Catherine's love is 'never fierce,' but rather 'deep and tender' (155)." This difference between Catherine and Cathy is significant--possibly the main reason that Cathy ultimately succeeds and finds happiness in her life while her mother does not. However, if Catherine had lived long enough to assist Edgar in raising their daughter, her example to Cathy would likely have taken its toll. Cathy's trait--what Madden called her "capacity for intense attachments"--has the potential to become the similar but more wild and ferocious trait of her mother's, and likely would have if Cathy had been exposed to it. Because Catherine passes away so quickly after her daughter's birth, however, Cathy never has the chance to pick up this vice, and therefore escapes much of the drama and heartache that the vice caused Catherine.

Here's another paragraph

Here's the next paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" essay. (By the way, if anyone reads these and thinks, "Geez, she has crappy introductions and conclusions to her paragraphs," they are right. I'm bad at coming up with those, which is why I haven't done it yet in any of the paragraphs I've posted. I promise I will fix them all, although I can't guarantee they'll be a ton better.)

Catherine's love for Heatcliff serves him better in death than while she was living. "In Catherine's eyes, there is no possibility of abandoning Heathcliff, because the foundation of their bond is insensible to empirical reversals. She can treat him badly without alienating him; she even has to treat him badly in order to demonstrate the indissoluble nature of their love" (Phillips 99). Perhaps Catherine's poor treatment of Heathcliff could have been overlooked if she had shown consistent love to him as well, but she does not even give Heathcliff preference over a man that she married primarily for his status. The only time in her adulthood that she expresses love to Heathcliff is just before she dies, and even this experience is tainted for Heathcliff by his knowledge that she has been "cruel and false" (Bronte 159) to him for years. It is only in her death that Catherine gives Heathcliff hope (probably false, but hope nonetheless) that she would have chosen him over Edgar at last, had she survived. It also seems that Catherine spends more time with Heathcliff with her haunting than she spent with him in her adult life. Though she never visually appears to Heathcliff, she does, at least in part, visit him "night and day, through eighteen years--incessantly" (Bronte 278). In short, Heathcliff has a much stronger belief in Catherine's love for him in the years after her death than he ever did while she was living.

My favorite books

I was just thinking that I shouldn't be able to get away with keeping a blog about the written word without making even a short list of my favorite books. So here are a few of the many, many, MANY books that I adore:

• "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak (apparently they're making it into a move--I'm so excited!!!)
• "Peace Like a River" by Leif Enger
• "These is My Words" by Nancy E. Turner
• "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini
• "A Girl Named Zippy" by Haven Kimmel
• "Fire of the Covenant" by Gerald N. Lund
• And, of course, the Book of Mormon

Another paragraph

Here is another paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" paper (I really need to think of a title . . .) :

Catherine's most destructive personality trait was almost certainly her egocentricity. Although there are many instances of her self-centeredness throughout the story, one of the best examples may be found when Catherine tells Nelly that she has decided to marry Edgar Linton. When Nelly asks Catherine why she loves Edgar, Catherine gives the very telling answers of, "Because he loves me" (Bronte 77) and, "[H]e will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman in the neighborhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband" (Bronte 78). This, along with Catherine's admittance that she also loves Heathcliff, makes it quite obvious that Catherine is marrying Edgar for very selfish reasons. It is this choice that brings multiple repercussions to the Linton family. First, because Heathcliff flees into a storm during Catherine's announcement to Nelly that she is to marry Edgar, Catherine searches for him outdoors and falls ill. It is when Mr. and Mrs. Linton take Catherine into the Grange that they, too, become sick and pass away. Catherine marrying Edgar was also detrimental to Edgar himself; he had "a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humor" (Bronte 91) even in the happiest times of their marriage. Not to mention the appalling displays from Catherine after Heathcliff's return: locking the two in the room together, insisting that they part friends or come to blows, and "dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and grinding her teeth" (Bronte 118), for instance. Even Isabella Linton is not immune from Catherine's narcissism--it is to spite Catherine that Heathcliff ever marries Isabella in the first place, and this marriage is at least as disastrous as Edgar and Catherine's. As Marianne Thormahlen stated, "It is [Catherine's] self-love that sets the disastrous chain of events in motion. Catherine dies half-way through the book, but not before she has indirectly killed her benefactors, the Linton parents; destroyed the lives of the two men who love her; [and] brought ruin and misery to her sister-in-law" (187).

A paragraph from my "Wuthering Heights" paper

I've almost finished what will probably be the most complicated paragraph in my "Wuthering Heights" paper. Here it is:

Cathy and Hareton benefit in more than one way from the effects of Catherine's death on Heathcliff. Patsy Stoneman makes a crucial connection between Heathcliff's love for Catherine, his death, and Cathy and hareton in her article:


After twenty years of comtemplating 'one object, and one form', Heathcliff confesses to Nelly that he has lost motivation for his revenge against young Catherine and Hareton (pp. 392-3); in the next chapter he is dead. The crucial scene is in the penultimate chapter, when Heathcliff comes in upon Hareton and young Catherine reading together. 'They lifted their eyes together . . . their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw' (p. 392). . . . Their resemblance to his Catherine merely confirmed his outraged sense of loss[.] (532)

Most readers quickly find it obvious that Catherin is the reason that Heathcliff has a desire to die. This quote, however, makes it clear that Catherine is also the reason that Heathcliff is able to release his obsession with revenge and make himself die. When he sees Catherine's eyes in Cathy and Heathcliff, he is reminded of his love for her and decides that his desire to be reunited with her surpasses his desire for revenge. Although in the ideal situation (or at least as ideal as one could imagine in this particular story), Heathcliff would have come to this realization twenty years earlier, it's easy to see that his death is certainly advantageous in the lives of Cathy and Hareton. With Heathcliff gone, they lose the corrosive influence of Heathcliff's temperament and gain both the Heights and the Grange. So, although the effects were much to long in coming, Cathy and Hareton certainly benefited indirectly by the death of the first Catherine.

Graduation Sonnet

With finals coming up, I've been thinking a lot about my high school graduation a few months ago. For our AP Literature class, we were asked to write a sonnet about our feelings associated with our graduation. I'm going to post mine to my blog for old times' sake.

Winebibber
Though no robes smolder black, I feel as if
I'm at a fun'ral. Ev'ry row is lined
with youth I'll never see again, forthwith
approaching their last viewing in this time.
No man speaks ill about the dead lest he
adds a "God bless;" so are the vulgar hailed
comedians and those with courtesy
giv'n halos this day. Strange that wine or ale
may have the same effects as Memory;
all three grow spirited as they ferment
and make Us silly. Such kind trickery
allays the grief of our last shared event.
I wish you'd weep at leaving me behind,
But rest in peace--as long as I have wine.

It's Christmastime!

I'm going to interrupt the "business" side of my blog for the sake of Christmas, the only reason I'm going to survive finals. Here are a few of my favorite things about Christmas:

• The music (especially the MoTab and Harry Connick, Jr)
• Making gingerbread houses
• Christmas trees--I love the smell of pine and sneaking upstairs really early in the morning to just look at the tree like I'm about three years old
• The food (I could go on forever here)
• The movies (my favorites being, "The Grinch," "It's a Wonderful Life," and almost every version of "A Christmas Carol")
• Wrapping presents while talking to my mom
• Singing in my family Christmas concert
•  Being with my family
• And most importantly, thinking of Jesus Christ

I hope everyone enjoys the Christmas season, and, as Charles Dickens' Tiny Tim puts it, "And God bless us--every one!"

Wuthering Heights paper

For my English 251 class, I have to write a paper on "Wuthering Heights." I decided that my argument will be that the death of Catherine (the first) is actually a beneficial event for every main character in the story. I also have a basic outline of the paper with an introduction, a body listing reasons that Catherine's death is a good thing for the characters of Edgar and Isabella Linton, young Cathy, Hareton, Heathcliff, and even herself, and then a conclusion. I plan on posting bits and pieces of my paper as I write them, so if you have any opinions, feel free to comment.

I chose one

I picked a story and expanded it. It's not finished yet--it's missing an intro and conclusion--but it's got the main body. Here it is:

On our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family vacation in summer 2010, we had a slight detour. We were using instructions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than Mapquest had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”

“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”

“Is that what the directions said?”

“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines of the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.

“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.

“We’re not turning around.”

A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”

“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate.

“So what now—we going to drive around the whole lake?”

“Yup.”

All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.

After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.

“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?” (I’d gotten into the habit of calling him that a month before because it tended to get me places.)

“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.

“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.

“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”

“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.

“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn.

Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.

I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.

“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.

My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing strangers say things such as, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The comment of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.

“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”

                She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”

                I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”

                “I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”

                “I have?”

                “Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”

                This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”

                “Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”

                I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”

                “Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after I’d given birth to you, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”

Story #4

Last one, I promise. I think it's also my most promising one. It's another example of "funny," though, so I'd have to decide that would be okay first . . . anyway, here it is.

You know how childhood summers are—they run together in your mind like a single sunkissed day and breezy night. One of the only distinctions in my memories is of Guard Start. I did it for two summers—or maybe it was three . . . even those days are blended. The program claimed to be a pre-lifeguard training program for youth eleven to fourteen. In actuality, it was a place our moms could dump us for four hours five days a week. I’m not bitter—Guard Start had the added bonus of keeping us from going limp with boredom. Some of my favorite memories are from Guard Start.

Plus, there were boys there. I was not yet obsessed with boys—my interest for them was only to the point of admiring one for his leadership in a game of Capture the Flag or another for his ability to make me laugh every time I took a sip of soda. Still, I found something to like about virtually every guy I ever met at Guard Start. Take Gregory Mason, for example. He was a blond beanpole with a mind as vast as the Sahara and a wit twice as dry. Although no one was particularly mean to him, kids generally gave him a wide berth. He had a partially inadvertent habit of making people look like idiots every time he opened his mouth. This wouldn’t have bothered me except for the fact that it drove my best guy friend, Nick, to distraction. So, out of loyalty, I paid little attention to Gregory.

Then we had an all-day Guard Start competition, in which our entire class was split in half and molded into teams. Somehow, most of the kids from my neighborhood, including Gregory, ended up together. Each group was allowed to pick their own name. The opposing team christened themselves “Skippy” for reasons unknown to me. Alvin, a kid on our team who was obsessed with and in fact looked like Curious George, suggested that we call ourselves “Jiffy” to keep with the peanut butter theme. Most of us thought his idea was stupid until Gregory chimed in with a complete revelation.

“I just made up a cheer for Team Jiffy,” he said.

The rest of the team, primarily Nick, shot him a look. “Aren’t you listening? We aren’t even going to call it ‘Jiffy’ anymore.”

Undeterred, Gregory’s eyes alighted and his balled fists beat time on thin air as he chanted aloud: “Creamy, crunchy peanut butter. Cream ‘em, crunch ‘em in the gutter.”

Needless to say, we stuck with “Jiffy.” I mean, how could we have possibly passed up a cheer like that? It was brilliant! It was the ultimate team-named-after-a-sandwich-condiment cheer, and everyone knew it. Public respect for Gregory skyrocketed instantly. I don’t remember anymore who won the competition. What I have a perfect recollection of was our team screaming Gregory’s chant every fifteen seconds . . . and the smile on Gregory’s face every time we did.

“CREAMY, CRUNCHY PEANUT BUTTER! CREAM ‘EM, CRUNCH ‘EM IN THE GUTTER!!!”

Story #3

This story about my little sister and me is very short--I'd probably add to the beginning a story about me being disappointed with life or the way something turned out. It's also a little cliche, but cute. Again, I'd love to hear any opinions.

I sat on the swing with Libby, talking.

“That magic tree has lots of flowers this year,” she said sagely, pointing to the large flowering bush to my right. I didn’t even know what kind it was.

“A magic tree?” I asked, humoring her.

“Dad said it has more flowers than last year,” Libby repeated, suddenly producing one from nowhere. “They’re pretty. I found this one—not on the tree. It was just on the ground, ‘cause you’re not ‘posed to take them from the tree.”

I looked at her more closely, more thoughtfully. “So . . . the tree is magic because it grows flowers?”

“Uh-huh. The other tree—the one that’s like a Christmas tree—” she pointed to our scrappy pine, “that one is magic ‘cause it looks real’ pretty when it gets water on it. It sparkles.”

She flitted away, leaving me to wonder if my standard for magic was set too high.