Cast of Characters

So these are my sibs.

This is Lilly. She likes attention. 

This is Brendan. He's quieter and is in a band. He plays keys. 

This is Turtle. He likes science and he's a spaz. 

This is Patrick. He's a seminarian and he has a banjo that he doesn't play that often. 

This is Megan. She ACTUALLY became a marine biologist. 

Sludge

So I have worked at this wonderful place called Camp Wojtyla for the past two summers.
I have never worked so hard in my life than I did in those two summers.
Camp taught me so many things, and I would not be the person I am today without those weeks in the wilderness.
Just to paint a picture- it is a Catholic outdoor adventure camp without running water or electricity and everyone sleeps in 24 foot teepees that the counselors put up. But actually we don't get to sleep in the teepees, we sleep outside on the ground.

One time a mosquito bit me on my lip in the middle of the night and I woke up looking like Angelina Jolie. well, half of my lip at least.
One time a mountain lion walked by us as we were sleeping.
One time a black bear kept trying to hang out.
So someone shot him.


With rubber bullets.
Maybe.
jk. they were.
at first.

haha.
Ok also, camp allowed me to let Jesus to tell me how to love myself. And what my gifts are- and what it looks like to use them to glorify something real.

It also taught me that I am lactose intolerant.
Now I think this intolerance had been building for awhile. I remember freshman year of college things started to act up. After eating soft serve once a day I started to feel more that just guilt. A few rumblies you could say. By the summer after my sophomore year (first summer at camp) I was forced into facing the facts.

I was really good at living in denial. Who isn't really. But one morning I reached the point of no return.
So we do summit attempts (we like to say attempts so people don't get sad if they don't make it). This means you get up at the butt crack of dawn (3am on a good day), and hit the road to go hike uphill for 10 hours. Its awesome, really it is. Once you get to the top.

For breakfast we get sludge and a piece of fruit. Sludge is a plastic baggie with peanut butter, granola, chocolate and dried fruit all mixed together. You rip off one end of the plastic baggie and squeeze it into your mouth.
Maybe if you love peanut butter and combinations of food that look like throw up you'd dig this stuff. But I am not one of those people.
The reality is, sludge gives you all the protein and energy you need to make it through those 10 hours. Thats a lie, but at least the first 3 or 4.
So I choked this stuff down. Pretended that I liked it (this was my first summer so I was still trying to pretend that I was the happiest human alive).

Well I lasted a few summit attempts with this stuff. Until one morning mid summer we were doing a just staff attempt. We made pizza the night before; and my friend Jayne and I decided we were tired of sludge (this was true), so eating leftover pizza for breakfast would be a much better idea (this was not true).

At the time it seemed great. So I grabbed a huge piece of mozzarella mushroom pizza and hopped in the crowded van to go reach my glorious summit.
Cue in recall of lactose issues.
Also this is the summer I realized I get car sick.

The road to this trailhead was three miles of straight moon crater landscape. Its almost like the CO ranger's way of saying that if you don't have four wheel drive you don't belong so don't even try.
But we tried, 16 passenger van and all.

So I'm already feeling queasy.
About 10 minutes into the hike the cheese hit me.
It wasn't just that I needed to poop, because I did. But I seriously thought I was dying.

I always think that the first hour of a hike is the hardest. Your muscles are still trying to wake up. Youre still trying to remember how walking works. You spend that first hour trying to remember why you thought waking up at three was a good idea. You are jealous of the one counselor with ankle problems who gets to sleep in till 9. Then after about an hour the sun comes up and you remember how good the smell of real pine is, and then you reach a good view and you pee and feel much better about life.

These were my thoughts about 40 min in:
"Emmy don't poop your pants." 
"Ok when you poop your pants how are you going to play it off?" 
"Does this crop dusting need to be addressed?" 
"Why is there an alien in your stomach trying to get out?" 
"What did you eat?!"
"Oh."
"Pizza."
"You deserve this." 

I am proud to say that I made it alive.
I did not poop my pants.
Or throw up.  A strong will comes in handy sometimes.

And I ate sludge for the rest of the summer, and the next summer.
And I haven't had milk in three years.

College Victories

In light of this rapidly approaching exam season, I would like to share one of my proudest moments in all of college.

My freshman year I had to take an econ class. Pretty normal. Let me just say that I am pretty certain that my brain was not wired to understand economics. I can confidently say that I did not understand a word of what my professor said all semester. This could be attributed to the fact that he had a thick Croatian accent; and maybe the fact that I never tried to pay attention could have been a factor.
Also this class was at 8am (which didn't seem so terrible in high school, but college changes that hour dramatically).
 I also hated this class because I wasn't sleeping (sometimes I suffer from insomnia, but that's another story).
But I was a freshman, so I cared a lot, and I went to every single 8am class that semester.
Until one morning.
See having insomnia mean that you lie in bed for hours having anxiety about not being able to fall asleep. Thinking about how terrible the next morning is going to be.Wondering why your brain can't shut off. Hating your sweet roommate for her steady breathing that meant she was happily dreaming and preparing herself to be a successful and kind person for the next day.
This particular morning was in the height of a really bad few weeks of insomnia. By this point I was getting sick and really angry about everything. Not good. The stress of trying to be the best college student in the world but not knowing how because I was 19 probably didn't help this anxiety.
So this morning I decided to sleep in.
 This decision happened around 3am. "I feel terrible, I need sleep, and I haven't missed a class yet, and this class is the worst." Done. Sleeping in.

Around 10 am when I was at work I was bragging to my boss that I skipped my class. "Ha ha, I don't even care I'm so BA. Thats probably not what I said, but thats essentially what it sounded like." I think she was actually the one who didn't care.
I decided to check the syllabus just for the heck of it. To see what all those class suckers had to sit through.
Well...
To my surprise right next to the class date was the lovely word EXAM 2. 
No. No no no. NOOOOO. 
This can't be happening. The world is ending. I'm so stupid. This class grade is made up of four test grades, that is is. I'm going to fail this class. And fail college. And fail life. 

All completely rational thoughts.

I started sweating and hyperventilating (though only mildly).
Think fast. I quickly called our health center and made an appointment to handle my "psychological anxiety problems." I think my game plan was going to talk about the fact that I couldn't sleep, because that was the only real health problem I was having.
I then emailed my professor and told him I was horribly sick and I was so sorry I didn't make the exam and I could show him my doctors note.
He didn't respond.
For two hours.

I spent that time thinking of the best way I could swing a doctor's concern in my favor.
I dramatically held my head thinking that my life was over.

Then he emailed back.
"We are behind in the syllabus the test is next week. Also you cannot make up exams, so don't even try."
Blunt, but wow.
PRAISE THE GREAT LINE OF JUDAH!
I felt just as happy as I did when I found out I made a perfect score on the SAT.

That is a lie.
This feeling was way happier.

So I wish I could say I aced the test when it came around the next week, but I didn't.
By the time finals rolled around I calculated my grades and realized I needed a 100 on the final to make a B in the class. A B! whoops. Sorry mom and dad. College is hard.

So normally I would just throw in the towel. But for some weird reason I decided to study. I blame it on my freshman anxiety and perfectionism that only seldom struck. So I studied for the first time the entire semester, really.
Lo and behold. I made a 104% on that final.

When I tell this story (which embarrassingly enough is more than I should) I usually do not disclose the fact that it was a non cumulative exam that was incredibly easy. Not just easy because I studied. But who cares? I got a B!
From that point on I am proud to say that I never skipped a class nor received anything less that an A on any other college assignment.


That is a straight up lie. But I did learn a valuable lesson.
Always check the syllabus before being a BA.

Braces and Contemporary Dancing

Once upon in middle school I tried to find some happiness so I joined a dance class. A few, actually. I've mentioned it before, but as a dancer I had (and still kind of have) all of the heart and none of the skill. But thats not something I've ever let stop me.
Usually I describe myself as someone who dances, but not a dancer.
Dancers are very much "Dance=life" types. If you want to be good at dance (unless you are some cool prodigy), you have to try really hard. I'm talking all day every day in the studio.
a) I was not a prodigy
b) I did not care enough to become one
c) I don't like looking at myself in front of full length mirrors that long.

So I was a recreational dancer. And I loved it. I liked to make fun of myself as well as contemporary dancing as a whole, and the fact that I never really seemed to get better.

Well this one time my teacher had me and my friend attempt a tricky move. This was actually hard, I'm not making it up. Basically she would grab my legs and do a cartwheel, and then I would go straight into a cartwheel with my arms around her torso.
 Sorry if that makes no sense. But essentially instead of using the ground to do cartwheels, we were to look like a continuous wheel only holding onto each other.

Maybe for a coordinated and or strong person this would be simple, but I am neither of those lovely things. And I was nervous. I have this chronic condition of not being able to trust my body to do what it needs to do, and I was completely convinced that I would fall on my head.

But something inside of me said, "Emmy, you can do this." It is honestly one of the few times I remember pushing myself in dance. Maybe it was the fact that some younger girls came into our studio to watch the "cool older girls" do a stunt.
Or maybe it was the fact that I realized my teacher thought I was a slacker, because I was. But I didnt want her to think that.
So I tried it.
My friend did a cartwheel grabbing onto my legs, and I went straight into my cartwheel, and then she did it again.
But somehow my face connected with my legs, and a bit of my tights near my ankle got caught in my braces.
Riiipppp. 
You better believe my tights ripped all the way up in three bracket sized lines.
I mean thats hilarious.
But also, the pieces of tights were stuck in my braces. About three feet of nylon dangling from my teeth. I tried to play it off super cool and rip the nylon pieces off, but they weren't going anywhere.
By this point, all eyes were on me. I tried to play it off by laughing, "Ha ha he nervous laughing...isn't this funny guys? I...uh...can I get some help?"

I eventually had to go into the dance studio office and ask to borrow scissors and a mirror to get the pieces of tights out of my teeth.
I never tried that stunt again, and my teacher kept thinking I was a slacker.

Perhaps the biggest tragedy of this was the fact that I scraped my skin as well, but I never told anyone because that is the weirdest way to hurt yourself.
And I had to retire the one good pair of tights I had.

Oh well, we can't win them all.

I cried when I left for college

It's true. I cried a lot.
I consider myself an independent person. In fact, I take a sinful amount of pride in it.
Not that this was by complete choice, but I started buying my own clothes in middle school via my babysitting money, I was doing by own laundry by 7th grade, and I have been making my own breakfast and lunch since first grade. Ok none of those were by choice. But I am thankful for my parents in this.

Not that I was ignored or abandoned, but my parents were busy. I was incredibly blessed that my mom was able to stay at home; but keep in mind she kept having babies. So I could complain about having only hand me down clothes and about all the really awesome lunchables and fancy cotillion dresses my friends got to have; and I was met with a "tough luck." And complain I did. But my parents, the rocks that they are, never faltered. Or cared, really.
 A lot of that is that kids are expensive and my parents simply did have the means to support the lavish lifestyle I desired as an obnoxious middle school girl.
More than that, my parents knew that you spend your money on things that matter, and so much of what I cared about did not matter at all.

I remember making a very thought out petition to my mom that we needed to go to Disney World. Because allllll my friends had been to Disney World and it was the happiest place on earth. By thought out petition I mean crying complain fest.
Her rational was good:
"It is expensive and we have babies that would not appreciate it. We would be carting them around the whole time, and it wouldn't be fun for anyone."
I did't buy it.
Nor could I do anything to persuade them.

But by the time I was entering college, I was nothing short of thankful.
A beautiful change happened to my heart throughout my high school years.
Initially I realized that I was just simply not born "cool". This is important.
All my middle school years of buying everything my 13 year old income could afford to raise my social status had gotten me nowhere. I could never keep up with the trends; so slowly throughout high school I stopped trying. Like most changes in my life, it was gradual.
But perhaps that is what I needed to make a change like that stick. Small victories and small steps in the right direction.

I began to appreciate my family for the first time.
Maybe it took spending time at my friends homes that were quiet and centered around my teenage friend's life that I realized what I had was unique.
My home did not revolve around me, it revolved around something greater. My family could not function if it were centered around just one person.
My whole life my parents taught me that life is not about me. It used to drive me absolutely crazy. Why not?! It should! (I actually remember thinking those words). It took years of resentment for me to see the beauty in the truth that I matter because I was created with a purpose, not because I am awesome.

By the the time I was leaving for college, I grew to love my greater purpose. I was an older sister who had the responsibility of loving my younger siblings. They saved me in many ways. They taught me to love simple joys in life; such as learning to walk, taking a first poop on a toilet, picking weeds for an entire soccer season, playing dress up; and the simple joy of coming home to a house that was alive. God knew that it would take the lives of three very expensive and small humans to force me to recognize the selfish condition of my heart.

In many ways I had to grow up quickly. I couldn't make mistakes that many high schoolers make, because that would put my siblings at risk. I still don't think I understand just how much they look up to me; but I knew that they did. I was blessed with the knowledge that if I screwed up my life, I was most likely going to screw theirs up as well.

In many ways I never had to grow up. I could let my imagination run free with ways to entertain them. I could make jokes that weren't funny but I received affirmation in abundant laughter. Kids just have a way of making you feel more annoyed that you could imagine, but also like a rock star.

They also taught me about unconditional love. To control my temper. To take joy in sacrifice. To understand that a sacrifice is not easy.

So I cried as I left for college.

I cried because I knew things would never be the same.
My siblings would continue living their young and relatively new lives, and in a lot of ways I would not be apart of it.  I would be present, sure, but not in the way I was present with my older sister and first youngest brother. We fought, kicked, and screamed our ways into loving each other, and I would never have that relationship with the three littles. Well, maybe thats a good thing.
I knew that my house would never really be my home again. It would be a place that will always feel familiar, but it would never hold my messy life like it once did.
I knew that growing up meant growing pains and learning to be a real person ready to face the world, and in many ways I was scared.

But I was also excited. I knew my parents prepared me to pack up my life and relocate. I was ready, and in many ways so were they. But in that moment that I hugged my mom goodbye and got in the car for the 2.5 hour ride to my new home, I was hit with thankfulness that made me sob.
For about an hour.

I kept saying to my dad, "It's just not going to be the same."
My dad never really knows how to handle my emotion. But what guy does, right? I'm pretty sure he just kept saying "I know."

"I mean I'm excited and I'm ready. I'm just really sad. I didn't think I was going to be this sad. But its just sad you know? I'm really leaving."

It is crazy that was four years ago. Honestly, I feel closer to my family now than I did at that moment. Instead of a force to be reckoned with, my parents have become some of my best friends. I've called home more this semester than I did in my first two years of school combined.

Not because I want to be home, but because I am trying to soak up all of my parents wisdom that I can before I spread my wings a little further. I have fallen more in love God, and from that comes a greater appreciation for the blessing of my family. I am simply a member of this crazy hot mess of a team, trying our best to bring one another and others to holiness; and doing our best to not kill each other in the process.

So its almost Thanksgiving and that's why I am feeling so sappy.
But thank you Mom and Dad, for your faithfulness to each other and strength to shower me with love that was never made easy.

Things Over Heard on Campus

Girl and boy walking:
Boy: "Do you read a lot?"
Girl: "I mean I like reading. Like quotes and stuff, but not really books or anything."

Girl and a girl meeting each other:
Girl 1: "Where are you from?"
Girl 2: "Aiken."
Girl 1: "Oh! Do you ride horses?"
Girl 2: "No, but there are a lot of horse people there."
Girl 1: Blank stare. "Oh, people that RIDE horses."
Personal commentary: What exactly is the alternative here? Centaurs? 

First day of class:
Professor: "You will be using the same text book for this class and the section next semester. So we will be only getting through half of it this semester."
Girl: Turns to her friend "So we use this book next semester?"
Friend: "Yeah."
Girl: "But do we have to repurchase it?"

Don't slap strangers

I am assuming this is a normal human condition. If not, huzzah for originality.
We all get urges to do exactly what we are not supposed to do. I'm taking simple things.

For example:
Every time I would walk past a fire alarm in elementary school I would glue my hands to my thighs because I was terrified I would pull it.
Every time my mom brought poinsettias home during Christmas time I wouldn't even look at them because I was afraid I would run up and eat the poisonous flower.
When we were walking past a river my mom told me not to get too close because it was a rapid river that could kill me very easily. I didn't go within 10 yards.
The metro system- you better believe I thought I was going to jump into the electric rails.

Its not even that I wanted to do these things. I was a mess of a kid, but I did not have self destructive desires. It mostly comes down to trust issues.
With myself.
I really believed that sometimes I would do these terrible things that I was not supposed to do because my brain wanted to. Its almost like I did not yet understand that I actually could control my brain.

I want to share a time when these personal trust issues were valid.
When I did exactly what I was not supposed to do; just because.

So I was 7 or 8 and waiting in line behind the diving blocks for my swimming event.
That is always an awkward moment.
I'm both nervous and trying to get pumped, the person in front of me is in a similar boat. I don't know them, they don't know me. Chances are they are either younger or way faster than me, so its not like they are actual competition. Nice people might make small talk, maybe a "good luck" or "I like your goggles" or "what are you swimming?" That last one is dumb because chances are you are swimming the same thing, but I can guarantee you I used it many times.

Well anyways, this one particular time I had this urge to slap the girl in front of me.
I didn't know her.
She wasn't from a rival team. We had no beef at all.
The thought just popped into my head that slapping her would be a really unacceptable thing to do, and I wondered what would happen if I did it.

So I did it.
I slapped her seven year old Eat My Bubbles sharpied back.
She quickly turned around to look at me.
Think fast Emmy think fast. Wow I can't believe I just did that. 
"You, uh, had a bug on your back." Impressive lie for an eight year old.
She just looked at me.
"But don't worry I got it off."
"Ok, thanks."

I don't think I've ever been more surprised by myself in my life. Not even when I got a 4.0 one time in college; and that was shocking. It taught me a lot about self control; in that I can actually have it. For long time self control was some mystical thing I seemed to always need more of ( in the opinion of my mom), but I never really knew how to obtain it. Until that night.

A few months ago I was sitting in the exit aisle on a plane.
I thought "Wow it would be really terrible if I opened that door right now. And I am fully capable of doing it. But I won't do it because that would make me a crazy person." For the record, I did not do it.
Look at that self control.
Always living and learning; sometimes crashing and burning.

The Professor that Cared

I've had many interesting professors in my four years at school, and I could probably write up a funny story for each one. I told this one to my friend tonight, and thought I may as well repeat it. Don't worry its short.

So Mr. Professor is an older guy. Fun fact, he was teaching at my school during the year that the head of my department was born. 

One day he was going to show a video to our class, and went to turn the lights off to prevent us from having to either squint or only pretend like we were watching. He turned both lights off for total darkness (minus the many windows letting in light), and then turned one of the lights back on. 

Mr Professor: "Sorry, because it is a co ed class, I feel a lot more comfortable with one of the lights on. You know how it is" 

We laughed, but then realized he was completely serious. 

The lights stayed on, and we squinted. 

I'm sorry... we are only twenty somethings in a higher level educational institution. 

That means we will absolutely jump up and make out with each other any time lights go off; especially we get to watch a video discussing the history of the US public education system.

Heck yeah. 

My Near Death experience circa 2002

I've worked at this really wonderful summer camp called Camp Wojtyla for the past two years. Usually when people ask how I ended up there I start with, "Well, I never got to go to summer camp as a kid so..." 

Well the other day I realized this is not entirely true. I did have a quick stint at summer camp the summer I turned eight; and there were two distinct memories I had from it that were making me laugh a lot. In my mind. 

So by stint I mean this camp experience lasted two nights and three days. Apparently my mom didn't think I was ready for a full week experience. Either that or it was too expensive. I never exactly got the details on that. I was invited by a friend (my only friend at the time) who had only sister and got to do really cool things all the time. 

Memory #1: Homesickness. 
I'm going to give this away right off the bat: I was not homesick. But it seemed like every other girl in my cabin was. 
It was a basic summer camp set up, lots bunk beds squeezed in a small space. No air conditioning and rusty shelves to hold all of our precious belongings. On the first night I remember that as things were calming down we were asked to climb into our beds where we could have a few minutes of chat time before lights out. 
I rolled over to look a stranger who was on the top bunk of the bed right beside me.  I saw her looking at something and sniffing. I specifically remember her squeezing her eyes shut and opening them over and over;  it seemed like the most effortful blink in the world. Then I saw tears coming out. The dialogue went something like this: 

Me: "What are you looking at?"
Her: " My bible." 
Me: Ok, thats normal, I have one of those. But I don't think I've ever seen anyone cry when they look at it. I investigated further. 
"Well why are you crying?"
Her: "Because I'm looking at a picture of my family." 
Me: "Thats cool! You bought a bible that already had a picture of your family in it?"
Her: "No, I brought it from home."
Me: "Are they dead?" I knew for a fact people cried when they looked at pictures of dead people. 
Her: "No." 
Me: "So why are you sad about them?" 
Her: "Because I miss them. I'm homesick, ok? Do you know what that is?" 
Me: "Not really."
Her: "It means I want to be home." 
Ohhhhh. 

I then looked around me and noticed that at least half of the other seven or eight year olds were crying. One girl was sobbing and I pretty sure she later peed her pants so they took her away on that cool golf cart to hang out with the camp nurse all night. 

I was mostly confused because I didn't know that you were supposed to be sad at summer camp. I loved my home, don't get me wrong, but being away was awesome! I didn't have to eat vegetables at dinner, that was a plus. Mostly, I was looking forward to going home and bragging to my siblings that I got to do something they didn't get to do. Even if I had a terrible time, that is not what they would have heard.

I was going through some pretty deep thoughts there on my bunk. I leaned off my bunk upside down to deliberate things with my friend, who was experienced because she had been to camp before. 

Me: "Hey people are crying."
Her: "Yeah I know, that happens here."
Me: "Are you homesick?" 
Her: "No, not really."
Me: "Ok me neither. Is that ok?"
Her: "Yeah I think so. I think the people in charge like that better, actually." 
Me: "Ok good. Goodnight!" 

Well I didn't fall asleep, not right away at least. I lied awake listening to the sniffles, and I decided I wanted to be apart of it. I tried to think of something that would make me sad enough to cry. I tried imagining my dog Annie dying, but when no tears came I realized it was probably because I didn't actually like her that much. She smelled pretty bad and never played fetch when I wanted her to. Then I fell asleep. 

Memory #2: Stranded in a lightening storm. 
On day two we got to go canoeing in the pond. It seemed like a giant lake at the time, but looking back I'm pretty sure it was a small pond. 
There are two key factors that proved to play major roles into what happened later. 
A) I (most likely) wasn't paying attention to the canoeing lesson , and 
B) I thought it was going to be easy.

So my friend and I eagerly strapped on our life vests, grabbed our paddles, and jumped into our canoe. Off we went. Well, sort of. We mostly just paddled in circles.
 Tandem canoeing  at the age of 21 is difficult. It takes coordination, communication, timing, and muscles. 
Image the train wreck it was at age seven. 
In circles we went, drifting and twisting away. All was fine and we were laughing amongst our frustration/embarrassment until we saw the storm clouds roll in. I'm still not sure why we were so surprised by the afternoon thunder storm, because in the South that happens pretty much every single day. 

We heard the whistle to come into the dock; safety first. 
Well we tried. By this point we were on the other side of the pond entirely, stuck in some weeds. We were giving it our best effort because we saw lightening. Gone were the laughs and cue in irrationality. 

You know its funny. Now when I am swimming or boating and I see lightening: 
 a) I count the seconds between thunder strikes and lightening to gage how far away it is. and 
b) I realize that although there is a chance I could get struck, that chance is small. Yes I need to put myself in a safer place than a body of water during a lightening storm; but being in water will not guarantee that I will die. 

At seven I did not rationalize any of this. I thought for sure that being in water meant I would die. 

I remember the counselors getting a megaphone and yelling at us to come in. I stood up and yelled: "Yeah I know but we aren't good at this!" I'm sure they didn't hear me, but counselors are somehow great at recognizing at seven year old in distress. 

In came baywatch rescue khaki pants and polo edition. 
I was relieved to not die, and also because the other girls then wanted to talk to me and ask me what happened. I'm pretty sure I blamed it on the paddles. 

Even years afterwards when anyone would ask me if I had ever had a near death experience (Which happened oddly often), that is the story I would tell. Because that is how I remembered it happening and I honestly believed that it was.

The exciting thing about learning history is that you realize history is not told in regards to what actually happened, but how people remember it. 

I think I came home and told my mom I had a great time and asked if I could go back for a week. I'm pretty sure she said no because I never went. So that was the end of my experience as a summer camp camper. I never got a chance to redeem my pond canoeing, but least I was alive to tell the tale. Whew.

Can I get some Cheese on that Pizza?

Once upon a time I went skiing. 

Let's rewind.
I'm a student teacher at a high school near my college. I am also a Young Life leader, which is awesome. That means I've been going to an area high school for the past three years trying to make friends and teach them about Jesus. And its not because I couldn't find friends in college so I went to relive the glory days. Not entirely at least.
I also live with four other Young Life leaders and they rock. So do the three non young life leaders, for the record. One of my roommates is pretty much my sister. Her name is Haley, we've been best friends for eight years and she is a leader at the school where I student teach..

So a few weeks ago one of my students came up to me and asked if I was Haley's roommate. I said "Yes I am! I'm so glad you guys are friends!" She said, "Tell me about the first time you went skiing." ......Haley.

Its a good story, don't get me wrong. But so much for building professional rapport. Luckily that has never exactly been my strong suite. Well I told her, and it is a good story.

Ok so once upon a time I went skiing.
Haley's grandparents have a mountain house in Durango CO, and she hatched the great idea of going there for our sophomore year of college spring break trip. Free lodging in one of the sweetest places in the world? Don't mind if I do.
So I quickly spent what was left of the money I earned the previous summer (the only summer I actually earned money, actually), and found myself in winter wonderland with my best friends.

I like most things to be awesome, and when they aren't I tend to get disappointed. Not a totally abnormal characteristic. But I had nothing to worry about, because this trip was awesome.
We made a lot of memories that week, but I am going to focus on the total of two skiing days.

I don't exactly know why I did this, but I somehow convinced myself that I was going to be a natural at skiing. I was incredibly nervous, but I honestly believed I would pick it right up. I was absolutely sure that I deserved it. I remember telling God, "So you made me bad at most athletic things, so this is it. Skiing is the one thing that I am going to be naturally good at, because I deserve it. All these years of athletic oppression and I am going to win."
a) Don't tell God what you deserve, just don't
b) Why in the world

So I took a lesson on the first day, and it was fine. I did the bunny slopes all afternoon, and I began to realize that I had problems with speed control. I blame the fact that during the speed control part of our lesson I saw my roommate pulled into the First Aid station with a very twisted ankle. (Sorry Allison, ski lifts are hard with snowboards!). So I went to console her, but only for a few minutes because I paid a lot of money for that lesson! I'm the worst.

So on the second day I was feeling pretty confident. Maybe I had problems with speed control, or maybe I was just good? Those two can be very difficult  to distinguish, or perhaps I was in denial. It was denial. (Foreshadowing) 

On day two my friends convinced me to go to the top of the mountain and ski down with them. They were all experienced, and I was feeling very confident. I had heard many success stories of people rocking it on their first days and I was going to be apart of that legacy.

When we got to the top, the view was spectacular. Until I looked at the routes down. Only blues (medium difficulty) until about half way when you met the friendly greens (my happy place).  I remained calm and cool. just kidding I freaked.. This is in Colorado. CO blues are basically East coast black diamonds. I don't actually know if that is accurate, but that is what it felt like so don't quote me on that.

Calm before the...

But those hills were real. Dispite the initial freak out, I was still oddly confident. So we took a few cool pics and headed down. Everything was fine, I was only shaking a lot. And then I had my first of many wipe outs. It looked really bad, but I was fine. At least my body was. That first wipe out shattered any confidence I had in my innate ability to ski. Any and all.

So a series of wipe outs (at least 3) quickly followed. Wipe outs that should have landed me in the first aid tent. But somehow I was completely fine; until we got to the biggest hill in the entire world. Ok maybe not. But it was one of those hills were you could not see the bottom when you were standing three feet from the top.

Cue in tears. I had a full on hyperventilating panic attack. It went something like this:

Gasp "Dont gasp worry guys gasp gasp I'm j--gasp ust having gasp a pa--gasp ic attack. It w-- gasp ill be ov---er soon I thi---nk, I jus---t think I'm go---ing to die a li-- i---t--le bit."

Half of my friends (including my best friend of 7 years and roommate (cough Haley) left. In their defense I asked them to and I meant it. My sweet senior friends gave me some water and awkwardly patted my head as my ski goggles were fogging up from the condensation (tears).

Well I realized I had to get down, and faking an injury was not an option at this point (though I thoroughly considered it). I got down. Slowly (at times) and with the poorest form to every grace Durango Ski Resort.

On the final hill, you know the big one where everyone finishes, I saw the people chilling in lawn chairs watching everyone come in. Aka me. "Play it cool Emmy, just finish like nobody is watching, you can do it, you're almost at those lawn chairs where you can sit and let your skiing abilities a mystery for anyone that sees you." Your girl wiped out three times on that one dang hill. Three.

On the final one, everything went everywhere. It was bad bad. I slowly stood up and made sure I didn't break anything important, and then slowly tried to gather my skis and whatever dignity I had left. The friendly ski patrol guy came over and said
 "Hey, are you ok?"
 "I'm fine, I think my pride is hurt worse that my body."
 "No, I saw that. Are you ok?"
Sniff sniff "Yeah, I'm just not very good at skiing." Sniff Sniff

He ended up following me all the way back to the lawn chairs, probably to ensure the safety of everyone else. When I got there, I basically threw my skis off and had a good old fashioned temper tantrum/ pity party. Usually when this happens, even at the age of 20, I call my mom. Its fine, I'm mature.
So I called up ole momsy, and immediately started crying. It went something like this:

"I just dont understand why I cant ski. I was supposed to be good. Do you know how much money I dropped on skiing? It is expensive! Life if expensive! And I was supposed to be good...tear tear.And now I'm broke."

Mom:: "Wait, why did you think you were going to be good?"

Me: "I don't know. I just thought I deserved it. I am just so bad at everything else."

Mom: "Skiing is scary. And it requires a lot of practice, I just dont understand why after all these years of learning that these things take awhile for you, you thought you would just naturally be good at it. I hate skiing. Your father hates skiing. That is scary stuff!"

Me: "I know. I thought I was going to die."

Mom: "But you didn't thank goodness. You should get back out there so you aren't permanently scarred. You did pay a lot for this. Sometimes we pay for things that don't exactly work out. But try to have fun and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're in the mountains with your best friends!"

That was not word for word, but that is what I remember from that conversation. It lasted about 30 min., so just add a lot more blubbering and word vomit for the more accurate account.

So I got up, and I ran my happy green slopes a few times before drinking coffee for two hours waiting for my friends to come back. One day I'll probably ski again, and I hope I can do it without killing anyone. That includes myself. And if not, live and learn crash and burn right? I can't say I wasn't warned by my own experience.

Post near death, pre two hour coffee pout session

Puberty is hard sometimes

Me: Age 13. Boy: Age 14. 

Yes this is real. Yes he was my dance partner. And no, it was not fun. 

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? 

Actually the most embarrassing story

Once I realized I was a liar, I decided I still needed a go-to most embarrassing story. So here is the real one. As in, the one that actually happened to me.

During the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I helped lead a Jr. High summer camp. We rented a facility that has camps go in and out, and honestly it was pretty lame. The cabins were old, and the camp had nothing special but a few fields to play dodgeball (scariest game ever, I mean who really likes to play war simulation with middle schoolers?). I mostly held on to hard feelings for this place because it was so dang hot.

Summers in SC do not joke around. Once when my group finished playing dodgeball one of my campers asked me if I sat in a puddle. "No," I said, "That is what you call excessive butt sweat." Not a good look.

But, this place did have a swimming pool. Before the campers came, we had a few hours to relax and swim. YES! We were not alone, though. The owners of the camp had younger middle school/elementary school aged kids who were racing each other in the pool. I didn't mind, I just wanted to get a few illegal front flips in before we banned all the campers from doing anything risky.

"Anna" was one of the kids in the pool, and she looked like she was about 10-12. She was going off about how great of a swimmer she was, and she had beat everyone in the pool, and she was probably the best swimmer in the state. I'm not kidding about this, she actually said that. Well I like kids, and as a formerly oppressed pre-teen I try to lift them up whenever I can. So I affirmed her for her swimming, and went on my way to do my own thing. "Hey," she called after me, "Can I race you?"

I slowly turned around. See I was definitely not the best swimmer in the state. I knew that because I had been swimming competitively for the past five years and I knew for a fact where I ranked among the state's best swimmers. I wasn't even close to the top. But I knew that Anna was even further. And as an honest person, I hate to lie. And somehow letting Anna win seemed like a lie.

"I'm not sure you want to race me, I'm no fun to race." How do I get out of this?
"No I really want to race you."
"Ok fine."

So we raced, and she won. Because I let her.
Well that certainly fed her ego, and she kept talking about how she definitely was the best swimmer in the state, yadda yadda.

"Hey," This sounds familiar, 'Do you want to race again?" I promise that was Anna and not me. And I was over being a martyr. I was going to show this girl what losing felt like. I knew because I was getting beat in the pool all day every day.

So I booked it. I felt great. My flip turn was pristine, and my finish was spectacular. As soon as I touched the wall, I looked back to see how far back Anna was.
She was in the middle of the pool having an athsma attack.
Anna is crying, can't breath,  I'm trying to console her, and then her mom comes down and looks me in the eyes and asks me what happened.

I had to tell this woman that I (a sixteen year old competitive swimmer),  forced her daughter into an athsma attack because I was beating her. Was it really my fault? Who can say. But you better believe I did not get back in that pool for the rest of the week, butt sweat and all.

The Most Embarrassing Story

I was a youth group kid in high school. When you go to youth group things, they love to start you out with ice breakers. Nothing like a good "What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you" question to make you feel at ease.
Well I decided in 9th grade that I needed to have a go-to for moments such as these, so I wouldn't have the 10 min. of panicked "WHAT DO I SAY" scenario playing out in my head and giving me armpit sweat stains. Here is how my story went:

"So I was shopping in Gap with my sister a few weeks ago, and per usual we were fighting. Nothing major; I wanted to keep shopping and she was ready to go. I'm really not sure if either of us really cared all too much about either option, it was just a battle of the wills at this point.
When I found a shirt I liked I walked up behind her and hit her on the back of the head with a the hanger and dangled the shirt in front of her and said, 'Do you like this one?' Then she turned around and it wasn't my sister; it was a total stranger. I was so mortified I just dropped the shirt and ran out."

It was a great story. Just embarrassing enough to get laughs, but it never made people think I was weird. Here's the kicker, I could never tell it in the presence of my sister because it never happened. Not to me at least.
When I was nine I came across that story in an American Girl Magazine, and I decided I liked it so much I would keep it and use it as my own. Pure plagiarism, and at such a young age.

The really terrible thing about this situation, besides the fact that I used it during an interview to be on a youth group leadership team, is that I started to believe it actually happened to me. I used this story so frequently and confidently that I didn't remember it was made up until two years ago.

My NYC Ballet Co. Experience

So I love ballet. Like love love it. As a kid some of my favorite childhood books were about ballerinas, and I remember pouring over the pictures of a story about a girl names Noel who performs in the Nutcracker but is given a seemingly insignificant role. She later finds beauty in her performance as a tree, and everyone is happy. What did I really get out of that book? "Dang, she never got to wear a tutu. That stinks."

So I joined a ballet class when I was five, just as most middle class small town girls do. This particular dance studio had a camera set up in the studio so that parents could watch the classroom progress from the lobby. I think this is to keep crazy parents out of the teachers hair, because they always find the best reasons to come in.

I do not remember this part, but according to my mom I did not pay a lick of attention in class. I would go off, do my own thing, or try to entertain the other girls in the class. Come recital time, my mom thought I was going to blow it. When all the other parents  actually notify the press of their upcoming toddler's performance, I can imagine my mom dreading it. Much to everyone's surprise, I not only knew the entire dance, but I performed with class. Ok maybe just with a bit of obnoxious attitude. But dance people eat that stuff up.

Anyways, maybe dance was my thing! It seemed to come naturally with little effort. Lets just say I peaked at age five. After that year, I remember stretching and the teacher making us do splits. I called the teacher over and I said, "Um, this hurts." She said, "Good! That means you're stretching!" To that I said, "Wait, its good if I'm in pain? Bump this!" So I quit. And I didn't actually say those exact words, but that is essentially what I was thinking.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. Somehow in middle school I found myself back in a dance studio, and I decided to be a little ok with pain for the sake of getting better. Just a little.
So I was mediocre. All the heart none of the skill, remember?

At seventeen, I was still dancing. Tap was my forte, if you can call it that. I still was not good, but I still went to a few classes a week because a) I love dancing and b) dance drama really is more entertaining than anything on reality TV.
By senior year I recognized I still held closely the dreams of wearing a fluffy tutu and performing weightlessly on stage with a regal bun, just like my childhood books always illustrated. I somehow convinced my mom that I needed to take ballet, just this once.

So I was a ballerina for 9 months. And let me tell you, none of that is effortless. Not a single plie. I was terrible, and class was boring. It will be worth it come recital time, right?
Let down of the century: our costumes were these horrid brown and yellow woodland creature dresses. I wish I had a picture of these things, but I honestly do not think a single one was taken.
Basically it was a sweetheart top, not a bad start, that was brown with yellow trim. There it is. And it just got worse with the ankle length skirt.

I tried to be upset, but the reality was so ridiculous that I could only laugh. Why did I try to start my nine month ballet career at seventeen? What was my motivation? None of that form and technique stuff I sold me mom on. It was a tutu.


So what is my NYC Ballet Co. Experience? I found these awesome documentaries called the city.ballet at aol.com, and they rock. I watch them (they're only about 6 min. long) regularly.
And I think, wow. That rocks. Maybe one day....nope. The threshold has passed.

Solo Karaoke

When people ask me what I did as a kid, my memory always goes back to my karaoke machine.
I was not an athletic kid, I hated exercise. When my mom would take me on runs "to be healthy" I would scream, cry, and force her to run without me so I could walk home wallowing in my own self pity.
I went outside when I was forced, but hardly willingly.
I was only allowed to watch 30 min. of TV, so that was not an option.
My mom was busy with babies most of the time, so she did not have time to sit and think of fun activities for me to do. Babies were entertaining enough, but they got old pretty quickly. I found things to do.
Like reading. I sometimes wish I could go back in time and pluck every single pre teen trash novel I read growing up from my hands and replace it with a classic that would actually help my intelligence. I began reading with a love for classics, but I was quickly drawn to the death trap of teen gossip novels. Oh well, reading is reading I suppose.
I drew a lot. At one point in my life I was an aspiring fashion designer, so I was very serious about my traced designs that I claimed to be my own. Who would even look for the tracing paper buried under all those magazines in my drawer? They were original, ok?
I tried my hand at sewing, but machines are hard. I usually just stapled material and called it a pillow.
And I did a lot of solo karaoke. My good friends Justin Timberlake, Third Eye Blind, Destiny's Child, and 60s mo town met me there, of course.
I choreographed a lot of dances to the musical Annie.
When it comes to me and dancing, I have all the heart and none of the skill.

Here's the reality. I thought I was going to be famous. I wish I could tell you where this thought came from, and why I so heartily believed it. But I have no idea. Fame was my destiny.
When I was 8 I started keeping journals. It was not a place to pour out my thoughts, no. I was creating relics. I honestly thought that when I died people would be overjoyed to discover my journals and pay top dollar for them.

I tried modeling, but I really wasn't model material. I was chubby, and I had huge teeth, and coke bottle glasses, and frizzy hair only made worse by brushing.
Broadway was maybe my calling. But I could not sing and I quit dance class at the age of 6 because paying attention in class was boring and splits were stupid.
Acting was it! But my mom would never take me to those talent discovery scouts they always advertised on the radio.

So maybe I missed my calling, who can say. I decided when I was twelve that if I were to one day rise to fame, it would have to be a sort of accident. Maybe I run into a movie producer and he suddenly realizes I am the perfect illustration of a character he is creating, he asks if I act and I say no but I'll give it a shot, and then I am brilliant.
Not that I have put much thought into that.

So what does this all mean? In short, I had a lot of time to develop a weird personality. All that solo karaoke handed me a lot of time to develop non important skills that are terrible inconvenient to show off. Funny how that works.
But, I am a dreamer. I clung to wild hopes as a child of someday being "somebody". I appreciated art, dance, and music, but I never had the drive to try. I always expected something like talent or opportunity to just fall into my lap.

I have learned a lot since my childhood. I've learned that things don't come easily for me, so that just means I have to try. I have worked hard to get better, and I have become ok with failure. I still love singing and dancing, and I will willingly perform to any eye that makes the mistake of volunteering as an audience. But I am now adventurous, and for change I will always be grateful.

Why Frozen Cookies?

Plain and simply put, my family is weird. But wonderful.

My parents got married right as my mom got out of college and found themselves pregnant one year later. Quickly after Megan came me. Soon after me came Patrick. After Patrick, my parents were done. We were a happy family of five, and it would be irresponsible to have more. My dad, probably the hardest working man I have ever met, worked as a government IT engineer. He did well enough to allow my mom to stay at home and take care of us, but we lived very tightly.

This tightly budgeted lifestyle could also be attributed to the fact that I was a very expensive child. By the time my brother was born, I had survived countless ear infections, a baseball sized cyst in my chest when I was an infant, pneumonia, and a non life threatening heart condition. This meant many doctor visits and not cheap medicine. I was just trying to keep my family on their toes, really.

A few years after Patrick was born, my parents decided to "church hop." The Episcopal church never quite felt like home to them, and they were looking for a better fit. Not that they asked me, but seven year old Emmy was none too pleased. Every time we went to a new church, I had to walk into a community of people I did not know. I always have and forever will hate people staring at me, and that is exactly what happens when you are a family visiting a church for the first time. During this time, I mastered the art of falling asleep during the sermons. If I was not paying attention but awake, I would get in trouble. Falling asleep was a double win; I did not have to pay attention, and I could not be scolded. And who doesn't love an adorable seven year old falling asleep on their shoulder?

Later that year, we found ourselves in my mom's home church, the Catholic Church. This was the final straw. Not only were people staring at us, but this church had a bunch of prayers I did not know or understand. I also was not allowed to receive communion. That was my one chance to get up and moving at the Episcopal church! During the creed, a remember boldly proclaiming that "No I will not say one holy CATHOLIC apostolic church. Because I am not catholic, and I don't believe in it."

Its funny how things change. Funny, and beautiful.
My family entered the Catholic church that year, and my dad soon followed. A year later, another little Judd was on its way. Soon after Turtle came Brendan, and soon after Brendan arrived the final piece to our puzzle, Lilly.

I used to sit and try to understand why God has given me the blessings He has. At one point in my teen years I was in tears, and I kept telling God, "But I don't deserve it!" And He spoke through the still of my hear and said "I know you don't. But I love you, and I wanted you to have this. Stop questioning why, and focus on what you are going to do with it."

I wish I could say that show my family love all the time. But I don't. I am a woman of many missteps, and not loving people well is constantly one of them. I wish I could say that I have never wanted my family to change, and that I am always grateful for the blessing that they are. But I am not. I'm just glad we are not expected to be perfect humans.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to write about great adventurous and imaginative things. Every time I would sit down to write, I could only think of things that had happened to me. I would try to come up with characters, and I arrived at nothing. I would explain an event that happened in my life, and I could write forever. Frankly, I am just not a creative writer. So I decided to write what I knew, because that seemed to be the only successful avenue.

I realized at the age of ten that this was problematic because I did not have an adventurous life.
I think this is when I gave up dreams of being a writer.
But I never gave up making my ordinary sound extraordinary.
Looking back, I have come to love my ordinary childhood. Every good story has a have a good problem. So I am not sure if this is going to be a "good" story or not, because I was blessed with very few obvious problems as a child. My family is pleasantly somewhere between simple and straight up crazy.

I am calling this blog "Frozen Cookies on Fridays" because every Friday I came home to my mom making chocolate chip cookies from scratch. She would then freeze them to "make them last longer"; which also meant the best cookies in the world. Every Friday we would have home made pizza and watch a movie as a family. Although I have been absent from this tradition for the past four years (realistically around 6 because I somehow found friends in high school). This tradition of love has been written on my heart.

Its not even so much about the cookies (I mean they rock), but about the stability and love that meets me in or follows me outside our home. My dad's sacrifice of working in a grey window less government building as he works with email IT for 10 hours day, when all he wants to do it play games with his family. My mom's sacrifice of giving up her dream of becoming an artist in a big city to raise six hellions in a small southern town. Our home that is yellow and cheerful and home to plenty of finger prints and juice spills. Our exploding dress up box and karaoke machine that kept me entertained for the better part of 12 years. 
Staying up late sitting on the kitchen floor as I tell my mom about all the hurts, victories, and questions in my heart. Calling my mom sobbing during my senior year of college after getting a ticket for an expired license plate. It was more than just the ticket, it was life and the growing pains of wanting to be an adult but not really knowing how.

So frozen cookies are more a less nostalgic symbol of where I come from.