Grandmothers Are a Precious Gift

Lacey Bland

Grandmas are a gift from the Lord. They love their grandchildren and like to spoil their grandchildren as much as possible. The Lord blessed me with an amazing grandmother—Joyce Dennis. She has a loving heart and sweet spirit, and she spoils her grandchildren. Whenever I go to her house, she makes my favorite food. I usually have at least one meal involving chicken and an apple pie. One of my favorite characteristics about my grandma is her humor—or lack thereof. She is hilarious and sometimes does not know it! She not only says hilarious things but also does hilarious things. For example, my grandma has talked to a mirror at three in the morning because she did not realize that it was her own reflection. My family tells my grandma that she has many blonde moments, which makes life interesting.

My grandma grew up in a small town in Indiana and is a true Hoosier. She has a redneck accent and says words such as “warsh,” “yonder,” “bolth” and phrases such as “arm bitin’ deal.” She is a friendly person and comes from a friendly town. Therefore, she cannot imagine living in a place with people who do not spontaneously come over to say hello. My grandma is sweet and fun, and she knows how to put a smile on anyone’s face.

Her personality is one of a kind. At all of my high school games, everyone knew my grandma because she yelled “Come on Terre Haute!” when the gym was dead silent. She became a grandma to my basketball and volleyball teammates because she encouraged and cheered for them both on and off the court. At some of the home games, my grandma brought chocolate chip cookies for my teammates and me to share. She loves being involved in her children’s and grandchildren’s lives. If one of us grandkids had a boy that we were interested in, my grandma was the first to ask us about it. She loves having people over, laughing, and being with her family.

Family is most important to her. My grandma is a strong woman, and she loves the Lord. She has battled cancer and won; but her cancer returned around eight years ago, and she continues to fight cancer today. But a person would not know that anything was wrong with her because she does not show it. She has a joy about her presence and a smile on her face because that is who my grandma is. If you ask her how she goes through each day, she will tell you that she depends completely on the Lord. She knows that if she chooses to dwell on her health situation, she could easily become sad and upset. But she realizes that the Lord is in control, and she gives her health to Him each day.

Through her battle of cancer, my grandma gained much wisdom and became an example to me. When we first discovered that her cancer had not only returned but also spread to her lungs, my grandma said that all she wanted was to see all her grandchildren graduate high school. Those words were difficult to hear coming from her. Thankfully, the Lord has let her live longer. Her life is a picture of God’s grace. Therefore, she will be the first to say that God is good all the time. I am thankful for the moments I spend with her, and I know that she cherishes the moments that she spends with her family.

I am thankful for my grandma for many reasons; but through her humor, personality, and love, I have learned much. My family claims that I have my grandmother’s personality and humor. I am thankful for that compliment. (I think it is because I have many blonde moments as well.) But more importantly, I pray that I will have a testimony, as she does, of the joy of the Lord no matter what my circumstances.

Georgia Marshlands

Lauren Green

Five years ago my family moved to Idaho. The rugged mountains and farmlands of my new home are beautiful, but whenever I think of my childhood, I remember Georgia and the southern marshlands where I grew up.

For most of my childhood, I lived in the small town of Keller, Georgia. Our property was down a bumpy dirt road on a tidal creek that went out to a major river. Our house was a beautiful old brick home, one that we could only afford to rent because the owner gave us a huge discount when she heard my dad was a pastor. As much as we loved the house, the real beauty of our home was in the land itself.

Our house was positioned on a small peninsula jutting out into marshlands, and a tidal creek ran right beside our house. Keller was close enough to the brackish river for residents to smell salt water when breezes came in, but from where we were on the marsh the smell was even stronger. At times, the smell was so strong I could taste the salt on my tongue. Out across our creek and the marshland all around our house, marsh grass stretched on forever, and wind rushing across the top of that marsh grass made beautiful music.

We spent many sunny days and starry nights sitting down at the creek, listening to shrimp pop the top of the water and fiddler crabs run across oyster shells. During the hot, sticky, Georgia summers, my brothers and I often went swimming at high tide, and at low tide we went tromping through the marsh in old tennis shoes with Scout, our white lab, following at our heels. The thick marsh mud claimed its fair share of shoes, and every once in a while we ended up having to find our way back to shore barefoot, squealing as brown muck squished between our toes.

The marshland was dense with wildlife, some of which provided our summer meals. While tiny fiddler crabs comically scuttled everywhere, we were more interested in setting traps for larger blue crabs, which were our favorite dinner. In the cool of the evening my dad and older brother cast out nets for shrimp, and then the whole family would sit out by the creek cleaning shrimp. The work was fun and always rewarded with a seafood dinner, usually a low country boil of shrimp and crab.

However, not all of the wildlife was edible. We were always wary to watch out for bull sharks, which sometimes wander into tidal creeks, and salties, giant saltwater crocodiles. My brothers and I were scared stiff for months after hearing the stories about them from our neighbors, but we never saw any in our own creek. However, a couple times a year, bottlenose dolphins came up into the creek chasing shrimp at high tide. They would slide up into the marsh grass, trapping shrimp in the grass. After trapping their meal, they’d eat the shrimp before jumping back into the water.

Another of our favorite events of the year was the appearance of turtles. Every year a few would come up out of the creek and lay their eggs in our yard. After watching them lay their eggs, we’d wait with anticipation for the eggs to hatch, and we would often set up protection for the nest from raccoons. Watching the turtles hatch and crawl out to the water was spellbinding. I was always caught in the wonder of it – how the mothers found their way back to our yard, where they had hatched, and how the eggs always hatched at high tide so the hatchlings could swim off to the river. Watching this phenomenon is one of my favorite childhood memories.

I was too young to appreciate what we had in our home. The salty breezes were status quo then, and I was accustomed to free seafood dinners and roaming free out into the marshland. Looking back now, I can see how lucky I was. I grew up in the boondocks of South Georgia, and no matter where I go throughout life, that will always be part of me. I’ll always look back at muddy marshlands, brackish water, and salt air with nostalgia, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing it.

Memories of a Seven-Year-Old's Paradise

Leasha Folk

As a seven-year-old visiting Grandma’s retirement community (Spanish Lakes Fairways in Fort Pierce, Florida), I enjoyed scampering to the mailbox every day. I usually refused to wear shoes during these daily excursions to the end of the driveway, but the tarmac always felt warm beneath my bare feet.

Inevitably, whenever I ran to the mailbox, some of Grandma’s friendly neighbors would drive by. Somebody’s grandmother would wave. Another person’s grandfather would smile at me. They probably enjoyed the sight of a seven-year-old skipping around her grandmother’s house, and I felt loved and at home in Spanish Lakes Fairways.

During the eight years that Grandma lived in Spanish Lakes Fairways, I always looked forward to visiting her and the community—I wish I could go back. I would see the many people I grew to love, visit the house where I spent a month with Gramps before he died, and walk to the swimming pool on a sweltering summer day. But even though Grandma no longer lives in Spanish Lakes Fairways, and I have no reason to return, I treasure the many memories of my visits.

One of my favorite memories about Spanish Lakes Fairways involves Florida’s flat landscape. Mom was driving through the community with Grandma and me one summer day when she suddenly swerved into the left lane before immediately pulling back to her side of the road. Grandma almost had a heart attack. “What are you doing—trying to kill us?” she yelled. Continuing to drive, Mom calmly explained that, since the road was flat and she could see for miles, she simply had been saving a grasshopper from an untimely death.

I should have known from this incident with the grasshopper that many other animals would cross my path during my visits to Spanish Lakes Fairways. For instance, Mom and I once caught a cute gecko (one of many such creatures that sunbathed on Grandma’s screened-in porch). A day later when we decided to release the gecko whom we had named Joe, Mom came up with a seemingly wonderful idea—that I should allow Joe to run up my arm on his way to freedom. But when I obediently stuck my hand in Joe’s jar, he opened his tiny mouth and bit my finger.

During another visit, my family drove around the community searching for armadillos. We failed in our mission but discovered a cute gray fox scratching fleas. Also, during the month Mom and I spent with my grandparents, we enjoyed going for walks late at night. While our stinky bug repellant warded off the bugs (and Grandma), the discovery of a dead snake and what we thought were alligator eyes peering at us from the lake during one of our excursions dampened our enthusiasm for walking.

My most comical encounter with the animals of Spanish Lakes occurred one evening after dinner. Mom, Grandma, and I walked outside to say goodbye to Dot (one of Grandma’s friends) who had ridden her bike since she lived just down the street from Grandma’s house. As Dot started to mount her bike, a little frog hopped off the seat to make room for her—scaring Dot nearly to death. It took a few minutes, but after recovering from her fright, Dot affectionately named the frog José.

Even though the animals made life at Spanish Lakes Fairways interesting, the people were the ones who created a loving environment and welcomed me to the community. Gloria, Grandma’s next-door neighbor, is one example. Although she was sometimes cantankerous, Gloria welcomed my family into her home and fed us pizza. Another one of Grandma’s friends, Dot, cooked dinner for Mom, Grandma, and I after she found out that we had eaten chips and Mexican bean dip for dinner one night. (Dot and her husband, Bill, also challenged my family to strenuous games of chicken-feet dominoes.) A couple who lived around the corner from Grandma, Don and Faith, invited us into their home, gave us tickets for a God with Us cantata at their church, and made chocolate-soda milkshakes for Mom and me. Also, Grandma gladly welcomed me every time my family visited her—taking me with her to the bocce ball court, obtaining visitor’s passes for the swimming pool, and introducing me to her friends.

When the people, animals, and landscape failed to hold my interest, the community itself provided many opportunities for my imaginative family to have fun. One of Grandma’s friends owned a golf cart (a necessity in that community), and since he happened to be away when we visited, he allowed us to use his cart. We enjoyed driving that cart around the community in the evenings.

In addition, the pool was a brief walk (made even shorter if you rollerbladed) from Grandma’s house. As a result, during the hot month of July, Grandma, Mom, and I often loaded ourselves into the cart and drove to the pool with a giant zebra inner tube sticking out the back.

I feel as if I’m somehow returning home when I recall all these wonderful memories. I wish I could go back and once again feel the warm tarmac beneath my feet as I run to the mailbox. I always felt safe in Grandma’s community. Spanish Lakes Fairways was a paradise where the flat landscape, unique animals, friendly people, and opportunities for fun combined to make it the perfect place for a seven-year-old to feel loved.

Kansas City Lights: It's Christmas in Kansas City

Lynnae Lawson

Christmas in Kansas City, for my family, begins the day after Thanksgiving. My parents rise early on Black Friday, not to beat the crowds to the department stores and malls, but to select the perfect tree for our living room. The sun is just breaking the grey morning sky when they return home with their prize. When I hear them enter, I jump out of bed and run to the large, grey radio in the kitchen. Within a few minutes, to Mom’s and my delight and my brother’s groaning, Christmas music fills the house.

As soon as we are dressed, my sister Crystal and I climb up a rickety ladder to the sweltering attic to pull Hallmark boxes full of ornaments and decorations into the living room. We untangle strands of white, blue, and red lights, select ornaments, and decorate the tree. By lunch, the tree stands by the front window, displaying it’s Christmas glory to the neighborhood. After lunch, Dad accompanies Craig, Jarid, and I to the attic to find the lights for the house. Mom hears thumps and laughter float through the ceiling as the four of us string the house with lights. Within a couple hours, a bead of white lights ices the house.

When I leave for school a few days later, I leave knowing that Christmas has come to Kansas City.

When I return home for Christmas break in mid-December, Kansas City greets me with snow and the twinkle of millions of lights. Sometime in the first week home, Mom and I drive around the city just to see all the lights on the houses. From the poor district where I grew up to the ritzy houses downtown, all of Kansas City celebrates the season with lights. Reds, greens, blues, and whites ice the eaves of the houses. Some race around the structure, others twinkle on and off, but most emit a steady, constant glow.

The highlight of my Christmas holiday includes a family trip to downtown Kansas City and the Country Club Plaza. The Hallmark complex, located in the center of downtown, hosts a myriad of holiday family activities: ice skating, shopping, fine dining, and theatres. The grey December sky contrasts the illumination of the Mayor’s Christmas tree, our first stop. My family and I stand bundled beneath a 40-foot tree, gazing up at the slightly twisted pine strung with wooden ornaments and white lights. Eight-foot Nutcrackers guard the tree and the children play on a large train that surrounds the base. Bare trees iced with lights line the sidewalk up to the outdoor ice rink where a hundred people laugh as they skate in circles. The crowds thicken as we leave the biting winds and enter Crown Center.

The doors of Crown Center open to a large food court where a community high school or church choir sings Christmas carols. Mom and I hum along as we listen. My family wanders from store to store with no goal. We simply enjoy the hustle and bustle of holiday shoppers as they move from store to store.

As much as I love the lights and buzz of Crown Center, nothing compares to the Plaza lights. As Dad drives us a few blocks south of downtown, we are transported to Old World Spain. Buildings mimicking Sevilla, Spain, rise on both sides and the streets are lined with cars from around the world. Dad maneuvers the car between people, cars, and horse-pulled carriages to find a parking spot on the upper level of a parking deck. Christmas greets us as we step up to the snow-covered railing under the sky. Christmas music spills from every store and the sidewalks buzz with patrons as they shop for the perfect gift. The sharp clip-clop of horse hooves on the pavement below sounds natural and drowns out the blaring car horns.

As I look around and soak up the glimmer of the lights and the sounds of the city, I realize that it’s Christmas in Kansas City.

Christmas is more than the sounds of Christmas music, laughter, and horses. As I step out of the car, I silence the noise around me. The real Christmas beauty isn’t captured by sound but by sight. Dad and I lean against a stone wall at the top of the parking garage and look down the street, not at the people, but at the lights. Thousands of Christmas lights outline the Plaza’s Spanish architecture against the black December sky. For a few minutes, the world disappears--it’s just Dad and me standing by the railing looking at the stars and Christmas lights.

As we drive home, Karen Carpenter’s smooth alto fills the car, “Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays.” I have to agree. For me, nothing is better than Kansas City’s light and Christmas in Kansas City.

Threat Neutralized

Matt Thompson

Fistfights are no less than rites of passage for many men. When asked whether they have ever been in a fight, some men are embarrassed to answer in the negative. Tales of tussles often highlight conversations between testosterone-filled males, and the details are usually blatantly exaggerated. My own physical altercation will not be one of these embellished stories; I will share each detail exactly as it happened, and even if the experience seems one-sided or biased, it is historically accurate.

I worked in the electronics department at Target for five years, and I encountered my share of shady characters over that time. Our store was a target (no pun intended) for theft, and we were often forced to deal with these miscreants in an unfavorable way. As a regular employee who was not authorized to confront physically any would-be thieves, my obligation was to restrain myself and contact our Assets Protection team whenever I spotted a potentially dangerous situation. However, in one particular circumstance, the need arose to act immediately and without concern for my personal safety.

Each evening at five o’clock, the closing team at Target has a meeting in which they go over the tasks and goals for the night shift. On this particular night, I was returning to my department from the evening huddle, weaving through the Kitchen, Health and Beauty, and Housewares departments on my way back to Electronics. I made a habit of cutting through Toys on my way to the rear of the store, since I typically covered that department as well as my own, and I liked to note the area’s condition and consider what work needed to be done during my shift. I had reached the last aisle of Toys when I heard a piercing shriek shatter the silence. “Somebody stop him, he’s got my purse!” My head swiveled toward the cry for assistance, and I turned around just in time to see a man sprint across my line of sight, a woman’s handbag within his clutches.

From where I was standing, I could see into the store’s central aisle and look in virtually any direction. I was concealed by the shelving in front of me, but I could lean out just far enough to observe what happened next while remaining hidden. The man had the option of running toward the fitting room in a corner toward the rear of the store or cutting to his right, toward the exits and directly into my path. He chose the latter option, and after about five seconds, he would be right on top of me.

I knew that, according to store safety regulations, I was not to involve myself physically in this situation in any way. I should have allowed the man to pass me and assumed that store security would deal with him at the front of the building. Many thoughts and ideas crossed my mind in those five seconds before he bore down upon me. I am still not sure why, but my brain eventually sent my body the following message: “YOU’RE A MAN! HIT HIM IN THE FACE!”

I summoned up every shred of courage I possessed, steeled myself, and when he reached my position, I stepped out from my hiding place and swung my fist at his nose as hard as I could. His head snapped back, he flipped into the air, and he landed on his back about five feet behind me. I quickly rushed to his side and noted his unconscious state and the unique manner in which his eyes had retreated upward into his skull, revealing solely their whitest portions. At that moment, I desired nothing more than to step on the prone figure of my conquered victim and bellow my dominance, but I realized that I was in a public place, so I contented myself with a grin.

The woman who had initially yelled for help soon came barreling around the corner, and she excitedly stammered her thanks, most relieved to get her purse back. Security arrived on the scene shortly, and I was simultaneously congratulated and warned never to do such a thing again. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, but I definitely had a story I would not soon forget.

A Tale of Seven Love Stories

Natalie Kohnert

There’s nothing more rugged than a backwoodsman who wears clothes made of deer hide and hasn’t shaved or taken a bath in months. There’s also nothing more amusing than watching that backwoodsman try to win the hand of the most beautiful and popular girl in town and following their story as she turns him and his six brothers into perfect gentlemen.

The delightful 1954 musical comedy Seven Brides for Seven Brothers showcases the talents of Howard Keel and Jane Powell, who star as Adam and Milly Pontipee. Set a hundred years before the movie’s debut, this heartwarming love story is set in the beautiful mountains of what was then the Oregon territory.

The movie begins with a touch of male chauvinism. Adam goes to town to look for a wife, but the viewer soon finds out that all he wanted was a maid who could cook and do chores around the house he shares with his six brothers. When his new wife, Milly, discovers that she has been deceived, she is heartbroken; thus begins the saga of discovering what true love really is. Milly soon has every single one of Adam’s “scroungy backwoodsman” brothers cleaned up and whipped into shape, and she teaches them the ways of courting and dancing. After she introduces them to six of her girlfriends from town, the brothers decide they want to get married too.

However, Adam is against Milly’s plan to make gentlemen out of country boys, and he devises a plan to kidnap his wife’s friends and force them to marry his brothers. When Adam receives a stern lecture from Milly for his actions, he starts to realize that he really loves her. But because he can’t deal with the pain of her disappointment, he deserts the family to live on his own in a deserted cabin. It takes the birth of his daughter to bring Adam back, and he and Milly share their first on-screen kiss, symbolizing their newly discovered love for each other.

The inspiration for the movie came from the famous story of the Sabine Women from Plutarch’s Lives. The narrative is told multiple times during the film, and the brothers turn it into a humorous story in their own musical rendition called the “Sobbin’ Women,” which was actually the original name of the film. When producers agreed that a movie with that title would not sell, it was decided that “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” was a more appealing name for a lighthearted love story.

The movie was ingeniously cast. MGM hired professionals like Jacques d’Amboise, a dancer with the New York ballet, and Russ Tamblyn, a gymnast (also famous for his role in West Side Story), to play the supporting roles of the brothers in this movie. Tamblyn plays the character of the youngest brother, Gideon, and his ruddy look and compassionate heart give the film an added tenderness. Gideon is the first brother to understand true love, and though he plays a subordinate role to Howard Keel, his part in the story is no less important.

Even 50 plus years after its debut, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers has not lost its appeal. In the 1980s, a Broadway version of the musical was created, and a TV series based on the film was produced. Popular dinner theatres around the country, including Chanhassen Dinner Theatre in Minnesota, are still performing the show. There have also been many facebook groups created for fans of Seven Brides. Questions like “Which brother would you marry?” have become a favorite topic for teenage girls to discuss with fellow fans.

Like all musicals, the movie has its cheesy parts, such as Milly’s outburst of song in a meadow and the entire “I’m a Lonesome Polecat” song performed by the brothers while they’re chopping wood. Brother Daniel’s ballet moves while swinging a fake ax in accordance with Frank and Gideon’s sawing motion make for a good laugh among modern audiences not as familiar with the musical genre. The set was also a tacky element to the movie. The backdrops are severely lacking a realistic touch—even for a ‘50s movie—and one can easily tell where nature ends and the fake set begins.

But if you’re a sucker for a great love story (or seven), and want a movie that’s safe for your entire family to watch, you’ll love Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. The movie is pure energy from start to finish, and it’s truly a must-see classic.

A Passion for Civil War History

Rebekah Davis

I love Civil War history. But why do I like it? The other day, I started thinking about the reasons that led to this passion (or obsession, as some of my friends would say) for Civil War history, and by the time I finished thinking, I was surprised at the many memories of Civil War history that I’ve encountered, showing me how I became the person I am today.

First, my mind took me to Gettysburg, that significant battlefield in Pennsylvania. I first visited Gettysburg when I was one year old. I can’t believe that I remember a memory that took place many years ago, but how could I forget this memory? I was in a quiet room filled with many people. An electronic map enclosed this peaceful, surreal room. The room was serene until a child, sitting in a stroller, began throwing a tantrum. The people became upset since the peace had been disturbed, and the screaming child and her family were thrown out of the electronic map. I was the screaming child. Gettysburg was my first experience with a Civil War battlefield, but my passion for Civil War history grew throughout the years, despite my traumatic experience of being thrown out of the interactive map.

My love for Civil War history began in my basement when I was in elementary school. Every week my Dad, Mom, and I walked downstairs to the basement and played a board game called “Gettysburg.” Sitting on the brown carpet by Dad’s fire truck collection, we would challenge ourselves to “Gettysburg.” Moving my little gray Confederate soldier piece across the board gave me great excitement. I had correctly answered a Civil War trivia question. No, I didn’t know all the Civil War facts in elementary school, but my dad gave me the answers to all the questions. I felt smart as I advanced my game piece toward the end. I always wanted to take the credit for winning, but I couldn’t since my dad helped me with all the questions. You see, my dad played an influential role in instilling my love for Civil War history.

During those twenty minutes as I pondered my love for the Civil War, I thought of my dad’s many bookshelves filled with Civil War books. I remember as a little girl looking up in amazement at my dad’s books. Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, Gettysburg, Antietam, and Stonewall Jackson were many of the topics of books that lined the five wooden shelves. During high school, I had to write a biography paper. As I pondered who I was going to write about, I pictured my dad’s bookshelves. I remembered seeing six books about Stonewall Jackson. He is the man I wrote about in my biography. Dad had enough Stonewall Jackson books to cover his childhood, military career, leadership, relationship with his wife, and his death. During my high school and part of my college years, I read a few of these books and my love for Civil War history increased. But one of the most influential events that shaped my passion for this history began on a trip to Gettysburg (many years after my traumatic childhood experience.)

My family (including my uncle, aunt, and cousins) and I had the memorable opportunity to attend a Civil War reenactment when I was in junior high. We sat in the stands on the Gettysburg battlefield. My family sat on the Gettysburg battlefield, sweating from the sticky July humidity, but ready to experience the reenactment (well, the reenactment of the actual battle.) The Confederate and Union troops were in formation on either side of the field and the Confederate soldier fired the first shot. Bearded men with scratchy wool uniforms began charging across the battlefield. I saw and heard cannon blasts, gunshots, men falling off their horses, and medics rushing to the wounded. Viewing one battle was good enough for me; the other two battles scheduled that day would be the same routine. I was ready to move on to more girly attractions. We girls went shopping and left the guys watching the battles. Little tents were set up all around the camp where women were selling items such as baskets, clothing, rifles, and bonnets. My Aunt Riki bought me a large straw bonnet tied with a mint green ribbon. I loved that bonnet, even though it was twice the size of my head.

After shopping, we toured the camp, visited the medical tent, and the different Civil War generals’ tents. I was so excited when I “met” General Lee. He was taller than I imagined and was a kind, gracious man. He even picked me up and set me up high on his black, shiny horse named Tiara.

My love for the Civil War continues today. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I am elated as I walk into my Civil War and Reconstruction class, another opportunity to learn more about this passion in me that will never die.

Almost Gone

Ryan Mikeal

I have always been a friendly person and have cherished the friendships I have made. The Lord has blessed me with great friends, and for most of my younger life, I never thought about losing one of my friends. I never thought just how quickly life could end. That mindset changed the summer after my sophomore year of high school.

Six years ago, I traveled on a youth group mission trip to the Philippines. After a week of going around to the local schools talking and ministering to the students, we finally got a day to go sightseeing and to just have fun.

The day started quietly. We slept till 8:30 a.m., which was good considering we had been going to bed around 1 a.m. and waking up at 6 a.m. for a week. After the typical breakfast of a large pile of rice, a small piece of meat, and a cup of hot but rather bland coffee, we were off to have fun. We started down the road heading towards the highly anticipated Dunkin Donuts, which was the only American food we were allowed to eat on the trip. Warren, my best friend, and I split a dozen cream filled donuts, which satisfied our longing for sugar.

Next on the agenda was swimming at a mountain lake, which was a terrifying two-hour drive from town. The driver swerved all over the road, completely ignoring the traffic lines. Amanda, one of the girls in the group asked, “What’s with the traffic lines?” the driver replied, “What? You don’t have those in the U.S.?” Amanda laughed and said, “Well yes, but we stay inside the lines.” The driver, who we had named Uncle Sam for the way he took care of us, just shook his head and said, “Where is the fun in that?”

A couple minutes later we reached the area where we switched from vans to three little 125cc dirt bikes crammed with four people each. We went screaming down the narrow, winding mountain road. Along the way, we swerved around pedestrians, cars, and animals. Warren and I were nervous riding on the back of one of those dirt bikes, which was carrying more weight and people than it was designed for.

We finally made it to our final destination – a pristine crater with two lakes in the middle. Oddly enough we were greeted by several stray dogs, one of which was sadly missing part of its nose.

The water called our names, and we answered. Warren and I went and found a perfect cliff to jump off. After a little while of jumping off the cliff and splashing around, we noticed a floating dock out in the middle of the lake and had the bright idea to swim out to it and rest on it for a few minutes.

On the swim out to the floating dock, we soon realized just how far of a swim it actually was. I was swimming beside Warren for a little while but failed to notice that he had started falling behind. Warren is not the best swimmer and became tired quickly. He decided he was going to head back to shore but realized that he was half way between the shore and the dock and started to panic.

I had no idea what was going on. All I could hear or see was the commotion from the shore. I quickly realized that Warren was no longer with the group. Immediately, I knew what was happening behind me, but I was too far away to offer any kind of help. All I could do was float there in the luke-warm water and know my best friend was drowning.

For by God’s grace Josh, my youth pastor, wanted to jump off the cliff one more time, so he was behind the rest of the group and quickly rushed to Warren. Josh miraculously got to Warren, pulled him up to the surface, and held him up till an old, wooden rowboat, which was operated by a the missionary who had been watching us, reached Warren and Josh.

After a few minutes (which felt like an eternity), I finally saw Warren get pulled up into the boat. I waited for a few minutes on the floating dock to regain my energy then headed back to shore to check on Warren. When I reached the shore, I quickly gave Warren a bear hug and said, “I thought you were a goner there.” He quietly said, “Me too.”

After that near tragic day, I have never taken for granted the friendships I have with others, especially with my best friend Warren.

Staying Power

Steve Benson

Who are the greatest athletes of all time? This question would get many different responses. Most would reply Michael Jordan, Brett Favre, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Babe Ruth, or another athlete depending on sport preference. I am prepared to offer that to be a great athlete one must have staying power. What I mean by staying power is the ability for the player to stay on one team and make that team great.

There are many examples of players who have fractured there career by leaving the team they should have stayed with. These players in many eyes weren’t the true greats because they couldn’t lead that franchise through adverse times. Being from Wisconsin I can’t help but think about how Brett Favre hurt his near perfect career by leaving the Packers. He had everything in Green Bay and should have retired a Packer. He has now become the drama queen of the NFL and many fans have seen enough of Brett Favre.

Lebron James summer decision captivated basketball fans and had an ESPN special to announce which organization he would “take his talents too”. After months of rumors and speculation, Lebron decided that he would go play for Miami. To The Cavaliers and their fans this was a dramatic blow. Fans burned Lebron jerseys and saw their dreams of a championship in Cleveland shattered. Was this decision good for Lebron? The answer will play itself out for him. But as for his legacy, it is marred. He proved he isn’t one of the greats. If he was going to be the best ever, he should have made the players in Cleveland better and guided them to a championship. He shouldn’t need to be on a team with three all-star players to make a championship run. Not that the Heat are anywhere near being ready for a championship run.

There are several athletes that are respected because they were loyal to one franchise. These players left behind a legacy of one who could persevere even though they may never have won a championship. A few NBA players that come to mind are: Reggie Miller, John Stockton, Charles Barkley, and Michael Jordan. Jordan did play for the Wizards at the end of his career, but he was more of a player coach at that time.

NFL players that come to mind are Steve Young, Jerry Rice, and John Elway. John Elway is a great example of someone who stayed and finished his career right. Not only did Elway win a championship, he built that team into a contender and willed it to victory. These were all players, though not all champions, that stayed primarily with one team throughout their careers. They loved their cities, fans, and franchises that they played for.

There are different opinions when it comes to how a player should spend his career. Not in all cases are the players being selfish or should be thought of as a villain. Many times there were problems with GM’s or presidents of teams that caused players and teams to part ways. Only two sports were mentioned, but it applies to all sports. Overall people have a much higher opinion of a player that will stay with one team throughout his career. This is what the great players do. In the past, it was a greater honor to have your jersey hung from the rafters of an arena than to be the highest paid player. Typically the highest paid players are the ones that leave their team for a “better deal”. These are not the ones that will be remembered most. These players are soon forgotten because they had no staying power.

Toothless but Joyful

Tricia Timmons

Having the opportunity to tour with Maranatha’s Chambers choir has taught me many valuable lessons. On tour, you pile onto a bus with forty other students to travel long, cramped hours across the country. When you finish the concert, you sit on the pews and wait for your name to be assigned to a host family. Waiting to hear your name called is one of the most nerve-racking parts of the trip. You have no clue who you’ll be staying with or what kind of house you’ll be staying at. But it’s through these moments you are most stretched.

While on tour in Michigan in 2010, our choir arrived at an unforgettable church. The sanctuary’s yellow lighting revealed orange carpet with a genuine Persian rug at the front. As people arrived, the pews filled with grandparents, farmers, and members from surrounding church communities. My friend Natalie and I casually scanned the crowd and noticed a very odd elderly couple. The man had a thin, grayish beard that hung from his chin to his belly. His smiling wife had no teeth, causing her lips to sink into her face and causing her chin to protrude abnormally. I gasped to Natalie, “I hope they don’t host anyone tonight.” But I had a sinking feeling they would.

The church really enjoyed the concert even requesting an encore. Afterwards, the choir members and host families gathered at the front of the sanctuary. I watched as families approached and as, to my dread, the eccentric couple hobbled forward. I knew it then. I knew I would be stuck with this smelly, old couple with no teeth and weird beards; I’d have to stay the night in a dumpy trailer and sleep in dirty sheets. I am ashamed to admit that these were my thoughts as I listened to the pastor assign singers to families. So I was not surprised to hear my name called to join the elderly couple. Thankfully, I wasn’t going to be alone in my misery: Natalie and two other girls would stay with me. I grumbled to Natalie as we grabbed our duffels, “This is going to be awful. This would happen to me. I knew it.”

I followed the couple to their vehicle expecting a rusty, sputtering, junky jeep. Instead we stopped short in front of a nice SUV. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “this was unexpected, but I know their house will be a wreck.” We started home, and the Onaways began chatting with us. Again I was surprised by their friendliness and by Mrs. Onaway’s story. She began, “I don’t know if you girls noticed but I don’t have any teeth.” One girl spoke up, “No, I didn’t.” I almost scoffed, “How could you not notice?” The lady continued, “I found out that I am allergic to gluten, and as a result I have a lot of jaw pain which makes wearing dentures painful. I have really expensive dentures at home, but they just sit unused in the bathroom cabinet.” Twinges of guilt pinched my heart, and I began to wonder if I had misjudged this sweet couple. By now we had reached their home and pulled into their driveway. I braced myself for the dingy trailer that I knew awaited us. But instead a moderately sized home sat at the end of the drive – unbelievable. We walked through the side door into a clean, brightly lit, red accented kitchen. The Onaways led us through a comfortable living room decorated with angels into the library which would act as our bedroom. And most astonishingly – the house was clean.

Once we were settled, the couple told us all about their relatives whose pictures covered an entire wall of their living room. Mr. Onaway excitedly took our picture to remember this night. The couple also shared their testimonies. Mrs. Onaway had previously been in an abusive marriage, and accepted Christ later in life. Now she praised God despite her past and adored her loving husband. The house shouted forth the joy this couple possessed. In fact, their bedroom was completely decorated with smiley faces—the rug, bedding, pillows, curtains, knick-knacks, etc. She explained, “I figure you can’t get depressed in a room full of smiley faces.”

That night, Natalie and I talked in our room, and shared our embarrassment. Because of their unkempt appearances, I had completely misjudged the Onaways. If the Lord had not placed me in their home against my will, I would have missed out on the blessing of knowing this sweet, God-loving couple. The experience taught me that passing judgments means losing opportunities. I also learned that everyone has a story that I need to take the time to listen to. Earlier I had thought “I knew,” but God knew better.

The next day when the sweet, toothless Mrs. Onaway dropped us off at the church, she gave each of us a goodie bag. In addition to the snacks, she gave me a plaque picturing a cross and Psalm 18:24: “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.” I now keep this plaque in my room. When I see it, I am reminded to rejoice in all circumstances: Mrs. Onaway rejoiced in the Lord despite her abusive past and current physical pain. I am also reminded to avoid judging people because God loves them as much as He loves me. And they might be really neat people.

The Good Ol' Neighborhood

Troy Poorman

On the corner of 3^rd Street and 92^nd Avenue in Blaine, Minnesota, is the house I grew up in. When I think back on the years I spent there, many great memories flood my mind. The neighborhood I lived in was a great place for a child to grow up. On our block lived my brother and me and six or seven other boys that were all my brother’s age, which was two years older than me, but they still let me tag along and play games with them. The best memories I have from those days are the times we spent at the dirt track, the games we played, and the forts we built.

The most constructive activity my gang did was building a dirt bike track just down the street on an empty lot. None of us knew if anyone owned the lot, so we just started working. We cleaned up all of the tree branches, leaves, garbage, and anything else that needed to be picked up. Young boys do not often clean up anything without being told, but we did it.

Once it was cleaned, we started designing the oval-shaped dirt track, including burms and a jump at the end, which led to a few bumps and bruises. We called the place “The Track,” and we would often tell our friends to meet there and hang out. We kept that piece of property neat and clean as if it was our own (maybe because we thought it was our own property). When we race, three or four of us would go at a time, even though the track was only wide enough for two to safely go at one time. The track is one of the best memories I have of the old neighborhood.

Another memory is the games we played growing up in that neighborhood. My house was on the corner of the two streets that my friends lived on, so it was the best place for my friends and I to meet and to play games. The games we played most were basketball and football, with baseball close behind.

I remember getting up at eight in the morning on Saturdays during the school year and going out to play baseball or football with my friends. My yard was the biggest, so it worked very well to play and have fun there. We also played games in the dark, like flashlight tag, ghost in the grave yard, and any other game we knew, or else we would just make up a new game. In one game we made up, one person hid, and all of the others tried to find him, and whoever found him they would go hide as well; this would go on until only one person was left running around looking for people.

In winter, we had snowball fights and played king of the hill on the big snow piles the snow plow made. At another friend’s house, Josh and Jake Nicholson, we loved jumping on their trampolines, doing tricks, and trying to outdo the other guy’s trick. In the winter, we would play hockey in their backyard; they would flood the yard and then it would freeze overnight so we could play. One of the last and greatest memories of my old neighborhood was building forts with my friends.

As a 10 or 11 year old boy, nothing was more fun than building a fort where only you could go and hang out with friends. In the winter we always built snow forts from the piles of snow we had in our yard and around the neighborhood. We would sit in those forts for hours just talking and hanging out.

One fort I built with my brother was high up in the big willow tree in our back yard. We did not have the knowledge or resources to make a good, solid, and safe tree fort, but we did what we could. First we found where we wanted our own fort and then proceeded to haul up random boards we found in the garage or the shed, hoping that our dad had no use for them. We then got the nails and hammer and started nailing the boards to the tree limbs. When it was all done, our fort consisted of about six or seven boards laid across two limbs and nailed down, without a railing or any other safety guards. For a while even after we moved, those boards were still up there.

Do you remember your old neighborhood? I do, and it was the best of times. My greatest memories are from my old neighborhood, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

Basement Pains

Zach Guthrie

In 1997, I moved into my family’s current house in central Illinois. When we first looked in the house, many oddities pervaded, but the strangest oddities existed in my basement. As I went down the concrete stairs, black scum scuffed the stairs. Apparently, the basement lacked any kind of house care by the tenants who previously rented the house from my grandparents.

At first glance, the room was black as night; and the light switch downstairs malfunctioned. Dad got a miner’s light to brighten the basement. When the light came on, a bizarre array of objects appeared. The initial bizarre object I saw was a myriad of fish tanks. I thought the fish tanks in the basement peculiar because the former tenants did not own any fish. The tanks themselves were huge and looked as they had not been used for years.

After we got the fish tanks out of the basement, I saw an obsolete furnace that looked like a big, rickety, metal white box reaching from form the floor to the ceiling. Later, I realized to my dismay that the white metal box was the heating unit for the house. Many pipes and indescribable affixations connected to the furnace box providing the hot water for our house. When I was a kid, the thought of the white metal box scared me; but I kept that a secret, figuring that Dad could fix the heating unit later. Unfortunately, the old heating unit still heats the house today; but we keep it in good shape.

Back to my childhood, as our family remodeled and cleaned out the house, Dad found the most unforgettable yet horrifying abomination I have ever seen: a petrified rat. Originally, I thought the rat was a squirrel. First, a large tree stood forty feet away from the house out in the backyard, so I assumed a squirrel sneaked into the basement during the winter the and froze to death. Second, the rat had yellow-brown tint on its fur. (But I now realize that was sawdust covering the rat.) Before Dad found the rat, he found some old sawdust horses in the basement; and dust collected on the floor. Whenever I told my friends about the rat, I said that the animal was a squirrel. Years later, Mom corrected me and explained the rat’s appearance.

I remember the rat experience the most out of the time our family cleaned the house. When Dad discovered the rat, he held the animal up to me by the frozen tail like a Popsicle stick. I was grossed out beyond words, yet I appreciate the memory. In addition, I keep a mental picture of the rat’s image in my memories, which is the basis for a funny face I use to shock my friends.

Six years after the remodeling and Dad’s death, other fiends of nature flew and crawled into my basement such as birds, mice, and cicadas. But the worst creature ever to conquer the basement was a huge horde of yellow jackets. At first, a country-sized hive built up in the inside wall in my bedroom; but a subsidiary of yellow jackets made a corner office in the basement. In reaction, Mom called the exterminators to wipe out the black and yellow horde.

After the extermination, not one yellow jacket existed in the house from that day onward. Unfortunately, nature’s cruel onslaught caused irreversible damage to my basement. In my disgust, the equity value of our house dropped because of those little yellow nightmares.

In retrospect, the struggles our family faced gave a valuable lesson in survival. We have overcome the challenges nature had brought our way, but I gained the satisfaction in beating nature. But after this nightmare, one thought dominates my mind: I hate my basement.