Chapter 31: How Great Is Our God?

Yes, how great? Is He great enough to bring my brother home? Great enough to make sure he was not on that helicopter that was shot down? Great enough to let his wife know he's ok? Great enough to let my brother fly all over the world at 30,000+ feet at hundreds of miles per hour protecting our country? Great enough to make sure he is invisible while behind enemy lines doing his secret jobs for America?
I have to believe that the answer is yes. If I don't, I die from worry and panic--my constant companions in life already. Ever times the news comes on in the morning, I listen. I have to. Normally it's nothing to worry about. But every once in a while, a detail is given that makes my heart flutter, halt, then pound like a pagan war drum. M head spins and I can't breath for moment when they mention something about the Air Force. Or other things. Anything that means him. My brave, crazy brother. I trust in his wisdom, smarts, skills and all that he had been taught and figured out on his own...but God? Can I trust God to protect him? Can I give my brother to God? I have given over so many men to Him and, as of yet, nothing has come of it. That I can see...
To day and everyday, I need to be reminded how great our God is. Why do I need to be reminded? Because I am human. I have no freakin' clue how great He is. I need to start looking and find out.

Tag, You're Dead

A short story that muscled its way into "The Rebel's Rules". I left it out for so long, but it came out better than I thought. Especially for a first draft. I'll clean it up later, but for now here it is!

                                    Tag, You’re Dead

                                                     

The sound of rain from inside a raincoat with the hood up is different from any other kind. Rain on the roof doesn’t sound the same. Rain in a tent is similar, but still not quite like the rattling of rain just on top of your head, covered by only a layer of plastic rubber. It’s close, personal; you can hear every drop.

His hands were cold. This rain was cold. The thunder was far off and seemed to roll over the length of the sky, the sound growing closer. His breath was rising in thick, steady clouds of white exhaust. Around his feet, the water was puddling, clear at first then when the blood reached it, it smoked red like you’ve seen blood do in water. The fingers that were once clutching the gun’s handle were now slack and frozen, the metal of the body and barrel freezing. His mind was just as frozen. He could only feel like he was moving by watching the red swirls jig and jag in the puddle as the raindrops hit it one after the other. It was something to do. He had to do something. Any moment now, a car would drive by and see what he had done. He half wanted one to. Wanted someone or something to see what he had done and do something about it…or to him in return.

His eyes followed the red stream that was leaking into the clear puddle up to the body the red was coming from. It was on its back, backpack by its side, black jeans soaking wet, eyeliner running down its pale face. He considered the body’s style of dress with disinterest like he had done before. All of this, the grey t-shirt, black hair in the face and the black and white striped hoodie were something he had come to loath. He took one step towards the body and bent down. He waited in this position for another five minutes as if he expected the body to jump up and drag him to the ground. It didn’t move. He reached out and snatched the silver and black iPod out of the wet street and put it into his own jacket pocket.

The deed was done now. The spoils collected. He stood back up and looked once again at the body. It was so thin. Another thing to hate about it. He watched the rain make new patterns out of the leaking eyeliner on its pale face. This got boring. It was time to go. But where?

He turned away from the body and began to walk down the cold, deserted Detroit street. Everyone was inside watching TV or eating dinner like a nice, normal, happy family. Detroit-normal anyway. Family? He jerked around to stare at the corpse one more time as if daring it to say “I’ll tell my big brother and he’ll beat you up!” but it didn’t move. With that thought, he gripped the gun more tightly and gnashed his teeth. Older brothers weren’t a problem when they went to the same high school. Even if he was seventeen. Age didn’t matter.

He took out his school ID and read it out loud as if to convince himself that he was the boy looking up so happily out of the high school lunch card.

“Coen Dillard. Detroit. Junior. Age: 15.”

That was all it took. He was once again a smiling, happy, innocent fifteen-year-old boy. He performed this spell whenever he felt the need, which wasn’t often; because often, he was a good boy. He was a good black boy, people would say. He was a gentleman at the grocery store when he would help old ladies with their bags. High grades at school were good and he was the captain of the hockey team. He was going to be locked away in the family vault as the family’s prize golden boy. So to him this action was low. But no matter, it had to be done. He hated sinking to his incriminated brother’s level, but someone had to get rid of that one person.

He walked back over to the body, suddenly unsure, as these people are, if he had killed the right person. He hesitated for another five minutes before he bent down to the corpse’s level. He knew he wouldn’t have to touch it though. The ID card was in the backpack. He found it and read it too:

“Noland Clark. Detroit. Sophomore. Age: 16.”

Yes, it was the right person. And now he was dead. The rain had stopped, but the blood had flowed all the way down to the nearest stop sign. That was a long way for a dead boy to travel.

Detroit was known for its crime rate so it was no surprise when the next day at the breakfast table, the little sister, Sara, ran into the kitchen and said, “Mama, someone’s got died on the TV. I think there was a shootin’ at Coen’s school!”

No one cared. Murder was common enough in Detroit. Someone would die that day too and the next. And Coen would see to it. Someone would have to die again. And it would be as simple as last time. Noland had an older brother who would be after him in a hurry as soon as he figured out who it was who shot his little brother. And this older brother was smart. It wouldn’t take long.

Morning classes were canceled for a small memorial service. It was raining again. Coen sat in the back of the bus as it drove him and twenty other students to the memorial site. It was almost considered extra credit if you went to enough school memorial services in a year. In the back, hair in his face, earbuds in his ears like his brother, sat Noland’s older brother. Coen could watch him without wincing or a drop of guilt. Inside his backpack the silvery gun waited again. But these things never work out the way most people hope they will. All day he was around the older brother of his first victim and he never could get a moment where he thought he could shoot. So he waited.

The bus dropped a handful of the kids off at a single stop and Coen got off too. He stood long enough at the stop sign to watch where his target walked to. He went down the street then turned left. Coen dashed after him when he turned and ran until he came to the same corner. It was an alley way. The boy was walking down it at a fast pace. Did he know he was being followed? No, he couldn’t. He walked to the end of the alley way and crossed the street then stopped and waited. He turned around and began to look left and right as though he were waiting for someone.

Coen ducked behind a large, smelly green dumpster and peered over the top. Close to the edge of the lid his eyes saw over, was a small ant crawling at lightning speed as though it wanted to leave the scene of the crime. He watched the bug for what felt like many long minutes. It crawled then stopped to try and pick at a piece of gum that was attached to the side. When it couldn’t get it up, it began to run again. It ran very fast. When Coen looked up, he saw a car slowing down at the spot where the other boy was. He swore in his head then stood up to take the shot. He aimed, someone opened the door of the driver’s side of the car, he fired and they stood up blocking his shot.

The boys’ mother fell to the ground, a silver bullet through her skull causing her brains to splatter over the car and the street. Coen didn’t flinch as he watched. He had always wanted to know what real live human brains looked like. He watched the elegant white lady fall, her handbag spilling its guts out as it hit the ground too. The other boy ran to his mother’s side, his own makeup smeared down his face, just like his dead brother’s, as he fell to his knees next to her crying with her blood on his white face. Crying was weak, Coen thought. So he cried and grew just a little stronger from this miss fire. Oh well, the tougher they come the harder they fall. This was all for the better. Besides, he thought, what mother wants to live in a world where both her sons are dead. This accident was a favor to her.

Sirens split the air with an unexpected shriek. There must have been cops around the corner. The only thing was this: Coen’s brother always told him “Screw up once, you can fix it, screw up twice and you deserve to die”. There was no more messing up. Only the boys were supposed to die. Only the boys needed to die. Deep inside, Coen wondered if this was a sad thing or just something that had to happen. Like Noland’s death. It had to happen. Someone had to kill him. It was all he could think about for days. For months the boy had bothered him.

As he watched the ambulance whisk the body away, he wondered if he should feel guilty. But that thought would have to wait. The police decided that the shot had to have come from his direction because of how the bullet had entered her head and were coming his way. He needed to get home and out of sight. He was safe though, this wasn’t even really his bus stop. No one would know.  

But they did. What Coen had thought was Noland’s iPod was a phone as well and the tracking in it lead the police to his house. The little killer saw the cars outside before his mom did. She would break if cops came banging on her door for a second time. So he told her.

“Mamma,” he said, looking up at her as she lay on her bed, “I killed a boy.”

Little Sara was in the room watching cartoons on the TV and was now captivated by what her brother was saying.

“I’m leaving.”

No one stopped him as he ran out the back door just as the front buzzer sounded. His mother’s eyes were glazed as she watched her last son dash out the door. There was still a chance, she thought, for her to get off unknown.

“Sara, hide in the attic, please,” her mother ordered calmly. She had imagined this day for a long time. Just like this. She scooped up her silken white robe and threw it on over her lingerie and went the front door of her condo.

“My I help you, officer,” she said, sighing and leaning against the door frame.

The officer was taken aback by the tall, white woman standing skimpily clad in front of him. He vaguely composed himself and asked, “Excuse me ma’am, I don’t mean to bother you, but we’re wondering if we might have a word with your son Coen. We understand he attends the same school where Noland Clark was shot and we’re asking all the kids if they know anything or have any information.”

Mrs. Dillard stretched now, flexing her lithe limbs. “I’m a new resident, officer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not my business if some little black kid gets in trouble.”

The officer averted his eyes, cleared his through and said, “Noland Clark was a white boy, ma’am. However, Coen Dillard is black.” He looked at Mrs. Dillard again, obviously taking in her ivory skin and yellow hair. “Forgive me, ma’am, we won’t be bothering you no more.”

Mrs. Dillard watched the policeman walk down the steps of one of the only upper class area in all of Detroit. Coen had just gone and done what all the other boys his age were going to at some point or another in their lives. Would she him again? Did she care?

Coen didn’t think he could stand living outside the house, but something inside him drove him  not give up. He couldn’t figure out if it was fear and guilt or even something as simple as laziness. Sometimes, he wanted to sit in an alley and cry. He wanted his mother with him, he wanted his home; but those things weren’t an option now.

After almost a month of stealing from stores and pedestrians for food and going into super markets for warmth from the cold Detroit winter, the little murderer found himself taking out Noland Clark’s photo I.D. and staring at it for hours at a time. Noland Clark’s dark eyes seemed to had changed since his death. In this picture where once they were bored, glazed and uninterested in the word, they were not unseeing, dark, vacant and melancholy. They had seemed live and now they were very dead.

Coen wondered what Noland Clark would have gone on to do in his life. Nothing good for society, he told himself, staring into the ever darkening eyes. If he believed that Noland Clark was not going to do anything great, then it made his death far less mysterious and not so much of a burden. Even though Coen had told himself that feeling remorse was for losers, he did feel it every once in a while. The burden was there, hidden in his heart, but there all the same. Perhaps, Coen told his reflection in a puddle of oil and gutter water, you are no good for society either.

But he would never believe that.

On the last day of his life, Coen was trudging down a particularly dirty and smelly street when the sound of a gun being cocked came to his ears. He turned expecting to see who the person standing at the other end of the ally.

Noland Clark’s older brother, with his hand wrapped tightly around the glistening handle of a gun, eyes blazing with fury, glared across at Coen. Coen made no move, sign or gesture that he was afraid that Noland Clark’s brother could see, but in Coen’s heart, he was screaming for his life.

Don’t kill me, he whispered in his mind.

“You’re taking away my chance to make it right,” Coen said out loud. The silver gun didn’t even twitch.

“What about my brother’s last chance?” the one holding the gun screamed in reply. “You can’t make it right!”

I can take away your pain, was the mental reply.

Coen didn’t say anything for a long time. He gazed at the figure in front of him. In an instant he knew. He knew Noland Clark’s brother was not going to kill him. Why not? Why let him live? The anger that suddenly boiled up Coen surprised even him. Fiery rage engulfed him at the thought of having to live on in this blackly guilty way. He wanted the guilt gone, but he did not want to have to pay for it.

“I won’t pay for what I did to Noland Clark,” he spat. “You want revenge? You’ll have to kill me. Kill me!” he shouted.

Noland Clark’s brother was gripped with the fear that Coen had dashed aside before when he pulled the gun on Noland Clark. Coen remembered the fear of actually holding a weapon to a boy’s head. His eyes had widened and he had gasped from fright at his decision just before he pulled the trigger. The it was over. If he had hesitated for more second, like Noland Clark’s brother was doing now, then Noland Clark will still have been alive. But something in Coen had made him cast away the fear and thrill of the kill was pumping venomous desire though his veins at the sight of the blood. The kick of the shot had pulled the gun from his hand and made a splashing noise when it landed in the puddle.

When Coen’s eyes refocused from his memories, he saw Noland Clark’s brother vanish around a corner, the gun lying on the concrete. The numbness of having a flashback did not fade away as Coen walked toward the gun like a limp puppet. He fell onto his backside next to the gun and picked it up with his gloved hand. Like a windup toy, as though he had imagined this moment for years, he put the head of the gun in his mouth. He waited for that moment—that gasp—to come, but it never did. He heard the gun go off before he felt it. For just a moment the world tipped, then it swam, then the evanescence of this world faded into a black nothing as he slipped into the next life to await his judgment. Fear gripped his heart in its last few, feeble, guilty beats of life before it stopped like a clock out of wind.  

Chapter 30: My World, His World

I bought a journal again to try to keep myself into writing about myself. And writing in general. It's working with somethings...new music is up on the youtube account so don't forget to check that out! Also, I put together my solo music for my dance debut (whenever that is!) and I'm pretty proud of it. I'm saving up for a white costume now and (maybe) two Moorish scimitars and a white veil. It's going to be pretty epic. I also have my drum solo music picked out, which I will probably choreograph first. It's much easier.

NOTE: The guy from Chapter 29 is totally gone, just so you know. And I love it. Did he go back on his word and not be a friend when I needed one? Yes, but that's ok. Men do that.

I have these awesome fake nails on (trimmed them, painted them and glued them myself!) so it’s hard to type and therefore this may be shorter than normal because I can hardly stand the frustration of typing with long nails.

While on my way home from teaching the other day, I was thinking about God. Duh…I’ve been thinking about how I’m kind of cutting Him out of my life. Not on purpose, just not getting into the word and spending much time praying. Thought I did give a person in my life to God recently. But I don’t think He’s going to do anything until I change up a bit. So any way, what I was thinking is simple.

I created Celroth Do’non. That is the world in my Generations series of fantasy novels (it’s been years since I’ve typed that name…). I love Glenn, my chosen hero, and his brothers. And all the people I picked to help him out. They are mine and (strange as it may sound) they love me. Glenn has been with me for years.

So this is my world. A world I love, have nurtured, adored, devastate, rebuilt, taken hope from, given hope to. It’s all mine and I love them. Now, how would I feel if someone else came up, stole my manuscript, changed it around and turned it into something it was not? I would scream and be furious. I would want to kill them. Someone else coming in and taking over MY world. Making MY people do what they said! Argh, how that would burn me. My people forgetting me and listening to someone else.

Hello, God, does this sound familiar?

I would want my people back, but more than that—if they could—I would want them to want ME back. If they did—and if I could see that they did—of course I would help them come back. I can’t just go and take them back. They have to want to come back. Then it would be all the more precious. I would do what I could to bring them back, remind them who they really belong to, but it would be up to them to make the choice. I love them and cannot make them to anything they don’t want to.

Am I getting close, God?

This is our world. What I have just described is earth. We were the Creator’s and now we have been stolen…and almost no one is listening for His call. We’re all too busy worrying about our nonexistent love life, or money, school and job. Shove those and move on with your REAL life! God is calling you back to Him. That’s what I learned. Now I just have to get it right. He is calling me and I need to respond. I just wrote my personal fantasy peace “The Eternal”. The knight had to leave his family and worldly things just like Christ commanded. We need to too. I worry so much about finding a man to heal my broken heart and sooth my soul. I need to stop that. Only God can save me that way. I worry about money for school. If God wants me there—yes, I need to work for it—but He will provide. He will. He wants you to do what He wants you to do so He will make it happen.

Look at me preaching….I’m so good at theory. Let’s see how it plays out in real life. But these are things I’ve learned again and again. I hope it sticks this time. I took one step. I gave a boy I like to God. It feels good to not have him on my mind all the time. Why did I have to give him to God? Because he doesn’t know God like I do. He’s off limits. So all I can do is be a witness an pray.

That was side tracking, but whatever! I’ve learned a lot since my last devastating entry thanks to the two wise women of my life: my best friend and my sister-in-law. I am blessed, but I am blind.

Wild Heart: An Improvised Poem

Come back
you silly wild thing!
Stop this
running
panting
searching
desiring
Or you will bleed
to death.

How many times
little wild one
will you run
at the first sighting?
You can only
break so many times.

A wild heart
is a curse.
The fire inside must
burn bright.
It is wild fire.
When it escapes
all in its path
are devoured.

Stay still
wild heart
or you will
destroy
the world...

The rubble you make
and the stone around
you...
who will raise
you now?

Stupid wild heart
see what you made
me do?
Fire burns and
the pain lingers 
long.

Leave them alone
stop chasing them.
Look at yourself
wild heart.
Love yourself.

Chapter 29: Stonework Castle: The Fortress is Under Attack!

Are you attacking me? What is God doing? Who let you in to the fortress? Why are you trying to come in, this is my hideout!

I did almost fall for you. Not “fall in love”, but just “fall” for you. I bet you know why too. You literally just popped in to my life for twenty seconds and suddenly you want to contact me. Why? What happened in those twenty seconds that made you want to contact me? What was it? After you got the urge, what made you go through with contacting me? What were you thinking when you saw me? When you asked for my number? When you sent that first text? I am a young, strange, nobody to you. Why do you care? What do you care about about me?


You made it very clear that I can’t fall for you. I almost did though, you know. You can’t walk in to somebody’s life, unfold them, rip out their guts, expose their deepest fears, see the darkest corners of their souls and not be scared of it, be understanding and not judgmental and then not expect them to fall for you in some way. You found me. You Saw me and understood me. You could talk to me and expose me. You wanted me to be comfortable with that. I almost got there. But then you turn around and say “nothing more than a friend”…you can’t do that to an insecure little girl. That’s why I wonder. I wonder why you care if you won’t be anything more. Why are you investing this amount of time into a little, scared girl? Why are you pretending to care? You made her vulnerable, you opened yourself up to help her and now you are shutting her down. She doesn’t want to share with you. Why should she? You are just some guy who, for reasons unknown, got her number and mauled her open. She doesn’t want to talk to you about herself if exposing an sharing with you means nothing. It will not help her for you to value her, open her up, help her, understand her—if you are just a friend. You are not special enough to get that deep into her soul if you just a friend. She keeps her friends at bay. Friends belong outside the wall. Her parents will never understand either. She’s not a allowed to spend time with guys. So she can’t justify the time spent with you to her mother and father.

Aside from that, which is a whole other problem in itself, you invade her life, her privacy an made her think you were special. The one who was to get beyond those walls was supposed to be someone special. Which you have made it quite clear you are not. You are invading a space that was reserved for whoever God had in mind to be her love, her leader on earth, her Godsend—whatever you want to call the man who is suppose to hold her heart. This is not your space. That’s why she is so uncomfortable and so scared an angry that you are beyond those walls. It’s not the place for you. Or is it? This is what I think about most. Are you that one? If you feel like you may be, then why do you go in the opposite direction and say the opposite thing? What do you feel? How o you feel about her? It comes back to “why do you care?”. I won’t let you in any closer until you tell me. That’s what I want so badly to say, but I can’t. You’ve made it feel like the only way to get answers or move forward is to let you in. I’m stuck. I don’t want you in that space, beyond those walls. That’s for My Someone to do and see. But if I don’t let you in, how will I know if you’re him or not? So I am the who has to suffer and take the risk. I have to let you in to See me and know me like you already do. My heart is the one that beats with the fear of breaking. My heart is begging me to not put it on the line with you. It’s too unsure of everything. But my mind wants to know who you are, why you are doing this and what your heart is saying. You said I would be good for you. I’ve heard that before, but that was from someone who was special at the time. You said you don’t want to be special to me. But you want to be a supportive and understanding friend. Need I remind you, sir, YOU stepped into MY life. Don’t dash in front of me during such an insecure part of my life, say you can save me and then leave me “as a friend”…not after you made me fall for you for a brief moment. I am still fallen. But I am picking myself up again, watching your every move to see if you will help me up and hold my hand. I am forced to let you in to my walls, barricade and fortress. This fortress has not been penetrated before. Now you’re here, what do you want? If it is to leave me “as a friend”, then you can go now. Cause this is not your place. Please…don’t break my heart; it’s beating to keep me alive and if it breaks, it won’t work. I need my heart. I need it to beat for someone. Tell me about God and if you’ve heard Him speak.

Chapter 28: He's gone, but the King is back!

After the sadness of yesterday and seeing the boy I like with someone else, I had a revelation while in the shower. Soon I will tell you about Jinx, my fairie friend who I met in Kansas. But first, the revelation!
The one reason I have turned down guy after guy after guy is because I know they do not have the ability to be a spiritual leader for me. While this is important, I have been taking it too far. I was looking for a man to save me. To drag me back to the path of great and safe spirituality! It's like I didn't even want to journey on the path together, I just wanted him to lead me. Suddenly, I realized what I was doing wrong. I was leaving God out of His own equation. I didn't even want Him to save me. I wanted someone else to. WRONG, Mirella! So wrong! How could I even think that? Oh, I'm human, oops...
I need God to lead me to Himself. He's been calling me. I've felt that for ages and Sonni pointed it out to me a few weeks ago. God must save me and I must follow Him down the path. Sounds simple, I know! But it comes in the most unlikely ways. You may not be following God down His path, but you think you are. But you're not. So when this revelation hit, I rinsed out my hair and closed my eyes to soak up the hot water. Then, in the darkness I saw him. There was my old friend Jinx standing at the end of a hallway that looked like a high school hall from a Frank Peretti novel. His hair was not spiked any more or streaked with purple. He wasn't glittering any more and his clothes were dark jeans and a black t-shirt. He looked at me for a moment, turned then moved his hand like he was going to wave, but didn't. He just walked with his back to me, down the hall, around the corner and into the light. He was gone. I don't know if I'll see him again or not. I feel like he was linked to my trying to figure this out. And now that I have, he's gone. I miss him though. A little. I know I will. He was my weird friend back when I needed someone and no other people were around. But I'll know what's wrong when I see him again, I guess. I'm happy though. I want God now. I want to see hat He does now that I know hat to do and will do it. What about boys? Belly Dance? School? A job? I have  so much to figure out and do.
Do these things withe me, God. And thank you so much for Blogger's autosave...my battery went out and I'm finishing this post about 20 minutes later. My computer crashed when I turned it back on. So thank You!

Chapter 27: The Journey is in Vain

This week has been a scary, steady heart beat. So close to flat-line, yet blipping every second or so to let me know I'm still okay. I had fun with new friends on Monday. After work at my early morning job, we went to Town Center, had lunch and then went to one of the groups houses where Bailey and I played pool for hours. I lost about four times and won once. It was super fun. I had looked forward to that day because of someone who was going to be there. I was so excited to see him that I could hardly sleep the night before! But when the time came, I basically ignored him. This seems to be my coping mechanism with guys I have crushes on. But this one is different then just a crush. I've only felt this twice before in my life. Sounds whorish I know, but I think that a person can have a special connection more than once. It just shows that that person to which you are drawn has something that your One True Love will have. I think that everyone has been drawn this way to more than one person in their life time. They just won't admit it. I have been truly drawn to only two people in my life. One was when I was very young. About ten I think. Yes, I  think it can happen at that young of an age. Next was last semester with that whole Parnell episode.
I thought about him the other day when I was showing Elise how he had blocked me from his facebook. I logged in with my ex's facebook and saw his pictures. My heart hurt all over again as I looked at him. I knew then, that that connection hadn't died. It's the same I feel when I look at the first boy I had that feeling for. He's married now, but still the echo sounds in my core.
Any way, my defense mechanism is to NOT talk to the guy I like. But, oh, how I want to! However, the same red flags are coming up with as did with my ex. Things about this new boy remind me of him. Things about this new boy make me question him since they relate to my ex. I'v being drawn to the same type of boy. And for the record, I did not feel The Connection with my ex. Ever. I just loved him. But I know--and knew then too--that it was not true love. I may have thought it was at certain times, but not for the entirety of our relationship. I just know. There were things about him that showed me. And my heart spoke loud and clear. So I am wary of this new boy. But how I like him! I am having to cling to my God all the more as my heart flutters and dances at the mere thought of this boy. But this is all beside the point!
The journey...
I hate my job at the mall. I have been sexually harassed by my manager there, he has lied to me, he and the assistant manager gang up on me, they are rude and mean to me (they have laughingly admitted to this) and they criticize everything I say. They have never spoken one kind or friendly word to me. I've told you about them before. To escape them, I applied for a job at UH's writing center. After preparing an entire week with essay editing and worry, I climbed into my car with google maps papers clutched in my hands to brave the horrid journey to downtown Houston in the middle of the afternoon. The hour drive was fine up until I got lost. It's unavoidable. I was in a place I had never been and no one could help me. I called a few places but had to leave voice mails. After going back and forth for 15 minutes, I find the UH campus. Then I have to find the building that I'm looking for. Turns out I have to park far far away and walk there. So I do. When I get to the interview, I suddenly get this feeling. "You're not a UH student yet. You're not going to get the job." I ignore the feeling I've had for weeks that is screaming at me now and proceed into the room. I meet someone named Ben and the Asian lady who had been sending me emails. I see they have the copies of my essay and resume in hand. We sit and she says, "When will you be graduating?" I tell her, "I hope in 2013," with perfect confidence. "Are you not a student here?" she asks for some reason. "No..." my brain says, my mouth following suit. The rest of the short conversation is all a blur. I stood up and left before I knew it. I didn't get it. I wasn't a UH student yet. I was trapped at my other job.
The sun had decided to come out now simply to burn my as I walked back to my car all the way on the other side of the campus. I get there to a surprise. What's the one thing that happens in the movies to make a characters day worse when they reach their car? A parking ticket. A disgusting, fat, yellow parking ticket. For fifty dollars no less!
My strength is gone, my hopes drowned and my mind is not even my own any more as I get in the car and drive the now hour and half drive back to my house.
So here I am. Sitting with fear on the edge of change as I wish I could have escaped a wretched job. God is showing me something. I just don't know what. He gives me this boy. Why? He puts me through this wretched journey to nothing. Why? God, what are you doing to my heart?