One morning at 7-freaking-20, I was pulling into the school parking lot. Now some, like my brother feel that this is an appropriate time to arrive for school. Although school doesn't start until 8 15, getting there an hour early seems to be a good idea. Every morning he tries to persuade me that he really ought to get there before the bell rings and that I'm the crazy one for not wanting to. He chides me for leaving the house at the latest possible minute, and consistently gets angry with me.
But I honestly don't see the benefits of arriving to school early. There's so much time wasted just sitting there being bored and it's awful. I don't particularly enjoy being at school and smelling the stench of awaiting homework. And, I'm partially allergic to mornings so I'm not in the greatest of moods when I do finally make an appearance. I would just rather spend that extra hour or so sleeping or making sure that I have all my stuff together and ready for the day. Or, heaven forbid, that I get to eat breakfast BEFORE I leave the house.
In all actuality, this really isn't my fault. For my entire life, I've been late, so I guess I'm just used to it, and enjoy it. I dont have to sit there and wait for everything to start because it starts when I arrive. But the reason that he wants to be there is that he has a girlfriend and just has to get there to talk to her. For an hour, I don't really understand why he's got to be there that early but whatever.
Maybe he's the one who's weird. Everyone else in the population of the high school loves to get there at 8 13. I hope I have him converted to late time soon. I don't know how much more of this early stuff I can take. ;)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Best Get Together
I don't really have a favorite Christmas decoration. They're cool and everything, but to me, that doesn't make or break my Christmas. I love the get togethers and parties that happen up until the actual day. Hanging out with friends and family as well as my church family really makes this holiday so amazing for me.
So, instead of doing a favorite decoration, I'll do a favorite event. Every year, the Sunday before Christmas my church has this Christmas program. Anyone is allowed to do whatever they want, as long as they are serious and it pertains to Christmas. For as long as I can remember, I've been in this program either singing or doing a drama with my youth group. The exhilaration of being on stage in front of practically every person I know is almost overwhelming. Hundreds of eyes watch me as a complete this move or sing that note, and sometimes, it can be more than a a little difficult to continue under such scrutiny. But every time I'm on that stage, I realize that I'm not performing so that everyone will say how good I am, but how good God is by blessing me with the talent as well as the confidence to perform. Then, I shoo all the butterflies out of my stomach and continue to dance like never before. Once the final beat of the song is played, I look out into the crowd and see the entire congregation on their feet shouting praises to God. I feel honored that I could be one chosen to usher in His presence and happily join in.
But, no matter how much I love actually performing myself, there is one part of the program that holds a special place in my heart. See, my pastor is like my second dad/granddad. When I was young, both of my grandfathers lived at least five hours out of town, so there was no "grandparent-ly spoiling" for my family. But, we did have our pastors, and they acted as step-in grandparents though they're little more than 10 years older than my parents. Anyways, every year, after every other act is finished, he will walk up with his microphone as if he's going to dismiss, but then this beat gets started. To the unexperienced ear, it sounds exactly like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," but it's not; in reality, it is "Jesus Christ is Coming Again." Using the same tune, he changes the words to make a more "religious" per say meaning to the song. Ever since I was a little(r) girl, I have loved listening to that song and can't wait until the 364 are over so I can hear it again. I'm not sure if he knows how important that song is to me, but one year he forgot to sing it, and I got mad. He hasn't forgotten since :)
Here's the words
You'd better watch out, you'd better not lie, you'd better not pout I'm telling you why, Jesus Christ is coming again.
He sees you when you're cheating, He knows when you're a fake, He knows if you're beneath his blood so be saved for goodness sake
Oh, you'd better watch out, you'd better not lie, you'd better get right or be left behind,
Jesus is coming again, Jesus is coming again, Jesus Christ is coming again!
So, instead of doing a favorite decoration, I'll do a favorite event. Every year, the Sunday before Christmas my church has this Christmas program. Anyone is allowed to do whatever they want, as long as they are serious and it pertains to Christmas. For as long as I can remember, I've been in this program either singing or doing a drama with my youth group. The exhilaration of being on stage in front of practically every person I know is almost overwhelming. Hundreds of eyes watch me as a complete this move or sing that note, and sometimes, it can be more than a a little difficult to continue under such scrutiny. But every time I'm on that stage, I realize that I'm not performing so that everyone will say how good I am, but how good God is by blessing me with the talent as well as the confidence to perform. Then, I shoo all the butterflies out of my stomach and continue to dance like never before. Once the final beat of the song is played, I look out into the crowd and see the entire congregation on their feet shouting praises to God. I feel honored that I could be one chosen to usher in His presence and happily join in.
But, no matter how much I love actually performing myself, there is one part of the program that holds a special place in my heart. See, my pastor is like my second dad/granddad. When I was young, both of my grandfathers lived at least five hours out of town, so there was no "grandparent-ly spoiling" for my family. But, we did have our pastors, and they acted as step-in grandparents though they're little more than 10 years older than my parents. Anyways, every year, after every other act is finished, he will walk up with his microphone as if he's going to dismiss, but then this beat gets started. To the unexperienced ear, it sounds exactly like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," but it's not; in reality, it is "Jesus Christ is Coming Again." Using the same tune, he changes the words to make a more "religious" per say meaning to the song. Ever since I was a little(r) girl, I have loved listening to that song and can't wait until the 364 are over so I can hear it again. I'm not sure if he knows how important that song is to me, but one year he forgot to sing it, and I got mad. He hasn't forgotten since :)
Here's the words
You'd better watch out, you'd better not lie, you'd better not pout I'm telling you why, Jesus Christ is coming again.
He sees you when you're cheating, He knows when you're a fake, He knows if you're beneath his blood so be saved for goodness sake
Oh, you'd better watch out, you'd better not lie, you'd better get right or be left behind,
Jesus is coming again, Jesus is coming again, Jesus Christ is coming again!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Santa's Not Real?
Well, that was never a shock to me. If anything, I was the poor little kid who happened to blab that they didn't believe in Santa and start a huge argument about how they were wrong.
My life wasn't too awful knowing that there wasn't a Santa Claus. The toughest times were Christmastime at school. We were given assignments like "Write a letter to Santa telling him what you want for Christmas" or "Color this picture of Santa and leave it by the milk and cookies on Christmas Eve." These attempts of bringing cheer and the remembrance of Santa to the room worked quite the opposite. Instead of feeling happy that on Christmas Day I would have presents from a strange man in a red suit who knew if I was naughty or nice, I felt sad that I would have to tell my teacher that I didn't believe. And that was no simple task. My parents had always strongly cautioned my siblings and I to never ever say that Santa wasn't real, only to say that we "didn't believe." Because of this, I always made sure that I tried to whisper it to my teacher so that no one else would know. But someone always managed to hear me and declare it to the class, "Kiersten doesn't believe in Santa Claus?!" That would start a whole new round of teasing and a hundred questions on why I didn't believe. All I could reply while not flat out saying that he wasn't real was, "I just don't believe in Santa...No I don't get any presents from him...Yes I do get presents from my family, just none from Santa...No I'm not mad at my parents." I'm happy that I never told anyone that Santa wasn't real, because once everyone started to figure it out, Christmas seemed to lose its charm and no one got really excited anymore.
But honestly, besides the occasional teasing because I didn't believe, my life was never the worse because I didn't believe. I knew my parents loved me and they would buy me the most amazing surprises and that I would never be disappointed. And I'm kind of happy that I never believed because that means that my parents never lied to me and would never lie to me about anything ever. That was really important to them too because both had really bad experiences with finding out about Santa. And now, their relationships with their families aren't the best. So, maybe this means that before you lie about the little things, you should think about how it could effect the bigger things.
My life wasn't too awful knowing that there wasn't a Santa Claus. The toughest times were Christmastime at school. We were given assignments like "Write a letter to Santa telling him what you want for Christmas" or "Color this picture of Santa and leave it by the milk and cookies on Christmas Eve." These attempts of bringing cheer and the remembrance of Santa to the room worked quite the opposite. Instead of feeling happy that on Christmas Day I would have presents from a strange man in a red suit who knew if I was naughty or nice, I felt sad that I would have to tell my teacher that I didn't believe. And that was no simple task. My parents had always strongly cautioned my siblings and I to never ever say that Santa wasn't real, only to say that we "didn't believe." Because of this, I always made sure that I tried to whisper it to my teacher so that no one else would know. But someone always managed to hear me and declare it to the class, "Kiersten doesn't believe in Santa Claus?!" That would start a whole new round of teasing and a hundred questions on why I didn't believe. All I could reply while not flat out saying that he wasn't real was, "I just don't believe in Santa...No I don't get any presents from him...Yes I do get presents from my family, just none from Santa...No I'm not mad at my parents." I'm happy that I never told anyone that Santa wasn't real, because once everyone started to figure it out, Christmas seemed to lose its charm and no one got really excited anymore.
But honestly, besides the occasional teasing because I didn't believe, my life was never the worse because I didn't believe. I knew my parents loved me and they would buy me the most amazing surprises and that I would never be disappointed. And I'm kind of happy that I never believed because that means that my parents never lied to me and would never lie to me about anything ever. That was really important to them too because both had really bad experiences with finding out about Santa. And now, their relationships with their families aren't the best. So, maybe this means that before you lie about the little things, you should think about how it could effect the bigger things.
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