See

Harry Potter bugs me.

No, not Harry Potter - note the italics. The books overall are, in my opinion, brilliant. How the author developed the most intricate plot structure I've ever read over a series of seven books that started as a note on a napkin blows my mind and makes me feel inadequate as an author. My membership to the Potter fandom is eternal. But Harry Potter - the man, the character, the scarhead - bugs the shit out of me.

Last summer I had a very intense conversation with one of my bosses about how Harry Potter is actually one of the least active characters in the whole twisted, delicious story. Let's think about how he gained his "chosen" status, shall we? He was zapped. By a wand. Of a powerful wizard. And somehow the zap of that wand of that powerful wizard bounced off his mostly-ordinary-but-somehow-secretly-magical head and destroyed, at the time, the second-greatest wizard who ever lived. And he became "the chosen one" - "The Boy Who Lived." It's as if it were a great battle between a child and the most evil wizard known to the wizarding world, and he somehow defeated him with Chuck-Norris-though-baby-shaped powers.

No.

No, dear friends.

He was an infant. And sat in his crib. And the power that destroyed Lord Voldemort happened to him.

Through the rest of the story he proceeds to acquire more and more followers as Lord Voldemort grows more and more powerful and Harry grows more and more angry. As each of the movies becomes visibly darker (if they had made any more movies they would need Luna to run around shining everybody with a flashlight), Harry becomes more bitter about the position into which he was thrust, frustrated that people are sacrificing everything to support his cause. If you total the people who were massacred because they were Team Harry - and not just the ones who made you cry (>cough<  Fred Weasley) but also the ones who perished behind the scenes even before Harry talked to the snake at the zoo - the number is staggering. And Harry's super grateful and thanks everyone for their undying dedication even in the face of peril, right?

Wrong. Let's turn our attention to how many scenes detail Harry yelling at his closest friends because they're asking him for the answers that he always seems to have.

Oh, and let's also examine those fun interchanges where Harry's yelling at someone (again) because he didn't ask to be the Chosen One. Well....that's very nice, Harry, but the person you're yelling at didn't pick you. There's very little reason to direct your rage at, oh I don't know, Ron Weasley - the most loyal friend in the history of fiction since Lassie, the man who shared his only sandwich on the Hogwarts Express with you.

His sandwich, you ungrateful shit.

Like I said, I love the Harry Potter stories. But I would like to submit that Harry Potter is not a hero like his brethren in fiction portray him to be. The characters who worship him and turn to him for all the answers, rather, are the heroes. Sirius Black, who lays down his life for the cause that he's believed in for as long as his godson has lived, even though he only knew him for two years. Remus Lupin, my personal favorite character, and his young wife Nymphadora Tonks and her pink hair, who were taken from their own young son to protect their friends' child. His parents, whose love (mostly Lily's) saved him and actually made him "chosen." It's the idea of believing in a something rather than a someone, and sticking with that person even when they're a turd.

And that, my friends, is the mark of a hero.

Oh, and I submit that the story should have a tagline: And Also Neville Longbottom, The Underdog Who Actually Kicked Voldemort's Ass.

Wait

The moment has come when I collapse in my bedroom floor and utter the helpless words, “My God, I don’t know what to do.”

This is really frustrating for someone who likes to know the answers. The last few months have been an exercise in patience and I feel like I’ve been failing it miserably. We don’t have a choice but to deal with what’s in front of us, and I’ve been cool with that. I decided not to fall into the career of my degree, and I dealt with it. I have a full-time job, and right now the fact that I’m working full-time anywhere is a bonus. I looked for an avenue for my writing to be read, and lo and behold, I was published in a book out of the blue. Joe and I have been working with a long-distance relationship for the past almost-two years and in just a few months that distance is about to become a whole lot shorter.

And now, when it looked like we had an answer to our housing prayer, it looks like it might have fallen through. The owner of the house we were planning on renting just called me and said that someone made an offer on it. It might fall through, he says, but I know what “might” means. So we’re back in the game of house-hunting, when I have no credit and we can’t get pre-approved for a loan until Joe gets his first paycheck, which won’t come until June. And now, in a place that we’ve been so sure…now nothing is certain.

I was looking in the back of my Bible for the “trust” category so I could read yet another verse about how important it is to trust in Jesus, just to trust Him at His word. Instead I followed the lead that said “WAIT” to Jeremiah 42.5-7:

“Then they said to Jeremiah, ‘May the Lord your God be a faithful witness against us if we refuse to obey whatever He tells us to do! Whether we like it or not, we will obey the Lord our God to whom we are sending you with our plea. For if we obey Him, everything will turn out well for us.’ Ten days later the Lord gave His reply to Jeremiah.”

Ten days. Ten days. I haven’t waited ten days on a decision in months. I’ve been so focused on finding an answer that I haven’t bothered to ask God for His answer in His timing. And now that the only door that seemed open to us appears to have shut in our faces, and we’re standing in the dark with no apparent answer, I have literally no plan except to sit in my bedroom floor and pray with every ounce of silent being in me for His answer.

But not only for His answer. For an extra measure of patience and strength to wait on His answer that will come in His perfect timing.

My God operates on a different plane than I do, observes from a different vantage point. And credit and paychecks are no obstacle to Him. I put my trust in my God. I trust that He has a perfect answer waiting for us. I trust that this is a learning opportunity that will grow both of our faiths as we turn to Him for a response rather than trying to come up with one on our own.

We are called to wait on the Lord. This does not mean to wait for the Lord. While I’m sitting in my bedroom floor begging for answers, this doesn’t mean I will stay here and wait for a phone call from someone offering us a house. But my trust shifts from my own work and my own power to find an option and rather trusts that my God has not only an option, but a perfect option.

I am spent. I am emotionally and physically beat. And so I turn to my God for patience I don’t have and strength I can’t muster. I trust that He has an answer that I cannot provide for myself.

And I will wait.

WebMD

I'm a woman. Which means that once a month my body goes through the super-fun obligation of preparing for a baby. But every month I have to sit down with it and explain (again) that a baby doesn't exactly fit in with my plans right now, so thanks for the decorating but it's a little premature. So my body gets grumpy about taking down the asexually-yellow-until-a-gender-has-been-determined wallpaper and crib that can be turned into a double bed when the baby turns four.

We're adults. We know what that entails.

However, my body gets really grumpy about it and decides not only to tear down the aforementioned wallpaper with her fingernails and dismantle the bed with a hydrogen bomb, but also to light the remains of the "baby things" on fire. With a flamethrower. And explosives. And while most women have the cramps that guys think are nothing but are actually enough to keep us on the couch for days on end (I'll remember that next time you have kidney stones), I have this sensation of someone ripping my body in half that's enough to have me doubled over the back of a chair at work and frying under a heating pad at home.

Fun fun.

I mentioned it to a lady at work today and she breathed that horrible word that women worldwide cringe at: endometriosis. (For those of you who don't know, this is when the tissue that normally grows inside a woman's uterus starts growing outside of it. It's very painful and has been linked to infertility and ovarian cancer.) So immediately I started to panic and research specialists on the internet on my lunch break.

I figured I should look online first before I made any appointments. So I ventured onto that most reliable (ha) of medical websites: WebMD.

If I wanted to be comforted, I should not have started here.

On that handiest of websites, there's a section where you can "check your symptoms." You enter the discomfort you're feeling - anywhere from a runny nose to a snapped bone - and they'll diagnose you as either allergic to ragweed or dying of the plague.

To say that WebMD exaggerates is a gross understatement.

So I entered my age and gender, and when the little woman avatar popped up I clicked "pelvis." A whole list of "general symptoms" appears, and you add which particular ones you're feeling. I scrolled down to "body aches or pains." And oh happy day, another little bar popped up: "refine your symptoms."

Yes, I would call my pain severe.

No, they haven't been brought on or made worse by swimming in infested waters. I for one take great precautions when I swim in filth.

No, I haven't been near anyone with a "possible infectious illness." And I've had my malaria shot.

No, I haven't been outside the continental U.S. I went to Alaska last summer but who the hell swims in water - infested or not - in Alaska?

Done with the symptom refinement.

After I scrolled through the other list of general symptoms and decided that no, I couldn't say that binge eating, craving for dirt, excessive sweating (which I almost clicked when I thought it said "swearing"), impaired social skills, short stature, or fear were among the noted issues, I begged the Great All-Knowing Site to diagnose me!

I was comforted to see that endometriosis was not on the list of twenty-one possible conditions. The top choice was a viral syndrome, but "body aches or pains" was only one of the five characteristics. However, I am doing my research on the possibility of lupus, Lyme disease, Gaucher disease (but only the late-onset kind), cat-scratch disease (I did play with that cat a few weeks ago), dengue fever (though I don't remember the last time I saw an Aedes mosquito and apparently that's the only kind you can get it from), Coxsackie virus infection (though I'm not a child under the age of ten), and West Nile Virus.

I joke about it, but in all honesty I am going to have it checked out at some point. Which, if you know me, you'll understand how big of a deal this is. I hate going to the doctor. I mean, HATE IT. I had a chunk fall out of one of my fillings a while back and I waited for a month before I went to have it fixed because I despise the idea of going to the doctor. But while I doubt it's West Nile or Gaucher disease (late-onset or otherwise), I do want a definite "this is what it is." Because that's what doctors are there for, right?

So goodnight, dear friends. According to tonight's venture, I may be dead by morning. Keep your fingers crossed.

Stealth

Planning a wedding is a lot of work.

And I mean, a lot of work.

When you first get engaged, you're overcome by this flood of emotions. My particular inner monologue sounded something like, "Oh my word...I've found him. The man that I've wondered about, prayed for, dreamed of for years is on one knee in front of me with a gorgeous ring and the biggest smile on his face. And he is better than any man I could have ever imagined. He is my best friend, my sweetheart, my partner-in-crime, the constant challenge for me to be better, the man who put his love for God ahead of his love for me. And I can NOT wait to be his wife."

So you spend the next three days smiling like an idiot every time you look at your left hand. You're ecstatic.

And then. You have to get busy.

We've still got over a year before we say "I do" and already we've got the church, the pastor, the reception venue, the dress, the bridesmaids' dresses, an idea for the groomsmen's clothes, rough sketches of decorations, a practice bouquet, and maybe possibly a place to live. I hear all the time about how ahead of the ballgame we are, and while I tend to stress about these things, I know that, when next spring comes and we're mere weeks away from that big day, I'll be happy that we rushed around the year before.

But I still only handle about an hour of "wedding talk" at a time.

I'm finding that I was not the typical little girl. I did not put on pretend wedding ceremonies with my teddy bears or practice putting my last name with the boy who sat across from me in sixth grade. While I was climbing the pear trees along our street and pretending to be a cowgirl on the sawhorses that sat outside our house for the longest time, I forgot to imagine the big sparkly dress that would make me feel like a princess for one day. I see all the time on "Say Yes to the Dress" the brides who have had every second of their wedding day planned out since they were four. And I simply wasn't one of those.

So now when it comes time to pick what color the guys' socks will be or whether there should be a runner down the aisle, I can genuinely say that those details don't interest me. Sometimes I have the tendency to say "OK" to things because I'm tired of hearing about them, but in most of these instances, it sincerely doesn't matter. I keep reminding my mom, "I'm not being a pleaser - I really just don't care."

I've turned my mom loose on much of the planning, and she and my sister have been so helpful with the whole endeavor. We've come up with an awesome system: they come up with ideas and say, "What about this?" and I say "yes" or "hell no." Planning isn't necessarily my thing, but the three of us make an excellent team, and we've made the whole process smooth and painless. And while I'm definitely looking forward to what is supposed to be "the happiest day of my life," I'm really looking forward to the part that comes next, when I stand next to the man of my dreams and start a life beside him as his wife.

That's the key. That's what remains important. At the end of the day, I tell myself, it will not matter. It won't matter who performs the ceremony or what we wore or who was there or what they ate. It won't matter if my bouquet was wrapped in green ribbon on top of black or black ribbon on top of green. At the end of that day, at the end of all this planning, we will be married. We will be starting a journey together that will be exciting, bumpy, exhilarating, and downright frustrating at times.

And we are excited.

This part is the formality. The good part starts next.

Passenger

And so the snows of winter are finally melting, and spring - though still shrouded in fog and chill - is on her way. We were in Florida a few weekends ago, and I said that if I had to live there, I would miss the seasons: the quiet bowing-out of the winter that seemed like it would last forever as the blooms of the spring slowly make their debut, the cooling of harsh summer as autumn erupts in gold and red. Our constant example of change, the sureness of those transitions. The reminder that change is a good thing.

It was about this time last year that I was anticipating a visit from an unexpected friend - a tall boy with red hair that I had met the summer before but had only chatted with, texted, written, and Skyped in the eight months that followed. Without laying eyes on actual him in eight months, I had started to feel a pull in my heart toward him, a feeling that I had never felt for anyone before. He was different: he was funny, intelligent, talented, creative, and kind. And in the months of exchanging off-the-wall questions, music, and clips of comedians' routines, we became closer and closer - he was slowly becoming my best friend - while only being in the same room for no more than a few hours last summer.

He came out to visit me at school the following April, nearly a year after we met at a wedding where he was a groomsmen and I was the pianist. We hadn't talked much then: we were both there with friends we hadn't seen in forever and were more interested in catching up with old friends than making new ones. But I remember noticing his laugh, his quirky sense of humor, when he and I were the only ones who saw a little girl face-plant in her pretty dress across the room during the father-daughter dance. And I knew even then that he was different.

When he visited it wasn't awkward, like I expected it to be. Our first outing - you could call it a "date" - was to the Wright Patterson Air Force Museum, where we spent five hours looking at the old airplanes. He's a mechanic for an airline company, so he knew what he was looking at while I thought, "Wow, that one's big," and "Wow, that one's a pretty color." And while there was never any talk on that first visit of what our relationship was or where we would go from there, I knew that he was one of my closest friends, and I couldn't wait to see him again.

He's told me since that he knew, even on that first visit, he was hooked.

In May we decided to drop the facade and admit, "Hey, I like you, you like me," but it wasn't until July that we officially became a couple. He took me to a waterfall near his parents' house and turned around the symbol on my claddagh ring. For those of you who aren't up to date on your Celtic symbology, the claddagh is a heart held by two hands with a crown on top, representing love, brotherhood, and loyalty. If the ring is worn on your right hand with the point of the heart facing away from your body, it means you're single; he took it off my finger and replaced it with the heart facing toward me, meaning I was taken, that I was his.

Our situation has been certainly unorthodox: for our entire relationship we've commuted, either to his parents' house in Pennsylvania or to mine in Ohio. But that has made us purposeful in our communication and our short visits. We started Skyping three months after we met (I told him I liked face-to-face communication, and though he didn't have a webcam, he went out and bought one so we could Skype) and have made it a nearly-weekly thing since; I tried to count up how many hours, and I lost count around 80. I have a box in my room full of the letters he's written me. He has the tree-shaped air freshener that I decorated for him when he told me he didn't have a Christmas tree. I wear the heart-shaped necklace he gave me for Christmas nearly every day. He still has the letter I gave to him when we became official at the waterfall last summer.

In February he told me he wanted to go back to that waterfall: in the winter it's frozen over, and while you can't hike down to it without risking a broken neck, it's still spectacular from the overlook. And it was there that he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. It was there that I said yes. It was there that we each had our first kiss. And it was there that he slid another ring onto my left hand - the one with the diamond from his grandmother's wedding ring that was designed to look like my great-great-grandmother's.

For two hopeless romantic, such a love story couldn't be more perfect. We're still a year out from a wedding, but every day we're one step closer to living closer together and having a "normal" relationship, where we're not separated by an eleven-hour drive and it won't seem so out-of-the-ordinary to go to dinner or a movie. And even though our set-up has been a little difficult at times, I wouldn't have had it any other way: we got to know each other as people and develop a friendship before there was any talk of physical attraction. It has made us purposeful, intentional, in getting to know each other first. And while it's certainly not the typical situation, I wouldn't have traded it for a "normal" one.

We get to have our "happily ever after." I am in love with the man of my dreams. And I cannot wait to be his wife.

Baffle

People.

People.

The human race is one of the most complex groups on the planet. Where else can you find a species whose members go out of their way to cause such extreme emotions in their fellow members? Joy, pain, guilt, rage, happiness, wonder - all at the hands of each other. For what? For pleasure. For amusement. For selfish joy.

I am not drawn to people. I am drawn to the stories they tell, but I am not naturally bent toward camaraderie with human beings. The nature of my personality is such that I am drained by most human interactions, and I need time by myself to re-charge that energy, just in time to have it sucked out again by a conversation, a party, a family dinner. We were in Florida last weekend to visit relatives and when my feet hit the threshold of our house, I went straight up to my room, shut the door, and laid in my bed watching "Sherlock" for the rest of the night, reassuring my family that I wasn't mad at them or being "antisocial" - I simply needed to be alone to rest my soul.

Scientists say that humans are no more than an advanced form of primates, but if we are inherently animals, we are treated drastically different. The latest trend is pit bulls: if a pit bull exhibits a mostly-docile nature and suddenly turns on its owner - say, a child - it's impounded and most likely destroyed. But when a trusted co-worker suddenly stabs you in the back and muddies your name with vicious gossip, they're pegged as "untrustworthy" and avoided. And how inhumane it would be to say, "Put her to sleep for her two-facedness."

Humans baffle me. Of all the mysteries on earth, I think human nature is the deepest, and because the ones studying human nature are inflicted with that same condition, I don't think we'll ever figure it out. In Peter Pan J.M. Barrie the Author described his fairies as being so small that they can only exhibit one emotion at a time. At least they throw their whole energy into being either bombastically angry or sugary sweet, and you never doubt which emotion that fairy is showing at one time or another. Humans, on the other hand, can play so many emotion cards at any given moment that it boggles the mind to think how they keep them straight: "I'm mad at her but I smile at her anyway, I secretly want him but I'll give him the cold shoulder until he notices."

It's no wonder we don't trust each other: we've given so much reason to doubt. How can you possibly trust a race that is capable - and in many cases, willing - to talk behind your back and lie to your face?

I've wished for years that people were honest with each other - that they played their emotional hand not as a matter of strategy or what they can get out of it, but simply because they have no reason to be false with their behavior. Be viciously angry. Sing when your heart is happy. Mutter that you're not "fine" even if you don't want to talk about it. But for God's sake, do not continue to put up the farce for your own gain or for the sake of another's feelings or in an effort to be consistent with the persona you've built for yourself. If we cannot be honest with our own emotions - the colors of our existence and the shade of our own spirit - how can we hope to be honest in any other area?

River

It's the beginning of March and I'm sitting on my uncle Kevin's front porch in a tank top and shorts. I think we hit 80 degrees today. The older I get the more I love summer, and this right here - writing with my bare legs in the sunshine - is nothing short of perfection.

It's weird being here again. I haven't been back since my grandma died in '08 (seven years in a couple weeks), and it doesn't feel the same with her gone. When we were growing up it was always the thing to do to go to Grandma and Grandpa's house; aunts came and went, uncles moved, but the white house on Orange Valley Circle was always home base. Wake up in the room with the Samantha American Girl doll, go to the dining room for cereal and orange juice made from the oranges picked across the street, swim in Miss Edith and Miss Hazel's pool next door until the afternoon Florida rain chased us home. We'd watch TV, play with the train set on the glassed-in back porch, go bowling, play mini golf, and get our fill of sunshine until the next time we visited.

Everyone else is still here. Nothing else has really changed. But it's not the same. My uncle has some of my grandma's old furniture: the green chair and desk - the one with the Churchmouse books - I think her end tables, the swivel recliner, maybe her quilts. Her masterpieces of cloth strips and patterned stitches are the common link we have to her. We were at my grandpa's house yesterday and I wondered if the quilt on his chair was hers, but I doubt it.

I doubt his new wife lets any of Nancy's things in her house.

It's probably just as well. The quilts on my bed back home don't smell like her anymore; I doubt the ones here have kept her scent either.