my yellow obsession continues… yikes.
and Baylor Football season begins.
[also, please know I lasted almost 3 quarters at the game. Robert was proud, even though he far out did my Baylor pride]
I’ll never be able to keep up with his cheers, sports commentary, and intensity.
The truth is I’m too entertain watching him to focus on the green and gold ramming into each other on the field.
Is it a shame? nah.
Sic’em.
I couldn’t do the past few weeks justice if I didn’t point the spotlight on James’s commencement speech– even if this post is way over due.
We kept the speech a secret from my grandparents. They found their seats in JQHammons arena along with thousands of proud parents and pulled out their program. Immediately James’s name popped out and they were astonished.
In his speech James confessed to a few pranks and applauded some of the most humble and influential teachers including the infamous Mr. Coffey. He deserves more than a shoutout or a blog entry. He’s taken me to the hospital twice and caught me as I’ve passed out– more than the average teacher, huh? Here’s an old pic because Coffey refused to smile with James (and, of course, for old time’s sake)
Then, James quoted a letter I wrote to him as I left for Baylor freshman year. I’d heard James practice his speech countless times and could quote most of it, but I was still nearly brought to tears. I am not yet able to articulate why. I think I was just proud.
1. Say thank you constantly. We have so much to be grateful for. Still true.
2. Spend as much time with your grandparents as possible. James looked up and smiled at the glowing Mr. and Mrs. Beach. I’ll stand by that advice. My lunch with them at Captain D’s this week was a highlight, even if I was the only patron under 65 years old.
3. Strive for more. Work hard, serve others, encourage, and keep striving.
I’m so proud of my brother and cannot wait for him to be a Baylor Bear next year. oh yes.
While I did lose count of the chapters in this story, I don’t want to lose sight that each part of my story is traced back to the King who narrates my being. Sure, I am the fingers typing away, but remember I retell a story that is the heavenly Author’s. Call me His scribe.
I just recounted. This is chapter 8. So welcome back.
Chapter 8
You must be caught up on some trivial plot development in this story.
Tonight I had a pizza party with the people I call my family here in Texas. Friday I spray-painted my hair black and danced like crazy at a party where they prayed at the beginning, middle, and end. I love Baylor, but now my shower is stained black from my hair dye. I think the reason is just to remind me of my sillyness. Today I bashfully (with a tinge of respect for his lack of inhibition) watched Clayton test every pillow in Kohl’s to ensure he brought the perfect one. I ate a blueberry pancake at ihop at midnight last night. It rained all day, and now my TOMS are soaked for a week. And, of course, I’ve had many a cups of coffee.
Plot development: Check.
Now a bit of character development. Shaping. Molding. Sifting. Disciplining. Eye-Opening. Heart Renewing.
Setting: I’m going to zoom into a circle of three chairs from tonight. Warning: There’s no climax. No surprise. It’s merely a small group of college students with a sheet to facilitate discussion. We have one older adult leader in the Leadership Community and we invited him to our group (Note: there are now four chairs).
The man marked with humility sat down in our group, and by the end of the 40 minutes, he calmly had reminded us of the faithfulness of Jesus Christ and the genuine, lasting satisfaction of knowing this Redeemer. He shared of tragedy. Of unexpected losses. Of life-changes. He flipped through the worn pages of his Bible as if he’d spent hours upon each page of what I am again reminded to look freshly upon as THE Word of God.
He spoke of doing anything in our own strength as pride with a sobering reality.
He spoke of living a life full of gentleness and patience and showed it by merely being present.
He spoke of praying what you desire to desire.
And now I have a new glimpse of what I desire: Humility. Tonight the word humility has been stuck in my mind. What does it look like?
I found an answer pretty quickly: Dr. Robert Bernard Beach, Sr.—my Granddaddy. He lives just across town from the house I’ll always call home in Springfield. This man is not only well-read enough to help my sister write papers over books she hasn’t read, he can rattle off Cardinal’s baseball statistics to keep up with the fanatic fan I am proud to call a brother of mine.
Granddaddy and I would go to McDonald’s every Wednesday when I was in pre-school, and some of my earliest memories are swinging my legs in these concave, orange Missouri State chairs outside of his office.
He gives with unwavering selflessness: Time, Piano Lessons, Rides, my beloved Baylor University, Wisdom, an Example. He worries a bit, I’ll admit, but it’s always about someone else.
That’s humility.
I grant Granddaddy bragging rights for himself all day long. However, I know he won’t use them. Grandmother will have to brag for him (though I think she already does).
Every time my History Professor hands out one of his nearly impossible reading quizzes, he kids that our quiz is a “Celebration of Knowledge.” Such an idea is pleasant until you rack your mind aimlessly to recall the answers you end up concluding were not in the reading at all.
Coming this Monday, I’ll be taking my final for this professor’s class, and here it is—Saturday night—and I’m complaining to myself about having to study. It’s not ideal; I probably wouldn’t have planned it; my friends are being Trekys at the movies, and here I am. Yet, I ought to celebrate.
I know it’s an oxymoron. I should celebrate something I ought to complain about?
The need to celebrate is valid because of my job title.
If written, here’s how it would read:
Learner, listens to researched and trained professors to expand knowledge of the areas of her choice. Through testing professors encourage her to solidify concepts heard audibly.
Quite a hyperbole of a definition, yet if I could grasp the joy that comes with my duty as a college student, I’d see an immeasurable opportunity to soak up what can be learned.
Most likely I won’t be ecstatic for the next quiz or look forward to my exams; there’s not a party in sight. However, a healthy gratitude and thanksgiving for knowledge should flow forth.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to prepare for my Celebration of Knowledge.
Being that I prefer to study in my room in a perfectly quiet environment, I normally don’t venture to the library. Last night, however, because the color printer at the library computer lab beckoned me, I went.
I found myself amidst the chaos, surrounded by studiers, freaking-outers, and socializers. It was almost therapeutic for me to see my peers in the same pinch as I was– time running out to turn in the last round of projects and papers.
Not long after staking my claim at a computer did I begin to smell something. Even though I was sure my body could not emit such a grotesque and disturbing odor, I checked and then concluded that something was very wrong with someone way too close to me.
My conclusion: I had dog poo on my shoe.
Being slightly embarrassed knowing that other people must have smelled it also, I announced my finding. I didn’t want anyone thinking that I personally was emitting the smell.
Everyone did the “I’m zoned into my screen and am not hearing you” act, but I knew they heard me.
Because I’m selfless (but really for my own sake), I tried to find a way to clean my shoe so they could have their clean air back. The courtyard seemed perfect, yet when I got there I found no grass and found that the doors lock when you exit after midnight.
Yes, after midnight.
I tied my shoe to the roof of my car, and I’m currently dreading dealing with the issue.
Moral: check every part of your being before you mentally accuse others of smelling. Don’t judge when it’s your poo’d shoe.
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220 / 304 Pages
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