Graduate.

By now everyone in the free world knows that I graduated from college. I started college in May 1993 at the under-ripe age of 15. I finished my first class (Conversational Spanish) on my 16th birthday and my professor rode with me in my car to the DMV where I met my mother and got my license. Then I drove my own car, following Mom in her Dodge Caravan, to a pizza place by our house where we celebrated my birthday and driver’s license. Then, mom gave me a blank check with her signature... and a grocery list. I had never been happier to go to the grocery store.

Almost 2 years later I experienced an emotional breakdown, dropped out of college, and mostly dropped out of life. I went back to college several times over the next decade, trying out classes and changing majors but never had the internal commitment to finish… until 4 years ago when I felt an intense calling from God to be a part of church ministry.

I shared this calling with my parents who were not not supportive, but were cautious. As parents they have an intense desire to see their children succeed. Mom wanted me to have health insurance and a back-up plan. Dad wanted me to stay safe. I went to a mentor, Monte, and asked for advice. He said if I finished my college degree that he, personally, would come tell my parents that ministry work would be good for me.

At that time I started going to a counselor who informed me that my life was spiraling out of control in some areas. She said that I lacked boundaries and that I needed to start learning to pay attention to what *I* wanted, to learn to say “no,” and to start putting myself first. Four years later and this is still a lesson I have to pay attention to every single day and one I still struggle with at times. But she, too, encouraged me to pay attention to what I wanted and to my calling and encouraged me to go back to college.

I decided to take 2 classes: one was physical education (a gimme that everyone has to take) and the second was an introductory psychology class. That class sparked an interest in me that I’d never felt before. My professor was amazing and knew more about human-interaction, anatomy, and brain functions than anyone I’d ever met and she was a wealth of knowledge. I knew, by the end of the second class, that psychology was the thing – the ministry, the job, the career, and the life – that I wanted to pursue.

I took the steps necessary to get loans (a terrifying ordeal!), and applied to one school. Just one. Psychology, I realized, is a godless pursuit where the self is the center of the universe – the opposite of what I’d learned from my religious and spiritual upbringing. I also knew, based on my own mental health history, that The Church was not properly equipped to deal with individuals suffering from serious mental health issues like major depression, post traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder, and anxiety disorders. I wanted to be a bridge between the clinical psychology world and the church world. I wanted to make a way for the Church to reach out into secular sciences to refer ill congregants to trustworthy and trained clinicians and where clinicians would have faith in The Church to refer those with spiritual needs. So, I attended a Christian college to strengthen my knowledge in God, the Church, and to be trained to be a psychologist.

I worked full-time the whole time I was in school and that was the challenge of a lifetime. I absorbed every single piece of information I could and I learned that I am capable of commitment. I learned that I have the fortitude to see something difficult through to the end. I learned that my life experiences can be used to enrich my practice of psychology and ministry and that the things I’ve endured are not hindrances to my success, they will help me along the way.

With about 1 year left of college and feeling of accomplishment and strength, I started another new venture: Zumba. For years I’d wanted to start dancing again but felt that my weight and lack of endurance would lead to failure and embarrassment. But, I’d been so successful in school and in my career that I decided to try it. The decision to try it was another huge accomplishment for me and it further solidified my internal “can do” attitude. Now, a year later, I am a certified Zumba instructor and in a few months I will start teaching classes.

I graduated from college the same day that I was flying back from my cousin’s funeral. In fact, I turned in my last paper on the plane ride home. I did not even begin to celebrate my accomplishment until a month later because Anita’s death was too devastating to allow room to celebrate. Her death was untimely, horrifying, and the single-most tragic thing I have ever known. Her death was a direct result of her own mental illness and that she never reached out for help. I don’t know if she didn’t know how to reach out, if she was too afraid to reach out, or if she just did not have the strength to do so. But she hid her fears and her illness so far inside herself that not even her closest friends and family members ever knew. No one knew until it was much, much too late.

Anita’s death began the next chapter of my life. Anita’s death will inspire me to continue with the calling on my life: to serve the body of Christ and minister healing and help to those who are suffering mental illness or experiencing despair. Only the first part of my training is done, but I have enough training, now, where I can ring a bell of warning to The Church: Mental Illness *is* an illness! Just as you would send someone with a broken leg to a doctor, so must you send someone with a mental illness to a clinician! There are medications and therapies that can help while you minister to the spirit of the broken man.

I am going to work to be that bridge between science and the church. I am going to work to build trust between the two communities so the stigma of mental health is not something to be ashamed of, but something that is treatable and show these two communities that only by working together can we save someone… someone like my 18 year old cousin, Anita.

I have been through the “valley of the shadow of death.” I have been in Anita’s shoes and understand the idea of taking my own life as a single-solution to unbearable pain. I know the anguish. I know the despair. I know what it is like to not be able to find joy in anything. I know the feeling of mockery that one can feel when they hear someone say, “You need to find the joy of the Lord,” or the intense anger and loathing you feel when someone tells you that the “joy of the Lord should be your strength.” Joy? How can I feel joy when I can feel nothing but pain, anxiety, fear, panic, despair?” I know these feelings intimately.

Experiencing mental illness is not a curse on life – although it certainly feels that way. It does not mean that you don’t love Jesus, that you are a bad person, or a bad Christian. It means that you are sick and that you need a doctor, just like anyone with Diabetes needs a doctor. I want to help bring awareness to The Church and to psychology clinicians to continue to make a way for these two assumedly opposite ways of thinking to come together to work for healing and restoration for those who are suffering.

For all of those like Anita, who suffer in silence and are afraid – there is help available and I will work to bring that help to you so you do not suffer alone. While you may not be able to feel joy, yet, you can have hope. Do not be afraid to reach out for help because it exists! And I will work to make that help more readily available without the stigma and without the fear of being cast out.

This is what my education and life experiences have equipped me to do. This is what my ministry will be.

Oma

Well, I’m in my new apartment and, if you have Facebook, then you’ve seen the pictures. Only a few people have been over here – the wonderful people who helped me move in, my mom, and my neighbor upstairs.

It’s quite something to, once again, pack up all my belongings and then unpack them. I see things that I haven’t seen in a long time – old trinkets and blankets that were in the back of a closet. I came across some jewelry that I forgot that I had too, which was a nice surprise.

One of the things that I found was an old necklace that my Oma gave me. (Oma is German or Dutch for “Grandma.”) My Oma, who was my great-grandmother, was part of a Garden Club and it was her Garden Club necklace that I found attached to her silver chain. She gave it to me years and years ago – I asked her if I could borrow it and, instead, she gave it to me. I do things like that with some of my precious things too. I had a couple porcelain figurines that I set aside for my nieces because I thought they’d like them and, of course, because I love my nieces so much. I wanted to give them something that meant something to me so they’d know that they mean something special to me.

The last time I visited my Dad’s mom in Texas she gave me this beautiful onyx ring. It had been her mothers and she said that everyone else’s fingers were too big, she wanted me to have it. After she passed away, I got a few more of her things, but that ring that she gave me, of course, holds the most value because it was something she selected just for me and gave to me as a gift.

My Oma had given me her special Garden Club necklace. She also gave me this little nick-knack cabinet that she used to have hanging in her kitchen. I now keep all my cookie decorations and sugar sprinkles in there. It’s in my kitchen right now, as a matter of fact.

I have some of Oma’s linens and some of Grandma’s linens. As I unpacked all my boxes, I couldn’t help but think of Oma and Grandma’s homes – Oma’s especially. She had perfect, elegant taste. Nothing she had was overly shiney or fancy, but it was all so specially placed and carefully handled that it became special.

I was talking with my Mom about Oma’s kitchen. I remember how she laid her kitchen towels on the counter as she washed dishes and the way she had all her pretty coffee mugs hanging on a wall. I remember her yellow, plastic chairs and the table that made the kitchen seem more cozy than crowded. I remember sitting on those plastic chairs watching her make pea soup and thinking, “Ughhh, that looks awful!” and then being delightfully surprised when it tasted like heaven.

She taught me how to make applesauce when I was 9 years old. I never knew someone could make applesauce! I thought it just came in jars! She served it warm with tons of cinnamon and topped it with Cool-Whip. Mmmmm. My mouth waters now just thinking about it.

Everything about Oma was cozy and comfortable while being valuable and rare. How many women do you know that getproperly dressed for tea every single day – even if no one special is coming for tea? I remember her thigh-high panty hose and her red and white dress… and her white sweater… and how she always smelled sweet and old. I loved her smell.

I loved that she took time to teach me how to make tea, how to understand poetry, and how to sing. She had a beautiful voice. She taught me to sing Silent Night in Dutch and, when she had Alzheimer’s disease, I sang it to her every single night before bed. Sometimes she’d sing with me.

She inspired my mother, and she inspires me, to keep a happy and warm home. She was the epitome of a gracious and loving hostess. She taught us how to make proper tea and how to hang our aprons in the kitchen. She embodied grace and dignity.

I miss her. I am so glad that I have some of the things that she loved… she called them, “little treasures” (she called me a “little treasure” too, and Satcha, which is – I think – Indonesian for “Sarah”). As I unpacked all my dishes and coffee mugs, and tried to think how everything should be arranged, I thought of Oma. How would Oma put this kitchen together to make it warm and welcoming? How would she set up the living room? What would she put in her china cabinet?

I do miss her. I think I make her proud by cherishing what she cherished and by carrying on her traditions in my life. I always aspire to be the charming, elegant, graceful woman that she was.

A Little Known "Sarah Fact"

In the mornings I commute to work via public transportation. When I get on the shuttle, I put on my headphones and turn on my iPod. It takes all of my self control to not sing out loud with the songs. I mean all of it. So, since I'm fully focused on the not-singing bit, I'll find myself in mid-dance wondering why the people on the metro are staring at me. Or I'll realize that I'm drumming on my leg, or fake strumming my air guitar in my lap.

Its true.

This morning I was listening to a new CD (it's the new Queen Latifah CD and I friggin' love it). This particular CD is under the "vocal" category in my iPod, so, there's not really a lot of drumming to do or air guitar to play because I'm so focused on the incredible vocals. I will dance in place, though (as the people on the elevator found out).

Then, as I walked from the metro to my building, I felt this overwhelming desire to dance. I looked around... everyone paying attention to their papers or the minuta of day-to-day life... no one paying attention to me so, I skipped a little and lifted my arms in the air.

Even though I am sick and even though I've been pretty grumpy, good music will always make me throw my inhibitions out the window and give me the freedom to skip on my way to work.

"He is Exalted"... in a bar... at open mic night

I actually played at an open mic on Monday night. It was my first time EVER. I went, having no intention whatsoever in actually playing, but the guy leading it is a friend of one of the guys I'm "dating" and he asked me to play. So, I borrowed his guitar and played. I'm not really insecure about my voice at this point in my life, but I am very insecure about my guitar playing. It's one thing to play at church where people have to love you, but quite another to play at a bar (even if there are only 15 people there listening). So, I played two songs that I know all the chords to: A Brandi Carlile song and a Sarah McLaughlin song (I did both at the last Broken Frame cafe in VA Beach.) After those to songs the "crowd" wanted more. So, I said into the microphone "Well, I could play more, in theory, but the only other songs I know all the chords to off the top of my head are 'Jesus songs'." The crowd said, "Good! Play Jesus songs!"

So, I played "There is no other friend (like you oh Lord)" and there was lots of applause and they asked me to play AGAIN! *Sigh. I will admit that, at this point, I was somewhat amused.

So, I started playing a faster tune and everyone turned to look at me. Up to this point, all my songs had been moderately slow. And then I started to sing, "He is exalted, the King is exalted on high... I will praise Him..." and they were all swaying with the music. Then I got to the chorus, "HE IS THE LORD! FOREVER HIS TRUTH SHALL REIGN!" and they all started clapping and some of them even stood up!

It was such a bizarre thing happening. I refused to play any more after that, thinking I'd be pushing my luck if I sang "Come let us return (unto the Lord"... but the guy running the show made me promise to come back and sing and play for them again next week.

My Storyteller

God gave her to me thirty years ago. I grew quietly inside her, breathing her air, learning her rhythm, and memorizing her movements. She has been my playmate, my bodyguard, my defender, my champion, my cheerleader, my provider, and my friend. But, most of all, she's been My Storyteller.

Since I was a little girl I've been listening to her weave the most glorious tales. I love the story about the time she and her brother decided to skip school and hitch hike somewhere only to be picked up on the highway by their mother. Or the time she had to decide whether or not she'd marry Frank or Jack - all the while Jack was pacing inside her livingroom while she sat outside in the car with Frank. Who would she choose? Or the stories about her time spent at Teen Challenge. I swear, until I was about eleven years old, I thought she was saying Cheen Challenge and I never could figure out what a "cheen" was.

She's the one who taught me and all my friends how to play penny poker. When they'd come over to spend the night, she'd wait for my little sisters to fall asleep, and then she'd start making ginger snaps or chocolate chip cookies, telling all of us wild stories about SOMETHING, and then she'd sit at the table with us and deal for five card stud.

I remember when she quit smoking... boy that was a glorious time! She got up every morning at the crack of dawn and would start cooking or cleaning - or doing just about anything to keep herself busy so she wouldn't think about the cigarettes. For several weeks we woke up in the morning to the smell of freshly baked bread, eggs, and sausage.

She'd wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me if I wanted to go on an adventure with her. (Of COURSE I did). I can remember being eight years old... she'd wrap me up in a blanket and I'd go out to the car with her and we'd go to Dunkin' Donuts. I'd sip on a small hot chocolate and listen to her chatting away with one of her friends or with a girl who worked there.

I was with her when she went to buy her pair of 'skinny jeans' after she lost a bunch of weight and I sat with her in the car while she put them on. She just couldn't wait to see if they REALLY fit!

Today's her birthday. As I was driving home this evening I was thinking about my beloved Storyteller. I was thinking about allllll the stories she's told me and how I could listen to so many of them over and over again and still never have enough. She used to write books, you know? Yep. I'd wait anxiously beside the printer while page after page printed out. Holding the hot paper in my hand, I'd run out of the room and plant myself somewhere, devouring her every word. Her stories about Vietnam Vets or cowboys in the mid-West were like the most saavory, delicious things I'd ever had.

I love stories. I don't know if God gave her to me because I love stories so much, or if I love stories so much because God gave her to me. Either way, we're the perfect pair. I've read her work so so many times, that I can often recite exactly what she says. And yet, after all this time, she still never ceases to surprise or amaze me with what she comes up with. Its like she's got a vast cavern of talent, and I get to go in, one step at a time marveling at the depths of her brilliance.

So, Happy Birthday my dear Storyteller. You've enriched my life in ways and to depths that you'll never know. You are brilliant, talented, inspiring, thoughtful, creative, and wonderful. I'm glad I've gotten to have you all this time. You're my favorite.