Inspired

The Weeping Widow

2011-04-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

Raw. That’s the only way to describe her.

I’ve never experienced something so devastating. I’ve never seen someone so vulnerable.

Charity didn’t just cry when she hugged the hundreds and hundreds of people who came to pay their condolences for the deaths of her 34-year-old husband, Derek, and 5-month-old son, Dylan. She didn’t just slap on a happy face.

She could have. My husband, a counselor, has shared enough about coping mechanisms with me to know that a fake smile is possible on a day of devastation. I’ve seen it before.

I have been to funerals of friends’ parents, my grandparents, and kids who I knew that died too young. I’ve seen family and friends of all of them shed tears or even wear that happy face.

But Charity did none of that. The tall, young mom in black greeted each of the sincerely sorrowful friends and family who lined the monstrous sanctuary with a hug and a down-turned face.

But, every few people or so, a wail could be heard around the room. I wondered what the sound was the first time I heard it. I couldn’t pick out which person was so affected to weep so loud that it resonated around the room.

It took a couple rounds of hearing it to realize that it wasn’t coming from a friend or family member: It was coming from the woman who lost her husband and newborn in the same night.

Charity wasn’t there that night they died. For some reason, the Lord chose that time period to have Charity and her two older daughters visit family in Florida. The evening before they were to return, a carbon monoxide leak combined with a smoky fire in the basement killed Derek while he slept on the couch. Her son was killed as he slept in his crib on the second floor.

I have tried to imagine what it might have sounded like when she first got the call when she was 1,000 miles away. I can only imagine the screams and clawing and wordless disbelief.

Seeing and hearing Charity weep with such raw grief shook me so badly that I couldn’t talk about it enough to people after the visitation this afternoon. I wanted to shake the feeling of devastation by sharing the pain I felt, but I couldn’t verbally articulate the vision I saw and the sounds I heard.

“Charity,” I finally said. It was my turn to hug her. I had just stood, sobbing on my own, as she wailed loudly as she held my friend ahead of me.

“Charity, you’re so beautiful.” That’s all I could think to say to her. She really was. Physically, she looked regal as she stood alone in the center of the sanctuary adorned in black. But those tears, that raw emotion was so real and refreshing and terrible and beautiful. Her grief was beautiful. It was fitting for a woman who just lost everything.

Her weeping was haunting but right, and I am convinced that the Savior, her Comforter, and her Husband cried right alongside this wailing widow.

John 11:35: Jesus wept.

Lazy Laurie Learns to Work

2011-03-21T15:43:00.000-07:00

My brother John used to call me "Lazy Laurie." I didn't like this.

"Hey, Laurie," he said. "Did you know I saw a book today that was called, 'Lazy Laurie Learns to Work'?"

"No you didn't!" my eight-year-old self screamed at him.

"Yes, I totally did. It was a picture book, and it was about a girl named Laurie who was lazy."

I didn't like this for several reasons: One, because it was my older brother mocking me (don't worry, we have a good relationship now), and two, because he called me lazy.

This was a term some of my siblings--and mother--used to describe me on occasion.

In my mind, it wasn't that I was lazy, it was that I found better alternatives to work:

Instead of helping out with the cooking, I deferred to my five older sisters to keep my mom happy during cooking time while I read novels.

Rather than clean my closet, I preferred to sit and read through all of my past journals, letters and school papers.

Before I moseyed over to clean the three bathrooms that were my chores, I found things to do outside.

But Matt said something today that got me thinking I really might truly have a hint of lazy in me.

"Laurie, you can't just have the end result. You can't just get to the end," he said.

He was referring to my incessant impatience regarding his upcoming graduation and current job search.

I am going absolutely batty with waiting. I don't like to wait. I like the end result, just like I liked to eat my mom's food, enjoy a clean closet, and have my chores done. I simply dislike the process of getting to this end result.

There are many times when I am at work where I imagine what it would be like to have a magic wand. (Please withhold nerd jokes.) I want the retail floor I am in charge of to be set without having to work at it.

Or in the case of what Matt spoke to me, I want to be in the job we are supposed to be in, in the place we are supposed to live. Period. The end.

I don't want to wait for six months to get to that point. I want to be there now.

But then Matt said something else.

"Laurie, we're never going to be without transition. There's always going to be something. Because, when I have my career, we're going to be looking at getting a house. Then when we have that, it will be kids and waiting for them to grow up, and go to college and then we have retirement...It goes on and on."

"And you've wasted your life," I said.

A babysitter once told me not to do this when I was only thirteen years old. It stuck with me. Somehow, even then, I knew that I was one of those people who could want to wish her life away.

I have a hard time staying in the now.

I'm twenty five. Twenty five. Sometimes it blows me away at how I got to this age. Aren't I still that eight-year-old girl getting mocked by my brother?

But I'm not. I need to listen to my husband's advice, and enjoy these next months. Typing those last four words is painful. I want to know what the end result is now. Not enjoy the now.

But if I was to get it now would somehow be stealing. And not really living through it would truly be lazy.

Brained

2010-10-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have been recovering from a brain injury for the last three months, and am still asking "Why?"

Immediately after it happened, I remember thinking, "I didn't plan for this. An accident wasn't scheduled today." I laughed at myself after thinking this because it seemed so melodramatic. I don't think that melodrama is not my usual mode of operation, but those closest to me might disagree.

It was an ordinary moment of an ordinary day at work: I walked the updock--the place on the second floor of my job at Macy's where we store equipment and new product that comes in--to check what new clothes and housewares were left to place on the floor.

As I scanned the carts, a fellow co-worker yelled for help. She was trying to get a glass tabletop out from the bottom of a 20-foot metal shelving unit, and the legs of the shelving unit were bending. I quickly ran over to her, trying to pull the glass tabletops back away from cracking the braces of the metal fixture, but it was too late.

The next thing I knew I was on the ground, trying to cover my eyes as box after box of at least 30-pounds of metal equipment in cardboard boxes hit the back of my head and the whole fixture came crashing down.

"Get up!" my co-worker said after the quiet hum of the back room returned. "Can you move? Can you get up?" I was dazed and didn't know if I could. Thankfully, the metal braces, shelves and equipment landed over my legs, but not on them. I was able to slip out.

"Let's get out of here," I said, not even looking back at the disaster behind us. All I could think is, "My head is killing me. I need to sit down again."

As the new boss of my co-worker and others that came up to us after everything crashed down, I tried to think above the haze to decide what to do next. My co-worker's arm was gashed and swelling by the second.

I examined my own scratches and swelling on my arms and legs, but it didn't compare to the pain in my head. I touched the place where it hurt the worst, and drew away a bloody hand. It didn't seem like a deep cut, but it hurt.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered training I received from some worksheet or seminar or meeting that mandated going to urgent care in times like this. "If in doubt, go to urgent care," some safety training person's voice rang in my head.

"Who can take us?" I asked the gathering group. A helpful first-floor merchandiser volunteered, and we were off to the hospital.

What followed in the following weeks and months were many more follow-up trips to urgent care who didn't know what to do with my perpetual spinning, and vomit-inducing vertigo that didn't seem to go away as the weeks spun forward.

I couldn't drive--I could barely sit in the car with a driver--walking around was difficult, and work was nearly unbearable. I came home from even shortened days and collapsed on the couch, not to be woken up for at least a couple hours later. My brain was exhausted.

I knew I had a concussion, but nothing on the CT scan showed serious injury. A neurologist finally diagnosed Post-concussion syndrome.

Because of how my brain hit my scull in the crash, I suffered from incessant headaches, dizziness, extreme exhaustion, memory loss (I did routine things, and would have zero memory of just doing them), and personality change. I have gone to three specialists every week to try and learn how to cope and heal.

I haven't realized until recently--three months out--just how terrible of experience this was.

"You're just not all here," my husband said to me. It was funny because I heard what he said, and thought, "Okay, I'm not the same. Pull yourself out of it!" But I couldn't. I knew I was being awkward and irritable and strange, but I didn't know which parts of my personality to change to get back to "normal." I didn't have the capability to look outside of myself, at myself.

Frustrated every time I had to look away from the computer when I grew dizzy from the scrolling on the screen, or every time I had to sit down while walking from the first floor to the second, or every time I said or wrote something incorrectly, I began to hate my faulty brain.

This is ironic, considering that just a month before, I journaled about how I knew and trusted that God gave me a great brain, of all things. I was nervous about my new position as the lead merchandiser at my Macy's store. I tried to trust that God had called me to this role, and gave me the good brain to accomplish what needed to be done.

Little did I realize that he was going to take that brain--at least temporarily--away.

As I wrestle and struggle with the "whys," I can't help but think that maybe God knew how dependent I was on my brain. This sounds silly to write, but it was MY brain. MY smarts and abilities that got me promoted.

I read 2 Corinthians 4 today, and received a dose of humbling through Paul's writing that seemed to relate to my wondering thoughts. "This precious treasure--this light and power that now shine within us--is held in perishable containers, that is, in our weak bodies." Gulp. "So everyone can see that our glorious power is from God and is not our own...Through suffering, these bodies of ours constantly share in the death of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be seen in our bodies."

The glorious power that I have that is the same glorious power that raised Christ from the dead (Eph. 1:19), is not meant to show the world what a great merchant I am, it's meant to show how weak I am and how amazing Christ is. Instead of getting frustrated with myself and wanting to hurt myself even further when my brain blips when I want it to bleep, I should pause and thank Jesus Christ that I have not been able to shine the way I want to in the position I am in at work. I should thank him because I am in a position of neediness that can make Christ shine even more.

This isn't fun, this isn't easy, and this is definitely not my mode of operation. I want to shine and succeed and have people look at me like I am a superstar. I'm used to that. But it's not God's plan.

No, I don't think God made the shelving unit fall on my head, but I do think it's ironic that he took away the one thing I couldn't control. I can't get outside of my brain and will it to fix itself. I could find ways around a broken arm or leg, (and it probably would have healed more quickly) but I can't find ways around a broken brain.

So all I can do is say, "Thank you, Lord," and wait to see how He answers the question "Why?" as I figure out how I can answer His question of "How will I respond?"

Marriage: For my Happiness?

2010-06-15T10:50:00.000-07:00

As I clicked today between the 12 o’ clock news, Jerry Springer and Divorce Court (there was a lot on TV, you can see), I couldn’t help but think about a phrase that stuck out to me at my last small group meeting.

Our small group is called “Marriage Club”—comically but respectfully dubbed so by Johnny McKenna, youth pastor at Engedi Church in Holland. Every Sunday night at Marriage Club, four couples and a mentor couple meet together to pray and talk about how we can have stronger marriages.

This last week, our mentor couple, John and Pat DeHaan of Holland, introduced a book they wanted to explore called The Sacred Romance by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge. A line they pulled out from this marriage-exploring book went something like this:
“What if the purpose of marriage wasn’t about our happiness, but instead our holiness?”

All five of us couples were quiet for a minute after the question was raised. It seemed to strike a chord within our paradigms about marriage.

What if marriage wasn’t about my happiness, I thought. Surely, I don’t think that. The ten of us went around for a while, talking about how our spouses have helped us to become more Christ-like.

One member mentioned that marriage is like a mirror, another said that marriage to this person has helped him to see how selfish he is.

I didn’t say it, but thought about how marriage is more like a cleaver that cuts you open and reveals all the ugly. I hate that aspect, but I love it, too. It does make me more holy.

But, here it is, Tuesday, and I’m still thinking about that phrase. Why am I stuck on it?

And then, as I listen to the Divorce Shows and skip over “Jerry, Jerry” and the screaming back and forth between couples, it hits me.

Of course marriage is about our holiness instead of happiness, because all of life is about holiness.

In James 1:2-3, the writer says, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.” Whenever he says. We will face trials in this life.

In Romans 5: 3-5 Paul says, “We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us…”

Paul, a man who went through some trials on his own accord, also says in 1 Corinthians 7 that being married is harder than not being married. Because “an unmarried man is concerned about the Lord's affairs—how he can please the Lord. But a married man is concerned about the affairs of this world—how he can please his wife— and his interests are divided.”

So, if marriage is harder, and we are to rejoice in our sufferings because we gain perseverance, character and hope, then we must assume that the difficulty in marriage is a “duh” statement, but we should be thankful because it will produce good fruit in us.

Marriage is hard. Life is hard. But this life and my marriage isn’t about me and my happiness; it’s about becoming more like Christ and thereby giving glory to God (1 Corinthians 10:31).

So maybe if the husband and wife on Divorce Court today, or the 50 percent of couples in America, or higher rate of divorced Christians in our country could see that this life and their marriages are not about their happiness, then maybe that percentage would decrease just a little bit.

Because I hear a lot of complaints about the state of Christian American marriages, but maybe it’s because we only allow the “serving Christ” and “enduring hard times for God’s glory” to invade our hearts when we are serving at work or church; we don’t think it applies to marriage.

But guess what? It does.

Why I Heart Holland

2010-05-19T07:33:00.001-07:00

1. 89.9. The Indie radio station. The DJs are lame, (sorry, Hope students) but the music is usually strange but happy.

2. The tulips, duh. I really like the orange and bright-pink ones, and the black, actually.

3. LEMONJELLOS! It's fair-trade and local! And FREE Wifi. (Hear that, JPs?)

4. The beach. Enough said.

5. Engedi. http://www.engedichurch.com/

6. Kollen Park.

7. I don't like Felch Street. I don't know why...I just hate the name.

8. Good to Go. A healthy fast-food restaurant! And, the owners are nice.

9. Not Westshore Mall. I don't hate it, it just makes me sad to go in there with the map of what's in the mall, and many stores are scratched off because they closed. Maybe I really dislike the economy.

10. 10th Street. :)

Any I missed?

Didn’t vote? You missed saying ‘I own you’

2008-08-12T04:51:00.000-07:00

I love voting.

There is no greater feeling in the world than going to the voting booth, scribbling in the circles with a perfectly proportioned dark mark, and then feeding the machine to cast my vote that is as important as Mayor Joe’s vote in front of me and Grandma Liberal’s vote behind me.

And I’m not the only one who feels that way. Janet Baker, 3875 14 Mile Rd., put a large, yellow sticky note on the dashboard of her car with the word “Vote” on it to remind her to get out and vote at the primary.

“If I don’t vote,” she said, “[I] really don’t have any right to complain.”

Baker said that if she doesn’t agree with decisions being made within her Sparta Township community, how can she have any grounds to say her opinion if she hasn’t taken the first step to vote?

“Even if it doesn’t turn out the way I hoped it to, at least I made an effort,” she said.

But despite these truths, Michigan’s primary election turnout rate sits at a sad 20 percent.
Sue Bitely, Sparta Township Clerk, helped to run the primary elections on August 5. She said that many people don’t bother to get out to the local elections, especially, because voters don’t think that these elections matter.

“They don’t realize that they’re picking their candidate,” she said, referencing the November elections.

And in some cases, more than a few Republican or Democratic representatives for the election in the fall are chosen during the August primaries.

Supervisors, treasurers and even the Kent County sheriff were chosen this year.

And yet people still choose not to vote because they feel as though their measly vote out of thousands of voters doesn’t matter.

“It won’t change anything anyway,” they say.

But I would beg to differ. I was vote number 32 this year in my precinct, and I couldn’t help but calculate how that single vote affected my specific area. Doing the math, it came out that as of the time I voted, I counted for three percent of my precincts’ decision.

Though I am sure that number dwindled to a lesser amount later in the day, I still was one vote out of 115, or one vote out of 200. My one vote was part of a greater number.

But more than seeing your one vote count in among the total, the greater reason to vote is the ripple effect it can have on those with whom you come in contact.

If I went from being a non-voter to learning about the issues and choosing to vote, I would become more educated on the issues that affect me.

Becoming more informed, I might consider sharing my findings with those around me.

Those that hear me might alter their opinions, and choose to head to the voting booths for the first time, or, at the very least, change their voting style away from “I don’t know, I’ll choose the one with the longest Dutch name.”

Then, we’re getting somewhere. I may be one, but I can influence one more person, who can influence another, who just might be a great public speaker. Then, change can happen.

But even if I never speak to another person and simply become well-informed and cast my vote, then when I want a chance to speak out for or against an issue, I do it from the stance of a voting citizen of this township, state and nation.

Because when I choose to vote, I am saying, “I am a part of you, America. I own you, too. I have a voice.”

We own a piece of this country by exercising our right to vote just like stock buyers own a piece of a company. Voting is saying that dangit, we matter in this country, and dangit, we care where it is heading.

This is why I love voting. I get to say, “I own you, too.”

A non-scientific study on wedding rings

2008-08-07T18:26:00.000-07:00

I decided to start wearing a non-wedding ring on a wedding-ring finger.

Though this is a non-scientific study I am conducting with the ring, the results have been very positive and could even fall into the category of what my scientific inquiry professor would call "significant."

Those of you tired of bald, skeezy men checking you out extra long because you don't happen to have a wedding/engagement ring on a certain finger, please consider the following results:

1. While wearing heretofore mentioned ring, there has been a 64 percent decrease in honking and/or hollering and/or slowing down while going for a run.

2. Respect for a woman wearing a fake wedding ring increases by an average of 79 percent from men that fall into the "stranger" category. (Respect is defined as not giving the up-down)

3. Tests are still being conducted, but when driving and a male pursuer begins to hoot/holler/act like he's all that in his Grand Am, a simple non-swearing hand gesture with the left hand has decreased pursuits by a staggering 92 percent.

4. Non-solicited approaches in the mall have decreased by 46 percent. This result may not be desired by some women.

4. Overall happiness, comfort and peace for the life of non-wedding ring wearer is said to increase by 80 percent.

Testing is still being done by the University of Laurieville, but should be completed late fall of 2008.

Two months as a local reporter...[Insert scary music]

2008-08-05T15:14:00.000-07:00

It’s my two-month anniversary as a full-time, local reporter, and I am celebrating by sitting down with myself and writing a column.

On second thought, some cake and ice cream sounds good…

I didn’t even notice when the exact two-month date passed, but as I drove the roads intersecting maturing apple trees today, I couldn’t help but realize that I was seeing the area with new eyes.

In all honesty, when I started reporting with this community paper, I was a little leery of the small town, local areas I cover, and I could sense that at times some of those in my territory were distrustful of me.

“Who are these people? And, what are they all about?” I said to myself.

“Who is this girl and what is she all about?” those I interviewed said either verbally or nonverbally.

But, since that shaky beginning, I feel as though I am now starting to hear the heartbeat of Small Town America

They are about each other. They are fiercely proud of their small townships and villages, and would rather not divulge any negative things about their community or the people in it to an “outsider” such as me.

“Now, the last reporter and I had a great relationship,” one interviewee said to me after I asked a question. “I just want to know why you’re asking this.”

In those early days, when I received responses like this, I tried my best to hide my frustration with a forced laugh, inwardly wishing they would know that I was trying my hardest to be “about them,” as well.

But I have noticed that in recent weeks, those with whom I speak are warming up to me. I find myself having more genuine fun, and not feeling so stressed as I increase the amount of time spent in my territory.

It might be because I have changed my approach since the first day I started on the job. I can’t just work—speeding in to do my interviews and then speeding out at the end of the day—I have to stay, sit and shoot the breeze.

And I have. Because of this, I believe I am able to view the villages and townships with a new tenderness.

I notice that the Classifieds section sits on top of the newspaper at the library, reflecting the economic status of these neighbors.

I know the dates of blood drives, I know the effects of hail on apples and I know that building a road isn’t as simple as drawing up a plan and laying asphalt.

I am becoming one of the locals.

My audience may roll their eyes and say that until I have lived there for 20 years, I am not a local.

But, I would beg naysayers to reconsider, and ask them to try to open up their fierce small-town loyalty to this reporter who is trying to do her best to cover their territory, and earn their trust.

My hope for these next two months is to be able to drive into my coverage area and be greeted from residents on the sidewalk with a wave and a smile, because they know that I’m not an outsider and just another reporter, but that I belong because I am their reporter.

Stop pointing fingers at farmers. It's not their fault

2008-07-15T04:37:00.000-07:00

When I see hail, I am primarily worried about road conditions and secondarily the status of my hair.

I hate to sound so superficial, but it's true.

When apple farmers see hail, on the other hand, they are primarily worried about their livelihood.

"You take a hail stone that's hard," Apple Farmer Rob Steffens said, "and when if falls, it's going to hit something soft like the fruit, and it's going to damage it ... That fruit can no longer be targeted for fresh market or stores."

I don't view hail as anything more than an annoying, occasionally dangerous form of precipitation. But for those whose bread and butter comes from the success of a crop that is susceptible to the ferocity of the skies, they see an enemy.

Farmers in the Fruit Ridge Avenue growing area were recipients of only a few, brief showers of hail the first week of July. However, it was enough to cause significant financial damage.
Steffens, of Steffens' Orchards on 13 Mile Road, said all it takes is a couple minutes."Two minutes of hail," Steffens said, "costs so much money."

The two minutes of hail during the July 2 and 3 storms could cause an average loss of over $100,000 to each apple farmer.

When I first looked at those numbers, I couldn't believe it. How could such a brief encounter with the skies cost so much?

A farmer down the road from Steffens who also suffered hail damage to his apples said something initially humorous, but later raised concern.

"If apple prices in the market are a little more this year...it's not because we're being mean or something," apple farmer John Rasch said. "It's Mother Nature being mean to us. Blame her."

In saying this, Rasch immediately stood on the defensive side of consumers who will go to the market this fall. He knows that people are complaining about gas and food prices, and possibly he senses people pointing fingers at him.

This theme was true when I talked with strawberry farmers a few weeks ago who had to up their prices because of the cost of gasoline and the effects of frost.

Gail Morse, of the Morse Brothers Farm, 2924 6 Mile NW, seemed to stand on the defense when explaining price adjustments at her farm.

"What, $3?" Morse said she hears from customers about the $.50 per quart price increase. "Being on the other side," said Morse, "raising prices--that's no fun either."

It isn't that local farmers are creating some sort of American consumer conspiracy theory. We hear, we read, we write and we complain about rising food and gas prices like it's our job.

But the fault does not lie with those whose actual job is to provide the food we eat. They are susceptible to rising gas prices--and Mother Nature--just like the rest of us. And in the case of Mother Nature, farmers are even more vulnerable.

So before we open our mouths again about rising gas prices or food prices, let's make sure that we're not placing blame on farmers who are trying to make it just like every other construction worker, teacher and journalist.

And the next time we see hail in the forecast, let's remember to say a prayer for the local farmers down the road who will feel the effects of the storm at a greater level than our hairdos.

Baby Boomers and Gen Y: We may be more alike than you think

2008-07-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

A fellow journalist, Jan Holst, is a part of the baby-boomer generation. She falls in the same generational category as my parents and many people whom I interview on a daily basis.

Jan said this week that she believes she and I can connect so well because of similarities in our generations. After some thought and study, I agree with her perspective.

Though Jan and others I work with are older than me, I’m not intimidated by these men and women in their fifties and sixties. I see Jan as a friend and a co-worker who can guide me.

It may be because I have come to the point in life where I can look my parents in the eye and ever-so-respectfully disagree with them, but I think that there is a deeper truth to some overarching similarities between myself and the generation who calls themselves the Baby Boomers.

Imperfectly defined, the Baby Boomer generation is those born between 1946 and 1964. Generation X-ers are those born between 1965 and 1977, and Generation Y, my generation, is those born between 1978 and 1987.

My age may be closer to those in Generation X, but because of current events, the tone of my generation more closely resembles that of the Boomers.

They were born into a world that was recovering from the ravages of WWII. They soon entered another war, Vietnam, which was looked at negatively by the majority of the United States. This is not unlike the war in Iraq today.

Bonnie Robinson, Sparta Township clerk and born in 1948, said she remembers her brother going off to Vietnam.

“He never wanted to talk about it when he came home,” she said. “And he still never talks about it.”

She said it was an unpopular war.

“A lot of people didn’t support it after a while. I can remember on TV all those anti-war protests,” Robinson said. “It is kind of like Iraq now.”

Support for the Iraq war is at an all-time high since 2006 sitting at 53 percent. This is a slim majority that has kept our country divided. This division and the ensuing protests of the 1960s hippies calling for peace mimic the protests by “hipsters” asking for peace on Capital Hill today.

Mini-protests are continued in a 21st century way with bumper stickers that even say “Vietnam II: Now playing in select Iraqi cities,” and groups on Facebook titled “21st Century Hippies.”

My generation knows what it’s like to live in a world where an unpopular war is so far away and yet seems so close because of the physical effects of our brothers, sisters and friends with whom we just graduated high school.

“I just remember thinking, ‘Oh, I wish my brother was home,’” Robinson said, sounding much like families who say goodbye to their siblings, boyfriends and girlfriends to Iraq in recent years.

Maybe this is why it doesn’t seem like I need to small talk much before getting into interviews with those who are even 40 years older than me. Or, maybe I’m just acting out of my generation which has been said to be “Generation X on steroids” who comes with a sense of entitlement for getting what we want.

An article in USA Today quoted Jordan Kaplan, an associate managerial science professor at Long Island University-Brooklyn in New York, on this subject.

“Generation Y is much less likely to respond to the traditional command-and-control type of management still popular in much of today's workforce," he said. "They've grown up questioning their parents, and now they're questioning their employers. They don't know how to shut up, which is great, but that's aggravating to the 50-year-old manager who says, 'Do it and do it now.’”

But before 50-year-old managers start to complain about us Gen Y “whipper-snappers,” they should remember the defiance of their generation against “the man” in the 60s and 70s. These movements include but are not limited to movements for women and minorities such as the 200,000-person walk led by Martin Luther King Jr. in 1963.

I know there are more similarities and differences than war and the need to defy, but if we look closely, we can see at least one primary similarity that draws us together:

Our voices may be loud, demanding, and at times, irritating, but some of what we have to say—like those in the Boomer generation—is true.

So, as my generation continues to graduate from college and join the workplace with men and women have been in their career field for over thirty years, Boomers need not roll their eyes.
They should just see us as co-workers and maybe even as friends who can relate at a deeper level than they know.

Why Jesus loves homosexuals

2008-06-30T15:54:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, June 14, California had its first full day of legalized, gay marriage, and some Americans are reacting negatively.

A few protestors outside of the Contra Costa county clerk’s office in California held signs that said, “God is your enemy,” according to an article on CNN. They were from Westboro Baptist Church.

Other groups in San Francisco and Beverly Hills waved signs that said, “Repent or Perish.”
Another article by iReport.com lists comments from the general public. One reporter on the site said, “GOD DID NOT CREATE ADAM AND STEVE! IT WAS ADAM AND EVE! HE CREATED MAN AND WOMAN! Homosexuals who say they go to church make me sick!! Read the bible, idiots!”

This is where I draw the line.

I do read the Bible, and I do believe that homosexuality is a struggle and a choice, but to condemn people because of choices they make is sin equal to the one self-proclaimed homosexuals commit.

The iReport commenter encouraged promoters of the decision in California to read the Bible. If that individual, along with those who protested saying that “God is your enemy,” would study the Bible more carefully, they would see a God that contradicts the venom they are spouting with their mouths and signs.

The fourth Gospel of the Bible talks about a woman caught in the act of adultery. Religious people surrounded the woman, ready to stone her. But Jesus—the very representation of God—walks up to the crowd and says, “All right, stone her. But let those who have never sinned throw the first stones!” ( John 8:7, NLT)

Jesus then writes in the dust. Many sermons I have heard have tried to theorize what he drew on the ground, but I am convinced that he wrote some of faults of the religious people: Gossip, slander, lying or the names of people they had lusted after—all sins equal to the one of the adulterous woman.

“Where are your accusers?” asked Jesus, when the religious men had left. “Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”

“No, Lord,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

Jesus wouldn’t carry signs that say, “Repent or Perish,” and he certainly wouldn’t need to remind others of the names of the people he created.

Instead, I believe he would sit on the steps of the county clerk’s office and talk with those who were waiting in line to be married. I guarantee he would give out hugs, cry with people and ask to hear their stories. I am certain he would be clear about how he felt about their choices, but if Jesus can forgive me, he can forgive them.

Maybe I could argue that I don’t picket and carry signs against the couples in California, but how many of us carry signs in our hearts?

When was the last time I laughed at a joke where a homosexual was the punch line? When was the last time I heard someone use the word “gay” as an adjective, and didn’t correct them?
When was the last time I made a judgment about someone based on their appearance or mannerisms, and wrote them off as second-rate?

“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far away,” says Mark 7:7. We say we are good people and some of us even say we are Christians, but to wear that badge means we must actually be like the real Jesus.

This past week, I interviewed Jim Mikula, promoter of the nationally recognized lawnmower racing competition in Sparta, Mich. that benefits Huntington’s disease research. He said something that stuck with me.

Mikula said that everyone should have a cause or a person for whom they are an advocate.

“Every person should pick some person or some thing,” he said, “and we’d be a lot better off.”
So what is my cause? I knew immediately after he said it.

It is the people who are lining up the steps of the clerk’s office in California to be married right now, because they are just like me: Sinners that Jesus loves.

Donating blood? Maybe next time

2008-06-29T19:33:00.000-07:00

Who really likes to give blood?

You sign up to have somebody stab a needle in you, steal your life-blood and then guide you dazedly to the cookie table so you can scarf them down before you pass out.

And sometimes, you do pass out. One of my friends said that the nurse accidentally hit an artery, and the bag filled up in two seconds. He was out faster than you could say “red blood cell.”

It doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun.

This is probably why I’ve spent the last six years I’ve been eligible to give blood, avoiding every donation possible.

“Oh, yeah, I have, uh, class then, and I can’t miss,” I said in high school.

“Ooh, I wish I could, but I just got back from Africa,” I said in college, “Rats.”

But I was out of excuses and the pressure was on. A funny thing happens when you write articles about communities doing blood donation such as at Casnovia Reformed Church. Suddenly, people are asking you to be there to give blood.

“I’m going to have to check my calendar,” I said, laughing it off. Somewhere, deep down, I knew that I would end up donating.

I arrived that fateful Monday afternoon scanning my brain for reasons why I couldn’t do it.

I was in Africa last summer, I had a strange hack-cough and I’m sure I’m hypoglycemic. I started rattling off a couple of these concerns to the nurses and sent them running to their books to see if South Africa was okay, and if my hack-cough would interfere.

“Do you feel an overall sense of health?” asked one doctor.

“Yes,” I said, reluctantly.

“You said you were in Cape Town?” asked another nurse.

“Yes,” I said, hopefully.

“Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” she said.

Shoot.

I think the volunteers could tell I wasn’t so thrilled about giving blood.

“Do you really want to do this?” whispered Rose, the nurse assigned to get me prepped for the stab. “Because, I can deny you right now, if you want.”

“Oh, no,” I said, laughing, “I want to do it,” and tried to cover up my apparent fear. Be brave, Laurie.

I went through the check list with Rose, and everything came out okay.

“All that’s left now is the iron check,” she said.

I didn’t pass. I was one point too low.

What? I couldn’t believe it. The next few minutes were a blur: People were making sure I still got my free T-shirt, had signed up to win a plasma-screen T.V. and were asking if I wanted a hot dog or cookies.

I don’t need this stuff, I thought. I didn’t even do anything. The free T-shirt felt like lead in my hands.

For all of my complaining and sheer-terror at the thought of watching my blood exit my body, I wanted to help.

Didn’t I just interview Kona Kenny, mobile recruiter for Michigan Community Blood Center, who said that three people benefit every time I give blood?

I want to help three people. I want to earn my T-shirt and I want to get a sticker that says “Be nice to me, I gave blood today.”

Some of the kind volunteers tried to help me find a sticker that would be appropriate, but no such sticker exists that says, “Don’t be nice to me, I tried to give blood and failed.”

I guess I’ll just have to work on my iron level … and courage, and wait until next time—and next time better be a lot sooner than six years.

How the end of one life taught me how to give

2008-06-29T19:30:00.001-07:00

Ivan and Betty Goulooze were the sunshine of our church.

Sunday mornings would not have been the same without the couple’s matching white hair, trim figures, and laughs that made getting up at 8 a.m. worth it.

Ivan and Betty were two peas in a pod; I rarely saw one without the other.

Ivan is one of those older men who stays handsome through the years, and Betty certainly turned heads even into her seventies. Together, they looked the epitome of an ideal marriage, and their 54 years together proved it.

But it was something more than their appearance that joined the two so closely together.

It was their hands.

One held onto their life partner, the other was left open to others. They were always giving. Giving, giving, giving. I don’t think it was physically possible for either of them to meet someone and leave him or her empty-handed.

When a friend and I ran into them at a coffee shop, they stopped to talk and left both my friend and me with a full-sized candy bar.

When our church was first planted, the couple routinely picked up day-old Star Puff donuts from a local grocery store, and set them out next to the coffee every Sunday morning.

After church, you could see them faithfully at the door, handing out leftovers to people in the service, smiling, chatting, giving hugs and finding out needs of people so they could give more.

I know my family received more than one box of donuts each week.

And when our family was without a source of income for several months, Ivan and Betty were some of the faithful who dropped off food for my family whenever they could.

Honestly, we wouldn’t have starved without it, but I think we were starving for someone to reach out to us. And Ivan and Betty did just that.

The 73 and 76 year-old couple were always moving: Finding people with whom they could share food, flowers or the Gospel. They were heavily involved with homeless ministries.

A few months ago, a healthy Betty suddenly became ill.

In the hospital, the doctors told the family that they had never seen a family as close-knit as the one that surrounded Betty in the hospital.

“What brings you together?” the doctors asked.

“It’s one thing,” said Ivan, remembering the moments before his wife’s unexpected death. “It’s Jesus Christ.”

She died last week.

Betty’s daughter, Barbara McCulla of Pella, IA, said that even as she was dying, Betty gave.

She shared the light that she had while lying silently in bed, fighting for her breath. Her husband spoke for her.

They were still a team.

I don’t know how to say goodbye to Betty. I don’t know how to convey the depth of how much she and her husband meant to me. She was one of those faces that I never thought might be gone one day.

But she is. How can I articulate the impact she had on my life now?

I am sure if I went to heaven today and asked her, she would probably just put a box of Star-Puffs in my hands with a smile in her eyes.

And then I would know: I can share what she meant to me by giving to others.

Then the light of Betty’s heart will never fade away.

Everyone has a story

2008-06-02T18:54:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s just because I’m a reporter, or maybe it’s because I’m me, but I have a nearly obsessive-compulsive desire to know what’s behind the eyes, the Marilyn Manson T-Shirt, and the Converse All-Stars of every person.

As I sat in Wendy’s last week, mowing down a salad with the ferocity of a starving wolf (you know those 3 o’ clock hungries?), I watched people pumping gas at the gas station connected to the Wendy’s/convenience store.

Besides being incredibly angry at the numbers rolling around and around on the gas pump, I wondered what else they were thinking:

Did he just get off his tractor, and is wondering about how he will make it?

Did she just lose 30 pounds?

Is he thinking about the triple bypass surgery he’s going to have in three days?

Did that grandpa’s wife just die?

Is she wondering about her son who was arrested yesterday night?

I kept trying to find clues that would tell me what’s behind those eyes: their car, their demeanor.

I was wishing that there was a television screen over the heads of each of these people that would tell me the highlights of each of their lives.

Or the lowlights.

Maybe it was just because I was in “reporter mode”—where I am constantly on the search for story ideas—but I couldn’t help but wish I could just know.

And I don’t think that my desires are too ridiculous.

Steve Hartman, a CBS news correspondent, took four years criss-crossing the nation at random finding out people’s stories.

“I remember when I started this project,” he said in an article citing his favorite memories from the 99 people he interviewed. “A lot of people, at the time, thought it was kind of a feather-brained idea. And to be perfectly honest, a little part of me thought it was, too.”

For four years, Hartman threw a dart at a map, went to that location, found a phone book and called people at random. If they were willing, he would interview them regardless of who they are or what they had to say.

Hartman found a couple of not-so-trusting people (he once had to make 44 calls in a row before he found someone who would let him interview them), and a few who answered “with a smile in their voice.”

These, he interviewed, and in these, he found great stories.

He met newlyweds: "I sat down on the couch, and he got down on his knees, and I thought he was praying... so I bowed my head, and that's when he proposed to me," said Naomi Coddington of Camden, Tenn.

He met adopted kids: "They love us and they snuggle us,” Hartman recalled.

He met those with advice: "An obstacle is a steppingstone to success," said Alan Gunsbury of Brainerd, Minn.

And he met a 5-year-old who believed he could give a balloon to his grandma in heaven: “As Trey watched that balloon disappear into his grandma's arms, I realized that he did have something to say after all, that faith is where you find it,” said Hartman.

Everyone does have a story—whether it’s a 5-year-old kid who loves his grandma or the stranger pumping gas at pump number 7.

What’s up to me, then, is deciding whether or not I will choose to live every day treating others like they do.

Am I a murderer?

2008-05-23T04:58:00.000-07:00

I am a part of a global community who inspires murder.

I talked to my friend Missy yesterday who is in Cape Town, South Africa doing mission work.

The day before, I couldn’t help but be drawn to a small link to an article on cnn.com that described riots and violence that are breaking out around South Africa—specifically in Johannesburg.

Missy told me that the riots have moved beyond Johannesburg to the townships where Missy and her husband work every day.

When I was talking to her, her husband, Jeremiah, was out picking up a friend who had called him frantically.

“Please, can you come and pick up my stuff?” the Zimbabwean asked. “Because, if I have to run from the mob in the night, then I don’t have to worry about my stuff.”

Jeremiah went to pick up the man and his “stuff” to try and help alleviate his worries.

Another CNN article I read said that South Africans are targeting Zimbabweans and other illegal immigrants because they believe they are taking their jobs. The immigrants, in the mind of the South African mob, are the reason for the South African’s troubles. If only they weren’t there, then the South Africans would have job security.

My friend told me that a big reason that the South Africans believe this is because of the media. News reports say that the immigrants are taking their jobs, so it must be true.

That comment made me stop.

I am a part of the news media. Though what I cover isn’t the riots in South Africa, or even who the frontrunner is today in the elections, it could be one day.

And how much of what I might say and could change how a person, a people group, or even a mob responds?

How could I, with my very fingers throwing black marks on a white Word document, spark a thought in someone to kill another?

The South Africans have picked up an old apartheid-era trick called “necklacing,” where suspected informants are given a petrol-filled car tire “necklace” to wear. The necklace is then set on fire.

I can’t believe that I could be a part of causing this. I knew when I was considering journalism as a career path that there were risks involved.

A friend who was in television news journalism told me she walked away from her post after being mandated to go get the reactions of family members of victims who had died just hours before in a plane crash.

She felt she was exploiting their pain.

I, too, have a choice of whether or not I want to ask a sobbing family how they feel about the death of their daughter, or if I want to write a “harmless article” about the employment rates in South Africa.

But is it my moral duty to report this news? Is it my moral duty to write about a fence put up in my beat area that angered a village citizen, to write about a road that township residents don't want, and is it my duty to seek out the stories that inspire someone to kill another because of the public’s right to know?

After reading one of my critical reviews in the newspaper about a month ago, my mom asked me if what I was doing was right.

“Shouldn’t you go to the person and tell them your complaint?” she asked me, saying that that was the Biblical thing to do.

Something within me welled up in anger. No! Truth, beauty, and love!

I have to say the truth. I have to speak it out. How the villages I cover choose to respond, or even how the mobs in South Africa react is not up to me. I can speak the truth as unbiased as I possibly can, but then the rest is up to the world.

I cannot stop speaking the truth as long as there is breath in me. Yes, I will always consider the repercussions of my black marks on a Word document, but I cannot stop speaking.

(http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/05/22/southafrica.riots/index.html)

What it's like to work in Smaller Town America

2008-05-20T20:29:00.000-07:00

I live in Small Town America, but I work in Smaller Town America.

At least twice per week, I head to my beat location which is located twenty miles north of my home town of Grand Rapids.

While I drive, I can’t help but notice as the landscape shifts from the driven McDonalds world of GR to the blooming apple trees and working tractors of Sparta.

Somewhere between 6 and 7 Mile Road I cross the Smaller Town threshold.

I am a reporter for a community newspaper that is all about driving “local, local, local” into our minds each day. When the Grand Rapids Press snubs their noses at pagers bought by Alpine Township fire department, I write nine inches.

People care about their small town community, and I, their community reporter, need to care too.

But I can’t just care. I need to become a part of the landscape.

Yesterday, while driving around Sparta gathering information for the next series of stories that will go into this week’s paper, I couldn’t help but notice that I stood out like a Prada Bag in Meijer.

Not all of the people wanted to talk to me. I saw this after the third time I asked someone a question with a smile and pen in hand and received a question back. “So, just what are you going to do with this information?” they asked.

People don’t trust me.

What? Take a look at my pencil skirt, layered shirts, and Steve Madden’s. Look at my cheerful smile, and blonde hair. Don’t they all want to talk to me?

No, they don’t. What I received from many people was a look of distrust—and from some, defensive anger because I’m an outsider.

That’s when I decided to do something: I traded in my heels for sneakers, and started to walk the neighborhood.

Simply feeling the small town sidewalk underneath my feet gave me a sense of what I was facing in my new job. I wasn’t gathering stories and facts. I am gathering stories about the lives and workplaces and the schools where grandpa, dad, and my little brother will go.

I started to notice the smell of the lilacs on the trees, the faces of the grandpa and granddaughter playing catch in their yard, and the sweat on the forehead of a mother mowing her lawn.

It’s like clay. When you first touch it, it is difficult to work with. But the more you’re in it, the more time you spend working with it, the more the clay gets stuck to your hands and works with you to shape it into a masterpiece.

That’s been my problem these last two week: I can’t help noticing that after I interview some people, that my facts are just that: facts. They’re the bones of the story, but there’s no meat, no personality, no soft clay that comes with walking the sidewalks and talking with people.

So today, I changed my tactic. I talked with people for a little bit longer than my normal, driven, reporter personality might talk, and I actually considered wearing jeans on the job—okay, maybe just khakis.

But, I realize I have to calm down the Small Town America mode if I ever want to make it in Smaller Town America. I have to take off the heels, slap on a pair of sneakers, and just start shooting the breeze.

I’ll never make it in this town if I don’t.

I like to consider myself a non-road rager, but sometimes…

2008-05-17T15:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, people are just stupid. They cut you off, they don’t see that you’re backing up and nearly take off the back half of your car, or they drive way too slowly or quickly.

This is when I like to say nice things to other drivers or make fun gestures. No, not those kinds of one-fingered gestures, but more like a friendly wave or the ever-demeaning finger point.

For example, cars from the opposing direction are turning left in front of you at a light. You know that that light has turned a nice orange, but you see that one driver about a hundred feet back gets that look in his eye that says, “I’m going to make it.”

You know what I mean. You’ve probably all done it at one point or another. Instead of honk or scream, I try to catch their eye as I’m waiting patiently at my now green light, and point at their face and shake my head. It’s just my kind way of saying, “You know what you did, and that was not cool. No, sir, not cool.”

Usually, they pretend not to see me, but I know. Oh, I know. It’s just my friendly, neighborhood driver duty.

Other times, I like to say things to people. I try to refrain from cussing at people as I know there are other ways of releasing how I feel about stupid drivers without dirtying up my mouth and ears too much. (After all, I’m the only one who is going to hear it anyway. I’m surrounded by this nice thing called a car.)

For example, I was on the expressway the other day, late for my graduation practice. Yes, I should have gotten into the car sooner than I did, but it didn’t stop me from suddenly having all sorts of anger that other people wanted to drive at the same time as me.

What kind of a country is this that allows for other drivers on the road at the same time and to the same location?

Well, there was an inevitable construction zone that popped up on my strip of expressway where I needed to go. As summer is approaching and we have only two seasons in Michigan (winter and construction), I wasn’t that surprised. But I was a bit surprised that people decided to drive extra slowly, and extra stupidly at that very moment.

“Oh, you like to go ten under the construction speed limit?” I said, quietly but with a hint of hate. “That’s fun.” “Oh, you decided that you like to cut me off? Wonderful!” This keeps the mood light in my vehicle, but gives me just a taste of superiority in my driving skills against those around me. I tend to tail people just a tad to add to my sarcastic comments, as well.

[Insert big, releasing sigh.]

But, there have been those few times when I have chosen to finger point, make comments or tail people and get into trouble.

“Oh shoot, they’re going my same direction,” I think to myself. “Oh, crap. We’re going to the same place,” I say. And then, “Oh, no, that’s my neighbor.”

Gulp.

How many times have you suddenly found the speed limit to be a very comfortable speed, or thought that , “Oh, maybe I don’t really want to go to that store right now,” when the person you gave a little road rage action was going to your same location?

Yelling at strangers from behind the wheel is an entirely different story than face to face. Weirdoes do that. Drunk people do that. We don’t do that.

I did a little tailing action to someone, but then followed them into the coffee shop parking lot I was heading into. I suddenly felt a lot of regret for my driving sins, and sat in my car for a minute to give us some distance. But, so did he.

We ended up in line right next to each other at the coffee shop and I tried to think invisible thoughts while I waited.

Needless to say, I got several “You suck at life,” looks from him.

I was half tempted to make a joke of it or something, but then decided against it.

I learned a very valuable lesson that day: only road rage at strangers, and if you meet them down the road again, just drive, drive away.

College jobs vs. 'Real World' jobs

2008-05-14T17:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve worked three days in the “real world,” and I can already see a couple of differences between this job and the one in college.

In college, every job that you have had previous to the one you have in college, matters. I was a waitress at Bob Evans for two years, and a nanny one day a week. All of this was looked on as valuable discussion and experience for my job as our school’s newspaper editor.

In the real world, nothing you ever did before holds any bearing—except for in the interview. When I was interviewing for my current job as a reporter, they couldn’t get enough of the stories I had of meeting outrageous deadlines and writing controverial articles. Any time I mention my previous job as a lame-o editor of a school paper now, the room tends to suspiciously silence.

In college, your personal life is all over the job. School employee: “You guys, I’m sorry, I just can’t work. [Sips coffee.] I am having the worst day ever.”

In the real world, your personal life is all over the job. Employee: “You guys, I’m sorry, I just can’t work. [Sips coffee] I am having the worst day ever.”

In college, you have no flippin’ clue how you’ll work 40 hours a week. This is because we take a little thing called a full load of classes and work 30 hours a week.

In the real world, you can just work 40 hours a week. Can you say “angels singing?”

In college, there is no end to the work. Did you ever get to the point while studying for an exam, where you said, “That’s it. I know it all. I can get a wonderful night’s sleep, or go hang out with friends. But, hakuna matata, I have no worries about the exam.” No, you don’t ever do that.

In the real world, you get to leave. There’s an end. A time clock. A shutting off of computers. Sure, you can bring your Blackberry with you and be “one of those,” but you could also not be. “It means no worries, for the rest of your days…”

In college, work is conveniently shortened by school starting or school ending. This means I never have to face my problems. If I don’t like the job, just hold out for long enough and, darn, the school year ended.

In the real world, you have to face your problems. I love my new job, but it’s strange to think I’ll most likely still be working there in September. And October. And November. And March. Shoot.

In college, your work friends are usually your real friends. We wouldn’t just tear our hair out putting together a newspaper every week, we detoxed with a good movie and cried about boyfriends and families together.

In the real world, your work friends are…older than you. I don’t know what to do with myself. Though I am looking forward to getting to know moms, dads, and just older professionals in general, I don’t know if I can watch a chick flick with them.

I have some questions on this, the day after graduation

2008-05-11T19:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I graduated from college. Today was Mother's Day. Tomorrow, I start my new job as a full-time reporter at The Advance Newspapers in Jenison, Mich.

The next day I'll fly to the moon.

Probably not, but I can't help but feel like everything is whizzing past me as I sit idle in a rocket ship. What will change next? I sit in my new apartment with my new (okay, old) furniture and contemplate this new thing called not moving.

How do I just sit with myself? How do I be alone? How do deal with an emaciated email inbox when I was used to receiving 50-60 emails a day as the top editor of our newspaper? How do I handle listening to the silence of an unringing cell phone? How do I cope with the quiet of an unknocked door? How do I live with a to-do list that includes buying a can opener and blogging?

All at once I am aware of myself. Who is this now college graduate with a “real job” and her own apartment?

I feel so out of the college, hyper-active, over-worked, insanity that we all complain about but in the complaints we develop a camaraderie of hatred toward a common “man.”

Who am I apart from “the man” of the school system who fills my life with displeasure? Who am I apart from the emails, the cell phone calls, and the knocks on the door?

Am I anyone?

Will I go into tomorrow’s job and immediately try to make friends with the secretary, my managing editor, and the other reporters so that they can tell me through their approval or disproval that I have value?

Because I think that that might be part of it. For so long (for the last fifteen years, to be exact) I have struggled with defining myself by success in what I do, and suddenly, what I do is gone. I flip the tassel from right to left and I am suddenly without a purpose.

You can go insane without a purpose.

But, phew. I have a job I start tomorrow morning. Thank God that this uncomfortable silence and aloneness will be filled up with things to do and people to please.

Oh wait, I’m a grown up now. I have a choice in this. I don’t have to keep living like my busyness and other people give me purpose.

But the real question is: Will I choose it?

Any last words?

2008-05-07T21:12:00.000-07:00

This was my final editorial for The Herald:

Well, it’s the end of my college career. Wow. Who would have thought that I would actually make it to the end? OK, I did.

While walking in my high school graduation I remember thinking, “I’ll really be proud of myself when I graduate from college. High school graduation isn’t a big deal.” Turns out, I was right. High school graduation wasn’t very significant, but obtaining this college diploma will be something of which I am truly proud.

But the diploma won’t be the greatest thing I will walk out with when I leave commencement. No, the greatest things I will take with me are the scars on my back from lessons learned these last four years. Nine of these lessons I want to share with you, my Cornerstone community:

1. Take classes because you want to. Though I may be walking with an English writing degree, I have really appreciated deepening my educational experience by taking youth ministry classes. Through classes taught by Don Perini, assistant professor of youth ministry and creativity, Jeanette Banashak, instructor in youth ministry, and spiritual formations professors, Dave and Cynthia Beach, I have enriched my life. If you have credits to burn, just do it. You will graduate a better person.

2. Get a mentor. Please don’t go all four years without having someone who is invested in you as an individual. Find someone whom you respect and who won’t swallow the Christianese you can spout out. Find someone who loves you and will love you through everything.

3. Mentor someone else. Pour into someone else all you have been learning. I know some of you (us) can do that too much, but find someone—or a group of someones—and pour into their life. You don’t need to have all the answers, “you just need to be a half-step further along than the person you’re leading,” says my dad.

4. Journal. Write down everything you are learning. You’re not a journaler? Well, stop that, and just do it anyways. You don’t have to write every day like some crazy people (me), but even once-a-month record of what you’re learning is better than nothing. You’ll be amazed at what you find even a year down the road.

5. Stop the prejudices. Ed Dobson, former pastor of Calvary and pastor in residence, said in chapel once that he had a life rule for himself: He never laughs at any sexist, racist, or homophobic joke. That resonates deeply within me. Do you want to be like Jesus? Follow Dobson’s lead with me.

6. Date. God bless singleness and all, but who’s kidding who? Dating is fun. Don’t do it if your focus is to fill a void in your heart, but don’t be afraid to have fun. Sisters, there are some great guys out there—they just don’t wear signs.

7. Get an internship in your field. Don’t worry, I’m not going to harp, but I can’t tell you how much it matters. I was the editor of our paper and had a television news internship, but because I didn’t have an internship in newspapers, some prospective jobs wouldn’t even look at me. Know what you want, and get into it. Just trust me on this one.

8. Chillax about grades. I have a hard time with this. Word of advice: If you are finding that your studies are more important than people, please stop and go to IHOP with friends at midnight. It’s good for you. You don’t need an “A,” you just need to be healthy, and healthy means having fun and enjoying life.

9. Say thank you. Did a professor say something that really resonated with you? Thank him or her. Did your RA work really hard on an event and nobody cared? Write her a note saying you noticed her efforts. Do you have a friend that doesn’t know you really care? Why not tell him you do?

Though I don’t like putting verses into articles for the sake of putting verses into articles, I think a verse is appropriate here. Colossians 2:6-7 says, “So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

So with that, I bid you adieu, Cornerstone, and say ‘thanks.’ Thank you for the stripes you’ve given me, thank you for the voice you’ve forced me to find, and thank you for giving me a chance to offer this voice to the world.

Gen Y: We're not lazy, we're just waiting for the right opportunity

2008-04-23T12:21:00.001-07:00

This was my editorial printed in The Herald April 18, 2008

Looking around campus, it’s hard to find many people that look “motivated” to do anything but text message, Facebook, and drink coffee.

We don’t look like our fathers, or our grandfathers, or even like our older brothers and sisters who had to “walk up hill, both ways” to get their degree.

We would rather Facebook than listen during class, we want to watch all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls back-to-back for a week straight rather than do our homework and we would rather celebrate with a $5 Cold Stone Love It creation than think about how we cleaned toilets for an hour to earn it.

To the outside world, it looks like we just don’t care: Don’t you care about the value of a dollar? Don’t you care that you won’t learn anything in college? Don’t you care that you’ll have to face the ‘real world’ when you graduate? says the generations preceding us.

Yeah, we care. But we care with a nonchalant, “Yeah” and another dip into our Cold Stone creation. To the outside world, it might look like we’re lazy, and sometimes, we really are. But to those who take a second look to try to more deeply understand how Generation Y works, they see something new.

In a recent New York Times article titled, “What Gen Y really wants,” Penelope Trunk said that the concrete line between work and play has softened with the generation born after 1980. What matters to us more is that what we are doing is meaningful.

Volunteerism related to a work field, for example, is important. More than half of those in their 20s surveyed by Deloitte, a consulting firm, said that they prefer when their companies provide a chance to “give back.” “It's a way to take the skills I learned in the corporate arena and give back to the community without leaving the company," said Elliot Moore, 26, who works at Deloitte.

Having friends on the job also helps Gen Y workers to be motivated. Gentle Giant Moving once hired an entire athletic team. “It looked like a great work environment because of the people," said rower Niles Kuronen, 26. No kidding. Trunk said that Generation Y is fine with checking their Blackberry on the weekend, just as long as during the week, they can have flexibility.

But more than that, the young 20s of today want to have meaning and purpose to what they do. On All Things Considered on NPR in March, they stated how Americans are four times wealthier than in the 1950s, but they do not report any changes in levels of happiness.

What was once so important for our parents and grandparents—to make a name for ourselves by making money—is now a lesser thought. Money isn’t the highest priority. Give us a cause, and we’ll fight for it. Give us a name of some injustice and we’ll do our best see that justice is enacted.

We don’t just want a job; we want something to believe in. We don’t just want a career, we want to volunteer and hang out with friends while we work. We aren’t lazy; we just don’t care about putting our name on a building.

We want to have a greater purpose.

And we might cause a disturbance while doing so. "They're like Generation X on steroids," said Bruce Tulgan, a founder of New Haven, Connecticut-based Rainmaker Thinking, in USA Today’s article on Generation Y. "They walk in with high expectations for themselves, their employer, and their boss. If you thought you saw a clash when Generation X came into the workplace, that was the fake punch. The haymaker is coming now."

It’s not that we want to cause trouble; it’s that we want to make a difference. We want to be different. It’s not that we don’t care. It’s that we want to volunteer, put a stake in the ground, work with our friends, and do it while in flip-flops and surfing in the Internet.

So give us a break, and a chance—and while you’re at it, give us a latte.

The Great Debate: Starbucks vs. Biggby

2008-04-15T11:04:00.000-07:00

This was a review I wrote for retired GR Press editor, Bob Becker. He laughed, especially at the part about $4 coffeee, our economy, and gas. He loves our great state's economic state. :)

The Great Debate: Starbucks vs. Biggby

By: Laurie Hekman

At least twice a week, Cornerstone students have a conversation that goes something like this:

"Hey! How are you? Good to see you!"

"Yeah, you too! Hey, we really should do coffee some time.

"Notice "do" coffee. You don't drink it, you do it.

"That sounds great. Yeah, how about Thursday?"

"Thursday? Thursday is great! 2 p.m.?"

"2 p.m. is great. Where?"

Cue haunting music. Where do you go? On and around Cornerstone's campus there are so few options from which you can choose.

There is always the Cornerstone coffee house, but, after four days straight of grab-and-go, do you really want to "do" coffee where you just "did" your lunch for the last week?

I'm sorry, but no. The price is good, but who's kidding who? If you see the same grouping of people in the Corum Student Union one more time, they might have to do the Corum renovation sooner than this summer.

So, you have Panera. But, be honest, you're sick of it. 17 visits in one month is enough, isn't it? After visit 16, even their Cinnamon Crunch Bagel starts tasting like a Panera table.

Now it's down to two: Starbucks or Bigby? While Starbucks may have the superior tasting coffee, Biggby is the overall winner for the following five reasons:

5. The name change. Give the guys a break. They had a cool name and had to pick a dumb one so that they could not be racist while keeping the big "B" that guides my way with its orangey glow. Sure, they could have chosen something cool like "Bruno" or "Bash" or "Bora Bora," but they chose something stupid and wear it proudly every day on their hats.

4. They are Michigan-based. How often does the conversation you have over your $4 coffee turn to the state of Michigan's economy and the fact that you could almost buy a gallon of gas with the cup of Joe in your hand? The company started in East Lansing, Mich. and is providing jobs—not tearing them away.

3. The environment. Whenever I walk into Starbucks, it feels so sterile. I feel like I should be on my best behavior, whereas in Biggby, I can drag in my three bags and a purse and everyone in there sort of gives me a silent "Amen, sister," and welcomes me to their homework club. Biggby also has free wireless. Would Starbucks ever do that for you? No. They might give you a free iTunes song for one month, but they won't let you check Facebook.

2. Whipped cream. Biggby Coffee doesn't go skimpy on the whipped cream. Starbucks makes me feel guilty for wanting it, but Bigby satisfies my desire for a sugary substance every four hours or so by loading the topping on. In fact, they encourage it even more by naming their drinks things like "Butter Bear" and "Sugar Bear." Who wouldn't want to give a squeeze to a cute, little Butter Bear? Starbucks has sugar-free, non-fat lattes extra-hot; Biggby's gives me a hug for my mouth.

1. Punch cards. No doubt, this gives Bigby the upper hand. I told my sister the other day, while completing yet another punch card, that I can't recall how many cards I've turned in for one free drink. Before too many jaws knock the ground, give me a little grace: I'm a writer and Biggby is my second home to write.

Oh, wait, that's not a good excuse.

Regardless, it should be apparent why Biggby is clearly the better option when it comes to satisfying the coffee-date desire. Starbucks may taste better, but if I want to have a good coffee-do with someone, I am choosing the comforting arms of Biggby every time.

I go to CU and yet I ask: Public or Private Education?

2008-04-06T19:45:00.001-07:00

Once again , (third time is a charm, they say), here is a Bob Becker Op-Ed Class editorial that was later printed in The Herald.

Christian or public education? Let the kids choose.
By: Laurie Hekman

When families are faced with choosing between a Christian or secular education for their children, too often the children are left out of the equation. Christian parents that can afford it usually end up siding with Christian schools as an easy route to train their child in Christianity.

However, the children, especially by high school age, should have a significant say in where they want to learn.

In May 2004, T.C. Pinckney, a retired Air Force brigadier general, and Houston attorney Bruce Shortt—both lay leaders in the Baptist church—brought before the Southern Baptist Convention a proposal to take all Christian children out of public schools.

The reason for the removal, the proposal says, is “for the glory of God, the good of Christ's church, and the strength of their own commitment to Jesus.”

But in looking at the words of Christ, it is difficult to hear how commitment to Jesus would include total removal from public education. The Great Commission found in Matt. 28:19 says “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations.” How is it possible for Christian children to take part in the Great Commission if they aren’t in contact with those of all nations?

Furthermore, Matthew 14 talks about how a lamp isn’t lit and put under a bowl, but gives light to a house. “In the same way, let your light shine before men,” verse 16 says, “that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.”

How can young Christians be a “light” to the world when they are put under the bowl of Christian schools, Christian homes, and Christian churches?

To this, the Pickney-Shortt Resolution says, “Many Christian children in government schools are converted to an anti-Christian worldview rather than evangelizing their schoolmates." He cites the fact that 88 percent of children who are raised in Christian homes, by the age of 18 leave the church and never turn back.

But this percentage includes children who are from public and Christian schools. 88 percent of both Christian-educated students and 88 percent public-educated students are leaving the church.

Maybe the Christian education isn’t having as big of an effect as one first thought. Maybe there is another source for the fact that Christian teens have had enough of religion: parents.

Ashley Wisz, a junior at Northpointe Christian High School, only switched to Christian schooling this past year after being in public school for the first 11 years of her education. She is happy with her decision to transfer.

Wisz is happy with her decision to switch, as she saw “how dark and twisted everything is” at her public school, Rockford. At Northpointe Christian, she saw that there were those who grew up like she did.

“They’re more on the same level as I am—where their parents actually care about them,” says Wisz. “Where at Rockford, if your parents really cared about you, you’d probably not be involved in such bad things.”

Wisz brings up an important point. Maybe it’s not the schooling that is totally creating the deficit in child-to-adult Christians. Maybe there is something in the household that isn’t encouraging students to keep their faith: parents.

Counting on Christian education to raise a child to love God is not possible. Writing a big check to a Christian school may seem like tough work, but even tougher work is required to help the child know God. Parents need to lead with a heart that personally loves God, and to let the child choose for themselves before they are 18.

This choosing happens daily at a public school.

“You can really see the sinful nature of man up in your face all the time,” says Wisz. Wisz’s faith was challenged every day as she stood up against the partiers, the popular crowd, and the pressure to smoke pot. In the face of it all, Wisz stood strong.

Critics may argue that Wisz, in the end, chose to go to a Christian school. But what is important to note, is that Wisz chose. At 16 years old, Wisz had a close enough relationship with God while still in a public school to know that she didn’t want to be there anymore. She wanted to know more head knowledge about her Savior and she is now receiving this at Northpointe.

But even while there, she is thankful for her time in a public school. It has given her a well-rounded perspective of the world. “If I were to go to a Christian school all my life I wouldn’t have a very good understanding of what most people in the world really are because there are a very small percentage of…people who are wholesome and good,” she says.

Christian families who are trying to decide between Christian or public education for their children as an easy way out to plant their child firmly in the faith should stop, evaluate Christ's words, and wait until, like Wisz, the child is able to choose.

Granholm's Solutions to Michigan's Failing Economy

2008-04-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

This was also written for Bob Becker's Op-Ed class, and published in The Herald as an "Our View."

Granholm has a faulty plan to go green
By: Laurie Hekman

After five years as governor of Michigan, it's not too much to expect Gov. Jennifer Granholm to have more than rhetoric to approach the problems facing the state.

Unemployment is at record levels, the schools are in bad shape, taxes are high, state spending is out of control and the housing market is in a dangerous slide.

It will take action, not ideas, to right this ship before it sinks with all hands on board.
During her recent speech in Grand Rapids before the Michigan Press Association (MPA), Granholm said "Michigan is going through economic challenges."

Good thing she's finally noticed.

The facts are that Michigan is roughly $8 billion in debt and leads the nation with unemployment at 7.6 percent. The national average is 4.9 percent.

Granholm's answer is alternative energy.

"Every time you read global warming, gas emissions, you should think 'Ah! Jobs for Michigan!'" she said.

Granholm will go about creating jobs for Michigan by focusing on our natural resources—namely water and wind movement off of the Great Lakes. She said that the world is now focused on solving the global warming issue, and "we could win" them because of our location.

The plan is to use wind and water turbines to transform water and wind into energy. In her State of the State address just a few days before the MPA luncheon, Granholm generalized how the water and wind energy could specifically be harvested in our state.

"Pure Michigan water will do even more for us. The natural movement, the waves of our Great Lakes waters, creates enormous energy. We are talking with businesses right now about coming to Michigan to convert water currents into electric currents," she said.

What she failed to mention is what they are, how they will be paid for, or how she knows we can beat out other states for green priority.

At the luncheon she was a little more specific in saying that the turbines are huge and cost $300,000 to move down an expressway—totally shutting it down in order to move it. She said that because of the sheer difficulty in transferring them, once they're placed, they're staying.
Her thought is that we will attract businesses because we will already have these turbines planted.

A recent study out of the University of Michigan looking into the transfer of water to energy reports that the process is not as simple as the governor makes it sound.

It takes energy to make energy.

In 2000, the thermoelectric power plants in the U.S. used more than 136 million gallons of fresh water. That's enough to provide a medium-sized city with drinking water for 28 years.

What is more, the team exploring the thermoelectric possibilities sees that there are a large amount of pollutants that are produced as a result of the water-to-energy transfer. They are built up in the plant's boilers and cooling systems that is often discharged back into the source from which it is drawn (the Great Lakes).

Greenhouse gases are also produced as a result of burning fossil fuels to generate electricity. Also, when rain falls on coal stored within the runoff can carry arsenic and lead into nearby bodies of water and into the ground.

And what about funding? These turbines are expensive in general—not to mention very expensive in the eyes of an economically recessed state.

"To say that the interrelated problems are complex," said the team at the University of Michigan, "is an understatement."

The Michigan study says that problems could be worked out by 2015. That's the good news. The bad news is that Granholm's plan calls for 15 percent of the state's energy to be produced by alternative energy by 2015.

What comes first?

There is nothing wrong with putting an emphasis on the greening of the world. But Michigan's problems need solutions today, not fantasy dreams a decade from now. It's easy to talk the talk. So far, the governor has yet to prove that she can walk the walk.

Global warming?

2008-04-06T18:56:00.000-07:00

This was written for my Opinion-Editorial Writing class with Bob Becker, and was published in The Herald as an "Our View."

The U.S. Needs to reset their global warming priorities
By: Laurie Hekman

The debate about global warming’s existence is still happening. The question is: why? The facts are in, and it’s time for the citizens of the United States to stop denying the truth and do something to save their lives.

The earth is covered in a protective shield that is known as the greenhouse effect. The heat from the sun warms the earth, and the greenhouse gasses trap in some of this heat. Without this shield, earth would be about 60 degrees warmer making life impossible on earth.

The greenhouse effect keeps the earth warm. The problem lies in that earth’s inhabitants are creating too much of a greenhouse effect with carbon dioxide emissions that will eventually bake the inhabitants into non-existence.

Since the industrial revolution around the turn of the century, the earth has heated up one degree Fahrenheit—and the last two decades show the greatest addition to this degree change.
During this same decade, earth’s atmosphere has also seen a 31 percent increase in carbon dioxide.

Though this one degree may not seem significant, it becomes more significant when one considers that the entire earth has only warmed up nine degrees Fahrenheit since the Ice Age when the earth was entirely covered in ice.

Those who oppose this viewpoint say that it is the changing of the sun’s patterns that have made for the degree change. However, the direct correlation of the Industrial Revolution, the carbon dioxide increase, and the degree change within the last century is difficult to ignore.

Scientists expect another two-degree increase by 2100.

The results of the one degree climate change can already be seen throughout the green planet. The 1990s were the hottest decade recorded ever with seven of the 10 years hitting new temperature records. In the Northern hemisphere, spring comes a week earlier than 30 years ago, and precipitation has increased 20% north of the equator.

But what might be more devastating is the melting of the silent giants: the glaciers.

Anthony Arendt, a glaciologist at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks, said that about 12 cubic miles of glacial ice disappears in Alaska each year. Mark Dyurgerov, an expert at the Institute for Arctic and Alpine Research in Boulder, Colo., estimated that glaciers around the world are losing 22 cubic miles of ice per year. That's as much water as America's homes, farms and factories use every four months.

Lonnie Thompson, a geologist at the Byrd Polar Research Center at Ohio State University in Columbus, said of a glacier in the Peruvian Andes that, “You can literally sit there and watch it retreat.”

Because of the rapid melting and over increase in earth’s temperature, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency estimates that the global sea level rose 6 to 12 inches in the last century. One or two inches are directly related to the glacier melting, and the other inches are due to the fact that seawater expands as it gets warmer.

An increase of12 to 24 inches is expected in the next century which would cause major issues such as flooding and disease. In addition, an increase in 18 inches to the sea levels would create 50 million environmental refugees in third-world countries.

It’s time to do something.

In 2001, President George W. Bush surprised the world when he decided on behalf of the American people—the largest producers of fossil fuels--not to sign the Kyoto Agreement which mandates that a country lowers their carbon dioxide emissions by 7% by 2010.

The reason for not signing the agreement was primarily based on what it would do to the American economy. Such a “carbon diet” was thought to cause inflation to rise and hurt an already unstable economy.

The economy seems to be a moot point, however, in light of the fact that there may not be people left to keep the economy going because they dug themselves a watery grave with their pollutants.

Turning attention toward the environment may not be inconvenient, as green-advocate Al Gore says, but it will be more than inconvenient when disease, flooding, and environmentally-related deaths skyrocket.

The facts are in: The earth is warming, the climate is changing, and the United States needs to reset their priorities.

Why I Personally Hate Personality Tests

2008-04-06T16:10:00.000-07:00

I don't hate them, per se, but I certainly don't care for them like my school does.

The following editorial was printed in my school newspaper, The Herald, on April 4, 2008.

Holler.

I am a three on the Enneagram, with a two wing.

I am an I on the DISC test, with a partial covering on the D, and an arrow pointing more I.

I am an INFJ, but I used to be an ESFJ in high school. My OCEAN score is 88 percent open, 94 percent conscientious, 79 percent extroverted, 57 percent agreeable and 71 percent neurotic.

I am a four on a work style test—which means I get it done—and I am a two on the worship style—which means I am an emotional worshipper. My YMCA ID number is 4010228 and I am number nine of 12 in my family.

I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of being a number or a series of arbitrary letters.

I grew up being number nine of twelve. “Wow, you have twelve kids?” I heard that question about every couple hours when we were in public. Yes. We have twelve kids. “Which number are you?” they asked. “I’m number nine,” I would say, laughing, but not really happy about the question. For some reason, our numbers meant more than our names.

I don’t enjoy being a number. But it’s not just because I am number nine of a big family, it’s because I am more than my personality test answer. I am more than my Enneagram, I am more than my DISC test, and I am more than my Meyers-Briggs, and I am certainly more than my YMCA number.

And I am more than simply a culmination of all of them.

I can understand why we test each other, and test ourselves: We are looking for the answer to who we are. We are enthralled with the idea that someone, somewhere has the answer.

Honestly, since learning about the Enneagram, which is defined as an “ancient personality-type system” and splits the world up into nine different types of people, I have been mildly obsessed.

Who am I? I asked the Enneagram book by Richard Rohr, and he told me: I am a three. The motivator who has a “need to succeed.” But, I am also a two, the nurturer with the “need to be needed.”

I read the pages with excitement and caution, scared that he—or it— really did know me. It was exciting and comforting because at last, someone gets me. Someone can affirm and notice why I do what I do. Jeannette Banashak, instructor in youth ministry, mentioned in Interpersonal Relationships class that someone she knew broke down in tears after reading about her personality because they finally felt comforted that someone got her.

And isn’t that the cry of our hearts? That someone would intimately “get us?”

But that left me uneasy. How could Richard Rohr or Mr. Enneagram, or Mrs. DISC test know me? Intimately? And how could Mr. and Mrs. Meyers-Briggs have me figured out when I haven’t told them who I am? I haven’t said, Mr. Enneagram, this is what happened when I was six, and that shaped me to react to things this way?

Personality tests don’t know that I fell off a moped with my sister on gravel road when I was 6-years-old, and for years I avoided the contraption. They don’t know what it’s like to grow up as number nine in the Hekman family with Judge Randall Hekman as my dad and Marcia Hekman as my mom or Scott as my just-older brother.

They don’t know that I was Peter Pan in my fourth grade play, they don’t know that I went to Oxford for a semester, or that I love Bigby Coffee because of the environment or that I have a dog named Belle. They don’t know that I got in a huge car accident last week that has made me scared to drive, or that I have wanted to end my life more than once.

How could they know me? They might know some traits that I follow, but that doesn’t tell me who I am. Personality tests don’t define Laurie Katherine Hekman. I define Laurie Katherine Hekman. And if you want to know me, don’t look at my Enneagram, my DISC test or my YMCA card.

Look into my eyes; ask me questions; hang out with me. Get to know me as I try to get to know my own self. And I’ll tell you what, this experiential, finding out of me is a lot more fun than getting a computer printout of “here is you.”

It may be true that I evoke the characteristics of a three with a two wing, or an I-D, and an INFTZLEF, but I am so much more than those: I am me.