Writer Introduction

Ever since my high school European history class studied the impact of the Enlightenment on the French Revolution, I’ve been fascinated with the idea that “the pen is mightier than the sword.”  I think what interests me about this quote is how strangely true it can be.  At least in the case of the French Revolution, and many other times throughout the extensive history I’ve been privileged to study through numerous high school AP classes, written words and literature have shaped minds towards an intentional purpose, persuading the (literate) masses to believe in the author’s mission.  I once thought I wanted to be a part of this, to write for my profession.  Now, I’m not so sure.

            When I was in fourth grade my teacher was one of those over-encouragers who felt that every minute accomplishment must be rewarded with a smiley sticker and extensive praise.  Fourth grade was also my first year to take the TAKS writing test, the standardized test that basically tells the state if schoolteachers are doing their jobs well enough.  Naturally, the test was highly emphasized during fourth grade.  In fact, my entire memory of fourth grade is about preparing for this test, learning how to tell a short story in a descriptive, emotion-filled manner.  With my teacher’s encouragement and my love of the Harry Potter books I soon was convinced that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. 

            Over middle school, however, writing became more of a chore to me.  I guess I wrote one too many 5-page analysis papers of ancient Greek tragedies or left the comfort of my encouraging fourth grade teacher, but somewhere through freshman year of high school writing lost its excitement.  But that would all change with my amazing sophomore and junior year English teachers.  In my sophomore year I was assigned to write a 60 page biographical essay about someone who had made an impact, contributed to the world. The assignment was just what I needed to rekindle my love for writing; I took it as an opportunity to develop my faith along with my writing ability and chose to write about Martin Luther, 16th century Protestant Reformer.  Through this assignment I learned so much about myself.  I learned that the way I learn best is through writing.  I learn best through formulating facts with my words and writing a paper about it.  I’m grateful to have learned this lesson so early on so that writing would remain a very important part of my education and even grow into one of my strengths.

            Junior year of high school I had an amazing AP English teacher, Mr. Wevodau.  He was truly a genius and taught me almost everything I know about how to write persuasively.  He taught my class a foundation in rhetoric, teaching us to frame language to shape ideas and portray them to readers.  I’m so thankful for Mr. Wevodau’s class for giving me the skills I needed to be successful in getting into college and scholarships and even in my first semester of college.  Because of the techniques we learned and extensive practice in Mr. Wevodau’s class, I actually was able to get a near perfect score on my SAT essay and get a scholarship to TCU.  Last semester, I took Honors European History 1789-present with Dr. Sanders.  Her essays, though mentally challenging and time consuming, were somewhat a easy to me; I received an A on almost every one. This is pretty much entirely due to my awesome high school teachers who taught me how to write proficiently.

            I feel that writing about history is one of my strengths because of my extensive practice in high school and last semester.  My biggest weakness in writing is how long it takes for me to write descriptively.  I’m a bit of a perfectionist for most writing assignments and am embarrassed to turn in an essay that I know isn’t my best work.  Unfortunately, my best work can at times take hours for a short paragraph.  I’m going to work on writing descriptively and try to not be so picky when it comes to diction and sentence structure.  I think this is reflective of my personality as well; I am indecisive in a lot of my endeavors and but always put my best effort in.  Where do I stand in terms of writing?  I enjoy it at times but at other times am impatient about it.  I know it will not be my profession as I thought in elementary school but it can still be an occasional escape and interesting homework assignment for class.

Final Coming of Age Story

            The butterfly fell gently, much as a lifeless leaf descends from an autumn oak, rising and falling with the whispers of the wind.  The smooth mud on the edge of the pond sank under my sandals as I leaned forward to follow the flight of the butterfly with my eyes.  The vibrant orange on the butterfly’s wings seemed oddly bland next its glaring backdrop of yellow-orange leaves that covered the trees that lined the pond on all sides.  Something was off about this particular butterfly, something was wrong, but I didn’t see it until the wind passed away.  I felt the warm breeze die as the trees grew silent but didn’t perceive it, focusing instead on the butterfly, no longer carried by the wind.  It dropped directly onto the water, its wings floating fully open across the surface of the murky pond.  I’d never seen a butterfly so still, so serene, completely lifeless.  And thus began one of the most influential seasons of my life, an uncertain age of impressionability, opportunity, and newfound maturity: the first semester of high school.

            All my life up this this season I had vaguely considered myself a Christian.  I thought (if I ever thought about faith) that I had somehow inherited religion from my pious great-grandmother, but it was never a part of my identity, more like an occasional chore I did on the side while I lived my life by and for myself.  My great-grandma, whom we called “Grandma,” was different.  She believed with all her heart in God and lived her life just as she believed.  My endless memories of visits to her house throughout my childhood were filled with hours playing pretend doctor (forcing her, of course, to pretend to be the patient while I “healed” her with her nursing kit), long walks around her neighborhood feeding the ducks with my great-grandad, cooking delicious dinners, and church and Bible reading.  She always told me that everything happens for a reason, that God has a plan and purpose for our lives.  I constantly noticed her faith, the way she took elaborate notes in church with her tiny looped handwriting, the way her Bible was falling apart from overuse, the way she would bow her head humbly in prayer again and again, in and out of church.  She also lived out her life selflessly, never missing anyone’s birthday or lacking in gracious hospitality.  I suppose that she knew that the greatest message she could give her family was a strong example.

            It was August and I was starting high school in a few weeks.  I was nervous about friends and classes and sports, preoccupied with my own problems.  Although we had just gone to visit my great-grandparents just a few months before for their 65th wedding anniversary, I honestly hadn’t thought about them in ages.  I hadn’t thought about them until I walked in on my mom crying.  My dad was holding her and she was crying.  Grandma had died.

            I wasn’t upset the whole way to the funeral.  I held it together for a while until the viewing.  I walked slowly, my mind blank, following my family’s procession to the casket, hesitating with each step as to whether or not I actually wanted to see her again, one last time.  But then I was suddenly there, next to her.  I looked at her white face and saw the butterfly, lifeless, still and serene.  I broke down like a child.  They said she was in a better place, in Heaven.  They said she hadn’t even worried about dying, that she knew where she was going.  I didn’t understand how she could have been so confident, assured in her faith, and I desperately wanted that for myself.

            There was no single moment, no one defining “lightbulb” moment when I believed for myself.  Rather, an escalation of events that has never ended, has trained and brought me closer to God with every step that I have taken.  My Grandma’s faithful example brought me to question my indifference to religion.  I’d already been baptized, but my faith slowly matured into something more real; I decided it was all or nothing.  I knew I needed to change my approach to religion, but that was easier said than done, in my mind.  My middle school days had been lacking in religious dedication, so even my closest friends were completely unaware that I was a Christian.  Changing the focus and priorities in my life would require quite a bit of boldness and tenacity, standing up for my faith to my friends, who were predominately atheists without patience for what they perceived as religious nonsense.  The stakes were even higher because I would now be the only Christian among my closest friends.  I was selfishly afraid at first of their judgment, but I grew more confident in my beliefs.  I also worried that my every action would be noticed and scrutinized as representative of Christianity as a whole.  This seemed like quite the burden for me to take on with such little faith experience of my own.  One Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks after my Grandma’s funeral, I was challenged to put these newfound convictions into practice. 

             That summer my youth group had gotten a new youth minister, Dr. David Fraze, or “Dave” as we liked to call him.  Never in my life had I met someone with such a talent, such proficiency in teaching teenagers how to develop their faith.  He innately connected with our age and instilled in us the means to live out our faith through his example and words of wisdom.  Dave was teaching that afternoon a lesson to prepare us for the beginning of the coming school year.  His relatively simple lesson taught me so much more.

            That afternoon Dave taught a lesson that has stuck with me for years, making a difference in everything I do.  It was the last day of summer vacation and Dave knew we were at an age of upmost importance; he wanted us to start high school on the right foot, heading in the right direction for our lives.  It only took him three questions to teach me how I was going to live my life during high school and beyond, three simple questions that would empower me to make good decisions and keep my life on track.  And they are so straightforward it is almost ridiculous how much impact they were able to have when implemented.  Dave stood on the mini stage surrounded by teenagers, some on the edge of their seats, feet-tapping anxiously about the first day of high school in less than 24 hours, others confident, or else in denial, about the end of the summer.   Dave told us the key to make virtually every decision, even the everyday and mundane choices, for the purpose of glorifying God.  He explained that the answer to any decision can be found within three questions: “What does the Bible say? How would this affect my witness? And what direction is this leading my life?”  Dave taught us that these seemingly arbitrary questions can make all the difference when it comes to making judgments in life, from the simplest of choices like which movie to watch to the most significant like where to go to college and how to choose friends.  For me, this lesson was exactly what I needed to hear.  I needed a practical and meaningful way to put my newfound faith into practice, to teach myself to be genuine to what I believed, like my Grandma was.  I used these questions to make several decisions that first semester; I chose what activities to become involved with, when to say “no” to my friends, drawing a moral line for myself, guidelines that both kept me out of trouble and focused on the important things in life.

            My relationship with Jesus changed that semester from being just one of my many labels- a student, a basketball player, a Harry Potter fan, a runner, a Christian- to something that I endeavored everyday to put first, no longer a label but the very body that I adhered my labels to.  The beginning of high school was a perfectly timed opportunity to change the person I wanted to be.  I now had a purpose and direction to my life; I desired to live my life for Christ and was enabled to live out this faith.  My worries and stresses about starting high school waned.  Striving to become more knowledgeable about what the Bible said so that I could become a better Christ-follower, I heard about and immediately joined Students Standing Strong, a club that met weekly to study the Bible on campus.  Students Standing Strong became a huge part of my identity in high school, teaching me to grow as a leader in my faith, giving me a community to share my beliefs, and inspiring me to listen for God’s calling for my life.  Through this organization, I strengthened my experience reading God’s word, learned through experience how to led Bible studies and prayers, and interacted with Christians of all spiritual ages, learning how to receive guidance and eventually give it through example and lessons that I taught.

            I truly believe that these events during the first semester of high school happened for a reason.   Though it made for a difficult start, my Grandma’s death inspired me to strengthen my faith and re-dedicate my life to Christ.  I once heard a comparison that we are like tapestries, our day-to-day occurrences and stresses tiny threads embroidered into an overall rug that gives glory to its creator.  When we look individually at each loop and hem the overall picture is incomprehensible and meaningless, but when we take a step back and see rug as a whole we are amazed by the clarity of its deliberate design.  In the same way, life events seen from a short-term perspective appear to be impotent, but when linked together are given powerful coherence.  The first semester of high school may have begun with an ending, but it ended with a beginning.

            One other memory vividly stocks out in my mind.  One cool spring day when I was five or six, I was riding my bike with my Great-Grandad like I did at every visit to Grandma and Grandad’s house. My foot slipped off the petal and I fell on the sidewalk, scraping up my knees.  Grandad’s hands, smooth despite all his work in the garden, helped me up and brushed off the dirt.  He could probably tell I was near tears.  It was then that I saw a stunning monarch butterfly perched on the cement in between my collapsed bike and a neighbor’s lawn.  The many creases under Grandad’s eyes folded in a grin as he cupped his hands and reached for the insect.  Before he could reach it, the butterfly flew away into the sunny sky.