In honor of my thirtieth birthday, which is in five short days,
I am writing the (somewhat) condensed version of my life story, broken into decades.
While writing this portion of my life, I found myself wishing I had
broken it up more. The amount of life
changes you go through from ten years of age to twenty years of age is
insane. You go from elementary school to
junior high to high school to college.
You go from living with your parents to living on your own. You go from making almost none of your own
life decisions to being expected to make all your own life decisions. When I was ten I shared a room with my
sister, and didn't even grocery shop on my own.
By twenty I was in college and engaged to be married!
But this is how I chose to tell the story, so hang in there. This is
gonna be a long one!
Writing has always been a passion of mine, and I have been journaling
for years. I attribute my love of journaling to my need to remember
EVERYTHING. When we moved out of my
childhood home after living there for ten years, I was completely
heartbroken. I remember walking through
the house before the move, attempting to make sure my feet had touched
literally every square inch of the house.
Once we moved, I would lay in bed in my new bedroom trying desperately
to remember what we kept in the hall closet; the medicine chest to the left of
the sink; and the dresser in the hallway outside my old bedroom.
My first official journal is from when I was twelve years old. It is all about my first boyfriend,
Chuck Baker. I thought I would marry
Chuck Baker, whose initials graced my 64 pack of Crayola crayons with the
sharpener in the back. Despite his bowl
cut, Pog Slammer champion status and apparent love for me (he was big on note
writing, much to my delight) we were not meant to be. We broke up after “going out” for most of
sixth grade because he “cheated” on me with some girl named Jenny Ackerman who
went to his church. I was devastated. Until Josh Bielas came along, gave me my
first kiss and renewed my enthusiasm for boys.
But more on that later.
In addition to avid journal writing, I also wrote short stories, and
when I was 14 completed my first novel, The Sun Will Shine is about an actress
whose life held nothing but tragedy . It
is 430 pages, handwritten on notebook paper and kept in a black, three inch
3-ring binder. This novel was followed
years later by Green Eyes & Long Blonde Hair, which is still a work in progress.
The main character in that novel, based roughly on myself, gave birth,
ironically, to identical twin boys with blue eyes and blond hair. I began that novel, of course, before these
events had occurred in my actual life, and I find it interesting that what I
wrote came true.
The twins in that book are based on a set of identical twin boy
campers I met as a camp counselor my sophomore year. Their names were Atom and Andy, and I adored
them. They were maybe nine years old to
my sixteen, and were so hilarious! I loved quizzing them about their twinship
and spending time with them. When our week at camp was over, I grieved our
unlikely friendship, and prayed that God would bless me with nothing but boys
when the time came for me to be a mother.
Aside from writing in junior high
school, I was a cheerleader, a member of the choir, and in honor society. I was what you would call preppy, and had a
wonderful group of friends I adored.
Jayme, Maggie, Sara, Chelsea, Allie, Julie, Cara and Sarah. Those girls saw me through some big changes especially
once we all hit high school.
My best friend in junior high was, hands
down, Sarah Peterson. We were the kind
of friends who shared makeup, played with each others’ hair and had more inside
jokes than we could count. We spent our
summers together, camping with her parents on the Snake River and attending
church camp together. Sarah was the kind
of friend you always want on your side.
Sarah was also really cool, something I have never been, and always
admired in her.
`
Naturally junior high held its share of heartbreak, which for me
mostly consisted of unrequited love. I
would watch My Best Friends’ Wedding, imagining I was Julia Roberts, chasing my
love as he ran toward another girl. Two
noteworthy crushes? Wade Nelson, whom I adored for most of eighth grade and another boy who prefers he not be named, whom I loved off and on for years. I was sure we were meant to be together
forever. (A recurring theme for me and any
boy I was interested in.) Neither the Nameless Wonder nor Wade was interested, which served to shatter my heart into a million tiny
pieces, and give credence to the many love poems I wrote during this time of my
life.
sigh.
This was a time of learning. About boys. About friendship. And about life.
Motherhood, I knew at a young age was both a blessing, and also the
hardest job that existed. I was in the
seventh grade when I learned that bearing a child was not always a given. My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Niess, could not
get pregnant despite desperate attempts to do so. I understood then that no matter how you
become a mother, your heart grows a new space, just the size of the baby you
are given. I remember how I felt when I
found out that Mrs. Niess was finally getting a baby; a beautifully exotic baby
girl affectionately called Poo from India.
I baby-sat for her a handful of times, and when I entered that baby’s
nursery, I could feel down to my toes how badly she had been wanted. Not a single detail had escaped them. Soft ivory carpet, matching quilt and
curtains, more stuffed animals than an entire house full of children could
need… Mrs. Niess had everything, but the
baby.
Once I discovered you could want a baby, but not have one, my number
one fear became infertility. I spent a
majority of my teenage years believing that I, too, would be plagued with
it. Particularly because of the hernia
surgery I had had as a six year old.
Around this same time, I joined our church’s youth group, getting
more involved. I spent one Spring Break
on a mission trip to a reservation in New Mexico, which, interestingly, very
closely resembled the life I live here in Alaska. I was part of Vacation Bible School every
summer; worked hard on outreach at school, inviting friends to join me at
church; spent Sundays listening to sermons on how I could better myself for the
glory of God and spent my summers away at church camp, both as a camper and as
a counselor, repenting of my sins and singing, “I Could Sing of Your Love
Forever”. I was your stereotypical “Good
Girl”. Never drinking, trying weed or even touching a cigarette to my lips.
I grew very close to my core youth group friends as well as our youth
group leader. I was also involved in a
bible study group with three other girls my age. We met once a week with our leader, Nancy,
studying the bible, praying together, and crunching Life Savers mints in the
bathroom in the dark to see the sparks reflected in the mirror. My quest in life was to learn more about God
and the bible, and to find a suitable husband, for whom I would save
myself until our wedding night. They
were big goals, but I was certain I would be successful on all counts.
---
I had my first French kiss on my way to the bus in ninth grade one
autumn afternoon. I felt I botched the
whole thing and mumbled, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” under my breath the entire
way to bus #82, my heart pounding in my throat, wishing it had been more like
the movies, and less like it was. That boy also ended up being the first boyfriend to break up with me because of my
abstinence vow. It had come up during a
late night telephone conversation where I had casually mentioned my plan to
save myself for my future husband. The
next day he broke up with me. I felt
duped.
---
I began babysitting in earnest during this time, taking as many
jobs as I could land to save money up to pay for camps in the summer and my
office supply obsession. Paper, pens, journals…
ahhh.
Some things never change!
The summer I was fifteen, I had a tonsillectomy. Let me tell you, it was painful and horrible,
but a fantastic way to drop fifteen pounds quick! I was the thinnest I may have ever been when
I started my sophomore year at Mountain View. And I was excited to add another
real surgery to my list.
When I was sixteen I became an aunt.
My nephew, Isaiah Jay, was born to my brother Dalton, 19 and his
girlfriend Tiffany, 18, three years after a prior pregnancy ended devastatingly
in a miscarriage on Easter Sunday. This
time around, Dalton & Tiffany were a bit older, and Isaiah was viewed as a
blessing, despite the circumstances. He
was the most beautiful baby. I used to tell Tiffany I wanted her to have my
babies for me so they would come out with her creamy cocoa colored skin and
brown almond eyes. We all fell instantly
in love with this little baby, my first (of many) nephews.
It was around that time I went to my first high school dance. Tommy, a boy I had grown up riding the school
bus with, invited me as his date. We
ended up dating beyond the dance, and oh, how I fell for Tom. I’m not sure what it was. He was funny, but mostly I think I was
attracted to him because he seemed so grown up.
He was a year older, and so much wiser about the world. He drove me home most afternoons after
school, and the last time he drove me home, his best friend, a girl (much to my
dismay) came with. As if that weren't bad enough, he gave her shotgun. So there
I was, sitting in the backseat, feeling like a third wheel with my own
boyfriend, thinking at least that once he dropped her off, we would be able to be
together, only to find that he was dropping me off first. He walked me to the door, and said it was
over. I literally closed the front door
with him standing there, and went to cry my eyes out in my sister and I’s Pepto-Bismal-Pink bedroom.
There were, unfortunately, more crushes, more jerk boyfriends, and one
foreign exchange student before I finally found the one. The foreign exchange student is perhaps the
most noteworthy, as my feelings for him most closely resemble what I know now is
love. Masaya Asano. Masaya Dillon Asano. (I made up a middle name for him when
we were dating.) He was a Japanese exchange student of a friend from church. We met at a youth group pool party, and he
asked why we sang to our God. He
intrigued me, and his belief that I was exotic and beautiful melted me. We wrote letters back and forth for a year,
and when he came for his second summer, we began dating. I drove him around on dates in my red 1970
Volvo Station Wagon. I imagined our
sweet Japanese babies, Bay and Akiko
(aside from envisioning a future in which I was married to whoever I was dating,
I also had lists of baby names that would fit the offspring that said marriage
would create) and the future we had
spread before us. But before the summer
ended, I knew we couldn't stay together.
He would go home in August, and even if he was able to come again the
following summer, nine months apart was just too much to bear. Breaking up broke our hearts, and we both
cried.
---
My best friend in high school was Brittany Taylor. I honestly don’t even remember how we really
became friends, but once we did, we were inseparable. We would have sleepovers, call each other
crying, go out driving in her big purple Bronco. We were the best of friends, sharing lotion,
jewelry and secrets. I adored her. Unfortunately, I wasn't always the best
friend to her. I was callous when her
long time boyfriend left for his mission just as I had begun getting serious
about Josh; and when my church called Mormon beliefs into question, informing
us that they were headed for hell, I called her to tell her as much. Those are two things I really, really
regret. I hope I was a good friend aside
from those two acts of selfishness because she deserved a good friend.
I can’t write about high school without mentioning Charbonneau Dylan
Gourde. He was my favorite teacher,
hands down, and not just because he was a super buff hottie. We had a substitute in his class once, and we
decided, as a class, to trick her. There
were random bells that would ring for other grades, signaling the beginning and
end of their lunches. We all decided
that when that first bell rang, we would get up and leave. And we did just that, buying ourselves an
extra long lunch. I regretted that
decision very much the following day when Mr. Gourde was back. I wrote him an apology, leaving the note on
his desk. I hated most of all that I had let him down. He wrote me a sticky note back, surprising
me, and it said this, “Thanks for the apology. Don’t be a sheep.” –CDG I felt so humbled. He let me off so easy, and yet, his message
resonated within me. It was exactly the
message I needed to hear. These same
sentiments were echoed again when he signed my yearbook at graduation. I think about him and his message often. I would love to tell him thank you.
Doesn't it feel like everyone in this time of your life is important.
Worth mentioning. Worth remembering? How can I write about junior high and not
mention Dylan Rainey whom I worshiped in junior high concert choir? Or Shaina
Paige who was such a sparkly ray of sunshine? How can I write about science
class without mentioning the pages-long, handwritten notes Ryan Lowe and I
exchanged in friendship? Oh how I loved his beautiful penmanship, the secrets
he revealed and the way he smiled. How
can I mention this time in my life and forget how Johnny Nichols sang “I’ll Be”
to me while strumming his guitar outside the seminary building on my sixteenth
birthday?
The memories are too much. Too numerous to possibly, in one blog post,
all be captured, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try, haven’t tried. I am considering, because of the enormity of
recapturing my past and sharing it here, choosing one day a week to relay a
story or anecdote from my history. In
this way, I will be able to eventually encompass everyone in the telling of my
life’s journey.
There are some details that, luckily, won’t be relegated to future
posts…
It was a warm day in March and I had dressed up for school. It was my
junior year and I had turned seventeen the November prior. I was just leaving American Sign Language
(ASL) class when the teacher’s aide, a cute blond boy, whom I was fairly sure
was Mormon, signed, “You look pretty today.” Only I, being a novice at the
language, didn't know what he had said.
He repeated himself again, and finally a third time before an
interpreter, who happened to be standing in the distance between us relayed to
me with her voice, “He said you look pretty.” I blushed immensely, as did Josh,
and set off for my next class.
The rest, as they say, is history.
We went on our first official date over spring break, seeing a
movie. During said movie Josh held my
hand, and never let go. We were in the
parking lot after the movie and I teased that he hadn't let go. He said, “I
still can’t believe you let me hold it. I’m not letting go now!” And let go, he did not. We ended up going to
prom together and by the end of May we had said our first “I love you’s”.
Throughout all of this, our meeting, our dating, our falling in love,
my church was against it. It was preached that we (“Christians”) were not supposed to even be close friends with Mormons, let alone date them. And so I received quite a bit of flack for
dating Josh. After our first few dates,
before we became an official couple, I spent a day at the beach with my
family. The timing was perfect as I was
trying to figure out just what I was going to do about the predicament I found
myself in. So I spent that sunny spring
day sitting on a piece of drift wood at my favorite beach, watching the tide
come in and out, contemplating what future I wanted. (Very cliche, I know, but true
nonetheless.) I prayed, with an open and
honest heart for God to reveal his plan to me.
The answer was clear.
I was meant to be with Josh. He
was the one. Once I had the all clear
from Him, I had to deal with everyone else.
My parents were easy, they liked Josh and completely trusted my
judgment. My grandparents were also easy.
Grandpa told me that he didn't like the religious animosity that was
being preached to me, and Grandma felt that if I had prayed and God had
answered, that was good enough.
The church, however… Well, the church was a different story. Recounting this part of my journey is
difficult. Perhaps this is why I kept walking away from the computer yesterday
and today. I knew that in writing each piece from my past, I was doing nothing
but stepping closer to the most painful event of my young life. The church and I tried, I will give us
that. I kept attending, being involved,
but slowly, things changed. I was turned
away when I volunteered for some things.
Things I had done for years. I
was no longer called to baby-sit for families I had grown up watching. It was a slow kind of heartbreak. I didn't want to leave, but I knew I couldn't stay. Josh had become a very important
part of my life. I managed to continue
attending until fall 2001, just after my senior year had ended. At that point we had been together a year and
half, and I knew he wasn't going anywhere.
I had tried, on several occasions, to bring him to the church, to
involve him there, where I had grown, and loved, and learned about the Lord. But somehow it always ended
disastrously. He didn't feel welcome
there. Honestly, by that point, neither
did I.
My mom decided to take things into her own hands. She couldn't believe some of the things they
had been teaching us, and decided to confirm with the pastor that this was our
church’s stance on Mormons, whom my mom had always admired as moral,
upstanding, family-oriented people. I
begged her not to go.
She talked to the
pastor and said, “But Shelly prayed. And God told her yes.”
His response? “Well, that may be. But we told her no.”
I had some serious soul searching to do. Were they right? Was it wrong for me to date
Josh? Was I only hearing what I wanted to hear? But no. I knew that couldn't be.
My church was not the only resistance we faced. His family didn't want us together either. His mother grounded him for a sum total of
three months when we first started dating, and she would call occasionally,
attempting to break us up. She would ask
if I had a problem with Josh being Mormon.
I assured her that was not the case.
And that I had, in fact, left my church (my heart, my family) for him.
My devotion was nothing if not pure. I knew instantly, the first time he
held my hand, that this was something else. Something different. Something
bigger. Something worth fighting
for. (Not to jump ahead, but the song we
danced to at our wedding was, appropriately, (Everything I do) I Do It For You by Bryan Adams.)
Somehow, despite the drama around our decision to be together, we
have good memories of high school and that sweet beginning time together. We attended two proms, one homecoming, and
multiple other, less notable dances. We
volunteered together through our ASL class at the Washington State School for
the Deaf, enjoying the opportunity to go off campus twice a week, riding
together in his mom’s navy blue Suburban, holding hands and trying to impress
each other. (Me by memorizing the names and birthdays of his siblings (there are
seven!); him by showing me how the windshield wiper fluid sprayed the car in
front of us instead of the Suburban’s own windshield. A trick, he confided,
that he did not share with just anyone.)
I loved talking to him on the phone. I loved hugging him. I loved holding his hand. I loved everything about him. And who I could be with him.
I can’t write about Josh and I meeting in high school without writing
about the time my mom completely mortified me in front of Josh after my school
choir concert. Josh had ridden his bike
to the school to hear us perform. Josh
was alternative, as opposed to preppy.
He rode a BMX bike, hated roughly 90% of our high school population, and
going to school for an after school activity was not in his repertoire. I was elated that he came. So, I excitedly met my parents and Josh after
our performance. Josh, who loved Beastie Boys and similar bands, was wearing a
Rage Against the Machine shirt, and my mom asked him, “Rage against what
machine, Josh? Like the lawnmower?” She
was trying to be funny, but it fell flat, and I was, for perhaps the first and
only time in my life, completely embarrassed of her. Now it’s a family joke, and we all get a good
giggle remembering it.
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By the time I reached adulthood many ideals, morals and values had
been placed in my head by various sources.
I eventually had to rethink a lot of those, but two things I got from my
mom and one thing I got from my dad have never been put into question. I grew up watching my mom read. I remember trying to read her books when I
was young, and I felt so confused. I couldn't follow the alternating story
lines and needed pictures of the characters to keep track of who was who. I credit her example with my insatiable love
of good books. I also grew up with
parents who voted and a mother who said, “If you don’t vote, you can’t
bitch.” As soon as I turned 18, I
registered to vote and have since taken my responsibility as a citizen very
seriously. I grew up watching my dad
(who also read and voted) enjoy nature.
Dad was always trying to find a way to enjoy the outdoors, be it hiking,
biking, walks, or camping, he is most at ease when enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
(Or, as is usually the case in the Northwest, the liquid sunshine!) I credit him with my love of sunsets, landscapes and hiking.
But the biggest life lesson from this decade relates back to what Mr.
Gourde so wisely said. I should not have
been a sheep. Oh what a sheep I
was. Blindly following, even after my heart
began to whisper that it felt wrong. Religion, I decided ultimately, should not
define you. Rules someone else made
about life and how it should be lived, should not control you. You can exercise free will & independent
thought and still believe in God. You
can be a believer without being a member.
As painful as leaving the church was, I wouldn't take it back. I can only say this after
months of therapy discussing what happened and how it changed
me. And in the end, after revisiting
that time in my life and seeing how I grew, I determined that I would do it all
again. I can honestly say that if given the chance, I would join the church again, I would fall
in love with Josh again and I would again endure the heartbreak of every person I
knew turning their back on me as I struggled to understand how a church I had
grown up loving was preaching hate.
For
him, for us, for this, the life we lead together, I would endure it.
I did endure it.
After graduating from high school, I began the next chapter of my
life: college. I chose to attend our local community college, Clark, and get my
associates degree in general studies while taking advantage of living at home with my parents. At
nineteen, during summer break, Josh proposed to me while we were on a road trip to Canada. His words to me, from on bended knee, were,
“There will be good times and there will be bad times, but the good will always
outweigh the bad.” Once we were engaged,
a lot of people my age asked me “ Wasn't I scared?” and the truth is, I wasn't I knew he was my soul mate. Despite the rocky road and the heartbreak of
leaving my church, I was certain Josh was the one.
Of that I never had any doubt.
Other words he knows:
He adores being sung to, which I happily oblige. His love of singing is what has gotten us through weaning. He was still asking to eat at every nap time until yesterday morning. It was the first time he didn't ask. And it's been a week of no feeding. After I would tell him no eating, then I would sing a song, and that would almost always work to calm him down.
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