Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

Operation: Bent on Change

http://bent4president.webs.com/

I tore down another one of the tiny flyers I had illegally posted all over Talge. I looked at the inscription and let out a chuckle. “Michael Bent 4 President,” it read. Smiling to myself, I stuffed the paper into my pocket and thought about how innocently this whole fiasco had begun.

“Hey. If this guy ran for president, would you vote for him?” I asked, pointing at Michael.

“Yeah!” my friend Aaron exclaimed. “He would win too – he knows like one-third of the people here!”

“Guys, I don’t know that many people!” Michael laughed.

“Yes you do!” I responded. “You can’t walk to the lobby without saying ‘hi’ to someone you know! You would be able to talk to the people and hear what they have to say about the issues!”

All of a sudden, Aaron’s face lit up. “Dude! I got it! We could say ‘Vote for Mike: He’s BENT on change!’”

Later, after all the laughter and talk of presidency had subsided, I retired to my room and stared at my wall in thought. I considered the possibility of Mike actually running for president and assessed the usage of the great campaign slogan Aaron had come up with. After a while, I had an idea: I would make a “Vote for Mike” poster and stick it to his door. Excited, I began to comb through his Facebook pictures for something that looked moderately presidential. After looking through all of the photos, however, I realized that I could do more than just make a poster. I thought to myself: “why stick a miniscule amount of information on his door when I can stick a massive amount of information on the web?”

With that, I decided to create a website. The next day, I began to lay out the groundwork. I collected photos from Facebook, edited them for size and quality, and strategically stapled them onto various webpages. I added captions to the pictures that were meant to establish Michael’s credibility and scribbled down ideas that might later benefit the site. After three hours, I leaned back and smiled at my work.

As soon as I hit the “publish,” I went down to Aaron’s room and gave him a tour of the site. When he finished laughing and stating his disbelief, he offered his services. After showing the site to anyone I could find, I went over to Michael’s room to swindle some information from him for the “About Bent” section.

“So Mike,” I said as I entered his room. “How’s it going?”

Michael looked up from his computer. “Fine. I went to Advent Home today. It was cool, man. You should come next week.”

“Sure… sure…. So Mike,” I said tentatively. “When’s your birthday?”

“Why?”

“Uhm…” Why? I asked myself. Luckily, just then a conversation I had had with my sister about how many of my friends I was older than popped into my head. “My sister and I were talking about which one of us was older.”

“Oh,” he said. He gave me his birthday and I scribbled it down surreptitiously.

“Cool. So Mike….”

After a few questions, Michael got suspicious and eventually figured out my ploy. I had no choice but to show him the website.

“You guys were serious about this?!” Michael laughed when he saw his face plastered on the computer screen.

I shook my head and smiled. “You should know by now – you really can’t make jokes around me.”

Though he was reluctant, I eventually got enough information out of Mike to write a quick synopsis of his life. His roommate, Benson, and I then spent the rest of the night brainstorming and putting small plans into action. Benson made fan pages for Michael on Facebook and Twitter and got some of his friends on Skype to talk to Michael about the “issues” (apparently, many of the girls on campus would like the president to somehow provide better men). While Benson and I busied ourselves with the campaign, Michael paced back and forth, contemplating whether or not he should take us seriously and run for president. All this continued until we finally decided to call it a night at six o’clock in the morning.

The next morning, I couldn’t help myself – I checked the website.

“Okay Mike,” I said, ready to click the button to view site traffic. “If you have more than ten views, then we’re in business.”

“Alright, bro,” chuckled Michael, who still hadn’t come to terms with his presidential destiny.

I clicked the button, expecting to see a number between eight and fifteen, but what I saw totally blew my mind. Without thinking, I jumped up and raced down to Aaron’s room, where he and Benson were working. I shoved open the door and shouted, “Fifty views!”

My friends’ eyes widened and I ran back to my computer grinning like a maniac. After gaining the knowledge that the website was actually being looked at, the campaign went into full swing.

“It had started off as a joke – but it was no longer a laughing matter.”

With that statement I started off the Presidential Blog, and in all truth, the matter had actually become very serious.

We had a whole production team. I worked on bettering the site and the outgoing messages, Aaron helped with the website and promoted it the through the Facebook and Twitter fan pages, Benson designed eye-catching graphics, a guy named DJ gave us a crash course in online programming, and Joel, who we met through the site, worked on stationary promotion. Pretty soon, a group of essential and nonessential personnel had gathered in Aaron’s room to work on what we were calling “Operation: Bent on Change” (copyright pending). While tapping away on separate computers, we yelled out ideas to further the campaign.

“We should let people tell us what they think on the website! We can call it ‘Open Mike!’”

“We should add music so that people stay on longer and remember the site!”

“Let’s make a presidential video that ends with Mike saying: ‘I approve this message!’”

“We could add a pre-page that compares Mike to Bush and Obama!”

For the entire day, we complained about the amount of homework we had to do, but continued to work, comparing the experience to the creation of Facebook. All illusions were ripped away, however, when a pessimistic Abraham said, “You guys know that Michael isn’t really running for president, right?”

For a moment, all production stopped. Silence filled the air of the crowded dorm room – a repressed truth had finally been brought to light.

“Well then, I guess there’s only one thing we can do,” I said, closing my laptop. “Let’s get Mike in the running.”

Joel and I spent the next hour or so stealthily posting tiny flyers all over Talge. We tacked them on bathroom doors, kitchen doors, and main hallway doors from the first floor to the fourth. We then went to the cafeteria and attempted to hand out the left over flyers.

By the end of the day, the site had gotten 141 views. The number may not have seemed large for a school of almost 3,000 students, but it made us feel pretty good. Word also got around pretty fast. Students’ responses to our campaigning soon went from “Who’s Michael?” to “You mean that guy who is ‘supposedly’ running for president?”

Though we were told that Michael was too late to become a candidate only a day after the campaign’s inception, and though we were forced to remove the tiny flyers from the doors of Talge two days later, we all felt like we had done something significant – especially since almost everyone Michael bumps into still thinks that he’s actually running for president.

 

Titanic

I hopped up the last step, glad to have finally reached my destination. I quickly walked/ran into McKee Library and sat at a computer, constantly reminding myself that time was of the essence. I had just enough time to edit my essay, print it, and study for the oncoming quiz, and I knew that every second was a precious gift from God. I opened my email account, expecting to see my essay waiting for me, but instead found an empty inbox. I blinked. Could what I was seeing be real? Did I really forget to send my essay?

Mentally kicking myself (over and over), I jumped from my seat, jogged out the door, and raced back down the steps. As I sped walked back to Talge, I couldn’t help but think of what a lousy start my day had gotten off to. It hadn’t just been the email incident – it was the essay itself that I had to worry about.

I had woken up at three a.m. after two and a half hours of sleep to work on my essay. After summoning the strength to pull myself out of bed, I frowned at my messy prewriting, hoping to find an essay somewhere among the tiny scribbles and arrows. I wrote slowly, but I was glad that I was writing at all. A page and three quarters later, I read over my essay… and discovered that I hated every single part of it.

Trying to prevent panic, I reminded myself that actually having an essay was all that was important and continued writing. Then I hit a road block. Frustrated that writers’ block had chosen the worst possible time to kick in, I leaped unto my bed and announced to my bleary-eyed roommate that I quit. It was only then that I remembered that I had a quiz in the same class and had to, once again, summon the strength to get out of bed.

I struggled to add more to my essay, hoping to at least give it the illusion of fullness, and when the sun began to rise, I developed a plan. The plan was simple: finish one more page, rush to the library, edit and print, and study with the time left. I was proud of myself. I had developed a foolproof plan that would stop me from wasting time by trying to multitask. Now all I had to do was put the plan into action. What could possibly go wrong?

I ran up the steps to my dorm room, bitterly snickering at how easily my supposedly foolproof plan had failed. It was like the Titanic: my pride had blinded me to the fact that one unseen obstacle could have disastrous effects. Now the ship was sinking and there was nothing I could do about it.

Or was there?

In the midst of rushing to send my essay to my email, I saw a Bible text that I had pinned on the wall and stopped. “I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies” (2 Samuel 22:4). If my enemies are anything that causes me stress, I thought to myself, then this essay is the worst of them all. Deciding that the ship would only sink if I took the wheel, I got on my knees, forgot about the time, and prepared myself to talk to God.

There were so many ways I could have talked to God. I could have started with some Old English praise – you know, throw in a couple of “thou arts” and a maybe an “O Lord, who reigns on high!” or two. I could have quoted Scripture – just to let Him know that I was reading and holding Him to His promises. I could have even started with a thesis statement, supported it with evidence (stories, facts, imagery, and quotations), and wrapped it up with a tasteful conclusion. But why go through all that trouble? It was just Him and me. The Creator of the universe was willing to listen to little, insignificant ol’ me, and He cared about what I had to say – not how I said it.

With that in mind, I bowed my head and told God exactly what I was feeling: “God, this day sucks – and it hasn’t even started yet!” I poured out my heart to God. I let Him know how hopeless and lost and weak I felt, and I asked for help. I got up off of my knees not necessarily feeling better – I still had a terrible essay to print and a quiz to study for – but feeling a bit more confident. I then rushed out the door, interested in, and truthfully, a little doubtfully about, what God had in store.

I can honestly say that that day was the best day I had had in weeks. I had time to study after running back to the library, aced the quiz, got advice on how to fix my essay from my professor, followed my professor to Brock Hall where I met other English-lovin’ folk, finally had a break-through on my article for a journalism class, hung out with some friends, somehow ended up joining a volleyball team, and got, for the first time in weeks, eight hours of sleep.

Do you know what I notice? We don’t really use the adjective “titanic” anymore. Believe it or not, the word refers to more than just a British luxury liner that met its end in 1912, taking the lives of 1,517 people and inspiring a movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The word titanic means enormous in size, strength, and power. The Titanic may not have been as titanic as advertised, but God is, and even more so. The fact that we can talk to a God who is so strong, so powerful, so titanic should be more than enough to inspire the awe of many.

That just might have been the point that the singing puppets were trying to get across during Week of Prayer.

H_dd_n Bl_ss_ngs

“Edgar!” I yelled.

My roommate continued frowning at his textbook, obviously oblivious to my call.

“EDGAR!” I yelled again, making sure to increase my volume. He looked in my direction – he had finally heard me over the loud hip hop music emanating from the room next door. “Should we do something about the noise?!”

He shouted a reply. His words were muffled by the roar of some rapper “busting” a rhyme, but the confused look on his face told me that he had not heard what I said. Just as I was about to repeat the question, the rapper was replaced with heavy bass beats. The wall vibrated and my teeth rattled with every beat.  I looked at Edgar and he looked at me. We both knew that we had a problem.

My neighbors like to play music. No – that’s an understatement. My neighbors like to BLAST music. I’ve been patient over the last few weeks, trying to understand that the guys next doors were young adults experimenting with the boundaries of their newfound freedom, but as the music got louder, my patience got weaker.

Straying away from music for a moment, have you ever heard the stories about people who are happy even though they know that death is near? I’ve heard many, and after the speaker at worship told us another one, I went back to my room thinking about my attitude. Quiet contemplation led me to conclude that my attitude could use a little work but was fine overall. I gave myself a pat on the back and was about to go back to work when a techno beat started from next door. Before I could stop myself, a few impure thoughts raced through my mind, giving me a glimpse of my real attitude.

I decided right there and then that I needed to change my perception of certain things – starting with the music. I paced back and forth (involuntarily marching to the beat of the music) trying to figure out how I could achieve this change.

“A positive attitude comes from thinking positively, right?” I asked myself.

“Right,” I answered.

“Okay, so I should focus on the positives of music playing all the time.”

“Fine… fine…” I was skeptical. “But what are the positives of music playing all the time?”

“I don’t know. It’s free entertainment…?”

“Yeah, but it stops you from focusing on your work.”

“Okay, but –”

“And it keeps you up at night.”

“Yeah, but –”

“And it woke you up that one time.”

“Aha!”

“What?”

“The music woke me up! What would have happened otherwise?”

“…You would have been late for class.”

“Yeah! And I would have missed church that other time!”

“You can’t seriously think that –”

“Oh! And covering my ears makes it easier to stay focused when I read my notes!”

“That has nothing to do with –”

“Not to mention I’ve gotten a lot more homework done since I started going to the library to get away from the noise!”

As the voice of negativity was slowly cancelled out, I began to realize that the music, though annoying, was not a curse but a hidden blessing. The ordeal got me thinking about the all the annoyances in life that can be a blessing in disguise. The problem is that we’re so used to looking for the bad in everything, that we often overlook the good. I think that instead of being bitter about everything, we should all stop, think positively, and try to find those hidden blessings.

Bible Time

I yawned and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I tried to focus on the words in the Bible that depicted the life of Ruth. I quickly read through one chapter, said a prayer, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. I tried to go to sleep, reminding myself that I had class first thing in the morning, but I felt uneasy. It took me a while to realize that my discomfort came from the way I had read through the Bible. I tried to think about what special meaning I had taken from the reading, only to find that I barely remembered what I had read at all. I thought back to the last few chapters I read and came to the same conclusion. Unsatisfied with my spiritual meal, I asked God to help me find a better way to read the Bible.

A few days later, long after I had forgotten the prayer, I was sitting in the back of my Christian Beliefs class furiously scribbling notes. I’ll be the first to admit that I had not taken the class hoping to find some divine revelation – I just needed a religion credit. However, the more I heard about the Bible, the more interesting it became to me. I copied the Bible verses from the screen and turned my attention to Professor Jacobs, eager to hear what he had to say next.

“The Bible was not originally meant to be read,” he started. “It was written for the ear rather than the eye. That means it was meant to be heard – not just read.” Professor Jacobs went on to explain that the Scriptures were written on scrolls and read to the people in the synagogue during biblical times. He told us how his own reading had been enriched by hearing and encouraged us to read the Bible aloud.

When I returned to my room later in the day, I opened my Bible and decided to give reading out loud a shot. As I read aloud, I began to see things in the Bible that I had never seen before. The stories were no longer limited to the pages – they were real. My mind and heart raced as I excitedly tried to figure out how God would protect His people, and I was always baffled and completely awed by God’s methods. As I got deeper and deeper into the Word, I kept gleefully whispering to myself, “Why haven’t I ever seen this before?!”

The most surprising thing about the Bible was that every verse revealed a little more of God’s character. Some parts took a little digging, but God was always in the text. The more I found out about Him, the easier it became to talk to Him and want to serve Him. As I asked for the Holy Spirit to guide me as I read, God began to show me, though the Bible, the many kinks I have in my character and how I could work on them to more effectively reflect Him.

Even though reading the Bible has become a priority to me, I still find that it is extremely hard to start. When I get to my room after classes have ended, all I want to do is start my homework so I can finish early and go to bed. If it isn’t homework, then it’s a distraction of some sort – hanging out with friends or going online. Although it is difficult, I take a deep breath, put away the textbooks and the computer, whisper “its Bible time,” and dig into the Word.   

Opening up the Bible can be difficult at times, but I believe that what can be found inside is absolutely worth it.

New York, New York

The plane rocked violently thousands of feet in the air. I clutched my armrest, bit my tongue, and patiently waited for my demise. I had come to terms with it – death was inevitable.

I cringed as I felt the plane drop weightlessly a few feet. A little girl sitting about three rows before me threw up her hands and laughed as if she were riding a rollercoaster. The poor child did not understand the gravity of the situation.

“Dear God,” I whispered from my seat in the back of the doomed aircraft. “Thanks for allowing me to live a good life. I’m not mad at you or anything – I had to die sometime. I just ask that it would be quick. You know how much I hate pai –”

The plane shook and fell once more, causing a number of passengers and even one of the flight attendants buckled in behind me to gasp. Although the thought was morbid, I couldn’t help but wonder if the next drop would be the one that sent us plummeting at spine-shattering speeds to a fiery death.

The plane was silent. All the chatter had died down and was replaced with grave expressions and knowing glances. The plane stayed stable for a few moments, then began to rattle viciously, signaling the end.  I closed my eyes and prepared myself.

The plane hit the ground thunderously, slid for a bit, and skidded to a halt.

I opened my eyes. I was still alive. The passengers began to clap. I looked out the window expecting to some kind of grassy plain that we might have crash-landed in, but found an airport runway and a city silhouetted in the distance instead.  

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Welcome to New York.”

Did that capture your attention?

I hoped it would as I scribbled it into a notepad somewhere over Detroit. Although it made the guy sitting next to me a bit uncomfortable, writing about the event that initialized my fear of planes kept me from freaking out as I flew home for Christmas Break.

While I was changing planes, I made the most interesting discovery: New Yorkers are easy to spot. When I boarded the plane from Chattanooga to Detroit, everyone was extremely nice. Strangers helped each other with luggage, then sat and got to know each other. For a majority of the plane ride, the voices of happy travelers filled the fuselage.

When I boarded the plane from Detroit to New York, however, the environment changed entirely. As I walked past the first class section, a group of people in business suits scowled at me as to say, “I have to ride with that?” As I shuffled farther into the plane, I found that everyone was looking in random directions to avoid eye contact. I could tell because avoiding eye contact was exactly what I did during my first two weeks at Southern. The plane defined everyone’s stereotypical view of New York so much that I began to smile (which no one else was doing either).

Being at Southern for so long definitely changed me. When I got off the plane, I found that I could not stop myself from nodding at people or saying hello. Since making eye contact was a sin in itself, greeting someone was an abomination. Half the people I greeting looked at me funny, while the other half looked like they were cornered and didn’t know what to do. One lady returned my greeting warmly, but she, of course, had a southern accent.

From the moment I boarded the New York bound plane, I had a smile plastered on my face. While living in such a literally and figuratively cold environment might not be an attractive option to most, three words kept prancing around the back of my mind: Home Sweet Home.       

Revenge of the Classes

It’s past midnight. Everyone on campus is either wandering around the dorm aimlessly or sleeping.

Everyone except you.

While everyone is warm and safe in their rooms, you are running down the Promenade on a chilly winter night, hoping to lose the man dressed in black who has been chasing you from Hickman to Miller Hall.

You look behind you only to find that the man is quickly gaining on you. You turn your head back around and see your last hope: Brock Hall. With your last bit of energy, you sprint to the door and yank it.

It doesn’t budge.

You look over the railing – it’s too high to jump.

Now panicking, you scurry into a shadow, draw your legs to your chest, and hope to disappear.

You can hear the man’s heavy footsteps getting closer. And closer.

Finally, they stop. You can see the man clearly from where you sit. He is big-boned, has a thick goatee, and is wearing a trench coat that somehow compliments his scowl. He looks around, momentarily confused, and then spots you cowering in the shadows. His scowl morphs into a wicked grin.

“W-what do you want?” you whimper as the man approaches menacingly.

“Revenge,” he growls, his voice deep and hoarse.

You try to move farther back as he comes closer. “I-I haven’t done anything to you – I don’t even know you!”

The man’s grin broadens, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches into his front pocket to retrieve what you assume is a weapon. You close your eyes and wait for the end to come.  
            It doesn’t.

You feel something fall at your feet and open your eyes to take a better look. Before you lays a thick stack of papers filled with unrecognizable names and dates.

“What is this?”  

“Revenge.”

“I don’t understand. How can this be –” before you can finish your sentence, something on the paper catches your attention. You look up at the man, your eyes now filled with understanding and fear. “No… please, no! Anything! Anything but this!”

Your begging does nothing more than please the man. His work now done, he leaves you wailing over the stack of papers.

You continue to beg as the man walks away, your eyes fixated on the two words that strike fear into your heart:

Final Exam.

The final exams are upon us, and while they may not chase us down the Promenade in the middle of the night, they do want their revenge. This week, your classes will be slapping thick sheets of paper before you and saying “This is for not paying attention,” “This is for not studying,” “This is for all the times you crammed,” or “This is just because I don’t like you.”

 Whatever reason your classes are angry at you, get ready, because if you aren’t prepared, they will have their revenge. 

Home Alone

“No,” my friend Evan said after I made a casual comment about going home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We were working as kitchen staff over the summer when the topic of college breaks arose. “You don’t want to go home for Thanksgiving.”

I looked up from the stack of dirty pots before me and raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll waste a lot of money.”

I put down a newly-rinsed skillet and leaned on the edge of the sink. Evan had already had a year of college, so I was interested in any piece of advice he could offer.  “What do you mean?”

“Last year I spent like two hundred dollars on a flight home and back, and then I had to pay another two hundred to go home two weeks later for Christmas.” Evan picked up the skillet and started scrubbing it with a soapy sponge. “The way I see it, you should either go home for Thanksgiving, or go home for Christmas, and since you can’t stay at school for Christmas…”

“I should probably stay at school for Thanksgiving,” I told my mom over the phone a few weeks ago, months after Evan had given me the budget-saving advice.

She wasn’t very happy to hear that. Though she tried to find holes in my reasoning, I eventually wore her down, convincing even myself that staying on campus was the best option.

As the holiday crept closer and my friends planned their trips home, I began to plan how I was going to divide the work I had to complete over the three days I wouldn’t have to go to class. I looked over my schedule with anticipation – ready to complete as many assignments as humanly possible.

On the first morning I the break, I crawled out of bed after a beautiful eleven-hour sleep and wrote three reports for Earth Science and two papers for Cycling. Then I slacked off. Instead of spending the remainder of the day doing work, I spent it watching multiple hours of television. I tried to get back on track, but I just couldn’t. My brain had shut down and it had no intention of turning back on.

Thanksgiving Day was… interestingly depressing. My mother called me repeatedly to tell me what she was cooking, who was coming, and to make sure that I was still alive. My sister and I spent the entire day texting each other innocuous insults (she disowned me – that was actually the highlight of my day). And when someone called around dinner time, I could hear the whole family talking around the table. I felt like I was the kid from Home Alone. He thought that spending the holidays alone would be great, but found out that he’d rather spend it with his family instead.

Unfortunately, my story didn’t come with a pair of dim-witted thieves and an arsenal of imaginative booby traps.

Though it isn’t going to be one of the most memorable Thanksgivings, the one I spent on campus allowed me to see all that I had to be thankful for. Its cliché, but you really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

I find it interesting that that epiphany rose from a state of complete boredom.

Maybe I should be bored more often.

 

Turkey Day

It’s that time of year again.

The time of year when millions of Americans sit around a table and share they’re thankful for while trying not to salivate at the festively decorated feast sitting before them. With the sweet aroma of a roasted turkey stuffed with bread crumbs, onions, celery, salt, and pepper now invading you’re nostrils, when asked what you’re thankful for, all you can think off is, “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

And, of course, by “you” I mean “me.”

I’m not a huge fan of being put on the spot in front of a bunch of people I’ve never seen before and asked what I treasure most in the world. Being put on the spot makes me nervous, and the food begging me to dig in make me hungry. Nervous and hungry is never a good combination.

For that reason, when it’s time to share the thanks that we’ve all been bottling up for about a year, my stomach does somersaults. I know that when it’s my turn, I’ll say something humorous but stupid, granting me a disapproving frown from my mother.

Don’t believe me? One Thanksgiving, I got so nervous that I said the first thing that popped into my head. With distant relatives and their unfamiliar friends peering at me from all angles, I innocently said, “I’m thankful for cheese.” I realized later that a bowl of macaroni and cheese sitting before me might have played a small role in my choice of words.

So what are you thankful for?

A break from school?

The semester’s soon coming end?

Friends? Family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?

The Indians that taught you how to survive the winter?

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

Cheese?

Whatever it is that you’re thankful for, I hope that you’re ready to share it despite the nervousness and hunger. And I hope that God is at the top of your list – not of things to be thankful for on Thanksgiving, but of things to be thankful for all 365.242199 days of the year.

Last, but not least, thank the turkey in the middle of your table. Though it may simply look like a decapitated delicacy, roasted to perfection and stuffed to your delight, the turkey gave its life so that students can get out of school, people can get out of work, families can come together, and everyone can get great deals at Walmart.   

Mary & Joseph's Excellent Adventure

“I’m driving in the car with Myron!” Amber sang at the top of her lungs as we sped away from campus on a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

I raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Wow. Just – wow. That song’s gonna be a big hit. Especially among the teenagers.”

Amber flashed me a huge smile and started another verse. Despite her narrative singing, I was really glad that she was helping me with this project. Realizing that it would be a while before we reached our destination, I sat back, looked out of the window, and allowed my mind to drift back about two weeks….

Dr. Wentworth, my Personal Finance professor, paced back and forth with excitement as he explained the project that he wanted us to do.  The project was relatively simple: we were to visit an open house, talk to the realtor, look around the house, collect information, go to a bank, discuss a loan, collect more information, go to an insurance company, get a quote, and then write a report about it all.

Okay…

Maybe it wasn’t all that simple, but as I would soon come to find out, there’s nothing simple about buying a house – even if it’s only for a project.   

 Getting more and more excited by the minute, Dr. Wentworth covered all the bases of “buying” a house for the project. “Make sure that your house is located in Southeast Tennessee or North Georgia! And don’t go to First Tennessee Bank for a loan! Some students went there a few years ago and made it seem like they were really interested in getting a loan. When the bank found out that they were just students, they were mad! Because of that incident, Southern students have been politely asked not to go there.”

I smiled. Dr. Wentworth was the only person I knew who could make taxes, insurance policies, and mortgages seem even remotely interesting.

“Is there anything else…? Oh! One More thing – this is very important!” I leaned forward, eager to hear the vital information. “When you go to the open house, make sure to bring someone of the opposite gender with you.”

My smile faded. That was going to be a problem.

The only person I could think to ask was Amber. Not only did she have a car, but she just so happened to be of the opposite gender. The problem was that I couldn’t just go up to her and say, “Hey, you wanna buy a house with me?” That would be weird.

Instead, I did what any rational individual would have done in that situation.

I sent it by text.

Me: this is gonna sound weird, but would you by any chance be interested in buying a house with me?      

Amber: Bahahahaha sure i would love to buy a house with you! lol!!!

Me: wait... are you serious??? lol. you just accept? don't you even wanna know why I asked??

Amber: Hahaha yeah im serious!! i mean i would like a little explaination to what it means but yea!!!

 “We’re here,” Amber said, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced up at the pleasant brick house that looked surprisingly similar to all the other pleasant brick houses on the block.

“Great,” I mumbled as I lifted myself out of the vehicle. “Are you nervous?”

“Nope! This is gonna be fun!” she replied. “What am I supposed to do again?”

I started walking toward the front door. “Just evaluate the house, really. According to Dr. Wentworth, girls will see things that guys won’t and vice versa.”

Amber nodded. “I can do that.”

“Ready?” I asked. Unlike her, I was actually nervous.

She nodded again.

I rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, a short man wearing a dark blue suit opened the door. “Can I help you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Talking to people really wasn’t my specialty.

Luckily, it was Amber’s.

“Yes,” she replied confidently. “We are students from Southern Adventist University, and we were wondering if we could take a look at the house for--”

“No! No!” the man yelled, tossing his hands as to say “shoo.” “Get out! I don’t like Seventh Day Adventists! Get out!”

I began backing out of the door slowly. “Well, thank you anyway for your time. We’ll just--”

To my surprise – and confusion – the man started laughing. “I’m just kidding! I’m a Seventh Day Adventist, too! Come in!”

Amber followed the man deeper into the house with a smile on her face, leaving me standing in the doorway trying to figure out what had just happened. Once I got past the fact that the man had been joking, I realized that of all the houses for sale in Tennessee, we had gone to the one with an Adventist realtor. Thanking God repeatedly, I closed the door and wandered deeper into the house.

The realtor, or Freddy, as he preferred we call him, was extremely helpful. Unfortunately, he may have been a bit too helpful. Instead of showing us the house, Freddy sat us around the dining room table and started throwing facts at us faster than we could catch them. In ten minutes, he had covered everything I had learned in Personal Finance so far, and he clearly had no intention of stopping.

“Now, you always need to have a backup plan,” Freddy explained. Amber and I nodded in agreement. “And when you have a house, the most important backup is an emergency fund.”

More nods.

“Let’s say, for example…” Freddy pointed at me, but suddenly realized that he didn’t know my name. Instead of asking me what it was, however, he decided to give me a new one. “Let’s say Joseph here had an accident, and now he can’t work. Guess who has to pay all the bills?” the realtor pointed at Amber, whose name he didn’t know either. “Your wife, Mary.”

I stifled a laugh, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Amber/Mary struggling to do the same.

When the realtor finally concluded his lecture, Mary and I were allowed to check out the house. Everything about the house could be described as “pleasant.” It was a pleasant size, with pleasant bed and bathrooms, a pleasant kitchen, and a pleasant porch in a pleasant backyard. I thought the house was okay – or pleasant, rather – but Mary had a totally different opinion.

Where I had seen “pleasant,” Mary had seen “problematic.” At first, I thought she was just being overdramatic, but when she gave me a tour of the house through her eyes, I started to understand why the asking price was so low. There was a high school directly behind the house, which seemed like a good thing until Mary, who grew up in the area, told me that there would be noise-polluting sports events every Friday night. As if the noise wasn’t bad enough, there was the possibility that teenagers would roam into the yard, as the only barrier between the properties were a cluster of short and feeble bushes. The lack of a proper barrier became even more a problem when Mary pointed out that the house was right next to a street that would be busy two times a day. If a child were playing in the backyard and his or her ball rolled into the street during rush hour…

All of a sudden, the house didn’t look so pleasant. It looked dangerous. Mary and I quickly said goodbye to the realtor and hightailed it out of there.

The next house we went to was much, much better. There was a huge yard for playing in and the house was surrounded by thick trees and an iron fence. The house itself consisted of reasonably-sized bedrooms, a home office, and a bar. Every room was amazing, but none could compare to the kitchen. The fact that the kitchen was stocked with all the latest gizmos and gadgets was impressive, but what really set it apart was its size. The marble kitchen was at least two times bigger than my dorm room (I measured).

The first thing Mary said after she picked up her jaw from the floor was, “We are getting this house.” After she familiarized herself with the marvelous kitchen, I decided that it was time to find out the price. We searched the house and found the realtor standing over a table examining some documents.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Is it possible that you could tell us how much this house costs?”

“Sure,” the gray-haired realtor smiled. She flipped through the papers before her and pointed at a number. Mary and I leaned forward eagerly to see the price. What we saw took both of our smiles away.

As we drove back to school, a slight depression hung in the air. The second house we visited was better than the first by far, but it was also way out of the price range.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?” Mary asked for the third or fourth time.

“Nope. The limit is $175,000. I can’t really change that.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “I guess I’ll just buy the first house. The professor told us that we didn’t have to like the house we bought.”

“Okay.” She sounded disappointed.

“The house isn’t so bad,” I said. “The only thing we really have to worry about is Baby Jesus getting hit by a car while he’s playing in the backyard.”

Mary burst into laughter. “You know that I’m gonna call you Joseph from now on, right?”

I smiled. I had expected nothing less.

The single most important thing I’ve learned during the project is this: with all the taxes, insurances, and mortgages payments involved in buying a house, it’s probably a good thing that the real Mary and Joseph gave birth to Jesus in a stable.   

 

Procrastinators Pseudonymous

“That was great, George,” said Albert, who seemed to be the leader of this whole Procrastinators Pseudonymous (PP) meeting. “Thanks for sharing.” George, a short and rather fidgety young man, offered a quick nod and stared intently at his feet.

“Anyone else want to share?” Albert asked. No one spoke. I dared to look up and found that his eyes were fixated on me. “How about you? Would you like to share?”

“Not really,” I mumbled.

“Come on, pal. Everyone has something to share.”

I sighed and decided to tell my story before he used the word “share” again. “Fine. Uhm. My name is Myron, and I’m a procrastinator.”  

“Hi Myron,” the people sitting in the small circle recited in unison.

I gave a little wave. “Hi. Uh, well there isn’t really much to tell. I started procrastinating in high school, but it didn’t really hurt me until I got to college. It started with a television show or two during lunch – you know, nothing serious – but it escalated to two or three hours of television with every meal. Things got worse when I found a nice little library within walking distance of the school that had the most incredible selection of books…”

My voice drifted as my mind focused on the books that had captured my attention. “Watching TV is great, but there’s nothing quite like getting into a good book. You can go anywhere – do anything! You can get lost between the pages and never want to ask for directions…” I blinked, suddenly remembering where I was. “Anyway, I got so lost in television and books that I didn’t notice that my grades were plummeting. I had begun to put off doing homework and studying to watch the latest TV shows and read the newest books. I always figured that there would be more than enough time in the future to get my work done and usually threw together some half-baked product at the last minute. When my poor grades were brought to my attention, I tried to stop the procrastination, but it was too late. Procrastination had become a way of life. It grew from plotted entertainments to hanging out with friends, doing meaningless tasks, or wandering aimlessly around campus. Soon enough, I realized that I couldn’t sit down and do honest work for more than ten minutes, so I dropped out of school.

“I used some money that I had saved up to rent a run-down apartment, and I got a minimum wage job at one of those fast-food places. It didn’t take long for me to get fired. I got to work late every day because I never took the time to get ready, and I dilly-dallied when I was supposed to be delivering orders. I knew that if I didn’t make money, I would eventually be kicked out of my apartment, so I decided to write. Whether it was because I really liked to create stories, or because I was too lazy to look for another job, I decided to write short stories and try to find someone willing to buy them. It seemed like a great idea, until I realized that my constant procrastination stopped me from writing any more than two paragraphs.

“I lost the apartment about a week ago, and I’ve been sleeping in the park ever since. I only came to this meeting because I knew that there would be donuts afterwards.” I looked around. All eyes were on me. I shrugged. “That’s… about it, I guess.”

All at once, everyone thanked me for sharing.

“That was great, Myron,” Albert smiled. “Thanks for sharing. Anyone else want to share?”

I woke up with a small yelp to find myself, not in a “PP” meeting, but in one of Herin Hall’s bathrooms. Extreme procrastination had prevented me from studying for the two tests I had that day – Personal Finance and General Psychology – and I had spent the night before studying (cramming effectively) for both of them.

I had just completed the Psychology test, and I was pretty sure that I had aced it, but I was concerned about the Personal Finance test. I hadn’t spent as much time studying for it as I had Psychology. I was angry at myself for wasting a majority of the week fueling my procrastination rather than studying. Exhausted, I dragged myself into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, but fell asleep instead.

The dream scared me. Was it possible for procrastination to mess up my future that badly?

I wasn’t about to find out.

On Thursday, I did the one thing I swore I would never do: I made a schedule. I’ve always hated schedules. I felt like they limited my ability to be spontaneous. It was only after the Personal Finance test that I realized that being spontaneous and procrastinating were one in the same.

Sitting at my desk, I begrudgingly plotted out everything I had to do, how long it would take to do each thing, and in what order I would do them. I hate to admit it, but it was kind of fun – like putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The next day, I set out the follow the schedule, and surprisingly enough, I did. Though I did not complete every task, in that one day, I accomplished more than I had during the entire week.  

The present is ripe with opportunity. Why put off till tomorrow what can be done today?