A Bit More About "Thursday's Child"...

I wanted to make sure to write a little bit more about my post, "Thursday's Child." Sometimes I'm so involved in my own thoughts, I forget that not everyone can peek inside my head and see exactly what I meant by something I wrote or said. And I just couldn't have you miss out on "Thursday's" neatness! *wink*

When I was very small, my grandmother would sit me her knee and recite the poem that I posted in "Thursday's" blog post. That memory has always stuck with me and even now, I still carry a special fondness for this anonymously written poem. It dates way back, and was often used to teach children the order of the weekdays.

So, remembering all of this, I decided to find out what day of the week I was born on. Which, of course, was a Thursday...hence the title of my blog post. I also looked up the day of the week some of my favorite stars were born on.

So, each of the stars are represented for the actual day of the week they were born on. Isn't it funny how some of them matched up coincidentally with perfect traits they carried?

You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find a vintage movie star who was born on a Friday!

Anyways, just thought I would elaborate a bit! A lot of thought went behind it all, don't ya' know? *smile*

Love,
Emily

Thursday's Child...

Paul Newman

January 26, 1925

Monday's child is fair of face.

Grace Kelly

November 12, 1929

Tuesday's child is full of grace.

Eva Marie Saint

July 4, 1924

Wednesday's child is full of woe.

Marlon Brando

April 3, 1924

Thursday's child has far to go.

Karl Malden

March 22, 1912

Friday's child is loving and giving.

Elizabeth Taylor

February 27, 1932

Saturday's child works hard for a living,

Teresa Wright

October 27, 1918

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

The Interview...

In a little more than a week from today, I will be trying to make my way through a maze of buildings on a rather large college campus. Building 245 will be the one I have been searching for.

If I do perhaps, chance to find it, butterflies will be fluttering in my stomach, as I wait, impatiently, for the elevator to take me to the second floor. The pleasant-voiced woman on the other end of the telephone instructed me to ask anyone on the floor to direct me to her office..."They'll be sure to point you in the right direction." But what will I do when I finally make my way there?

I've been instructed to bring a writing sample. A research paper that will show my abilities in that area. The essay won't really be that important. The opportunity will mostly be based on our interview.

As I take my seat, my mouth will be as dry as a bone and my mind will have gone completely blank. I will keep trying to remind myself that there will be other chances; other days. But it really does very little to quiet the questioning thoughts running through my mind. What will she say? Even more importantly...what will I say??

I know that I won't be able to help staring down at the shoes I am wearing...which, as a side note, will hopefully be Sarah's best black heels. I always seem to stare at my shoes when I'm nervous.

I will try to keep my hands folded in my lap as she rearranges the papers on her desk, but when I am not looking, my left hand will sneak up to twist around and around one of the earrings I am wearing. I clench it tightly with my other hand, but up it sneaks again. It's a losing battle.

I try to remind myself that a twenty minute interview isn't very long at all...but, I also know that, for me, one who has always tended to be painfully shy, it will seem like an eternity.

I have been so blessed to have been offered this opportunity. So...I will try to keep my concentration on those feelings of joy and fear, humility and blessedness that continue to sweep over me.

That, and a remembrance that when God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

Thoughts...

Isn't it terrible?

Here I was, all set to devote an entire post to the fact that I am disappointed for the very first time in my blog. Oh, I had some wonderfully legitimate reasons devoted to the topic...about how plain and insignificant and utterly un-wonderful my blog is. I hit some strong points in there for sure. Such as feeling sorry for myself about not having followers, not having readers....not having, not having, not having.

You might see a few changes around here, but I'm definitely not going to jump ship as I was all set to do...that is, before I remembered to focus on myself and not on everyone (or should I say everyone's blogs) around me.

I may not have exceptional photography to showcase, I may not be the funniest girl on the block...I may not even really have anything worthwhile to say. But when I really stop to think about it, I didn't start my blog with any of these things in mind. Maybe that's why I feel as if I lost that spark that kept me loving to write here. Maybe in all of my striving or hoping to be something that I am not...I lost the bit that was most important.

I once wrote that, "Someday I'll realize that my life, no matter how small, has meant something. That the things that I felt, and thought, and experienced, weren't small, insignificant things to be forgotten, but all took a part in the making of...well, me...and they thereby have a right to be remembered."

And suddenly I feel ashamed. I've let certain thoughts and feelings crowd in where they shouldn't have been. I took something that was fun and loveable and turned it into something stressful and disappointing. I let these unhealthy thoughts not only run away with my feelings towards my blog, but also other, more important things about myself.

I'm hoping that I've learned something from the younger me. Sometimes I get so focused on the here and now or the maybe and when, that I forget to focus on what really matters. As much as I want certain things to be certain ways in my life, I can never help matters along by grouching about them.

So...I suppose this post really didn't have any purpose at all. I suppose I just needed to hear the tapping of the keys and the sigh of my heart as I place my feet back on the path I've chosen to travel. It isn't always fun, and sometimes it is just downright satisfying to be a grump every once in awhile. But that isn't who I am. I know that with God right here, holding me between His fingertips, I can follow this path wherever it may lead.

Love,
Emily

Letter of a Marine...

I'm sure by now you can tell how much I love letters. Old letters, new letters, war letters, love letters, everyday letters. Letters that make me laugh; letters that make me cry; letters that poke me beneath the ribs with their honesty or cause me to shiver with their resonant truth.

Letters sometimes provide you with such profound insight into the depths of the human soul. The short letter below, written by a young man fighting in Vietnam to his aunt back home, captures some unspeakable beauty in his humble thoughts that struck a chord in my own heart.

Though not openly sharing my beliefs regarding heaven and eternity, something in this young soldier's sentiments causes me to nod my head in agreement every time and reminds me to strive every day to change the world, albeit in some small, humble way. I hope it touches your heart as much as it has touched mine.

I can't help it...it makes me cry every time.

* * * * * * * * * *

Marion Lee ("Sandy") Kempner, a former Peace Corps volunteer from Galveston, Texas, was sent to Vietnam in July 1966 to serve with the marines. Writing to his great-aunt Mrs. Louis "Fannie" Adoue on October 20, 1966, Kempner addresses the subject of immortality after a seemingly trivial incident.

Dear Aunt Fannie,

This morning, my platoon and I were finishing up a three-day patrol. Struggling over steep hills covered with hedgerows, trees, and generally impenetrable jungle, one of my men turned to me and pointed a hand, filled with cuts and scratches, at a rather distinguished-looking plant with soft red flowers waving gaily in the downpour (which had been going on ever since the patrol began) and said, "That is the first plant I have seen today which didn't have thorns on it." I immediately thought of you.

The plant, and the hill upon which it grew, was also representative of Vietnam. It is a country of thorns and cuts, of guns and marauding, of little hope and of great failure. Yet in the midst of it all, a beautiful thought, gesture, and even person can arise among it waving bravely at the death that pours down upon it. Some day this hill will be burned by napalm, and the red flower will crackle up and die among the thorns. So what was the use of it living and being a beauty among the beasts, if it must, in the end, die because of them, and with them? This is a question which is answered by Gertrude Stein's "A rose is a rose is a rose." You are what you are what you are. Whether you believe in God, fate, or the crumbling cookie, elements are so mixed in a being that make him what he is; his salvation from the thorns around him lies in the fact that he existed at all, in his very own personality. There once was a time when the Jewish idea of heaven and hell was the thoughts and opinions people had of you after you died. But what if the plant was on an isolated hill and was never seen by anyone? That is like the question of whether the falling tree makes a sound in the forest primeval when no one is there to hear it. It makes a sound, and the plant was beautiful and the thought was kind, and the person was humane, and distinguished and brave, not merely because other people recognized it as such, but because it is, and it is, and it is.

The flower will always live in the memory of a tired, wet Marine, and thus has achieved a sort of immortality. But even if we had never gone on that hill, it would still be a distinguished, soft, red, thornless flower growing among the cutting, scratching plants, and that in itself is its own reward.

Love,
Sandy

Less than three weeks after writing this letter, Sandy Kempner was disarming a mine near Tien Phu when one of his men accidentally tripped another mine. Kempner, though seriously injured by the explosion, ordered that the other wounded man be treated first. Kempner was finally placed in a medevac to be taken to the hospital, but he died en route. He was twenty-four years old.

~excerpt from Letters of a Nation

By Andrew Carroll

Doris...

"Gratitude is riches. Complaint is poverty."

Doris Day

Election Day...

*Phew!*

Sarah, Mama, Elizabeth and I, just made it to our little white township building to cast our votes for 2008's Presidential election!

Our little gray car broke down on my mother as she was headed to a doctors appointment in town...which is about an hour and fifteen minutes from our home. I was so disappointed that I would most likely not be taking part in one of the most important rituals of American history. But...Mama arrived home just in time! We three girls ran out to the car, me, with a plate of dinner in my hand for Mama.

I don't know about you...but as I cast my vote, shivers raced up and down my spine. How fortunate we are to live in a free nation where we can live out our lives to our choosing, read what we desire to read, speak the thoughts that we wish to express. As alien as it seems, do we remember the many, many people in other nations who aren't blessed enough to have these same rights that we often take for granted? Do we remember the people who have fought and died that our country may stand thus today with its liberties and freedom?

I am keenly disappointed in my heart by the fact that--unless a miracle happens--the candidate that I voted for isn't going to win. I suppose I need to remember that as disappointing as that will be to me, and as unfortunate as it will be for our great country, life will go on. It always does. Whether or not God is acknowledged or respected in the hearts of our nations leaders...God will still reign.

"Sometimes one pays most
for the things one gets for nothing"

Albert Einstein