MURTLE THE TURTLE

Writing is a brutal way to try to make a living, and I'm a little bit T.O.ed at God for making writing the one thing I'm good at and the only pursuit out of which I could make a viable career.

Consider: To write, one must be alone with no distractions (i.e., other humans around).

To write, one must be a self-starter, disciplined and able to find one's own motivation (i.e., outside of a boss' watching eye).

To write, one must be willing to face a lot of rejection, criticism, and general skepticism from a pragmatic world that scoffs at the idea of making a living with the arts.

Okay, so we've got loneliness, lack of motivational assistance, rejection, criticism, and overall cynicism. Sounds like a trip. At least I have a window to look out of now.

But what would the world be without the written word? The world needs writers ... to make you smile, think, cry, remember, laugh, hurt, heal ... which is why I think I won't discourage my nine-year-old cousin from aspiring to the ranks of authorship. Below is a short story she wrote, which her mother, my aunt, emailed to me. After reading it, tell me if it isn't worth it for some people to abandon the nine-to-five for a pen and paper. Or a laptop, as it were.

***
Once upon a time in the bottom of a pond lived a small turtle named Murtle. Murtle loved to bask in the sun on a rock. In the summer she would swim around in her pond, but in the cold winter weather she would swim to the bottom of the pond and burrow herself in the mud for her long winter sleep. When it was summer again, she would do the same old thing, but she didn't seem to care that she does the same thing every year. Murtle loved to do the same things alot!!

THE END
Written by Brooke Marie Schmitt
***

1 YEAR, 7 MONTHS AND 6 DAYS

It has now been a month and three days since Philip popped the question, so I figured it was about dadgum time I gave you poor curious people some details. Many apologies for the delay. Applying for grad school and a nasty sickness (mono?) have been keeping me from doing many of the wedding-ish things I'm anxious to do, but it looks like I'm out of excuses now. Disclaimer: I'm in a writing mood today, so you're getting the long version.

Over a month before The Big Day, Philip and I had planned to celebrate our Christmas together on Dec. 18. A couple weeks later, I got an invitation for a friend's wedding for the 18th in IL, and I expressed to Philip that since I was planning to quit my job, I could go. "But that's the day we're celebrating Christmas!" he replied passionately. He was very insistant that we retain our Christmas plans for that day, which raised my suspicions for the first time that this could potentially be IT.

As the 18th approached, I heard no more mention, so I brought it up to Philip: "Would you like to plan the day, or should we plan it together?"

"Oh, that's right! We're celebrating Christmas that day, aren't we?" he said nonchalantly, as though he had forgotton. Hmm, suspicious indeed. "Well, I'll plan it."

He would give me no details for the day except that I had to be ready to go at 6:45 a.m, because we had tickets. Tickets? For 6:45 a.m.? "Maybe he's flying you somewhere," my roommate Chelsea suggested. That would be quite the day trip. Chelsea was the only person I kept appraised of all of Philip's strange behaviors leading up to Dec. 18. If that day was not, in fact, The Day, I didn't want to have to notify like 50 disappointed people.

The night before our outing, he gave me a list of items to bring: casual clothes, clothes that could get wet, a camera. Well, we certainly weren't going out for a romantic dinner. I guessed that we were going to go white water rafting in Georgia. I wasn't really that far off.

Philip picked me up bright and early, and we headed toward downtown. Our destination, as it turns out: the Amtrak train station. Our tickets were for one round-trip journey to Tampa. We were early, so before we left, we wandered around the farmers' market that was bustling in Winter Park. Philip was severely tempted to buy a crepe. I discouraged him. More on that later.

We rode the train to Tampa without any mishaps. When we arrived, Philip's friend Martin was at the station with his pimpin' Cadillac. We dropped Martin off at his fiancee's house so we could have the car and proceeded to Honeymoon Island State Park. "So this is where we're going," I said.

"Nope," Philip replied. What?

We parked the car inside the park, but then walked over to the ferry landing. Our true destination was Caladesi Island, another state park off the coast of Clearwater. The entire Island is a preserve, and its beaches are rated number four in the country, after a bunch of beaches in Hawaii. The trip on the ferry was a delight; our ferry captain had a white beard, wore a Santa cap, and told us passengers many interesting facts about our destination.

It was a sunny, chilly day on the island. Philip had packed us a lunch of all my favorite snacky foods (cheese! etc.) to eat on the beach. We looked pretty cute in our stocking caps, if I do say so myself. After we ate, we decided to rent a two-person kayak. The island features these beautiful kayak trails through the mangroves. Sounds like fun, right? Adventurous, but really, what could go wrong?

The water could be very shallow, and you could get stuck like a million times, that's what.

After about 10 minutes of kayak fun, we nosed into a section of the trail that was about six inches deep and came to a sticky stop. Unable to free ourselves, Philip tried to get out to pull us, but his foot sank quickly into the muck. "Get back into the boat!" I screamed, panicked.

"Calm down!" he grumbled. We continued to struggle through the shallow, cold waters, getting more and more testy with each other and more and more wet. We dual-scooted our way through the extremely shallow portions and nervously paddled through the slightly deeper ones, praying we wouldn't get lodged in the mud again. I was feeling insecure because I wasn't the "Queen of the Outdoors" like I sometimes worry that Philip wants, and he was feeling insecure about potentially ruining our engagement date.

As a last-ditch effort, we chose to exit the trails and try our luck out in the bay. It wasn't much deeper, but we didn't get stuck again, though I never quit fretting that we would until we arrived back at the dock. We did, however, have to contend with wind blowing strongly in the opposite direction from the one we wanted to go. We finally docked, and we stood on the pier, dripping wet, frumpy, and glaring at each other. We decided to take a brief break; I headed to the bathroom to change and clean up, and he headed into the little store to get his deposit back. We would meet back on the beach.

When we converged again, I was feeling better to be on land, and he was bearing a gift from the leathery lady in the store: two perfect sand dollars that she had found herself and given him as an apology for renting the kayak despite the low tide. We laid in the sun and let our pants dry, everything forgiven.

We eventually had to hop back onto the ferry to return home. Leaving our island in the distance, we made our way back to the train station. Upon arriving, we learned that the train was running two hours late. Philip seemed hardly fazed, and I, in my over-analyzation of all his words and actions because I was still very much tryinig to figure out if this was Proposal Day or not, felt this was a clue that this wasn't it. Surely, if he was proposing today, a two-hour-late train would put a kink in the works and upset him a little more.

We pulled out our snacks again and talked and talked, mostly about our professional futures. Eventually, we got back on the train, and we selected kosher hot dogs for dinner. Again, I thought, this isn't it. We wouldn't have hot dogs for dinner on the day he proposes. Ladies, do not ever make this assumption.

The train ride was more eventful this time. We got evangelized by an elderly African-American woman, and I got grouchy. Surprise, surprise. Tired of traveling, tired of being dirty, and tired of being cold, I began to whine about the undisclosed location where Philip planned to have us exchange our Christmas gifts. "Is it far?" I complained. "Is it outside?" At this point, I had decided that the proposal was not happening, and I was ready to call it a day.

Philip, in his patience, assured me it was not far, and although it was outside, we would have a blanket and hot cocoa. We stopped to get the cocoa from a quaint coffee shop downtown and began to drive. To where, I did not know. But as we got close, I realized our destination, and I immediately knew that I was wrong - Philip WAS going to propose!

I began to shake. We were going to the lake where we had sat on our second date and held hands for the first time. The spot was across the street from a church and was a mini outdoor sanctuary, with logs for pews and a cross at the front. We had never been back since that night. Tonight, the moon was shining on the water, and I sat and shivered violently. "What's wrong?" Philip asked.

"I'm just cold," I said. A lie.

I gave him my gift: a crepe pan. Or, as I like to pretend: a Swedish pancake pan. The box was huge. He loved it. After he opened it, he said he didn't have my gift here, and he began to get nervous and talk about his love for me and desire to take care of me. He told me to close my eyes, and when I opened them, he was on one knee, asking if I would marry him and slipping the ring onto my finger.

I didn't say yes; I just lunged at him for a hug. We began to laugh and cry, and we stood up, him taking me in his arms and spinning me around. I finally remembered to say yes, and then I apologized for being such a brat earlier. He said he expected it (when he was planning a surprise birthday party for me earlier in the year, he had to lie and say we were going to a Starfyler 59 show. I whined, wondering why we would go to see a band HE likes on MY birthday. Nice, huh?). He told me to look at the ring. Being the resourceful man that he is, he had even brought along his headlamp so I could see it in the dark. It was beautiful - a 3/4 karat round-cut diamond set in white gold. The prongs swirled up on either side gracefully. We prayed together, and then he said we had to get going.

When we got back to my house, Philip had a small reception waiting for us of friends and family. I was buzzing, smiling from ear to ear and unable to catch my breath. I noticed Chelsea wasn't present, and I asked her whereabouts. I was told she was at the store. When she arrived, we gave each other a huge hug and squealed like children. When I pulled away and looked behind her, my best friend Sarah Kearney was standing there. In my living room. Blink blink. Scream. Fall on the floor. Get up and hug Sarah like crazy. For my "Christmas gift," Philip had flown Sarah in from Arizona. I was completely overwhelmed. I don't think I've ever been so happy in my entire life.

So that's the story. I'm rather fond of it. It's unique, and it's a small portrait of our life together: We laugh; we travel; we have adventures; we have disagreements; we have deep, searching conversations; we get preached at by old ladies ... It was a very real, raw day, and it was nothing like I ever imagined my proposal to be like. It was a million times better.

Now for the facts, for those who are into those sorts of things:
Wedding date: July 30, 2005
Location: Rockford, IL (ceremony: Klehm Arboretum; reception: Cliffbreakers)
Officiants: Danny and Jodi Howell
Matron of Honor: Sarah Kearney
Bridesmaids: Alyssa Larson, Sarah Larson, Lydia Hueneke, Dianna McMahan, Chelsea Folmsbee
Jr. bridesmaid: Brooke Schmitt
Best Man: Ben Rose
Groomsmen (so far): Luke Hueneke, Mike Kotsis, David Achata, Dzuy Nugyen
Jr. groomsman: Jonathan Johanson
Flower girl: Elena Johanson
Ring bearer: Jordan Schmitt
Have I bought a dress: Yes
Color of bridesmaids dresses: Pink

CHRISTIAN OVERDOSE

Among the too-numerous-to-mention reasons why I am walking away from my job is this: I work with Christian people, speak directly to Christian readers, interact with Christian publicists, and read writings by Christians all day long. While I very much consider myself a Christian ("one who follows Christ"), I have become increasingly convinced that being surrounded by them - and only them - every waking hour is not a positive thing.

I received a story submission today by a man named Samir, a pastor in CA. Samir quoted one of his friends Tim, who doesn't consider himself a Christian. Tim asks this:

“Why don’t Christians present their ideas where everyone else does? They don’t come to book evenings, poetry slams, discussion groups, community service events, and social clubs. There are venues that we as a society set up for people to share ideas. Why are Christians absent from the places where they can’t be in charge?”

Great question, Tim. I am exiting my existing circle to come out where the people are. I hope to see you there.

FAREWELL, RELEVANT

I’m sitting here. Waiting. Waiting. Never been so nervous in my life. The last time I felt this way, I was about 5 years old, waiting in line to go on the Whizzer at Six Flags. I was in line with my dad, and the line was moving forward at a snail’s pace. But every inch brought me closer to the moment of truth, the moment I was dreading and simultaneously desperately wishing would arrive.

5:54 p.m. Still waiting.

The line ripples forward a few centimeters. My heart is pounding out of my chest. I think I might wet my pants, or vomit. I want to ride this ride, to prove myself, to say I did it, and now it’s over. My palms are sweating. We’re at the gate. Now we’re stepping across the yellow line painted across the concrete. I look at the car, picturing myself stepping in. I can do this … I can do this …

But I bail. I step over the car to wait on the other side, while my dad will ride alone. I couldn’t do it that day.

Today will be different.

Still waiting …