Brace yourselves. I'm going to cover a lot.
At the beginning of the year, I was working as a part time instructor for my university. It was chaotic - I never knew if I would have enough classes to make my rent - but I loved teaching. The opportunity to work with students in both literature and composition made every day better, even when the black dog of depression was nipping at my heels. Because I was so happy teaching, I decided that I would try applying for doctoral programs ... again. The year prior I had applied to mostly theatre dramaturgy programs and Renaissance literature programs; neither worked out. In many ways, I think Heavenly Father understood that I needed more time to really understand where He needed me, and the rejections (even though they hurt) taught me a lot. As I approached my second round of applications, I decided I was going to abandon Renaissance literature and dramaturgy, since it seemed clear that I was not going to be successful by heading in that direction. Instead, I decided to try composition and rhetoric. To explain it simply, composition and rhetoric is a field that examines two primary ideas: that we compose constantly and that we can learn from these compositions. I jokingly tell people that I'm getting a doctorate in teaching people how to write in college, and - while that is a part of it - college composition courses are only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Originally, I applied to CompRhet programs because I knew I was a good teacher and figured that might help me get my foot through the door. After all, at the start of the year I won the Outstanding Teaching by a Masters Student Award on the department, college, and university levels. (Woop woop!)
The application process was not as smooth as I had hoped it would be. There were snafoos along the way that lead to an incomplete application to one school (rejection) and another school that loved me as an applicant but could not see how I would fit into their program (rejection). But, the Lord always has a plan in mind. For whatever reason, He wanted me to stay in the South, so I was accepted to a PhD program at the same institution where I had earned my masters. While not ideal - some universities won't hire you if you have two degrees from one school - I felt like it was the best place for me. After all, the head of the program was a woman I admired greatly and who was very interested in my work. But, very unfortunately, this wonderful professor passed away in the midst of the semester. The department was rocked: She had been a pillar in our community and was very outspoken on behalf of those who had less power than her. I personally began to be very worried because I was heading into a PhD program without a professor of interest; I had no idea who I would work with over the ensuing five years.
Towards the end of the summer, I began to contemplate where I would live in the fall. After the horrible experience of being discriminated against the previous fall and having to couch surf, I was really hesitant about finding an apartment. But, I had to live somewhere, I told myself. So, when my dad came out to visit, he helped me visit a few places that seemed to be safe, relatively inexpensive options. None of them really seemed right, though, and I don't think Dad or I were very impressed. (And I know, after three years in the same town you would think I could just settle on one place to live. But apparently not.) When Dad heard how much houses cost down here, he encouraged me to see if I could qualify to buy a house. Well, long story short: Yes, I could. Don't ask me how, since I am still not entirely sure how it happened. God truly is miraculous. Within a week I had a realtor (the amazing Ralph and Molly Lusian), a mortgage guru, and appointments to see houses. The next morning I was sitting in the office talking to Miss Dot and Miss Pat, telling them how I had decided to look for a house. They asked what sort of houses were available, and I pulled up a search list to show them the options. There, at the very top, was a brand new listing - just a few minutes off the press. It was an adorable ninety-nine year old home with a bright red door and a giant, fenced in backyard. I looked at it and said, "Oh, I want that one." (True confession: I honestly thought the house would be sold within the day.)
I mean, really, wouldn't you react the same way? Well, I emailed the listing to Molly and told her I really wanted to see the place. Later that day, she called to tell me that she was shocked I had caught that listing so quickly. I was apparently the first person to ask to see it, so they had gotten the keys. I would get to see it that Saturday right after my friend's bridal shower. All I could dream about were red doors.
When I actually got to see the house, I knew it had its problems. The floor slanted, nothing was square, and it was clear the current owner was doing things on the cheap. But there was something about the large windows and quirky columns that twined about my heart. I loved it even more in person than I had in pictures. But, I told myself I was not going to buy the first house I saw. So, the next week I saw other houses. ... And I hated them all. Finally, I turned to Ralph and Molly and told them, "I know this is crazy, but I want the first house." Boy, that launched a whole new adventure. The summer literally became the most stressful experience of my life as everything that could go wrong went wrong in the buying process. I mean, the moment we signed the papers, I told my mother I never wanted to buy another house again. The experience was horrific - all because of things entirely outside of my control. But, at the same time, I was elated to have a house of my own. Finally, I thought, I would be safe.
But, it was the year of Loki.
One Sunday morning, just a scant month into home ownership, I walked to the back door to let Evie out. Originally, that room had been my bedroom, but I had felt that I needed to change it. So the week prior, I had moved my room to the front bedroom. Good thing I did. When I opened the door, a charming present awaited me from the Year of Loki.
Loki'd.
Sometime during the night, a two ton tree branch had decided it really wanted to fall, so it collapsed on my house. The fact I could not see any damage from the inside of the house was absolutely miraculous; that back room should have been flattened. Word got out quickly, as it does in the LDS church, that I had suffered a horrible tragedy. By mid-afternoon, I had an army of men in my backyard armed with chainsaws and good attitudes. Within three hours they had not only cut the branch down, but also moved it out to the curb so it could be hauled away by the city and they tarped my roof against an incoming storm. I don't know if those amazing men realize it, but I wanted to cry on and hug each of them. They were quite literally angels that day for me. The Lord knew I could not handle a giant tree branch on my own, so He sent me a lot of help - and not just those who hauled away the tree. There were so many people who called to check on me, who offered their help or a listening ear, that I literally felt overwhelmed by love. I knew for a certainty that I had people who loved me and were willing to do anything they could for me. It's ironic, but I felt blessed to have a tree fall on my house.
-- Part two coming soon! --
