Sarah Koller-
If I had one grain of pixiedust for every time I knew you loved me, and another grain for every time I didn't know but you still loved me, I'd be visiting Neverland for the 4 billionth time.
-Katie Adametz

...

So

I don't know who I am.

That's a bit drastic, maybe, but really, I don't. I have some ideas and definately some people I want to be, but that's not always the way of things. I'd like to be certain, please, if that's possible. I know all the movie morals and the sayings about life being a journey, but really, please. Just answer my question. Who is Katie?

I don't really know who I expect to answer. That's probably something I have to do myself. I'd like to stomp my foot and whine that "It's TOO HARD" right about now, but I won't.

I think what I really want to know is: What is my purpose? Why am I even here? I feel like all I do is schoolwork and hangout with my friends. Yet again, maybe that's a wonderful purpose. Learning and fellowship. But I can't help but feel like there's supposed to be more.

So I'll start by identifying the known.

...

I played with Barbies as a child and I think they are wonderful toys. Barbie can be anything she wants and likes to stay in shape.

I like unicorns and mermaids and fairies. I like the idea of holding on to something that's delightfully improbable, but wonderfully fascinating.

I love love love love love to read.

I like people, in general. I'm not the most sensitive person and therefore can not be friends with absolutely everyone, but I enjoy being with others.

I'd rather play kickball, dodgeball, or freeball than play board games. I prefer physical games to intellectual ones for the most part.

I've called several people my best friends over time, but really, there's only been one earthly forever friend, and she is Dakota Moore.

I have a boyfriend. I worked very hard to have a boyfriend and he's extremely important to me.

My first favorite food is ice cream and my second favorite is cheesesteak.

I'm a follower of Christ. A poor one, but none the less, I try.

I'm pretty vain. I look in mirrors a lot. At this point, I think it's more of a habitual instinct than actually wondering what I look like.

I like learning about literature and grammar.

I enjoy learning about history. All kinds of history.

I like all different kinds of music, but if you could listen in, you'd probably hear an alternative or rock band and the occasional girls only song.

I actually like Britney Spears. She redeems herself on a regular basis.

...

Well, I'll keep adding to this list.

I re-did my blog!

Christmas Dinner

At the head of the table sits Poppop, or Joseph Michael Adametz Senior. He's missing a finger, a whole finger. An older man now, he's quick to smile and relatively patient with the grandkids. His jokes can get borderline dirty, but his life story is one of the greatest tales of redemption one could hear.

To his right sits Mommom. She makes the greatest cookies, pies, etc. Everyone knows Jane Adametz. She's got an eye for color and elegant design, but she filled five out of six salt and pepper shakers with salt. After dinner, she's quite a character.

On Poppop's left we find James Adametz, second oldest son. He loves technology and he's in the process of building his own home. An extremely intelligent man, he doesn't speak without a reason, and the things he says really mean something.

To James's left sits his wife, Christine. She loves color, in rooms and people. She values learning and took the responsibility of educating her three children. She can intelligently talk about any subject, because she actually does know something about everything.

As we continue around the table to Christine's left, we meet Virginia, Ginny Adametz, she married into the family. Nurturer of three lovely children (if I may say so myself), she works part time, does devotions every morning, likes to shop, and sacrifices extreme amounts of time, emotion, and money on her family.

At the other end of the table sits Joseph Michael Adametz Junior. Usually, this eat is occupied by Ralph Rennard, father of Virginia. He joins the Adametz family for many holidays and consequential elaborate meals. None of his four children live in his state, so he makes his home with his daughter and her husband Joe Jr. for part of the year and spends the rest of his time visiting and hosting his many relatives and grandchildren. He has hearing problems, so speaking to him is like a constant game of whisper down the alley, and brings joy wherever he goes.

Back to Joseph Junior. He's one of the hardest workers you'll ever meet. He's driven because he is the earthly provider for his family and he fully embraces that role. He works because he loves his family and loves to see them happy, even if it means more stress and less sleep. He can be a bit intimidating, but he loves to cuddle and on the inside he has a soft spot for his daughters, and a kindred spirit with his son.

Next we encounter Uncle Pat. Quiet, but enormously facetious, he doesn't loose an opportunity to say something witty. You can never quite figure him out, but he's kind and helpful.

And last we come to Joy McGuire. Auntie. Auntie loves everybody and everybody loves Auntie. It's like a rule. She like to hunt and fish alongside her husband, Pat (mentioned above), but her nails always have a fresh coat of polish on them and her hair is constantly in that "perfectly tousled look." Any movie star would kill for Auntie's looks and charisma. And I think she's the one lady in the world that can pull off a Christmas sweater, complete with 3D special effects.

Everyone under 21 sits at the kid table. Next year, it will be everyone under 22, because there really isn't any moving up or anything. The kids will always be the kids, and the adults will always be that far-off ideal of being grown-up. And because they get to pretend, they sit at the adult table.

love can not be crossed out
adoration can not be nullified
kindness can not be censored
truth can not be replaced

Is it wrong to enjoy painting my nails?

Or want a tattoo? (maybe three)

Or dye part of my hair blue?

Is it ok to enjoy getting presents from people you care about?

Where will I go to college?

Will I go at all?

What's life supposed to look like?

Am I allowed to be in love?

If I ask that question, does that mean I'm immature or silly?

What am I too young to do?

How am I supposed to feel about politics?

Government?

Other people?

Myself?

Is it ok to speak my mind all the time?

Who do I ask for advice?

How do you pray?

Or pray well?

Am I supposed to enjoy reading that isn't for school or church?

How do I handle stress?

How do I get my work done?

How do I get straight A's?

Will someone yell at me if I take a nap?

Is it ok to wish I had a unicorn?

Is it immature to never want to let go of my childlike imagination?

Am I silly or just stupid if I like to hold on the hope that mermaids exist?

What about the Loch Ness Monster?

Is it ok to ask these questions?

What do you do when you're angry with someone, but you can't do anything about it?

How do you correct someone who's older and probably wiser than you?

Are you allowed to do that?

Are you allowed to do this?

Can I do that?

What if I fail?

Or what if I can't take care of myself when I'm on my own?

Am I on my own now?

Why do I look at myself in the mirror so much?

Why don't I care about other people more?

Why do I do such terrible, disgusting things?

Who am I?

What I am doing?

Do I have a purpose?

Why do I feel like I don't?

Should I just get over it?

Should I just get over myself?

When does life get better?

Are there husbands and wives in Heaven?

Do you still love people in Heaven?

Love them individually and personally, or do you just generally love?

Do I do either?

Where do I begin to look for answers?

Are there any?

Do they really exist?

Dancing is something we do with our hearts. Singing is something we do with our smiles. Loving is something we do with our hands. Believeing is something we do with our souls. Laughing is something we do with our eyes. Praying is something we do with our lives. Breathing is something we do with our dreams.

So there's this guy...

So there's this guy. He's tall, handsome, strong, sensitive, and wonderfully caring. He can make me laugh. Sometimes he makes me cry, but he always apologizes, or makes it better somehow. We can have lots of fun together. We like the same kinds of movies and books and he encourages me in soccer and horseback riding and my academic career.

He happens to be my father.

Jesus gave me my father, and he made me a lot like him. I want to be like my father. I want to be able to fix things in my house when they break, and not have to call a professional. My father is the professional. I want to care for people through my actions. Every time someone is coughing while trying to speak in church, my daddy gets them a cup of water. My dad isn't great with words, he's sorta shyish, but he can show you in plenty of different ways he cares about you. I want to mow my lawn with a John Deer and a drive Ford F-150.

Our personalities are very much alike. We both have a competitive attitude, towards, um, everything. We're both stubborn. We like to be right. But my daddy does listen to people when they try to help or correct him. I'm not very good at that yet. He loves Jesus. He tries to be the spiritual leader in our family, because God has called him to be. He's good at teaching and explaining things. He talks to me because he genuinely cares about me. He wants me to feel better when I'm sick or I have killer sunburn.

He's smart. He likes things to work in the best way possible, not just work. I'm like that too. My father loves me. I know he does. He makes many rules, but he explains them, and he makes them because they guide me in the way he believes is best. He respects me. And he supports me.

I wanted to tell you about him. I thought you should know. And I wanted to remind myself.

Seagulls and Fireworks

My family and I visited my father's parents last weekend. Mommom and Poppop are da bomb...basically. But neither of them know it. And I do a horrible job of showing them. Sometimes my Mommom says some really strange things. Things like my cousin that disrespects the people around him and doesn't care is a good-looking and lovely kid. Things like that blue and gold and black motorcycle (that she has never seen) is gorgeous, simply because it is blue and gold and black. Things like seagulls are beautiful.

Seagulls, are not beautiful. They screech and poop everywhere and steal food and have the annoying tendency of following you around. No one thinks seagulls are beautiful. Except Mommom. Mommom says strange things.

Or maybe they are only strange things because the world would never say them. I daresay the vast majority would not look at my cousin as a lovely boy. And the vast majority would not say seagulls are beautiful. But when my Mommom speaks about seagulls, she's not speaking for the world. She's speaking for Jesus. Jesus thinks seagulls are beautiful. Jesus thinks my cousin is a lovely boy with wonderful creativity and potential. Jesus thinks motorcycles are gorgeous. Because all those things are the wonderful works of His hands, or the creations of a brilliant mind He created. So it isn't very strange at all that seagulls are beautiful.

Later that weekend some of my cousins from my mother's side were visiting her father. All of my parents' parents live close to each other in New Jersey. We all got together to see fireworks on the fourth of July. As we were waiting for the fireworks to begin, I was lying on a blanket with my cousin Ruth. (I affectionately call her Ruthie.) Ruthie lost her mother to lung cancer this past year. She is still the vibrant, sassy, beautiful girl she always was, but she's a little older inside.
Ruthie told me that people in Heaven see fireworks. Just from a different view.

Ruthie kinda startled me, I didn't really know what to say. I just smiled and said some word of agreement. But then I thought about her words. And I thought, "Wow, Ruth. That's wonderfully amazing, what you just said. That's love and hope incarnate." I think love for her mother, memories of family, and Jesus made Ruth say that.

I wonder. Do people in Heaven see fireworks? My mother told me sometimes she thinks about her mother in Heaven, but she said Grandma can't see us or the rest of the world because there is no sadness in Heaven. There are plenty of reasons to be sad when you look at he world; I don't believe fireworks are one of the them. I have no biblical proof to look to, no knowledge with which to form my idea. But I think people in Heaven do see fireworks. Just from a different view.

I'd Like to Meet Viva

There is a mailbox that I pass every day. The bus pauses for a few seconds to let someone off at the house next door to the mailbox. It is the largest mailbox I have ever seen. It is black and decorated with varying sizes of white circle stickers. the pattern is perfect and original. In the smallest size of stickers, the name of the owner is spelled. All I can recall is Viva. I'd like to meet Viva.

First of all, it's a fun name, so I automatically assume she's a fun lady. And if she isn't exactly fun, she's got to be interesting. And if she isn't exactly interesting, she probably has a great life story. And if her life story isn't exactly great, there's got to be one little itty bitty thing I could learn from her. And I refuse to believe there isn't.

I've never seen Viva's house. Her driveway is long, to match the mailbox I assume, and disappears into trees. Therefore obscuring the house. If I could see her house, maybe I would know something about her; maybe I could infer some information about Viva. Alas, this method of acquiring details of Viva is a dead end.

When I picture Viva, she's an elderly lady, about seventy-five. She wears dresses everyday: plain comfortable shifts to keep her cool or warm, depending on the season. She reads in a window seat, the same way she did when she was twelve. When the sun comes through that window, a hint of Youth's beauty and frivolity brighten the spark in her eyes and redden her cheeks. Viva has wonderful stories, and they're all true. Every one is about a beautiful child, young woman, or lady who triumphs, and the best one of all is about a young soldier, a lovestruck soldier, and a promise to return.

Well, he came back. Viva and he were married. Forty years. Seven have gone by that she's spent without him. If you ever speak to Viva about those seven years, she would say they were longer than the rest. Longer, and colder, and emptier. She triumphed again though. She wakes each morning with Jesus and the sun, and her step is still strong and her voice doesn't break. Though she rarely does speak. Viva does not attend to many visitors, none actually. Three children, and eight children of those children. They don't call much anymore, or write. Viva understands though. Many things take precedence. She's content and happy that they are happy, whatever they may be doing.

I think Viva cries sometimes. Her thin shoulder's shake with her sobs, and her hankie fills with salt. But it's soon over and a hint of a laugh about to spill over from the corner of her mouth would tell anyone watching she's dwelling on much happier things.

I really would like to meet Viva. I'm sure she's nothing like my fantasy, but that wouldn't disappoint me. She must be a fantastic woman, to decorate a mailbox so well.

Dear Love

Dear Love,

I must begin this letter with an apology. Forgive me for disgracing you and falling short of the spectacular action of loving. There is very little in my life that is love. Forgive me for trying to understand.

Love, you are elusive. Beautiful. Dangerous. Healing. Abusive. Honest. And yet these are only words: only adjectives to describe something so beyond words, and yet so close to them. You confuse me Love, or maybe I'm only blundering over myself. I'll stop trying to define your characteristics myself, after all, I have no idea spawned from my own head that depicts you correctly. Love, you are patient, kind, you do not envy or boast, you are not proud. You are not rude or self-seeking, you are not easily angered, and you keep no record of wrongs. Love, you do not delight in evil; you rejoice with the truth. You will always protect, trust, hope, and persevere.

Love, you can do all those things. Shouldn't you have more friends? You are so perfect, why do people disrespect you? Why doesn't everyone want to hold your hand, stand beside you, and be wrapped in your arms? Love, they take your name in vain. They throw around tired phrases and exhausted cliches. You deserve so much better.

Love, what are your plans and ideas? Where are you going and what will you do? I'll never be able to fully understand you. I'll never be able to embrace the trust and care that you are, Love. I wish I could just grasp you. You're everything I need, Love. More than that, you are what I need to be. You are the best role model. Oh, Love, what do you want me to do?

Love, you really shouldn't keep coming back to me. I don't even deserve to speak your name. I have never done anything worthy of you. I can only pretend. I have my own ideas about you, Love. I have been judgemental of you and at times decided I didn't really need you. I thought my actions were enough. But they were nothing without you, Love.

I saw you the other day. I stumbled across you really. I didn't even have the decency to say hello at the time, but now I remember. You were there, in the corner of the classroom. And in the hallway. I saw you stoop to hand a student his papers, and you were late to class because of it. I saw you yet again when someone lost their pencil; she was so worried and flustered that she wouldn't be able to take an important test, and you handed your only pencil to that girl. You had to struggle through the next class, and remember the notes in your head.

Did you know we live in the same neighborhood? I had forgotten. You were next door today, helping a young woman catch her runaway dog. It was cold and windy, but you never yelled, gave up, or left her. You stayed until the beagle was safely home. I've realized now you are everywhere I am, except in me. Love, I promise to look for you more often, I know I will see you.

Vulgarity made fun of you last week. He called you coarse names and pushed you. You faced him and asked if he'd like to strike you again. But never were you cynical, or sarcastic in your reaction. Your eyes were clear and your face inquiring. No scorn or contempt, no tease or jest came out of your voice.

Love, can you teach me? Allow me to learn from you. I will try to allow myself. You're all I want and all I need, and I didn't take that line from a song.

I will try, Love. I will try so hard to be like you. I will find ways to serve and believe, but it will take time. I promise I will try.

Sincerely Yours,
katie

In the summer of 2008 I accompanied a very close friend of mine (Kayla) to the stable where she keeps her horse. I ride as well, but at a different farm. However, I used to attend her stable, so I knew many of the people and horses there.

My friend is a very very good rider. She does super well at local and rated shows. She was riding a horse for the owner of the farm because the owner (Sue) wanted to sell him. Kayla was demonstrating the various abilities the horse had. It was very important to Sue that the prospective buyers knew exactly what they were getting. Dewey (the above mentioned horse) was not known to be particularly energetic or fast, but that day he was zipping around the ring at a very smooth and un-Dewey-like gait.

To get Dewey to be so enthusiastic in the first place, Kayla was holding a crop. A crop is like a small, unbendable whip. When used correctly, it is a very effective tool for riding. Kayla knows how to use her tools correctly. Dewey knew she was holding the crop, so he automatically picked it up.

Sue noticed the difference and made Kayla continue to canter around and around the ring. She wanted no discrepancies during the potential sale. Neither Sue, Kayla, nor I knew what could be making him move so much differently. Eventually Kayla dropped the crop and Dewey returned to his normal, slow, lazy self.

This is irrelevant to my point, but unfortunately Dewey went lame right before the potential buyers could see him. All that work.


I think God gives us encouragement. Like a crop: a tool that God uses, whether it's a person, event, impulse, or idea.We get excited and we perform to our best ability. We are built to move smoothly. I believe that. But sometimes, nope, all the time, things like laziness, unmotivatedness, and pretty much anything else get in our way. And lots of times these things are brought on by ourselves. It is much easier to work the way you are meant to when a friend is encouraging you, or working beside you.

Dewey lost his encouragement. We do too sometimes. But you can get it back. God readily gives us everything we need. It's never his fault if we don't receive it. If you can't find your encouragement on earth, well, it's not like you've looked too many places.

When I in Awesome Wonder

So that's a cheesy title. But I don't mind. Because it's true. A little while ago (like maybe two weeks) I was in awesome wonder of God. Because I helped someone. Not through my own abilities and intelligence, because I don't have much of that. I believe God has given me any talents I possess. I will hone them and allow them to grow inside of me, but only with His help. Anyway. I helped someone I care about. More like God through me helped them. I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of being used by God.

And when I hung up the phone assured that God had done a wonderful job in comforting that person and fantastically satisfied with the role God gave me in their life, I was in awesome wonder.

I couldn't believe how big God felt in that moment. And how encompassed in Him I felt. I would like to feel like that much more. It's moments like those that make seemingly tedious Bible reading extraordinary and simple prayers like fireworks in the form of words. I'd love to be in awesome wonder of God all the time.

I'm not a people person, but I like parties.

I'm not a people person, but I like parties. I recently discovered (approximately 37.2 seconds ago) that I don't have a fondness for people. If I meet you, I probably will act like I don't like you, because I'm afraid you don't like me. And I want you to like me, but I will often second guess your positive feelings for me. Because I think I may have done something you didn't like, or something to offend you. And I don't want to do that. I really do want people to like me, but I'm too afraid to truly be myself and allow them to like me, because I'm scared they won't like me anyway.

And even if I try to be who I am around you and you don't like it, I'll think it's my fault. Because I must have done something wrong for you to not like me. I'm pretty sure this all adds up to a frozen girl on the outside. But I think I'm pretty sunny and warm most of the time. I'm not a cold person, but I will be quiet and very un-katiecupcakeish at times around people I get negative or potentially negative vibes from.

I do like parties. Probably because the only parties I go to entail me being around my favorite people. I do have favorite people. I do have friends. I have wonderful, amazing friends whom I am myself around and whom I have confidence around. And that's why I go to parties. To see and interact with the people I love dearly. But I need to love everyone dearly. And a lot of times I don't know what that looks like on the soccer field, or at school, or even in my own home.

Maybe I should focus on my own feelings about myself, I can't change any one's mind for them. All I can do is improve my attitude. I'm going to try. Try to be warmer and more receptive. And have a positive attitude about everything I do that involves people. But sometimes people truly don't like you. And they don't even have a good reason. I guess I can't worry about that. That should be something they handle, not something I worry about.

So I'm sitting here. By myself. Staring at the computer screen. And I'd like to write about something interesting and/or exciting. And I want the way I write to be beautiful and I want people to say "Wow, she's such a good writer!" when they read it. Assuming there are more than two and a half people that read my blog. But I want to write for the wrong reason. I want to write because I can, not because God can use my mind and thoughts to convey something He wants conveyed. I find I have that problem when I write. Most of the time. I've been told I'm a good writer enough times that I should have confidence in myself. I really don't need to remind people, as if God needed my help to find a way to say I'm special.

I don't believe in talent, really. I do enjoy watching people perform those activities they are exceptional at, but I don't believe that it's just them. Whether one believes in God or not, He exists. And He gives you the determination to pursue something you want to be good at, if that's where you're meant to be. But this is a sticky area of talk and debate, because there are a lot of holes in my idea. Don't quote me, I don't read my my Bible enough to base the above idea on anything specific and concrete. It's just my opinion. Something that flitted through my mind and will disappear until a time when God will remember it and use it.

She was ordinary. She was extraordinary. She was plain. She was vibrant. She was subdued. She was passionate. She was both. At the same time.


She was a housewife. Mother of two, wife and lover of one. Both parents still together, living across the small town where she lived. She baked cookies and pies. She wore shades of blue and beige. Never too much makeup and her hair was flat.

She grew up 10 miles away from the house where she lives now. Met her husband in college. He was her only boyfriend ever. Her close knit circle of friends was small and honest. She graduated in the middle of her class. She read. Her singing voice didn't haunt you, or inspire. She wasn't an athlete.

She was a calm woman. Her actions and reactions were predictable. She kept an open mind and opinions to herself. She didn't leave a lingering impression; she took awhile to figure out. She was quiet, but well-spoken.

Ordinary. Plain. Subdued.

But how she could love. She cared for her family not because she had to, or felt obligated. She packed lunches, wiped sticky fingers, kissed scrapes on knees, folded shirts, made dinner every night, memorized schedules, rubbed backs, held sick hands, tucked in scared children, closed the closet door at night, found missing toys, and so much more because she wanted to. She had a desire to love and serve and express her devotion to her family. She wasn't bitter about her role. She embraced it. She knew where she was put, she had been placed. Placed with such thought and care.

She loved her neighbors. Dinners when someone was sick. Dog sitting. She asked what she could do for them, and she followed through. She loved the tired and rude waitress through her patience. She understood. She loved the man who cut in line on Christmas Eve. She accepted his rushed and agitated feelings. She loved the liar, the thief, and the fool.

Extraordinary. Vibrant. Passionate.

runaway

If you were going leave your home forever, for whatever reason, would you leave a letter? Or maybe a video? Or something that would explain why you were running away. Maybe you aren't necessarily running away from anything or anyone, you could just be leaving.

Who would you leave your letter for? Probably someone you love or care deeply for. Probably someone you think would understand your situation. Of course if you were really running away you'd probably think no one could understand. Would you leave your last words for your sister, brother, mom, or dad? Maybe a best friend. There could be people that you wouldn't want to see your letter. Maybe you care about them so much you don't want to think of their sadness at your leaving. So would you keep it a secret? Would you ask the receiver of the letter to never show anyone? Or maybe just a few people. You could want everyone to know. Ask to have your note published in the newspaper or something.

What would you write? Maybe some of your deepest secrets, or apologies for things you did in the past. Would you leave directions for anything? Or requests like "take care of my dog" or "please give Kayla back her pink shirt; she probably misses it." Would you actually say goodbye? Would you leave some parting phrase, or just sign your name? Would you tell a story? Something funny that happened, or something you'll always remember about the person who reads your runaway letter. Or maybe you'd say you don't want to remember.

Where would you leave this note? In your room? Possibly on your desk or bed. Maybe you'd hide it so only the right person could find it. Or you could hide it so no one could find it. would you mail it somewhere, or personally hand it to the receiver. Tell them not to open it until Tuesday or something like that. Then you'd be gone.

What would you take with you? Money, food, water - the essentials. But besides that stuff. Maybe a small gift from someone. Like a necklace from a special someone. Or a picture of your family, friends, or pet. Maybe you'd take your most prized possession. Whatever it might be. Or would you be satisfied with just memories and thoughts? Would you even want to take those if you had the choice? Would you try your hardest to forget everything? And would you succeed?

As you contemplated all these things and tried to think of the best way to put it on paper, would you cry? Would you be proud of yourself? Would you truly be ready to leave everything you know? Would the paper your sister or brother or mom or dad or best friend picked up be wrinkled and would the ink be smudged? How many drafts would be in your trashcan? How many times would you erase the wobbly pencil lines? Or maybe you'd be steadfast in your decision. Strong and dry-eyed. You'd have nothing to miss or worry about anymore. This would be your leap of freedom. And maybe you'd realize once you really had nowhere to go that you were falsely confident. And maybe you'd really be fine, because maybe the place you were leaving really wasn't healthy for you anyway. So you know leaving is best.

But if you sat down and attempted to write your runaway letter, could you do it? Could you really just leave? Wouldn't you miss someone, just one person? And when you thought of why you wanted to leave, would it be for a good reason? It could be. If you were leaving behind a corrupted situation. But maybe you were only leaving because you thought you could, or because you felt like it. If that was the case would you do it?

I imagine it would take quite a bit of time to decide.