"You Shall Not Covet Your Neighbors Goods": Humility and Renouncing Avarice

There was once a time in my life that I wanted to have blonde hair more than anything. I would look with envy upon my sister Katie's soft, thick, and honey flowing light blonde locks. The sun appeared to reflect right off of her head. Beautiful to look at, and to touch. When my mother would curl our hair before mass on Sundays, her hair seemed more bouncy than my own. I even used to grow green when my father would sing "Sister Golden Hair Surprise" to her.
"Why can't there be a sister brunette hair surprise?" I would think to myself.
Brown hair even sounded awkward to me.
I used to play with all the blonde Barbie dolls, and stick Katie with the brunettes. She did not mind though, because it turns out that she used to desire my chocolate textured hair. She said it seemed smooth and calming.
We all want things simply because we do not have them.
Last Sunday, my church priest spoke about an observance made between three babies all in the same room. He explained that if a person were to place a toy between the three infants, then there would be no attention paid towards the toy until one of the infants picked it up. Suddenly the other two have to play with the toy clutched in the first baby's hands.
We often covet what we do not have, not because we necessarily want those things, but rather because another person has them. It is hard to remind ourselves that many things or characteristics that we ourselves hold may also be sought after by another. It is also difficult to remind ourselves to be humble with what we do have. Perhaps it is also imperative to encourage one's neighbor to refrain from the act of coveting by keeping things more personally cherished instead of divulging them publicly. After all, a gentleman does not speak of himself unless he is first prompted by another to do so. To me, being humble with one's own goods is as equally fundamental to a person's soul as forgoing jealous and avaricious thoughts.
I chose to use my sister and I as an example with our youthful hair desires to show that covetous feelings can be rooted within the most seemingly insignificant cases. Now granted my sister was not at fault for my silly childhood jealousy. She by no means flaunted her hair around, but by us emphasizing to each other our own beauty, we subconsciously assisted one another in appreciating what we have.
I encourage people to refrain from desires solely for the purpose of personal gain. Celebrate small things, and do not hold back in congratulating others. Over time our gifts will begin to flourish and multiply, but we must first give thanks for our small blessings; like chocolate smooth hair.
If you are struggling with jealousy of another or keeping a mortified heart, look to the commandments: "You shall not covet your neighbor's goods."

^^Honey golden, and chocolate brown <3

The Grass is Always "Grayer"

My oldest brother Paul called me the other day, and he began to ask me about where I was that made me the "bestest happy". Upon hearing my answer he began to express an interest in moving to Indiana.
"Paul have you ever been to Indiana?"
"No."
"What appeals to you about it?"
"Well it's just a most randomest state that could bring me happiness."
Immediately I realize what is really going on. Paul has called a few of his friends to invite them over to hang out, and they either did not answer or they were busy doing something else. In Paul's mind, he associates this as his friends no longer like him. He then begins to fantasize about other places where he could live that may offer him more friends. He thinks our small hometown fails to offer him enough people to hang out with, and he wants to shake the dust of that town off his feet.
"Are you not happy at home Paul?"
"Well I just about heard of this advice once from my teacher and...uhh...is the grass really greener or grayer on the other side? Or whichever of those makes the mostest sense?"
I cannot help but chuckle to myself. Honestly both could be true.
"Well Paul sometimes when we are unhappy, we think that leaving where we are can fix everything for us. But you have to keep in mind that there are good and bad things about any place you might live in. You might not like being at home all the time, but you like your jujitsu class, and hiking in the mountains, and riding your mountain bike without cars being around, and all your friends that you have there."
"Yeeeeaahhh."
"I really like where I live, but sometimes I get lonesome for mom and dad. And I miss you, Katie, and Beth, but that doesn't mean I should come back home right now. I'm exactly where I am supposed to be right now, and so are you. Ya know?"
"Yeah I was just about thinking that."
"Are you upset right now?"
"Well none of my buddies picked up the phone, and they don't want to hang out with me only whenever I most want them to. And I think I lost the happy. Do you have enough friends to keep you happy?"
"Yeah I have a lot of really good friends at my school, but I still get lonely sometimes like you are right now. Sometimes my friends are busy, or I am busy and we can't hang out. But that doesn't mean we stop being friends or have lost our happiness. It just means we can have even more fun when we see each other again."
"Mmmhmmm." Paul hums this very dramatically telling me he understands.
"And I miss you a lot too Paul. I think you're one of my best friends, and we are still friends even though I am your sister."
"Yeah. I miss you too."
"If you are ever lonely you can always call me."
"Okay. Thank you Danika."
"Did I make you feel better by saying that? Or did it annoy you?"
"No I feel sorta more happier now."
I smile, "Well good."
"Well that's just about all I wanted to talk about right now, so I'll talk to you later."
"Okay Paul, talk to you soon."
"Okay bye." He stammers

Paul is rarely affectionate towards me, because he thinks it's weird since I am his younger sister, so hearing him tell me that he missed me nearly made me tear up. After getting off the phone with Paul I thought about what he said; "I think I lost the happy." This simple phrase is closely related to what many people feel everyday. It's difficult for many to sit down, hear nothing, be still, and be by themselves. We feel as though we are missing out if we are not in constant communication with other people. We subconsciously think to ourselves, "Do I not have any friends?", "Do I not have a life?", "Maybe somewhere new would be better for me." It's hard to be alone sometimes. This is not an exclusive feeling to my brother with Autism.
When we feel like this we must remember that perhaps the grass is greener on the other side, yes. But it's also "grayer". Perhaps where we are does not seem to offer us anything at the moment, but at some point we were as happy there as we could be anywhere else.
It is good to spend time alone. We need that time to pray, reflect, collect our thoughts, and often find clarity in various aspects within our lives. Lucidity is a gift of being alone. Many of the most influential and life changing moments can occur during our personal alone time. Psalm 46:10 tells us, "Be still and know that I am God." This verse reminds us that we are in fact never alone, and it is good to keep our hearts and minds open to that, and to not confuse our loneliness with sorrow. By being alone we can seek a life of simplicity rather than multiplicity.

My handsome brother Paul and his dog Shep.

How to Find Your Soulmate Without Losing Your Soul

I recently read a book written by a husband and wife whose names are Jason and Crystalina Evert. The book is entitled, "How to Find Your Soulmate Without Losing Your Soul." Do not be fooled by this cheesy title. Does the title not appeal to you more than a typical magazine cover? ("How to Impress Your Dream Man this Valentine's Day" or "What A Guy Really Wants From You"). Women probably do not analyze these titles upon reading their Vogue or Cosmopolitan articles. These titles highlight only the "needs" of men, and what women could "do better" as far as pleasing them. Jason and Crystalina's book emphasizes that what a woman really needs to do for a man is hold him to a standard. This standard is all about the glorification of a woman's purity and ability to love a man through God. This purity can be original or newly found. In other words, it is never too late to align your heart with God's will, and practice chastity.

This book offers clarity on several aspects of love, chastity, forgiveness, and hope. You will not find bullet points of how a woman can improve for a man. A woman's eyes can be opened to the idea that she does not need to fix herself for a man, but rather glorify and treasure the precious gifts that her Father has given her. Look to the gospel for assistance here with the words of Matthew, "Do not give what is holy to dogs, or throw your pearls before swine, lest they trample them underfoot, and turn and tear you to pieces. Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you" (Matthew 7: 6-7). A woman and her soul is divine, because she was composed by He who is divine. I think that that is what this book is all about.

I absolutely loved this couple's book, and I have already lent it to a close girlfriend of mine. Every woman needs to read this book, and it would certainly not hurt a man to read it. I have included below a few quotes from their writings that I enjoyed.

"Your body is capable of expressing the love of the Blessed Trinity. This is quite a calling. But you're worthy of nothing less."

"The fact remains that it's counterproductive to dress in a provocative way while expecting reverent behavior from men."

"But if you hope to find real love, look for a guy who has morals, not one who simply tolerates them."

"Stay true to your standards, because it is far better to be disappointed in men than to be disappointed in yourself."

Read this book! Pass it on to your daughters, best friends, nieces, youth group members, etc. With all of the trash that is published, our society would do well to let our eyes, hearts, and minds be saturated in not only beautiful words, but beautiful and true messages as well. 

A soulmate is not a fantasy. A soulmate is a person who God has designed specifically and especially for another. After all, God is the true divine author of marriage.

P.S. All of the pictures included within this blog are of beautiful marriages between close friends whom I know and love. May God continue to bless and flourish your marriages with love and mercy: Mom and Dad, Chad and Erin, Dave and Michele, Kerri and Joe, and Kristine and Scott. <3

"It Is Finished" Poem

Throughout this spring semester, my World Literature class has focused a lot of our readings on poems that carry Biblical or religious themes within them. These readings include "Death Be Not Proud", "The Dream of the Rood", "Easter Wings" etc. I wrote a religious poem a little over a month ago, and by studying these famous poems, I have become inspired to share it with you all.

This poem was inspired by a painting of Christ, artfully depicted by child prodigy artist known as Akiane Kramarik. This girl is absolutely beautiful, and her paintings are beyond alluring. I have shared a photo of the painting I chose to write about. Akiane painted this at the young age of nine.
I hope you all enjoy her painting, and my poem about it.

“It Is Finished ”

Hands calloused

I reach to you Father.

To hold

my children above the writhing earth.

To hoist

myself with all creations upon a rood.

I look through the abyss

which causes them to blunder.

I feel blood spill from my pores.

They sleep while I stand in this garden voicing desperate pleas.

I beg for strength.

Veins bulge on the backs of my hands

as I raise them to gates of pure pearl.

I do not condemn

the whips they lash across my back.

The keys of sin

and death under my control.

These leeches and parasites of sin can no longer sidle within their souls, because

I say to you Father

your will has been fulfilled. 

We Are the Prolife Generation

This past week, I traveled with close to fifty  fellow classmates of mine to Washington DC to participate in the forty second annual March For Life. We drove twelve hours through the middle of Tuesday night, and arrived around nine in the morning to a snow speckled and frigid aired capital.

1/21/15
We begin our journey at the Holocaust Museum. I feel my insides tighten as I step into an elevator with my fellow classmates. A small television screen begins to play an introduction video giving us glimpses of the horrors we are about to see inside the museum when the elevator reaches the top. As the elevator doors part, we step out into a dimly lit room followed by several hallways. Walls are lined with black and white photographs and historical objects that depict the endless terrors that came as a result of the Third Reich.
As I walk through the museum, I read facts about events, years, and statistics about death and torture. As I round a corner, my nose is suddenly filled with a musty, old, and burnt smell; I have walked into a hallway lined with thousands of shoes. They lie in blackened heaps paired with a quote from Edward R. Murrow saying, "One shoe, two shoes, a dozen shoes, yes. But how can you describe several thousand shoes?" I see before me 4,000 shoes that had been discovered by Soviet troops during the liberation of the camps Auschwitz and Majdanek. The shoes were confiscated, along with eyeglasses, clothing, hair and toothbrushes in the killing centers of the camps from the victims. They were found in massive mounds with few prisoners who were still living. I cannot ignore the smell radiating from the shoes. It has been several decades, and the aroma is still potent enough to haunt my senses.
I walk into another room to find a white model of the Auschwitz crematorium; a four chambered construction disguised as shower rooms where the victims were put to death by gas. This method of killing was used to reduce more than 1,000 victims to ashes a day. My stomach churns as my eyes soak up a glimpse of this terror. naked figures of women, men, and children are before me standing below shower heads. I imagine the screams escaping the open mouths of those whom the figures are representing, only to be ignored.
All throughout the museum are signs telling visitors that these terrors can never happen again.

1/22/15
I am in the middle of the March for Life now. I am walking alongside hundreds of thousands of men and women proclaiming the right to life. Many people hold signs and banners that state phrases such as, "We Are the Prolife Generation", "Every Life Matters", and "Life Counts". We are marching, because we refuse to ignore the unheard voices of the third of our generation we have already lost to abortion. I find myself comparing these voices to the ones depicted by the Holocaust museum yesterday. These victims were ignored decades ago, and now we proclaim the voices through writings exhibits, and teachings. Why are we ignoring the innocent voices of the unborn now?
We continue to walk, and eventually approach a large screen set up in the street displaying gruesome images of clearly alive and developing children being extracted from their mother's wombs during abortions. I feel sick. I feel like my heart is being punched repeatedly and relentlessly. It is as though my heart does not have enough time to bleed before the next blow is delivered. The images of death are endless. I think back to the hallway of shoes; the smell is seared into my memory. The images of the children are also burned into my brain. I think to myself, How can we ignore obvious life? 
I turn to one of my girlfriends after the march is over and say, "Can you imagine what will happen when they finally outlaw abortion?"
"Yeah, and we look at abortion like we look at the Holocaust now?"
"Yeah! I wonder if there will be an abortion museum one day schools will visit."
I find myself thinking about the words "Never Again" plastered all over the Holocaust Museum. Will these words be written about abortion one day? Will the sickness one day be discovered just like the terrors of the Nazi party were?
We march, because remaining quiet results in the loss of innocence. We cannot ignore what has happened to over a third of our generation. Mindless killing. We need to start proclaiming "Never Again!" to preserve the hearts and souls not only of the unborn children, but of their mothers and fathers as well. Abortion is the crematoria, and it is time to put out the fire.

I would like to dedicate this blog to my brothers and sisters who have been lost to abortion. I would also like to dedicate this post to the mothers and fathers impacted by abortion. Let your hearts be opened and cleansed of this tragedy.

"Any country that accepts abortion is not teaching its people to love, but to use any violence to get what they want."
-Mother Teresa

Here are the pictures we need to see of children and mothers; where they are glorified.

What Do You Like Most About Yourself?

I have made it a habit to write a daily journal entry. Sometimes my journals are very generic, and only mention a few highs and lows of my day. Other times my journals are extensively long and full of details and emotions. Sometimes I will find myself writing so quickly, that I don't realize what I am writing, or if it even makes sense. I write down everything that pops into my head. I notice that I do this after going back to old journal entries and rereading them.

Not too long ago, I had one of those days where I wrote just to write. I was not writing inspired events or details. I was writing raw thoughts. I remember sitting upstairs at my sister's desk, and I had previously given my granny her morning medicine. I remember needing a compliment, but the only way I would be satisfied would be if the compliment came from myself. Typically I try hard to carry my heart with humility. I hold great admiration for people who are humble. But there are some days where you have to tell yourself that you're fantastic. That is exactly what I did in my journal that day; in the worst handwriting ever, and with no title or introduction, I wrote down a list of ten things I like about myself. I scribbled down the first ten things that popped into my head, without putting analysis or effort into the ten details. 

Here is my list:

1. I am not like other girls.

2.Everything that I care about, I care for with my whole heart.

3. I have a pure soul that only one person will have the opportunity to have it shared with through God. 

4. I am beautiful; and I will have beautiful children.

5. I work hard to achieve any goal I develop for myself.

6. I am blessed with an intelligent mind from The Ultimate intelligent mind of our universe. 

7. I desire a life of virtue and humility; I will have it.

8. I am athletic, and nothing will ever hold me back physically.

9. I have a chance to experience endless cultures, places, foods, people, and love.

10. I have two beautiful families that would do anything in the world for me and to see me smile; my earthly family with three brothers and two sisters, and my heavenly and divine family with the Sacred heart of Jesus and the Immaculate heart of Mary. 

This is exactly how I wrote the list. Some may not make sense. Others are probably not grammatically correct. Still others sound highly conceited, but I love these things about myself. It is so cheesy what I did. Naturally, I encourage anyone who reads this to do it too. Write down ten things you love most about yourself. 

My sister Katie and I made lists for each other as well, and hearing the real reasons why my best friend thinks so highly of me was somewhat astonishing. So write a list for your best friend too. You may be surprised that some of your most prized characteristics are waiting to be unveiled by you. 

Cheers,

D

What Was Your Favorite Thing to Imagine as a Child?

As a child, my favorite thing to imagine was myself dancing onstage. I can remember wanting more than anything to be on Radio City in New York with the Rockettes. I used to flip through the pages of  "Young Dancer" magazines and think to myself how happy they all seemed in their perfect kick line. I wanted to be one of those girls. My sister Katie and I actually composed an entire lifestyle plan for when we became professional dancers; we had a highly healthy meal plan, a budget drawn out, and the type of apartment that would best fit the needs of two aspiring dancers. I wish I still had the little spiral notebook in which we had written all of this down. I am sure a budget in the minds of an eight and a ten year old was not realistically sustainable.
There was one day during our elaborate planning when I said to Katie,
"Since desserts are expensive usually, let's limit ourselves to one dessert a week." I had based this logic off of going out to eat with my parents, and being rejected for my request for dessert in order to "save money".
Katie responded with logic of her own saying, "Um, I'm not having only one dessert a week. I can afford to have more than one dessert a week."
Obviously our priorities were straight.
But we wanted it! As children, people seemed to be much more passionate about what they wanted to become when they grew up.
My family and I used to listen to a lot of music by the band "Third Day", and I used to wish that their lead singer would somehow find out about Katie and I dancing. In my fantasies, he would ask us to perform in concert with their band as their dancers. Christian bands do not typically have dancers. In reality, usually the only artists that would perform with dancers were hip hop or pop artists. For some reason in my mind at the time, I thought ballet flowed beautifully with the music of "Third Day".
To me, dancing was a creative way of working. I loved picturing myself in high-heeled tap shoes and a short frilly red skirt with golden threading. I would envision my arms linked with those of beautiful women, kicking my legs in unison with them.
I stopped dancing after beginning high school. I became more involved in school athletics such as swimming, cross country, track, and cheer leading. It is funny how something that used to consume hours of my time, physical labor, and thoughts is hardly more than a hobby to me now. Dancing is no longer the most dominant aspect of my life, but it did teach me skills and characteristics that I try to carry on today; grace, patience, humility, discipline coordination, rhythm, poise, and passion. Although Katie and I have very different plans for our futures now in comparison to those of the afternoons we convinced ourselves we would perform dance on a professional level,  I still enjoy entertaining my imagination through dance.

Precious Pearls

The dearest gift I have ever received is my purity ring. It is paired with my most prized possession; my purity. I remember asking for my ring. My mom was shopping online for a ring of her own. It was May, a month before my fifteenth birthday, and my dad had told my mom to pick out a pearl ring for herself as a mother's day present. My parents had begun to ask me what I wanted for my upcoming birthday around that time, and as always I had no idea what to ask for. I remember peering over my mom's shoulder at the lap top screen that afternoon however, and seeing a simple silver band with a pure white pearl.
"Mom."
"Yes, honey?"
"That's what I want for my birthday as a purity ring."
"Well, okay!"
Upon viewing the ring, my mind immediately went to the parable of the pearl in the gospel of Matthew, or the pearl of great price. This parable teaches, "Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for fine pearls. When he finds a pearl of great price, he goes and sells all that he has and buys it"(Mt. 13:45-46). What a beautiful metaphor; my purity to me is the pearl of great price. My ring represents this purity.
The ironic thing is that the ring I have now is not the original ring I received on my birthday. I currently wear the third ring. A year after I was given the first ring, I lost it while surfing in the ocean during spring break. The same exact thing happened the following spring break. At least the pearls went back to the ocean. I remember being afraid that my dad would be upset with me for being careless with my ring. Instead, my dad said, "At least it was your ring and not your purity." My ring now has a modest pearl embedded in a silver braided band. I treasure it because of what it represents. My younger sister Katherine received her own pearl ring two years after I did for her fifteenth birthday, and this past Christmas, my youngest sister Bethany (Baby Bee) was given her own.
My sisters and I wear our rings on our left ring fingers. I have been told that this is the only finger with an artery directly connected to the heart.

To my younger sisters Katherine and Bethany:


We all three now wear our own purity rings. The rings may not be the most beautiful materials you own, but they do represent something alluring and precious that you possess. I have often said that precious is often times an overused word. If people truly knew the meaning of precious, they would not use it to describe someone's new haircut. Precious describes somthing of great value; not to be wasted or treated carelessly. Your pure hearts are indeed wondrously precious. Treat them with care, and you will be treated with care. I am exceedingly proud of both of you.

Love,
D

Post Holiday Funk

Those who know me personally know that I have an autistic older brother. My parent's first born out of six. Those who know Paul are aware that he excels significantly in certain areas such as running. Paul's communication skills however are obviously less developed than most twenty four year old guys.
Many of you are probably experiencing a post holiday letdown; a period of time after all the presents have been opened, cookies and gingerbread houses have been eaten, and pine needles are beginning to pile up below your trees. Christmas came and went just like any other day. Quick. There is only a twenty four hour window for December 25, just like there is for May 21st, November 22nd, or April 5th. Naturally we all desire a longer Christmas. Why would we not? We have all this time we spend preparing for a blip in our year, then we have to get back to our daily routines. Of course we become sad after Christmas experiences and memories come to an end. For my autistic brother, this is a bit more extreme for him, and the decline in excitement is harder to cope with.
My mom has told me before that there had been one Christmas where Paul did not speak a word for the three days following. Mom has recalled the memory in her own writing, and entitled it "The Three Days of Silence." How terrifying for my parents. I honestly think that silence would be much more difficult to witness than a tantrum. My parents, at the time, must have been lost on what they would do if Paul had never spoken again. On the third day however, Paul came back to life; he looked at my parents instead of past them.
I watched Paul this past Christmas morning as a twenty four year old, just as excited for Christmas as ever. He woke up at four in the morning, and began to tear at the corners of his presents trying to peer at what was contained inside. He flapped his hands against his knees with anticipation, while waiting for my parents to emerge from their room. Paul had all of his presents opened and carried to his room before I had consumed my morning coffee. Afterwards, he immediately slipped on his new running pants, and went on a nine mile long run; Paul's way of acknowledging that there is life after Christmas.
I think it's so funny how upset we allow ourselves to become after the tree has nothing left underneath it. Although Paul's social skills are viewed as less than adequate, he is highly intelligent, and I saw this through his behavior Thursday morning.
I would like to encourage those reading this to look to Paul as an example. Avoid the three days of silence and post holiday funk. Our hearts should be re-nourished during this time following Christmas. We should feel on fire with excitement for this coming year. Do not dwell on the fact that Christmas time is closing, but find your own way to keep your spirits high for the next twelve months to come. One thing I have learned is that time keeps passing whether we chose to enjoy it or not. Though your holiday pick-me-up may not be a nine mile run like Paul's, he definitely has the right idea.
Merry Christmas,
D

Book Review for "Let it Snow"

During my finals week this past semester, I read a book entitled, "Let it Snow" written by John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Lauren Myracle. My roommate thought I was crazy for pleasure reading during the most stressful week of the year as far as school goes. However, I found it highly relaxing to come home from the library and take y mind off of lava viscosity, psychoanalytic theory within literature, and identification of rock types, by reading this fun holiday page turner with a pot of coffee.
There are three separate holiday romances within this New York Times best-seller. The stories tie in together nicely at the closing of the book. Each author used comedic writing to build a story around an ill-timed blizzard that occurred on Christmas eve. Characters developed by Green, Johnson, and Myracle are described as seniors in high school. I think that's why I enjoyed the book; I was able to relate the characters to my own younger sister who is a senior herself. I felt as though I were being told a story by my sister. Similar to Katie, each character offered quirky personalities. I thought each author did a great job developing characters that appealed to readers who may be in their teen years.
The three stories are entitled, "The Jubilee Express", "A Cheertastic Christmas Miracle", and "The Patron Saint of Pigs". First of all, just take a grasp of each title; is your interest not captured already? Maureen Johnson sets the stage with a story of a girl named Jubilee, whose plans to spend Christmas with her boyfriend become twisted, and she ends up on a train that becomes trapped in a blizzard. She must find refuge with a random family, and a son who alters her entire outlook on senior year, her boyfriend, and her family. Johnson highlights the importance of family, especially around the holidays. Jubilee recognizes the difference between romantic love and the romantic idea of love. I related with Jubilee's spunk and sass, and I commend Maureen Johnson on setting the stage for the rest of the book.
The body of a story is sometimes the hardest part to develop, but John Green fulfilled his roll through writing, "A Cheertastic Christmas Miracle" as the second piece of the book. Green portrays a friendship that develops into an unexpected romance during a journey through a blizzard to a Waffle House in quest for cheerleaders. I have always heard that the best relationships stem from strong friendships. Green exemplifies this idea, and shows that some people are willing to endure frostbite for a chance with someone they care about, and cheesy hash browns.
Lauren Myracle wraps up the book with, "The Patron Saint of Pigs". Myracle reveals the importance of selflessness in love. Myracle not only focuses on romantic love, but also shows how paramount selflessness is between friends as well. If you all decide to read this book for yourselves, you will understand what I mean when I say that a teacup pig could prove handy while mending friendships. Myracle brings earlier characters created by Green and Johnson into the end of her story.
If you are looking for a quick and relaxing read this holiday season, I recommend trying "Let it Snow" out. Sometimes we need cheesy love stories, and I believe very strongly that time spent reading is never wasted. I think this book could also make an excellent gift for any teenager to enjoy this season. I enjoyed reading about the unexpected love, inside jokes, unfortunate timing of a storm, and familiarity of Christmas, and I
became excited about what my own Christmas season will bring.

Merry Christmas, and happy reading!
D

For Dad

I know that this blog post is a little bit early, but in honor of my dad's 50TH BIRTHDAY, I decided to write him a poem. This blog post isn't long, but I hope you enjoy this dad.

Gathering of Gifts

You give me soft chords of acoustic guitar strumming.

You give me a teddy bear with a gold trimmed uniform from Germany.

You give me animated voices of Aslan, Mr. Tumnus, Gandalf, and Sam Wise.

You give me stiff whiskers grazing over soft cheeks.

You give me miniature men coated in frosting laid on a Santa plate.

You give me a smoking gas grill overlooking misty mountains.

You give me chlorine saturated hair.

You give me mud caked sweaty sneakers.

You give me a five-speed lacking power steering.

You give me popping bacon over a glowing eye.

You give me white leather binding with thin pages of ancient print concealed.

You give me wooden beads linked together with tan twine rope.

You give me dances on a hard wood kitchen floor to Chicago.

You give me a shore, breaking and bubbling at dawn.

You give me dew dripping from the pines of spruce.

You give me an open mouthed grin.

You give me batting curled eyelashes.

You give me folded hands resting on an oak kneeler.

You give me a desire for daughters of my own. 

I love you dad. Happy Birthday<3

Halloween Growing Up

While growing up, Halloween for me was the holiday that took the back burner in comparison to others like Christmas and Thanksgiving. As a child, I would dress up with my siblings, and march around our town square heaving plastic grocery bags filled with Dots, Tootsie Pops, Reeses, and off-brand hard candy concealed in colorful plastic wrappers. Our family never invested in any store bought costumes. I attended a ballet school as a little girl with my sisters, so most of my costumes were recycled from old dance recitals. My brothers would typically wear their football pads and cleats. It wasn't that we were lacking creativity as kids, we just associated Halloween solely with gathering as much candy as possible. My family was known as "healthy", so candy was not usually stocked behind our pantry doors next to the granola bars, brown rice, and bananas. We would run around the square several times before the vendors of each booth began to notice their repetitive, candy fiend, visitors. I'm not sure why, but it became a tradition for my siblings and me to spill the contents of our bags onto the living room carpet as soon as we arrived back home from trick-or-treating, and sort the candy. We would gather all the lollipops into one pile, the chocolate in another, and the Dubble Bubble gum was the most prized pile. It was as if we were examining our loot. Candy was and is the best part about Halloween. I love what comedian Jim Gaffigan says about Halloween,  "As a kid Halloween was amazing. You'd dress up like a super hero, bang on your neighbors door, and they give you candy. I do that today and my neighbor wants me arrested." Candy was the only reason I even acknowledged Halloween's existence as a kid.
I also never understood the scary aspect of Halloween. Frankly, I found it utterly repulsive to see my friends with wounds made out of ketchup and dollar store face paint. I saw no point in dressing oneself up as a zombie cheerleader. or a grim reaper other than to make everyone around them uncomfortable. I cannot carry a conversation with someone who has a plastic knife glued to look like it is coming out of the side of their head. I find no enjoyment in being scared, or scaring other people.
I can recall a few years ago, attending a Halloween party with members of my cross country team. Everyone dressed up as a famous person: Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, Miley Cryus, Katy Perry. My sister Katie was Reese Witherspoon, and was sporting a pink knee-length pencil skirt, with heels, and a flowing pink blouse. I went as Roselyn Sanchez from the movie "Rush Hour". In honor of it being Halloween, my friends decided to watch a scary movie. People who know me are aware that I am a baby when it comes to scary movies. I can watch them, but I will be freaked out for days following. My sister is the same way; we can't sleep in a room alone after watching one. Needless to say, we were not too excited about the whole scary movie idea.
Everyone decided on "The Wrong Turn". Apparently that movie isn't scary in comparison to others, but I still hated it. I remember sitting in the basement floor of my teammate's house for ten minutes before calling it quits with the movie. I remember looking around, and noticing that my sister had left the room. I rose and found her sitting on my friend's bed in the next room over with tears in her eyes. I asked her what was wrong, and she replied, "I'm too scared to watch it, and I feel like a baby."

"No! I don't want to watch it either! We can just stay in here."

So we did. We spent the rest of the night watching "My Girl" by ourselves. We ate Pixie Stix, drank Dr. Pepper, and avoided mental discomfort! I'll never forget that night. No it isn't a paramount memory to me as a person, but it's one of my favorites. I don't enjoy memories of Halloween because of how scary the haunted house I attended was, or how detailed the costumes were. Halloween is just another excuse for me to spend time with my family and eat unhealthy foods.

My Princess

Katie is a vision standing on the green turf football field in her floor length deep blue dress. Her fare skin glows against the dark hue. Her hair has been curled into tight golden ringlets that bounce around her shoulders as she walks. She has pinned the front back on either side to reveal her shining smile and sparkling blue eyes. She seems to float with every move she makes. Katie has been chosen by her senior class to represent her high school as a member of the homecoming court. She is a royal beauty.
This is the first time since Christmas, over half a year ago, that my whole family has been able to gather together at once. We all have traveled home from college and new jobs to celebrate Katie and her continuing success. My family and I sit among the bleachers gazing down at her standing with my dad, her arm laced in his; she is beaming. A woman's voice over the loud speaker of the stadium is reading aloud the answers to a questionnaire that Katie has previously filled out. The questions discuss where she plans to go to college, what she would have done differently in her high school career, and who the most inspirational person  in her life is.
My eyes begin to fill as I hear the answer she has written down for this last question. "The most inspirational person in Katie's life is her sister Danika. Katie says that when thinking of Danika she knows that 'If I kick a balloon to you, I know that you will not let that balloon touch the ground. And call me crazy, but I think that's important." What an odd and meaningful compliment. These words take me back through an album of memories. Memories involving Katie and I at our first hip hop class together, singing "The Girls of Rock and Roll" in the grass of our front yard, sipping coffee on our back deck in the morning as mist begins to rise from the mountains in front of us, our trip to Disney World. I recall hearing Katie perform her first singing solo, the two of us playing the roles of cards together in an "Alice and Wonderland" play, spending countless hours swimming, singing as loud as we possibly could at a Journey concert.
These memories will remain forever in my heart and mind. There is not a day that goes by where I don't thank God for giving me a best friend for a sister. There have been several times where Katie and I have been asked questions wondering how we could be friends since we are sisters. Those questions have never made sense to me. As far back into my memories as I can reach, I remember thinking of Katie and feeling nothing but admiration for her.
As I gaze down at her from my stadium seat, we make eye contact and I wave at her. She returns my wave and aims her shining smile towards me. She is a picture of elegance and grace. The woman's voice reads all of the academic honors and athletic accomplishments gained by Katie, and I hope more than anything that she knows that she also serves as an inspiration for me. I could not ask for a more blessed relationship with my sister.

I love you Katie.

Lifeguard for a Swimmer

I have always considered myself a strong swimmer. Water has never been something that I fear. What is scary about water are the things inside of it; fish, pollution, piers, rocks, other people. Water isn't the enemy, its occupants are.
On Tuesday, after my eight o'clock class had been released, I received a text from my brother Mark saying "wassup". Mark is older than me, but we could easily pass as twins to people who don't know us. Our apartments are right next door to each other, so it is in a way a little one story house separated by a wall. Needless to say, I took this text as code word for, "Hey I'm home. Let's do something." I replied, "Not much. Just eatin some cereal. you?" (We text like we are insanely bored with each other haha but texting rules are different for siblings. If that makes sense). Not even five seconds later, I hear my door open, and in rolls mark.

"What time is your next class?"
"Two."
"You wanna go surfing?"
"Yes!"

It was raining, and the wind whipped the drops against us, stinging our faces. The waves were extremely heavy and coming from several directions that day. We pulled up in Mark's truck listening to Rage Against the Machine and Motley Crue. Mark whips his long brown hair back and forth to the music before looking over at me with a massive, open-mouthed smile. We were so stoked to get to the beach, and after checking out the surf from the parking lot overlooking the sand dunes, I could tell Mark felt obliged to tell me that if it became too much for me, I didn't have to go out. Did he really think I was about to sit in the sand and observe what I could be doing? Ha. NO.

The water looked gray, and was coated in a layer of white foam. The stirred up sand and shells from the shore prevented our ability to see through to the bottom. The only other person within sight of us is the beach patrolman sitting in his truck. Perfect, now I can wipe out and fall as much as I need to without unwanted witnesses. We walked down the beach and did jumping jacks, laughing at each other in an effort to warm up before wrapping our leashes around our ankles and plunging into the water. I imagine it would have been comical to watch us doing this.

The water relieved our shivering skin from the icy rain-filled air. Not a single hole appeared in the sky over our heads to let even a sliver of sunlight to seep down into our pores. The first paddle session out against the waves went surprisingly smooth. I paddled around for a while, and caught one wave (By caught, I mean I stood up for around 2.5 seconds tops before falling). Feeling encouraged, I paddled out again. The drift seemed to have sped up significantly, and the sets were approaching without much space or time between them. I focused on grabbing hand fulls of water and pushing them behind me, all I was concerned about was getting back out to the lineup.

Before I knew it, I was once again in the middle of the ocean sitting on my board. I had made it through another paddling against the choppy waters, but I also realized that I was dangerously close the pier. The same pier I had seen several large fish and jellies lurking underneath just a few days before while fishing. Not to mention a pier with massive cement pillars that would crush every bone in my body if a wave decided to smash me into them. The thing about the ocean is that it does what it wants, and you kind of just have to play the cards you're dealt. In short, I was scared. I was drifting straight into the pier faster than I could swim. I scan the shore and spot Mark running up the beach waving at me, and yelling for me to get out. I had not seen him since we first paddled out until then.

I tried to paddle toward the beach, but before I could reach the sand, a wave well over my head high, knocked me off my board and tossed me like a washing machine. I was held underwater longer than I would have liked. As a swimmer, I can hold my breath for extended amounts of time, but I would like it to be on my own terms where I know I will breath again as soon as I decide to.  It was the kind of thing where I couldn't tell if I was swimming toward the surface or toward the depths of the ocean. I chose the right direction, but as soon as I emerged, another wave crashed into my right ear leaving it ringing, and pulling my body back under. Wave after wave kept coming, relentlessly pounding me. I surfaced a final time and immediately cried out, "Mark help me!" Panic was approaching me. I saw Mark sprinting through the water to me from the beach. He reached me with wide salty eyes asking, "Are you okay? Are you okay?" He didn't hear me cry for him, but he knew. I immediately felt safe with him next to me.
I replied , "Yeah, I didn't realize how close to the pier I was."
"Get on your board, and I'll push you in." He swam through the water right next to me until I could stand again.  I refused to admit it out loud, but Mark knew I had been shaken up. We make it back to his truck with our boards through the wind and rain. He could tell it was time for coffee. He drove us to a local coffee shop off the beach, and bought us both large steaming house brews. We sat down on a plaid couch in the lounge area with bits of shell in our salty saturated hair, and a layer of sand brushed onto our skin. Our shoes were hardly on our feet with the backs bent under the bottoms of our heels. Apparently it is frowned upon to go into a public place without shoes or a shirt on. Mark talked to me soothingly, making sure I was okay. Did I look like I still needed to recover? Is that what it means if your body is shaking?
Sitting there talking to my brother as the rain ran down the window panes, I realized that half the reason I enjoy surfing is because of him. I get so excited when he invites me to go with him. Not solely because it is surfing, but because it is something in his life he wants me to be a part of. It takes me back to a picture of Mark and me as kids holding hands in a Walmart parking lot. Not much as changed. I am always going to need my big brother, and he very well may always end up holding my hand through everything we do, and that's okay. Mark was a lifeguard to me that day. Even swimmers need help through rough waters sometimes.

Mark is the man.