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