So today I went doorhanging (putting adds/coupons on people’s homes) in order to advertise for W.g. Grinders. Vince (the general manager) and I went. As much as it was uncomfortable to be out and about with him, I am blessed to have gotten a chance to be my independent self as well. We split up for a bit to better cover an area.

At first we went to a housing development. I felt bad walking across people’s lawns. I felt like I was infringing upon their space. I was unwelcome. Uninvited. But as the heat ate into my body and slowly dehydrated my mind, I began to feel less concerned about stepping on people’s brown, dead grass.

After an hour and a half of doorhanging out in the heat, Vince and I met back at the car and decided that we should look for apartment housing so that the walking distance would be drastically less.

I knew of a few, but wasn’t too familiar with apartments. Not in this area that’s for sure.

In the first apartment building that I entered, I smelled a smell that I haven’t smelled in a long while. It’s funny how all apartments seem to smell the same. I guess it’s the same stale, over-airconditioned, slightly smoke-induced, off-brand cleaner fuemed air.

Immediately I was blasted back to Sharon Park Lane. I remebered walking up the concrete flight of stairs up to Megan Apple’s apartment. My eleven year-old hand, running up the sticky banner. That same stale smell. Those same crusty walls. The same scratched doorknockers. And that tiny, smudged peephole that every avid apartment liver uses to help them distinguish the pizza guy from the last criminal who escaped jail. Odd though how we can easily decided, “friend or foe” by looking at the 3 cemtinmeter image through the peephole. None-the-less, the memories of finding Megan stuck once again watching her 2 wild nephews and her developmentally challenged 4 year old brother came to mind. The memories of small children without diapers running about a dark, dirty apartment flooded my thoughts. I smiled. It’s funny how I thought it was so cool to live in an apartment and yet at the same time, I couldn’t wait to leave.

I hung my fliers and went back outside.

We moved on to the next apartment development. It was a huge apartment zone. From the extreior it appeared to be more “upper class” than the apartments that I am used to. But much like all other things, the outside is never a true reflection of the inside. Vince and I split up, being as how there were so many, and I tackled a cluster of buildings and Vince took another cluster across the street.

Despite building upon the previous memories, these apartments brought a few new memories to mind. All of a sudden I was walking into the side door of a familiar place.

I stepped onto the same blue/gray thinning carpets. The off-colored walls attempted to hide years of dirt and grease. And yet I was disappointed when the first apartment on the left did not read “Q”. That’s right, I was thinking of the first time I used the front door of Kelly’s apartment. I remember thinking, “Woah! She really does live in an apartment.” Because to me, it had always been a house that we just entered from the back patio.

It’s odd how the word “house” never refers to the buildig with four walls that everyone else seems to be referring to. “House” to me means well…. wherever I’m living. House in California was a one-story duplex where we shared a wall with neighbors who had 2 pitbulls and a really cool little boy named Cody that I used to play with. House when we first moved here referred to our one-story well… house that we were renting from some man that I never met before. The house was changed to a two-story townhouse where Jes (my sister) and I shared a room. Then it became a two-story townhouse where Jes and I did not share a room and mom and dad got a room. Then it became a place off of ZigZag Road where my dad’s friend’s parents had lived, but wanted to have us watch while they were out of town for a year. That house, I remember, seemed to bring much relief to my mother. She would always say, “Oh, it’s so good to be in a house.” And the main thing that I remember about the place? It had a basement (like the COOLEST thing EVER!) and the trees would always drop a million leaves that my dad would have to rake up. And then house was defined as 8042 School Rd, which is America’s stereotypical definition of a house. It is owned by my parents. It is my mom’s little cottage of gardening joys and my dad’s foundation of accomplishment. It represents change, ownership, and years and years of hard work to bring a small family of four into a new world of oportunity. And then… “house” became a dorm room. And then an apartment (an advanced dormroom, since we’re still attached to campus and FIN AID pays the rent). I have lived in many houses and I am sure I will live in many more.

I came to one door. Immediately connected with it because outside of the house there lay three bikes, random “outside toy” pieces, a pair of dirty flip-flops, some broken pieces of who-knows-what, and various other things that had been taken outside and forgotten about. i remmeber mom yelling at me to “pick up your things” and “don’t take that outside” and “you must bring everything back in, someone could take it”. But this door had something that ours did not. In the middle there was an Air Force sticker. As I hung our coupons, I heard a mom talking to her son inside. She spoke over the world’s greatest babysitter, the TV, and various other children’s voices were heard in the distance. I can’t really recall what words she said because her tone spoke her broken only-parent exhaustion louder than her words.

Driving home from work, I din’t listen to the radio, which is odd for me. Instead, I wondered, what other places will I call “house”. Where will I go? Will it be a grass hutt? Will it be a Queens apartment, or a Colorado cottage? And then as if someone whispered it in my ear, it suddenly occurred to me; all of the houses that I saw today could have been classified into two categories; grateful and ungrateful. Now these are superficial categories that in no way describe the people within the households. But please stick with me on this tanget. Those houses and apartments that appeared grateful were neat, orderly, and well-kept. Whereas those that did not appear grateful were ascew, dirty, and chaotic. Now I could not find a place for the Air Force household and a few others that carried similar qualities. They appeared to desire order, but just be fighting a loosing battle against large quantities of demanding tasks.

But this thought evolved into something a bit more personal than mere observations.

I thought: The Lord has blessed me with everything that I have. So i should take care of it. I can grumble about how I don’t have what others have, or how I can’t afford to be where I’d like to be. But the fact still remains the same. The Lord gave me everything that I have from the earrings in my ears to the computer on the make-shift desk. Since everything happens for a reason, wasting His blessings should not be a task high on my to-do list.

I slowed down the car and became more mindful of my lead foot. The ord has given me this car, I should take care of it. I thought about the boxes in the basement. I thought about my chest of drawers that was handed down from a friend. I thought about my bunkbeds that I still have from third childhood. Those bunkbeds that I’ve de-bunked and rearranged in order to create a more “colege friendly” single bed. I laughed. It’s still my “ever so awesome” childhood bunkbeds. But that’s okay. God has given me that. It is His way of blessing me. And I take pride in that bed.

And I came to the conclusion as I pulled into the cracked driveway of 8042 School Rd,

Who I am is less me and more You, my God, every day.

Everything that I have, God, You have given me.

Everything is here for a reason and is Your blessing.

Thank You, God.


I will take better care of what You give me.





I love You.