(no subject)
"Me Sheet" from my college apps...aww
When I was two years old, I loved eating scrambled eggs for breakfast. One morning I burst into my parents bedroom, before sunrise, as usual, and proceeded to drag my mom out of bed. It was time for eggs. I ran out of their room, trusting that my mom would be right behind me. However, by the time she made it downstairs, I had already opened the refrigerator door and retrieved the last three eggs. I stood there, my small hands trembling from trying to hold all three eggs at once, and informed my mom, I have two eggs, you have one egg. As I walked across the linoleum floor, the inevitable happened: one egg fell and broke. A shocked expression crossed my face and I quickly said, I have two eggs, you have cereal. Scrambled eggs are still my favorite breakfast food; however, I have since learned to share my eggs.
From the ages of seven to ten, I was famous for my birthday parties. My parties were revered not only by my friends, but by all in my school, church, and community. Each year I created an intricate theme that was incorporated through the cake, games, and even party favors. When I was ten years old, my party was a trip to the mall ... The Negley Mall. Each room of my house was a different store owned by my older sisters friends. My guests and I went shopping for makeup, nail polish, and other goods which we paid for with our own Monopoly money. We then proceeded to the in-mall movie theatre where we purchased candy and popcorn to eat while enjoying the flick. In addition to priceless themes, my parties always had lots of guests. My mom never wanted to leave anyone out, so all the girls I knew from school, church, and any other extracurricular activities were invited. The number of attendees varied from year to year, but averaged around twenty-five. Looking back, I dont know how my parents survived my parties year after year, or even why they allowed me to have them, but Im very thankful that they did. These birthday parties were often the highlights of each year and are now fond memories.
For two summers I had the opportunity to travel with a group from my church to Tampa Bay, Florida, where we worked with migrant farm workers children. The work we did was actually just playing with the kids. We spent countless hours on the church playground pushing kids on swings, holding onto their waists as they swung across the monkey bars all by themselves, and standing at the end of the slide to catch the little ones as they rocketed down the metal incline. Our mission was simply to show the children, scarred by the rough life of abuse and poverty, Gods love for them by being their playmates, confidants, and friends. Our mission was successful each year; however, what I remember most from the experience was not how I affected the children, but how one child in particular affected me. One day on the playground, a little girl who was probably seven years old asked me, What are those red dots on your face? Though embarrassed, I politely explained to her that they were blemishes. She reached up, gently touched my face and said, I think youre beautiful. I was shocked. How could anyone think that I, an overweight victim of acne who was awkwardly tall for her age, was beautiful? The simple statement that young girl made had a profound effect on me. I realized that to someone unblemished by societys opinions of what is or isnt beautiful, maybe I was. That day, she showed me God's love.
One morning I was driving to school, kind of in a daze, when I was jolted by the sound that every motorist fears most: the clash of metal against metal. (This was less than three months after receiving my drivers license and exactly one month after my dad bought me a new car.) Both the victim and I were fine and our cars survived with mere scratches; however, once I realized who I had hit, my pride was damaged beyond repair. I had rear-ended the mayor of Savannah, Georgia. It happened to be morning rush-hour on the busiest road in the city, so half of the population of Savannah had witnessed the incident or was inconvenienced by it. The remaining fifty percent soon found out from the informative local radio stations that the wreck on Abercorn Street involved the mayor and was caused by a Savannah Christian student (as implied by my uniform). To this day, I am still known to many as the girl who hit the mayor.