Types of Grace

A Portfolio byGrace Shaffer

This portfolio is dedicated to myCalifornia family and to the community of friends who have shown me vibrant types of grace This project is submitted to Miss Pearson as partial fulfillment of the requirements for the course PW 421 Professional Writing Portfolio, Pensacola Christian College, Pensacola, FL, March 2018.

Contents About the Author | v Acknowledgements |vi Introduction | ix types of grace. . . In the Unexpected Star-Crossed | 12 One Man’s Treasure | 13 Métro de Paris | 14 The Unspoken Testimony | 23Two-Year Adoption Turns into Sixteen Year Stay in China | 25 In Growth Sliver Spaces | 30 Barriers to Breakthrough | 32 Courage to Come Home | 35 Yosemite Vignettes | 42 Rising from the Rubble | 49 In Memories Lake Arrowhead | 60 Bittersweet | 61 The End of Missing | 63 After the Curtain Call | 65 In the Deadlines Keurig Direct Mailer | 72 A Feast to Remember: A Moveable Feast Review | 75 Technical Writing Memo | 78 Disconnected in a Connected Society | 80 Exposing Open Adoptions | 83 The “Write” Thing about Writers | 86



About the Author Grace Shaffer has an adventurous spirit and an old soul. She’s adreamer, a doer, and a maker. She seeks to find the deeper meaningsin the everyday life and passionately wants to capture the details of theworld in words. She likes the woods, lavender, hand lettering, lemonwater, and Fitzgerald—but stories most of all, stories that don’t leavepeople how they found them. In 2014, with a heart open to adventures, she packed up her small-town California life to attend a college 3,000 miles away where shepursued a BA in Professional Writing at Pensacola Christian College. Grace’s pursuit of writing has opened up many eye-openingopportunities. In her junior year, she served as an intern withJoni and Friends, a worldwide Christian nonprofit that works withindividuals affected by disabilities. Her classes at PCC have continuedto ignite a passion for editing and crafting words into compellingstories. After graduation, she hopes of one day becoming an editor—inwhich she can help motivate people to develop their stories as a dayjob. But for now, you’ll probably find her drinking too much coffeewhile she continues to rely on God to pen her life story. v

Acknowledgments The beauty of writing is that it establishes a close-knit community.Though the process is long and tedious, I’m grateful for the peoplewho have seen the deepest potential in my plot lines. This portfoliois the product of the many people who have invested their time, love,and effort into me and have extended an overwhelming amount ofgrace on me. Whether or not they appear in these pages, I know Inever would have even picked up the pen without the many kind soulswho have acted as my mentors, editors, and cheerleaders. Thank you to my Professional Writing classmates—Abi, Brooke,Christian, Devon, Kayla, Kristen, Hannah, Maddy, Samantha (andOlivia)—who never ran away from my messy drafts and whose insightduring our workshops molded my writing. I am also grateful for themany PW majors who have blazed the path before me, specificallyJacqi and Flora. To Dr. Achuff, Dr. Gregory, Mr. McDonald, Miss Pearson,Dr. Vinaja, Mrs. Miller, Miss Brazil, and Mr. Wainwright—thankyou for your direction, constant inspiration, and overwhelmingencouragement. I would never have come this far without yourmentorship, and I cherish all the classes I’ve been able to take withyou. Many thanks to my cast families and speech instructors who have supported me and have left stories on my heart longvi after the theatre lights dimmed and faded. Thank you to the lovely Mrs. Johnston and dear Mama Webb for always inspiring me to dream big and love even bigger.

Special thanks to my roommate of four years, Sarah Bryant, for sticking by me and for being my editor, a shoulder-to cry on, and a living thesaurus throughout this college journey. Heaps of thanks to Emily Kent for transforming my atrocious sketches into a stunning design that encapsulates all the whimsy and loveliness that I associate with ourfriendship. To Johanna and Joanna—thank you for encouraging me eventhough we’re miles away. These stories would never have comealive without our coffee dates and deep talks. To my parents whose love, sacrifice, and support have shapedme—thank you for always motivating me to reach for the stars andfor pouring big portions of grace on me as I pursue what sets myheart on fire. And all my praise to Jesus whose lavish, awe-inspiring gracecontinues to transform my life. vii



IntroductionDespite my name, I am not, in fact, a graceful person. If you hadvisited my house when I was a little girl, you probably would haveheard a crash in another room, followed by a small voice crying,“I’m okay!” My friends and family constantly tease me of myinherent clumsiness, and I’ve got the broken things and the blackand blue bruises to prove I’m not the world’s most graceful person.Growing up, I associated grace with everything gentle, dainty, andelegant—the word evoked images of a lithe ballerina gracefullydancing across a stage. But as I go through life, I have realized thatreal grace—God’s all-encompassing, redeeming grace—possesses afierce and bold type of strength.Through writing, I have seen many different aspects of God’sunyielding grace. I’ve seen grace turn earth-shattering heartbreakinto hope. I’ve seen grace reach out to people despite rejection,break down barriers, and work through weaknesses. I’ve seen atype of grace that’s not afraid of a few bruises to meet people wherethey are. My portfolio, “Types of Grace,” is beyond a pun on my name—it isa tribute to some of the different situations, people, and seasonsin my life that have personified God’s life-altering grace. It is atestament that wherever my writing journey takes me,God’s grace will meet me there. ix



“Grace is wild.Grace unsettles everything.Grace overflows the banks.Grace messes up your hair. Grace is not tame.” —Doug Wilson

There are two things in life that make me feel small—a sky embossed with stars and realizing that God causes people’s paths to cross mine. My terza rima poem is my attempt to encapsulate this humbling feeling of being lost in wonder and found in grace. Star-CrossedNight cloaked us in darkness and cooled the breeze.And once the embers of the sun burned low,The inky sky filled with stars—I felt easedBy the starlit eternity. The moon’s glowCaressed my face; your fingers brushed mine.I smiled. What a comfort it is to knowWe weren’t meant to be alone; God’s design—In a world of people, stars, and a sea—Was to cross our paths. He dotted the lineAcross miles. He connected us to beTogether. Like diamonds He embossedIn the sky, His grace glints in you and me.It’s a comfort to know when I feel lost,God made two stars in the night sky to cross. 12

My mom and I enjoy perusing summer flea markets, searching for antiques that need a home. This sonnet is inspired by the idea that God buffs our cracks, brushes away our grit, and restores us to a place of grace. One Man's TreasureShimmering on tables in the June heat,Sun-speckled pieces of porcelain glassA peddler sells, and he tries to entreatMe to purchase a sliver of the past.“That broken thing!” I say with a snicker.Gently he scrapes the dirt veneer awayRevealing patterned gold. My eyes flicker,Interested, and he does not delayTo explain: “These cracks tell of a storyEvery chip, blemish, and flaw in my sightCan be revived and restored to glory!”I pause, pondering my own sorry plight.“A tired soul,” he smiles, “scarred, and worn,“Like teacups, can be salvaged and reborn.” 13

` The deepest tragedies can sometimes produce the most inspiring stories.Based on true events surrounding the 2015 Paris terrorist attack, this fiction piece depicts the story of a young journalist who realizes the difference writing contributes to a hurting world. Me`tro de Paris Nous ne oblions jamais Paris. We can never forget Paris. The sliding doors wheezed shut behind her as she darted intothe metro. The twenty-five-year-old woman shuddered, feeling themetro roar underneath her feet as it prepared to leave the station. Sheclutched the railing, focusing on steadying her shallow breath. The Parisians around her separated into the seats or rootedthemselves in the aisles, clutching the handles swinging overhead.They seemed unaffected by the crowds coming and going. Her heartpounded a little harder as the metro lurched away from the station,hissing and sputtering. Oriana Hancock tightened her grip, attempting to stabilize herself.With her free hand, she pulled out her notebook from her leather totebag and began to mentally scratch out the list of names scrawled onthe pages. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. Her cheeks stung withembarrassment as the events from earlier that day began to unfold inher mind. Doubts began spinning through her head. How dare youthink you were capable to do this? She blotted out the last name on her source list—the sourceswho either didn’t have the time to talk to her or didn’t seem to giveher enough information for a noteworthy article. An overwhelmingemotion seized her heart with a kind of panic that made her tired eyesdart for the nearest vacant seat. “Pardon moi,” Oriana murmured as she inched her way through the aisle, careful not to bump into an elderly woman with a scarf knotted at her collar. As the metro screeched through the tunnels beneath 14 Paris, cold shards of light flickered across the coffee- stained metro map spread over Oriana’s crossed knees. The crowd’s dialogues blended into a murmured

humdrum, wreathing around her. The tangled mess of red, green, and blue metro routes blurred before her eyes. Dragging her finger across the map, she tried blazing a trail to her final destination through a maze of words that she had difficulty pronouncing. Belleville to Hotel de Ville. Hotel de Ville to Palais RoyalMusée du Louvre.Biting her lip, she remembered the sequence of events that hadled her to Paris.“Hey, Hancock!”Oriana had looked up expectantly from her desk overflowing withcrime stories. Maybe today would be the day that her editor assignedher a real story, a story that didn’t involve exposing the horrors of thecity.“I’m gonna be honest,” her editor said slowly and deliberately asthough he were trying to find the right word. “Your articles haven’tbeen too. . . impressive lately. They seem a little sentimental.”Not impressive? Oriana winced at the stringent quality of hisvoice.“I mean, I know I’m new,” Oriana said meekly. “I’m still trying toget the hang of everything. But don’t you think people need to readmore than crime—”The pointed expression on his face made her stop.“People pay to read cold, hard facts. Not some dream fantasy.You’re in the wrong business if you want to write about sentiment.”Peeling his glasses off his worn face, he rubbed his watery eyes withhis plump fingers almost in agitation.Oriana felt heat creep up her face.He sighed, changing the subject.“You said you know a littleFrench?”“A little,” Oriana emphasized. “My mom is French Canadian, so Ipicked up a few phrases. I took two semesters in college too, but I’m—uh—I’m really rusty.”“Well, brush up. Paris is buzzing with news right now, especiallywith the attacks that happened a few weeks ago. Lots of good storyopportunities—tragedy sells news, you know.” He began to sip hiscoffee with cool indifference.Oriana bit back a retort as she cast a glance at her desk 15brimming with notes on robberies, shootings, and murdersoccurring in the city. Indeed, tragedy may sell news, butdeep down Oriana knew her stories were lifeless and

stale. What good did these stories do if thenext day was filled with the same tragedies ofthis world? “I know a guy over there in France—he’sa correspondent journalist. Broke his leg doingsomething stupid, and he’s out of commission for a fewweeks. But we can’t afford to lose coverage. You’re young,inexperienced and, frankly, not my first choice. But I’m sendingyou over to Paris to cover the follow-up story.” Oriana protested, “But I don’t know if I can—” “Look, Hancock, I like giving people second chances,” her editorsaid cautiously. “You’re young and inexperienced, but there comes apoint when—” “Is this my last chance?” Oriana blurted, her heart poundingfuriously. “Just—impress me.” Oriana cringed when she considered the consequences if shecouldn’t deliver what he wanted. Didn’t he know what this job meantto her? Muscles tensing in frustration, Oriana shoved the map into herbag and flung it in the vacant seat beside her, shifting her gaze to thescenes streaking past the window. She pressed her cool palm acrossher mouth, trying to stifle the sobs. Hot tears threatened her eyes, andshe clenched her jaw in attempts to maintain her composure. “Pardon, mademoiselle?” Oriana looked up with a start. Her wild eyes met a pair that werea deep coffee brown; they were fierce, piercing eyes with a hint ofsadness. Through her own tear-stained vision, she made out tousledbrown hair, sharp cheek bones, and an angled jawline—features of ayoung man who she guessed was no more than twenty-four. “Est-ce votre?” His extended hand pointed to her leather bag onthe vacant seat. “Oh,” she snatched her bag out of his way. “Go ahead, sit down!I mean—asseyez-vous si’l vous plaît.” Her French sounded clumsyand conspicuous, and she wished she had paid more attention to hercollege French class. “Thank you.” He nodded his approval. “No problem!” She mentally chided herself for not responding in French since that was the polite thing to do. 16 Though he smiled graciously, she noted the way the young man eased himself into the seat. For one so young, his shoulders slumped slightly as though

he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. The young man clasped a bouquet of peonies, the edges of their scalloped petals curling slightly from lack of water. Oriana shot him a papery thin smile. “Pretty flowers—eh, les fleures belles,” she commented. He smiled wryly, rolling the bouquet between his palmsalmost as though the bundle offered a sort of comfort to a dismalmemory.“What’s your name—eh, comment vous appelez-vous?” Orianaattempted to make conversation.“Eh—Dorian,” he replied, politely. “Dorian Montfort. Et vous—andyou?”“Oriana,” she smiled.“Or-ee-ah-nah?” he paused. “Que signifié—what does it mean?”“Dawning—or sunrise.” She brushed a strand of her coppery hairbehind her ear.“Oriana. . . j’aime ça—I like it!” He grinned approvingly.“Herefor—vacances?”“Work,” she replied. “I’m a journalist from New York, who hastime for a vacation?” She forced a laugh, but the thought of a loomingdeadline made her heart tighten.“Ah! French girls want to go to New York. My girlfriend says, ‘Wemust go there, or we don’t get married!’” Dorian’s face clouded. “Shealways talks of—eh—New York City.”“Off to see her now?” Oriana asked, hoping that the lightnessin her tone masked the ache of envy she felt toward this completestranger. She envisioned this young man only a metro stop away froman intimate dinner prepared by his loved one. A wave of homesicknessswelled in her heart as she thought of her own mother cooking herfavorite meal in their suburban home.“Non. Well. . .” he paused, grasping for words. “Not anymore. Shedied.”Oriana straightened in her seat, aware she had struck a tenderchord.“She died—in the terrorist shooting.”Oriana jolted out of her seat when the metro hissed into thestation. Like a sleepless routine, the metro exhaled a group ofpeople only to inhale another. Dorian looked up expectantly, 17and Oriana prayed that he—the one lead she had withinher grasp—would not get up and melt into the crowd.The young man, much to Oriana’s relief, remained.

The metro continued, unmoved by thenew dialogues that simmered and slipped inbetween the rows of waxen seats. “I’m so sorry. Losing anyone close—” her wordscaught in her throat as she fingered the chain of hermother’s wristwatch, “—losing anyone close is so hard.” Mental images of her mother’s frail figure standing next tothe window in their kitchen flooded before her eyes. Her sunkeneyes and thinning hairline haunted Oriana, reminding her of thecancer that plagued her mother’s frail body. “I can’t just—leave you,” Oriana had whispered, grabbing herwrinkled hand. “Now, Oriana,” her mother’s voice, though weak, was firm. “You’vegot to go.” Her mother touched the locket at her throat, an indication toOriana that she was thinking of him. “But wouldn’t Dad have wanted me to stay—” “Oriana, listen to me. Even if he hadn’t been in the accident, if hewere here, he would tell you the same thing.” Unconvinced, Oriana persisted. “No, it’s not right. They’re sendingme as a correspondent journalist. If I had known this, I wouldn’t havesigned onto the job. The New York office is far enough of a commute. Ican’t leave you.” “Don’t worry, Oriana,” she said as she straightened a stack of billson the countertop. “Mandy’s a fine nurse. She’ll take care of me.” Ah, yes, her mother’s nurse. Another expense that depended onOriana’s paycheck. She felt her shoulders slump. “Honey, you’ve been waiting for this for so long.” Her mothertouched her arm. “Whether in New York or France, you’ve got to keepyour eyes open to bigger things. With you, people feel safe to sharetheir stories. And yes, there are lots of sad stories out there. But mydear, tragedy often reveals that people are a lot stronger than theybelieve.” Oriana bent her head, her heart torn. Her mother’s cold fragile hands cradled Oriana’s chin. “What haveI always told you? Experience produces patience—and patience hope. Everyone has a story, darling. You’ve just got to find yours.” Everyone has a story. Oriana sensed this man had a story, one that would come out with a little coaxing. 18 “I know what it’s like to lose someone. My dad died in an accident too. He was on a train coming back from his job. The train derailed . . .” her voice trailed off.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Dorian’s face softened with sympathy. “It’s ok. I miss him dearly, but he always encouraged my writing—and I guess I coped by pursuing something he believed I could succeed in.” She paused, hesitant to ask a following question. “How—howdo you deal with your grief?”He heaved a sigh that shook his whole frame. “I didn’t atfirst. I was there—I see all of it. So many people dead. I never be ableto unsee it.” He shuddered. “We went that night to a restauranLeCarillon—her favorite.”Dorian stared blankly ahead and fingered his bottom lip with hiscracked thumb. Oriana observed the whole scene replay on his wornface—the ghosts he carried with him too.“I want to make sure the food was parfaît—perfect. It has to bebecause I was going to—going to—propose.” He swallowed hard.Oriana didn’t attempt to say anything, knowing sometimes storiescame more easily in the silence.Composing himself, he continued, “I went to talk to the chef, andthen I—I hear it. It sounds like—like explosions. I got down. There arescreams, and I—I know one of them was hers.”Oriana’s heart sank, and she looked at the young man in disbelief.No matter how many gut-wrenching stories she had heard in herjournalism career, she still couldn’t comprehend the things humanswent through—the disasters that crippled even the strongest of hearts.Everything in her longed to comfort him.“People begin to run. But I—I can’t see her. I hear the killers driveaway—calmly as if—as if, they don’t realize what they had done,”Dorian’s voice rose as he clenched his fists. “Ach! It is—horrible.”Shuddering, Dorian drew the bouquet closer to his chest.“I didn’t know what to do. It was a bad dream—” he shifted in hisseat, trying to regain his composure.He looked up, and she met his intense eyes. She searched hisface intently as she tried to grasp the words to comfort him. But hecontinued before she could say anything.“Next week, I wake up so—so bitter that life keeps going withouther. Jour après jour—day after day. It was so dark. I—I almostdidn’t make it.” He bit his lip as a glazed expression came overhis face. 19Oriana saw the heavy ocean of his grief raging withinhim, and she waited a moment before asking timidly,“What did you do?”

He heaved a sigh. “It was—strange. Ipractice my English by reading Americanjournals, um, as you say, newspapers. A couplemonths ago, I read a journal on the internet. Haveyou heard of the Sunrise Times?” Oriana shook her head. “Must be a pretty smallpublication.” “Oui, well—the journal was about the attack in America.” “Yes, 9/11. America just remembered fifteen years since theattack.” “Oui. It was about a—a man who loses his wife in the attack. And Iread it—look, I have it here.” He plunged his hand into his tweed coatand handed her a limp piece of paper neatly folded. She held it tightly,still captivated by Dorian’s story. “I could feel his pain.” He motioned to the thin piece of paper inher hand. “I was, as you say, familiar with it. He deals with the grief.He says that you have to hope, and you have to live. You are not alone.All this happens so you can help others through grief, and you have tolive, even if you feel—what’s the word?” “Inadequate? Incapable?” Oriana sought for words. “Oui, incapable is what he says. If this man, I thought, loses hiswife and lives—” Dorian stopped and smiled wanly. “Then so could I.” His face lit up with a sort of resolute bravery, a bravery that sheyearned to pen with words. “I thought that it was very—important to live.” He pointed to thepaper in her hand. “I think I have a purpose to live, to share hope.” Oriana unfolded the article and smoothed out the creases,scanning the faded print. Staring in disbelief at the worn article, Oriana said, “It’s amazingto think newspapers are actually making a difference. I sometimesthink that writing for one doesn’t—” “Non! The article saves me!” Dorian insisted. Maybe writing could make a difference. Maybe it could even savelives. In that moment, it struck Oriana like the first sunbeams of adawning sunrise. No matter what it took, Oriana determined that she would write. She would start with him, Dorian—a man saved from grief by words—and she would write. Oriana sat up in her seat. “Can I write about you in an 20 article?” Dorian furrowed his brow. “Your story! You said it yourself, people need

hope. People need to hear your story.” “Peut-être—I suppose!” He motioned as the metro lurched to a halt with a piercing shrill of the brakes. “Come. This is my stop. I show you the restaurant.” *** Oriana followed Dorian as he weaved through the eddiesof people, streaming in and out of the station. Dorian continuedto talk about his girlfriend—how they met, what hobbies they sharedin common, and how they frequented the Le Carillon on a weeklybasis. Even though his voice was tinted with the ache of missing, hisgait seemed lighter as he talked to her. Oriana guessed that just ashappiness ties people together, so does grief.Soon, the bustling streets narrowed, and the old buildings beganto swallow the late afternoon light, casting deep shadows on thesidewalks. Eventually, Oriana noticed that they had entered a quainterdistrict. Red window frames hugged the buildings and terra-cotta herbboxes nestling petite geranium plants perched on the wrought-ironbalconies. The neighborhood was like an iconic French postcard.When they rounded a corner, Oriana felt her breath catch at thesight. She saw the limp bouquets of flowers first, then the paper notestrailing on the rain-soaked pavement.The Le Carillon restaurant was a crimson building with coal-blackawnings. A heavy reverence hung in the air, and she breathed deeplythe scent of damp paper, ink, and rain. Tiny shards of glass still dustedthe edges of the sidewalk.A small crowd had formed around the Le Carillon. Locals spilledinto the mosaic-tiled room, hoping to catch a glimpse of somethinginside.“What’s happening?” Oriana asked, edging her way through thecrowd.“Today it opens again.”Oriana’s heart pounded a little harder as she began absorbingevery detail of the scene. She suspected that the handwritten notesand the bundles of flowers littering the sidewalk were from children,hivgh schoolers, lovers, parents, and spouses who had penned theirlast love note, their last goodbye. A bright, butter-yellow tapestrycovered the sidewalk, commemorating the names of the victimswho had lost their lives in the attack. 21 Dorian slipped his peonies into the sea of bouquets andknelt down, whispering something in French.Headlines and print swam before her as she

scrambled in her bag for her notebookand pen. Her fingers trembled as she beganto scribble notes in her notebook, her wordspreserving the paint-chipped restaurant, thehandwritten goodbyes, and the young Parisian. Shebegan to write the starting sentence: “Dorian Montforttakes the metro to revisit Le Carillon two months after thetragedy—” *** A few weeks later, Oriana found herself again in New York, ina grey cubicle surrounded by the droll cacophony of fax machines,ringing phones, taunting pagers, and the clattering keyboards. Her eyes began wandered to her cork board. She traced theheadline of an article pinned on the board. So Dorian’s story made the front page. Oriana smiled to herself,still in disbelief. But only one from her first faithful reader found its way tackedonto her bulletin board. A postmark from her home’s suburb stampedthe upper right corner of the envelope. Gingerly, Oriana unpinned the letter and breathed a sigh of reliefas she traced her mother’s looping handwriting— My dear Oriana, Looks like you’ve truly found your voice. So proud that your words are turning the tragedies into victories, but most of all, proud to call you my daughter. Love, Mom A warmth flooded Oriana’s face as she folded the card back intothe envelope. She returned to organizing her desk now overflowingwith lemon-colored sticky notes, reminding her of the new stories hereditor had assigned her. Though the stories full of hope may be harderto uncover, Oriana determined that whatever it took, wherever shewent, she would track down the stories with brighter tomorrows. 22

We rely so much on speech to communicate and relate with others. In this article I wrote for my internship with Joni and Friends, Ella McDonald shares her interactions with a camper affected by autism. The Unspoken TestimonyThink of a moment when God did something in your life. Whetherit’s your salvation story or a time when God proved Himself during adesperate situation, we all have moments when God showed up in ourlives. And what’s our first reaction? We can’t wait to tell anyone who iswilling to listen.But what if you couldn’t speak? How would you communicate themagnificent, awe-inspiring story God has given you?For Ella McDonald, God revealed a snippet of how powerful Hislove is through an unlikely situation.The first night at the Joni and Friend’s Murrieta Family Retreat,Ella noticed her camper, Daphne, had limited communication, oftenshortening her speech to small, choppy phrases. While Daphne wasnot considered fully nonverbal, Ella still wondered how she would beable to relate and communicate to her eleven-year-old camper.“Even though I’ve been around and worked with people who haveautism, I’d never had a camper with autism,” Ella recalled. “Thatdefinitely made me feel a little shaky coming into the week.”As the days passed, Ella felt like she had not established a goodmethod of communication with Daphne.“One of the hardest things for me was not knowing what Daphnewas saying or what her phrases meant,” Ella said despondently. “Forexample, she would say to me what seemed like random phrases suchas, ‘LAX airport’ or ‘watermelon shampoo.’”Since Daphne was highly sensitive to noise, Ella led heraway from the activities full of activities to a quieter place,attempting to entertain Daphne’s short attention span. 23 One day, Daphne stumbled on a blank white dry eraseboard and began to scribble little phrases.At first, Ella assumed that the phrases were

scattered, nonsensical markings comingfrom an eleven-year-old girl’s vibrantimagination. But as Daphne remained fullytransfixed by her white board scribbling, Ella beganto realize a pattern in her camper’s phrases. “One thing that I noticed,” Ella expressed, “is everytime Daphne would always write the same two phrases ‘Godloves me’ and ‘Jesus loves Daphne.’” Gradually, Ella realized that like puzzle pieces, the disjointedphrases developed into Daphne’s testimony. “When I was telling Daphne’s mom about her daughter’s writingon the board, she told me that Daphne writes the phrase ‘God lovesme’ practically every where they go,” Ella relayed. “It’s Daphne’sunique way of witnessing to people. When nonbelievers see Daphnewriting that phrase somewhere, they’re always amazed. It’s Daphne’sown way of evangelizing to nonbelievers!” Daphne’s talent gave Ella a new and profound perspective ondisability, showing her that everyone is ultimately created to glorifyGod. “Daphne showed me that everyone plays a vital role in theKingdom of God,” Ella determined. “Everyone, whether it’s someonewith a disability or not, has some kind of talent or characteristic thatGod can use to minister to others around them.” The biggest lesson Daphne taught Ella is simply how big God is.Ella said that “there were times when I would question or doubt ifDaphne actually understood what the phrase ‘God loves me’ meant.But after spending a week with her it was so apparent that Daphnetruly does understand the concept that God loves her. Not only doesshe understand it, but she writes it everywhere she goes for people tosee.” 24

This journalistic profile focuses on the Prenevost family’s adoption which led them to China for nearly sixteen years.Two-Year Adoption Turns into Sixteen-Year Stay in ChinaNearly 17 years have passed since Brad and Terriann Prenevostannounced to their four children their plans to move the family toChina. From Shelly Prenevost’s vantage point, she recalls how theLord led her family on their journey to adopt two Chinese girls.Prenevost vividly remembers her initial reaction to the news:“Honestly, my three other biological siblings and I were not thrilled atfirst,” Prenevost admits. “My mom just asked us to pray about it andto see what God told us. Shortly after, each of us came to her and toldher that we believed God wanted us to go.”In 1979, the Chinese government implemented a policy thatrestricted families from having more than one child per household—an attempt to curb the country’s drastic population growth. As aresult of this one-child policy, thousands of Chinese families offeredtheir daughters up for adoption. According to Kathryn Joyce in herarticle, “The Truth about China’s Missing Daughters,” interest ininternational adoptions began to increase during the mid-1990s to themid-2000s in the United States—mostly bcause of Chinese adoptions.Families like the Prenevosts ventured to China to claim one of thecountry’s outcast daughters as their own.Like the Prenevost family, many adoptive families began takingadvantage of the adoption opportunities China offered. In 2000,the Prenevost family uprooted their family from Texas and movedto Gaughzhou, China, with the intention to adopt two little girls.However, unlike typical adoptions, the Prenevost familyencountered a maze of complications that caused them to stayin China much longer than they had anticipated. 25 “Our adoption story is unconventional,” Prenevostdescribes. “Let’s just say that what we had planned andwhat God had planned were two completely different

things. We went to China, thinking thatwe would have a simple adoption—one thatusually takes two years. Yet God took us on anadventure that none of us would ever forget.” First Meetings A year after their move to China in the summer of2001, the Prenevost family was first introduced to their twonew little girls, Morley and Tori. The family was instantly smittenand knew that the move to China had been worth it. Prenevost fondly recalls how she felt when she first met heryounger Chinese sisters: “I remember liking them [Morley and Tori]instantly. The first time my sister Morley saw my mother, she wentstraight toward her and put her little hands up in order to be held.” At first, Morley and Tori could not move in with the Prenevostfamily due to legal technicalities. Yet nothing could prevent the familyfrom eagerly lavishing tender love and care on the two orphaned girls. After meeting Morley and Tori, the Prenevost family firmlybelieved that the Lord was directing their steps. However, soon aftertheir initial meeting, a series of complications threatened the newlyknit family. Adoption Complications In the fall of 2001, Morley (2) and Tori (1) were officially welcomedinto the Prenevost family home. But as soon as the two girls enteredtheir home, the Prenevost family began to experience a long series ofsetbacks. While the family was thrilled to open their home to their two newadditions, they had a problem: Morley and Tori did not have ChineseID cards. In the article “China’s Hidden Children,” Stephani Gordonexplains, “When a birth [in China] is registered, a child is registeredin a family’s hukou booklet and is put onto a digital database.” IfMorley and Tori stayed without ID cards, they would be living with thePrenevosts illegally. Worse yet, the two girls would not be allowed toleave China. In order for the two children to receive Chinese ID cards, thePrenevost family had to secure a police report detailing Morleyand Tori’s stay in an orphanage. But to make matters even more complicated, Morley and Tori had never actually been kept in an official orphanage. In 2003, the ordeal forced the Prenevost family to move to 26 Ningbo, China. Over the next two years, they attained the girls’ ID card and registered as a foreign foster family in order to legally keep the two girls in their home. After

officially becoming a legal foster family, they employed a home study agent to help finalize Morley and Tori’s adoption papers. But the process took much longer than they expected. Because the paperwork from the first home study had expired, the family once again had to hire a new home studyagent. By 2005, this extra complication forced the family to makea final move to Nanjing, China. This time, they found two home studyagents who seemed to make progress.In 2006, Morley’s adoption papers were finally sent in to beprocessed. Two years later, in 2008, Tori’s papers were also sent in tobe processed.The winding road to adoption seemed to be straightening.But in 2010—ten years after living in China—the Prenevost familyexperienced the greatest setback of their adoption journey.While Morley’s adoption papers were being processed, thegovernment simultaneously matched Morley with another UnitedStates couple seeking to adopt. By this time, Morley had been livingwith Prenevost’s family for nearly nine years.Soon after, the government informed the United States family thatthey had made a terrible mistake and that Morley had already beenmatched with the Prenevost family.To this day, the Prenevost family firmly believes tat prayer broughtthem through the most difficult complications of their adoptionprocess.By April 2010, after a long ten-year journey filled with unforeseencomplications, both Morley and Tori’s adoptions were officiallyfinalized. Present LifeNot only did the Prenevost family fall in love with their twoChinese daughters, but they also fell in love with China itself. Thefollowing six years after Morley and Tori’s official adoption, thePrenevost family remained in China to pursue mission work.Now, in 2017—after sixteen years spent in China—it was time toreturn to the States. Today, Shelly Prenevost continues to help herparents and her Chinese sisters settle into their new life in Austin,Texas.Though there is nearly a five-year age difference between 27her and Morley, Prenevost says, “We really didn’texperience a disconnect because of the age differencebesides the normal sibling to sibling banter. We really

are a close-knit family.” As for her sisters, Prenevost statesthat the cultural transition has been relativelysmooth. She enjoys encouraging her younger sistersin their next phases of life as Morley (18) prepares toattend Asbury University in the fall and Tori (17) finishesher senior year of high school. Even though the Prenevost family’s adoption process forcedthem to wait ten years, Prenevost still encourages families to adopt:“When all goes smoothly, it takes about two years to receive anadopted baby into your home. This time [of waiting] is from the Lordto prepare you and your family for the next stages. So rejoice in thewait!” 28

“Amidst all the uncertainty of this season,Something beautiful is growing here, And one day you will look back And see that all along, all by grace, you were blooming.” —Morgan Harper Nichols

When heartbreak comes trampling in, we might wonder if it was worth wearing our hearts on our sleeves. In this short essay, I examine if the seasons of loving and leaving are worth it in the end. Sliver Spaces C. S. Lewis once wrote, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Loveanything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” I almost dated a boy in a sliver of space my first semester of myjunior year. He slipped into my life with the September wind, andI had to leave him when winter bared its teeth in the breathlessmornings and barren trees. It’s funny how the smallest things trigger the biggest memories.I saw a backpack—a mere backpack—in the Varsity lobby, and Iimmediately knew it was his. And in one moment, it felt like I wastreading water. Loneliness is a funny feeling. It fills up the in-betweenmoments, the silent spaces without notice or apology. It will always amaze me how the little things—hearing the ring offamiliar laughter in the busy spaces, a waft of perfume or cologne, orbackpacks left in cafeteria lobbies—can become the keys to unlockinga time capsule of memories. The little moments and things can act liketime machines and bring someone back into our lives—even after theyare long gone. Sometimes, when I feel the ache of nostalgia I wonder ifthe loving is ever worth it. Because time is relentless. People change. People leave. Andsometimes, after we stand in the wake of tears and bitterness, wewonder how so much loving and care can be piled onto one humanbeing, how we can bank so adamantly on one person when they chose to walk away. In response to the rejection and abandonment, we clam up our hearts and build up the barriers, hoping no one else will try to climb the walls we have built around our hearts. We can seal 30 our hearts; we can go through the motions, hoping no one pays much notice to us living our quiet lives. But eventually, someone sees past our façade,

creeps past our barriers, opens us up again. Someone slips in through the cracks of our hearts. And we’re left to choose if we’re willing to love again. The boy and I didn’t last. But, now, when I look back at the season of heartbreak—now, all I see is a season of grace, a type of grace that wrapped itself around me in the breaking, the questioning, and the leaving. I see where my hearthas grown bigger, where love has grown stronger, and where mercyhas grown fuller. And when all is said and done, when people decide to leave, whenthe changing of the seasons claims our loved ones, and when lifestill treads by without an apology; we still have memories of whereheartbreak turned to hope. We can claim the promise of growth thatmade the loving and the leaving worth it. 31

In this article, written for my internship with Joni and Friends, Kiana Phillips and Kait Gregory watch as God transformed their hearts toward their camper who seemed like all he wanted to do was run away. Barriers toBreakthrough But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. –Galatians 5:22-24 How often have we as Christians recited the fruits of the Spirit,mindlessly rattling off the list found in Galatians? For me, thisverse brings to mind memories of munching animal crackers duringchildren’s church programs as we recited the list. Because I am sofamiliar with these verses, it is easy for me to lose sight of the factthat with each fruit of the Spirit comes a powerful gift and promise.God’s Spirit provides love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness,faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—powerful gifts that help usbreak some of the most difficult barriers we may encounter in life. At the Joni and Friend’s Murrieta Family Retreat this summer,two Cause 4 Life interns discovered the simple power of the fruits ofthe Spirit that broke through seemingly unconquerable barriers. Kait Gregory and Kiana Phillips were among the many retreatvolunteers who eagerly waited to be paired with a camper affected bydisability for the week. Though they were nervous for what the weekmight hold, they were excited to delve into disability ministry and see what God had in store for them. When they met their camper Ben, Kait and Kiana quickly realized they had their hands full with their rambunctious nine- year-old. 32 Ben proved not only to be a playful little boy but also a mischievous one. Within the first day of camp, Ben grabbed anything in sight and ate half a dozen

objects. Not only did Ben grab whatever caught his attention, but he also had a tendency to dash away without a moment’s notice. On top of the challenging behaviors Ben exhibited, he was also considered preverbal, meaning he didn’t communicate as fully as a typical nine-year-old might. As Kait and Kiana served and loved this sweet little boy,it didn’t take long for them to feel mental and physical exhaustion.As the week progressed, Kait and Kiana were challengedphysically, emotionally, and spiritually. No matter how gentle theywere, they did not feel like their communication was breaking throughto Ben.“I was super discouraged,” Kait relayed. “I felt like I was going togo home really discouraged.”“I think I was more concerned and fearful of how not to respondto his exhibited behaviors,” Kiana said. “He would hit, bite, scratch,or pull our hair. Having the patience to respond to that behavior in aloving and gentle and kind way was a challenge because discipline isnot an attitude you can have with disability.”As the week progressed, Kait and Kiana felt more and moredisheartened and wondered how they could best share God’s love withBen. Each day, they submitted their fears and struggles to the Lord,trusting that somehow, He would help them break through to Ben.With a background of educational training and years ofexperience, Kait Gregory and Kiana Phillips felt fully qualified to serveat the Joni and Friend’s Murrieta Family Retreat. But no training orexperience could have adequately prepared them to efficiently servetheir mischievous, nine-year-old camper, Ben.Though the many hours of keeping up with Ben were challengingand exhausting, Kait and Kiana took comfort in knowing that Godhad paired them together for a reason. Ben indicated no noticeablechanges, but the two young ladies continued to pray for God’s will tobe revealed as they invested hours of love and affirmation into thisbright-eyed boy.Towards the middle of the week, Kait and Kiana finallyexperienced a breakthrough with Ben.“We were hanging out, and Ben was sitting in Kait’s lap.Suddenly, he snapped out of his behaviors, and he leaned hisforehead on mine,” Kiana beamed. 33“I don’t know what changed,” Kait shook her head. “Ithink it was the power of prayer. He didn’t hit or scratchor run away that day. He just smiled!”

The joyful smile that lit up Ben’s facemade all the hours of hard work worth it! Seeing this change in behavior gave themhope for the rest of the week and was a testamentto God’s faithfulness in answering prayers. Love,gentleness, kindness, and peace—these were a few giftsthat Kait and Kiana witnessed in their interactions with Ben. “Nothing mattered more than letting Ben know that he wasn’ta burden and that people fought hard to be in his life,” Kait explainedthe ultimate goal of the week. “It was amazing because we were ableto step into his ‘junk’ and do life with him. Interacting with him, weloved him with a love like Jesus’ love. And it was incredible just seeinghow big God is, bigger than his autism.” Though Kait and Kiana walked away from the week with a fewextra scratches and bruises, they both agreed that it was worth everyminute. “God is so much bigger than disability and even our flaws,”Kiana asserted. “Love, kindness, and gentleness can break throughthe challenges and disabilities that people face. They go so far ininteracting with disabilities and ministries. Sometimes that’s even theanswer to communication. The fruits of the Spirit helped us create abond.” Kait and Kiana’s experience serves as a wonderful reminder thatGod is so much bigger than disability and, through the fruit of HisSpirit, we can overcome unbreakable barriers. 34

Thankfully, grace leads us home again when we wander farther than weever intended to go. In this fiction piece, Ethan Mann experiences a type of grace in the homecomings. Courage to Come HomeAs the young man slipped into the back seat of the cab, heobserved the hardened concrete color of the sky. His muscles stiffenedas he detected the humidity weighing heavily in the air, indicating anapproaching storm.“Where to, m’ster?” The cab driver heaved the canvas duffle bagsinto the trunk. With a dull thud, the trunk door jolted the dilapidatedcab, jerking the passenger from his trance.“Uh—1511 Lucas Lane.” The address sounded foreign to theprodigal.“Don’t know if I reckon where that be,” the driver chewed on hiswords as he slid behind the wheel.“If you go down Marcus Street down to Johnston Road and crossonto Lucas, it’s the house across from the church. You can’t miss it.”“Right, then.” The cab driver turned the ignition. “How long wereyou in training?”Ethan Mann started, forgetting for the moment that he waswearing his uniform.“I’m going off to bootcamp. Leave this Friday. I’m seeing myfamily to say goodbye.”“Oh, well, then, let’s getchya home.”Home. A shiver slipped down his spine. That word seemed to tastebitter and metallic in his mouth.Ethan recalled the place he called home—a cramped bungalowat the end of a dusty road. Not exactly the most ideal stompinggrounds. He and his brother Hudson used to race down thelong driveway when the mail had arrived. No matter how 35many times they raced, Hudson inevitably won.“Next time, Champ,” Hudson patted Ethan’s sweatyhead, his voice sticky with teasing condescension.

Hudson seemed to be able to attaineverything—high grades, sports awards, classleadership, his parents’ approval. Ethan, however, seemed to pale in comparisonto his brother’s success. He didn’t have his brother’swinning personality or charms. Ethan’s grades fluctuated.He didn’t like sports. And he often reverted to the backgroundduring social events. When Hudson completed high school, everyone knew he had apromising future. With Hudson’s 4.0 average, the college acceptanceletters came tumbling in one by one. Suddenly, Ethan wasn’t as eagerto race Hudson to the mailbox. Hudson began mapping out his future,deciding to pursue law. “I want to fight for the people who can’t defend themselves,”Hudson stated. Ethan felt like he treaded silently in Hudson’s shadow. But eventhen, Ethan couldn’t harbor any bitterness toward him. After all,Hudson did want to make a difference in this world. A year later, Ethan graduated from high school, but unlikeHudson, he found himself scrambling to decide what he wanted to dowith his life. He opted for junior college—just to get his bearings. Itwas the more practical solution. Or so, Ethan convinced himself. “He’s not committed,” his dad would state to his mother when hethought Ethan was out of earshot. “He’s just gotta get the courage togo out and do something for once.” His dad’s constant disapproval gnawed at Ethan’s self-esteem. The cab driver began rattling on, interrupting Ethan’s thoughts.“Have family waitin’ for ya? I’m sure they’ll be mighty happy to seeyou. And proud too. Got any siblin’s?” Ethan winced involuntarily at the man’s words. “A sister—Arissa. She’s—well, I guess she’s almost eighteen now—and a brother who is a year older than me, and he’s—” The somberrealization toppled over him. Ethan jogged his mind for words,gulping hard to conceal the pain in his voice. “He’s gone now—diedoverseas.” “Aw, s’rry to hear, sir.” The conversation ceased, and Ethan tried regaining his composure. His eyes wandered to the scene flying past his window—billowing clouds tinted with gradients of grey carved 36 into the sky, and rows of corn fields streaked past. Ethan slipped a photograph from his pocket and gingerly fingered it. In the slants of light, he

could make out a picture of him with his siblings—Arissa and him interlocked in Hudson’s tight embrace. Ethan cradled his chin in the crook of his elbow as he stared blankly out the window. He observed a fly pounding pitifully against the window pane, trapped and incapable to escape. Ethan felt like he too was incapable toescape from the tidal wave of change crashing over his life. Painsqueezed Ethan’s heart as memories clouded his mind of the events—his brother’s leaving, his constant parents’ disapproval—that had ledhim to come back home.He remembered everything—his parents, Arissa, and Hudson allarranged around the dining room table, contently shifting in theirchairs to find a comfortable position after a delicious meal. Theyhad all been enjoying the respite the Christmas season brought. ButHudson had announced his life-altering decision that would cast ashadow on all of their futures.“I’m joining the army,” Hudson announced coolly, almost casually.“I think that it’s time for me to think seriously about my future, and—”“I can’t believe you would throw away—your education, your skills,your future—everything!” His mother slammed the greasy pan ontothe counter after dinner, her voice crescendoing.Ethan watched his brother stand slowly from the dining roomtable.“I have to go,” he replied firmly. “You saw the Johnson boys andKeith and Harding—they all enlisted.”“Son, I know they are all your best friends, but you haven’t thoughtthis through.” Their dad tried to dissuade.“These guys are dying for our country. And—and what am I doingwith my life?” Hudson clenched his fist.“Keith and Harding need some structure to their life. They enlistedbecause they didn’t know what they wanted to do. What about lawschool? You’re now a freshman in college. You have your whole futureahead of you,” their mom insisted.For the following weeks, they continued the dispute. But Hudsonwas resolute.“They won’t listen,” Hudson said to Ethan. “They never listen.”Ethan had never seen any friction occur between hisesteemed older brother and his parents, and he almost felt 37responsible to play the diplomat.“They care for you,” Ethan put his hand on hisbrother’s shoulder. “We all do. They don’t want to

lose you. I don’t want to lose you.” “Yeah, but there are men dying for ourcountry. Good men. This will give me a chanceto make my life count for something, you know?” Hudson’s eyes twinkled with such fiery passion thatEthan knew it was hopeless to try to persuade him to stay. “Anyways, what are you going to do? You’re finishingcommunity college, right?” Ethan looked away, embarrassed. Why couldn’t he be likeHudson? Even in giving up his college career, Hudson still remainedthe upstanding older brother. “Well—I—I don’t know, Hudson,” Ethan admitted. “Maybe you should try something new. Sometimes you haveto have the courage to leave, Champ.” Hudson punched his youngbrother in the shoulder, casting a reassuring smile. Courage to leave. Those words would stick with Ethan always.They echoed in his ears as he watched his brother sling their grandpa’sold duffle bags over his broad shoulder and walk out the door tobootcamp—to an unknown future. The following year, Ethan finished his studies at junior collegeand decided to pursue a bachelor’s degree, thinking that maybe, justmaybe, he could make his parents proud. Maybe without Hudson inthe house, Ethan could build a future not constantly threatened by thethief of comparison. “Since I’m almost done with my two years of junior college, I’vedecided to get my bachelor’s. I got accepted to the state university andwill be attending this coming fall,” Ethan announced nonchalantly atdinner one night. “When did—how did?” his mom nearly chocked. “And how are yougoing to pay for it?” “Well—I uh,” Ethan shifted uneasily. “I know you had saidgrandpa left a little money when he passed away two summers ago.”He hated mentioning money issues. He knew his family alreadystruggled with finances for the past year. “That won’t even cover half the costs. And Son, I don’t mean tobe—well, harsh, but you haven’t always applied yourself to academics. You’ve struggled to pass classes in junior college. How do you think you’ll be able to succeed at a university? Besides, that money is to split between you and your brother for the future,” his dad 38 stated. “I know. And I’ve decided I’ll work hard. And besides, this is my future.” Ethan’s eyes flickered with

determination—the same determination that Hudson flashed before he left. His mother simply shook her head—whether with disgust or indifference Ethan couldn’t tell. “Well, Son. If you’re prepared to work hard, I don’t see why not.” His dad relented before forcing a smile. They didn’t discuss it anymore at dinner.Ethan went off to college the following fall. His classes provedto be more difficult than he had predicted—and more expensive. Eachtime he viewed his bank statement, guilt crept into his heart. As timewent on, his grade reports didn’t display anymore success than theyhad in high school.Ashamed, he didn’t return home the following summers, workinga few part-time jobs while he took summer courses.Two years passed faster than Ethan would have liked. Ascommencement loomed on the near horizon, Ethan still flounderedfor future plans. Ethan attended a career convention, hoping to securea job before he graduated.“What are your plans for the future?” A representative froma booth heckled him as Ethan fingered through his unimpressiveresume.“Uh—well—I majored in business management so—” Ethanstuttered, caught unaware by the man’s aggressive intrusion.“Sounds expensive.” The man raised his eye brow pointedly.“Gotta lotta debt?”Ethan shifted uneasily. The recruiter smiled knowingly andpointed to the sign over his booth.Join the Army. Ethan cast a wry glance at the sign, chiding himselffor wondering what his brother would tell him if he were there. Wouldhe try to recruit him too?“Join the army, and we could help you pay off your student loans,”the recruiter offered. “Think about it.”As the debts continued to stack up, Ethan lay in bed at night,trying to soothe his condemning thoughts. After everything—andwhat have you to show for it? How could you have squandered allyour parents hard-earned money? Did you really think you couldmake them proud? How could you be such a disappointment? Whycouldn’t you be like Hudson? Maybe I could join the army too—The next morning, Ethan woke up to the sound of his 39phone vibrating. Four missed calls. Perplexed, he quicklyredialed the phone.“Hey, Dad, you never call this early, what’s up?”

“It’s Hudson.” His dad’s voice soundeddistraught. “What—what happened?” “He’s gone, Ethan. Dead.” The cab jolted suddenly over a pothole in the road,shaking Ethan from his reverie. The scene outside thewindow had melted from walls of corn into sprawling fields.Occasional driveways divided the lush fields, leading to homesobscured by copses of young trees. Eventually, the taxi turned onto afamiliar road. “Almost there, sir.” Ethan’s entire body tensed. His heart pounded furiously as hismind swirled with a myriad of doubts. Would they be angry? Wouldthey be disappointed? Would they try to convince him to stay? As if itcould somehow calm him, he clenched the photograph, repeating thespeech he would recite to his parents. Mom, Dad, I joined the army.It’ll help pay off the debts. I wanted to make Hudson proud. If only itcould be that simple— Overwhelmed by his thoughts, Ethan failed to notice when the cabbegan to slow down, the traffic impeding the two-lane road. “We’re almost there, sir, but the traffic is pretty bad. I think,something’s happenin’ at that church—” “It’s a memorial service. I’ll walk from here. Thank you.” Ethanpaid the driver and slipped into the blinding sunlight. Pieces ofcerulean sky now peered out from the slabs of grey-colored clouds. His footsteps grew heavier as he wove between the stopped cars.It seemed like half the town was trying to find a parking spot. Despitethe traffic, a solemn heaviness hung in the air. They’re all here for him. A wave of grief seized his heart. “Ethan!” A cry pierced his ears. Ethan straightened and turned to see Arissa racing to meet him.He stopped short, blinking with disbelief. The time he had spentaway had molded her into a grown woman; the years had worn tracesof weariness in her eyes. Within moments, she flung her thin armsaround him. “You’re here!” she stammered, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m here,” he said soothingly, gathering her thin frame tightly into his arms. She pulled away, her eyes soaking in every detail of her 40 brother. She fingered the lapels of his uniform in wonder. Ethan watched the realization slowly wash over her face. “How’s Mom and Dad?” Ethan’s gaze shifted

toward the steepled church. A stream of people trickled into the open doors. Her face clouded with grief. “Mom and Dad weren’t doing so good when Hudson left, but your going off to college—well—just come in. You’ve gotta let them see you.” They entered the white-washed church. The stained glass windows formed mosaics of tinted light across the floor. An organplayed as coaches and teachers, neighbors and church members,friends and family filed into the pews. But all Ethan could see was a portrait in front of the pulpit, aportrait of Hudson standing erect in his uniform. The sight madeEthan stagger slightly. Arissa looped her arm to steady him and led her brother to thefront-row pew. “Mom, Dad—” Ethan inched toward the pew where his parents sat,their heads bent. Both his parents looked up. “Ethan—” they cried and stopped short, scrutinizing theiruniformed son. Expecting disappointment to flood their eyes, Ethan bent his headand swallowed hard. He felt like a little boy all over again, ashamed asif he had done something wrong. “I—I joined up,” he swallowed hard. “Just like Hudson. I justwanted to make you—” Before Ethan finished, he felt his dad’s broad arms wrap him intoan embrace, and he felt his mother’s cold fingers clasp his. His dad whispered three little words that his heart longed to hear,“Welcome home, son.” Ethan choked back tears. 41

Even in change, grace makes us look for beauty during the shifting of the seasons. In this personal essay, I elaborate on how a vacation in Yosemite altered my perspective on change. Yosemite Vignettes The valley of Yosemite is like a massive bowl made of granite wallsthat have been shaped, molded, and pieced together by centuriesof persistent ice and wind. Never have I been to a place wherethe changing of the seasons has chiseled so much beauty into thelandscape. Growing up, I spent my summers in Yosemite, splashing in therivers and bounding over the rocky riverbeds. Come to think of it, Iwas always climbing, climbing up to higher places to drink in the airthat smelled of all seasons—new as spring, warm as summer, alluringas autumn, refreshing as winter. I laugh now when I remember howmany boulders I mounted—enough to give my mom several heartattacks throughout our weekly visits to be sure. Over the years, artifacts of our Yosemite adventures have beenscattered throughout the house—a framed collage of the mountainshangs in our hallway; a monochromatic photograph of the MercedRiver dangles in a copper frame in the kitchen; a vase filled withspeckled granite river rocks rests on our dining room table. On mymother’s dresser, there’s a picture of me as an eight-year-old girl. I’mperched on a boulder and proudly displaying my blackened charcoalknees, the result of a hiking expedition in an Indian cave. Every year, my parents and I fondly loaded our car and made theeight-hour trip to Yosemite. But college interrupted the steady rhythm of our lives and forced us to abandon our annual tradition. I had just come back from my freshman year, adjusting to home after three months spent in Florida. Returning from college, I felt both old and very young, bright-eyed and yet 42 burdened by all the emotions that came with going off to college and coming back and not being able to pin down in words everything that had happened in between.

I felt like I was bridging two different worlds. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I had changed, and those changes began to vividly emerge during my first summer back home. During the stifling dog days of summer, my family and I felt the Yosemite mountains calling us back. This time, we took my best friend Johanna. In the six years of our long-distance friendship, it was our first vacation together, and Iwas thrilled that Johanna had a chance to experience a place that Iheld so dear to my heart. While it had been almost two years since visiting Yosemite, somethings hadn’t changed. Dad still packed half a house in our trailer. He never said heenjoyed packing, but somehow from how much time he invested intothe process, I could tell he enjoyed tackling the challenge and blamedhis past enlistment in the Air Force for the meticulous measures hetook. He could ease and tease even the most stubborn lawn chair intothe storage space below our trailer. When Dad was through, he everso gingerly shut the hinged doors, silently hoping his calculations hadbeen correct. “Phew! That was close.” He removed his glasses and wiped hisfurrowed brow. ***Approaching the entrance of Yosemite, my dad rolled down thewindow to pay the entrance fee. The fresh air—that same air heavilyperfumed with pine needles, parched in the dusty sunlight—camerolling through the window. From the scent blowing through, Iimmediately knew we had arrived.Half an hour away from our final destination, we drove througha tunnel burrowing into the heart of a mountain. At the end of thetunnel, a postcard-perfect vista of Yosemite emerged before us. I reada quote once that said, “Travel the world twice. Once by yourself, andthe next, with someone else so you can see it all over again.” That’show I felt when Johanna saw the imposing Tunnel View of Yosemite .Johanna gasped at the sight; the rush of excitement and wonder andawe that flooded her face reminded me how I felt the first time I hadseen it.The Tunnel View framed an astounding panoramic ofthe Park, showcasing the beauty that Yosemite was known 43for. Centuries of ice and wind had left behind granitearchitecture that would have impressed even thearchitects of the Notre Dame Cathedral. El Capitan

and Half Dome—these granite formationsdefined the landscape while wispy cirrusclouds marbled the cobalt blue sky. To the east,Bridal Veil Falls misted into the valley below. “Remember the first time we drove through, youwere asleep, Grace?” my mom teased from the frontpassenger seat. “When we saw that view for the first time, Iturned around and couldn’t believe you were sleeping!” “Yes,” I said sheepishly, chuckling at the memory. Even after all these years, my mom reminded me of the first timemy family had driven through Yosemite. The lengthy car ride hadlulled me to sleep, and I had missed out on the astounding lookoutview. Typical. Always falling asleep when I should have been payingattention. I shook my head wryly, mentally chiding myself. “Well, at least you’re awake now, Grace,” Johanna, ever theoptimist, comforted. Awake. My eyes brightened. Yes, I was awake—some essenceabout the mountains seemed to be able to revitalize any apatheticsoul. Yosemite in particular seemed to heighten our senses to slowingdown, drinking in the details of life, and living each day fully. Thelookout point flickered out of sight, and I realized I needed to paymore attention to the journey. ***One morning, Johanna and I woke up early. Grabbing some coffeeand a few home-baked scones, we made our way to the river whichflowed through our campsite.Perched on an exposed tree root that jutted out from theriverbank, we listened to the birds’ morning song floating from amongthe redwoods while white beams of morning sunlight filtered throughthe trees.Our breath made tiny wisps of clouds that wreathed aroundus as we stumbled over our sleepy conversation. Sitting there withmy best friend with the ice blue sky hanging brilliantly overhead, Ifelt the ache of long-distance melt away. Between Johanna’s livingnearly three hundred miles away and my going away to college, Idistinctly remember thinking it was moments like this that boundour friendship together. Time couldn’t alter the friendship we had woven together.44 I remember we talked about change—it felt like that was the headline of every conversation in those days as we were diving into our college careers. I had just returned from a life-altering year at a college in Florida while

Johanna, a senior in high school then, was still indecisive on what course to take. We talked about how life lately felt like it was a blend of knocking on doors and waiting for prayers to be answered. In those days, we had only caught a glimpse of our futures. We were unaware of the change that the following years would carve into our hearts or the goodbyes we would haveto grapple with. We didn’t realize that we had allow ourselves tochange with the seasons. For the both of us, life hung in the balance of choices, crossroads,and a series of decisions. I know deep down we both wished thedays could flow as consistently as the river that melded between theriverbank. As we cupped our ceramic mugs of coffee and coaxed theremaining warmth into our palms, we tried disentangling the knot ofour futures. Trying to make sense of it all. Trying to find something tograsp onto. “We are blessed, though,” Johanna finally said. She took a deepbreath of the crisp air and peered at the tips of the trees as if she weretrying to take a snapshot of the moment to store away in her memory. *** Happy IslesNo trip to Yosemite would be complete without a picnic at HappyIsles. I’m not sure whether Happy Isles was named after the trillingriver or the way people felt when they visited this little corner of theYosemite.To get there, we balanced lawn chairs under our arms. Cloth bagswith cold cut sandwiches and iced tea swung from our shoulders. Thelonger we ambled along the path, the louder the chattering of the rivergrew.The levels of the river that swept through Happy Isles dependedon the rainfall that year and could range from a roaring, thunderousstream to a merely trickling creek. Usually during the spring, theriver flooded the isles with deafening whitewater swells; while in thesummer, a more milder sing-song creek glided over the rocky bed.As soon as we reached the river’s edge—before my mom couldeven say another word of warning or instruction—I was in theriver, squealing and gasping with delight at the crisp coolness 45of the water. Small nebulas of sand flecked with fool’s goldappeared in the shallow crystal water as I wiggled mytoes.

No matter how scorching the day was,the river water was winter; it was a memoryof the seasons of ice found up in the highlands; itwas a memoir of alpine places I had not yet exploredwhere the air was thin and the breeze whittled awaythe mountain into jagged edges of stone. The exhilaratingcoolness of the water made me eager to climb up to thewaterfall that tumbled recklessly upstream. My eyes eagerly soaked in the glory of the scene—the river surgingover the polished granite boulders; the dogwoods and the daisiesbobbing in the breeze, and the sunbeams sparkling in river. I breatheda sigh of relief. It was good that some things didn’t change. Without wasting any time, Johanna and I picked our way overthe rocks, slippery with moss and algae. We began to scramble overboulders; the eddying water, pirouetting around our ankles as theriver restlessly moved on. “Wanna go up to the mouth of the waterfall?” I asked Johanna. Myeyes twinkled with a certain mischievousness that often characterizedmy spontaneous whims. “Be careful!” my mom cried with a smile. “And don’t go too far!” Her admonishment fell on deaf ears. I think deep down mymom knew she had raised a daughter who had an insatiable thirst ofclimbing to higher heights. My dad calmed her fears with a wave of acknowledgement andshot us a big thumbs up and a lopsided grin. I watched with amusement as Johanna carefully tiptoed acrossthe river. It was painfully clear that city life hadn’t trained her howto effectively hike across a river. Her face contorted as she plottedher steps, tapping her foot on a rock to make sure it was stable. Asshe took another step against the tide, she flailed her arms slightly toregain her balance. “How does this not hurt you?” Johanna grunted with frustrationand pointed to my bare feet as I lithely hopped from rock to rock. I shrugged, throwing a sideways grin. “Mom has always called mea mountain goat.” I sidestepped a jagged rock and offered my hand to stabilize my friend. A canopy of dogwood, oak, and laurel trees shaded us as we trudged upstream. Not even a bird stirred to disturb the 46 scene, though a stellar jay dared to screech some piece of news throughout the wood. I stared hard at the granite boulders that pinned both sides of the river that

flowed in between, trying to determine the best path through the maze of rocks. One side of the river to the next, we wove our way against the current. Johanna didn’t question my leading; we simply climbed, following the sound of the tumbling waterfall in the distance. We scuttled over the boulders, collecting more bruises and scrapes that I would be hesitant to show to my parents later that afternoon. Looking back on that afternoon, I realize how my life feels verymuch like climbing at times, mapping out routes into unknownfutures, grueling against the relentless flow of time. But then, Iremember that day when Johanna and I reached the crest of an unrulyboulder and felt the spray of the waterfall plunging into an indigo poolof water below—how worthwhile the hike was in the end. *** Curry VillageBuilt in the 1930s, Curry Village consisted of burlap tent cabinsand small log cabins with limited utilities. In the hay day, it servedas the less expensive lodgings for the visitors who flocked to viewthe splendor of Yosemite. Now, the rows of cabins stood almostabandoned, buried by seasons of fallen pine needles and crumblinggranite.In 2009, a slab of granite plummeted down the side of GlacierPoint, sparking a rockslide that destroyed seven cabins. Thoughdamage was minimal, Yosemite authorities decided to close half of thecabins that hugged the mountain wall, discouraging the summertimecrowds.As I walked through the camp that day, I stared in disbelief atthe rows of abandoned cabins. The wood cabins with their chippedshingles and sagging roofs looked somber, half alive, and mostdefinitely forgotten by the rest of the world. As I plodded along, I feltlike I was walking through a ghost town.But one thing remained: the boulder I had loved to play on as alittle girl still stood austerely behind the cabins.It was rock nearly twelve feet high with a gentle slope, covered ina carpet of moss and lichen. Heaving myself up the granite slab, I feltmy way for the same foothold, the same little chinks in the graniteto place my fingers, following the same climbing route I hadblazed as a seven-year-old kid. I noted I didn’t have to reach 47so high for the handholds.Standing on top of a boulder that used to mean theworld to me as a kid, I remembered every excuse

that I gave to my parents just to spendan hour on that rock. The memories cametumbling back one by one—all the afternoonsspent as a wiry tomboy who couldn’t get enough ofthe outdoors, all the bruised knees and dust engrainedon my palms, all the braided pigtails and scraped knucklesand the mosquito bites, all the snapshots of a girl whoembraced the challenge of climbing up waterfalls and moss-carpeted boulders. Johanna didn’t follow my free-spirited climbing exercise this time.Instead, she stood by primly, shaking her head with amusement as Ireconstructed my childhood before her. Johanna reflected so much of the person I had become, a girl whopreferred the indoors, a girl who chose a book or a writing corner overthe loudest party, a girl who was facing bigger challenges than simplyscrambling up a rock boulder. It was an odd little feeling to be standing on the ledge of adwindling challenge and staring at a reflection of my present self.Now, as a college student, I had bigger aspirations than simplyclimbing up a piece of granite. Now, climbing up waterfalls orboulders didn’t prove to be the most uncertain challenge in my life.Now, I was standing at the edge of the future with no chance ofturning back. As I go through the motions of life, sometimes I catch a whiff of awarm breeze scented with pine. I think about those days of climbinginto the nooks of the mountains, and my heart beats a little faster as ahandful of memories come fluttering back. 48

It will always amaze me how a type of camraderie knits communities together when tragedy strikes. This narrative chronicles the rebuildingprocess of my Californian hometown after a crippling earthquake in 2003. Rising from the Rubble 35.706 121.102W. A jumble of numbers, a mismatch of letters.Coordinates. Nothing short of common. Look up the coordinateson a map, and a satellite image on Google Maps will reveal a dustyroad snaking through the desolate Central Coast of California, anarea characterized by rumpled hills dotted with brush and velvetoaks. Crisscrossing up California’s backbone, the San Andreas Faultmarks the only above ground evidence of the tectonic war that ragesbelow. On December 22, 2003, deep under the barren, unsuspectinglandscape, the earth growled while the North America Plate and thePacific Plate beneath began to grow impatient. *** Paso Robles, California December 22, 2003In a clear, singsong voice, the clock struck 10:45, welcoming themorning hours in the drowsy town square. The clock’s fifteen-footturret jutted from the three-story building, facing the oak-studded citypark. Four clock faces turned north, south, east, and west, screenedPaso Roble’s downtown district. The buildings in the town squaresunned themselves under a cerulean California sky.Below the clock tower, Pan Jewelers stood proudly erect on thecorner of Park and 12th Street. Throughout the streets, infrequentshoppers on the hunt for last-minute Christmas presents heard theclock’s shrill voice, spreading down Park Street, past House ofBread, past Bistro Laurent restaurant, past the Park Cinemas,and past Paso Robles City Library on the southern side ofthe City Park. On a good day when the breeze blew just so, 49the clock splashed its song in the hills west of the townsquare.

The gingko and magnolia trees lining thesidewalks stretched their bare boughs in themellow sunlight. Shopkeepers and restaurantowners blinked in the sharp morning light as theylocked their cars on their way to work. Among the shop owners was Nick Sherwin, co-ownerof the Pan Jewelers jewelry shop and official manager ofthe timepiece that ticked to the heartbeat of the town. Built in1892, the clock was the prize jewel of the town square, and Nick wasmeticulous in his care for the iconic landmark. He adjusted his Christmas tie and his American-flag pin, lockedhis car, and carefully balanced two steaming mochas for his thirty-three-year-old daughter June Ellart, Pan Jeweler’s manager, and hiswife Patricia. From the corner of his eye, Nick double-checked hispolished wristwatch and glanced at the clock towering above his shop.10:45. Things were running just on time. Nick noted the festive crimson bows quivering on every light polein the park across the street and nodded his approval before enteringhis shop. Like a jovial bachelor, Pan Jewelers perched between two feminineestablishments: the House of Bread bakery to its left and Ann’s DressShop to its right. In Ann’s Dress Shop, Marilyn Frost and a young sales associatebustled about the upscale clothing store. The girl hummed aChristmas tune softly and flitted in between the racks of clothes,smoothing down dresses and blouses, taking care that her newengagement ring would not catch on a thread. Marilyn smiled to herself as she watched the young clerk flutteraround the store like a cheerful lark. Marilyn was relieved to havesuch an enthusiastic soul to help with all the customers that had beenflooding in the past three weeks, and the girl’s youthful spirit added aglow to the shop. The bubbly nineteen-year-old associate could never sit still formore than a minute, her lithe body floating like the dancer she hadtrained herself to be. The way she tapped her foot or spun around justso was almost her way of reminiscing on all the fond times she had experienced in her drama troupes and jazz bands in high school. One look at the girl’s face, and you knew she was in love—in love with her future, in love with her fiancé Greg Klingman, 50 and in love with her life. Marilyn recognized the look immediately because she herself, after a long trail of broken hearts, had