When I first read Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery, I was immediately interested by Anne’s unique personality. There are aspects of the character that I will never understand, which is part of the fun of reading, but there are also times when I know exactly what Anne is feeling. I think she is a character that understands me deeply, though she isn’t even real! This particularly stood out to me in chapter 20 of the book.
Near the beginning of the chapter, Anne is walking through a beautiful place that she calls Violet Vale. She says that she doesn’t worry about school as much there. I can relate to this because I find nature very calming. Blooming flowers and gentle breezes seem to wash my worries away, even if they all come back in the rush of everyday life and schoolwork. I’m not concerned with staying ahead of an annoying boy in my class like Anne is, but I get the same feeling just competing with myself and the answer book.
In this same passage Anne says, “There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that’s why I’m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.” Sometimes I feel like I have too many different personalities, too. I’m calm and thoughtful but also fun and energetic. It’s definitely confusing and “troublesome”, as Anne puts it, but it does make things more colorful.
Another thing I loved in this chapter was the description of Anne’s room. “It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible though immaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine.” My bedroom is a special place for me because, even beyond the decorations and posters, it is full of me. The walls are full of my hopes. The sentiment is even more powerful to Anne because this is her first real home. The thought makes me thankful for my special place.
I can relate to the way Anne is a scatterbrain, too. I don’t starch handkerchiefs and forget to take pies out of the oven, but I do get distracted imagining like she does. Sometimes I decide to make up stories in my head about the people I see at the store. When I do this, I often get distracted from the rest of reality. It takes a moment to get a hold on what’s happening around me. Anne also mentions how she and Diana made up the Haunted Wood to add some excitement to their little world. I understand the urge for thrill. I try to invent interesting things, too.
The most memorable part of the chapter was when Anne had to walk through the Haunted Wood at night. I had a similar feeling of senseless dread a few months ago when I decided I had to draw thirteen pictures for an art contest with a deadline two days away. I knew I didn’t have enough time, but I felt like I had to do it, so I felt anxious about the entire situation. It was a problem I created for myself, but I was still upset about it. This isn’t the same as the situation Anne put herself in, but I think the feeling is the same. It’s like when you’re in line for a scary roller coaster and all you want to do is run away.
There are many scenes in just this one chapter that I can relate to deeply. This is mainly because of the character and her emotions, but setting also plays a part. Besides these, the way the author writes brings me even closer to the story.
A rock hard sky glares down on a busy parking lot. People run for their cars to avoid the coming rain. The scene looks ordinary, but someone bursts into tears as soon as he’s safely hidden in his car. His thoughts are as dark as the sky. He watches the raindrops on the window without moving. He doesn’t have a home to turn to. “What’s the point, anyway?” he’s tempted to ask.
This is a made up scene, but many people who feel hopeless might ask the same question. The good news is, God has an answer. He created people with the purpose of glorifying Him. For Christians, our mission is more specific. We’re here to glorify God, and to recruit others to do the same.
This isn’t an end-all answer. It can be hard to glorify God when everything seems to be a mess. One way to practically walk through a valuable life is to pay attention to the little victories. Oftentimes it helps our mental state when we focus on the easy moments and pieces of beauty that God gives to us.
In God’s view, everyone has value. Every moment until the very end is special, so the elderly can still honor God and take advantage of His joys. The same goes for the disabled. More struggles simply means more chances for victory. Every life is important, even those that haven't started yet. They can see it all one day, too. With the right view of God, anyone and everyone can come together in peace and hope.
Maybe the sun begins to break the clouds and the depressed person smiles despite himself. The rain stops, and he exits his car to the smell of clean air. He might notice a soaking wet paper stuck to the pavement. He gently picks it up to see a Bible verse. Suddenly his world is full of hope.
A rock hard sky glares down on a busy parking lot. People run for their cars to avoid the coming rain. The scene looks ordinary, but someone bursts into tears as soon as he’s safely hidden in his car. His thoughts are as dark as the sky. He watches the raindrops on the window without moving. He doesn’t have a home to turn to. “What’s the point, anyway?” he’s tempted to ask.
This is a made up scene, but many people who feel hopeless might ask the same question. The good news is, God has an answer. He created people with the purpose of glorifying Him. For Christians, our mission is more specific. We’re here to glorify God, and to recruit others to do the same.
This isn’t an end-all answer. It can be hard to glorify God when everything seems to be a mess. One way to practically walk through a valuable life is to pay attention to the little victories. Oftentimes it helps our mental state when we focus on the easy moments and pieces of beauty that God gives to us.
In God’s view, everyone has value. Every moment until the very end is special, so the elderly can still honor God and take advantage of His joys. The same goes for the disabled. More struggles simply means more chances for victory. Every life is important, even those that haven't started yet. They can see it all one day, too. With the right view of God, anyone and everyone can come together in peace and hope.
Maybe the sun begins to break the clouds and the depressed person smiles despite himself. The rain stops, and he exits his car to the smell of clean air. He might notice a soaking wet paper stuck to the pavement. He gently picks it up to see a Bible verse. Suddenly his world is full of hope.
Do you have something that you really want to accomplish in the future? Everyone has some sort of goal, even if it isn’t big or impressive. I have a page-long list of goals that doesn’t even come close to summarizing the dreams in my head, but I’ll focus on just one: I want to share my artwork with people. Not just drawings and paintings, I want to share poems and stories and anything else I can make. I want to create a bright future for myself, going on adventures and connecting with all sorts of people through the things that I love.
I’ve had to ask myself before why I want this. I think God gave me the passions that I have for a reason, so I want to use them to spread hope and to honor Him. 1 Peter 4:10 says, “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.” Besides, I have a craving for adventure, and this sounds like the best way to satisfy it. Leaving an impact on people is the most thrilling thing that I can do.
Everyone has to start somewhere. Right now I’m posting pictures and blogs on a personal website, sharing them with a few
people on Instagram and my parents’ friends on Facebook. I’m learning all I can and trying out new things. I’m taking in the people and the world around me and enjoying it all with wide eyes.
I’m already on the first step to reaching my goal. Another part of this step is entering contests to gain exposure. From here, I’ll try to get featured in some blogs and magazines, and sell some of my work. I’ll work on writing my book, and when it's ready to publish, I’ll work on that. Once I’m a little older and have more money, freedom, and experience, I’ll go for bigger things; art galleries and exhibits, book signings, and who knows what else. The sky’s the limit!
When I think about it, my goal isn’t very specific. That doesn’t matter; I don’t need to know everything when I’m only fifteen years old.The important thing is that I have a goal, even if it’s outlandish. I’m going to try my best to achieve whatever form this dream will take.
Trees stand tall around me like proud warriors, spears piercing the sky. The air feels open and crisp. The tingley sound of the creek fills my ears. The leaves above my head sparkle against the deep blue sky. Birds are singing; a soft squirrel chases his friend up a tree. This is the scene in the woods behind my house, about half a mile back.
The area really doesn’t stretch too far in any direction. I can just make out my house, and I can see more the opposite way if I squint. The woods only extend a little less than half a mile north to south and just under a mile east to west before you run into houses, after all. The land directly behind the houses is included as their property, and the rest is owned by Harborcreek Youth Services. Though I’ve never seen anyone else out there, four wheeler tracks and a tree stand show evidence of its use. There’s one tree with the initials ‘JM’ carved deeply into it. That tree makes me feel a connection to the people who use the woods now and those who used them in the past.
Because the woods aren’t really my property, it isn’t my job to preserve them. The owners seem to be doing pretty well at
that. Some trees are marked off with ribbons. The woods are protected wetlands, so nobody can come in and wreck the place. I can still help in little ways, though, like by picking up the litter that blows out of people’s garbage cans and ends up in the creek.
There are still problems, though. The aforementioned litter is mostly ignored. My neighbors cleared out the trees in their section of the woods. A lot more trees have fallen simply because of their shallow roots.The muddy banks of the creek easily get eroded, especially with four wheelers driving over them.
Even if they aren’t mine, the woods are my special place. They make me feel at home. In the woods, I’m alone, yet more connected to God and the people around me, whether I know those people or not. This is why preserving the woods is important to me. I’m going to do all I can, even if that isn’t much. After all, “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it,” --Psalm 24:1.
My dream is to be an artist. I have it all planned out from entering contests now to art college to selling my work in my own store that preferably influences the entire world. That's a pretty big dream, I know, but I know I'm unique so I might just be able to make it happen. I've always had this idea about being an artist in my mind, but I think I started to take it seriously around sixth grade. There was this mini art contest at my homeschool co-op that I entered a painting into. Nothing came of that, but it put the idea in my head. I thought about it for a few months and began to make my plan. I remember one night I was supposed to be sleeping but I couldn't stop thinking about my future art career. I got this random burst of excitement as the idea became real in my mind. I was cuddling with a stuffed cupcake dog and all I could do at that moment was squeeze it as tightly as possible. I hugged my dream and my heart right into that dog. It sort of became my good luck stuffed animal after that. If I'm not mistaken, that same dog, Pugsy, was there when I opened my email two years later and read the words, "Congratulations, your work has been accepted for publication!" At that moment the dream was really real. My heart skipped a beat.
"We should probably start to head back soon,” Dad says as we walk down various trails in the woods.
"I guess so," I agree sulkily, "Let's just see what's up there first." I point up the path to where it winds gracefully through a sea of ferns. Dad checks the time on his phone and agrees readily. He loves nature just as much as I do. Being out in God's creation makes us feel closer to Him.
Dad tries to always be close with God and honor Him. Whether he is at home caring for his family or at work making the money to provide for us, Dad does it all to honor God. He preaches at church and teaches all of us at home so that he can always be sharing God’s blessings. Dad does so much, and all of it is with a happy personality and a lot of love. Dad reminds me of Noah in the Bible because of his strong faith in God that makes him righteous, which also makes him stand out from the rest of the world. He always does God's will selflessly and he brings his family along the whole way.
I'm so thankful that God gave me this amazing father to laugh with and learn from. I hope I can be like Dad one day because he is a wonderful reflection of God, our Heavenly Father.
Sometimes I feel like I'm in a yellow mood. I feel very happy and I always smile when I feel yellow. Sometimes I can't help bouncing around like crazy. It is quite fun to be in a yellow mood.
I listen. I think. Always when I hear someone talking about something other than video games, I listen. Always when I have a question, I think. And then inspiration strikes. Out of nowhere a careless comment or a silly question creates the basis for a short story of even a novel. They say writers are great thieves, and it's true. I wrote this all down. If it is too amazing to wait, I start working right away. Otherwise I save it to fight off any writer's block I may encounter.
I pull out a notebook, take it to my back deck, and start with that inspiration. I take that idea that fell from the sky, and then I build it out with creativity. I breath life into the characters by answering a list of simple questions about them, making them unique pieces of myself. I map out the plot, making it different from the story I found it in, adding my own bits and pieces until it can only be recognized as my own beautiful idea.
Next I write the first draft. I just get it out. I write a page or more and then I stop to think, to find more inspiration. Sometimes I need a chocolate break, or to take myself away from it entirely and play outside. However long it takes, I get it all down and then
the editing process begins.
I edit thoroughly, pausing to consider every detail and reworking many parts. I go through my checklist of aspects to pay attention to, and then I reread it again to get it to perfection. After this I type it into Google Docs, making little changed along the way. And then my baby is ready and I find a way to share it with someone.
This is how I work. Maybe it's different for you, but I love to write with the birds chirping around me. I pause occasionally to look towards the woods before turning back to my paper and pencil. I like to plan it all out first. Once I start the real writing, then it can just flow free without any hindrance. That is the best part.
Dear Future Me,
How does it feel to be an adult? It feels weird enough to be 13! Today Mom was working on school for next year and I saw a paper that said 'Abigail Rater -- Grade 8' at the top. It just looked so big! Not as crazy as 'Kennedy Rater -- Grade 10', though. How about 'Mason Rater -- Grade 4' or 'Maddy Rater -- Grade 2'. I can't believe how old we're getting! Your well past all of those by now, though. Did you go to college like I plan to? Were you able to major in art and writing? Did you make a career for yourself? Enough questions. I've been trying hard to get my work out there and I'm sure the answer to all three questions will be yes! If not, well, I guess it's God's plan. No matter what, I hope you have, do, and will use the talents that God gave you for His glory. If not, it's never too late to start. 2020 has been a bit of a rough year for us, but there is still so much to be thankful for. God gives us new reasons to smile every day, after all.
Sincerely,
Your Past Self,
Abby Rater
Dear Baby Alives, Hello! I guess you think my name is Erica or Bella Ballerina. Well, I'm not really either of them. My name is Abby and it always has been. When we played together my sister (you usually knew her as Annalise) and I liked to pretend to be our favorite characters and those were some of them. Sorry about that confusion. Now I'm just Abby.
I remember the day I got you, it was a busy Christmas of rushing around celebrating with every single relative. I think I was very tired by the time we got to Great Grandma's house. I unwrapped the first four of you hurriedly and, I'm sorry, I wasn't too interested. I must have been distracted by all of the people talking and laughing, all of the sugary food (even though we had just stuffed ourselves at Nana's), and the wrapping paper flying everywhere! I spent the ride home crying over a stuffed bear because she had '2013' stitched on her paw and it didn't look or sound nearly as nice as 2012. After that I just forgot about you, so you lived on the kitchen table for about two months. I'm sorry.
Mom was actually about to donate you but, thank goodness, my sister and I got bored and decided to open you. Of course we instantly fell in love. Your faces were so cute and you were just the right size to take on any adventure. I was either very generous or incapable of playing on my own and I let my sister have Mackaila and Hailey, but I kept Ella and Lilly to myself. My sister got Sarina and Sydney for her next birthday and when Sarina hurt her neck we managed to meet the other Sarina and the other Sydney! I misread one of the boxes when the next two came along so someone called Louaou came with the other Lilly. Last to come was Lulu and our group was complete.
I'm sorry we doubled up on so many names and I'm very sorry that we named your home Baby Bikini World! We had picked up the word 'bikini' somewhere and we thought it was very fun to say (because it is).
We had some very fun times picking a "Cutest" each day to receive special treatment and swaddling up in old baby socks at night. Instead of going to sleep right away we would stay up late talking and pretending we were in dreams. Do you remember?
You were such a big part of my life and I owe so much to you! You were the models for a lot of my early drawings (my sister and I wouldn't hang any pictures up in our room besides the ones we made of you!) and now a piece of my artwork is going to be published in a real book. The first story I ever wrote was about you, and now I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't figure things out by writing about them. What about crafts? The experience of sewing tiny cloths for you has helped when a stuffed animal needs fixed or my favorite pants have a rip. Thank you for all of it.
We used to talk while doing math, but last year I worked hard to focus on my pre-algebra textbook (and I was only in seventh grade). We used to clean up our messes slowly using my brother's toy dump trucks, but now I fold laundry just because I like to be useful. We used to pretend that I was your babysitter, but now I can actually stay home alone with my younger siblings. I've changed a bit, I guess. I'm more mature now, but I'm really not that different.
I know I don't play with you every day like I used to and maybe I get embarrassed when I forget to put you away when my friends come over (sorry!) but I still love you. I love the sharpie smudge on Louaou's cheek, Sarina's wobbly head, and the loss of almost all of your shoes and binkies that reminds me of all our old fun. That's right, I'm still the same little girl with the poofy skirt and the constant giggle. I still love dolls and other babyish things and that's ok. I still jump at the chance to watch a Barbie movie with my little sister and that's ok. I am responsible and I am a child. Yes, I can have both. Nobody is stopping me from loving my dolls, not even maturity! I will always love you and any other harmless thing I like and it's all thanks to you. Thank you for being so lovable that I just have to be like this, because it makes life a lot brighter when the world is in chaos.
Sincerely Your Loving Kid,
Abby Rater
P.S.
If you see any Polly Pockets or LOL Dolls, please share that last part with them. The American Girl Dolls also say hi and thanks.
AR
In all of my 13 years of life, I've always lived in the same state in the same county. Though I used to live in what Mom now calls "the ghetto" my family has really always been country folks and that's my only cultural influence.
Although I only live in one physical world, I have another sort of fantasy world inside my head that is in some ways separated. When I was little I would get very concentrated on something that nobody else saw and Dad would say that I was in Abbyland. Nobody talks about Abbyland much anymore, but I still have a whole world up there. The only difference is that now whatever happens in that world gets spilled upon pages in either words or pictures, whichever suits the mood best.
My worlds are both equally real, and they help each other stand and make me who I am. I want to show this by bringing you into each of my worlds.
It's almost lunchtime and I sit at the dining room table waiting for Mom's help with my science book. She is busy
explaining some complicated algebra in front of the computer. She sits at the wooden extension on the end of our table. Her hair, graying at the tips but dark everywhere else, is pulled into a loose bun and her hoodie has a cross on it. Kennedy wears a look of annoyance and confusion with her eyebrows scrunched together on her tan face. Her greenish-hazel eyes keep darting towards the clock on the oven.
Meanwhile, Mason has already finished his schoolwork. "Hey Dad!" he begins.
"What?" Dad asks with a smile as he looks up from his phone. He had been working on a sermon with his brow wrinkled in two lines of concentration.
"It was funny, on Veggie Tales..." Mason begins explaining every detail of one little joke that he heard on TV.
"Well that's fun!" Dad says brightly, though I can tell he doesn't really care. With Mason's big mouth and glasses, I'm surprised there's any room left on his face for the fat Rater nose.
Maddy and Benjamin are in the living room playing with Frozen dolls and Mario stuffed animals. They also finished school. "Benjamin, make Bowser say, 'What are you doing?'" Maddy commands.
"What aw you dooen?" Benjamin repeats in a monster voice. The game continues on like that. Maddy brushes her messy hair out of her face and has a hard time getting her purple glasses untangled. Benjamin has a quizzical look on his face, I don't know why. His thin legs are just the right length to reach the couch, which is their play surface.
Gracie makes the scene even more chaotic. She is sitting on the table holding a board book and pretending to read when she sees our dog, Annie, trot by. Gracie's curls frame a face that is taken over by a giant smile. "Kit-ty, kit-ty, kit-ty!" she says in a high voice. Then she crawls over to look and ends up falling right off of the table! Everyone drops what they were doing and runs to see if she's OK. She is, and now she has seven family members comforting her and calming her cries.
This is my first world; my home with my big, caring family.
Now enter my second world. Wade through the questions I ask myself and the answers that are the foundations of my stories. Find the strings of ideas just waiting to fly off the tip of a pencil and feelings anticipating expression. Look around at the peaceful thoughts, hopes, and dreams weaving together into a beautifully calm fantasy.
I am sitting amidst whatever scene I wish to draw. Right now it is a bright green dome of leaves full of light and color. A notebook is in my lap and I am scribbling vigorously, pausing often to think and stare into the distance. My eyes light up with an idea and I send it around the test tracks in my mind before squealing in excitement. Then I turn back to my paper.
This is my second world, full of ideas and fantasies. It doesn't take as much explaining as my family, or maybe I just don't have the right words to tell any more, but it is just as crazy in a peaceful sort of way. Maybe nobody understands that besides me, but I love it nonetheless.
My two worlds are very different -- that you can clearly see -- but I need both of them and they both need each other. My family often serves as inspiration for what goes on in my mind and notebook, and my younger siblings are always glad to listen to my writing and share their opinion. My family is always supportive in my attempts to make my work into something big, and I am so thankful for that. On the other hand, when I have a problem with someone, art and writing help me to calm down and/or know how to deal with the situation. These are just a few examples. My worlds aren't like oil and water. They mix, but at the same time they stay two different things, so they are more like salt and water.
One thing, or being, really, permeates both my worlds and holds them together. That being is God. My parents have always taught us the Truth, and everything special about our family focuses on honoring God. Meanwhile, I try to bring glory to Him with all that I do in my fantasy world.
I get out the dollar store pallet of watercolor paint and the magenta cup full of all kinds of brushes and covered in all colors of paint splotches. I inhale deeply and find the comforting smell of paint like an old, musty friend. I take a piece of paper and place it on the wide area of newspaper put there to protect the already messy tabletop. Time to paint. I've always loved to draw and paint for as long as I can remember, and my parents say I'm really good at art for a third grader, but my paintings usually only consist of dozens of random blobs. I hope that that's about to change. I pick up an odd type of secret weapon, a thin-tipped brush, not considering the amazing power that it most certainly holds. I paint the outline of a dolphin in black. I color it in with blue and continue to paint all the other sea life I've studied in my co-op science class. I look at my handiwork with astonishment. A smile spreads across my face. This actually looks like something. I can hardly wait to show my mom, my science teacher, my grandma, everyone. This is only the beginning.
For a while Thanksgiving seemed to bring bad luck for my family. When I must have been about seven years old, Great Grandma got sick on or near Thanksgiving. I think we were at Nana's house when Mom told my sister and I, but I'm not absolutely sure. There might have been a lump of worry in my stomach, but I wasn't too concerned. Great Grandma had been sick before and she was always fine. Nobody I knew had ever died, so I guess it didn't seem possible.
It was probably a few weeks later that we took the drive that I don't remember in our dirty red van with Dora stickers on the inside of the windows to the hospital. There was a long wait in the clean but stale smelling waiting room with Grandma and Grandpa and a lot of other family.
Someone brought sparkly beads and pipe cleaners and I made a bracelet that I thought should be in a jewelry store. Kennedy (my sister) and I played with our baby dolls that we had brought on the sticky hospital cushions. Eventually I got board and got crayons and construction paper to make a storybook about those dolls. My first story. Kennedy's doll was the magic princess
named Makaila. The story was called "Magical Makaila". It was very heavily inspired by Sofia the First and Cinderella even made a special appearance in it. I was proud of my tiny illustrated book when it was finished and stapled together (though I'm not sure where I got all the supplies). I think it was Grandma who said that Great Grandma would love for me to read her my story and Dad who explained that Great Grandma wasn't able to talk so I knew she wasn't ignoring me.
So the two of them took me to the small room where she was. I think I got a hug from those weak arms. She looked so different laying there in some hospital gown instead of her usual big shirts with teddy bears and kittens on them in old lady designs. I sat down and read the story and she smiled when it was finished. I don't exactly remember what happened next, but in a while we were in our red van again, getting ready to leave. I remember most of the time I felt a little bit nervous but mostly indifferent about the whole situation. I didn't think she could die because I just couldn't imagine it. But then Dad was telling us about her last breath and how she had smiled, excited to see the Lord. "Don't say 'last breath,'" Kennedy said through tears. "It sounds too sad."
I love my Great Grandma, who, even while she was dyeing, listened to me yammer on about princesses. She heard my first story and I can picture her up there smiling about how far I've come. Great Grandma was an amazing Christian woman and I know she is in heaven praising God right now. I can't wait to see her again one day and read her another story. This one will be about God's grace.
When you smell something, nerves send that information to the brain. After continually smelling the same thing for a while, though, the nerves stop sending messages because the brain already knows about the smell.
I lived in a not great part of the city until I was nine years old. I always loved the crocuses that grew in our front yard, but I was also used to them coming up every spring. They smelled so sweet and fresh. The tiny balls in the most wonderful shade of deep purplish blue that made up the tapered tops of the flowers were so beautiful.
When I was nine and we moved out, I was sad to leave, but the flowers were no part of my concern. Now I'm grateful to live in a safe place with friendly neighbors and woods behind the house; however, while my yard and the woods have plenty of flowers, I haven't found any crocuses.
I miss the crocuses, even if I didn't always acknowledge them.
My full name is Abigail Olivia Rater. A lot of my personality can be told by this name. Any good story has a beginning, middle, and end so here I'll give the full story of my name.
Abigail. Everybody calls me Abby. I share this title with one of my best friends as well as about five other girls, though I wasn't named after anyone in particular. I also share it with the woman in 1 Samuel 25 who uses good sense to talk David out of getting revenge on her foolish husband. I don't think I'm quite as brave as that Abigail, but I am sensible and I hope my name reminds me to become brave. The name Abigail means father's joy, and I try to bring joy to my whole family. Abigail: It connects to friends, it is sensible and brave, and it spreads joy. I hope I can live up to my name.
Olivia. the part of my name that's all my own. My parents say that before I was born a lot of relatives disagreed about whom I should be named after. Annoyed, my parents pulled a random name out of the sky: Olivia. When I was little I thought my middle name was from a certain cartoon I liked. I asked my parents about it at least three times even though each time
they said no. I sure am glad I was wrong about that! Sometimes my brother and I would make up characters whose first names were our middle names and pretend to be them for fun. Olivia was always adventurous and brave. Olivia: It's all my own even if I have seen it in books and on TV a few times. Sometimes I wish my middle name was my first name.
Rater. Of course I share my last name with my family and this is really an honor. Dad says the name is German, which I find intriguing even if there isn't a second German thing about us. What matters more to me than where the name came from is what I inherited from it. My Dad's perfectionism that I got can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on the situation, but I've always enjoyed sharing his knack for words. Something I hope to get from my family is their independence. My Mom homeschools my five siblings and I and my Dad is an elder and preacher at our small church which they helped start. Rater: it connects to family, and it gives perfectionism, writing, and (hopefully) independence. This one I really hope to live up to and I'll be sad to give it up if I ever marry.
So that is my name. I love the parts that are shared and that they still stay unique. My friend Abby and I are as different as night and day, and each of my siblings has gotten something different from Rater. Still, I like that my middle name is relatively all mine. So, the story of my name does tell a lot about me, but it certainly doesn't define me.
From the moment she woke up, Abigail knew that this was not going to be an ordinary day. Then again, was any day ever ordinary? She allowed herself a few more minutes to soak in the warmth of her patterned pink comforter before opening one eye, then the other. She smelled the aroma of lavender that spilled out of the diffuser. She liked how the scent matched the purple curtains. The window shade was closed above the air conditioner and the colorful fairy lights surrounding it were not plugged in, but sunlight still peaked through to light up the room and dance on the off-white walls. The dresser along the right wall held Abigail’s art supplies and a large stack of books on top of it. On that same wall hung all of Abigail’s drawings and in that corner her dolls played. The other side of the room had a tall dresser with a backpack, a camera, and a guitar belonging to Abigail’s sister, who was waking up in the top bunk. Her dance mirror, framed in hundreds of photos, colored the wall and a giant stuffed sloth sat next to it.
Abigail rolled over and took her Bible off of her bedside shelf. She dutifully read a chapter of Luke, underlining several important verses.
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She mentally went through her list of things to do to get ready for the day as she picked out a floral dress and pink capris to wear. Several whiny voices drifted through the door crack from the living room as she dressed.
Oh, did you think this was the story of a perfect girl with a perfect life? Not quite. This is the story of Abby Rater and her crazy but wonderful family. More importantly, this is the story of God’s way of working in their lives.
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As Abby smoothed a brush through her tangled bedhead, she looked over at her sister’s perfect hair. It was dark at the top where the dye had grown out, but everywhere else were waves of a lighter, almost golden, brown. Abby thought bangs looked awful on most people, but Kennedy could make them work. In fact, she could make anything work; everything about her looked perfect.She could be a model if she wanted to. Now look at the contrast between this and Abby’s frizzy mess, which she was now pulling into two tight braids.
Kennedy was bending to kiss Patches, who was napping in her usual spot on Abby’s bed. Kennedy loved cats, sometimes too much, according to all of the scratches on her hands. Macey was a timid little angel. She gave a friendly ‘Brrrroew!’ of greeting whenever she entered a room and she let anyone in the family do anything they wanted to her without so much as swattimg at them. She got scared of new people, though and hid well when visitors came.
Lets just say that Patches had more spunk. Abby liked that Patches had personality, and it likely added to her own bond with the cat. Since the day Patches was found, Abby had been her favorite. Patches made Abby’s bed her own, always there for comfort or cuddle. In return, Abby was often petting and cuddling to show her love. She was, however, careful not to smother like a certain older sister.
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Kennedy threw on a hoodie and saved her extensive outfit styling for after breakfast as she turned on her phone, Abby’s virtual enemy. Kennedy was always staring at that screen texting friends, playing Roblox, watching YouTube, and who knew what else. The one and only good thing about Kennedy’s phone was music. Kennedy seemed to be full of music. She played guitar at church and danced to K-pop songs at home. Abby didn’t understand K-pop whatsoever (what’s the point of music if you can’t understand the words?) and she didn’t like the tunes much, either, but she knew that Kennedy liked it a lot so ultimately (though she would never say so out loud) Abby was glad that her sister had that. After all, her older sister was also her best friend and, when she put the phone down, Kennedy made a great one. The girls did practically everything together and there was nobody Abby liked better to laugh with than Kennedy.
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In the living room ten minutes later, Abby found her four younger siblings. Mason, Maddy, and Benjamin were all watching a YouTube video of someone playing video games on the TV. They may have gotten out of bed earlier than she had, but they hadn’t gotten dressed yet and Abby knew that they hadn’t moved from the couch much.
Judging by the mess of toys, pillows, books, and baby wipes in the room, Gracie had been busy. She sat on the sill of the big triple window holding a bag of chips as big as herself. A smile showed in her dimpled cheeks and scrunched up nose. The morning sunlight came through the window and created a golden halo to surround Gracie’s curls.
“Are we still walking Tucker later?” Abby asked Mason as she shoved pillows and cracker wrappers aside to set a basket of clean laundry down on the long sectional couch.
“Sure,” Mason said happily. He held out his fist for their special handshake.
Tucker was the newest addition to the family, a seven month old hound from the ANNA Shelter. He wasn’t trained at all yet and had a tendency to annoy the rest of the family, but he really was sweet and loving despite it all. Abby and Mason tried to walk him every day to get him out of the house and teach him to behave.
Annie then trotted into the room with her ears perked up. Her tongue hung out of her mouth in what looked like a smile. “Yes, we’ll bring you, too, Annie,” Abby said, bending down to pet their well behaved dog.
“Aww, you’re such a good girl,” Mason cooed, giving Annie one of his signature hugs.
“Kitty kitty kitty!” Gracie squealed as she ran to the dog on her chubby legs.
“Benjamin, want to play Mario stuffed animals in our room?” Maddy was asking.
“Shuw,” Benjamin consented and they scurried off, Maddy humming a tune as she made it up. Maddy was like Kennedy with her love of music, but in several ways she was much more like Abby. She was just as fun and quirky, she said some surprisingly thoughtful things, and somehow they just seemed to come from the same dreamland.
Like Kennedy and Abby, Maddy and Benjamin did nearly everything together and were constantly laughing hysterically about nothing. They were “best buds”. Maddy was the sassy boss and Benjamin the quiet follower. He was very quiet when he wasn’t crying. He did cry somewhat often, but that was the price of his sweet, sensitive heart. It was well worth it.
Abby was folding (and wishing she could fit into) Maddy’s unicorn shirt when Mom and Dad came in from the back deck. Dad was discussing a trucking job that he had applied for. This job had better hours than he was currently working at FedEx so he could provide for the family and have time to see them, which was what he cared about most in life. Mom was listening to him -- she was great at listening -- while putting bread in the toaster, holding Tucker on his leash, and helping Abby with the laundry. It may have been summer vacation and a Saturday no less, but the parents were still working hard and making it look easy.
“I’m sorry, do you need help with anything?” Dad asked Mom as she brought a stack of plates to the table.
“I think I’ve got it,” Mom said with a certain brightness in her tone that matched her smile.
“Let me help you, woman!” Dad exclaimed loudly in his pretend old man voice. The kids all giggled and Dad continued. “Back in my day you accepted some darned help!” The children continued to laugh as they gathered around the scuffed, cluttered, happy kitchen table and Dad continued to tease in his funny voice.
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After breakfast Abby grabbed one of her many notebooks and dashed outside. She climbed up her favorite tree and fondly looked around her. The mossy yard was full of trees, a trampoline, a kitty pool, and several other toys. The paint was still peeling on the deck and the house was far from a mansion but it was cozy and it was home. What Abby loved most about her home city, Harborcreek, was that no matter which way she looked, if she strained her eyes far enough, they would eventually fall on woods. She didn’t have to strain her eyes much to the left, for there was her own little wood that stepped into the yard.