Being a bad girl is a lot of fun.

A friend and I had a splendid visit to the Shell station right beside our school.  This was a most adventurous escapade for it is Banquet Day (perhaps a blog tomorrow).  We got out at 12:30 and parents or brothers who were supposed to take us home had not yet arrived .  My friend and I decided to be bad girls.   It was an awesome time.  My school has put up and stupid, ridiculous chain to keep people from cutting corners and saving the grass (and it is not working one bit, the grass is a bunch of dandelions *cough*weeds*cough*). We went under the net instead of around it and walked to the Shell station (which I am not supposed to do……).  Ooh, it felt good to be bad.

While inside the gas station, my accomplice and I read  every single one of the shirts out loud, took them off the rack, and rearranged them.  I would just like to say that those shirts were ridiculous, dumb (I need some new adjectives), and had bad grammar. After taking our fun with the shirts, we looked at all the (redneck) hats and read them aloud as well.  I felt as though we were being a nuisance and bought some ice cream out of guilt.  If I buy something, they can’t throw me out, now can they?

Being a bad girl is a lot of fun.

Even though, by the title you probably thougt I meant something…worse.

Field Day

Oh, what a joyous occasion Field Day is at my school. School is only in session until 12:30 (whoo!), we get to spend time in the sun (huzzah for sunburn), and I enjoy the privilege of overseeing an activity. Field Day is also one of the most memorable days of my sixths grade career (three whole years ago…).

We were young, foolish, and beginning puberty. We were an experiment–the first sixth grade considered “middle school” at Emmanuel Christian School. We were no longer participants in Field Day, we got to run Field Day. Ah yes, the good old days.

The girls were forever fighting in and out of the classroom. The things about which we fought–who had the best clothes, who had the worst clothes, who’s hair was the best, who could bring in the most can tops, who could sing, who had begun her period, who had a boyfriend (which happened to be none of us but it was still a great topic on conversation), who was most athletic, who would go to the awards dinner–had no real value.

The day was crisp and sunny. We were supposed to man the forty yard dash. I had been working with a few friends. Sam was one of those friends. Actually, Sam was a frienemy; we got along great at times. She was my best friend but also my greatest enemy. We were both fighting for the attention of Mr. Max. Sam always won his affection; I received his anger.

Sam could sit in his chair. “Aw, kid. How ya doing?”

Chasity could not sit in his chair. “Get out of my chair!”

Sam, Lindsay, Melanie, Rose, and I were friends; Sam, Janice, and Dorothy were friends. Each group of girls was working a different game. Sam was with me. Max came over to us, “Great job, ladies.” Sam went over to chat with Max. I think I’ll give it a try. Besides, he can’t hate me that much. I gave it a shot, but he ignored me. Perhaps another attempt? No, he just walked away faster. I had finally had enough! I gathered my courage and said, “Why do you hate me?”

“Because you are annoying! ” he shouted back. Wow, not even a “I don’t hate you.”

“Sam does the same thing and you like her, ” I reasoned.

“Sam isn’t annoying.” It’s not that, I thought, Sam is pretty.

I cried that night.

But yet another thing happened that day. The girls had a huge fight–over a chair.

Sam, Lindsay, Rose, and Melanie (Group A) against Janice and Dorothy (Group B). I, for once, remained neutral and tried to comfort both parties.

The lawn chair of Group A was either 1) blown down by the wind or 2) Group B had knocked it over. Group A claims that the second choice is what really happened; Group B believes it was the first option. By this time the fun and games were over and we had gathered in Max’s room. Max strode in, found out what had conspired, and decided we talk about it. He yelled at us for thirty minutes, telling us that we were immature, stupid, pathetic. He made us all cry. I hated seeing them cry (I myself had only shed two tears) and tried to cheer them up.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Shut up, Chasity.”

I cried more than two tears after that.

The argument went deeper–friendship. Group B was mad at a person in Group A. The friendship was never truly mended.

Did this Field Day go smoother than the Filed Day of the past? We are older now, more mature (ha ha, although the immaturity of my class amazes me), wiser? well perhaps a little–we don’t tell friends everything. We keep our dirty, little secrets. We let them smolder and burn us from the inside out. We have to heartache over petty things. We now go after the opposite sex, deserting out friends from kindergarten. No, this Field Day was just like the rest. WE are still arguing over chairs, just of a different kind.

My brother has dysentery!

“I’m not going to be at school today. If anyone asks where I am tell them I have dysentery,” my brother said to me.

“Okay. What is that?” I asked him.

“Dysentery is probably what happened to Jerry.”

All of a sudden what my brother has told me to do makes me laugh.

I enter the door of my second hour class.

“Hello, Charita. Is your brother on that photo club field trip?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

I forgot the word dysentery and had to ask a friend if he knew.

“Prayer requests?” my teacher asked.

“Makario has liquidy poop,” said Christian.

*Gasp*

A long round of “Eww….” followed.

The teacher believed Christian, Even though I told him the whereabouts of Makario.

Rumors were definitely spread today.

My school

Christianity–it is what I believe. I believe in Jesus Christ. He died, was buried, and rose again. I believe that. I know that I sin. I do it daily, I admit it. I understand that I deserve Hell. I understand that there is another way. I understand that that way is Jesus. I understand all of that.

What I do not understand is how so many “Christians” scare away the world. Sure we are supposed to be different.

But is a person supposed to be different to the extent that the “unsaved” want absolutely nothing to do with them?

I think not.

That is the problem with some (quite a handful) people. Save the world by turning them away. It is not supposed to be this way. We are supposed to make them come–come and not leave.

They are blind to what they are doing.

Am I blind as well?