I’ve returned from the land of my youth, and I’m still a part of the warm Wesleyan fold.  The spring committee inquisition, as it turns out, is far more low key than the one in the fall.  Thus, I had only to answer one “sacramental theology” question and the rest were just checking to make sure I hadn’t taken up ritual murders.  My mentor had warned me that there might be questions about sacraments, and I was prepared.

“So, you know about sacraments, right?” My long-suffering mentor asked.

“Oh sure.  All seven of them!”

“Uh . . .”

“Ha ha, just kidding.  I know Methodists only have two.  Oh, well, three if you count bapticonfucharist.”

“Adrienne . . .”

“No, really, just kidding.  HA!  Is this thing on?  But seriously folks . . .”

Honestly, how can they not want ALL THIS?

Speaking of “all this,” I am beginning the long, arduous process of moving my belongings out of my childhood home to my dorm apartment.  Among the items I retrieved this trip was a “dossier” my father compiled of pretty much everything I’ve ever produced in my life until about age 21.  I will have to put my early writings here because truly they are Pulitzer material.  However, along with literary gold is photo documentation of what I like to call my “unfortunate period.” Or, alternatively, “my youth.” I look at these pictures with a mixture of amusement and a burning desire to put my face in my hands and scream.  My favorite one, shown below, comes from my 8th grade “diploma,” a certificate given to me because I had made it to the ninth grade and didn’t have to take time off to have a baby.  My favorite part about it is the embossed words, “The Look of Success” above my eighth grade pose from picture day.

I would like to point out my large red glasses, a look that I thought truly flattered me.  Also good to note is the look on my face, one that confidently screams, “I AM a winner.”