I got a letter today from my alma mater university, and I’m sure it had quite the opposite effect on me from what was intended. The 5-page letter sings the praises of the current freshman class, the class of 2011. There’s a lot to be proud of in this class, and I’m glad to see that my school is attracting brilliant and forward-thinking minds. Makes me feel smart by association. But the descriptions of the accomplishments and collective background of this body of students also left me feeling just the slightest bit unsettled. The class of 2011, at least at my alma mater, is full of brains and diversity and offbeat characters and lofty goals and important causes and confidence bordering on cockiness. But there’s not much at all of just being a nice, honest, humble, hardworking person. The letter left me wondering: What’s wrong with just being ordinary?

Today, I don’t think I’d stand a snowball’s chance of getting accepted into this school. I don’t have a plan to change the world, and I don’t have a plan to spurn it. I’m not the smartest or the funniest or the most politically savvy. I’m not a world or national or state champion in anything. Not field hockey or tennis or female wrestling or spelling or chess or the Irish tin whistle. I’ve never lived in a solar greenhouse in the Rockies or on a sheep ranch in Turkey or at a missionary in Kenya. I don’t speak four languages and I don’t hold any patents and my idols are not female oceanographers. My parents are not Nobel Laureates or famous chefs or CEOs of Fortune 100 companies or foreign ambassadors or in prison. I’ve never turned a piece of classic literature into a rap song or built a catapult to hurl pumpkins 700 feet. I’ve never ridden my bike 22 miles to reduce my carbon footprint. I was never a class president or a valedictorian or a captain of a varsity sports team or an editor-in-chief of my school newspaper. I’ve never been a llama handler or a beekeeper. My favorite book is not the Communist Manifesto. I do not think that the color of my nail polish is a metaphor for the impossibility of perfection. I’m not a left-leaning Buddhist from a conservative Catholic family. I’ve never wanted to be a god in the eyes of my followers. I’m not in search of self-identity. I mostly just want to give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and to be there for my family and friends. Judging by the class of 2011, this makes me far too ordinary to pass muster with the admissions committee these days.

Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE the eclectic diversity of this class, and some of the stories are truly impressive and inspiring. Some of these students have overcome incredible obstacles to get where they are and they are absolutely worthy of praise. It’s just that, amidst all this standing out and specialness, where are the ordinary people like me? The ones who play the piano and belong to the Spanish club and get voted “Most Shy”? Where are the late bloomers who haven’t known since birth what they wanted to do with their lives? And reading about accomplishment after accomplishment and how everyone is so busy being different and unique, I couldn’t help but notice that what seemed missing was heart and soul. These kids purport to care about the world, but I wonder if they’ll be so engrossed in getting ahead and pursuing global altruism and being “individual” that they’ll forget to care about each other. I just can’t help but wonder.

I don’t really know why this analysis of the class of 2011 struck me the way it did. I suppose it’s partly because I have a hard time recognizing my own 17-year-old self in it. And partly because some of the essay snippets that were shared in the letter seemed so self-aware that it almost defies credibility. And partly because I think accomplishments are sometimes overrated at the expense of happiness and personal contentment as a measure of success.

Some of the happiest people I know might consider themselves ordinary. And that makes them extraordinary. Whether my alma mater agrees or not.

Kids are so funny when it comes to anything medical. I had a little minor surgery yesterday, and in talking with Maia about it beforehand, I learned that she “outsmarted” the doctors and nurses the last time she had tubes in her ears. The anesthesiologist had apparently told her that he was giving her laughing gas to help her sleep. But it didn’t really make her laugh, so she fake laughed anyway to avoid disappointing everyone. Silly kid!

But I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of explaining the nature of my own surgery, because when my parents picked her up from school, she wanted to know if I was still going to look the same. You gotta wonder sometimes what’s going through their imaginative little brains.

I also learned something really sweet about my husband yesterday, while we were waiting in the pre-op area. I always knew he was sentimental, which is one of the things I love about him, but yesterday I found out that he’s been carrying around mementos from our wedding in his briefcase for the last 13 years. Yes, I think I definitely landed a keeper.

For quite some time, my sister-in-law and I have been jointly bemoaning the fact that our church doesn’t have much emphasis on children’s programming. Someone must have overhead us, because last night was the launch of Pioneer Club, a new program for the grade 5 and under set. Did we shuffle our schedules to make Wednesday night church attendance a new part of our weekly routine? You bet we did! And possibly the best part is that now Kent and I get to attend a popular adult class taught by a faculty member from Florida Christian College. The class is currently focused on exploring bible history, and we both found it educational and fascinating. We can’t wait to go back.

But really the best part is what happened as we were leaving. In the parking lot, Maia’s Sunday School teacher made it a point to find us and let us know what a pleasure it is to have Maia in his class on Sunday mornings. Having just started third grade, she’s new to the class of 3rd-5th graders, but according to her teacher she already knows more than the kids he’s been teaching for a year or two. He said it’s refreshing to have a student who “knows her stuff” and is eager to learn.

It’s not the first time we’ve heard this type of feedback about Maia’s faithfulness. Several months ago a fellow deacon in our church told Kent that his wife, who occasionally teaches the 1st-2nd grade class, often talked about Maia at home with the same kind of praise. And during the summer the substitute leader for her junior worship service told us she’s the only one who actually took him up on his “homework” assignments to look things up in the bible and came prepared with the answers each week.

The thing I’m most proud of is that she is so engaged despite the lack of other kids around her who display similar zeal. She’s an amazing kid with a heart full of love. Both of my kids are, for that matter. Not to mention that they’re both extra adorable sitting here at the kitchen table in PJs as I type this, silently munching Pop Tarts for breakfast with the glazed eyes of kids who’d much rather still be in bed.

I think that’s what the men who have married into my family want to post on the foreheads of their wives. Because it’s common knowledge that when you put us womenfolk in a room together, nothing tranquil can ever come of it. Just a migraine, if you happen to be a man in the vicinity.

Don’t blame my sisters and me, however. Blame the strange combination of genes that endowed every one of us with hearty vocal cords and loud voices that only get louder when we have to talk over each other to be heard.

Such hullabaloo is not without its comedic effects, of course. The soon-to-be newest member of the family actually attempted the impossible last weekend. He tried to tame us with a “talking stick,” in a woefully misguided (but hilarious) effort to force just one speaker at a time. Ha! He’ll learn. The poor guy will definitely learn what his future brothers-in-law already know all too well—that such experiments can only fail, and their only hope for deliverance is a nap in a very distant, soundproof room.

Apparently I’m the worst, with my already high-pitched voice getting ear-splittingly shrill at higher decibels. For a shy girl, I’ve certainly never had problems with projection. At work, people politely close my office door all the time when I’m on the phone, because of course I have to make up for distance with, you know, volume. So for those of you dear readers who have ever been on the other end of a phone call with me, go ahead and confess that you hold the phone at least six inches from your ear when I’m speaking, because I already know. Here’s my little secret—that’s exactly what I do when I’m talking to my sister. I’ll leave it up to the two of them to figure out which one I mean.

The lesson to be learned from this is that if you are going to be around my sisters and me for any length of time, or talk to one of us on the phone, you’d best stock up on the Excedrin. In fact, it just might be a cardinal rule.

Back in the day when I was a newbie college graduate, carefree and unemployed, poised to shortly begin graduate study in the field that would launch my career, I spent a summer immersed in an intensive Spanish language program at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid.

While there, I befriended another American in the program who was living with a host family. After I had spent some time in their company, the host mother made a perceptive observation about a crucial difference between the friend, whose name I no longer remember, and myself. She noted that the friend spoke Spanish frequently, but often imperfectly, while I was quite the opposite—not daring to practice my Spanish unless I was certain the words emitting from my mouth would be flawless in execution.

The wise host mother went on to advise that for all my friend’s inaccuracies, in the end she would end up the more fluent conversationalist because she was not afraid to make mistakes and be corrected, while I was hesitant to speak at all until I had worked out and perfected every detail of vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation in my mind. With my friend’s way of trial and error, she opened up endless opportunities to learn from those around her. With my self-conscious reluctance to attempt anything less than perfection, I had little hope of expanding beyond what I already knew. In short, the host mother’s point was that I shouldn’t worry quite so much about getting it exactly right.

I often recall this advice whenever I find myself tongue-tied in any conversational situation, and not just when it comes to Spanish. It’s a problem I still struggle with, that fear of revealing what I don’t know. Along with its cousin, the fear of appearing inarticulate when the words and ideas in my head refuse to form themselves eloquently on my tongue. I’m a perfectionist, but remembering this particular story goes far in reminding me that sometimes it’s okay to take a chance on looking stupid, as long as I’m willing to learn from it.

What I want to know is, just when, exactly, did my daughter stop thinking princesses were cool? She and her friend are at gymnastics camp this week, and the theme is “Pirates and Princesses.” Today they were supposed to dress up as either a princess or a pirate. They both chose pirates. Definitely didn’t want to be princesses. No way. Had to be pirates.

“But, but, but… you both used to love all the princess-y things. Disney princesses ruled!” I spluttered.

“That was when we were younger, Mom.”

They are growing up, and it’s breaking my heart!

Now that I have bragged to everyone I know about how I’m getting published, in a book, as a contributing author, I feel an intense pressure to say something brilliant and eloquent in today’s blog post. But to heck with expectations. I have absolutely nothing of significance to declare to the world, so I leave you with this:

Hi. Thanks for visiting my little corner of the Internet. I hope you are having a most excellent day!

This letter appeared in my email inbox, with no warning, exactly one hour ago. No words can describe my sheer euphoria, so I won’t even try. The letter speaks for itself.

Dear Monique,

 

The eLearning Guild has identified your article, “The Design Document: Your Blueprint for e-Learning Standards and Consistency,” as one of the top 25 that we have published since 2002! This selection is based on the ongoing downloads since original publication and on our judgment of the quality and ongoing value of the content in the article.

 

We are working with Pfeiffer, an imprint of Wiley, to produce a book containing the best of the articles from Learning Solutions and The eLearning Developers’ Journal. With your permission, I would like to include your article in the book, which is tentatively scheduled for release in the spring of 2008. As one of the contributing authors, your bio and photo will be published in the book, and you will receive two copies of the book.

 

Both Pfeiffer and The eLearning Guild will promote sales of the book. It will be available for purchase online from The Guild Web site and from Pfeiffer. It will also be on sale at events sponsored by The eLearning Guild, such as the Guild Annual Conference and DevLearn. Pfeiffer is a well-known and respected publisher of books on training, and it has a global presence. By appearing in The Guild’s book, your article will potentially come to the attention of thousands of readers worldwide who would otherwise not have access to it.

 

If you would like for your article to appear in the book, please complete the attached agreement, sign it, make a copy for yourself, and return the original to me along with your updated 150-word bio, and a current photo of yourself. Mail these to me so that I receive them by Friday, August 3, 2007. (For your convenience, you may email your photo to me as a high-resolution JPEG file.) If you do not want your article to appear in the book, please let me know no later than Friday, July 27, 2007 so that I have time to find a replacement.

 

Thank you once again for your contributions to The eLearning Guild’s publications, and we are all looking forward to seeing your work in this book!

 

Best regards,

Bill Brandon, Editor

The eLearning Guild

I’m getting published. I’m getting published! I’m getting PUBLISHED!!!!

I won’t make a cent from the deal, but I will forever have the honor of seeing my words and my name published in print, from a respected publisher in my field. God is good!

I confess. I’m sucked into the hype. I am one of the two million or so Muggles who pre-ordered Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Amazon guarantees delivery tomorrow, the book’s official release day. I will be waiting most impatiently for its arrival.

Dear readers, I plan to be spending a good chunk of this weekend curled up with Harry’s final installment. This blog will be silent until I have completed my read. I must discover what happens to Harry and friends before some faster reader spoils it for me!

They say that rain on your wedding day is good luck. If true, it would certainly explain the bountiful blessings that have been showered over us in 13 years of marriage, because our wedding day was marked by thunderstorms of torrential proportions. The roof of the limo that carried my father and me to the church buckled under the monsoon, and quickly sprung a leak. Our guests were soaked by the solid sheet of water cascading from the roof overhang at the church entrance, despite the valiant efforts of ushers with umbrellas. Many guests arrived late because of the poor driving conditions caused by the drenching downpour.

It rained. Oh, how it rained. It was the best day of my life.

The day began with an early call for Kent and his groomsmen, who honored a family tradition with a round of golf on the big day. Meanwhile, I and my bridesmaids had a morning packed with manicures and brunch before I headed off to have my hair perfectly coiffed, all the better to show off the handmade heirloom crown that my mother had designed and painstakingly created just for me.

Then, the rain came. Yet in what I can only describe as a providential sign of God’s approval of our union, the rain miraculously paused its deluge just as we arrived at the church. And just long enough to get the wedding party and our finery indoors before resuming its pummeling.

As I began to dress and primp inside, in a gown befitting Cinderella at the ball, the videographer interviewed my bridesmaids for the wedding video. Without exception, they all noted my calm. But I couldn’t understand their amazement over my lack of nerves. There were never any cold feet on the part of this bride, who knew beyond any doubt that a certain golf-playing groom was her future, and who was not about to let anxiety over unimportant details turn her attention away from the handsome man who would be waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

The ceremony was simple, but poignant, and very much a family affair. Kent’s cousin, a minister, officiated at the church Kent grew up in. The music was provided by another cousin, an accomplished pianist. A family friend and longtime member of the church sang a beautiful Lord’s Prayer, quite possibly the best rendition I have ever heard. And Kent’s brother serenaded us with Edelweiss, special to us as the first song Kent had ever sung to me when we were dating. During the song, those in the front rows could see clearly that Kent was singing along, just to me, so only I could hear. And he was crying.

There were many wet eyes in the church that evening. Several guests told me afterward that they had never seen a groom more obviously in love. One weeping guest said ours was the only wedding she’d ever cried at, and it was clear from her still brimming eyes and running mascara that she did not mean just a single tear or two. Over the years she continues to maintain that she still never cries at other weddings, not even those of her own son and daughter.

Later, we partied. Ah, the party. It was a grand event, with every last detail planned by my mother, a former event coordinator. The reception was held at a local Italian restaurant, but to call it merely a restaurant does not do it justice. It was a beautiful destination built in the style of a European opera house, complete with a fountain outside and murals adorning the interior walls and ceiling. The exterior of the building has, in the wedding photo that hangs over our mantle, been mistaken by visitors to our home for the grand Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. The elegantly themed restaurant was primarily intended as a draw for the many tourists who flock to Orlando, but weddings were also a portion of their business. Though just how profitable the wedding business was remains in question; the restaurant has, sadly, long since been replaced by one that proclaims itself a “shrine to motorsports,” redesigned beyond recognition with a checkered racing flag roof and monster trucks hanging from the ceiling. This is perhaps as it should be, with our special, undiscovered location better left to meaningful memories that become more precious with each passing year.

Inside the round building, tiered levels of seating surrounded the large center dance floor, where guests were entertained by strolling musicians. Kent and I shared our first dance on the elevated platform in the middle of that dance floor, flanked by four marble columns rising high in the air. The DJ played all the right music for a party that no one wanted to leave, and later in the evening, I tossed my bouquet from a balcony overlooking the scene. A fairy tale wedding, through and through.

I can’t believe that anyone would remember my wedding 13 years later, but people still talk about it as a memorable event, both for the cozy, sentimental ceremony built on family and pure love, and the one-of-a-kind party that followed. It was an eclectic combination, and yet it was exactly perfect. Except I think the perfection really lies in having picked the right partner. I’ve been living the fairy tale ever since.

Today is our anniversary. 13 wonderful years—the best of my life. I’ve loved every single day with Kent. Especially the rainy ones.