Who am I?
I have been told (by my husband) that I really should give a sort of quick hand-wave at a self-bio before I really start â€œblogging.â€ I donâ€™t want to. And if this blog were really all about me pursuing my own interests, then I wouldnâ€™t be writing this. Take a picture: this is me being sacrificial. It wonâ€™t happen again. So where to begin the painful (though brief) process . . .
“Begin at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop.” The Mad Hatter, Alice in Wonderland.
Letâ€™s call this,
Heather: A Brief (and very incomplete) History
My Husband Made Me
I was born in 1974. My parents were recent converts of the Jesus People variety. Both had lived on the same commune in the foothills of Palo Alto, California, though for quite different reasons. Mom went to â€œThe Landâ€ to be alone in her teepee, while my father went to be with people, pursuing the whole brotherhood of man experience, grinding his own peanut butter, and so on (I should post a picture). He slept in a tree house. Eventually they ended up at the same church and married soon there after. After all, Jesus was coming back soon. As He didnâ€™t return as scheduled, I was born pre-Rapture and three sisters and a brother followed in the next ten years. My parents were at the beginning of their theological journey and we kids were along for the ride.
A flyby of my early years includes (but is not limited to), Christian school, church school, home school, and public school, Dad traveling to Nigeria, Nigerians living with us, lots of soccer games and gymnastic meets and attendance at non-denominational, charismatic churches. I never even attended a reformed congregation until my parentsâ€™ church moved that direction in my early twenties. My formative years were spent in youth groups of many sorts (generic, large evangelly, Baptist, and Four Square), and then a YWAM (Youth With A Mission, yeah!) school and mission. My personal experiences were enough to make the teaspoon of satire in Credenda seem tame. Moving onwardâ€¦.
Surfing entered the picture when I was twelve. My dad took us on a weekend trip to Monterey. We passed through Marina, a long beach with large sand dunes, a hang gliding school, and surfers. I was transfixed by the surfers and the waves and from that time on wanted nothing more than to surf. The next fourteen years were spent doing just that. I fit a few other things in, such as making pizza, sporadic community college and a History degree from the University of California, Santa Cruz, but surfing and traveling to surf and saving money to travel to surf were the overarching factors in my life. I began competing when I was sixteen, driving up and down the California coast on a regular basis. Soon I was addicted to traveling abroad for waves: Costa Rica, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Barbados, Chile, Argentina, Hawaii, Fiji, Indonesia, and two summers of teaching surfing all over Europe (from Holland to Portugal). A good chunk of every year was spent outside of the United States, usually somewhere warm. After a six month stint in Chile, I headed back home and settled into a house by the ocean (with some most lovely roommates) and a real job at a software companyâ€”though the office was close enough to the water that I could surf for my lunch break, and my boss was kind enough to tolerate wet hair, tardiness and international excursions (thanks James). I was 26 and had settled into an identity of singleness and a simple desire to be a cool aunt. My own kids would never happen. It was during this lull in my travels that I became acquainted with a young punk named Mr. Nathan D. Wilson (another story for another time). Needless to say, my life was turned upside-down and has never been righted. I hadnâ€™t been away from the ocean for more than a week and a half in over a decade and next thing I know Iâ€™m in Idaho, married to a wonderful gent, mother to four marvelous kids and taking part in an epic house project.
Lots of gaps in this here story of my life but whatever. Iâ€™m all done writing about meâ€¦for now. Letâ€™s talk about you. Your hopes and dreams. Where do you see yourself in five years, ten years, fifteen years? Wait. Thatâ€™s an Amway flashback. I so dislike when â€œfriendsâ€ call to get together and somehow the conversation just naturally flows to the great new product they happen to have discovered. Ok. Iâ€™ll stop now. Bedtime.