Bittersweet and strange

It'll be a victory if I manage to write this without crying.

This is how I envisioned it. This is what I felt was supposed to happen.

I was a pretty average rookie. I won a ribbon once, at the very first meet, and after that things went downhill. My second year, grade 8, I spent mostly in Division C. Yeah, I got awards, and yeah, our team made the finals because it was so easy, but I wasn't brilliant. I was scared as heck to get off my seat. Grade 9, the best coach in the world put me into Division A. Everyone jumped fast. People went to Great West, Internationals, all the time. I memorized the entire text of Romans and James that year, and I still only got one question in an entire quiz, if that. Grade 10 was much the same. I got a little better - up to two questions a quiz - but still my goal of making Great West, the top 25 in Alberta, was far away. Grade 11, I packed Galatians/Ephesians/Philippians/Colossians into my head, and I finally made the top 25. I never got a question right at Great West, but I was finally there.

This year, Grade 12, my last year, I made Great West again, and I fought tooth and nail to make the ultimate goal. Internationals. I know Luke backwards and forwards. I spent hours studying, improving my jumping, pushing myself to the very boundaries of my abilities.

You know how it was supposed to end, in my head?

I was supposed to go to Internationals.

I was supposed to have this success story for all the rookies. You know what? I was there too. I was there, struggling with fear of making a mistake, looking at all the top quizzers and wondering why it was so easy for them. I was THERE. And look where I am now.

I'm not going.

Part of me, a big part, is so disappointed that it didn't end the perfect way it was supposed to. Part of me knew all along that life isn't like that - it doesn't end in a perfect climax, and it doesn't always mean a clear-cut success story. I'm trying to learn that success is not ribbons or medals, success is not Internationals. I'm trying to remember that my friends love me just the same no matter what place I come in.

It's been two days, and already I'm achingly sad that it's over. That it was my last shot to make the goal I wanted, and I didn't. Every word of Luke has become something precious to me. I want to be back on those seats, feeling the satisfaction of getting a question right, crying, laughing, being right in the thick of it and feeling the competition excite me and terrify me all at once. But it's over, and I'll never be there again.

Well, that no crying thing isn't working out so well.

I have a feeling this will mean tears for a long time. I'm not sure how long it'll be before I stop aching to be a quizzer again, and knowing that it's over.

"I will not say do not weep, for not all tears are an evil." - Gandalf the White

Was it worth it? Heck yeah. No regrets. I've loved being a quizzer and the moments of euphoria have made the studying and the tears worth it a million times over. So I pounded Luke into my head, so I dreamed big for a year, so I wanted Internationals so bad I could taste it, and I ached to be there every time I saw a picture, every time I heard a story. I'm not sorry I dreamed big. Someone told me, once, when I was disappointed with my performance, that the reason I cry is because I feel things so keenly. I wouldn't want to stop feeling that, because it means that success is so much more meaningful.

I'm trying not to care so much about my idea of success. Not when I have friends and family who love me like this:



And whether or not we were always the top team - and we weren't - Southgate 1 will always hold an incredible place in my heart.


Ben, Josh, Carissa, Sarah, Amy, Everett.

Because you guys made every tear worth it.

God gave me six years of knowing incredible people, and that part isn't over.

And the general vicinity is littered with kleenex.