Hmmm... well, it seems we can't outrun ourselves. I'm going to give it a shot later this evening, but given my current location, and the content of this post, it seems that I am stuck with me.

It's been an interesting turn of events that has led me to this post tonight. And, like all epic stories, this tale began... on Facebook.

Several weeks ago, shortly after relocating to the grounds of Dauphin Bible Camp, I received a message from a guy who was, as far as I can tell, a camp counsellor at DBC during my first summer there, a full 14 years ago. Let's see, divide my life by 3, and it was at the end of the first chunk, almost exactly. (Useless fact. But hey, sorta puts life into perspective, don't it?)

This guy wanted to know if I was THE Kelly Cochrane, the infamous poet who had apparently charmed him with her 7-year-old rhyming ways back in the day. Apparently some kid had submitted some pretty wacky poems to the camp newspaper in 1993. I said... "hmmm, from that description, I can't tell you, but it sure sounds like me!" (No, I'm not being vain, but I WAS one of those nerdy kids who took Journalism religiously at camp and would likely have done something like that). But, just to confirm (a.k.a. amuse myself), I asked the guy to send me these poems to refresh my memory.

Now, I re-read the poems and they did start to come back to me, but just to be clear here, I'm still not entirely certain if I wrote these poems or just submitted them to the paper, neglecting to name an author other than myself. So whether you are currently reliving with me "My First Publication" or "My First Plagiarism" is still unclear... but hey, either way, to do so at 7 is pretty prestigious!



As I told the counsellor in our e-mail exchange, the thing I remember most vividly is putting "7 going on 8" in the paper... now, I wasn't one of those kids who was always trying to act or sound older, but my concerns here were quite legitimate (I thought)... the youngest age you could come to camp back then was 8 (now we have Young Camper's week), but since I was always a year younger than everyone else in my grade, when everyone else was 8, I was still 7. So my mom called the camp and asked if I could come at 7 (they'd let Becca do the same 2 years earlier)... they let me come, but I was still quite concerned that everyone would find out I was 7 and immediately band together in unity, crying "You don't belong here- you're SEVEN!!!" and chasing me from the camp like a good old-fashioned exorcism - hence the apologetic "(going on 8)" tagged on to the end of every "Kelly" credit in the paper.

Ahhh, yes, there was more. The determined little under-age writer that I was, I actually somehow qualified for a personal interview- me and Fred Penner (who was apparently camp speaker or something that week... who knows?) Yup, I was in the big leagues.

Does anyone else get positively mortified when seeing pictures or hearing stories of themselves in younger years? I mean, supposedly it was cute at the time, but reading about it feels a bit like staring at a train wreck- a train wreck named ME.

Anyways, I'm just going to bite the bullet and hope you'll allow all the grace due to someone who wrote this only a third of the way into the life she now leads...

Interview

NAME: KELLY COCHRANE

Q: How old are you?

A: Seven going on eight.

Q: Why did you come to camp?

A: Because her best friend didn't want to be a Christian, so I came to be one.

Q: What's God doing in your life:

A: Making a difference. Making me a better person.

Q: What is your favorite food?

A: Maccaroni!

Q: Favorite Bible character?

A: Jesus

Q: What are your future plans?

A: To become a dancer.

Q: What is your favorite verse?

A: Ephesians something. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Q: What is your favorite saying?

A: Oh nuts!


Well folks, I think we have plenty of fodder for commentary, to say the least. Always eager to amuse you, I remain faithfully yours,

~Kelly Ann Cochrane, age 21 (going on 22!)

Alright. So I've been reading poetry lately, upon the prescription of my English prof. Of course, however unfortunately for someone like me, reading poetry inevitably turns into writing poetry and descending into a mushy pile of romantic, whimsical sappiness. It's a tragedy, really. But it's true.

So I've decided that if I must go, you all must go there with me! Don't worry guys, it's doubtful that I'll subject you to any of my own poetic endeavors; that might be just a bit too painful for all of us involved, and just when I've gotten my readership to an all-time high, hovering somewhere above 2...

Self-deprecation aside, I was struck again today by the profound loveliness of these lyrics to a song entitled Healed by Nichole Nordeman. If you've ever heard it, it's truly poetry set to song.

There are a number of factors that have contributed to me sitting down and writing this blog, and I wish to recount several of them.

The first and primary one is the hilariously satisfying story my sister Becca shared with me while she, Megan, and I were talking obnoxiously loudly on Winnipeg Transit accompanied by, of all things, a wheelchair, recently.

The second has been Becca's recent cries of "foul" that Megan got her own blog and a timely birthday call (as opposed to a 30 seconds long, 4 day late, truncated call which, apparently, doesn't cut it!) Now ask me this: Do I play favorites with my siblings? Do I love one more than the other? Why, of course not, silly! So as a good sister, Becca, this one's for you.

Most of you have read my rantings from awhile back over the less-than-satisfying title my article on homosexuality recieved in the Living Hope Church Newsletter; if anyone knows the story it's Becca. Besides the fact that I think she's the only one who reads this thing religiously, (possibly the only one who reads it at all), I distinctly recall commiserating with her about it over the phone at the time.

So who's to blame when she herself makes that very same rookie mistake? Not I, I have washed my hands of it! My conscience is in the clear, which leaves my less-than-sympathetic side to laugh (mwahaha!) at the incredible irony of it all.

Here's how it went down:

Rebecca, my overworked, underpaid, poorer-yet-richer-than-me sister, who recently graduated from the University of Regina with her Social Work degree, has this year done the unthinkable; MOVED HOME! I, having just recently escaped such a situation, find this in and of itself humorous; that is, until I compare our bank accounts. Then I am silenced.

So living at home now affords Rebecca the opportunity to get ridiculously rich (just kidding, climb out of debt at a ridiculously fast rate?) since she pays no rent and has THREE jobs! To make matters worse, they're three jobs that I am somewhat threatened by (we're all about sister envy in our family... and, apparently, airing dirty laundry).

For one, she's doing some special needs home care for a family in Russell, which is actually cool with me because she's incredibly great with people, but somewhat annoying as it's my old job and besides the fact that she's probably better at it than me (isn't she always?), she's making money while I am... not.

Her second job is really the more irritating one, as she is substitute teaching at Major Pratt, while both Megan and I toil away at our B.Ed's. I mean, where's the delayed gratification they're dangling above my head if any random hack or sibling can just walk in and command a classroom? Once again, I'm sure she's incredibly good at that too, but I had somewhere in my mind counted on at the very least having teaching as the one thing my older sister wouldn't be able to "been there, done that" me over in the future while she offers me those ever-so-irritating words of wisdom (read: beating me over the head with the obvious).

Her third job is as some sort of computer education co-ordinator for the community. That one makes the least sense to me at all, but I tend to underestimate Becca's tech skills so I really have no idea what's going on there. And it is this third job which has offered me such great personal entertainment in recent weeks, or specifically, an incident that occurred around it.

As the Community Access Co-ordinator or whatever the heck she is, Becca facilitates basic computing courses. But these courses are no good if the fair citizens of Russell are unaware of their goings-on. So, Becca did what any good Russellite would do- turned to mainstream media! Becca wrote an article for the Russell Banner outlining her job, her program, and her classes, and both cleverly snuck around the unappealing prospect of paying for advertising and gave Terrie Welwood the unexpected treat of having to write one less than her usual frenzied weekly quota of news articles for the Banner (those things don't write themselves, you know)!

However, upon completing her opus, my dear sister was struck with the ever-difficult question of a headline. And for reasons both unknown and inexcusable to me, she decided, "What the heck! Let Terrie come up with a title!" and naively submitted her unnamed masterpiece.

I tell you, I don't think I've EVER laughed so hard on Public Transit as I did that day... especially when Becca sheepishly recounted the line that had swept across the Russell Banner:

"Meet Rebecca Cochrane!"

Alright folks, just in case you're not getting it, this is funny for MANY reasons!

"You mean, besides the fact that this obnoxious title has NOTHING to do with the content of her article?"

Yes, yes I do.

For one, in Russell, everyone knows everyone, and even more so if you're Rebecca, whose location can be verified by all within a 5-mile radius when she laughs, and who is adored by every mother, child, and responsible adult.

However, people lose track, so it's nice to have a bold proclamation in the town paper to remind everyone, "She's Back!! (again?) She's still a Cochrane! (single?!) And she's still doing her part for the community, like always! (awww, shucks!)"

There's nothing like the fanfare that goes with being 23, single, with a Bachelor's degree, and moving back to Russell (it's not the end of the world, but you can see it from there!) to live with your parents.

Which is FAR from the whole picture, and SO far from the heart of it, but, at least for me, that's the mental picture that the tactless line evokes: crazy overcompensation. And that's the trick with headlines- they speak SO loudly. I've never truly appreciated the value that they hold, but since apparently my words have not been heeded by the 4 people that consider this page read-worthy (thanks, mom and dad!) I will say it again:

IF YOU DON'T TITLE YOUR OWN ARTICLES, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO LIKE WHAT YOU FIND IN PRINT! (And you're going to have to listen to me glibly say "I told you so!")

So heed my words of wisdom... too many people (with the last name "Cochrane") have paid for this knowledge with their dignity.

P.S. Happy Belated Birthday Becca?

So who's the idiot now?

Yup, me. Again.

My last post invited you all to catch up on my latest writing endeavours, as I shared an article I wrote for my church on homosexuality. Unfortunately, at the time it went to print, I was still at a loss for words when it came to the all-important title. I was drawing a great blank, and, unwilling to submit any of the crap that was floating through my exhausted stream of consciousness, I submitted the article and left its christening at the mercy of our church secretary.

Which was the idiotic act in question. And in retrospect, one deserving of what happened next.

My wonderful, skilled, well-meaning co-worker, Mary, titled the article for me, printed the hundred-plus copies of the newsletter, prepared them for mailing, and took her family for a fabulous getaway down to Disneyland for a week. I, the incompetent hack, spent most of my week sleeping off a cold and forgot/neglected to mail these newsletters in a timely fashion, proving to all within the zip code how unreliable free labor is and how truly irreplaceable our dear Mary is.

Our senior pastor's wife, with whom I stay, commented to me this afternoon how much she enjoys my writings, and I surmised correctly that the newsletter must have arrived in the mail sometime today. So it was with anticipation that I sat down this evening to catch up on church news and, of course, to admire my work in print.

(Oh look- an announcement for a special drama presentation coming up this... oh wait, LAST Sunday... ooops. Perhaps that might have been more useful in last week's mail!)

Anyways, there it was, page 2. This wordsmith's latest opus, succinctly entitled...

"Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin"

uugh.

Well, if I had had any delusions of grandeur or innovative thought, I think that title pretty much killed them all. Ladies and gentlemen, I think I've just been shot in the foot.

Readers, if you are currently trying in vain to understand what it is about this seemingly common evangelistic phrase that is evoking such a violent uproar in my spirit, I will begin by saying that that phrase eludes to a current of theology and popular Christian thought that I definitely don't subscribe to and in truth find very dangerous and offensive. Reverend Ken Collins wrote a piece that I think provides a great foundation for understanding my objections to the phrase on his website, which I've linked to above... however, back to my rant.

Mary, if you're reading this, I love you to death and value you immensely. And you should be thanked for teaching me a valuable lesson. Whether or not I ever take up my pen professionally is still a query better directed towards the heavens; however, if I do, I will never again depreciate the value of a carefully-crafted title. After seeing in print the cadaver of my once-editorial, I can now profess the incalculable merit of a well-selected headline.

Alright. It's almost midnight, the shock is waning, and there's only so much a girl can lament such an ultimately fickle loss. So I am very nearly finished here. However-

I'd like to close with a moment of silence (hats off, please), as we conclude this sad eulogy. I'm very hopeful that you can, indeed feel my pain, for I myself am still a bit mournful at the loss; 1,032 words' worth of solid thought and careful commentary, so deftly nullified by 6 short, sloppy, and indiscriminate ones : one noun, its derivative, two antonyms, and two of the single most common word in the english language.