Cruisin'

(Friday, 4 pm #WiFi Scarcity)

“Where’d you go?” my dad asks when I answer my cell phone. He had seen me on the porch all morning charging through the Epic of Gilgamesh – only the third bullet on a long list of summer reading assignments for English Seminar this coming year. The humidity had run me off, though, and I had retreated to the living room AC.

“I’m on the couch, Hof.” Man, cell phones have made us lazy.

“Well come on back outside for a second. I want to talk about something with you.”

For the purpose of this post, here are some things you should know about my father, who my family and I affectionately refer to as “Hoffa”:

In general, he is not a very thoughtful gift-giver, and he is definitely not a planner. As a businessman, he often runs with his out-of-the-box ideas. He is a natural delegator and prefers for others to do work for him. For instance, if Mama ever goes out of town, rather than cooking dinner, there is a nine in ten chance that we’ll be eating at a restaurant. He may be lazy on occasion, but he is also the king of unpredictable fun. I don’t know of any other father who has surprised his children (and wife) with a dock platform and thirty-foot rope swing! Above all, Hoffa is loving. He greets friends and strangers alike with a tight bear hug that will leave them gasping for air, and humbly goes out of his way to help treat others with kindness.

Since I had reminded Hoffa the previous day that Mama’s birthday would be tomorrow, I figure he is summoning me to help him with some last-minute outlandish birthday scheme. I am interested to see what crazy idea he has concocted, so without argument I close Gilgamesh and return outside.

“Mama has been working hard at Old South,” he says very seriously as I sit back down in the Adirondack chair next to him. “She needs to fly somewhere with cool weather for a couple days and relax.” For most people, this idea would almost be too ridiculous to believe. I just keep listening. This is such a typical Hoffa move, making up forgetfulness with extravagance. “I was thinking you could take her for her birthday. Look up some direct flights out of Charleston for tomorrow.” Now there was a curveball even I wasn’t expecting. There are perks to living at home for the summer and working for one’s father.

After a few searches, excitement building with each click, I reply, “Well, there’s Boston, Chicago, New York City...Selfishly, I’d choose Chicago.” Within minutes Hoffa has me recite the flight number and begins dialing United Airlines.

But look at those flight prices! I think. Chicago isn’t even that much cooler. And then we have to figure out a place to stay and check out the Chicago sights and walk around everywhere. It would be a lot like my weekend jaunts back in Italy – full of exploration and highly educational, but flat-out exhausting. Hoffa has good intentions, but a last-minute trip to a hectic city is not what Mama needed, especially at such a high price tag.

“Wait, Hoffa! Don’t call yet.”

I’m really not sure what made me even check. Maybe it was the daydreaming I had been doing of a potential spring break getaway this coming year. I did not know anyone who has been a passenger lately; the last time we partook in this gluttonously fun festival was a decade ago. I, like many Charlestonians, had become blind to the giant red, white, and blue eyesore of a smokestack fin sticking out over the harbor. For whatever reason, though, I find myself searching for upcoming departures.

“What about a cruise?!”

Bingo. In two days, the Carnival Fantasy would be embarking on a five-day sail to the Bahamas. The Bahamas! Now that sounded like a relaxing vacation. What’s more, it was a third of the price of a plane ticket. I share this information with Hoffa.

“Huh. Well that actually sounds pretty good,” he says. “But FIVE days?! I don’t know if I can handle everything around here that long.” Oh, brother. He needed a taste of Mama’s life.

Rather than booking the cruise online then and there, Hoffa had to ensure that we get the best price available. He contacts Cameron from Carnival Cruise line inquiring on any last minute deals with the persuasiveness that only Hoffa can muster. Cameron gives us the same price that I found online. Exasperated, Hoffa retorts that we already know about this price. We’re calling him for a deal.

“Are you working with a travel agent?”

“No, man! We’re using the Big I, the Internet! This is last minute, ship’s leaving either way. We don’t have to go, but shouldn’t the law of supply and demand work in our favor?”

“Uhhh, I think that’s already a pretty discounted price, sir. I can check with my manager and call you back.”

“Yeah, you do that. We’re countin’ on you, now, Cameron.  Call me back.”

Oh, Hoffa.

***

Georgia: “WHAT THE HECK?! If anyone needs a vacation, it’s me.”

Rosa Marie: “I could come back from Girls’ State early!”

Cain: “That’s so unfair! Why wasn’t I invited?”

Mama: “Wow. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Y’all certainly are creative. What fun!”

These are the immediate responses to the announcement over dinner that Mama and I would shortly be cruising to the Bahamas. Cameron can’t provide a lower rate, but Hoffa decides to book it anyway.  It is unfair, and if I were in my siblings’ shoes, I would have had the same reaction. But, as it was, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

I’d like to take a moment and set the record straight. I am not a huge advocate of cruises. I appreciate the boost their devoted passengers provide to the Charleston tourist industry (and thus, the Compton family income.) I understand that they are incredibly convenient and more economically feasible than alternative modes of travel. But cruising has got to be one of the most superficial forms of “travel” around. Rather than diving into a different culture and meeting locals, you immerse yourself even deeper into a bounty of American consumerism. Upon port of call, some 2,000 homogenous sunburnt Caucasians barge onto a pristine coastal town for five hours, pushing the tacky-ometer to disgustingly high levels. I think my beef is that it’s so easy. It takes all the fun out of the difficulties of adventure and travel – no navigation, no research, no work at all. Cruises are also terrible – TERRIBLE – for the environment. The fact that Carnival even has an environmental policy that is “committed to pollution prevention” I find quite comical. There are unusually high numbers of of grossly obese people exposing too much cellulite. Yet somehow, there is still an even greater amount of food waste. That kills me, especially when most of the waiters clearing our plates of leftovers are from countries plagued by extreme poverty. If all they know of America is from their service on deck, I cringe to think of what their impression of our country is.

And yet, despite my reservations, Mama and I have now been onboard 24 hours, and I am so grateful to be here. This isn’t travel, and that’s okay. Chicago would not have been rejuvenating. This is vacation, and the momentum from our busy lives is slowing down. In his spontaneity and generosity, this is the best kind of birthday present Hoffa could have given Mama. She desperately needs to catch up on sleep and to be served copious supplies of delicious food. As I write, my mother has now slept a solid three hours in the middle of the afternoon. She really is one of the most selfless people I know, but even she must make time for herself. No one deserves a few days of R&R more than her.

As for me, I don’t need a recuperation vacation. I had the flexibility to go and be Mama’s companion though, and this trip is exciting nonetheless. I’m not a very good relaxer, but it is nice to have several straight days of free time to read, write, and meet new people. Plus, with three other siblings, I never anticipated an opportunity to enjoy extended time just with my mom. I can already tell this time together will be a memory both of us treasure for the rest of our lives.

Even though Mama slept right through our plan to enjoy a cocktail by the pool this afternoon, I have a toast. Cheers to one of the most deserving mothers around. Cheers to a loving Hoffa, to good conversation, no preparation, and lots of relaxation. And, reluctance aside, cheers to cruising!

Life Works Out

There are some side effects to this travel bug I have. Common symptoms include a heightened sense of surroundings, feelings of inferiority or superiority, an appreciation for home. My favorite is the opportunity for adventure. It takes you out of your comfort zone. And when you’re not in your comfort zone, you gain new, and often much needed, perspectives. My dad always said that backpacking around the world was the greatest education he ever received. By embracing travel and adventure, you inevitably open yourself up to learning new lessons. Here is the first I learned (or rather, re-learned) leading up to my weekend in New York City.

Life works out, and God provides.

For the first time, Valentine’s Day posed some challenges for me. After being inspired by Sleepless in Seattle, my friend began planning this trip so she could celebrate Valentine’s Day at the top of the Empire State Building.  The group was planning on taking off that Friday. Even though I tried to come in for part of the day on Wednesdays, because of my weekly field trips, I felt guilty about taking extra time off. I proposed that I would work and take an early bus Saturday morning.

If you know me, you know I’m not some angry anti-Valentine’s Day single person.  It’s not exactly a day I look at with the same fervor that I did when I received a mailbox full of candy in second grade, though. Most of the time, some girlfriends and I would just hang out together and have a fun night. All of the people with whom I’d want to be were going to be on the Empire State building. With my early bus, I would be hitting the sack early. So my prospects basically looked like a lonely night in, not only on a Friday, but on Valentine’s Day, when everyone else is going on fancy dates and sharing chocolate and wine, for goodness sake. That sounded really depressing.

When the New York group planned during our lunch break one day, it hit me how very ridiculous I was being to not just go to New York on Friday with the rest of the ladies. I checked with my bosses, who it turns out were completely alright with me taking the day off, and I changed my bus. Later that evening in the LCWS office, my friend Heather invited me to join her and her roommates for a Friday night of red velvet cupcake baking and rom-com movie-watching. 

All of this to say, it was so reassuring to know that if I had stuck to my original plans, I would not have been entirely alone on the commercialized holiday of hearts and roses. I felt God nudging my soul, reminding me not to worry. He cares for us, always. As the coming summer and post-graduation possibilities in a year loom closer in the forefront of my everyday thoughts, this lesson is particularly relevant for me. Everything is going to be okay. A lot of times, things just fall into place, and there is very little I can do to make that happen. Life works out, and in His time, the Lord makes all things good for those who love Him. Even in our Valentine's Days, He is our provider, and He is forever faithful. 

Right By Me

Tonight, I have a story to tell you. On the surface, it is about where I am headed in mere days and what I will be up to, but more importantly, it is a testimony of depending on God and watching Him come through. I won’t hold my plans for the end; I’m too excited to craft that suspense. As some of you already know, rather than returning to Roanoke this Spring like most students who have already studied abroad a semester, I will be headed to Washington D.C. to participate in the Lutheran College Washington Semester, in which Roanoke is one of several affiliated schools that is a part of the program. LCWS sets up everything for us – housing and roommates, night classes, weekly field trips…they even help many students find an internship. This semester, I am living in a pent-house apartment in Rosslyn, taking both a Public Relations and Global Agenda class, and, most exciting of all, working as a full-time marketing and event planning intern at the Headquarters of InternationalJustice Mission!

This is how it happened.

In the fall of 2012, my friend Evelyn and I sat in the back of RC Admissions making money doing homework and not giving tours. She said she was going to do a study away semester in D.C. that spring, and she encouraged me to join her. The application deadline was only a few weeks away, and I already had a lot of campus commitments that year, so I opted not to join her. She got me thinking, though. Aside from finances and too many classes, the primary reason most students don’t study abroad is because they love their school so much; I understand that. If I went to Clemson, king of football tailgates, school spirit, and community, leaving for a semester would have been a lot harder, even if it was for an unforgettable world experience. But Roanoke and I don’t share that same bond. Our relationship is improving, but I could count on one hand the things I would really miss (my best friend Kayla, small group, Restoration Church, hiking, the English department). Two close friends chose to end their misery and transfer, making the possibility of a year away all the more tempting. I didn’t, and still don’t, loathe Roanoke enough to permanently leave, but why shouldn’t I go? I would be taking advantage of the opportunities Roanoke offers and encourages. By Christmas break, I was in planning mode.

Slavery, one of the world’s worst and most ancient injustices, is more rampant than ever before. Several years ago when I became aware of the estimated 30 million people enslaved today, I began considering a future career to help combat human rights oppression. I still have no idea what form that could take, or even if it is where I am still headed. I do know that, with God’s help, the staff at International Justice Mission already successfully seeks justice, freedom, and protection for thousands of powerless people. IJM is a non-profit human rights organization that protects the poor from violent forces of injustice. Comprised of Christian attorneys, social workers, criminal investigators and support staff, IJM partners with local law enforcement to rescue the poor. Case by case, over 10,500 victims – families toiling in brick factories, young girls imprisoned in brothels, widows whose land has been stolen – have found freedom in the past five years.

To learn more, you can check out Suhana's beautiful story of redemption.

Once liberated, many of them receive counseling and guidance in aftercare homes, a crucial aid as they begin a new, restored chapter of their lives. IJM goes on to prosecute the perpetrators and ensure that the local public justice system is working properly, bolting oppressors behind bars and enabling communities to prevent future abuses. With each rescue, IJM is proving that justice for the poor is possible. I have wanted to be a more active supporter of their work for many years, so when I decided to go to D.C., I also began researching the possibility of an internship at IJM.

I made it, I will be joining 19 other interns in a week, but through the whole process, God kept me on a string, teaching me at each progression that this would work only through His will, His power, and my submission to Him.

How? How do I know this was God and not some retrospective bias or my hard work or just coincidence? The past certainly does clarify the way the Holy Spirit has already been moving, but I know primarily because I barely made it. Too many things went wrong; I should not have been able to even apply. Something would still go right, though, and in a small, uneventful way, the Lord would pull through yet again.

Summer gives you the feeling that you have plenty of time before you. Even I, Miss List-maker herself, inevitably put off to-dos for another day. My three tasks for August: work, IJM application, pack. I think I can handle that. I kind of kept thinking the application was due toward the end of August. Turns out the initial, very lengthy application, as well as all references and paperwork were due August 14, and I realized it a mere week ahead of time. Fortunately, a week is just enough.

On August 7, I journaled:

I guess this application process is teaching me that it’s all in Your hands. It’s not by any act or will of mine. Thank you for saving the opportunity and still allowing just enough time to have everything submitted.

And that kind of thing just kept happening. I was so interested in this opportunity that I saved the application to my computer last winter. I later filled it out, worried that the references that had to be mailed wouldn’t make it in time. I did not realize for several days that the file had since been updated. The references and transcript could now be e-mailed. Whew.

My first interview went pretty well. I didn’t really know which intern position I wanted. I’m a competent, joyful worker, but I still lack a specific skill set, and I had been praying (and worrying) a lot about what kind of career I might have someday. I remember the interviewer saying, Well it sounds like you have a good bit of experience with event planning. Would you be interested in that? Um, heck yes. That sounds perfect for me. Why had I never considered that before? So with the first interview, God laid aside, at least temporarily, some of the typical young adult worries I had carried of late.

I get placed for a second interview as a marketing intern. While the description to “assist with projects that help further the movement of IJM, raise public awareness of IJM's mission, ongoing work and fundraising efforts” sounded good, the details of working with a lot of Google statistics and analysis did not. This isn’t event planning! I thought. Do I even want to do this? Should I look for a different internship? I prayed and considered it for a while. I still felt like this was the place; the possibility of working in that kind of environment for a cause I cared about was too good to pass up. Besides, I could learn some new skills.

I was well into my time in Italy when the second interview was finally scheduled.We decided to talk over FaceTime Audio, and I was to call at an appointed time. I was a little nervous, but prepared. I had tested out the audio with my roommate to make sure I knew how to use it. All seemed well. I called the number. It didn’t work. My heart started beating significantly faster. I am not trying to create an impression of irresponsibility here! Ahh! This is not happening right now. I e-mailed immediately. Fifteen painstakingly slow minutes later, the interviewer called me back on a landline the old-fashioned way. She sounded wonderful. I was frank and told her I don’t know much about Google stats, but I’m willing to learn. She tells me there have been some departmental shifts, and that is no longer part of the marketing intern description. It really would mainly be event planning. Hallelujah, praise the Lord! Quite literally. She goes on explaining everything and it honestly already sounds like I have the job. I get a little confident inside. At the end of the interview, she says she still has a few more people to talk to, but that the department should make a final decision shortly.

Dear goodness. This process has been so long. When we get off the phone, I am still seriously depending on the Lord. I ask for prayers from the gals in my Bible Study in Italy. Please Lord. I want this. If this is right, help me.

I’m supposed to get an e-mail by October 15. It comes and goes. I keep praying.Two days later, I check my school e-mail just to make sure. Low and behold, there is an e-mail from several days before with my status. They invited me to join the team! I need to accept or decline in the next two days. Once again, it worked out. It almost did not, but it still did. I accepted with enthusiasm and apologies for my slow response.

I was, and still am, stoked. On January 1, my family and I are hopping on a nine hour train ride to Washington, D.C. to help me move in, and orientation at IJM will begin next Monday. Even though I won’t be working with Google statistics, I still don’t have the details about what I am jumping into. This I am certain of: I will be with good, professional, hardworking Christians who believe that human rights for the poor are worth defending. I will be working far harder this semester than last, but I am eager to regain more purpose on a day-to-day basis. Once again, I will be in another new environment, but just like the whole process of heading to D.C., I know I will have a good God by my side and in my soul.

And I know that if you made it to the end of this, you have either contracted WVBS (Winter Vacation Boredom Syndrome) or you must actually care about me. If it’s the latter, I would appreciate your prayers as I enter one more new environment. Please pray for the work of IJM - for victims to be rescued and oppressors justly prosecuted. Pray for the international field offices and those working in D.C. Personally, please pray that the work I do will be effective and helpful. Pray that I rely on the Lord, seeking His guidance, renewal and provision. He really is a good God, and He has shown me that He is there, in my struggles at Roanoke, in my adventures abroad, in the barely-made-it interview process. He is right by not only me, but all of His children. He is right by you, too.

Not-So Sempre Dritto

If you couldn’t tell from the title of my blog page, I really like walking. I love using my own legs to freely move from one place to another. I enjoy the Creation and company that often accompany the journey and the feeling of accomplishment and exhaustion after a long trek. Today, Abby and I did a lot of walking.

We wanted to go for a hike, and Umbria is the only landlocked region of Italy, the land is waves of mountains crashing into valleys. We didn’t think that was too tall a request, and in my “Hikes in Perugia, Italy” Google search, I stumbled upon a hike that seemed to be created for me – Perugia Assisi Marcia delle Pace. As in, a 15.73 mile walk from Perugia to Assisi that St. Francis apparently walked once and which peace protestors commemorate once a year. Um, heck. yes…or so I thought. There was that other moderate five mile half-day trip, but of course I zoned in on the challenge, and my kind, more reserved roommate Abby was respectful of that.

That's pretty straightforward, right?

We began the descent this morning and I was pretty proud of ourselves for successfully navigating out of Perugia’s narrow city alleys onto the main road. The GPS map on the website looked like it kept crossing over this road, so we kept our eyes peeled for a path. We kept on, but that path never turned up. We skirted along the edge of the two lane road as European cars zoomed by at 60 kilometers an hour, begrudgingly offering us a perilous two foot breadth. So much for our serene nature walk. Not that the views were bad – the Umbrian landscape arouses my soul every day, and the vineyards and villa houses were a nice change from the city apartments.

Perugia from a distance

 When we arrived at the first borgo a few kilometers in, we were even impressed by the graffiti. It is literally art here.

By that point, though we had seen occasional signs displaying arrows with a pedestrian on Via Roma and San Francesco, we were also becoming more uncertain about this supposed Walk of Peace. It probably had to do with that black-clad, Teva sandal guy with a hunched-over, apelike walk that we passed. He had slothed around and was now a quarter mile behind us. Awesome. Or our broken Italian. Sure, you can ask, “Dov’è la strada andare a Assisi?” but if you only pick up every third word of the response, that’s none too helpful.

Then we saw two women in hiking boots carrying huge backpacks – Gabriella and Francesca. They had walked from Venice and were headed home now. In a mix of Italian and English, they wrote down the next three borgi we needed to walk through. “Ma questa è la via solo, sì?” I asked, seeking assurance.

Sì, sì! Sempre dritto.

Straight ahead. Okay. No a destras or sinistras or qui vicinos.  Straight down this road. Certainly we could handle that. We kept on. Two blocks later, there is a traffic circle, and there is no sempre dritto. We took a few wrong turns and found the sign again. We plodded along a dirt road lining the back of farmers’ yards, unable to escape the tangent aroma of manure or our fears of previous wrong turns. A middle-aged woman smoking a cigarette was pulling out of her driveway. I caught her attention and asked if we were headed the right way. She seemed a little confused and alarmed as to how we had gotten there and where we were headed. She offered us a ride, and, yes, we took it. Paola is her name, and though she did not speak English, she slowed her Italian down so we could understand more. As she drove us several kilometers on, I gathered that she is 51, mother of two young twenty-somethings. Why are we walking to Assisi? Per divertente, for fun. She said we were both brave and crazy. I couldn’t respond with too much, so a lot of sì, sì’s were exchanged. When she dropped us off, she kissed both my cheeks and pointed up, saying we had a good God. I agreed with another sì, sì and grazie mille. Sempre dritto! she said and waved goodbye.

 We kept on. Assisi was now in sight, but the road was no less dangerous or sempre dritto, our walk shortened but still confusing. I greeted an old man sitting on his porch.  Buon viaggi signorine! he yelled and waved. We got lost a few more times, and we found our way once again. Abby declared that I was a leader with too much energy, she a blind follower. There’s some truth there - if you ever walk with me, those two components are pretty necessary. Eventually, feet flattened and beginning to blister, we made it to a road on which we really could march sempre dritto. Friday’s familiar blue dome of the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli loomed ahead in the haze, and our anxiety lessened.

We plodded to the stazione, bought our €2.50 ticket back to Perugia, and rewarded ourselves with another cup of ever-delicious gelato. “Never again,” Abby declared resolutely. She was not dissatisfied, but it was obvious she was happy to be finished; I sympathize with people I rope into going on adventures with me. You never know what could happen. I don't either.

As we walked back to a stazione bench to wait for the train, I saw two young men sporting chacos and travelers’ clothes, some of my favorite things. They gotta be American, I thought. I’ve got a Chaco radar, I’m telling you. We sat by them, and indeed, they spoke English. So we got to talking, and it turns out they just graduated from Clemson; we have several mutual friends, and the world gets smaller every day.

Today was not the perfect walk, and it definitely was not straight ahead, but when is life ever? We interacted with very kind Italians. We saw breathtaking countryside. We made new American friends and walked a truly remarkable distance. Despite the obstacles it brings, I will continue on the path of the not-so sempre dritto in Italy. I will seek direction from a God who is indeed good.  There, in the twists and turns, I will find great adventure.

P.S.

Thanks, Abby. You really were a trooper today.

Boobs and Hugs

We Comptons are an abnormally open family.

When we rent a movie at Red Box, 8 times out of 10 Hoffa will watch it lying on the living room pullout couch in his boxers and white mid-calf socks, the rest of us sprawled out around him or on the other couch. Our spontaneous family friend Sarah used to drop by unannounced (we like it when people do that), but after the third time she walked in and Hoffa was still only wearing underwear, I think she’s been permanently scared off.

Then there are boobs. We met and began playing with a younger family on the beach today. Like us, there were three girls and a boy, aged 9, 7, 3, and 1. While I was lying on my stomach, propped up by my forearms next to the small pool we were digging, I commented on their impressive bathing suit tan lines.

“I’ve been here all week,” I said, “but I don’t really have anything to show for it.”

The seven year old boy pointed toward my chest. “No, there’s a tan on your, uh…”

His older sister interjected – “He doesn’t know what to call them.”

“Boobs,” I say matter of factly.

Others get uncomfortable. We call it like it is. Even when I’d rather we didn’t. So here’s the story.

When I was eleven, I was not omitted from the socially awkward pains of puberty. All of my friends subtly and suddenly just started wearing training bras. Sure, we made fun of each other when we wore white shirts. Yes, we pulled the elastic strap in the back when someone turned around, but I don’t think they endured much humiliation beyond that. My friends did not have three unrelenting little siblings, fascinated by these two new bulges on my chest. Had they just whispered in my ear every once in a while, “Jessica’s getting boobs!” these memories from long ago would probably have been washed away in the outgoing tide of short term recollection. But oh, no, not the Comptons. Once Georgia, RoRie, and Cain figured out what was going on, they were merciless, unyielding I tell you. They received endless joy and amusement every day of my fourth grade existence by cupping their hands to their own flat chests and taunting in an overly seductive tone and a shaking of the shoulders, “Woogie, woogie!”

This mockery was not limited to the privacy of our own home, though. Public places were preferred. It happened all the time – in the produce section of the grocery store, after school in the hallways, at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant. It even made it into the 2004 Christmas letter. Great Mom, let’s just announce to your 500 closest friends that your eldest has boobs now. Awesome. When it first began, I was embarrassed and mad. Later, it got so that I didn’t even blush. I, attempting to invoke an aura of maturity, would shrug and sigh a heave of disapproval. Shaking my head like the little adult I was, I would say, “Kids,” as if I wasn’t one myself. Seriously, I did that. What kind of weirdo fourth grader was I?

I remember thinking to myself that it was just a matter of time. Someday, my sisters will hit puberty, too. But Georgia remained as flat as a flour tortilla well into high school. (Don’t be fooled, folks. The small curve from sixth through tenth grade was only a 32 NA padded bra. That’s supposed to stand for “nearly A.” I think it’s original abbreviation is more appropriate – “not applicable.”) By the time new pairs of boobs began budding in our house, I was too old to be making fun of my sisters, and in truth, we were all grateful to discover that Georgia wasn’t abnormally stunted after all. After fifteen high-pitched years, I’m still waiting on Cain’s voice to crack.

But, oh, my how the circle has turned. Now, as we frolic in our bikinis on the Costa Rican beach, Rosa Marie gets the teasing. Despite her long daily runs, the girl has grown from berries to pomegranates while I’ve been in college. She has the body of a goddess. Narrow waist, stomach of steel, lean legs…and these breasts that cascade into perfect, perky cleavage. As a joke, she shot a model picture on the beach. Georgia hacked her phone and posted this:

The laughs. We even e-mailed it to our grandparents. After they heard about the 5.6 earthquake here a few days ago, my grandma responded, “Now I know what triggered the earthquake!”

My poor father. Hoffa is both dismayed and in awe.

“Mama, why did you let her get that top? Nothing is covered! It might as well be a bra.”

“I didn’t, David, she bought it herself.”

“What am I going to do, Hoffa?” RoRie pleads. “I can’t help it!”

Yet, as she moseys out of the clear ocean water, oblivious to all, he definitely checks out his own daughter. And, while the father in him wants all three of his daughters covered in nun habits, silently, I know the man in him approves.

As for me, every time I see her without a shirt on, I can’t help but burst into a giggle. She knows why.

“Jessica! It’s not that funny.”

“Oh, but it is, RoRie. Look who gets to say woogie woogie now.”

Then there are the hugs.

If you haven’t experienced a signature Compton hug before, hold your breath. That is my warning, meant to be taken quite literally. Upon first introduction to a stranger, normal people shake hands. We tend to hug. These are not limpy acknowledgements from the side of the waist, either. A Compton hug is a full, front on embrace, complete with smiley eyes, a joyful heart, and a much-too-tight squeeze.

Our hugs are a manifestation of the love we have for another. They are unadulterated, and they are plentiful. One early Costa Rica morning when everyone had arisen, as usual, by six a.m., Hoffa asked, “Has everyone hugged each other?”

Now let me interject that though we frequently hug, it’s not part of the morning routine. But when Hoffa gets his mind fixed on what he thinks should happen, you can’t really disregard him; he’s a persistent (and, dare I say, persnickety?) old man. He then proceeded to individually interview members of the family and insist we all do so.

Apparently, these instances of adamancy are more frequent, and all of my siblings have become almost as easily put out as he. I, however, have been out of the house for two years. When he posed this question, I couldn’t help but smile. No other father forces his teenagers to hug each other. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s pretty sweet, too.

While life is still like this in Charleston, our isolated time together in Costa Rica has allowed us to focus on each other even more. When I’m at school, I miss this so much – the harmless banter, the laughing, the weirdness, the true love of physical affection and verbal affirmation. We are a forward, innocent, and funny group. I love that boobs and hugs and underwear are normal parts of our lives. I even kind of love our almost total lack of privacy; there is not much left “personal” in our personal lives. There is unusual security in this kind of life, too. My family has me, and I have them. I know them deeply, and I trust them. These are the people with whom I seek counsel, I talk, I run, I snuggle, I hug. For most, these are the uncomfortable things, even with family. Don’t talk about boobs. Hugs are greetings after long separations. They’re wrong, though. In these things I have found the most comfort. It is the woogie woogies and the suffocating squeezes that assure me I am home.