Construction 101 by Cassidy Shay (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📖

terrible person in my thoughts. And that, I think, is more terrible than being terrible in your words or actions. Actions speak louder than words, yes. But when you fail to do something, everyone always reminds you that "it's the thought that counts." If you don't get someone a birthday present, but say that you were going to get them the shows they wanted, but never got a chance, it's the thought that counts. If you threaten someone, but never actually follow through with the threat, it's the thought that counts. Because an action is meaningless without a thought behind it. A word that hasn't been properly thought through can cost you a job or a relationship. Thoughts are the core of everything you do, the control center of your words and actions. And that's why being a terrible person in my thoughts is, to me, much worse than being terrible in actions or words.
I'm not saying that I'm as terrible as a serial killer. I don't want to kill anyone. I'm not saying that I'm as terrible as a someone who robs without remorse. I can't take anything from anyone, can't even take it when they offer it to me. I'm not as terrible as some people. But if you always compare yourself to the worst people, you always come out on top.

I really am terrible. In many ways, ways that I haven't even discovered yet. But there are some ways, ways that I recognize, even if I haven't admitted to them yet, that I am terrible, down to the core. Today, I'll share one reason with you. I'll probably type out the others later, but for now, you get to settle for one.
Hopefully, after you're done reading this chapter, you'll come back later to read the rest of my story, and hopefully you will read something that redeems me, and your judgement of me won't be so harsh.

Reason That I'm Terrible Number 1:
I want someone to die.
But it gets worse. I don't want that someone to be a person that I can't stand, someone who I will gladly let slip from my eyes, without a tear to be shed. I don't a criminal, a stranger, or an evil person to die.
Oh, no. I'm past that. It's not that I want the world to rid itself of the evil people and criminals and the people who only do harm. I want someone close to me to die.
It doesn't matter who. A brother, a sister, aunt or uncle, maybe even my mom or dad. It can be my best friends, my grandparents. It doesn't matter. Just as long as they're dead. I don't want to kill them, but I want them to die.
Why? It's a question I ask myself all the time. Why would I want someone close to, someone that I love and care about and rely on, why would I want them to die?
Because I want to know. I want to know what it's like to feel like a part of you has been ripped out. I want to know what it's like to never be able to see someone ever again. I want to know that feeling of a sorrow so deep that you can't breathe, or you can't move, or you can't feel. Crazy, right? People who know this pain wish that they never experienced it, wish that it didn't exist. What would they think of me if they knew that I crave that feeling, if they knew just how terrible I really am?
Why else? I want to know what my reaction would be. Everyone reacts to death differently. So curiosity is another factor that contributes to me being a terrible person. I simply want to know what I would do. Will I cry? Will I scream and pound on walls? Will I laugh? Will I simply go mad with anger and sadness? How will I cope, once my craving for that feeling has been satisfied?
But there's one more reason. And my sister is the one who discovered it. She doesn't know about these thoughts, and she thought that she was talking about something completely different. But she hit the nail on the head.

We were sitting outside the movie theater, waiting for my mom to pick me up. My little brother, Lawson, was tired and didn't feel good, so he was whining and crying. Shelsey tried to comfort him, but he wouldn't go near her, so I called him over to me. Since she had wanted to be the one to comfort him, she was angry at me. "You try too hard to be an adult," she practically spat at me. She had meant that I always try to step in and help with the kids when they need to be taken care of, and that I don't really give her a chance to learn to be responsible. But, really, she almost knocked me over with that comment.
Because that's why I want someone close to me to die. Because usually, when someone close to you dies, you come out different. Stronger, wiser. Sometimes that's not the case. But I want to have that emotional scar, because it will make me stronger, wiser, an adult. I don't know very many adults who haven't gone through the death of a loved one. And they all, for the most part, have come out the other end stronger and wiser and ready to take on the world.
And that strength is what I need. In my mind, I haven't gone through enough to be strong enough. In my mind, you must go through a lot to gain a little bit of strength. So in my mind, in order to face the world head on, which I'll have to do in a couple years, I need something terrible to happen. I need something to break me down, strip me to the core, leave me a hollow shell, before I can rebuild myself into something sturdy enough to survive.
Crazy, right? I want someone to die... so that I can have a little extra strength, even when I already have more than most people my age, and several people that are older than me. No, not crazy.

Terrible.
Greatest Supporting Beam

So remember how earlier, I talked about the main supports and the fillers? My last chapter was a filler. Deep down, I know that I am not really a terrible person. But that is deep, deep, deep down. On the surface, I am guilty. But I don't count that as something that defines who I am.
So here is one that does. And this time, it's not some gloomy story that I would have trouble telling in person. No. This is one that I am proud of, a memory that I have had with me since I was very little.
My family, see, is very religious. Well, we used to be. We used to go to church every Sunday, and my mom was the R.E. teacher, and my brother was an altar server. But then my mom got pregnant and was in the hospital on bed rest and on weekends we went to see her instead of going to church. But I still believe everything that I've been taught, and I still love God. And I'm working on getting back into the habit of going to church every Sunday. However, bad habits (like deciding to sleep in on Sunday instead of getting up and going to church) are hard to break. But I am getting better.
So, before I post the memory, let me set the scene. We used to live in a beautiful mountain town, population: tiny. We had one Catholic church, a small white building that always reminded me of Little House on the Prairie. There were a total of... one two... five six.. thirteen fourteen pews in the church, and on summer days the combined body heat was almost too much to bear. In winter, the body heat of those around you became the only thing that kept you from freezing.
We had a piano up front, although we rarely had anyone that knew how to play it. We only had a choir during the Christmas season, and the rest of the time, we sung as a group, all members of the choir.
It was my home, and the people were my family. This community, this routine of going to church, this group of songs and verses and prayers that I heard or sang or said each week, is a huge reason that I am who I am today. Some of my friends who have been to Mass with me say that it is boring, but there is so much going on, if you know where to look, how to listen, that there isn't a way that it can possibly be boring.
So, now, I introduce to you a Sunday during Advent, a Mass at St. Judes parish in Garden Valley Idaho.

_____________________________________________________________________________

The bells ring above me, and the procession begins. In this small church, there is only one isle, two sets of pews for the small congregation. My brother comes into view first, holding the large crucifix, walking slow in his white robe. He’s our only altar server, the only person who is the right age to be one. But he does a good job of assisting the priest and making the Mass run smoothly.

After my brother is the priest, in a white, green, or purple robe, depending on what season it is. Today, as it is in the Advent season, he is robed in a deep purple.

As they make their way to the altar, the choir sings a song and the band plays the music. Our choir and band only exist during the Christmas season, when the musicians make their holiday visits to our small mountain town. Even then, the “band” consists of a piano, a violin, and occasionally the flute. Our choir is made up of the women of our parish, including my mother.

The priest, now at the altar, welcomes the people. He asks the visitors to stand and introduce themselves, and then we begin the Mass, the celebration of God.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” says the priest.

“Amen,” we answer. He wishes that we have grace and peace, along with the love of God, and we reply, “And also with you.”

Next, we launch into the Penitential Act, a prayer that we’ve been taught since we were little. “I confess you Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault. In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.” The prayer goes on a little longer, asking for the prayers of the angels and saints.

Next comes the “Shelsey song,” as my family calls it.