Yes, this is really me. I realized after I typed it that it sounds like some weird scam. Well, whatever. This is just to inform any readers who are still interested that I started up a new blog. It's still in the works but I wanted you to be the first (maybe only) to know!
You can visit it here.
http://theroughdraft42.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, January 04, 2017
Saturday, October 03, 2015
Nothing and Everything
Clearly my little blog has been abandoned.
I've been busy and overwhelmed and there hasn't been time or motivation tokeep this up, when really... it's just me blabbering and there are like four people who read it. I've been planning to shut it down but I can't quite make myself do that yet.
But I do hope to make a new blog some time. Soon. Maybe after the baby comes. Maybe after the house is built. Maybe when JJ doesn't need so much medical attention. You can tell. Things have been busy. So that's all I've got to say. If you loved my blog and are sad to hear I'm going to leave, well... you probably should have said something sooner. :D This is goodbye. At least for now.
I've been busy and overwhelmed and there hasn't been time or motivation tokeep this up, when really... it's just me blabbering and there are like four people who read it. I've been planning to shut it down but I can't quite make myself do that yet.
But I do hope to make a new blog some time. Soon. Maybe after the baby comes. Maybe after the house is built. Maybe when JJ doesn't need so much medical attention. You can tell. Things have been busy. So that's all I've got to say. If you loved my blog and are sad to hear I'm going to leave, well... you probably should have said something sooner. :D This is goodbye. At least for now.
Friday, February 20, 2015
What Happens in Montana Stays in Montana
When I was a kid, we looked forward to our summer vacations in Montana all year. We'd head up there in the old station wagon and spend a week or two with our cousins running wild on the prairie doing things no civilized children were ever allowed to do (you know, with guns and fireworks and probably peeing outdoors). They were our glory days. It was different from what we did at home. The people there didn't know us like the kids we went to school with. We were friends because we were related to each other.
Then we'd come home, and as much fun as we'd had, we couldn't really explain it to our friends. I loved being up there with my grandparents. I was so proud of their organic flour (before organic was the hippest thing to do) and Grandpa's work at the mill and my uncle's mechanic business, and that my dad knew how to ride horses and wrangle cows. But back here in the city, in boring Iowa, it just didn't really make sense. My friends didn't "get" it. And the older I got, the more I felt that way.
Those weeks we spent with our cousins were great. Not only because we got to do all kinds of illegal, unsafe things, but because there's something about extended family. They get you, you know? Like some of those quirks and things that set you apart from everyone else, you share with each other. That's what our family is like. We come from the same places, from those wheat field and wild horse hills. We're all different, but we're all the same.
This last trip up for Grandpa's funeral was the same for me. I have different friends now, and I want to tell them all about all of the funny things that happened while I was up there. I had such a great time. I got to shoot some guns, climb the buttes, drive out in the wild hills on an ATV... you know, crazy Montana stuff. I haven't told most of my friends about much of it. I want to talk about our snowball fight and hanging out at the supper club and the funny things we said to each other. But it just doesn't feel the same talking about it, here in Iowa, where Montana and family are so far away and disconnected from my Mommy life.
So, yet again, I have to just write them all down and remember them for the next time we're all together with each other. When we share our old memories, we bond all over again.
That's what family is for. Preserving the things that are precious, funny, happy and sad. We pass them on to each other because some day we won't all be around.
Sometimes I take a trip and wish I were there for the sake of being there. The scenery, the escape. The whatever makes vacation what it is. This trip (not a vacation), I wish I could be there so I could be with the people longer. I miss my cousins. We don't always understand each other, we all live totally different lives. But we're family, and I love them.
Then we'd come home, and as much fun as we'd had, we couldn't really explain it to our friends. I loved being up there with my grandparents. I was so proud of their organic flour (before organic was the hippest thing to do) and Grandpa's work at the mill and my uncle's mechanic business, and that my dad knew how to ride horses and wrangle cows. But back here in the city, in boring Iowa, it just didn't really make sense. My friends didn't "get" it. And the older I got, the more I felt that way.
Those weeks we spent with our cousins were great. Not only because we got to do all kinds of illegal, unsafe things, but because there's something about extended family. They get you, you know? Like some of those quirks and things that set you apart from everyone else, you share with each other. That's what our family is like. We come from the same places, from those wheat field and wild horse hills. We're all different, but we're all the same.
This last trip up for Grandpa's funeral was the same for me. I have different friends now, and I want to tell them all about all of the funny things that happened while I was up there. I had such a great time. I got to shoot some guns, climb the buttes, drive out in the wild hills on an ATV... you know, crazy Montana stuff. I haven't told most of my friends about much of it. I want to talk about our snowball fight and hanging out at the supper club and the funny things we said to each other. But it just doesn't feel the same talking about it, here in Iowa, where Montana and family are so far away and disconnected from my Mommy life.
So, yet again, I have to just write them all down and remember them for the next time we're all together with each other. When we share our old memories, we bond all over again.
That's what family is for. Preserving the things that are precious, funny, happy and sad. We pass them on to each other because some day we won't all be around.
Sometimes I take a trip and wish I were there for the sake of being there. The scenery, the escape. The whatever makes vacation what it is. This trip (not a vacation), I wish I could be there so I could be with the people longer. I miss my cousins. We don't always understand each other, we all live totally different lives. But we're family, and I love them.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Ripping Off Masks
Yesterday at church the pastor came in to talk to our small group about the plan for the next sermon series/initiative. He asked how we had seen God work through our group or through the church. One of my good friends told about how, when her husband had been very sick, the class had come and helped with things around the house and mowed their lawn all summer. She mentioned that she hadn't wanted to ask for help, but I'd sort of made her. I remembered her finally asking the class to pray for her, and someone said, "Do you need help with anything?" And she was hemming nad hawing and saying, "No, not really." And I just looked over at her, and said to the group, "Yes. She does."
Yesterday as she reflected, she said, "It hadn't really registered to me that I could even ask for help, I was so busy just trying to hold things together." Pastor Bob talked about authentic community, and he said, "Kristin saw past Karen's mask so she could get the help she needed."
I jokingly said, "I ripped that mask right off."
Later I thought about it and realized I think that's what I'm good at.
We did this Bible study book called Restless by Jennie Allen, about how we search for our "purpose" or whatever, and how God wants to fulfill that in us. Whatever. The book had you do some navel gazing and try to put the threads of your past--the good and bad things that made you into who you are--together and see the pattern God was weaving. I didn't really see one.
BUt I've been thinking about it, and yesterday I realized that I kind of like taking peoples' masks off. I don't do it that often, but the older I get, the more I do it. I'm learning the art of it, of being real and (hopefully) letting other people be open and real with me too.
I used to be afraid to. I used to never say anything, even when I could see some deeper need or see that someone was hiding something. I just let it go figuring they'd open up if they wanted to. I thought I was sort of failing when people didn't. But I think, what was happening, was they thought they'd fooled me, just like they fooled the rest of the world. But, while I'm pretty clueless about a lot of things, I'm pretty good at finding fake.
I'm kind of shy. A long time ago I was really shy. In middle school and high school, I would never ask prodding questions or bug people about what was on their minds. I'm pretty good at keeping shallow. I think we all are. But it made me really dissatisfied in some relationships, because I wanted to know those friends better. I wanted them to know me, too.
My best friends were the ones who saw through my masks.
All of our best friends are the ones who see through our masks. Who tear them off and say "No. We're not going to keep being shallow like this. I want to know more than what you made for supper and what your kids did last week. I want to know YOU."
It's work. And I still suck at it because I get afraid. I don't want to make people uncomfortable so I just sort of settle for that place where we just brush the surface of all the things that matter. That's what people like.
But that's what's keeping me (and everyone else) from having meaningful relationships. From true community.
That's what makes me frustrated when we're sitting around talking about TV shows and movies and dinner and decorating. I see your soul sometimes in those shallow encounters, and I don't want to talk about things that don't matter. I want to talk about why you're hiding and what you're hiding from.
I want to be a truth-seeker, and a truth-speaker.
In the age of social media where everyone's busy painting their best faces on for the public world, we need it all the more. We need people who tear off masks. We need to BE people who tear off masks. Our own, and others'.
If we aren't OK with brokenness and imperfection in others, we aren't OK with it in ourselves. And we miss out on the perfect promise of God, that in our weakness, He is strong. That His grace fills all of our emptiness, and that we are complete in Him.
Yesterday as she reflected, she said, "It hadn't really registered to me that I could even ask for help, I was so busy just trying to hold things together." Pastor Bob talked about authentic community, and he said, "Kristin saw past Karen's mask so she could get the help she needed."
I jokingly said, "I ripped that mask right off."
Later I thought about it and realized I think that's what I'm good at.
We did this Bible study book called Restless by Jennie Allen, about how we search for our "purpose" or whatever, and how God wants to fulfill that in us. Whatever. The book had you do some navel gazing and try to put the threads of your past--the good and bad things that made you into who you are--together and see the pattern God was weaving. I didn't really see one.
BUt I've been thinking about it, and yesterday I realized that I kind of like taking peoples' masks off. I don't do it that often, but the older I get, the more I do it. I'm learning the art of it, of being real and (hopefully) letting other people be open and real with me too.
I used to be afraid to. I used to never say anything, even when I could see some deeper need or see that someone was hiding something. I just let it go figuring they'd open up if they wanted to. I thought I was sort of failing when people didn't. But I think, what was happening, was they thought they'd fooled me, just like they fooled the rest of the world. But, while I'm pretty clueless about a lot of things, I'm pretty good at finding fake.
I'm kind of shy. A long time ago I was really shy. In middle school and high school, I would never ask prodding questions or bug people about what was on their minds. I'm pretty good at keeping shallow. I think we all are. But it made me really dissatisfied in some relationships, because I wanted to know those friends better. I wanted them to know me, too.
My best friends were the ones who saw through my masks.
All of our best friends are the ones who see through our masks. Who tear them off and say "No. We're not going to keep being shallow like this. I want to know more than what you made for supper and what your kids did last week. I want to know YOU."
It's work. And I still suck at it because I get afraid. I don't want to make people uncomfortable so I just sort of settle for that place where we just brush the surface of all the things that matter. That's what people like.
But that's what's keeping me (and everyone else) from having meaningful relationships. From true community.
That's what makes me frustrated when we're sitting around talking about TV shows and movies and dinner and decorating. I see your soul sometimes in those shallow encounters, and I don't want to talk about things that don't matter. I want to talk about why you're hiding and what you're hiding from.
I want to be a truth-seeker, and a truth-speaker.
In the age of social media where everyone's busy painting their best faces on for the public world, we need it all the more. We need people who tear off masks. We need to BE people who tear off masks. Our own, and others'.
If we aren't OK with brokenness and imperfection in others, we aren't OK with it in ourselves. And we miss out on the perfect promise of God, that in our weakness, He is strong. That His grace fills all of our emptiness, and that we are complete in Him.
Friday, January 23, 2015
One Man
News came this morning that Grandpa has passed away. It went fast and he lived a full life. HIs tired old body couldn't keep up anymore, after years of farming and fighting. I'm still processing.
In 2013 I sent this to him, right after he moved to the nursing home. He called me to say thanks, to tell me the stuff in the poem wasn't all true but it was nice. And I keep thinking about how I'm glad I bothered. Because those guys just didn't get thanked enough. I'll miss you Grandpa. I'm thankful for all that you've left behind.
In 2013 I sent this to him, right after he moved to the nursing home. He called me to say thanks, to tell me the stuff in the poem wasn't all true but it was nice. And I keep thinking about how I'm glad I bothered. Because those guys just didn't get thanked enough. I'll miss you Grandpa. I'm thankful for all that you've left behind.
One Man, One Soldier
He walks with courage
Though now with a cane, but once it was a gun
Now his steps are slow, but once he marched into war
Never seeing the man he would become
Maybe not understanding all he
fought for.
He shuffles slowly down the hall
But once he ran full force onto the beaches of France
Screaming out over the mortars and cannon blasts.
Now that voice that carried commands
has become harder to hear. His eyes, once bright and soulful
now wear wisdom, wrinkled and woeful.
Now his steps are slower and he’s always being passed
by all the generations behind him
moving too fast
All those people who will never
understand
the honor he deserves,
the indelible mark his actions made on the pages of time
in the stories they have never heard.
His tall frame now withers, hunching from age
And though that tired body has worked itself sore
The marks made that day have
remained
The memories of war
The purple heart on a shelf in his
closet
The friends who died on the shore
The family to which he came home
To
remind him what he fought for
He used to fight hard and long, but now he’s tired
And he already found his hill to die on
The man who stormed the beaches
Who limps with shrapnel in his side
Now walks with careful steps, leaning on his grandchildren
who
have always known his sacrifice
Who
listen to his tales of war and find
That ordinary men become heroes
and courage shows itself in many ways
--sometimes in war stories and flashes of light
Sometimes in farming and strife
Sometimes in the faithful way you
live your life.
This man, the soldier could teach them all that.
When they look into his eyes and
listen
To one man’s journey in history, to
one man’s scars
Teaching about bravery
Making his children who they are.
To Grandpa Alvin Rustebakke on the anniversary of D-Day,
June 6th, 2013
Friday, December 26, 2014
Rest - The Innkeeper's Song
Lately I've felt really worn out and tired. I had several big responsibilities stacked up on my plate all at the same time, and I just never felt like I recovered before Christmas hit. I've just been tired. Physically and emotionally, more than ever before. I haven't taken time to feed my soul, and my body has been sore and I've been running around trying to get everything done.
I was headed to my small group on Tuesday night and I put in a new CD from my husband. Jason Gray's Christmas Album. I really liked the first song, a call to join in Christmas. "Christmas is coming, will you be there?" I felt like i wasn't there. It was two days before Christmas and I just felt empty and blank inside. Earlier that day the shelf on my hutch had broken and all of my crystal and beautiful glass had fallen to the ground and smashed into thousands of pieces. Shattered. And it was about all I could take.
The next song on the CD was "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem". I'd just been thinking about that song, about how simple and quiet it is, and how it points out "How silently, how silently the wonderous gift is given." And I just wanted to stop and really think about it, about the gift of God and Christmas and the wonder I was missing.
The first song had a line that said "I don't want you to miss it/I know I have before/like the innkeeper who missed the wonder just outside his door". And I thought about how I've been missing it. It's been a great holiday, and lots of special memories with the kids have come from it, and lots of family time and really nice things. But I've been so tired, and when you're tired you don't feel things the same way you should.
The third song on the album was called "Rest, The Innkeeper's Song". I was driving up first ave when it came on, waiting in the mall traffic and trying to find a parking spot. And as it played, the poignient words hit me in the heart and I just cried. So I'm sharing it with you, even though it's too late now to think about it for Christmas. It matters every day. And I feel this way so often. So worried about getting rest and filling my needs, that I miss those moments with Jesus, those moments when God wants to show me something miraculous or teach me something new. Or just share his love.
I'm thankful that He answered my prayer for having rest, and that He still shows himself to me in the midst of my selfishness. Over and over.
Rest- The Innkeeper's Song By Jason Gray
I found them standing in my door
In the clumsy silence of the poor
I've got no time for precious things
But at least they won't be wandering
If they're sleeping on my stable floor
There were no rooms to rent tonight
The only empty bed is mine
‘Cause I’m overbooked and overrun
With so many things that must be done
Until I’m numb and running blind
I need rest, I need rest
Lost inside a forest of a million trees
Trying to find my way back to me
I need rest
As a boy I heard the old men sing
About a Kingdom and a coming King
But keeping books and changing beds
Put a different song inside my head
And the melody is deafening
I need rest, I need rest
Like a drowning man in the open sea
I need somebody to rescue me
I need rest
To Rome we’re only names and numbers
Not souls in search of signs and wonders
But we're waiting for the day of our salvation
The messiah who will be our liberation
We’re waiting, I’m waiting
I need rest, I need rest
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
With a sword deliver Israel
I need rest
Tonight I can’t get any sleep
With those shepherds shouting in the streets
A star is shining much too bright
Somewhere I hear a baby cry
And all I want is a little peace
In the clumsy silence of the poor
I've got no time for precious things
But at least they won't be wandering
If they're sleeping on my stable floor
There were no rooms to rent tonight
The only empty bed is mine
‘Cause I’m overbooked and overrun
With so many things that must be done
Until I’m numb and running blind
I need rest, I need rest
Lost inside a forest of a million trees
Trying to find my way back to me
I need rest
As a boy I heard the old men sing
About a Kingdom and a coming King
But keeping books and changing beds
Put a different song inside my head
And the melody is deafening
I need rest, I need rest
Like a drowning man in the open sea
I need somebody to rescue me
I need rest
To Rome we’re only names and numbers
Not souls in search of signs and wonders
But we're waiting for the day of our salvation
The messiah who will be our liberation
We’re waiting, I’m waiting
I need rest, I need rest
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
With a sword deliver Israel
I need rest
Tonight I can’t get any sleep
With those shepherds shouting in the streets
A star is shining much too bright
Somewhere I hear a baby cry
And all I want is a little peace
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Christmas Reading List
I decided to take a break from facebook and its incessant time-sucking and distractions for Christmas this year. To enjoy my family and clear my mind for thinking about Christ and Christmas.
It's going to be a low-key Christmas without a lot of relatives around, so I'm planning to have lots of down time. (We'll see how that goes). Which means I will have time to catch up on some reading. Here's my plan for things to read:
Walden - I haven't read it since high school and then it was with a begrudging heart, so I want to read it again and see what I can enjoy from it this time around. I'll probably throw in some other transcendentalist poetry while I'm at it.
Secrets at Sea by Richard Peck. So far everything Richard Peck I've read has been really good. Daniel gave me this book for Christmas last year and I haven't gotten around to reading it Mostly because it's about mice.
Ephesians - Well, not really read. BUt finish memorizing chapter 2. Because it only took a year to memorize the first 19 verses. I want to finish it before new year.
Isaac Asimov's Robot collection. Another Christmas present I haven't read yet. It's time.
Journals of Lewis and Clark - I'll just be happy if I finish a few chapters in that one.
So what about you? Any good reads coming up? Want to join me with a facebook fast over Christmas?
It's going to be a low-key Christmas without a lot of relatives around, so I'm planning to have lots of down time. (We'll see how that goes). Which means I will have time to catch up on some reading. Here's my plan for things to read:
Walden - I haven't read it since high school and then it was with a begrudging heart, so I want to read it again and see what I can enjoy from it this time around. I'll probably throw in some other transcendentalist poetry while I'm at it.
Secrets at Sea by Richard Peck. So far everything Richard Peck I've read has been really good. Daniel gave me this book for Christmas last year and I haven't gotten around to reading it Mostly because it's about mice.
Ephesians - Well, not really read. BUt finish memorizing chapter 2. Because it only took a year to memorize the first 19 verses. I want to finish it before new year.
Isaac Asimov's Robot collection. Another Christmas present I haven't read yet. It's time.
Journals of Lewis and Clark - I'll just be happy if I finish a few chapters in that one.
So what about you? Any good reads coming up? Want to join me with a facebook fast over Christmas?
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Infant Loss Awareness Month
so yesterday was the Infant Loss Rememberance Day. This whole month is infant and pregnancy loss awareness month. Which I have mixed feelings about. In some ways it just rubs salt in an open wound, but I guess there's some healing that goes with it too.
Today someone posted this beautiful article about infant loss. It's called The Other Quiet Mom, and it's about how the grief never totally goes away When you're a mom and probably just a woman in general, you get stuck in these conversations about having babies and kids. You listen, you participate. And, sometimes, when you're a mom who's lost a baby or a child, you just check out. Because something someone said caused your mind to wander off to the worst day of your life, and you just need a minute to breathe, to let yourself grieve, and of course the middle of a casual conversation isn't really the place to do that.
If you ever wonder how I feel about that baby, read this article. Because that's what it's like. Most of the time it's OK, but sometimes, while you're telling your pregnancy stories, I'm just thinking about her and wishing she were here.
The worst part for me is when people start actually talking about infant loss. People who don't know my story. And they blab and say things that no one should say at all, let alone to someone who's actually lost a baby. Those conversations are ones where I sort of wish I had a knife to stab people with. I once got stuck in the hot tub at a hotel with someone like that. It's kind of a funny story, but it actually isn't. She was "just wondering" if Michelle Duggar actually felt sad about losing her baby. (That had just happened, and Michelle was speaking at the conference we were all attending). She didn't think someone with 19 other kids would be as upset as someone who'd lost their first pregnancy.
Fortunately I had a friend with me. I miiiiight not have been so gracious if I hadn't. Part of me gets so pissed I want to scream, and part of me gets so sad I just want to shut down and hide. So you can imagine. Anyway, I assured that girl that it didn't matter how many kids you had, losing a baby is always painful and you always miss that baby.
It's weird. You just don't know what to say in those scenarios. I didn't tell that loud-mouthed girl my story. I didn't want to entrust that to her, although it probably would have shut her up. The story of your lost baby is a sacred one, and a person can't just spout off sacred things to just anyone. But sometimes, you feel like you should say something.
There's a kind of loyalty, like you have to tell people or else that little baby will slip into the nothingness of unnamed children. But you also know that, in telling people, you risk changing the dynamics of the relationships. Conversations have sort of a jive to them, and saying the name Grace to friends who know me sort of breaks up that jive. People are used to it, I think. I don't know if they mind, but I also sense a sort of hesitation to return to the subject of babies after her name is uttered.
Then there are people who are just OK with saying it. And that's some kind of glorious relief in just knowing it's OK with that friend if it comes up. Three examples:
1) When I first lost the baby, my friends came over and immediately one just asked, "Hey, do you want to talk about it, or do you not want to talk about it?" Let's just get it out in the open. That's a great thing to say to someone, by the way.
2) My husband's brothers are also really sweet about Grace. One of the youngest ones told me that he still counts Grace when he tells other people how many grandkids there are in the family. I didn't really know how to respond when he told me that, but thinking about it now makes me tear up, so it must have meant more than I thought. The more time that passes, the more things like that mean to me. I just don't want her to be forgotten.
3) At gymnastics once there was a gal I knew from church-ish things that I small-talked with every week. She was bulging pregnant ready to pop, and we were talking about it. She mentioned being high-risk and so I told her I was too. Then I , for some reason, told her about why I was high risk. And she nodded her head. "I had the same exact thing." She had the same experience I did. Same diagnosis. And same symptoms of future pregnancies. It was great. Because for once, it didn't make things a little awkward. It just made us better friends.
So, all that to help you understand how the long grief goes. There's the intense short-term grief of the first weeks, months. Then the year-long one, where you think of every little thing that should have happened. And then, as years pass, it becomes more like wishful thoughts, coming in waves. Some waves are bigger than others. And once in a while, I still almost drown in one and completely break down.
But I want you to know. I don't mind talking about my little girl that is in heaven. And I don't mind crying sometimes about missing her. The only reason I hesitate is so that you don't feel awkward.
Today someone posted this beautiful article about infant loss. It's called The Other Quiet Mom, and it's about how the grief never totally goes away When you're a mom and probably just a woman in general, you get stuck in these conversations about having babies and kids. You listen, you participate. And, sometimes, when you're a mom who's lost a baby or a child, you just check out. Because something someone said caused your mind to wander off to the worst day of your life, and you just need a minute to breathe, to let yourself grieve, and of course the middle of a casual conversation isn't really the place to do that.
If you ever wonder how I feel about that baby, read this article. Because that's what it's like. Most of the time it's OK, but sometimes, while you're telling your pregnancy stories, I'm just thinking about her and wishing she were here.
The worst part for me is when people start actually talking about infant loss. People who don't know my story. And they blab and say things that no one should say at all, let alone to someone who's actually lost a baby. Those conversations are ones where I sort of wish I had a knife to stab people with. I once got stuck in the hot tub at a hotel with someone like that. It's kind of a funny story, but it actually isn't. She was "just wondering" if Michelle Duggar actually felt sad about losing her baby. (That had just happened, and Michelle was speaking at the conference we were all attending). She didn't think someone with 19 other kids would be as upset as someone who'd lost their first pregnancy.
Fortunately I had a friend with me. I miiiiight not have been so gracious if I hadn't. Part of me gets so pissed I want to scream, and part of me gets so sad I just want to shut down and hide. So you can imagine. Anyway, I assured that girl that it didn't matter how many kids you had, losing a baby is always painful and you always miss that baby.
It's weird. You just don't know what to say in those scenarios. I didn't tell that loud-mouthed girl my story. I didn't want to entrust that to her, although it probably would have shut her up. The story of your lost baby is a sacred one, and a person can't just spout off sacred things to just anyone. But sometimes, you feel like you should say something.
There's a kind of loyalty, like you have to tell people or else that little baby will slip into the nothingness of unnamed children. But you also know that, in telling people, you risk changing the dynamics of the relationships. Conversations have sort of a jive to them, and saying the name Grace to friends who know me sort of breaks up that jive. People are used to it, I think. I don't know if they mind, but I also sense a sort of hesitation to return to the subject of babies after her name is uttered.
Then there are people who are just OK with saying it. And that's some kind of glorious relief in just knowing it's OK with that friend if it comes up. Three examples:
1) When I first lost the baby, my friends came over and immediately one just asked, "Hey, do you want to talk about it, or do you not want to talk about it?" Let's just get it out in the open. That's a great thing to say to someone, by the way.
2) My husband's brothers are also really sweet about Grace. One of the youngest ones told me that he still counts Grace when he tells other people how many grandkids there are in the family. I didn't really know how to respond when he told me that, but thinking about it now makes me tear up, so it must have meant more than I thought. The more time that passes, the more things like that mean to me. I just don't want her to be forgotten.
3) At gymnastics once there was a gal I knew from church-ish things that I small-talked with every week. She was bulging pregnant ready to pop, and we were talking about it. She mentioned being high-risk and so I told her I was too. Then I , for some reason, told her about why I was high risk. And she nodded her head. "I had the same exact thing." She had the same experience I did. Same diagnosis. And same symptoms of future pregnancies. It was great. Because for once, it didn't make things a little awkward. It just made us better friends.
So, all that to help you understand how the long grief goes. There's the intense short-term grief of the first weeks, months. Then the year-long one, where you think of every little thing that should have happened. And then, as years pass, it becomes more like wishful thoughts, coming in waves. Some waves are bigger than others. And once in a while, I still almost drown in one and completely break down.
But I want you to know. I don't mind talking about my little girl that is in heaven. And I don't mind crying sometimes about missing her. The only reason I hesitate is so that you don't feel awkward.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Tell Me We'll Be Friends Forever
I had a friend in high school who, from the first day we met, I knew would always be my friend. We had so much in common, we liked the same things, we hung out all the time, and we really were best friends. The weeks went by and we just got closer. The years passed together, and we spent time at each others' houses, after school, in class. I always called her my best friend, even though we both had other "best friends" we probably had invested more in. I never even wondered if we'd lose touch (and that was before facebook), if we'd fight and never make up, if we'd stop caring about each others' lives.
Really I never used to wonder that about any of my friends. Partly because I'm sort of dumb when it comes to planning ahead. Partly because, despite my cynism about how the world works, I'm maybe a little idealistic about good friendships. And partly because, at that time, I had two very close friends I'd known most of my life who I was still friends with. I don't know, maybe it's normal to just expect every relationship to go on forever.
But reality is that most relationships really don't. At least for me they don't. And I know for a fact that I'm REALLY blessed in this area. Like ridiculously blessed. With those two aforementioned friends who are still my friends, my wonderful loyal husband, and a really great family, I just don't need to complain.
BUt I will anylize. Because that's what I do.
What happens to those forever friends who disappear from our lives? My friends from high school are mostly not my friends anymore. Most of them I don't actually even know what happened to them. At the time I thought they were close friends. One of them, I'll call her Ann, would sit and talk with me for hours about deep (for high school) meaningful things. We were like Dr. House and Wilson, always over analyzing each others' lives and concluding why they were the way they were. We gave advice, we told each other secrets. I liked her a lot, but I think, looking back, she might have been a frienemy. Either that or insanely jealous, emotionally unstable, and unable to cope with marriage... That's a whole other story.
Anyway, I had these friends. Lots of them. Some of them were sort of shallow, some weren't. Some were pretty great and (I thought) deep, with good roots. And now, as I look back at each one of them, the things that put us together aren't really common or useful or present in our lives anymore. One girl I went to church and school with (there were like three of them), we hung out all the time and did stuff. Her boyfriend was my brother's BFF... and it turned out, that was a big reason we were friends. So when she broke up with him after college, she sort of broke up with me too.
So I guess this happening over and over, the natural cycle of friendships, has made me think that none of my friends will be my friends forever. Yet I still imagine us growing old together. I still picture our kids as teenagers, friends. I still think it will happen even though the chances of all of the friends I have still being around are pretty slim. So why do I keep hoping? Because otherwise I probably wouldn't keep trying to be friends with anyone.
If I'd known the friends I had in high school were all going to take different turns in life and leave and stop talking to me, or just disappear... I probably wouldn't have wanted to keep them as friends. But they might not have chosen me, either, if they'd known how it would turn out.
Each person we meet changes us in some way, opens our eyes to a new world, to a perspective we hadn't heard. Each person has inherent value, and each person is worth getting to know. While we may or may not know them well, I guess you don't know how good of a friend they'll be until you put the energy in to get to know them.
I have a theory about heart-to-heart friends, that we really only make them when we're young, and once we hit 25, we stop really inviting people in to the intimate places of our hearts. I don't know if it's true, but it seems to me that most people are either happy with the friends they already made when they were younger, (or maybe their spouse), or they're happy with being shallow and not having any close friends. Or maybe no one's actually happy with their relationships. I guess that's also a possibility. I met most of my closest friends before I was 25. Not that I don't want to meet more, but some how it just gets harder, I guess.
So the friend from high school who I thought would be my friend forever? She kind of still is my friend. Or rather, my friend again. We had a little 12-year hiatus. So it's not the same as it was, because our interaction is all on facebook. We lived a lot of our lives between communication. We experienced the bulk of adulthood without each other. So we don't have the shared experiences a lot of friends do. But I sort of feel like, if we ever did meet up face to face, we'd maybe just sort of pick up where we left off and move forward, deeper, knowing each other better now, knowing how the world works better. Because there is something about true friends of the heart, something that makes you able to forgive their unintentional wounds, something that just wants to believe the best about them, something that connects you even when you've pulled away. Memories maybe? Or maybe we all really want to be known and we're just afraid and messed up and do the best we can with what we have. And sometimes that ends up being called friendship.
Really I never used to wonder that about any of my friends. Partly because I'm sort of dumb when it comes to planning ahead. Partly because, despite my cynism about how the world works, I'm maybe a little idealistic about good friendships. And partly because, at that time, I had two very close friends I'd known most of my life who I was still friends with. I don't know, maybe it's normal to just expect every relationship to go on forever.
But reality is that most relationships really don't. At least for me they don't. And I know for a fact that I'm REALLY blessed in this area. Like ridiculously blessed. With those two aforementioned friends who are still my friends, my wonderful loyal husband, and a really great family, I just don't need to complain.
BUt I will anylize. Because that's what I do.
What happens to those forever friends who disappear from our lives? My friends from high school are mostly not my friends anymore. Most of them I don't actually even know what happened to them. At the time I thought they were close friends. One of them, I'll call her Ann, would sit and talk with me for hours about deep (for high school) meaningful things. We were like Dr. House and Wilson, always over analyzing each others' lives and concluding why they were the way they were. We gave advice, we told each other secrets. I liked her a lot, but I think, looking back, she might have been a frienemy. Either that or insanely jealous, emotionally unstable, and unable to cope with marriage... That's a whole other story.
Anyway, I had these friends. Lots of them. Some of them were sort of shallow, some weren't. Some were pretty great and (I thought) deep, with good roots. And now, as I look back at each one of them, the things that put us together aren't really common or useful or present in our lives anymore. One girl I went to church and school with (there were like three of them), we hung out all the time and did stuff. Her boyfriend was my brother's BFF... and it turned out, that was a big reason we were friends. So when she broke up with him after college, she sort of broke up with me too.
So I guess this happening over and over, the natural cycle of friendships, has made me think that none of my friends will be my friends forever. Yet I still imagine us growing old together. I still picture our kids as teenagers, friends. I still think it will happen even though the chances of all of the friends I have still being around are pretty slim. So why do I keep hoping? Because otherwise I probably wouldn't keep trying to be friends with anyone.
If I'd known the friends I had in high school were all going to take different turns in life and leave and stop talking to me, or just disappear... I probably wouldn't have wanted to keep them as friends. But they might not have chosen me, either, if they'd known how it would turn out.
Each person we meet changes us in some way, opens our eyes to a new world, to a perspective we hadn't heard. Each person has inherent value, and each person is worth getting to know. While we may or may not know them well, I guess you don't know how good of a friend they'll be until you put the energy in to get to know them.
I have a theory about heart-to-heart friends, that we really only make them when we're young, and once we hit 25, we stop really inviting people in to the intimate places of our hearts. I don't know if it's true, but it seems to me that most people are either happy with the friends they already made when they were younger, (or maybe their spouse), or they're happy with being shallow and not having any close friends. Or maybe no one's actually happy with their relationships. I guess that's also a possibility. I met most of my closest friends before I was 25. Not that I don't want to meet more, but some how it just gets harder, I guess.
So the friend from high school who I thought would be my friend forever? She kind of still is my friend. Or rather, my friend again. We had a little 12-year hiatus. So it's not the same as it was, because our interaction is all on facebook. We lived a lot of our lives between communication. We experienced the bulk of adulthood without each other. So we don't have the shared experiences a lot of friends do. But I sort of feel like, if we ever did meet up face to face, we'd maybe just sort of pick up where we left off and move forward, deeper, knowing each other better now, knowing how the world works better. Because there is something about true friends of the heart, something that makes you able to forgive their unintentional wounds, something that just wants to believe the best about them, something that connects you even when you've pulled away. Memories maybe? Or maybe we all really want to be known and we're just afraid and messed up and do the best we can with what we have. And sometimes that ends up being called friendship.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Lonely Highway
Do you remember what it was like
back when you were by yourself
and you'd skip town some Sunday afternoon
In the spring you'd lave your windows down
and fly past your troubles
heading toward the new moon?
You'd sit there with the radio
and stare up at the stars
Just you and your steel cacoon
and all the thoughts of life and love
could pour out on the page before you
and it seems so long ago
and those days seem so carefree --lost
somewhere in these days' monotony
But sometimes you still get the chance
to kick off your shoes and go for a drive
Sunday night on the lonely highway
You find in the darkness you still can dance
and you see for yourself all the answers
to all the questions you used to ask
and you can't believe you survived those lonely days
It's good to be alive.
back when you were by yourself
and you'd skip town some Sunday afternoon
In the spring you'd lave your windows down
and fly past your troubles
heading toward the new moon?
You'd sit there with the radio
and stare up at the stars
Just you and your steel cacoon
and all the thoughts of life and love
could pour out on the page before you
and it seems so long ago
and those days seem so carefree --lost
somewhere in these days' monotony
But sometimes you still get the chance
to kick off your shoes and go for a drive
Sunday night on the lonely highway
You find in the darkness you still can dance
and you see for yourself all the answers
to all the questions you used to ask
and you can't believe you survived those lonely days
It's good to be alive.
Friday, September 19, 2014
What's Born from Brokenness
I probably write about Rich Mullins too often, but I think that people who encounter him relate and are changed, even years after he's died. Recently they released a movie about his life called Ragamuffin. If you haven't seen it, please do. It's really good. It's not really about his music or really even about his life. It's not made for Christians. And it isn't like a Christian movie. It's a movie about God's "reckless raging fury" of love and someone who was caught up in it, even as he fought against it.
And that's where so many of us are. We don't even realize how much we're loved, how much junk we're clinging to, and what we could be if we knew just how big and wide and fierce that love is.
Today is the anniversary of his death, so of course I got to thinking. Not long after my grandma died, I had a very vivid dream, and I woke up wishing it hadn't ended.
We were all sitting around in her living room (I don't know why so many of my dreams are at her house), and there was just this hushed peace over all of us. And Rich Mullins was sitting there with me and my cousins and friends, just lounging on the couch, playing music. He sang a few songs, only one of which I recognized or remember now. And I still think about that dream, and the longing it put in me to be in heaven, in the safest and best place that exists, singing songs with people in perfect unity and peace.
But I think on earth, in our lesser world, the best things are really born from suffering. All of the songs that help heal our broken hearts are written by someone who related. All of the words spoken in our worst pain that build us back up come from a place of truth, found from hard searching. We can cling to Jesus because of his suffering on our behalf. And that's why Rich Mullins meant so much to so many people. We felt like maybe, for once, we weren't the only one who felt the lonliness and darkness. And we felt like maybe there was hope in the savior he talked about. Because only someone who understood our pain could really share an answer that mattered.
So now, seventeen years after his songs stopped being written, I still cling to some of those answers that came out. I still sing the words on those dark lonely nights. I still search out that reckless "raging fury that they call the love of God". I long for home. And I strive to be God's.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe heaven will be something like this
All of us together in Grandma's living room
listening to Rich playing guitar
and Debby and Daniel will join in
--some kind of meeting of the hearts
and we'll be praising the God
who we finally get to see
with no veils and no sin in between
Everyone there will be allowed to just be
no more striving
no more shouting
no need to give up and start again
made new
Made perfect in the Truth and the light
thinking back on our candlelight
days in the park
and seeing how God's love went and made it all right.
And that's where so many of us are. We don't even realize how much we're loved, how much junk we're clinging to, and what we could be if we knew just how big and wide and fierce that love is.
Today is the anniversary of his death, so of course I got to thinking. Not long after my grandma died, I had a very vivid dream, and I woke up wishing it hadn't ended.
We were all sitting around in her living room (I don't know why so many of my dreams are at her house), and there was just this hushed peace over all of us. And Rich Mullins was sitting there with me and my cousins and friends, just lounging on the couch, playing music. He sang a few songs, only one of which I recognized or remember now. And I still think about that dream, and the longing it put in me to be in heaven, in the safest and best place that exists, singing songs with people in perfect unity and peace.
But I think on earth, in our lesser world, the best things are really born from suffering. All of the songs that help heal our broken hearts are written by someone who related. All of the words spoken in our worst pain that build us back up come from a place of truth, found from hard searching. We can cling to Jesus because of his suffering on our behalf. And that's why Rich Mullins meant so much to so many people. We felt like maybe, for once, we weren't the only one who felt the lonliness and darkness. And we felt like maybe there was hope in the savior he talked about. Because only someone who understood our pain could really share an answer that mattered.
So now, seventeen years after his songs stopped being written, I still cling to some of those answers that came out. I still sing the words on those dark lonely nights. I still search out that reckless "raging fury that they call the love of God". I long for home. And I strive to be God's.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe heaven will be something like this
All of us together in Grandma's living room
listening to Rich playing guitar
and Debby and Daniel will join in
--some kind of meeting of the hearts
and we'll be praising the God
who we finally get to see
with no veils and no sin in between
Everyone there will be allowed to just be
no more striving
no more shouting
no need to give up and start again
made new
Made perfect in the Truth and the light
thinking back on our candlelight
days in the park
and seeing how God's love went and made it all right.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
My friend, Christy Miller
When I was a kid, like 4th through 8th grade, I read about every Christian YA series available at the local library. I was at that age when you can read and absorb information at ridiculously fast speeds, and I didn't have a social life. The combination yielded copious reading time. Hundreds and hundreds of books. Maybe even a thousand.
There were countless ones I loved, and if you wanted I would give you a list of them. But, among my favorite were books by Bill Myers. Then, as I got older, I discovered these girly-ish books by Robin Gunn called The Christy Miller Series. I think maybe my BFF bethany told me about them, but however I ran across them, I was in love with the first book. Probably because it involved Hawaii and I've always had this thing about surfing and Hawaii. Don't ask.
Anyway, I read all of those books and I read them again. As an adult, I purchased them and read them again. Why? They're actually kind of cheesy. Christy's world is kind of idealistic, a little picture perfect, even though she faces real-life problems that are realistic. But there's just something special about those books. You feel like you know Christy, like she's your friend.
Really, she was a lot like my real best friend Bethany. And I'm a lot like Christy's fictional best friend, Katie. So maybe that was partly why I loved them.
The thing I really loved as a love-sick pre-teen, was the romance part of the books. It wasn't really over the top. It wasn't even totally the focus of the stories. But there's this guy. Todd. OK, so he's pretty much everyone's perfect dream of a guy. Unrealistically. But there's something endaring about both of them and the way their friendship develops into love. It takes its time. It's focused on friendship. Even though Christy's full of dreams and hopes, she and Todd are careful and patient, and refreshingly un-dramatic about their feelings. You have to read it to understand. It's kind of Anne Shirley/Gilbert Blythe like.
I recently picked up the compilation series of the books and last night I treated myself to one of them. Todd's away on a surfing competition and no one's heard from him for a long time, so Christy sends him a little card with the Bible verse Philippians 1:5-7 in it. The "confident that he who began a good work in you is faithful to complete it... I pray for you... I hold you in my heart." Then, six weeks later, Christy finally gets a response. On a coconut, mailed from Hawaii. Todd wrote Phil 1:9 on it and said, "I hold you in my heart too".
How's that for romance? Pretty great.
Anyway, the point of all that is just to say how influential those books were in my life. I wanted what Todd and Christy had because I could see it meant more than all of the other quick dating relationships going on around me (And Christy tries those too, of course). Some how, when you read all of them, you see the the way Christy is guarding her heart for her future husband. She writes letters to him and keeps them in a little box and then she prays about him even though she doesn't know who he is. It doesn't sound as good when I write it out, but it's cool in the book.
And it changed me. I'm thankful for Christy Miller because she introduced me to the idea of friendationship (a phrase coined by my youth pastor later). And because of Christy Miller I didn't want to spend time investing in the wrong people. Because of Todd, I felt like I could hold out for a great guy.
Reading in general made me want to be a writer. But reading these books by Robin Jones Gunn made me realize that fictional stories can have transcendent meaning. That you can learn just as much from characters as you can from real people. And I for one am thankful that I learned from Christy's mistakes rather than making them myself. ;) (And, for the record, my husband is WAY better than Todd. He was in high school and he still is. Except he doesn't surf. Although he would be able to if we lived anywhere near an ocean because he's one of those people who can do anything he tries. Tangent over.)
Eventually Robin Jones Gunn wrote "Christy and Todd, the college years" and finished off the three-book series with their wedding. Now, the best news I've heard in a long time, she's written and is writing the newest installment: Christy and Todd, the married years. I can't wait to read them!
Also I can't wait to have my kids read the Christy Miller series as they get older. Now it might be a little outdated... the original ones I read had tapes, VHS, roller skating, and jean skirts. But hey, truth is truth. And Christy is timeless.
There were countless ones I loved, and if you wanted I would give you a list of them. But, among my favorite were books by Bill Myers. Then, as I got older, I discovered these girly-ish books by Robin Gunn called The Christy Miller Series. I think maybe my BFF bethany told me about them, but however I ran across them, I was in love with the first book. Probably because it involved Hawaii and I've always had this thing about surfing and Hawaii. Don't ask.
Anyway, I read all of those books and I read them again. As an adult, I purchased them and read them again. Why? They're actually kind of cheesy. Christy's world is kind of idealistic, a little picture perfect, even though she faces real-life problems that are realistic. But there's just something special about those books. You feel like you know Christy, like she's your friend.
Really, she was a lot like my real best friend Bethany. And I'm a lot like Christy's fictional best friend, Katie. So maybe that was partly why I loved them.
The thing I really loved as a love-sick pre-teen, was the romance part of the books. It wasn't really over the top. It wasn't even totally the focus of the stories. But there's this guy. Todd. OK, so he's pretty much everyone's perfect dream of a guy. Unrealistically. But there's something endaring about both of them and the way their friendship develops into love. It takes its time. It's focused on friendship. Even though Christy's full of dreams and hopes, she and Todd are careful and patient, and refreshingly un-dramatic about their feelings. You have to read it to understand. It's kind of Anne Shirley/Gilbert Blythe like.
I recently picked up the compilation series of the books and last night I treated myself to one of them. Todd's away on a surfing competition and no one's heard from him for a long time, so Christy sends him a little card with the Bible verse Philippians 1:5-7 in it. The "confident that he who began a good work in you is faithful to complete it... I pray for you... I hold you in my heart." Then, six weeks later, Christy finally gets a response. On a coconut, mailed from Hawaii. Todd wrote Phil 1:9 on it and said, "I hold you in my heart too".
How's that for romance? Pretty great.
Anyway, the point of all that is just to say how influential those books were in my life. I wanted what Todd and Christy had because I could see it meant more than all of the other quick dating relationships going on around me (And Christy tries those too, of course). Some how, when you read all of them, you see the the way Christy is guarding her heart for her future husband. She writes letters to him and keeps them in a little box and then she prays about him even though she doesn't know who he is. It doesn't sound as good when I write it out, but it's cool in the book.
Reading in general made me want to be a writer. But reading these books by Robin Jones Gunn made me realize that fictional stories can have transcendent meaning. That you can learn just as much from characters as you can from real people. And I for one am thankful that I learned from Christy's mistakes rather than making them myself. ;) (And, for the record, my husband is WAY better than Todd. He was in high school and he still is. Except he doesn't surf. Although he would be able to if we lived anywhere near an ocean because he's one of those people who can do anything he tries. Tangent over.)
Eventually Robin Jones Gunn wrote "Christy and Todd, the college years" and finished off the three-book series with their wedding. Now, the best news I've heard in a long time, she's written and is writing the newest installment: Christy and Todd, the married years. I can't wait to read them!
Also I can't wait to have my kids read the Christy Miller series as they get older. Now it might be a little outdated... the original ones I read had tapes, VHS, roller skating, and jean skirts. But hey, truth is truth. And Christy is timeless.
Monday, August 18, 2014
The Darkness
It used to frighten me to drive home from my boyfriend's house on the dark nights. He lived about five miles away from any sort of civilization. Getting home required four miles of gravel roads, passing three farms and a graveyard, along with these two creepy lights shining from the gates of this house that was tucked away where you couldn't see. I don't know why those lights always bugged me, sitting there on the road like eyes in the darkness, waiting for me to pass. They never moved but it felt like they did. It felt like they followed me.
I wasn't the kind of person who thought about the dark much back then. But driving in it had this horrific effect. Now I live on the same road my boyfriend (who I married) grew up on, one house down, one house further away from the darkness.
And when we first moved, a sense of dread would come over me every time I had to crawl that car over the hills at night, through the cornfields with the animals and combines lurking somewhere across the vast unknown.
That's what unnerving about the darkness. It's the unknown. There are things you could see in the daylight that disappear into the shadows after the sun sets, and suddenly you're left guessing about everyday things.
I used to be afraid of the unknown things, too. I used to turn over carpets and open closet doors and shake out old suitcases trying to get answers to what had been hidden. I used to think there had to be answers to everything. And I used to die inside a little bit every time I realized again that sometimes there aren't answers. Sometimes you can't see what's ahead, and sometimes you just have to walk that way anyway.
So faith comes out in there, somewhere, I guess. And maybe that's all that's changed. Now that I'm 32 I don't fear the unknown as much. I just pull it in and embrace it. Yes, it's unsettling. And it's a fearsome thing to understand that darkness is a necessary part of every single life.
But so many things happen in the darkness that actually become spun and woven into beautiful things. Like chickens laying eggs, the world being set into motion, the seeds growing underground. The owl's lonely hoot, the crickets' song, the fireflies winking. The womb. Darkness all around, yet something being created. Something unknown, something unseen. Something wonderful.
I guess getting older has made me see all the things I fear don't always become what I feared they would. And I guess it's helped me see that God--who works in unspoken nights, who never sleeps, who knows all and sees all--does not want me to fear, but to trust.
So now I find there's this kind of wonder in driving in the dark. I head out of the city, away from the glare, and over my shoulder I see all of the things I knew behind me in the dim rear-view mirror. And ahead, the stillness of night. The fireflies, the owls, the beauty of quiet. And me, open heart, trusting the God who works His best in the dark.
I wasn't the kind of person who thought about the dark much back then. But driving in it had this horrific effect. Now I live on the same road my boyfriend (who I married) grew up on, one house down, one house further away from the darkness.
And when we first moved, a sense of dread would come over me every time I had to crawl that car over the hills at night, through the cornfields with the animals and combines lurking somewhere across the vast unknown.
That's what unnerving about the darkness. It's the unknown. There are things you could see in the daylight that disappear into the shadows after the sun sets, and suddenly you're left guessing about everyday things.
I used to be afraid of the unknown things, too. I used to turn over carpets and open closet doors and shake out old suitcases trying to get answers to what had been hidden. I used to think there had to be answers to everything. And I used to die inside a little bit every time I realized again that sometimes there aren't answers. Sometimes you can't see what's ahead, and sometimes you just have to walk that way anyway.
So faith comes out in there, somewhere, I guess. And maybe that's all that's changed. Now that I'm 32 I don't fear the unknown as much. I just pull it in and embrace it. Yes, it's unsettling. And it's a fearsome thing to understand that darkness is a necessary part of every single life.
But so many things happen in the darkness that actually become spun and woven into beautiful things. Like chickens laying eggs, the world being set into motion, the seeds growing underground. The owl's lonely hoot, the crickets' song, the fireflies winking. The womb. Darkness all around, yet something being created. Something unknown, something unseen. Something wonderful.
I guess getting older has made me see all the things I fear don't always become what I feared they would. And I guess it's helped me see that God--who works in unspoken nights, who never sleeps, who knows all and sees all--does not want me to fear, but to trust.
So now I find there's this kind of wonder in driving in the dark. I head out of the city, away from the glare, and over my shoulder I see all of the things I knew behind me in the dim rear-view mirror. And ahead, the stillness of night. The fireflies, the owls, the beauty of quiet. And me, open heart, trusting the God who works His best in the dark.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Pray
If you know me, you know I'm not someone to jump onto bandwagons. You also know I don't really like reading the news. But last week the news became unavoidable. And I stopped being able to ignore the bigger problems with the world. With what's happening in Iraq and Ukraine, I have a sense that the world is on the cuff of a huge change. I can't really explain the feeling. I've never before wished that I knew more about end times prophesies, but I find myself wondering, trying to recollect vague memories of teachings I've heard about the kingdoms.
Anyway, facebook filled up with news about Iraq and I felt a big burden to do something. I knew my only recourse was prayer or giving money, and without knowing who to give money to or what to do, I turned to praying. I can't even explain how this was different than other things I've prayed for. I feel as if the whole world is relying on us to push back the evil, and we aren't doing our jobs because we're comfy here in our USA wealth and peace and we don't want to think about discomfort. I know that the balance of the kingdoms don't lie in our feeble prayers, but I also know that people who want God's kingdom to come don't sit in their couches, read a news article, and then go back to playing video games or watching the Big Bang Theory.
I know this requires prayers, fervrant, serious prayers. And what I've done so far has been so small. There really isn't much to do, except ask others to join me. We cannot stop praying for God's people who are suffering. We cannot stop praying for His peace to reign.
So I asked others to join me for a day of prayer and fasting (if they wanted to fast). I was surprised how fast my facebook event caught on. It spread and lots of people "attended", praying together with me. I think it was good. I hope it was.
I confess I didn't make my full twenty-four hour fast like I thought I would. I wasn't even feeling that hungry, but I was getting a serious headache, and I knew that I wouldn't have a chance to pray after seven because I'd be in a meeting, so I decided to eat three hours early. It was so easy to convince myself that was OK. And it was, but it makes me sad that I'm not a little bit more resolved about some things.
So here's one prayer I wrote for Iraq. Maybe it will inspire you to join me this week to continue to pray for peace.
Amen.
Anyway, facebook filled up with news about Iraq and I felt a big burden to do something. I knew my only recourse was prayer or giving money, and without knowing who to give money to or what to do, I turned to praying. I can't even explain how this was different than other things I've prayed for. I feel as if the whole world is relying on us to push back the evil, and we aren't doing our jobs because we're comfy here in our USA wealth and peace and we don't want to think about discomfort. I know that the balance of the kingdoms don't lie in our feeble prayers, but I also know that people who want God's kingdom to come don't sit in their couches, read a news article, and then go back to playing video games or watching the Big Bang Theory.
I know this requires prayers, fervrant, serious prayers. And what I've done so far has been so small. There really isn't much to do, except ask others to join me. We cannot stop praying for God's people who are suffering. We cannot stop praying for His peace to reign.
So I asked others to join me for a day of prayer and fasting (if they wanted to fast). I was surprised how fast my facebook event caught on. It spread and lots of people "attended", praying together with me. I think it was good. I hope it was.
I confess I didn't make my full twenty-four hour fast like I thought I would. I wasn't even feeling that hungry, but I was getting a serious headache, and I knew that I wouldn't have a chance to pray after seven because I'd be in a meeting, so I decided to eat three hours early. It was so easy to convince myself that was OK. And it was, but it makes me sad that I'm not a little bit more resolved about some things.
So here's one prayer I wrote for Iraq. Maybe it will inspire you to join me this week to continue to pray for peace.
Lord
There are so many things happening in the world right now,
so many forces at work. So many evil men claiming power, oppressing the weak,
killing others. I admit it is overwhelming and I sense my own
limitations in every news story and every thought I have. I don’t know how to
pray so often I just don’t. I feel helpless and useless and I listen to a lie
that I’m insignificant.
I don’t know how it works. I don’t know that a soverign,
unapproachable God who dwells outside of time and space, changes his course of
action because of prayer. I don’t know that it does anything. But I do believe
that you told me to ask you, so I ask. I believe that you promised where two or
three were gathered in your name, you would be there with them. I believe that
you are powerful and good and strong. I believe that you work things together
for your good. And I believe that you are trustworthy. So I lay my heart before
you.
I confess my disinterest as sin. I confess that I prefer to
ignore the news and move through my day, living in comfort and peace that is a
blessing from you. I choose to not pray or I pray half-heartedly. Lord, change
my heart. Change me to care about the things you care about. Give me faith to
believe that my prayers do make a difference, that they are worthy. And Lord, I
ask you to hear my prayers. I acknowledge you’re sovereign, and that you hold
all things in your hands.
So Father, I want to ask you today to be with those who are
suffering because of their faith in you. They are numerous—countless. They are
faceless to me, but Lord I know they exist and to you they are each so valuable. I know that they rely on the
prayers of faithful believers who are dwelling in safety and peace. And I don’t
often even care. But today I just need to ask that you’ll forgive my
indifference, and hera my pleas. Save these children. Save your people from the
hand of death and destruction. Give them your peace—the peace that comes from
you and not from the world. Provide their needs, and speak your Word into their
hearts. May they find unity with each other and solidarity as they suffer. May
they demonstrate your love to their accusers and, through their actions, shine
your light in the darkest of places. Father, renew their strength. Give them
your power to speak your truth. Allow them to act in love in the face of
oppression, giving to others as you have given to them.
I ask that you bring your peace to this land, stricken with
war and darkness. Cover your people there. Cause those who don’t know you to cry
out to you, the One True King. And bring your salvation to the middle
east.
Amen.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
The Pizza
In my family there's an epic story that gets told and retold almost every time we're together.
The truth is, it's a dumb story. But my younger brother can't stop telling it. He likes to remind us about it, and bring it up whenever there's occasion. Now we bring it up as a joke on him, but we're still telling the stupid story.
It was one of those nights when mom was gone or sick; can't remember. she wasn't there so we were having freezer pizzas, which we hardly ever did. One of them happened to be particularily nasty-looking with bally sausage clumped in the middle and melted between some sparse cheese. The other one was OK, so we ate all of that. Then, because we were still hungry, my dad took the gross sausage culprit and went to the bathroom with a knife. His words were, "I'll scrape this poop off into the toilet where it belongs."
Being eight, six and four, it was hilarious.
And ever since then, no one has forgotten.
Every family has one of those storytellers. The ones that remember the details no one else cares about. The one who brings up the embarrassing moments at the most awkward times, like when your first boyfriend is over, or at a meet-the-parents kind of thing.
The truth is, we would have forogtten about that pizza twenty years ago if it hadn't been for David, always telling it to us. The phrase he uses is, "Remember that pizza?"
We used to all giggle. Then we'd ask what about it. Then we'd laugh again. Then we'd have to tell it to whatever company we were in. Now we all just kind of roll our eyes or resign with a little smirk. It's funny, but it's not the story itself that's funny anymore. It's the remembering.
So tonight, while my girls were eating and one of them said, "Remember that..." I realized they're the right ages. They'll have some night with Dad that they always remember. They'll have TV shows they watched and talk about, movies they quote, songs they sing. The rite of siblinghood, I guess.
The thing about the Pizza, though, is that the whole thing happened in only five minutes. And it was such a regular day. So mundane, really. Dad making freezer pizzas. Americans do that every day all over, and most of them don't go back and remember that "one time".
But I want my kids to have those "one times". I think they will remember stupid things, silly things that we do. And I think that they'll end up with their own pizza story. That's how it works as generations grow. we share our memories and stories with each other. I hope that we aren't all too absorbed in media and phones to have moments like that, forgotten and thrown away. I hope that my kids get to laugh hard together for thirty years about something stupid. Though hopefully it's not about pizza with dog poop on it.
The truth is, it's a dumb story. But my younger brother can't stop telling it. He likes to remind us about it, and bring it up whenever there's occasion. Now we bring it up as a joke on him, but we're still telling the stupid story.
It was one of those nights when mom was gone or sick; can't remember. she wasn't there so we were having freezer pizzas, which we hardly ever did. One of them happened to be particularily nasty-looking with bally sausage clumped in the middle and melted between some sparse cheese. The other one was OK, so we ate all of that. Then, because we were still hungry, my dad took the gross sausage culprit and went to the bathroom with a knife. His words were, "I'll scrape this poop off into the toilet where it belongs."
Being eight, six and four, it was hilarious.
And ever since then, no one has forgotten.
Every family has one of those storytellers. The ones that remember the details no one else cares about. The one who brings up the embarrassing moments at the most awkward times, like when your first boyfriend is over, or at a meet-the-parents kind of thing.
The truth is, we would have forogtten about that pizza twenty years ago if it hadn't been for David, always telling it to us. The phrase he uses is, "Remember that pizza?"
We used to all giggle. Then we'd ask what about it. Then we'd laugh again. Then we'd have to tell it to whatever company we were in. Now we all just kind of roll our eyes or resign with a little smirk. It's funny, but it's not the story itself that's funny anymore. It's the remembering.
So tonight, while my girls were eating and one of them said, "Remember that..." I realized they're the right ages. They'll have some night with Dad that they always remember. They'll have TV shows they watched and talk about, movies they quote, songs they sing. The rite of siblinghood, I guess.
The thing about the Pizza, though, is that the whole thing happened in only five minutes. And it was such a regular day. So mundane, really. Dad making freezer pizzas. Americans do that every day all over, and most of them don't go back and remember that "one time".
But I want my kids to have those "one times". I think they will remember stupid things, silly things that we do. And I think that they'll end up with their own pizza story. That's how it works as generations grow. we share our memories and stories with each other. I hope that we aren't all too absorbed in media and phones to have moments like that, forgotten and thrown away. I hope that my kids get to laugh hard together for thirty years about something stupid. Though hopefully it's not about pizza with dog poop on it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
The Flight of the Robin
Robin and I met because we were in science class at the same
lab table. We became friends because we had the same birthday. And we had one
of those epic friendships. Where you do all kinds of stuff together and you
talk about whatever’s on your mind without filtering it, and you just exist as
yourself, comfortable, because weird was status quo between us. Seriously, I think I knew she was best friend material when I noticed that she wore a bracelet made out of a melted toothbrush. That's how awesome she was.
We were both fringe people, I think. I think that ended up
being what made us better friends than the rest of our groups. There were two
groups of people we hung out with together. One were the church kids. They all
went to church together. Except me and Robin didn’t. I went to another church
and she didn’t go to church. The other group were the smart kids. They’d all
gone to elementary and middle school together. Robin and I had come from
separate schools, but separate from theirs too. So they had some kind of camaraderie that we weren’t part of.
We all got along fine, but I think that both of us always
felt like we didn’t truly belong. So we sort of had our own thing going even
though we ran in the same circles. We were with the brilliant kids who got
great grades, but our grades didn’t make us salutatorians (well, maybe she was. I don't remmeber now). We were both in the
music ensembles, but we didn’t live and breathe it like some people did. We weren’t
first chair material. We were both religious people who knew God, but we
weren’t part of the pastor’s kids inner circle that understood things that we
didn’t. So being different made us the same.
I was clueless and it took me a long time to realize that
she and I were more different from each other than I thought, too. We were so
similar. We liked so many of the same things. And we thought the same way. And
I always knew there was a sadness that followed her around but I didn’t really
put it all into place until later. I always felt like there was something I
didn’t know about her, but I didn’t realize that her hiding was a way of
protecting herself.
We spent four years together in high school, but after I got
married I felt a rift developing. Too clueless to see that she’d sort of shut
me off, I pursued our friendship thinking it was me. I know it partly was, but
I guess part of it was her too. And I wish I’d known what to do then. But it
seemed like I’d lost her. After a year or so I stopped trying. I missed her
horribly, but I sort of figured things had just ended and there wasn’t much to
do to change it.
I’ve written about her before on here. I just never wanted
our friendship to end. I’d pray for her sometimes. I’d think of her often, and
I kept most of the things I had that reminded me of her. Batman and Robins,
pictures, stupid notes we’d written, moose slippers. They hurt to see but I
didn’t want to forget her either. So I just kept her in my heart.
I’d just prayed for her a few months ago, and just sort of
decided to let it all go, when out of the blue I got a message on facebook from
her. What a surprise. What an answer to prayer. I thought I’d lost her forever,
but that's not true anymore. I know this, because she sent me a picture on
facebook of a Batman and Robin monster keychain… and I think that just sealed
the deal. Things are different, but in a lot of ways the same. And I’m
overjoyed to be sharing life again with her. The moral of the story is, if you
don’t want to give up on someone, and even if you do want to, just don’t.
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