Broken Heart Montana

I just got home from a family reunion in Montana. Like it goes in our family, it wasn't really a planned reunion, and was therefore complete chaos. I got to see all of my cousins but 3, and my parents were the only ones missing from their generation (and I see them all the time). It was missing my grandma. But Grandpa was there. He's almost 94. He kept saying he wished he were 80 again, which I thought was funny. In a lot of ways he's still his spry, witty self, full of good stories and smiles and conspiracy theories. He's beginning to fade, though, and it breaks my heart.
It's always hard to leave. I choked up when we left the nursing home (he just moved there a few months ago), with the constant realization that it could be the last time I see him, the last time I say goodbye. He's a great man, despite his many flaws, and there aren't a lot of people like Alvin left in the world.
I wanted to stay longer. I wanted hours with each family member, time to talk and remember and catch up. I love my cousins so much, each one of them, and I'm happy that we're all still a part of each others' lives. I wanted those days to last forever. We stayed up late into the night and early in the morning talking and playing games, but it just wasn't enough. I crave time with those people who came from the same place I did, cut out of the Montana sky, familiar with suffering and restlessness, who share the wild spirit of wild country, who like the same jokes and movies, who love the same people, who understand parts of our childhood that no one else does. I wanted more time to walk on those windy hills in the young wheat fields, to take pictures of the sunsets, to show my kids the hidden beauty of the prairie. To pick wildflowers and run my fingers through the dirt, and swim in the river, and just be part of the land.
Mostly I wanted more time to sit with Grandpa. It was hard to be there with so many others who I wanted to see, because I had to split time. I couldn't just sit adn listen to him forever. He was tired a lot, too. But I wish I could just record every moment, every word he says. Soon that quiet voice will fade into history, and his wrinkled fingers will let go of the life he led there, and there will be 21 of us to carry on with his memories, to write them and tell them, and try to live out the things he passed down to us. He isn't gone yet, but the window is narrowing, and his memory is fading, and I don't want to let it go without fighting a little longer to remember and record it, and enjoy it.
I wrote this poem last year when I left, and I kept thinking about it. It's so hard to say goodbye.

Whispering Goodbye

And maybe I’ll always remember them that way

The grandparents

Standing there, waving in the driveway

As the station wagon pulls out down that long gravel road

The mile that passes, and me, still checking over my shoulder to see that they’re there

Barking dogs trailing behind.

That’s how it went every year

We’re waving out the windows

Saying goodbye to sunflowers and the sweet scent of alfalfa and dirt

Saying goodbye to those who loved us

Her, with her beautiful smile, walking in grace, even in the winter of her life

With a walker on the porch one year

And then never again.

And now him, the Old Man Patriarch

Standing there alone

With two fingers in the air, whispering out goodbye.

Christian Hippies, guitars, and Petra

So I spent the weekend in the RV with my husband, two of his brothers, his dad, and my sister-in-law at a music festival in the middle of a cornfield.
It was 95 degrees and as humid as an indoor pool. We hung out under tents most of the time, listening to different obscure bands playing. And it was SO FUN!
I've named cornerstone the Christian Hippie Fest, because really the flour and fauna made me feel a little... too normal. Conservative and... old, actually. It was great, though. I think about 10,000 people attend, and everyone camps out all over the place for four days, playing music, going to seminars, and enjoying concerts.
They had a Jesus fest this year, bringing in some older bands and artists from the late 60's and 70's. That part was cool, because I'm kind of intrigued by the history of the Jesus movement and the social conditions that made room for such a big movement. My parents and my aunt and uncle were part of it. And the music at the festival Thursday night took us back to that time. Barry McGuire was great, so friendly and personable. He just talked and shared and sang in between. Randy Stonehill was a dork but I like a lot of his music. And he talked about Keith Green, which was cool.
There were some other bands I wasn't super familiar with, and I enjoyed listening to them. But the best part of that night was Classic Petra. If you know anything about Christian music, you know Petra. They were one of the first, maybe the first, Christian rock band. They retired a few years ago, but now some of the old members have reuninted to recover some of their old songs. So they were there, and their show was better than I ever imagined it would be. I'm not even a big Petra fan, but thanks to my pseudo-roommmate freshman year of college, I knew most of the songs they sang. And they were awesome.
Have you seen the Rolling Stones preform lately? They don't got nothin' on Petra. They were so good, so finely tuned and tight together. And Greg X Voltz can still bring it vocally. He hit all of the notes. It was so fun. And the best part was being with my brother-in-law who is a die-hard 80's rock fan. We all danced and sang, only about 50 feet from the stage. This is us. My brother-in-law on the right, and my sister-in-law on my left. And my father-in-law, sleeping in his lawn chair behind us. LOL!
Then there was Phil Keaggy. And he absolutely rules. The guy's probably 65 or older, and he still sounds like he did at age 20. And the guitar. Amazing. We had a rare treat because he sang with his old band Glass Harp, too. That made it even cooler.
I don't know why I'm writing all of this out. Probably most of you just aren't interested in knowing about my Cornerstone experience. But, the coolest part about it is the general atmosphere of the hippies and goths and punks who hang out there. Everyone's nice and friendly, and you can wear/do anything crazy that you want. Partly because you don't know anyone, and mostly because no one cares. I don't have the picture of my awesome hat I wore. Let's just say, it was my grandma's, and it folds up like a fan. I love having a chance to be a dork.
And I loved seeing the bands. It was so fun!
And, thankfully, the RV had air conditioning, or it would not have been NEARLY as awesome.

Driving the Psalms

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. Psalm 119:105

A couple weeks ago, I went down to visit my sister in Tennessee. I enjoyed beautiful weather and great hiking and good company of college kids. I had a really great time.

Driving home, I hit a little snag called a snow storm. What a rude awakening from the lovely weekend. It felt like life was saying, "Welcome back to reality".

The snowstorm made for terrible driving conditions. terrible. Some of the worst roads I'd seen in my whole life. I clutched the steering wheel, white-knuckled for most of the way home, barely able to see ten feet in front of me. Waiting for a plow or a sand truck, but not finding one. Being passed by people not smart enough to know the danger(or with better tires than mine).

Fresh in my mind was something the director of a play we saw while in Tennessee had said: "I see life as us waking up in a dark room, and in the distance, there's a door and there's light pouring out from the door, and a hand reaching for us. The hand is God, and when we choose to grab on to it, the rest of our life is us moving closer to that light."

That was a paraphrase, but I liked what he said. So, as I drove, I thought about God being light and how badly I needed light at that time. How those headlights, even on high beams, were barely enough to get me through. But the light was there, leading me on. Behind me, darkness and slick furrowed roads. Ahead, light, and the hope of Iowa, where they actually know how to treat/plow the highways.

Just like walking in life. I press forward with the Light ahead of me, surrounded by darkness on a treacherous path. Without the Light, surely I would lose my way. Surely I would die in a ditch, unnoticed by the rest of the world. Behind me, darkness. Ahead, the hope of Glory. The light of day. Clinging to that hand of God tighter every time I stumble. Closer to the light each time.

500 Miles

I was in Chicago yesterday to meet up with some internet friends. The only internet friends I have anymore, I guess.
It was good. The conversation wasn't especially deep. We walked to Starbucks so I could get quarters for my parking meter. We ate chicago-style pizza in a booth by Larry Bird's basketball jersey. We talked about college pranks and women in ministry and high school relationships. Reminisced a little.
I wish I were better at talking and being deep. I feel like I'm a really boring person sometimes. I've started to notice that people get tired in my presence.
Anyway. I had a good time, even if my friends didn't. I enjoy them in real life just as much as I do on the internet. And Besides, everyone needs a big bear hug once in a while. Or two.
Some things are worth driving 500 miles for.