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 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.

The Broken Songs We Sing

This week has been a helluva. It just seems to get worse for people around me, and it just... feels like the darkness is getting a little too close. The last two weeks have been so full. Good and bad, mixed together, but f course the bad comes out stronger, uglier and seemingly triumphant. I'm really tired of bad news.
It's not just that two things got stolen from me. Because I know they weren't that big of a deal. It's just more and more bad news. People are dying a lot in the local news. I had to report my stolen kindle to the police today which made me so sad. But it's not even a big deal because there are some people I know whose lives aren't ever going to be the same this week.
And sometimes there just isn't much to say while we stand around in the aftermath, the ripples of the troubles floating out around us. Sometimes ther'es not much to do when brokenness encroaches when we realize again how hard this life is, when reality hits too close to home.
We stand there, hands in pockets, staring into space, thinking maybe there are answers out there, maybe if we think harder or prayer harder or just cry a little more, some how it will patch itself back together and then, maybe, maybe things won't seem quite so black. Maybe it's just a little blip on the radar in the scheme of it all. But that doesn't make it any less dark.
And maybe we'll never be the same.
What's there to do for that friend whose life just isn't going right? For my relative who's marrying her girlfriend and whose family emits the hatred vibe toward her? Whose husband lost his job? For the little girl who grew up among us at church and is now going to bury her husband of five weeks? For that family of fifteen kids whose mom won't ever kiss them goodnight again?
Anger and rage surround the questions that burn in my chest, and they mostly just come out in tears or in painful questions I can't answer. Sometimes I wonder why I believe in anything. Sometimes I question if what I do believe is really just some well-crafted lie that people made up to make themselves feel better. And just when I get to that point, I step back and remember.
Love gets the final word.
It isn't really a consolation when you're in the middle of the pain. It doesn't really change how crappy it all is. But it opens up a door that lets a little light in. Jesus gets the final say. And he's going to wipe tears from our eyes and tell us it's all all right.
He's going to build a new kingdom of perfection where sorrow dies, where lies are not believed, where love and light dwell eternally.
And even while we wait, He's good. His promises are true, no matter how we feel. I wouldn't have been able to say that seven years ago. Maybe not even five years ago. But the song that grief sings is temporary. And when joy seeps back in, you look over your shoulder and find those dark days were covered in something inexplicable, something mysterious and untouchable, and yet so reachable, so personal. Something that heard all of those lonely cries in the night, something that worked behind the scenes, moving people to do the right things, patching the broken pieces of your heart into something new and beautiful. Something that spoke to you at the point when you were ready to give up and let go. Love. And there, in that place where grief drops off and love takes over, we find fortitude and Strength, we find Hope, and we find Peace.

The Swisher House

My parent's flight got in late last week so I took a little hike in their truck down the gravel roads a couple miles to where we used to live. Things are so different out there. 3 more houses have burned down (weird, right?). The neighbors up the road's property has become a storage/junk yard for farm machinery. The little farmer down the road plowed down the house and made it into a field. Trees aren't the same. The fence around our yard was gone.
I love that little house for what it was. The haven of my childhood. I had such happy memories there, so much of who I am grew in that house and in the barns and fields surrounding it. So I wrote this.


The Swisher House

There used to be a tree in that ditch a quarter mile down
and i imagined a badger lived there
or sotmimes made it into my fort
And we used to hang ropes off of the cypress trees
   to make them into swings.
The gravel was thicker, and all the walls were whiter on those barns
The corn cribs' door stood open for us and we'd climb into the rafters

There used to be a fence around the yard that kept the dog from chasing cars
And there used to be children and goats and cows and pigs
     Dad's '77 truck parked in the driveway
and the grass was always mowed
and it seemed to me
things used to be a lot less close.

Now the quiet farm rests in the final hours of its years
the days passing around
as the weeds and wild grow higher
Driving by I get the feeling it hasn't seen kids in a while
No grass forts or campfires
    or bare feet running through the sprinkler.
It looks so much smaller
   yet still so familiar.
And I can still cast a glance out the window and hear
  the mewing of brand new baby cats
   and the howling barn dog
   the pigs sqealing in the barn
My brothers and me and all those years
  of quiet cold nights
  and slow summer days
  and tractors and horses and games in the grove
The world fresh and wide
Me and my imagination running wild.

The Resurrection - Martha

I guess this is my tradition. My Easter poem. It took me a long time to write it this year and I'm not sure it's even that good, but it's stuff I've been thinking about embodied in a bible character.

The Resurrection - Martha

Three days gone

Before Jesus even came

And in those days all hope drained from me
while he prayed I wondered if I’d put my faith in the wrong place

Because He could have come sooner

he could have kept it from happening

I’d met him on the road shouting out in my despair

Where were you Jesus, if only you had been there

There was something about the glory of God

and promises for the future

But I didn’t care about it then because my brother was gone

And my whole future and life went with him, sealed inside that stone grave

Now Jesus stood there at the tomb and joined the weepers

Before he opened up his arms and prayed

And I wondered about my wavering faith,

put in the wrong things, lost in the wrong place.

Then the Lord called my brother from the grave

We were too busy being appalled to know how to rejoice

                We took off the grave clothes and watched him walk

And Jesus was there among us

Laughing at the sunlight, wiping tears from his eyes

And that was when I glimpsed that glory,

the Resurrection and the Life

Now it’s all changed in just moments, with news they’d taken Jesus away

And tonight I saw his body, lifted from the cross

Broken and breathless, bleeding still

and I don’t really know what I can do or say

and I’m afraid that the thing I once called faith

was just ambitious dreaming

He said he was the resurrection, but now he’s not here

To bring life or speak those words of hope

And I’m trying to remember what he said

Remember the moments, those pieces of heaven that came and touched earth when he was here

My brother, the rejoicing, the grave clothes on the ground

the palm branches and praises

The woman anointing his feet for his burial

I thought he’d meant something metaphorical

But I guess I was wrong again

And then the words that I’d spoken came back to me

If only you had been here.

Where are you now, Lord

When all of the rulers plot against us

When your friends ran away to hide

I believe in the resurrection, but you had me thinking I wouldn’t have to wait

You were going to be with the Father

And you left us behind to find our own way

So here I am again, worried and troubled about so many things

And though it’s dark

Though the hope you held in your very hands has faded from my heart

I still believe.

I believe you’re the resurrection

And I’m waiting through this time

Whoever believes in you will live even though he dies.

Spring Break 2000

There isn't really a good way to describe my relationship with my brother-in-law. I've tried before to write a sort of tribute to him, or to somehow explain what our relationship is like but I Think it sort of baffles people, even people in our family. I actually met him before I met my husband, back my freshman year of high school and I feel like he's always kind of looked out for me like a big brother does. Some how we became friends while he was away at college. It's just hard to explain except to say that he's my brother and I think of him like a brother, and if he were my real brother he would be a model big brother. The kind that gives you wet willies and kicks you and then manages to offer sage advice about some profound problem in your life all in the same afternoon. That's what makes you what you are. We have lots of really great memories, and truthfully, they come from broken places in both of our hearts, and I think that's what made us friends anyway. We sort of "get" each other in some way not everyone does. It was really great that I actually got to marry into his family and have him as my real brother.
So spring break my senior year was pretty great. I think it was the kind you'd call "the glory days" when you look back on it. Just me, my boyfriend and his big brother, bumming around town, staying up all night playing Nintendo and drinking mountain dew. Epic in the true sense of the word.
Now that it's spring break here in town, I started thinking about it. And I wrote this, which is the first time I've felt content with the tribute aspect of it, the first time it's sort of explain the relationship we have.

Spring Break 2000

If there were pictures of us then, we’d look back and see

A wounded soldier’s healing heart standing there with me

Squinting against the sun, putting patches on the scars

Asking questions to the lonely stars

And I never figured out why you made time for me

With all of my quirks and immaturity

But I’m glad you did because I needed you

While I navigated my way through

Romance and God and moving forward

And whatever I was heading toward

On those spring break nights just us three

Driving at dusk down highway thirty

And we stayed up all night playing games and drinking mountain dew

It wasn’t until later that I knew

What God was making me into

In the quiet slow days of my favorite spring break

That spring break came right as the cold snap broke

And we could go outside without our boots and coats

So we took off toward downtown in your beat-up car

We hit the skywalk and the used bookstore

And I found myself there in the music and fresh air

We rode out on the gravel roads and sang along

To some of your favorite songs

There was a kind of freedom there with our hearts on our sleeves

Becoming who we were going to be.

And there was strange communion in our lonely souls

Figuring out how friendship goes

While we drank tea and talked about dreams

Sometimes I miss it, mostly I don’t

But whenever the spring wind blows

I look back at those memories with you as my friend.

We’re longer away from lost than we were back then

Still grasping toward the light

Still looking for a fight

But found at the door of God’s mercy

Wrapped in the grace by which we’ve always stood

And you were one of the ones who walked with me as I grew

While His riches of grace came into view

Through a haze of self-doubt seen by few others

You were my friend. Now you’re my brother.

Nothing

For a long time Blogger has been glitchy and hasn't let me post the things I've written. I don't know why. Not that I have much to write and I know all four of you don't sit around just waiting for me to say something.
I'm thinking about changing things. Make a more directed blog that has something to do with anything instead of this randomness. But truthfully, blogging is kind of a waste of time for me. I'm not out to self-promote or get some huge following of readers, and I don't really write on here as my only outlet of writing. I don't even know why I've kept it going. There have been good seasons and mostly just nothing seasons where I have nothing important to say.
That sounds bland, but now you know. Some day I'll start a new blog with a pretty background and cool buttons and links and stuff. Something more appealing. But right now I'm too busy writing books.

Winter Warmth

It hadn't been snowing or very cold in Minneapolis when we left, headed home for Christmas break. But the closer we got to Iowa, the more trecherous the conditions became. The 80's Cavalier struggled to stay on the road, amidst the strong winds and the slippery roads. It was hard to see, so the rough-housing that Nathan and I were acccustomed to had to stop. No more teasing or half-arguing conversations.
He focused while we drove, each mile seeming to take longer than the last. "Are we going to your house or mine?" he asked. I was engaged to his brother, and hadn't seen him in four weeks, so I had no intentions of going home until I'd seen his face. "Your house," I said.
So Nathan decided he'd take the back way home. More direct, he'd said. Better roads, he'd said. I don't know what he meant by that, because it became clear that the back way wasn't better. We pushed through the drifts, the fingers of snow growing across each country highway with their ominous white claws. "We're not going to make it," I said.
"Shut up. We'll make it."
We were about one mile north of the farm, the warmth of the wood stove, the shelter from the wind, when I spotted a car in the ditch. Nathan spotted them too, only he didn't think they were in the ditch. He thought they were in the road. And so he veered toward them, solidly wedging that tiny car into a huge drift.
We pushed a little before he decided it was a lost cause. He got out to help the people in the ditch, who ended up being his dad and a neighbor girl.
After quick evalutation, it becae clear that there would be no pulling the cars clear tonight. We would walk.
I had my clothes for a month of break in the back of the car, so I added a pair of socks and pulled a pair of sweats over my pants. I bundled up in what winter gear I'd brought along, and then, the four of us stranded passengers headed toward home.
The wind had been so fierce, it had been hard to open the car door against it. Now, we walked through, completely exposed to the prairie wind, whipping across the fields.
We made it to a farm house, worried a little about frost bite and freezing, and we stepped onto the porch. This was before everyone carried cell phones, so the father sent me into the vacant house to search for a phone to call home. When I tried to call, nothing happened. And then, headlights in the driveway.
TThankfully, country neighbors are an understanding bunch. We got a ride home in their truck the rest of the way, and arrived at the farm, only partially frozen.
I'd pressed through it all, knowing I would see my love when we arrived. But he did not come to greet me like I'd expected. We came inside, and his mom told me that he had gone to my house in town to wait for me to get home. He'd have to stay the night there, and I'd stay the night at his house. Safe from the storm, but apart from each other.
I think about that night so often, when we arrive at my in-laws on wintery nights and find warmth in the fire. It's a vivid memory, every part of that night and the following day. The warmth of a home in the middle of winter, that welcoming feeling like you're home, even though it's not your home. That's something I want to offer to others. It's something I cherish, and even though we don't have to travel more than five minutes to get there anymore, it still feels like coming home to a long-lost friend when we go home to the farm

Hope. (or Why I don't Care about Duck Dynasty)

I don't care about Duck Dynasty right now, because my husband's out in the cold fixing a car for some people who are one month away from losing everything. Because my friend's husband lost his job unfairly and was unfairly denied unemployment and they don't know how they're going to pay for anything. Because my best friend wants to be wrapping up presents for children she hasn't been able to have.  Because there are Christians in Syria and Iraq and all over the world who are mourning the loss of their brothers and sisters who were brutally murdered for being Christians. Because there are orphans just wishing for a mom and dad. Because there are families that asked for snow boots and coats for their kids instead of toys.
I want Christmas to mean more than things. And I want us to not be distracted from what matters by worrying about what a TV network decides to do with a show that we were all surprised it ever even allowed to air.

Do you know why we put out lights at Christmas? I don't really know where the idea came from. But, in the bleakness of these cold days (sub-zero here), when darkness takes up most of our free time, and it's hard to go outside at all, we can drive at night and see these bright cheerful things shining out, telling us it's OK. It's not the end of the world, even though winter sometimes feels like it. There is hope.
The thing about hope, though, is that it's so closely linked with disappointment. We hope for these things that don't happen, for presents we don't get, for blessings we aren't blessed with.
But it isn't just a word that we put on an ornament. Hope is more than a feeling. When you're hoping for the right things. It's just that the way Christmas is these days, it's taught us to hope for things, for people or relationships, for brighter futures and for happiness. And it's not bad to hope for those things. It's different than completely setting your Hope in something.
I like lights at Christmas because they remind me about the Light of the World. Hope of glory. Hope for home. For heaven. For everything. Jesus is Hope. And if I can just wrap my mind around it, anchor myself there, instead of in things or people or dreams, then I can find real joy. Because hope in Jesus, is kind of like hoping for spring. The answers, the truth, the way we want it, might not always be right there, right when we want it. But we continue to hold on to Him because He will make things right. He will keep his promises. And spring always comes, even when it seems like it never will. It just does. That's the hope that doesn't disappoint. The light in the darkness and bleakness and hopelessness. The hope that makes joy possible. I want it for me so much. And I want it for my friends who are fighting with the darkness right now. I want it for you. Not just for Christmas, but for eternity.

Things I don't Like [confessions of a displaced rebel]

Some day I'm going to write a song to the tune of "These are a frew of my favorite things" only it will be "these are a few of my least favorite things."
On the top of the list will, of course, be Pintrest, the devil in disguise.
And then there will be another slew of things that most people in my place in life actually really like, and I sort of feel guilty to admit that I don't like them. Here's one. Pregnancy pictures. Gross. I mean, even the sweetest ones, I just don't like them. OK, get your family portrait done when you're pregnant. Whatever. But don't go out of the way to point out your huge belly. I know I probably risk offending my photographer friends, but... I seriously would never want to look at my own pictures of me being pregnant (ie fat), or (even worse) my husband doing weird, unnatural things to show his adoration. I know, some people like it. I do not. (Sincere apologies to those this offends. Personal preference, right?)

And another thing I don't like. Downton Abby. HATE. I watched whole first season waiting for it to get better and it just... didn't. It's like watching the freaking Kardashians dressed up in WWI. There are good things, but mostly, you just sort of want to strangle the whole manor. I do not understand the obsession, the absolute obsession, women have with that show. WHY!

And, for thirds, I'll just say, I hate Orange Leaf. I know, pretty much everyone loves it. Froyo at its best. But... ew. It doesn't taste good. I like the retro look of the place and the cool chairs and all that, but it's COLD in there, and there are TV's and that bothers me. Also, I just don't like how it tastes and I think they're ripping people off with their toppings and pay by the weight thing. Plus... it's just froyo, man. Not heaven in a little orange cup. Except, I have to make one concession for those little jelly balls that pop in your mouth and seep out liquid. I sort of like those but it is not worth the $7.

All right. Now I've let it out. My dark confessions of things I don't like that almost everyone else does. Now you know.  Stay tuned for next time, in which I will discuss pictures of "catz". Not impressed.

Joy

he told me to fight for you
but somewhere in these darkening days
you got away.
I forgot where to find you,
in all of those little moments like washing dishes and bath time
and piles of leaves outside.
I missed you there in those quiet moments before bed
wrapped in those blankets, the little giggles and tired sighs
And in the morning, in those bright little eyes.
All those momentary glimpses
like polaroid pictures
waiting to be glanced through
and put away again.
You were there, peeking out
pulling at my seams,
wishing I would seek you and find you there
I wanted you
but not badly enough to fight
and you got buried there in the middle of the night
When the questions and doubts clouded in
amidst the weight of all my sin
Things I never could carry
but liked to pretend I could.
You fight, but I fight harder
and the bitterness eats away at the places of my heart
that I hide from everyone but Him.
And that is where I'll find you, where I'll find you there to stay
in the middle of these darkest nights
in the battles I never should have fought
there in the middle of these tangled knots.
You, pulling through, shining the smallest light
like the breaking morning
after the biggest storm.
You, struggling to be seen in blessings and brokeness
in those beautiful smiles
in tears, and pain
amidst every struggle
in sunshine and falling rain
Joy. I'll fight for you now.
I'll never forget your name.

Finished

There's this great feeling when you write the final sentence in your novel.
I've done it maybe 40 times (because I've rewritten things). It's great. It's euphoric. It's amazing.
And then you read through the whole thing and do some editing, and you feel like it's really good enough. Perfect.
And that's when this sort of lost feeling settles in. It isn't like finishing reading a novel. It's sort of sad. Because you suddenly don't have anything to do. That's probably why I end up writing series so much.
Last night I did that. I finished it.
It's my favorite book I've ever written. And it isn't perfect yet, but I need  a break.
So. Here I am. Wanting to write something new. I want to craft. I want to think and create. But I'm sort of blocked. I think the energy the kids take from me is sapping my creativity.
Or maybe I watch too many TV shows now.
I'm just rambling. There is no point to this post. Read my previous one. It's better.

Music and Laughter

I guess in music years, the age is gone and past
but I still hear that dulcimer
and find myself back in 1996
listening to the wind
and wondering where the wilderness would end
I guess to some you're just a memory,
a song we sang at camp
and to some others you're a legacy
To me you were like a friend I never met
because you spoke about things no one else could
and though you and me were only poetry, you understood
something about broken hearts made whole
and beautiful things lost and buried
and how the world spins around us and leaves us cold
But redemption and hope
could be heard in your songs
and your words spoke to my very soul.
And then on a cold September morning
it was over just like that
I'd barely even found you, and then you were gone
Out the back door, while we were all busy singing
And to some you're just a memory
of a song we sang at camp
But to me you're some kind of missing part
because you played piano like magic
and I wish you were here still
to sing songs to my broken heart.

*

I'm not one to sentamentalize something that I'm really not part of. But every year, when September 19th comes along, I think about Rich Mullins, and I sort of... miss him? You can't really miss someone you don't know, you don't miss what never was. But you have this feeling that you're missing out. I'm sure he's happy and whole in heaven, singing songs full of joy and laughter, and I can't wait to see him there.
My friend Tony said it on the one-year anniversary of Rich's death. "Someone left us last year. He just slipped out the back door while we were all busy singing."
It seemed wrong that he died, but it also seemed like he longed for a real home.
If you aren't familiar with him, you might not appreciate the music any more. It's beginning to be "aged". But I recommend looking him up. He was talented, but he said things that people didn't like to hear. He didn't give pat answers, and he knew something about love that many people are missing nowdays. He makes you uncomfortable, but it's the good kind, the restless kind that makes you think maybe you missed something about God and now you need to go find out.
Here's a site kept up by his friends that lists all of his articles he wrote for Release Magazine:
http://www.kidbrothers.net/release.html
And here's a video (if I did it right).

You know you were a _______ if you ever _______.

You've all read these lists. They're sort of fun, sort of creative, but mostly just an excuse to reminisce about something a select number of people remember. You know you grew up in Iowa if....
You know you're an engineer if....
You know you're 11 years old if....
You know you're going to a jet pilot/brain surgeon/comedian if...

Like I said. Excuse to reminisce. So I comprised one of my own, extremely specific, but maybe vague enough that you're all going to laugh. Probably not.

You know you were a Christian girl in the 90's if....

- You read Brio Magazine
- Your favorite band was one of the following: Jars of Clay, Audio Adrenaline, Newsboys, DC Talk
- You had a crush on that kid from McGee and Me
- You know all the words to the Jesus Freak rap
- You still sing "Flood" in your sleep sometimes
- You listened to dawson McCalister on the radio. Or better yet, went to a DM conference!
- You signed a "True Love Waits" commitment card
- You know what I mean when I reference your "cross of gold"
- Your parents were a little leery of that edgy Micheal W Smith/ Amy Grant music
- You had a crush on Steven Curtis Chapman
- Your youth group room had the colors teal or hot pink or lime green somewhere on the walls or ceiling
- Your youth leaders used the phrases "The Bomb" and "Diss" to be cool.
- You know what DC/LA was
- You ever stayed up all night listening to Adventures in Odyssey, but you couldn't actually admit that to your friends
- Your best friend had big bangs
- You sang "Big Big House" every year at church camp
- You ever wore a Jesus tee-shirt big enough for Uncle Buck to fit into
- You didn't dance, and you didn't chew, and you still don't go with boys who do (Okay, that was totally outdated even then, but I think it's funny to say)

Enough. That was my trip down memory lane. I'm sure that is about as specific and vague as you can handle, because it's really either totally you, or totally not. Basically it would probably only specifically describe my best friend Bethany (and even she was too mature to have a crush on SCC), but hey. I'm amused by it. What would you add? Or what kind of list would you make to reminisce about your teenage years?

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.