life is a highway

my dear rory,

happy new year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

okay, so it’s not exactly new year’s yet, but it almost is! and half the fun of something exciting is getting excited about it before it happens, right?

it’s going to be 2012! the year the world is supposed to end! the year part one of the Hobbit comes out! the year I graduate! the year my aunt has her baby! the year I go to Papua New Guinea! the year I learn how to sail a pirate ship… (hey. I can always dream, can’t I?).

eighteen years of my life have flown past me. they’re gone. never coming back. I see them in the rearview mirror. they’re waving.

“adios!” they cry. “goodbye! aloha! ciao!”

they don’t seem sad to be leaving. but I am sad that they are gone.

and yet, the rearview mirror is where they belong, I guess. this car called ‘life’ is driving forward, and if I don’t keep my eyes on the road, and more importantly, if I don’t keep my thoughts on the end destination, I could crash.

Heaven is a good destination to look forward to. though to be honest, I am excited for some of the other stops along the way as well.

and I don’t have to worry about getting lost! (as a blonde, you have no clue how comforting that is. ;P) thankfully, my GPS will never fail. God is in control of my life and is constantly giving me direction through a “Map“ He wrote specifically for His children. whether I follow that “Map” or not is up to me.

I hope I will follow that “Map“. I pray I will. I try to. I want to with all my heart.

why are there so many distractions in this life? so many appealing things line the road and make me want to turn off and look around for awhile. there are so many things to toy with! so many trinkets to catch my eyes! the worldly attractions and bright lights constantly flicker before me. maybe these things distract you too. but don’t be led astray! keep your eyes on the road. look to God for everything you need! He truly is all we need.

I like that God has provided a rest stop for us. He provides Himself as that rest stop. If you are feeling weary of your journey, you can always run to Him for strength. [“He restores my soul!”] [“I will soar on the wings of eagles. I will run and not grow weary...”]

and isn’t it cool that we don’t have to make this journey alone? other Christ-following family members and friends can travel with us. when things get tough, I know that I can always call one of them up and get encouragement. and I know that if I see one of them on the side of the road with a flat tire, I can always give them a hand. we can encourage each other to stay on the right path and give each other pointers. “yeah, there’s construction on Route 66, so I would avoid that.” “watch out for the fallen tree lying across Distraction Ave.!”

sometimes when I'm driving, it storms. and driving through storms can be difficult. it’s easy to lose sight of the road when rain is getting dumped on my windshield by angry, black clouds. but God promises that He will never leave us or forsake us. He promises He will make our path straight. so even in the storms of life, never give up. trust in the Lord with all your heart.

when the storms of life aren't raging, I am thankful for the scenery. I am grateful for the beauty with which God has created this world. beautiful places and beautiful things. vibrant colors and vibrant people. yummy smells and yummy foods. the little things in life and the not-so-little things in life. He is a Master Author, Artist, and Painter.

I could go on and on about the similarites between life on the road and life on the Road to Life , but to conclude:

there are lots of things to look forward to on the road ahead. I know that I will miss the memories I have left behind me. I know that because even now my heart overflows with bittersweet joy as I remember this past year. these past few years. these past few miles. but like I said, I’ve got to keep my eyes on the road up ahead.

of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t glance back. driving is also dangerous if you don’t ever look back. looking back reminds you of where you’ve been, what ground you’ve covered already, what obstacles to avoid in the future. looking back reminds you of the wonderful places you've been, the amazing people you've met, the memories that you've made.

eighteen years seems like a long time.

as my papa told me, “eighteen! why just think! double your age and you’ll be thirty-six! double that and you’ll be seventy-two! double that and you’ll be one hundred and forty-four! double that and you’ll be two hundred and eighty-eight! double that and you’ll be… well, that’s as high as I can go.”

I must say, that by the time I am two hundred and eighty-eight, I think I will allow myself to stop and look back for a very long time…

… of course, by then I will have hopefully already reached my end destination. :)

I hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. may you have many splendid miles ahead of you.

keep your eyes on the road and your heart on the Map.

love,
muffin

from the inside looking out

“mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest… scratch that… who is the purest of them all?”

dear rory,

once upon a time, in a land that was obsessed with beauty and appearance, lived a woman. this woman was an older lady. she was small. she was slight. she was weak and yellow and frail. and on top of all that, she was sick. very sick. she had had cancer for sixteen years and it had taken its toll on her body.

to be honest, she wasn’t very beautiful… at least, not if you gave her a brief glance. not if you were making a quick evaluation.

why, if you had happened to live in this land and had happened to know this woman and had happened to be the doctor who gave her a check-up, you would have noticed that besides being small and frail and unattractive, she was also bruised and beat up. especially her knees.

how did such a woman belong in such a land?

she didn’t.

she didn’t belong in that land at all. yes, she lived there, but her heart belonged in a kingdom that was far greater than that petty land. she belonged to a kingdom that was ruled by a mighty King. the mightiest King that ever was. a King she had given her life to as a gift to build His Kingdom. a King she would soon get to meet face to face.

I remember hearing of this woman’s death. you see, I live in the same land that she did. this woman was a dear friend of our family’s. her name was Ruth, and while she was not the most beautiful in the land, she was one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom.

for sixteen years she had battled her cancer. for sixteen years she had prayed and cried out to the King of Kings. for sixteen years, she never turned her back on Him.

she used her last few days to witness to the hospice nurse caring for her. that nurse became a citizen of the kingdom.

and what of those bruises on Ruth’s knees? how did she get them? I cry even as I write this- those bruises were from the hours she spent kneeling in prayer.

not hours praying for herself. hours praying for others. hours praying for me.

looks can be deceiving.

especially in this land in which we live.

I have a childhood memory that frequently haunts my mind.

(side note: isn’t it annoying how we remember some of the oddest, most obscure things about childhood, but seem to forget all the important events? like remembering the scary biker neighbor bringing his pet iguana over for a visit but not remembering the birth of a sibling?)

like I was saying… I have this childhood memory that frequently haunts my mind. years and years ago, I was at AWANA (a Bible group for kids) and at this particular Wednesday night meeting, we had a guest speaker. and the speaker had brought two cakes.

one was beautifully decorated. instantly it made my stomach growl and my eyes bug out. a frozen sea of white, creamy frosting glazed the surface and little candy flowers ornamented this miracle of a cake. the other cake was frosted a nasty color… pea green. and it had no flowers or borders, only a light dusting of bitter coffee grounds.

I saw the speaker take out a knife to cut the cakes, and in that moment I knew what was going to happen. the other little girls watched hungrily as the speaker cut into the beautiful cake. I leaned back and cringed.

as you may have guessed, the beautiful cake was nasty on the inside, and the ugly one was filled with springy, yellow yummy-ness.

I wasn’t surprised. but the whole thing bothered me. and I didn’t know why. so the memory grabbed a magazine, got comfortable in some back corner, and for many years only occasionally strolled to the front of my mind to see if I could make anything of it.

after Ruth died, it hit me. a cake that is ugly on the outside and nice on the inside doesn’t exist. and THAT’S what had been bothering me for so long.

you see, we have become so accustomed to living in this land, that we have forgotten what beauty is. beauty isn’t how much frosting you can pile on a cake or how much make-up you can paint on a face. It isn’t how many sugary flowers you can place on top or how many layers of nice clothes you can wear.

beauty is what radiates from a person. beauty is what makes you forget a person’s outward imperfections and only see the smile in their eyes. it’s the kind tone you hear in their voice. it’s the warmth you feel in their grasp. it’s the wrinkles bearing witness to years of smiling friendliness.

beauty is what you find when you stop searching someone’s face for what this land considers beautiful and allow yourself to see something bigger. beauty is allowing yourself to see the King shining through an individual.

I can honestly say I have never met a person who is pure on the inside and ugly on the outside. ugly cakes with perfect middles just don’t exist.

it’s easy to judge a book by its cover. people in this land do it all the time.

what’s harder and not as normal is to judge a cover by the book.

from the inside looking out.

love you!

muffin

winter winds

dear muffin,

finals = done, done, DONE! oh, the jollity. 

[is that a word?]

it's been a good sort of evening. a finished-with-finals, pick-up-eggnog-with-the-brother, watch-Bambi-at-midnight sort of evening. a misty evening that turns Christmas lights into bokeh. a happy evening that smells of cinnamon soap & old pine needles. 

earlier, my mom unearthed the old boxes labeled "CHRISTMAS" [in handwriting harking from years ago] & began the jolly process of bedecking the house. the bannisters have henceforth been wrapped in garlands & every table graced with grade-school art projects featuring snowmen. some of these art projects are mildly disturbing, but they add to the atmosphere nonetheless. =]

Christmas is my favorite holiday. I love the spices, the warmth, the joy, the memories. snowflakes & traditions can be found in every corner [as can numerous lumpy packages, carefully guarded by sneaky family members]. I love the incredulous story of the Lord of Creation being born in a stable. born to save a bunch of miserable, self-ruined little humans who killed Him for His effort. an effort that bought me unto a purpose; a purpose that gives my life meaning.

and on top of it all, there is eggnog & snowballs & caroling & striped socks. 

so much happiness for one little heart to hold. share it with me? 

but the season has its sobering moments as well. while caroling, a family comes to the door with their tears hidden behind crumpled tissues. while driving, I pass a procession of black trench coats, huddled against the rain, headed up by six aligned figures with green jackets & white-gloved hands held in a last salute. 

makes me feel guilty for pulling into the driveway, hanging up my cares in the coat closet, & settling in to enjoy a cozy evening at home.

why am I not more grateful?

***

goals for winter break [well, a few of them, anyway]:

::make gingerbread men

::work on dinner skills [because nothing shouts 'Christmas cheer' like a burnt casserole. not that I ever burn anything, of course.]

::knit an outrageous orange scarf

::inflict said scarf upon the world

::spend time

::enjoy the little moments

::be grateful

[among many, many others.]

and now: goodnight. turn on some mumford & sons and listen to the wind as it sings around the windows. know that somewhere over here, I am doing the same.

:: Let the Winter come. It is the only path to Spring. The house is battered with cold, but inside there is a warmth that cannot & will not die. [n.d. wilson, notes from the tilt-a-whirl]

always,

rory

thanks for nothing

dear rory,

winter winds are freezing the last stubborn leaves off of trees, frantic turkeys are dodging in and out of bushes, plastic pilgrims are posing on mantelpieces, and families are getting out the measuring tapes to see just how much food they can cram onto the surface area of their dining tables.

you know what that means, don’t you? it’s almost Thanksgiving! almost time to sit around and groan after filling our bellies with turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and stuffing and carrots and green beans and bread and pie.

my family has a tradition that after the meal is finished, we go around the table and each say something we’re thankful for. usually someone says ‘our family’ or ‘our church’ or ‘our friends’ or something along those lines.

of course, saying we are thankful for friends and family and church are all good things, great things in fact. but have you ever been thankful for what you don’t have?

a few days ago I thanked God for not shipwrecking me on a desert island. can you imagine washing ashore and not knowing if there was freshwater? not knowing if there was food? can you imagine not having anybody to talk to? not knowing if cannibals lived just beyond the next tree? not knowing if you would ever be rescued or if you would ever see your family again?

I’m also thankful that I’m not blind. I like seeing the world and everything in it. glittering leaves in the fall, mountains of snow in the winter, tiny buds of life in the spring, and tall glasses of pink lemonade in the summer all bring instant happiness to my eyes. not seeing them would be terrible. and not seeing the faces of those I love would be devastating.

another thing: I’m grateful that I don’t live in a time when forced marriages were perfectly normal. I shudder everytime I read Jane Austen and try to imagine my family forcing me to marry for riches or position instead of love. as silly as it sounds, I would almost rather be dead than be forced to marry someone.

a few more things I’m thankful for also include not living in a butterfly infested house, not eating jello for every meal, not having to live in a cardboard box, not waking up to a day of working in cotton fields, not being an Eskimo, not feeling frightened when I go to bed, not wondering if I’ll get to eat the next day, not being forced to believe something I don’t, and the list goes on and on and on.

this past year has been somewhat hard for me and my family. watching my parents stress about paying bills hasn’t really been fun. losing a sibling I didn’t even get to meet was downright painful. learning some hard lessons wasn’t exactly pleasant.

these types of issues were items that had previously been on my “thankful for not having to deal with” list. I didn’t want to go through them. at one point, I probably would have told you that I couldn’t survive having to go through them. and yet, as they came, I realized something important. something that I am extremely thankful for.

and that is this: God never gives us more than we can bear. He gives us the strength we need to make it through difficult times, through difficult situations, and through difficult relationships. And through those things, He makes us stronger and He makes us more like Him.

I can honestly say I am thankful for the hard things I've had to go through this year. that's not to say I enjoyed them. because I didn't. but God used them for His purposes, and for that I am thankful.

God is so good.

and that’s why tomorrow, when I am asked what I’m thankful for, I know what I will say:

I am thankful that God has been, is, and always will be right there with us through the good times AND the bad times.

this thanksgiving I am thankful for a bunch of 'nothings'. I am thankful that there is NOTHING that God can’t handle (Matthew 19:26). That there is NOTHING that He can’t help me through (Hebrews 13:5). I am thankful that NOTHING can seperate us from the love of Christ (Romans 8:38-39). And that there is NOTHING in heaven above or the earth below that I need to fear (Romans 8:31).

so. does that mean that even if I was a blind person shipwrecked on a desert island with my husband whom I had been forced to marry, that God would help me through that?

yep.

but for now I’m keeping that on my “thankful for not having to deal with” list. ;)

I hope you have a splendid Thanksgiving. may God bless you with many things to be thankful for.

even if they are things you never thought you could be thankful for.

love you,
muffin

0500

dear muffin,

it's dark at 0500 hours. dark & cold. bursting out of the revolving door and into the hospital is always a relief: warmth, light, & the smell of cafeteria coffee rush forward. 

this morning was no different. in a blink I found myself walking around an oncology unit with the night-shift nurse & the oncoming day nurse. my pen tried valiantly to keep up with a steady stream of patient information, IV drip rates, recent vital signs, & critical lab values as the night-shift nurse delivered her report.

slipping into the first room, I peered through the darkness and detected a shallow rise & fall beneath the bed linens. lying on the bed amidst blinking monitors & an IV pump was a man younger than my father.

"former army doctor. stationed in the middle east." the night-nurse says. "he contracted hepatitis while working there; he's terminal now. comfort care only... there's nothing more we can do for him." 

I watched as the IV pump's blue light blinked across his face. it must be nearly impossible to sleep with so many distractions: lights, beeps, blinks, alarms. nurses checking on him, talking in his room. talking about him. 

we moved to the next room, and I gently closed the door behind us. the nurse was talking again.

"...and here's 11A: he's septic. history of cancer of the head, neck, esophagus, liver, & kidney. his magnesium level is down to 1.2 this morning." she gave the oncoming nurse an exasperated expression. "the doctor's been steadily increasing his dosage, but he just keeps dropping. we don't know what's going on." 

the little old man craned his neck out of the bed linens. his head was wrapped snuggly in a knit beanie. 

"eh? you're who?" he said when I introduced myself. "oh, hi kristen-the-nursing-student. it's not wednesday anymore." he cocked his head & glared at me.

I must have looked uncertain.

"THAT!" he said, pointing to the whiteboard opposite his bed. a preprinted calendar had been attached, and "wednesday" was circled in blue dry erase marker, followed by yesterday's date.

"oh! no, it certainly isn't wednesday anymore. here, let me fix it for you." I rubbed out the old date & circled thursday, then added my name beside the nurse's. suddenly I was struck by how much my signature looked like a kid's, squeezed in beside the nurse's official-looking scrawl.

the nurses had already left me behind, marching on to the next room & the next patient. I walked over to the man's bed and & gave him a big smile. 

his eyes were surprisingly clear. pained, but bright. in them I could see the toughened weariness that comes with long medical battles. his chart had told me that this was the fourth time he'd been hospitalized with sepsis in the last ten years. this time they'd had to insert a chest tube. [which is exactly as unpleasant as it sounds.] as soon as the tube was in place, 3 liters of infected fluid came flooding out of his lung cavity. I didn't even know there was room for 3 liters of fluid inside the lung cavity.

a portion of my mind began a routine assessment of the man. airway open; oxygen running smoothly at 2 L, nasal cannula. wheezing. a coarse cough that sounded like it could drown him at any moment. breathing so labored that it made his abdomen heave with the effort. but eyes bright, and locked onto mine.

"I'll be back in a little while," I said. "...but is there anything I can do for you right now?"

do for me? those eyes asked. what can you do for me?

"nah," the man said. "I'm fine. thanks, though."

I spent the rest of the shift trying to do something for him. I'd like to think I brightened his day; made him more comfortable, explained something that had confused him. for 6 hours, his problems were my problems & my sole responsibility was to help him through the day.

but at the end of every shift, I go home. I share my stories with my family while heating up leftovers for a late lunch. stories. that's what the patients become.

"oh, you shoulda been here last night." the nurse said when I joined her back at the nurse's station. "I had to call a code on 504A. I saw her heart monitor go flat, so I figured her chest leads had just fallen off... but I walked into the room & she was all slumped over. blue. she had a 'do not resuscitate' order in her chart, so we couldn't even touch her. the entire code team had to just stand there & watch as she died." the nurse sipped her starbucks & went back to charting.

my patient could code tonight. he could stop breathing & never start again, like the patient in 504A. I would never hear about it. from now until forever, he's a story to me. just like 504A is now a story to that nurse.

it's a strange business. 

and on that cheery note, I toddle off to bed. count your blessings as you fall asleep... at the top of my list tonight are 1) health. this may sound funny coming from a girl who currently sports a fever. but a day in the hospital never ceases to drive me to thankfulness. I could have lymphoma, heart failure, brain tumor! amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Hashimoto's encephalopathy, schizophrenia! but all I have is a slight, non-threatening elevation of body temperature that will most likely resolve itself in under 48 hours. gah.

2), this amazing planet God has given us. if you haven't watched this video yet, go do it. http://www.danoah.com/2011/11/the-most-amazing-time-lapse-video-ive-ever-seen.html

and 3), the heroes who daily risk their lives for ours. may we never take for granted the sacrifices they make for us.

always,

rory

friendly couches

dear rory,

it is kind of late. and guess what?

I’m eating blueberry oatmeal, listening to “beautiful things” by Gungor, feeling wide awake, wishing i hadn't played my guitar until my fingers turned blue, and writing to you.

actually, I’m not really writing. I’m copying.

you see, about a week ago at babysitting, the baby fell asleep. so I dragged out my math book and slaved away for the rest of the afternoon like the model student that I am.

okay, well, not really.

I DID get out my notebook and pencil and I DID look at the cover of my math book for an awfully long time.

but I felt the need to write.

so I wrote.

and now I’ll copy it here for you. (please be warned now: this letter is just my random thoughts and musings. nothing terribly deep.)

“dearest rory,

I am writing to you from a foreign couch.

no, it wasn’t made in italy. no, I am not IN italy. it’s merely foreign because I don’t know it very well.

do I like knowing my couches? well, yes, I do. I‘m friends with many a couch.

like the couch in your basement.

I remember one of the first times your family had us Smockies over. you, Laura, and I were the Queens of the Marshpillows (a distant planet made of marshmallows and pillows). Lauren and Daniel alternated being the royal dog, and (when he wasn’t the pampered pooch) Daniel also served as part-time court jester. he had a tough job trying to amuse our royal majesties.

when we got tired of him, we queens would talk business. you promised me a diamond the size of planet earth (which, I am still waiting for, btw) and I promised you all the marshmallows you could want.

many more happy memories followed.

having late night talks, watching the Bourne and LOTR trilogies, eating pancakes for a midnight snack, listening to music, resting my head on your shoulder, playing Cranium, and hiding behind pillows during the scary parts of movies are all a big part of that couch.

I’m also friends with the couch in the Higgins’ schoolroom. when we were younger, we kids aired our own news station from that couch. I interviewed Caleb about his latest book (which, he hilariously knew nothing about) and we ended the sitcom on the floor laughing. I believe we even did a weather forecast in which every day had the same weather as the day before.

also on that couch, we took turns doing the voices for Robin Hood and Pilgrim’s Progress, we had our own tea party in which Christian was Mrs. Nesbit, and we added our own soundtrack to Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Calvin usually just rolled his eyes at the rest of us. and that only egged us on.

another friendly couch belongs to the Doves. I remember singing hymns from that couch, sharing my lyrics with whomever happened to be nearby, watching Lena play the piano as she kept time with our voices, and envying her ability to play so calmly in front of so many people.

that couch is always happy and warm.

except for the time we watched a really sad movie. it was so late at night, that I don’t remember anything about the movie other than there being a midget whose dog gets killed. oh, and I think there may have been a blind man? maybe I dreamt the whole thing. it’s possible, because I have slept on that couch. I've also been unjustly hung from that couch, built my Empire from that couch, and played ‘extreme catch’ from that couch.

oh there are so many more couches that I love!

but I just realized how odd it must seem to you that I’m rambling on about couches.

and I don’t really have much to say to that. it is weird.

I guess the reason I enjoy those couches so much isn’t because they are couches. it’s because of all the memories they hold. all the happy, smiling people I connect them to.

I think it’s cool that God designed us to attach memories to things and people.

wouldn’t it be sad if we were always forgetting the past?

wouldn’t it be sad if all couches were foreign?”

the end.

wait, the end?

okay fine, I’ll try to sum up what I was feeling then and still feel all the time.

I like memories. I like inanimate objects. I like that memories thrive in inanimate objects.

I like that memories and inanimate objects are closely tied to real live people. because I like people.

and finally, you are a people, and I like you. (not really sure what that has to do with anything, but whatever. :)

sorry for the randomness. and yet i'm not. it's good to take pleasure in the little random things of life sometimes.

like couches.

well, my oatmeal is gone. my song ended like forty minutes ago. my pillow is staring at me.

good night my dear friend!

love,
muffin

of muffins & birthdays

once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, there were two little girls. 

the first little girl had curly golden hair & bright green eyes. The other had stick-straight brown hair chopped in a bob & a smile that never showed her teeth. they had known each other since forever [which is code for "I can't remember how long"]. 

one day, after being in the same sunday school class together, the golden-haired girl got hold of a phone & called the girl with the bob. "hi. do you want to be friends?" she asked as one five-year-old to another. frankly, I have no idea what the brown-headed girl said in reply. I hope it was good. but whatever the response, it marked the official beginning of a friendship.

later, the two girls took a tap dancing class together. this involved dressing up like sailors & dancing to a song about the good ship lollipop. the golden-haired girl's outfit was complete with a green cast wrapping her broken arm, making her look like a hardcore child athlete. beside her, her devoted brown-haired friend diligently tapped her shoes in a toneless clatter [when she wasn't dissolving into hysterics before a performance, that is. but that's a story for another time].

time ran along, and the brown-haired girl left with her family to attend a different church. for a while, the two friends went separate ways. until, that is, one night when their fathers happened to meet at a homeschool support group meeting. I believe there was some sort of ensuing conversation involving various points of controversial theology. whatever the case, on the way home, the brown-haired girl's mother announced that she had invited the golden-haired girl's family over for dinner.

eyes widened all across the backseat. "but, mom... we don't even remember them! what if we don't like each other?"

they need not have worried. judging by the number of sleepovers, taco bell birthdays, ding-dong ditchings, movie nights, starbucks runs, & shopping dates that were to come, I'd say they didn't mind each other terribly.

years passed, and the girls grew taller. well, one of them did. the golden-haired girl started to be asked, while shopping at the mall, whether she was Taylor Swift. and suddenly, as life began to swirl faster around them both, the brown-haired girl began to realize how blessed she was to have such a friend.

as she sat in class on the first day of November, the brown-haired girl mused on the passing of years & the growing of friendships. & in particular she thanked the Lord for that dear golden-haired girl who called her up one morning & asked to be friends.

so. as the years continue to roll along, I hope you'll always keep your eyes on the One who made you & who delights to see you grow in maturity. keep smiling, keep loving, keep forgiving, keep learning from your mistakes. never let go of your calling as a follower of the only One whose opinion of you matters. 

happy birthday, muffin. now go eat some cake before I come over & eat it for you. =]]

always,

rory

where the blacktop ends...

dearest rory,

you may be asking yourself why I haven't written in so long. well, I'll tell you...

I have been partying it up.

no, you weren’t invited. this was a… well… a rather small party. to tell the truth… I was the only one invited.

and let me just tell you, it was one of the longest pity parties I’ve ever been to! oh it was terribly fun. lots of wallowing in puddles, staring blankly at the wall, trying to imagine how life will ever be happy again... that sort of thing. and as a party favor, I gave myself a broken umbrella, cloudy skies, rainy weather, and rain boots (you know, so I could go find more puddles to stand in... in case the one I was in dried up). it was a blast.

why are you looking at me like that? haven’t you ever thrown yourself a pity party? haven’t you ever lost sight of the big picture and become self-centered?

self-centered? how did that word slip in? of course I didn’t actually mean… well, you don’t really mean to say that throwing pity parties for one’s self is selfish… do you?

well okay. so it is. it is selfish. and when one is feeling selfish, it is hard to write letters to friends trying to encourage them when you really feel like saying, “hey, wanna go jump off a cliff with me?”

this was the mood I was in for the past several weeks. terrible, I know. but I had lost sight of something. something important. and I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

but God is good at giving reminders.

this past weekend, we stayed out at my grandparent’s cabin in Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. to get there, you start in Burlington, get on the highway, drive past a llama farm, several big red barns, a corn factory, and a run-down racetrack. once you see a rusty, old water tower make a left into a corn field, follow the narrow, paved road past a cute little graveyard, and continue until rubber meets gravel.

where the blacktop ends, follow the gravel road past a blur of crooked farmhouses, battered grey barns, lazy cows, barbed-wire fences, hat-tipping farmers, dust-covered howling dogs, and sleepy looking horses.

drive, oh I don’t know, for fifteen miles or so (as the crow flies), go down a steep hill (with a ravine off to the right), and make a left into our lane right after you pass a dented mailbox.

and that’s where you’ll see the cabin.

I love the cabin.

and this past weekend, even with my on-going pity party, was no exception.

Sunday morning, I woke up early. not bright and early. dark and early.

at six in the morning, the sun was still hiding, but the moon was out in full force. it illuminated the grass so that it glowed blue as it danced in the bitter, autumn breeze. I walked down the lane leading away from the cabin, inhaling deep droughts of air.

it was quiet. the only sound to be heard was my own breathing and the crunch of gravel under my boots.

it was dark. the brightly colored trees were merely black shadows against a blacker sky.

it was cold. my hands were buried deep inside my dad’s jacket which had been obligingly hanging near the front door.

and it was beautiful. I turned out of the lane onto the main road and kept on walking. the sky opened up in front of me like a pop-up book and millions of morning stars blinked down at me. maybe they were laughing at me as I tried (and failed) to walk in a straight line while keeping my head thrown back to watch them. there were so many!

I kept walking. and the sky kept growing lighter in the east. at first, the sky faded from black to gray and then quickly blossomed into a rosy pink. like a virus, the pink began to spread, reaching farther and farther into the blackness.

I looked back towards the west and saw the moon still perched up in the sky. he was slowly sinking as he watched the countryside below take shape under the morning light. a few stars still looked down at me and I stared back at them until, with a final blink, they waved goodbye.

the sky doesn’t seem so large here in the suburbs.

now I could see the fields that were splayed out on either side of me, and they stretched all the way to the horizon.

I put my hands deeper into my pockets and felt small. my puddle began to shrink as I remembered how big God is. as I remembered that the same God who knows the stars by name, who tells the sun and moon when to rise and set, who remembers every bird of the air and every flower of the field… this same God not only knows what life holds for me, He is the one who has planned it.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. So I prayed. I thanked Him for everything I could see. I thanked Him for the sky and the country and the crooked farmhouses and the moon and the grass and the stars. I thanked Him for being in control. I thanked Him for knowing what lies ahead. I thanked Him for loving me. I thanked Him for reminding me that it’s okay that I’m not in control… in fact, it’s a thousand times better that I’m not.

And I was glad that He is big and I am small.

walking back up the lane to the cabin, I realized that the same world I had walked out into forty minutes before had been transformed. oh, it was still rather dark and cold and quiet. but it was alive and changing. it was silently waiting for God’s plan to unfold for the day. waiting not only for the sun, but also for the clouds. waiting for the cold and the warmth. waiting for the difficulties and the blessings.

so was I.

I tore the streamers down that day and swept up the confetti. I put my rain boots back in the closet and shooed the clouds away. my pity party was over. and a life of trusting God’s plan began again.

love you muchly,
muffin

six feet & a silk flower

hello, muffin.

I was just thinking what a fabulously cheery day this is. all rustling breeze & yellow leaves & fresh-tasting blue sky. I love the way that glass buildings become radiant at the sight of the sun: seeing them makes me want to turn my own face into the warmth and let it soak through my eyelids & warm me to my toes. really, it would be considerably more difficult to enjoy this day if one happened to be buried in a box six feet below the ground. [this is what I contemplated while stopped at the red light of roselle+algonquin.]

my little brain was whirring along with a thousand petty thoughts from the day: fleeting combinations of a shower at 0-dark-hundred, chillin' at the ER, 7 boring hours of paperwork, running errands, griping because nylons are still a required part of my uniform... and then suddenly, there it was, breaking up my merry little thought-train.

a graveyard.

a graveyard, but not the misty, grey, cobweb-draped place the word conjures up. it was in fact a content-looking green lawn brushed with sun and dotted with stone monuments and silk flowers. it didn't seem to mind being perched between two busy roads stacked with oblivious drivers. in fact, it looked like it was accustomed to being ignored. ignored, that is, by all except the dedicated few who carefully change the silk flower arrangements every season. the few who can't tear their eyes away from the view behind the chain link fence so easily unnoticed by other waiting drivers. 

it would be hard to enjoy this day from underneath six feet of cold dirt and a silk flower arrangement. but it would be even harder to enjoy it from the grass-rimmed edge of memory, kneeling in the october sun and listening to the sound of the world forgetting.

I was so distracted that the car in front of me was halfway through the intersection before I realized the light was green. 

after collecting myself from the sudden web of thought trails, I realized the many things this day could have been. it could have been the anniversary of a family member's death; it could have been the moment my phone jingles with devastating news. it could have been the realization that the last word I said to you was the last word I'll ever say to you. it could have been anything. but it isn't. in fact, it happens to be a perfectly ordinary day when I drive home from Harper and daydream.

someone once shared this thought with me: what if we woke up today with only the things we thanked God for yesterday?

sure made me think.

so today I'm feeling thankful for all the things this day is not. & in addition, I'm feeling absurdly happy about the crumbs on the counter, the tock-tocking of the kitchen clock, the clatter of my sister's fingers on the keyboard, & the sound of my brother's pushups pounding the floor alongside his school books; the familiar touch of the couch upholstery, the smell of our spice cabinet, the knowledge that I can go sit in the grass & for one moment know that all is well.

this is the 19th time I've had an october 10th. today is a good day. 

with that said, it's time to hop out of the clouds & attack my to-do list. I hope this monday afternoon does not find you six feet below the ground.

and if it doesn't, then I hope you're finding joy somewhere in this beautiful day.

love always,

rory

growing pains

“oh, darling, don’t you ever grow up… it could stay this simple.”

dearest rory,

when I was little, I wished I was older. now that I'm older, I wish I was younger.

today I caught myself searching the “childhood memories box” that I keep tucked away in a convenient corner of my brain. I rummaged around in there, blowing away cobwebs, laughing at some of the sillier articles, searching for a certain memory in particular…

and at last I found what I was looking for.

when my little sister and I were a lot younger, we lived in the same house, but different worlds. I lived in the real world, and my sister lived in the imaginary world. our dinners tasted the same, but mine was just macaroni and cheese, and hers was something fit for a queen. our car was just a car to me, but to her it was a carriage. the empty seat beside me, was just an empty seat beside me, but in her eyes, it was where one of our twelve invisible siblings was sitting.

she loved playing pretend. I loved being practical.

and sometimes our two worlds would collide.

for example:

when disaster struck, like if my clumsy self (yes, I was even clumsy back then) accidentally bowled half her doll house family over with my elbow, or if dad unknowingly sat on her pretend hamster, her big brown eyes would get even larger and she would quickly say, “pretend that didn’t happen.”

“wait, what?”

pretending something hadn’t happened, when, in fact, it had, would bug my miniature self. and I would try to explain to my little sister that we couldn’t just pretend something hadn’t happened because we didn’t like the situation or it was inconvenient to us. and she would try to explain to me that it just made everything easier if we pretended certain things hadn’t happened. then, with folded arms and narrowed eyes, we would look at each other for a few moments, puzzling over how the other one could possibly think they were right. she thought I was crazy. I thought she was crazy. and so life continued with this argument frequently popping up. neither of us ever winning the debate.

of course, as we grew older, the conflict slowly slipped into distant memory, and we would laugh about it together. she grew more practical and I… well… why on earth do I sit clutching this memory with tears in my eyes wishing that life was still that simple? that I could merely pretend the bad things away like my sister once had?

probably because I didn't handle something right. and I don’t want to face the consequences. I want to pretend everything back to how it was before I messed up.

a picture of my wild-haired, bleach blonde, eight-year-old self  pops into my head and gives me a look that says, “come back to reality. come back to earth.” I feel like my sister must have felt all those years ago. I want to fold my arms, stick out my lip, and say “make me!”.

but the truth is, there are consequences for things that we do or say. we can throw a tantrum and kick and scream, but eventually we’ll have to get up off the floor and deal with the problem. we can cry (and trust me, I do), but ultimately, we have to suck it up and handle things the way Christ would handle them. we can try to pretend them away, but they are still there.

with those thoughts in mind, I stare dismally at my "childhood memories box", with lauren’s “pretend that didn’t happen” ringing in my ears, and I know that I can't just pretend the hard things in life away.

but as one streak of lightening brightens the whole darkened sky in a midnight storm, so something flashes through my mind and makes the sadness fade. I remember that although God has not made it so that we can press the “oops. can I please undo that?” button, He has provided us with forgiveness and healing. and forgiveness and healing, while sometimes painful, are also much more satisfactory than living in denial of something.

so. I guess I’ll tuck my childhood memories box back into my mind again for awhile, and try to handle things in a God honoring way. in a mature way.

yeah, growing up is hard.

it probably gets harder.

I’ll most likely look back in a few years and think, “man, I wish I could go back to when I was seventeen and things were so much simpler.”

but I’m not going to pretend like I’m not growing up.

from now on, I’m going to know that with God, all hard situations can heal. forgiveness can be given and received. friendships can be restored. mountains can be moved.

all things are possible with Him. especially growing up.

love,
muffin

watercolor windowpanes

dear muffin,

on the playlist today: Jonsi. good stuff. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVcjArU_qCo

I like this kind of day. it's a rain-on-the-windows, tea-on-the-stove kind of day.

rain is beautiful. I love the patterns it makes as it parades down the windowpane: suddenly, our ordinary backyard is transformed into watercolor. and it's not like the framed masterpieces in a gallery, where you can sit & stare philosophically at every detail for hours. [or years, if you're unfortunate enough to be a grad student.] no; this canvas keeps changing. it's always new.

this weather makes me wish I had an antique writing desk & an oil lamp. not sure what I'd write, but it would certainly be better for having been written in such a setting. seems like nothing but profound thoughts could come out under the influence of a fountain pen and flickering candlelight.

as it is, I have a computer instead of a writing desk and a keyboard in place of a fountain pen. the basement lights can't be called romantic by any stretch of the imagination.

but I do still have the rain, and it makes me want to write.

today is the 17th anniversary of my brother's arrival on earth. to celebrate the occasion, we blew up balloons [thus terrifying the dog], stuffed him with chocolate chip pancakes, and told him we plan to keep him. I think he was gratified to hear this. at least if the number of pancakes he ate is any indication.

it's a strange thought: on this day 17 years ago, my 31-year-old mother was in labor. thrilled to meet her first son, she kept glancing at the clock and wondering when he would arrive.

5 long hours and then suddenly it was over and he was there in the Navy doctor's hands. kicking and wriggling and pink in the face, bellowing his objections to the world.

mom tells me that when she first brought him home, I piled my toys around him in an effort to make friends. [toys being influential in garnering social popularity among little people.] apparently, he was not amused by the wall of technicolor plastic around him. oh well. I tried.

thereafter we went from being to best buds to arch-enemies to dear friends. it's been fun.

funny how we use chocolate cake & curling ribbon to commemorate stories like these. seems like stone tablets & sagas recited around a fire would be more appropriate.

[even as I write this, the clouds are breaking. now my window is filled with sun and floating yellow leaves.]

so. here's to chocolate cake, to years, to growing up with your best friends... to joy.

always,

rory

along came autumn

and so the year runs away in yesterdays many... [tolkien]

dear muffin,

today I was reheating wild rice for lunch. and it hit me.

curled up on a chair, wearing comfy jeans & wrapped in a cardigan, I realized--

it's fall.

just like that.

no warning; no rewind button. no denial. 

yipes.

I knew that school had started, sure. and a chill has crept back into the morning hours. but that's normal for september. right?

september. that month I associate with school & apple picking &... fall.

hold it right there. shouldn't I have to sign a consent-form or something? measure my progress and make sure I'm ready to move on? I guess not. because here we are.

summer, 2011 has been the best summer I can remember. the summers of my early childhood already seem like a distant memory full of dirty feet, mud castles, pool water, neighbor kids, bikes, and skinned knees (when was the last time I skinned my knee, anyway?). but I can still vividly feel the chalk bouncing in my hand as I drag it along the pavement, watching upsidedown through my legs as a dusty pink line follows me. I can transport myself to the moment when the sun begins to sink & mom's voice drifts across the yard, calling me to wash my hands for dinner. 

I spent one whole summer pretending I was named Joy. or Beth. or Amy. (it changed several times a day) I was always eighteen, because that was grown up. I generally had a husband toiling in distant fields and a baby sleeping peacefully in a weedy bower while I cheerfully stirred pieces of earth to make soup.

then there was the summer in between summers. you know, that one where I was sprouting into an awkward preteen, realizing that life was bigger than mud castles and imaginary friends. I was thinking about school, wondering who I was, imagining where the road led. I changed my handwriting every week in an effort to find the one that was "me."

and then there were the graduation-party-summers, which are a happy blur of friends and barefoot dancing and Coke cans dunked in coolers of ice water that freeze your hand when you reach in to grab them. I was growing up, and I knew it. but perhaps I thought I was more grownup than I was.

now along comes summer, 2011: that summer when the world ended (according to mr. harold camping). when I took a college class, and went to a friend's wedding. the one when I stayed up all night and started a blog. the one when my credit card was stolen, and I watched the sixth season of 24 with my brother&sister. the one when I went to ravinia and then talked into the wee hours with friends. the one with photoshoots, free water, expeditions unlimited. the one when I realized how much my church family has come to mean to me. when I realized that it won't all be like this forever.

you know. that summer.

I feel younger now than I used to. younger and less world-savvy than I expected to feel. and yet I feel so terribly old, like I'm standing on the edge of adulthood & looking back at "my childhood years." I didn't know what they were then: I just knew that school was boring and playing outside was fun. getting spanked was to be avoided and daniel was my arch-nemesis. important stuff like that.

I guess what I'm really feeling right now is confused. do I want to be a kid still? not exactly. but am I ready to say goodbye? no.

am I excited about being catapulted into the future? maybe. 

am I also sad? yes. yes I am. 

it's all so big and exciting. I feel like a kid walking around a carnival, wide-eyed at the blaze of lights and the smell of popcorn and the shouts of people on the roller coaster. yes, of course I want to grow up! look how much fun it's gonna be!

but growing up means letting go, and I don't like that part.

so. as fall blows in and sweeps us down the path a few more steps, I'm thanking the One who gave me all those summers. the One who's planning all the summers still to come.

and I'm trying to trust that they'll be just as good, so long as I remember why I've even been given summers at all.

always,

rory

land of the free - home of the brave

dear rory,

I kicked it into auto-pilot as I automatically reached for my sandwich, mechanically shoved a bite into my mouth, and instinctively chewed. swallowing required a bit of manual strength as my pb&j reluctantly slid down my throat.

you see, lunch had suddenly became a chore as I listened with all my might to what my dad was telling us. and swallowing had become extra difficult because of what he was saying.

imagine this:

you are aboard United Airlines Flight 93. it is the year 2001. and the date is September 11. you have two sons at home and a wife who is expecting your third child. you are thirty-one years old, went to high-school at wheaton academy, and were known as the soccer player who was always smiling.

your name is Todd Beamer, and your plane has just been hijacked by terrorists.

now imagine this:

your name is Lisa Jefferson. you are a supervisor for GTE and the man on the phone with you is disappointed that you are not able to connect him to his wife. this man is aboard a hijacked plane and quickly relates to you how a passenger has been stabbed to death, the pilot and co-pilot were kicked out of the cockpit and possibly injured, and the plane has just taken a south-easterly turn. he also informs you that he and the other passengers are planning a revolt. they have heard what happened earlier that morning in New York and at the Pentagon and are ready to die if it means saving more lives.

now imagine this:

you hear Todd Beamer say, “are you guys ready….? then let’s roll.” and those are his last audible words.

United Airlines Flight 93 crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. all 40 passengers and crew members onboard were killed. but how many lives did they save? speculation is that that plane was intended by the terrorists for Washington D.C. and possibly for the white house.

my dad knew Todd Beamer. he went to school with him, and my dad was the one who recalled that Beamer was a soccer player, a good kid, and one who was always smiling.

Beamer was not a fictional character. he was a real-life, living-breathing hero. and he wasn’t the only hero on that horrendous day ten years ago.

many others sacrificed their lives in order to save others. many firefighters’ wives went to bed that night without a husband and many moms and dads suddenly became single parents because their loved one had put others first.

it was a devastating time.

but in the midst of the devastation, people came together, worked together, cried together, rejoiced together, and prayed together. our nation cried out to God. during the seventh inning stretch at baseball games, we stopped singing, “take me out to the ballgame” and began singing “God bless America”. people were down on their knees praying to God for help. everyone seemed to sense God’s presence and many turned to Him in their bitterness and sadness.

ten years later, have we strayed from that? have we forgotten what it means to rely on God? it would seem so. our nation has become like the Israelites in which we complain to Him and run to Him in the hard times, but when things seem under our own control, we think we can handle anything and don’t need to be dependent upon Him.

to many, the pain of 9/11 is still fresh. a woman on the news this morning sobbed as she told of the high-school sweetheart she was engaged to being killed in the attack.

I myself, cried as I watched, read, and looked up information on 9/11.

last night, a friend of mine and I were talking about where we were when the attack happened. he said that he had been sitting in his family room watching the news on tv. he saw the second plane hit.

I was at school. only seven years old at the time, I remember that the teachers were rather frantic, but trying to remain calm. whispers of two towers in New York getting attacked reached my ears, but I didn’t understand what that meant. I remember my best friend’s mom made her come home from school early. and I remember the strained look on my mom’s face as she picked me up from school, brought me home, and put me in front of the television. I saw the footage of the towers falling, but I didn’t comprehend exactly how horrible such an event was.

it wasn’t until several years later, as I watched reruns of the towers falling, that the magnitude of the attack struck me. I spent the rest of the night sobbing. Sobbing for all the brave men and women who had died. Even sobbing for all the cowards who had died.

where were you when our land was attacked? do you remember?

I think it is good for us as Americans to remember September 11^th. we need to be on our knees praying for this nation that we love. we need to turn to God not only in the hardest of times, but in the best of times. we need to thank Him for the heroes like Todd Beamer and pray for those who are still hurting.

tomorrow, I plan on dedicating some of my day to praying for our nation. for this land that I love. for our president. for our people. for our future.

and I pray that our nation will remember to honor God and turn to Him at all times.

God bless America!

love,
muffin

beautifully broken

dear rory,

beauty.

that word brings so many images into my mind. ladybugs, mountains, gandalf’s horse shadowfax, the grand canyon, the color blue, a feathered arrow, queen esther, sparkling eyes, crystal chandeliers, natalie portman, chocolate (don’t look at me like that… it’s beautiful… in a way), caves full of diamonds, peaceful streams, long dark hair, gold lockets, old barns, and weeping willows are just a few.

what exactly is beauty?

according to the oxford dictionary, beauty is “a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially the sight”.

in other words, beauty is something that you see on the outside. it is appealing and charming and much sought after.

but wait a minute. is that really all beauty is?

I have a confession: I often get caught up with outward beauty. I want to know what the latest style is, where that person got her scarf, how that lady did her make-up, when I can get my next hair-cut, why I can’t be as beautiful as that person over there, and, in fact, is it really too much to just ask to be the most beautiful person in the world?

however, over the past few years, God has been trying to teach me what true beauty is. He is patient with me and gives me little reminders time and time again.

for instance:

I remember a few years ago, while my family and I were on vacation, we went to a church service at a place called the Tabernacle. it was the children’s night to get up on stage and perform the Bible verses and songs they had been learning in Sunday School.

the third grade group climbed (some of them trudging… looking extremely uncomfortable in their church clothes…. probably wishing they had never been born… inwardly shaking their fists at their parents for making them do this) up onto the stage. you could immediately pick out which kids were the “cool” ones. they were the children who were doing their best not to stick to the program. the ones who were trying to trip the kid next to them. the ones who had their hands in their pockets with their heads thrown back proudly as if to say, “I am not associated with these other losers.”

I watched from my seat as the children lined up. parents darted up the aisles to snap a picture of their precious angels and some of the little girls waved and smiled and twirled their pig-tails. most of the boys just looked uncomfortable. and most of the teachers looked frazzled.

the music started, and the children began to sing the song they had been practicing at Sunday school. only three-quarters of the group were half-heartedly doing the hand motions, a few bold ones decided to go for the more attention-grabbing “everyone look how obnoxious I am” style of exaggerating every movement and over-annunciating every word, and the rest of them refused to sing or do any hand motions at all.

I had seen this kind of service hundreds of times. it was more like a show than church. a show that I could fall asleep while watching.

but as I settled back into the pew, I noticed one child in particular. it was a little boy. he was sitting in a wheel chair and tubes were attached to different parts of him. (I didn’t look too closely to see what those tubes were attached to because I get queasy with tubes and needles and blood and bandages and… well, for the sake of time, let’s just say I get queasy around a lot of things.) I noticed his arms were hanging somewhat limply and his head kind of rolled from side to side. his eyes were big, and his face was shaped a little differently from everyone else’s. obviously, he had some sort of physical disability, and it appeared that he may have had a mental one as well.

I pitied him. he wasn’t what one would consider beautiful. in fact, the world would despise him. he was weak and broken and ugly. he sat there unable to take care of himself. unable and incapable of doing so many things.

but he was capable of singing. or trying to sing.

and so he sang.

and his arm that still functioned relatively well swayed with the music and laboriously did every hand motion it could. the other arm lay uselessly on the wheel chair, but I could see that his hand was flinching as if trying to join the other.

he kept singing and dancing throughout the entire song. easily at first. working harder to keep up his energy by the end.

this child wasn’t looking at the other children to see if they thought he was cool. he wasn’t wishing he had worn his other shirt. he wasn’t hoping the song would hurry up and end so that he could go do whatever he wanted. this child was praising God. and he was using every ounce of strength he had to do it.

as tears filled my eyes watching him, I couldn’t help but imagine that God was looking down on this child and asking me quietly, “isn’t he beautiful?”

and I couldn’t help but think that he was.

when I think of that boy now, I remember that “charm is deceitful and beauty is vain” [Prov. 31:30]. I remember that outward beauty is not everything.

guess what? people grow old, their hair falls out, their teeth decay, fashions change, mountains crumble, ladybugs get stuck between the screen and the window pane and shrivel up, chocolate goes bad, weeping willows get cut down, “the grass will wither and the flower will fade away“ [James 1:11], etc.

a heart that loves the Lord and wants to follow Him always, a heart that only cares what He will think, a heart that wants to know Him better, a heart that is anxious to please Him and not “aesthetic senses”, a heart that is willing to praise Him with all the strength it can muster… now that is a beautiful thing.

I still enjoy outwardly beautiful things. God created us to enjoy them. but something I am learning, is that God often creates beautiful things out of what man would deem unbeautiful. out of hearts. out of sinners. out of dust. out of that child in the wheel chair.

God is so good.

love,
muffin