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