dear rory,
she was whimpering. her face was scrunched up in an effort to keep the tears in her eyes.
"mommy..."
"come here," mom and I both said at once. being fourteen years older than my little sister, sometimes I forget I'm not her mom.
Megan forgets sometimes too, and so she threw her little self into my lap. which may have been a good thing, since mom was already crying.
with her head turned back, Megan watched the tv as she wrapped her arms around my neck.
"why are they doing that to Jesus?" she whispered sadly into my cheek.
"they want Him to die," I said. "they say He is a bad man."
"but He's not."
"you're right. He is perfect."
we both watched. the movie showed Jesus standing before jeering crowds. crowds that, only a week before, had been singing Hosannas to His name.
Jesus stayed silent to their insults.
He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He did not open His mouth; He was led like a lamb to the slaughter... (Isaiah 53:7)
they struck Him. and though it was simply a cartoon, I felt my eyes burning, and I squeezed my sister tighter. we were both watching our God die.
our God who had, as Joni Earickson Tada once described it, "poured Himself into baby flesh."
for a minute, I wanted to tell my sister that it would "be okay". that Jesus wouldn't die. but then I remembered... that's why He came as a baby in the first place.
***
"How can you become a Christian?" the Sunday-school teacher asked.
Hands shot up.
"Yes, Renee?"
"You have to ask Jesus into your heart," my seven-year-old self replied.
"And what did Jesus do to save you?"
"He died on the cross for my sins."
Easy.***
"Nay, what are they doing to Jesus now?"
"They're nailing Him to the cross."
She buried her closed eyes under my chin, as the video tactfully, but emotionally, showed the Roman soldier bend over our Savior. What it didn't show, I knew. The Roman soldier hammered metal through His outspread palm and punctured skin and bone.
But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him... (Isaiah 53:5)
I looked over towards mom. She watched as her four-year-old struggled with Jesus' death. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Dad turned the volume down, but said quietly, "This is good. She understands."
"Is that His mother?" Megan whispered when she looked up.
"Yes, that's Mary." Mary, who was also a mother crying for her child. Mary who had carried the Son of God in her womb.
***
"Mary, did you know? That your baby boy, will one day heal the nations?"
the words were being sung to me by my cousin Elizabeth, who had been barren her whole life, but was now with child herself.
my own child felt like it could fall out at any moment.
I stood on the stage in front of a couple hundred people and tried to nonchalantly adjust my child. just for the record: rolled up blankets are not good children.
how I was chosen to be Mary for our old church's Christmas play, I still do not know. I can't sing, and I can't act. but I loved the nativity story. and I suppose my enthusiasm carried me through to the top spot.
I felt a little funny. not terribly nervous. just funny. I was at my most awkward stage of life, Joseph was like a foot shorter than me (I had to kneel down for the scene he placed his hand on my shoulder), and my solo went a little higher than my vocal chords could manage. but there I was, dressed in rag-like clothes, pretending to carry the King of the world inside my dress.
"When you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God..."
the stage lights were making me sweat, but at that moment, I shivered and imagined I really was Mary, about to give birth to the one who would redeem the nations. it was a scary feeling.
what would it be like to raise God in the flesh? for wholly God He would be. but also wholly man. "my" child would suffer hunger, pain, and temptation like all the rest of us. He would get thirsty. He would get sick, have headaches, wake up only to find He was still exhausted. He would face annoying people. He would have brothers and sisters to pester Him. He would have chores. He would see death and pay taxes and work hard. People would let Him down, lie to Him, cheat Him, spit on Him, hate Him, beat Him, and mock Him.
and yet He wouldn't sin and blame it on His circumstances. He would remain perfect.
I forgot about the audience and the fact that Joseph was a midget compared to me.
I was Mary. God was about to make His appearance on earth.
"This child that you deliver, will soon deliver you... oh Mary, did you know?"
***
it was useless holding my breath. seeing Mary weep as she watched her son, perfect man and perfect God, hang on the cross was heart-breaking.
Megan and I clung to each other, and I let quiet tears slide down my face. I felt like I was watching the story as a four-year-old again. Jesus is good... why are they doing this to Him?
I looked back at the seven-year-old me who had thought that salvation was so easy. In a way, salvation is easy... for us. but for God, it meant sacrifice and blood and tears and sweat and heartbreak.
my pre-teen self up on stage had grasped that concept for a moment. and now I was grasping it again. not for the first time. not for the last.
we kept watching Jesus' final hours on earth. we cried until His last breath.
and then, there was silence for three days. a dead man lay in his tomb. the world waited.
the Son of God came back to life. the grave could not stop Him.
and He is the mediator between God and man to this day. He knows what it is to be God. and He knows what it is to be man.
***
After He has suffered,
He will see the light of life
and be satisfied;
by His knowledge my
righteous servant will
justify many,
and He will bear their
iniquities...
because He poured out His
life unto death,
and was numbered with the
transgressors.
For He bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for
the transgressors.
(Isaiah 53:12)
***
thank you, Lord Jesus. for making salvation so easy that a four-year-old can understand. for making salvation so complex and beautiful that we'll never really understand all that you sacrificed by "pouring yourself into baby flesh."
love,
muffin
27.12.12
15.12.12
december pages
dear muffin,
hi. remember me?
I feel like a wombat that just crawled out of
its cave after a long hibernation, blinking in the crystalline sun &
suddenly remembering what wind tastes like. [whether or not wombats actually
hibernate is entirely irrelevant.]
the fact of the matter is, nursing school is
over. the chapter is closed, every word read. I am now one of those post-grad
creatures wandering between the world of textbooks and an ever-growing pile of
job applications. I said goodbye to Harper for the last time today & felt
just a bit sad. a chapter of my life was lived in those hallways, and I'm
always sad when a page turns. no going back.
mostly, though, I miss the ER. I miss Doug &
Kate & Chris & Diego & Rachel & Justyna & Kurt & Lori &
Ryan & Amber & Dr. Sevier & Adam & the other Adam. I miss the
jokes and teasing. I miss the crazy patients, nice patients, frightened
patients, grumpy patients. I miss the warm rush of satisfaction when an IV
slides into place. I miss feeling like a grown up as we all hang out in the
break room, eating our lunches and talking. I’ve grown over the past 8 weeks,
and I know I’ll remember these days as some of the best in my life.
* * * *
the ambulance theme song catches my attention
from across the nurse’s station. I close my charting and jog over just as Kate,
my preceptor, picks up the receiver. “This is Northwest Base, go ahead.”
“Northwest, this is Palatine 25. how do you copy?”
“loud and clear, Palatine. go ahead.”
“alright, we have a 73-year-old man found non-responsive at home after a suspected heart attack. he was PEA on the monitor when we got to him, but since then we’ve been able to feel a carotid a few times. pulse is gone now. we started compressions, put in a King airway, & got a line in him. bringing him in now, ETA 6 minutes…”
someone scrambles to call a Cardiac Alert for room Bravo-2. we pour into the room with a crash cart, clearing the floor, piling equipment and priming bags of fluid. we are ready when the paramedics burst in with the wheeled stretcher, delivering chest compressions as they approach.
a paramedic gives report amidst the flurried
activity. “we’ve given him 5 doses of epinephrine but haven’t gotten a pulse
back. he’s gone into v-fib a few times, but mostly he’s flat-lining.”
I catch sight of a tech about to draw blood; in
a burst of courage I flag him down.
“hey, I’ll start an IV and get blood from that
instead.” he nods and pushes the tubes and tourniquet in my direction. I jump
in without thinking twice.
the patient’s arm feels like cold wax beneath
my fingers; dead weight. there is no twitch when I slide the needle into his
vein, no exclamation of pain. his arm jerks rhythmically as someone delivers
chest compressions. I calm my breathing and search for the blood flash. bang;
got it. the IV is in. I hang a bag of fluid wide open and step back.
“I need a med nurse!” someone calls. I don’t
even hesitate.
“got it! what do you want?”
the doctor considers. “epi. let’s try it
again.”
I have never set up an epinephrine cartridge before. once, after a simulation, my instructor passed a cartridge around and explained how it works. “you pull off the yellow tab, twist the two parts together, and you’re set.” now, staring at the pieces as I dump them out of the box, it seems more complicated. I jam the cartridge into the injector and double-check with the tech.
“did I do that right?”
he nods. “you’re good to go.”
“Kate!” I call as I scrub an IV port. “first dose of epi is going in... now.” she nods and records the time.
thump, thump, thump. the room is still except
for the tech delivering chest compressions. it feels like we’re holding our
breath as we wait for the epi to take effect.
flat line.
10 minutes of compressions and 2 doses of epi
later, the doctor uses an ultrasound to check for heart activity.
“I got nothing. anyone object if I declare it?”
no one speaks. we know there’s nothing else to be done; 7 doses of epi would jump-start a stone.
“alright,” says the doctor. “I’m calling it at
4:33. you can stop compressions.” the tech steps down from his stool and drags
a shaking arm across his forehead. compressions are a workout by anyone’s
standard.
“I’ll send the family to the viewing room. go
ahead and get the body ready.”
suddenly, the room is quiet. it’s just me, Kate, and a tech. Kate is filling out her time-keeping page, so I turn towards the bed.
the white body lies bare, glaringly pale in the
fluorescent light. his chest is extended as though with a deep breath; the
ventilator left air in his lungs. I stare for a moment, half-expecting an
exhale to relieve the tension. but he lies rigid.
“hey, would you mind…?” the tech points towards
the man’s eyes, and I realize I’m the only person still wearing gloves. I step
over and gently press the man’s eyes closed, but not before I see the vast
emptiness staring up at the ceiling.
“the family is here; I’ll take him over,”
announces someone in the doorway. with that, we are alone in the room, left to clean
up papers, plastic packaging, and EKG stickers off the floor. to prepare the
room for the next patient.
life is a thread. this christmas, look around
you at the people you hold dearest. notice each one. because pages turn, &
you will never return to this one.
I hope today’s page was beautiful for you.
tomorrow, we will share a page. & I am thankful for that.
love always,
love always,
rory
6.11.12
beating rocks
dear rory,
sometimes I amaze myself...
I am really good at giving advice.
I mean, not to "toot my own horn", but
HONK HONK.
I always know how to handle situations...
unless it's my own.
***
yesterday Pastor talked about the Israelites.
as he recounted their repeated complaints, I felt myself almost squirming with contempt.
those idiots.
one minute, they're marching out of slavery towards a land that was promised to their forefathers by God Almighty. the next minute, they're watching God pound the waters of the Red Sea over the heads of one of the most powerful armies in the world. and the next minute...
they're thirsty.
hold the camels.
we had better turn around and offer ourselves as slaves in Egypt again. sure things weren't always easy there- our sons were being killed, we were worked almost to death under the boiling hot, desert sun, and our Pharaoh despised us.
but at least we weren't thirsty.
good thing God has more patience than I do. instead of striking them all down as I might have, God commanded Moses to strike a rock.
and what do you know? the God of miracles performed a miracle. out of the rock came water.
***
Sunday after church I had a long talk with a friend.
I found myself giving advice.
because I'm so good at that.
I was in the middle of saying something about not letting hard times make us bitter or angry-that God has a reason for the trials- when I stopped. I heard something quiet. I think it was God laughing.
***
you may remember that back in the winter, I was confined to a hospital room for several days and that I wasn't happy about it.
what you probably don't know is that while I was pouting in the hospital, God was preparing to show me that I too am an Israelite...
the hospital cart rolled down hallway after hallway. I watched people's faces as I rolled past. they were giving me a look that I had given many a time to strangers in hospital beds. the look of "I wonder if you are about to die." it's an easy look to accidentally give, but a harder one to receive. it made me want to make a monkey face at them. but I was tired, so I just stared blankly back, probably confirming their saddest imaginings.
the cart reached Destination MRI waiting room, and I said goodbye to my family and Laura. they smiled. I smiled.
but I was scared as anything. and I was angry. and bitter. where was God taking me? I just wanted to be comfortable again.
I looked up at the man wheeling me to the MRI room.
"don't be afraid," he said.
"there are a lot of friends praying for me," I answered. because that sounded like the right answer. he probably didn't want to hear my bitterness and anger.
but God saw my heart. and God struck a rock.
"I'll be praying for you too," the man said.
I licked up that drip of water and let it sink into my heart a second before being helped into the room and asked to lie down on a bench-like table.
"will my iPod be able to play during the scan?" I asked an older nurse.
"sure!" he said and smiled. he took my iPod and hooked it up to a device that would send the music through my protective mask during the hour and a half procedure.
I looked back at the cave I would be trapped in and took a deep breath. my claustrophobia isn't a huge fan of caves. especially hospital caves.
but then I was in. I heard the first few notes from my music come through...
followed by ceaseless hammering. I couldn't hear my music due to the hammering of the machine I was trapped in.
at first, I was fine. but forty minutes into it, I was feeling almost frantic. and I was feeling miserable for myself again. poor, poor me.
As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I am with you".
the hammering had stopped. "Praise You in this Storm" by Chris Tomlin filled my ears instead.
I will praise You in this storm. I will lift my head. You are who You are, no matter where I am.
Moses was beating at that rock. and water was gushing out.
And every tear I cry, You hold in Your hand. You've never left my side.
the hammering didn't start again...
And though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.
... until the song had ended. then it continued without ceasing until I was taken out.
***
God was still gently laughing.
Pastor was still preaching.
and I was still an Israelite.
I watched the sun setting through my friend's eyelashes, as I heard the advice come from my own hypocritical lips.
you see, in the past few weeks, I have fallen into an angry and bitter net once again. I'm not sick this time. I'm struggling to forgive.
I have let hurt turn into bitterness. and I have let sadness turn into anger towards God.
do you know, I actually thought to myself for a moment that it would be rather nice not to have to worry about God and His commands? (please gasp here.) do you know, I actually thought to myself that maybe I would be better off without Him since He doesn't seem to care anyways? (please gasp louder here)
in other words...
"God, I am thirsty. why have You brought me here? it would be better for me to march back to Egypt and become a slave again."
*face palm*
***
my struggle continues even as I type these words. is it possible that I still feel angry?
I am an Israelite at heart.
I am wandering through the wilderness. the unknowns and hardships scare me. lately, it doesn't seem to matter that what I am leaving behind me isn't worth returning to. it doesn't seem to matter that what God is leading me towards is worth dying for.
lately, I just don't like being thirsty. but I also don't like being an Israelite.
because I know deep down that God is the only one who can gush those thirst-quenching waters at me. He can bring healing. from a lifeless rock. to a hurting heart.
***
looking at my friend, I suddenly stopped giving advice and asked her to pray for me.
"I'll be praying for you too," I promised.
as I hugged her, I realized...
we're all Israelites. we're making this journey towards the "promised land" together. it's rough. it's rocky. it stinks at times.
but we have left our slavery to sin behind us. we are marching, walking, sometimes inching our way on our bellies towards the end goal.
we fall. we thirst. we fail.
God catches. God quenches. God in His mercy forgives.
I lift my eyes unto the hills,
where does my help come from?
my help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of Heaven and earth.
please pray. I'm praying for you, my fellow marchers, as well.
love,
muffin
sometimes I amaze myself...
I am really good at giving advice.
I mean, not to "toot my own horn", but
HONK HONK.
I always know how to handle situations...
unless it's my own.
***
yesterday Pastor talked about the Israelites.
as he recounted their repeated complaints, I felt myself almost squirming with contempt.
those idiots.
one minute, they're marching out of slavery towards a land that was promised to their forefathers by God Almighty. the next minute, they're watching God pound the waters of the Red Sea over the heads of one of the most powerful armies in the world. and the next minute...
they're thirsty.
hold the camels.
we had better turn around and offer ourselves as slaves in Egypt again. sure things weren't always easy there- our sons were being killed, we were worked almost to death under the boiling hot, desert sun, and our Pharaoh despised us.
but at least we weren't thirsty.
good thing God has more patience than I do. instead of striking them all down as I might have, God commanded Moses to strike a rock.
and what do you know? the God of miracles performed a miracle. out of the rock came water.
***
Sunday after church I had a long talk with a friend.
I found myself giving advice.
because I'm so good at that.
I was in the middle of saying something about not letting hard times make us bitter or angry-that God has a reason for the trials- when I stopped. I heard something quiet. I think it was God laughing.
***
you may remember that back in the winter, I was confined to a hospital room for several days and that I wasn't happy about it.
what you probably don't know is that while I was pouting in the hospital, God was preparing to show me that I too am an Israelite...
the hospital cart rolled down hallway after hallway. I watched people's faces as I rolled past. they were giving me a look that I had given many a time to strangers in hospital beds. the look of "I wonder if you are about to die." it's an easy look to accidentally give, but a harder one to receive. it made me want to make a monkey face at them. but I was tired, so I just stared blankly back, probably confirming their saddest imaginings.
the cart reached Destination MRI waiting room, and I said goodbye to my family and Laura. they smiled. I smiled.
but I was scared as anything. and I was angry. and bitter. where was God taking me? I just wanted to be comfortable again.
I looked up at the man wheeling me to the MRI room.
"don't be afraid," he said.
"there are a lot of friends praying for me," I answered. because that sounded like the right answer. he probably didn't want to hear my bitterness and anger.
but God saw my heart. and God struck a rock.
"I'll be praying for you too," the man said.
I licked up that drip of water and let it sink into my heart a second before being helped into the room and asked to lie down on a bench-like table.
"will my iPod be able to play during the scan?" I asked an older nurse.
"sure!" he said and smiled. he took my iPod and hooked it up to a device that would send the music through my protective mask during the hour and a half procedure.
I looked back at the cave I would be trapped in and took a deep breath. my claustrophobia isn't a huge fan of caves. especially hospital caves.
but then I was in. I heard the first few notes from my music come through...
followed by ceaseless hammering. I couldn't hear my music due to the hammering of the machine I was trapped in.
at first, I was fine. but forty minutes into it, I was feeling almost frantic. and I was feeling miserable for myself again. poor, poor me.
As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I am with you".
the hammering had stopped. "Praise You in this Storm" by Chris Tomlin filled my ears instead.
I will praise You in this storm. I will lift my head. You are who You are, no matter where I am.
Moses was beating at that rock. and water was gushing out.
And every tear I cry, You hold in Your hand. You've never left my side.
the hammering didn't start again...
And though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.
... until the song had ended. then it continued without ceasing until I was taken out.
***
God was still gently laughing.
Pastor was still preaching.
and I was still an Israelite.
I watched the sun setting through my friend's eyelashes, as I heard the advice come from my own hypocritical lips.
you see, in the past few weeks, I have fallen into an angry and bitter net once again. I'm not sick this time. I'm struggling to forgive.
I have let hurt turn into bitterness. and I have let sadness turn into anger towards God.
do you know, I actually thought to myself for a moment that it would be rather nice not to have to worry about God and His commands? (please gasp here.) do you know, I actually thought to myself that maybe I would be better off without Him since He doesn't seem to care anyways? (please gasp louder here)
in other words...
"God, I am thirsty. why have You brought me here? it would be better for me to march back to Egypt and become a slave again."
*face palm*
***
my struggle continues even as I type these words. is it possible that I still feel angry?
I am an Israelite at heart.
I am wandering through the wilderness. the unknowns and hardships scare me. lately, it doesn't seem to matter that what I am leaving behind me isn't worth returning to. it doesn't seem to matter that what God is leading me towards is worth dying for.
lately, I just don't like being thirsty. but I also don't like being an Israelite.
because I know deep down that God is the only one who can gush those thirst-quenching waters at me. He can bring healing. from a lifeless rock. to a hurting heart.
***
looking at my friend, I suddenly stopped giving advice and asked her to pray for me.
"I'll be praying for you too," I promised.
as I hugged her, I realized...
we're all Israelites. we're making this journey towards the "promised land" together. it's rough. it's rocky. it stinks at times.
but we have left our slavery to sin behind us. we are marching, walking, sometimes inching our way on our bellies towards the end goal.
we fall. we thirst. we fail.
God catches. God quenches. God in His mercy forgives.
I lift my eyes unto the hills,
where does my help come from?
my help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of Heaven and earth.
please pray. I'm praying for you, my fellow marchers, as well.
love,
muffin
25.9.12
can I see an I.D.?
dear rory,
who am I? and what am I doing here?
oh, I know who I have been. I have been everything that has led up to this moment in my history...
I was the firstborn. I was the big sister. I was born and raised in Small-suburb, Illinois. I grew up in a home where having an abundance of teasing and laughter was more important than being rich. at the age of five, I was already dreaming that I would become a missionary or a teacher in some far away country. I was the girl who couldn't help but laugh at the other girls and their silly crushes and pointless drama at public school. and for that reason, I was the girl who wasn't very "cool". I was the second-grader who wrote out a card for my teacher explaining how she could be saved from her sins and go to heaven. I was the third-grader who showed up to school crying so hard, my mom had to come pick me up on multiple occasions. I was the fourth grader who was thrilled to be home-schooled. and then not so thrilled when I realized my friends thought home-schoolers were weird. I was the one who wasn't excited about leaving the church I had grown up in. and then I was the one who was just as, if not more, excited than anyone. I was the girl who learned so much and made so many new friends and re-met so many old friends that I thought I would burst from happiness. I was the girl who experienced so many sparkling memories and endless adventures that I realized what a good, sheltered life God had given me. and in these last two years, I was the girl who lost a sibling, who spent many weeks sick in bed and then in the hospital, who began to doubt God's plan, who was reminded of how amazing our Creator is, who graduated after thirteen years of school, who has another sister on the way, who became closer to one best friend and fell in love with the other, who missed out on one missions trip but then experienced a different one that melted my heart.
that is my story. it's not very thrilling. but it's made me who I am.
and that reminds me...
who am I? and what am I doing here?
it's so easy to forget.
***
intimidating-looking stranger: "oh, you've graduated high-school? where are you going to college?"
me: "umm... well... umm..."
*why can't I just answer the question?*
me: "umm... well... I'm not going to college this year. I'm staying home and helping my family out and waiting on the Lord to see what he wants me to do."
intimidating-looking stranger staring as though I've just slapped them in the face: "Really?!"
me: "psshhh. no. I'm just kidding. I'm gonna get my business degree........... and then I'm actually planning on running away to join the circus and become an elephant rider. maybe if I'm lucky, I'll even meet a nice lion tamer with a mustache the size of Texas. we can get married, have fifty children, and raise them all to become acrobats. after that, we can retire and open a home for abused lemurs. and then we can spend the remainder of our lives teaching them how to make gourmet ratatouille."
***
it really doesn't matter what I make up as long as I say that I'm going to go to college. as long as I am going to college, I have an identity. and as long as I have an identity, my life is going well.
don't get me wrong. I am not against college in the slightest way. I just don't feel like God is calling me to college right now. and it is sad that so many people think that college is what ultimately defines a person.
but that reminds me... if I am not called to be at school right now...
who am I? and what am I doing here?
***
as a kid I read about missionaries with wide-eyes.
they risk their lives. they experience more wild adventures than anyone else. they live in the deepest jungles and on the remotest islands and share the Gospel. they help spiritually and physically sick people who would die otherwise. and then they come home and share all their awesome stories.
how much cooler could a person get?
I wanted to be one of them.
but as I grew, I realized that that dream was just *slightly* (okay, maybe *mostly*) self-centered. I mean, the idea of being a missionary is a wonderful, selfless thing. but I was kind of going in on it for the fame and glory and adventure side.
and about that time, I learned an important lesson: we can be missionaries right here in our own neighborhood. there are a lot of broken people all around us right now.
so..... BAM! I was gonna feed the hungry. I was gonna clothe the naked. I was gonna stop abortion. I was going to phone the President and give him a few ideas I had to help stop poverty. I was gonna adopt a million children. I was gonna give clean water to kids in Africa. I was gonna knit scarves and blankets until my fingers bled and then go downtown and use my bloody stump arms to distribute my work. I was gonna win the lottery and donate every last dime. I was gonna work in a soup kitchen. I was gonna be superwoman.
and this time, I was going to do it with selfless motives. my heart was ready. I didn't even care if people knew what I did. I just had to do it.
and I had to do it all.
and that's where all the juice in my energizer machine suddenly spluttered. how on earth was I supposed to do it ALL?
***
rewind two years from today.
it was dark and I watched the headlights play on the street ahead of us. your mom was driving. we had just finished watching "Slumdog Millionaire" and my heart was still hurting as I thought about what a terrible life kids have in the slums of India. it's filthy dirty. it's empty and lonely. they're sold into sex-trafficking if they're girls. they become part of Mafia-type gangs if they're boys.
quietly I said, "I wish there was some way I could help everyone at once."
your mom smiled at me through the rear-view mirror. "dear," she said, "God calls different people to help in different ways. if you get depressed over not being able to help everyone, you are going to feel as though the whole world is on your shoulders, and it's not. it's on God's shoulders. you only have to do what God is calling you to do."
"I know," I sighed. "I just feel like there are so many options. and all I know is, I don't want to just live my life for myself. I want to help others."
then your mom said something that shook me:
"be what He has called you to be TODAY, and leave the rest to Him. He knows what He is doing."
***
right now, I am looking at that conversation in my journal. as soon as I got home that night two years ago, I wrote it all down so that I would never forget her words.
but I have amnesia.
so once again, I have been asking myself...
who am I? what am I doing here?
and by "here" I mean "now".
I know what I should be doing. I know who I should be.
I am a daughter of the King and I should be striving to be more like my Father every single minute of every single day.
okay, but time out.
is it really too much to ask that I be something AWESOMELY INCREDIBLE in the world's eyes AND be more like Christ? I mean... come on.
Colossians 3:1 "If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."
okay... well, can I at least have a detailed road-map of my entire life? that would make spending these slower, harder days of trying to be more like Christ and waiting for His direction easier.
Proverbs 3:5-6 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your path straight."
so... who am I?
Galatians 2:20 "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me."
what am I doing here?
I am learning (very slowly and painfully) to say good-bye to the old self. I am learning that who I truly am is not what I have done or wanted to become or what I still want to do. who I am isn't what the world says or doesn't say I am. my identity is in Christ alone. my calling is to be more like Him.
obviously, I still have a personality. the things I like to do and eat, and even my hopes and dreams make me unique. just like yours make you unique. as one friend put it "I am unique, just like everyone else."
and being unique is good...we're not called to be robots. but as Christians, we should be striving to be more like God. and we should find our identity in Him. because the things of this world will pass away. yes, we can enjoy them and I believe God wants us to. but ultimately, the success we have or don't have will disappear. the money we make will be spent. the degrees we earn will rot, the houses we build will fall, and the fame we gather will be forgotten.
even though it may sound childish, I want to be like Jesus.
and the last time I checked, being like Jesus was a lot harder than going to the jungle or going to college or even saving the world.
it's not something easy. it's not something that I always *like* telling other people. sometimes, I would rather have a list of accomplishments and goals and successes.
but then I ask myself...
who am I without my Savior? what would I do without Him?
and that's when I truly have an identity crisis.
love,
muffin
ps- please forgive me for rambling. and please don't think I am being preachy. I still have so much more to learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn...
who am I? and what am I doing here?
oh, I know who I have been. I have been everything that has led up to this moment in my history...
I was the firstborn. I was the big sister. I was born and raised in Small-suburb, Illinois. I grew up in a home where having an abundance of teasing and laughter was more important than being rich. at the age of five, I was already dreaming that I would become a missionary or a teacher in some far away country. I was the girl who couldn't help but laugh at the other girls and their silly crushes and pointless drama at public school. and for that reason, I was the girl who wasn't very "cool". I was the second-grader who wrote out a card for my teacher explaining how she could be saved from her sins and go to heaven. I was the third-grader who showed up to school crying so hard, my mom had to come pick me up on multiple occasions. I was the fourth grader who was thrilled to be home-schooled. and then not so thrilled when I realized my friends thought home-schoolers were weird. I was the one who wasn't excited about leaving the church I had grown up in. and then I was the one who was just as, if not more, excited than anyone. I was the girl who learned so much and made so many new friends and re-met so many old friends that I thought I would burst from happiness. I was the girl who experienced so many sparkling memories and endless adventures that I realized what a good, sheltered life God had given me. and in these last two years, I was the girl who lost a sibling, who spent many weeks sick in bed and then in the hospital, who began to doubt God's plan, who was reminded of how amazing our Creator is, who graduated after thirteen years of school, who has another sister on the way, who became closer to one best friend and fell in love with the other, who missed out on one missions trip but then experienced a different one that melted my heart.
that is my story. it's not very thrilling. but it's made me who I am.
and that reminds me...
who am I? and what am I doing here?
it's so easy to forget.
***
intimidating-looking stranger: "oh, you've graduated high-school? where are you going to college?"
me: "umm... well... umm..."
*why can't I just answer the question?*
me: "umm... well... I'm not going to college this year. I'm staying home and helping my family out and waiting on the Lord to see what he wants me to do."
intimidating-looking stranger staring as though I've just slapped them in the face: "Really?!"
me: "psshhh. no. I'm just kidding. I'm gonna get my business degree........... and then I'm actually planning on running away to join the circus and become an elephant rider. maybe if I'm lucky, I'll even meet a nice lion tamer with a mustache the size of Texas. we can get married, have fifty children, and raise them all to become acrobats. after that, we can retire and open a home for abused lemurs. and then we can spend the remainder of our lives teaching them how to make gourmet ratatouille."
***
it really doesn't matter what I make up as long as I say that I'm going to go to college. as long as I am going to college, I have an identity. and as long as I have an identity, my life is going well.
don't get me wrong. I am not against college in the slightest way. I just don't feel like God is calling me to college right now. and it is sad that so many people think that college is what ultimately defines a person.
but that reminds me... if I am not called to be at school right now...
who am I? and what am I doing here?
***
as a kid I read about missionaries with wide-eyes.
they risk their lives. they experience more wild adventures than anyone else. they live in the deepest jungles and on the remotest islands and share the Gospel. they help spiritually and physically sick people who would die otherwise. and then they come home and share all their awesome stories.
how much cooler could a person get?
I wanted to be one of them.
but as I grew, I realized that that dream was just *slightly* (okay, maybe *mostly*) self-centered. I mean, the idea of being a missionary is a wonderful, selfless thing. but I was kind of going in on it for the fame and glory and adventure side.
and about that time, I learned an important lesson: we can be missionaries right here in our own neighborhood. there are a lot of broken people all around us right now.
so..... BAM! I was gonna feed the hungry. I was gonna clothe the naked. I was gonna stop abortion. I was going to phone the President and give him a few ideas I had to help stop poverty. I was gonna adopt a million children. I was gonna give clean water to kids in Africa. I was gonna knit scarves and blankets until my fingers bled and then go downtown and use my bloody stump arms to distribute my work. I was gonna win the lottery and donate every last dime. I was gonna work in a soup kitchen. I was gonna be superwoman.
and this time, I was going to do it with selfless motives. my heart was ready. I didn't even care if people knew what I did. I just had to do it.
and I had to do it all.
and that's where all the juice in my energizer machine suddenly spluttered. how on earth was I supposed to do it ALL?
***
rewind two years from today.
it was dark and I watched the headlights play on the street ahead of us. your mom was driving. we had just finished watching "Slumdog Millionaire" and my heart was still hurting as I thought about what a terrible life kids have in the slums of India. it's filthy dirty. it's empty and lonely. they're sold into sex-trafficking if they're girls. they become part of Mafia-type gangs if they're boys.
quietly I said, "I wish there was some way I could help everyone at once."
your mom smiled at me through the rear-view mirror. "dear," she said, "God calls different people to help in different ways. if you get depressed over not being able to help everyone, you are going to feel as though the whole world is on your shoulders, and it's not. it's on God's shoulders. you only have to do what God is calling you to do."
"I know," I sighed. "I just feel like there are so many options. and all I know is, I don't want to just live my life for myself. I want to help others."
then your mom said something that shook me:
"be what He has called you to be TODAY, and leave the rest to Him. He knows what He is doing."
***
right now, I am looking at that conversation in my journal. as soon as I got home that night two years ago, I wrote it all down so that I would never forget her words.
but I have amnesia.
so once again, I have been asking myself...
who am I? what am I doing here?
and by "here" I mean "now".
I know what I should be doing. I know who I should be.
I am a daughter of the King and I should be striving to be more like my Father every single minute of every single day.
okay, but time out.
is it really too much to ask that I be something AWESOMELY INCREDIBLE in the world's eyes AND be more like Christ? I mean... come on.
Colossians 3:1 "If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."
okay... well, can I at least have a detailed road-map of my entire life? that would make spending these slower, harder days of trying to be more like Christ and waiting for His direction easier.
Proverbs 3:5-6 "Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your path straight."
so... who am I?
Galatians 2:20 "I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me."
what am I doing here?
I am learning (very slowly and painfully) to say good-bye to the old self. I am learning that who I truly am is not what I have done or wanted to become or what I still want to do. who I am isn't what the world says or doesn't say I am. my identity is in Christ alone. my calling is to be more like Him.
obviously, I still have a personality. the things I like to do and eat, and even my hopes and dreams make me unique. just like yours make you unique. as one friend put it "I am unique, just like everyone else."
and being unique is good...we're not called to be robots. but as Christians, we should be striving to be more like God. and we should find our identity in Him. because the things of this world will pass away. yes, we can enjoy them and I believe God wants us to. but ultimately, the success we have or don't have will disappear. the money we make will be spent. the degrees we earn will rot, the houses we build will fall, and the fame we gather will be forgotten.
even though it may sound childish, I want to be like Jesus.
and the last time I checked, being like Jesus was a lot harder than going to the jungle or going to college or even saving the world.
it's not something easy. it's not something that I always *like* telling other people. sometimes, I would rather have a list of accomplishments and goals and successes.
but then I ask myself...
who am I without my Savior? what would I do without Him?
and that's when I truly have an identity crisis.
love,
muffin
ps- please forgive me for rambling. and please don't think I am being preachy. I still have so much more to learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn. and re-learn...
11.9.12
ER
hello, muffin.
I missed two IV starts today. they should have been fine: the first was a 36-year-old man with veins you could see from across the room. he looked me straight in the eye & gave me a big, relaxed smile when I asked to start his IV; somehow, that unnerved me more than anything. the other patient was experiencing a possible heart attack. his face was bunched up in pain as I set up my supplies. I couldn't feel his vein, but I could see it faintly traced beneath his olive skin. both times I slipped the needle in & felt my heart drop when the little red flash didn't appear. the nurse silently took over, giving no further indication of my failure. but I felt it.
in post-conference, the other students eagerly asked what I did in the ER. I gave a brief report & admitted that I missed two IVs. "Both of them?" their eyes said incredulously. but they were quick to reassure me. everyone has to learn somehow. it's okay. it's no big deal. let it roll off.
God gives us what we need. I needed a little humbling today.
highlight of my day: being assigned to watch a patient's 4-year-old daughter, who spoke only Spanish. but that was alright, because we both spoke the language of Peekaboo, Fishy Faces, & Listen-To-Kristen's-Heart-With-Her-Stethoscope. she was my shy little friend: no questions asked. when it was just me & her, I didn't have to worry about looking grown-up and official. [I dislike acting like more than I am, but I stubbornly insist on trying anyway. let.it.go.]
as I did my 0945 charting, it hit me like a thunderbolt. 11 September. September 11th; 9/11. today. I looked around the ER with new eyes, wondering what it would be like to see its halls transformed by chaos and unbelievable reports from the field. trauma patients pouring in through the paramedic bay, trauma alerts sounding over the intercom, each room a scene of tragedy happening in real-time. what would it be like? what was it like?
I can't even imagine. God help the people whose memories are forever stamped with that scene. may He bring them the comfort that can only come from His presence.
can you feel that? that's your heart beating against your ribs. it's your lungs expanding in perfect harmony.
it's a gift.
always,
rory
7.9.12
the shining city
dear muffin,
I don't have much to share today. just a thought.
I'd like to show you a city. standing at its center, you wouldn't guess it was an important place. the streets are dusty and strewn with stones easily kicked up by passing horse carts. people shuffle by with burdens on their back, multi-colored scarves wrapping their heads against the sun's heat. street vendors line the narrow market, shouting above the hubbub. dirty children dart in and out of the crowd, knocking against elbows & laughing. women draw water & carry stones & mix mortar; men straighten their backs and squint up at the sky. a wall is being built, and everyone in the city is lending a hand. it's hot & dusty & full of hard work, but I love this place. perhaps that's because I've lived here all my life.
if you rise above the city & view it from the sky, you'll be surprised to notice how sprawling it is. small buildings cover miles in every direction; miles & years. patchwork farms, wooden houses, and the occasional stone structure stretch past the horizon. the higher you rise, the less you see the dust. instead, noise & confusion dim to a distant hum, and the sun makes the city glow like a flame. it is warm, familiar, and safe, full of friends & grapes & summer nights & happy hearts. it is home.
welcome to the city: welcome to Christendom.
Deuteronomy 6:10-12: "so it shall be, when the Lord your God brings you into the land of which He swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give you large and beautiful cities which you did not build, houses full of all good things, which you did not fill, hewn-out wells which you did not dig, vineyards and olive trees which you did not plant—when you have eaten and are full— then beware, lest you forget the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage."
others laid the streets & planted the gardens. the wall was in place long before I was old enough to notice it. see that bookstore, lined with the wisdom of ages? inside you'll find the labor of augustine, luther, spurgeon, ten boom, lewis, rushdooney, bahnsen, macdonald. the stone steps leading to the front door are old but steady: they were tyndale's life work. there is a museum raised by churchill near an old wooden bridge carefully constructed under washington's hand.
I live in this beautiful city which I did not build. my house, the work of others, is full of good things which I did not gather. I have eaten & am full of joy; I benefit from the protection of the city's walls. it is easy to forget my house of bondage. truth is, I can't even remember it to begin with; I was given citizenship in this city before I was old enough to know what that meant.
but I sure am glad to live here. see that patch of packed dirt? that's my garden. don't laugh. if you look closely, you'll see a sprout.
maybe someday it will grow to be an apple tree.
& maybe that tree will produce my great-great-granddaughter's favorite apples in the city, the city which she did not build. maybe she will munch on an apple while she tinkers with a building design. maybe her little brother will shoot the core from a catapult he built.
yep. this city is an exciting place to be. now if you'll excuse me... my dirt-patch needs weeding.
always,
rory
21.8.12
unspoken
dear rory,
I was in the middle of writing an entirely different letter to you, when I made the mistake of looking out my window… so now you get this long, rather pointless story instead. aren't you glad I have a short attention span?
***
so there’s this neighbor of ours.
she hasn’t aged in twelve years.
she has silvery hair that falls an inch beneath her chin, her shoulders are slightly hunched, she walks in quick, short steps (yet somehow manages to move slowly), and her eyes... well… they’re distant.
I’ve only seen her a handful of times during our long encampment here in this neighborhood, but at the moment she is standing on my driveway.
I don’t even know her name.
the first time I saw her, she was watching as her son joined me on my mad-dash-bicycle race up and down and around and around the cul-de-sac. I was the fastest of the fast (not to mention the humblest of the humble)- especially when my arch-rival neighbor/best friend, Danny, wasn’t there.
but one day, with his mother watching from the corner, this new kid joined me. Chris. that was his name. and he was faster than any biker I'd ever seen.
Danny and I were typical kids. we both worshipped AND hated anyone faster or bigger or stronger than us. we thought they were cool, but they were also a threat if you know what I mean. we used to just sit out in Danny’s front yard with our bare feet stretched into the grass, licking our dripping popsicles, staring Chris down as he rode his bike in huge circles. if he looked our way, my conflicting jealousy and admiration would melt into a smile- there was something I didn’t understand about him and it made me curious. but Danny would make a face and confidently boast his own speed to me. after all, this was OUR cul-de-sac. not to mention that looking back, I’m pretty sure he considered me HIS girlfriend (even though I considered him just a dorky neighbor boy)… and he was just as jealous as any seven-year-old boy could be for his eight-year-old girlfriend.
In consequence, I don’t remember Danny ever riding bikes with Chris. but sometimes, I would overcome my shyness and join him.
I honestly don’t know how I learned his name. I can’t remember him speaking one word to me. ever. usually, I would spot him through my front window, rush out to the garage, and then casually sit on my bike at the end of the driveway studying my nails till he slowed up before me.
acting like I hadn’t even noticed him before, I would suddenly glance up and give him my cheesiest gap-toothed smile. he would smile back in his quiet way. he was tall and skinny. his eyes were almost as pale as his skin. his hair was the definition of sandy blonde… sometimes it looked so sandy, I wondered if he were a merman with real ocean sand mixed in with his hair. he was quite a few inches taller and several years older than me, but he needed a friend. a quiet friend.
I am not quiet. but around him, I somehow managed to be. in fact, I never spoke a word to him either. there was no need to. we were both kids riding bikes in circles… what could we possibly have to say about that? and besides, we were friends, and we both knew it, so we were both happy.
when we got too tired to continue, I never invited him over for ice-cream, and he never asked. his house was not actually in the cul-de-sac, but around the corner. I can still see him looking over his shoulder and giving a final faint smile, and on rare occasions a wave, as I stared my goodbye.
this mutually quiet friendship continued a few summers. sometimes the gaps between his cul-de-sac rounds were so long that Danny and I would forget he existed. and as for his mom- well, I'm pretty sure I only saw her that first day he joined me. but whenever Chris finally did show up, Danny and I would exchange glances, continue our game of basketball or superheroes, and steal looks his way whenever we could. he would smile, but say nothing. his pale eyes would look at me curiously and I felt sorry for him, but never once did that sorry-ness I felt prompt me to go speak to him. it wasn't something that even crossed my relatively friendly mind, because it wasn't something that was supposed to be done. not to Chris. I couldn't and wouldn't force him to speak.
he was a forgettable person. and one summer, I realized I hadn’t seen him in years. I doubt Danny even remembered his existence, and I probably wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen his mom out walking.
it was strange to see her out in the fresh air. but what was weirder was that she was parading an empty baby stroller around.
being the polite thirteen-year-old that I was, I stopped on the sidewalk and open-mouth stared. she hadn’t seen me yet, so I jumped into our pine tree and watched. she strolled along in her old-looking clothes. if she had been closer, I would feel justified in saying that she smelled like moth-balls. but that was probably my imagination. she stopped at every driveway and bent down. apparently the front page of each of our newspapers was highly fascinating to her. she continued her loop and walked back around the corner.
a few days later she showed up with her empty baby stroller at my neighbor’s garage sale. she brought a few things over and wondered if she could sell them. my neighbor said that would be fine. I don’t remember her coming back for the money she made.
at that time I wondered about Chris. what had happened to him? I didn’t know. if I could’ve, I would’ve asked that odd woman I assumed (but with my strong imagination, I sometimes romantically made up past histories for Chris and doubted) to be his mother, but she disappeared from our lives again, and so they both disappeared from my mind.
then, about two years ago, I had the weirdest dream: I was at camp playing on a playground. I was with a bunch of my friends and they were talking in dream language (you know what I mean... that babbling background noise that doesn't make an ounce of sense). I was in the middle of laughing when I saw him. he looked much older, and at first I didn’t recognize him. but he had the same sandy hair and pale colorless eyes, and he gave me the same faint smile and slowly walked over to me. just as always, I didn’t say anything. he stopped in front of me and held out his hands sort of helplessly.
then he spoke.
“will you do me a favor?” it was the first thing he had ever said to me. his voice was pale and forgettable like the rest of him.
“yes,” my dream self answered.
“will you please pray for me? every night?”
“yes,” I answered again. and in my dream he looked relieved, almost happy even.
“promise me,” he said suddenly desperate again.
“I promise.”
then the dream faded and he looked over his shoulder. I stared goodbye. as always.
when I woke up, I was shaken. I took a walk around the block that day and went slow-motion past Chris’s house. the windows were dark. I stopped on the driveway and looked at the garage wondering if there was a small bike inside and what had happened to it’s owner.
I still slow down when I walk past that house. where is my silent friend now? I haven’t forgotten the promise I made him in my dream. and though I don't pray for him every night, I pray for him whenever I can.
maybe I’m crazy for praying for someone I spoke to for the first time in a dream, but I figure praying for him can’t hurt him. even if I am being silly.
***
mom is inside now.
“what did she want?” I ask. our neighbor had been standing on the drive-way holding a huge window-screen for quite some time. I wonder if it was necessary to carry the whole screen over? or was it like the empty baby stroller... just something to make her feel less lonely?
before mom answers, I alter my question entirely; “wait, does she have a name?”
“yes she has a name,” mom laughs. but I can tell she’s already struggling to remember it. “her name is… Judy…” there's a question in mom's voice as if she's not quite sure, but she continues; “she wanted to ask dad a question about her window…”
“did she say anything about Chris?”
“yes, she did.” I think mom is surprised I remember him. “she said he’s at some technical institute or something studying engineering… or… I’m not sure what. I get the feeling he’s a genius though.”
“I would believe it,” I mumble to myself. “mom? do you think… do you think she’s all right?”
“all right?”
“yeah, like, mentally?”
“yes,” mom says, “but no!” she adds quickly. “I think something is missing...”
***
someday, if I ever see Chris again, I want to walk right up to him and break our silent spell. I wonder what he would say if he knew I’ve been praying for him all this time? if he knew that I try to keep an eye out for his mom? would he stay silent and thank me with his eyes?
then again, maybe I won’t say anything at all... maybe he just needed a quiet praying friend.
maybe some things are better left unspoken.
your friend,
muffin
I was in the middle of writing an entirely different letter to you, when I made the mistake of looking out my window… so now you get this long, rather pointless story instead. aren't you glad I have a short attention span?
***
so there’s this neighbor of ours.
she hasn’t aged in twelve years.
she has silvery hair that falls an inch beneath her chin, her shoulders are slightly hunched, she walks in quick, short steps (yet somehow manages to move slowly), and her eyes... well… they’re distant.
I’ve only seen her a handful of times during our long encampment here in this neighborhood, but at the moment she is standing on my driveway.
I don’t even know her name.
the first time I saw her, she was watching as her son joined me on my mad-dash-bicycle race up and down and around and around the cul-de-sac. I was the fastest of the fast (not to mention the humblest of the humble)- especially when my arch-rival neighbor/best friend, Danny, wasn’t there.
but one day, with his mother watching from the corner, this new kid joined me. Chris. that was his name. and he was faster than any biker I'd ever seen.
Danny and I were typical kids. we both worshipped AND hated anyone faster or bigger or stronger than us. we thought they were cool, but they were also a threat if you know what I mean. we used to just sit out in Danny’s front yard with our bare feet stretched into the grass, licking our dripping popsicles, staring Chris down as he rode his bike in huge circles. if he looked our way, my conflicting jealousy and admiration would melt into a smile- there was something I didn’t understand about him and it made me curious. but Danny would make a face and confidently boast his own speed to me. after all, this was OUR cul-de-sac. not to mention that looking back, I’m pretty sure he considered me HIS girlfriend (even though I considered him just a dorky neighbor boy)… and he was just as jealous as any seven-year-old boy could be for his eight-year-old girlfriend.
In consequence, I don’t remember Danny ever riding bikes with Chris. but sometimes, I would overcome my shyness and join him.
I honestly don’t know how I learned his name. I can’t remember him speaking one word to me. ever. usually, I would spot him through my front window, rush out to the garage, and then casually sit on my bike at the end of the driveway studying my nails till he slowed up before me.
acting like I hadn’t even noticed him before, I would suddenly glance up and give him my cheesiest gap-toothed smile. he would smile back in his quiet way. he was tall and skinny. his eyes were almost as pale as his skin. his hair was the definition of sandy blonde… sometimes it looked so sandy, I wondered if he were a merman with real ocean sand mixed in with his hair. he was quite a few inches taller and several years older than me, but he needed a friend. a quiet friend.
I am not quiet. but around him, I somehow managed to be. in fact, I never spoke a word to him either. there was no need to. we were both kids riding bikes in circles… what could we possibly have to say about that? and besides, we were friends, and we both knew it, so we were both happy.
when we got too tired to continue, I never invited him over for ice-cream, and he never asked. his house was not actually in the cul-de-sac, but around the corner. I can still see him looking over his shoulder and giving a final faint smile, and on rare occasions a wave, as I stared my goodbye.
this mutually quiet friendship continued a few summers. sometimes the gaps between his cul-de-sac rounds were so long that Danny and I would forget he existed. and as for his mom- well, I'm pretty sure I only saw her that first day he joined me. but whenever Chris finally did show up, Danny and I would exchange glances, continue our game of basketball or superheroes, and steal looks his way whenever we could. he would smile, but say nothing. his pale eyes would look at me curiously and I felt sorry for him, but never once did that sorry-ness I felt prompt me to go speak to him. it wasn't something that even crossed my relatively friendly mind, because it wasn't something that was supposed to be done. not to Chris. I couldn't and wouldn't force him to speak.
he was a forgettable person. and one summer, I realized I hadn’t seen him in years. I doubt Danny even remembered his existence, and I probably wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen his mom out walking.
it was strange to see her out in the fresh air. but what was weirder was that she was parading an empty baby stroller around.
being the polite thirteen-year-old that I was, I stopped on the sidewalk and open-mouth stared. she hadn’t seen me yet, so I jumped into our pine tree and watched. she strolled along in her old-looking clothes. if she had been closer, I would feel justified in saying that she smelled like moth-balls. but that was probably my imagination. she stopped at every driveway and bent down. apparently the front page of each of our newspapers was highly fascinating to her. she continued her loop and walked back around the corner.
a few days later she showed up with her empty baby stroller at my neighbor’s garage sale. she brought a few things over and wondered if she could sell them. my neighbor said that would be fine. I don’t remember her coming back for the money she made.
at that time I wondered about Chris. what had happened to him? I didn’t know. if I could’ve, I would’ve asked that odd woman I assumed (but with my strong imagination, I sometimes romantically made up past histories for Chris and doubted) to be his mother, but she disappeared from our lives again, and so they both disappeared from my mind.
then, about two years ago, I had the weirdest dream: I was at camp playing on a playground. I was with a bunch of my friends and they were talking in dream language (you know what I mean... that babbling background noise that doesn't make an ounce of sense). I was in the middle of laughing when I saw him. he looked much older, and at first I didn’t recognize him. but he had the same sandy hair and pale colorless eyes, and he gave me the same faint smile and slowly walked over to me. just as always, I didn’t say anything. he stopped in front of me and held out his hands sort of helplessly.
then he spoke.
“will you do me a favor?” it was the first thing he had ever said to me. his voice was pale and forgettable like the rest of him.
“yes,” my dream self answered.
“will you please pray for me? every night?”
“yes,” I answered again. and in my dream he looked relieved, almost happy even.
“promise me,” he said suddenly desperate again.
“I promise.”
then the dream faded and he looked over his shoulder. I stared goodbye. as always.
when I woke up, I was shaken. I took a walk around the block that day and went slow-motion past Chris’s house. the windows were dark. I stopped on the driveway and looked at the garage wondering if there was a small bike inside and what had happened to it’s owner.
I still slow down when I walk past that house. where is my silent friend now? I haven’t forgotten the promise I made him in my dream. and though I don't pray for him every night, I pray for him whenever I can.
maybe I’m crazy for praying for someone I spoke to for the first time in a dream, but I figure praying for him can’t hurt him. even if I am being silly.
***
mom is inside now.
“what did she want?” I ask. our neighbor had been standing on the drive-way holding a huge window-screen for quite some time. I wonder if it was necessary to carry the whole screen over? or was it like the empty baby stroller... just something to make her feel less lonely?
before mom answers, I alter my question entirely; “wait, does she have a name?”
“yes she has a name,” mom laughs. but I can tell she’s already struggling to remember it. “her name is… Judy…” there's a question in mom's voice as if she's not quite sure, but she continues; “she wanted to ask dad a question about her window…”
“did she say anything about Chris?”
“yes, she did.” I think mom is surprised I remember him. “she said he’s at some technical institute or something studying engineering… or… I’m not sure what. I get the feeling he’s a genius though.”
“I would believe it,” I mumble to myself. “mom? do you think… do you think she’s all right?”
“all right?”
“yeah, like, mentally?”
“yes,” mom says, “but no!” she adds quickly. “I think something is missing...”
***
someday, if I ever see Chris again, I want to walk right up to him and break our silent spell. I wonder what he would say if he knew I’ve been praying for him all this time? if he knew that I try to keep an eye out for his mom? would he stay silent and thank me with his eyes?
then again, maybe I won’t say anything at all... maybe he just needed a quiet praying friend.
maybe some things are better left unspoken.
your friend,
muffin
30.7.12
superheroes
dear rory,
sometimes, me and a couple Mexicans team up to save the world.
working at a BBQ smokehouse restaurant… it means I show up, tie my hair in a knot, don an apron, shove my disobedient bangs into my viser, clock-in, and slap on a smile.
actually, most of the time, the smile just appears naturally. no slap needed. sometimes I wish it would disappear. it’s not recommended that us employees laugh at customers. but sometimes I can’t help it.
like the time an older gentleman slowly inched his car up to the drive thru, rolled down his window and said with a crinkly-eyed smile on his Santa Claus face, “well, hello there miss smiley! and what grade are you in?”
or the time I had a man in a purple jumpsuit struggle his way back up to the counter and stand before me mid-fake-coughing fit.
yes, it was fake. I could tell.
he stood there gasping and hacking and turning red from his efforts at pretend coughing. so I stood there and politely watched him choke. finally he pulled out some money and shoved it in my hand. “that… *fake cough*… BBQ sauce you gave me… *fake cough. cough.*… it was hot!!!” I asked him which sauce he had ordered. he paused and thought. “well… uh… hot.”
he forgot to cough.
“oh, I’m sorry, sir,” I said with the money still lying there limply in my hand. mentally I added, “how could I forget to warn you that the hot sauce was hot?”
now that his fake cough was momentarily healed and I could hear his voice, I noticed that it matched his purple jumpsuit… strange. “it’s all right. it’s all right,” he said with a purple jumpsuit smile, “but I heard that dairy is good for a cough… *relapses into pretend coughing again*… so I’d like to order a brownie.”
brownie delivered and eaten in front of me. purple jumpsuit man miraculously healed of his cough. Dr. Renee had done it again.
***
but not everyone who comes into the restaurant lights up my day just because they are weird.
as strange as this sounds, I am coming to a conclusion in life: I think angels appear to humans as BBQ-eating, older, black gentlemen.
you heard me right.
no, I am not crazy. (hey, they haven’t proven it yet anyways…)
a few weeks ago, I was feeling impatient. about everything. I was feeling like I’m at a standstill in life. I don’t know about college, I don’t know about work, I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, I don’t know anything. I’m just an eighteen-year-old girl with big dreams (that sounds so Disney. yuck.) in a big world with lots of big people doing big things about their big ideas and yeah. too many big thoughts for one little person like me.
because there I was. stuck at work. sweaty. not having a particularly sparkling sort of day. I was feeling impatient because I want certain things to happen in my life, but I don’t know when they will or how they will.
basically, if we had scrubbed the makeup off my pretend mood that day, you would have seen a big ugly “I WANT WHAT I WANT NOW” pimple glaring angry red at you.
but with my mask on, I trudged out into the dining room to see if anyone needed anything. and that’s when I saw my angel.
he was sitting alone at a booth looking out the window.
“Sir,” I said like the meek little person I was pretending to be, “Can I clear your dishes for you?”
he turned and looked at me with his grave, old eyes and replied with a “thank you, yes”.
“how was everything tonight?” I asked.
as I spoke, it was as if I had dropped a light into the deep wells of his midnight eyes… I watched them sparkle brighter as my lantern of words fell from my mouth.
“young lady,” he said smiling, “have you ever seen a plate licked so clean?” I watched his face and forgot to look at the plate BEFORE I shook my head in agreement. I couldn’t look away from him. he was so interesting. the corners of his mouth turned up and created a sprinkling of wrinkles on weathered face. “I bet it’s nice working around all this delicious food,” he continued.
I mentally shook my brain awake and managed to say, “yes, but unfortunately I can’t eat as I work… so it’s sort of torturous.”
“well,” and he grabbed his hat as he spoke, “you know what they say…”
no, I didn’t know what they said. who are “they” and what do they “say” I wanted to know!? I was afraid he wouldn’t finish. he stood up slowly. I continued to stare.
“… they say that the good things in life are worth waiting for.”
and with that he left me standing there lost in thought. I had needed to hear that. to be reminded that waiting isn’t a bad thing. especially when I’m waiting on God. who is the author of good things.
when I looked up again, he was at the door. he walked out. I haven’t seen him since. kind of strange considering it was plate-licking good food…
***
but I guess I should explain now how me and my fellow Mexican co-workers save the world.
last week, I was working front cash-register. it was around three in the afternoon and the restaurant was dead. not a sign of intelligent life anywhere. because, of course, me and Reyes were not being very intelligent as we waited for the dinner rush to arrive. he’s shorter than me (as most Mexicans and, in fact, as most of the human race, are) and so we were goofing off by walking around the restaurant like midgets and giants. for once, I let him be the giant, and I got to be the midget. he likes it when I’m the midget. he stands on his tip-toes and towers over me and bosses me around.
it’s silly, but whatever.
as we were goofing off, a family walked into the restaurant. a husband and wife, their two kids, and a very old looking couple… probably the grandparents or great-grandparents. I stood up straight and walked casually back to the register awaiting their orders.
they took a long time looking at the menu. longer than usual. so I silently played a game called, “evaluate these total strangers as fast as I can”. my first evaluation led to several beliefs: one, they did not eat out very often. two, they weren’t very well-off. three, they were stressed. and four, the little four-year-old girl with big glasses and her five-year-old brother were the cutest little kids I had seen in a long time.
finally, they ordered. I rang up their bill. it was high. the grandparents didn’t offer to pay. they stood there stonily.
the mom reached into her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “we’ll put $25 on here and use another card for the rest.” I smiled at her tired face and nodded.
the card was declined. she looked flustered and her husband looked concerned as he took the card back from me. “here, just use this one,” she said shoving another card into my hands. the grandparents looked gloomily on. but the kids were smiling as they waited for their food. this card worked and I handed it back to the lady and tried to catch her eye as I handed her the receipt. she was too busy listening to her husband talk about the declined card.
Reyes and I got the food ready, and then he went in the back. I stayed up front and pretended to clean already clean counters as I watched this family.
after a bit, I worked up the courage to stroll out there. “how was everything today?” my voice automatically said. they all agreed it had been very good, and a bunch of empty plates blinked their assent back at me.
“look, I ate all of my food!!!!” the little girl said to me. her big eyes watched me through her strong lenses. There wasn’t a scrap of food left on her plate. the boy called my attention to his empty plate too and I saw the mom smile at her kids. I could tell this had been a special treat to them. all of them.
“I’ll be right back to clear your plates,” I said more to myself than to them as I walked away. my heart was racing and I marched straight into the office where Reyes was spinning in his chair talking to one of the dish washing guys.
“Reyes, I need a cookie.” I said it before I had even thought about it.
“a cookie, honey?”
“Yeah, one of those really big ones. I saw them in the fridge. I’ll pay for it later.”
“why do you need a cookie?”
“for those little kids,” and I gushed as much of the story to him as I could in five seconds.
“all right,” he said. he was smiling. he was curious. he probably thought I was crazy. but he was interested. and behind his smile, there was a question.
I walked back out to the table. the stony grandparents. the bubbling kids. the worn parents. I smiled at them all. bending down closer to the mom, I asked, “do you mind if I bring out a cookie for the kids to share? the cookies are really big, and I thought they might enjoy sharing one.”
she looked surprised. then her surprise metamorphosed into a grin. when she smiled like that, she lost about ten years. “what is it?” the husband asked.
“she wants to bring the kids a cookie.”
“a cookie!!!!?” the two little ones cried. “can we mom?” she laughed and said that would be fine.
so I floated back to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest cookie I could find and carried it back out to the kids as if it had been the Superbowl trophy. they all thanked me again and again. the kids. the parents. even the grandparents.
I felt a little silly again as I walked away. what was a cookie?
but it struck me.
a cookie is a smile. and that family was in need of a smile.
as I got ready to leave work, I called Reyes over. “I still need to pay for that cookie,” I explained. he smiled again with that question behind it.
“They needed that cookie.”
he gave me the total. I think he charged less than he should have. but as I dug around in my wallet, I couldn’t find any dollar bills. “I think I’m going to have to use my card.”
just then, one of the other guys I work with walked over. he had seen me give the cookie to those kids. and he had been watching me try to find the money to pay for it. he had the same questioning smile that Reyes had. he gently pushed me away from the register and pulled out his own money. “I got it,” he said to me.
I walked out to my car that day and remembered that just because there is a lot of bad in the world, doesn’t mean that there can’t be a lot of good. and sometimes, it’s the super tiny, almost embarrassingly insignificant things that can brighten someone’s day.
I think I’ll open a cookie stand. it’ll only cost you a smile.
***
well, this letter was crazy long. congrats if you made it to the end.
until next time,
muffin
sometimes, me and a couple Mexicans team up to save the world.
working at a BBQ smokehouse restaurant… it means I show up, tie my hair in a knot, don an apron, shove my disobedient bangs into my viser, clock-in, and slap on a smile.
actually, most of the time, the smile just appears naturally. no slap needed. sometimes I wish it would disappear. it’s not recommended that us employees laugh at customers. but sometimes I can’t help it.
like the time an older gentleman slowly inched his car up to the drive thru, rolled down his window and said with a crinkly-eyed smile on his Santa Claus face, “well, hello there miss smiley! and what grade are you in?”
or the time I had a man in a purple jumpsuit struggle his way back up to the counter and stand before me mid-fake-coughing fit.
yes, it was fake. I could tell.
he stood there gasping and hacking and turning red from his efforts at pretend coughing. so I stood there and politely watched him choke. finally he pulled out some money and shoved it in my hand. “that… *fake cough*… BBQ sauce you gave me… *fake cough. cough.*… it was hot!!!” I asked him which sauce he had ordered. he paused and thought. “well… uh… hot.”
he forgot to cough.
“oh, I’m sorry, sir,” I said with the money still lying there limply in my hand. mentally I added, “how could I forget to warn you that the hot sauce was hot?”
now that his fake cough was momentarily healed and I could hear his voice, I noticed that it matched his purple jumpsuit… strange. “it’s all right. it’s all right,” he said with a purple jumpsuit smile, “but I heard that dairy is good for a cough… *relapses into pretend coughing again*… so I’d like to order a brownie.”
brownie delivered and eaten in front of me. purple jumpsuit man miraculously healed of his cough. Dr. Renee had done it again.
***
but not everyone who comes into the restaurant lights up my day just because they are weird.
as strange as this sounds, I am coming to a conclusion in life: I think angels appear to humans as BBQ-eating, older, black gentlemen.
you heard me right.
no, I am not crazy. (hey, they haven’t proven it yet anyways…)
a few weeks ago, I was feeling impatient. about everything. I was feeling like I’m at a standstill in life. I don’t know about college, I don’t know about work, I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, I don’t know anything. I’m just an eighteen-year-old girl with big dreams (that sounds so Disney. yuck.) in a big world with lots of big people doing big things about their big ideas and yeah. too many big thoughts for one little person like me.
because there I was. stuck at work. sweaty. not having a particularly sparkling sort of day. I was feeling impatient because I want certain things to happen in my life, but I don’t know when they will or how they will.
basically, if we had scrubbed the makeup off my pretend mood that day, you would have seen a big ugly “I WANT WHAT I WANT NOW” pimple glaring angry red at you.
but with my mask on, I trudged out into the dining room to see if anyone needed anything. and that’s when I saw my angel.
he was sitting alone at a booth looking out the window.
“Sir,” I said like the meek little person I was pretending to be, “Can I clear your dishes for you?”
he turned and looked at me with his grave, old eyes and replied with a “thank you, yes”.
“how was everything tonight?” I asked.
as I spoke, it was as if I had dropped a light into the deep wells of his midnight eyes… I watched them sparkle brighter as my lantern of words fell from my mouth.
“young lady,” he said smiling, “have you ever seen a plate licked so clean?” I watched his face and forgot to look at the plate BEFORE I shook my head in agreement. I couldn’t look away from him. he was so interesting. the corners of his mouth turned up and created a sprinkling of wrinkles on weathered face. “I bet it’s nice working around all this delicious food,” he continued.
I mentally shook my brain awake and managed to say, “yes, but unfortunately I can’t eat as I work… so it’s sort of torturous.”
“well,” and he grabbed his hat as he spoke, “you know what they say…”
no, I didn’t know what they said. who are “they” and what do they “say” I wanted to know!? I was afraid he wouldn’t finish. he stood up slowly. I continued to stare.
“… they say that the good things in life are worth waiting for.”
and with that he left me standing there lost in thought. I had needed to hear that. to be reminded that waiting isn’t a bad thing. especially when I’m waiting on God. who is the author of good things.
when I looked up again, he was at the door. he walked out. I haven’t seen him since. kind of strange considering it was plate-licking good food…
***
but I guess I should explain now how me and my fellow Mexican co-workers save the world.
last week, I was working front cash-register. it was around three in the afternoon and the restaurant was dead. not a sign of intelligent life anywhere. because, of course, me and Reyes were not being very intelligent as we waited for the dinner rush to arrive. he’s shorter than me (as most Mexicans and, in fact, as most of the human race, are) and so we were goofing off by walking around the restaurant like midgets and giants. for once, I let him be the giant, and I got to be the midget. he likes it when I’m the midget. he stands on his tip-toes and towers over me and bosses me around.
it’s silly, but whatever.
as we were goofing off, a family walked into the restaurant. a husband and wife, their two kids, and a very old looking couple… probably the grandparents or great-grandparents. I stood up straight and walked casually back to the register awaiting their orders.
they took a long time looking at the menu. longer than usual. so I silently played a game called, “evaluate these total strangers as fast as I can”. my first evaluation led to several beliefs: one, they did not eat out very often. two, they weren’t very well-off. three, they were stressed. and four, the little four-year-old girl with big glasses and her five-year-old brother were the cutest little kids I had seen in a long time.
finally, they ordered. I rang up their bill. it was high. the grandparents didn’t offer to pay. they stood there stonily.
the mom reached into her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “we’ll put $25 on here and use another card for the rest.” I smiled at her tired face and nodded.
the card was declined. she looked flustered and her husband looked concerned as he took the card back from me. “here, just use this one,” she said shoving another card into my hands. the grandparents looked gloomily on. but the kids were smiling as they waited for their food. this card worked and I handed it back to the lady and tried to catch her eye as I handed her the receipt. she was too busy listening to her husband talk about the declined card.
Reyes and I got the food ready, and then he went in the back. I stayed up front and pretended to clean already clean counters as I watched this family.
after a bit, I worked up the courage to stroll out there. “how was everything today?” my voice automatically said. they all agreed it had been very good, and a bunch of empty plates blinked their assent back at me.
“look, I ate all of my food!!!!” the little girl said to me. her big eyes watched me through her strong lenses. There wasn’t a scrap of food left on her plate. the boy called my attention to his empty plate too and I saw the mom smile at her kids. I could tell this had been a special treat to them. all of them.
“I’ll be right back to clear your plates,” I said more to myself than to them as I walked away. my heart was racing and I marched straight into the office where Reyes was spinning in his chair talking to one of the dish washing guys.
“Reyes, I need a cookie.” I said it before I had even thought about it.
“a cookie, honey?”
“Yeah, one of those really big ones. I saw them in the fridge. I’ll pay for it later.”
“why do you need a cookie?”
“for those little kids,” and I gushed as much of the story to him as I could in five seconds.
“all right,” he said. he was smiling. he was curious. he probably thought I was crazy. but he was interested. and behind his smile, there was a question.
I walked back out to the table. the stony grandparents. the bubbling kids. the worn parents. I smiled at them all. bending down closer to the mom, I asked, “do you mind if I bring out a cookie for the kids to share? the cookies are really big, and I thought they might enjoy sharing one.”
she looked surprised. then her surprise metamorphosed into a grin. when she smiled like that, she lost about ten years. “what is it?” the husband asked.
“she wants to bring the kids a cookie.”
“a cookie!!!!?” the two little ones cried. “can we mom?” she laughed and said that would be fine.
so I floated back to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest cookie I could find and carried it back out to the kids as if it had been the Superbowl trophy. they all thanked me again and again. the kids. the parents. even the grandparents.
I felt a little silly again as I walked away. what was a cookie?
but it struck me.
a cookie is a smile. and that family was in need of a smile.
as I got ready to leave work, I called Reyes over. “I still need to pay for that cookie,” I explained. he smiled again with that question behind it.
“They needed that cookie.”
he gave me the total. I think he charged less than he should have. but as I dug around in my wallet, I couldn’t find any dollar bills. “I think I’m going to have to use my card.”
just then, one of the other guys I work with walked over. he had seen me give the cookie to those kids. and he had been watching me try to find the money to pay for it. he had the same questioning smile that Reyes had. he gently pushed me away from the register and pulled out his own money. “I got it,” he said to me.
I walked out to my car that day and remembered that just because there is a lot of bad in the world, doesn’t mean that there can’t be a lot of good. and sometimes, it’s the super tiny, almost embarrassingly insignificant things that can brighten someone’s day.
I think I’ll open a cookie stand. it’ll only cost you a smile.
***
well, this letter was crazy long. congrats if you made it to the end.
until next time,
muffin
19.7.12
the moving days
dear muffin,
today saw the start of real packing. school room = bomb scene. we went through all our books & sorted them into keep, throw away, give away, & sell piles. emphasis on piles. everywhere.
today saw the start of real packing. school room = bomb scene. we went through all our books & sorted them into keep, throw away, give away, & sell piles. emphasis on piles. everywhere.
also got to thumb through
some old notebooks, which was simultaneously horrifying & hilarious. really,
I don't think any kid went through so many handwriting transformations as this
one. there were some sketchbooks, too, & "Queen Kristen and princessess" was
a repeated theme. not sure whether the "princessess" were supposed to be Queen
Kristen's daughters, friends, slaves, or papparazzi... but they were all at
least two heads shorter than the Queen herself. humility at its best.
it's strange going through
old schoolbooks. it throws me right back into that chair, pencil in hand, with
the schoolroom lights burning on my neck while I scribble my way through
workbooks. doesn't seem like that long ago, but so much has changed. & it's
changing again.
it's not that I dislike the new place. but
it's just that: new. at least, as new as a 40-year-old house can be. the
stairs creak unfamiliarly, like they do at a new family's home when we go for dinner and ask polite questions in an effort to get to know each other. who are
you? what is your story? where did you grow up?
I grew up on 731 New Mexico Court, in the
house that used to be orange. the house with the pine tree out front that hosted
mourning doves every spring until we cut the tree down. somewhere in the front
yard is buried a pile of my eight-year-old treasures: pretty pieces of broken
glass & small toys sacrificed for a pirate's cause. in the back yard was
buried a time capsule that my brother & I opened only two days later, after
a summer rainstorm washed away its cover.
I've lived here since I was 5 years old,
and anything prior is a mere scrap of memory, a snapshot image of a yard filled
with sun or a porch looking out onto a street I can't quite
picture.
this town is my town.
***
***
leather burns against my skin as I slide
into the back seat of the car. my brother buckles, revs the engine, & turns
the radio up to blasting. country station. I know the lyrics by heart. my
seatbelt clicks into place, the windows roll down, & we back over the curb
at the end of our driveway. Mr. Thomas waves before disappearing into his garage
next door. my brother turns the car 360 & punches the gas.
sun in my eyes, wind in my hand as I trace
waves out my window. the town slips between my fingers; I see my siblings
laughing in the front seat, noiseless as the whole car throbs with bass from the
radio. I can feel the song pulse through my ribcage. my sister's cheeks are
pulled tight with laughter & judging by my brother's facial expression, he's
singing falsetto right along with Taylor Swift.
scenes flick by my window. the Chinese
lady walks her little black dog. the older gentleman sits in his lawn chair,
watches traffic. the marquee displays time & temperature. my brother
instinctively squeezes the brakes as we pass the police station, then picks up
speed once clear of dutiful enforcement radars.
this town is my town.
sometimes I feel as if we owned it, my
siblings & I; as we walk through the parking lot & up to the sliding
doors of Food4Less, I momentarily have the irrational feeling that we could take on the world. the
cashier recognizes us with a laugh; since we can be found roaming the aisles at
least three times per week, a few employees have begun to remember us. she asks
us how we're doing, & we ask her how the cancer treatment is
going.
we're back in the car, headed home with
groceries in hand. my brother suddenly turns down the radio and says quietly,
"you know, it's strange. this move is going to be the end of an era. 'the Elk
Grove house,' we'll call it. 'remember when we lived in the Elk Grove house?'"
for a moment we stare out the windows, seeing nothing. then the radio climbs
back to a normal volume, and we drive home in silence. I know the song, but
don't feel like singing anymore.
the Elk Grove house. remember
when...?
***
***
change. it takes hold of the rug beneath our
feet & jerks it sharply. it puts normal in a blender, turns it up on high,
& hands us a fresh plate of the unfamiliar. someday this change will be the
new normal, & I will know those creaking stairs in Woodstock as well as I
once knew the ones in "the Elk Grove house." someone else will move into the
house on the cul-de-sac, and they will begin the task of memorizing the pattern
of air-conditioning cycles. they will soon learn that if you step on the right
side of the 1st, 3rd, and 5th basement stairs, no creak will give away your
midnight presence after a sibling movie night.
right now I see four blank walls & an
empty floor, windows overlooking a foreign yard full of foreign Woodstock... but
someday I will look & see my bedroom. I will glance over my shoulder &
revisit the days leading up to the moment: the boxes, the cleaning, the packing.
each memory will follow on the heels of another, forming an unbroken line
between then & now.
I'm going to miss all this. I'm going to
miss it like crazy. I'll miss the Food4Less, the goofy green-and-orange clock
tower my town built to copy Schaumburg's, the way a police car always lurks
behind the school on Biesterfield road. I'll miss being able to run over to
starbucks with you at a moment's notice.
but that's not really it. it's not the town; it's these times I'm going to miss.
because I know that life is changing fast, that it has been for a while now.
"the Elk Grove house" will forever be home to some of my favorite memories.
tonight I sat on our green basement couch,
savoring the familiar touch of knobbly fabric, and considered some of the
changes in my life up to this point. I remember hating the idea of visiting a
new church; then the pain of being torn away once we'd become attached to
it. I remember the uncertainty of starting our own little church; now I wouldn't
trade it. I'm old enough to understand that God works things out for the best,
& young enough to kick and scream anyway.
promise me you'll come fill up the new
house with new memories? it's a blank slate, ready to be scribbled on.
with some good friends to help, it shouldn't take
long to transform the newly-painted walls. I claim the yellow
crayon.
we can
open the new chapter together.
always,
rory
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