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. 

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

savoring the snow

dearest rory,

hi.

what's up?

if you say 'not much', then I think you are mistaken. just take a walk outside and look up at the dark clouds overhead. a trillion white frozen water droplets floating down from the sky will land on your nose and prove you wrong.

lots is up. and lots is falling down.

snow is wonderful, isn't it?

I first remember seeing snow back when I was four. we lived in Hanover Park at the time. in a duplex that we shared with a man named Larry who was almost seven feet tall and never wore a shirt. the garbage hill was just across the street. so was our neighbor who owned an iguana. but that's besides the point.

that winter we had a huge snowstorm. my sidewalk transformed itself into a tunnel and I still remember the feeling of walking through it, dragging my sled behind me as I hurried towards the garbage hill. yeah... the garbage hill doubled as a sledding paradise.

I don't remember much else about that sledding trip or winter, but I remember loving the snow.

doing school was difficult yesterday. not because the work was hard, but because there was a swirling world of whiteness blowing past my window. several times I realized that I had let my eyes drift from my math book to our front pine tree, watching the snowflakes build up on the evergreen branches. I guess the accumulating snowflakes were more interesting than the compound interest rates failing to accumulate on my notebook paper.

I was thinking about how cool it is that such small things like snowflakes can change the world. they make the winter grass go from brown to bright white. they cover even the dirtiest spots and make them clean.

snow always reminds me of Christ.

Jesus is holy. He is pleasing in the sight of God. when He came to earth and was killed, He took our sins upon Himself, upon the cross, and redeemed us, His children. and He didn't stay dead, but He defeated death and gave us the hope of eternal life. He wiped our accounts clean so that when we stand before God, He doesn't see our filth- He sees Christ's blood- He sees perfection.

one Man's sacrifice changed the world. one Man's sacrifice is slowly coloring our grungy world white.

Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe. sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.

yesterday I was confined to watching and dreaming about that beautiful world from a window, but today my friends and I went on an adventure and rearranged several million of those snowflakes.

all of us arrayed ourselves in warm sweatshirts, colorful hats, flowing scarves, and poofy snowpants, climbed to the top of a hill, and plowed new courses in the snow as we screamed and laughed and tumbled through it. our sleds carved paths as we sailed down the hill, sending snow in every direction- including backwards into our pink faces.

someone had the bright idea to build human ramps that would launch our sleds into the sky and hopefully set us gently on the ground again. the guys lined up and braced themselves while a sled packed with girls raced towards them. sounds smart, right?

let's just say the ramp failed.

oh we sailed through the air, all right. but we were no longer on our sleds. those were imbedded into the sides of the guys. and I wouldn't really say we had a smooth landing- but we did have a lot of laughs as we rolled through fluffy whiteness.

in the end, our noses got a little chilled, our knees got a little wet, and our hair got a little attacked by our hats. but we had a blast.

and afterwards we went to Wendy's where my cheesy potato and medium coke commited suicide by jumping off the tray and exploding on the floor.

it was humiliating. but I was grateful for friends who could laugh with me.

I'm glad for the snow. for the memories I have surrounding it. for the way it reminds me of Christ's love for us. for the friends I have to play with in it.

what's your favorite snow memory?

your friend,

muffin

life is a highway

my dear rory,

happy new year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eighteen years seems like a long time.

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

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

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

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

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

love,
muffin

friendly couches

dear rory,

it is kind of late. and guess what?

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

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

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

okay, well, not really.

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

but I felt the need to write.

so I wrote.

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

“dearest rory,

I am writing to you from a foreign couch.

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

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

like the couch in your basement.

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

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

many more happy memories followed.

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

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

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

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

that couch is always happy and warm.

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

oh there are so many more couches that I love!

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

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

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

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

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

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

the end.

wait, the end?

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

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

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

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

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

like couches.

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

good night my dear friend!

love,
muffin

growing pains

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

dearest rory,

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

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

and at last I found what I was looking for.

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

she loved playing pretend. I loved being practical.

and sometimes our two worlds would collide.

for example:

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

“wait, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah, growing up is hard.

it probably gets harder.

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

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

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

all things are possible with Him. especially growing up.

love,
muffin

along came autumn

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

dear muffin,

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

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

it's fall.

just like that.

no warning; no rewind button. no denial. 

yipes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you know. that summer.

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

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

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

am I also sad? yes. yes I am. 

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

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

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

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

always,

rory

land of the free - home of the brave

dear rory,

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

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

imagine this:

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

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

now imagine this:

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

now imagine this:

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

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

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

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

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

it was a devastating time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God bless America!

love,
muffin

beautifully broken

dear rory,

beauty.

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

what exactly is beauty?

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

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

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

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

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

for instance:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and so he sang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God is so good.

love,
muffin

after the storm

muffin! oh hi. =]

firstly I ought to warn you that there is nothing of importance in this post. seekers of wisdom or profound sayings, go no further. consider yourself duly warned.

so. I basically love this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DPbJorCcNw

[hear it out & let it grow on you.] How have I not heard them before?!

note:: please do not tell me you've known about them since you were 4. you would simply be joining the masses of humanity who all seem to have been born with mumford&sons playing in the background, while I frolicked around in musical ignorance. 

second note:: I have heard OF them before. but for the longest time their name simply swirled through the dim, cobweb-y recesses of my brain along with similarly unknown artists such as [don't judge]

selena gomez

fallout boy

florence + the machine

eminem

flogging molly

I know nothing about their music [although maybe I have unconsciously heard songs of theirs without realizing who they were]. these are all names that are stuck in my head, surfacing every time I hear someone mention them. perhaps someday I'll look them up on youtube simply so I can say, "oh him? yes, of course; such a talented vocalist," or "she's rather too eclectic for my taste, though I'm hardly one to judge," as the need arises. we'll see.

And after the storm, 

I run & run as the rains come

And I look up... I look up...

So yesterday I had the privilege of tickling two pairs of little feet, cleaning two little faces, & being a policeman chasing two little "bad guys" all afternoon. oh yes. I make a fearsome policeman, you'd better believe it. However, I will not vouch for my ability to construct jails, as my prisoners tended to escape under cover of giggles.

I like little people. in all their sticky, banana-mushing, toy-throwing glory. granted, it's tiring to keep up with them: their ability to wreck everything within reach never ceases to amaze me.

But at the end of the day there's nothing like tucking a small person into bed with a favorite blankie, humming Amazing Grace until breathing steadies & imagination takes flight.

[side note:: it's funny that you wrote about memories in your last letter. they've been on my mind lately, too. memories fascinate me... moments imprinted on grey matter, postcards to be read&reread for years after the postmark. touching one brings an overwhelming flood of emotion: happy or sad or jolly or miserable or the rush of butterflies against your ribs. never wearing out with frequent use; dimming only through disuse. what a concept.]

Alrighty. Gotta run. My song has ended & my toast is merrily burning in the toaster. [not sure which is the greater calamity.]

Always,

rory

visiting & paving memory lane

dear rory,

why do we become attached to inanimate objects?

at the moment I am sitting in my camper. i spent some of the afternoon standing on top of it. scrubbing away the dirt. washing it clean. shining it up. making it glow under this unrelenting august sun.

we’re going to sell this beloved hunk of metal, plastic, wood, cloth, and three-year-old dead ladybugs. we're going to sell my camper.

this camper is just a product. there were hundreds of others made exactly like it, and now it is considered an old model. maybe even ancient. nothing special about it... right?

what this camper is made of isn’t special to me. it’s what made this camper special that is.

when i look out of the camper window right now, i don’t see my small backyard.

i see 6:30 a.m. somewhere in wisconsin. a few ambitious kids are gathered around a barren fire-pit, and in the distance someone is hauling a load of firewood in a wagon. i see matches and lighters and newspapers. a spark begins to catch. i see proud faces, toothy grins, and high-fives all around. i see the adults waking up and coming out of their campers. breakfast sizzles over the new-born flames. and after a day of running, biking, and swimming, i see millions of stars blanketed across the midnight sky.

when i close my eyes, i don’t hear my sister talking, my dog panting, or an airplane overhead.

i hear rain tapping on the canvas roof. i hear birds singing (it sounds like some of them are screaming, good heavens!). i hear people chatting and laughing around picnic tables. wood crackles and children cry out with delight at the sight of a toad. my friends are calling me to hurry up and get ready so we can bike to the lake.

why is it so hard to get rid of inanimate objects?

i tried explaining my sadness in losing those memories to my dad. he asked me if my mind would be wiped clean once the camper was sold.

i guess he's right in a way. the memories will always be there. even if the object of those memories is not.

am I sad that my camper is being sold? yes. will it be sad to watch the source of many memories be bought by some random stranger? yes.

but i’ve noticed something about happy memories... you can always make more if you want to.

make some happy memories with me?

much love,

muffin