where the blacktop ends...

dearest rory,

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

I have been partying it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but God is good at giving reminders.

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

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

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

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

I love the cabin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so was I.

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

love you muchly,
muffin

watercolor windowpanes

dear muffin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

always,

rory