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,

rory

if You are willing

hullo, muffin.

I tasted Spring today. it was fresh & lively & tried to knock me off my feet, but I was too quick for it. I dashed between classes & grinned like an idiot when the wind tossed my scarf into my face. 

confession: my commute this morning was slightly south of legal. I accidentally left my wallet + drivers license in the car my sister drove away in, & therefore drove sans license. incognito-like. no joke, I passed more police cars than you can shake a stick at. (don't try. they don't like it.) probably looked like a guilty juvenile delinquent as I passed each one. thankfully, they did not pull me over for looking suspicious... & I must admit, it had been a while since I stuck quite that closely to the speed limit.

lecture today was about death. pediatric death. 4-year-olds with cancer, 2-year-olds with Severe Combined Immunodeficiency. we moved from there into child abuse. let's just say that walking out into the blinding sunlight after class was comforting... & I'm once again reminded of how much I have to be thankful for. how very many things (read: people) I'm attached to, & precisely how little control I have over their presence in my life. hold on loosely, but soak up every moment we're blessed to share with each other. perhaps down the road we'll find ourselves looking back at today.

[why yes. oncology lectures tend to leave me feeling melancholy.]

on a side note, Thomas Edison hit me squarely in the face today. oh yes. dead people have a way of doing that. I was in the middle of telling myself how very bad it is indeed that I must be stuck studying on such a beautiful day. and then up popped ol' Thomas, saying--

"Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls & looks like work." ::Thomas Edison

so yeah. been chewing on that one all day.

 

it's neat how words hold a thought in place until you can absorb it. they give you time to mull a thing over, breaking apart & putting together until something clicks. these days, I've found myself becoming increasingly fond of matthew 8:2:

“Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean.”

read it again.

if You are willing.

the leper didn't say, "give me what I want!!" and then squeeze his eyes shut and believe God would do it.

If You are willing. 

the leper believed that God can. he believed that, if He was willing, He would do it. I lose grasp of this so easily. my request is not the ultimate goal-- it is the means by which my simple mind learns trust. if You are willing, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will be done. and if You are not... then I'll know it wasn't the best way. after all, perhaps my leprosy is the best thing.

simple thoughts for a simple day. but sometimes I just need to be reminded of this.

so perhaps I'll put my mile-long list of requests on hold for the moment & focus on what I've already been given. the 4-year-olds I know who do not have cancer, & the beautiful days I can enjoy even from a window.

with that said, I'm off to read more about pediatric death.

go hug the closest kid for me, okay?

love always,

rory

sunshine in february

oh hey rory,

this eighteenth of February was a sparkling sort of day. it was sunny. it was warm-ish. my belly was quieted with the yummy contributions of pizza and rice-krispy squares and lattes and popcorn and grilled potatoes. the baby sister completed two laps in Mario Kart all by herself, I got to see my friends, dad helped me come up with the plot for a new story, and strawberry icecream is now waiting for me in the freezer.

at the moment, the dog is sleeping near my feet, hymns are vibrating off my eardrums via Pandora, mismatched fuzzy socks are warming my toes, and I am sitting on the couch with my hair piled into a knot on top of my head feeling the necessity to organize my thoughts into words.

today had the feeling of summer about it.

there was a giddiness in the air that made me want to skip around the block singing a song at the top of my lungs…

just kidding. that would be weird.

but you know what I mean. today was happy. it was like having July in February.

when I woke up this morning and suggested that after going to Starbucks we play Mario Kart and go see a movie at the dollar theater, lauren looked at me strangely and asked what was up.

(as if I’m not usually more fun than a barrel of monkeys… pft.)

well… I guess I *have* been sort of out of it lately. you see, two weeks ago, I had something strange happen to me. I lost most of my vision in my left eye, lost feeling in my right arm, and was so weak I could barely stand. I couldn’t remember most of what had happened that day or what I had said or done. and I was tired. oh so tired. mom was really worried about me and offered to take me to the hospital, but I said I would rather just go to bed.

I laid in bed for awhile thinking that maybe I was going to die. maybe this was the end. maybe eighteen trips around the sun was all the time I had been allotted in this life. and the weirdest part of it all was that I didn’t care. eighteen years seemed long enough. in fact, living for eighteen years had been exhausting. draining really. I was ready to close my eyes and sleep forever.

instead, I slept basically from Sunday night until Tuesday morning.

and since then, I have still been tired and weak and my mind has felt foggy, but my heart is beating and my brain is functioning and I’m ready for more adventures in life. I’m ready to travel many more miles with this planet I live on.

today was the first day I woke up and really felt like my mind was a bit clearer. I think the sun helped. the brightness made wanted to curl up in front of the window and lay still enough to feel my skin absorb the light. and I think I would have done that, but for the fact that my mind, which had been mostly idle for two weeks, was ready to do something besides math.

it’s funny how being sick can give you a new appreciation of life. how the seemingly small things suddenly feel so significant. how every memory begins to glow.

I had a lot of time to think these past two weeks. I went through a lot of my past and realized how much I have to be grateful for… from the big things: family, friends, church, home, food, clothes, etc… to the small things: every drop of rain, every pink-clouded sunset, every smiling face, every loving glance, every warm touch, every kind word, etc.

I realized how my existence has mostly been written with happy sounding chapter titles. sure, my life hasn’t been perfect. like any story, there have been sad parts. there have been parts that I wish I could’ve skipped over or seen coming. and I know that there will be chapters in the future that may not be easy reading. they may be tedious or boring or depressing or scary.

I know there will come a time when this chapter I’m living in will end. when the days of waking up to having my whole family under one roof will be over. I might not see the corner of my dad’s mouth tilt up in an ornery smile as he walks through the door with some surprise for all of us. I might not smell my mom’s perfume as I bury my head in her shoulder and spill out my heart. I might not get to stay up chatting for hours with my middle sister. I might not get to feel the three-year-old's head on my chest as she settles into a deep sleep.

someday, church fellowship meal might not mean the same thing it does now. it might not mean having the people I love most all sitting within a close proximity, laughing at pointless jokes and sarcasm, having one of the boys pick up a Frisbee and call everyone out to play. it might not mean all of us running through the green grass of the huge soccer field barefoot, feeling like nothing in the world could stop us from having a grand time. it might not mean cameras and shining eyes and ready smiles and funny stories and bright hopes.

but despite all of this, despite past memories both good and bad, despite future events both good and bad, one thing I do know is this: God is reigning. He is Sovereign. He is in control. He has a plan for my life and for the lives of those around me.

God is always right there. in every shining moment. in every dark time.

and I know that the sun is always shining. in every clear, blue sky. behind every dark, intimidating cloud.

am I happy to be alive? why yes. yes, I am.

love,
muffin

life, death, & microwave popcorn

dear muffin,

I admit; the title is a little dramatic. humor me. :)

lately I've been musing. [which can look remarkably similar to day-dreaming. ahem.] there's nothing like a lengthy to-do list for bringing it on: that pensive mood in which one sits at one's desk, stares at one's wall, & considers the meaning of one's life. 

actually, I'm not sure it's fair to blame the to-do list. I tend to feel this way at the beginning of a every new year. 

December is too hurried for musing. from the time it starts with a tentative shopping trip, to its careening, late-night end on New Year's Eve, December feels like one long party: a blur of snowy sparkles & Christmas lights & curling steam from piping-hot mugs. piles of shoes in the doorway & lighted candles & enough food to feed several small armies. if there is time for a thought, it's only a brief moment of overflowing wonder at God's goodness. or else an incoherent bursting of happiness in general.

but December 31st has a tendency to be followed by January 1st. [funny how that happens.] the party spins to an abrupt end & leaves us reeling in its wake. the Christmas tree comes down & festive decorations go into hibernation. everyone puts their Christmas cheer into a cardboard box in the attic, and, without a second thought, life is back to normal.

I can still see the Christmas lights in my rearview mirror. a carol is ringing in my ears, & there are a few leftover cookies on the counter. but suddenly I'm looking down the runway of an entirely new year. what just happened...?

whatever it was, it's over now. with heads full of memories & hearts full of warmth, it's time to go back to normal. we restart the mill of everyday life & enter the cycle all over again.

thanks, but I'd rather not. in fact, I'd prefer to stay in my pajamas, make popcorn, & watch December 2011 on repeat. keep the glow alive. 

Who invented January, anyway? a long, dreary month painted in shades of grey... it's something of a letdown after December's vibrant color. see that puddle of melted salted slush? let's sit there awhile. I'll write a monologue on the cruel passage of time & you can sing a lament for glory days past. 

but that's the pessimistic outlook. put on your perspective glasses & you'll see things differently. here we are, blinking in the winter sunlight. our lungs breathe sharp air; around us, as far as we can see, blessings line up for us to count. air with oxygen, lungs for breathing it; love, joy, & hearts for holding it. friends & family to share the road. the page has been turned by the strong Hand that wrote our stories long before we arrived to live them; here is a gift. a new year. a year of beginnings & continuings & perhaps even some endings. grab a blank to-do list, pull that cute new Christmas hat over your ears, & burst out into the fresh snow. make tracks; leave snow angels; outside, there's a whole new year waiting to be traveled. make plans & start afresh, never letting proverbs 16:9 slip from your gaze.

surely this is how Lewis & Clark felt the day they set out to cross this side of the world.

so: away, dreariness! we're looking at a blank canvas; let's not start with a haphazard streak of watercolor. break out the acrylics & ask a five-year-old how to fingerpaint.

I'm not one for new year's resolutions [any more than other-day resolutions, anyway], but if I had to choose one, it would be this:

use well the days.

happiest of new years to you, friend. 

always,

rory

winter winds

dear muffin,

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

[is that a word?]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

why am I not more grateful?

***

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

::make gingerbread men

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

::knit an outrageous orange scarf

::inflict said scarf upon the world

::spend time

::enjoy the little moments

::be grateful

[among many, many others.]

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

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

always,

rory

thanks for nothing

dear rory,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God is so good.

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

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

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

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

yep.

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

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

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

love you,
muffin

0500

dear muffin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must have looked uncertain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's a strange business. 

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

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

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

always,

rory

where the blacktop ends...

dearest rory,

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

I have been partying it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but God is good at giving reminders.

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

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

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

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

I love the cabin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so was I.

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

love you muchly,
muffin

six feet & a silk flower

hello, muffin.

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

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

a graveyard.

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

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

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

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

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

sure made me think.

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

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

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

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

love always,

rory