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

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

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

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

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

six feet & a silk flower

hello, muffin.

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

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

a graveyard.

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

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

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

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

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

sure made me think.

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

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

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

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

love always,

rory

growing pains

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

dearest rory,

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

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

and at last I found what I was looking for.

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

she loved playing pretend. I loved being practical.

and sometimes our two worlds would collide.

for example:

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

“wait, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah, growing up is hard.

it probably gets harder.

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

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

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

all things are possible with Him. especially growing up.

love,
muffin

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

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

goats & silver platters

dear muffin,

I have a confession to make.

I do not enjoy reading my Bible every day.

[now you can gasp in horror at what a terrible Christian I am.]

I've always envied the authors, bloggers, etc. who seem to love nothing more than grabbing a chai latte, settling into an overstuffed sofa, and poring over scripture for hours at a time. they always seem to discover some deep truth or application to their lives, no matter what passage they're reading. they come out refreshed & invigorated, thrilled to read through the Bible.

that's never been me.

let's be clear. I do love the Bible, in a very real way [perhaps we'll call it the Textbook Way]. there is true confidence in knowing that the answers to all of life's questions can be found between those leather covers. I love learning the practical applications from my father & pastor. I love how well everything, from relationships to politics, can work when God's simple commandments are followed by faithful hearts. I truly desire to become more like Christ in all that I do.

but when it comes to the Practical Way, waking up early each day and slogging my way through the book of Numbers... the enthusiasm fizzles. 

I read it. I wrinkle up my forehead & try to feel interested in how many bulls, rams, & lambs were sacrificed. I look for life application as I plow my way through the offering of Ahira the son of Enan (who brought a silver platter, a silver bowl, a gold pan, a young bull, a ram, a male lamb in its first year, a kid of the goats, two oxen, five rams, five male goats, and five more male lambs in their first year)... but it's hard to stay focused. especially when his offering happens to be the exact same as those of Pagiel the son of Ocran, Abidan the son of Gideoni, Ahiezer the son of Ammishaddai, Gamaliel the son of Pedahzur, Elishama the son of Ammihud, Eliasaph the son of Deuel, Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai, Elizur the son of Shedeur, Eliab the son of Helon, Nethanel the son of Zuar, and Nahshon the son of Amminadab. 

or take the "burdens of the Lord against ______" (fill-in-the-blank with your favorite ancient pagan nation.) after ten minutes of brimstones and crashing cedars of lebanon, I glaze over.

frankly, it all starts to sound the same. I lose interest. it becomes a chore, to be completed as quickly as possible.

so I sigh, disentangle myself from the couch, and start my day. and the next morning, I don't feel particularly enthusiastic about picking up my Bible and continuing. "oh...i'll do it later." without effort, I find that time begins to lapse between bible readings: days pass before I "find time" to flip to Numbers again and plow my way through the next couple of chapters.

I don't want it to be this way. I wish I loved my morning Bible reading. sometimes I do; when I happen to be reading Esther, or a familiar psalm, or a passage that jumps off the page and applies itself to my life. but all too often, as I sit down to read my Bible, I suddenly remember that mom asked me to wash the dishes, or that I need to clean my room, or that I haven't practiced harp all week. and these things seem to take precedence over my reading.

don't bother telling me that I've got it upsidedown&backwards: I know it. reading my Bible isn't about being entertained. it doesn't matter if I come away feeling warm and fuzzy. the Author included each & every verse deliberately, and even the "boring" parts are valuable for instruction and reproof.

but still my readings remained hit-or-miss, dependent on my mood & busy schedule. 

recently I read an article by Tessa Hershberger, from the e-magazine setapartgirl. [a purposeful intimacy: http://setapartgirl.com/home.html]

I encourage you to read it; she puts everything much better than I ever could.

but in a nutshell, she likened our time spent with the Lord to the time we spend with friends. for example, in order to spend time with you, I call you up & we plan a date. we don't say, "maybe we'll show up some time tomorrow, if we feel like it & you have something interesting to say, and I can't think of anything better to do;" we both commit to a specific time. we put aside our schedules for an hour or two and concentrate on each other. we don't text while talking (well, not usually ;), we don't bring our homework, we don't grab the newspaper lying on the table. when we sit down together, we both know that the time is just for the two of us.

"If we simply spend time with God when something opens up in our schedules, 'when the mood strikes,' or when we're after some kind of quick emotional fix, our relationship with Him will be little more than a selfish and half-hearted acquaintance." ::Tessa Hershberger

it suddenly dawned on me that I give more time & effort in getting to know my friends than I do my Creator. my time with the Lord needs to be purposeful, just like the time I spend with you. and even if I don't *enjoy* my reading... that doesn't make it any less of a priority.

so.

the long and short of it: I'm determined to read my Bible every day. rain or shine. I know, this seems obvious... but I've been slacking. stopping to think about it, however, I realize that nothing can be more important than putting aside distractions and spending dedicated time with the Lord.

for my life right now, it's not practical to say "I will always read my Bible at 8:00 sharp." but I can start with the first step. whether it's several chapters during breakfast or a few quick verses before a nursing exam, I want to set apart time for His Word each day.

no, that's not quite right: I don't want to.

I need to.

even if it means reading about goats and silver platters. 

your humbled friend,

rory