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

of muffins & birthdays

once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, there were two little girls. 

the first little girl had curly golden hair & bright green eyes. The other had stick-straight brown hair chopped in a bob & a smile that never showed her teeth. they had known each other since forever [which is code for "I can't remember how long"]. 

one day, after being in the same sunday school class together, the golden-haired girl got hold of a phone & called the girl with the bob. "hi. do you want to be friends?" she asked as one five-year-old to another. frankly, I have no idea what the brown-headed girl said in reply. I hope it was good. but whatever the response, it marked the official beginning of a friendship.

later, the two girls took a tap dancing class together. this involved dressing up like sailors & dancing to a song about the good ship lollipop. the golden-haired girl's outfit was complete with a green cast wrapping her broken arm, making her look like a hardcore child athlete. beside her, her devoted brown-haired friend diligently tapped her shoes in a toneless clatter [when she wasn't dissolving into hysterics before a performance, that is. but that's a story for another time].

time ran along, and the brown-haired girl left with her family to attend a different church. for a while, the two friends went separate ways. until, that is, one night when their fathers happened to meet at a homeschool support group meeting. I believe there was some sort of ensuing conversation involving various points of controversial theology. whatever the case, on the way home, the brown-haired girl's mother announced that she had invited the golden-haired girl's family over for dinner.

eyes widened all across the backseat. "but, mom... we don't even remember them! what if we don't like each other?"

they need not have worried. judging by the number of sleepovers, taco bell birthdays, ding-dong ditchings, movie nights, starbucks runs, & shopping dates that were to come, I'd say they didn't mind each other terribly.

years passed, and the girls grew taller. well, one of them did. the golden-haired girl started to be asked, while shopping at the mall, whether she was Taylor Swift. and suddenly, as life began to swirl faster around them both, the brown-haired girl began to realize how blessed she was to have such a friend.

as she sat in class on the first day of November, the brown-haired girl mused on the passing of years & the growing of friendships. & in particular she thanked the Lord for that dear golden-haired girl who called her up one morning & asked to be friends.

so. as the years continue to roll along, I hope you'll always keep your eyes on the One who made you & who delights to see you grow in maturity. keep smiling, keep loving, keep forgiving, keep learning from your mistakes. never let go of your calling as a follower of the only One whose opinion of you matters. 

happy birthday, muffin. now go eat some cake before I come over & eat it for you. =]]

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