I signed a bunch of papers tonight that evidently indicate my intention to own a home east of Lake Nokomis. I got a big, fat number at the bottom of a sheet with lots of other numbers, highlighted for my convenience, and that's the big, fat number I will write on a check in roughly 6 weeks. To say that it feels surreal would be an understatement.
I've fought the home-buying escapade with every fiber of my being. I don't think homes are near the worthwhile investment they're made out to be. I think renting is easier, and for many (most?) people, the better option. I think there are lots of other nifty things I could do with that big, fat number. I think it's exciting to be unencumbered by a commitment to a place, to a silly building, to four walls of (adorable) stucco and a chain-link fence.
And I've fought it because I kept wanting to leave. I kept looking for jobs in Houston. Kansas City. Calgary. Seattle. Charlotte. New Orleans. Seven years in Minneapolis is an eternity compared to how long I stayed in other locales. Surely seven years is enough. Some of those searches led to interviews, even offers. Sometimes I turned them down because the fit didn't feel right. Or I was dating someone who felt important. Or I had a day at work that made me feel rejuvenated, appreciated, hopeful for projects ahead.
But mostly I turned them down because I wanted to drive to my parents' house on Sunday after church. I wanted to run a lap around the lake before meeting a friend for coffee. I wanted to have a meeting downtown and meet my Dad for lunch. I wanted to have dinner with my sister when she was home from college. I wanted to sit on a friend's couch, her dog's paws digging into my thighs, and watch The Bachelor. I wanted to run the same race I ran five years ago and whine about the quality of the snacks. I wanted to stand on the asphalt of a sketchy music venue and get sweaty as I danced.
Somehow over the past seven years, I managed to root myself here. And despite never feeling quite "of" this place, I've still burrowed into spaces that make me feel like I belong. So several weeks ago a house seemed like the next logical step, the digging in of fingers into soft sod, the grasp, the okay-I-will-stay.
It felt a bit like defeat, honestly. A bit like a failure of my formerly adventurous self. A weakening of my proud, independent, city-conquering gumption. I was proud of the girl who went so far away for college. Proud of the girl that joined the Peace Corps. Proud of the woman that moved to Kansas City. Proud of the woman who crafted a life in New Orleans, hurricanes be damned. I was the first born! I was the trailblazer! Thus, I was never particularly proud of coming to Minnesota. Just one more law school graduate feeling overwhelmed by their options. One more graduate who lands briefly in a parental basement because the rent is cheap and they feed you.
That feeling took a very long time to fade, and its scars still itch. I'd been so proud to be out in the world, watching from afar as my family moved to Minnesota, a state I had no intention of inhabiting. The shock of landing here was painful, and it took a very long time to admit that I was happy. It's hard to admit when you're wrong. And I was wrong in assuming my independence, my let-me-tell-you-a-story-about-my-life-far-away was what gave me joy. What gave me joy was the existence of people who listened to that story, who laughed when I laughed, cried when I cried. And living near those people made the storytelling sweeter, the terrors of life a bit less acute.
I doubt buying a house will make me crave newness less. I doubt I'll stop daydreaming about a life lived somewhere else, especially when I'm shoveling that corner lot of sidewalks. But there's a sweetness in being near one's parents, being the child that's nearby. There's comfort in finding friends that love the person that you've become, unencumbered by knowledge of who you were when you arrived. And there's joy in accepting happiness as God crafted it for you, happiness that, perhaps, includes stucco and a chain-link fence.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Friday, August 15, 2014
Aunthood Premonition
It has always been easier for me to picture myself as an aunt, as opposed to a mother. I've always known I'd hold my brother's child, a deep-rooted nugget of a feeling I first experienced when I was newly home from college and taking my kid brother out for late night seasoned fries at Denny's.
We sat in the smoking section because I was desperately trying to be cool enough to smoke (a habit that never took root, thank heavens) and Rob stared in awe at the Straight-A sister who was now chain smoking and struggling to maintain mediocrity at school. We talked about Dad. We talked about Mom. We talked about our communal high school and the teachers that ruined lives. We talked about music. And Rob, in his not-old-enough-to-drive wisdom, talked me off a ledge he didn't know existed.
I remember walking in the parking lot, smoking another cigarette by the door of a beloved Nissan, and thinking to myself, "he'll be a wonderful Dad." It wasn't a flippant feeling, not one of those "oh, you'll be great" remarks people throw around like confetti, and it wasn't something I said aloud. In that moment I just knew he'd be a Dad, and a great one.
I'm not someone who relies much on premonitions or dreams, visions of the future. My rational self discounts those hunches pretty quickly. But I've had a handful of moments where everything clears away and the image before me feels promised, indisputable. Just a snapshot and just a feeling, but I remember those moments vividly, even if the sensible side of me wants to brush them aside as wishful thinking.
And so, since standing in a Denny's parking lot in my late teenage years, I've know you were on your way, Lilly. I wasn't sure of when or whether you'd be a girl or whether you'd be born with a mad mop of hair. But I knew you were on our family's horizon, and I've been excited to meet you for roughly 15 years. I knew you'd be born to the greatest man I know, second to our father (your granddad), and after meeting your mom a few years ago, I knew you were hitting the jackpot on the Mama side, too. I knew, years ago, that you'd be lucky to be born into our family. It isn't until now that I have a keener grasp of that blessing. Luck has nothing to do with it. God gave you a gift when he gave you your parents, just as much as He gifted you to them. You'll figure that out on your own, bit by bit.
Meanwhile, welcome to the world, beloved girl! It's a glorious place, and don't let anyone tell you differently. Scarred and fallen, yes, but there's proof of God in every step and breath, which you'll learn as you grow. We have family traditions to school you in (burning Red Sox hats in fireplaces, Steak night, climbing Pinnacle, license plate game rules, Christmas Eve Mass, our Redbirds) and you'll be the inspiration for new traditions, too. And while I have no intention of sitting in a smoking section with you, I'd be honored to share a plate of seasoned fries someday and tell you how much your Dad used to drive me crazy. He'll drive you crazy, too, someday, as only the best Dads do. Cut him some slack.
When I was born our Uncle Rodney wrote an article for the paper and welcomed me, the first of his small brood of nieces and nephew. The yellowed article is tucked into my baby book and while I know I read it years ago, I don't quite recall what it said. Perhaps one of these days, little Lillian, when you're flying around on your hovercraft and watching baseball on the moon, you'll faintly recall your Aunt Rachel's blog post and smile. I hope they have a Denny's on the moon.
We sat in the smoking section because I was desperately trying to be cool enough to smoke (a habit that never took root, thank heavens) and Rob stared in awe at the Straight-A sister who was now chain smoking and struggling to maintain mediocrity at school. We talked about Dad. We talked about Mom. We talked about our communal high school and the teachers that ruined lives. We talked about music. And Rob, in his not-old-enough-to-drive wisdom, talked me off a ledge he didn't know existed.
I remember walking in the parking lot, smoking another cigarette by the door of a beloved Nissan, and thinking to myself, "he'll be a wonderful Dad." It wasn't a flippant feeling, not one of those "oh, you'll be great" remarks people throw around like confetti, and it wasn't something I said aloud. In that moment I just knew he'd be a Dad, and a great one.
I'm not someone who relies much on premonitions or dreams, visions of the future. My rational self discounts those hunches pretty quickly. But I've had a handful of moments where everything clears away and the image before me feels promised, indisputable. Just a snapshot and just a feeling, but I remember those moments vividly, even if the sensible side of me wants to brush them aside as wishful thinking.
And so, since standing in a Denny's parking lot in my late teenage years, I've know you were on your way, Lilly. I wasn't sure of when or whether you'd be a girl or whether you'd be born with a mad mop of hair. But I knew you were on our family's horizon, and I've been excited to meet you for roughly 15 years. I knew you'd be born to the greatest man I know, second to our father (your granddad), and after meeting your mom a few years ago, I knew you were hitting the jackpot on the Mama side, too. I knew, years ago, that you'd be lucky to be born into our family. It isn't until now that I have a keener grasp of that blessing. Luck has nothing to do with it. God gave you a gift when he gave you your parents, just as much as He gifted you to them. You'll figure that out on your own, bit by bit.
Meanwhile, welcome to the world, beloved girl! It's a glorious place, and don't let anyone tell you differently. Scarred and fallen, yes, but there's proof of God in every step and breath, which you'll learn as you grow. We have family traditions to school you in (burning Red Sox hats in fireplaces, Steak night, climbing Pinnacle, license plate game rules, Christmas Eve Mass, our Redbirds) and you'll be the inspiration for new traditions, too. And while I have no intention of sitting in a smoking section with you, I'd be honored to share a plate of seasoned fries someday and tell you how much your Dad used to drive me crazy. He'll drive you crazy, too, someday, as only the best Dads do. Cut him some slack.
When I was born our Uncle Rodney wrote an article for the paper and welcomed me, the first of his small brood of nieces and nephew. The yellowed article is tucked into my baby book and while I know I read it years ago, I don't quite recall what it said. Perhaps one of these days, little Lillian, when you're flying around on your hovercraft and watching baseball on the moon, you'll faintly recall your Aunt Rachel's blog post and smile. I hope they have a Denny's on the moon.
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