America

A little over a week ago I ran the New York City Marathon.  That's me in the blue shirt and strawberry blonde ponytail. The day was gorgeous, the experience perfect. In the week since I've had my share of exasperated conversations, texted with many bewildered loved ones, and bitten my tongue frequently. I know every election is difficult and polarizing.  I know that my beliefs differ from many people that I care for and admire. And I know that I care for and admire many people whose political views would offend my more conservative/liberal friends. The disdain and misinformation would go both ways, cut equally deep.

I count myself lucky.  Because the vast majority of folks feeling exhausted or scared or exasperated by this election did not have the opportunity to run or witness the NYC Marathon. It's probably a privileged and naive perspective, but I do not believe you can feel hopeless after witnessing or being a part of such a thing. Before the race I chatted with a dozen different folks, over half of which did not share my uber-Irish skin tone. As I waited at the start line, I got turned around and couldn't figure out where the water station was located. I asked the nearest volunteer and she replied, with a big smile and an accent that could have been Mexican (or any other accent that a non-Spanish speaking American would assume was a Mexican accent), "oh here, just take my water bottle, good luck" and she thrust it into my hand before jogging off to help another runner. As we waited for our wave to be called, I chatted on the grass with a young, black woman who was running NYC as her first marathon. I never caught her name. But I know that she is as emotionally attached to her Sauconys as I am to my Asics. I gave her one of my packs of gummy chews because I accidentally bought a lemon-lime flavor that she liked and I loathed. I hope she finished happy.

My name was written on my shirt and as I ran I heard my name yelled in multiple accents, some I could place and some I could not. Hearing shouts of encouragement from strangers is always helpful. But hearing my name shouted by folks who placed the emphasis in a quirky place or used a short "a" instead of a long struck me as infinitely more powerful. If Heaven is an actual, physical place, I believe it to be full of strangers who warmly welcome you in hundreds of accents.

I do not discount the distress many feel due to the election. I do not discount the distress that lead many to vote for someone I believe does not have their interests at heart. Fear is a mighty, often irrational thing and it has the ability to steer us both away from and towards violence, destruction, apathy. So I do not want my optimism to come across as ignorant or flippant. I only know that my experience two days before the election made me hopeful, and I have tried to remind myself of that feeling in the days that have followed.

Sometimes we are runners, and sometimes we are on the sidelines.  Sometimes we speak in a language that is immediately understood, and sometimes our perspective is accented, easily confused for threat or ignorance. Sometimes we experience danger, and sometimes we struggle to believe danger exists. I am as much at fault for my personal bubble and bias as those who voted differently from me. But I have heard my name spoken with joy and encouragement in accents far flung from my Southern and Midwestern roots and I am hopeful America will continue to be a place where we can fling encouragement as emphatically as insults. I have hope that the words we choose and the actions they underscore will strengthen our bonds more frequently than break them.  And I have hope that we are early in this race.  Early and pacing strong.

Godmother

I became godmother to Ava Ruth, my newest niece, a little over a week ago.  Baptists don't know much about godmothers so I will admit that my picture of such things was colored as much by Cinderella as it was by any understanding of the religious significance.

I am low on fairy dust, Ava Ru. I never had a godmother, so forgive me if I'm clumsy.

The night before I flew down to see you, I read the following in a book I'm reading (The Jesuit Guide to Almost Everything): "Seek grace in the smallest things, and you will also find grace to accomplish, to believe in, and to hope for the greatest things." It's a quote attributed to one of the first Jesuits. But it reminded me of a scratchy poem I wrote the first time I held you a few months ago.  We met on the family mountain, you'll grow up there, in pieces, and now seems as good a time as any to write it down.

Someday, when she is young but feeling old, I will tell her
I came to this mountain, our family mountain, laid her on my lap to look deep into her eyes, asked her for advice.
And I felt every itch and sway of my life in the pool of time,
wrapped in arms that carried me as a child.
I will tell her that I can wish no greater wish for her,
that when she lives in the curve of a question mark, she be steadied and windblown by
this blood,
that her fear be lessened by the gut deep din of these trees, these rocking chairs,
and that in her confusion
she find the flicker of a grill's hot coal, the warm weight of a baby,
a wink from God.
My blood is her blood
and these mountains know both of us.
We are mountains, both of us.

You're a gift, Ava Ru.  You are too young to express love, to provide encouragement, to lend a hand with the cooking. But you were everything I needed that day on the mountain. In a small, happy moment when you squirmed against my chest, threw up on my shoulder, your face was how God communicated grace to me. God is good, little love, and enormous. He is the mountain beneath us and the familiar creak of stairs and the blanket we reach for when the wind picks up. You can find him everywhere and you are loved, everywhere. As your godmother, I will do my best to show you how very big and very present he is, and I have no doubt you'll do the same for me.

"Seek grace in the smallest things, and you will also find grace to accomplish, to believe in, and to hope for the greatest things."

I Am A Woman Who Has Not Been Raped

I am a woman who has not been raped.

I am a woman who:

• walks to her car at night with her keys in the ready position (go for the eyes, they say) 
• checks beneath the car from a distance to make sure nobody is hiding underneath (they stab your ankles and throw you in the backseat)
• takes a look in the backseat before getting into the car
• runs a different route every damn day, not because she wants to, but because potential attackers could learn a habitual route
• had her bra unhooked by a jerk (still don't know who) in the crowded hall of her junior high
• has her ass slapped or grabbed by strangers at concert venues often enough to have lost count
• had a man grab her between her legs on a crowded street, and when she turned around, saw him wink at her, laughing and high fiving friends
• has accepted that some colleagues in her career will always look at her chest before her eyes, thems the breaks
• has been followed by a man on a dark, empty street long enough to cause her to start running
• texts friends before first dates with the location and fella's name, not because she's excited, but because someone should be aware "just in case"
• walks with confidence until the catcall comes, then her heart folds inwards
• was assaulted more than a decade ago and still she worries that it was her fault
• loves five dear women who have been raped 

I am a woman who has not been raped.  But sexual assault is a wound. Even on the days when living in the world as a woman feels like a gift, even on those days I walk to my car aware and ready for the pounce. It is a life lived on alert, and I am not special.  I am not unique in my anxiety on these points. These are the cuts, large and small, that bleed and scab over and leave a scar. 

I've never considered myself to be a particularly vocal feminist. Equal? Of course. But let them figure that out in their own time. I'll study hard, be a good lawyer, ignore the sexist slights along the way. But "locker room talk" isn't just sexist machismo. It trivializes every unwanted touch, every terrified moment, every rushed start of the engine because that man kept following you. It lessens the import of those slices of my life that I lost to fear, harassment, embarrassment. 

Women don't bring these things up often to the men in their lives.  We don't tell fathers or friends or brothers or husbands or boyfriends about the catcalls or the leers.  In part, it's because those occurrences aren't uncommon. But mostly, I think we often don't bring it up because we fear it makes us appear weak. We worry that a reckoning of the wounds will cause others to think of us as broken, overly sensitive, damaged. But the men we love should know, because the men we love know men who may have grabbed a woman in a bar, on a street, told her to "shake it" as she walked to work. 

The men I love should know that I am a woman that has not been raped.  And it was luck. 

Enjoying the Passage of Time

I spent the Memorial Day weekend on a road trip with my dog, a trip I'd had planned for a good while but wavered on committing to.  I made the first reservation late last fall, inspired in part by my 35th birthday.  It was an age I expected to feel momentous, maybe depressing, and instead it felt like wings. "I want to see the Badlands," I thought to myself. And thought almost immediately became action.  My little buddy of a dog just lucked out in being along for the ride.

I wavered on committing to this trip because for a period of time I thought perhaps I'd go with someone else, a boyfriend who is no longer a boyfriend. 35 year olds shouldn't have boyfriends, such a juvenile descriptor.  But guy-I'm-seeing-and-making-dinner-for-and-talking-about-important-forever-things-with is pretty clunky. It was an important relationship and for a little while, I hoped maybe I'd have someone (with two legs) beside me when I looked up at Mount Rushmore for the first time. So when that relationship ended several weeks ago, my feelings about the trip were muddled, confused. Would it feel sad? Would I be lonely? Would it feel like a trip he was supposed to be on?

The trip wasn't a life-changing, emotionally cataclysmic experience.  I always expect explosions when reality is so much quieter, more Roman candle-esque. The drive from Minneapolis to Rapid City, where I stayed, is dull as dirt for the first 6 hours.  No rolling hills, just flat, unending grassland and farm country. My dog largely slept, her head resting on my thigh from time to time. I listened to music, to podcasts, to nothing.  I talked to myself, to my dog, to everyone who'd ever wronged me, to everyone I felt the urge to apologize to.  But those conversations were short-lived and easily dismissed by a stop at a gas station, a new bag of beef jerky. I smiled at memories, cracked the window when my dog farted, and thanked God for cruise control.

I had two full days to explore and I wandered the Badlands (pictured), Black Hills, and many of their famous sites in a busy 48 hours. I was never unhappy to be alone, never embarrassed to say, "table for one," when I stopped at a restaurant. Cell reception was spotty and while occasional wi-fi allowed for photo uploads, texting with friends was largely impossible. My connection to home felt loosely tied.

I keep a list on my phone of things I'm thankful for, my running tally of gratitude. I added several things/moments over the course of the trip, little blessings and larger Roman candle bursts of emotion. I was thankful for sunshine on my shoulders, shade, the squish of mud, cheap wine, the opportunity to climb high enough to be just a little bit scared. I won't say that I never thought of being there with someone. We're relational creatures, bonds and shared experiences are gifts.  But I never wished for a shared experience instead of my solo adventure. If given the option for this trip, I'd choose solitude every time.

On the drive home I listened to a podcast, You Made it Weird with Pete Holmes, and for this episode the comedian was joined by Jimmy Kimmel. It was largely silly, a good way to pass a couple hours, listening to each of them talk about their early years, the difficulty of late night television, the pleasure and guilt associated with fortune. Near the end of the podcast Pete asked Jimmy about the meaning of life, and Jimmy referenced the James Taylor song as being the closest approximation of an answer. In the song James Taylor says that the meaning of life is "enjoying the passage of time," and in that moment I felt that was 100% accurate. Yes, there are greater, deeper meanings, love, connection, finding peace, embracing faith, seeking God.  But in all those things is also a recognition that time, for us, is finite. The minor mountain scrambles, the cool poke of a dog's nose on your hand, the juice of a peach you have to eat over the sink, the silence you find only in wilderness, enjoying those moments and the passing of them can be meaning, too. And that enjoyment is so personal, so intimately gifted by our Creator, that's what struck me on the drive home. Standing in the Badlands, sunshine beating on my shoulders, scraping my knee on one more tiny climb, I'd never be able to communicate what that felt like for me to anyone else. And for this weekend, I didn't need to try. Just feeling it was enough. Being me in that moment was enough.

Signing My Name

I've always been proud of my service in the Peace Corps. And it's important to me to use that experience, living in and being loved by an Arab Muslim community, to improve relationships stateside between Christians and Muslims, Americans and new immigrants. Islamaphobia frustrates and, at times, infuriates me. Hatred boils my blood. So signing my name to this was a given. Full release here: https://lookaside.fbsbx.com/file/2016%20RPCV%20Islamophobia%20letter.docx?token=AWyoaz-T2IYk__iA_bjCeFItZg-BpnnLPW4dCUh9iPxh7XMOXk-GwttOmYBkBCVpM4y7vaXFk5q9hGcM6_eO3ITr-qbnCV9MNE_p7h6SPoHrkg

Mid-Whisk

I was mid-whisk in a batch of pralines when I got a call that someone I love dearly was in the hospital. My head and heart did a dance, my head commenting on the price of pecans, how silly it would be to ruin another batch, my heart highlighting how easy it would be to curl up on my kitchen floor and worry, worry, worry, pralines be damned.

The pralines survived, a decent showing.  A few of the pecans were a touch dark, a bite or two may have had a hint of scorch under all that sugar and buttermilk. But I heard no complaints, I was likely the only one noticing the consequences of that mid-stir long pause.

The crisis resolved, loved one restored, pralines devoured, that moment mid-whisk has come back to me several times. It's not just that moment of worry, but the moment of peace that followed I remember. Hence, a poem.

Mid-whisk in the second batch of pralines, a call comes
Fingers sticky, bend a knuckle to swipe right, "hello?"
That voice is always calm, sad, but calm, for these moments
Always says, ..."just wanted  you to know..."

Speaker phone crackles, match each stir with a pause
Candies are delicate, need a swift, constant flutter
Smell the sugar as it heats, just shy of burning
"We'll know more soon," as I drop the butter

Remove from heat and pour in the pecans
Think, if I cry, I should cry on the floor
Or tilt my head to the side, for fear of the salt
But I don't cry, I just stir, stir some more

Dropped bit by bit on a long piece of wax,
Fingertips burned by sugared foam
Smile as each clouds, hardens, dares for a bite
Hear him always, mid-prayer, mid-whisk, in my home.

Advice

I sent an email to my kid sister as she approaches her college graduation. I racked my brain on what advice I would have appreciated 12+ years ago. The email wasn't especially long or itemized. Each sentence was a generality, a summing up of a million moments since I left college.

"...I just want you to know that even in that tough period, you're going to have grand adventures. You're going to meet fascinating people. You're going to find new forever friends, and you're going to figure out which of your current friends are the forever kind..."

Not a bad summation of what we add and subtract over the years, the trouble we get into, the people that link arms with us for an age or a season.  But I think that's the hardest advice to articulate, how to dig into people.  Friends are such a tenuous but vital part of the world we build for ourselves. It's easy to assume certain friends are part of a lifelong picture, and just as easy to take that for granted. It's easy to put up with hurt long enough for it to feel normal, and fail to see the crumbling of the railroad track until the train derails. But even the friends I've lost (by distance, by choice, by death, by silence, by chapters opened and closed) serve as some foundation for my faith in humans as a whole. The way our hearts connect to strangers, the way we intertwine our lives with people who never knew we existed prior to that first meeting, that is the stuff of heaven.

"...You're going to have to ask Mom and Dad for money. And you're going to sob when you ask. You're going to resent them as a safety net and you're going to be immensely, eternally grateful. Your brother and sister are going to buy you dinners and groceries and send you money every once in awhile, and it's going to happen right when you need it. It's going to be one of the many moments where you feel God taking care of you..."

I wasn't a particularly interested Christian for the majority of my 20s.  I played the part well when I came home for holidays but God was a nuisance or a disappointment more often than a comfort. Peace Corps, Hurricane Katrina, loss of friends and poor romantic choices, while I can look back now and recognize the protections and gentleness God provided in those painful seasons, at the time I saw God as inattentive, uncaring, and not worth my time or reflection. But there were moments I could not ignore Him. And those moments were when I felt His love pour out through the hands of my family and friends. It still happens and it will always happen, because I firmly believe people are God's greatest tool for proving His existence. C.S. Lewis said it well, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one." Recognizing ourselves in each other is a magical thing, and so often that recognition reminds me that God created us in His image. When we move the darkness aside, we see Him looking back at us in the eyes of friends. 

"...I don't have a lot of advice other than this: "Let love and faithfulness never leave you, write them on the tablet of your heart." Proverbs 3:3. When you're in a mess, when you're desperate, when you're sad or hopeful, center yourself on the life God gave you...Commit to being faithful in your relationships with friends, boyfriends, family, and complete strangers...."

I first fell in love with that verse in my early 20s.  It was written on a sachet of potpourri in a friend's bathroom (weird what sticks out to you over time). I don't remember which friend, I only remember that the writer in me loved that image. I pictured my heart as a stone, strong, heavy, but soft enough for the scratching of truths. Etching "love" and "faithfulness" seemed powerful, like those two things alone could provide all the direction one needed for a life of purpose, happiness. I've failed at both many, many times. I've damaged friendships, slung arrows with my tongue, been defensive instead of receptive, and I've cheated myself of connections every time. Committing to the connection, to the bond between us, when our instinct is to respond to surface hurts and insecurities, is very difficult. It's a skill acquired only through practice. That's why the etching into stone is key. It's a slow digging in.  We could so easily etch "self-preservation" or "fear" into our hearts.  That would take less effort, both come so naturally. Reacting to the world, to the people around us, with love and faithfulness, requires muscle that can weaken without use.

My sister's graduation comes in the same season as my 35th birthday, what feels like the very beginning of the middle of my life. It has been a season, for me, of digging into new friendships, relaxing my grip on old wounds, and reflecting on what God has given me as opposed to what He has not. I won't say I have life figured out (laughable), but I have come to a place that recognizes love and gives love with greater gusto than I've thought possible in the past. And that ability only came about through the trial and error of attempting to love God with all my heart and my neighbor as God loves me. It's a commandment I've always thought of as so simple as to be functionally impossible. But the attempt is what makes the road worthwhile. At 23. 29 (you too, little brother). 35. Forever.

Before It Closes

A couple of weeks ago I had dinner at La Belle Vie.  It was the last week of its 17 year history and I, like others, found myself struck by the fact that the restaurant I'd been saving for a special occasion was cooling its kitchen, closing its doors.

I only happened into dinner due to the invitation of a new, lovely friend. What should have been a threesome of food-loving adventurers, turned into a duo, and I think we muscled through that well. I say "muscled" only from my own perspective, and only due to the import of the restaurant, not due to any lack in my companion. I think for anyone saving an experience, they're saving it for something, someone, in particular. They're saving it for a daydream they can't shake.

The food was beautiful, the service attentive without being cloying, and the company, warm and engaging. I usually leave restaurant posts to my Minneapolis/St. Paul blog, The Minneapolite, so I suppose any dedicated reader of both blogs knows there's a different bent to this musing compared to my typical restaurant raves.

The trouble with going somewhere knowing you'll never be back, knowing you could have been a dozen times before, is that you eat the what-ifs as much as the food. The trouble with saving an experience for an unpromised future, some miraculous moment that lends itself to that specific celebration, is that experiencing it without that miraculous moment risks the experience ringing hollow.

Happily, the meal was less bittersweet than I expected. It felt, instead, like acknowledgment that saving such things is, itself, an increasingly hollow exercise for me. Perhaps it's because my Mamaw is in hospice, and because I'm weeks away from 35, and because I saw the Matterhorn this summer, and because my kid sister is graduating from college, but dinner felt more like a reminder that little is promised us on any given day. Future-oriented dreams are powerful, beautiful things.  But they also cloud our ability to embrace the day God made. This day. The one we're currently in.

My dad blogs, too. And he volunteers at a local hospice.  He comforts the dying and their families, and he answers phones and listens to the stories of people without too many days left to tell stories. In a recent post he mentioned being some folks' "last new friend," and that pierced me.  What an honored thing, to be the last new friend, to anchor a moment like that. I'm not equating moments.  I'm not comparing the eating of a meal at a storied restaurant to the connection made between a friend bound for Heaven and one still (thanks to God) likely earth bound for a while yet. But my dad's post, and his comment, made me sensitive to the time allowed us, the slipperiness of it all.

Daydreams are good and lovely things.  Days are longer without them. But when they lend themselves to saving experiences for some unpromised end, they run the risk of keeping us from the dream altogether. Saving La Belle Vie for something special meant I only had the chance to love it once, when I could have loved it dearly many times over the last few years. It's a mistake I'll try hard not to repeat.

Special can be a Tuesday. It can be a new friend.

Synthesis

When I was in 4th grade I learned about synthesis. It was a concept taught in a reading class and I first remember learning to spell it. We then, through some series of cartoons involving hamsters, learned how synthesis meant whittling down, chiseling off the fat, tidying up, taking many, many things and wrapping them in a pretty, hamster-sized bow. It was a weird cartoon.

But it stuck with me.  It made a deep impression on my brain. To this day, in interviews, when I'm asked about things I love to do, "synthesizing" information is my first answer. I like walking into a mess, learning what the mess means, and unifying disparate perspectives into a gleaming whole. It's a good fascination for a lawyer, a good trait for anyone frequently called upon to build one Something out of a million little Somethings.

My Mamaw is getting older, sicker. While I was vacationing in Italy, she was electing hospice care. I learned via email hours before I boarded a plane in Zurich and I had trouble calming down, trouble stopping the tears. It was one of those ugly cries, the kind that just rolls around in your chest all damn day. I bought a ticket to Arkansas a few days after I returned home and I'll head down to spend time with her this weekend.

As Mamaw doesn't use the computer, I've been synthesizing my trip into a manageable pile of pictures to share. And as I chose ones to print, I threw in others of the last year that spoke to what has made me happy since the last time we visited in November. A picture of me and my nearly-walking niece, a picture of me dressed to run a marathon in June, a picture of me and my sister dressed prettily on a summertime rooftop, a picture of me holding a fish I caught while fishing with my dad, a picture of my new dog.

My trip to Europe is imprinted with a Mamaw-tinged hue. And that isn't to say that Mamaw's failing health makes the memories sad or muted.  Rather, knowing someone I love won't share the planet with me indefinitely, being reminded of that, made me so impatient to tell her everything, to sit next to her with my pictures and tell her the tower in Pisa really does lean, and the Sistine Chapel is perfect. It made me thankful for every happy memory, not only because I get to share it with my Mamaw, but because I got to live it. I got to catch my breath climbing the stairs for a view of the Duomo. I got to skid down a trail with a glacier at my back. I got to drink wine with a friend and climb the stairs that Christ climbed. It made me want to treasure moments better, value gifts of friendship instead of taking them for granted, recognize the primal love of parents and grandparents without questioning their veracity, and better wipe away the meaningless fluff that surrounds every single day and bring together the essential parts to form a single, unwavering story. Who have I loved well today? And who can I thank for loving me? Synthesis, at its best.

The Good Life

This time last year I was licking my wounds a few days post-breakup and making the quasi-ridiculous decision to buy a house (again, folks, buy a new pair of shoes as retail therapy, not a house). The rest of 2014 unfolded quickly, buying my little plot of happiness in South Minneapolis, high fiving myself for reattaching cabinet doors post-painting, and settling into my first winter as a home owner. Despite the somewhat ill-advised impetus for purchasing this house, it has been nothing but a blessing since last fall. I love every quirky inch of it, even the sidewalk that's going to cost me a pretty penny to replace, even the fire alarm that mistakes a steamy shower for a life-threatening blaze. This house has made Minneapolis a home.

But I didn't know how much more of a home it would become with another beating heart inside these stucco walls. Little Debbie is six years old, a rescue I adopted almost exactly a month ago.  She's, by best guess, a mixture of basset hound and lab, and is thus a healthy mix of lazy (basset) and playful (lab). Her little butt wiggles with joy when I get home after work and she's perfectly content squeezing in between the couch cushions, tummy in the air, while I watch TV.

She tucks herself under my arm whenever I'm sitting somewhere she can snuggle into, and she thumps her tail like a drum on these hardwood floors when I'm spending too long on the computer and not paying her enough attention. The clickety-clack of her nails on the floor, her whine if I close the bathroom door in her face, the thump of her tail against my not-long-for-this-world Ikea lamp, they're noises I didn't know this house was missing.  And now that they're there, it's hard to imagine a home without her small and mighty self.

I'm infrequently frustrated by my singleness. I, of course, expected to be married by now. But, honestly, the failed delivery on that expectation has not caused me as much heartache as I think a younger me would have imagined. The fullness of my life always astonishes me, because it is so much richer than I deserve. And even in moments of great contentedness, I'm overwhelmed by how much joy God continues to delivers into my life. And Little Debbie is just one such joy, a happy, loving example of what it means to rest in the simplest things. A good walk, a good meal, a good belly scratch. You're right, little girl, it's a good, good life.

Connotation is Everything

Over the last few weeks I've been wrestling with the decision to take my career in a new direction. The decision ended up being a simple one, not simple in that it isn't causing some emotional upheaval, but simple in my feeling that it's the right path forward. Now the days ahead have the tinge of nerves that best accompany new things, a mixture of excitement and oh-heavens-what-have-I-done.

In conversations with friends over this period, some who knew of my decision, some who didn't, several times I've been met with some variation of the following:
"You always have something in the works, don't you?"
"You've always got big plans."

The connotation of the above is everything. One way, it sounds like I'm some master manipulator, constantly looking ahead to see how I might conquer new tasks, new people. It sounds cold, conniving even, as if I have no regard for the life I'm living today. Put another way, it's a bit more sunny, unafraid of risks, questioning the status quo, excited by the potential inherent in the future. Depending on my mood, and whether I'm more excited or nervous about this next step, I am equal parts hurt or encouraged by the comment.

Connotation is partly derived from the tone of the speaker, but in many conversational instances, it's equally derived from the positive or negative expectation on the part of the listener. A sneer in delivery is hard to ignore, but an imagined sneer is just as powerful and equally hard to dismiss. And as I only have my own expectations under control, it's only the imagined sneer I can fight with any success.

I don't want to live a life devoid of big plans. Or small plans. I don't enjoy sitting unless that rest is preparation for something, preparation for work, or travel, or adventure. And I think that's just one facet of my personality, perhaps not even a defining one. Ambition doesn't negate gratitude for the here and now. And I don't think ambition or restlessness or curiosity, or whatever hybrid of those traits sparks a fire in the belly, requires justification.

My best friend gave me a wall hanging of Proverbs 31:25, "She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." It isn't reflective of me on most days, but it is an aspiration. I'm not sure how often I laugh without fear of the future, without worry over my big plans. But the older I get, the less ashamed I am of the feeling in my gut that I can do more than I presently imagine.

"You've always got big plans." Yes, I do.

Number Six

This picture was taken in 2010, the year after I ran my first marathon. I'd always assumed that I'd only run one race that distance, but as soon as I crossed the finish line I knew I'd do my best to do it forever. Maybe not every year, maybe never any faster than that first one, but forever. 

When I started running I was fat. Not chubby. Obese. Nobody would have ever looked at me and thought, "that girl is destined for marathons!" Over the course of running my first 5K, first 10K, first half, I dropped enough weight (80+ pounds) to no longer categorize myself as fat, at least not objectively. And on some level running continued to be the method by which I sought to escape ever being fat again. Running has continued to have that role in my life and I can't say that I expect that reason to disappear, but my need for a run shifted while training for that first marathon. At some point running stopped being just a means to an end, the end being a body I could accept. At some point running became the single fastest way to make me happy. And that's when I stopped feeling like a poser, some guest in the running world. It wasn't a fad or a quirk while I slimmed down. It was a visceral, emotional need. In my mind, that made me a Runner. Capital R.
Friends who'd known (and loved) me in my fat days voiced surprise and encouragement for my new love of distance running. I always struggled to respond adequately because the running-to-lose-weight thing had lost its luster. Running carried me through every season of doubt, every heartbreak, every disappointment, every joy. It reminds me every day that anxiety is wasted energy, energy better channeled into two feet and the pulse of pavement.

I say all this because my companion in training for my upcoming sixth marathon is Stephanie, pictured beside me. She knew and loved me in law school, when running was the last thing on my mind, and she encouraged me throughout my steady accumulation of race t-shirts. This will be Stephanie's first marathon, and she's flying up from New Orleans to experience Grandma's Marathon in Duluth with me. And she gets that current of joy, that happy easing of the shoulders, when she runs now, too. To be a person who doesn't run and then, over the course of months, to become a Runner (capital R), is a transformation that leaves you a bit breathless. It's like the world opens up, lets you in on a secret, that the agonies of the day are lessened by the quickening of your heart.

All of my marathons have been special.  They've felt important, each in some unique way.  But number six will be especially sweet, because this time a friend who knew and loved me when I wasn't a Runner, will run beside me, having since become a Runner herself. It's a reminder to me that the best friends are the ones who see the stuff buried deep, love the You beneath the flesh and beneath the veneer of accomplishment. The ones who loved you before you dreamed of running a marathon are the absolute best people to have at the finish line.

Hello

I'm no different than most in that a new year feels like a fresh start.  An easy place to brush off past failures and refocus on any and everything I want to be in the future. Stronger, thinner, faster, healthier, prettier, calmer, more devoted, more ambitious, smarter, kinder, a better cook. And while I have a few solid goals supporting those general hopes, the only true resolution I've made in this new year is to smile more at strangers. Seems odd, maybe. But my undergrad, Washington and Lee University, is well-known for its speaking tradition, a tradition of saying "hello" to everyone you pass on campus. It's done quite resolutely, deliberately. And I was thinking of it a few months ago after an alumni event here in town.

Over the past several months I've become aware of a habit of looking away, keeping my head down, ignoring those who have no immediate influence on my well-being. More often than not it's because I'm in a hurry, or I'm distracted, or I'm with a friend who deserves my attention. But I don't think any of those things is an excuse for ignoring those with whom we share space. What is it in us that makes us so resolutely insular? So quick to shield ourselves from those around us, in favor of those with whom we feel comfortable? It's a normal, human habit, I know. But it's not a habit I want to reinforce, being that it's such a natural tendency.  I don't think Christ looked away from anyone.  I don't think he ever pretended not to see someone.

It's a small, quiet thing, and an atypical resolution. But resolving for the umpteenth time to eat less carbs or do more crunches seems so self-involved.  Yes, health is important, but I resolve and give focus to myself every single day. I channel all my energy into bettering or amusing myself every single day. And in the rush to buy groceries or meet a friend for drinks or run a loop around the lake, I shut out every person who doesn't directly impact that self-centered purpose.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've tried to be more deliberate about smiling, acknowledging others. When I go for runs, I wave at everyone I pass. Sometimes they wave back, or nod their head, or smile, but I don't much care if they reciprocate.  I'm not smiling to garner attention, but to give it. At work, I try to say, "Good morning" more often, even to the crabby folks that speed by in a huff. And when I'm out and about, at the grocery store or church or the movies, I try to remember that every person needs acknowledgement, and a smile is the least I can do in providing that assurance.

It's funny, how exhausting this is, even to an extrovert like myself.  It tires me because I've accepted the fact that people wander by on the sidewalk and we're not socially required to acknowledge one another. That desire to lift one's head, smile, perhaps talk about the weather, is a muscle like any other. Without regular flexing, that desire will wither and weaken. And social contracts notwithstanding, I don't believe that inclination is spiritually sound, at least not for me.

I wonder sometimes what a sinless Earth would look like, how people would interact.  I don't think introversion is a sin, so I can't imagine that a perfect Earth would be one where everyone constantly sought out the company of strangers.  But I do think a perfect community would be one where every individual used their God-given personalities to glorious effect. And because I am extroverted and sociable, in my perfect state, I'd be a greeter, a welcomer, of all who crossed my path.

It is a fallen world, of course, and my extroversion can take sinful turns. It can be attention-seeking and deliberately exclusionary when I define who I spend time with and who I avoid. Those sins I recognize immediately.  I know when I'm boastful, proud, snobbish. But the banality of everyday exclusions, wandering by the old lady at the gas pump without saying hello, saying thank you to the store clerk without the courtesy of lifting my eyes to hers, those are the habitual sins I glance over and ignore.  They don't feel particularly sinful, they don't inflict any obvious wounds. Ignoring the woman next to me as we both poke the tomatoes doesn't seem harmful. But I don't want to acquire a habit of exclusion, of walking amongst others with blinders on, just because it's objectively harmless. Does tilting my head and smiling a silent greeting really cost me anything? What if that smile brightened someone's day by a tiny increment? Wouldn't it be worth the loss of a "harmless" habit?

I want to look the whole world in the eye and say, "Hello." The picture attached to this post is of that word, which hangs next to my front door. I've looked at it frequently over the last couple of months as I've tried to strengthen my resolve to greet the world, seeking nothing. The more I look at it, the more I feel like it encompasses everything I want my home to provide and everything I want to give the world. Hospitality, welcome, joy, grace, invitation, comfort, and warmth. A dense meaning for a simple word, and a weighty resolution.

Hello.

Tables

Breaking bread is a profound thing. It has always made sense to me that Jesus broke bread so often with those to whom he wished to show love, and that he chose supper as the foundation of his final demonstration of sacrifice before the crucifixion. Eating is primal, necessary. And eating communally, passing plates, noisily pulling chairs up to table corners, dropping silverware, slurping soup, pouring wine,...it feels no less necessary to me. Everybody eats mac and cheese solo over the sink at some point. But passing a dish down a table of loved ones feeds us more deeply, nourishing the connections that make life sweeter. 

In the process of planning a dinner party for tonight, I thumbed through some recently unpacked cookbooks. Inside Charleston Receipts, I'd tucked last year's Thanksgiving shopping list, written in my Uncle's handwriting, as he provided the shopping directions for a meal he'd shepherd from the couch, chemo exhaustion coming in waves. The bulk of the list is his, but there are small lists elsewhere on the page in my hand, my mother's, my dad's. Dad reminded me to get ice. I reminded myself to get squash. Mom covered everything we'd forgotten. 

We've made lots of grocery lists as a family. Dad makes an impressive one every year we go to Roan Mountain. And I remember a few Thanksgivings in Little Rock, barreling through Kroger for one forgotten item hours before the store closed.  But I kept this particular list because my uncle was sick, and because it was his handwriting, and because we both love to cook. And I'm sure I tucked it into Charleston Receipts because it was a gift from him.  It will be there forever, proof of one meal, one table, one happy mess in the midst of what still feels like a tenuous, if hopeful, battle. 

Tonight is just happiness. Just inviting my friends to see my new home, taste test three new soup recipes, drink too much wine, and wish me a happy birthday in the process. It's just warmth and the smell of butter and onions. Each of my friends are treasures, and of each I'm aware of large and small heartaches. Breakups, job shuffles, illness, family deaths, depression, anxiety, loneliness, boredom. And each of them, at some point, has known of the same for me. Tables seem to lessen the acuteness of those hurts, if momentarily. The lists in loving hands, the old cookbooks, the cake baked in a friend's kitchen, the help chopping potatoes,...it all feels like an echo of what Christ demonstrated to us. To carry each other however we are able, to feed whoever is hungry, to welcome all, to love in the simplest ways, to break bread and give thanks. 

Cabinets

Now that I've painted the cabinets Ultra White and the the walls varying shades of French Pastry, Pumpkin Cream, Porpoise, and Gentle Rain, I can fess up. While I'd debated buying a house for several months, I pulled the trigger for only one reason. My heart was hurting and I needed something new and big into which I could channel all my angst. I needed to do something on my own to remind myself that I could be happy doing such a thing, just in case that's what the rest of my life looks like.

I don't recommend Buying A House as a form of post-breakup retail therapy. It's mildly irresponsible (maybe super irresponsible but I'm cutting myself some slack) and a lot more work than buying, say, an inappropriately priced pair of heels. That being said, while the timing of my decision may have been inspired by heartache, the result has been invigorating.  The work has not eliminated the sadness, but it has put it into context. I have been sad before. This time, I get to be sad in a house with Things To Do.

I always read (and write, but nobody's seeing that!) poetry when I'm sad.  And there are a handful of poets that I reread in certain moods.  Emily Dickinson's A Not Admitting to the Wound is a pretty fantastic I'm-sad poem, in part because I get a bit Dickinson-esque in such moments. I want nothing better than to sit in some corner with my tea and my notebook, pencil scratches the only sound in my head. My extroverted, optimistic self turns inside out, all exposed nerves and skepticism. But this poem doesn't just feed the sadness, it builds a room for it, nails it in, reminds me that God sees it, loves it, and will, eventually, make use of the scar.

A not admitting of the wound (1188)

BY: EMILY DICKINSON

A not admitting of the wound

Until it grew so wide

That all my Life had entered it

And there were troughs beside -

A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun

Until the tender Carpenter

Perpetual nail it down

I've read that poem a thousand times in my life. It sounds like a slow, steady heartbeat to me, in the midst of moments where my own heart feels shaky, prone to skips and jumps. And as I drilled holes in my wall to attach a bookcase, or reattached cabinet doors one painful screw at a time, I heard the "tender Carpenter" so often, encasing that heartache in a sturdy box, gently asking me to hand it over. And in so many small moments of joy, minor victories of home ownership, I wondered if maybe, irresponsible purchasing decision or not, this might have all been part of His plan. He knew about the heartache, and he knew I'd need a house, a hammer, some cabinets in need of attention. This house. These cabinets. Emily. And a tender Carpenter, always.

A House

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.

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.

A List of Blessings

The last week has been difficult, to put things lightly. A relationship, a very important one, ended, and I've had a hard time regaining my footing since that dissolution.  I'm not an overly dramatic person, at least not when it comes to emotional transitions, endings, or failures.  But where my typical personality would be one of chatterbox and opinionated extrovert, my depressive self is insular, anti-social, and apathetic. I eat a lot of oatmeal, listen to a lot of Bon Iver.

I'm an adult, of course, and can function fine in context.  I can go to work and be as efficient as ever. I can make decisions about the future, cancel things that need to be canceled, inform who needs to be informed, reconfigure what needs to be reconfigured. And most importantly, I can decide what will eventually make me feel better.  Eventually, it will make me feel better to go house hunting, thus, I will now do all the things a person needs to do to prepare for that.  I can find a realtor.  I can gather my W2s and tax returns. Eventually, it will make me feel better to race.  I can research trail races and marathons.  I can weigh my options, the health of my right knee, the likelihood of a marathon in November vs. January vs. March. I can remove myself from what hurts today and set in place all the things that will eventually make me happy. I've always been somewhat impressed with that skill. It's a gift, maybe, to be able to be miserable now and in the same moment be able to plan for future happiness.  It's an optimism I'm grateful for, even if at the moment it just feels a bit like a split personality.

This time around (this breakup, this failure, this falling apart), I felt like I needed to be more specific in my thankfulness.  When the clouds are overwhelming it's easy to forget there's sunshine behind them. So I found an old journal, one I'd largely forgotten, and gave it a new task of detailing my blessings.  It's a beautiful journal, soft leather with a beautiful fleur-de-lis imprint on the cover.  A dear, dear friend bought it for me when I left New Orleans, and she inscribed her love for me and our friendship on the inside cover.  The journal has gathered dust for years, so to open it on a day I'd spent crying and to read her words was a blessing in and of itself, the first one I wrote down, Blessing Numero Uno.

Since that day I've detailed several more, aiming for three to four specific blessings a day.  And I try to be as pinpointed as possible, not blase in stating all of the blessings I'm supposed to be highlighting. I'm not just thankful for a good trail run.  I'm thankful for the give and tug of soft earth as I run up a well-worn path, bunnies scurrying away as I breathe heavily at each footfall. I'm not just thankful for sunshine.  I'm thankful for the warmth of sunshine hitting my bare thigh as I lean against my mother on a raft pulled behind the boat, thankful for the splash of cold lake water as dad speeds the boat around a corner.

I think the worst part of sadness for me is apathy. I hate the grey creeping of "I don't care" that slithers into every decision.  I don't care what I eat so I'll just eat oatmeal.  I don't care what I do tonight so I'll just stay home.  I don't care if my friends want to see me so I'll just ignore their invites. Apathy feels like a lack of God. It feels like an absence of all that is holy and good. And while my faith comforts me that even in those grey moments I am not alone, I can't help but feel forgotten when that thick blanket of I-don't-care consumes me. And that's where the blessings come in.

Even in my darkest moments I can force myself to do a few things.  There are a handful of things and people in my life that, even at my saddest points, I can rely on to tug at and restore me, proof of God in the doldrums. Anti-social I may be, but a lack of activity unnerves me.  And in the woods on a run, after I've warmed up, after I'm good and sweaty, when I'm running down a hill and the wind is whipping my ponytail against my ear, I forget that I'm sad. Momentary and fleeting, but it's enough of a reminder of what Happy feels like to continue running towards it.  And when my mother hugs me, when my dad kisses my cheek, when my sister squeals in delight beside me as we're pulled behind the boat, these are all moments that remind me I was happy before and will be happy again.

My hope is that the list of blessings will not be cast aside when I perk up.  I'd like to build them up, list them one by one as a mighty arsenal of memories and thankfulness to fight the blues when they inevitably creep in. I'd like to read over them, remembering what it took to be grateful for four things on that Tuesday, remind myself of how wrapped in love I was then and am now, how cherished, despite frequently feeling the opposite. It's an armor of protection and love, a blessing in its own right, to be able to recognize the hints of God that surround me when the future feels sharp and heavy. That sadness and malaise and is not of God, I know, so I know that reminding myself of His presence, over time, will push the grey away. And in the interim, I will not only count my blessings.  I will record them for posterity.

A Few Different Windows

I've been a guest or confidante to a host of different families in the last few weeks. And given my Uncle Buck's recent trip to visit us, I can't help but view my own family through the lens of having recently examined the dynamics of others.  Perhaps it's comparative in some ways, but I mostly just come away shaking my head, a bit awestruck, that we humans manage to connect at all on this silly planet, even with those of our own blood.

I helped a dear friend with some catering at a party today.  I just provided some plating, dishwashing, filling of coffee cups, and was happy to pitch in to lessen the stress on her family. She discussed, briefly, the anxiety the day had created for her mother, some stresses with a sibling, the joy of a smiling, oblivious baby. She's an articulate woman, my friend, powerful in her ability to put words to ideas. And I was struck by how plainly she spoke of her mother's worries, her difficulties in communicating with or being understood by other members of her family. It made me thankful I could help and also gave me comfort that I am not the only well-spoken woman who stumbles her way through communicating with some of those she holds most dear.

Despite the ties of blood, we're not destined to be friends with our siblings. There is a shared history there, yes, and a common language with which we address life. We feel the weight of the same family secrets or weaknesses or tragedies. But there's no promise that upon adulthood we will sit down at a table and truly feel spoken and connected to, eyeball to eyeball, one fully formed life to another.

One of my dearest friends recently texted and asked for prayers for her family due to stresses with her own siblings, tensions and frustrations that have been building for awhile. This is a family I've known a very long time, so the tensions aren't new to me.  I tried to provide comfort the only way I knew how, by telling her that the best examples of familial harmony fall outside of our home.  No family avoids chaos or animosity every day. And in the seasons when your own family struggles, we can at least trust that the best image of what a father or mother or brother or sister should be remains steadfast. God hasn't stopped being God, even if your brother is being a punk. And even if the tension is miserable, the wounds deep, God still provides help in our trials with the support of friends, a patient ear, a laughing baby, a shared memory.

I've looked out of a few different windows the last few weeks.  I've looked out the glass door at my parents' home and watched my uncle and dad chatting by a fire, my sister curled up in a seat between them. I've looked out a kitchen window in Montana as my boyfriend played with his niece, far flung but well-loved. And today I looked out another kitchen window as my friend's mom held her grandson, grinning enthusiastically at his adoring crowd. Families seem like such delicate machines sometimes, so tricky to handle, so easy to misuse, so quick to weaken with distance or time, and yet they do seem to continue puttering on. The burdens build, the valleys deepen and darken, and still we press on, brothers and mothers and sisters and fathers and wives and nieces and nephews and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers...

I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who ache when their family aches, who worry when their family worries. I'm grateful to have sat at a kitchen table this morning with my own family, praying for God's continued mercies on my Uncle's cancer fight, praying for continued blessings. And I'm grateful to have stood, a couple of hours later, praying with my friend and her mom, for anxiety-free revelry. The big and the not-quite-as-big, the long trial and the new anxiety, the ache and the burden, God gives us families that create and cushion every wound. And He gave us His example, in hopes that we might love each other better through it all.

Surprise

[reposting as I read blog posts to my Mamaw at the hospital]. A couple of weekends ago I spent a quick weekend in St. Louis, my teenage hometown and the city where my brother and sister-in-law have firmly planted their roots. They're expecting their first child and we traveled south to celebrate the baby shower, ooh and aah over tiny, pink baby clothes, and hug the soon-to-be-parents one more time before their world wonderfully rearranges.

After a long day in the car, we trekked to Busch Stadium, all three siblings cheering on the team we were raised to root for, knowing the next time we were all in those stands, we'd likely be rotating laps for a red-clad, chubby-cheeked little girl. We cheered for seven innings, leaving early, we thought, to satisfy my dad's sweet tooth and another family tradition of capping off happiness with a frozen custard indulgence.  While in line at Ted Drewes, a familiar voice sparkled in the darkness.  When I turned around, my brother was hugging our Uncle Buck, freshly flown in from North Carolina, grinning at the squeals of joy emitted by my sister and I as we realized we'd been gloriously duped.

To say my uncle has had a rough year would be putting it very mildly.  He has had the type of year that sucks the joy out of most people, the type of year to which I have no ability to relate.  To be forced into a season of weakness and dependence in a life characterized by the opposite of those adjectives has been difficult to hear of, to occasionally watch, but that's nothing compared to what it would mean to live through it.  But all that being said, he has never stopped being our Uncle Buck.  While he likely felt weakened to the point of being someone else entirely, he has remained the unconquerable, the smiling, the loving, the mountain-of-a-soul man we've grown up adoring.  So, to see him in his of-course-Uncle-Buck-is-surprising-us glory, my dad grinning beside him in brotherly hoodwinkery, makes my eyes fill to remember.

That kind of gut-busting joy, the kind born of prayers and phone calls, hopes and praises, is what awaits this new little wonder. She will be born into a family that often messes life up, often asks forgiveness, often argues about irrational things, often eats too much, often pushes too far too fast, often demands too much, often exhausts the Scrabble dictionary with pleas for word affirmation. But she'll also be born into a family that loves deeply, buys plane tickets to surprise unsuspecting loved ones, finds infant cheerleader outfits for family sports teams, prays before road trips, wipes away tears with phone calls after bad news, gives hugs that could crush weak ribs, stops for fireworks, builds a great fire, knows a good rocking chair, plants gardens, teaches every child how to fish, loves the Lord, and roots for the Cardinals.

She's a lucky little lady, my soon-to-be niece.