Man is a giddy thing...

It's been a good week.

I've had to laugh at myself a couple of times. Let's make a list, shall we?

1. I did the dishes--all of them. Now, I know this seems like a menial task, and it is. There's something about it though. The idea of washing dishes really makes me dread going into the kitchen, but once I start and I put the first clean pot on the towel to dry it just feels so purifying. It gives me time to stop thinking about all of the other things that are distracting me and allows me to get right to the heart of me. That personal reflection time is good for my introverted self.

2. On Tuesday, I just couldn't get away from all of the distractions--the tangible ones like the TV and my computer. Do you ever feel that way? Like technology is strapping you down and making you waste time and sucking away your productivity? I do. And it's everywhere. I needed to get some writing, and I wanted to--I needed to unplug and just be with the pen and paper for a while. So...I decided that I was going to soak my feet in the tub. I basically moved my "office" (I don't have an office, who am I kidding?) into the bathroom. For obvious reasons, my computer can't sit with me on the edge of the tub. My iPod did come with me though so I could play some music with its small speaker and cut the silence. It was a strange thing, going to the bathroom to get away from all of the distractions. I just wish it was more comfortable to sit on the edge of the tub....

3. We're having a garage sale! I have a lot of stuff (and a good part of it can just go away). About every summer I try to do a deep clean of my room...Last summer I got about half way done and gave up. So, now with a garage sale date in mind, I've been begun the purge again. I went through my dresser yesterday...and I threw away a multitude of old socks and underpants. Seriously, why do we (maybe it's just me, but I doubt it) horde old socks? It's not like we wear them...they just take up space while the elastic really gets bad. The same with old underpants. Seriously, what do we think is going to happen to them? There isn't a fairy that comes and takes those things away like the tooth fairy...they just sit in the drawers. And most of them don't have pairs anymore either. That's just sad, put them out of their misery.

4. Last night, Daddy came into my room to see the progress...and his one comment was, "You have a lot of stuff...and you've hit your limit for bookshelves in this space." How very true. Three large bookshelves take up a lot of room. My response was, "I have enough stuff for an apartment." I really do...and the idea that "a place of my own" might be in the cards in the next year or so is really exciting. I mean, words cannot describe how fantastic that would be. Granted, I would miss eating with the folks because they do food really well...but I would really like not having to retreat to the bathroom to get some alone time to write.

5. Writing Workshop on Wednesday was wonderful. (Do you like all those w's? I do.) I knew this was going to be different then any writing experience I have had. How did I know this? Because my cousin is part of the group, and I knew she would be asking hard questions about my story. Questions with answers I had never articulated to another person. I also knew that she was going to make me really get into the grit of it--she's a teacher after all. She's used to pushing people to get good stories. This week was no exception. There were a lot of questions, and that is partly because we're getting to the meat of this story. These young women that I'm working with are truly inspirational. I love reading what they've done and sharing with them what I have. Rachel and Kaitlin have been a blessing to me this summer, more than I had anticipated...and I hope that this writing relationship will continue.

6. Rachel asked me how much I thought I would post here...I told her I was hoping for twice a week. Ha. We'll see. So far I'm not doing so hot, but I'll get there. I'm just warming up.

7. I marked all the wedding dates in my calendar, the ones that I have so far. Holy weddings, yo. Every day I get more and more behind my peers in the relationship/wedding/baby scene.... But mostly I'm okay with this. I'm not ready for all of that just yet. There are a lot of things I need to get done independently before all of that happens. Funny how our perceptions of ourselves change.

"The one who's always, and never, alone...does she even know she's the girl with the red balloon?" [The Civil Wars]

What can men do against such reckless hate?

This may be a little late in coming, nearly a week after the fact. Forgive me for the delay, but I've been mulling over the shooting that took place in Aurora, Colorado. Mulling and chewing and praying and...and wishing for peace.

Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.

When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.

The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.

Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.

And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?

It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)

So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.

"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]

You saw me mourning my love for you...

I've had a lot of thoughts tumbling around in my head these last few weeks, and they haven't settled into any kind of order. Normally I wait for something to settle into place before picking it up and putting out there for people (you people) to read, but this is just getting ridiculous. I promised to post more, and if I wait around for something to finally come together than this blog will die (a second death, I suppose). I don't really want that to happen, so I'm just going to start writing regardless of the confusing thoughts rolling around inside this fragile mind.

My family and I went to Colorado last weekend, and it was great to see the school my brother plans to attend and the apartment he may live in. The mountains left me in awe and slack-jawed. I've seen them before but I hadn't necessarily noticed the way the sky swooped low to kiss the frosty tips.

We spent some time walking around an outdoor mall/shopping area in Loveland one evening. I spent all too much time in the Barnes and Noble--the largest I had ever seen. It was like a piece of heaven for this new graduate, and proud holder of a B.A. in English. Drifting through the aisles filled with story after story of hope and loss and pain and love and want and anything you want, I felt the overwhelming feeling to just sit down and absorb the words. Stories have always held my love and my profound need for returned love--unfortunately books are incapable of reciprocating the feeling.

One of the courtyards of this shopping area housed sculptures of animals for children to play on. The statue that stood out to me was the frog. I've known the story of the princess and the frog for as long as I can remember.

Josef snapped a picture of my sitting on the broad-back of the frog, smiling. It's a running joke in the family, and this is not the first picture I have with a stone frog.

My first summer in my newly finished basement room was riddled with nights of little sleep. It took me a while to discover that the noise that was keeping me up was the sound of frogs trying, desperately, to batter their way into my room. Soft white breasts would beat against the glass, searching for the light that came from my demonic lamp. (It's touch sensitive, and turns itself on or off whenever it chooses.) It didn't take long for my dad and brother to nickname the frogs my boyfriends. We laugh that all I have to do is kiss one and I will magically have a boyfriend.

This notion prompts these pictures with stone frogs.

A stone frog seems to have a special kind of curse, don't you think? It must be a truly powerful magic or love to break that spell--to turn a stone frog into a living, breathing prince. And this is when I wish I lived in those places of fantasy and fairytale, because love is enough to wake the sleeper from the Sleep, and the breath of a Lion can bring the stone to life.

A jolt of realization reminds me that a perfect Love has woken the sleeping soul in me, and that the Lion that breathed the stone to life in Narnia is not so unlike the breath of God breathing life into the dust that became Adam. The Love and Breath that saved and created me exists in a world where frogs don't magically become princes...but the sinners become saints, and the wicked are made new.

"This is not a dream that I'm living, this is just a world of Your own." [Rebecca St. James, Lion]

Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast

I remember the day Daddy came into the kitchen when I was maybe five years old. There is fuzz around the edges of the memory, but it's there--standing out proudly as one of landmarks in my childhood, a moment that would change the way I prayed every day. It was lunch time and Mommy had set the table when Daddy came to take his seat. He folded his hands and said, "We're going to learn a new prayer today." Gently, patiently, he taught his small children how to say The Common Table Prayer in German. A tradition that would shape every meal to come.

The only time I didn't utter the words vocally in the following years was when we would eat at other people's homes and school cafeterias. But always with my family it was those words that had become an integral part of home. If home is where the heart is, then my home is laced with German prayers.

College was a place where you prayed silently before each meal--words internalized, but no less real. One of the things I would miss most from Pfeifenhof (the name of our home, meaning whistle home) was the fellowship in praying simultaneously in German with three other people. Each time summer would roll around I would become eager to sit around the table and offer up blessings.

I did not expect to feel Home during Dead Week and Finals Weeks my last semester of school. There it was though, amongst everything I had never dreamed of.

We sat, two nervous individuals, at a public restaurant with steaming food before us. I hadn't thought of the prayer in my preparations for the meal, but there it was when he asked,

"Do you pray before you eat?"  

Yes.

"Is the Common Table Prayer okay? That's what we normally do."  

Yes, you go ahead and pray, we normally say it in German, so I'll just listen. I don't know what made me say that, normally I just go with the flow.

"Oh, you mean, Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du..."  

...Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I can hardly find the words.

"Well, we can pray in German. You had better lead though, because I don't know if I remember the last part."

And I can't believe that we're praying together over our food in German, and part of my heart is singing at how homey it all feels. It's a good thing the German comes as second nature because I don't know if English would have come so easily in that moment.

Less than a week later we're sitting at a different table, with different food, but a look passes between us and he bows his head and starts saying the words. My Daddy's words, and the words of past years long gone. He's leading this time, confidant and sure. And as we pray for Christ's blessings on our food I'm praying a silent prayer that His blessings be on this, whatever this is.

And that second prayer continues to grow.

"Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast, und segna, was Du uns bescheret hast. Amen."

I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.

And all will turn to silver glass...

I took Hansi outside today so he could do his doggy duty. It was warm, but not unpleasantly hot. So, while he snooted out a spot, I took a seat on the back step. And for the first time, in a long time, I just watched the land and listened to the whistles and buzzes in the air.

Four acres of land that is ours. Four acres that I really don't take the time to examine very often. When I do spend time with the flora and fauna I'm mowing, and I have my iPod in and I don't listen to anything but the loud hum of the riding mower and the blaring ear buds.

But the earth has a music of its own.

I started thinking about what this land means to my Dad, as part of his inheritance. And I wonder what will happen to it someday. My Aunt's husband always talks about windmills, which my dad has responded to with, "Over my dead body." He doesn't want anything to happen to this place that will "mar the landscape." He cherishes this good green earth. Why don't I think about it the same way?

I haven't worked these fields like he has--I spent my time in another farmer's corn, pulling tassels. Even when I was working I was singing, trying to make myself forget the heat and the thirst that followed me.

Sometimes I wish I could know what my dad thinks when he sees the fields that his father once worked so hard to maintain. I like to think that the fields are part of Grandpa Rob that were left behind and that when Dad walks around them (while another farmer works them now) he talks to his dad about the things he didn't get to say when he was alive. About how his daughter has the same gait as he did (apparently). About the joys of being married--and the hardships. About his son that would make his grandpa so proud. About the four grandchildren he never met. About how he works with computers now, but he did cling to his art for a long time.

You see, they were both artists, just of a different nature. Grandpa was an artist of the land: year after year he would work to mold the fields and livestock into a living painting, one that changed with the seasons. Dad, well, he would paint the landscape, but he was also a sculptor, he too moved the clay into a piece of art.

I think my Oma works her gardens and the yard to so much because she wants to feel close to him, too. She protects the farm, she's wrapped her entire being around its upkeep. When she is outside in this Nebraska sun, I think she imagines my Grandpa coming home from the fields and giving her a dusty hug. I wish I could witness this love.

So tonight, I sat on the back step and breathed deep the air that my Grandpa must have loved so dearly. I wondered what it will be like someday when I bring kids back to visit my parents. And I thought of where I will be in a little over a year. Will I still be breathing in the Nebraska air, or will I be in Iowa City surrounded by suburbs?

I pray that I will never forget the whistling, buzzing, and humming of this place. That I would not forget the beauty of the grass that fights against the weeds every year. The perfect rows of the cornfields. How could this land still suffer Adam's curse? If this is the curse, this land of plenty, then I cannot imagine what it was like in the Garden.

"In a dry and thirsty land, Lord you are the rain." [Casting Crowns]

If a double decker bus crashes into us...

Yesterday was a day of firsts. And it is here that I want to immortalize them.

1. The Wedding

No, no, I didn't get married. My brother was hired to do the videography of a wedding at our church. He needed an assistant, and I was happy to oblige. I love weddings! Drinks all around! (And by "drinks" I mean punch of the nonalcoholic variety.) It was a good experience, if not a little strange. (We didn't know the bride, and only recognized the groom as someone I thought was already married.) The bride asked me, "So, are you teaching him?" HA! No...I'm the assistant. I'm just doing what he tells me to do. Although, I have been to a lot more weddings than he has, so it was good that I was there and knew what to expect for certain things.

2. Buying an R-rated Movie

That's right, I bought my first R-rated movie. But it wasn't for me, it was for my dad. It was a western that we had watched in a hotel room while we were on vacation a few years ago: "Open Range." It was good, and we couldn't believe that it was rated R. Walmart had it for a good deal. So, it was my first time getting carded for something other than glue at a craft store. The cashier lady wasn't going to check my ID, and then she looked at me and said, "Yeah, you look young. I'll need to see your ID. ... How old are you anyway?" 20 "Oh, sorry."

3. The Car Accident

After we went to Walmart, Josef and I went to our cousin's house to celebrate her parents' 30th wedding anniversary. It was great to sit and visit with family. We didn't leave until around 10 pm. It's a strange thing, really.

Driving along, going the speed limit (I was actively fighting my lead-foot condition), leaving the radio off to sing a cappella with my little brother, and then seeing a turn signal from my right on a one-way street. My spot in the left lane was suddenly threatened. I think I said aloud, "What are they doing? Oh, crap!" And my feet were doing their own thing, and my hands yanked the wheel left, into the parking spaces. Still, there was the impact, did I blink?

I stopped the car, turned the blinkers on--why did I think of that and not the horn when it could have really mattered? I've never been closer to swearing in my entire life, and I admit that I said the Lord's name in vain, "Oh my God, what just happened?" I could say it was a prayer, but that would be a lie.

I knew Dad was behind me in the truck, did he see what happened? Would he stop? When I opened my car door, and Josef got out of his side--the side of impact--my only thought was of my dad. I didn't walk around the car to assess the damage, maybe I didn't want to see. I didn't ask Josef if he was okay, the only think I told him was to stay by the car. (He was obviously okay; walking and talking, just as shaken as me.)

Then I was walking down the middle of the road, yelling for my dad, "Daddy! He just freakin' hit me!" Really, I was screaming, unbelieving of what just happened, needing to know it was okay. Thank God I was still wearing heals, they slowed me down, and before I could continue yelling I realized what I was doing and shut my mouth, letting the screams die in my throat and prevent further damage.

I'm not sure how, but it didn't take me long to catch up to him, and I was holding his hand, walking towards the other car; the car that I thought was going to drive away. (No fear, their bumper and license plate was in the middle of the intersection.) But they didn't. I saw the woman get out of the car, and Mom was on 911. The passenger of the other vehicle started running after we all confirmed we were unhurt. Mom told the dispatcher, they were ready to chase him down, but he was just going to get her boyfriend, whom she was going to see.

All the while, I wanted to yell at her and ask her what she was thinking; turning left from the right lane on a one way. But I didn't. I was shaking--a result of one of the biggest adrenaline rushes I have ever had. Mom asked me if I was okay once she was done on the phone. I wasn't as upset as much as I was angry. And I wanted to cry, felt like I should cry, but I didn't. She was the one to go back and confirm that Josef was okay. I was the last person to look at the damage. I saw the bumper in the road of the other vehicle, and I didn't want to face what I was sure to be a disaster.

Thankfully: Nobody was hurt except her car and Jimmy (our car). The lady was insured. She confirmed what Josef told the cop. The cop called the towing company. God gave me enough grace to shut my mouth and just be quiet after that initial outburst. Mom and Dad were driving behind us. My Daddy has strong hands, able to hold his little girl's while I faced one of the worst "firsts" of the year.

It was almost midnight by the time we got home. But sleep wouldn't find me for several hours.

"To die by your side, what a heavenly way to die." [Cover by Anberlin]

Please leave a message after the tone...

Pocket dialing. It's a problem. And one I apparently have.

I miss my flip phone because it never pulled the mutiny card and called my speed-dial contacts.

Though, these unfortunate occurrences have had some benefits.

The Monday after Easter, I accidently called Oma. (For you non-German speakers, it's my dad's mom, or my gramma.) We had an interesting game of phone tag. She called me back, but I missed the call. So, I called her, and when she answered she asked me what I needed....I told her I was just returning her call. And then I started laughing when she said that I had called her first. Strange, but it did allow for me to talk to her on the phone, something I don't normally do.

I made my dad laugh last week because I called him on accident. He didn't realize until he had a missed called. When he asked me about it, I told him I hadn't meant to call him at all. Instead of being annoyed, he just smiled and thanked me for making him chuckle. (He still has a flip phone, so does not understand how this could happen.)

Kate probably gets the worst of it. I probably pocket dial her at least once a month. (If you read this Kate, I'm sorry, I don't know why my pocket dialing skills like 5 so much.) It's always a great conversation starter. "Hey, you called me earlier, but it was just noise. I figured I was in your pocket." Yes. And then we talk about her impending wedding. (Which is really weird because she's younger than I, but I'm happy for her as well.)

Why am I thinking about this today? Because my beautiful roommate, LeAnn, called me today. And I answered, ecstatic. "LEANN!" ... "You called me, like, twice." Oh. Ha. My bad. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't dying or anything." But now we have a phone date on Saturday, at 6am. Ha. (Just kidding, I think?) I guess we'll find out if she calls me at 6am.

The stupid thing? I can hardly get my key pad to unlock when I want it to. I don't know why it is so good at unlocking when I don't want it to.

I miss my flip phone.

"TobyMac can't get to the phone, please leave a message, please leave a message!" [TrueDog]

If my heart says I'm sorry, can we leave it at that?

So... I called to talk to my mom today. It wasn't anything big. I just wanted to run some plans by her for next Monday.

The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.

I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You sound angry."

Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....

"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"

Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.

She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.

And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.

I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.

I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.

I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?


"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]

This is not my home...

Now, judging by the title of this post, I bet you're thinking, "Oh, she's going to talk about heaven." Wrong. I'm not. And besides, that would be way to literal. Haven't you noticed that most of my blog titles are a bit of a stretch? They make sense to me, but I understand that they won't make sense to everyone. ... and that's okay. Anyway... so, if I'm not talking about heaven then what am I talking about?

My family came to see me yesterday on their way home from a college visit with my brother. We went out to eat and I once again took notice of how my brother is growing, but he still maintains the old habits; such as, eating his food in compartments. He ate all of his coleslaw. Then he ate all of his fries. And then he ate his burger. There is to be no mixing of the food before it enters the stomach. No mixing. That rule never gets broken. I told him that he was a compartmentalist.

It doesn't take much to get my mom going on a rant about habits. Let's just say that my family is full of habits...and when they're disrupted...well...it's bad. She said that at this college visit, whenever they would meet back in the big conference room, my dad and brother would pick the exact same seats. We used to sit in the same seats every Sunday; and if we could still swing it, I'm sure we would now too.

It always makes me laugh when I notice these habitual things in my family.

Today in Language and Linguistics we moved to a different classroom. (I just realized it was for the VCR.) And that was strange for me. I had to sit in a completely different room...and it definitely through of my groove. (Weird, I know.)

Then, I went to Poetry Writing and someone was sitting in my chair! Now, I don't actually care, it wasn't a big deal, but it was still a displacement.

And then it hit me.

I am so my daddy's girl.

I like my routine, and I get flustered when it's disrupted.

At least I don't compartmentalize my food. That would be silly.

"Now's the time for letting go. I surrender all. Can You hear my call, when I'm at the end of myself? Is this where You begin, when I'm caving in." [Remedy Drive]

If my eyes, wide open, fail to see...

April 3rd. Well, today marks the beginning of the next decade of my life. It feels like the last one took forever. Being a teen is hard work, you know?

It's funny, we all have our birthdays in a months time. Josef is first. Then Dad, who is now 51, and apparently feeling quite old. And Mom and I today... Mom's only a year from 50. And I'm 20.

Before my parents went to be tonight, Dad came out to where I was working on some homework. He wanted to know if I would turn off the lights when I went to bed. He was massaging my shoulders and then told me that I had already received a lot of birthday wishes on Facebook. I looked up at him and said, "I'm not a teenager anymore, Daddy."

"I know, you're getting old!"

Can we be old together? I have all the creaky joints, and I'm reading a book about grammar, for goodness sake. I get grumpy when I see girls in my brother's class wearing short skirts on stage. (Really? Didn't anyone teach you about costuming? And if you're whiter than I am...well...keep your legs covered, girl.) I hate people who text during theatre performances.....yeah.


It hit me today, that I have already known my daddy longer than he knew his dad. And that is a disturbing thought for me. I was sitting at a music rally...and I almost started to cry. And then my mom called. Twice. I thought for sure Dad had had a heart attack and she needed help. How horrible is it that my first thought after getting two calls was that my dad was in serious danger? Turns out she just wanted to know if I wanted to go get food with them.

It's funny, growing up you feel like your parents are invincible. Nothing could ever tear them down, they are the rocks on which you build your life until you're sturdy enough to stand on your own and be someone else's rock. This year has shattered that illusion for me. My mom is having some of the worst medical issues she has ever had to face...and Dad is just tired. More tired than I ever remember seeing him. I don't remember him being this tired when he would only sleep a couple hours a night because he would stay up making whistles.

When Mom told me good night, I told her, "Now you can be old, too!" And I meant that I was old...but she definitely thought I meant that she and Dad were old.

And they are, I guess. But I'm getting "old" too. A fifth of a century... just four more to go.

So, here's to more creaky joints. (Seriously, you should hear me climb stairs if you haven't already.)

"And your thoughts all break my heart, because there's a chapter left to write. ... Won't you run, fly, open up your lungs tonight. Breathe freedom for the first time in your life. ... He's not through with you yet." [Building 429]

Not the beard!

So, I'm home for Spring Break this week. And for the first half of it my daddy has to go on a business trip. Bummer deal, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

Well, about twenty minutes ago, he comes out to the kitchen with the clippers (the box set). Mom normally cuts his hair, but with her arm problem she is in no condition to do it right now. She was going to suffer through it though. Until I caught on to the silly business!

We had talked about me doing it last time I was home. Granted, last time I wasn't sick.

Dad hasn't been getting near me, for fear of "contamination." But, after some convincing (which involved me tying a tea towel around my face so I couldn't breathe on him and thickly applied Germ-X) he let me do the job.

It turned out pretty well. I also helped get rid of some of the peach fuzz on the back of his neck. I was feeling to make sure I got it all and decided that: "this is in beard jurisdiction." That got a laugh. He told me anything around his jawline he could get himself.

As a kid, you never think you'll cut your parent's hair. It was kind of a weird feeling. It made me think of the time Mom was gone and Dad had to put my hair in a pony tail for me. I could tell he felt like a fish out of water. He started out using my comb (which I never use) and then decided that his own soft wire brush would do better. It turned out to be a low pony tail. I will never forget that day, sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, Daddy running his fingers through my little girl hair. And today, Daddy sitting in the middle of the kitchen on a chair while I ran my fingers through his feathery "old man" hair.

"Catching butterfly kisses at night."

Lest I forget...

I went home this last weekend, and I just want to share a few things so I don't forget them. This runs the potential for being a very strange post, but I pray you stick with me. Perhaps something will resonate with you, or you'll catch a glimpse of your own home. Here are a few pieces of my life:

When Josef got home from school (he's a junior) I found out two things:
Earlier in the week he had been knocked down by some dork that was running to get away from some other kid. He fell in the snow, ripped a hole in his jeans and has a gash in his knee. My first question was, "Did you yell at him?" I could feel the protective older sister in me boiling. Nobody messes with my little brother. He said the kid was already far away by the time he got up. I said that I still would have yelled. "Well, that's you Anna, not me." How very true. We aren't the same person, as similar as we are. It was agreed that if it would have happened to me, my arm would have been out to catch the twerp and he would have been down in the snow with me. I wouldn't have hurt him... but I would have put the fear of God in him. Or so I would like to think.... sometimes injury done to me doesn't light nearly as big a fire in me as injury to Josef.
Also, I would like to thank whoever broke into Josef's car. I appreciate that you didn't take anything. Oh, and thanks for the sunglasses you left behind.

A dog got into our yard and dug through the snow into Dad's new grass and landscaping...he was not too happy. "If they come around here tomorrow they'll get lead poisoning." Saturday, our little dog started going crazy, and the next thing I know is Dad is outside with the shotgun. I paced around the inside of the house while I waited for the pop that was sure to come. I watched him as he aimed, which I thought was suspiciously high, and I watched him shoot while I couldn't see the target. I went to the East side of the house and watched two dogs run down the road. He came inside and said one had a collar for sure and he didn't want to shoot anyone's pet.

We went on a Daddy/Daughter date. I talked about my Language and Linguistic class a lot. He said, "I don't really like monarchs..." when I started asking questions about the Kings and Queens of England. They fascinate me. A difference.

Dad taught me how to make spaghetti. When it started splattering Mom said she would find me an apron. "It's okay, it's just my STD shirt."
"Oh, but that shirt is so cool!"
"Tammy, STD, not Sigma Tau Delta."
"Oh.... how did that happen?"
(I have two shirts for the English honors program I'm in, Sigma Tau Delta, it's really kind of unfortunate. The company that made our shirts made a mistake the first time around and put the letters in English, not Greek.)

When picking a movie to watch, "How's about The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex?"
"Well... I've been in that kind of mood, why not?"
"I didn't think you would actually say yes."
"We could watch Captain Blood instead."
This was after we watched Footsteps in the Dark. If you're an old movie buff you'll understand, or know, that these are all Errol Flynn movies. My dad loves Errol Flynn, he's one of his favorite actors, and probably one of mine as well. The only movie I didn't care for was Elizabeth and Essex. I don't know what it is... possibly the lady that plays Queen Elizabeth... I don't really know. It could be the ending but I won't give that away for you.
And now I have this insatiable desire to watch The Seahawk.

"When will you be home next, Anna boo?"
"Probably four weeks."
I know, Bud Nub, it's a long time....




"It is entirely innocent I am!"
"You must use the right words."
"Oh, words is it? Not guilty."
[Errol Flynn, Captain Blood]

Let the tears fall down... let them soften this ground

I fell on the ice today and apparently landed on my left side.

My left arm is in quite a lot of pain, and it makes me realize how much I use it.

I called my Daddy right after I got back to my room. And it was almost instant tears. I've never wanted to be home more than in that moment. Because home means knowing. And home means help. And home means being with my mommy, and my daddy, and the best little brother in the world. Home means that I can get out a cherry-pit pack from the freezer and not have to carry around a towel. Home means stronger pain killers than Advil. Home means not having to climb up into bed. Home means someone will kiss it better. Home means not having to walk (on the ice) to get supper. Home means comfort. And that is a beautiful thing.

By the way, today was definitely, "Stop blowing holes in my ship" kind of day.

"Get back up, get back up again." [TobyMac]