Summer Solstice

It has been a busy week or so with some big events--life events for some of my friends.

My mind has been reeling with so many different thoughts and feelings. There are things that have a hard time taking shape in my mind and so I have a hard time even beginning to express them. It seemed appropriate that on this day, the longest day of the year and first official day of summer, that I try to sort through some of these things.

This past weekend I went to Wisconsin for the wedding of two good friends. The entire trip felt surreal. I now know people who are going to be living in Wisconsin. I know people living in Illinois and I know people all over the place now--even as far as China. At one point during the reception, I was standing towards the back of the tent, watching the dance floor, with a glass (mason jar) of wine in one hand and the other hand firmly planted on my hip in the traditional Schuett stance. It was like I was watching myself, and saw more than felt myself sway a little. I was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. This would be the last time I would see some of these people for a very long time, and all I could find myself dwelling on was how I wished a certain boy was there with me. So I was having a moment with myself, reflecting on the places life takes us and the turns we don't expect, when a friend caught me--and I'm sure it looked like I was having a moment with the wine...but it was really just a moment of introspection. The spell broke and I was left giggling, despite the serious overtures of my heart moments before.

This boy I was wishing had been there, he's probably the one you were expecting, the one who writes me letter, wasn't the one I was expecting to miss. This last year has been interesting to say the least, and while a part of me still clings to hope that we, the letter writers, will find a way to be near one another, there is still enormous room for doubt. It would be a lie to say there was no one else this year that interested me. I wish I knew the reason behind the unsent letter in my notebook...the one dated June 1, 2013. I wish I knew why it was still there, why I haven't sent it. It's not like it's full of embarrassing things, honestly it's quite hum-drum. But maybe that's why. Because I feel like I'm telling half-truths.

But then I also feel like I'm telling myself half-truths. A friend asked me this week if I was finding a way to be spiritually fed--despite my ever-present loneliness. I told her yes. A half-truth. Some days I do feel incredibly blessed and like I can feel the Hand of God in my life. But most days I feel aimless. It's almost like I'm the small child who desperately wants to be tickled, but doesn't want to be too obvious about that desire. I want that connection, that passion, that drive to learn more, but I don't want to be obvious about the search...and I have a hard time asking for help because I feel like I should be strong enough to push myself. [Lord, give me the grace to realize I am in need of shepherding.]

A couple weekends ago, one of the older gentlemen I work with at the dealership approached my desk. This particular salesman is one of my favorites, he's funny and smart and incredibly nerdy. We have a lot of common interests, and he listens to me babble on about (girly) things. He even asks me questions about how my love-life is going. In fact, he's known all along about the boy who writes me letters...and he knows about the boy I work with. Anyhow, he approached my desk and instead of asking the usual question of who things were going with the young men in my life, he blatantly asked, "Anna, what is wrong with all the men in your life? Are they all idiots that not one of them would be dating you?" I was shocked. I didn't know how to respond...so I laughed and said that I doubted that was the case. I'm still in shock over that situation...and I still don't know how to respond. It's still taking form and shape.

I've also realized that it has been nearly a year since I wrote any poetry. Why is that? Poetry has always been my form of non-fiction, of autobiography. Why am I letting this portion of my life go unmapped? This is a time of discovery, of hope, of new ground. Why am I letting it slip away?

We had writing workshop this week, and it went well. We spent quite a bit of time on my piece, but we had a lot of ground to cover there. I am excited about the story, about the things that are developing and the way characters are revealing themselves to me while I am doing mundane chores (like dishes and laundry and showering and walking the dog).

When did I become a reluctant reader? I have so many books that I want to be reading, but I'm not...I look at them and wonder what they're about, but I'm not actually reading them. I need to be in the structured setting of school again--good thing grad school is just around the corner!

That's all for tonight...there are still uncertainties, and I don't feel like I've answered any questions or resolved any inner turmoil, but at least I've laid them out.



My chest hurts when I breathe tonight...it's wasting me away...wasting me away. [Anberlin, Symphony of Blase]

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]

Hold Me Fast, I'm a Hopeless Wanderer

I did not forget about my blog, honestly I didn't. I thought about coming here to relieve some of the unbidden stress, and I thought about it often. Sometimes we get going with things and we let other thing move to the back burner...and eventually they fall behind the stove. I didn't forget this was back here, but it would have taken work to move the "stove" and get the "pan" out again. What a mess.

So what has me back here, almost a year after my last post?

Thanks to my beautiful cousin, Kaitlin, I am part of a writing workshop--we should really think of a better name, like Tolkien and Lewis's Inklings. In this writing workshop there are three members: myself, Kaitlin, and Rachel.

This workshop has been just what I needed. Over the last year I've felt the itch to write, to create--the itch never goes away. And over the last year, I'm ignored the tugging, distracting myself with other things that also needed attention. I've been working on Morning Star, and Rachel and Kaitlin have been giving me awesome feedback...and I get to hear their voices as well! The stories they are weaving are important, and I hope they recognize how much I appreciate their honesty in all things.

Kaitlin is also getting married (yay!) and she asked me to be her Maid of Honor. This came as a surprise to me, I was going to be happy if she asked me to be a Bridesmaid. I am so honored and happy to work with her throughout her engagement. (There is a point to this bridal tangent, promise.) I don't think she realizes how blessed I am to take on this responsibility as it distracts from my own loneliness (I'll write more on this at a later date).

My mom and Aunt Deanna wanted to host a Bridal Shower for Kaitlin, which I was very happy to help host. (This gave me an opportunity to create decorations from papercrafting, which I loved.)

So last night we hosted this lovely party that beautiful Rachel and her mother were invited to. After several guests had cleared out, after having a lot of fun, it was mentioned that Rachel has a blog. (Which I was very pleased to receive an invite to read.) She sheepishly smiled and admitted to this blogs existence, so I told her that I also had a blog, but it had fallen into disuse.

When I got home from the party and was able to take a moment for myself, I perused her blog...and then I came back here, to this space. And I thought to myself, You silly girl, move that stupid stove and start writing again. You know you'll feel better when you do. 

So here I am, I'm back, and I sincerely hope I am more faithful to this space. I will do my best.

"How fickle my heart, and how woozy my eyes. I struggle to find any truth in your lies. And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know. My weakness I feel I must finally show." [Mumford and Sons]

What kind of love is this?

I read a post on tumblr a few days ago that really struck me...a Jane Austen quote that I'm not sure I'd ever read (and if I had, I surely had forgotten it), "I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong." [Northanger Abbey] Something in me responded to the idea that some people do everything halfheartedly, even love, and then I was overwhelmed by the realization that I am much like this quote--my attractions are excessively, annoyingly, strong.

While I was blow drying my hair this morning I was thinking about a conversation I want to have with someone....and how I want to tell them that I don't do things by halves. I don't do something with the heart unless I've thought it over and really felt around it--this doesn't mean that I don't get hurt, it means that I get way to involved sometimes. The point of this internal conversation was that I really do like this individual. In my mind I thought, "I am not in the business of doing things by halves...and that can be hard. But I am comforted by the knowledge that I worship a God that doesn't do things by halves either."

I worship a God that doesn't do things by halves. Who would have thought that such a moment of clarity would come when I was pummeling my ears with the sound of rushing air? There I was, still damp, blow dryer in hand, and completely overjoyed at the revelation that God doesn't do anything half way.

His love is all encompassing, and all forgiving. He is so fully committed that He sent His Son to die for my pitiful, wretched soul--so broken by sin that it seems impossible for a perfect being to love.

It occurs to me now that His full commitment makes my "no halves" thing seem really pathetic. I may think things through and really allow myself to get hurt because of it, but I don't think I would actually die to prove my devotion to another person. And then one begs the question, am I willing to die for Christ, for His good news, like He died for my soul? I hope so. I hope that if that day comes, He will give me the strength to be so completely committed.

I may not be in the business of doing things by halves...but thank God, He is definitely not in the business of doing anything halfway or incompletely. The story is still being told, and because He fulfills all His promises I can rest easy tonight knowing that He will come again and reclaim what is His. The story isn't over yet.

You never stop learning the important lessons....

I've been learning a lot about myself lately. Working in an elementary school has certainly lent to this "growth spurt."

For example, I've been learning about the kind of parent I'll be. I mean, we all hope to be the stellar parents that the Hallmark movies show us, but when it comes right down to it we're human and we're bound to make mistakes. That doesn't mean I can't learn from the parents at my school--the good and the bad.

Some parents make a point of coming to eat lunch with their kids once a week--I think this is a neat idea, though maybe a bit unrealistic depending on the work situation. I do think I'll try to make it at least once a month though...just so I can see how the kids all interact together.

If a teacher tells me my child may have a learning disability, I will be the first one to sign off on the paperwork--I'd rather know the name of the beast and face it head on then let it terrorize my child out of fear that it may be difficult to tame.

Medical issues. We'll get them taken care of. 

We're going to read. I'll read them bedtime stories and then I'll work on their reading with them--like my parents did for me. 

If the teacher or administration says my kid has a behavior issue in school I will believe them. Kids aren't always perfect angels. 

And I think I'll figure out some way to make sure the teachers knows he/she is appreciated. (We have parents that bring their teachers things to keep them motivated and inspired--calendars and sticknote pads with quotes, etc.) 


Most profoundly though, I've learned that I have a love for broken things.

Some of the kids I love the most--care about and worry about the most--are the ones that have behavior issues and struggle with reading and math. Now, this comes mostly from working with them the most. I can't tell you how sick I feel though when a little girl is so lonely at home that she can hardly bear the thought of going into a crowded classroom where she has no friends--and she's clutching at my fingers, hoping that I will just listen to her. So I get hugs from the kids that need the most love...and I can't say that I mind.

It's funny, these same kids that are stealing my heart now are the kids that drove me nuts when I was in their classes with them. I always hated how the troublemakers got the most attention... but when I look back on it, they probably needed it more than I did. I didn't go home to a mom that was so preoccupied she couldn't read me a story. I didn't go home to a sister that told me she hated. I didn't go home to find out that my dad was going to jail. My home was always filled with love and support.

I didn't understand that then. I'm glad I'm still learning now.

This dusty barren land had given all it could yield...

It was recently pointed out to me *cough*LeAnn*cough* that I haven't blogged in a while. I knew this was true, and I had been meaning too, honestly. My new job has left me exhausted once 3:30 hits, and I've fallen into my old napping pattern... But I keep hoping that my body will adjust to the schedule and that I'll be able to get to bed a little earlier so I can stop napping in the afternoons.

Over the last few months I've noticed that I thrive on hope. I'm sure that most of you already knew this, and it was probably something I knew for a long time but hadn't yet come to realize the entirety of its scope.

This morning it really struck me how deeply this hope runs.
I've been hoping for rain--desperately.
I've been hoping that my cousin would recover from her botched surgery well.
I've been hoping that my other cousin would pull herself together and just be okay.
I've been hoping that this "maybe someday it'll work out" would just work out.
I've been hoping that our little first grader with behavior issues would get the attention she deserves at home so she can grow into the creative girl I see lurking behind the tangled hair and eyes that haven't learned to read yet.
I've been hoping that the writing bug would just take hold of me again and never let me go.
I've been hoping.
Hoping.
Hoping.

I even surround myself with literature that emphasizes the idea of hope and I wrap it around me like a warm security blanket. And I even hope that someday my life would echo those virtues that fictional characters so easily embody: strength, loyalty, nobility, honor, courage and faith.

So it's no surprise when I see small glimmers of these things in real life that I get excited and want to capture the moments. 

I have all of this hope, all of this want, but I'm still content.

Even if the rain comes just as harvest season is about to begin, at least there is moisture.
Even if my cousin had 20 units of blood transfused and got E. coli in a hospital, at least she is alive.
Even if my cousin moved back to the wretched situation that keeps throwing her to the wolves, at least she is talking to me about it and being open about the hardships.
Even if "maybe someday" isn't today, at least I have letter writing to pass the time.
Even if our little first grader was in the office again because of a tantrum, at least she is reaching out and she hugged me later and didn't want me to leave her.
Even if I'm not writing as much as I want, at least I know the story is still alive in me and it's just setting its roots a little deeper.

"Oh, Dear I never saw you coming. Oh my, look what you have done. You're my favorite song, always on the tip of my tongue." [Civil Wars, Tip of my Tongue]

You're the peace to the restless

It's been a big couple weeks in the heart of this Nebraska-girl.

Last Tuesday there was a phone call with a certain young man that lasted over 50 minutes. This  soothed the fraying edges of my hopelessly romantic heart. His general concern for my well-being is comforting. Just yesterday I received a letter from said young man. These pieces of life that we keep sharing...I can't help but wonder at the greater picture. And still I pray that God's Hand sew the pieces into place without my own hand trying to force the pattern.

I also baked and delivered a cake that a new relative had ordered for her birthday. Baking is good for the hands that are itching to do. My hands have been so idle with unemployment that they were thankful for the fun task. Baking is also good for the inner homemaker in me that doesn't have a lot of opportunity to shine just yet.

This Tuesday I had an interview with one of the local elementary schools at 8 am. It had been so long since I turned in an application to the district that I had mostly forgotten about it, and had certainly thought it was a dead end. The interview went very well and I was expecting an answer sometime in the next couple days. Two hours later, I got a phone call from the administration building offering me the paraeducator position. All I could think to say was, "Wow, that was fast," to which the lady on the other end confirmed. With a thankful heart, I accepted the position and am excited to begin working with kids that are struggling with reading and math and other areas. This rejection-sick heart is glad to be accepting an offering, a calling.

When I look back at my past experience I see that God was whispering all along, Just wait, I've been preparing you for something specific. You have to trust Me to show you what you're supposed to be doing. Trust Me. And that trust was incredibly hard, but worth the wait. I've been a  Writing Center tutor, I've been an administrative assistant, I've been a teacher's aid, I've been a person who struggled with reading at a young age. All of these things, and so many more, have been shaping me for this moment. God is good.

Wednesday I was able to spend some time with a few of the ladies in the family. We went to get pedicures, something I've never done before. It soothed the worry-weary heart by healing the dry-heat abused feet. There's something to be said for healthy feet--the washing and care-giving is Biblical, after all.

I fell asleep to thunder and lightning Wednesday night, and I slept easy knowing the thirsty ground was getting some much needed moisture. And this morning I was woken by thunder and lightning at 6 am, an hour before my alarm would go off, and I didn't mind at all.

My heart is abundantly thankful for the answers to so many prayers, for my heart was as thirsty as the land, and God is pouring out the rain and grace that we so desperately need. Let it rain.

"For greater things have yet to come, and greater things are still to be done in this City." [Chris Tomlin, God of This City]

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."

Hope's not giving up....

This is the story of a girl with a large heart. She filled her head with dreams of fairytales--knights in shining armor, rugged heroes, ladies of high esteem. A place where anything you dreamed could be attained if you worked hard enough. 

She put off one dream (the dream of her heart) to pursue her mind's dream. Instead of being content in her place she went to further her knowledge of the fairytale. The time she spent reading and learning was well spent, but occasionally she would get a glimpse of the other dream. It didn't take much--a weekend or a break from her scholastics spent at home was all she needed to awaken the old dream. 

Her arms elbow-deep in hot water, eyes looking out over the harvested fields, she wonders why she ever wanted more. A breeze pushes through the screen of the window as she dries her hands on the white tea-towel and suddenly she's somewhere else. 

She's a pioneer out on the frontier, or a simple maid in a medieval town. And she is not alone. Instead of preparing for her brother's birthday, she's baking for a child's name day and a husband that's been working hard under the sun. Whomever she prepares the table for, it matters little. The table is prepared--the food a blessing. And that is enough. God is good.

Where did this hope come from? This is the story of a girl that had clung so desperately to hope that she didn't realize when she had let it slip through her fingers for her eyes were squeezed tight--scared to face the truth. She knew the words--God provides--but somewhere along the way she let them grow hollow. Trudging on, day after day, she forgot to offer thanks for the blessings. And the trials. And the rejections, though three there be. 

The radio was turned up, louder than it should have been, and the windows rolled down. A song began to play that she had heard a million times--and she loved it all along. Something was different this time around, and words of one of her professors came echoing back, "Read it again, the words won't have changed. But my, you have." How she'd changed, and she didn't even realize it was happening. The song was poignant. Her finger pushed the back button again and again--letting the lyrics be a heavy hammer through the dimness she had been facing. And tears press against her eyes because it's been so long since she's felt anything.

Daylight proved to chase away the darkness and contentment settled in. Peace came over her mind and settled in her heart. Though the days she will face may be difficult, she will not be alone. This is the story of a girl alive with hope. 

"Hope, sweet Hope, how much more can she take being our strength when our hearts run out of faith?... Hope is with me in my time of trouble, when it all comes crashing down she will stay by my side digging through the rubble. She's not giving up, not giving up, not giving up..." [Hope, Remedy Drive]

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]

You love me in my weakness...

So, I'm writing tonight--shoving another scene in where one didn't exist before. But the space was aching for something so of course I had to close my eyes for a bit while I was showering and think about what was needed.

What came out?

Self-doubt in my lead female.

A voice that has no body. (Two words, folks, not nobody but literally lacks a body. Or does it?)

Frustration.

The waking of a companion.

Strong arms.

Weeping.

An emotionally drained writer. But in a very good way.

You see, there was something building between these two characters--some tension that would need to be addressed at some point anyway.

Really what my lady-character is learning is that she is loved even in her weakness--even when she's a blubbering mess and doesn't have everything put together. Even when she thinks she's going crazy.

But don't we need some encouragement like that took some days?

It's been a while since I cried a good cry. Did you know that crying is healthy? It's good for your emotional state to alleviate some of that pressure. mmhmm. It's not for lack of reason that I haven't cried--it's for lack of strong arms. (Not that I don't think someone would step up if I needed....I just feel rather disconnected right now, and that's my own fault.)

Anyhow, this is basically me saying that I wish I was in my book and able to have a break down and my guy would just hold me until I stopped beating on his chest.... uh........ yeah. Don't misunderstand me, I really am content to just be single right now.

Oh boy. This is why I don't blog casually at 1:06 in the morning... Forgive me for how disjointed this is.

I was going to make an obvious connection and say that of course God is always there to hold me when I'm having a break down. But really, as I started going I realized that I just want a hug. And while God can give me metaphorical hugs, it's not quite the same as a physical friend hug. (And I think He can speak through friend-hugs.)

I should go to bed or go back to writing. Writing it is!

"I fall at Your feet and worship You with tears." [Danny Oertli]

You will find that the world has changed forever...

There is something about the way a poet speaks to another poet. Something about the way a writer can nod and hum to the other writer. There is an understanding that passes between the kindred spirit.

These are our homegrown words. We protect them--we would defend against an army of critics for them. Because they are the pieces of our souls that we don't just let any conversation see.

These are the things that world would scoff at if we said them in the day-to-day. So we hide them. Feed them, nourish them with the scraps we save back. And they grow in secret. We went to show them off because, oh, they grow up so beautifully.

So when you meet another and you can tell in the way they save back words and phrases and ideas. You can tell by the way they live their quiet existence observing, borrowing from the "real" world. But you can see it in their eyes that they aren't full-time residence of the world we call "real." No, their mind is in a world far realer, far fairer to them.

And you may say, "Hello." But what you mean is, "I have a secret, too." Sometimes the trust develops so quickly you're not sure where it began, but you know in your heart, This person understand who I am, who I want to be.


There's something in the way a poet can talk to another poet. Sometimes without words because poetry runs deeper than the words themselves. But even in the silence you understand the struggle of home-grown words.

"I don't speak often cause I don't speak well. Every song I write has a story to tell." [Ginny Owens]

How did You go and make me pretty?

My friend, Leesha Harvey, is an aspiring musician, and she's awesome. You should go look up her music, it's great. I don't know if it's on iTunes or not... but you can do a free download of her new album, and then donate to get the lyrics and some awesome photography! Go here! (The title of the post came from one of her songs, hence the plug.) (Lisa, I think you would enjoy this.)

It's funny, I was originally going to talk about music here--one song particularly. And then, while I was getting ready to start the post that song played and that line just struck me, and it had to be a post title.

So, the main event:

This morning in church we sang "Blessed Be Your Name." Now most people know that song, especially if they attend a church with contemporary worship--it tends to be a favorite. So, it's not strange that we sang it or anything. However, it got me thinking. If there's one song that has been a theme in my life, it's this one. I mean, there are all kinds of songs that I can listen to and remember a period in my life that was totally in sync with it, but this song in particular has been with me through many storms.

Maybe there's someone out there that isn't familiar with the song. (If so, go find it on YouTube, a ton of artists sing it, feel free to get a variety!)

I just want to share with you all my journey with this song.

I grew up singing this song: Sunday mornings, and some Wednesday nights when I was in middle school and high school, and Church camp. It's been a huge part of my churchgoing experience. Most you know how it is: you sing a song so many times it can start to lose meaning. Not so with this song, not for me. It speaks to several different times in one's life that it is always relatable in new ways.

When I was first told I had to wear a back brace I didn't think it would turn into a two year ordeal. But while I was in that thing, the song was able to speak to that wilderness. "God, this sucks. Why am I having to go through this? Yet I love You. Blessed be Your name." And I guarantee you that when I was finally released from the spine doctor, my heart was singing (along with my mouth)

"Blessed be Your name 

When the sun's shining down on me 

When the world's all as it should be 

Blessed be Your name"

I found out last year that the lady that took my senior pictures, a family friend, has a rare lung disease. Basically, her lungs are turning into smooth muscle, which means no breathing once it gets too bad. She was pregnant when we found out. I was home for the weekend, or something, and Mom told me just as I was arriving. I remember going down to my room. I was angry at God. Why would He let that happen to her? She is one of the sweetest ladies I know, and she needs Christ in her life. While I was in my room, I was laying on my bed, staring the ceiling, choking on tears. Suddenly, this song popped into my head. And I sang. At the top of my lungs, not thinking about the people above me.

 "Blessed be Your name 

On the road marked with suffering 

Though there's pain in the offering 

Blessed be Your name." 

Over and over again.

"You give and take away 

You give and take away 

My heart will choose to say 

Lord, blessed be Your name." 

The idea that the life within her womb could have brought her closer to death made me feel ill. And still I sang, even though it hurt.

When I found out that my middle school science teacher had died, I was alone in my dorm room. I don't remember where LeAnn was, but I'm glad she wasn't there. I had been studying Greek. And then I wasn't. I was laying on the floor crying my lungs away, until I couldn't hardly breathe. Then I climbed up into my bed, and cried some more. I tried to sing again. I thought maybe that this loss would be easier to bear if I could honestly still sing, "Blessed be Your name, God, even though this isn't fair." But I couldn't make my lung work anymore. So I went home for the visitation. And after I spent five minutes in the room, I went out to my car and cried some more. I called my friend Cole and cried to him for a while. (Cole, I'm still incredibly thankful for your silence when I couldn't speak, and for your encouragement when I was breathing again.) When I hung up with him, I stared at the roof of my car, and I was finally able to sing again. 

"When the darkness closes in, 

Lord Still I will say 

Blessed be the name of the Lord" 

(Someday I will be able to write a more in depth blog about this, but right now I can't.)

While this song speaks to me in my joys, I find it is a megaphone to my sorrows. And today when we sang it in church I wasn't either. I was neither joyful nor sorrowful. I simply was. And that was okay. For here there may be sorrows sown, and there will be joys reaped. I'm learning that through it all, the good and the bad, God is making me beautiful. I don't understand, and it's painful, but He's doing it. And I love it. So, I will sing with arms raised and heart abandoned because I know that threw it all, even when the way is tough and my heart is numb, "Blessed be Your name!"

"I will remain silent. Time will not heal the loss. Look to the One before us. Journey this road to the Cross. And we walk, we walk. What else can we do? Though the road seems that much harder, now that we're walking without you." [Leesha Harvey]

Hey you, I love your soul...

Yes, two posts in a 48 hour period, crazy right?

Today is Mother's Day. I realize that I spend a lot of space on here talking about my Dad, and how well we get along. There have been a few times where I have made a point of saying that my Mom and I just don't communicate well. Well, both of those statements are true. However, I wouldn't trade my Mom for anything in the world.

The facts of the matter are:

I do get really cross sometimes. LeAnn may be the only person at Concordia that has witnessed this (sorry about that, LeAnn). My Mom definitely carries the brunt of those "attacks." And she still loves me. My Dad once told me, "Anna, you and I are a lot alike. And we're both very lucky that your Mom loves us both a lot. She has more love for you than you even know." That struck me. It came during the crazy graduation season my senior year after she had asked for the third time before 1pm if I had heard about who was going to my graduation party. I was annoyed. Extremely annoyed. Mom and I were crying and yelling in the truck cab while Dad and Josef just sat there, silent. The fight ended with Mom saying she wasn't going to talk to me--now that was a blow to the face. Dad pulled me aside and I thought for sure he was going to chew me out too, but he didn't he told me that. (see up a few lines) That was probably the nicest way he could have told me, "I see why you're annoyed, but you were being a total jerk to your mom." We still fight. We probably always will a little bit. But I know that she will never stop loving me, and I love her for that.

If I'm super excited about something, chances are that Mom is the one that will really get it and be happy with me. This applies from the girliest thing to the most academic achievement. She's the best cheerleader around--really.

It doesn't take much to make her cry in way of sappy movies. There are certain points during a variety of chick flicks that I know if I look at her I will see puffy red eyes and a wadded up tissue. I always give her a hard time, but only when I'm not crying... ha. The funny thing is, I've always felt like I needed to be the strong one. I make a point of not letting my Mom see me cry. I'm not entirely sure when that started, but probably around the time I got my brace and I needed her to know that I was going to be okay, that I didn't need pity. But when I do start to cry during those movies, I know (without looking) that Mom is crying too.

We share a birthday, and the day I can't celebrate with her on the day will be a sad one. (Look for that blog post in the future, folks. It's sure to get one.) I've always loved being able to tell her Happy Birthday when she tells me Happy Birthday. It's a great way to wake up in the morning.

She's a pretty great lady, and she cares about people more than anything.

I love you, Momma.

"Oh for a heart that does not ache. And for a backbone that won't break. For some steady feet or sturdy ground, a road that isn't going to let me turn around and run. For a thousand times to sing. To wear wisdom like Soloman's robe. For the patience and perspective of a man like Job. Just to soar on wings like eagles for no other reason than the bird's eye view for a flight or two. ... Who I wish I was. ... I never could be good enough to measure up, but You want to take me as I come. You're the only one that cares to take me as I am." [Nichole Nordeman]