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]

I could never save myself...

There's an itch inside me. (I mean this both literally and figuratively.)

Many (if not all) of you know that I was badly sunburned a few weeks ago. Well, it's mostly "faded" now, and the pealing is mostly all gone.... but the itching. The itching will not go away. I'm lucky I have any skin left with how itchy I've been. People will comment on my sunburn (still) and I don't know if it's actually residual red from the burn or from my constant scratching. Maybe both.

Just as the itch on my skin is irritating, so is the itch in my soul. The difference is that I have not been able to scratch away the discomfort therein. Instead, it goes on bothering, becoming more incessant and more irksome everyday. Everyday, another part itches.

I would like to say that the answer to this itchiness would be to write....and I do believe it would help. As I told a dear friend in a note the other day: I have not had time to write, and therefore have not been writing everyday. Perhaps the stagnant waters of my soul started here. I was not moving the waters, becoming still in the routine of the day-to-day. Even now, I think to myself that I should be reading for a class instead of engaging in this potentially cathartic activity.

There are other things.

How do you swallow the words of nights past? Take it all back, let things play out the way they were meant to. Why did you ever open your mouth to begin with? I lack the grace to take these things in stride.

How do you console a friend that has just told you her dad in terminal? That he cannot speak to her the way he used to? She tells you not to cry for her, but these tears have been pushing for days, and this is just the news that wants to send them over the brink. You can spend all the time in the world working on homework for your Death, Dying, and Trauma class, but when those hard questions come up you just may not have the answers. I don't know if my arms are brave enough to help you carry this. 

How do you carry a friend's secret? Carry it wrapped up in your heart, tucked away. Let everything that is negative bounce off your shield, leaving dings and scratches. I don't know if I'm strong to hold up forever.

A friend once told me I had strong arms. Arms that could help one bear their burdens with a simply hug. All I want is for someone with strong arms to hold me. Tonight I couldn't stand the silence of my dorm room, so I slept. I went to work. I got back to the dorm, knowing I would be alone again. So, I decided to go for a drive, thinking it would make my heart feel less heavy in my chest.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. My friend now has a strong set of arms that will hold her through all things--in their vows he mentioned that he would be her shield. It gave me chills.

Now, I sit here, thinking of all the things I need to do, just wishing, praying, for some strong arms. For someone to be my shield. Because in that car ride I realized that when I am in need is when I give the most. I asked the Walmart lady if she was having a better night...only to get a long explanation about how it was worse than the other day. And even though I felt like my heart would burst, I gave her a smile anyway and told her that I hoped things would start looking up soon. I need someone to protect me for this emotional fatigue.

I am so itchy. And I just want it to go away.

"Hold fast, help is on the way." [Casting Crowns]

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]

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]

Let it rain

I'm in a strange "funk."

It's been a bad week so far; nothing horribly bad, just a lot of little bads.

I've been battling within myself for days now, and I'm still learning what exactly it is that I'm fighting against. The funny thing? All my usual "weapons" aren't working. What are those things? Writing poetry, it's great reliever for me, and it has taken me four-five days to finally get something out that wasn't straight up awful. Reading my Bible, I was reading the words but not actually listening to them. Writing out my prayers, nothing I said really hit what I was feeling. Reading a good book, nothing felt right.

And then, some out of the ordinary things happened to me yesterday and today and it has made me feel better... So I'm going to make a list. Because I feel like it, and I don't normally make lists, and the not-normal has been helping. So here we go:

1. I walked down the narrow stairs outside of Jesse Hall after work yesterday because my boss suggested it. I love those stairs... they're so... old looking. (And totally sturdy.) I was able to put my hand on the iron railing and just be present in that time... a time that doesn't seem to exist anymore. So, when it gets warmer... I may start making one of those stairwells my writing home, and I am very excited about that endeavor. And I will probably be sad to leave it when summer starts.

2. Bob Olson, one of the guys that works for buildings and grounds (he's also our resident set builder; aka: set god), was working on the stairwell (inside) in Jesse... which is why I had to take the elevator and was then "forced" to take my timeless stairwell outside. When I got to the cafeteria to drop off some tickets for the One Acts, he was in there taking a quick coffee break. I stopped to talk to him a little bit, ribbing him about making me take the elevator. It turned into one of the best conversations ever. After we talked about campus a little, he asked me about how my year was going and how my classes were, and remembered from a previous conversation (like two semesters ago) that I was a creative writing-emphasis English major. And he asked me about grad schools. And he told me about some of the stuff he has worked on... I'm blown away by the man's talent. I don't know how old he is, but he's not a spring chicken and he still talks about how he'll get around to getting his children's books published "someday." I made the comment to him that he is such a busy bee, he probably deserves some time off just to rest. He looked at me and said, "I think it's a sin to waste ones talents." Woah. It hit me between the eyes. How many days do I waste my God-given talents? More than I care to admit. I am thankful for Bob. He's a wonderful man, and if you ever get a chance to talk to him, you Concordians, do it. Please. You'll end up a better person for it.

3. When I left the cafeteria, it had started to rain. A little. Big drops, but not a lot falling. I was worried about my laptop. And then I was thinking about how, if it weren't for my laptop, I would have really enjoyed that walk. Just as I stepped under the awning of the building I was walking to, it started raining a lot heavier. I turned around and looked up at the sky, and I thought, "God, You're awesome, and thank you for not making that happen until I got under the awning." Now, yes, I realize that God probably didn't really care about my laptop just then, and surely it started raining harder on other people who weren't under the awning, so it is flawed thinking to believe that He held off the rain until I was safe...but it was a nice coincidence.

4. I gave one of my professors a hug. She has been a true inspiration to me, and while we are not learning together, we are learning simultaneously what it is to let go of dead weight. (This is part of what I've been fighting against lately, I think.) We've been fighting our elephants. In that embrace, I felt my own burdens lift just a little, and not because words were spoken, but because love was shared. And that can make all the difference. She is a blessing to me, and I thank God that I am able to be in her class. And I look forward to this summer and taking an independent study with her. There will be much writing, some laughing, some crying, and much presence. I am excited to simply be with her reading over my shoulder, so to speak.

5. Talking to a friend I haven't seen in a while at lunch today ended up being one of the most refreshing experiences. We tend to get into these routines, and the routines turn into ruts. I have been eating lunch with approximately the same people for over two months now. I love them. But it was good to break away, hear something new, and laugh. I mean laugh. At something I hadn't already heard five times, or thought about twenty times. It was good, and just what I needed.

Five is a good number, even though it's not technically "round," it's round in my head. Five not-normal things that have made all the difference.

So, let it rain, and let it storm, because I need some nourishment in this twisted heart of mine.

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