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]
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
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]
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]
Saturday, September 22, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
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]
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]
Saturday, June 23, 2012
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]
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]
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Heartache to heartache, we stand...
Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.
Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).
I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.
As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)
When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.
Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.
I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.
My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."
I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."
"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]
Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).
I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.
As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)
When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.
Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.
I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.
My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."
I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."
"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]
Monday, August 8, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
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]
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]
Thursday, July 28, 2011
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]
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]
Friday, June 3, 2011
A whole new world...
There is nothing romantic about this post, don't let the title deceive you.
This is something far stranger. Something I didn't think would ever happen. But it has. And I feel inclined with those here to share it. Yes.
I have had a YouTube account for some time now. Mostly, I just favorite videos so I can watch them whenever I want without having to go through a search process. Today, that changed.
My brother and I have been toying with the idea of making Vlogs together. This idea is still in the works. If we do, he'll be the one editing the things and making the presentable in an awesome way. I, on the other hand, will simply say stupid things. Ha.
Well, I decided this morning that I kind of wanted to start Vlogging... and I don't really know why. It should be interesting though. I'm hoping it will help me speak more clearly...maybe.
Anyways, check out my new Channel! Enjoy! Uh... like it, subscribe to it, whatever you want. :)
(And Sara, I know, I said I would never do this...but as the cliche goes, never say never.)
This is something far stranger. Something I didn't think would ever happen. But it has. And I feel inclined with those here to share it. Yes.
I have had a YouTube account for some time now. Mostly, I just favorite videos so I can watch them whenever I want without having to go through a search process. Today, that changed.
My brother and I have been toying with the idea of making Vlogs together. This idea is still in the works. If we do, he'll be the one editing the things and making the presentable in an awesome way. I, on the other hand, will simply say stupid things. Ha.
Well, I decided this morning that I kind of wanted to start Vlogging... and I don't really know why. It should be interesting though. I'm hoping it will help me speak more clearly...maybe.
Anyways, check out my new Channel! Enjoy! Uh... like it, subscribe to it, whatever you want. :)
(And Sara, I know, I said I would never do this...but as the cliche goes, never say never.)
"I love Greek!"
Thursday, May 26, 2011
You raise me up...
Thinking about family this morning.
It hurts a lot when someone you love is so badly wounded--spiritually, emotionally, and physically.
You ask yourself: "What could I have done to prevent this? Could I have reached out to her more? Could I have made sure she had someone in her life that would listen without judging? Why wasn't I there for her? Why didn't I step up to the plate? When she contacted me, why didn't I follow up?"
And then you make the decision: "In the future, I will be there for her. I will make an effort to be a light in her pain. I will do everything I can to protect someone that is older than me...but that doesn't mean I can't fight beside her. I will tell her whenever I can that I love her--always have, even when we were so distant from who we used to be. And I will pray for her regularly, often, and fervently."
That future? It starts today. Today, I start fighting an "elephant."
"There is no life - no life without its hunger; Each restless heart beats so imperfectly; But when you come and I am filled with wonder, sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity." [Selah, is the version that I know, but I think Josh Groban actually wrote the song? Maybe?]
It hurts a lot when someone you love is so badly wounded--spiritually, emotionally, and physically.
You ask yourself: "What could I have done to prevent this? Could I have reached out to her more? Could I have made sure she had someone in her life that would listen without judging? Why wasn't I there for her? Why didn't I step up to the plate? When she contacted me, why didn't I follow up?"
And then you make the decision: "In the future, I will be there for her. I will make an effort to be a light in her pain. I will do everything I can to protect someone that is older than me...but that doesn't mean I can't fight beside her. I will tell her whenever I can that I love her--always have, even when we were so distant from who we used to be. And I will pray for her regularly, often, and fervently."
That future? It starts today. Today, I start fighting an "elephant."
"There is no life - no life without its hunger; Each restless heart beats so imperfectly; But when you come and I am filled with wonder, sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity." [Selah, is the version that I know, but I think Josh Groban actually wrote the song? Maybe?]
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
God, I want to dream again, take me where I've never been...
I may not have a job yet, hopefully that will come soon, but I've still been keeping busy. In a sense.
I've done a fair amount of reading--surprisingly enough it's all been young adult fiction, a genre I don't generally enjoy. It's not so much that I dislike it... I dislike what it's doing to young readers... but that's a post for another day. (And I know I'll get a lot of grief for it, so it can wait.) What I want to talk about is my independent study, actually.
I can't remember if I have posted about this directly yet or not... I've certainly thought about it a lot. In this independent study I'm required to write an hour a day (at least) and pick an author I would like to emulate. Which is a word I don't particularly like, I've decided. I don't want to be another author, but I do want to learn from them. Ideally, this would be an author that writes a similar genre to what I'm interested in, but do it differently than I do, or better than I do.
So I've been reading Fantasy. The problem with finding a fantasy writer of whom I am going to read all of their works is that they write a lot. Now, naturally the first author that came to mind was Tolkien. (How did you guess? You know me so well.) However, even he was a prolific writer in that he wrote the entire history of Middle Earth. I'm not ready to tackle all of that in a summer. And besides, I just did a study on him, and if I'm going to learn more then I need to pick someone new.
What have I been reading?
Well, I'm just about to finish reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. And let me tell you, for this being her debut novel, I'm impressed. She has created this fantasy world with skill, and I can tell she has put a lot of thought into it. I feel bad choosing her though because she's only written one book. But it's a good one. I'm excited to see how it ends.
I've also been reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I just need to read Mockingjay. I'm anxious to see how Suzanne Collins is going to wrap this all up--there are so many questions swirling around in my head. I don't think that I would classify these as strictly fantasy, but more as a fantastical dystopia.
In addition to these books (which mostly only take me a day to read) I've been reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Crogan. (I think that's how you spell her name.) These are intense. I first read The Naming my summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. And I had started The Riddle shortly after. It's been a book I return to off and on. I was determined to finish it this summer, and the rest of the four book series. These books make me happy, and not because they're particularly joyful--they're not. No, it's something else--they're challenging. Even for me, a senior in college. Yet, they're considered to be YA books because the protagonist is a young adult. But the reading is dense, full of detail and creative devices. And intrigue! I'm being surprised all the time, and I love that I can't necessarily predict it! I love that there are young adults out there reading these books and being actively challenged. I'll have to do some research and see if she's written anything else. I also love her mastery of scenery, something I desperately lack.
Most of all, while I'm writing, I'm beginning to realize that I'm afraid of what this could turn into. My instinct is to just pump the story out--finally finish Morning Star so she won't be a burden anymore. But I've wrapped my identity around this book--what if people don't like her? Each of those characters carries a piece of who I am, or who I want to be. Do I really want to release them out to a world that they may be ridiculed? Am I strong enough to handle that possibility?
And then there's the issue of names. The protagonist of Graceling: Katsa. The protagonist of The Hunger Games: Katniss. Thank goodness that The Books of Pellinor don't have a protagonist who's name starts with 'K.' And then there's Morning Star, who contains a character, one who will be fairly influential even if she doesn't get the book title: Katra. It makes me angry that these other books have come out before I could finish mine... mine that has been in the works for at least seven years. I don't want to be just another female writer with a female character who's name starts with a 'K.'
And am I writing for a young adult audience? That would be ironic, after all. Or am I more like Markus Zusak? Not writing for any particular audience, but telling a story I feel must be told. (Granted, my story doesn't carry as much weight as one about Nazis.) More on this when I talk about Young Adult literature I think.
Do you have any author suggestions?
"Forget the fear, it's just a crutch that tries to hold you back and turn your dreams to dust. All you need to do is just dream." [Fireflight]
I've done a fair amount of reading--surprisingly enough it's all been young adult fiction, a genre I don't generally enjoy. It's not so much that I dislike it... I dislike what it's doing to young readers... but that's a post for another day. (And I know I'll get a lot of grief for it, so it can wait.) What I want to talk about is my independent study, actually.
I can't remember if I have posted about this directly yet or not... I've certainly thought about it a lot. In this independent study I'm required to write an hour a day (at least) and pick an author I would like to emulate. Which is a word I don't particularly like, I've decided. I don't want to be another author, but I do want to learn from them. Ideally, this would be an author that writes a similar genre to what I'm interested in, but do it differently than I do, or better than I do.
So I've been reading Fantasy. The problem with finding a fantasy writer of whom I am going to read all of their works is that they write a lot. Now, naturally the first author that came to mind was Tolkien. (How did you guess? You know me so well.) However, even he was a prolific writer in that he wrote the entire history of Middle Earth. I'm not ready to tackle all of that in a summer. And besides, I just did a study on him, and if I'm going to learn more then I need to pick someone new.
What have I been reading?
Well, I'm just about to finish reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. And let me tell you, for this being her debut novel, I'm impressed. She has created this fantasy world with skill, and I can tell she has put a lot of thought into it. I feel bad choosing her though because she's only written one book. But it's a good one. I'm excited to see how it ends.
I've also been reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I just need to read Mockingjay. I'm anxious to see how Suzanne Collins is going to wrap this all up--there are so many questions swirling around in my head. I don't think that I would classify these as strictly fantasy, but more as a fantastical dystopia.
In addition to these books (which mostly only take me a day to read) I've been reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Crogan. (I think that's how you spell her name.) These are intense. I first read The Naming my summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. And I had started The Riddle shortly after. It's been a book I return to off and on. I was determined to finish it this summer, and the rest of the four book series. These books make me happy, and not because they're particularly joyful--they're not. No, it's something else--they're challenging. Even for me, a senior in college. Yet, they're considered to be YA books because the protagonist is a young adult. But the reading is dense, full of detail and creative devices. And intrigue! I'm being surprised all the time, and I love that I can't necessarily predict it! I love that there are young adults out there reading these books and being actively challenged. I'll have to do some research and see if she's written anything else. I also love her mastery of scenery, something I desperately lack.
Most of all, while I'm writing, I'm beginning to realize that I'm afraid of what this could turn into. My instinct is to just pump the story out--finally finish Morning Star so she won't be a burden anymore. But I've wrapped my identity around this book--what if people don't like her? Each of those characters carries a piece of who I am, or who I want to be. Do I really want to release them out to a world that they may be ridiculed? Am I strong enough to handle that possibility?
And then there's the issue of names. The protagonist of Graceling: Katsa. The protagonist of The Hunger Games: Katniss. Thank goodness that The Books of Pellinor don't have a protagonist who's name starts with 'K.' And then there's Morning Star, who contains a character, one who will be fairly influential even if she doesn't get the book title: Katra. It makes me angry that these other books have come out before I could finish mine... mine that has been in the works for at least seven years. I don't want to be just another female writer with a female character who's name starts with a 'K.'
And am I writing for a young adult audience? That would be ironic, after all. Or am I more like Markus Zusak? Not writing for any particular audience, but telling a story I feel must be told. (Granted, my story doesn't carry as much weight as one about Nazis.) More on this when I talk about Young Adult literature I think.
Do you have any author suggestions?
"Forget the fear, it's just a crutch that tries to hold you back and turn your dreams to dust. All you need to do is just dream." [Fireflight]
Sunday, May 8, 2011
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]
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]
Friday, April 22, 2011
And there's a God that walks over the earth...
My church has their "Good Friday" service on Thursday night.
This year it was different for me. I had just finished reading Life of Pi by Yann Martel. And in that book the main character struggles with the idea of God. The part where he is talking to a priest is particularly interesting to me. He says that it doesn't make any sense for God to die in punishment for His creations sin.
And it doesn't.
It doesn't make sense that Jesus died for us. When I read that, I said out loud, "But that's the beauty of it." The beauty of mercy--of grace.
I didn't deserve Christ's sacrifice--I still don't. Nobody does.
And still He came.
And still He died.
What kind of love is this, that God should lay down His Son's life for a wretch like me?
Beautiful pain.
"He's searching for heart that is desperate, and longing for a child that will give Him their all, give it al, He wants it all. And He says, love Me, love Me with your whole heart. He wants it all today." [Forever Jones, He Wants It All]
This year it was different for me. I had just finished reading Life of Pi by Yann Martel. And in that book the main character struggles with the idea of God. The part where he is talking to a priest is particularly interesting to me. He says that it doesn't make any sense for God to die in punishment for His creations sin.
And it doesn't.
It doesn't make sense that Jesus died for us. When I read that, I said out loud, "But that's the beauty of it." The beauty of mercy--of grace.
I didn't deserve Christ's sacrifice--I still don't. Nobody does.
And still He came.
And still He died.
What kind of love is this, that God should lay down His Son's life for a wretch like me?
Beautiful pain.
"He's searching for heart that is desperate, and longing for a child that will give Him their all, give it al, He wants it all. And He says, love Me, love Me with your whole heart. He wants it all today." [Forever Jones, He Wants It All]
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...
The line that titles this blog is part of a sentence from the paper I presented on Friday at about 2:50.
I have a lot of thoughts jostling around inside my head right now. I wish I could put them all into an order...I know that they are connected, I'm just not entirely sure how right now. Maybe I'll make a list... hm. It's worth a shot.
1. All you have to do is breathe. So keep breathing. Go on breathing. Keep on breathing. (Superchick) This was the motto of my day on Friday. Leading up to my presentation I was getting more and more anxious... until the girl before started talking about Buddhism and how it should be applied to Christianity... then I started squirming my chair... (There's something unsettling about listening to someone explain how they're being sucked away from the Gospel. Sorry, but there really is something absolute about the Gospel, I know our culture likes to shy away from that right now.) and I realized that at least the things I was going to say weren't blasphemous... or heretical. And once I was on the stage, and started reading, it was fine. This is something I am passionate about. I have a firm grasp on this. I can do this. I am doing this.
2. Oh, I feel so tired. I cannot hardly keep open my eyes. (Plumb) Sitting in a van for hours with two professors... I was beyond exhausted. I hadn't slept much all week, and once I was done presenting it just washed over me, this weariness was a tsunami to my thirsty soul. Over dinner, Prof. Reek told me I looked tired... and when I told him it had been a long week of late nights he told me he understood... I don't think he could have. And so, I went to bed early last night, and woke up late this morning. And I took a nap today. And it was good.
3. Why does our brokenness keep whispering? It's telling us we're not anything. (Remedy Drive) Over the course of this semester I have had to deal with self-confidence issues. And presenting a million times had made me think that I wasn't any good at what I love... and I was beginning to doubt why I'm studying English with the intent of being a professor... and every once in a while God drops something my lap--a reminder that I am making the right choices for right now. Things like talking to Dr. Thurber. And things like this presentation and having a girl tell me in the bathroom afterwards that I did a very nice job. I can't let the failures guide my life, rather I must let the success stories speak for me. Speak for me.
4. What you say and what you do are different things. (TobyMac) My cousin didn't call me on my birthday. He didn't even write on my Facebook wall. He used to call me every year--and I always cherished hearing his voice. I used to think that he and I had a special bond because we both wore back braces. He's married now. And he lives far away. I just pray when I get married some day that I won't become as distant from my family as he has. I miss him very much. Yesterday was his birthday. I didn't call him. I thought about it. But I settled on writing on his Facebook wall. Maybe I'll send him a card. Yeah. I think I'll do that.
5. A whole new world... (Aladdin) If you ever have the chance to ride in a car with two professors... do it. And do it as often as you can. You will learn more in that time about their area of interest than any other time in your life. (maybe) And you'll also learn how deeply they care about their students (at least on a smaller campus). I was so anxious to be done with my undergrad...but I'm sad now to be leaving these professors because I know how much they care about every single one of their students. I pray that someday I will care as deeply for my students while they discover what it means to be an adult. I caught a glimpse of what my future could be, and it could be beautiful.
6. We all long to belong. We all need to be needed. (Krystal Meyers) It is said that chivalry is dead. Wrong. As long as Prof. Reek lives there will still be chivalry in this world. He tried to help me into the van (fail). I tried to take my hand back, but he REALLY wanted to help me into that van. He did help me out of the van, which was better. Every door was opened by him, or someone else, and held until I had passed through. And when he was unable to help me with my coat it was, "One of you young men help Anna with her coat, please." I didn't think they would actually do it... but Grant informed me I had been "gentlemanized." It was nice...why did women ever fight against this? Were they nut jobs? (ha.)
7. People not only can surprise you, but they will. Nuns can be feminists.... I was not expecting that one.
8. Faith is never taught, it's just something they catch from watching you along the way. (Mark Schultz) Dr. Thurber casts a long shadow... and he is not the end-all-be-all power that I imagined him to be. I am sad that he will not be the Dean anymore... but I am ecstatic that he will be teaching more classes.
9. Don't waste, one day is all that we've got to give and take. (Adie) I was asked if I felt like I got a good education from my public schooling. Yes. But I was also in the AP classes getting college credit. School is really what you make it to be. If you're there to learn, then you will. If you're there to screw around, then maybe you won't. The success or failure of a school does not rest solely on the teachers, it also rests on the students. I was told that my parents probably did a lot to motivate me. And then Dr. Holtorf said, "I think she's self-motivated too. I think so anyway."
10. We want to feel Your wind in our lungs. There's a little girl at church. Every Sunday her daddy holds her during worship. And every Sunday, while we're singing she puts her little hands up in the air and she opens her mouth as wide as it will go. She can't be over 3 years old... and I don't know if she's actually making any noise when she opens her mouth and bobs her head along to the music. But whenever I see her I pray. Papa God, don't let her spirit for You fade away, make it grow stronger day by day. Raise her up to see Your face, and teach those around her to see Your grace. Teach my heart give all things up, like her little arms reach to something she can't see to touch. One day, when I have children, help me to be an example that allows for such reckless abandon.
11. She was watching as they were dancing and thought "Someday I wanna be like that." She was watching her momma singing as they were dancing hand in hand. And though she can't recall the song, she was watching. (Mark Schultz) During the return journey on Friday, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel. I went in to use the restroom before we took off for the last leg of our journey. While I was drying my hands, a little girl and her mom were in a stall. I can only assume the little girl was finished and waiting for her mom. I heard a, "Wait, stay here please. Can Mommy go potty too, please? Please don't open the door." That could be me someday... and I smiled to myself as I left the restroom.
12. In Christ alone, my hope is found. Hope is a constant in a world full of morphing despair. I am ruminating over my paper, replaying the themes and the quotes. Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...but maybe they don't need to be. Maybe the greatest part of our story has already been told. And truly, it has.
13. The sweet by and by. There is a song that talks about the singers grandma singing "The Sweet by and by" all the time... and when I'm old, I want my sweet by and by to be "Be Thou my Vision." yeah.
This list could go on... but I do believe I will spare you. (At least for a little while.)
"Be Thou my vision, Oh Lord of my heart, naught be all else to me, save that Thou art! Thou my best thought, by day or by night, waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
I have a lot of thoughts jostling around inside my head right now. I wish I could put them all into an order...I know that they are connected, I'm just not entirely sure how right now. Maybe I'll make a list... hm. It's worth a shot.
1. All you have to do is breathe. So keep breathing. Go on breathing. Keep on breathing. (Superchick) This was the motto of my day on Friday. Leading up to my presentation I was getting more and more anxious... until the girl before started talking about Buddhism and how it should be applied to Christianity... then I started squirming my chair... (There's something unsettling about listening to someone explain how they're being sucked away from the Gospel. Sorry, but there really is something absolute about the Gospel, I know our culture likes to shy away from that right now.) and I realized that at least the things I was going to say weren't blasphemous... or heretical. And once I was on the stage, and started reading, it was fine. This is something I am passionate about. I have a firm grasp on this. I can do this. I am doing this.
2. Oh, I feel so tired. I cannot hardly keep open my eyes. (Plumb) Sitting in a van for hours with two professors... I was beyond exhausted. I hadn't slept much all week, and once I was done presenting it just washed over me, this weariness was a tsunami to my thirsty soul. Over dinner, Prof. Reek told me I looked tired... and when I told him it had been a long week of late nights he told me he understood... I don't think he could have. And so, I went to bed early last night, and woke up late this morning. And I took a nap today. And it was good.
3. Why does our brokenness keep whispering? It's telling us we're not anything. (Remedy Drive) Over the course of this semester I have had to deal with self-confidence issues. And presenting a million times had made me think that I wasn't any good at what I love... and I was beginning to doubt why I'm studying English with the intent of being a professor... and every once in a while God drops something my lap--a reminder that I am making the right choices for right now. Things like talking to Dr. Thurber. And things like this presentation and having a girl tell me in the bathroom afterwards that I did a very nice job. I can't let the failures guide my life, rather I must let the success stories speak for me. Speak for me.
4. What you say and what you do are different things. (TobyMac) My cousin didn't call me on my birthday. He didn't even write on my Facebook wall. He used to call me every year--and I always cherished hearing his voice. I used to think that he and I had a special bond because we both wore back braces. He's married now. And he lives far away. I just pray when I get married some day that I won't become as distant from my family as he has. I miss him very much. Yesterday was his birthday. I didn't call him. I thought about it. But I settled on writing on his Facebook wall. Maybe I'll send him a card. Yeah. I think I'll do that.
5. A whole new world... (Aladdin) If you ever have the chance to ride in a car with two professors... do it. And do it as often as you can. You will learn more in that time about their area of interest than any other time in your life. (maybe) And you'll also learn how deeply they care about their students (at least on a smaller campus). I was so anxious to be done with my undergrad...but I'm sad now to be leaving these professors because I know how much they care about every single one of their students. I pray that someday I will care as deeply for my students while they discover what it means to be an adult. I caught a glimpse of what my future could be, and it could be beautiful.
6. We all long to belong. We all need to be needed. (Krystal Meyers) It is said that chivalry is dead. Wrong. As long as Prof. Reek lives there will still be chivalry in this world. He tried to help me into the van (fail). I tried to take my hand back, but he REALLY wanted to help me into that van. He did help me out of the van, which was better. Every door was opened by him, or someone else, and held until I had passed through. And when he was unable to help me with my coat it was, "One of you young men help Anna with her coat, please." I didn't think they would actually do it... but Grant informed me I had been "gentlemanized." It was nice...why did women ever fight against this? Were they nut jobs? (ha.)
7. People not only can surprise you, but they will. Nuns can be feminists.... I was not expecting that one.
8. Faith is never taught, it's just something they catch from watching you along the way. (Mark Schultz) Dr. Thurber casts a long shadow... and he is not the end-all-be-all power that I imagined him to be. I am sad that he will not be the Dean anymore... but I am ecstatic that he will be teaching more classes.
9. Don't waste, one day is all that we've got to give and take. (Adie) I was asked if I felt like I got a good education from my public schooling. Yes. But I was also in the AP classes getting college credit. School is really what you make it to be. If you're there to learn, then you will. If you're there to screw around, then maybe you won't. The success or failure of a school does not rest solely on the teachers, it also rests on the students. I was told that my parents probably did a lot to motivate me. And then Dr. Holtorf said, "I think she's self-motivated too. I think so anyway."
10. We want to feel Your wind in our lungs. There's a little girl at church. Every Sunday her daddy holds her during worship. And every Sunday, while we're singing she puts her little hands up in the air and she opens her mouth as wide as it will go. She can't be over 3 years old... and I don't know if she's actually making any noise when she opens her mouth and bobs her head along to the music. But whenever I see her I pray. Papa God, don't let her spirit for You fade away, make it grow stronger day by day. Raise her up to see Your face, and teach those around her to see Your grace. Teach my heart give all things up, like her little arms reach to something she can't see to touch. One day, when I have children, help me to be an example that allows for such reckless abandon.
11. She was watching as they were dancing and thought "Someday I wanna be like that." She was watching her momma singing as they were dancing hand in hand. And though she can't recall the song, she was watching. (Mark Schultz) During the return journey on Friday, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel. I went in to use the restroom before we took off for the last leg of our journey. While I was drying my hands, a little girl and her mom were in a stall. I can only assume the little girl was finished and waiting for her mom. I heard a, "Wait, stay here please. Can Mommy go potty too, please? Please don't open the door." That could be me someday... and I smiled to myself as I left the restroom.
12. In Christ alone, my hope is found. Hope is a constant in a world full of morphing despair. I am ruminating over my paper, replaying the themes and the quotes. Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...but maybe they don't need to be. Maybe the greatest part of our story has already been told. And truly, it has.
13. The sweet by and by. There is a song that talks about the singers grandma singing "The Sweet by and by" all the time... and when I'm old, I want my sweet by and by to be "Be Thou my Vision." yeah.
This list could go on... but I do believe I will spare you. (At least for a little while.)
"Be Thou my vision, Oh Lord of my heart, naught be all else to me, save that Thou art! Thou my best thought, by day or by night, waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
Sunday, April 3, 2011
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]
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]
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Never despise meager beginnings...
Because it is Spring Break, I have taken some time to write. Yes, I opened the ol' Morning Star manuscript. I have been working on this fantasy piece since sixth grade. That's where it all began. And by all, I mean all.
Now, Morning Star, has been the gem in my writings. But it didn't start that way. When I look back at the original handwritten copy, I am embarrassed. The writing is horrible, the storyline is eh, and it's long. What sixth grader has a legitimately good writing voice? Well, I didn't, and as I kept writing my voice was changing, so the beginning of the story is severely different from the end of what I had been writing. The storyline is this strange mesh between "Star Wars" and "The Lord of the Rings," I mean, it's straight up weird. And long is over 200 pages handwritten. Yes.
So, the start to my gem has been rough, but what is a diamond in the rough? It needs polishing, and work, finely crafted tools. Rewrite. Edit. Rewrite. Embellish. Rewrite.
Honestly, it's almost a completely different story from where it started. I looked back at the old manuscript today to see if I was missing anything...and I realized that my old guideline was almost obsolete, I had strayed so far from the original. And that's okay.
I'm just glad to have caught the bug again. And I'm thankful for the time I've had over this break to just write.
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."
Now, Morning Star, has been the gem in my writings. But it didn't start that way. When I look back at the original handwritten copy, I am embarrassed. The writing is horrible, the storyline is eh, and it's long. What sixth grader has a legitimately good writing voice? Well, I didn't, and as I kept writing my voice was changing, so the beginning of the story is severely different from the end of what I had been writing. The storyline is this strange mesh between "Star Wars" and "The Lord of the Rings," I mean, it's straight up weird. And long is over 200 pages handwritten. Yes.
So, the start to my gem has been rough, but what is a diamond in the rough? It needs polishing, and work, finely crafted tools. Rewrite. Edit. Rewrite. Embellish. Rewrite.
Honestly, it's almost a completely different story from where it started. I looked back at the old manuscript today to see if I was missing anything...and I realized that my old guideline was almost obsolete, I had strayed so far from the original. And that's okay.
I'm just glad to have caught the bug again. And I'm thankful for the time I've had over this break to just write.
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."
Monday, January 3, 2011
...each of us must come and go in its telling.
It's a new year. Yadda yadda yadda. It's been posted all over facebook and the news and.... everywhere. We put a lot of emphasis of these things. But why? A new beginning? That can't be it, a new year only means a new semester when you're in school and for the working person it means a new month and maybe a day off work. Yet, we watch the ball drop at midnight and we make toasts and new year resolutions.
Growing up, we always celebrated Christmas with Dad's side of the family on New Year's Eve and Day. And this year we were finally able to reinvent that tradition because for the first time in a long time all of my cousins were in the same place at the same time.
All I could think about while I was sitting there visiting with my cousins was, "I don't really know them any more." And with that realization came a deep sadness. I want to know my family as well as I know my friends. I want to know them as well as I know the characters in my books: those that I write and those that I read. There are pieces of them that I know very well: Charles loves potatoes, Kaitlin loves bread and eats her pie middle first, Kristina likes to smoke after she eats but denies herself that pleasure when with the family. (And then there's my brother who I know better than I know myself somedays.)
My cousins come and go, in and out of my life in cycles. And yet, even though I only see some of them two or three times a month, see some of them once or twice a year, and some of them once every couple years we are still connected and there are still things that we can find to talk about.
That's one thing that families have that friends don't. If you go extended periods of time without talking to your friends it's going to be hard to pick up the threads. With family, it's natural.
I'm am glad to say goodbye to 2010. There was much hurt. As my dad said, "I think 2011 will be a lot like 2010." So it is with trepidation that I welcomed 2011. I am eager to continue my school work, but I am fearful for my heart.
I have made some choices that cannot be unmade.
Some days I wish I could go back to when my time was not so decidedly claimed by studying.
Still, I welcome 2011, with no false assumptions that I will be able to uphold any resolutions. I will come and go, just like my cousins. I will write, and I will not. I will love, and I will not. I will continue on.
"How do you pick up the pieces of an old life? How do you go on... when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are somethings that time cannot mend... some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold." [Frodo Baggins]
Growing up, we always celebrated Christmas with Dad's side of the family on New Year's Eve and Day. And this year we were finally able to reinvent that tradition because for the first time in a long time all of my cousins were in the same place at the same time.
All I could think about while I was sitting there visiting with my cousins was, "I don't really know them any more." And with that realization came a deep sadness. I want to know my family as well as I know my friends. I want to know them as well as I know the characters in my books: those that I write and those that I read. There are pieces of them that I know very well: Charles loves potatoes, Kaitlin loves bread and eats her pie middle first, Kristina likes to smoke after she eats but denies herself that pleasure when with the family. (And then there's my brother who I know better than I know myself somedays.)
My cousins come and go, in and out of my life in cycles. And yet, even though I only see some of them two or three times a month, see some of them once or twice a year, and some of them once every couple years we are still connected and there are still things that we can find to talk about.
That's one thing that families have that friends don't. If you go extended periods of time without talking to your friends it's going to be hard to pick up the threads. With family, it's natural.
I'm am glad to say goodbye to 2010. There was much hurt. As my dad said, "I think 2011 will be a lot like 2010." So it is with trepidation that I welcomed 2011. I am eager to continue my school work, but I am fearful for my heart.
I have made some choices that cannot be unmade.
Some days I wish I could go back to when my time was not so decidedly claimed by studying.
Still, I welcome 2011, with no false assumptions that I will be able to uphold any resolutions. I will come and go, just like my cousins. I will write, and I will not. I will love, and I will not. I will continue on.
"How do you pick up the pieces of an old life? How do you go on... when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are somethings that time cannot mend... some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold." [Frodo Baggins]
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