Repost: Old Love

Today is a day worth lots of reflection. In remembering the magnitude of what happened on September 11, 2001 and how it's impacted my life, I can't help but be reminded of what happened on September 11, 1950 and how that date has also impacted my life. For that reason, I'm reposting an old blog I wrote the day my grandma passed away. I finished writing it about an hour before she went to be with Jesus, and as my grandpa is now nearing his time to join her in Heaven, it seems all the more timely to celebrate what would mark their 63rd wedding anniversary. Here's to honoring a date that has taught me much about life - both anniversaries serving a simple and profound reminder to treasure our time with those in our lives by loving deeply. 

Today I witnessed beauty in it's rawest form.

The sight was tough to take in, nothing pretty to calm the eyes. The smells might have been even worse, and the sounds of arduous breathing are now etched in my memory forever, but the beauty surpassed the circumstances.

Today I picked up my grandpa from his assisted living home and we went for a drive. We talked about my grandma, about her condition. She was checked into the hospital again last week, her 4th visit in the last month. This time, her doctors and nurses seem to think these are her final days, maybe hours. My grandpa is a wonderful and stubborn old man who felt he lost my grandma over a year ago when her alzheimer's dramatically progressed. Saying goodbye to her again was not on his agenda, but it seems it may have been on hers. And he courageously allowed me to take him to her.

When we arrived to her room, I noticed she looked different than she did when I was with her last night. Her head rested further down, her skin was cold, and her breathing sounded more difficult.

As my grandpa entered in the room, he didn't say much. He just went over to her bedside, sat down, and held her hand. Suddenly, her eyes went from glazed over and droopy to wide open. We thought it was my grandpa who might gain some closure today, assuming my grandma checked out a long time ago, or in his words, "she's been on a really long vacation." But it seems she was the one aching for a goodbye. As he held her hand, something happened that none of us were expecting. Her breathing completely changed, and the sounds of short soft sobs made their way out of her heart. It was the most expressive any of us have seen her in over a year, as if she had been waiting for him to say goodbye.

I think all of us have been gradually grieving her death for years now, as her life has progressively been slipping away. I'm sure there is more left to do, but today, despite how sad it was, I found myself insanely privileged to be standing in that room.

I cant even begin to imagine the mystery of what 60 years of life together must feel like, but today, I saw a teeny tiny glimpse.

I heard it said once, love is about holding hands through the easy days and hugging through the tough ones. That it's not always a magical feeling... in fact, rarely is it that way. But that love is a commitment, a friendship, it's self-sacrifice. It's a constant awareness your life does not just belong to you. And it's an enduring joy to have someone there with you to share the ups and downs of life with, someone who is on your team.

When I was a youth leader, we would always tell the students, "If you're not growing, you're dying." And I wonder if the same is true for love. In this case, such old love would be proof of deep growth. Love that has not just survived 60 years, but love that has grown stronger because of it.

That is what I witnessed today: years of ups and downs, good days, bad days, birthdays, holidays, moving days, devastating days, wonderful days, and all the in between days, adding up to years of memories. 60 years of persevering and sharing life together, growing their love into something old and beautiful, culminating in a small, stale hospital room where words didn't need to be exchanged - just a hand to hold while saying goodbye.

Today beauty was stripped of all it's glamor and charm, but what remained was pure and unpretentious and life-changing. I've never seen love look so beautiful.

my endlessly artistic mother

On Sunday we celebrated my mama's 52nd birthday, and I'm still amazed to be learning new things about her.

As we walked around LACMA, she picked up some paper and pencils and then asked Jack and me to sit with her and sketch our favorite Picasso from the several in front of us.  Though a bit reluctant, I figured Picasso was a safe bet, since if I messed up I could say it was on purpose. "He's supposed to be cross-eyed," I kept rehearsing. After about 15 minutes in, I started feeling pretty good about myself, until I glanced at my 11-year-old brother's creation and realized I should've just used crayons.

Then in a dumb hope I might still come in 2nd place, I snuck a peak at my mom's drawing pad. I was shocked.  In 15 short minutes, she was effortlessly recreating Pablo's acclaimed work. Did I mention I've never seen the woman draw? After quickly hiding my own paper, I sat in amazement and watched her sketch away. When did she learn to pick up on all those details? And how does she know to shade like that? Who taught her these things?  But away her pencil went like it knew exactly what to do. She must've felt me staring over her shoulder, cause she softly smiled back at me, then kept at it.

That's my mom for ya. Unaware of her own strengths.

But believe it or not, her talents exceed her creativity. And if you've ever stepped foot in her backyard, you know that's a bold statement. But I think if you know my mom, you'll agree - her best work has always been in her character.

She gives generously: of her time, her money, her talents, her love - and not just to her family and friends, but to everyone around her. Often to perfect strangers. She's the lady who winds up praying with the telemarketers, or quietly dropping off groceries for struggling families she barely knows, or giving of herself daily to take good care of my sweet grandpa, with no regard to the sacrifice.

Growing up, she took me on daring adventures with her as she followed God's tug on her heart, she would wake me up in the middle of the night (ok, 10:30pm) to have root beer floats and watch the Cosby's, and to think of all the pets she let me bring home...

To this day, she keeps enough food in the fridge to feed an army so guests always feel at home. And it should come as no surprise that she happens to collect instruments. Or that she'll likely be found handing you some obscure stringed noise maker, all while soliciting for a 13 piece band you never you knew you always wanted to be in. Ask anyone who's ever been over, they'll testify to great food, good conversation, a possible jam sess, and certainly lots of love from my mom. They'll probably mention the pretty fireplace too.

Her wisdom, compassion and kindness have always guided me through life and taught me what loving God honestly and people well looks like. Although I'm still a little bitter she kept the tall gene (and apparently the drawing gene!) to herself, I'm deeply thankful for the example she continues to paint for me.

Happy Birthday, Mom! May your strengths shine bright in your 52nd year. I love you!

Melly

7 Days Later

A lot can happen in a week.

The more I think about Boston, the more grateful and more broken hearted I feel. 

I'm deeply thankful my little sister and friends living in Boston were all kept safe and sound. But my heart aches as I read about the stories of those who were not. I'm humbled and grateful to live in a country where sudden bombings are so rare, it only takes minutes to receive news of what's happening 3000 miles from my front door. But I can't help but think of those around the world who have grown accustomed to sudden explosions and loved ones being in danger, and my heart aches for them too. I'm moved as I look through photographs of the brave who ran towards to the explosions, towards the chaos, towards the panic, towards the pain. My heart sinks when I learn the remaining surviving suspect is only 19 years old.19. While his age makes his acts no less evil, we all know something is terribly wrong when someone so young has such darkness inside. I'm inspired by the unity among the Boston community and the overflow we've felt nationwide. And like everyone else, I'm still really sad.

Events like this rattle us to the core, as they should. This week has been a fresh reminder good and bad coexist around us every day. We live in a world waiting to be redeemed by its Creator, and in the meantime, we have a part to play. When the bad is so devastating, so prominent, so dark, the good must rise above to be even stronger, even louder, even brighter. God actually designed us capable of overcoming evil with good, although if you're like me, it's often easier to avoid it than confront it. Or at best dwell on one reaction and not the other: either being thankful, licking our wounds, and moving on, or growing more cynical, living in fear, and perpetuating a cycle. But perhaps the most compelling reason to engage the conflict in our world, for that matter, even the conflict in our own lives, happens when we allow ourselves to hold onto to both. To simultaneously rejoice with the good and grieve for the bad. Maybe the tension will push us all forward.

the stories we could tell

I met Melissa when I was 12. We both played on the same little league softball team, which suffice it to say, I took a little more seriously than she did. She was 2 years older, had a cute boyfriend to flirt with between innings, and put lipstick on every time she made it off the bench to Center Field. She was instantly cool. Certainly cooler than me. I never would've imagined then how she'd become a sister to me over the years. Not only did she let me drive her car before I had my license, she was mostly responsible for my first kiss, became the world's best accomplice in TP wars, drove almost an hour once to warn me before my parents tried to ground me & by the time I hit freshman year of college, our dreams came true and we were finally roommates. This pic was during fall of 2002, just after moving into the dorms together. And 10 years later, she's still cool as ever. Today, she's married to a red headed man, owns a beautiful photography business, drives a minivan, and is mama to 4 of the cutest kids you've seen. And she still finds time to open her front door late at night, toss me a blanket as I curl up on her couch, and let me pour out the details of my own life for which she's always sincerely cared about. Melissa is the kind of friend you are crazy lucky to grow up with. The kind who, 16 years later, you still look up to... and still find yourself asking where she bought her lipstick. She's the kind of friend I hope for my little sister to have. 

Happy 31st my sweet friend!  Love you dearly. 

Bieber & Jesus

A few weeks ago, I was in Minneapolis trying to kill time before boarding my flight home. Someone had suggested I spend my extra hours at the Mall of America, and without a lot of other ideas, I plugged it into my GPS, turned up the radio, and started driving. What I failed to take into consideration was the possibility of Justin Bieber coming on the radio as I tried to follow directions. I used to think multi-tasking was a strength of mine, but after having gone in 3 giant circles that day, I'm forced to admit this strength gets cancelled out if I'm singing at the top of my lungs while daydreaming of being a teenage popstar heartthrob. But it's a talent I'm willing to work on.

Needless to say, Mall of America was not going to happen. Instead I stumbled upon the entrance to Minnehaha Falls, a ridiculously beautiful park that runs along the Mississippi and is home to millions of colorful trees. It was October 1st, and in true fall fashion, every tree in that park knew what to do. Even the ferns were bright hues of orange and red, waving in the Autumn breeze. Lost never felt so good. It had been a long week, and my heart hadn't been able to shake a certain anxious feeling. I parked my rental car and hoped maybe a stroll around this place would cure my anxiety.

As I walked through those trails, I tried to soak up as much as I could. Every step was more breathtaking than the one before it, but I still didn't feel any better. Without Justin Bieber to drown my thoughts or get me lost, all I could hear were questions I didn't want to think about.  Eventually, I found myself sitting on a wall facing the Mississippi River and in a last ditch effort, I got out my Bible. I didnt know what I wanted to read that morning, but I decided to start in Psalms. King David was like the Dr Doolittle of plants. He somehow knew when even the rocks were praising God, and I figured his insights might be fitting while I sat among some of fall's best fashion. I opened my Bible right in the middle unsure where to begin. My only plan was to search for the words "plant" or "tree" and go from there. Instead, the first words my eyes landed on were Psalms 116:7: 

"Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you." 

That anxious feeling was wide awake as I stared at the page.  I just kept reading those words, first to myself, then out loud, over and over again.  Then I went back to the beginning of the chapter and read it start to finish. My mind starting flooding with memories of times in my life God has been good to me. I mean when He really, truly showed up for me in a way I couldnt do for myself, and even in ways others couldn't do for me. I started thinking of all the sweet ways he's loved me through people who were never "supposed" to love me. People who I never biologically belonged to, but who loved me better than they loved themselves.

Then I started thinking about pain I've experienced and about dumb decisions I've made, and what it means that God never, ever left me. As I started remembering each example, I kept picturing myself back in those moments, only I also tried to picture Jesus standing next to me in each one. I saw Him hugging me when my heart was broken, when my parents divorced, when my grandma died. I saw Him bending down to pick me back up when I had disobeyed and dug myself into a hole. In each instance, I was acutely aware of how God never left me. Even when I was being an idiot. Even when at the time I felt alone or scared or sad beyond measure.

And then I started thinking about joyful times. I pictured Him celebrating with me when I was jumping up and down in the kitchen cause I was accepted into Vanguard (you'd think it was Yale). Then I imagined Him singing Happy Birthday to me, and cheering me on in moments I was brave, and I saw Him delighting in the good friendships He's generously given me. I even started to recognize how laughter has found me almost every day of my life and wondered how often Jesus must be laughing too. 

I've always loved this verse from Zephaniah, but I've never actually tried picturing God doing these things for me personally:

"The LORD your God is in your midst,

a mighty one who will save;

he will rejoice over you with gladness;

he will quiet you by his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing."

Have you tried that lately? Recalling specific times when God has been good to you? If you're like me, you might take them for granted and the instant something goes wrong in the present forget every way He's come through for you so far. We're so quick to feel forsaken when we're in pain.

Turns out, instead of searching for an instant fix to my circumstances, what I needed was to focus my thoughts on Jesus. So Justin Bieber, if you're out there, thanks. Bieber Fever made me forego Mall of America, and instead I had a chance to realize the Psalmist was right: My soul found rest as I remembered the Lord's goodness.

2016 Gold or Bust

I've never been able to do the splits, run very fast, or sport a swim cap well, but last night, over a bottle of wine, my roommate and I both decided we were gonna start training for the 2016 Olympics. Best I can tell, Olympians need several key components to go all the way. Let's review my long list of athletic qualifications: 

1) Must Be Team Player: 9 years of little league softball. BOOM.

2) Must Be Bad Ass: Ran an entire 1/2 marathon once and thought hard about maybe doing it again.

3) Must Have Passion: I can be found in my living room at least 3x a year cursing loudly at Jillian Michaels.

4) Must Be Willing To Sacrifice: A thing I definitely know about. One summer, when I was 12 years old, my friend and I hosted a diving contest in my backyard. We were the only competitors, (okay, and the only judges) but it was fierce. The final dive was on me, and I had to make it count. I brought out the big guns and prepared to perfectly execute the ever inspirational "Pocahontas Dive". With a running start, I flew off the diving board, arms spread eagle, and finished in perfect form with no splash. It was flawless. Only problem was, upon hitting the water, I lost my 2 front teeth to the bottom of the pool. But... I still won.

(See? Both of them are fake. The teeth, people, just the teeth.)

5) Must Possess Natural Talent: Cartwheels. Need I say more?

 

If that's not something to work with, I don't know what is. Here I come, America.

Reminiscing

I had a dream once I owned a pet baby elephant. As with most dreams, this didn't seem at all strange. But at some point, it occurred to me my baby elephant was going to grow into a giant, adult elephant and I would not have room for him. Suddenly, my sweet little dream turned into a terrible nightmare as I panicked over finding a new home for him. Naturally, I did what anyone would do in my position and visited the San Diego Wild Animal Park, pleading with them to make a new home for him. They must get requests like this all the time, because their policy was very strict. They demanded I show his official "African Lineage" papers. You can picture my horror when I couldn't remember where I put them. The baby elephant and I tried our luck at several other zoos, but we quickly realized we were blackballed without those papers. I woke up somewhere between soliciting Jason Bourne for his help and thrifting for Baby Elephant clothes. Relieved, I started my day knowing no baby elephants were in danger on account of me. 

As you might imagine, that dream was pretty traumatic for me. Being a bad caretaker of a baby elephant is a textbook recipe for years of counseling, so I try not to recall the dream too often. Until this morning... You see, I was searching for this:

But sooomehow, I found this:

All the repressed memories of my pet baby elephant came rushing back. I sure miss that little guy. 

(It should also go without saying how pissed I was at DirecTV when I found out this wasn't real:

)

Moral of the story: If being on drugs resembles my dreams in the slightest, I'm starting to really regret that D.A.R.E. pledge I signed in 6th grade.