To whom it may concern:

Dearest blog readers (if you even still bother coming back here),

Please don't give up on me.

The last month and a half, I'm finally realizing in hindsight, have been quite hard for me and I haven't been much up for writing and reflecting.

As is the case for most in December, there's been a lot going on.  And I love the holiday season so much that I have a tendency to just throw myself 110% into whatever I can to squeeze the maximum amount of holiday cheer possible out of the days between Thanksgiving and New Years. And despite the things that have made this one unexpectedly harder than usual for me to endure at times, I've still managed to find myself often giddy with childlike excitement about things like stringing popcorn that to others may be tedious, but to me are magical and celebratory. I get all starry-eyed and mushy at a beautiful display of Christmas lights. I enjoy all the decor and the shopping for the people I love and creating gifts and thoughtful words for the ones that are most important to me. I've spent an inordinate amount of time cutting out hundreds of felt circles to make a wreath for my mom, a labor of love that no other time of year could inspire me to finish. I taught myself a new skill to create a gift for Emily that I think I'm more excited to give than she may be to recieve.  And, I made my first independent batch of glogg without burning the house down, which turned out wonderfully and was so pleased to be able to share one of my favorite family traditions with my friends.

There's also been a seemingly endless stream of committments and parties cramming my schedule to maximum capacity; a growing list of people to shop for and not enough money or time or energy. There's been loneliness and impatience and guilt and the fear of missing what Christmas is truly all about. I've been caught up in the hustle and bustle, the parties and arts and crafts and baking of the holiday season.  I've spent a few relaxing and beautiful weekends away, had my favorite Christmas playlist playing pretty consistently in the background of whatever I've been doing, and watched lots of the best holiday movies.  I finished finals, putting another quarter behind me with eager anticipation for what comes next and I've played less-than-aggressive defense against yet another sinus infection and a minor and (thankfully short lived) bit of blue-Christmas-depression.  From what I hear, that sort of thing is commonplace for the holiday season as we get older.  Christmas is no longer just the glistening and sparkling worry-free time of the year for adults that it used to be for us during our childhood.  It often brings with it a dark shadow that covers over some of the brightest parts of this season when and where we least expect it. 

I'm reminded this morning of the brilliance of C.S. Lewis' (in my opinion) best work, Screwtape Letters.  When the joy of this season seems dulled by a dark shadow, Lewis' creative insight into how the spiritual dimension is in a constant match of tug-of-war for our hearts and minds has helped me to realize the ways I've been letting the darkness creep in.  I've surrendered unintentionally some critical footholds and am just now scrambling to get them back.  If you haven't yet read that book, or it's been a while, I can't stress enough how much I believe that you should head out and pick it up as soon as you possibly can. I'm not big on the whole good vs. evil, darkness and light, spiritual warfare stuff but the picture that Lewis paints of how the bad stuff weasels it's way into our lives and grabs ahold of us is a practical and humbling reminder for me during this time of year as it becomes harder for me to always face the season with a joyful, reverent and peaceful glow about me that I so wish I just posessed.  In many ways I've just been lazy, allowing bad thoughts and worries to take the place of the things that I so wish I was focused on at the moment.

For the most part, right now, I am struggling with change.  Rather than embracing it and seeing the goodness of where God has me at the moment and the faithful provision and blessing that defines my days, I've been choosing to become fixated on how uncomfortable the hundreds of changes that seem to be surrounding my day to day existence are making me.  Some of the changes are so minor that I actually don't understand how they manage to stress me out.  Others are quite large and scary and hard to deal with; things that are sad, frustrating or just ambiguous, but I still ought to know better than to cling to them in fear, letting them weigh me down unneccessarily.

I'm off this afternoon to a snowy white Christmas in Chicago and had a few moments to just breathe during which I realized that I miss writing.  I've neglected to process quite a bit in favor of worry, and for some reason this morning I decided that enough was enough.  I'm beginning to embrace the changes that 2010 seems to want to bring to me.  Clinging stubbornly to what used to be "normal" won't do me or anyone else any bit of good.  For me, avoiding writing was a major tool of resistence.  So, hopefully, getting the inital return-to-blogging post out of the way will ease the pressure a bit and pave the way for a more faithful, courageous and thoughtful approach to the new year and the many, many changes it will bring.

Thanks for reading, those of you that have stuck around.  I appreciate you.

This too shall pass

Saturday morning I found myself crying in the baking aisle at Vons.  Not just tearing up, but crying real tears.  It should have been embarrassing except for the fact that I didn't care at all what anyone around thought about me.  These people going about their regular Saturday morning routines probably didn't even notice the crazy girl in the Chicago Bears sweatshirt gasping for breath between sobs, cell phone in hand, squatting to pick out a bag of marshmallows.  And even if they did, those tears were a luxury I rarely afford myself and though they chose to come at an inconvenient time; they were welcome in their own right for what they represented.

This weekend should have been my brother's twenty eighth birthday.  I should have been calling him to wish him a happy birthday, making sure he got the card that I should have been able to write a message in and mail to him wherever his twenty eighth year found him living.  He should have been having a Halloween party that pulled double duty as his birthday party, as was the tradition for every single one of the twenty one precious years he was given to celebrate.  But instead, I was shopping for a party being thrown at my house that was very much not Brad's birthday party and by it's very nature was causing me to ache.  It was on his day and for me, picking up those marshmallows was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back when it came to my ability to contain the grief I've gotten quite good at bottling up.

I've learned, over the past eight years, that there are just a couple of dark days in my calendar year now that I don't really share with everyone else.  The same way that Valentine's day or Fourth of July or even my mom or dad's birthday rolls around with expectation and specific weight attached to it's arrival, Brad's birthday and the anniversary of his accident have now become two days that are a different sort of holiday for me and my family.  And it catches me off-guard every year that the birthday seems to be the harder of the two.  I've given this fact some thought and believe that there are two main reasons that this day is so tough.  For one thing, birthdays are, essentially, a celebration of an individual's life.  They are a day to celebrate their being born, their accomplishments thus far, and their dreams both for the small details and huge milestones they have to look forward to in the years to come.  We lift people up on their birthdays and celebrate their lives.  The birthdays of those whom we've lost are still circled on our calendars but seem to serve as a reminder of all of the things they are no longer able to do, the milestones they never got to reach and days they were no longer with us.  And to add insult to injury, Brad's birthday happens to coincide with Halloween, the one day of the year that no matter where you go or who you are, it seems that death is over-emphasized and celebrated, yet is represented as being something that is only creepy and ominous and dark.  For the past few years it's seemed to me to be a bit of a cruel joke that the two days must be linked for me.

But even more so, I think the birthday-day of those we've loved and lost is so hard to endure is because it's a day that is supposed to be all about that one other person.  We feel the agonizing pain of our own loss on the anniversary of a death because that day symbolizes our loss and is hard in it's own more self-focused way.  But another person's birthday-day is never about us.  We focus our energy and attention solely on them.  We let them have their own way, we tell them nice things, buy them dinner and gifts and shower them with praise.  Birthdays, done right, are totally and completely other-focused.  This is the part that makes birthdays of a lost loved one particularly painful and heavy.

This weekend was tough.  My memories of Halloween are completely centered around celebrating Brad's birthday, and I think most often of the man that he would have become around this time.  My mom wisely pointed out that I take these days harder than the rest of them because the loss of my brother is rarely in my face.  She meant that, unlike them, I am not constantly surrounded my his things, his pictures, and places and people that he knew.  His friends and the rest of my family mourned together and often reminisce about the good stuff, the memories, the richness of his life.  I've been flying solo for most of this time, so she's absolutely right.  But she also meant that it is, literally, rarely in my face.  I don't show how it's changed me, I don't always show the things that are causing me to hurt, to feel angry, sad, scared, or unsettled.  I've got a severe tendency toward avoidance anyway, just in life, but I am rarely forced by something outside of myself to deal with the ongoing process of grief.  But when my go-to avoidance-tactic no longer works, it is also my tendency to break.  Hard.

And this weekend, right there in the grocery store, I did just that.  This time of year is hard for me, surrounding his birthday.  I am beginning to own that fact.  But breaking down like that felt in some ways a strange kind of good.  It felt real, in that agonizing and raw kind of way that is gutwrenchingly hard in the moment but brings with it afterword a sense of peace and being pieced back together by the One who is able to put me back together when I've fallen on my face and faithfully, graciously does so.  I have good friends who sat with me in my sadness for a little while, a very therapeutic way to be loved.  I was taken care of by others, and, in unexpected ways-myself.  I spent some time thinking about how a life worth mourning must have truly been worth celebrating, and took out my kayak and spent some time in the sunshine thinking about what made Brad so hard to let go of.  I indulged in some of my favorite good memories that I don't often let myself visit out of fear of resurfacing some of this sadness and had a really wonderful time doing it.  So, in all, it shaped up to be a necessary kind of time that ended quite well.

Turns out that as you get older life just becomes all kinds of complicated.  Loving and losing, celebrating and grieving are so tightly wound up in one another that maybe it's okay that sometimes the line between in painfully blurred.  We need to go through the hard stuff sometimes, and mostly we end up - much to our surprise - coming out stronger and better for it.  *Deepest thanks to those of you who repeatedly love me well in those seasons.

an off day/self care

Yesterday felt like a bit of an off day for me.  Maybe it's this creepy, blustery, pre-Halloween weather.  It could also be the fact that you can only study so many depressive mood disorders without analyzing the way that those very same symptoms are so often manifest (albeit to a significantly lesser degree) in your own life.  Low self esteem, excessive guilt (I was raised Catholic, I can't always help it), feelings of worthlessness, fatigue, depressed mood, restlessness...from time to time I experience all of these things.  Yesterday I had limited patience with my classmates, with the other drivers on the road, and with myself.  I said things I probably shouldn't have, and gave my roommate a hard time about something that really didn't have much to do with me.  It's days like this that just make me feel like if I'm not careful and intentional about how I do life, I can be someone I'm less than proud of.  It's also days like this that I feel like writing.  I get frustrated with my short fuse (enter excessive guilt) and find myself needing to sit down at the computer and sort things out.

We all have off days, off weeks, off seasons.  But for me, right now, I am fully aware that a lot of the heaviness weighing on my heart is a direct result of what I am filling my mind with.  It seems in my experience and in that of other students around me, that significant mind games are temporarily to come part and parcel with working so closely with the information contained in this quarter's course load.  As students who are training to be therapists, my classmates and I are sponges for this knowledge.  We spend hours and hours each day reading and talking about all of the painful and scary and confusing things that can happen in us, fragile human creatures that we are.   We watch vignettes and videos and do role plays, we read case studies, and write papers about our own experience.  And as we seek to analyze, familiarize ourselves with the symptoms and diagnoses in the DSM and the patterns and theories of psychology available to us, we are bound to get caught up from time to time in the weight of some of these issues.  We question our own sanity, our own interpersonal relationships and dynamics.  We take into consideration our own communication styles, strengths and weaknesses, fears and defense mechanisms and families of origin.  In the long run, we hope that this will make us better therapists; but in the present, it makes for a bit of a messy process.

Today, I think, I am feeling myself buckling under the weight of some of this stuff.  We watched a hard video in class that got my mind reeling about how painful life can sometimes be and the high calling of being a good therapist.  We will be repeatedly invited into the innermost parts of our client's lives.  They will share with us and often trust us to hold onto their burdens and fears and secrets and hurts.   They will look to us for answers, for healing, for a kind and listening ear.  Sometimes we will be scared out of our minds, or feel totally helpless and inadequate.  But there will be other times, too.  Times when we know that we have helped someone to feel validated and understood.  There will be those "aha!" moments when the client comes to terms with something they are working through, makes a major breakthrough or achievement, or experiences empathy and love that they have been craving and searching for within the walls of our offices.  We will be used, if we are willing to be obedient.  I'm terrified, yet honored, that it will be my job to sit, without judgement, and offer support and love to someone else who is scared or hurting, lost, confused, and everything in between.  On some days, I know, it will be a challenge; but on others, I think, it will be such a great joy.

So it is in this time that we are graduate students, juggling as much as we can possibly handle, that we are also encouraged by our professors and advisors to learn about self care.  They stress to us the importance in this field that we have chosen of being intune with our own needs.  Of course, I think that everyone in every field ought to be aware of their own limits and boundaries and have an artillery of tools that they employ to keep themselves healthy.  But I do love that in the mental health field "self care" is built into our training and job description if we are to do what we seek to do, well.  There is an ebb and flow in this learning season as I work hard to seek ownership of this knowledge, this vocation, this life.  Sometimes I am great at self care, better than most, I'd hazard to guess.  But other times, the most I can do is make a box of macaroni and cheese and zone out to whatever has shown up in the mail that week from Netflix.  So it goes.  I am learning so much right now.  But I'd be lying if, on days like today, I didn't acknowledge that this graduate school journey feels equal parts scary and overwhelming and lonely as it is thrilling and wonderful - but I am truly, deeply, grateful when it comes down to it, that I am being forced to come to terms with those very real things too.

Striking a Balance

It's true.  I didn't even come close to following through on my commitment to being a dedicated blogger.  The funny thing is, I don't even feel like a quitter.  Or a slacker.  I made the promise to myself, for a good reason, and then chose daily not to follow through.  On one hand, I think I'm just distracted.  My thoughts have been consumed with things I just didn't feel much like writing about.  Mostly with the DSM-IV - how to make a multi-axial diagnosis, what the five axes are, what the different decision trees are and then the disorders themselves, paired with case studies and charts.  Phew.  This will eventually get easier, but laying the groundwork for this knowledge has been hard work.  Scientific learning and rote memorization don't come as naturally to me as theories of communication and interpersonal dynamics.  I think I learn best in stories and there is less imagination involved in memorizing lists.  But I am fascinated by this stuff and committed to learning it because I want to be a good, wise, well-rounded and educated therapist.  So I've been consumed with creating notecards and pneumonic devices and with staring at lists and charts in hopes that the information is being seared onto my visual memory.  It's hard to sit down for some creative writing when my brain is repeating over and over the difference between agnosia, aphasia, apraxia...

I digress.  So yes, reading the DSM-IV for my psychopathology class takes a big chunk of my time these days.  But it's also the daily stuff of life that is being squeezed in.  It's the business of work and my landlord and my professor from a summer class who gave me an "F" in the course for 30 pages of "missing" papers which turned out to have been in his inbox the entire summer.  There's been a baby shower to host (yes, turns out I am that old), exercise to squeeze in, friends to catch up with and listen to and pray for.  I've got Bible studies to finish, holiday travel plans to get nailed down, laundry to sort and wash and fold, and feelings to wrestle with and analyze, over-analyze, and apparently become swept up in and paralyzed by.

So it seems I'm only doing okay in life at the moment.  I sometimes feel a little bit confused, a little bit lonely, left behind and tired in this stage of life.  I feel like I am waiting, waiting, always waiting.  Waiting too long, waiting not long enough.  But also in many ways it seems I am racing the clock.  Things are changing too fast and not fast enough and I'm struggling to discern when I should bend, when I should act, when I should hold back, and when I should let go. 

I'm trying to lean in to God, to invite and welcome His spirit to move into the deepest parts of the way I have gotten used to doing life.  I'm trying to break old habits and solidify some new ones.  I'm figuring out what it means and looks like to know myself more fully and to love and care for the good and not-so-good parts of the imperfect woman that I was created to be.  Mostly, it seems, I'm spending a lot of my energy working out what it looks like to soften my grip on my own life and to let it rest in the palm of God's hand.  My ability to just be, faithfully, patiently, is changing as I get older and am tempted to cling to the things I can control and run scared from the things I'm afraid I can't. 

Independence is sometimes just plain lonely when you are in your mid-twenties, but sometimes it's exciting, energizing, thrilling even.  It's a process to be celebrated, for sure, this business of growing up.  There are so many moments that are so full of joy, full of healing, full of good lessons, good food and good friends - just plain full.  They strike a balance with those other, harder things.   So much of the lessons to be learned are the good kind of hard; like budgeting, humility, forgiveness, discernment, open communication, broken hearts, and accepting the fact that I am not always right. 

So I'm working on striking a balance right now.  A balance between allowing myself to be caught up in some of this stuff even when it gets hard because I know that it is good, and letting go of some of the things that are weighing me down and getting in the way of my ability to just be.  It's tough, and I'm a worrier and an analyzer and, as Emily points out, a verbal processor.  But I think I'm getting closer in my effort to strike a balance, even if it feels scary.  Here's to hoping that I can find the patience, the endurance, the courage and the humility to continue asking and being asked the hard questions; and the willingness and diligence to commit the things weighing heavily on my heart and mind to the God who already knows about them and is working them all out in His perfect timing.

the (hand)written word

One of the things that I like about setting goals for myself is that when I "fail" to meet them, I can simply adapt and reframe them so that I feel like I have still met said goals.  For instance, becoming a regular blogger.  What I meant was, become a regular writer.  Not a for-school writer.  Not a once-a-month-when-I-feel-like-it writer.  But writing as a discipline and a process that I know to be good for me - a hobby, really.  One that provides me with much needed perspective and an avenue to clear my busy mind, quiet my heart, and make sense of life as I know it.

So while I may not have posted in a week, I have been writing.  Journaling, really.  I have fallen back in love with the comforting way that full pages of a journal look covered in my own handwriting.  Each letter and word flowing honestly and without editing or self-monitoring.  The words on the page look like me.  They take up previously blank space on the unlined pages of my beautiful chartreuse moleskine and come to life, helping me to come to realizations about myself, my world, my faith, my chosen career, those I care about and what I want in life.  It's like as I write the words down life is breathed into them.  The words become my prayer.  They are tangible and manageable; and the thoughts they represent are less scary or muddled or frustrating once they've been put resolutely in their place.  They belong on the page where I can look at them - own them or toss them.  I can decide how they will effect me, what I will do with them, and how ultimately I can change for the better because of their truth.

I think that anyone who is a good do-er of life ought to have a place for unedited free writing.   The setting aside of time for the mental unpacking of stress, relationships, complexities and details of life, worries, dreams and feelings is cathartic.  It enables me to pause, dig a little deeper, reflect, and regain personal equilibrium.  I can talk and think and analyze until I am blue in the face, and those are good things.  But I am coming to realize that when I write, especially in a journal that only I will see, what I actually feel and believe is reflected back to me on those pages.  I see my heart expressed in my own words by my own hand, and am able to proceed from there feeling as if I know myself and where I'd like to be headed a little bit better. 

So that's all really.  Just wanting to share that I haven't abandoned ship on this endeavor, and why I feel that this process has only gotten richer.  Some things that deserve to be written about and reflected upon ought not be shared at the moment, and while blogging and tweeting, texting, emailing and publishing are ways of quickly disseminating written information, the personal and intimate nature of the handwritten word is something that I am especially treasuring this week.

915

These are the classy ladies that I've come to believe are an extension of the best version of myself.  They make me laugh more than anyone else.  Whether Hil is embracing her Russian roots with my favorite accent, Kylea is regaling the latest details on the soap opera this is her life in Bako, Kathy is getting down to Slow Motion, Kougs is being the Kougar and bringing out the best in everyone and flaunting those famous moves, or Shannon is - well - groping each and every one of us...these ladies are hilarious.

Not only that, though.  They're supportive and they're honest.  We've walked through the fire together, had our share of tifts and growing pains as girls who live together in college do, and have come out stronger for it.  We listen to each other and get updated over endless cups of coffee, each of us wishing that our busy adult lives and the miles between us weren't so capable of making these "reunion" weekends so few and far between.  But we manage to preserve these friendships because they matter.  While we now come together for bachelorette parties and weddings instead of lazy Saturdays that revolve around pizza and Felicity, not a whole lot has changed.  We've been through endless crushes, heartbreaks and boyfriends; and are now beginning to celebrate engagements and weddings together.  We've supported each other through illnesses, deaths, and family struggles of all kinds.  Being with these girls is like coming home.  But with more whipped cream and inside jokes.

I looked around at Elyse's wedding last weekend thought about how long we've known eachother and how much has changed; how much I love these girls and how proud I am of the women that they have become.  In some ways it made me feel sad - a nostalgic kind of sad for the fact that we no longer live in the same city and get to meet up for happy hour to discuss the boring details of our lives that good friends really do care about.  But being with them also makes me feel so blessed.  Each time we get together it's so comforting to find myself surrounded by friendships that have withstood the test of time, by women who know the best and worst parts of me and love me anyway.  And how lucky am I that these same friends happen to match my passion for both living a Christ-centered life and singing along to every word of R.Kelly's Remix to Ignition - a rare but essential combination if you and I are going to become close friends.

Thankfully, since graduation, one person each year has taken one for the team and had a wedding to give us an excuse to get together.  Elyse's wedding was a beautiful day.  I can't think of anyone who deserves our dear Elyse more than Jesse.  She is so undescribably beautiful inside and out; the picture of both strength and humility, grace, devotion, selfless faith and perseverance.  And Jesse is an incredible man who loves her so well.  These two fit together in a way that makes getting hitched look like the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Celebrating their marriage was one of the happiest moments I've experienced in a long time, and I have no doubt that their life together will be abundantly blessed by Him who brought them together.

So here's to good friends, spiked lemonade, old and new memories, Boise 2010 and more weddings to come - sooner rather than later ;)

Little Rupert

Jenny and I have really only been friends for a little over a year, I think, but I feel like I have known her for a long time.  It's like we were meant to be friends with each other.  She is sweet and thoughtful and just plain hilarious - I don't know what I ever did without her around. When she moved here last year we were told by many people that we "had" to be friends, and thankfully these people were all correct.  Jenny also happens to have an equally fabulous husband, Chris.  These two are a match made in heaven, two of the most fun, most genuine people I know.  Despite the fact that these two had some crazy ideas about parenting (my personal favorite being a type of baby carrier that you can just hang on the wall) there has never been a doubt in my mind that they wouldn't make incredible parents, and that any child lucky enough to grow up in that household would not only turn out just fine but would likely become the coolest, most fun, and most adorable kid in any room.

Thankfully, Jenny managed to get herself knocked up so I could prove my theory.  The pregnancy was a little but tough, but Jenny was a trooper.  She is a strong woman and despite some tough days that I am confident I would have handled with infintely less grace, Jenny delivered a perfect little baby boy yesterday.  I've been calling this little man Rupert for about as long as he has been in existence.  Okay, about since the time they found out he'd be a boy.  But these two (understandably) have had one hell of a time coming up with a name for this guy.  At one point, Rupert was actually a viable option.  I didn't even to pretend to mask my horror at this name choice.  Not surprisingly to anyone who knows me, however, it stuck.  I've been calling him that ever since.  No doubt I'll at least sometimes be calling the kid Rupert for the rest of his life.

Poor little Rupert was unnamed for the first few hours of his life.  But they did in fact name him.  Asher.  I love it.  Not only is it better than Rupert, but looking at his perfect little face and his feet that are just so simultaneously tiny and huge on this little peanut, it fits him.  Asher, which means "happy," or "blessed," is the perfect name for him as he will undoubtedly be both of those things.  He's got some of the most incredible parents in the world who are going to love him so hard for the rest of his life.

We all know that the whole childbirth thing is pretty much a miracle.  Even those who don't subscribe to any particular faith or higher power are moved by it.  But seeing him wrinkle his little tiny nose and mouth - already a perfect little tiny replica of his mama's - and watching Chris hold him and just giggle, the joy that filled that room was overwhelming.  I feel so blessed to have been there, sharing in it. 

Welcome to the world, little Rupert-Asher.  We're so excited to have you, and can not wait to see all of the wonderful things you will do and become.  You are already so unbelievably loved.  

I've been cohort-ed

Two days into my "plan" to write every day and I just spent a half an hour watching House Hunters instead.  I almost abandoned ship on this endeavor right when the episode ended in favor of an early bedtime.  Look at me making productive choices!

I made the all too familiar drive down to Pasadena today in what will be the first of many, many trips this school year.  Classes officially start for me on Tuesday, but there was a dinner for my cohort being hosted at my one of my favorite professor's homes tonight.  Free mediterranean food?  Sold.  I decided to head down, get a couple books I needed from the bookstore and participate in at least one of the many events being held during Orientation Week.

Due to the fact that I am a commuter student who has floated between two different masters programs at the same school, I've never quite been an integral member of the community that makes up Fuller's School of Psychology.  When I started, I wasn't able to make any of the orientation events and after that, it just felt silly to go to orientation being that I had already been a student for a while.  I've learned the ropes by observation and anything I wasn't able to figure out I simply bugged my adviser with.  Over the course of each quarter I've gotten to know some of the other students in my classes and met some great people, but for the most part when I am on campus I am a little machine of productivity.  I likely come across as some hyper-studious wallflower (which is funny to me) when really I am just excited to learn and willing to spend hours in the library cranking out homework so that when those SB weekends roll around I can hit the beach with my friends.  I'm not usually around for some of the other stuff - dinners, meetings, activities - that happens after classes are out, and it's never made much of a difference to me. 

I don't mind this, I've chosen to do graduate school this way.  But in the six quarters that I've been a student here my actual place in the school was in fact to be somewhat of a drifter.  I started in an odd quarter, with no cohort (a big deal here, apparently, so I've learned) and only a couple other people in the Family Studies program at all.  While I've been a student taking all the right classes for over a year, I am just now becoming a "legit" member of the MFT program and with that comes my placement in a cohort.  I will travel through the next two years with these people.  We'll learn a lot about each other and ourselves, practice doing therapy together, and grow into therapists alongside one another.

So tonight we shared a delicious meal at a beautiful home and I got to meet some of my fellow travelers on this journey.  Most of the students will be brand new to Fuller this fall, but there are others who are like me; seasoned Fuller students who are a little bit all over the place in how they got here but have arrived in this particular MFT cohort nonethless.  They, like me, have done things unconventionally but loved every minute of it.  Our professors took some time and shared their wisdom with us, prayed with us, made us play a couple of silly icebreakers, and let us get to know one another a little bit.  There were a few people with whom I hit it off immediately, and I am looking forward to getting to know them this year and having a little bit more fun on the days I spend down in Pasadena.

Man, I just love the beginning of a new school year.  New backpacks (or in my case a new leather tote) to fill with new books.  A new schedule and new classes filled with new faces and new things to learn.  Everyone is fresh and eager and optimistic.  I was sitting at the table this evening as our professors took turns offering us one piece each of wisdom for the beginning of this process.  I looked around at my new friends who will so quickly become familiar faces and listened to the kind and encouraging words of my mentors and was so filled with joy and contentment.  I feel like I am doing exactly what I was made to do.  I'm so thankful for the opportunity to study something I love and to be taught by people I respect.  I'm terrified and excited by the prospect of really truly beginning this year to actually become a therapist.  It was nice to kick off the school year with an intentional gathering, orienting us as a group to where we are headed together.  I officially became a member of this graduating class, and it felt significant.  I was cohort-ed, and I liked it.

Let the new classes begin!

At First Sight

For your reading pleasure: a true story of a woman at my office, one that made my day a little happier.

I'd like to say that I believe in love at first sight. I think that I do. Of course, I haven't experienced it with anything more significant than a pair of shoes or a really great dress, but hopeless romantic that I am - the notion appeals to me.  I don't think it happens for everyone, and I don't think that love at first sight is any more or less real than the kind that is later blooming or fought for, nurtured and cultivated over time.  But every once in a while you hear a real-life story that makes a sentimental heart like mine skip a beat with celebration.  Goosebumps appear on my arms, a wayward tear may even form in the corner of my eye even making it's way down my cheek, and somewhere in the depths a little part of me celebrates the notion that the stuff of movies sometimes does happen in real life. 

A little while ago I was sitting in the kitchen at work eating my lunch and an attorney who is relatively new to the firm came in and sat with me. She's a great lady who I find to be really interesting and incredibly funny so it was easy to chat like girlfriends around the table. She asked me about graduate school, where I'm going and why and all of the details surrounding that subject.  As we were going back and forth it of course came out that I went to Westmont.  Casually, but with an adorable giggle for a forty-something-year-old woman, she dropped a really great story on me.  "You know that stop sign on the way down the hill from campus?" she asked.  Of course I knew the exact stop sign she was referring to - I've stopped at it often.  "I met my husband there."

Now, if you know me you know that a statement like that really gets me going.  I am all ears.  I love stories, any story will do.  But an out-of-the-box, once-in-a-blue-moon, we-met-totally-randomly-and-still-feel-lucky-that-it-worked-out-so-well-after-all-these-years story is only the best kind!  Wide-eyed and excited I dropped whatever I was eating and demanded she tell me the whole story. 

This stop sign she's talking about is not on a busy road.  It's a regular four way stop and the roads going in both directions are just your average neighborhood type streets - one lane going each way, nothing special at all.  Granted, it's an obscenely wealthy area so the streets are lined with (no, not gold) multimillion dollar estates situated comfortably out of reach behind gates and walls.  There is little to no pedestrian traffic here, just the occasional Westmont student running down the hill with a plan to catch the shuttle back up, but it's not really a stroll around and meet people kind of neighborhood.  Needless to say, I was intrigued by how this whole thing could have possibly gone down.

It's a simple story really, "with a good message," Deb added.  She lived at the top of the hill and every single day on her way down to work she would stop at this stop sign.  Every once in a while she would notice a cute guy who seemed to be working at the estate on the corner.  She'd admittedly look for him while she made sure to stop for the full three seconds at the stop sign and then be on her merry way.  Well apparently he noticed her too.  Days and weeks went by and they developed a bit of a strangers-in-the-movies type of relationship.  He became the cute guy at the estate and she always made sure to smile at him in case he was noticing her too.  He was, and he always smiled back.  Days and weeks passed and the harmless smile flirting from her car as he opened the gate to the estate each morning continued.

Then.  One morning.  He went for it.  He grabbed the bull by the horns and stood at that stop sign with flowers and waited determinedly for her to come down the hill.  When she did, he walked right up to her car window, handed her the flowers and asked her out.  She surprised even herself by actually saying yes (I may be a hopeless romantic, but I also have a seriously heightened sense of stranger danger and am not sure I wouldn't freak out at that moment) and he didn't turn out to be a creep.  He turned out to be a totally normal and seriously wonderful guy who she is still happily married to some twenty odd years later.

She lit up as she told me the story.  She laughed at herself and at him for being so naive, so carefree, so "brazen."  But even now, as they are settled into their married life, there was a spark in her eye as she spoke and thought about that moment.  It was a great story and she knew it.

So Deborah, I'm sure, believes at least a little bit in love at first sight.  No doubt they have put blood sweat and tears into making their marriage last, hard work is part of any healthy marriage.  But I love the boldness, the magic and the passion of young love in that story.  I don't generally find myself with an abundance of any of those things in my life at the moment, but I believe in their power to change us for the better.  Noting that I was single she laughed and told me not to underestimate what could come of any split second exchanges with cute guys I see around town.  You never know what might happen.  Noted.  Thanks, Deb.

But, really.  Isn't that a sweet story?

wild and precious

Maybe it might appear to be a cop out to post someone else's writing on the first day of my own attempt to spend a little bit of time writing every day but I assure you it is not. For one thing, Mary Oliver is brilliant and inspired and you should read her poetry anyway. But the other thing is that I stare at this poem every day. It's written on a trail of post-its next to my computer at work, and copied on a tattered notecard that sits on my dresser at home. At some point in college I copied the last line onto a post-it and it has gone with me from place to place since, recopied every once in a while. As jobs and friends and homes have transitioned, and seasons of life have ebbed and flowed, Mary Oliver has been there looking me in the eye and challenging me with those words. Sometimes the challenge is to slow down, stop and smell the roses, ponder the eternal and lay in the grass for a few minutes. Other times it seems that her words are prodding me to seize the moment, take a risk, or rebuking me for my lack of patience. Each time I read these words my restless heart is soothed. I think of what it is like to live in grace each day, to appreciate the beauty of the small things that knit together our daily lives and our very existence that often are taken for granted. Those words have encouraged me to listen more carefully, prioritize my time and energy, push myself to new heights, and love the people in my life stronger, deeper, more openly and intentionally. They are simple words, but they are beautiful, honest words. So today, for my half hour of quality time spent with the English language, I am choosing to breathe and live in these familiar words of Mary Oliver.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down

-who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed,

how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

hiatus

I am back from a relatively unintentional blogging hiatus. It seems that once I get out of a routine of any sort it takes me more time than one should reasonably expect in order for me to get back into it. This is the case for exercise, shaving my legs, reading my Bible, waking up early, tweezing my eyebrows, and just about everything in between. Sometimes it does work in my favor though, too. Once I stop going into Anthropologie on my lunch break, eating ice cream before bed, or gossiping at work, it's easy for me to slip into a new, better routine. Those bad things, just like the good things, slip out of my day-to-day living once the cycle of repetition is broken.

I'm finding however, that while I've been ready for a few weeks to get back into a rhythm of writing I have been battling some serious writer's block. I sit down and my fingers don't work for writing. No matter if it's typing or trying the old fashioned way and writing in a journal, they haven't been connecting with the words in my brain and I frankly just have not summoned up the discipline required to make them do something they don't want to.

So in honor of a new school year (next week) I'm getting a head start on the discipline that I'm going to need this year by committing to writing for a half hour every day - whether I feel like it or not. I will ultimately be required to memorize the DSM-IV for class this quarter. You know, to develop the skills and knowledge base necessary in order to be able to make an educated diagnosis and all that... I am excited about this, don't get me wrong. But do I love weekly quizzes? No. Does the buzz surrounding the difficulty of this class freak me out? You better believe it. But I do love feeling like I am taking one giant step closer to becoming a real live therapist. I'm a little bit terrified, but seriously looking forward to knowing this stuff. Alas, discipline will be the name of the game this quarter; and to be honest with you, I'm relieved.

I've been living untethered for the last few weeks and it's been less than ideal. I haven't been able to get myself motivated to do much in so many of the nooks and crannies of my life. My heart, soul, mind, and body are paying serious consequences too. So I'm ushering in a new season by extending an official challenge to myself to organize my time better. There are other things I'm doing to make this happen (fodder for future writing, perhaps), not the least of which will be getting back into the rigorous routine of a graduate student. But the decision to carve out a half hour of time for something that I know to be good for me, for something I know I love, will be good for my heart. I can't promise that all of these half hours of writing will be spent equally well. Some may be inspired, some may be a little less so. Hopefully you'll read them anyway.

Seriously?! it's August...

So, I'm not going to pretend that I don't love having a reason to bust out the sweatshirts, drink tea all day, and have to get all bundled up in order to enjoy being outside. I do. I like the cold weather (if it's not too cold, too often), but generally I prefer if the cold foggy evenings stay in the winter and fall where they belong.

Yesterday was Griffin's birthday and a celebration was planned that fit him well. For our awesome friend -so full of life, joy, kindness, and enthusiasm- we hoped to celebrate outside at an awesome place right on the beach. I made a pie, there was ice cream and other delicious desserts, good burgers and pizza, bocce ball, a sand box (!), and the hopes of general summer-night-type merriment.

Griffin's a good sport, my friends are all good sports and really awesome enough and fun enough in their own right that we still had a good time. But it was COLD. It was weird, sitting in early August, by the beach, in a literal cloud of fog, especially when you are expecting, well, a summer night. I had on a flannel shirt, a fleece that Adam thankfully has in his car, and we were sharing blankets that people who live in Santa Barbara keep in their trunks for reasons such as this - our weather, while pleasant more often than most places, is seriously unpredictable. We have more than our fair share of beautiful summer nights here. While they aren't hot like the summer nights of the midwest, or the south, or all of the places I went last week; our evenings are usually quite beautiful. I did note however, on many occasions last week, just how much I missed sitting out on the porch with a cool drink on a warm evening. That will always be one of my favorite things to do - however unpleasant it is at that moment when you are trying to fall asleep in the heat, I looove me a good warm summer night and what it entails before that awful moment. I digress.

So last night we huddled around the table and talked and laughed. There was no bocce. I'm not even sure anyone got up for anything other than food or napkins. But we still had a good time, gathered to celebrate a friend that we dearly love, and enjoying the community that we're lucky to have here. I stood up to take a picture (I'm attempting to take more pictures these days, I took about ten total while on my eleven day vacation, a new record-for real-I didn't even remember to bring a camera with me last time I went to Europe...) and this is what I got.


It's not really a good picture at all. No one is looking. Paul was the only one who saw me taking it, in fact, and flailed his arms and made a weird face, but I snapped the picture at a truly awkward moment so really it looks like he might actually be sleeping...but I like the picture anyway. I like how strange and blurry only Adam looks, and that his hand holding the plate is all kinds of crazy. It actually kind of looks like he's fanning Paul off, or maybe that he's about to hit him with the plate, but I assure you, he was not. You can't really see Meghan, or Hilary, or Jess, Josiah, Robin, or Cec, but I know they're in there. Griffin is dancing along with his gangsta-birthday-Barney (or purple "frog" that looks suspiciously like Barney). TJ, whom we dearly miss, is back on the scene for a couple of weeks before heading back to Philly. And I feel like you can actually see how cold it was last night in this picture.


So I'm posting this awful shot, because I like it, and this is my blog. When I stood up to take it, I paused for a minute and thought about how lucky I am to get to do life with these people. How thankful I am for each one of them. They're all quite different. I've known them for varying amounts of time and they each play a unique role in my life and in this group. They're genuine and thoughtful, and they are really funny people. So that's all. It was a good night, with good friends getting together for a great reason. And this post will also serve to remind me to a) take more pictures and b) well, to get better at it.

A nice, steady, deep breath

***for you, Kim, I finally updated my blog :)

Summer makes me feel restless. As a kid, summer was easy. We rode bikes, ate ice cream, played ghost in the graveyard with the neighbors, and caught lightning bugs. Mostly, summer was about mom and dad taking off early from work so we could pack up the car and head to Wisconsin to spend a few days at the lake house. We did this a lot. At the lake, it seemed like the rules were a little more flexible. Life moved a lot slower, and each day was spent out on the boat. We tubed, water skied, swam, took naps in the hammock, ate lots of chips and brats, had all of our meals outside, made a fire (with s'mores, of course) and then woke up and did it all again. That was it. And it was awesome. Later, from the time that I was fifteen, summer meant camp. And camp, well, camp was freedom and adventure to me. I went for a week or two of the summer every year as a kid, but once I turned fifteen and was old enough to be a lifeguard, I would leave as soon as school was out and stay until it began again in September. I'd make the drive up to Mukwonago with my heart ready to just about explode with anticipation for what the summer would hold.

At camp we lived intensely, in the best way possible. When I think back on each of those summers, they are marked by the memories of good friends, crazy adventures, and serving God joyfully and intentionally in any job I was asked to do (really, even the totally unpleasant ones like raking the beach or cleaning the toilets). I'm brought back to vivid and sweet memories of friendships that challenged me to grow in incredible ways and taught me to love selflessly. Camp reminds me of living simply, waking up early, not caring what I looked like, eating my weight in anything and everything sold at the Elegant Farmer, and laughing harder than you'd believe. I think about sneaking out at night for bowls of cocoa puffs, deep conversations or exhilarating midnight skinny dipping. These summers were overflowing, too, with precious quiet times, desperate prayers and lessons in faithful patience. God was huge to me during those summers, and I feel that both the foundation of my faith and of what is important to me in life was laid there.

Mostly, really, what I miss about camp is the intense passion for life that I felt each day I was there. It's hard to explain, but often in my "adult" life I have flashbacks to those moments of summer and grow nostalgic for the way I lived then. What's worse, I know that I am still mostly equipped to live this way right where I am because sometimes I really still do. Frankly, I'm just not as much as I could be, and I've noticed that failing to do so leaves me feeling like something is missing.

I'm aware, I have high expectations for summer. It's unfair to expect that a day spent in the office, even with a trashketball tournament and juicy piece of gossip will compare with a day spent on the lake when you're eleven. Even if the evening hours after work are filled with homemade guacamole and margaritas with awesome friends, and the vacationy lifestyle I know that I get to live in SB, there are still tasks at hand, future plans and fears which accompany the occasional freak-out, not to mention the dishes in the sink or the nagging presence of school. This is just part of growing up, becoming more responsible - "loss of innocence" and all that.

I have a job, a good job, that boring as it is I can't just leave for months at a time to live in a carefree world of summer. I have rent and bills to pay, friends that I miss when I leave town, and graduate school to commit both time and energy to. I don't think that growing up should be synonymous with becoming stressed about life, though. I don't think it should have to mean losing patience on the freeway or running errands all weekend or dashing out the door for work without having eaten breakfast. When those small things take precedence over reading good books, sipping coffee on the porch in the morning, writing in my journal, cooking fabulous meals, taking my kayak out or going for a run, they represent a priority shift that I'm just not okay with.

Sometimes, when I'm stressed out or really cold I notice that all of my muscles all tighten up. You know that feeling? If I stay like that for long enough I almost don't even notice. After a few hours of being out in the snow or running around like a chicken with its head cut off at work I become increasingly aware of the fact that I am absolutely not comfortable or relaxed at all, but have truly forgotten that all of my muscles are totally clenched. My shoulders are up to my ears and tied in knots, and my fists are clenched, toes are curled. I've become at that point, officially, physically stressed. The only thing to do at that point is to do what works. Take a hot shower, or better yet, find a hot tub. Have a glass of wine, go get a massage (or recruit a friend), go to the beach, sit in the woods, or put in a Friends DVD and eat a whole bag of cheddar goldfish in one afternoon. And follow it up with some Ben & Jerry's. Sometimes all it takes is a deep breath, a reality check, and a fresh determination for being more intentional about taking preventive measures.

So to relieve some of my life-stress I bought a plane ticket (or three) and went to visit friends. I went to a beautiful wedding and swam in a lake (amazingly therapeutic for a freshwater Midwestern girl like me who "only" has access to the Pacific). I caught up with friends that I'd spent an amazing Washington summer with and we ate picnics, kayaked, and barbecued. I had plenty of alone time to drink coffee, wander around Portland, browse Powell's, and daydream. Then, in Denver, I got to spend almost five days with Emily, which, let's be honest, is probably enough in and of itself to decompress. But we went rafting in the mountains, and something about that day, being on the river, made it feel like the reset button had officially been pressed. From there on out it was official. I was living in a summer state of mind. There were a lot of thoughts making a big mess up in my brain, but summer has never meant laziness to me in that regard, or emptiness of my mind. There is just something about the longer hours of daylight, the possibility for adventure and excitement, that gives me renewed energy for untying those knots. I'm happy to do whatever it takes to sort out my frustrations, worries, dreams, tasks, everything and putting it in it's rightful place. The good and exciting things, the scary things, the shitty things, they all get put in their place, and I can live in the present and revel in it better, more fully, more passionately. This is the key; the essence of living in and breathing deeply of all of what summer has to offer.

I feel good. I was fine before my trip, too. A little distracted, maybe a little flustered and left-of-center, but otherwise sailing through life in a way that worked. But this is better. I am thankful, my heart is at rest, and I am refreshed. I am also glad that I don't have any weekend plans again for a while. I need to hit the beach, my summer tan has seriously faded in all this busyness and travel and who am I kidding. That's a pretty important part of summer for me too, always has been.

It's good to be a Zarcone.

We waited a long time for the party of the year and then, when it was finally upon us, we savored every moment and tried not to miss anything. It was over too soon, but other than that, it was perfect. Karli and Zack's wedding in Seattle was, truly, a perfect day. Every moment of the weekend was bursting with excitement and celebration. There was joy and love and thankfulness abounding in every event, every meal, and everyone present. These two families know how to party. They are full of life and hospitality and generosity; they love to eat good food and drink good margaritas. In short, they do life well.

Karli and Zack come from good roots, to be sure. They have amazing families with strong values and lots of love, encouragement, and support which is reflected so evidently in their own marriage. It's been such a joy as their friend to watch them as they begin planting roots of their own together. Their marriage is beginning with deep and secure roots. They are grounded in faith, thankful to and in awe of the Lord who brought them together and continues to bless and strengthen their relationship. They are rooted in friendship. These two laugh and play together like no other couple I know, which is so fun to watch. Their marriage is rooted, as well, in love and respect for one another that continues to grow and grow, bringing them closer together and stronger as one.

I'm so thankful for these two, so thankful they will remain on the west coast, and unbelievably excited to watch their marriage continue to grow and blossom in strength and love, and in faith.

I'm still alive.

It's been a long month. For starters, I moved. You already knew that, but settling into a new place takes quite a bit of energy - the good kind - but nevertheless, a lot of it. I've been getting used to the new house, new room, new neighborhood, and I've been nesting. It's been truly wonderful. I didn't know how much I needed that change (okay, maybe I knew a little bit).

I took a week long intensive summer class on addiction and family treatment. And it was, most definitely, INTENSE. The class was fabulous though, and now that I have time to breathe (25 pages completed and to be turned in by mail in the morning!), I hope to have some time to reflect a bit more on what I learned. The course was an emotional journey to say the least, and challenging in ways I hadn't expected.

And after that first week spent mostly in class, studying and in Pasadena, I've been gone every weekend of July. There was Karli's fabulous bachelorette party in Napa, complete with a way-too-short stay in a fantastic house on a vineyard and a felt-shorter-than-it-really-was road trip with Meghan and Robin. The following weekend was a much anticipated and much needed reunion with my favorite ladies from college to celebrate Elyse's bachelorette party down south. There was champagne and catching up, eating and laughing, and more eating and more laughing. And then the next week it was off to Seattle for Karli's wedding for a few days, straight to Portland for a few more days, and continuing straight on to Denver where I am at the moment.

And now, I feel, for the first time in a long while that I am able to take a deep beath and rest. I feel like the reset button has been pushed on my life, and I have a little time to reboot before anything is expected of me. There's been a lot swirling around in my mind recently so I'm so looking forward to having nothing better to do than to hang out with Em when she's not at work, and when she is - to use that time in the mountains to walk by the river, drink coffee, read books for pleasure, journal, think, pray, and process. It's a much needed break, and I couldn't be happier to take this little vacation and make the most of it to do my heart well.

Raise your hand if you are a little bit stubborn...

You learn things about yourself when you move.

Among the things that this move has taught me:

• I have way too many pairs of shoes.
• I over-estimate my own abilities.
• I have strong opinions about where things belong and how rooms are to be set up.
• Loading a U-Haul is way harder than unloading it, and flip flops are not a good choice for moving day.
• Few things make me both exhausted and exhilarated at the same time like settling in to a new space.
• Moving a queen size bed by yourself is HARD.
• I'm not great at asking for help.

I guess I should just own it. Sometimes I try to pretend, and even succeed in convincing myself at times, that I am not stubborn. I am though. I think both of my parents kind of are too so maybe I get it from them, but the thing about being stubborn is that most of us adamantly argue that we are not. We are stubborn about our stubbornness. I am most definitely stubborn about my own stubbornness. But alas here I am, owning it, because it's being shoved in my face at the moment.

When you are single and moving yourself across town, stubbornness and inability to ask for help NEED to be thrown out the window. So I stretched myself and asked for a bit of help in my move. And you know what? It was hard. Harder than it should have been. I have amazing friends who were offering, willing, even down-right cheerful about helping me out. But I still felt like a burden, and I still tried to do as much as humanly possible all by myself. As I was sitting on the floor of my room at midnight on Saturday night balancing my wrought iron queen-size bed on one leg (where I now have a fatty bruise), holding the other side up with the other leg while simultaneously balancing and unscrewing the bed frame awkwardly with both hands, an Allen wrench and my forehead for support, I thought of my little self at three years old, insisting often that "I CAN DO IT MYSELF!" How silly a little kid looks trying to do something so outside of their abilities; but as they are growing and learning independence, we grant them that stubborn pride and it warms our hearts at the same time as something good and necessary.

But my stubborn pride is neither good nor necessary. At times it feels necessary because I do long to have someone to do life with - especially in those moments where a man with tools would come in quite handy! But stubborn insistence on independence and strength of will are defense mechanisms that have worked almost too well for me in my young single adult life. It's hard for me to face rejection and even harder to admit defeat (refer back to the mental image of me trying desperately to move my bed), so I am bad at asking for and accepting help.

I learned quite a bit in this move. I didn't learn how amazing and selfless my friends were, I already knew that. But I did learn that it's okay that I can't do everything on my own. It's supposed to be that way and I am glad that it is. I learned that asking for help both feels good and gets easier with practice. I learned about humility and having patience and grace with myself. In a healthy way, too, I learned that this is an area of great weakness for me; one that deserves some attention. I won't ever be truly rid of my stubborn tendencies and I don't think that is a bad thing. But there is room for growth: vulnerability to be practiced, help to be asked for, and guards to be let down, if I'm willing. And I think I am, in baby steps.

Au Revoir, Flora Vista

I will miss you, little house. With your doors that don't close or lock and let in all of the leaves and dust and outside elements. I will miss the frequent visits of skunks, the sinks that were always clogged, and the horrific sulfuric/raw egg smell that constantly eminated from the dishwasher. I will miss the rat traps in the laundry room that were found full on more than one occasion including - but not limited to - my birthday. I will miss the lightswitch to my bedroom being located conveniently outside of the bedroom on the living room wall. I will miss the six foot tall and perpetually crooked fence that kindly blocked all sunlight from reaching our incredible dirt and gravel front yard.

But more than all of that, I will miss the evenings in the hot tub with friends. The parts of the house that were in fact quite charming and cute. I'll miss the fireplace and curling up in front of it in the winter with a cup of tea to read or watch a movie. I'll miss the close proximity to Lazy Acres and Alcazar and Hendry's beach. I'll miss the incessant yet somehow charming ability of my roommate to never remember to take her tea out of the microwave and the every-thirty-second-reminder beep of the microwave that I always seemed to hear but was lost on her ears. The hours spent talking, laughing, crying, listening, and doing life with the amazing women that I was so blessed to call roommates for a year and a half; I will miss learning and growing there, with them, the most.

twenty five.

I really had a great birthday yesterday. Like, really great. The day started off with work, which could definitely be worse because a) I only had to work a half day, b) I like my job and the people I work with and c) the cool people at my office took up a "we-love-Maggie" birthday collection and presented me with a fatty Starbucks card. And I mean fatty. Like I will be good to go with coffee for months. I was so surprised and touched. Letters, phone calls, emails, facebook messages, and voicemails poured in throughout the day as the people who are important to me sent their greetings. I hate being the center of attention and really kind of dread that aspect of birthdays every year, but in the moment it does feel pretty great to talk to all of the people who love you in one day.

I like to spend a little bit of quality me time on my birthday each year, and this year was no exception. Only this year was quite a bit more exciting. I got a kayak for my birthday from my parents and I could not be more excited about it. It's pretty and yellow and I love it. I've been out on it in the ocean nearly every day this week, and an early afternoon jaunt on the kayak with John Legend on my iPod was the best way I could think of to ring in my first quarter of a century. Some of my friends made fun of me for bringing my iPod out there, but I never regretted it for a second. I unloaded that kayak from the top of my car all by myself like a champion and I took to sea for a couple hours (loading it back up was quite another story, but with a few tweaks to the rack and a little more practice I am confident I'll get better).

If you read this blog, you probably already know that I have some very sweet friends. Either you are one of them, or you've read about them enough to know that I think my friends are the coolest. Because it's true. The perfect ending to a wonderful birthday was to just sit around a big table at a great restaurant in town with the people I love - eating a delicious cheeseburger. These are the people who make me who I am, and having (almost all of) them out together, eating, celebrating, laughing was more than I could have wished for. They brought beautiful flowers (peonies, my favorite!), thoughtful gifts, hand written cards, and themselves (despite the fact that game 4 of the finals was on) and I was so touched. And just when I thought that I didn't need anything else to make the night complete, we headed to McConnells where I was treated to ice cream. We definitely go to McConnells quite a bit, but I'm pretty sure that nothing tastes better than really good mint chocolate chip ice cream with friends on your birthday.

So, it was a good day. And I'm officially a year older. Twenty five. And yes. I do feel older. I mean, not really, of course. The actual age difference is slight. But I feel good. I feel energized by having had such a beautiful day, and I feel quite a bit more comfortable in my own skin than I did when I turned twenty four. And I have big hopes and wishes for this year. Lucky for me, I blew that one candle on my slice of birthday pie out with the greatest of ease. So my wishes are going to come true. And I'm ready.

The art of being consistent

Consistency is not one of my strong suits. I mean, I could be worse. But really, for someone who wants to be a writer (in theory), has it really been two and a half weeks since I've shown my face on this here blog? Yes, yes; it's been "finals" for two weeks...but while I've been busy I've definitely not been too busy for a handful of things. I suppose I could share with you all that I actually am beginning to fancy myself a writer in some sense of the word. Even when I can't muster up the creative energy to sit in front of the computer, my brain is swirling with thoughts, with ideas, with reflections and questions that I am well aware belong on paper, since I process best that way. I daydream quite a bit about the lengthy, grueling, discouraging, and oh-so-tempting idea of one day writing a book. Many of you who are kind enough to read my blog have affirmed what used to be a secret, hidden away dream of mine by suggesting that you would read a book if I wrote it. This, I thank you for. One can never have enough kind words of encouragement tucked away when it comes to the thought of pursuing such a pipe dream.

More to the point for today, though, the BF has a way of thinking, learning, and doing life in a way that both challenges and encourages me in the best of ways. She too has recently been reflecting on commitment. I'm not the world's best committer. I, like Em, refuse to be told that I am non-committal because it just ain't true...but I'm pretty sure that there is plenty of room for growth in that arena. I feel that commitment and consistency are quite inter-related (if not synonymous), so while she is currently meditating on what commitment means in her life, for me, the buzz word swirling around up there is rather consistency. The concept is just different enough that the word choice matters to me, but encompasses a lot of similar stuff. If you remember, I was under the impression that I needed something like a dog a little while back to break me in to the idea of putting the needs of someone or something before my own at times. Due to circumstances beyond my control: a landlord who changed his mind, the honest-to-God dog-napping of Zeke (a tragic yet unbelievably real story!) I have no dog. I already killed my vegetable garden. The poor little guys never even had a chance. My gym membership? A joke. I trained for all of three days for a half marathon. Long-term romantic relationship? Oh, Lord... You get the idea. Help me.

I turn one quarter of a century old on Thursday. That, to me, feels like a bit of a landmark birthday. I know that people respond differently to such milestones. I've been anticipating this day for quite some time. Birthdays in general always seem quite anticlimactic to me as I generally feel no real change (aside from the actual, legal, landmarks of say 16 or 21); but something about crossing the line from 24 to 25 feels big. It feels significant. And I am proud to say it makes me unbelievably excited and hopeful. I was expecting dread. I was expecting loneliness, disappointment, maybe a bit of anxiety. But maybe my quarter-life crisis is going to continue to shape out be a crisis of the best kind. I feel like this birthday is kicking my ass in the good way. Like an army trainer at boot camp. My twenty-fifth year is staring me down, challenging me to be all that I can be. Causing me to take stock of the things that matter to me. The things I've stuck on the back burner, temporarily misplaced, tucked away for a rainy day. Priorities, interests, hobbies, personal values and ideals, goals, hopes, issues. Some of that future-oriented-anxiety is quite naturally still mixed in, but I'm okay with it for the moment. I feel good despite it's nagging presence.

So here's to 25. Cheers to consistency and to growth and to a birthday to look forward to!

You should watch this.

Little by Little

My parents are amazing. At the moment, they are in Haiti for the second time this year for just over a week. Twice a year for the last 3 years they've taken a group made up of about 15 medical people- my mom's friends who are doctors and nurses, students from the PNP program where she teaches, along with a handful of others who, like my dad, are able to provide support in other non medical ways. I think my mom leaves a bigger piece of her heart there each time she goes. A medical professional with an incredible breadth of knowledge and an even larger heart and generous spirit, it's not surprising that she has truly found what she might very well have been made to do. This year they began a non-profit organization called Little by Little, named for a Haitian proverb "little by little, the bird builds his nest." Which is what they are trying to help the people in Haiti to do. Improve their standard of living and access to health care and preventive medicine in ways that matter. I was touched by my mom's update email, so I thought I'd share it with you, my faithful readers :)

Hi Everyone -

We arrived safely to Gramothe, Haiti and have quickly moved into "high achievement mode". ALL of us and our 40 suitcases of medicine and supplies made it with absolutely NO glitches!!! And when we arrived into the village that evening we found almost 200 people waiting for us...they had heard we were coming into town on Wednesday, and thought there would be clinic that day! The day came and went with everyone just waiting and waiting (patiently, I might add)...so, your prayers for our safe arrival and for God to bring us people who need our care were definitely heard!!! We got up to the mountain first thing Thursday morning to full smiles and hearty "Bonjours"! Just imagine...that would never happen in the states!

It has been raining here constantly, but somehow the downpours have been very strategic with our plans. No rain during the long truck ride from the airport AND no rain until every suitcase was completely unloaded - no rain going back and forth from the clinic - including our walk outside back and forth to the school for lunch!!! It has been amazing to watch God keeping us safe and dry.You may not be able to appreciate this little miracle to the extent that we do - but believe me...it is very significant!!! And the best part of this is that Willem (from Mountain Top Ministries) has completed the waiting/education room which holds more than 200 people sitting on benches and has standing room beyond that, so most everyone patiently waiting for us has been kept dry.

Our team is very prepared and is working so very hard to see everyone during the day so no one has to stay overnight, but again, your prayers for people to find us have been answered...there are so many waiting, we have to give return numbers to more than 100 for the next day - and people are walking from farther distances than ever, and have many unusual ailments.

We started right away with our TB screening, so our timing will work out well to read the skin tests we are placing. We were welcomed at the school with the kindergartners singing to us and showing us there good manners with formal greetings in french :)

We also had the opportunity to send a small team to another school in Petionville to care for the children and teachers. This team was also greeted with song and smiles! How precious everyone is!

We are caring for a man with congestive heart failure, stopping at his home each morning and evening, trying to develop a safe medical plan to save his life. He is in a bad way - so please pray for him. I am more than humbled (is there a more expressive word for that in English?) as I walk into his little stone home. It is one small room with one concrete bed, a small table, several ragged blankets and towels, a rope to hang the few clothes they have, a bucket to urinate in, and at least a dozen family members around this patriarch, loving him and doting on him. Children were sleeping on the floor, along with a woman sitting crossed legged with her nursing infant on her lap (can't imagine the back ache). As we entered this home there was an aura of contentment that is beyond our American comprehension!!! How can I bottle this peace and love the Haitians seem to have in spite of their harsh living conditions and political disaster of a failed state?

Thank you all for remembering us as we carry you along on this journey - we feel your prayers and support!

Love, Brian and Sue and all our team

Out of the wreck I rise.

The morning after the day of Brad's accident, I woke up totally clueless as to what to do with myself. I decided to get a cup of coffee and sit down with my Bible and copy of My Utmost for His Highest to see what the Lord would like to do with me, and in an effort to live out the words of my favorite hymn, "It is Well with My Soul." Turns out the following words were printed as the devotional for the day of May 19th, and on that morning I remember feeling that more fitting, more comforting words were never written.

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? —Romans 8:35

God does not keep His child immune from trouble; He promises, "I will be with him in trouble . . ." ( Psalm 91:15 ). It doesn’t matter how real or intense the adversities may be; nothing can ever separate him from his relationship to God. "In all these things we are more than conquerors . . ." ( Romans 8:37 ). Paul was not referring here to imaginary things, but to things that are dangerously real. And he said we are "super-victors" in the midst of them, not because of our own ingenuity, nor because of our courage, but because none of them affects our essential relationship with God in Jesus Christ. I feel sorry for the Christian who doesn’t have something in the circumstances of his life that he wishes were not there.
"Shall tribulation . . . ?" Tribulation is never a grand, highly welcomed event; but whatever it may be— whether exhausting, irritating, or simply causing some weakness— it is not able to "separate us from the love of Christ." Never allow tribulations or the "cares of this world" to separate you from remembering that God loves you (Matthew 13:22 ).
"Shall . . . distress . . . ?" Can God’s love continue to hold fast, even when everyone and everything around us seems to be saying that His love is a lie, and that there is no such thing as justice?
"Shall . . . famine . . . ?" Can we not only believe in the love of God but also be "more than conquerors," even while we are being starved?
Either Jesus Christ is a deceiver, having deceived even Paul, or else some extraordinary thing happens to someone who holds on to the love of God when the odds are totally against him. Logic is silenced in the face of each of these things which come against him. Only one thing can account for it— the love of God in Christ Jesus. "Out of the wreck I rise" every time."

I decided to speak at Brad's funeral and used these words when I did. I clung to these words and these passages of scripture in the weeks that followed, and re-read them each year as a reminder of God's goodness and faithfulness in all things.

6

It's been six years. Six years exactly from that morning that I woke up and my life was totally, irreversibly changed.

Strange as it is, my most vivid memory of that morning is of standing at the sink in the bathroom trying to put mascara on and being unable to do so because my hand was shaking so much. A silly detail to remember on a day like that, but it is what it is. That's the first picture in my mind when I think about that day, trembling, fear, dread, an unwillingness to hear the words spoken outloud. And with that one split-second image comes an overwhelming onslaught of emotion that really just blurs together everything that happened in the hours following that moment.

The police officers and counselor at the table with my parents, the looks on their faces, my dad's silence, my mom's only word "Bradley..." said in a way I will never forget, having to wake Kyle up and tell him. The phone calls, the loss for words, the dry feeling in my mouth for days and inability to eat. And despite the fact that she was in the middle of working at camp an hour and a half away, how Emily showed up what felt like immediately. More food, more visitors, more time moving so quickly you couldn't feel it and then moments that seemed to be frozen painfully in time. My dad's best friend Joe's face on the porch as he raced into the house straight from Wisconsin, a beautiful picture of friendship I'll never forget. Trying to sleep, trying to stay awake. Trying to understand, trying to pray, trying to stand up on my own two feet. Funeral arrangements, sorting through pictures, the seemingly endless stream of visitors and food that we were so thankful for as the quiet moments were the hardest then. Visitors bringing caramel macchiatos that never tasted so good and trying so hard to go through the motions. Watching my parents try to grasp what just happened. Minutes bleed into days and hours in what is both the longest and shortest week of my life. From that Sunday when we heard, through the processing and planning and sitting and making decisions to the endless hours standing and talking, center of attention at the wake, the funeral, giving the eulogy, the celebration afterward, the quiet days that followed. I remember every moment of all of it, that week is burned into my brain.

It's been six years since we lost Brad in a motorcyle accident. It's gotten easier in a lot of ways. Each year, it sort of gets easier. But the ways that I've been totally changed forever are still there. I still flinch on the freeway everytime a motorcycle passes me. Every time. I still strain and try to hear his voice in my mind. I still feel the weight of the loss of a brother when other people talk about theirs, or when I go to weddings or think about my childhood. I still feel the significance of losing him when I celebrate a birthday each year, thinking that his young life was cut so short. Here I am, on the edge of 25 and my big brother is frozen in time at 21. I still struggle with the answer to the question "how many brothers and sisters do you have?" Such an easy question for everyone else, one that is anchored in pain, sadness, sometimes anger for me.

I've learned so much in six years, and so much of that learning has been filtered through this lens. I've learned more about grace, about faith, about the goodness of God than I ever would have thought. I've lived in and experienced lament, something so central to the scriptures that I'd never quite grasped before. I've learned about hope, about letting go, and about clinging to scripture and also to the treasured memories and moments. I've lived in and through anxiety, in fear, in anger, in redemption, in peace. I miss my brother. And today, exactly six years later, I'm mourning the loss of what could have been. The man he could have become, the wedding with Lisa that could have been and the nieces and nephews I could have been holding this weekend. I'm always going to miss Brad, but on days like today, when the loss feels more real, he needs to be celebrated, too. He needs to be remembered and missed and held on to for the man that he was, the brother and friend and son that it was so unbearable to lose. Although, that part doesn't really get any easier. Six years.