Saving the World

 

"It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do." 
— Anne Lamott

As I poured a second cup of coffee, swirling the cream around with my spoon, it suddenly occurred to me that it's already mid-November. I looked out the window at the rain coming down in sheets, loud and insistent, at the leaves covering the ground in mix of bright yellows and dull browns. It's nearly the end of the year, and like every year, I wonder how we got here so quickly.

Immediately after those thoughts, another thought came: Paris. I keep coming back to it, like so many others. Somehow, I'm still a little surprised each time things like this happen. I've been reading profiles of the victims, imaging the families who lost someone, trying to make sense of something that will never be fathomable to sane people. Tragedy after tragedy we jump, from one breaking news story to the next.

The end of the year is upon us, and it is too easy for me to look at those stories and sum it all up in a defeated sigh. It's been a hard year in many other ways, too. A friend I've known since I was 5 years old had twin baby girls born prematurely, and while one is still in the NICU, I attended the memorial service for the other. As I sat in the wooden church pew, looking at her sweet picture, my tears fell as much as in anger as in sadness, because something like that isn't fair, and shouldn't happen. Paris shouldn't have happened, nor should the hundreds of other mass shootings this year, every year. My health has been a bit of a mess lately, and it pales in comparison to what others I know are struggling with right now. Our state is six months into the fiscal year without a budget, without heating/electricity assistance for the poor, with people losing jobs, with no help for disabled and elderly people. As all these thoughts circled in my mind, I had to put my mug of coffee down and wipe my eyes. None of this makes sense. It doesn't even feel like a reality.

I looked up at Millie and Walter. Someone is dancing and singing on Sesame Street, and they're giggling and paging through books, oblivious to all I'm worried about this morning. I'm constantly astonished at how beautiful they are, and how beautiful people like them can even exist in this kind of world. Sometimes it feels like God is reminding me of what I have to be grateful for, because their light shines through the bleakest times.

At age 31, I have so much yet to learn. One thing I am learning, perhaps the hard way, is that I have to count my blessings where I can. Not in a blindly optimistic, Pollyanna way, but in a deeply grateful, even reverent way. In a way that clings to everything I've been graciously given because those things are little life rafts from God in a wildly stormy sea. Because I think that's the only act of defiance I have, and maybe how good wins in the end. To sing "It is Well" despite it all.

So here I am, clinging to the life rafts of those two little souls, of a husband who lets me order pizza when I feel bad, of this small miracle of warm coffee held close to my chest, of Sunday sermons, of good books. I'm clinging to the last flowers of the year my dad gave me from his garden, a big bunch of green with yellow and orange blooms. I'm clinging to the visit from my mom soon, and how we'll laugh until we cry next to the glow of a mismatched, multicolored Christmas tree with an angel looking over the whole room. I'm clinging to Walter's hugs and whispers of "you're my sweetheart" from this blonde little boy with the widest blue eyes I've ever seen. I'm clinging to Millie's excitement after choir practice, and how smart she is, how it blows me away sometimes. I'm clinging to the sight of her shaking an elderly man's hand and thanking him for his service in the military, and a beautiful song that I can't stop playing. I'm clinging to the smallest of things, like the soothing, sweet smell of a candle burning steadily, and how smooth my sheets feel when I finally wrap up in them at night, and the dance party that's happening in my living room right now.

Will dance parties and soft sheets and flowers save the world? No. Not really.

But maybe, just a little. Maybe it's enough grace for the day.

And when I slow my breathing and inhale the good for just a moment, I realize that grace for one day at a time is really all any of us need. One day after one day after one day at a time, the world is saved.

Things and Stuff

"Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits." 

— Samuel Butler

Hey, I'm a bit under the weather today, okay? Not every title can be poetry.

Yesterday was the first day of fall. My birthday was a few days ago, but I feel the same excitement on this day each year. It's become a stereotypical, Pinterest-y season that has everyone talking about Starbucks and plaid, leaves and boots, pumpkins and apples. But it's a stereotype I'll gladly own, because fall has always been my favorite. It feels new to me in a way that even spring can't compete with, and it never ceases to inspire me. Fall is for back to school, cardigans, and baking, but most of all, it's for writing.

My birthday was my 31st. Last year, I felt a sense of bewilderment at how I arrived at 30, and a sense of relief that beginning this new decade didn't mean my life was basically over (which is what I assumed of my parents, because 30 might as well have been 80). This year, I checked to see if my face was wrinkly, and promptly forgot I had a birthday at all. Old age will do that to you.

Everyone took the same picture, but I love it anyway.

Life is fast paced lately. The calendar is filling up quickly. Busy can be good, if done the right way, but I'm having to remind myself of that when my introverted soul would much rather be safe at home. Home, however, has become a busy place itself; Millie and I are in our first month of homeschooling. The mornings are beginning to settle into a bit of a routine now. I've planned very lightly themed weeks- this week is apples. Right now, we're focused on learning better to read and write, which makes up arguably the most important part of kindergarten. We're also doing math in simple ways, like learning the value of coins, understanding the calendar, etc. And while we're on this subject, I just need add that I don't know how my mother homeschooled without Google. I've already had to look up a couple science questions that a five year old asked me. 

Checking into the hotel for our quick Indy trip

Walter is having some two year old stubbornness, but he is still a sweetheart who loves his mama. It's amazing, and a little sad, to observe the way his speech is progressing into longer sentences and bigger vocabulary. He's always been an easy baby. This age, though, is the sweet spot, I think. Even though I desperately miss his early days, I love that he's old enough to tell me some of what he wants or needs, but young enough to still feel small and snuggle on my lap with a book about trains.

Marriage is still going well- really well. However, with that goodness comes fear. With a past like ours, I worry that things will come crashing down around me at any moment. Happiness doesn't come easily in some cases. It has to be learned, too. I'm trying to memorize that feeling and trust it.

We've started attending Wednesday night Bible study at our church. I'll be honest and say that this is very hard for me when it comes to the social aspect. I feel so drained at the end of it. The speakers are thought provoking and interesting, but the second half of the night is a small group. It's like a miniature party full of women. Most women seem to enjoy chatting in a group like this, but it is not so pleasant for a girl like me. I try to smile and not look mean, but spend a lot of time staring at my hands and paging through my book. The first week, I texted Sky (who was in the men's group down the hall) and told him I wanted to leave, because I'm mature like that. Last night went a lot better, mostly because I clutched my caramel apple cider like a security blanket, and curled up in bed when I got home.

Millie joined a children's choir here in town. While I'm as introverted as they come, Miss Amelia Kae is the absolute opposite, and I'm glad she has an outlet to make friends and have a little spotlight. They'll have a winter concert near Christmas and another concert in May. I can't wait to watch her on the stage.

Speaking of Christmas- my Mom is coming to visit again this year. I haven't seen her since last December, and that's hard when she's one of my favorite people. We're already planning to bake (i.e., she shows me how to bake) and enjoy Christmas-y things together. The most exciting part of her visit is that we're driving to a Chicago suburb to see It's a Wonderful Life in a theater, and meet the actress who played ZuZu, Karolyn Grimes. It's incredibly significant to me, and not just because it's my favorite movie in the entire universe ever of all time. She and one of the other "Bailey children" are the only actors from the movie still alive. Meeting someone who has been on camera with Jimmy Stewart is going to be amazing. Typing that probably makes me 71 instead of 31.

Millie might be having fun

And last, but not least? I had the privilege of meeting Kim from She is Fierce, and her awesome family! You can tell from the photo that Millie had wonderful time, too. They came through Champaign last week, and were gracious enough to spend time with us one night. We talked about Canada, I moped about being American, and it was lovely. For some reason, meeting bloggers is easy for me- maybe because, unlike my church group, I've felt connected to so many girls for so many years, it's as if I already know them well when we first meet. I guarantee that the 5 or so people who read this blog know me infinitely better than nearly everyone in "real life".

That about sums up my world right now. I thought about writing a prettier post, but realized that so much has been added to my life lately, I should probably explain some of it before I tell you how I feel about it. Soon, I'll wax poetic about everything autumn, but for this afternoon, we'll catch up like the old friends we are. Sit down with a cup of something hot and tell me how you've been.

Take a Taste

 "Pull up a chair. Take a taste. Come join us. Life is so endlessly delicious."  — Ruth Reichl

Millie has been asking me for a year now.

An entire 365 days of, "Can we go eat at the festival?" "The Taste of Champaign?" I ask. "Yeah!" she exclaims. It only comes once a year, but it's seared into her memory as a highlight of summertime. Maybe it's because we've been going long before she was even born. Central Illinois is rich with special events, but this is one we never miss.

The Taste of Champaign-Urbana has always been a favorite in our family. It's become a summer weekend-long tradition full of crafts booths, pony rides, inflatables, concerts and fun acts, activities for kids, and most importantly, a smorgasbord of some of the best restaurants in Chambana.

I like to map out my stops ahead of time, and I can already tell you I'll be stopping at the Minneci's booth for some bruschetta, the Pop Stop for a fun popsicle, Manolo's for a dessert empanada, Millie will drag me to the Kona Ice truck for some shaved ice, and Walter will beg for some popcorn from the Champaign County Historical Museum booth.

But though some parts of the weekend are for fulfilling those traditions, I love that it's a fun way for families to try something new. Millie had her first pony ride last year, and was beside herself with excitement. We watched a kids' concert that my dad, in an overzealous display of hand waving, volunteered me for as a guest on stage. I tried my first sip of Thai tea, and it was heaven. And it was Walter's first time to run through giant bubbles and ride on our shoulders through West Side Park. 

I'm sure that Sky, Millie, and Walter would all have a different part of the Taste of C-U that they like best. Mine is that we get to have a weekend of entertainment and delicious food that isn't forgotten like a typical restaurant meal would be. Instead, we make memories that last us until the next summer.

The Champaign Park District was kind enough to provide $25 in Taste tickets for the winner of this giveaway! The tickets can be picked up at the festival. Just enter below for a chance to win! And either way, make sure to visit this year's Taste of C-U. I'll say hi- but only after dinner, of course.

The 2015 Taste of Champaign-Urbana is 

August 21 from 5-11pm, and August 22 from 11am-11pm. 

It's held in West Side Park,

 steps from downtown Champaign, Illinois.
Post your photos to Instgram using the #TasteCU hashtag- I'll be doing the same!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Disclosure: I was provided with Taste tickets from The Champaign Park District in exchange for this blog post. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

Uneasy

"Remember this also: it’s always easy to look back and see what we were, yesterday, ten years ago. 

It is hard to see what we are." 

— Harper Lee (Go Set a Watchman)

If I could sum up this summer in one word, it would be just that- uneasy. Or uncomfortable. The kind of nervous, slightly sad feeling in the pit of your stomach when something- or in this case, many things- just seems off. Like the summer cold we all seem to have, I'm bundled up in bed in my sweatshirt even though I should be chasing Millie and Walter at a park. It isn't supposed to be like this.

There has been good in these June, July, and now August days. Everyone in the family has had a birthday (except me), and it is always fun to share cake and see the joy over presents and balloons. Millie had a milestone birthday, turning 5, and a 5th birthday is its own sort of magic. She and I will start her kindergarten year in September, and we're busy preparing for it. Sky and I have been doing noticeably better, and it's a relief to feel that again. And though Walter has had a few moments of definite two year old actions, he's still as cuddly and sweet as ever.

But circumstances beyond my control have made my heart a little weary, a little unsure. It's like the tornado sirens the city tested this morning; the day is cool and sunny, quite perfect for July, but that ominous sound is hard to shake. It feels wrong.

The most glaringly obvious disruption to our lives has been, of all things, my beloved Illinois. The politics in this state are much less beloved, however, and the state government has been shut down since the end of June. While I won't bore you with pages of my thoughts on the matter, it boils down to a lot of hardship on a lot of people, the poorest people who most need help. And because Sky is a state employee of sorts (also too complicated to explain), we've been left wondering every two weeks whether his paycheck will arrive. After being told to stay home for a whole week, he is back working, but the budget crisis is far from over. I've been spending my nights writing to representatives, no doubt in vain.

A friend moved away this morning. She posted a photo of a Champaign country road, cracked and probably lined with dots of white Queen Anne's Lace and blue chicory, and now she's gone. We've known each other for years but only developed a closer friendship over the last year or so, and that alone makes me sad, because we could have had more time. I shared a lot of common interests with her, more than I have with someone in a long time, and while she's moving on with her life in necessary ways, it's still hard to say goodbye.

And, maybe laughably to some, it's been hard to say goodbye to another friend. Sidnie, one of the few blog friends I have who truly gets me, surprised me with Go Set a Watchman a couple weeks back. I won't spoil the book for anyone, but most people know that Maycomb has changed, Atticus has changed, and even Scout has changed. To Kill a Mockingbird is one of my favorites, and it took root in my own childhood, reading it for school, and then again on a family camping trip. I vividly remember being caught up in Tom Robinson's trial as I sat on a dusty chair by a fire pit in the woods. The new book shakes up what I thought I knew about that Alabama town, and left me unsettled. Harper Lee must have known what my summer would be like when she wrote it, and it matched my mood perfectly.

Earlier, I said that I wanted to write when life had smoothed over into calm again, and I could tell the story from the other side. But like most stories, as some parts resolve, others swiftly change, and so it's best to write as it happens. The unease of the summer of 2015 will melt into sweeter autumn, crisp caramel apples, pencil cases and notebooks, and my favorite part of the year. I am ready to trade the sticky, worried days of August for the promise of golden leaves and lighter hearts.

Night in June

 "Green was the silence, wet was the light,

the month of June trembled like a butterfly." 

— Pablo Neruda

It's the time of year when Millie's cheeks are dotted with more and more freckles, and the smallest hint of sunburn pink. Walter wants to spend every waking moment outdoors, and shrieks with delight when I mention a walk. The corn is shooting up so quickly, it looks different every time I pass the fields. The country roads are begging to be driven. It smells like warm, fresh air and growing things.

There are a lot of miniature blog posts I want to write, so I'm writing them all here in this jumbled, rambling space. Most of what I write isn't planned. It just spills out when I am overflowing. Seasons changing tends to do that to me.

June is proving to be a difficult month, even though we're only a couple days in. Sky is at WLC for most of it. And Walter turns two at the end of the month. It's starting to sink in how much he's grown, and how little baby there is left. I think I'm much more emotional about this birthday than I was on his first- I can't even type this without crying. It's hard to let that stage go. In another world, perhaps, I would long for another baby. But in this world, there are too many complications, and so that chapter is probably over. That's its own strange kind of grief, and I'm still figuring it out, really.

I have been thinking a lot about my legacy. What I'll leave behind. A lot of people I "know"- like a beautiful woman who wrote here, or our local TV anchor- have passed away in the last few months. It's shaken me up a lot for never even meeting them in person. Maybe because they were so young. Maybe because I'm realizing how scary cancer can be. Or maybe it's just because when someone is gone, I can't help but wonder what it will be like when I'm gone. Both of those people left a community of family and friends who couldn't speak anything bad about them. I cannot picture more than a couple dozen people at my funeral, but I hope they have stories to tell. I want to leave good to remember. I want my heart to always be aware that the seemingly small things are what last.

Since having kids, one thing has become incredibly obvious to me; I am much more old fashioned than most people. I don't mean old fashioned in a cutesy way, like collecting old typewriters (although that sounds nice), but in terms of my values. The way I parent and steer our family life is the opposite of most of my friends and family. The things that matter are different when there are little ones looking up to me, ready to imitate my every move. There is so much pain and confusion our there, and I fiercely try to protect their innocence. Many people spit out the word "sheltering" as if it's a horrible thing, but, to be plain, I absolutely want to shelter my children. Someone once compared raising children to growing a seedling. And that spout needs to be cared for closely, safely, until it can grow strong enough to be outdoors in all the harsh weather. That's how I feel about it.

And life lately? A lot of quiet. A lot of alone time. A lot of coffee. A lot of reading about Harper Lee before her book comes out next month. I think Miss Lee and I would be good friends, but like most introverts, we'd probably never meet because it would mean interacting with another person. So I'll be here in Illinois, and she'll be there in Alabama, and I'll relish every moment of reading her second story.

Tonight, I only see one or two bright, steady stars in the sky. The house is softening in its nightly silence. It's a night that would be good for crying to let out a bit of pressure, but that's what writing is for. Evenings are my favorite, though. I love the hush, the glimpse of the moon, the soft light in the house, and a moment with my thoughts. There is so much to do all day, but the night sweeps in and there is rest, so we have the strength to make it to another June day tomorrow.

And tomorrow, there is much to grow, much to learn, and a lot of coffee to drink.

Life in Janurary

"Sometimes, I look outside, and I think that a lot of other people have seen this snow before. 

Just like I think that a lot of other people have read those books before. And listened to those songs.

I wonder how they feel tonight." 

— Stephen Chbosky

The sun sank below the horizon hours ago. It's dark now, but the kind of dark that glows with newly falling snow. The stars are missing from the sky, as if they have sprinkled themselves into the vast white. It covers rooftops, molds into car shapes, and smooths over all hints of busyness from this day. There are those who shrink back from this kind of crystallized weather. But not me. Snow makes the real world disappear. It makes me forget.

I woke up earlier than usual this morning. I had heard what the weatherman predicted, and after breakfast was given and coats were found, Millie, Walter, and I made a trip to the grocery store. It's a lovely, chilly Midwest tradition, I think; when more than an inch of snow is in the forecast, it means we must shop for bread and milk. By the time the storm clouds break open and the tiny dots of white begin falling, there isn't a loaf or a gallon to be found on the shelves in Champaign-Urbana. We have plenty of plows to scatter the roads with salt and sand, but it's a tradition that stays with me still- grocery store, gas station so the tank will be full to the top, and home to a bowl of something warm. Then we press our noses to the windowpanes, straining our eyes to spot the first snowflake. If we turn our backs for a moment, we look back to see an unrecognizable scene of winter on our street.

When I opened this page, I meant to write to you about the snow. It does something to me, as most of the season changes do. I suppose what I really wanted to do is tell you how I am. What I'm doing.

In the past couple of weeks, I have spent time with more than one friend. This is remarkable when I'm such an introvert, and when I often feel I have no friends that I could do those kinds of things with. I spent one evening on a couch with a friend and her tiny baby boy. We sipped drinks and talked for hours about life. I stayed until after one in the morning, completely unaware of time. A few days later, I braved the bitter cold air to navigate brick streets and warm myself in a coffee shop, where I met another friend who I've known since we were both young. We used to write outlandish stories together and have lots of adventures. Her mother taught me to play the piano; I took lessons in their living room. The two of us had fancy desserts and caught up on the years we've missed. And though I love my time alone, that afternoon and that evening were some of the brightest times I have had in a very long time. I realize that community, with people who really understand me, is a beautiful thing, and I dearly hope to have more of  in the coming year.

Life now is a sometimes wonderful, sometimes maddening form of the same day, over and over again. It usually feels that most of my day is spent preparing meals, cleaning up meals, planning meals, and shopping for them. Walter is still as sweet as ever, but teething can throw that off some days. Millie is so full of life- I've never seen someone that alive before- and I usually have to beg her to slow down a bit in the morning until I've had a cup of coffee. I pick up the same toys and books every night. I wake up to the same demands of "nana!" (banana) for Walter and fifty questions from Millie. Most days, I find myself feeling so weary at one point or another, because motherhood does that. But I also see her curled up on my bed to read, wearing her long flannel nightgown and playing with her tiny curls, or have a grin and a kiss from him that covers my whole cheek in drool, and in those moments, I find myself near tears, because I know these days won't last.

Sky and I will be married 5 years on the 16th. I always think it's the 15th for some reason. I don't know what the day, or the year, will bring. I never do. But we are still trying.

For the last month or so, I've felt myself start to walk into the familiar dark forest of depression. It's nothing serious, and nothing unusual. I have been walking in and out of it for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I can name a cause. Other times, it finds me on its own. This time may be a mix of both. I've learned that I can't cheer myself out of it. Instead, I try to minimize its appearance when the kids are awake, and I give myself permission to cry, or write, or do what I need to do to make it until the next day. My last post talked about perseverance a little, and depression requires it. I am doing what I can.

That is life now. The ins and outs of every day. The busy nothings that make up my life. The bits that seem unimportant and are really the only important parts. The sadness. The gritty, unpolished shards of hope. The quiet. The embraces of friends. The milk and bread. The snow.

A Quiet Resolve

"The highway signs say we're close,

But I don't read those things anymore.

I never trusted my own eyes."

-Stubborn Love by The Lumineers

A year in review?

I don't know.

I don't know what I'm closer to, or what I'm farther from.

My heart is so much happier, and so much more full of ache.

I am older and wiser, but I wish I could be younger and oh-so-naive again.

Maybe everything is changing, or maybe it's tortuously the same.

I know more of what I want, and less of how to get it.

I can't make sense of most of what I've seen this year. And maybe it doesn't matter, now that it's ending, and being replaced by a shiny 2015, with glitter and flashbulbs to assure me that this is the year. This time I'll figure it out. This time I'll know. The confetti will shower me in an avalanche of goals and resolutions that will outshine all the regrets and broken promises.

Sometimes, I feel like a boat in an ocean with no land in sight. Because I can control what I do. But there are seven billion other people in seven billion other boats, and I can't control any of them. And there are big storms that come out of nowhere, it seems. And boats are kind of lonely things anyway.

There are times when I blaze into a new year full of wild hope and bubbly excitement, as if I'd toasted the whole bottle of champagne to myself. There are others where I simply pray a silent prayer in the dark, waiting until everyone has gone to sleep and it's just me in the blankets, staring up at God in a kind of hesitant wonder. We have a long, but mostly wordless talk. And for the most part, I just tell Him that I don't know. I don't know. My best prayers are probably when I keep my mouth closed.

I've had thirty years of these midnights, of the calendar rolling to a new page. They no longer seem worthy of sequined dresses or noisemakers. Instead, they tend to arrive without any fanfare at all. The Christmas decorations look outdated and out of place already. The ball dropping in New York is too far away from a small town in central Illinois farmland.

And anyway, isn't that what the Midwest is known for- a quiet resolve? A steadfast determination? No matter the weather, the farmers have to sow and reap at some point. You do what has to be done. There is a beauty in that, even though it's mostly lost in the world today.

So 2015 will find me doing what has to be done, whatever that may be. I will love my children. I will finish school. I will cook our meals and make our trips to the library. I will sit in the hallway during her ballet class, and console him after his immunizations. I will laugh and I will cry. I will sing along with the radio. I will read lots of board books and mourn for time to read from my own shelf. I will try to make the holidays happy. I will buy hair dye in a box. I will revel and glory in fall's return. I will celebrate birthdays and marvel at new accomplishments. I will get a new pair of shoes, and pay taxes, and discover new recipes. I will still check on them at night. I will get teased for the amount of photos I take of anything and everything. I will stay up too late and wish for time to sleep in. I will write.

I will do the small things that constitute this life, a life that feels small, but one that God sees nonetheless. And even though I don't know, He does. For now, I go to bed and wake up again.

Blessing and Ache

"If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling." 

— Fernando Pessoa

I want to take her by the shoulders and whisper to her. "You're the lucky one," I'd tell her. Lucky, because you found the one you love when you were young. And you were together before there were others, so there are no regrets and wasted moments. And you had a kind of secret language between the two of you. And you hold hands. And you ate stale wedding cake on your first anniversary. And he was always faithful. And you were always proud. A picture from your first date makes your heart swell. And you've never questioned it.

And someone else would come to me and tell me that they wish they could be as lucky as I have been. I've had two children, and they are healthy. I haven't been homeless. I haven't broken any bones or faced cancer or lost a best friend in a car accident. I have enough to eat and clothes to keep my body warm and a car that I can drive to the doctor when I have a fever. I have parents that I count among my closest friends and people who pray for me and a Starbucks card with five dollars and forty six cents left on it.

The lucky parts are what keep us going.

It's the unlucky parts of us that hurt.

And I wish it was okay to say those things.

That we ache. That we are blessed.

That the blessings and the ache can both fit inside one beating heart.