Beauty on the Backroads

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When dreams turn to dust

I’ve been putting off writing this blog post for weeks, though it’s been living in my head for that long or longer. I don’t want to write it because what I feel is mostly sad, and I’m tired of feeling sad and defeated. I desperately want to hope but hope feels like something just out of reach. Maybe I should wait for a sunnier day to write this, but maybe if I get the words out, the fog in my head will lift.

Let me begin with this, though: What you are about to read is just one part of a whole big life. It’s the saddest part right now, which means it is sometimes the most dominant part, but the other parts are not so sad. But this is what I need to write about right now.

Dreams.

If you read this blog regularly, you might know that this year has been a roller coaster already.

I wish I had good news. But in the last month, not one but two dreams we were holding on to turned to dust in my hands. They were the kind of dreams I could almost picture as reality but just before they became touchable, poof! Gone. Like a bubble you try to hold but end up popping instead.

Austin Ban via Unsplash

One was a writing dream. It was close to the end of it. A few clicks from being something I could literally hold in my hands. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, it was gone. A project I had given significant time and effort to was pulled from my grasp. Maybe I had been holding it too tightly in the first place, but I am still grieving its loss, even if I know I am freer now to pursue my own work.

It is just a memory now, a lesson learned.

And maybe I wouldn’t be so sad if another dream hadn’t also turned to dust in that time.

Last month I wrote about the possibility that our dream of buying a house in the city could die. We had not great news from the bank but we still had a little bit of hope. Another call about financing, to no avail. A foreclosure house in great condition that actually fit with the budget the bank could offer. A short timeline to make a decision. Homebuyer classes for first-timers that left me feeling overwhelmed and discouraged. The eventual decision to not pursue home buying at this time.

We had hoped that maybe this summer would be the year we could make the move into the city, to continue following a passion we can’t exactly explain. We want to be where the people, especially refugees, are, but it’s not a mission to save, only to live in community with and love imperfectly.

Can we still do this without buying a house in the city? Yes. And we are.

Still, the dream. We have been renters for 10 years in places too small for our growing family. We are looking for a place to call home and while I’m aware that home ownership can turn into a nightmare (related: The Money Pit is on Netflix), there is still this desire.

But it, too, is dust for the moment. We need to pay down debt. We need more income to do it. I’m frustrated with trying to get paying work as a writer and editor. It’s a cycle. And we’re stuck in some ways. And I feel like throwing the ashes of my dreams on my body and walking around in constant lament.

And yet.

Even ashes don’t mean death.

I don’t understand it, but this beautiful piece of art that hangs on our wall speaks truth.

God can do amazing things with ashes. In the creation story, he creates man from dust. At Christian funerals, we hear ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Even in death we believe that dust is not the end, not really. In another story, God makes a pile of dry bones live.

It is the Easter season now, the time when we celebrate that death is not the end because resurrection has the last word. The God who can resurrect even the dead in body can surely resurrect the dreams that have turned to dust.

Even now, I believe.

And not just because the Bible tells me so. But because when I am not even looking for it, I am seeing resurrection. While watching a silly animated movie with my kids, the dreams of a bunch of performers crumble but they persist and perform anyway. And the dream is resurrected.

While watching another movie, a story I’ve experienced numerous times in a variety of ways, what looks like the end, an enchantment settling in forever, is not the end. There is resurrection.

And when I’m speaking this story to a friend, expressing my frustration with my life and writing, her 10-year-old daughter chimes in: “If you have a lot of stories in your imagination, you should just write them down.”

I don’t know your dreams or the state of them, but I know that when my dreams seem only like dust, cold and lifeless, God is still speaking resurrection to them. He is fanning them with the fires of His Spirit, and even if I can’t see one single ember, I have hope that the dust is not the end.

End note: If you’re enjoying what you’re reading, you can add your e-mail address to my list (at the top of the righthand sidebar) and you’ll get a snippet of my new posts the same day I publish. In exchange, I’ve got a free short story for you. You can also sign up using this link. I promise not to share your e-mail address or send you junky spam.

Showing up and saying yes {A grocery adventure}

Grocery shopping.

I hardly give it a second thought. I don’t love it, but I like food and cooking so it’s kind of necessary. When I need something, if I have the van available, I get in my car and go. Most of the time I make a list.

A few weeks ago, I got all fired up about a grocery store closing its doors in the city. Grocery shopping is not a hardship for me because I have a car. But for some who live in the city, grocery shopping is not as accessible.

I know this. But I hadn’t actually experienced it until recently.

One afternoon, I got an email that made me cry. I had applied for a freelance writing job and I got word that I didn’t get it. I was frustrated, mostly, because I want to help our income with my writing. But the more I try, the less effect I see. (Have I told you the one about where I try to increase the number of blog subscribers by offering freebies and my teensy-tiny list gets smaller? Good times.)

Phil and I were getting ready to head to Target to pick up a few things when I got several messages from my new friend, a Syrian woman who has lived here for a couple of months. She wanted to know if I could take her grocery shopping anytime that day. And she wanted to go somewhere cheap. We exchanged a few messages to clarify and there was really no reason I couldn’t do it, so I told her when I would be there. Phil and I ran our Target errand and then I took the now-familiar route to my new friend’s house.

I decided I would take her to Aldi because that’s where I shop and it’s cheap and not too far from the city. Once a month, I accompany a group of refugees to the downtown farmers’ market, but this experience was different. We aren’t usually buying anything, just looking. And there isn’t a lot of time to ask questions. Following a woman still relatively new to our country through the grocery store was another chance to see my world through a different set of eyes.

Clark Young via Unsplash

I let her lead and I answered questions when I could. I pointed to prices. I offered opinions. I tried to hide a smile as she put five eggplants into her cart. I’ve never seen someone put five eggplants in their cart before. Maybe one. Maybe two. I suddenly wanted to be invited for dinner.

At the checkout, we unloaded and I spoke to the cashier about a few things. As we finished and my friend paid for her groceries, the cashier said, “You’re a good friend.” I wanted to ignore her words or make a joke but nothing I wanted to say sounded right. All I could think to say was, “It’s just what I would want someone to do for me.”

“I concur,” the cashier said with a smile.

We bagged our groceries and left. On our way in, my friend had noticed the beauty supply store next to the grocery store. She is a hairdresser, and she was excited to go inside. She wanted to leave her cart of groceries just outside the store on the sidewalk. I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I went to the van to unload while she went in the beauty supply store. I met her inside. She was looking at hair color and a clerk was trying to explain the pricing difference to her.

Beauty supply stores are foreign territory for me, but we figured out what she wanted and she bought two tubes (I don’t even know if that’s the right word!) of hair color. We counted out all the money she had to buy them. She could not stop smiling, and I thought about how good it would feel to do something familiar in a new place, how it would feel to me to have a notebook and pen in my hands again if it had been a long time without.

This is what I was thinking when we got back into the car to go to the next store. Then she started pointing at me and motioning with her hand the act of cutting, and I got the feeling that she might want to cut and color my hair. (I am not 100 percent sure this is what she was saying, but I think so. And I think I might let her.)

Cory Bouthillette via Unsplash

At the next store, a much larger one, we bought the few required things she needed, then she wanted to look around. I don’t blame her. In the produce section, she looked and familiar things caught her eye. Whole artichokes, but those were not worth the price, I guess. Then we saw some chayote squash and she wondered if it was quince. I have heard of quince but I know nothing about them. Still, if any place would have these fruits, it would be this grocery store. We found them, and she bought a bag full of them. She kept talking about her family and how happy they would be. At least, this is what I could understand from her tone and facial expressions.

We made it through the checkout process here, too and when we were back in the car, she typed something into Google Translate for me to read.

“I love traveling so much!”

In this short couple of hours, I had taken her out of the city. I showed her the bus station, the train station and the baseball park. I pointed to the playground where some kids were playing after school and she told me with hand motions and a few words how her son liked to swing and slide.

Back at her house, we unloaded the groceries. Her two younger children were awake (they were sleeping the other time I visited). “Mama!” I heard just after we pulled up. The little girl helped carry groceries inside. The boy smiled a lot and tried to escape the house. (Toddlers, I tell ya.)

Inside, we carried groceries up the stairs, although they were reluctant to let me help in any way. My friend had already asked about coffee, to which I said “yes” even though it was after 4 o’clock. They sat me down on the couch in the kitchen. My friend handed me a glass of water, and while I was drinking it and texting my husband to tell him I would not be home just yet, she poured me a glass of the juice we had just bought and exchanged my water glass for the juice glass. Then she gave me a large muffin on a plate with a fork and her husband carried an end table from the living room downstairs to the kitchen upstairs and set it in front of me. Soon after, there was coffee.

I have been to their house twice and I always feel like a special guest. They look at me often and smile to make sure I am happy and enjoying myself. I am, but I have trouble taking in everything that is happening.

The little boy is tossing a small ball around the kitchen and chasing it, just like my son, who is older, does. And when he laughs it fills the room. He throws his head back and lets out this giggle too big for his little body and everyone smiles. When he loses the ball on the counter, his parents play the same game we played with our kids, pretending we don’t know where it went. I imagine they are saying something like, “I don’t know. Where is the ball? Is it here? No. Here?”

The boy runs down the hallway yelling what sounds like “Bye” and returns a few minutes later repeating, “Baba, baba.” He wants his papa to play with him. Just a few miles away, my son is home from school asking his dad to play catch with him.

My friend hands me two jars of peanut butter, unopened. Her children will not eat it. Then they start giving me boxes of cereal and cans of beans and a bottle of ranch dressing. “Mayonnaise?” the father asks, and I try to explain salad dressing but we both give up.

He types something into his phone and I read the English: “Elissa I am sorry for kelling the texi.”

I have no idea what this means but as I’m driving home later I realize he was apologizing to me for calling me to taxi his wife to the grocery store. Many times while I am with them, they say “thank you.” And it is not a big thing I have done but their gratitude makes it feel important.

When I leave, there is an invitation to bring my whole family back. And I want to. The father helps guide me out of the driveway as I back onto the street, and then I am on my way. I am alone in the van, stuck in city traffic, mind already on my family at home and the dinner my husband is cooking and all of the things I have seen and heard that have changed me in these unplanned two hours.

I am no longer thinking about the job I don’t have, the money I could have earned doing it. I am no longer sad, just humbled and grateful and a host of emotions I can’t process right away.

“How do I get myself into these things?” I ask my husband as he stirs the vegetables for the curry he’s making.

But I don’t need an answer from him because I already know the answer. It is simply that I show up and I say “yes.”

End note: If you’re enjoying what you’re reading, you can add your e-mail address to my list (at the top of the righthand sidebar) and you’ll get a snippet of my new posts the same day I publish. In exchange, I’ve got a free short story for you. You can also sign up using this link. I promise not to share your e-mail address or send you junky spam.

Just a cup of coffee

Jeremy Ricketts via Unsplash

It was just a cup of coffee.

And it wasn’t.

It was more.

I met her an hour earlier

as I pulled into the drive,

rang the doorbell at the wrong apartment,

found the right apartment,

and yelled her name to her husband

who had poked his head out of the upstairs window.

She was covered from head to toe

as I expected for a woman from Syria.

She smiled. A lot.

I tried to make conversation. She handed me her phone.

As I drove, I asked the phone, “How many children do you have?”

She answered. I told her about my children.

We arrived at the appointment. And waited.

Her sister called by video and there, in the waiting room,

I waved to a woman living in Libya.

After the appointment, we drove back to her house.

I approached the driveway, clogged with cars now.

“Cafe? Cafe? Cafe?” she asked.

“Yes!” I said. As soon as I parked the car.

She hurried inside. The other cars moved. Her husband guided me as I parked.

They invited me in. He told me his name. I told him mine.

I sat on the couch, waiting. We smiled. Said a few things in simple English.

When she came down to invite me upstairs, I did not recognize her.

Gone was the covering she had worn outside the house.

She was like any other woman I might meet.

Upstairs, I sat in the kitchen as the coffee simmered on the stove.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“A little,” I said.

She served us coffee, me and her, in flowery tea cups with saucers.

It tasted sweet, like milk and sugar.

“Babies?” the husband asked me.

“Two,” I replied, telling their ages.

They told me their kids’ ages.

He told me his wife is a hairdresser.

She gestured at her eyebrows, showing me what else she does.

I am constantly surprised by my new friends.

We talked about family. The sister in Libya. Two more still in Syria.

A shadow crossed her face. I did not have to ask. I could not ask.

Her husband said they had gone to Turkey. Then New York. Then here.

Here, in this home, for only two months.

I showed them a picture of my children.

I told them my brother lived in Chicago. I showed them on a map.

Our conversation was simple. I wanted to stay.

I had to leave.

On my way out, they pointed to the bedroom, where one of their boys slept.

I saw him, the little boy in the bed.

And his face reminded me of the other boys I’ve seen.

The boy on the boat. The boy on the beach. The boys in bombed-out buildings.

This boy, he sleeps in a bed in an apartment in an ordinary city.

Will he remember what his life could have been?

What will his life be now?

It was just a cup of coffee.

I drink a lot of coffee.

Somehow, I think, I won’t forget this one.

 

We don’t know what we don’t know

A month or so ago, my husband and I decided it was time to start the home buying process. We connected with a realtor who came highly recommended by a friend. She pointed us to a lender so we could get the paperwork started and get an idea of how much house we could afford.

And it all started to overwhelm me.

Last week, I started taking a class for first-time homebuyers. It’s a series of three classes spread out over a week and I’ve left the first two in tears. I had no idea home buying was so difficult. Maybe it isn’t for everyone, but the whole process sounds more terrifying than fun.

Until we started researching and asking questions and taking steps, we didn’t know all the things we didn’t know about buying a house. And we still don’t know even a quarter of it, I’m sure.

For a couple of smart people, this seems to be a theme lately.

You can read the rest of this post at Putting on the New. I blog there on the 12th of each month.

My favorite stories: Review of All These Wonders edited by Catherine Burns

I’ve told you before about my love for The Moth Radio Hour. You can find it in your podcast player or on NPR, and it’s all true stories told by real people on stage. The format is compelling to listen to, and I’m learning what makes a good story and how to tell it well by listening.

When The Moth released its second compilation of these stories in written form, I was immediately interested. The Moth Presents: All These Wonders, True Stories About Facing the Unknown is easily one of my favorite books this year. (Disclaimer: I received a copy of the book from the publisher through the Blogging for Books program. Opinion reflected in this review is my honest one.)

Besides the fact that these are true stories told by real people, what I love about them are the unexpected twists. I could be laughing one minute and crying the next. The stories reflect different experiences than what I have experienced and they broaden my understanding. Stories are set in a rough neighborhood in Chicago or on the road to Jericho or on tour with David Bowie. In one you might hear from a chaplain. In another it might be a humanitarian worker in Congo. And another might be from a kid (now grown) who grew up in foster care.

Some of the stories are shocking, but not in a graphic, gratuitous way. Many contain adult language or themes. But don’t let that scare you away.

The stories are short, and I must admit that I prefer hearing these stories rather than reading them. But to have them all in one place, in a collection that I can share with others, is a gift.

I believe in the power of stories. And these words from the editor, Catherine Burns, in the introduction sum up my feelings:

The number-one quality of all great storytellers is their willingness to be vulnerable, to tell on themselves in front of thousands. Each story told is a gift to the listeners.

But the audience brings a gift of their own. We live in a world where bearing witness to a stranger’s unfiltered story is an act of tremendous compassion. To listen with an open heart and an open mind and try to understand what it’s like to be them–they think like that, dress like that, made the choices they did–takes real courage.

Fans of storytelling, of the kind of tales told around the fire or while sitting on the porch, will find this a valuable addition to their book collection.

Find out more about The Moth on Facebook and Twitter.

What we got ourselves into {or Why I almost hugged 2 strangers}

Some people spend a gorgeous Sunday afternoon working in the yard. Or napping in the sun. At a family gathering. Or on the ball field. For some people Sunday is a sacred day of rest.

Apparently, our family is not “some people.”

What started out as fun family outing on a weather-perfect Sunday afternoon evolved into a terrifying adventure. Don’t worry, though. It ended mostly well. I mean, we lived to tell about it, right?

A week or so earlier, Facebook reminded my husband that I had suggested (a year ago) we check out this local wildflower preserve. Thanks, Facebook. What a great idea! Our week was super emotional and busier than usual and we are feeling it, this need to get out, get away. Nature calms, heals, focuses all four of us, something for which we are thankful to share.

So, we packed up a picnic lunch and left straight from church. We gassed up the car and drove south and west, toward the big river, following the vague-ish directions from the newspaper article. When we found the road that would take us to the preserve, we were stunned. Steep. Uneven. Rocky. We pulled off to the side where some other cars were parked and figured we would walk the rest of the way. I worried about how we would get our aging van with its used transmission back up the hill. But I tucked those worries mostly away as we followed the road through a tunnel and along the river to the trailhead of the wildflower preserve.

We sat on the rocks and ate our sandwiches. My husband took the kids up the side of the hill to the low-grade trail that runs alongside the river so they could see. We studied the pictures of wildflowers and kept our eyes open for the early spring blooms with names like spring beauty and trillium and Dutchman’s breeches. The kids were the calmest and most interested they had been all week. I forget sometimes how much they need this.

When the trail ended at a creek, we walked right up to it and peered in the tunnel, which apparently you can cross through and continue hiking on the other side. We were not up for that on this day. On top of the tunnel, where we rested and shared cookies, the air was cool. A Mennonite family who happened upon us told us you could find ice in the hills as late as April and sure enough, underneath a rock was what looked like a patch of snow that had yet to melt. It was all fascinating and wonderful.

We hiked back to the trailhead, dragging a little by now. It wasn’t a long hike, but the week had drained us, and the sun was bright. We decided my husband would walk back for the car and bring it down aways and we would meet him. Then we would find our way back up. As the kids and I rested, I noticed a few cars going back up the hill a different way than we came down. I mentioned this to my husband and we decided to give it a try. The other access road was busy and congested (for an access road), he said, so we thought why not.

Have I mentioned that we drive a mini-van?

To call this path a road is more than generous. If you’ve watched an episode of Top Gear where the goal is to traverse some kind of rocky terrain with a car that was not built for it, you might have some idea of what this was like. The car tilted as my husband tried to avoid the worst of the crevices. We bottomed-out numerous times, and I will admit to you that we uttered some swears in the hearing of our children. (Lord, have mercy.)

We got to a point where we could see the paved road. And we got stuck. The tires spun and we kicked up the sandy clay that our area is known for. We reversed and went forward, all while the kids were freaking out in the back. I decided the best choice was for us to get out and stand to the side while my husband tried to maneuver the van through. No luck. We tossed down rocks and bark and sticks to try to get traction, to no avail.

That’s when we started to pray.

—

This is exactly the state of my prayer life these days. I think about it most when I’m in over my head and can’t get out. In the days before this little incident, my husband and I were contemplating putting an offer in on a house. We had looked at a foreclosure home. It was the only one that fit with the financial parameters we had. See, we had gotten ourselves in a bit of a predicament financially and on paper, we don’t have enough of the good qualities a bank wants before they agree to loan you enough money to buy a house. At least, the kind of house we were hoping to buy.

But this foreclosure home was in pretty good shape. The only questions were whether we would a) even win the bid because you don’t get to negotiate with a foreclosure home and b) be able to come up with the other money involved in buying a house, like closing costs.

The whole thing has been overwhelming in a short amount of time. I haven’t slept much. I’ve cried while making dinner. My stomach has churned.

So, we prayed. And honestly, I think, at least for a little while, we hoped that God would provide a miraculous solution. Like maybe this foreclosure home was the answer to our prayers when we thought we didn’t stand a chance of buying a house. But the more we tried to force ourselves into this situation, the more it felt like we were doing more harm than good.

—

Okay, so back to the van and its state of stuck-ness and our feeble prayers. Not long after we started praying, we heard the sound of a dirt bike climbing the hill. Yay! We’re saved, I thought. Except the dirt bike sped right past us and our plight. If you’ve ever read the parable of the Good Samaritan, I think this is a little bit what that was like, except we weren’t unconscious.

We laid out our options. We could keep trying. We could call a tow truck. We could see if anyone in the house at the top of the hill could help us. We opted for number 3, so the husband and kids walked up the hill and before they had gone far I could hear the bark of a large dog and a man’s voice carrying down the hill. They returned shaking their heads. I don’t blame this neighbor for being unhelpful. I’m sure this happens often, though at the time, I was feeling like the only people on the planet stupid enough to try to get their mini-van up this hill.

My husband started the call to a tow truck when a Jeep Wrangler pulled up. We had seen a couple of people round the corner and somehow turn around and go back down. We were not interested in that option. I’m not sure the children would have survived it emotionally. I got out of the car and put my hands in the air in a “I don’t know what to do” sort of gesture. A man got out of the Jeep and told us that just last week, he’d brought a Hyundai on this same stretch of road and got it stuck. He knew exactly how we were feeling. He was willing to help however he could.

So, for the first time since this adventure started, I got behind the wheel while my husband and a stranger pushed on the back of the van. Still, nothing. The tires spun and the rubber burned and I was worried that one or the both of them would throw their backs out. And then where would we be?

My husband told the man he wouldn’t keep him all day. His name was Robert. And he got back in the jeep and went down the hill.

Back on the phone with the insurance company to call for a tow truck. We got it scheduled and it would be covered as long as the equipment on the truck was all that was necessary. It was a waiting game. The text from the towing company said it would be an hour. We had already been stuck for more than an hour. The kids were getting restless and anxious, but at least we had snacks.

Not long after that text, a red Nissan SUV pulled up. (Are you sensing a theme here? I don’t get any kind of kick-back from car companies but I know a great place where they could shoot some commercials!) I didn’t want to get out again. I didn’t want anyone else to help us and fail. I just wanted to be left alone in this mess we had gotten ourselves into.

But these people would not be deterred.

A white-haired gentleman called from the driver’s side.

“Are you stuck?”

“Yes!” Was it not obvious?

“I think I might have something that could help.”

A flutter of hope. But I squashed it because sometimes it’s harder to hope and be let down than to not hope at all.

He pulls out a shovel and a couple of tire traction mats (I just looked that up because all I know is they were purple and grippy and scratchy) and the hope flutters again. It can’t be squashed. His wife gets out of the car and she ushers the children to the side and my husband and this man put the mats down and shovel out some sand and I get behind the wheel again.

And I push on the accelerator and I can hear the spinning and see the clay spitting out. By this time, the inside of the van is covered in it, as are the tires. We back up and try again. And again. Finally, the man and his wife decide they can’t wait an hour and they’re going to go back down. But just before he puts all the stuff away, he looks at the path and says, “Have you tried it on the right side?” We thought we had tried everything, but what was one more try?

—

Hope is this funny thing that makes you feel like flying but also like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and might fall off. At least it is to me. Hope isn’t solid ground. At least, hope in certain things isn’t.

This house we were looking at, and the possibilities that came with it, wasn’t our hope. We didn’t need it to make our lives better, not where it really counts. This is a new feeling for us. We’ve always felt like things will get better with the next thing, the next move, the next job. Now things are good, well, now. Everything else is bonus. So while we had a little hope that this might be a good opportunity, we weren’t building on it.

I have a hard time not focusing on facts. On evidence. Hope and evidence don’t always play well together. I’m working on not being so negative all the time. But it’s hard.

Especially when you’ve been trying for more than an hour to get your van unstuck from a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

So, I’m behind the wheel and my husband and this older man are telling me to straighten the wheels and keep them straight, which is easier said than done when the clay is kicking you off to the side. I tried a couple of times and it kicked me to the left both times. We gave it another try. I backed the van up, kept the wheels straight and gunned it and all of a sudden, I was moving. I was past the spot where we got stuck, past the spot where the kids stood watching, past the dirt and onto the blacktop.

I could have cried. I put the van in park, set the brake and ran down the hill. The couple were heading back to their car, but I was trying to get to them to give them a hug. I was so grateful. Maybe they hadn’t done anything special but they stuck with us in a moment of need, they believed we could do it, and they were there for the victory. But they were back in their vehicle before I could do more than yell, “Thank you!” and wave. My husband asked their names: Ed and Carolyn, we think, but there’s some dispute with the children about whether the man’s name was Pete.

We piled back into the van, my husband took the wheel and we drove the 25 minutes home. I called and cancelled the tow truck on the way. The rocks and gravel spitting out from the wheels and underneath the van were the only reminder as we drove that this thing had happened. Even now, it feels a little bit like something we saw happen to someone else.

I told the kids as we drove that sometimes God doesn’t answer our prayers exactly like we think He should. I confessed that I wanted Him to answer us immediately and get us out of the mess we had made for ourselves. And when that didn’t happen, I wanted it to be the guy in the Wrangler. At least he understood where we’d been. I didn’t want to have to call the tow truck, but it easily could have been our salvation from this mess.

Instead, it was Ed and Carolyn, who had worked all day in the yard before they came to the wildflower preserve and stumbled onto a family in trouble.

I don’t think God kept us there longer than I wanted because we needed to be taught a lesson or because He’s cruel. Maybe our rescue at the hands of Ed and Carolyn were for their benefit, too. All I know is that we did learn something: Don’t take a mini-van to an SUV party.

And sometimes an outrageous adventure is just what you need to take your mind off the other worries of life.

First Friday Five {April}

It’s raining as I write this and the temperature has been swinging from warm to cool. That must mean it is finally and officially spring. It is my favorite season, usually. Although this year for some reason the arrival of spring has me amped for summer. Winter was not all that hard this year from a weather standpoint so maybe I don’t feel quite so desperate for it this year.

But it’s here! And I survived my kids’ April Fool’s Day “jokes.” (If I made a list of things I do not love, this would be on it.)

Lucky for you, this is a list of what I do love right now.

  1. Mystery novels from my favorite TV shows. If you didn’t know, we gave up TV for Lent. It’s going … okay. But I’ve been able to fulfill my need for screen stories by turning to the pages of the books some of my favorite shows were based on. I’ve read a Phryne Fisher novel (Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, Netflix) and a Kurt Wallander novel (Wallander, PBS). I haven’t read a lot of mysteries in my time, but I loved both of these books. Maybe because I had seen the episodes but maybe just because mysteries are kind of fun.
  2. Harissa. Especially in my eggs. I do not know how we discovered this middle eastern paste/sauce but we have bought two jars of it now and it’s good on a lot of stuff. (It’s a little spicy but more smokey, I think.) But we have a scrambled eggs recipe that uses it (and mayo–sounds gross but don’t knock it till you try it) and I will not eat regular scrambled eggs ever again in my house. We found a jar at a discount grocery, but we also bought a small can of it from a Middle Eastern stand at our local farm market.
  3. Division of labor. Maybe for some of you this is not a big thing, but with my husband’s work schedule leaving him with three weekdays open, we have been dividing the household labor more than we ever have. Earlier this week, I went to do volunteer work at the kids’ school and he went to the grocery store. (He loves this errand more than I do.) We work together on the dishes. It’s only taken us 10 married years to figure out that if we work together on these things then one of us (I won’t name names but her name rhymes with Pisa) won’t go completely out of her mind when there are too many things to do and not enough time to do them.
  4. The village. You know, the “it takes a village” village. It is super difficult for me to ask for help from people, but (see previous favorite thing) if I don’t, I get overwhelmed. And I’m learning that it’s okay to ask for help. And to offer it, authentically, to others. We were at a roller skating party recently and our son needed help. I did not want to put on skates for fear that if I fell I would hurt my back again. My husband didn’t want to put on skates because he needs his back and legs for work. (Yes, we are old fogey types with failing bodies.) Another parent offered to help our son once around the rink. It was great! This same family is going to help us out with transportation to a birthday party. In a couple of weeks, I’ll need to call on someone else for help picking up from an after-school activity. I believed for a long time that I had to suffer alone and in silence because motherhood was my job and my responsibility and asking for help made me look weak or incapable. (LIES.) I’m still not awesome at offering to help others, but I’m getting there. And if I offer to help someone, I really mean it because it happens so seldom.
  5. Me. That sounds terribly prideful, but next month I turn 39, which means 40 is knocking at the door, and for the first time in my life, I really like who I am. At the skating party, I was fine with being me. I didn’t feel inferior or like I shouldn’t be there. I could talk to people without much awkwardness. I’ve been doing more out of the house things, and I think that’s because I know better my place and my value in the world. And none of it is based on other people or circumstances. (I had this really strange urge a few weeks ago to tell everyone I met that they were full of divine light. I didn’t say anything out loud to anyone, but I felt so full of light myself that I almost couldn’t contain it.)

This might be the weirdest of the favorite lists I’ve posted, but it is what it is. What’s got you excited lately? Do tell!

You can’t even imagine: Review of The Polygamist’s Daughter by Anna LeBaron

A couple of weeks ago, I told a group of people that I was reading a book about a polygamist cult. (I had a good reason. Kind of.) And the reactions varied from disbelief to horrified.

That’s a little about how I felt about this memoir. Though The Polygamist’s Daughter by Anne LeBaron contains the kinds of stories you might see on a crime drama on television, this was her real-life childhood as the daughter of notorious polygamist Ervil LeBaron. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the Tyndale Blog Network. My opinion reflected in this review is not affected by that.)

If this was a novel, I would have found it thrilling. A page-turner. But because this actually happened to a child, I hovered between sadness and despair. Anna LeBaron recounts tales of last-minute moves from one state to another, leaving everything behind, being dropped off in Mexico to stay with other members of her father’s cult and having to sell things door-to-door to earn money for the family. She is often separated from her mother and rarely sees her father. She is surrounded by people who are related to her in some way. (The book begins: “At age nine, I had forty-nine siblings.) There are moments of peace and relative security, but much of her stories are full of longing for a normal life.

The good news of Anna’s story is that she is now a living, breathing picture of the redemptive work of God. She found family and Jesus and monogamy. She was even able to reconnect with some of her larger extended family in adulthood.   Hers is an incredible story, yes. It’s also one of hope. Though she grew up one of many children, overlooked and forgotten, she became a woman known and loved by God.

It is not an easy read, especially if you have young children and can’t imagine dropping them off in another country and leaving them in the care of virtual strangers. But it’s a worthwhile read to know that no matter how awful life’s circumstances, God can work with them and in them to bring about something beautiful.

Telling this story is so brave. And it’s so necessary. Don’t let it scare you to read about Anna’s life.

A letter to my younger self

Hey, you.

Yeah, you. The blond girl with the big smile and the wide eyes. I know you think no one sees you, but trust me, they do.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t stop looking at you. Creepy, I know. If you had any idea that people were staring at you, you’d hide like a turtle in its shell.

I can’t get over the smile on your face. I know you hate your smile, especially the forced ones that most pictures capture. It’s always a little bit crooked and it just looks like you’re trying too hard. But this spontaneous smile, it’s golden. I wish you could see it more than you do.

This is what you look like when you think no one is looking. You have a light, a joy, a you-ness that can’t be contained by whatever life throws at you. A friend told you this once and you refused to believe her. You know the darkness of your heart and mind and you find it hard to believe that any light shines from you.

But I see it. I wish I could jump into this photo and tell you all the things I’ve learned about you in the years since this photo was taken. Sure, I’m from the future but time travel isn’t a thing yet, so this letter will have to do.

First, you’re beautiful. Truly. You’ve never really believed it and in 20 years or so, you’re still going to have a hard time believing it, but it won’t mean the same thing as it does now. You’ll know about a beauty that goes deeper than your skin, and you’ll be so full of the knowledge of who you truly are that your default will be to believe you are beautiful even on your ugliest days. You will have some great friends who will help you believe the best about yourself on these kinds of days.

Second, you are unique and valuable. Wait. Hear me out. I know you feel terribly ordinary and overlooked. You introduce yourself to people you grew up with because you’re convinced you’re forgettable, but you are not that at all. I know you hide what you’re really thinking and feeling because you’re afraid you’ll be rejected, or worse criticized, for your opinions. I know you ordered the Plain Jane hamburger during college orientation week because you didn’t want to make any waves by doing anything shocking like adding cheese or pickles. I promise you this will not be the way it always is. Someday, you will know exactly what you like, think and feel and you will not be afraid to share it with the world. (This is not always as glamorous as it sounds, but trust me, it’s a better way to live.) You are uniquely you and your perspective on the world will change people. God did not make a mistake bringing you into the world.

Third, you are tough. And tender. I know it’s a weird dichotomy but it’s true. You can be both. You haven’t faced a lot of hardship yet, but you will, and I don’t want you to be scared by that. You are going to have some hard times. I can’t stop them from happening. I would spare you some of the pain, but trust me when I say that you are going to be a better person through all of these things. It’s going to hurt. And you are going to survive. Not only that, but you are going to have a big, soft heart for hurting people. You know how you always felt like you were just a tiny bit on the fringe? An outcast? You are going to go right to those same people with your great big smile and be their friend. I know it sounds crazy, but you’re going to talk to strangers and ask them questions about their life and you’re going to smile a lot and tell them your name. And you’re going to love it!

Some people might look at this photo and long for the good old days. Sure, the girl in this picture is younger, thinner and seriously, can we talk about your hair? It’s like three colors and radiant! When I look in the mirror these days, I see less luster and more sparkle. (Okay, it’s gray. I see gray hairs around the edges.)

But I don’t want to go back, not even knowing what I know. I want you to be the best you, you can be in this season. When I look at this picture, I see a girl who is trying her best to find her place in the world. Who is on the verge of adulthood. Who is going to make some mistakes. Okay, a lot of mistakes. And she’s going to turn out just fine.

Just like 20 years from now, I hope to look at a picture of me now and see a woman doing her best to live out what she knows is true. A woman on the verge of middle age, whose body won’t do the things she wants it to do but who is more certain than she’s ever been of who she is. But I hope I won’t long for these days either. I hope I’ll be happy with who I am then, grateful for the women I’ve been, the variations of myself that have made me the me that I am.

You won’t hear anything I’m saying, College Girl, but I’m saying it anyway. Because sometimes the Woman I Am Now needs reminding. I am a sum of my parts: who I was, who I am and who I am becoming. 

If time travel is ever invented, I can’t promise to stay away. I don’t want to change anything about you, but sometimes I miss the girl in this picture. And I won’t be offended if you decide not to talk to the stranger who looks eerily familiar. It’s probably better if we don’t speak anyway. All that time-space continuum stuff that I don’t understand. (Spoilers: You’re going to someday like sci-fi nerdy shows. I’m sorry. But good news: nerdy will be cool!)

I guess I’ve rambled on long enough now. Funny how that happens the older I get. You’ll understand someday. Bottom line: I just want to say thanks for being part of my life, College Girl. I wouldn’t be who I am without you.

Love, Me

A big thanks to Heidi and Justin Bennett for sending me this photo that initiated a trip down memory lane!

 

Searching for a place you already have: Review of Home by Ginny Yttrup

My favorite thing about Ginny Yttrup’s books are the way they deal with real-life women’s issues without glossing or sugar-coating or down-playing. Her characters are relatable. They don’t always do something extraordinary, but they overcome something in their lives that is holding them back from truly living. These characteristics set her fiction apart: there is women’s fiction and then there is Ginny Yttrup women’s fiction.

Her latest release, Home, encompasses all of these favorite elements. The main character, Melanie, is a writer, but she is struggling to live in the present. Her neighbor, Jill, is afraid of bad things happening, which manifests in OCD behavior. When she discovers the root cause of it all and confronts her past, she learns to live free. Melanie’s husband, Craig, is struggling to make the finances work out. He faces giving up the house he built for them and facing an unknown future.

(Disclaimer: I received an advance copy of the book from the author. Opinion reflected in this review is my honest one.)

Yttrup has a gift for writing in multiple points of view. Each chapter is told from a different character’s perspective, but it’s not confusing or overwhelming. When done well, it’s beautiful and brilliant, and Yttrup does it well.

You really can’t go wrong with any of Yttrup’s books. Two other books of hers I’ve read and enjoyed are Lost and Found and Invisible.

If you need more of a sense of the tone of this newest book, check out this book trailer: