Are There Adult Merit Badges for This Sort of Thing?

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.

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My new uniform

Well, here we are on February 29 - Rare Disease Day. 

The day lands a little bit differently when you realize you're now among the less than 5,000 people in the US with a rare type of brain cancer.

Do they give out adult merit badges for this sort of thing? Because I feel like I need a Girl Scout badge or some flare or something to mark this achievement. At the very least, I'll be sporting this shirt more often. I bought it well over a decade ago somewhat on a whim, but have rarely worn it, it's so obnoxiously bright and makes me feel too conspicuous in public. 

But it now seems like a good time in life to start shamelessly wearing it. 

I texted my cousin earlier today who also has a rare disease of his own, one he's had since he was a child, "Happy Rare Disease Day?" 

He responded back, "Welcome to the club. 😂"

(He also added, "A club I don't want to be in." So, yes, even in humor, let's also acknowledge the flip side of that coin. We're both in clubs we'd prefer not to be in. But here we are.)

I then thought later, "Shoot, two people in the same family with two different rare diseases? That feels like it warrants some sort of momentous bucket list-worthy kind of trip."

Oh, wait.

That's right. 

We did do a bucket list-worthy trip last December. 

We just had no clue how timely that trip would be.

Shortly after I was admitted to the hospital earlier this month, I texted my aunt, my cousin, and my friend, Kristen, my three travel companions on our trip to Alaska, and said, "I keep thinking of Alaska. That trip was ordained. I'm convinced. God knew what was about to show up on my doorstep." 

That trip was yet another thing I look back on in recent months and get overwhelmed at the graciousness and kindness of God. It really was the trip of a lifetime. I wrote about it earlier, but also wanted to share the video I put together of the trip. There are a lot of significant moments that will stand out from that week in the interior of Alaska, but what keeps rising to the surface is the memory of how much we laughed. I hadn't laughed that hard and that long in awhile. And then we would do it all over again as we retold and relived moments. The laughter, that "carbonated holiness," as Anne Lamott called it, bubbled up in our chests on a regular basis that week. Those are the memories that will linger with me, the moments I will recall in the months ahead.

(And if you're a fan of the Iditarod, be sure to root for Josi Thyr! She was one of our mushers on our dogsled tour and she's running in this year's race, starting this Saturday!)

Coincidentally, when I put this video together back in late December, I debated on what song to pick. And now in hindsight, I couldn't have picked a better one. 

Thanks, Ben Rector, for supplying the soundtrack of my life. 

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Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

I have a functional MRI scheduled for next week, which is going to help us better assess how much the steroids have helped reduce the swelling around the tumor itself, as well as inform some decisions for possible surgery. I'm still in a place where I'm trying to get clear recommendations from both the lead team of doctors and then the team I sought out for a second opinion, and then ultimately compare the recommendations. 

I saw my primary care provider about my knee. No major concerns there, but it's still a bit puffy, so I've been icing that on occasion and trying to rest it when I can. I'd ideally like to get back into a rhythm of doing some very light workouts, but I'm very aware of the limitations of my body at the moment and know it will take some time for things to get back to (mostly) working order.

Sleep is significantly better and Flash's middle of the night office hours seem to be a thing of the past. But I have decided that Garfield the cat is my alter ego. You gotta watch out for those nap attacks. 

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PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous," would you mind including your name directly in the body of your comment? That way I know who you are!

Thin Places

I wonder if perhaps when we find ourselves stretched thin that we most need to be stretching to find the "thin places" in this world, the places where heaven and earth seemingly meet, separated only by the width of a whisper, as if a supernatural curtain has been pulled back and we can at last see all the inner workings of heaven of which we only dare to dream.

I found such a thin place recently. It's on a mountainside north of Fairbanks, Alaska, wrapped in boreal forest, blanketed in snow, and cold enough to leave frost on your eyelashes and make you question your life choices. It's like Narnia, minus a lamppost, a white witch, talking creatures, and a lion who is good but most certainly not safe. Like sentinels of the wood, spruce trees wore uniforms of snow, boughs bending low under the weight. Snow would fall off a branch, causing it to spring back up like a firm salute to the skies above.

And then the lights - those oh-so-awe-inspiring northern lights. My friend said it was like watching someone play the piano, the keys moving up and down gracefully, playing a tune only angels can comprehend.

Yes, there it was. The width of a whisper on a mountainside in Alaska, my own thin place.

I had wanted to see the northern lights for as long as I can remember, and with a milestone birthday coming around the bend, I began exploring the who's, how's, and what's of seeing them. I marked my 30th birthday by riding horses on the beach in New Zealand and wandering around Hobbiton, both items on the bucket list, so why not cross another item off for my 40th? Plotting and planning began nearly a year ago and finally a few weeks ago I found myself heading to the heart of Alaska, along with my aunt, cousin, and friend.

I'm not entirely sure what it is about spaces like Wyoming and Alaska that seem to be my undoing. Or maybe in some small way my remaking. There is this inexplicable pull to places of wildness and vastness, jagged mountains and sweeping views, silence and solitude, and nary a cell tower in sight. A kind of homesickness for a place that has never been home. But maybe it's just all a romanticized notion in my head, a way of seeing these places through rose-colored glasses, building them up to be far more than they really are.

But is it possible to make too much of misty greens and reds, suspended high in the sky, undulating in a cosmic display of wonder, with the Big Dipper as their silent starry companion? Is it possible to make too much of the sheer delight of standing on the foot boards of a dog sled as a team of huskies works in tandem to pull you across the snowy terrain? Is it possible to make too much of cold air that snaps you into awareness and penetrates to your very bones? Is it possible to make too much of an aerial view of wilderness that nearly takes your breath away and brings the slightest hint of tears to your eyes? 

No, I don't think it's possible to make too much of such things, to make too much of the thin places in this world. 

Even if those thin places are a bit brisk at times.

But pile on enough layers and you start not to notice the cold. At least until you pull a glove off to adjust a boot strap or a zipper, and then you wonder if you've just been speared with a thousand icicles, the cold almost creating a burning sensation. 

Our adventures started in Anchorage, but we didn't linger long before we found ourselves on a 12-hour train ride north to our final destination in Fairbanks, the 'Golden Heart of Alaska.' From there, we ventured another hour north to Borealis Basecamp. And then we had the time of our lives snowmobiling (minus that moment when we tipped the whole thing over sideways), dogsledding, hanging out with reindeer, nearly hanging out the back of a snowcat, sleeping in igloos, reveling in the beauty of the northern lights, taking a breathtaking helicopter tour through the White Mountains, enjoying good food (more salmon chowder, please!), and laughing so hard I cried on more than one occasion. 

I never said the thin places couldn't also be found in the ache of cheeks hurting from laughing so much or a good amaretto sour in the company of fellow storytellers.

It seems since returning home, Alaska is all I can think about - when to go back, how to get there, where to go, what to see. I want more of the thin places in this world. 

Even if they do come with subzero temperatures and the need for six layers of clothing.

Wyoming 2021: Still Working on the Selfie Game

In case you've missed the memo at any point along the way, I really love Jackson Hole, Wyoming. A lot. And I love taking other people there to experience it, to see it fresh through someone else's eyes. Much like the rest of the world, I had a hankering to travel, particularly back to Wyoming. I rustled up some traveling companions in the form of my mother and cousin, and off we went last week. 

It turns out I still love the place as much as ever. I typically only ever go out in September, but had been wanting to experience the Tetons and Yellowstone in a different season. I think I will forever be more partial to the Tetons over Yellowstone, so we spent the bulk of our time in Grand Teton and spent only two days up in Yellowstone.

And it's probably for the better that we only spent two days there. While it was hotter than hades back in Ohio, I was wearing 3 layers of clothing, gloves, a winter hat and using a kitchen knife to scrape snow off the car windshield up in Yellowstone. Hey, when you don't have an ice scraper in your rental, you work with what you've got. Kitchen knife it is. We woke up early our first morning to get into the park before the rest of the world woke up, making a beeline straight for the Canyon area, but it was snowing so hard and the roads were just getting worse the farther north we went, so we aborted that mission. Doesn't matter how beautiful the waterfall is if you can't see it through blinding, blowing snow. And when we were leaving Yellowstone to head back to Jackson, it was nearly whiteout conditions, with visibility maybe less than a quarter of a mile. I'm all for cold but I do have my limits.

Our time in the Tetons, however, involved far less snow, and was spent exploring some new areas I hadn't been to before, while still revisiting some tried-and-true favorites. While browsing the maps, I stumbled across a lookout point called the Wedding Tree, about 30 minutes east of Jackson that most people don't know about, on a gravel road through the Bridger-Teton National Forest. How the heck did I not find this place sooner? It was stunning, and for a brief time we had it all to ourselves because no one else was around, so you better believe I sat and admired the view and the silence for a bit while keeping my bear spray close.

Hidden Falls was another winner, but that place is fairly well-known and an easy hike into the backcountry, so by the time we were hiking out, the crowds were growing in size. Y'all - I cannot say this enough - if you ever visit the Tetons or Yellowstone, get your tookus out of bed early. This tactic pays dividends, and you will be so glad you gave up those few minutes of extra sleep.

Other highlights included:

• Seeing Bear 399 within hours of arriving. If you're not familiar with her, she's literally the famous famous grizzly bear in the country, if not the world. My mother is enamored with this fellow mother, and nearly did a happy dance when we came across 399 and her four cubs. Between seeing her and another grizzly, it's the most grizzlies I've ever seen. And to say it's the most I've ever seen, it's to say they are the only grizzlies I've ever seen out there, despite this being my fourth trip.

• Watched paragliders literally jump off the side of the mountain. My cousin and I took the Bridger Gondola up to the top of the mountain at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, and while up there, we were treated to a front-row seat of several people thinking it was a good idea to fling themselves into the wind off the side of a mountain. Tip: Don't buy the blueberry muffins at Off Piste. You'll wind up with sticker shock when you shell out $7 for a muffin that is somewhat of a letdown.

• The hunt for the world's perfect baseball cap. I bought a baseball cap the last time I was out to JH and it has proven to be my very favorite hat ever. I was determined to find another one just like it. Y'all. I practically scoured that town and could not find one in that exact style, by that exact brand. They had every other style, just not.that.one. It was maddening. I practically spent more time hunting for that baseball hat than I did for wildlife. Why is it that companies always feel the need to stop carrying the ONE product you absolutely love?

• Weddings. So many weddings! I can't tell you the number of brides and grooms we crossed paths with or saw from afar, getting their wedding photos. We even saw one bride in her gown, hoofing it up the path to Inspiration Point, on the far side of Jenny Lake in the Tetons. It's one thing to do that trail in hiking boots and regular attire, let alone in a wedding dress. The things we do for the perfect photo.

• I realized on this trip that every time I've been out to JH, I've been the one driving, which I don't mind, but it means I don't always get to take a good look at the scenery. Next time I go out, I need to find someone else who will drive. And I need to find someone who legit wants to hike. Not camp, just hike. I like a comfy bed, a warm shower and clean clothes, and I like those things on a daily basis. So no camping. And I can assure you I have zero interest in pitching a tent anywhere out in bear country, but there's so much hiking yet to do!

• I got mistaken for a boy. AGAIN. This time by a 5-year old on the plane. "Mommy, is that a boy or a girl?" I'm starting to lose track of the number of times I get mistaken for a boy. And it's always when I have a ball cap on, so I can't say that I entirely blame people, but seriously. It gets old. And discouraging. But not enough to make me swear off wearing my favorite ball cap.

• Gros Ventre Slide. I hadn't ever ventured over to Kelly, Wyoming, but one of it's more notable features is the landslide that occurred there back in the 1920s. It wiped out the town, killing 6 people and leaving a newly-formed lake in its wake. There's a trail that takes you to the base of the slide and literally looked like a bomb went off, even after nearly one hundred years have passed. 

• Lots of baby buffalo! It's calving season, so it seemed there were just bundles of baby buffalo scattered all over the place, mainly up in Yellowstone. This was the first time, however, that I saw exactly ZERO elk in Yellowstone. Not a single one.   

• Webcams. These can be your new best friend when traveling, and here's why: There are some mornings you'd really love to watch the sunrise, but you're also not sure if the view will be worth the effort to crawl out of your snuggly warm bed. Is it rainy? Is it cloudy? Can I even see the mountains? Enter webcams. There were several mornings I thought about checking out the sunrise but was also feeling mildly lazy. So, I would just check out a select few webcams, see if the view was worth it or not. If not, I rolled over and stayed in bed. If it was, I flung back the covers, grabbed my trusty ball cap, car keys and jetted out the door. #YoureWelcome.

As for the rest of the highlights, I'll let my camera lens do the talking. If you ever make plans to visit the Tetons or Yellowstone yourself, I will gladly serve as your trip advisor. And the first thing I will tell you is don't go to Yellowstone before June. And yes, you need to buy and carry your bear spray if you go hiking. And yes, you need to get your fanny out of bed at o-dark-thirty.  

 

Hidden Falls, just a quick boat ride and a hike across Jenny Lake

View from inside the Cunningham Cabin

The rubble at the base of the Gros Ventre slide. That patch of snow way up 
on the mountainside is where the slide originated.

Schwabacher's Landing. I mean, c'mon.
How can you not fall in love with a place like this?

Perfect mirror reflection at Schwabacher's

View from Wedding Tree. There was one stubborn cloud
that absolutely refused to move from the top of the Grand
the entire time I sat there.

 The view from Teton Point turnout

Heyyyo. Still working on my selfie game. It's been a work in progress since 2015.

My fellow sojourners, Old Faithful in the background

And, of course, no trip is complete without jumping photos
in front of the famous antler arches in Jackson's Town Square.

The Power of Place

I don't know how other people have marked seasons of their lives, but I have largely marked mine by different map dots and zip codes.  Do you ever stop to consider the power of geography, how the topography of a map really becomes the topography of your life?

Author Hannah Anderson said in a recent post,

"The paradox of place is that while God may exist everywhere, human beings don’t. Made from the dust of the earth, we’re forever linked to it and can no more escape its boundaries than we can escape ourselves. In fact, we each owe our existence, at least in some small way, to geography. We can’t trace our heritage without simultaneously tracing the map, the places where our forebears lived and loved forever bound up in the strands of our DNA. So important is geography to human identity that when God the Son became human, when he willfully assumed the limits of time and space, he became Jesus of Nazareth, the son of the carpenter Joseph who went up to Bethlehem because he was of the house and lineage of David."   

I owe my existence, in some small way, to geography.  The wide open spaces of Missouri's farmlands were where I learned to flourish and thrive as a Christian, the place where I sunk deep spiritual roots.  The jaw-dropping mountains of Jackson Hole were where I found rest and a piece of my heart.  The endless savannas of Kenya and its horrifically bumpy roads were where I learned satisfaction, the deep-in-your-gut kind of satisfaction.  The winding roads and dusty horse show arenas of Kentucky were where I learned the value of discipline and perseverance.  The island waters of New Caledonia were where I learned to let go of fear and preach the gospel (and that I am never ever going snorkeling again).  The deep red bricks of Red Square and the shadows of the Kremlin of Russia were where I learned the weight and gravity of my own depravity.  The lush jungles of Guatemala were where I learned the lengths some people will go to in order to get their hands on the gospel.

All these places, and so many others in between.

They are how I've marked my life.  Season by season, I've traced my life through pages of road atlases, Google Maps and airline miles.  I've flown over those "flyover states" more times than I count.  I've crossed the Atlantic, and I've crossed the Pacific.  I've seen the Rocky Mountains, the Caucuses Mountains, the Smoky Mountains, the St. Elias Mountains, and a few others in between.  

But there's always that one place.  That one place that has marked us more significantly than all the others combined.

San Diego has been that place for me.

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I lived in Mission Beach, an area not far from downtown San Diego.  That summer changed everything for me.  Jesus changed everything for me.  He completely altered the trajectory of my life, in ways I couldn't have fathomed as a college kid or fully comprehended at the time.

Sunset over the Pacific, off the shores of Mission Beach

I had been wanting to go back to San Diego for years.  Other trips kept taking priority and I kept putting it off.  Five years rolled by, ten years rolled by, twelve years rolled by.  The more time that lapsed, the more I felt the need to go back.  I finally decided last summer to quit talking about it and just go.  I booked flights, made arrangements with an AirBnB, convinced my mom to go and off we went a few weeks ago.

I set foot on that beach a few weeks ago, and I was taken back in time, remembering that college girl I used to be.  I recognized so many of the shops and streets and buildings, all of them reminders of a different season of life, a season so full of wrestling, doubt and uncertainty, a season that disrupted my life and set me on a path of fierce determination to chase after Jesus for all my days.  San Diego is where I anchored my faith out in deep waters, the place where I shouted at God in the pages of my journals, desperate for him to reveal himself to me.  It's the place where I demanded signs of him and all I got in return was silence and that still small voice.  It's the place where he asked of me, "Are you all in whether you ever sense my presence again or not, whether you ever see me move again in your life?" No cloud, no whirlwind, no bolt of lightning.  Just that still small voice.

And I hear that still small voice again in this season of life.  This season of anxiety and panic attacks, a season of feeling like the rug got ripped out from underneath me, leaving me floundering, my body feeling the shock waves for months now.  A season when he's asking yet again, "Are you still all in?"

I stood on the beaches of San Diego a few weeks ago and told Jesus -

"My answer is 'yes.'  I'm still all in."      

I was marking another season of life by geography.

In 1 Samuel 7, Samuel took a stone, set it up between Mizpah and Shen and named it Ebenezer.  "Thus far the Lord has helped us."

He was effectively declaring, "It is here, now, in this place, where we will proclaim what God has done for us, how he has carried us thus far."

It was there, then, in that place, on that beach, where I declared, "Thus far the Lord has helped me."

My life has been forever marked by the sand and shores of San Diego.  It was between Coronado Island and Pacific Beach, in a neighborhood called Mission Beach, where I took a figurative stone, named it Ebenezer, and declared:

Thus far has the Lord helped me.

You always have to take a jumping photo for good measure.

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If you want to read more about the power of place and location, check out Hannah Anderson's compelling read over on the The Gospel Coalition's site, "Finding Our Place: Our Family's Long Quest for Calling and Home."

Be Still and Move

I remember when I first moved into my teeny-tiny apartment.  My dad thought I was moving into a glorified walk-in closet, and my mom was concerned about whether I was going to crazy in such a small place.

I, on the other hand, loved my little corner of the world, all 350 rambling square feet of it.  I used to dream of living in this lavish house when I grew up, but then I traveled around the world a few times and discovered that there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that I needed in order to live.  Some books, some clothes, my bed, a small kitchen, a functional bathroom, and enough elbow room to turn around in a small circle and I'm good to go.  And that is pretty much exactly what I got when I moved into my studio apartment over three years ago.

I had no internet, no cable, no microwave, and I unashamedly loved it that way.  I didn't bother using drinking glasses (I eventually just hid them in the back of my cupboard) because I always just drank straight out of whatever carton or container the drink came in.  I never closed the bathroom door.  I had a 23" TV, which my parents gave to me for my 30th birthday, along with a magnifying glass, because my dad had no idea how I was going to see anything on such a small screen.  When you're used to 60" screens, yes, 23" does seem a touch under-sized.  I had a dorm-sized refrigerator with a freezer the size of a glove compartment, so I learned to eat a lot healthier and better because, quite simply, frozen meals were not an option when your freezer was generally pretty worthless.  There were exactly five (six, if you count the bed, which doesn't technically belong to me) pieces of furniture to my name in that space - three bookshelves, one recliner, and a desk.  I lived exactly 0.6 miles from work, 0.2 miles from the local library, 0.4 miles from my gym, 0.8 miles from my favorite park, and 1.7 miles from my favorite pie joint - Just Pies.  I had two windows, which was one more window than pretty much everyone else in the building.  I specifically held out for a corner apartment and paid extra for it, just so I could have that additional window.  I wanted as much light as possible.

I had a string of crazy neighbors that nearly did me in.  The latest one was not only a fan of playing his guitar at all hours, but he never quite understood the purpose of a garbage disposal.  Dude, it's for grinding up your scraps, not your entire refrigerator.  I lost track of the number of times my kitchen sink and bathtub would back up with all sorts of crud and black sludge all because this guy couldn't seem to get a clue.

Despite the paper thin door and the neighbors I prayed God would somehow cause to move elsewhere, I loved that space.  I loved that neighborhood.  I loved living near the library.  I loved walking to the park in the summer.  I loved having a small space to call all my own.  I loved walking to the farmer's market.  I loved being able to run home over my lunch breaks and take cat naps. 

I lived a lot of life in that apartment.  I experienced one of the hardest seasons of my life in that apartment.  I cried a lot in that apartment.  I wrote a lot in that apartment.

I encountered Jesus in that apartment.

And now - now it's all over.

I am learning that God quite literally uproots us from our places of comfort to see to it that we don't miss what he has planned next for us.  I think I would have stayed in that apartment for years without questioning it.  I would have stayed because it was comfortable, and it was convenient, and it was easy.  Sometimes he uproots us in order to see to it that we don't miss the promised land.  It's what he said to Abraham in Genesis 12:1, "Go...to the land I will show you."  Sometimes we have to leave the places we love to go to places not yet named.  In the wake of the upheaval that has been these last few months, I just kept sensing God say to me, "Move."  And then after awhile it became, "MOVE."  I didn't understand it at the time - and still don't.  I didn't understand this command to quite literally move out of the physical space I was living in, a space that I loved, but was now a place of deep anxiety for me.  I started to have a very physical response to my apartment when I would go there.  I started staying with my parents several months ago because I couldn't handle being alone at night, but even when I would stop by my apartment to pick up some things or grab clothes for the gym, I would walk into it and suddenly feel desperate to get out of there.  It was - and is - such a mystery to me. 

When the Israelites of the Old Testament were escaping from their centuries of slavery in Egypt, marching out boldly, they were heading out to a land they had not yet named, this was place that was unknown and uncertain.  And it didn't take long for the fears to settle in.

The Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, so that he pursued the Israelites, who were marching out boldly.  The Egyptians—all Pharaoh’s horses and chariots, horsemen and troops—pursued the Israelites and overtook them as they camped by the sea near Pi Hahiroth, opposite Baal Zephon. 

As Pharaoh approached, the Israelites looked up, and there were the Egyptians, marching after them. They were terrified and cried out to the Lord. They said to Moses, “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by bringing us out of Egypt?  Didn’t we say to you in Egypt, ‘Leave us alone; let us serve the Egyptians’? It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!” 

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again.  The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” 

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on (Exodus 14:8-15).

One of the great paradoxes of the Christian faith is that we must simultaneously be still and move.  It is not an either/or state of being, but rather a both/and.  It's also not a matter of sequence, that we are first still and then we move, or vice versa.

The Word of God commands us to be still.  Psalm 46 leaves no doubt about that.  "Be still, and know that I am God," he commands (verse 10).  Be still.  Set your heart at rest and be still.  Sink down, relax, tell your heart to let go, and be still.  Psalm 37:7 says, "Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him."  Silence the noise, and put a damper on all the racket in your head, and be still.  

It's what Moses commands the people to do.  "Do not be afraid," he declares, "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."  

[Allow me this minor tangent: That's one of those verses we like to conveniently leave at that, and never continue on to the verses that come after that.  It's kind of like Jeremiah 29:11.  I've got a very personal gripe against people who casually quote Jeremiah 29:11.  Everybody loves Jeremiah 29:11 and claims it as their life verse, but nobody really likes to bother with the weight of Jeremiah 29:1, or Jeremiah 29:13, or Jeremiah 29:14.  These were people living in exile when Jeremiah 29:11 makes an entrance.  These people were not living in the land of sunshine and rainbows when Jeremiah declares over the people that God has plans to prosper them.  They had come to a place that had been named and it was called Babylon and exile.  God's speaking a promise of plans and prosperity all while the people have feet firmly planted in a place in which they do not wish to be.]  

And as Moses declares over the people, "Be still," God follows shortly thereafter with "Move."  

That's the part we like to leave out.  

Stop crying out to me and move.

As much as the Word of God commands us to be still, it also unequivocally tells us to move. Forward motion is the only kind of motion that counts in the kingdom of God. Paul exhorts us in Philippians 3:13-14: "But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."  To the paralytic, Jesus said, "Take up your mat and walk."  To the adulteress, he said, "Leave your life of sin."  To the cripple, he said, "Stretch out your hand."  To Lazarus, he said, "Come forth!"  To the servants at the wedding, he said, "Fill the jars."  Jesus, more often than not, was always telling people to move.  

If we are to commit our lives to Jesus, and to have any hope of following in his footsteps, then we must figure out what it looks to simultaneously be still and move.  We must figure out what it means to set our hearts at rest, to know he is God, and trust he is in complete and loving control.  We must set aside our desire for control and certainty and rational explanations as to why God ordains what he does for our lives.  But we must also figure out how to keep pressing on, to quit our complaining and whining, to get our eyes off the end of our own noses, and move.  In my case, that literally meant packing up my bags and moving all of my possessions, even if I don't understand. Your version of move may look different.  But whatever our relative circumstances, we must simultaneously be still on the inside, while still setting our heart at rest. 

I stood in the door frame of my apartment this morning, my hand resting on the door knob, the door cracked halfway. I stole one last glance, noticing the sunlight filling up a space that was now empty, blank, and echo-y, with nothing in it to absorb the noise. I quietly closed the door, slipped the key into the lock one last time, twisted it, felt the bolt click into place.

Then I turned and walked away.

Be still and move.

Wyoming 2016: The Greatest Hits

 Ah, Jackson Hole, how you slay me. 

When I went to Wyoming one year ago, I didn't fully realize the love affair that would commence. 

I just got back less than 12 hours ago from two weeks in my very favorite place in the whole wide world, and I already miss it.  I traveled the first week with my friend Kristen, mostly through Yellowstone before we ended up in Bozeman, Montana. After I shipped her back to the East Coast, I kept on trucking through Idaho and then back over to Jackson. 

I realize probably no one else is going to want to listen to me drone on about all things Jackson Hole and the Grand Tetons, so for you, my dear readers, I made you a list.  Think of it like a greatest hits.  This is the abbreviated version of the things that stood out to me about the trip - favorite moments, favorite memories, things I don't want to forget.  Here I present to you my top 30 moments of the last two weeks, in no particular order:

1) Watching a female elk swim a small channel at Yellowstone Lake.  It just seemed like an unique wildlife moment.  Most elk we saw were busy eating grass or sleeping, which is kind of boring to watch.  But here was this one doggie-paddling her way through the water. 

View from Driggs AirBnB, Tetons

in the background

2) Watching a buffalo jump over a 5-foot fence.  Yes, these hefty beasts can haul their fat rears over fences with little effort.  I was driving along and saw this lone buffalo walking along a fence line.  He stopped, pivoted, and then he hopped over the fence, as if he was some elegant little deer.  I have no photographic proof, but this guy does.  He's the chef at Turpin Meadow, amazing photographer. 

3) The "Owl Barn" in Driggs, the little AirBnB I rented for two nights. I felt like I won the AirBnB lottery.  I couldn't stop taking pictures of the view, which overlooked the west side of the Tetons.  I loved, loved, loved this place.  If you're ever in Driggs, this is a must-stay!  A couple had taken this old barn and converted the upstairs into an apartment, with this little gothic-shaped window, allowing a perfect overlook.  I wish I had stayed longer.  We also did an AirBnB in Jackson and Bozeman. It's just a great way to travel.  Your budget will thank you also. 

4) Teton Public Library.  I know.  Who goes to the public library when they're on the vacation? I do.  I love libraries.  And Teton PL did not let me down.  I almost started crying when I walked in.

5) Taking pictures at Schwabacker's Landing.  Beautiful. 

6) Meeting Shari Turpin of Pearls by Shari. Delightful, Jesus-loving woman, married to the man who gave me his business card last year and said to call him if I ever wanted a job in Jackson.   

7) Meeting random families while I was by myself the second week, which I may not have done otherwise if I had been with others.  I took the tram up to the top of the mountain at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, where I met one whirlwind of a family.  They had three young boys and one little girl.  The boys were named Bear, Maverick and Gunner.  The little girl, strapped in a backpack on her dad's back, was simply named Grace.  Dad clearly had the naming rights on the boys.  I would not be surprised if someday they have a fourth boy and name him Goose.  

8) Getting caught in a hail storm driving up Signal Mountain.  We made an abrupt turn around, especially given that we had zero hail coverage on our rental. 

9) Hiking Old Faithful and the Upper Geyser Basin at sunset with hardly a soul around.  We had the whole place practically to ourselves.  And the sunset colors were amazing. 

10) Wearing my winter hat, gloves, scarf, and several layers of clothes while it was in the 90s in Ohio.  Bring on colder weather, I say. Summer is by far my least favorite season. 

11) Driving through the barley fields of eastern Idaho.  No better sight than farm lands for this country girl. 

12) Getting a free upgrade to a Toyota Tundra.  The rental place was slammed when we arrived, so they offered to upgrade us for free to a pickup truck from an economy car since they didn't have economy cars left apparently.  I wanted to do a happy dance.  It was no Ford, but I sure as heck will take a truck over an economy car, that's for sure.  You don't have to ask me twice. 

13) Watching Kristen try to get off her horse, Curtis, after a 4-hour ride.  Sorry, friend, I know it was a bit rough, but that was pretty darn hilarious.  I personally have never been so happy to get off a horse before in my life.  Great ride with great views, but my heavens, I was so desperate to climb out of that saddle. 

14) Being back at Turpin Meadow Ranch.  Holds a special place in my heart. 

15) Driving through the Tetons, just to drive. 

16) Art - lots and lots and lots of art.  Jackson hosted their Fall Arts Festival, which was one of the reasons why I stuck around an extra week.  Gah, so many galleries.  I would spend hours just walking through the galleries, mentally tallying just how broke I could go if I bought all the pieces I wanted.  And look, this is not some chintzy arts and crafts fair we're talking about here.  We're talking some of the greatest modern-day western and wildlife artists and photographers around today, with pieces selling for $50,000 or more.  Deb Fox. Cole Johnson.  September Vhay. Amy Ringholz. Micqaela Jones.  Gary Crandall.  Tom Mangelsen.  Troy Collins.  I could go on and on.  These are simply my favorites.

17) Time alone. 

18) Time with Donnie and Pat Critcher, friends of Kristen.  Donnie is a storyteller, and a good one.  He regaled us with stories of his former days spent as a cobbler.  Hilarious. 

19) Aspen trees in the fall.  I can't get enough of these trees.

20) After seeing ZERO moose in all of Yellowstone and the Tetons, I spotted one in someone's yard in Jackson.  Just chillin', munching on grass. 

21) Doing laundry.  Small thing, but it was nice just to get some laundry done half-way through the trip. 

22) National Museum of Wildlife Art.  Chocked full of amazing works. 

23) Buying a $10 fleece pullover from a shop in Jackson.  I lived in that thing for pretty much the remainder of the trip. 

Sunrise at West Thumb, overlooking Yellowstone Lake

24) Sunrise at West Thumb with an elk herd around.  There were maybe 10 people there, and given that parts of Yellowstone can be a MAJOR cluster during peak hours, this is proof that it pays to get up early.  Less people, more wildlife.

25) Buffalo in Hayden Valley.   So serene.  Very Dances with Wolves kind of moment.

26)  The architecture of Old Faithful Inn.  Just stunning. 

27) Snow!  It snowed up in the higher elevations the second week.  Yellowstone got around 6-8 inches and some of the roads closed.  Jackson got mostly rain, which was a relief actually because they desperately needed the precipitation to douse the wildfires ravaging the mountainside. 

28) Basil chicken sandwich at Jackson Hole Roasters, one of my favorite places to eat in Jackson.  So good I went two days in a row.

29) Purchasing my first can of bear spray. And thankfully not having to use it. 

30) Driving through Montana and Idaho in a pickup, windows down, country music blaring.  Pure bliss. 

And bonus!  I didn't get mistaken for a boy this time around!

PS: My selfie-taking skills have not improved. 

My awesome selfie skills on display with the resident cat at

Turpin Meadow Ranch.

I Can Now Sleep at Night

It took five years, but my friend Ben finally got my memo.  

Our daily countdown, including Lyrics of the Week

I first saw Ben Rector in concert in May 2011. I hadn't heard of the guy prior to that, and then my friend Jill and I went to see Matt Wertz in concert in Nashville. Ben was opening up for Matt, and I left that show as Ben's newest fan. Just a stellar singer and songwriter.

We saw Ben a second time back in 2013 at a show down in Cincinnati.  Best concert I have ever been to.  I was sicker than a dog, but he was worth overcoming the slight delirium I was experiencing at the time.  He had just released his Walking in Between album, which was chocked full of excellent tunes, one of which is the song "Sailboat".  Probably one of my all-time favorite songs of his. (And his sidekick, Cody Fry, is amazing in his own right.)

And then.

And then the stars aligned, God heard our prayers, and Ben decided to come to Columbus this past week to kick off his "The Biggest Tour I Have Done So Far Tour".

Bless you, Ben.

Jill and I pounced on the tickets as soon as we could.

And then we decided to mark the occasion by counting down to the concert.  We started a couple of months ago, and every day, we updated the days, watching the calendar tick closer and closer to the big day.

And then he announced his VIP package deal.  We didn't take long to think about that one before we bought the upgrade.  I mean, who can turn down a VIP package that includes chocolate chip cookies? We got early admission to the show, a private pre-show acoustic performance, photo with Ben, signed tour poster, and a snazzy VIP lanyard.

And then he had a Q&A.

This was my chance.

For years now I've been listening Ben play his song "The Beat."  Great song.

The man of the hour, Ben Rector

But the opening lines drive me bonkers because they make no sense. 

"Stand there lady / won't you just stand still / she's got a white Mercedes / and I know she will / And then the beat comes"

BEN.  I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.

You know she will what?  And what does a white Mercedes have to do with anything?

I now had the chance to ask him what the heck he was thinking when he wrote those lines.

There was a small group of VIPs, maybe 60 or so people, so when he said the floor was open for questions, my hand shot up in the air.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  Ben,  I love your song "The Beat."  But the opening lines make zero sense.  Please explain.

Ben: There's not much to explain.  I wrote that song as a junior in college, so my writing skills kinda sucked.  It doesn't really mean anything.  So, don't read into it or look for some deeper meaning.

Me: I can now sleep at night.  Thank you.
 
The night could have stopped there and I would have been satisfied.  And, of course, he played "Sailboat" during the pre-show, which also made things all that more amazing.

It was standing room only for the show, but we made it to the second row. Ben then put on one heck of a show.  My cup runneth over.

But Ben, do you think maybe you could come to Columbus a little more frequently?  I don't like this thing of only seeing you once every 2-3 years.  

Me and Jill with Ben during the pre-show meet and greet

The Mystery of the Utility Pole "Sweaters"

I kind of love my city.

I think I spent years trying to stay away from it, terrified of coming home and somehow winding up stuck. But after years of trekking around the country and the globe, I have become more and more partial to my town with each passing year.  Sometimes it works that the more you travel, the less appealing your hometown feels.  It can start to feel small and suffocating.  Or the reverse can be true, which is what happened in my case.  The more I traveled and the more I saw the world, the more I came to appreciate what was right in front me.  Years ago I was so resistant to come home to this place, but now I'm usually eager to get back.  My city isn't a giant city like Atlanta, LA or New York, all of which I don't mind visiting, but I have zero interest in ever living in such places.  Too many people, too many cars, too much traffic, and just generally too much.   My town is a nice mid-sized city, with plenty to do, but not so big you feel overwhelmed by it all.  You can reach the opposite side of the city within 25-30 minutes with minimal effort, and not want to commit an act of road rage in the process (generally speaking).  

And I love my neighborhood.  It's quiet, but still conveniently located to everything I need - library, work, grocery store, church, family, etc.  It's just a bus ride away from the downtown area, but maybe only a 30 minute drive to the wide open spaces of the country.  

But like every city, it has its quirks and its touch of character.

Take for instance these utility poles.


You're probably thinking, Why the heck are there bands of yarn wrapped around these things?

Good question.

I wondered the same thing.

I walk by them every time I go to the gym.  I noticed earlier this summer there was a string of 3-4 utility poles slowly being wrapped up in these "sweaters" of sorts.  The adjacent chain link fence was also acquiring little knitted flowers and potholders.  With each passing week, there would be more and more accessories added to the poles and fence.

I found it so perplexing, and for the life of me, I could not figure out why anyone would ever crochet these things just to wrap them around a utility pole.

I inquired with co-workers and friends, Any ideas why someone is stitching all this yarn for the utility poles?  The theories abounded.  It's an alien yarn cartel one co-worker said.  I myself wondered if it was some sort of secret code?  Some sort of sign to neighboring crocheting gangs - Back off! This is our turf!  We'll knit you into a knot if you get close!  Was it a signal for some sort of top secret ops?  I mean, I really had no idea why someone would go to these lengths to create this stuff and then just wrap it around a random post.

So I decided to leave a note for this mythical knitter.

To the person who is knitting "sweaters" for the utility poles,

I walk by here often and noticed the growing collection of colorful items making their way around the poles and chain link fences.  Just out of curiosity  - why? 

Sincerely, 
Puzzled observer

I slipped my note into a Ziploc bag so it wouldn't get wet should it rain, tacked it to a utility pole a couple of weeks ago and awaited an answer.

No response.

Few more days.

No response.

And then!  

To my surprise, a note in return!  I nearly started jumping up and down right there on the sidewalk, abnormally and oddly giddy that this little exchange of letters between strangers was occurring.  

Puzzled observer,

Loved your question! There isn't just one answer to explain the motivation behind the yarn bombing.  That's what it's called - it's a real thing! So I'll run down the list:

• I'm for all for anything that causes a driver to lift their foot from the pedal - even if slightly - to take pause and slow down.  Especially here where the curbs are non-existent.  
• I always felt this stretch of sidewalk with the chain link fence could use a little fun.
• My grandmother grew up and was a 1920s flapper in this same neighborhood I now call home.  She taught me how to knit and crochet as a small girl. I like to think a little of her is in every stitch.  
• I like to knit and crochet, but I'm not skilled enough to make sweaters.  These are easier!  
• It keeps me out of the bars.  
• It makes me happy to think someone smiles because they like it or think it's silly.

Enjoy your walks!

Sincerely,

Knitting and crocheting 

Mystery solved!  I haven't decided if I'll write another note in return - not sure what I would say other than Thanks for adding a curious little mystery to my life!  

Who knew yarn-bombing was such a thing.  Makes my city that much more entertaining.  And we all need a little mystery in our lives now and then.      

Pearl Harbor Started It All

Pearl Harbor started it all, years ago.  The smashed penny version of Pearl Harbor, that is.  That one is what started what has become my smashed penny collection, mementos of the many corners of the world I have visited.

I have this hazy vague memory of finding that first smashed penny on my grandparents' kitchen table, mixed in with the random assortment of knick-knacks, Saltine crackers, jars of peanut butter and papers that usually got shuffled around their kitchen table.  They had visited Pearl Harbor in the late 70s, a pit stop along the way to New Zealand and Australia.  Little did they know their decision to pop a few coins into a machine all those years ago would launch their granddaughter's love of hunting down and collecting these pocket-sized souvenirs.  Maybe it's a weird collection to some.  I've definitely gotten a few confused looks from folks when I tell them I collect smashed pennies.  Some people have no idea what they are, let alone why anyone would bother collecting them.  It usually makes me sound like a complete nerd, but you know, whatever.          

My current collection hovers somewhere north of 120 (maybe 130 by now?) pennies.  Some are different designs from the same location, so that doesn't mean they represent 120 distinct locations, but they do represent a fairly wide variety of places I have visited.  I don't mind if other people bring me coins from their own travels, but generally speaking, I try only to collect coins from places I have personally been to. 




Part of my international collection - Auckland and Moscow

I remember the summer I spent in Russia, there
with a handful of other college students.  At the end of the trip, we bummed around Moscow for a few extra days.  We traipsed around Red Square and squeezed ourselves through the closing doors of a few metros and a whole lot of places in between.  As much as I was enjoying Moscow, I was eager to get out of the country.  It had been a long, hard summer - and I wasn't too keen on sticking around much longer.  But there we were in St. Basil's Cathedral, climbing stair step after stair step.  My roommate that summer, Tiffany, comes around the corner, proudly announcing she had found a smashed penny machine.  Clarification: smashed ruble machine, in this instance.  I didn't even know they had these machines in other countries, as I just assumed it was an American thing.  It was probably a seemingly insignificant find to the rest of the world, but I was delighted to find one of these machines stashed up in the stairwell of this centuries-old cathedral.     

The collection has continued to grow since that first one my grandparents brought back from Pearl Harbor - New Zealand, Jackson Hole, Alaska, Florida, random little towns scattered across Ohio - they have all been added.  I'm sure many more will be added, reminders of the adventures and the memories.  Fifty cents and a smashed penny later is a small price to pay to hold the memories close, to mark the moments that have shaped my life.  (And don't worry, there's an app for that.)

Yes, I'm nerdy enough to have them all enclosed in specially-
made display booklets. 

When You Travel Alone, Have Short Arms, and No Selfie Stick

I am not in the habit of taking selfies.  They just feel weird to me.  Maybe one part a little too narcissistic.  And maybe one part just plain awkward.

When I went out to Wyoming, I took lots of pictures, of course.  The mountains, the sunsets, the wildlife, the geysers, the truck.  (And then I maybe took some more pictures of the truck.)

There were, however, a series of bad selfies I took that got scattered through.  For one, I have short arms, so it's kind of hard to get the camera very far away from my own face.  Two, I haven't had much practice, so this selfie thing is a whole new ball game for me at times.  Three, there was no one around to rescue me from my own bad selfie-taking skills.  Four, I had no selfie stick to help me out.

So, allow me to be so vulnerable as to share with you my series of bad selfies:

Let's start with perhaps the best one out of the bunch, the one from Old Faithful.  With the guy behind me also taking a selfie.  See?  We're already off to a bad start.  Fail.

And then there was the one with the backside of this buffalo in Yellowstone.  And I'm awkwardly holding my right shoulder for some reason.  And I'm not smiling.  And I'm standing in the shadows.  And the picture is tilted.  And there are a bunch of campers and buses in the background, cluttering the view.  Fail.  

And then there was the one where I tried to get a picture with Old Faithful over my shoulder. But too bad my head kept getting in the way.  Fail.  

Maybe the one with the truck is the only legitimate one that mildly passes as a decent selfie?  I feel like I have a cheesy grin on my face, though. Not a total fail.

And then there's the one with the boats?  Which makes a horrible and highly uninteresting and cluttered background?  I'm not sure what I thought my goal was with this photo. Fail.

And lastly, this one, next to another geyser not far from Old Faithful.  I'm looking off to the side, and I'm clearly very disgruntled about something, but I'm not sure what.  Maybe my inability to take a good selfie?  Fail.  

I showed my friend Jill my photos from Wyoming, joking with her about my bad selfies.  She was so kind as to buy me a selfie stick for my birthday here a few weeks ago, perhaps out of pity, but perhaps she was just trying to problem solve for me.  Too bad my phone is a dinosaur (a whopping 3.5 years old) and the selfie stick is not compatible with my phone.  Go figure.  Apparently the bad selfie saga is to continue for the foreseeable future, at least until I upgrade to a new phone (which will not be any time soon) or until I get longer arms.  

The Other Piece of My Heart

Let's discuss the vehicle I rented for my trip, shall we?

I made the decision fairly early on that if I was going to make this trek to Wyoming, then I was going all out.  That included my choice of rental.  I figured there was no way I was driving through the rugged mountains of Wyoming stuffed in a Prius or Kia or some other rinky-dink car. (No offense to those reading this who might own said cars as I'm sure they are lovely in their own right.)

So, I opted for a truck.

When I first got my license, I drove my dad's old Ford F-250 diesel, complete with a bench seat and old hand-crank windows, and an engine loud enough to make me feel rather conspicuous on occasion.  Here I was this pint-sized girl sitting behind the wheel of a rather large truck.  I still miss that thing.  So, it wasn't out of the question for me to get a pickup for this trip.  I called a few rental companies in Jackson, saying I was looking for a truck on such-and-such dates.  Two out of the three places said they were sold out of trucks because it was hunting season.  I finally got a hold of Hertz and they said they had trucks available, but I should book soon because the trucks were disappearing quickly.  I don't know if the Hertz guy had a soft spot for girls renting trucks or what, but I got a stellar deal on a pickup for the week, even if it still was a bit of a splurge.  I told him I preferred a Ford over a Chevy, but he said he couldn't guarantee the make and model.  I was hoping when I showed up to the airport that a shiny Ford would be waiting for me, but I was mentally preparing myself for whatever they had. (I come from a long line of Ford-lovers, so we're pretty partial to the brand, and I really was crossing my fingers and toes that a Chevy would not be waiting for me.)

I got to the airport, went to the rental counter, and asked the guy if this was for sure the best rate they could get me.  He basically gave me a look that I should just take the keys and run because there was no way I was going to get a better deal than what I had.  I decided not to ask anymore questions, signed the papers, grabbed the keys, and practically skipped out the sliding doors of the Jackson airport.

I couldn't get a good glimpse of the truck as I was walking down the row of rental cars.  It ended up being parked at the far end, tucked behind an SUV that was blocking my view.  I rounded the corner of that SUV and nearly peed my pants and did a happy dance right there in the airport parking lot.

I said a prayer of gratitude that this very handsome piece of automobile was about to be mine for the next four days.  A 2015 F-150 Ford Lariat, fully-loaded with black interior.  I couldn't wipe the smile off my face, I was grinning like a fool.  

I immediately took a picture and sent a text to my brother and parents, saying "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  And he just delivered this truck to me."

I climbed up into that truck, got acquainted with the bells and whistles, and set off.  I laughed out loud several times while driving down the road, just from sheer giddiness at not only being in Jackson Hole, but driving this truck while in Jackson Hole.  It was bliss on four wheels.  

I spent the next four days tooling around in that thing, loving every minute of it.  

Allow me to present to you this truck in a variety of settings and its many beautiful angles: 

The truck at Moose Junction, just north of the Jackson airport,
and the first stop I made along the way up to the ranch.

The truck at Potholes Turnout, gazing at the Tetons in the background.
I think it looks even better in black and white.  The truck, that is, not the mountains.
The mountains are lovely, no doubt, but let's focus on the truck for now.  

Same location, just a different angle and in all its brilliant charcoal-grey glory.

And now for a side angle.

A close-up of the truck, overlooking the Tetons again.  Still beautiful.
(Both the mountains and the truck.  And the two together are even more picturesque.)

Front view of the truck in Yellowstone.  

Despite the way it looks, I do have a lot of pictures of scenery and wildlife that do not involve this truck.  Promise.  When I returned it to Hertz, I jokingly told the guy, "If I didn't have a lick of sense, I'd just drive this thing home right now."  He said I could, but that I would have to pay for it.  I reluctantly parted with the keys and waved farewell to my traveling buddy of a truck.

Ford, you make for a most excellent traveling companion.