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.  

Remember My Caterpillar-Hating Friend, Johnson?

This picture does not do Johnson's personality justice.

Remember this kid I saved (I use the term loosely) from a caterpillar?  And the kid who asked if little girls could eat dirt? The kid who did this crazy little dance and often brought me to tears from laughter? The kid who discussed Al-Shabab and bombs with me? The same kid who makes goofy faces and holds a special place in my heart?

It turns out he is growing up and becoming a star.

I happened to be checking Rafiki's blog recently and stumbled across this post about Johnson (click the link if you want to see the video of him performing):

http://rafikifoundation.org/site/latestnews.aspx 

Johnson Waindo is a ten-year-old living at Rafiki Village Kenya. He recently presented at the national level of the Kenya Music Festival in the boys ages 10–14 years soloist competition.

The festival competitions go from sub-county, to county, and then to regional levels. At these first three levels Johnson earned first place. Each region sends its top two ranked students to the national level, so Johnson competed against eighteen other boys aged 10–14, all singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning."

Johnson achieved second place in all of Kenya—we are all thrilled! Mr. Samuel Agufa (pictured to the left with Johnson) has done an outstanding job training this young boy to compete with mostly older boys. Mr. Agufa helped Johnson develop his natural talent through hard work, discipline, and determination. Moreover, Mr. Agufa has been an outstanding example for Johnson; he has shown him that talent is from the Lord, but talent alone isn't enough without dedication and hard work.

Johnson’s mother died of an illness ten days after his birth, leaving him abandoned in the hospital. His father is unknown, his elderly grandparents impoverished, and his teenage siblings were unable to care for him. With no relatives to take him in, Social Welfare referred him to Rafiki Village Kenya. Johnson arrived to his new Rafiki family in November 2005. We are so proud of him and look forward to all his future accomplishments. 

Yay for Johnson!  Clearly that day I saved him from that caterpillar set his life on a trajectory to achieve stardom.  You're welcome, friend.

That Time I Got Called "Sir"

So there I was in the Jackson airport, minding my own business.  

I had arrived at the airport hours before my flight was supposed to leave, thanks in large part to the fact that the pickup truck I had rented (aka the other piece of my heart) was due back by 2:00 pm, but my flight wasn't until 5:30 pm.  So, I had a lot of free time on my hands.

I milled around the ticket counter area for awhile, sorting through receipts and photographs and mementos from the trip.  I decided to finally make my way through security, find a quiet corner in the terminal and stretch out for awhile before the flight home, knowing I was about to be folded up into a little cube once I hit that airplane seat.  

The Jackson airport is small enough that only a handful of flights go out each day.  And the gate area is maybe half the size of a football field.  People were bustling about when I walked through security, as there were a couple of flights getting ready to board.  Unlike other airports, Jackson actually has legitimate furniture in the form of comfy leather couches, chairs and overstuffed ottomans.  Most of them had been taken over by soon-to-be-departing passengers, so I decided to bide my time until these next couple of flights took off and then I'd see about staking my claim on a leather couch.  

The 3:30 flight boarded and departed, and I discovered once they cleared out, there were a grand total of two other people left in the terminal.  Even airport staff was vanishing.  My 5:30 flight was the last flight out for the day, and since I was so early, there was hardly a soul around.  They actually temporarily closed down the security checkpoint, as one staff member informed me, telling me that if I wanted to leave the terminal I wouldn't be able to get back in for awhile.  I moseyed on over to the appointed leather couch, stretched out with my feet propped up, pulled out my latest reading selection of Friday Night Lights by H.G. Bissinger (brilliant book, by the way.  And we won't even talk about my recent obsession with the TV series) and settled in for the next couple of hours.  

Let me pause here and describe to you my appearance at this point, as this will prove highly relevant.  On days I know I am traveling, I tend to go as comfy and practical as possible.  So that morning I had pulled out my favorite pair of holey jeans, a plaid button-up shirt, my black fleece and a ball cap.  I had zero makeup on, which I didn't even bother to pack and hadn't worn for the entire trip.  I hadn't even bothered to wear any nail polish either, which is rare for me to go long without nail polish.  I also had a football book in my hands.

Okay, so back to the story.  I'm curled up on the couch, reading my book, when out of the corner of my eye, I spot this airport/TSA staff member heading my way.  He's kind of a big guy, holding a sticker-covered Nalgene bottle in his hands.  I look up and make eye contact with him, when he says, "Excuse me, sir, is this your water bottle?"

*Long pause while my brain does double-time, trying to process whether he's talking to me or some imaginary male figure sitting next to me.*

There isn't another soul within 200 feet.  Process of elimination: he's clearly directing this question at me.

"Eh, no, that's not mine," I said. 

And I could tell as soon as I opened my mouth that he realized his error, as he fumbled for a second and clearly got nervous.  

I didn't say anything else, and I didn't bother to correct him.  And he didn't bother to say anything else either, as he just kept walking right on by, eager to escape the awkwardness of the moment.

I texted my mom shortly thereafter and said, "I just got called 'sir'..."  First time for everything I guess.  

I suppose I can't blame the poor guy because I did kind of look like a boy, sitting there reading a football book.  And I always look like I don't have much hair anyway when I've got a ball cap on, given that it's so short to begin with.  When it gets tucked underneath a hat, then it really disappears.  So, I really wasn't offended by his mistake, and I even had a good laugh about it with family when I got home. 

But seriously, sir.

I am not a "sir".

Note to future self: ditch the ball cap, put on my some makeup, and avoid reading football books when traveling.  Maybe then I'll avoid a repeat of this little episode.   

       

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.  

A Piece of My Heart

From my journal, March 2007

There are some moments in life when you feel the world tilt upright just a tad, when you find at least one corner of your world makes a little bit more sense than it did before.

I felt my world tilt upright just a bit this past week.

I went back through my journals the other night, searching for the pages when I last knew Wyoming had been on my radar. (Thank God I have been a lover of journals because these are the moments when I am so grateful I have spent time documenting the seasons of my life.) I had written in one entry, my last semester of college, "There is something that is drawing me to Wyoming.  I'm not sure how to explain it - and I don't know if I have built up a romanticized ideal of Wyoming or what, but I just really want to go there." 

That longing became a reality this past Tuesday when I found myself driving north out of Jackson, Wyoming.  The Grand Tetons were looming large ahead on my left and the expanse of the valley stretched out to my right.  I was in love and I hadn't even been there but an hour.

A little over eight years ago (March 27, 2007, to be exact) I was offered a job at a ranch in Wyoming - Turpin Meadow Ranch.  I had somehow managed to stumble across a job posting for the place, just a summer job doing housekeeping.  I was feeling restless at the time, having no clue what I was going to do once I graduated (does anyone ever know what to do with a degree in History??).  I wasn't too keen on going back home, and I was feeling a little desperate to find a place to go.  I had also applied for a position with Lifeway at their conference center in Ridgecrest, North Carolina, around the same time I had applied at Turpin Meadow.  

I remember getting a call from the then-owner of the ranch. (It's now owned by a different couple.)  I missed his first call and he left me a voicemail, saying I was exactly the kind of person they were looking for to work at their ranch.  I saved that voicemail for I don't know how long, and then saved his phone number until I deleted it just a year or two ago.  Don't ask me why I held onto that phone number for so long, but I did.  I was also offered a job at Ridgecrest, though, which left me in a panic as to which one to choose, convinced one would somehow be right and the other one was somehow wrong, and if I didn't choose wisely my whole life was going to be a royal and indefinite mess.  I was being irrational I realize, but at the time, the decision felt monumental.

In the long run, I chose North Carolina.  It was a good summer and I wound up meeting a girl (that would be you, Miss Kristen) who is now one of my dearest friends.  I don't regret that summer, but I have spent the last eight years wondering what life would have been like out at Turpin Meadow.

This year was the first in a handful of years that I had no plans or offers to go somewhere overseas.  So many other things kept trumping a trip to Wyoming over the years and I decided I didn't want to put the dream on hold anymore.  I started saving money as if I were a squirrel stashing nuts for the winter, and finally booked the details of the trip over Memorial Day weekend. 

The lodge at Turpin Meadow

I booked 4 days/3 nights at the ranch, booked a flight into Jackson, rented me a pickup truck (don't worry, that truck will get a blog post all of its own), and outlined my itinerary.  I think I had always envisioned going on this trip by myself, which naturally got some strange looks from folks, but the time and the place felt a little sacred so I wasn't too eager to have traveling companions.  And let's be honest - as an introvert, I probably enjoy being alone more so than the average person. 

Finally, September 8 rolled around and I couldn't wait to hop on that plane to Denver and then onto Jackson. I landed amid the Tetons, grabbed the keys to the truck from the rental company, and set off on the first of four days that would tilt the axis of my world just a little bit, for the better.  

I took my time driving north to the ranch, passing through Grand Teton National Park, before settling in for the evening at the ranch.  The next day I hoofed it up to Yellowstone to see Old Faithful and stopped at what seemed nearly every single lookout along the way, taking photograph after photograph.  I was probably a hazard on the road, so busy looking at the scenery around me that I had to consciously remember to pay attention to the road in front of me.  I couldn't seem to get enough of the surrounding views.  The day after that, I stuck around the ranch and spent the morning going horseback riding and just generally enjoying my time there.  

Sunset from the porch of the ranch, Tetons in the distance

And then Friday, my final day there, rolled around.  I think even my body was in mutiny over me leaving, as I slept horribly, woke up nauseated and with a queasy stomach.  I honestly wasn't sure if I was going to be able to keep breakfast down or not.  I dreaded the thought of leaving, and my body was agreeing.  Nevertheless, I packed up my things and hit the road back to Jackson.

I cried off and on most of the way back to Jackson.  That small corner of my world that suddenly made sense was now getting left behind.  I went into town for a few hours, slipping in and out of the numerous art galleries, which also stole my heart just a little bit more, knowing how much stunning talent and art was tucked away in the town.  I finally returned the truck to the airport and reluctantly made my way through airport security to start making the trek back home.  

This trip was everything I dreamed and then some.  Even long before Turpin Meadow specifically showed up on the map, one of the very first things I had ever put on my bucket list, starting back in 2000, was to go to a dude ranch for a week or two.  Granted, this trip was only four days, but I'm still crossing it off the list as accomplished.

So, to you Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Turpin Meadow Ranch - you are etched in my mind forever.  You stole of a piece of my heart and I am beyond grateful for the time spent with you.  Give me enough time and I'm sure you'll be seeing me again (maybe as a resident? Who knows).  Hopefully it doesn't take me another 8 years to make that happen.

Leaning Into the Mess

Sometimes you just gotta get away, you know?  You gotta exit stage left in the interest of preserving your sanity (and maybe preventing the possibility of you being the cause of those around you winding up on a gurney?).  So you hop on a plane, get in a car, get on a bus, take a walk down the street - whatever it takes - and you get outta Dodge.

I hopped in a car over the weekend and drove a few hours north to a new favorite hiding place of mine on the shores of Lake Erie.  I spent the time generally trying to disappear for awhile and just check out of life.  If you caught the last post then you know that my job has been - how shall we say? - a bit of a pest here lately.  It's way more stressful than it should be.  I do not work in an emergency room, I am not curing cancer, nor I am a brain surgeon, but some days you wouldn't know it based on my stress level.  I think I am going to write a note to self on my dry erase board behind my desk at work, "THIS IS NOT THE ER AND NO ONE IS DYING OF A GUNSHOT WOUND HERE, PEOPLE."  That's not to say that the work I do isn't valuable and doesn't have a strong sense of purpose, but good heavens, do I lose perspective.  And so do a few of my co-workers.  Hamsters on treadmills most days.  Maybe I should take comfort in the fact that I'm not the only one losing her mind.  I had one co-worker who got out of her car this morning - left the keys in it. With the engine still running.  She didn't even know she'd done it until I got to work 30 minutes after her and inquired about it.  Heaven help us keep our heads screwed on straight.

You know when you leave your keys in the car with the engine still running it's time to call a time-out.  I didn't leave my engine running, but I sure did need to call a time-out.  

And I'm so glad I did.  The weekend could not have been more picturesque.  Blue skies for miles.  Sun beating down (my first legitimate sunburn of the summer, albeit a couple of months late).  Water lapping on the shores.  Subdued.  Quiet.  Removed.  Solitary.  My safe haven.  

I stayed at an old Victorian guest house.  They didn't even bother to give me a key to my room, life is so laid-back there. (Maybe I should have been more concerned about this fact that I didn't get a key?)  I locked my bike up at one point, even though I had noted that no one else had bothered to lock theirs up.  I was paranoid, so I locked it up anyway.  Later on I got a very serious stink eye from a maintenance man as he was dragging both the rack and my bike down the street, as he attempted to move the rack out of the way.  I felt so scolded by that singular look (he never actually opened his mouth - the look was sufficient) that I didn't bother to lock my bike up the rest of the weekend.  

I ate way too much junk food - between Hawaiian pizza, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cones, french fries, strawberry smoothies, and cinnamon donuts, I was beyond stuffed by the time my departure rolled around.  I spent way too much money to park and take a ferry over to Kelley's Island.  All in the pursuit of a smashed penny.  I think this penny made number 116 in the collection.

As I sat watching the sun sink below the water line Friday night, I kept having this recurring thought sweep through my spirit.  And I couldn't escape it.  When I went to dinner Saturday night, I sat there at the diner in a corner booth all alone, people-watching, mulling over a variety of thoughts, enjoying my pizza, when I knew I had to write the thought down before it escaped my brain altogether.  All I could find was an old receipt from who knows what.  So I turned it over and jotted down this:

        

          

Sometimes life is less about escaping the mess, as much as it is about learning to live in the midst of the mess.

Yes, sometimes life means getting out of Dodge.  Yes, sometimes life means hopping on a ferry and standing on the deck, letting the wind blow away the worries.  Yes, sometimes life means stopping at the roadside fruit stand and getting fresh peaches and strawberries.  Yes, sometimes life means finding a deck chair, propping your feet up and getting lost in a good book.  Yes, sometimes life really is about escaping.  

And other times it means opening your car door. Putting the keys in the ignition. And deliberately choosing to drive back to the life that seems to be a mess at times.  And realizing you don't get to exit.  You don't get to just pack up and leave just because you don't feel like dealing with life anymore.  You don't get to just walk out of the room and not have the hard conversations.    

Life is about learning to live in the midst of that mess.  It's about learning to live in the midst of crying children, piles of laundry, unpaid bills, death, dysfunction, heartbreak, and chaos.  It's about all those things, both monumental and trivial.  Because what we'll find is that if we don't keep choosing to lean in, to draw close to the very things that threaten to do us in, we'll never find that on the other side of those things are even sweeter moments of victory.

So we keep leaning in.  We keep pressing on.  We keep deliberately choosing to get out of bed.  We keep choosing to see a God who is far bigger than whatever problems we might have.  We switch out our magnifying glasses for some binoculars, fixing our gaze on the distant horizon line instead of the end of our noses, and we keep learning to live in the midst of the mess.  

Because that in reality is the only true escape, the only way out.        

A Jeep Renegade and Stretched Thin Moments

My family has an old beat-up Jeep Renegade, circa 1970-something.  It has made the rounds between my mom, my uncle, my brother, and storage.  It has definitely seen better days - it's without a top anymore, has acquired a bullet hole in the windshield (I know there's a story behind that, but I can't recall it exactly), and various parts and pieces of the interior are missing.  The seats have been replaced and there are no doors to it.  It's probably a safety hazard by most standards.  I think it at least still has seat belts, so that's gotta be good for something.

It's basically been sitting dormant for a couple of years in my parents' barn.  My brother had been working on it for awhile, replacing the radiator and what not, trying to get it to at least a functional status.

But I remember coming back from Kenya the first time, nearly 5 years ago now.  The jeep was functional at that point in time and my brother would often ask me if I wanted to go for a spin in it with him.  If we could load his dog's fat rear-end up into the back, he'd sometimes go with us as well. The jeep was a cranky manual with a gear shift that might as well be a mile long, and since I don't know how to drive a manual, he was always in the driver's seat.

I loved those jeep rides.  I loved climbing up in that seat, with no doors, no windows and a bullet-pegged windshield, and just driving.  We'd get to the end of the road and he'd tell me to pick a direction.  We'd hit another dead-end and we'd pick the next direction.  No purpose, no direction, no final destination, no thought, no radio, no cares.

It was like therapy without the therapist or the couch or the price tag.

And I relished those rides.  And I relished even more that I wasn't in the driver's seat.  I didn't have to think and I didn't have to be in control for a change.  I could just hang my hand out the window, close my eyes, and feel the wind making a royal mess out of my hair, the sun beating down on my face.  It was bliss.  It was freedom.  It was my saving grace in the moments when I was trying to keep the world upright.  All rolled up in an old Jeep Renegade and a chauffeur in the form of my older brother.

I've been longing for those Jeep rides a lot here lately, like an ache deep inside.  I keep thinking of the quote from Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, when Bilbo is talking to Gandalf in the very beginning of the story.  He says, "I am old, Gandalf. I don't look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed! Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can't be right. I need a change, or something.”

That's how I've been feeling these days, feeling thin and stretched (not so much the old part), like butter that's been scraped over too much bread.  And that can't be right.  And I don't know if it's change that I need or if it's just that ambiguous something that I need.

My job is taking a toll, asking me to pay a price I'm not sure I'm willing to pay, or at the very least I'm unsure of how to pay.  It's one of those seasons when you know you are where God wants you - I know I am in the right place at my job, and I'm not looking to quit my job.  It's not that kind of toll. But dang. The burden and responsibilities sometimes feel overwhelming and clumsy and defeating. And I'm no longer able to walk away from the job at the end of the day.  I carry it with me everywhere I go.  It's turning me into someone I don't know - or like.  My capacity for life beyond work has narrowed considerably.  All of the things that used to come so effortlessly and naturally - friendships, reading, creating, writing, painting - they are all an act of discipline and willpower now.  It requires serious effort to reach out to friends in the evenings and make plans.  It takes monumental thought to sit and read a book and actually comprehend what I'm reading.  It takes a little bit of extra oomph to even think about sitting down to write a blog entry or journal entries. (You may have noticed I'm only averaging about one blog entry per month. In previous years, it was often one entry per week.)  I give my job my very best and so when I come home I find I have very little left to give.

And I hate that.  Maybe some of it I could chalk it up to age - I'm clearly no longer in college, with a dozen irons in the fire and not even breaking a sweat.  But really I chalk it up to the fact that the job is eating me alive and I haven't figured out how to bite back yet.  I know it won't always be like this.  At least I hope it won't always be like this.        

So, yeah, I'm feeling a little stretched thin these days (and I know I'm not alone in that).  And I know that can't be right.  And maybe I need change, or something.  Or maybe I really just need a long, cathartic ride in an old, yellow and red, beat-up Jeep Renegade, with my hand hanging out the window and not a care in the world.  

Even Still - Ten Years Later

I laughed somewhat in disbelief when someone told me over ten years ago, "You'll think about this summer for the rest of your life."  

I just couldn't imagine at that point in time how true those words would be. 

Because ten years later, I'm still thinking about that summer and how Jesus totally upended my world.

Ten years ago on May 26, 2005, I hopped on a plane and headed to San Diego, as part of a summer project with Campus Crusade for Christ.  I don't think I fully understood what I had signed up for that summer, although I don't know that anybody really understands what they sign up for when they say "yes" to Jesus.  

I walked into that summer feeling like a big ol' mess spiritually, a raging storm of doubt, fear and unbelief.  I was scared out of my mind, honestly.  I had a big long list of expectations, things I was waiting for God to do that summer.

I think there are some seasons of life when you expect to find yourself at the top of the mountain, and instead you find yourself at the bottom of the valley.

That summer in San Diego felt like the bottom of the valley.

I look back over the journal I have from that summer, pages and pages and pages (almost an inch thick by the time the summer was done) of wrestling out so much heavy stuff with Jesus.  Some lines written in all capital letters, as if I'm yelling at God.  Some lines scribbled so furiously I can barely read my own handwriting.  Some lines full of memories that I have no recollection of apart from the words on the page.  Some lines full of despair and sadness, frustration and fear.  Some lines full of awe and wonder over the things I saw happening in and through me.

Me, Emily and Jenna -
precious friends who
helped shape my summer

But man, that summer.  That summer is when I found out what it really looked like to say I'm all in with you, Jesus.  That summer is when I forged friendships so deep and so real and so authentic, unlike anything I had ever encountered before.  That summer is when I found sweet and total freedom in Christ.  That summer is when I saw God do things I didn't know were possible.  That summer is when I caught a glimpse of godly men who loved Jesus and treated women like gold.  That summer is when I caught a glimpse of what it looked like to no longer play the comparison game to other women surrounding me, but to discover they had their own set of insecurities and imperfections.  That summer is when I realized my faith could no longer be based on what God did or didn't do in my life, but based rather on who He is - the unchanging, unfailing God that he is.

That summer I encountered a God who is big enough, and wide enough, and wild enough, and gracious enough to still claim me.

That summer I still think about 10 years later.  And will probably spend the rest of my life thinking about.  

Emily and I, back when I had a legitimate tan and slightly blonder hair.

My beloved lime green beach cruiser that I rode everywhere that summer.  One of my regrets in life is not buying that bike at the end of the summer.

The Men of Studmuffin Row. I was crazy about these boys
and their love for Jesus.  Some of them ended up being
some of my very best friends. And they were super funny.

The Most Awkward and Desperate Folk

"There are pictures of the people in my family where we look like the most awkward and desperate folk you ever saw, poster children for the human condition. But I like that, when who we are shows. Everything is usually so masked or perfumed or disguised in the world, and it's so touching when you get to see something real and human. I think that's why most of us stay close to our families, no matter how neurotic the members, how deeply annoying or dull - because when people have seen you at your worst, you don't have to put on the mask as much." - Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

I dearly love Anne Lamott's book Traveling Mercies. Full of such richness and completely irreverent hilarity. I laughed out loud on more than one occasion. But I remember when I read the above quote from the book, years ago. There is one particular family photo that immediately popped into my mind. We are all piled on my parents' porch - aunts, uncles, parents, cousins, grandparents, grandbabies - everybody piled up, standing next to one another, hanging over the railing. Kids are screaming. The dog is distracted. Somebody looks less than thrilled to be there. Parents are smiling through gritted teeth. A few bachelor uncles are clearly humoring the rest of the family by engaging in this family photo. The grandparents are sitting perched front and center on a bench, looking serene as can be, as though the world is not unfolding around them.

The most awkward and desperate folk, poster children for the human condition.

And they are mine. It's why I stay close. And maybe they are all a little neurotic, but who isn't? We've seen each other at our worst, though. So, we'll fight through the awkwardness and desperation because what else do we know? And who else is there to be awkward and desperate with but our own families?

I was reminded of Anne's sentiments on family this past weekend at my cousin's wedding. I'm learning that no wedding is complete without a photo booth. I love these things.

Because sometimes we need to laugh and lean in close to the chaos next to us in the form of human flesh.

I present to you my awkward and desperate family in color. And maybe what we find in these photos is actually the truest versions of ourselves, the versions that don't care. The versions that often have our eyes closed. The versions that are often looking the other way. The versions with the quirked eyebrow. The versions that are imperfect and anything but photo-shopped. The best versions.        

My sweet grandmother, front and center, and a few of my cousins plus one uncle.
We told my grandmother we would all have props in this photo.
And then at the last second we hid all of our props, leaving her all alone. 

The same menagerie, minus my grandmother and plus my mother.

My cousin and I

My niece and I

Just the cousins

My mom, my niece and I