12. Managing Miles

It’s a tragedy, these fissures and voids that lie between.

I hate that it isn’t simple, that my arms can’t reach, can’t cover the gap, can’t wrap around in times of need.

We’re left to maneuver the open lines of communication.

But alas, letters and phone calls don’t satisfy my imagination.

I’d rather it be that we are settled comfortably in sections of our fictional fort built with blankets and chairs.

In my favorite version of managing the miles, the giggles and secrets and everything else vibrate across the expanse of string attached to the empty can against my ear. 

8. Insider

They aren’t MY friends. I’m an outsider to this unique group of four who call Michigan home. I didn’t forge a relationship with them at their camp, in their beloved upper peninsula.  I met them sipping cocktails in a corner booth, supporting our friend, their fifth and my only connection, the beautiful bride to be.

I’d heard plenty about them from Linda’s stories both written and spoken, and the pictures she painted of love, affection and edification couldn’t have been more accurate.

Then somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, somewhere between the cocktails and the vows, they welcomed me in.

Disarmed

I’ve never been one to go along easy or take the path of least resistance. I like to fight and grapple with real or self-made obstacles. I’ve spent my whole life building fortresses and sharpening my weapons of mass destruction. If you are one of my friends, you know that I don’t take kindly to criticism of any kind even though I say I welcome “constructive criticism”.  Truth is even when I solicit advice, I narrow the responses I’d like to hear and if you respond outside of what I want then I brush your advice aside like garbage.  I choose from my arsenal of excuses to divert myself from the truth no matter how beneficial it might be. I tell myself things like “they just don’t understand” and “if they were really hearing me they wouldn’t be so judgmental.” Its tiring, all this fighting, and all my defensiveness wears thin on my relationships.

However, recently I’ve engaged in some of the best, open conversation that I’ve experienced in a long time. It comes by way of a gal I’ve only known for a short amount of time but she already feels like a close friend. The best part about her is the way she totally disarms me. Without lacking any honesty she strips me of any reason to be hostile and through the course of conversation I find myself laying down my weapons of defensiveness. I don’t need to make jokes because I feel insecure and I don’t have to hold back the truth for fear of rejection or shame. Sometimes I feel a little naked knowing how much she knows but more often than not the freedom that comes with feeling known outweighs any amount of awkwardness or discomfort. She is teaching me how to love well in relationships and my hope is to love her well in return. 

The Chronicles of ....

Prompt

I am convinced that the greatest relationships in life are the unexpected ones, the ones that metaphorically sweep you off your feet. In fact, the majority of the intimate relationships of my current state were quite unexpected. Take for example one of my closest friends. She and I met under the most random circumstances. It was a high school soccer game for one of our mutual friends. I came to watch on a whim (kind of). In hindsight it wasn’t nearly as whimsy as I thought. After all, I did drive four hours to watch a two hour soccer match. It was a big game and I had wanted to surprise my friend playing and another friend spectating. As I tip-toed through the bleachers I noticed a semi-familiar face, one I’d seen in pictures and heard countless stories about. As I got closer and prepared to surprise her companion, she glanced back…. Busted. Or at least I thought so until I put my finger on my lips and mouthed shhhhh. My new found co-conspirator played it perfect. She pursed her lips, crossed her arms and nodded confidently. Surprise success! I’ve never been a believer in “love at first sight” but that encounter comes pretty close. All it took after that to blossom our friendship was a common denominator and a two hour Anchorman quoting session.

I cannot count how many inside jokes we have compiled or how many times we’ve laughed until we almost puked. We even joke about the sustainability of our friendship and how it’s a good thing we live 6 hours apart. After all, the world might implode upon itself if we spent more than a few days in the same place. (Sometimes I don’t doubt the validity of that statement) Truth be told, aside from our extensive fits of laughter, our interactions can be quite volatile at times. For example we aren’t allowed to have serious conversations via Skype anymore. Believe it or not, sarcasm can be seriously misread over typed characters. There have been several times we’ve seriously hurt each other’s feelings, usually unintentionally, but hurt nevertheless. It’s bound to happen in close relationship. When you get real with someone, sometimes you say things you don’t mean, or things you do mean that just come out poorly. Sometimes you can’t help but step on each other’s toes.

One of the things I hate, and love most about her is her desire to step on my toes. She rarely tells me what I want to hear, which pisses me off to no end. I almost always take it personally, until I realize that she’s right, which pisses me off to no end. It’s a collision of the best kind, a beautiful impact if you will. She rubs the wrong way on purpose and pushes me into the uncomfortable. She’s forever altered the way I view friendship. She helps show me what it’s like to bear the banner of Christ in relationships. It’s beautiful and awfully messy; forceful and gentle.

We’ve made plans. Plans hashed out over the phone, 6 hours apart, each with Woodchuck in hand. Plans to run a coffee shop in a college town, with lots of books, and good tea, and ridiculousness. That plan might never happen but I’ve no doubt we’ll be making mischief for many years to come. It won’t be because we know how to sustain our friendship. It will be because the sustainability doesn’t rely upon our ability to make each other happy or walk on eggshells. If that were the case we’d have jumped ship long ago. She’s taught me that it has nothing to do with us, which makes it even sweeter. 

Home

Prompt 3

Home in the simplest form is the ranch style building on west 7^th in a tiny town that no one really knows. All 500 residents know that’s where I grew up. It’s where I cut my teeth, climbed trees and rode my bike barefoot. It’s the familiar side door I always entered through to find mom cooking something delicious and dad relaxing, sweaty and greasy after a long day at the shop. Even though I haven’t lived there for going on 6 years now it’s still the first thing that comes to mind when I think of home. I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever transition that association to the home I’ve built with my husband, the little bungalow on Arlington St. Maybe there is an equation involving years lived in, mortgage payments or persons shared with but maybe not. I know that I sleep better there with my head on my fancy pillow and our bodies curled just right, but that doesn’t make it home does it?

I have a love/hate relationship with cheesy anecdotes. For example that “home is where the heart” s___. I don’t believe that for a second, but to say that home has nothing to do with the heart would be foolish. Home is so much more than a building or my favorite place to sleep. Home is all the little affections that put my mind at ease. Home is the arms of a faithful friend, where I can claim sanctuary and plead temporary insanity. Home is lying next to him on the couch knowing that I don’t have to say or do anything to sustain our perfect harmony, my sweet contentment. Home is being a black sheep in this whole walk of life and still feeling a deep sense of belonging. Home is my refuge, my haven, whatever that might look like on a given day. Home is wholeness.

Track One

Whenever I get together with my “FCA” friends, it is always a joyous event. I call them my FCA friends because it kind of explains how we all know each other. Basically we’re a group of women spread all over the Midwest who love Jesus and each other. We are/were all athletes, most of us college athletes who at some point and time got involved with FCA. During college we would use any excuse to gather together for weekends of ridiculousness, sleepless nights, and worship. Since college our gatherings have gotten fewer and farther between but the quality is still unbeatable. There is still ridiculousness, like when I tipped on our night kayak session. We have all grown quite a bit fonder of sleep but there are still a few late night conversations and even though the nature of our time together has changed there has been one consistent event that occurs at least once when we gather. We worship. KP gets out her guitar and occasionally we throw in a djembe. We sing the usual songs, Come Thou Fount (in southern accent), We are Hungry, and a few others. Then, like clockwork, we harass KP to play her songs, the ones she wrote about life and her family. KP is always a little hesitant. Sometimes all it takes is a request and sometimes we need to slow clap to get her going but my favorite is when we all chant track one. Track one of our favorite playlist. Sure it only consists of three songs and they all have actual titles but we all affectionately remember track one.

The crew minus a few.

Track One has been our anthem of sorts. We sang it at the barn who knows how many times. We sang it the night we gave KK her book, at school street and in the parking lot of UNO. We sang it as we sat in California days before AP’s brain surgery, the day of her wedding. It was particularly poignant that day. As we sat there filled with joy and excitement and fear and anxiety we worshipped. When track one was requested there was no hesitation, smiles spread across all of our faces. KP started up and we sang with a capo so I could sing my comfortable tenor harmony (thanks for coming down an entire octave for me guys). SB made sure to point out that her favorite parts were coming up and we all laughed. I fought the lump in my throat the entire time. I needed track one that day. I needed some consistency, some sort of sign that everything was going to be okay. I needed to hold fast. I love track one and I love the people I sing it with. It is a perfect prayer for me and one that I pray for all of you.

He loves us and has set us free,

From our sins and has made us whole again.

His kingdom reigns on high,

And because of Him we will never die.

Hold fast to the fire in your heart,

Open the door and embrace My love for you,

Walk with Me in garments pure white,

You are worthy to be called a child of Mine.

Lunch "Dates"

We meet for lunch from time to time to “catch up” or so you call it. I call it that too until I encounter someone who thinks our contact is inappropriate, in which case I make more holy excuses to escape judgment. You always let me choose the venue, even though I still “owe” you a meal at your favorite restaurant. You bring it up every time but I know you’ll never make me pay my debt on account of the provocative things that occurred to make me lose that bet. You brought up the “bet” in front of my husband once. I laughed it off as something playful followed directly by a piercing glare in your direction.  It bugs me that we can still communicate in that way, that you can almost read my thoughts.  I always choose a restaurant close to where you work; partially because you didn’t have a car for so long, and partially because I like to feel like I’m pursuing the situation and not other way around.  The last few times we ate at the same sandwich shop. You’re always late but manage to jump into line as if I were waiting for you. You talk about me to the ladies preparing the sandwiches and order mine for me.  (Am I that predictable that after 6 years my sandwich order is still the same?) We get to the cash register and I retrieve my wallet only to have you slide your card across the counter.  I decline repeatedly but the cashier lets you pay. She thinks you are being chivalrous but she wouldn’t if she knew our story.  You say you’ll let me pay next time but I know you won’t.

We sit down and flow into conversation like old friends which indeed we are. I used to hate hearing about all the girls you are dating but now it doesn’t bother me. You tell me all about them and ask my opinion because you know I always give it freely. We talk about my husband and how we all need to get together. It’s strange how well the two of you get along. You ask about mom and dad and my brother and sisters. I sometimes forget you were like family for a long time. You ask about church. A topic that I know you bring up for my sake. I tell you about Mosaic and all the crazy things happening. I can tell that you stopped listening and it hurts my feelings but I hope that you tune back in to hear a little. In the middle of my story you ask about new years, a reasonable topic since it was last week. I start telling you about the wonderful time I had in Chicago and the amazing girls I spent it with. You ask if it was as amazing as our new years, throwing in buzz words like “hot tub” that will surely make me blush. You succeed in making me blush but I push through my sentence defiantly avoiding your bait. I talk about how encouraged I was without using any “Christian words” (like encouraged).  You smile and tell me how much you love to see me happy. The part of me that wants to be bitter towards you for everything wants to make a snide comment but the bigger part of me that wants you to know what I know and feel what I feel wins out. I’m reminded of why I have lunch with you.  It’s not because I feel guilty or because I have an agenda, it’s because I see part of who I used to be in you and I want to take the time to love that,  the way someone took the time to love me.  So I’ll continue to sit through awkward innuendos praying that one day you’ll see past me into the bigger picture, that you'll learn to love and be loved.

Tea Time with Charles

We sit, most days in the afternoon sipping the hot concoction I’ve brewed in my fancy tea contraption. I like all kinds of tea, Snow monkey plum, Madagascar vanilla, Indian chai, cream caramel rooibos, but Charles prefers just green (with a packet of Splenda). He always tries my brews and comments on their deliciousness although sometimes I can tell he is just being polite. We talk about all sorts of things, Charles and I. We talk about the news, his friends, my friends, his wife, my husband, the sermons we have been listening to and any other thing that comes to mind. He shares tidbits of wisdom from the nearly half a century he has up on me. That’s right, he is 72 and I am 23. Some days it feels like we are the same age making mischief and giggling (our banter is quite hilarious), needing to be scolded by our manager, and some days he is much older and reminiscent of my grandfather. I’d like to think I soak up our time as if each memory and anecdote shared were rare and precious. I can feel my eyes widen and my mouth drop whenever he starts a story with “when I worked at NASA.” I think it’s so cool. 

Sometimes he blows me away with the information he possesses and I relish the opportunity to teach him a new trick on the computer. He calls me “baby” which I’ve grown quite fond of and speaks tenderly when he sees that I’m upset. Occasionally he has been the reason for my discomfort based on things he has said to sharpen me; things that I foolishly brush aside with my defensive, harsh attitude.

Every once in awhile he gives me a big hug, which is inappropriate in the business world, but Charles doesn’t care. Yesterday was one of those days. It was nearing 4:30 and I walked over to say goodnight to Charles (he laughs every time I call him that because he has always been known as Chuck.) I turn to leave and he says “you know I haven’t always been known as Chuck either.” I replied with an inquisitive, “really?” excited for a story. He proceeded to tell me how he was really Charles Jr. which his mother detested so he went by his middle name Leonard which eventually got shorted to Lynn. I laughed at the idea of him being called Leonard and Lynn. We both put on our coats and he started to walk me out to my car. As we were walking he whispered, “And once I had a nickname that I sometimes use for passwords… Chucklynn.” We both chuckled at the idea. He then grew solemn and continued with a story about the only person that ever referred to him as Chucklin’. His story was sad. This friend (whom he worked with at NASA) was full of life and energy in his early forties when one day they found out he had bone cancer and two weeks later he was gone. I hung my head in sadness and Chuck continued, “No one else has ever called me that but it would be okay if you did.” As I sorted through the emotions of that statement I looked up to see two big tears unashamedly running down Charles’ face and he gave me a big hug. We parted with goodnights and this morning I returned to work as usual. I was greeted with a warm hello from Charles who I greeted back with a “Good morning Chucklin” and a wink. This afternoon we will have tea and I can hardly wait.