Blush - Typewriter Poem

So I decided to try a write a poem in the style of Tyler Knott. www.tylerknott.com This was the result.

Favorite First - 100 words

As time came to close on our impromptu rendezvous I grew anxious, waiting, anticipating. Thirteen minutes then fourteen, time to part ways; a hug you wanted so I obliged, leaning into your embrace.

Then, your eyes met my gaze, and shortly there after the warmth of your lips pulsed through mine.

Warp speed freeze frames of synchronized motion, steam rising off our bodies pressed against the cold steel.

A few seconds forever engrained, your lip in mine as we slowly parted ways. An abrupt end to our fifteen minutes of fame, my heart beating thrice with every step you take. 

10. In A Cappella

There are few things that make me more insecure than hearing the noise of my own voice unaccompanied by a melodious symphony of sounds.

So, when the band ceased the playing of their instruments on Sunday and continued with an A cappella chorus, I paused momentarily, unsure with my voice no longer camouflaged by the thick reverberation from the speakers.

That was, until I heard the most beautiful cacophony of sounds. Voices high and low, on key and off; my brothers and sisters singing in perfect union; so, I unabashedly joined in…

.. Nothing compares to this love, love, love…

9. Textured Language

Try as I might to decipher the languages placed before me on a daily basis, I’m constantly getting lost in the heady, dense jargon of my fellow scientists and thick, sugar-coated mess of the overtly Christian conversations in which I often partake. I attempt but even falter in the disciplines of icy slander and abrasive sarcasm. 

However, I never lose my way in the simple fluidity of a warm embrace; there isn't confusion in unblemished, selfless service. As imperfect as it may or may not be, my heart always beats in sync with the soft spoken sentiment, I love you. 

‎"Language, imperfect as it may be, is the realizer of our world. It is the texture of our thoughts."

Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

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.

On Vulnerability

Can I tell you how it feels to be vulnerable?

Utterly and completely.

To be split down the middle,

With all my love and fears,

Slipping simultaneously, uncontrollably out of my insides.

You

Do you see all of me,

Feel what I’m feeling, see where I’m coming from?

Do you notice the quickening pace,

Of my heartbeats cadence,

Underneath the rise and fall of my chest,

As my breaths become shorter, more shallow.

Will it ever feel safe,

Will I ever experience freedom in this state?

Or will this glass house crack and crumble under your persuasion?

Will we succumb to joy or pain,

Or are both inevitable outcomes?

To be sure, we will have to continue,

Sojourning through this life together.

I’ll try to fight the urges to reinforce my fortress, if you’ll be gentle.

I’ll sit with my skin as flushed as the flowers on the table,

Again and again, for you, my Achilles heel. 

Anniversaire Toi

I was learning French when we started this, three years ago, the summer before my senior year of college.  I was stringing together most likely incorrect phrases like “Tu et le garçon qui je (You are the man whom I)…. Want, love, value, desire, hoped for.

I ardently believed all those things as I walked up to the alter to recite the vows like so many have done.  I vowed to love, honor and cherish in sickness and health, plenty and want, the traditional, time-honored words that centuries before have spoken.  The things, which at the time seemed most important.

However if I got to re-write them with the sage-ness acquired in a short three years, I would be certain to add a few.

I Katie, take you Nathaniel, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, in plenty, and in want, in sickness or in health, in sin and shame, in hurt feelings and botched apologies, in trust and in doubt, in triumph and in utter and complete failure, in beauty and in tears, in moments of great passion and times of apathy, with grace instead of judgment, to love, to cherish and to respect, with the smiles, breath, tears of all my life, 'till death do us part and the clock itself wears thin its time.

Those are the things I’ve gleaned in three years of learning to fight well and love even better. I’m immeasurably thankful for the gift that is being your wife.  Happy Anniversary my husband, Mon amour.

  

Artist's Theology - Let them talk.

My pastor posted this excerpt from one of Vincent Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo in October of 1884. I found it so illuminating that I could not resist re-posting it for whomever may stumble upon this blog.

“I tell you, if one wants to be active, one must not be afraid of going wrong, one must not be afraid of making mistakes now and then. Many people think that they will become good just by doing no harm - but that’s a lie, and you yourself used to call it that. That way lies stagnation, mediocrity.

Just slap anything on when you see a blank canvas staring you in the face like some imbecile. You don’t know how paralyzing that is, that stare of a blank canvas is, which says to the painter, You can’t do a thing. The canvas has an idiotic stare and mesmerises some painters so much that they turn into idiots themselves. Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of `you can’t’ once and for all.

Life itself, too, is forever turning an infinitely vacant, dispiriting blank side towards man on which nothing appears, any more than it does on a blank canvas. But no matter how vacant and vain, how dead life may appear to be, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, who knows something, will not be put off so easily. He wades in and does something and stays with it, in short, he violates, “defiles” - they say. Let them talk, those cold theologians.”  - Vincent Van Gogh

Action to avoid passivity and assimilation.

Love to overcome hollow theology.

If I could say one thing at your wedding....

This last weekend I was in a wedding of a dear, dear friend.  The bride and groom asked their attendants and a few others to assemble a bouquet of love and support for them. They asked each of us to speak for approximately 30 seconds during the ceremony.  More specifically they asked that we would share a word of encouragement, a thought on Scripture as it pertains to marriage, bits of wisdom from personal experience, or affirmation of what we know or have observed of them or our hope for their life together (and then add a flower, which they gave us, into a vase).

I agonized over this for DAYS. I mean, how can you really illustrate a picture of someone or sum up anything profound in 30 seconds? You can’t, unless you’re Maya Angelou or someone as poetically inclined. However I tried my darndest to add depth and wisdom and sincerity in my 30 second sermon. I said something along the lines of:

“Romans 12:10 reads “Love one another with genuine affection. Outdo one another in showing honor.” We talk a lot about love but we don’t talk nearly as much about honor. To honor means to respect, esteem, dignify, to speak highly of each other when the other person isn’t around. Please remember to outdo one another in showing honor, to respect each other as much as you love each other.”

Or something to that effect. I had it written on a note card which got lost in the hustle and bustle of the never ending picture session.

I meant it, every word, and I chose that particular thing to talk about because frankly it isn’t something that my husband and I do well and I see the effects of a lack of honor. However there are a few things that I’d like to add in my 30 seconds +. Without further adieu:

1.    Don’t take yourself too seriously. You aren’t always right and your spouse won’t always get it right, and that is life.

2.    Do your best to see things in perspective, to see baby steps of progress when it feels like you have gotten nowhere.

3.    Remember how much time you spent planning your wedding down to the littlest detail? Remember how much time you spent the day before your wedding trying to make sure you had the best laid plans? Spend just as much time and effort working on your marriage daily.

4.    Serve one another in the little things. People say little things don’t matter but if something little matters to your spouse, then do your best to serve them in the little things.

5.    Make sure that your spouse’s name is always safe in your mouth. Never slander them or degrade them to other people.

6.    Make each other laugh.

7.    Learn about the ways your spouse likes to be loved and put them into practice, and in the same breath, see how they love well and do your best to accept it even if it isn’t your thing.

And there you have them… a few things that if given the chance I’d say at your wedding. There are more and trust me I’ve failed miserably at everything on this list, but we try and really that is all that we can ask of each other.

In My Annotated Life

I was recently asked to map out a timeline of my last year, detailing all the highs and lows that occurred. At first I thought it was a good idea; that was until I started thinking of the last year. After agonizing for at least five minutes, I had only thought of five or so major things to put on my timeline and none of them felt like they were worth much with the exception of helping get Mosaic off the ground. So like any mature and rational person would, I ignored the “project” until the next week when everyone was supposed to share. At our weekly gathering we started talking and a couple of people read their timelines. One person’s timeline was filled with pregnancy and the birth of their first child. The next person’s detailed a year of physical and mental struggles due to a major injury. As I listened to both of these stories I thought to myself, “How in the world do these people remember this stuff?”

When it got to be my turn I freely admitted that I hadn’t done the exercise and resolved to have it done for the next week. My intentions were good, I swear, but as I sat down again I could not do it. I thought maybe it was because I’m not a feeler. Relatively speaking I never get too high or too low and the so called even keel-ness isn’t good for timelines. Or maybe it is because the life I lead is just really boring. The reality is probably a combination of the two but I came out of the questions with a different outlook.

You see, my annotated life just looks a little different. Instead of milestones there are little moments that make my life rich and eventful. My improvised timeline looks something like this:

May ’10: Beat Nathan at tennis and felt totally BA.

June ’10: Enjoyed countless barbeques with my family and laughed uncontrollably at inappropriate dinner table talk.

July ’10: Spent 4^th of July scaring the living daylights out of my friends and laughing until the point of nausea.

August ’10: Made a lot of jokes about “pulling the goalie.” Slow clapped for teenage girl too scared to cliff jump into the lake (Got scowled at by said girl).

September ’10: Had beers and smores with a great couple while throwing flour into the fire and saying Harry Potter spells. (Highly flammable and highly entertaining)

October ’10: Started actually enjoying hanging out with women and had some of the best coffee dates of my life.

November ’10: Had a really great unexpected phone conversation with an old friend that reminded me how much I love them. Developed a new friendship over gmail chat and twitter.

December ’10: Planned stellar NYE surprise with the best co-conspirator and had more quality conversations that I could count.

January ’11: Read Little Women for the umpteenth time and loved every word.

February ’11: Got a couple letters that made me feel like one of the most special people in the world. Cried for the first time in forever. 

March ’11: Had a blast in Chicago surrounded by a lot of love. Shared an amazing week at sea with my husband and our friends. Read a Nora Roberts book against my will and didn’t hate it.

April ’11: Hugged a new friend for the first time, one of the greatest hugs ever.  Shared tons of witty banter via email. Reignited my passion for sunflower seeds.

Nothing special, no major milestones, but from the looks of it, I had a really great year. 

Delicate Reassurance

I rocked a baby to sleep on Sunday evening.  I held her little body in my arms and quietly hummed a mishmash of lullabies as she balanced delicately between asleep and awake. When I was sure of her slumber, I called in my husband and we prayed for her. We spoke quiet intercessions over the little girl we have grown to love. We asked our Father to give her peaceful sleep and happy dreams. We asked for little things that on the large scale don’t mean much. We prayed for her parent’s guidance and then we ended as we always have with a request that she would grow healthy and strong, to serve and love Him.

She didn’t move a muscle the entire time. Normally she fights the sleep and fusses when I transition from the rocking chair to the crib but not this time. The only noise she made was a gentle sigh when I laid her down, a small surrender from her tired little body. It was beautiful, and I left the room feeling refreshed and thankful. I was thankful that she went down easy because to be honest, I was tired too. Thankful that we had the rest of the evening to relax and that her parents also could relax on their night out, knowing that she was fast asleep.

I didn’t realize until later that for the first time in five months of watching her and putting her to sleep once or twice a month, I left the room not feeling wanting. Prior to this evening I had always fought a hint of jealousy and dissatisfaction. As hard as I tried and wrestled, I always felt frustrated and sad that I didn’t have my own child to rock and hum to, to pray over and protect, to shepherd and love. That night however, I left the room with peace and joy and thankfulness and I realized that the gentle sigh, the small surrender that she gave as I laid her down was not the only one that took place. I had made a small or maybe not so small surrender of my own.

As I mulled it over I remembered something that the little girl’s mom told me recently. That God would give me the children that I’m supposed to love, a truth that she had clung to when she was in the exact same position as myself. At the time I had brushed it off, thinking to myself that it was easier said than done. However, as I sat there in my small surrender I thought and believed that if this was it that I would be okay with that. If this is the way I’m supposed to love Your children then so be it. 

Letter Pressed Love

I spent a good chunk of time on Saturday afternoon searching for the right thing to say. As I fed the paper through the old machine I ran my fingers over the rusting keys. I briefly pondered the rest of the people that stood here today expressing their sentiments with these iron keys attached to this archaic instrument. Did they send love to significant others, or parents? Did they choose words of their own or romantic poems? Is it real? Is, it ever real? Are our hearts really capable of genuine love?

I think so.

It took me a couple tries to get it just right. I started over twice after missing keys and misspelling important words, but after a couple tries I finally found a good rhythm, a click-click cadence. I matched the not so graceful sound of the keys striking the paper ever so intentionally and I began my note with a poem, one of my favorites. It seems like it expresses what I feel much better than I could ever articulate. …to the depth and breadth and height… No one talks like that anymore but I wish they did. Those words deeply resonate with how I love Him and how I’m learning to love you. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life!

You’ll get the note today, this love on the run. Someone from my favorite little homemade paper shop will deliver it to your desk and you’ll read the words and be moved because you’re the romantic type. You’ll unquestionably like the poem because you know what it means to me but I reckon you’ll like the last line the best.  After I finished typing the poem I only had one line left. One line to sum up how I feel in my own letter pressed love.  Thankful to be yours… Yeah, that’s about right.

Daydream Dancing

This piece began from this prompt, but I don't know that I actually accomplished the objective.


I shouldn’t have listened to that song when it came on the radio. Normally I would turn the station but today I allowed myself to linger.  I was surprised at how quickly I slipped into the routine, the one we perfected on Sunday nights between sweaty bodies on the smoky dance floor. It was as if I could feel your right hand lock into mine and your left one slide around the small of my back. We’d made friends with the band and they would always play our song. When we got good, everyone would clear a circle in the center and watch our choreographed intimacy. They'd clap and whistle when we got to the extra spins and steps we’d added for flair.

I didn’t feel guilty until it got close to the finale; the part where you moved in close and locked your hips to mine, your hands slipping down the front of my thighs as we swayed back and forth to the rise and fall of the melody. Then as the last few bars of the song expired you would dip me low towards the floor and each time we would pause longer than the last, all caught up in each other, the heaviness of the moment. It was always slow motion for me, the rise and fall of my chest as I tried to find my breath and beads of sweat rolling down my collar bone towards the nape of my neck.  You’d pull me up laughing and we would retire to our corner booth, all our energy spent.

It didn’t get much better than that for us. We couldn’t seem to communicate anywhere but the dance floor and our love didn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t even love, but I’m not sure. I shrugged off all my uncertainties as I made my way back to reality. I tried not to feel guilty as I tucked away all the little memories that found their way into my daydream. After all, it was just a dance, just 4 minutes of cha-cha-ing through our yesterdays. 

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.

A Thousand Words

I look at this picture everyday as I sit at my desk. It encompasses one of my favorite moments of my wedding day, but it’s so much more than that. It illustrates a redemptive story that only you and I will ever understand. When I rifle through the memories of my childhood there are very few that involve you being tender, loving or compassionate. In fact most of the things I remember have something to do with your rough hands landing swiftly against my backside. Not to mention countless memories of hurtful words exchanged and weeks of not speaking. I patronized you as often as I could and belittled your intelligence in front of my arrogant friends. You never took the time to put up with my bull____ which only fueled my desire to rebel against whatever mandate you had put forth. In hindsight I realize that this friction between you and I occurred because of our likeness. We’re stubborn, hard-headed, aggressive and slow to forgive. Neither one of us likes to show emotion or weakness, we’re self-sufficient and proud. These qualities although admirable at times inhibit us from communicating well.

I spent years fighting against you only to realize that I was fighting against myself. Sure you’re not the perfect example of parenthood but you attempted to raise me strong, independent and perceptive. You had my best interest in mind and you still do, but now I have respect for you. You’ve become a lot more tender the past few years. Maybe it was mom’s cancer or getting older. Maybe you haven’t changed at all. Maybe I just woke up to see all the ways I’ve gone wrong in judging you. Whatever it is, I love who we’ve become lately. Sure, we will continue to have our scuffles but you’ve seen more sides of me than anyone. After all, you’re the last person I’ve cried in front of, and you were the only one to see me nervous on my wedding day. As I stood there alone for the first time all day, watching my bridesmaids walking up to the altar, I started breathing heavily. You came over and placed your rough hands on my shoulders. I knew you put them there because you were afraid the calluses on your hands and permanently dirty cracks from years of laboring would snag or stain my satin dress. You kissed me on the cheek like always and whispered I love you. That was all I needed, it was perfect. Your tenderness in that moment erases any tarnished memory of my childhood. Our dance that night was full of sarcastic remarks and laughter as you spun me around the dance floor. As cheesy as is sounds, that picture really does say a thousand words but usually only four come to mind. 

I love you, Daddy.

The First

It seems like we all have a fascination with firsts. We carry fond memories of the first time we rode our bikes or flew on an airplane. There are all sorts of emotions tied up in firsts, most of them include excitement and adrenaline but some of them include heavier emotions like pain, suffering and disappointment. Up to a certain point in my life many of my firsts were all enveloped in guilt and shame and lies. I don’t remember my first lie, but I know that I became imposingly good at it. It felt quite natural to string together a delightful sounding phrase to confuse or distract whomever I was duping.

I did just that the night I had my first kiss. I told the boy I wanted to kiss that he had to help me finish a scavenger hunt, that I had to find the cutest boy at camp and kiss him for ten seconds. He obliged even though we were in front of campers and counselors and he was 5 years my senior. I was quite surprised that my lips felt tingly and even more surprised when I felt his tongue touch mine. I found that to be weird and a little disgusting but I played along like I knew this whole charade backwards and forwards. When a counselor approached to break up our little love fest (after all it was a Christian camp) I spouted off another lie blaming a giggling group of nearby girls for daring me to commit such a scandalous act.

The truth is I didn’t know those girls and I didn’t even know the name of the boy I had just kissed. I didn’t have a scavenger hunt to accomplish nor did anyone dare me but I did know that my older sister had a crush on him and that she had just seen the whole thing. So when someone asks about my first kiss I say it was a boy at camp mainly because the only thing I remember now is that he wore a neon green backwards baseball cap and had bad breath. It was as unromantic as my second kiss which occurred in the middle of the dance floor on homecoming night my freshman year of high school. I assured my date that he was the fourth or fifth boy I’d kissed and I made sure all my friends saw our sloppy session during “Amazed.”

I continued this trend of deceit with many firsts that followed my first (or second) kiss. The first time I slept with someone and the first time I drank too much I pretended like I was a seasoned veteran and I recounted the stories like they were normal occurrences. All those firsts were a train wreck, a desperate attempt at social integration and acceptance but there is one first I’ll never forget. A first that makes all other firsts pale in comparison. I’ll never forget the first time I felt loved. There was no shame or deception, no lies and no plea for acceptance, just love. There was adrenaline and joy, excitement and anticipation and for the first time I didn’t have to be anybody but me.

Unprepared

I wasn’t ready for all of this you know. It was supposed to be about me, a summer of reform and revolution, but there you were. Instead of independence and self realization it was butterflies, phone calls and letters. It was so unfamiliar; not so much the mutual attraction but the mutual respect. I was shocked that someone wanted more from me than just instant gratification.

I wasn’t ready for commitment but there it was. I certainly wasn’t ready to be your wife. I don’t know how to function in this partnership of servitude. My arrogant selfish nature is debilitating and destructive. I’m supposed to help and support you not manipulate my agenda. I’m hopeless at best, but praise the One who sees infinitely more that my finite mind can perceive. He may not have sent prince charming but he did send perfect provision in the form of everything I’m not.

We far from have it all together but as long as we’re doing it together I don’t really care. We will take this organized chaos and slap the label love on it because that’s what it is and so much more. I'm sure we won't be ready the day we hold a baby in our arms and I can’t help but be excited to see the beauty that our helplessness will reveal. 

I love stumbling through life with you even though I'm terribly unprepared.

Untitled... for now.

She was beautiful. Her silver hair framed her face just right. She had deep lines around her face from years of laughter, her best feature in my opinion. Her laugh was deep and hearty, such a big surprise coming from such a small woman. I remember her laugh as if she were sitting next to me laughing right now. It revealed such a deep joy. She had big, strong hands and was proud of the ability to palm a basketball at the age of 70 (my hero.) She often wore pearls and always told me that you shouldn’t wait for a special occasion to wear them. I wore hers on my wedding day. She was the most kind and compassionate person I ever knew. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites but it was clear that I was hers. We were the best of friends. We spent nearly every Wednesday during summer exchanging candy between fits of laughter and mischief. She would bring me an apple pie, my favorite, and I would buy her some disgusting boston baked beans or burnt peanuts, her favorite. Amidst our laughter we had many conversations about life, faith, friendships and anything else. She shared all sorts of wisdom with me, like, never withhold a compliment, always be kinder than necessary to someone in need and always tell someone when you love them. I heard her say those three words more times than I could ever count and never once did I question her sincerity. I try to live up to those things as best as I can. I realize I remember only the best version of her. Mom says she swore like a sailor but I secretly like to chalk that up into my favorite things about her as well. Even when she had surgeries to fix her back and other things, I still thought she was invincible.

I walked into the kitchen one hot summer morning. I’d slept terrible and hadn’t bothered to change out of my oversized pajamas. Everyone was sitting around the kitchen table looking somber. It was obvious they all knew something I didn’t; either that or I was in trouble again. They had all known for awhile, since the night before when my entire extended family had been over mourning together, when I had obliviously retreated to my upstairs bedroom to play obnoxious music and be a moody teenager. No one could bear to come get me, fearing what my reaction would be. Mom refused to look at me, so I laughed at all of them and sarcastically remarked, “Who died?” Dad looked up and told me, his voice shaking and his eyes full of big sloppy tears. It felt like someone had emptied all the air out of my lungs and I gasped loudly between sobs as I beat my dad’s chest calling him a liar.  I cried until it felt like my tear ducts had dried up; until all I could do was sleep. It was the first time I ever felt broken, the first time that I couldn’t think of anything to do to mend myself and I mourned for a long time. I refused to acknowledge the reality and I haphazardly masked the pain I felt. It took a long time but I healed and eventually grasped on to reality and tried to start walking in direction that she so often instructed me.

On Christmas Eve we watched home movies. It wasn’t until I heard her laugh half-way through that I realized she had been filming. She was laughing at my hopeless attempt to steer a go kart around the kiddy track at Okoboji and cheering me on. Hearing her laugh on tape was the best gift this year. I’ve recalled it to mind often since then as I did this morning on my drive to work.  It brings forth stronger emotions than I’m sometimes ready for but I love it, it’s the best sound.

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.