Lately

One of the things I've enjoyed about having one main co-worker these last few months (i.e. being severely short-staffed...love you, Heather!) is the daily sharing of our lives. As we ride the ups and downs of work together, we also get to enter into the ups and downs of our personal lives. Though asking "What are your plans for tonight?" or "How was your weekend?" may seem trivial at first, I think there is great value in such questions. They encourage reflection and story-telling. They bring emotions to the surface to be dealt with. They give us things to laugh about and sometimes things to pray about.

Through such daily sharing, Heather has become much more than just a co-worker to me. She has become a friend and confidant, and I treasure her greatly.

Lately, I've been telling Heather that I feel tired and have no idea why. That is when she reminds me that my weeknights and weekends usually consist of book editing, bike riding, disc golfing, river rafting, breakfasting with my folks, ice cream eating with friends, coffee-ing, photo shooting, worship practicing, church-ing, apartment cleaning, and lots of other-ings. And it's true. But I have no complaints. I am thankful to God for giving me so many good friends who like to get out and about. And (as I may very well mention in every blog post from here on out at the risk of becoming annoying!) I am so thankful to God for bringing Justin and I together. I love that man. I love every second with him.

So, for friends near who have joined these adventures and for friends far who kindly express interest in knowing how I spend my days, here's what I've been up to lately:

 

BMW (Burly Mountain Women) snowshoeing excursion in the Big Horn Mountains.

 

Crystal is one of the burliest (and most beautiful) BMWs I know. Seriously. She got engaged on a 40 day/40 night backpacking trip in the wilderness of Wyoming. Yeah. Don't mess with her :).

 

For "Western Day" at work, Heather and I took over the Sidewalk Cafe and demanded, "Lattes for my men, and frappes for my horses!"

 

In April, I attended and photographed my first branding. 

 

Bike riding adventure in Story, Wyoming. Love these peeps...especially that handsome fella in red :).

 

J is the best disc golfer I know. We spend a lot of time on the disc golf courses around town. This one is at the VA hospital. 

 

In May, the beau and I took a photo excursion to an old abandoned power plant near Buffalo, Wyoming. This was on the trail to our destination.

 

Old power plant from the outside.

 

Justin is an uber-talented photographer. Check out his website here. (Shameless plug for a fellow starving artist: Buy a print or two! Your wall needs fine art!)

 

Abandoned power plant on the inside. 

 

 

J

 

A little nature photography.

 

My brother's movie, The Adventures of Chris Fable, hit Wal-Mart in March! An action-packed family film based on John Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress," it will be a hit with kids of all ages. (Shameless plug: Go buy one today!) 

 

Rafting and kayaking Big Goose Creek through Sheridan.

 

Derek and Ashley raft in style.

 

The gang.

Shirley

Down the street from my parents lives a feisty, lively, lovely old gal named Shirley. Last fall, the entire neighborhood threw her a "Deadwood or Bust" party for her 80th birthday. Gifts fell mainly into two categories: supplies to support Shirley's avid baking habit and funds to support her avid gambling habit and her upcoming trip to Deadwood, South Dakota. From what I hear, she is quite the cutthroat gambler. At the party, Shirley drank and joked and generally held her own with all the young whipper snappers who had gathered to celebrate the neighborhood's most beloved resident.

Until recently, Shirley has walked nearly a mile a day on the streets of her neighborhood. My mom often joins her, and the two have forged quite the friendship. My mom says she is one of the liveliest gals she knows. And it's true. Shirley always speaks with gusto and never tolerates crap about anything from anyone. Her eyes gleam with years of living hard and full in Wyoming's desolate grip.

About a month ago, Shirley ended up in the Intensive Care Unit for seven days. When my mom visited her, she hugged her for what she thought was surely the last time. Doctors said Shirley was this close to passing through those proverbial Pearly Gates.

But Shirley wasn't ready to pass on, move over, or give up. Be it the feist in her soul or the life in her liveliness, she somehow knew she had to put her fists up and give death the old one-two jab.

Shirley now walks only a couple houses down the block before her legs give way and she must turn back home. But she's still walking, still fighting, still holding her own with all those young whipper snappers in the neighborhood.

Today, I had the privilege of sharing a few steps with her.

"What's new?" Shirley asked, her eyes reflecting her genuine interest in knowing how a person is really doing.

I started to talk about how work was going well and how I liked my new apartment. She nodded politely, but I could tell she wanted deeper conversation. Small talk must seem awfully, terribly small to a person who has teetered on the brink of death and just happened to land back in life for a while longer.

I asked her how she was doing. She said she'd been given a second chance at life and was going to do all she could to make it better this time. No matter that much of her life was behind her; she was going to make what life was ahead better.

She asked again how I was doing. And I think I got it right with my second answer. I told her that I am being courted by a truly great man. I told her about how he makes me laugh and about how he respects me as a daughter of God. I told her that I've been alone a long time now, that I worry about the jaded edges in me, but that I feel secure with him.

I told her I was full of hope. She told me my face was full of joy. She said it was the best news she'd heard all week. I presumed someone who is "living life better" would know good news, so I agreed with her.

After a few minutes, Shirley's strength began to fade, so she turned to walk slow and steady, yet still feisty and lively, back home. But before she left, she taught me one more thing about "living life better." She hugged me tight, looked in my eyes, and said, "Love you."

I said, "Love you, too." And, as I watched her gray head bob away one cane-step at a time, I knew I meant it. And I knew that I was standing on the brink of the rest of my life and that I should never, ever neglect to say those two important words to those in my life who deserve to hear them.

Here's to you, Shirley. And here's to second life. And love.

24 hours

If I had 24 hours left to live, I would spend them much like I just spent the last 24 hours. I would pepper my last two turns of the clock with my brother, sister-in-law, niece, and dearest friends, but otherwise I wouldn't change much. I would not go skydiving. I would not try to make it to Hawaii to finish that bucket list. I would just live, coffee to coffee, loved one to loved one, sun ray to mountain vista.

I would listen to live music with a man who I think is pretty terrific. I would smile at his laugh.

I would read a book by Mark Twain.

I would pray...fall asleep praying.

I would wake with a big stretch and a "Good morning, God!"

I would let the sun kiss my face as I sat on the steps waiting for my parents to pick me up and take me to breakfast, just like we've done every Saturday for nearly 30 years. I would delight in sharing life with them over blueberry pancakes and whipped cream.

I would feel the road beneath me, and I would stop for coffee at a gas station on the way because it's there and I always want coffee.

I would play disc golf with my dad.

I would marvel at my mom's beauty in the open field.

I would eat cheap, authentic tacos at the local taco truck.

I would take photos and walk to my favorite coffee shop to edit them. And, of course, I'd drink one last mug of a really good brew...preferably Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.

I would ride my bike and stop to smell the lilacs growing along the road. 

I would watch the sun set behind the mountains outside my kitchen window.

I would bake a birthday cake for a friend, licking batter from the beaters and dancing in my kitchen, just me and my music and God.

I would wash my face and brush my teeth while stretching, and I would pray.

Fall asleep praying. 

Self Portrait

I have joined a local photographer's association. This is noteworthy because it was one of my New Year's resolutions to join...something. I am not one who usually joins clubs, so this was a big step for me. It is a fun group, and I look forward to learning from each photographer.

Our first photo assignment was a self portrait. This made me nervous. I like to be behind the camera.

Alas, I set the self-timer and sat myself down in front of the lens. I thought I'd share my "official" entry...as well as a couple photos that occurred after I grew weary of focusing on myself and decided to just dance.

 

I am but one of billions. It is not all about me.

 

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

One salty tear and one shaky breath at a time

It has been 297 days since July 4, 2011. I know. Who cares, right?

Well, tonight, as I listen to music and look through old photographs of past adventures, I care. I care because July 4, 2011, was a pretty traumatic day for me. I don't want to re-hash all the details here, but you can read my blog post about that day if you want. The run-down is this: In the early morning hours of that day, my friend and I were robbed by four men in backwoods Tennessee. They had crow bars and threatened to use guns. And a man I'll never see again (save in heaven, Lord willing) put his hands all over my body and threatened to rape me.

I've never been more scared as I was at about 1:30 a.m. when I was laying flat on my stomach whispering "Jesus" over and over as the men yelled for our money and my body, and I've never been more grateful for my next breath as I was when it all ended about 1:37 a.m. with the men speeding away with all our cash. And no more. Just our cash. Only our money. God is, indeed, our defender.

The events of that day did more damage to my mind and heart than I had originally thought they would. For several months after the incident, I was able to recount the details much like a reporter would recount a news story. This happened. That happened. And here I am still alive and grateful. But then, 3-4 months later, I was playing bass guitar on my church's worship team. We were singing the song, "Your Great Name" by Natalie Grant, when, at the lines, "Every fear has no place at the sound of Your great Name; The enemy, he has to leave at the sound of Your great Name," I fell to pieces. Tears streamed down my face, dotting my glasses with a mist of salt, as I recalled the event, the heart-throbbing sense of terror mixed with a strange fight-or-flight sense of steeliness, with flashback clarity. Something in the mix of the words and the music ripped away the Band-Aid of objectivity I'd placed over the wound, and I bled.

Being very German and quite stoic, I thought that one good cry in front of God and everyone would "cure" me. But to this day, I cry every time I hear or sing that song. The tears carry different weight each time as the wound heals from gushing to scabby to itchy to scaly to scarred. 

Scaly. That is what I would say I am now. In the months since the great gusher of October '11, I have progressed from bedtime flashbacks, to googling and facebooking the name of the man who touched me, to genuine sobbing prayers for God to reach those men with His love and forgiveness.

Most recently, I got rid of the shirt I was wearing during the incident. As silly as it sounds, that was a big step for me. I had held onto it for...I don't know what reason. I didn't wear it much because every time I put it on, I remembered. But I hung it in my closet so I wouldn't forget. I didn't want to remember, and I didn't want to forget. It was an odd limbo.

But, it's gone. And though I cried after I'd shed it, the tears were good tears. The wound grew one more layer of pink-white skin, a bit scaly and a bit smooth.

It is not necessarily fun to heal slowly like this. Part of me wishes I could have kept pretending I was strong. But, as I look back on the past 297 days, most of me is glad that God is helping me heal well one salty tear and one shaky breath at a time. 

Tails, Trails and Tales

My Mom is an artist, and I am a photographer, so when an opportunity came up last fall to host a dual exhibit in downtown Sheridan, we took it.

We had an artists' reception March 8. Once I got over the awkward factor of 80-some people turning out to check out our work (I tend to shy away from the spotlight), I quite enjoyed myself. In fact, having so many friends, co-workers, and strangers support me and my Mom in our creative endeavors filled me to overflowing with warm, fuzzy, I'm loved feelings. So a big THANK YOU to all who came to our show (including several who drove several hours to make it) and to all who purchased our work! I hope our paintings and photographs brought a little cheer to all who passed through the gallery.

With no further ado, here are a few photos of the big event:

 

Hanging the show.

 

My Mom, the artiste.

 

Some of my work...and our local Boot Barn...

 

More of my work...

 

My Mom does mostly mixed media with watercolor and pastel. This is some of her wall at the show.

 

Our friends Bev and Lindsey came over the mountains from Cody to see our show! Sure was good to see them!

 

My Mom at our Artists' Reception. Such a lovely, talented woman. 

 

My Dad and some of his students provided live music for the reception.

 

Friends who turned out to support us. Thanks, friends!

 

Me and my Mom and Dad.

 

More friends! I'm so blessed. 

 

Holding on to Das Lacheln

I sometimes think that if I could just grasp, seize, clutch, cradle, hold on to the smiles of friends, family, strangers, co-workers, my little 1-year-old niece, it would be like wrapping my arms, my days, around a bouquet of flowers or a bunch of balloons, and I would just float happily from moment to moment.

I see a photo of my niece smiling at bubbles rising above her into skies blue with burgeoning spring, and I feel like I've somehow cheated this sin-ridden world. Is it possible to take such delight in the fleeting face of another?

The grin of a stranger across the library makes me forget the editing before me and the chair beneath me. He smiled at me! And then he left, and I've never seen him again, but that doesn't matter. He didn't have to smile. I feel special because he did.

When my dad smiles, it is almost always accompanied by a laugh, or perhaps a song that has carried him away on a wave of voice, beat, and guitar strum. I could listen to his smiles all day long.

I surround myself with photos of friends because their smiles transcend time from that particularly joyful moment to now--be now happy or sad--to remind me that I was loved then and I am loved now.

I understand that life, in all honesty, cannot always be a bouquet full of smiles. Flowers wither and balloons pop. We need times of lament to grasp the depth of God's mercy and loving-kindness. But, as I sit here tonight, blubbering in all my Aunt-y sappiness at the pure joy my niece has brought my heart, I am thinking I'd like to try as often as I can to be a balloon for those around me. I am German, and sometimes my face forgets to lacheln, but if my smile can give someone a few steps of floating happiness, it is worth my effort.

Cheeseburger eating semi drivers

I have decided that one of the world's greatest unsolved mysteries is this: Why is it that when I am driving, the road will be completely and utterly deserted until I must cross a narrow, icy bridge or maneuver a hairpin mountain turn? At those points, when I most want to be the only car on the road, a giant semi with an even larger driver eating the biggest, messiest cheeseburger EVER will come barreling towards me or around me in utter ignorance of the fact that I exist. At that point, it is just a man and his cheeseburger; what little green Subaru Forrester?

Right as I'm veering off the road in a whirling, swirling cloud of snow and slush, my phone will ring, and I will sneeze, and my cup of coffee will teeter out of its holder in a gush of Niagara java falls, and my glasses will fall off due to the impact of the sneeze, and I will suddenly remember the name of the third grade schoolmate I was trying to remember, and I will start to cry and laugh at the same time as my heart moshes in my chest. And then the truck will be gone. The man and his cheeseburger will be gone. And I will pick up my coffee cup and listen to my voicemail and find my glasses and run my windshield wipers and get back on the road. And I will be all alone until that next hairpin mountain turn.

Everything happens at once, they say. I don't know who they are, but I can guarantee they, too, have a long list of incidents involving semi drivers eating cheeseburgers...or, in other words, every part of their life morphing, cheering, throbbing, moving, exploding at once. Even when much of the everything that is happening at once is good, it is still a little mind boggling.

The art show. The artists' reception. The doctor's appointment. The car repair. The ugly meeting at work. The co-worker getting fired. The doubled workload. The writing and editing projects that all need attention NOW. The amazing deal on an apartment. The scrubbing of walls and cupboards. The move. The myriad social engagements.

Alas, it has happened, and here I am in the thick of it, drinking coffee, sleeping less, appreciating more. In these last couple weeks of whirlwind activity, I find myself delighting in the steadfast wonders of a gracious God who created an incredible world. The crescent moon over a Wyoming sunrise blazing pink and red and orange. The lullaby of a wind chime outside my window as I set up my new kitchen. The smile of friends over a refreshing glass of stout. The flower delivery at work. The "well done" of a stranger. The kiss upon my forehead before I crash into sleep-oblivion and wake up with both my arms dead and tingly and laughingly limp at my side. 

I am thankful for this moment to listen to music and do the thing I must do to stay sane. I delight in this moment to stop and reflect and pray and write. My dear friends, knowing you are out there somewhere on the road, too, makes me feel safe. If you see me laugh-crying on the side of the road in my slush-covered Forrester that smells like spilled coffee, please stop and say hello. And I will do the same. When you encounter a cheeseburger eating semi driver, and a sneeze, and lost glasses, and Niagara coffee, and everything happening at once, I'll be there to cry-laugh with you, and congratulate you on the good, and sorrow with you on the bad, and point to the diner up ahead where we can just sit together and be...for at least a moment. 

Snow! Snow! Just look at the snow!

When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was "Snow," by Roy McKie and P.D. Eastman. Okay...it's still one of my favorites. I pulled it off the shelf and read it last week.

The entire book is dedicated to the sheer wonder of snow. Snow is fun and fluffy. It can be rolled into a ball and chucked at your brother's face. You can make it into a fort. You can make tracks and pictures on your backs. You can ski down a hill and make a snowman named Ned.

Seriously, if you have a son or daughter, or nephew or niece, or if a friend has a kid or you meet a kid on the street, buy them this book. Then curl up with some hot cocoa and read it to them over and over :).

My small Wyoming town hasn't received much snow this year, but the mountains just 15 miles away have gotten a fair share. Since I was recently given a pair of snowshoes, I've been able to get out and enjoy the snow in a new way.

"Do you like it in your face?"
"Yes! I like it any place."

 On our trek for a Christmas tree. This is what happens when you don't have snowshoes.

 Went snowboarding/skiing with my friends Jason and Tori. Sure felt good to be on my board again after a year-long hiatus. 

 Going up...

 Snowshoeing in Story, Wyoming.

 Making tracks near the summit on Highway 14. 

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder
 
The other night at work--
as I frothed milk and pulled espresso shots--
I watched a man walk by carrying a present so big
his body was a pink box and his head was a pink bow.
He was on his way
to the pediatric section of the hospital
to welcome
new life.
Life pushing life,
mother pushing baby,
all blue skin turned pink with a wail, a gasp, a flail. 

Later--
as I wiped down the counters and washed the dishes--
I watched a nurse walk by
pushing a gurney draped in a white cloth
and an American flag.
Life pushing death,
nurse pushing patient,
quiet and dignified,
pink skin turning blue as the gurney wheels squeaked
and my water polished silver milk pitchers.

Today--
as I edit, write, edit, write--
I watch a childhood friend walk by
in post after post on my facebook news feed:
Amanda is home and under the care of hospice.
Praying for a peaceful journey into the arms of Jesus.
I love you so much and can't wait to hang out again
on golden streets with our Lord!
Prayers for your two beautiful babies.
We love you Amanda!

Today
I watch a friend die on facebook.

She is 30.
Was 30.
She has cancer.
Had cancer.
Our verb tenses will change soon.
Her 394 facebook friends have posted
calls to fight the cancer and prayers to heal the cancer.
We now post our love
and will soon post our memories.
Eventually, I suppose, the posts will stop,
but I find myself wondering if Amanda's profile will remain,
or if my number of facebook friends will one day drop by one?

I understand life when it walks by
in big pink boxes that celebrate new pink skin and loud pink wails.
And I understand death
when I hold its hand or watch it glide by on a gurney draped in Old Glory.
I understand sobs at the side of a real grave dug in real dirt.

But this facebook death,
this checking a news feed to monitor a life,
this waiting in words and dying in words on a screen?

A keyboard doesn't make a very good shoulder.