I was supposed to enter this world right around December 29, but instead I came early--at not even 29 weeks. I weighed roughly 2.9 pounds. And when doctors first held my tiny body, mangled with cerebral palsy and a clubbed left foot, it is said they doubted I'd make 29 days--let alone 29 years.
And so, I feel pretty blessed to be writing this days after turning the big two nine. When I asked friends how I should mark this occasion, a fellow writer suggested I mark it with words. Give the world one paragraph for each year of your life, he said. I said that sounded like a good idea.
I can't say I remember my first year, but I do know my parents and my brother gave and gave to sustain my life through it. They sold a car to pay the hospital bills. For three months, they drove 60 miles between Glendive and Miles City to hold me with rubber gloves attached to the wall of my incubator home. I did not feel the softness of their hands or the warmth of a kiss until Christmas. I have relished their touch ever since.
Year two called my family south to the vast expanses of Wyoming that would define my childhood. My dad took a job teaching English at Cody High School, and my mom set about the work of raising two toddlers. One of my favorite photographs from this year depicts Andy holding me in his lap as I kick him in the head with one of the hundreds of casts I wore in my early years to correct my leg's deformities. We've been close ever since.
By year three, my loved ones made it clear they did not want my crippled legs or weak left side to hold me back. I hobbled around on my casted legs using a plastic yellow kid's shopping cart. When that wouldn't take me far enough, my Grampa would strap a pillow to his bike and set me side saddle between his arms. We pedaled around the tepees at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center, soaked in the sun by the Shoshone river, and enjoyed one of life's greatest pleasures at a shop on main street: coffee and donuts.
When I was four, I slept on the kitchen table and lived in 37 states. In a gutsy move I didn't fully appreciate until years later, my parents sold their house, bought a motor home, put their jobs on hold, and took Andy and me on a trip around the United States. We weathered a hurricane in Michigan, held snakes in South Dakota, rode bikes in Washington D.C., gazed upon Lady Liberty, and grew ever closer as a family by reading books out loud, putting on plays, and generally living life together in a space 23 feet long and eight feet wide.
By five, I'd had several corrective surgeries and graduated from casts to a leg brace. Yep, I looked like Forrest Gump. But I was happy. At this point, I understood the importance of a girl having a best friend, and Lindsey Loughran has been my bestest bud ever since. Our bond has evolved from playing dress up and Barbies to one of fierce loyalty and support through all the business of growing up.
I wrote my first book at age six. It was a hand-drawn, hand-written account of my family's motor home adventure. Twenty-three years later, and I'm still writing travel stories peppered with hand-shot photographs. Our passions in life start young, I guess.
Seven was seven. I had bloomed into a buck-toothed, short-haired tomboy who loved nothing more than playing Indiana Jones with my brother and stomping in mud puddles.
Mrs. Sell was my second-grade teacher. She instilled my eight-year-old mind with a love of learning, and I've been a bit of a bookworm ever since. To this day, I still wish all math equations could be done by licking my finger, drawing the numbers in Kool-Aid, and licking my sticky, sugary finger again.
I made the most important decision of my life at age nine: I became a follower of Christ at a summer Vacation Bible School. I pray each and every person who reads this has made--or will soon make--the same decision. Ask me about it; I'd be glad to tell you why I still believe twenty years later.
Ten is a little like seven. I honestly don't remember any big, year-defining moments. I do remember liking my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Blake, my friends at school and church, and any activity that involved being outside. I also vaguely remember getting odd flutters in my stomach around a boy named Jesse...
If I remember right, we moved to Willow Lane somewhere in the vicinity of my 11th year. When asked about my childhood home, I think of this house. It had a big yard for playing baseball, a basketball hoop, a wall for hitting a tennis ball against, a dog named Sandy, a red-carpeted family room with a Foosball table, and lots of different people in its guest room at various times and for various lengths of time. We were a busy family. We worked hard (paper route, for me), played hard, and were almost constantly hosting a missionary or a transient or a spare teenager.
You say sixth-grade, and I think Brad. Brad with his green eyes. Brad with his floppy brown hair. Brad who made every 12-year-old girl I knew swoon. Including me. I was 12 when I went to youth group with Brad, 12 when I went to summer camp with Brad, and 12 when I roller skated to All-4-One's "I Swear" with Brad. What can I say? I was a child of the 90s.
13. A lot happened in year 13. I played mallet percussion in the advanced seventh-grade band. I co-led a lunchtime Bible study. I played catcher on a softball team. I was actually somewhat popular. And it went to my head. Though I remember this year fondly (how can you not remember dissecting things in Mr. Dittola's life science class fondly?), I also remember being a bit of a snot to some of the people I loved most. Luckily they showed grace and remained my friends through it all.
At 14, the travel bug bit. I spent that summer on a missions trip in England. My 12 teammates and I lived on canal boats that were 6 feet wide and 72 feet long. (What's with me and living in small spaces?) We walked hundreds of miles in the lush landscapes of England and Wales, shared Christ with those we met on the way, and stopped in towns to perform shows at Vacation Bible Schools, nursing homes, and town squares. That trip opened my eyes not only to the world but to the needs in the world.
I was the new girl when I was 15. My Dad became a youth pastor in small-town Montana, and I started high school in a new town with lots of kids I didn't know. I had a terrible piano teacher. Seriously. She held birthday parties for her piano. I got the only D I've ever gotten in my school life. I got fat and wrote lots of depressing poems. But, I got through. Somehow. God gave me a good friend and proved Himself ever faithful.
By 16, I was wearing baggy jeans, giant striped t-shirts, and Vans shoes. Yep, I went skater. Mind you, I didn't actually skateboard, but that was the look I chose. I find that funny as I look back now, especially since I was accused of being stoned several times in spite of the fact I've never once done drugs. Anyway, 16 was much better than 15. I loved goofing off in the percussion section, dressing skater, and being silly with my two good girlfriends. Just don't ask me about dancing on top of a minivan at the airport...
Seventeen was good. By my junior year, I'd established myself as everybody's friend. I wasn't popular; I wasn't unpopular. I just was. And I was generally happy. I wrote stupid love notes to a guy named James who, many years later, came out of the closet. No wonder he wasn't interested. I also spent much of this year raising funds for a missions trip to China that taught me just how hard the missions field can be.
I was diagnosed with type I diabetes at 18. It turned my life upside down. I was aiming for the foreign mission field, planning on becoming God's in-the-bush servant. I wanted to heal the sick. I wanted to build homes for the homeless. I wanted to broadcast the Good News over radio waves to those who would hear no other way. Turns out that in-the-bush missionaries can't have a chronic disease that makes life dependent on vials of insulin. I graduated with no plan for my life. But that never stops God...
Back when I was gung-ho for the mission field, I'd turned down a full-ride scholarship to Montana State University. Spring semester after turning 19, I enrolled at MSU and paid every cent of tuition. Ha. I eventually declared an English Literature major. I did this partly because the guy I was madly in love with was an English Lit. major. But I also did it because I knew I loved to write.
The months surrounding year 20 were some of the worst of my life. A friend committed suicide. My aunt died of cancer. My grampa was killed in a hit-and-run car accident in Georgia. My Dad left the pastorate and returned to grad school, leaving a giant hole in my proud identity as pastor's kid. That boy I was madly in love with at 19 got engaged to a girl from England. I crashed into depths of anger and despair I didn't know existed--and discovered that God lives there, too.
By 21, I had transferred to the University of Wyoming and changed my major to journalism so I could write more. I enjoyed living in the same town as my best friend again. And I slowly adjusted to living away from home for the first time in my life. That summer saw me flying to England again to attend the wedding of that boy I'd been madly in love with at 19. As I look back now, I realize it probably wasn't really love at all. And that's okay.
I met my good friend, Joanna, at 22. She became one of my four roommates in the Kearney house. We didn't really like each other at first, but somehow we fought through it and ended up close. Like this. Tight. And I'm glad. Another of my roommates, Nancy, was killed in a car accident this year. Dealing with her room, her stuff, and the heart-rending job of telling her boyfriend she was dead felt like the most grown-up thing I'd ever done. I don't ever want to be that close to the local TV station's nightly news ever again.
Oh, 23. I began dating the first, and so far only, boy I've ever dated in this magical year. I learned that giddy feels wonderful. I learned that kisses are nice. I began to barely, just maybe learn what real love is. But mostly, I had fun. We had fun. And he had money, so our fun included things like Colorado Rockies baseball games, Collective Soul concerts, and spring break trips to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. I also graduated from college at 23. Yikes. Hello real world!
Oh, 24. I spread my wings to fly after graduating college and found I couldn't flap fast enough. I, like many my age, ended up living in my parent's basement. I LOVE my folks, so that's not such a bad thing. And actually, when I think about it, maybe that was the best place to be when my relationship with my boyfriend tanked. Cause honestly, that sucked. Big time. All is forgiven now, and we remain very good friends, but I'm not gonna lie: it sucked. I felt like I lost part of myself when I lost him. On the up side, I visited Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand and Laos in this year. That was cool.
By 25, just to toss in another cliche here, I got my feet under me. I got a job. A real job. A journalism job at Wyoming's statewide daily newspaper as a features reporter. I had a cubicle and deadlines and one tough editor who, at first, made me wonder if I had what it took to be a reporter. Ends up, I did. I did some memorable interviews and pounded out some pretty decent stories. I had my own apartment, a season's pass to the local ski hill, and a job. A real job.
Twenty-six was more of the same. I did some memorable interviews and pounded out some pretty decent stories. I interviewed and wrote, interviewed and wrote. I ate stress for breakfast and deadlines for midnight snacks in my cubicle. At midnight. At two in the morning. I worked. I worked. I worked. I loved the writing. I will always love the writing. But I began to realize I had few friends. And I was suffering pretty regular panic attacks. By the end of this year, I decided to take a break from the madness for a while. I decided to hop the train and get out of town...
I turned 27 in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. I was on a month-long Amtrak adventure that involved riding the rails around the northern half of the United States and seeing as much as I could possibly see. It was awesome. This blog exists because of that trip. In this year, I also moved back home and wrote a novel in 30 days. But more importantly, I had possibly the best group of friends a girl could have. Sarah, Dave, Becky, Nathan, John, and Josh were medicine to my sick, lonely soul. In the summer of this year, I went to El Salvador with Living Water International to dig water wells for people who changed my perspective on life--and poverty--with their warmth and hospitality.
Okay, 28 gets a bit crazy. I moved to Denver to work with Operation Christmas Child, a ministry of Samaritan's Purse, for five months. It ROCKED. I lived with a wonderful family, made fast friends with Sarah and Ben, and loved, loved, loved my job and coworkers. When that ended, I spent six months ranch-sitting in northwestern Montana while I wrote two books based on my brother's movie, "The Wylds." I loved the life of being an author. I wasn't getting paid. But I was writing! Every day. Once the writing was finished, I went to Alaska for a month to visit my good friend Josh. Loved it. Then, I decided to settle down for a bit. I moved to Kalispell, where my brother and sister-in-law live, got a studio apartment downtown, and landed a couple jobs within walking distance of my apartment.
At 29, I write this post from that tiny studio. I've recently found out I'm going to be an aunt for the first time come May! I am part of a small group Bible study I really enjoy. I am, for the first time in a long while, excited to go to church.
At 29, I am full of hope. And gratefulness for God's constant care. And joy. I am 29, and I can't wait to see where God and I go this year.
* Interestingly enough, if you made it this far in this post, you have just read about twenty-nine hundred words about my life. Well done. I'm impressed.
