Now What?

Walking into my grandma’s house felt like walking back in time. She had chartreuse velvet chairs and floral covered couches. She had shell shaped soaps and embroidered hand towels. Her china cabinet was filled with delicate glassware, and beautiful teacups.

When she died, my family had to decide which of her belongings to keep and which ones to allow the world to have. It was exciting discovering the treasures hiding in the depths of closets and drawers. My grandma was very neat and organized, but never got rid of anything. At one point, my dad found an old grenade and we had to call the police. It was inactive and safe to handle, but a classic story.

I had just turned 19 and had moved back home after one semester of college. I was self conscious about leaving school, and I felt like a social failure who was too homesick to live another semester away… But then she died. And it’s like my decision had been a guided one. At the same time, my mom was finishing chemo. I was sad and lonely, but safe with my family surrounding me at home. (Sheesh…Guess which enneagram I am.)

Fast forward another death, a couple snow covered Grand Rapids winters, several years in Colorado, and a move to Kansas. My homesickness still exists some days. Longing for a place that no longer exists, and longing for memories that were never created. Knowing that my life has happened exactly the way it has, and not wishing differently, I still wonder what it would be like to spend time with my mom alongside my husband. Life looks different 10 years after my grandma died, but settling into marriage, establishing a home, and becoming an aunt hasn’t made me any less sentimental.

I’ve always loved history. I grew up near a place called “Greenfield Village” that was started by Henry Ford. As a child my grandparents would often take me. I got to walk through the workshops and homes of history and fell in love. (One time I even milked a cow.) I took all the history classes I could in high school, will visit any museum, and am not afraid to stop and read any historic site plaque I see. I’ve always wished that I could live in a different time period, but I’m also thrilled to live this current life and still learn about all the ones that’ve past.

I’ve always loved stories. I’m sensitive, empathic, and eager to feel emotions. Stories are easy ways to access all of these traits. I’ve filled our home with antiques, unique finds, and second-hand furniture. I love the space and cozy atmosphere where everything has a story.

Since moving to Kansas and creating a home, I spend a lot of time thrifting and I LOVE IT. I find estate sales, second-hand stores, and estate sales in my area and spend hours wandering dusty aisles and looking through the kitchen drawers of dead strangers. Some days I find my new favorite thing and the best deal ever! Other days I leave with empty hands that really need to be washed (Jared would say it’s rare that I come home empty handed though).

My $4 copper kettle was in hiding in the toy section of a thrift store, but would’ve been $160 at Crate and Barrel! Our cool MCM white vinyl chair & ottoman was a DEAL found at an estate sale in the coolest house I’ve been in. The comfy green chair in our living room was generously given to us by a family at church before we had any furniture to sit in.

Some of our stuff has been in my family since I was born. On our bookshelf lives my dad’s old Minolta (that I still use sometimes), and in my office there’s a pair of wooden folding chairs that my grandpa used to take camping. My dad recently visited and brought the rocking chair that was in my room as a baby.

Today I looked at it, and realized that my mom had once sat there. I am in minimal places where that is true anymore. It made the world feel a little bit safer, and it made me glad to be a lover of all things “old”. I think of all the stories of all the people that used to treasure my treasures, and I wonder who will go on to love the things I love once I’m gone. It doesn’t need to be my family or friends, but I hope there’s someone out there who will one day appreciate my style, stories, and silly little things.

Today I am 24 years old.

Yesterday when I was 23, everything felt confusing and the future was so unclear. Today those feelings remain. But I get to eat cake!

Birthdays are a weird thing to me, because mine has always been January 3rd. The day when most people are going back to work, everyone’s tired of eating rich and sugary foods, and we’re all a little unsure if we’ve got another authentic “Woo!” in us.

On New Years Eve, I definitely had no energy to woo even once. I went to bed at 10:30 pm and slept until 10:30 am the next day. But today, I feel renewed. Maybe because I’m getting older and wiser. Or maybe because I’m in a better mood and everyone in my life is saying how awesome I am today… Maybe my mood and outlook on life shouldn’t be based on words of affirmation, but hey, I never said I was perfect.

In realness, I know there will be hardships, stress, tears, and stupid decisions this year, but I also know that I have hope. I’m hopeful to find better health, better friendship, better joy, and better experiences this year. I’m excited to go to new places, and try new things. I’m willing to seek balance and fight for peace in my life this year. I’m going to try to learn new things, and gain education. I want to be kinder and gentler to myself. And I want to live more in the abundance that Jesus has for me. I want to find adventure in the mundane, and seek Jesus over safe and comfortable.

I’m hopeful that 24 will be a good year for me. And you can be sure I’ll be petting all the puppies that I possibly can this year.

I’ve been so sick the past few days with a terrible head cold complete with fever, headaches, coughing, and all the nose issues. It’s the kind of cold where you feel so icky and hopeless you think it may just be your last day ever on this beautiful and cruel world. It’s also weird being sick when it’s 60 degrees outside, and it’s weirder that it’s 60 degree outside because it’s December 14th.

So the days have past, and I’ve sneezed so much, my brain cells are dwindling. I’ve coughed and coughed until my sides ached. I blew my nose so much I had to take my nose ring out. I’m sad to say I might leave it out. But this makes me happy at the same time and that makes me feel like I must be some type of adult now. But still not adult enough to be sick and not want to call my mom.

And there was a split second in my soul, that forgot the past 4 years and for an incomprehensible short moment there was peace that came with the thought of talking to my mom. And as quick as it began, it ended. Reality came erupting with lava tears from my eyes. There is nothing worse than being sick, far from home, and not having your person to call.

In that moment all I wanted was to be back at 7863 Open Meadows, on the corduroy-like couch under the bear painting. All I wanted was the red and black fleece blanket, with some flat sprite and peanut butter saltines on the coffee table next to me. All I wanted was my mom to be sitting up the step at the kitchen table, writing Christmas Cards and quoting The Grinch as I watched it on abc family. I wanted my sister to be next to me in the leather arm chair, with the fireplace sparkling next to her. I wanted to know that my dad was just right outside shoveling the driveway as the Michigan snow fell magically and annoyingly fast. In that moment I wanted to know that my family, my safety, was near.

The days and weeks leading up to Christmas and New Years and my Birthday this year feels different. It’s the fifth time doing it all without her. I think I’m past the beginner levels and am now in the intermediate levels of not having a mom. This is crushing and a victory all at once. There are pieces of me that never want to let go of the deep pain I felt so early on during this loss. There are other parts of me that want to have victories over pain and grief. I think my heart will always be in this conflict. I think I will always have a form of grief unexplainable.

More than in years past, I’ve had vivid and sometimes idealistic memories of what Christmastime was for me growing up. They are some of the most consistent memories. Sledding in the back yard, Dad’s cocoa, watching ‘Mickey’s Once Upon a Christmas’, ‘The Santa Claus’, ‘The Grinch’, all the weird claymation cartoons. I’ve got memories of going to the grocery store with my mom and her saying, “Let’s take the long way home and look at all the Christmas lights.” Josh Groban sings ‘Angels We Have Heard On High’ and I am immediately back in my grandma’s house eating ribbon candy, sitting on a green velvet chair. Decorating the tree, and hating putting up the snowflake garland, because for some reason it smelled like cat pee. We never even had a cat.

This year it feels like my heart longs even more so for these holiday simplicities that I took for granted. I think growing up means there’s an element of Christmas Magic that gets harder to find. But I also think that for any of us who have ever felt like life has knocked the wind out of us, Christmastime is wearisome, and in our weariness it’s even harder to find the magic.

Tonight I went to the store to find some gluten free saltines. Not because I want gluten free saltines, but because my body would attack itself if I had normal saltines. Also, I’m not particularly even a fan of saltines, but this sick girl needed some comfort and was tired of drinking bone broth for dinner.

Unfortunately, the store did not have gluten free saltines. But as I wandered the aisles of the grocery store (which is always a bad idea with a sad empty tummy), a bag of Skinny Pop caught my eye. Got it. Duh. I made my way home, put my ice cream (and other varieties of foods I didn’t need to buy) away, then went to my room with my popcorn.

Here’s the deal with Skinny Pop. After my Mom passed at the end of August 2013, I was living at home with my Dad. His Parents (my grandma and grandpa) lived about 5 minutes away from us, so at least once a week we would drive over. Honestly, it feels like way more than once a week in my memory. We’d eat some dinner, and play cards. We’d play cards forever—long enough for Grandma to bring out the snacks—a Costco size bag of Skinny Pop and a Costco size bag of Haribo Gold Bears. I knew I could always count on Grandma to pull through with quality snacks (and to be my teammate in crushing the Grandpa/Dad duo at Hands and Feet). During the holidays Skinny Pop and Gummy bears were accompanied by decaf mocha coffee, and a huge amount of Christmas Cookies. That particular year, Grandma and I may of gone a couple dozen overboard with the Christmas cookies…

There’s something about food that, at least for me, is so sentimental. It’s almost embarrassing—a bag of Skinny Pop can make me emotional. When we think about Thanksgiving and Christmas we think of the food that our families come together to prepare and feast on. Those cherished times with family and friends are accompanied by familiar foods that quickly turn into traditions. Cards and Skinny Pop became a weekly tradition that, during a painful season of loss and confusion, was a comfort. Before that we had traditions of S’mores at the cottage—and my friends will tell you I’ll still lose it over a good S’more. It’s the months of banana bread I made coping with loss, and it’s pecan pie at Thanksgiving, except the one where the dog ate it. Sander’s Bumpy Cake is all I want my birthday to be. It’s Leslie, Lori, Deb, and Carol’s homemade breads, sweet whoopie-pies, tender meats, and savory appetizers that make me remember the playgroup days. And it’s all my mom’s homemade dinners that I only have recipes to and can’t seem to get right, or can’t seem to adjust sans gluten.

If this Christmas is the first or the 40th without someone you love, and you feel like you’re not going to make it through, don’t be modest—grab your comfort food and cry as much as you need to. You have permission to throw away the ‘shoulds’ at least a couple times this season. Be kind to yourself. Don’t binge and hurt yourself, but be gentle and understanding. See yourself, and speak nicely. You wouldn’t tell your friend who’s in pain to suck it up or to act like nothings wrong. You’d tell them it’s okay to not be okay, and then you’d pour them a cup of tea and give them a cookie. Don’t do or say anything to yourself that you wouldn’t say or do to a friend. This Christmas isn’t like the ones before, and it probably hurts, so don’t put more pressure of perfection and put-togetherness on yourself or your family. Let it be different. Look for familiarity in the easy things like food, music, or a movie.

This Christmas is the first time I won’t be in Michigan. It’ll be the first one away from my Grandparents and extended family, but it’ll be the fifth without my mom and grandma Schuldt, and it’ll be the third with step family. We’re going to Florida and I can’t wait to be a bum on the beach for a few days, but I also know it’ll be different and good and difficult all at the same time. But then for New Years, I’ll fly back to the Mitten, and you can bet there will be Skinny Pop and cards to be had with my grandparents.

The anticipation of Christmas is huge, and just because something is sad or different, does not mean there won’t be joy in it somewhere. After all, you don’t have to look far. The whole point of Christmas is God showing his Love for us in the sacrifice to become human. And if we look realistically at that very first Christmas we’ll see there was much more pain and uncertainty than there was singing joyful hallelujahs. Because of Jesus we have a God who understands, and has experienced our pain. We aren’t in this holiday season alone. Even Jesus knew that food could be a powerful reminder in our lives. All the way from Bread and wine to Skinny Pop and gummy bears.

 

There’s a pile of gum wrappers, old receipts, books I’ve been meaning to finish, crumpled church programs, pens, hair ties, kleenex, scribbled pocket journals, melted chapsticks, and a whole lot of other crap that was once abandoned in the bottom of my trusty tote bag. That was a long list, because I need you to understand the extent of junk. They all got removed from the tote bag because I needed it for traveling, but now they make their way from bag to bed to dresser to other bag to backpack to purse to floor to tote to basket to tote again. Depending on what bag I need for the day they get shuffled from temporary home to temporary home. Along their voyage they often welcome more cluttery friends like chargers, old mail, tangled headphones, and loose change. Sometimes a couple pieces of the collection get left behind in one of the spots they’ve visited, but they pretty much always stick together.

Honestly, I feel like the kid from Charlie Brown with the trail of dust behind him, except my trail is a bunch of sugar free gum wrappers. I’ve never claimed to be the most organized or put together person, but this clearly isn’t an ideal system (and there are bobby pins everywhere).

But ideal and efficient systems aren’t really how I’ve set out to live my life. I guess you could say I’ve always been more of a creative or something. *Shrug emoji* I mean yes, it would be so amazing to be put together all the time with only the essentials in my bag and in my house, but I haven’t quite figured out how to do that yet, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever get there. Like, I actually do believe I will never have enough bobby pins even if there are 50 in the cupholder of my car. I’m a mess. And if you know me, you’ll know that I’m always, “A mess, just winging it, trying to do the next thing.”

A couple days ago, I flopped onto my bed after a taxing day, and the pile was there at my feet. Greeting  Mocking me. So, naturally, I continued the pile on it’s excursion. Next stop: the backpack that I hopefully won’t need for at least a couple more weeks, so I can just deal with the pile then, because right now… Right now, is just not good timing. I can’t clean up this mess…

Hello there, life parallel,

I noticed you hovering over me, with your messy, complicated decisions and commitments. I don’t have time to deal with you right now, so you go over there and I’ll come back to you later… OH! You’re still here… Awkward. Yes, feel free to take up my bed, and all over the floor, and in the bottom of all of my bags. Yep, some pieces of you got tossed in the back of my car and are still waiting to be dealt with. I’ll just keep pretending I don’t see you. Everything’s fine!

Sincerely,
Lauren

It feels like all the places I’ve been— all the heartaches, joys, and mundane moments are stacking up around me. Some of them are essential to who I am. Some of them in the pile are scary and ugly. Some are beautiful, and some of them are worthless. Yet I continue to entertain all of them. I continue to shuffle them around with me. Just like the load of broken sunglasses and trash that stays in my purse.

The problem now is this: it’s getting harder to pretend that the load isn’t in the way. It’s hard to hide from a pile that’s creeping in. It’s like the festering Upsidedown. Or an episode of ‘Hoarders’. It’s in the way of living in the present.

This pile won’t let me move it off my bed and onto the floor one more time. This pile has depression and anxiety. This pile has a grief that will always be a guest at the holidays too. This pile carries the questions of,  “Really, God?! ANOTHER disappointment?” and the sarcastic, “Thanks.” This pile is always asking, “Am I enough?”, “Am I ok?”

I’m sure there are people out there with their minimalistic bookshelf, clean purse, and shouts of nothing but praise, but I want to believe that I’m not alone in feeling the weight of this life. I’m not the only one going into the holidays right now looking around at my life thinking, “get your shit together!” I’m not the only one hiding under the covers from my own life—pretending that ignoring it all will make it better.

Going into this season means there’s a gentle and kind whisper of grace all the way to Christmas.  Reminders everywhere, that yes, we’re messed up, but WAIT! Here comes a King. Here comes the mercy we need. Here’s the gift of the real love we deeply desire. Here comes the invite to come out of hiding. Lift your eyes from the messy manger, and look upon the Savior. Jesus ends up turning the most devastating messes into redemption stories. He ends up turning death into life.

He’s like the professional organizer who helps us hoarders figure out our lives, and escape the depths. Why are you letting the mess defeat you? What are you getting from holding onto this chaos? What things will you need to let go of in order to get out of this disaster zone? What are the things you need to learn to hold tightly to, moving forward? He says, “Trust Me. Not your flimsy piles of plans, backup plans, and ideas about yourself. Trust Me to provide and protect you. Trust what I have to say about who you are.”

I’d love to say poetic and elegant words on the coming of Christmas this year, but I’m in a messy place—surrounded by piles of stress and crumpled receipts. I need courage to say that I wish I was good, and so joyous in this current moment, but I’m not. I need grit to admit that it’s ok to not be ok, and bravery to trust that Jesus does have a plan for me. He can clarify the confusion of this life, and end up having a purpose for the mess. He will teach my feet to dance upon disappointment once more. I need to remind myself that even though I’m not perfectly pursing a relationship with Jesus, I am honestly pursing a relationship with Jesus. It’s totally acceptable to not be an organized, color coded, minimalist, but it’s not acceptable to sit in the mess you created and pout. (Okay, maybe just for 5 minutes) But then come out of hiding. Show him your mess, and let him show you how to carry only the things you were meant to carry. And not one single bobby pin more.

 

 

 

I’ve only written twice this entire year. Once on my birthday, and once on the anniversary of my mom dying. I turned writing into a thing I could only do when I felt pain. I turned it into a pressured project to say deep things and come up with life changing sentiments. I love that people love what I write, but instead of allowing it to continue to be an outlet, a source of clarity and creativity in my life, I let it become an identifier. If it’s good, I’m good. If it’s confusing and badly written, I’m lacking. I’ve let the lies that I tell myself take over a joyful thing and turn it to another marker to tell me “I’m not good enough”. I’ve made the past few months about me, me, me. I know I’m not the only one.

This year has had some great times. I got to see my sister get engaged, I got to camp in the mountains, I got to swim in lakes, and see friends get married. I gotten to help welcome babies into the world, and be apart of the best work family ever. I’ve seen my students become high schoolers, and I’ve gotten to go to choir concerts, football games, and musicals. Not that long ago I was alone and new to Colorado. I only knew one person, and slept on an air mattress. Now I’m apart of a community.

It’s also had some trying times. I’ve been lonely and tired. I’ve been anxious and depressed. I’ve had bouts of grief and sorrow. I’ve gone through hours and hours of counseling. I’ve worked through disagreements with friends, have yet to have a stable living situation, and I’ve had to learn that Target and Marshalls won’t solve my sadness. I’ve been going through a diagnosis of Celiacs Disease and had to change the way I take care of myself. It’s way more challenging and life-affecting than I originally expected when I found out. But it’s also a relief to know I’m not crazy. I’ve said goodbye to friends as they travel, or move. I’ve had to make some grown-up decisions and say goodbye to a puppy that I dreamt about forever. I’ve visited a friend in the hospital during chemo, and she still empathizes with me. She’s shown me that it doesn’t matter if our struggle looks different, we can still show Jesus to one another. She is refreshing, even on her worst day. I’ve never thought that I’d still be so unsure of  where I want my life to go. But I do know I want to be refreshing to others.

In all of the sorrow and suffering that might seem small to someone else, I’ve learned that no matter what changes come in my life, Jesus will still be near. He will still provide for and protect me. He will let me know when time is right, the next steps on my path. He will give me grace, and grace for others. When I am homesick, he can be my home. When I feel like I’m not creative enough, worthy enough, or talented enough, he still wants to use what I have.

I’m not sure where my life is going, but just as I have since bumping into Jesus, I’m going to continue to “do the next thing”, even if that’s just getting some sleep or brushing my teeth. When I’m trying to make some big life decision or change, I can take a step back and know that it will be okay even if nothing is okay. Which might not make any sense to some people.

PS if anyone wants to turn a short bus into a tiny house, get a chocolate lab puppy, eat gluten free, and travel around, let me know. I’m in.

 

Today marks four years since my mom died, and all day I’ve been trying to understand how I feel about this. I wish I could’ve been surrounded by family, or at least by people who loved her too. People who still miss her and think of the empty space created by her absence. People who just want to have another glass of wine with her, or be invited to the table where a homemade meal is waiting to be shared. I want to be close to people who remember her laugh, and cherished her smile. I want to hear stories about her best qualities, quirks, and what kind of woman she was. It’s only been four years but I’m starting to forget things. And I don’t want to.

I’ve healed so much with these years but with that comes thinking about this loss less and less. Except during certain times of the year, and certain days much like this one where my heart lingers. Today has always felt like a bitter celebration. Even on the morning we said goodbye, it was relief and deep sorrow all rolled into one. It was thanking God that the pain was over, that the suffering had ended, but missing that suffering because we were being introduced to a new more abstract one.

Overtime I’ve learned that suffering and sorrow are aiding my walk through this life. They first arrived with unwelcome dark appearances, but have somehow become like treasured old friends that I’d be incomplete without. I expect to see them more in the future, and occasionally bump into them. I no longer dread this thought. My day-to-day life in Colorado wouldn’t be in Colorado if it hadn’t been for sorrow. Everyone I know here, I wouldn’t know. And I think I like who I’m becoming.

My dad says that she would be so proud of me today, and I know that’s true, but I don’t want her to be proud of me, I just want her to be here. I want to go home to a place that doesn’t exist anymore, and I want to spend time with people who are gone. But when my thinking and heart goes spiraling down the self-pity-bitter road, I drive to the mountains and find a solitary place. I remember all the important and good memories of getting to have a Mom like her. I drink some wine and buy some flowers, and I’m forever missing my favorite person.

This is my new year. This is what marks my endurance. This is my celebration of days to come, and grieving the days behind. Who know’s where this next year leads, but even on the bad days, I’m thankful for my God who’s always made it okay. I’m trusting that He’ll continue.

“You keep track of all my sorrows.
  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
  You have recorded each one in your book.”
Psalm 56:8

“The heart knoweth its own sorrow and there are times when, like David, it is comforting to think that our tears are put in a bottle and not one of them forgotten by the one who leads us in paths of sorrow.”  Hannah Hurnard

 

A year just ended.
I think I am now 70% Christmas cookie, and 30% assorted holiday beverages.
Or vice versa.

I didn’t think I’d make it this far without you.
And I haven’t written in months because when I write, I remember.
I remember just how much I deeply miss you. And Then I get nervous that people will be annoyed or judgemental that its been three years and I still want to write about only you, and I still get so sad. I worry too much of what others might say or think.
These past months I haven’t wanted to remember.
I tried to be strategic for the holidays.

I’ve gone to work.
I’ve gone out.
I’ve gone to sleep.

I’ve gone to work.
I’ve gone out.
I’ve gone to sleep.

But there’s a town in Michigan where there’s a house that I came home to, my very first day. And there’s another house there, where the backyard was bigger, and the trees were older. Where I learned what your steps sounded like. In that house you always burned candles, welcomed friends, and shared meals. We watched thunderstorms on the porch, listened to crickets on the deck, and ran barefoot everywhere. You gardened for hours, wrote recipes, and tried so many times to get into knitting. In that town there’s another house where I go when I visit now, and it will never be home. For Thanksgiving I didn’t go back to that town.

For Christmas Eve, I was working. There was no more Grandma’s house or banana pudding. No family photos, or fireplace. But Christmas Eve I got a box in the mail. And When I opened it, it was a hat.

Partially knit by you, mostly knit by a devoted friend. You meant to make it for me for a birthday one year, but like we know, you got caught up sharing wine with a friend and never quite finished it. So when your yarn basket was given to your friend years later, she found the unfinished hat and saw it as a privilege to finish. She wrote about you in the note that accompanied, “She advocated for you fiercely, loved you fiercely and her respect and pride in you were evident to all. I’m so glad she is yours and you are hers.” Me too.

Christmas I went back to that town. I tried to be on my best behavior for family. But I couldn’t help but hurt. Then I went and thanked the knitter, and I realized, these past three years, I’ve been trying so hard to be okay, and missing you so bad, that I forgot others were hurting too. Your chosen people that were daily in your life. And I realized how many friends I’ve lost, in the struggle. They didn’t know what to say/I didn’t know what to say, so we all said nothing. And now it’s still nothing. Until a hat.

Then New Years came and went, and for the first year since you left, I wasn’t completely dreading another year. And that’s good. But tomorrow is my birthday. And it feels like the cherry on top of a shitty, about-to-melt-everywhere, holiday sundae. It’s the ultimate day that your mom gets excited about you because she had to freaking carry you for 9 months and then push you out. And it sucks because I know you’d be proud of me, I know you’d love hanging out with me now, I know you wouldn’t want me to be sad, but going into 23 is scary. Especially without you. On this day 23 years ago I became yours, and you forever mine.

Now what? That’s the constant question in my prayers. The Lord has already redeemed and restored much, but there’s still an arduous road ahead. And right now it looks foggy, lined with opinionated people. And in the middle of the road is a less-passionate Lauren than you knew. Trying to figure out which opinion is really hers, and what direction God is paving.

I never wanted to make it this far without you.
But I did.

And this year I’m going to miss you still. I’m going to feel this hole in my life, and notice that you didn’t just leave a hole in my life, but an impact on others as well. I’m going to try to love big, and live slow, with patience, kindness, and less rush. I know you’d want me to keep going. I’m going to try and keep growing. I want more adventures, and better surprises this year. Maybe I’ll be less strategic, and more grace-allowing. Maybe I’ll write more about who you helped me to be. Who knows what God will choose to redeem, restore, or create next. Happy Birthday to me, I am so grateful to you for giving me this life, these memories, and this meaning of love.

 

Four months ago the door slammed shut, and my pinkie finger was now sandwiched in with the latch. I couldn’t push the lever to release the door because as mentioned… My pinkie was now holding residence there, along with the latch. In that split second I couldn’t decide if the pain I felt, stuck there would be better or worse than being free. Free meant having to yank, and that was possibly going to be worse and more physically damaging.

I held my breath and closed my eyes. I pulled. My pinkie was free.

My eyes welled with tears, my small finger throbbed with it’s own heartbeat. Like a toddler, I threw myself onto the ground and sobbed. I held that poor little pinkie and winced back to the image, seconds before, thinking I might actually rip off my own pinkie like some sort of horror movie. I cried dramatically slightly too long, then I got myself together, and walked to the freezer for an ice pack like an adult. Then I laid on the couch and cried some more. Because adults cry on couches, not floors.

A couple weeks went by, and my pinkie felt fine. Then all of a sudden, underneath my nail appeared to be bruised very badly. Like it was black.

I’m also a regular at the nail salon, and as a way to hide the natural ugly healing of my pinkie, I got a gel manicure. A couple more weeks went by and that mani chipped away, so I naturally got another. It was then, when my nail seemed to still be very ugly, and not healing. My next idea? Just take off all the gel and let it get some real air, and some real time to heal, no more trying to hide it or cover it up with fake or pretty colors.

[Honestly, I feel silly telling you this story about my nail, but hang with me, it’s teaching me something.]

By this time it’s been months. And it seemed hopeless, like I was convinced I’d have an ugly black and blue, obviously injured pinkie nail, forever. Not cute. But then, (gross part), It began to fall away. And underneath, a new clean, strong, fresh nail was growing. I’m not going to lie, I’m completely amazed by this.

1. What if we decided to step into our pain, yanking free from what we know traps us?
2. What if we got ourselves up off the floor, and walked to something more helpful?
3. What if we allowed ourselves time for feeling, time for healing?
4. What if we took the fake stuff off?
5. What if we removed the pretty shiny colors that we mask our insecurities with?
6. What if we laid down our seemingly ugly, black and blue hearts, bruised by a broken world, and showed up in front of Jesus?

My nail grew back new. And my body knew what to do when it was bruised. Yes, it took time. Months, for a silly little pinkie nail to begin to grow back. But change occurred. Our bodies have been designed for facing the harsh world. What if our souls were designed for restoration and redemption as well?

These past months have been creating a space for me to struggle in patience, and to grow in endurance. Not just for my body, but my heart.

Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you,
and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you.
For the Lord is a God of Justice;
Blessed are those who wait for him.
// Isaiah 30:18 \\

God’s not finished, but he works in time. He waits for the perfect timing to be gracious and in that he shows off his power and strength. He gives us mercy and he takes time to do everything right. Everything. If we wait for him, he’ll not fail us. But, speaking from experience, I think it will feel a million years too long if I continue to sob on the floor, hide my bruises and don’t allow God to step into the mess with me.

 

 

Sometimes I miss the smell of hospital. If I’m being honest. I’m pretty positive most people hate that smell. But for me, the smell of hospital takes me back to a place where the definition of family was still so whole. It wasn’t complicated or confusing. It was complete and comforting. Family was most important, and we were laughing together, crying together. Making our way through the cancers together. 

It was hours and hours spent sitting in rooms in tall buildings looking out at the trees of Ann Arbor. It was that hospital I was born in. And that hospital both my grandma, and mom found out there was nothing else the doctors could do for them, only 8 months separated. It was slow walks down hallways, bright and stale with fluorescent lights. It was the unfortunate lesson learned never to glance in other rooms, where a saggy butt was probably hanging out. It was getting coffee and boring soup for lunch, riding elevators up and down, seeing people I had only ever seen at Christmas, and hearing “I’m so sorry” a lot.

Those days were really hard, but they held the pieces of my life that I never wanted to let go and now no longer exist. I’m only twenty-two but I already feel like a veteran to loss. I’ve noticed grief creep in at the same time change does. For my entire childhood and the sum of my teen years, my life was a balance of growth, but good with steadiness. Then 2013 hit and I moved back from university and grandma died and I fell in love with Jesus and met my best friend and my immature boyfriend got deployed to Japan and then told me I was worthless the same morning my mom died. Then I didn’t finish college and I moved across the country. I was overcome with anxiety and depression, grief and despair. When I write it all out and think back to those days, I know I’m the same girl, and I know I was there because I have so many bruises and scars that reveal those hurts, but all at the same time it seems too harsh. Too unrealistic for an experience in my life.  

As if I was never there. As if I’m still the little girl painting at the kitchen table. As if I never left the house with the chocolate lab snoozing in the patch of sunlight sneaking in through the front door. As if I never spent so many hours with the smell of hospital filling the air of my lungs, sticking to the fibers of my clothing and hair. 

And now I’m wading into another portion of change, another holiday season, and another night where I find myself grieving for all of the ones I’m not quite near to anymore. But I heard Glennon Milton say last weekend that,”Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof that I paid the price.” 

When the wave of grief begins to billow back into my life I put my arms up and wave frantically back screaming, “I loved! I loved!” 

Now I grow up a little more and grieve a little more, and I learn that God had this all planned. He saw this coming, and he wasn’t shocked by the storm, or lost in the aftermath. He knows that I feel left behind and rejected. He knew person after person would come into my life and go out just the same. Jesus said, “Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows.” John 16:33

But He won’t let it end here. 

I know there’s a Love I will never have to grieve. It never ends. It never fails. 

I’m sitting at my keyboard and have this creative urge to write. To communicate, share, and explain. I’ve got this ember inside that wants to put words into sentences that make beautiful and honest stories. And my then my heart beats a little faster when I think about creating. It’s a joy of mine to make something out of nothing. Writing, designing, drawing, painting, brainstorming, building, baking. They all satisfy a craving within me.

But now,

I’m sitting here.

And I’ve got a lot in my head and my heart, but I can’t seem to provide the perfect combinations of words right now. And it makes the critic of mine cringe. Over the past few years I’ve processed a lot through writing. God’s shown me that He’s the ultimate creator. That when I call something a coincidence, He calls it planned. He doesn’t design things ‘just because it looked cool’. He designs with purpose.

So what do you do when you know God is an intentional, good, God, but you can’t understand why he’s designing it the way He is?

I haven’t figured out what I do yet.

It seems I overthink Him, and he’s just asking me to chill. To trust. To close my eyes and jump. But I sit.

I picture myself back in the UP, standing at the cliffs of black rocks. Nervous about jumping into the clear chilly waters of Lake Superior, but then I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and jump. The water is a lot deeper than I imagined. And a lot colder. But in the jump, in the splash, in the holding of breath and the silence of underwater, it all turns out to be a good thing. A true adventure, full of excitement. But at the same time compeltely terrifying. I think God is an amazing designer of my life, and when I don’t know what he’s doing I just sit down at the top of the cliff and wait. And wait. And he says go.

But I sit.