Gnome is where the heart is

December descends into Kansas City, and since I suppose I tend to be a bit contrary sometimes, the desire to garden also has increased in me in the last two weeks. I've been counting on getting serious about the land starting in the springtime, but it feels quite far off (as springtime will do at the first serious onset of winter). It seems that the best thing I can do to that end is to read up and get my head around the process before March. I'd rather have my hands in some dirt and my toes in the mud, though, that's for sure.

Also, I spent some time this evening with lots of really amazing people, including a couple around my parents' age named Dave and Peg. They're from Wisconsin and are just as wholesome and warm as you could hope anyone to be. And, from what I understand, they both have a tendency to be adorably hilarious, but Peg in particular (I discovered) delivers unbelievable little one-liners that make you (by you, I mean me) want to just eat her up or something.

These two trains of thought, along with a Google search for the infinitely delightful picture of a gnome (at left. Isn't he just peaceful and happy?) I have used as my computer wallpaper for the last two years (lost in my hard drive crash this week)... Well, I have found myself thinking about garden gnomes. Seriously. And, not seriously.

You are probably already aware of the fact that I have a mild and pleasant fixation on these creatures. Get me talking about them and my mood is likely to take a jolly turn. In fact, if you're lucky or I've had caffeine, I might do a little jig of delight! That's where Dave and Peg came in; at one moment this evening, I had a moment when I realized that Peg would be a perfect gnome! And then I did indeed do a little dance.

Funny, isn't it, how certain such things captivate our minds and imaginations? The fact that I would become dreamy and excited while I look for pictures of gnomes on the Internet is absurd, and yet it's God's honest truth that if gnomes were real I would want to be one. Need convincing that this is legit? Watch a synopsis of the life of 80's-famed David the Gnome. It makes sense in a weird way, because I'm not all spirituality and seriousness. Heck no! In me is also an abnormally grand sense of wonder at the ridiculously magical place we get to live in called the earth--and therefore a desire to live close to it and care for it. There's also a somewhat strange and slightly crazy need in me to have animals around and to somehow commune with them. Plus a dash of real belief in the magical. Lastly, let's be honest: it's also a cultural phenomenon. I, like many of my 20-something peers across the nation, have a tendency to fall for kitschy crap like garden gnomes.

Ah well, it doesn't matter so much, amusing as it is to ask oneself these questions. It's more amusing, though, to just enjoy the little stinkers. I recommend an episode of David the Gnome, available on YouTube, or a simple Google Images search. They will brighten your cloudiest day. If you're me, anyway.

Good News, take 2

Just as I was wrapping up the last entry, I had an experience at work that confirmed to me once again that God is doing what I thought, and indeed is beginning to include me, his daughter, in his work.

In the dead middle of the afternoon at the Café, a woman came in. There was something sweet about her, but fragile and not at rest. My invisible antennae perked up. I crafted a nice mocha for her and took it out to the patio, where she was seated with a little ball-of-fluff dog. Hoping to get a better read on her, I stayed a moment to meet the pooch, crouched down next to her chair. The dear woman was eager to talk, and she did, alluding to the dog’s owner, a man towards whom she seemed to have an attitude of fear.

I don’t remember what my responses were to her, but something prompted her to look at me directly all of a sudden and say, “You know what? You are an angel!” This boosted my courage to do what I had been wanting to do: ask if I could pray for her. She unabashedly said, “Yes!” So I did. And she was really grateful and responsive, and so I thought, “She seems open; I wonder if she wants to hear about Jesus.” I asked if she had ever read or heard the stories of Jesus before. Judging from her response, she seemed to have some knowledge of him but not so much an experience of his character. Inspired by my friend Lindsay’s breakthroughs with her friend Carrie while reading the gospels, I asked this woman, Lisa, if she wanted to get together with me sometime and do this together. “Yes, I would really like that,” was her again eager reply. I was a bit baffled at this point.

Fast forward to the next day, a Wednesday afternoon. I picked Lisa up outside her brick apartment, and returned to my house through a brilliant-leaved Gillham Park. We drank chamomile tea as we talked gardening and she told me more of her story. When I suggested we open up the Bible, she was ready to go.

That afternoon and the two Wednesday afternoons since have been interesting. Lisa is really a lovely, soft-hearted lady, and she is so receptive not only to God, but to “the messenger”—me—and encourages me by sharing the light she sees in me. On the other hand, it’s a bit crazy because she’s 43 and has been through long-term illness and other trauma in her life, and there are clear effects of that on her physical, emotional, and mental health. While my life hasn’t been all fun and games by any means, I feel like a Suzy Sunshine next to her and feel inadequate to confront the powers of darkness in her, especially alone.

But my hope is this: the character of God. He preaches good news to the poor, binds up the brokenhearted, releases the prisoners from the darkness, comforts those who mourn, provides for those who grieve. He bestows beauty for ashes, oil of gladness for mourning, and a garment of praise for a spirit of despair (Isaiah 61:1-3). I’ve seen in my own life that this process can certainly be a long haul, but also that it’s true. So I cringe to say it sometimes, knowing that this too will be a long-term investment, but oh God, be who you are in Lisa’s life! And be strong in my weakness so I can continue to partner with you!

Really good news

Something pretty crazy is going on.

I have been a Christian for 9 years and some change. Though my relationship with God was initially about transaction and rules—a sense that God probably exists and so I should do what he says—he has continually been faithful to me and worked to make this whole deal more about love for him.

At the end of the day, though, I have consistently found it difficult to really stand on a profession that God exists, let alone that Jesus Christ came and died for the things we’ve done wrong, or that he bought power for us to live a life of love, hope, or joy. I’ve assimilated all the arguments I’ve heard against God, asking alongside those who are uncertain those really difficult questions. While I’ve believed all the while that if he’s really there and he is who he says he is, he’ll keep me with him and eventually convince me, a residue has lingered in me, a shame about being a Christian because of the problems the so many people have with God, the Bible, and Christians. I’ve never looked at God or the Bible as something truly attractive or beautiful.

Recently there has been the strangest phenomenon. I’m starting to REALLY think it’s all true. Yikes! Some different elements that have contributed to this change of heart:

- During June and July, I was wrecked over these basic questions of faith. Consequently, I looked at the possibility that God would not exist. That’s a sad, ugly prospect. This world without the hope of God is dismal—not because it lacks beauty but because it all leads nowhere. As I looked at the potential absence of God, he suddenly became a lot more appealing. And there was a choice to be made, with no guarantees. Simply choose: possible hope, or possible despair?

-I frankly have no clue exactly when this happened, but I have come to really love Jesus. I think he’s crazy and wild, but so good. For the first time in my life, I’m telling him I love him and I mean not only that I respect him, fear him, think he exists, but that I feel awe for him, affection for him, and I think he’s funny.

-A 5-week, in-depth study of the book of 2 Timothy blew me away. This time was super-rich. The number-one thing I took away, though, was the theme of “the gospel” that runs throughout, and especially the insane, revolutionary idea from the Greek of this word, which is literally “good tidings.” So even in the definition of this word is goodness. I thought immediately of the story of the birth of Jesus, when an angel appeared to some shepherds tending their sheep. “The angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.’” (Luke 2:10) Not only is this (the coming of God into the world he created) good news, but it’s cause for joy and it’s for everyone. It’s not cause for anguish of heart or for shame. This is all nice in theory, but really?

- It just took seeing the Good News come alive to convince my heart that there’s some legitimacy to this. And it was the week of our final Bible class that my friend and former roommate Lindsay had a birthday party. A bunch of women from our church were there, along with a woman named Carrie, whom Lindsay has befriended and been preaching to for over a year. Long story short, in the middle of the party, Carrie gave her life to Jesus. The transformation was instant and visible (though unexplainable); within an hour she was speaking the truth of God she’d never even heard to the other women present. Woah. What’s more, I got together with Carrie the other day, and before my eyes I saw her turn to a Scripture she had “heard” (thought, but from the Holy Spirit), although she had never read this part of the Bible before. We read it together, and it spoke specifically to an area of her life that had been really difficult for her lately. Apparently, God’s after this woman and cares intimately about her life. I was dumbstruck.

This is all a bit baffling to me. It’s never felt so close, so real. Yet it’s what I’ve longed to see for years: the out-reaching love of God on the move. It feels like a true adventure has begun.

Ode to the characters

Sometimes I describe my job to people, and I often end up using a form of the word “magic.” Example sentence: “I feel like 45th Street is just this magical world where I can be friends with anyone.” In the same way as Snow White befriends the dwarves, and Sleeping Beauty dances with the forest creatures, so also I befriend the unlikely: the old men and antique dealers children and dogs and cocktail waitresses and soccer moms and fiddlers and med students. It’s a beautiful thing.


Have you seen the movie Amélie? If you haven’t, you sure ought to. It’s a French movie* made in the 90’s about an introverted waitress whose life intersects with all sorts of characters. She starts meddling in their lives and growing in appreciation for them. (In the picture above, she hangs out with her father, whose gnome she will eventually send on a mysterious voyage around the world, sending pictures back to his owner) The portraits of Amélie’s friends go from poignant to hilarious, and I love the way the movie virtually revolves around people. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have some complex of thinking I’m around just to fix people’s lives. On the contrary, (for the most part) they are the ones who enrich my life, teach me valuable lessons, and give me things to think about.

So it is that Eddie teaches me how to make people feel loved, Alan teaches me how to give good gifts well, Susan and Anastacia and Adriana teach me how to be an amazing mom (though I’m not one yet), Gabriel teaches me how to trust God even in sickness, Cory teaches me how to be kind and grateful, Bob teaches me how to love what you do and stand by your work. These people all contain deep riches of beauty.

Old and young, rich and poor, male and female, gentle and outgoing, attractive or hunched and ill, crazy or sane or missing a couple of marbles, Jesus loves the little children of the world. And I do too, gosh darn it.

*The French title for this film is Le fabuleux destin d’ Amélie Poulain, which means "the Fabulous Destiny of Amélie Poulain." I think that’s a nice title. See the French trailer that makes me very delighted here.

Mechanic's crack reveals true beauty!

You know how sometimes being with a group of people you don’t know very well can kind of turn everything upside down within you? At least that’s how it feels to me, a die-hard introvert who currently spends an absurd amount of time alone. Recently I’ve been spending some time with a whole group of friends that’s already formed and thriving, and somehow it’s given me food for thought.

Like many introverts, I’m talkative and a bit out there when with people I know. Yet when surrounded by those with whom I’m not familiar, I kind of shrink back into the deep periphery, where I watch and learn. And waffle about my own identity.

Sometimes being young really stinks. It seems like there’s an exceptional pressure on young people to be interesting, beautiful, intelligent, fashionable, funny. All the movie stars are, right? On top of this universal compulsion to glamour, I feel like the circle I run is like the League of Extraordinary Persons, with all sorts of geniuses who are or soon will be leading various sectors of society.

I don’t know about all these charmed individuals; maybe they’re profoundly convinced of their own worth beyond what they do. That’s not me—not fully, not yet. I look around, especially in a new social context, and sometimes my eyebrow still lifts towards myself in an expression of doubt.

Last week, a couple came into the coffee shop I work at. They’re pretty regular, which is to say I see them a couple of times a month. Let me paint their portrait for you. Both are around the early- to mid-forties. He’s tall, with graying hair unkempt, nondescript glasses, and a beer belly. His jeans and t-shirt are pretty shabby. She’s small, Irish, with dark hair and a manicure all done up with rhinestones and all. Neither of them is what I or anyone I run around with would describe as the pinnacle of taste.

The other side of this equation is in the googly eyes and wide grin the man bestows on the woman, their steady and familiar banter with one another, and utter friendliness towards me, their humble barista. In some ways, I think these two keep my faith in love alive.

At any rate, this respect for them I’ve found growing in me the last several months came to a head on this occasion. They were in for their usual cappuccinos just when my co-worker Mikala and I were wrapping up a rousing conversation with Tom and Alan (for Alan, see a couple of entries ago). The couple found out that Mikala was having issues with her car, and Sir Lovebird revealed that he is a mechanic by profession, and offered to take a look at it.

Out they go, into the parking lot. As I was doing all of my closing work, I saw them out there, the hood up and the hose out and lots of peering at the car's inner organs. I also saw no less than four inches of Sir Lovebird’s butt crack. And my heart melted towards them, because they were there to spend time with one another, and he was headed to work that night, and still he spent a good hour tinkering with the vehicle of someone he hardly knew. I was thinking, “THIS is cool. THIS is what I want to be.”

It reminded me of a verse in 2 Timothy that I’d been reading. It says, “Flee from youthful lusts and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart” (verse 2:22). I would likely dismiss this couple based on their appearances alone, and yet they demonstrated real character. In the same way, shall I not dismiss the “youthful lusts”—the things on the outside we put so much stock in—and also pursue the things that attest to true goodness and beauty?

And so I felt the sweet approval of the Father that day, not only towards these new friends, but also towards me. He knows what I am in pursuit of, and I know he finds it good. Those are good moments.

it's aliiiiive!

I landed in this place this summer, with a thousand questions on a cosmic level swirling around inside me. Does God exist? Who is God (…no, really)? And why is my life not like I planned? How come these vessels of hope I so carefully molded and have tended these last few years are yet empty, if he supposedly cares for me?

There seems to be a trend with God and questions. He answers most of them not with words or arguments, but with himself.

I had a major breakdown, several days long. It involved erupting into tears in front of a lot of people at a party and other ugly moments of which I’m embarrassed. And then, I had this quiet few minutes looking through an old journal from a season I’d spent dreaming like a schoolgirl. There was a familiar whisper paralleling my reading, and like the setting of a broken bone, the correction of my beliefs was quick but effective. It was as if the Lord were saying to me, “You just kind of misunderstood the lesson there, Maggie. Instead of really learning to put your hope in me, you simply put your hope in your desires and believed that I was behind them. Now that it’s ‘time’ for those things to come to pass according to your plans, you are let down and questioning my goodness.”

There’s a subtle difference there, but the impact is huge. Desires and dreams and hopes are great and come from God a whole lot of the time, but anything here is fragile and fading, destined to fail or die. But Paul called Jesus the

LIVING HOPE.

What does that mean? Can you imagine a person who is hope itself, in whom one can have complete confidence—someone who is always, unquestionably for you and, more than that, is good through and through? I can hardly fathom such a thing.

The last few months have put me through the wringer. I can’t honestly say I have complete faith in all the bullet points about the Christian faith that I “should.” Yet what is interesting to me, and the mystery that has captured my attention, is that all my hopes for truth are met in the God of the Bible and in Jesus, God’s son: love, justice, righteousness, creativity and beauty, value of relationship above all else. I believe in these things, and so I believe in God. Or I hope in him. It looks like a simple peace that if he is who he says he is, things are going to be ok—better than ok. Probably bizarre and nonsensical most of the time, but actually all the better for it.

le mystère

When I was in the eighth grade, I first heard an English teacher talk about themes. We constantly had to dissect books, poems, short stories to find what larger thing the author was talking about. My peers and I thought this was crazy; why not just take what was written literally?

Not surprisingly, I have since concluded that the English teachers are right and that themes exist, and not just in literary texts. In fact, I think I believe in themes in life even more strongly that I do in text. They come like different threads of one hue, woven with particular concentration through a part of the tapestry of our lives.

One such thread has come up with shocking frequency in my life this summer, and it is that of MYSTERY. Now, I like this word for the tingly feelings it stirs up in mind and body, the way it makes my ears perk up as if something interesting is going to happen. And yet when it comes to roost in my own life, I cringe and whine and in general, become incredibly uncomfortable.

The world we live in today is not conducive to mystery. Its definition may help me defend this point. A mystery is “something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain” (thank you Oxford). In light of that, consider your daily activities. Personally, I read hundreds of updates on Facebook, find out how to cook such-and-such via the Internet. I dissect French grammar in order to make it make sense to my students. At least twice a month, I listen to a pastor do the same with some aspect of God about which they have great clarity. Few of us need to be persuaded that our era is over-saturated with information, and that we’re pretty dependent upon its easy access for our daily survival.

Granted, there is a certain embrace of mystery…at least of an interpretation of it. I’ve joined the world in its consumption of suspense stories recently, albeit through a classic, Dostoevsky’s the Brothers Karamazov. Others experience a manageable gulp of mystery through bestselling crime novels or TV shows like Law & Order or CSI (I, too, indulge in these from time to time). There’s a certain something about trying to solve a crime, following clues, enjoying the roller coaster of suspense, even a touch of the morbid. The best part is, these usually are packaged up nicely at the end when the true criminal is revealed, and our suspicions confirmed.

What happens to us, though, in the midst of real mystery, something that really can’t be figured out, a question without an answer? Two weeks ago, my dad and I found my grandpa on his way out the door to come over for family dinner, sitting on a step and leaned up against his walker, dead. Even though there’s a degree of comfort in the fact that he seems to have gone peacefully at the ripe age of 93, in those moments after the light goes out, the questions creep in. What is behind the veil? What can truly cause the spirit to be snipped away from the body like Peter Pan’s shadow? Where does it go? How do we cope with this time and time again a lifetime long? Let’s be honest here—religious beliefs, no matter how strong, only go so far in the face of death. We don’t know what happens, not with much clarity at all. There’s no absolute assurance that we will see our loved ones again, or even that they keep on living at all. There is no way to know on this side of life. No answer. Complete and utter mystery.

To be honest, this summer I’ve somehow slipped into viewing God this way, too. Not just who he is, but whether or not he is. “Doubt,” as this might be called, can be a torturous thing for me, given that I’ve built my life around what I believe about God. That, and the stigma I can feel in a system where a person’s degree of faith defines her worth. In the middle of this struggle, I approached my friend Linnea, an intelligent, creative pillar of my community who has herself been through times of intense, thoughtful questioning. As we often do, I hoped for a magic answer, an argument to convince me God exists, a way to make this easier. Not happening. Compassion I found in her, and understanding. This is no small thing, and paired with the very act of confessing doubt, acts as a balm to sooth the burning of the questions and the shame that accompanies it. Still, there was no cure to the mystery.

I can’t get my head around the questions—not even enough to ask them. Maybe my biggest question is why that’s the case. It’s infuriating.

Today I read through a chapter of the Brothers Karamazov called “the Grand Inquisitor.” In this chapter is a story of a Roman Catholic official, the Inquisitor, who meets Jesus face to face and tells him how he failed as the savior of the world. There are a lot of poignant, intellectual arguments (that pierce my heart, too). The whole time, the Christ looks at him meekly, and when he’s done ranting, Jesus says nothing, but kisses him full on the lips. The guy, if I remember correctly, is irate but touched nonetheless.

Oh man, O God, I hate this mystery! I hate the questions! I don’t know how to live them or how to live without them! But don’t let me grow bitter and hard—not against you, not against mankind. Keep me soft. Somehow let faith, hope, and love remain.

the gift within a gift

I’ve been reading a book called The Gift, by Lewis Hyde. The first couple of chapters have a lot of insights about gifts as seen through various cultures’ practices and folk tales. It’s been affecting the way I see things.

Today, while I was at work, my friend Alan brought me lunch. He works next store to Eddie’s and manages the property on the street. Every now and again, he gets generous with his (fresh/local/homemade) food and brings something over for me to try. It’s kind of uncomfortable for me, honestly, because Alan doesn’t do this for Eddie or for my co-worker (as far as I know), and I haven’t really ever reciprocated these small gifts except by offering a listening ear. On the other hand, I feel really loved when he does this, and that’s weird, too, because a lot of people do really great things for me, but this, from Alan, just seems especially extravagant for some reason.

So it was that when we closed the shop early, I stepped over to Alan’s store, a deep, messy den full of armoires, old light fixtures, and beds covered in faded quilts and piled high with century-old books. Corelle plates in hand, I headed to the workshop at the very back to return the goods. Two other antique guys from the street were in the shop with a couple of beers, and I stood there with them for a couple of minutes while they talked about the many uses for gilded hand fixtures. Then the two left and Alan kept me in conversation.

And I was willing. I like keeping up on what Alan does, because though he’s a property manager and spends a lot of time doing little stuff he doesn’t like, on the whole, he’s an artist. He loves doing good, beautiful work that serves a purpose. And he’s generous with what he does.
That was the greatest part about his monologue today. He told me that although he works with furniture from the 1700’s worth thousands of dollars, with intricate carvings, his favorite thing to do is to do what is useful, and to make beautiful things to give away.

There was an anecdote about an armoire he worked on, years ago. In 18th-century France, it was given to a couple as a wedding gift, which one could conclude from a carving of nesting birds, and the bride’s name and wedding date engraved into the wood. A customer wanted to have the doors taken off and used to cover their refrigerator’s doors, but also to have the carving stripped and pickled. Alan refused to do the job, on principle that it was a piece of art and history, a gift, and meant a great deal to someone long ago. To chop it up beyond recognition just to make money would be wrong.

The way Alan lives and this story gave life to what I took away from the first chapters of The Gift. When you receive a gift, it only retains life if you continue a cycle of giving. Gifts shouldn’t be put away or sold to be invested for personal profit. Alan has received the amazing gift of working with his hands. He shares his work with others freely, giving joyfully of what he makes. Instead of looking for another way to make a buck, he instead invests in the pleasure of others. I think that’s beautiful.

Diggin' in those claws

What it feels like right now is that death surrounds me. Not literal death this time, but the putting to death of dreams and desires and even promises from God.

The feeling is becoming familiar to me now, though not yet exactly welcome (hah, and I flippantly named my blog “Character Welcome” in a time of sunshine!). Usually it comes when I do or experience something that doesn’t please me, but I know is right. It sounds great, but has about the effect of the heart being ripped out of the chest.

If you read my last entry or are up to date on my life at present, you probably know that currently this means leaving my household and the part of town I feel called to in this season, and moving in with my family for an undetermined amount of time. You may not know that it also means working a job that doesn’t always seem meaningful without a clue if a “career” is ever going to lend any outward legitimacy to my life. And it means clinging to God’s promises to join me to a good man and a family, instead of resorting to my own wiles to secure something mediocre.

These moments are the real deal, man. I’ve been moping around lately, secretly wondering if it’s all a scam after all, if the impossible can ever come true. All the same old beliefs about God and myself come back to taunt me, and I begin to think nothing has really changed after all.
And yet, something has changed. Because in each of these ridiculous situations, there comes a moment of truth, when it’s time to make a decision: trust or control, friendship or bitterness, hope or despair? Then this miracle happens, and it feels like a cat digging its claws in to hold on. Strength arises. Hope comes. And it’s like a coin drops into a jar, and with enough change comes a deposit of character.

The Bible has a lot to say about times like this. They’re evidence that God views us as his children (Hebrews 12). A seed is buried so that it will produce many more (John 12). A vine is pruned so that it will be more fruitful (John 15). There’s a promise of purpose over what doesn’t feel good.

There’s an even greater promise, too. Jesus died, and rose again. My pastor, Adam, commented in his Easter message that death and resurrection are always close together; once there’s death, resurrection is soon to follow. Bill Johnson said in an amazing message called “Back to our Roots:” “The process is always death, resurrection, death, resurrection, weeping in the night, joy in the morning.”

In an inconsolable fit of tears and near-tears that lasted most of my day, I opened to this, and found comfort: “What we believe is this: If we get included in Christ’s sin-conquering death, we also get included in his life-saving resurrection. We know that when Jesus was raised from the dead it was a signal of the end of death-as-the-end. Never again will death have the last word. When Jesus died, he took sin with him, but alive he brings God down to us.” That’s from Romans 6 in the Message Bible.

So it is that I am digging in, again. Choosing life, hope, love, and yes, faith in the impossible. Death now means good stuff is really close.

Big Bird leads the way!

It was a Wednesday evening when my roommates and I sat down. We intended to iron out a couple of little issues that have come up, and instead, this conversation came to us talking about vacating our oversized dollhouse, and soon. My reaction was to abruptly scoot away from the table and flee to my room, where I immediately burst into angry tears.

A little dramatic, yes. PMS might have been involved. But so was my innate attachment to this thing we call “home” that I make wherever I stay more than a month. All mixed in with my expectation to stay here until I leave KC or get married, and a deep love and appreciation for my roommates, my room, the house, the neighborhood. It would be pretty safe to say I don’t really want to be anywhere else. These are all things that came out in a nasty, sad, watery mess from me to the Lord as I sat curled up in my green old-man chair next to the windows that look out onto Hyde Park, clutching my blanket to my chin like a child.

A couple of hours later, having talked and prayed further with my roomies, I decided to take a hot bath, calm down, and do a little reading. Then, as I’m contentedly reading about CS Lewis’ use of local expressions in his works of fiction, I get slammed in the face with this gem, a quote from his The Pilgrim’s Regress:

“Poor Uncle George has had notice to quit,” [John’s mother] said.
“Why?” said John.
“His lease is up. The Landlord has sent him notice to quit.”
“But didn’t you know how long the lease was for?”
“Oh no, indeed we did not. We thought it was for years and years more. I’m sure the Landlord never gave us any idea he was going to turn him out at a moment’s notice like this.”
“Ah, but he doesn’t need any notice,” broke in the Steward. “You know he always retains the right to turn anyone out whenever he chooses…”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said his mother.
“That goes without saying,” said the father.
“I’m not complaining,” said Uncle George. “But it seems cruelly hard.”
“Not at all,” said the Steward. “You’ve only got to go to the Castle and knock at the gate and see the Landlord himself. You know that he’s only turning you out of here to make you much more comfortable somewhere else…”

Now, isn’t that a little too coincidental? It spoke to me with the heart of a father, like a crack on the rump followed by a hug and a whisper of safety. That said, I felt a sense of dread fall upon me; it’s just like the Lord to speak like that, and he didn’t seem to want to do things the way I wanted. So I decided not to mention it to my roomies just yet.

We wavered back and forth about moving out, unable to really connect. A possibility would present itself; our hopes would rise, and then slowly deflate. I started getting accustomed to the idea of moving out, but it still cut me to the heart. “I don’t want to move…” I kept whining. “But I’m yours, God. You know what’s next for me; you have my best at heart. Do what you have to do. Just make it clear.”

Lo and behold, on Tuesday I heard from my friend Lillian, a spiritual mom (maybe more like spiritual crazy aunt - in the best way!). She’d had a dream about me. That has happened to me (maybe) twice in my lifetime, so I definitely took note.

In this dream, I was showing her my house, and it was decorated really inventively, with bamboo and orange walls and funky curtains. She looked behind one of the curtains and saw a giant, fluffy yellow bird. The bird took off running, and I pursued it. Then she turned back to look at the house, and the curtains were ripped and disappearing, and there was bird poop and pee all over. I guess I was gone.

What every detail of the dream means, I don’t know. But I love the image of the bird; it reminds me of my room and all the creativity and imagination that have started to bloom for me. And the house, while once beautiful, is only going downhill. There’s really nothing to come back to. So I feel doubly sure that I, we, are to move out of our house.

Who knows what’s next? I don’t. Whatever that fluffy bird represents, I’m chasing after it, abandoning what I know to see where it’s headed. I’m praying that Papa reveals that to me…and rather quickly.

a love story

This is a big day. My dad’s getting married. Indeed, my little sister Becca and I are going to walk our father down the aisle. Crazy or what?

You may not know, but we lost our mom about 2 ½ years ago to bladder cancer after she had been sick about that long. Most people will at some point live a similar experience of seeing their parents wither and die, but nevertheless it’s an especially marking thing to encounter in your teens and early twenties, as Becca and I were.

Not just the sickness and death, either; one of the most surprising things to me about it all was the adjustment we had to go through as a family afterwards. I’ve often likened it to a dog that has lost a leg. At first he can barely get around and falls all over the place, but over time he learns to walk and even run. I guess that’s what it felt like to me. The three of us dealt differently with our grief, but somehow managed to gain a new balance and a new wholeness as a family.

In the middle of this period of trying to find some kind of equilibrium, a red-headed lady named Joan came into my dad’s life. They were friends and then casually dated for a while, each of them, I think, needing simple companionship. At first, Becca and I were, frankly, disturbed. After all, we found out about their relationship a few months after our mom had passed away, and it seemed too soon. (In later conversations I would find out that it’s common for men to feel a need to “move on” (though it’s hardly that) quickly after their wife dies.)

So it was that for a few months, we knew about Joan but didn’t know her. Dad didn’t say too much about her. Then, little by little, we learned more about her, and began to sense that our dad was feeling a bit more serious towards her. Eventually we met Joan, and then her daughter Lauren, and then Lauren’s boyfriend, and then, last night, her brothers and their families.
As I tell people, be they friends or customers at Eddie’s, that my dad’s getting married, I get the most interesting reactions. Some who know our story get a little tense and ask, “How are you doing with that?” as if I’m going to burst into tears at the thought. Others are congratulatory. Either way, I generally kind of shrug, and half smile, and say something like, “I’m good. It’s good.”

And in summary, it’s the truth. But of course, I’m a 24-year-old girl. It’s a mixed bag of complex emotions that haven’t yet hit me in the face.

1. Not to force the issue, but my mom is gone. My dad putting a new wedding band on his finger is something like hammering the last nail into the casket. It’s final.
   
2. We’ve got to find a new balance now; the dog is getting a prosthesis (not that Joan resembles a wooden leg!) and will have to learn to walk yet again.
   
3. We’re gaining a mother figure – Yay! Becca and I have both noticed how we’ve yearned for that since our mom died, often clinging to older women in our lives. And while Joan is vastly different from our mom in some ways, she’s amazing—nurturing, social, crafty, chic. She has a lot to impart to us.
   
4. We’re gaining a sister as well. Lauren’s great, too; she’s just a bit younger than I am, funny, and intelligent. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to get to know one another really well yet, so things there are still a bit jerky thanks to my social awkwardness. Luckily, though, Lauren’s moving back to KC this summer, so we’ll have a lot more time together.
   
5. Lastly, there’s the seemingly superficial realm of the home. Joan and Lauren have graciously agreed to move into our house, leaving behind their dream home in Brookside. I can tell it’s gut-wrenching to both of them. Not only that, but of course the two family units have to consolidate furniture and other odds and ends, so we’re all weeding through what we own and getting rid of doubles. It’s when you have to do something like that that you discover the wealth of memories contained in a single object, and for sentamentalites like myself, it can be a bit rough. But so it goes.

So yeah, it’s good. I’m good. I love these processes that are so incredibly human. It’s messy, it’s hard. We can bet there are going to be bumps in the road. But I like stuff like that. And in the meantime, it’s cause for dressing up and going to a party. Which I’m going to do right now.

ghosts and the like

I work in a café/coffee shop owned by an Irishman. It’s pretty amazing sometimes. My favorite thing about this job is that I get to meet really interesting people every day, and constantly learn more about the acquaintances I already know. The shop is pretty quiet during weekday afternoons, so there’s ample time for conversation.

Today was especially slow, but I got to have one mind-blowing chat. Not an hour into my shift, a man came in who plays music with my boss. When I first started working there in August, this guy I’ll call Michael came in all the time, but has become scarce since he got himself a lady friend a couple months back. Michael’s a kind man in his late fifties; his humble demeanor is accentuated by the baseball cap and tinted glasses he always wears, which give him this mysterious air.

He gets his usual sandwich and sits down at the high table across from the counter, and we catch up a little. Then my boss leaves, and the conversation somehow shifts from the mundane to the profound. Michael launches into a crazy story—and imagine this being told in the most matter-of-fact way by a typical, Midwestern guy:

“My aunt passed away last week. And I have no idea why these things happen to me, but I woke up that night in the middle of the night. I tossed and turned for about an hour and couldn’t go back to sleep. Then I turned over, and I saw her there. She seemed so happy…”

Michael recounted other times when he had seen dead people, seven or eight times, he said. One was his father. Another he saw two months after her death, in a field or a yard near where she had lived. When he told his relatives where he had seen her, they dug into the soil and found some trinkets and photos buried there!

As I listened to all of this, I found myself responding calmly, while freaking out inside. On one hand, I mostly believe all of this. We’ve had other conversations about his spiritual life, and this man walks more in the supernatural than most people I know. He has a legitimate relationship with God that is surprisingly Biblical in spite of the fact that he has admittedly never read the Bible.

Yet… what the heck? We’re talking ghosts here, man! I don’t know what to think about that! What makes a person able to see the dead—whether a natural, chemical phenomenon or something certifiably not of this world? And if it’s not of this world, from which side does that come? It’s so bizarre to me.

I guess, though, that at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter. I love this guy. I pray that he will continue to know the Lord in all His fullness, and all His love for him.

Thesis Statement

Characters welcome.

This is the slogan developed by USA to promote their personality-driven TV shows. I think it’s genius—because I wanted to adopt it as my own the moment I heard it.

Because the honest truth is that my life revolves around characters. The stranger people are, the more they deviate from the norm, the more I like them. In fact, the moment I discover an out-there personality trait in a person is one life’s greatest joys. Some people you meet are obviously interesting; they wear weird stuff, have crazy mermaids tattooed on their arms, have intriguing body language or some other trait that tells you something interesting is going on behind their face. Others have hidden treasures that will surface suddenly during a conversation or new environment. They’re all amazing. People are so amazing.

What’s fascinating, though, is that we’re all characters. That means we’re unique, quirky little creatures with distinct features and habits. It also means that we’re all part of a story, and always changing. I’m persuaded that many of the experiences we have (whether we would call them good or bad) are woven into our lives by God to build character. I guess that means to make people more God-like: more loving, kind, patient, peaceful, humble, joyful, self-controlled. They’re specially configured for us, and we each react in distinct ways.

I don’t want to pretend I’ve got any of this figured out. People are too mysterious to stick into any formula. What I’m really here for is to delight in the beauty of individuals and their stories—my own included. Hopefully there will be anecdotes, full-on stories, reflections, and questions. And should you happen to recognize yourself in one of my characters, don’t be offended. It is the highest honor and expression of love I can pay you.