moving and ice

This morning, it took us about ten minutes to get down the stairs, then about 15 to get back up. It took us five minutes to walk to the bathroom, and five in the opposite direction. We did that several times. We waited ten minutes before standing up. We almost fell a few times. We checked our e-mail, by typing with the index finger on our left hand -- our right hand is beaten up after a fall. We clicked three times with the mouse, and soon logged out. It was tiring. Despite best efforts, there was no way we were going to the store this afternoon. Going to the store would force us down the stairs once more, into the car, out of the car, to the shopping cart, around the store, through the check-out line, in the car once again, then up the garage stairs, up the stairs to the second level, across to the bedroom, then into the bed. We'll go to the store another day. I'm only five feet, and he has a foot and dozens of pounds on me.

Sometimes, we take mobility for granted. In my case, I take it for granted every day. Today, I'm grateful.

I cried for the first time since I've been back. I needed to take money out of one bank and put it into a second, and on my way out of the first, the teller wished me a happy Thanksgiving.

Ironically, that's what did it for me. That simple outstretch of community, of humanity, was what broke me.

I think we're kind of like ice, sometimes. As long as you keep us in the freezer, we're all right. We'll stay ice forever, solid and cold and clear and hard. But the minute you introduce any heat into the equation, even just a degree of warmth, we crack. Our hard edges soften; our temperature rises; we melt. It isn't easy to keep cold for long.

Sitting in the driver's seat, I got on my cell phone and called one of the most amazing women in my life. She's always been here for me, through thick and thin. She opened the freezer door; I melted. We prayed together, for peace and joy for my family, for physical and emotional and spiritual healing for my dad and, really, for all of us. I was, figuratively, a puddle.

It was beautiful.

growing up

This is it . . . this is growing up.

One by one, I'm going through every drawer in my desk, my dresser and my night stand. One by one, I'm going through every shelf in my closets. I'm determining what's necessary, what's good and then, the largest category, what to throw away. I was such a saver, for years. Now that very quality that I used to love is coming back to eat me.

every pen pal letter
every birthday card
every American Girl magazine
every too-small or too-big sweatshirt
every picture
every half-used package of stationery
every bookmark I got from a teacher
every necklace-making kit
every label-making kit
every Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys and *NSync CD
every shoe box
every Beanie Baby
everything

In the midst of all of it, I'm finding some rather intriguing things, things that show how far God's taken me. I found an old prayer journal. a pastel blue Hello Kitty notebook with a hot pink pen slipped in the side. I only wrote on six pages; I must have gotten bored. I asked God to make me less greedy, to help me pay attention to others more, to give my family some happiness. I prayed for my pen pals, for friends at school. I prayed for Girl Scout trips and for service projects. I crossed off a few of them; I assume they were prayers God answered. Beautiful stuff.

I used to tape old movie ticket stubs on my closet door. I saw everything from "Princess Diaries" to "On Cold Mountain." An ex-boyfriend saw the latter with me; we always picked the longest movies, regardless of whether we actually wanted to see them or not. It gave us more time for making out. In retrospect, probably not one of my classier moments. But that one relationship taught me more about myself than I'd learned in the sixteen years of my life before then. We learn from our mistakes.

We learn from our mistakes.

praying our afflictions

I drove seven hours today. It was actually great. I got to listen to some music, just stare at the road for a while, occupy my mind. I am actually looking forward to my drive next Saturday.

Then I came back to Illinois, home of my family. Things kind of break my heart. Our computer room looks like a nursing home room. There is an IV machine dripping its filtered-out contents into my toilet. There are boxes of medical supplies in all kinds of closets. I'll be cleaning out my closets this week, week one of the last six that this I'll be residing here. You could include spring break, next Thanksgiving and Winter break, etc., but I'll be more of a guest.

I'm more of a guest now, I suppose . . . in my mind, anyway.

Ross's RUF sermon this past Thursday was beautiful. It was God, speaking through him, preparing me for what was to come. Psalm 113 is about praying our afflictions, reminding ourselves of the hope we find in Him and, finally, giving our life away in the way He gave His.

It was a poignant and beautiful message about how, yes, life can be miserable. Our afflictions can be overwhelming. But we need to take heart; this life isn't where we're destined for eternity. Rather, we're getting the chance to be with our Savior forever . . . it sure isn't breaking news, but every time I hear it, I'm in awe.

There's another verse I've been reflecting on a lot, in preparation for the time here with my family. Ross's wife, Jenny, shared it with me. Matthew 25:40 reminds me of how we're truly called to help and sacrifice and throw our lives away for others. This week, I'll try to throw my life away for my family. With God, I pray, this will be accomplished.