Lord willing, I'll be in Germany in a year and a few months. First of all, that's super exciting. Studying in Germany has honestly been a dream of mine since probably eighth grade, which is when I first realized that it was an option.
I'm applying for supplemental funding, because plane tickets aren't cheap, etc., etc. One of the scholarships asked me to cook up a research project to do while in Germany. It's a lot to explain, but mine has to do with German environmental preservation efforts and their roots in German history, simply put. As such I'm doing some research about German preservation efforts and change over time to write my proposal...
...and I am so excited. So, so, so excited. Molly made a fun of me a little for how much I jumped up and down when I found an article that helped me move forward. This is so exciting. What started out as a requirement is turning into a project that I want to research whether or not I get the scholarship.
And this is how I've reached the conclusion that for right now, I am exactly where I need to be. Not that I didn't think that before, but it's yet another awesome reinforcement of how Daddy loves to bless in surprising ways (research isn't something we all get excited about, I guess) and how right he was about bringing me to Iowa of all places on the planet...and sending me (hopefully) to Germany. Finding pieces of what I am passionate about is encouraging and such a blessing.
Ahhhh. I love this. Thank you, Daddy.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Friday, January 22, 2016
In-between space
I'm really grateful for the people who support me. For the professors who understand that I cannot find the motivation to do my work today, for the friends who take me book shopping and give me hugs, for the friends who text me to check in from hundreds of miles away, for my brothers for sharing sad space with me and laughing at videos of monkeys in the snow.
It's a strange in-between space today. Some of it has to do with being so tired from staying up last night to get work done, I'm sure. Some of it is just residual sad from Max dying. I'm starting to understand why so many people write about grief-- it changes in ways I don't expect it to and is different every time. What a beast of a thing.
In my essay class last year, which focused primarily on creative nonfiction, one of the guys wrote a brilliant and moving piece about grief. It was a braided essay (you can look that up if you want to know more. It's a cool form), and one of the strands was a story about how he had a summer job in a department store. Every day that he went to work, he passed a perfume booth lady who always offered him samples. One day, he decided, spurred by a video of a similar situation online, to yell "NO" loudly at the lady when she offered. He was sure that he had finally solved the problem. But the next day, she still offered.
He closed his essay with a beautiful paragraph about how grief is like the people at the mall kiosks offering you samples. No matter how many times you walk past, no matter how many times you say, "no," no matter how loudly you say, "no," they are always there and will always offer. Grief is the same, he says. No matter what you tell it, how you try to avoid it, what you think about it, it will still linger.
Analogies aren't perfect, but this one helps me understand where I am.
In this in-between space, I am caught between immediate sadness and inevitable healing and numbing with time. I am caught between being "allowed" to spin my wheels for a while and being asked to move on with my life. I am also caught between feeling loss and knowing that Daddy has bigger hands than I do, for which I am grateful.
My dog, grandma, cat, friends...they all might slip through my hands, but Daddy still holds them dearly. He happens to have this whole running-the-universe thing down pretty well. I love that even now, even as I struggle to convince myself to do my work, even as I keep encountering random sad patches, He is sovereign, good, and worth praising always. What a wonderful God.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
This isn't a very upbeat post
So, long story short, my family put my dog down today. My mom called me right before I went to conditioning practice (all of the big phone calls seem to come right before ultimate practices/games).
I was okay, at first. It kinda felt sad. But an expected sad. He was, after all, 15 years and 9 months and 5 days old, which is quite old for a Golden Retriever. Goldens, according to Google, have a life expectancy of 10-12 years. Well, ya blew that one out of the water, Max. You always blew everything out of the water though-- you were a great dog like that.
My younger brother took that picture of Max this summer. You can't even tell that really, Max's just a giant, lumpy conglomeration of tumors. He couldn't stand then and wore a diaper at night (a thing he'd be shocked to read on the internet, if he could read; he was a proud dog).
I have a strange relationship with grief and my emotions in general. If you know me, there's a good chance you know that already. The past year feels like it's been full of lessons about grief and being okay with how I feel.
Before my grandma died, we joked about if she would outlive Max, or if Max would outlive her. After she died in March, I struggled to feel like I was allowed to feel sad but also struggled to feel like I was "sad enough." It felt like my sad wasn't enough to express how grateful I was for everything she did for me, but it also felt like my little piece of sad took up an awful lot of space in any room and that people just wanted me to send it away. I grieved very quietly as a result-- only a few people watched that process. (Thank you for supporting me.)
In July, we watched as my aunt and uncle's dear dog, Benji, battled the pains of getting older, and finally he too moved along from this life. That one didn't hurt so immediately, but as I look back through the pictures right now, I'm choking up.
In December, just a week before I went home, my family endured a painful week during which our beloved Spare Cat had all but five teeth pulled, was de-wormed, and then stopped eating. It was sudden, it was the first close-to-home pet death in my cognizant lifetime. I cried a lot more than I expected for a full day (which means I cried at all). It was sad, and it was hard to shake. A professor sent me a beautiful obituary he had written for his cat. I sobbed the whole way through.
Spare Cat's life and death taught me a little more about being okay with being sad. People, for maybe the first time in my life that I noticed, told me it was okay to be sad. They offered to listen to me tell stories about her and let me cry. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. (Thank you for supporting me.)
With Max, death was inevitable. When I was home for Christmas break, I helped stand him up every time he barked to go outside and every time he barked to come inside. My best friend helped him stand up when he fell over in a snowbank when we were sledding. My parents diligently and lovingly moved the food and water to him when he just couldn't stand any longer. We joked about him being all cancer and no longer dog, but really, we didn't want him to go. The daily questions were, "how will we know it's time?" "What do you think, are you going to live another day, buddy?"
It wasn't out of the blue. When I saw the voicemail from my house phone, I figured it was probably because Max was gone. My mom left the voicemail. It was all crackly because she held back tears for most of it. He had fallen over and couldn't get up, or something like that. She took him in to the vet, and the vet tech said, "Hon, it's time." I think that sounds like one of the hardest sentences to hear.
I got quiet when I first heard the message. I got a little quieter, put down my phone, and warmed up with my team. I don't think they even knew that anything was up. My mom asked me to call her back, so I did as I walked from conditioning to where I needed to be next. I didn't know what to say to her, so I let her talk as much as I could. It still didn't really hurt, and that fact almost bothered me. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel like I had lost him. It didn't feel like a loss...more like a drifting away.
At Salt Company tonight (it's a sweet college ministry--check it out sometime), something hit me during one of the songs in the final set.
I was also struggling with wanting to just let my sad be sad for a while though. One of the songs talked about rejoicing in everything. And that's awesome. God is always good, and he is always worthy of praise. But there's also something to be said for being okay with being sad. That's what I'm learning. I can feel sad and sit with my sad and cry and be okay with that and acknowledge that God is good, sovereign, and in the business of giving excellent gifts.
I got back to my dorm room and cried a lot more than I anticipated (read: I sobbed a few times, didn't for half an hour. Teared up a lot, didn't for another fifteen minutes. Repeat process several times). Reading my brother's tribute post on Facebook made me cry. Reading my aunt's text letting me know that they'll miss Max too made me cry. Texting my brother made me cry. My best friend saying he's supporting me through this made me cry. Finding old pictures of my dog made me cry. I use "cry" here to mean a big range of things, but the bottom line is that I don't ever cry really, so this was a new world for me. And I'm okay with it. I've gotten better about just letting myself cry, rather than trying to stop it, especially when I'm by myself.
When my residents stopped by, I still told them I was "pretty good, thanks." Which, in many ways, is true. To quote the song, it is well with my soul. But loss is still tough. I don't know what it looks like to be real with people without unloading everything onto everyone. But I know it's okay to be sad, and I know it's okay to also praise Daddy for how good he is while I'm grieving. And I am slowly learning that grief looks different every time and needs to be played out in the time it takes to work through it. There's no rush. I'm learning. Thank you Daddy, for teaching me.
I was okay, at first. It kinda felt sad. But an expected sad. He was, after all, 15 years and 9 months and 5 days old, which is quite old for a Golden Retriever. Goldens, according to Google, have a life expectancy of 10-12 years. Well, ya blew that one out of the water, Max. You always blew everything out of the water though-- you were a great dog like that.
My younger brother took that picture of Max this summer. You can't even tell that really, Max's just a giant, lumpy conglomeration of tumors. He couldn't stand then and wore a diaper at night (a thing he'd be shocked to read on the internet, if he could read; he was a proud dog).
I have a strange relationship with grief and my emotions in general. If you know me, there's a good chance you know that already. The past year feels like it's been full of lessons about grief and being okay with how I feel.
Before my grandma died, we joked about if she would outlive Max, or if Max would outlive her. After she died in March, I struggled to feel like I was allowed to feel sad but also struggled to feel like I was "sad enough." It felt like my sad wasn't enough to express how grateful I was for everything she did for me, but it also felt like my little piece of sad took up an awful lot of space in any room and that people just wanted me to send it away. I grieved very quietly as a result-- only a few people watched that process. (Thank you for supporting me.)
In July, we watched as my aunt and uncle's dear dog, Benji, battled the pains of getting older, and finally he too moved along from this life. That one didn't hurt so immediately, but as I look back through the pictures right now, I'm choking up.
In December, just a week before I went home, my family endured a painful week during which our beloved Spare Cat had all but five teeth pulled, was de-wormed, and then stopped eating. It was sudden, it was the first close-to-home pet death in my cognizant lifetime. I cried a lot more than I expected for a full day (which means I cried at all). It was sad, and it was hard to shake. A professor sent me a beautiful obituary he had written for his cat. I sobbed the whole way through.
Spare Cat's life and death taught me a little more about being okay with being sad. People, for maybe the first time in my life that I noticed, told me it was okay to be sad. They offered to listen to me tell stories about her and let me cry. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. (Thank you for supporting me.)
With Max, death was inevitable. When I was home for Christmas break, I helped stand him up every time he barked to go outside and every time he barked to come inside. My best friend helped him stand up when he fell over in a snowbank when we were sledding. My parents diligently and lovingly moved the food and water to him when he just couldn't stand any longer. We joked about him being all cancer and no longer dog, but really, we didn't want him to go. The daily questions were, "how will we know it's time?" "What do you think, are you going to live another day, buddy?"
It wasn't out of the blue. When I saw the voicemail from my house phone, I figured it was probably because Max was gone. My mom left the voicemail. It was all crackly because she held back tears for most of it. He had fallen over and couldn't get up, or something like that. She took him in to the vet, and the vet tech said, "Hon, it's time." I think that sounds like one of the hardest sentences to hear.
I got quiet when I first heard the message. I got a little quieter, put down my phone, and warmed up with my team. I don't think they even knew that anything was up. My mom asked me to call her back, so I did as I walked from conditioning to where I needed to be next. I didn't know what to say to her, so I let her talk as much as I could. It still didn't really hurt, and that fact almost bothered me. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel like I had lost him. It didn't feel like a loss...more like a drifting away.
At Salt Company tonight (it's a sweet college ministry--check it out sometime), something hit me during one of the songs in the final set.
Your love is enduring through the winter rain and beyond the horizon with mercy for today. -Bethel MusicDaddy and I walked through all sorts of memories of Max and me. It was beautiful. It was heart-wrenching. I cried just a little, and I started to feel the hurt hiding in my heart. In the end, I felt so much gratitude for how many good memories I had with Max and for how sweet it was for Daddy to place him in my life.
I was also struggling with wanting to just let my sad be sad for a while though. One of the songs talked about rejoicing in everything. And that's awesome. God is always good, and he is always worthy of praise. But there's also something to be said for being okay with being sad. That's what I'm learning. I can feel sad and sit with my sad and cry and be okay with that and acknowledge that God is good, sovereign, and in the business of giving excellent gifts.
I got back to my dorm room and cried a lot more than I anticipated (read: I sobbed a few times, didn't for half an hour. Teared up a lot, didn't for another fifteen minutes. Repeat process several times). Reading my brother's tribute post on Facebook made me cry. Reading my aunt's text letting me know that they'll miss Max too made me cry. Texting my brother made me cry. My best friend saying he's supporting me through this made me cry. Finding old pictures of my dog made me cry. I use "cry" here to mean a big range of things, but the bottom line is that I don't ever cry really, so this was a new world for me. And I'm okay with it. I've gotten better about just letting myself cry, rather than trying to stop it, especially when I'm by myself.
When my residents stopped by, I still told them I was "pretty good, thanks." Which, in many ways, is true. To quote the song, it is well with my soul. But loss is still tough. I don't know what it looks like to be real with people without unloading everything onto everyone. But I know it's okay to be sad, and I know it's okay to also praise Daddy for how good he is while I'm grieving. And I am slowly learning that grief looks different every time and needs to be played out in the time it takes to work through it. There's no rush. I'm learning. Thank you Daddy, for teaching me.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace. -Ecclesiastes 3
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Adventure is out there
I had a moment just now. A moment when, as I was reading an email from a professor here in Iowa setting me up with potential advisor in Germany, I realized It's happening- I actually can go to Germany (Lord willing). That's mind-blowing and terrifying and wonderful and so, so many things.
Ahhhh. That's an exhilarating thought, and please, please, please, sweet Father, let that happen.
I'm excited. You'll certainly hear from me more if/when I do venture to Deutschland. Oh to be able to study and learn and research in Germany!
Back to study abroad scholarship applications and writing an email to this potential advisor (eeeek).
Happy Thursday, friends!
Ahhhh. That's an exhilarating thought, and please, please, please, sweet Father, let that happen.
I'm excited. You'll certainly hear from me more if/when I do venture to Deutschland. Oh to be able to study and learn and research in Germany!
Back to study abroad scholarship applications and writing an email to this potential advisor (eeeek).
Happy Thursday, friends!
Thursday, November 26, 2015
These thoughts may or may not be related to Thanksgiving
Sometimes I pressure myself into thinking that my blog needs to be full of big, weighty thoughts. But by doing that, I discredit all of my small thoughts and put perhaps unwarranted pride in the posts I do post here. So I'm trying to challenge myself to value my little thoughts, my short writing, and my fleeting feelings more.
The following thoughts may be disjointed. I'm okay with that.
Today is Thanksgiving. I'm grateful for so many things. I am so grateful for and to a good Daddy (God) who keeps blessing me with so many great things.
A list of a few things I'm especially thankful for right in this moment:
1. Socks. My feet are forever chilly.
2. My best friend. Yes, I'm mentioning you here. It could be worse. I could go on and on about how excellent I think you are. I'll just leave it at "you rock" though. You rock.
3. Food and people who feed me. Shout out to all the different people who took me in and gave me food today who aren't my relatives.
4. Rest. I undervalue this so much.
5. The nearness of God. Whoa, do I ever need this.
6. People who lift me up. People who encourage me. People who invite me over to their houses. People who make me rice krispie treats and leave them outside my door. People who talk to me when I'm uncomfortably crashing their family's Thanksgiving dinner.
7. People who make me laugh.
8. My brothers. Seriously, two of the coolest humans on the planet.
9. My parents (shhh don't tell them that I've started to think and talk like them)
10. Antibiotics. Wow, modern medicine, you've pulled through on this one.
11. The opportunity to write, express myself, and think. I take these for granted entirely too much.
The following thoughts may be disjointed. I'm okay with that.
----
Today is Thanksgiving. I'm grateful for so many things. I am so grateful for and to a good Daddy (God) who keeps blessing me with so many great things.
A list of a few things I'm especially thankful for right in this moment:
1. Socks. My feet are forever chilly.
2. My best friend. Yes, I'm mentioning you here. It could be worse. I could go on and on about how excellent I think you are. I'll just leave it at "you rock" though. You rock.
3. Food and people who feed me. Shout out to all the different people who took me in and gave me food today who aren't my relatives.
4. Rest. I undervalue this so much.
5. The nearness of God. Whoa, do I ever need this.
6. People who lift me up. People who encourage me. People who invite me over to their houses. People who make me rice krispie treats and leave them outside my door. People who talk to me when I'm uncomfortably crashing their family's Thanksgiving dinner.
7. People who make me laugh.
8. My brothers. Seriously, two of the coolest humans on the planet.
9. My parents (shhh don't tell them that I've started to think and talk like them)
10. Antibiotics. Wow, modern medicine, you've pulled through on this one.
11. The opportunity to write, express myself, and think. I take these for granted entirely too much.
----
I went with my best friend to his grandparents' house to bring them Thanksgiving leftovers tonight. Sharing your grandparents with someone takes vulnerability and courage, so first, thank you for that.
I walked away with a deep ache, missing my own grandma. It's going to be a while before I see her again (whenever Daddy calls me home. I'm comin', Grandma).
I watched his grandpa help his grandma, and thought to myself, wow, I feel the importance of choosing the person you'll spend the rest of your life with. I hope that someone will cross paths with me that I can spend 50+ years with. Praying for that, for my maybe future husband, and for my friend's grandparents tonight.
----
I planned my entire day around when I would eat today, and wondered if I would be able to eat everything I wanted to. I felt really awful after thinking through all of this. There are people who literally die because they don't have enough to eat. Not that we shouldn't enjoy time with family and good food, because those are good blessings to be enjoyed, but I was struck by the disparity of the world and a desire to serve. May we pay those blessings forward.
----
Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.
xoxox
Saturday, November 21, 2015
There Will Be Days...
There will be days you won't want to get out of bed. There will be days that you just want to ignore the world, hide in your room, stare at the ceiling and listen to music that makes you feel even more lonely.
There will be days that you don't think you can handle the pressure of everything.
There will be days that you want to abandon every single thing you are doing and go do something completely different, something completely unproductive.
There might be days that you do that.
There will be days that you will wish you lived someone else's life-- a life with less trouble, work, stress, or conflict.
There will be days that you don't understand why you are where you are or where you might be going.
And that's okay.
You are allowed to ask questions. You are allowed to feel pain without being ashamed of that fact. You are allowed to struggle.
You do not need to be perfect. You are not perfect. And that is okay.
There will be days that you feel abandoned, alone, isolated, invisible, or unheard. Maybe all of them at once. That's okay.
God designed life to have different seasons. Solomon understood this, and wrote it down in Ecclesiastes:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace." -Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
There will be days that you don't think you can handle the pressure of everything.
There will be days that you want to abandon every single thing you are doing and go do something completely different, something completely unproductive.
There might be days that you do that.
There will be days that you will wish you lived someone else's life-- a life with less trouble, work, stress, or conflict.
There will be days that you don't understand why you are where you are or where you might be going.
And that's okay.
You are allowed to ask questions. You are allowed to feel pain without being ashamed of that fact. You are allowed to struggle.
You do not need to be perfect. You are not perfect. And that is okay.
There will be days that you feel abandoned, alone, isolated, invisible, or unheard. Maybe all of them at once. That's okay.
God designed life to have different seasons. Solomon understood this, and wrote it down in Ecclesiastes:
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace." -Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
What's important to remember is that while the world is constantly changing and you are constantly changing, God does not change. Malachi 3:6: “For I the Lord do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed."
Take refuge in the fact that everything else around and inside you will change, but your Daddy won't. He is forever good, forever gracious, forever almighty. It's okay to have rough days, weeks, years. It's okay to struggle.
Call out to Him in that struggle. He will answer.
"In my distress I called upon the LORD;to my God I cried for help.
From his temple he heard my voice,
and my cry to him reached his ears.
...He sent from on high, he took me;he drew me out of many waters.
He rescued me from my strong enemy
and from those who hated me,
for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
but the LORD was my support.
He brought me out into a broad place;
he rescued me, because he delighted in me." -Psalm 18:6, 16-19
Take refuge in the fact that everything else around and inside you will change, but your Daddy won't. He is forever good, forever gracious, forever almighty. It's okay to have rough days, weeks, years. It's okay to struggle.
Call out to Him in that struggle. He will answer.
"In my distress I called upon the LORD;to my God I cried for help.
From his temple he heard my voice,
and my cry to him reached his ears.
...He sent from on high, he took me;he drew me out of many waters.
He rescued me from my strong enemy
and from those who hated me,
for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
but the LORD was my support.
He brought me out into a broad place;
he rescued me, because he delighted in me." -Psalm 18:6, 16-19
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Seeds: (the end of) The Intern Diaries
Be patient, therefore, brothers,until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains.
James 5:7
It's officially over; today was my last day. Whoa. While I am trying to figure out where ten weeks went so quickly, allow me to share an insight from my final day of work.
James 5:7
It's officially over; today was my last day. Whoa. While I am trying to figure out where ten weeks went so quickly, allow me to share an insight from my final day of work.
Every Thursday, we set out all of the resources our volunteers will need for Sunday mornings. It's a piece of the weekly rhythm I have become quite familiar with. This being a Thursday, I resourced. It struck me that I was preparing supplies for events in the future that I would not get to see. I was equipping volunteers, even though I do not necessarily know who is leading this Sunday, for success in the future. Planting seeds, if you will. I will be on the trail by the time those resources are used, so I will not see them in action or maybe the immediate fruits of that labor, but I can trust that Daddy will use them.
This is a metaphor for so many things in life. So often, especially in ministry, especially in children's ministry, we do work equivalent to planting seeds. The stories we tell kids, the ways we interact with them and our co-workers, the truth we speak over them, and the ways we love them plant seeds in their little hearts about who God is and who His people are. Though we may not immediately see the fruit of our work (which can be rather frustrating), God is keeping careful watch over those baby plants, and knows exactly when they will bloom and produce fruit.
I certainly have a handful of memories from early childhood that the people involved probably would have considered small in the moment, but they helped define the way I understood people, God, and the way the world works. Small seeds, but with big impacts over time.
Consider what sort of fruit you plant in the lives of those you interact with. Perhaps first impressions you leave and what those look like in the future when people find out you love Jesus. Perhaps how you treat coworkers in front of your kids, or how you interact with cashiers, waiters, and custodians. I have a friend who is incredibly friendly to those who are often taken for granted, like custodians and cashiers, and she changed the way I think about those interactions. Because of her over-the-top friendliness in just a handful of moments when I was around her in those situations, I consciously try to emulate that every time I interact with people I do not know. She unknowingly planted small seeds, but they have definitely made a considerable dent in my day-to-day (and I doubt she knows that).
So I encourage you to consider the types of seeds you plant. Consider if people know what you stand for by how you live, and if not, perhaps address why that might be. It certainly will be food for thought on the trail for me this coming week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)