dancing nostalgia makes me brave

(This is one of those nights that I feel guilty blogging because I am so behind in catching up with IRL friends. Yes I did just use a cheesy bloggy term. One that is so cliche I feel stupid expounding upon it. But just in case you have enough of a "RL" that you aren't well-versed in blog life, IRL= in real life. To the list of people whose names are chillin' next to a blue dot on the phone I'm terrible at, I apologize for the implied negligence. I do *have* pockets of free time like this to chat-- only right now it's 2 a.m. (3 a.m. for most of you on that list of voicemails) and, ironically, the friendliest thing is not to call you. I also have them in the morning, when most of you have RL jobs. Sometimes phone tag is better than nothing, though, so expect your very own missed call tomorrow morning.)

I'm not one for nostalgia.

That's a lie.

I'm plenty nostalgic.

The term itself makes me nostalgic, as it prompts me to recall Noelle's first assignment from the then-evil Dr. Tweedy, whom we grew to love and respect, with whom I later conversed confidently, who still sticks out as an all-time favorite and not just because he bequeathed me with the nickname "Little Rock." I recall the early days of college and our dough eyes.

Time changes things. I like change.

I remember my last night in Custis--after the community pot of mac and cheese, after the water gun fight, after the big bed was pulled apart and the furniture restored to the arrangement in which we'd found it-- I lay reflecting on the first school year in far, far away.

It slipped forward audibly. "Man, it's been fun."

Noelle accepted my prompt and we reminisced aloud.

Birthdays, Roses, Einstein Bagels.

I stared at the ceiling, covered in now-familiar shadows, awed by the familiarity of it all. Nine months before I lay there, letting tears fall fast over how foreign it seemed. Not just the shadows. All of it. I made the tears fall silently, so as to not alarm the stranger across the room.

All of the sudden it was May and I'd made it through and I'd loved it and I'd lived it and I wished that the doubtful, scared girl from August could be there to know how beautiful the experience was. Of course, that girl was there to feel the fullness of the once-impossible mission accomplished, it just took 9 months.

Time had changed things. I liked change.

I watched shadows dance and we continued to spout out favorite moments.

Nana's house. Valentine's day dance party. Family visits.

The light on the fire detector blinked red, steady, the same way it had on the first night. I lay there glad the overwhelmed girl of August persevered. She could not have known how rewarding it would be to recall the moments on the last night. But she held tight to the pillow and the possibility that there would be moments worth recalling. Mostly she held tight to the promise of the Provider that'd lured her far from home.

Upperclassmen. Extrooms. The Baybay. Power Uno. Axis. More dance parties.

He had come through. He said He would.

August tears didn't well up because I necessarily doubted God, but because of where believing Him brought me. May tears welled for the same reason. The emotion behind the tears had changed.

Time changes things. I like change.

Time gives perspective. Perspective fuels perseverance. Perseverance results in reward.

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Last week while the mom and son ran errands, she promised him a paintball gun if he could raise his grammar grade to an A. Jack immediately informed me of this deal as he passed off a bag of groceries. I got busy unpacking while he explained every reason he wouldn't be getting the gun. It wasn't until I turned for more freezer items that I noticed his already red eyes filling with fresh tears. "What's the problem, bud?"

He was angry I even had to ask. "Do you realize what it would take for me to make an A? I'd have to get a 100 on about every quiz. It's impossible and she KNOWS it."

"Or maybe she believes highly in you and is making you a great offer so you'll believe highly in yourself."

"No, she's just saying no. I'm NOT doing it, I can't do it. It's stupid."

"Okay, but it sounds to me like you're saying no."

"It's impossible, Sadie!" His eyes were filled to overflowing, frustration tipped the brink. The freezer alarm sounded, the moment full of alert.

I turned to shut the freezer and returned to the stare down. "You can do it, Jack. Sure it will take work, but if you do your best, your absolute best, it's possible."

"I am doing my best, but she is saying no! Besides, I know my best won't be an A."

"This is your best? Saying 'I can't' before you even get started clearly is not your best and your mom knows that."

"But even if I do try it won't be an A."

"Alright, Jack. Give up. But if you don't get a gun, it won't be because your mom said no or because your best wasn't good enough. It will be because you decided it wasn't worth the effort or the wait."

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The reasons why freshman year had been worth the effort kept spilling forth from within.

DC visits. Refugees. FYE. Quirky UWW campus life. Mario Kart. Events for attending. Excursions.

I was overwhelmed by the reward.

Dares with Meredith. Visiting Naptown. Hallway life of Custis. Power Frisbee. (resulting in even more dancing).

I was not too overwhelmed to anticipate more, future payoff. "Can you even imagine next year? I can't wait!"

The enthusiasm we'd shared while reminiscing diminished as Noelle delivered her response. "Yeah... It's going to be different, though... you know?"

She was right. Things did change come sophomore year. By nature of time passing, things changed. They continued to change. The title of that 7th Heaven episode intrigued me back in 1999, when I really had no idea what it meant--

nothing endures but change.

Something else endures. Someone else endures. That sounds trite and catchy.

But by May, I'd lived it and I was ready for more. Those 9 months redefined change for me. Still undeniably scary for me, it was nevertheless proven an avenue by which to learn a new facet of God's character. The promise of one provides the payoff for the other.

The gun pays off the hard-earned A.

I'm not one for nostalgia. Only because the definition-- "a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to some past period or irrecoverable condition" -- implies a desire to return to stay. To escape the present. In fact, I am least nostalgic in the less enjoyable seasons because I'm aware of the dangers of sugarcoated "glory days." It's a temptation I do my best to avoid because when it comes down to it the glory days are ever before me. It's futile to get nostalgic, seeking better days in the past-- they are, by definition, irrecoverable. There's nowhere to go but forward and it's too important to remember that in the less enjoyable days to get caught in nostalgia. There was a period of a few months there that going back to these sorts of photos left me feeling conflicted, burdened, too nostalgic, bad nostalgic.

But I do let myself get nostalgic in the good times, when I'm present enough to recognize the past for what it always was-- precedent. I got on facebook yesterday, having freshly recounted my life story to a new group of people I love and trust, a community I needed to feel at peace with my pursuit of the journeyman program, of a new phase of life. I told them about how I've been so blessed since graduation to have a home and a supportive family and encouraging, continuing long distance friendships. But I admitted I had a slump-- I got lonely, unenthused (made that word up...), apathetic, doubtful. As I prepared to share those things I realized that pinpointing them and doing church with friends I am confident to share them with means I am moved to a new season. I am reenergized as I realize He's answered that simplest of prayers I kept reciting, restore to me the joy of your salvation and renew a steadfast spirit within me, to sustain me. So I got on facebook yesterday and started at the first album. Freshman year pictures made me glad, not burdened.

That's when I remembered the shadows dancing and the last late night chat of the school year and how Noelle's words provided context to that moment flooded by memories. Things would be different. She was pulling me back to present enough to remind me to cherish the remaining time I had, not to lose them to nostalgia. Last night I felt content enough at present, cherishing this new season enough to spend time briefly reviewing what I'd learned before without feeling compelled to return to stay.

I didn't enjoy the return to freshman memories made because I miss it (though I sometimes do) or want to go back (I mean, I'd visit Fredericksburg fa sho) or because I'm not excited about the future. They get me pumped for the future. Because the memories these pictures capture did, at one point, lay in the future.

And so, I'm plenty nostalgic in that I like to return to a period, but just for a visit. Because going back reminds me of what I couldn't have known then-- what was at stake. What I would've missed if I hadn't kept my palms open for receiving the change, the grace, the new facet of Character revealed.

Nostalgia makes me brave.

It's akin to dancing in that way.

(shameful Grey's Anatomy reference).

Stumble Upon

I happened upon them innocently.

I visited my grandparents back in October and I admit that I was probably slightly-more-than-half-motivated to make the trip by the promise of Ranger merchandise at the local Arlington Academy Sports.

(I was not disappointed)

You may have learned by now, though, that for me, half the fun of life in general is the stuff out of left field. (that was an intended pun). Often, then, what motivates me takes back seat to what I stumble upon and while this principle sometimes leads to an above average amount of stubbed toes in a lifetime, the good news is that whatever I was headed towards in a rush rarely compares to that treasure I find under the couch as I writhe in pain on the floor. (In today's case, that was a $20 bill... that belonged to the 8 year old... that will belong to me if I find it again... he's been warned).

(he's taking this warning very seriously, rest assured).

That was a metaphor, I think. Kind of hard to tell.

Oh, yes.

I stumbled upon these letters (see what's confusing is that I used a physical metaphor to parallel a figure of speech, so they're running together a bit). And while the Ranger gear was nice and put to good use* I came away with a much better, more meaningful reward for time well-invested.

*by this I mean we wore it a lot, not that wearing it achieved the good outcome for which we hoped, meaning a series win.

There I was by my lonesome on the second floor of my grandparents home, which is usually swirling with the activity of at least 3 other people during any given stay. Turns out, one of the unanticipated rewards for making a solo mission trip to Meme and J.D.'s is deep sleep on the fluffy queen bed ALL TO YOURSELF.

(recommended).

Being me I thought, "I bet she has some pictures in that there closet!" and, being me, I proceeded to search out all things sentimental.

(as an aside, this is the coolest closet ever! [keep in mind it doesn't really take much with me.] it has one of those bookshelf doors commonly used to hide Anastasia or Jews in WWII or for beasting at hide and seek. The last intended purpose cited is the reason Meme gives for not telling Luke, Emily and I about it until our late teenage years, fearing we'd get stuck or scared or fall through the attic space or something. Whatever her reason, it apparently wasn't important enough to maintain secrecy from our younger cousins as I found out in a recent visit with said younger cousins that they've known about it all their lives. So that's probably where they were when I gave up at seeking and popped in an old Columbo VHS, assuming I shouldn't check the forbidden closet space since it was presented to me as a black hole for children that was sworn to secrecy. Whatever, I'm over it.)

In this quest, I found the hundreds of handwritten letters between my grandfather and his first wife, who died of cancer many years ago. I didn't read much of the content, as that felt intrusive, even to this girl, single-minded with regards to sentiment seeking. But I admired the penmanship, regularity, regard, and encouragement put into those letters.

This truly was their texting. (as in, it's actually not something they say to sound older and cooler. go figure).

I flipped through the first box quickly, enchanted by this great aunt of mine I never got to know. She had a no-nonsense approach that you might not expect of that stereotypical girls-only-college Mississippi girl. But she was also sweet. And just when the sheer number of the letters had me thinking she might have been on the verge of, dare I say, clingy, I opened the second box.

There lay a sea of familiar handwriting.

"His handwriting is the same," I thought to myself. Then came that thought, the one that connects the past with the present, the one that's always inclined me towards history. He is the same.

He's different, of course. Different than that man working the Texas oil business in the 1950s, going steady with the Mississippi girl he met at the orphanage. He's different, a lot is different and all that in between is intriguing, too. But what sticks with me is how this man who will serve me breakfast in the morning with a blessing that includes a request for the Lord to forgive us where we fail, who'll pull out a paper he's saved about a story he knows will interest me, who'll joke about Meme's cooking and sub-par ability to back out of the garage, who'll sigh and gasp at the Ranger game, who'll count the money at church and rush back to say goodbye and insist it was his pleasure to have me for the weekend; this man was my age once.

Writing letters and figuring out the future and finding his way in faith.

I see this box and think of the commitment he and Joan put into the present. All the hours in 1951 hunched by the lamp before the dorm mistress called lights out, time spent scrawling promises and musings after a night out with all the other company men making a living in West Texas.

And then I see myself and how sometimes I keep from making commitments or scrawling promptings at present because a lot of the time I feel like I have an elementary grasp on life. Like my 80 year old self will just look back and laugh at these pursuits anyway, because isn't that what young, single 20 year olds do? Take it for granted, their youth and they dream grandiose dreams and live it up with little regard for consequence or impending personal responsibilities, much less societal impact?

I know I have some stumbling yet to do in life that will leave me looking back at my scribbles and engagements thinking, "what she didn't know was..." Some stumbling I can maybe avoid, some that's out of my hands, and some that'll just be the result of carelessness. It's coming and I don't fear it. Because the thing is that stumbling in life isn't for stumbling's sake, it's usually a grand opportunity to come upon something new, yet unlearned. No, I don't fear the stumbling. I fear speaking boldly now, putting pen to paper because of how juvenile it will seem in light of future wisdom gleaned from the stumbling.

That might not make sense. I guess it's just intimidating to think of confidently expressing the metaphorical place I'd like to hurry off to because what I truly desire is to find the $20 bills-under-the-couches of life. That probably didn't actually help, seeing as how the point of this paragraph was to clarify. I'll start a new one!

In stumbling upon J.D.'s letters I realized something: that man, the one in the letters with the future to look forward to, he makes me respect the one I sat next to in the pew on an October Sunday in 2011 so much more. They are the same man, and the integrity is intriguing. He couldn't have known the future of oil or Joan's health or baseball in Texas. And I am so glad he didn't punish himself for an ignorance he could not help by keeping pen and paper shelved. He wrote confidently about what he knew and faithfully about what he didn't.

I believe in the power of the written word. There is much to be said about seeing sentiments spelled out. And so I begin my quest to do so more often, this practice of writing confidently what I know and faithfully what I don't. Not so much in terms of blogging, but in sharing words on paper with friends and family, in cards and letters and jotted notes of what they mean to me and how they help me learn life. And even sometimes I write for myself-- I've gotten started with this on my desk, jotting down quotes of friends and verses that remind me not to be intimidated by future, wiser me.

I'm not even promised her.

Just today me.

It's all I can be.

God knows that.

It's all He asks for.

"for attaining wisdom and discipline; for understanding words of insight;

for acquiring a disciplined and prudent life, doing what is right and just and fair;

for giving prudence to the simple, knowledge and discretion to the young--

let the wise listen and add to their learning.,

and let the discerning get guidance--

for understanding proverbs and parables,

the sayings and riddles of the wise. The fear of the Lord is the beginning

of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and discipline."

-Proverbs 1:2-7

"you have given all so we give all...

... thank you for daily bread...

...all is grace...

...and grace enough."

-Shaun Groves

"stand in awe,

and sin not,

and be still.

Selah"

-Psalm 4:4

"i am so blessed. I should really chill out."

-Candice Roland

"it will be brilliant. or it will totally fail and crash and burn.

either way it will be an experience."

-Sarah Holljes

"because kind words are like honey,

sweet to the soul and healthy for the body."

-Proverbs 16:24

Aged 22.

It's not what I dreamt it would be in the days Allie, Rachel and I dressed up to welcome our pretend service men home from war or when we fought over how old our barbies should be and which coast of the U.S. they should vacation to for summer. (I argued for California and 22).

It isn't what I dreamt it would be in high school, when I imagined I would work very hard to build an impressive resume so I could graduate with a political science degree and labor long for the 2012 campaign.

It isn't even what I dreamt it would be a year ago, but mostly because a year ago I had no idea what to expect of 22. I did expect to "be" somewhere by the end of 22. And as it is, I won't be out of the country, plunged into my beloved "unknown" before September 5.

I'll be here.

Here is good.

22 is good.

And I'm glad it's none of the things I expected.

I've settled into a good routine, a fun routine.

And still, every day has a mystery,

an element of "unknown" all its own.

Here I stop at the park on a whim on a warm January day to the delight of the little girl and the at-best indifference of the two too-cool boys. Each of us leaves having made a new friend. Mine is named Sandra, aka Nanna, with whom I chat on a park bench about Obama, cooking, novels, the library, God, dependence, thanksgiving, children.

Here I can spend a Saturday with my siblings and fast-growing nephew. He kneels next to me while I scrub the tub, eager for a job of his own. He strains over the side of the tub to reach the too-hot water filled with Comet. He comes up short and grimaces at the pressure he's putting on his belly, kicks his little feet and rides the resulting momentum back down to the tile floor. "You trying to be a helper?" I ask. He only puckers his lips a little and grunts. Meaning yes and also that I'm not getting any real work done on the tub while he's around to persist in "helping." And so we go and get a Truett-sized rag and we don't really work on scrubbing the tub, we work on learning to be a helper because the thing is that in a minute one of the siblings will come in and scoop Truett up for a kiss and to distract him long enough for me to get the task done. Then it won't matter that I didn't get my chore done right that second. It'll matter that I let him "help", that I watched his chubby hands work that rag steadily back and forth on the same few inches of tub ledge, that I took note of Sarah Holljes's painting and thanked God for friends that are also helpers. Yes, I'll get the chore done and he'll get put back down at some point and come striding back to my side and I'll get a chance to keep up this "helping" charade in a different room, to again watch his concentration, to watch him grow.

(Shout out to Griffin!)

And soon we'll be done cleaning and he'll be tuckered out in bed and those siblings and I will gather around the table with ample food to fill, fellowship to overflow.

Here, aged 22, I learn to cherish opportunities that present themselves, even though I know there is much to get done, many things I want to do and be in life.

Here I do my best to stay diligent in pursuing a dream while avoiding the trap of believing the other side greener. I heard it from Nick Floyd months ago and it changed my entire approach to 22-- the grass is greener where you water it.

Here Dad calls to propose a lunch date that will rival Mom and Luke's and I throw on a dress, snatch up a clippie, forget to put the dogs up and neglect to grab a coat on the way out of the door because I don't want to miss this.

This is 22.

It isn't what I dreamt.

But I'm watering it, so to speak.

And this patch of life, aged 22, is growing in quite lush.

Thank you, Lord.

Steps.

It's always a dangerous thing for me to start a blog post when I have somewhere to be 3o minutes later. I lose track of time and generally end up at least a *tad* bit late and even still I don't end up feeling like I've really expressed myself well.

But I just got to thinking, oh, 5 minutes ago, that all these lengthy blogging absences (over which you are not suffering, but my future memory loss self is) generally occur because I don't take the twenty minutes I do have to just say what's up. I forget that it's really that simple.

Plus, sometimes it's even more dangerous for me to have hours and hours to type and perfect and over think because then it gets long and actually more scattered and then you really do suffer. As does my future self who, though she may be interested in the deep ponderances of my soul during this time, might also really enjoy small remembrances like an afternoon of painted nails, teaching a 10 year old how to say sorry with soul, explaining to an 8 year old why it's important to be appropriately upset over a wrongdoing, and a bible study group dinner filled with good conversation, laughter, and an appropriate amount of pretending to be a compulsive liar.

These are the things I want to remember.

The small things, they add up. To remember them is to remember that God is faithful. To let them slip through the cracks is to disregard the attention he affords us. I sat on the steps having post-time out conversations two different times yesterday with boys who couldn't care less that I cared so much about helping them do life well. And whereas I understand their distaste for correction, I do not understand what would keep me from engaging with the caring God who routinely promises his providence, abundance from obedience. Even if I only have 30 minutes, even if just 30 seconds. Because if I'm not reflecting on the parts, I just won't see God for what he is: whole, correct, true.

It's a principle much akin to trying to do division homework with a 4th grader who sits there waiting for the answer, remainder and all, to magically come to him, stubbornly neglecting to engage the simple steps that he knows will lead to completion.

You gotta pay attention to the steps, kid.

Carpool time!

(and I'm not late!)

(though I did not leave time for coffee, but what can you do?)

I am a Thessalonian taking this command to heart as kids and I both learn the steps: "Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one." (1 Ths. 4:6)