Clean Up in Aisle 7

Hi. My name is Andrea.

And I would like to know who to call to get admitted to a resort spa for exhaustion. Because it seems like that's a thing now, and maybe you need loads of cash to get in — but seriously, do I just need to pass out in a grocery store or something? Because I can do that. I can do that with gusto. I'll take down the whole cereal end cap if need be.

I just moved last week, which could also be read as, last week, I dumped all of my crap into various corners of a city view apartment. Now I am left to empty boxes, put away mugs, and sit on the floor crying over all the notes my mom has sent to me through the years that I just found at the bottom of my office paper bin.

Anyway, I digress.

Sometimes life just hands you a bunch of stuff. Not lemons. Not a glass of lemonade. Just a handful of things that you're not sure what to do with.

Work. Relationships. Children. Plans gone awry. Bills that seem daunting. Tasks that feel impossible. A little girl who wants to eat an entire half of a watermelon.

I'm sitting here in my new apartment, with a stack of books next to me, a jar of random things like skeleton keys, a purple lighter and a clothes pin, and my coffee is nearly cold. Life is just so quickly happening with things being thrown at me and I feel like I'm tossing most of it into a mason jar. My heart is a lot like that miscellaneous collection. I know I have enough of me for some of these things, but not all of them. I know they all have a place, and in time, will find a place, but for now I'm handing out clothes pins and red ribbons to my world and hoping they're worth something.

This is the last year of my 20s. At 29, I am finding that everything I hoped life would hand me by this point has come and gone. I have fragments of some dreams, some hopes passed on in my rearview mirror, and some things I've just boxed up and placed on the shelf until another day. I am tired, and yet grateful. I'm starting to realize that we never might actually feel like we've arrived or accomplished anything. This whole elusive idea of climbing a ladder, achieving the dream, marking out our territories with flags and picket fences is ridiculous. And I'd go so far as to say it's damaging.

The whole idea that there is something to achieve here on earth is absurd. I mean, besides true love (not the selfish kind, but the kind that spills from the depths of an unconditional grace) and authenticity and brokenness (not self-indulgent messes, but the kind of brokenness that invites healing). And then the great Redemption story. (That's the story. Not my passport pages or bank account. ) I mean, what is our struggle for if not for one of those things?

I don't want to live in a state of perpetually trying to figure it all out. At what point do I tell myself it's ok to stop stressing out and to just sit cross-legged in the middle of my bedroom floor and listen to Johnny Cash? It's ok to not have to always be making lemonade, or fixing, solving, planning, and going. 

Sometimes the best parts of my day are when I'm eating a bowl of Lucky Charms and my 3 year old is telling me about how she wished on a star for a magic pony.  Sometimes the best thing I can do is not have a freak out moment in aisle 7, but rather give myself the chance to breathe and push off all of the daunting expectations. 

And sometimes I just need a resort spa. Is that too much to ask?

I've Said Too Much, Haven't I?

:: Words are absent lately, mostly this past week. Partly because every time I sit to write, I'm thinking about this. And how I want to be there. How many memories are washed away, gutted, destroyed, and just gone. A few years ago, I wrote a song about the road I grew up on and a lyric in it said, "Murphy's river winding through the valley... Don't change every thing 'til I can come home again."

After the flooding, I texted a good friend back in Dallas and told him that apparently Murphy's river (Schoharie and Fox Creek) didn't care for my song very much, seeing as how she devastated most of the community.

He replied, "Or maybe she did...and she waited until you could go home again."

And I cried. 

Because what we all knew as home: the places we gathered to eat, where friends met up, where my friends grew up, where we went swimming in the hot, humid summers, got ice cream and shakes, tomato and mayo sandwiches on wheat; all of it, if it's not destroyed completely, will never be the same. 

:: Words are also scattered because now that all the transition and moving, packing and sorting, lifting and driving is over — I can't help but feel that familiar sense of "now we need to make this home." I have about three different blogs written up about wanderlust, moving, responsibility, making a home and the like. But in some ways, I think it's all empty and, perhaps, untested. I need to live and walk some things out before I go spouting off about them in my blog. It's so easy to write about things. So easy to analyze and come up with my position on things — theologically, culturally, relationally. But I don't want to just be a blogger who waxes poetic on life. I'd rather work things out in my story over some time before telling you how I see it. I think that's fair, don't you?

:: Words might also be elusive because I am parenting a toddler. Who talks a lot. And asks a lot of questions. Parenting is, hands down, the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most incredible adventure I've ever been on. Yet, when I go days without seeing another person over the age of three, all of my words and thoughts go inward. Silence feels more comfortable than cracking open my heart.

So that being said, it's September and I am ready for autumn. I haven't experienced a New York fall in seven years.

That's too long, people. Too long.


// linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood

"wherever you are, be all there." (jim elliot)

In the house I grew up and spent nearly 22 years of life in, there were specific things that to this day mark my memory with colors, smells, textures.

The floor to ceiling wall paper in our 20' ceiling living room of a snow-covered mountain.

The deer wallpaper in the family room.

The white ceramic lamps, and specifically, the one I broke.

The tweed couches with wooden arms. Green carpet, wood floors, woodstove, open windows.

These things almost carry a sixth sense with them in my mind.

Now, being a mother and a homemaker, I do not take lightly the responsibility to create my nest. What I gather to keep these walls warm and nurturing...it matters.

The meals I cook. The quilts we toss. The pictures that hang over our sleepy heads, and the plates that hold our meals where stories are shared and lessons taught...

These are important things.

There is a little girl who is watching. Learning. She's discovering what is safe. What is home. 

This is where training happens. Where boundaries are established. Questions are unfurled and we allow protection within these comforts. Fragile human hearts grow in love and faith here; both hers and mine.

I take this very, very seriously.

That's why I am quick to make it feel like home. Especially now. Especially here.

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


(back with my sister-writers over at Finding Heaven. check 'em.)

Just 10 Minutes

It's 11:09 p.m.

A friend just called to say she left a bag in my fridge. Instead of figuring out a way to buzz her in the gate, I slipped my boots on, grabbed the bag and took the quiet night stroll to meet her outside.

It's slightly chilly, but not cold. Not the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. Just chilly. The kind of chilly where I think I could still survive on a quilt, under the stars.

Stars.

weheartit

That's all I'm looking for tonight.

I'm counting them, because I can. Out here in DFW, the stars are strangers. They show up every so often, wink at me across the giant room, and then disappear in plane lights and city glow.

But tonight I count 11. Eleven twinkling friends who've listened to my songs, prayers, dreams and weeping for nearly 28 years now. My friend waits, we exchange goodnights and "i love yous" and I wrap my sweater tightly around my arms as she drives away. There is no sound following me. Just the rhythmic hum of cars down the road, the song on my lips and my steps slowly moving on the sidewalk.

I crane my neck to count. 7. I only see seven stars now.

My breath is hushed and I lick my lips as the cool breeze chaps them against my will. A plane breaks the still air, and I count.

Three.

"I miss stars," I whisper, rounding the corner to my apartment. My small home.

It's late but I feel my soul asking so many questions. So many desires. So many choices.

And I long to drag a quilt out to the yard to stare at the stars. Ancient lights still shining. Still there.

Except I'm at my door and I see one.

Just one star.

An Announcement

::: (It seems impossible for me to tell everyone face to face before I post things here, or before they find out otherwise. Sorry friends if my phone calls or coffee dates didn't happen before this blog. And if I've seen you and haven't said anything, please know it was only because I didn't know how - didn't know when - didn't know if I should.):::

It feels like a part of me is dying.

I realize that sounds incredibly melodramatic. It's ok. You can say that. I know it is, a bit.

But it does feel like something inside of me is singed; fire-scorched even. I told a friend the other day, "I'm trying to keep my head up but it's getting hard."She reminded me, "You're allowed to put your head down....You know it's the beauty of grace...that we can put our heads down and give up."

This is not a giving up decision. But it's a hard one. 

Sometimes want and wisdom do not lead down the same paths.

More so, I am continuing to learn that life is not as I thought it would be. It never is ((really)).

For some of you, this announcement won't ruffle your feathers at all. It will seem as though nothing has changed.

For others though, it means quite an adjustment. For you and me both.

I am moving.

There. I said it. The big three words I've yet to really get out without choking on my own tears or tearing open a hole in my jeans.

I. am. moving.

"Where?" is the next question.

To New York. The Empire State. To the mountains and waterfalls, creeks and trees.

Indeed, I have come so far and far I will continue to go. I don't know what lies beyond this decision. I can tell you that one year ago, I never would've imagined I'd be where I am today. If that's any sort of indicator, I can't even begin to predict where this narrow, winding path will lead me in 12 months... except it would appear to be passing through New York.

This decision has been ruminating for quite some time. Months of going back and forth, swinging from thrill at the idea to weeping for fear that it's true. Texas has become my home. This land — its colors, summer heat, sunrises, sunsets, sweeping winds and beautiful pride has won my heart. Wholly. Fully. Texas wasn't supposed to be a home, but it became one. I just assumed it was going to be home for awhile longer...

But it hasn't happened that way. It's not happening that way.

The occurrences that led me to this point are, for now, irrelevant. They are just tiny threads in a giant tapestry. Just brief notes in a story that started long before I showed up and will finish long after I'm gone.

So I am nearing the end of one chapter, to start another. Prayers appreciated. Begging your grace and patience as I sort out emotions, fears, questions and decisions... 

(probably more frequently on this humble platform).

In case I haven't said it before,

from my little laptop home to yours,

love.