a grief observed

My grandfather, Robert Gene Thomas, passed away in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

Which is an uncomfortably sterile way of saying that my Grandpa Bob is now with Jesus.

It is sad, and we will miss him, and finding the right words to describe him to my children someday will be an impossible task.

BUT.

He is pain-free for the first time in 40 years. He has a new body. He is walking the streets of heaven unassisted, with no walker, no cane, not even a limp. He is praising God in the presence of God.

Today I will watch football and drink a Diet Mountain Dew in memory of Grandpa Bob, knowing that I would trade my reality for his in a heartbeat.

new territory

You can expect a longer post this weekend, after I've had time to process and be amongst family and loved ones. For now, I'll simply say that I'm headed to Colorado early in the morning to see this dear man and tell him how much I love him (because you can never say it often enough):

My college graduation, May 2009

Cousin David's wedding, June 2004

worship music does this to me

I've been thinking through a lot of heavy stuff lately. Heavy stuff like sin, guilt and shame, but also heavy stuff like forgiveness, redemption and the grace of God.

This is what I keep circling back to: we serve a good God.

He is righteous and He is just, and His righteousness and justice does not tolerate my sin. But because He is also good, He has provided a way that I can stand in His presence - His very presence! - blameless and pure in His sight, and that is through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

It doesn't take too long before that thought completely overpowers the heaviness of my sin, guilt, and shame. Which might be something akin to victory.

it's not about pity

If you have ever lived through a Minnesota winter, if you have children, if you have been to Africa, if you know what culture shock is, if you have ever seen a homeless person, if you have ever felt cold, if you strive to live missionally, if you want to do something practical to help your fellow man:

I NEED YOU.

My friends Samuel & Shola, and their two daughters, Esther (8) and Grace (2) relocated from Nigeria to Minnesota in August. (Do you know where this is going yet?)

Weather.com says Minnesota is going to get cold this week, with wind and rain.

Samuel and Shola and their daughters are not prepared for a Minnesota winter.

And for once, I can help. I know how to help.

But I need your help. They need winter clothes. All of them. And boots and coats.

MN Moms and Dads: Esther and Grace need the clothes your kids have outgrown. I don't have sizes for them, as their parents are unfamiliar with US sizing. From holding her, I would say little Grace is a 2T, maybe 3T. Esther is tall for an 8-year-old, but quite thin.

If you want to get on board with this, please email me at maggie.e.thomas@gmail.com. I'm going to check with the family on sizes and compile a list of what we have and what we need.

It's not about pity, it's about love. And right now, my Nigerian friends need some MN lovin'.

starry starry night

When you're a kid, you're pretty much at the mercy of your parents when it comes to musical tastes. Which isn't a bad thing at all; in fact, if your parents were really into the pop music of their day, having knowledge of MJ or Madonna or Prince or Springsteen might actually score you some points with your peers.

Except I was the kid who was all about Van Morrison and Billy Joel and Simon & Garfunkel and Tom Waits and Don McLean. Knowledge of these guys' music doesn't get cool again until you're about 18. And that's okay.

(Moral of that story: it does become cool again to love Simon & Garfunkel. Eventually.)

So my dad was really into folk music, and more specifically, sad songs. The first song I learned harmony for was this horribly depressing tune called "Souvenirs," a duet between Steve Goodman and John Prine. Best lyric of that one has to be: "Broken hearts and dirty windows / make life difficult to see." Suuuuper optimistic. Yet I loved it.

My brother and I were also big fans of "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel, which critics called "poignant and harrowing." Jake and I called it the Helicopter Song because of the recordings of rotors at the beginning and end. The choice line from that song would be: "And we will all go down together / We said we'd all go down together." Nothing like establishing a sense of brotherhood at age 8.

Then there was "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)" by Don McLean. As in this Starry Night:

(Coincidentally, it happens to be one of my favorite paintings, too.)

The song first celebrates Van Gogh and then mourns the loss of his genius. It's poignant and sad in a way that makes you wonder what else you take for granted (besides, apparently, Vincent Van Gogh). Memorable lines include: "But I could have told you, Vincent, / This world was never meant / for one as beautiful as you."

As odd as it may be, that's our song, Dad's and mine. It's kind of strange, and not father-daughter-esque, but then again, "our songs" don't have to make sense to anyone but the people who make up the "our." (See also: Jake's and my love for Taylor Swift.)

About three months ago, on the way home from my cousin's wedding, "Vincent" came on the radio. Dad asked me if people will find it strange when we dance to it someday at my wedding. Obviously, he and I had never talked about "Vincent" being that song, but at that moment, it made a lot of sense. "Probably," I said, "But who cares? It's our song." And I think that's the way it should be.

Here's to songs that don't make sense and the people who make them special.

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

my hope is built on nothing less

When darkness veils His lovely face,
I rest on his unchanging grace.
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.

On Christ the solid rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

It was a tough evening for the extended Thomas family yesterday.

But you know what? God is still in control. He is still merciful. And He is able.

And we are believing for a miracle.

In the meantime, Thanksgiving can't come soon enough. I miss my family.

forward motion

Last week, Ashley asked if I wanted to do the Reindeer Run 5K with her and Kathryn.

The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a great idea.

Just yesterday, I determined that if I actually want to do it, I should probably move my butt between now and December 4th.

So I ran. A little. More like jogging. But I did it here:

And here:

Hyland Lake Park Reserve is my favorite place in the world to run. I love that it's a mile from my house. I love that I can choose dirt or paved trails. I love that I know my favorite loop inside out. I love that my memories of this place go clear back to childhood, playing at the park formerly known as Chutes & Ladders, and losing my sunglasses in the lake while paddle-boating with my Mom and brother, and the summer of 2007 running with Amanda Twistol just weeks before she became Amanda Prihoda.

(uh, PS, those photos aren't mine. Just sayin'.)

Right. So back to yesterday. I purposely left my iPod at home. It was just me, the 50F wind, the sunset, and God.

It was glorious.

I forgot how much I love being outside. And being outside in autumn. And maybe even that burning in my lungs reminding me that I am alive.

I did couple loops, didn't push too hard, just enjoyed the weather. And 4.2 miles of forward motion later, I was home again, absolutely invigorated and thinking "Again! Again! Again!"

Then I saw that the forecast for next Thursday reads "Rain/Snow Showers."

Ugh. Fall, why do you have to leave me so soon?!

the hump that is wednesday

Following the overwhelming cuteness of that last post, how's this for a dose of reality?

I overslept this morning. Meant to get up at 7:30. Looked at the clock at 8:42.

Aaaand this whole being-an-adult thing gets thrown under the bus just. like. that. Embarrassing.


[I was only 10 minutes late to work. I love my job and my 2.5-mile commute.]

a few of my favorite things

[This post has some incredible photography, none of which is mine. Thank you, Marjorie Howell.]

Once upon a time, it was October.

Which is probably my favorite month of my favorite season. For a lot of reasons. October brings changing leaves, harvest time, birthdays, crisp weather, and tiny whispers of winter.

It also brings apple picking, which is probably the most delightful activity there ever was.

If you plant me a Cortland apple tree, I'll love you forever. Fact.

So this weekend, I went to an orchard.And I picked. And I ate. Well, we ate.

And we took pictures and laughed.

Oh, did we laugh."We" being me and three amazing people that God has seen fit to bless me with.
How it makes sense, I don't know; but I am grateful.

It was the most enchanting day I've had since coming back from Nigeria. By far.

It is true that life also goes through seasons. Some are filled with trials and pinching and stretching. Other seasons, like this one, are filled with innumerable joys. The differences between today and 365 days ago are vast, but my trust is in the same God, who is still faithful, still in control, and still blessing me.

Here's to a new season, which coincides nicely with my favorite season.

All pictures courtesy Spencer and Marjorie Howell. Thanks, you two.

in the interim

I have a great post (with pictures) on its way.

In the meantime, enjoy my 4th published article on my new concept of home.

Ladies, this one was geared towards you. Gentlemen...well, read between the lines.

happy birthday, buddy

Today, my best friend turns 20. Which, conveniently, makes me feel ancient. You see, Jake is my first memory. Ever.

Allow me to set the scene:

October, 1990. I was as precocious a 3-year-old as there ever was, with my wicked mullet and my fancy pink windpants. Mom, don't even deny it: home videos don't lie! I also talked. A lot. And I talked a lot about baby Jessica, who would quickly become my new baby sister. (whoops.)

I wasn't too sure about this new baby thing. Even at 3, I was already a drama queen, and didn't relish the thought of sharing the stage with someone else. The story goes that my grandma Pinky asked me once what I was going to do with the new baby. I swiftly replied that I would throw it in the garbage. What an angel.

There are other bits and pieces from the early years, but definitely, there is this one memory, standing at the forefront of everything else:

Sitting in a chair in Mom's hospital room, I waited for Nurse Julie to bring him in to see me. I wrapped my squidgy little arms around the bundle, firmly believing that I was "holding" my little brother. (I was not; Nurse Julie held. I simply hugged.) The memory gets hazy here, but I was enraptured. My little face full of wonder, Grandma Pinky asked if I was going to throw him away now.

No, I think I'll keep him was my whispered reply.

20 years later, I'm glad I kept him.

Happy Birthday to the best protector an older sister could ask for.

365 days, kiddo.

on manly men and being protected

Disclaimer
You will be offended by this post if you are one of the following: feminist, misogynist, pacifist, anti-outdoors/anti-camping, anti-vigilantism, or anti-guns. Here we go...

Once upon a time, my dad was a mountain man. There are not many things I love more than seeing pictures of my dad with a wild red beard or a bandana on his head. He and his friend Mikey once canoed the entire Yellowstone River from start to finish, just to give you an idea of the severity of their mountain man-ness. Everyone, meet my Dad, circa 1982:

Dad on the left; on the right is Mikey.

Please permit me to state outright and without apology that my dad is a total badass.These guys are some of the manliest men I've ever known. I'm pretty sure they got into legit fights. Again: manly. men.

Right, Dad is the bomb. So is Mikey, who now lives in the Wyoming wilderness and wields chainsaws on a regular basis. Dad and Mikey remain in contact, and a couple years ago, when my dad and brother set off to do the same Yellowstone trip (plus or minus 26 years), they stopped to see Mikey on the way:

Yep, still badasses.

You have to know about Dad and Mikey's adventures, and you have to appreciate their mountain man-ness in order to appreciate what I am about to tell you.

My dad raised me to be an independent young woman; I don't believe I've ever been a "daddy's girl." That said, we have always had a close relationship, and I don't think I will ever know or understand what it did to my dad when I decided to move to Nigeria. Outwardly, he was a rock: he put on a brave face, encouraged me to do this crazy thing, and trusted God for my protection. For that I will always love him.

But the other day, Dad made mention of those weeks prior to my move:

"You know, Mikey told me if anything had happened in Nigeria, he would have gone to find you."

I wish I were kidding, but images of Taken flashed through my head and tears came to my eyes.

As independent as I may be, I am still (on some level) a little girl who wants to be loved and protected. And though my interactions with Mikey have been few, the stories have been many. Mikey is a good man whose word is his bond. If Mikey told my dad he would have come to get me, I believe him. It means a lot to know that I am cared for and protected by good men.

So today I am thankful for the men in my life: men who are like grandfathers, men who are like fathers, men who are like brothers. I am surrounded by godly, protective men, and I am grateful.

the truth about encouragement

God gave me a big heart. True story. I mostly feel made to love on people.

(Unless you're a jerk, in which case, God is probably using you to teach me about loving people.)

In the past few weeks, I feel like God has put me in a place to encourage others. I would say this is different from the spiritual gift of encouragement, but I have had some choice opportunities to talk with dear, beloved people--people who are buried deep in the heart of God--and to encourage them.

I've been radically blessed in my own life. I've seen God show up in big ways and small ways, and I can testify to new mercies and amazing grace. Having that perspective puts me in a place to be encouraging and motivational.

But there's a drawback here; one I can't get around. I've spoken with some very broken-hearted people, people who have not seen God show up in big ways and small ways, people who can barely remember evidence of new mercies and amazing grace.
Others are just plain struggling--nothing extraordinarily awful has happened, but they feel uninspired, frustrated, not fully alive. When I talk to these people, do you know what I feel like?

A proselytizer. A phony. A lucky girl whose life just happened to work out.

It breaks my heart. I can imagine being in their shoes, and I would say to me: "Well, that's all well and good for you, and I'm glad God has been faithful in your life, but from where I sit, it doesn't look like God even cares."

So I'm torn between two reactions, and both feel disingenuous:
1. Don't believe the lie. God does care. He is near. He is faithful.
2. It may be difficult now, but I believe time will grant you perspective and answer the why

Either response makes me out to be an effervescent optimist: empty-headed, ungrounded, or worse--ignorant. Not the good kind of optimist, the annoying kind.

And yet.

I still feel that in their sharing of pain, of trouble, of stress, of discontent, of life, and in my response of joy, of hope, of perseverance, of promise, there is still a tiny provision of encouragement there.

So I press on. I can really only be two things: a cheerleader for those needing a boost, and an empathetic heart for those experiencing pain I will never know.

If you need it, I will cheer you on. If you need it, I will sit with you and hold your hand.
But either way, I'm going to tell you that God is faithful. Even when you can't see it. And that might be frustrating for you to hear. But you need to hear it, from someone who means well, from someone who believes it is true, from someone who will remind you of it until you believe it, too.

Also, to those people: you are loved. You are loved by me, a girl who received a big heart from a God who loves you even more.

intellectual christianity

So I joined a Theology discussion group.

Which sounds really holier-than-thou but it's totally not.

Basically, it's like this: I loved my Christian Thought class in college. I learned about history, foundations, heresies, interpretations, schisms, denominations. It was more formative than any other class in shaping who I am--period--but also who I am as an intellectual Christian.

You know, intellectual Christianity: loving Christ with your head as well as your heart. (a.k.a. for the geeks out there [like me] it's not enough to serve God with a child-like faith, I want to be able to wrap my brain around it all, too.)

A year after I graduated, plus and minus a move to Africa, I found myself craving the Calvinist v. Arminian debate again, and went looking for discussion. I found it at Southland City Church's City Groups - they have an entire one dedicated to Theology.

I totally geeked out, you guys. I realized how much I wanted to engage with theology, ask big questions, search for big answers, and be humbled in that feeling-small way when I recognize how little I understand about God.

So tonight was my first night. We discussed the "birthright" the Jews have on heaven. Are they shoe-ins because they're descendants of Abraham? Have they given that up because they rejected Jesus as the Messiah?

We scoured Scripture - and I mean scoured. We pored over words and someone with the Logos software interpreted Greek and Hebrew terms. We looked at traditional interpretations and dissenters' opinions. Incredible. This is the passage I contributed to the group: Romans 11: 25-36:

Paul addresses this seemingly huge issue (which really takes up the whole of Chapter 11, for context) and breaks it down and states God's position on the issue, only to use his last breath of the chapter to acknowledge how omniscient God is. How God's judgment cannot be known by mankind. And ultimately, how the glory goes to God, regardless of the outcome.

I just want to be like Paul.

I want to have the ability and the passion and heart to discuss really hard things (like whether or not the Jews, God's people, today will inherit the kingdom of heaven promised to their father, Abraham) and I want to do it in view of my insignificance. In view of God's righteousness and in view of my inability to know how He thinks.

Essentially, Paul lays it all out there and closes with, "But I am not God." I want to be able to do that, too, in true humility.

I have a really long way to go.

And if you ever want to join me in that pursuit, the Theology group meets on Wednesdays.

let's play a game

It's called the Neck or No Neck game.

I'm torn over the concept of turtlenecks. I got a couple from Marjorie, but I just don't know if it makes me look neckless or not. The general concept is that I need a neck. Being neckless is not a desirable state, in my opinion.

So, calling all fashionistas: please evaluate the picture below. I need to know if this should be a regular contender or a one-time-only show, if you know what I mean.

where credit is due

My embarrassing post from yesterday really has another story. And I need to tell the other side of that story. It's far better, and more redeeming, than my stupidity.

So yes, I lost my keys. But in those precious few minutes of sheer panic ("Oh my gosh they could be anywhere in downtown Minneapolis!"), I had some really amazing people on hand.

Everyone, meet Spencer, Marjorie and Jon. ::Hi, guys:: Yes I used their real names and if they hate me forever and wish to remain anonymous and protect their internet identity, I'll just change their names to something really unbelievable like Bullwinkle or Guadeloupe.

OKAY. Not the point of the story. So I kinda tweaked a little when I lost my keys and maybe pulled at my hair and bit my lip really. hard. and muttered bad things under my breath. But there were really only two options: look for them and cry about it or look for them and laugh about it. And really only one of those is even remotely desirable.

So we looked. They dumped out bags of newspapers and pulled the cushions off their furniture and got down on the floors and shook coat pockets and hugged me and reassured me that it would be okay and we all checked my purse over and over and over. And in the middle of it all, someone cracked a joke. And we laughed. And it wasn't so terrible. And it was mostly okay. Which is what amazing friends are for.

BUT WAIT. It gets better.

Because when we resigned ourselves to the idea that the keys would not, in fact, be found that night, my thoughts turned to how I would get home. And just like that, Spencer goes, "You can take the Taurus." Just. Like. That. Not enough to offer to take me home, but to let me take one of their cars.

This is what amazing friends do. They put forth more effort than necessary. They give more than the standard permits. They complicate their own lives (however slightly) and go down to one car per family to help the idiot that lost her keys. And we laugh about it. Together. I am so inspired by these friends I have. And grateful. And humbled. And reminded that this is, once again, what it means to do life together.

This is community. And it is beautiful. And accepting of idiots like me.

the embarrassment continues

I thought that post on high-school-aged me was the most embarrassing one I've ever written.

I'm about to outdo myself.

As some background, let me just tell you I had the most amazing weekend. Twins game, good friends, good movies, good food, and lots of good laughs. Just a phenomenal weekend.

As the cherry on the top of that weekend is the tiny little detail that I lost my car keys last night.

Lost my keys. Do you know who loses keys? Ancient people who shouldn't be driving. And 15-year-old girls. And maybe also my brother.

Jake just did this a month ago. And when it happened to him, I laughed and thought, "Hmm. Maybe I should have a spare set made for my car. Whatever - I'm responsible."

Joke's on me.

The keys could be in any of the following places: Spencer and Marjorie's house, their car, Fogo de Chão in downtown Minneapolis, anywhere on the Nicollet Mall, the 38th floor of the IDS Tower, or Jon's car.

You know, one of those places.

What a great foray into adult life: phoning the Hyundai Dealership to find out how to create a car key from scratch. Watch me grow up realfast.

EDIT 3pm CST: My keys have been located at the restaurant. Thank God! My pride is restored!

Nigeria, get it together.

Today is the 50th anniversary of Nigeria's independence from Great Britain.

A friend emailed this morning to tell me of 2 car bombs that exploded in Abuja around 11am local time (5am CST). They happened near Eagle Square - a place I know, a place I could easily get to in a taxi.

Do you know what happened to me this morning at 5am? I was startled awake. Seriously, I was. If you knew how hard I sleep, you would understand that it was probably not coincidental.

Nigeria, you're killing me.

There are tears in my eyes as I read news reports and accounts. BBC said the first car bomb drew first-responders to the area, and 5 minutes later, the second bomb exploded.

Nigeria, what are you doing?

Today I proudly wear Nigerian traditional clothes, delighted in the strides made in the last 50 years, blessed to have spent a year of my own life there, grateful that I will always feel at home among her beautiful people.

But today I mourn the foolishness, the selfishness, the greed. I mourn that a celebration which could have united a people religiously and politically divided fell short of that goal.

And selfishly, I mourn that I am not there to rejoice with those who rejoice and grieve with those who grieve.

Nigeria, am missing you today ooo.