my thanksgiving was better than your thanksgiving

It's the end of the month of gratitude. Many of my friends have been participating in the 1000 gifts project, taking the month of November to list 1000 gifts from God. Consider this my contribution to the project.

I'm grateful for spending Thanksgiving with my family in Colorado, and for sledding together in the Rocky Mountains:

I'm grateful for cousins crazy enough to marry into our family:

I'm grateful for newly engaged cousins (!):

I'm grateful for toboggan rides that start out promising:

but end in whitewashes:
(let's be honest, I really did miss this in Nigeria)

I'm especially grateful for the strong women in my life, from whom I can learn so much:

I'm grateful for the community of friends, old and new, that God has built up around me, to encourage me and keep me on track.

I'm grateful for a job that fits my gifts and passions, and one I will learn and grow in.

I'm grateful for this stage of life, however in-between it feels, and for the lessons I'm learning in the process.

i'm not that kind of girl

Let's get something straight: On the wide spectrum of femininity, I am more of a girly-girl than a tomboy. It's just that I'm just not that far left of center.

The most recent piece of evidence was submitted Friday. The church I grew up at hosts a women's Holiday Tea each November. The women of the church sign up to host and decorate a table, and a formal teatime is served. It is a pretty spectacular display of the feminine ingenuity of the women of that church, let me tell you. I haven't been in several years and it gets more elaborate each year. Last Friday, I was half-expecting a waterfall. Or two.

I definitely appreciated the event and the hosts who dedicated so much time to their tables. But as Mom and I surveyed all the tables with their place settings and fine china and knife rests (knife rests!), she asked me if I could see myself hosting something like that someday.

(There we are...yep, I look like my Mom.)

I was honest. I said no, thus fixing myself at the place where "painting our nails" meets "screaming at the football game on TV."

I am a girly-girl. I do enjoy attending holiday teas, and eating scones, and placing my soiled knife on my knife rest. I went shopping for a fancy dress this weekend and loved every second. I even curled my hair this afternoon.

It's just that I don't get a thrill from the prospect of owning fine china or hosting a formal tea someday. I guess a girl has to draw the line somewhere. I guess I'm more practical when it comes to dishes.

I discussed it with my Dad, who was the Tea's most adorable server. I said something like, "I enjoy this, but the elaborate business...it's just not me." To which he lovingly replied, "You're such a cynic...don't worry, you get that from me."

(Oh, the bow tie. And the teapot. Precious.)

i have a knack for embarrassing myself

Just because y'all are special

and just because it's my hundredth post

and just because I'm feeling generous and more than a little self-deprecating

but mostly just because I write whatever I want on this blog anyway....

Tonight, I'm going to tell you a story.*


Once upon a time (because that's how these things always start), there was a well-meaning girl with a heart of gold and honest intentions. Sure, sometimes she did brainless things like accidentally resending text messages to an ex-boyfriend, or losing her keys in a restaurant and not realizing it for approximately 7 hours, or oversleeping twice in two weeks, or even keeping an absurdly overemotional online journal throughout her early years of college.

But truly, this girl meant well. She tried to do the right thing in loving God and loving people. She tried to encourage them and point them back to a gracious God. It's just that sometimes she did stupid stuff.

Or, rather, does stupid stuff. Still.

Because this morning, this girl with the good intentions was supposed to get up at 5:15 to take her wonderful boyfriend to the airport so he could go spend the holiday week with his sister and his college friends. And she really wanted to be a help to him and getting up early on her day off was the least she could do. But even in that, she failed.

Due to a number of outside circumstances including, but not limited to: not going to bed early enough, setting the alarm for PM instead of AM, and--lest we forget--leaving her phone in her desk at work, our little Miss Congeniality failed to wake up until 7:15am, which was more or less the takeoff time for her boyfriend's flight.

Kai.

Thankfully, Mr. Wonderful made his flight, due to a great friend who has proved, once again, that he is great at coming through in the clutch. Not to mention that Mr. Wonderful has been nothing but gracious and forgiving about the whole mess. Which makes our well-meaning girl feel a bit less terrible.

But only a tiny little bit.

*This story may be my measly attempt at penance.

when impatience gives way to homesickness

I had a very impatient moment today, in which I thought (though, thankfully, did not voice) very irritated feelings about a woman at the post office. When I caught myself in that not-very-nice thought pattern, I thought to myself, How very non-Nigerian of me, reminding myself once again that the thing I miss most about Nigeria (besides the people) is the person I was when I was there.

The thought prompted me to pick up the journal I kept in Nigeria. For context, the following was written the day I left for good: June 17th 2010.

That's it. That's all she wrote.

I'm 5000 meters in the air and there's no going back. Literally--no visa, no ticket, no going back.

I wish i had the right words for this moment. How crippling and gutsucking it feels. How conflicted.

I want to cry. I want to cry so bad. I want to mourn this place, these people, and who I am around them.

I want to beat down the doors and go back...

I want.

I wish.

I want.

I just want to go home--but where is that anymore? Surely I'm at home in MN, in Wheaton, too. And surely I feel at home at Plot 1079 Opposite American School, Durumi, too.

How long, O Lord?

How long will it be until I feel at home again? How long until I find a way to adequately express my intense longing for 2 places?

I love you, God, and I trust you.

But I don't trust myself and this feels a lot like the wrong decision.

Help.

That portion is followed by an unsent letter to a friend. Next is this:

I'm watching the sun rise over France and listening to my iPod's Relaxed playlist. Fitting, no?

A few thoughts:

- I have a plan. God has a plan. My plan doesn't matter.

- Man makes plans, but God determines his steps.

- God is still who He is no matter where I am.

All this circumstantial evidence to the contrary does little to convince me that this plan in leading me away from Nigeria is designed to do anything but rip me apart.

Lord, help me make sense of this decision, and if not, help me be at peace about it.

While I still struggle with these restless feelings, I would say I am more or less at peace about being in Minnesota for such a time as this. My main struggle now is feeling caught in the in-between, between the right now and the future, between the where I am and the where I'm supposed to be.

This tension feels a lot like what Wheaton taught me about the kingdom of God as the already and the not yet. I think I was made to live in that tension. It's just not a very comfortable place to be.

hallelujah

I admitted it out loud last night:

I have a really hard time being sad that Grandpa died.

It sounds hateful and cold when taken out of context, but it is the truth in my heart. My grandfather lived 80 long, rich, full years. Years full of love, and family, and celebrations. The last 40 of those years were also full of some kind of pain. And that pain is no more.

Hallelujah.

I was privileged to know the love of my grandfather. To have held his hand, to have kissed his shiny bald head, to have smelled his English Leather aftershave, to have heard his laugh - the kind that brought tears to his eyes. I bear witness to my grandparents' generosity, over and over and over, every Christmas, birthday, graduation, time and time again.

Hallelujah.

I was blessed to hear him sing. To sing with him, in the car, in church, at the kitchen table. I was blessed to watch him read and write. To reflect on the joy in his life and to remember what was important. To work crossword puzzles and debate politics. To record his daily happenings, because God is in the details.

Hallelujah.

I am grateful that my memories of Grandpa are positive and beautiful. I am grateful that my grandfather's legacy will extend long past my generation. I am grateful that he is whole and complete and standing--upright and pain-free--in the presence of God.

Hallelujah.

I enjoyed the life and love and laughter of my grandfather for all of my 23 wonderful years. I will carry his memory with me for the rest of my life. I will teach my children about the incredible man he was.

Hallelujah.

And though I will miss him on holidays, at weddings, and when we celebrate births, I know he is exactly where he ought to be. It is the reward for a full and faithful life.

Hallelujah.

We all grieve in different ways, and though my tears are few, my smiles are many. My grandfather was a good man, who married a good woman, who raised good children, who loved his grandkids. We will remember him well and continue the love. And we will praise the God who gave him to us and gave us to each other.

Hallelujah.

once a nanny, always a nanny

I had one of those "moments" tonight.

You know the kind where you're pretty sure time is moving too fast and you just want everything to slow down a little?

Yeah, that.

I babysat tonight for a family I have come to love. What started as a strictly housekeeping position three summers ago has become a beautiful, flexible, on-call-when-you-need-me job. A few weeks ago, it was taking Andrew to hockey (and getting all his equipment on him, which was a job and half). Tonight was straight-up babysitting for Andrew (6) and Matthew (almost 3).

Here's why I had my little "moment":

Fall 2007. Matthew arrives.

Then there's these, from tonight:

Andrew eating Cheerios and working on homework.

Matthew, snuggling up after a little meltdown

So there it is: my moment. I can't believe Andrew is old enough to read books to me. I melted a little when Matthew pointed at the lions in our book and said "li-lon." I've been privileged to watch these little ones become little boys. I've been with this family through potty training and home renovation. I've taken the boys down the slide at the park and pushed them on the swings. I've looked after them in toy stores and hair salons. I once stopped Andrew from being struck by a car. And a few weeks ago, I had intermittent freak-outs every time he fell on the ice at hockey practice.

Their family has shared my life with me, too. They were around when Amanda got married. I was still with them when Dad and Jake had their accident on the Yellowstone. In fact, they were among the first to know about Nigeria, since I was working for them at the time.

There's just a lot of life that's happened in the 3+ years I've known their family. And tonight I had a little moment: memories of all that I've been blessed to see and experience with them wrapped up in a glimpse of the future in store for them. It was precious, to say the least.

Clearly, I'm not a mom yet. And from what I've heard, these "moments" get more intense worse when they're your own. Clearly, I'm not there yet. But I hope to be someday. I figure this is something like fair warning.

at a time like this

I feel obligated to talk about my grandfather. To remember and tell stories. To honor him in my own small way. To give details of the memorial service (which was beautiful) and of my long weekend with extended family (which was intensely rewarding) and of my grandfather's incredible life (which is to be celebrated).

I feel like that's what I ought to do, and yet, I know my grandfather. He would say, "Only write about it if that's what you want to write about." I'm not ready--just yet--to write about Grandpa. I'll get there. Just not today.

Today, what I want to write about is community.

About the people we surround ourselves with. About the blood-relatives and non-blood-relatives who share our joys and sorrows and do life alongside us.

Without them, the past several weeks would have been very, very different.

Losing a grandparent is new territory for me. I've never walked through this before. But so many others have. They know loss and sadness. They have grieved, and they know how to support me while I learn how to grieve, too.

My dear friends, relatives, coworkers--true brothers and sisters in Christ--have prayed for me, hugged me and held me, listened to me, and told me they love me. They have shown me patience and understanding, even when plans changed unexpectedly. They invited me into their homes and shared their sympathy-expressing cats (S&M, I'm looking at you). They gave flowers and sent cards, emails, and Facebook messages expressing their condolences.

They are the living embodiment of the Early Church and I am profoundly grateful.

This is what I mean when I talk about living missionally. Because yes, it means I desire to live in such a way that points people to Jesus--as my beloved Life Church says: loving others into a relationship with God. So there's that part of missional living. But it also includes living with other Christians. Reminding them of Christ's grace and mercy. Reflecting Christ's sacrificial love. Being Christ to each other.

I can't imagine experiencing loss without the support of the body of Christ. I believe I can speak on behalf of my family when I say we are thankful for you and for your expressions of love. It is my hope to continue to do life with you, bearing your burdens and sharing your hopes, as you have done for me.