A Whisper That Pierced The Gale

"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer could there be?" --C.S. Lewis

Long ago, I remember pacing around my bedroom, frustrated, as I asked (demanded) God's advice about a situation in which I had found myself. I remember being slightly miffed at God's silence, as I self-righteously demanded immediate guidance. I wondered, if I was so willing to follow God's orders, why He would not tell me what those orders were. I remember at one point getting so frustrated as I paced about that I began to speak aloud, saying, "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!".

I don't really know what I was expecting from the Lord; a voice from the heavens or some sort of vision or a dove to present me with a scroll outlining my divine instructions. I didn't get any of those things, but neither did God stay silent. To be sure, I deserved silence. I was in the throes of a self-righteous tantrum, cloaked in a thin veil of sincerity.

But one of the most wonderful things about our God is that He very often does not give us what we deserve. After I began crying aloud "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!", I was given a word from the Lord. Deep inside my soul, a still small voice rang clear over my own clamor, and said three words that froze me where I stood:

"You're not listening."

Immediately, as if those words had been "peace, be still!", the roaring in my ears died away and I was left standing still in a quiet room, the words still echoing around in my soul as I turned them this way and that, searching for their meaning. I somehow understood it as the rebuke it was, and shamefully realized that God was not being silent or distant or uncaring about my predicament. He just wanted me to listen, with a humble and submissive heart, and to speak to me on His terms. It was the first time of only a handful of times that the Almighty has spoken to me in such a way, and it was an important lesson, not just for that circumstance, but for every day of my life.

And now, some ten years later, I wish I could say that I've done away with the distracting clamor of the voices that pull my attention from what really matters. I wish I could say that I no longer entertain the voices of Pride and Worry and Greed. I wish I could say I never forget to truly listen. 

I do. More often than I like to admit.

But that's one of the reasons why I love the nighttime. Because on nights like this, when the flurry of the day dies down and the daylight creatures are chased to bed by the setting of the sun, when the moon stakes its claim in the sky and the only sounds you are left with are the ticking of the clock and a gentle chorus of chirping crickets, you find that the racket inside you begins to abate as your pulse slows to match the cadence of the clock. It is during these precious glimpses in time that my soul remembers to listen, and realizes that it hasn't been listening for quite some time.

I feel a bit like Nicodemus, as under the cover of night I return to the Lord, ashamed at how long and far I've strayed. Desperate for that sweet fellowship, I look into the face of my beautiful Savior, and fold into the forgiving embrace, knowing that He's seen my wandering, my distraction, my failures, knowing that He's forgiven it and cast it as far as the east is from the west.

And we both know I'll fail again. We both know that in the near future I'll be pulled under the current of distractions and forget to call on the Name that saves and forget to listen for the still small voice in the midst of the gale. But the forgiveness granted to me in that sweet embrace isn't only for what I've already done, it's also for everything I will do. All of it is known, and all of it is forgiven. The price has been paid, the work is finished.

And the waves of my consciousness, which only hours earlier were raging like an angry sea, are now tranquil and calm under the watchful eye of Peace Himself and rock me to sleep with the help of a ticking clock and chirping crickets as I succumb to their rhythmic insistence, locked in the never-ending embrace of the calmer of every storm.


-

Rivers In The Desert

Today it has been a year.

One.

Whole.

Year.

I've survived for a year. I've been an adult and paid my rent and bought toilet paper and milk and taken out the trash. I've learned to drive in Twin Cities traffic, navigate without falling to pieces (usually), fix toilets, and replace the battery in smoke detectors. I've taken care of myself when I was sick, driven myself to the airport for a flight, and I do all the things "real" adults do, like complain about traffic and stay late at work, and say things like, "I'm so glad it's friday!" and, "Ugh, another Monday".

There is a lot I could say about the past year.

It has been a bit like a roller coaster. When the ride started, when the bar came over my lap and the coaster started climbing up the first big, exciting hill with the telltale tink-tink-tink-tink-tink...it was exciting and exhilarating, and the anticipation of the drop had me positively giddy.

But then came the drop. The drop scared me. I was not ready for the drop.

And then, still reeling from the horrifying plunge into the unknown, I was given no time to recover before my ride went into the dark tunnel. Others around me were screaming with delight and raising their arms. Me? I was honestly wondering why I had ever gotten on that ride. I wanted off. I wanted out. But it was too late; there was no going back. The only choice I had was to hold on for dear life and try not to vomit.

Life is crappy sometimes. Sometimes, we get things we don't expect from the choices that we make. Sometimes, there is no going back, no safety net, no mama's skirts to hide behind anymore.

And we think, "if I had only known it was going to be this way, I never would've done ____" Fill in the blank.

But God knows that.

God knows that. 

God knows that if we see the road ahead, if we see the dark forests filled with dangers that we don't know how to face, if we see the loneliness that kills us slowly on the inside, if we see the hardships that make us want to run back home, we will dig in our heels and say, "No way, I'm not going through that!". 

So God leads us blind, holding tightly to our hands, whispering, "Trust me, child, have faith. All shall be well". And even through the trials, even through the dark tunnels when we feel so small and vulnerable, even through the ugly black forests that make us sick with fear, His hands continue to hold tight to ours, as He whispers, "Peace, be still". 

God knew that I would not have moved to Minnesota if I had been able to see how life would be two months after moving there. He knew I would've planted my feet firmly in my safe Nebraska life and said, "Never". 

But He also knew that in Nebraska, I was not growing. I was safe, comfortable. I had my entire immediate family close by. I had great friends. I had a good job, a degree, and I had money in the bank. I had a wonderful church, filled with people that I loved. It was easy, happy, safe.

But I wasn't growing. I had everything I could possibly need. There was no reason for my roots to dive, no reason for me to rely on faith, no reason for me to run to my Father each morning for my daily manna. 

God was in my life, but God was not my entire life. Not by a long shot. I liked having Him there, but I didn't really feel like I needed Him too much. 

If my car broke down, I had about 12 people on speed dial who could help me within minutes. If I got sick, I had somebody close who could bring me medicine and soup. If I got lonely, I had friends who were always up for coffee. 

It's hard to have great faith when you live in a bubble of safety; when you are wrapped in so many safety blankets you are getting lost in the bundle. When you have so many people to help you, it's really hard to remember to call on God in your hour of need. 

But God will settle for nothing less. He wants to be our one and only. He wants His children to run into His arms every single day, because they know they will not survive otherwise. He knows His embrace is the only place where the peace that passes understanding is found. He knows His embrace is the only place where joy that is bigger than circumstances is found. He knows that His embrace is the only place where faith that allows us to face the evil in the world without flinching is found.

He knows that His embrace is the only place where life everlasting, lived to the fullest measure, could ever be found.

He is a good, kind God, so He gives us what is good for us, but what is good for us and what we want are not always the same thing. In fact, often times, they are quite different. We are the children requesting ice cream for every meal. God is the loving Father, looking at us with an amused smile saying, "Not right now, child, eat your peas".

And so, we trust that the plate that God places before us, though often not what we wanted or asked for, is what is ultimately best for us. Sometimes, what we see as blessings can actually be curses, as the child who disobeys his father by eating the container of ice cream behind his back quickly learns, once the stomachache begins.

I'm still learning to eat my peas. I stuck my nose up at them for quite a while. I wanted the ice cream. I wanted the companionship of family and friends. I wanted to live 10 minutes from my sister's house. I wanted to play Settlers with my family every night. I wanted to laugh until I cried with my brothers watching the stupid YouTube videos. I wanted to hold my nephew the day he was born. I wanted the safety net of mama's skirts.  

But I'm done mourning the ice cream. I'm done looking back. I'm done screaming to get off the ride. I'm done throwing fits and expecting God to huff and give me my way just to make it stop. I'm starting to reap the benefits that come through eating my greens. I'm starting to realize that I've had a stomachache for a very long time, and it's just beginning to go away. I'm starting to enjoy the peace and joy and faith that comes from daily communion with my wonderful, patient Father. 

I'm starting to learn to call on Jesus when troubling times arise, and that He delights to prove His ability and willingness to come to my aid. 

I rejoice because I'm starting to live, truly live. My roots are waking, moving, diving. I'm starting to grip back the hands that have been gripping mine the whole time I've been traversing through this deep forest. I'm starting to trust that voice, to believe those sweet words. I'm starting to rejoice my choice to move to this crazy place, to live without security blankets, because that's what it took to bring me to this sweet fellowship.

I still savor those wonderful ice cream moments, like when my family comes for a visit or I get to drive to Nebraska. But those moments are rationed now, as ice cream is meant to be. And afterward, when I come home to a dinner of veggies, I dig in with gratefulness and vigor, knowing that this is what I truly need, what truly brings life to my whithered branches. 

My Father loves me too much to give me anything less.

Isaiah 43:19

"Behold, I will do something new,

Now it will spring forth;

Will you not be aware of it?

I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,

Rivers in the desert."

-

All I Know For Certain

This is a post I wrote after one of the scariest days of my life. The event itself happened exactly six months ago, almost to the day, and I wrote this post a few weeks after that. Some of you know this story already, or bits of it at least, and if the information seems a little dated, keep in mind that it was written nearly six months ago. I wasn't sure for a while that I even wanted to post it at all, mostly because it was all still very fresh and raw for my entire family, and I wanted to be sensitive to that. But after re-reading it the other day, I came to the conclusion that I learned a lot of important lessons that day...lessons that I do not want to forget, and I figured that six months was long enough that talking about it was no longer like poking an exposed nerve.

So here goes.

The day began innocently enough. I think. I don't remember the morning of July 22. I know I went to work, but I don't even remember being there. I don't remember what I was wearing, I don't remember who I spoke to, I don't remember if I was frustrated or upset or happy, I don't remember if I was busy or tired or feeling sick.

Some things, though, I do remember. I remember getting a text from my mom saying that my dad was in the ER with chest pains. I remember that I didn't immediately panic. There are lots of reasons for chest pains. In all my clinicals, I did lots of chemistry workups on people who were suffering from chest pains, and in all of those instances, I don't remember one time seeing truly alarming results on any of those patients. So I wasn't immediately frightened.

At least, I told myself I wasn't. I'm pretty sure my inner self was panicking pretty good, but somehow I managed to stuff those feelings and emotions deep down, somewhere where I didn't pay them much attention.

I remember not being able to concentrate on work anymore because my mind was somewhere else. I remember calling my siblings and telling them...something. I don't remember what. I remember getting a voicemail on my phone from my mom and hearing the words "heart blockages", and I remember that I only made it that far into the message before I stopped listening. I had heard enough. I remember running through my workplace searching for my boss so I could tell her I would be leaving for the day. I remember a couple of my coworkers were kind enough to push me out the door and promise to talk to my boss for me.

I arrived at the ER minutes later. I think God might've cleared the roads for me, because by now I was in a pretty frantic state of mind and not AT ALL in the mood to tolerate slow drivers. I probably would've run every red light and just honked my way through if I had to, so the fact that all the traffic lights between my work at the hospital were green for me seems like an act of divine intervention.

In the back of my mind, I was slightly disgusted that I knew right where the ER entrance was. It had been over a year since my family had congregated in the ER waiting room, sitting for an extended period of time in uncomfortable hospital chairs, desperate for answers about why my sister was having seizures. The sense of deja vu was unsettling to say the least. I hate the ER, I really do. The people who work there are nice and friendly and good at their jobs, but I hate the ER. I hate when somebody I love is there.

When I got there I saw my mom, but I was looking for my dad. Where's dad...I need to see him. I kept trying to stuff down the panic; keep it locked away, far from the surface of my fragile exterior. My dad was pale and drawn, but talking and even trying to joke around. It calmed me slightly. Score one for dad.

I talked to my mom, and was starting to get bits and pieces of the story of what had happened, interrupted every couple of minutes by another person coming into the room wearing scrubs and a badge to do who-knows-what or check this or that or ask another question. It was all just noise and motion, meaningless and urgent.

There was talk of a procedure to look for blockages in my dad's heart, and another procedure to be done if one or more blockages was found. I remember the anxiety I felt at the thought of poking a tube around in somebody's heart...I thought of the risks. I'm not a cardiologist, but I don't have to be one to know that poking around in somebody's heart is a risky business, no matter how skilled the person is who is doing the poking.

As they wheeled my dad's bed through the hospital hallways, letting my mom and my sister and nephew and I follow for as far as we could, I could feel all those intense emotions trying to break free from where I had locked them away, desperate for my attention. I shoved them back down, but I knew it was temporary. They were gaining power and momentum; it was only a matter of time.

When they told us we couldn't go any farther, and the nurse said to give him a hug before letting them wheel him away, I could feel the dam creaking. The fear and panic and frantic worry were rising to the top, and they would no longer be ignored. A leak sprung. I gave my dad a hug and kissed his cheek, but didn't say anything. I wanted to tell him I loved him, tell him that I would be praying for him, tell him that we'd be waiting. But I didn't say a word. I couldn't say anything, not if I wanted to keep any remnant of self-control. My composure was slipping, and if I had tried to speak the dam would've broken completely and swept me away in a tide of fear and blubbering tears. So I gave him a hug and a kiss, and hoped that he knew what it meant.

And as some other person led us to another room to wait (again), another leak sprung. I tried to keep my breathing as silent as I could as we walked our solemn line through the dreary hospital hallways, and even though I knew that I wasn't doing a very good job of it, I refused to let myself go completely, still unwilling to break down in the presence of strangers.

The room we were taken to was a small room containing only a tiny table with a phone in the middle of it, and three chairs. Of the several of us who were there in that depressing little room, the person I am most glad for is my nephew, Silas. Dear, sweet Silas. When all around there was nothing but sadness and fear and tears, that sweet little boy was still the same adorable, happy, busy, attention grabber that he always was. It was what we all so desperately needed, even though we didn't know it. Thank you, sweet boy. I love you.

After all was done, my dad had an artery that was pretty much completely blocked. It still makes me shake my head and shudder at how close he came that day.

As it turns out, dad had been at the doctor's office that morning, an appointment for the chest pain that he had been feeling for a while. During that appointment, the pain got suddenly worse and the doctor and nurse, as well as the firefighters who were the first to arrive to the 911 call, were instrumental in quite possibly saving his life.

I was at work that morning, oblivious. Horrible, scary things were happening to one of the people that I love most in this world, and I didn't have a clue. A doctor, a nurse, and a group of firefighters were taking care of my dad when the situation was critical, and I was nowhere to be found. It wasn't my fault, I couldn't have known. But it makes me so very grateful to those people. They took care of somebody they didn't even know. I know it's their job, but it doesn't make it any less true. They were there giving lifesaving aid to a stranger. I want to hug them, give them a billion dollars, somehow express my gratitude. But I can't. I don't even know their names.

There is one way to say thank you to them, one thing I can do. And that is to go and do likewise. Pay it forward. See a stranger in need, and help them. Ask myself, if it was my brother stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, if it was my sister at the grocery store with a credit card that wouldn't go through, if it was my dad who was homeless on the side of the road...wouldn't I want somebody to help them? Somebody to be there for them, when I couldn't be? When maybe I am oblivious to the situation?

And who knows, maybe the person I end up helping will be the sister or brother or father or mother to one of those people to whom I am so very indebted, and everything will come full circle. Probably not, but you never know.

My dam never broke that day, not until I was driving away from the hospital, once everything was over and my dad was resting semi-comfortably in his hospital room with mom close by. But break it did. In the safety of my car I finally relented and completely let go of my tenuous hold on composure. The many emotions that had been piling up over the course of the day came cascading down on my head in a seemingly never ending wave. Every emotion on the spectrum bombarded me in an overwhelming riptide. And I sobbed the whole way home, unable to find another outlet. Again I feel like God cleared the roads for me, as I somehow made it home without incident.

That was one of the scariest days of my life. Maybe the scariest. And I learned lots of lessons that day. The most obvious one I suppose is to always live like time is short. Because, you know what? It is. My dad is young, in his early 50s. I can't just assume that everybody, myself included, is going to live to see "old age", because many do not. Every day, every moment, every breath, is a gift. Use it wisely.

Another thing I learned that day is to always treasure the time you have with the people you love. Someday will be your last day with them. Someday I won't be able to tell my dad I love him. Someday you'll reach back for memories, because that's all you'll have left. Make good memories, and make them now.

Another thing is to always treat people kindly, because you never know what battles they are fighting. We were not the only family in the ER that day. The parking lot was packed. There are lots of sick and hurting people in my city; lots of sad families. Even if somebody is snapping at me for what seems to be no reason, maybe that is the only outlet they can find. Maybe they were unfortunate enough that their dam collapsed in public. Maybe they are riding out their own tsunami of scary emotions, and lashing out in anger is the only way they can find to deal with it. You never know what giants they have faced that day, or that week, or that year. Even in the face of unkindness, be kind.

And probably the biggest lesson of the day, God is gracious. Everything happened that day in just such a way that my dad got the help he needed just when he needed it. It could have very very easily been such a different day. We all had a very big scare, and all our lives will be drastically different from this day forward. My dad knows now that he has heart disease, his diet has drastically and forever changed, he tires easily and doesn't have the stamina that he had before. But my dad is alive. He is here, walking and talking and living his life. If God had chosen to take him home on July 22, that wouldn't have made God any less good, or any less gracious. But the fact that He let my dad stay with us for a while longer, it blows my mind and makes me grateful beyond words. 

It's easy (so SO easy) to see my dad's circumstance and think of it as unfortunate. To think about how horrible it was, how scary it will continue to be forever. To see it as a hurdle to jump over, a storm to ride out, a mountain to conquer, or a dragon to slay. But...what if it isn't any of those things? What if this scare, this disease, this issue with my dad's heart, is actually one of the greatest blessings that God could've given to dad, to us? It has given us all a wake up call, dad more than anybody. It has been a giant slap in the face, and made us all re-evaluate our priorities. My dad has to significantly reduce the stress in his life, almost certainly meaning finding a new job. What if the new job he finds is something that he finds much more enjoyable, something fun and relaxing that he loves to do? What if the changes that are on the near horizon are changes that will bring about joy and peace and exciting adventures? What if this isn't a horrible, frightening storm at all, but a circumstance that is pulling us out of a horrible, frightening storm that we weren't paying attention to? Maybe this was the greatest act of mercy that we could've asked for. I don't know.

I don't know where my family will be in five years, in ten, or twenty. I don't know if my family is going to get further acquainted with the hospital ER. I don't know if twenty years from now I will still remember the lessons I learned on July 22. I don't know if I will still remember why being kind is important, or why it's important to help a stranger in need. I don't know if I will remember to treasure the people I love or to use my time wisely.

I don't know much of anything. All I know for certain is that God is good. I know I trust him with the people I love. I trust him with my own life. And that is all I ever need to know.

The Ordinary Unknown Miracle

Psalm 37:25

"I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread."

Learning important lessons is not usually an easy thing. In fact, sometimes it can be downright painful. Sometimes it can scare you so badly, it makes you want to curl up into a ball and wait for the storm to pass. Sometimes the lesson itself is a simple concept, simple enough that we don't give it much thought, and it takes a great, heart-stopping bolt of lightning to make us really see it, make us really understand. 

Learning lessons is often not fun at all. 

The lesson I learned recently is one that I was taught from infancy. It was something that I had always just understood to be true, almost like one of the laws of the universe. It is a lesson I should not have needed to re-learn, but I did. A lesson that any preschooler in a church nursery could tell you with innocent conviction. 

God provides. 

So simple, so true. If anybody had asked me a few days ago if God provides, I would've said yes in a heartbeat and, if asked, I could've provided examples and testimonials and Bible references. It is something I've always known to be true, always known with absolute certainty. Yes, God provides. Obviously. 

But sometimes, it is not so obvious. Sometimes circumstances scare you enough that it clouds your vision, and everything you know to be true is suddenly hazy and uncertain. Sometimes fear can act like a parasite, eating away at you from the inside, filling your mind with confusing questions until absolutes turn into hesitant maybes and black and white almost look like the same color. And suddenly, everything is not as clear-cut as it once was and the lines that at one time were clearly defined now seem strangely blurred. 

I recently had such an experience. A scary situation where I was unable to access any money from my bank account, had no idea in the world how to fix the problem, was a million miles away from my family, and was sitting on less than a quarter tank of fuel in my gas-guzzling Murano. I was beside myself. 

Fear was my biggest opponent as I frantically tried to fix the problem. It clouded my judgement, made me question what I knew to be true, twisted what I believed and confused my convictions, until I wasn't sure if God was going to provide for me. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to where I needed to go to get the problem fixed on the gas I had left, or if that place could even fix my problem!

I was trying not to break down in front of strangers, doing my best to hold it together just long enough to get the issue resolved, watching my gas gauge like a hawk as I drove all over the city from one dead-end to another and then back again, so stressed and emotionally unstable that I'm pretty sure I came across to the people I talked to like a recovering drug addict. I was a wreck. I missed my family so much it made me sick. I had had enough of this new city and I just wanted to go home.

Fear said things like, "Sure, God usually provides, but will he provide this time?" and, "It sure doesn't look like God is providing for you" and, "If God wanted to provide for you, he would've done it by now". And many other things that I can't even remember. One arrow of doubt and deceit after another after another, right into the most vulnerable areas of my frightened heart…until the bombardment did its work and I wasn't too sure of anything anymore. Ask me then if God provides, and I might've hesitated, just a little. But that hesitation would've told the story. I wasn't absolutely sure.

Does God provide? Well? Does he?!

During this whole situation, I kept waiting for the miracle to happen…for the reason for the whole mess to be made clear to me, for God's reasoning to be made known in a glorious spectacle like a giant blinking sign that says, "THIS IS THE REASON I PUT YOU THROUGH THIS!!". I was waiting for some magnificent demonstration that I could look back on and say, "Look what God did here!"

It never came. 

Or, rather, it came, but I didn't really notice at first. It didn't come as a knight in shining armor, or ride to my aid like a glorious cavalry under a mighty banner of victory. It came like…well, like a long-lost friend. I ended up getting the cash I needed before I run out of gas, but it happened quietly, peacefully, after a day full of chaos and fear and noise. It was anticlimactic.

But it was no less amazing than if it had been a night in shining armor, swooping in to save the day right in the nick of time.

God provided. 

No, you don't understand. GOD...PROVIDED!! Even in the midst of the chaos and the crushing weight of doubt and uncertainty, he showed me that he does provide, he absolutely does, every time, and that he will always--ALWAYS--provide. Even if I doubt him. He provided me with what I needed, not with loud trumpets sounding and a caravan of heralds, but quietly, simply, peacefully, because it's not a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence requiring pomp and parade. It's something that happens a thousand times a day when we are not paying attention. It's quiet and it's calm, like a mother's gentle lullaby.

And as I drove home with a full tank of gas and money in my pocket, I felt ashamed. Yes, I had been pelted with doubt and fear and my emotions had been put through the ringer, but that's no excuse to question the goodness of God, or forget the many, many times he's provided for me in my lifetime. It's not okay for me to doubt like I did.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, God provides without me even knowing there was a need in the first place. The times when I do notice the need, it's not okay to forget he's provided the other ninety-nine. God is good. He promises to provide, and he has never broken a single promise ever, and he never will.

So. After the storm had passed and my ship emerged on the other side of the ocean still afloat, albeit slightly weather-worn, after I had collapsed onto my bed with zero energy leftover, after the noise and commotion had passed and all that was left was me and that gentle, persistent voice inside, I learned the lesson.

Even in the midst of chaos and fear and circumstances that are beyond our control, we wait for that still small voice, and watch for the miraculous, everyday miracle to occur. Because we know it will. And when it does, we must fall to our knees in gratitude, and then shout from the rooftops that God is good, that God is in control every minute of every day, and that he always, always, always, provides.

Numbers 11:21-23

But Moses said, "Here I am among six hundred thousand men on foot, and you say, 'I will give them meat to eat for a whole month!' Would they have enough if flocks and herds were slaughtered for them? Would they have enough if all the fish in the sea were caught for them?"

The Lord answered Moses, "Is the Lord's arm too short? Now you will see whether or not what I say will come true for you."

--

The Anatomy Of A Roadtrip

In the past, family roadtrips were truly a masterpiece, a glorious spectacle that would make Kevin McCallister's family proud. The rushing, the hubbub, the packing, the crankiness, the trying to imagine what you will wish you would have packed once you're two hours into the trip, my dad trying to cram every bag we could squeeze junk into in the back of whatever vehicle we had that was big enough to accommodate the size of our family while grumbling about how much stuff we thought we couldn't live without, while we adamantly insisted that everything in those bags was absolutely, without a doubt, life and death necessary. And half that stuff was never seen again until we unpacked after we got back home. Sorry, Dad.

And then, once the vehicle of choice was bursting at the seams, so much so that the unlucky driver's visibility was shot to pieces, Dad would holler for everybody to go the bathroom and get to the car. Go the bathroom first. Have you gone to the bathroom? No? Before you even take one more breath, before your heart makes another single life-saving contraction, get to the bathroom and try. Oh, you went fifteen minutes ago? Not good enough, go try again, and don't come out until you've made some progress. 

I'm unable to pinpoint a specific time on a family road trip when my father became nervous about his children completing this activity. I know my parents were always anxious to make the trip as short as possible and make the fewest amount of stops that they possibly could, but I feel like the urgency with which my dad demanded that we use the facilities before beginning our journey--and at every stop along the way--stems from some sort of monumental catastrophe which occurred at some point during an innocent family road trip gone horribly wrong. But for the life of me, I can't recall such a catastrophe, so maybe it was the fear of disaster that kept my dad constantly on our backs about it. 

Once everybody had tried to go to the bathroom, and everybody was squished into the car in whatever room was leftover after the luggage had eaten its fill, Dad would get in, and we would wait for Mom. And wait. And wait. 

And wait.

And wait. 

Good grief, what is she doing in there?!

And finally, after what felt like an eternity of elbows being "accidentally" jammed into ribs and "get your feet out of my footspace" and "we don't have enough room!" and Dad probably already wanted to pull his hair out, Mom would come rushing out of the house with even more bags. Filled with lunchmeat and bread and carrot sticks and some sort of beverages. And all the kids would groan a little, because we were all secretly hoping that the travel lunch would be forgotten, enabling us to stop for lunch on the way. No luck this time. Curses. 

And after Mom got in and got settled, and we were all finally fitted into the car like sardines in a can, Dad would ask again if we had all gone to the bathroom, and would inevitably receive a chorus of children groaning "yeeeeees!" in response. Then Dad would tell us to bow our heads, and he would say a prayer for a safe journey. And then we would be off. 

And usually we got about three miles before somebody remembered another life and death necessity that was still sitting on the kitchen table, and Dad would be forced to turn around and go back to retrieve the neglected item. 

And finally--finally!--roughly two or three hours after the time we promised ourselves we were going to "be driving away", we would, actually, in fact, drive away. And the switch from frantic, chaotic flurry to peaceful, quiet relaxation was uncanny, to say the least. One moment, squirming and squabbling and kicking each others' feet out of our designated footspace, and the next moment, quiet, and slight snoring, and soft music drifting from the car speakers. 

And me? I would try to stay awake as long as possible, especially if we were leaving early in the morning, because everybody knows that sunrises from the interstate during a road trip while you are squished into a space too small for you is about the most beautiful thing ever in the whole world. But eventually, the steady hum of the car motor and the gentle rocking motion would be too tempting, and I would be lured into a sweet state of oblivion, drifting away into dreams under the watchful eye of the sunrise. 

That's what I remember about road trips when I was younger. 

But the dynamic of road trips is very different nowadays than it used to be back then. We are all mostly adults now and road trip veterans, able to get up and get going much faster and pack much smarter...even though I still pack too much most of the time. The whole family no longer travels in one vehicle (what a relief), and the childish bickering...well, it's still there, but we have a better sense of humor about it nowadays. And Dad's illogical fear of catastrophic accidents during a trip is considerably less than it used to be. He only asks us if we've used the bathroom two times before we leave now. Three times, tops. 

There is a lot of democracy involved during road trips. Oh, not everything is brought to a vote, but if somebody is not satisfied with something, you can bet your buttons that they are going to complain loudly and make everybody else miserable until whatever it is is fixed. But people are different, and sometimes it's hard to be democratic. Somebody wants to listen to rock music, but somebody else has a headache, somebody else has a new CD that they love that everybody else hates. Somebody is always too hot while somebody else is too cold. Roll the windows down, it's too windy, roll them up. Somebody is hungry for Subway, somebody else wants hamburgers, somebody else wants steak. Let's stop to stretch our legs, no, we should press on.

Recently, however, I did something I've never done before. Something that changed the way I view roadtripping. I went on a trip...by myself.

First of all, you've got to understand that I wasn't just like, "I'M SICK OF YOU ALL! I'M LEAVING! PEACE OUT, LOSERS!" I didn't ditch my family because I couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. I got time off from my work, made plans, and the rest of the family couldn't go. So I went alone, not at all sure what I was doing or what I should expect. I was flying (driving) by the seat of my pants.

I would be lying if I said I didn't find it liberating.

All of a sudden, there was no democracy, because there was only me. I was my own dictator. The big kahuna. The top dog. I wanted to listen to oldies? I listened to oldies. I wanted to listen to one song twenty-two times in a row? By dog, I did just that. I wanted to stop to take a picture of the sunset? I stopped. I wanted all the windows open at once, making everything fly around in a simulated hurricane inside the car? That is exactly what happened. I didn't have anybody saying "roll up the windows" or "turn down the music" or "I'm going to throw the ipod out the window if I hear that song one more time" or "stop talking to the other cars on the road, it's freaking me out" or "slow down, you're going too fast, you're going to kill us all, you fool". The power of the road was mine, and I wielded it like the weapon it was.

But with great power comes great responsibility, dang it.

I left early in the morning (because, obviously, the sunrise is one of the most essential parts of any road trip). And just like old times, the sunrise tried to gently lull me into sweet oblivion. Only this time, I was responsible, the driver, the navigator, the one in charge. Sleep? That's cute. It was stay awake, stay aware, STAY ALIVE! Suddenly, road trips had just become much more serious than before. No more fun and games, one wrong move and you're dead or stranded or lost or worse.

So I had to tell the sunrise to take a hike. Get lost, man, I'm trying to not die over here. Coffee was my wingman and helped me make it through the 12 hour trip in one piece...or...what was supposed to be a 12 hour trip. I think I might've made it in 9. And don't judge me, I was trying to make it before dark because I was afraid of driving through the mountain passes at night. (that's my story, and I'm sticking to it).

But I made it to Colorado, oh beautiful Colorado, and back again in one piece. And actually, the fact that I made it back surprised even me. Not that I made it back alive, but the fact that I decided to come back at all. Colorado is unique. If you've ever been there, you know that it has perfected the art of hypnosis. It makes you want to stay, and stay forever. It makes you hate everywhere but there. And I'm pretty sure the only reason I came home at all was because the cloud of smog from the pot-smoking hippies was interfering with the hypnosis that is usually more than one can resist.

The worst part about road trips is when they're over. When you pull back into the driveway and look at the house and realize that it's all just a memory now, and you have to shift gears and try to remember how to go to work and have appointments and schedules and responsibilities again. When all that stuff that you so gladly threw to the wind when you raced out of town suddenly slams back into your face, you remember instantly why you love road trips so much. And you start planning your next one, before the car's even had a chance to cool off. And that planning, that anticipation, it's enough to live on, enough to sustain you until you can throw off the bindings and take to the road once more.

Road trips. There are many different kinds, many different brands. Go in a group, go with one other person, go by yourself. They all have things in common, they all have pros, and they all have cons. The good news is, no matter which one you choose, you can't really go wrong. Because if you're like me, the road is always beckoning, always calling, always summoning, gently yet earnestly. A fleeting glance at an open road is nearly enough to make you lose your mind with longing. And when your day finally arrives, when you finally answer the call and throw yourself headfirst into the journey, none of that extra stuff matters. The music, the food, the sleep or lack thereof, the windows, the temperature...that's all fluff. The open road is in front of you and the world is at your back. The rest fades to gray.

That, friends, is where freedom and joy become one and the same.


--

Beautiful Nebraska Land

"We're moving to Nebraska."

"I don't want to go. There isn't anything there and it's boring and flat and stupid."

"You'll learn to like it."

"No I won't."

This was my reaction to being told we were moving to Nebraska after my father's retirement from the Air Force. I was about 12. I had no basis for my claims that Nebraska was boring and that there wasn't anything to do there. I was still feeling bitter about moving away from Texas a year before, where I had had some of the best times of my life and made some very special friends. My parents could have said we were moving to Disneyland and I still would've complained. Unless we were moving back to Texas to our lovely stone house with the black widow spiders and the scorpions and tarantulas and snakes and giant blue wasps and fire ants and 110 degree weather and cactus and tumbleweeds and blowing dust and dirt, I wanted no part of it. I was stubbornly holding on to that life with clenched fists...Texas was my home, and just as soon as I was old enough, I was going back to reclaim the life that had been so unjustly torn away from me.

I'm now 25 years old, and I've been living in Nebraska ever since. I've graduated from high school and college here, learned what it means to be a Husker fan, learned how to detassle (my computer doesn't even recognize the word), and lived in the land of The Good Life long enough to see what Nebraska truly consists of, the beauty it contains, the jewels that it offers that cannot be found elsewhere.

Before I moved here, and even for the first few years in the state, I didn't get why anybody would want to live in Nebraska. There's corn and cows, and that's it. It's boring. It's flat. It's lame.

Many people from outside the state reciprocated my resentment. People told me it was a "nothing state". People told me it was a wasteland. People told me it was ugly. Somebody even told me once, "Johanna, I don't know why we even claim that state".

If somebody makes such a comment in front of me these days, even if it is offhand and they aren't really too serious, they better sit down and buckle up, because they are going to get a passionate lecture about the merits of this state and the reasons why it is just as good as all the other states from a person who now considers herself a Nebraskan. And once their education is complete, they are going to be instructed to not insult the state again if they know what's good for them, because if they think Nebraska is ugly or lame or a wasteland without purpose, then they obviously either haven't been there or haven't been paying attention. Nebraska is my adopted home state. I will not let you insult it.

One of the wonderful things about this country of ours is how different all the states are. You can find mountains, beaches, rivers, cities, valleys, tundras (I'm looking at YOU, Minnesota!), deserts, fields, hills, farms, swamps, forests, and pretty much every terrain you can imagine. Our country is amazing and beautiful. It feeds us, shelters us, gives us rain and sunshine and crops in abundance, and is full of beauty and splendor.

There is no piece of America that is expendable, understand? Not California, not Alaska, not New York, not Kansas, Not Hawaii, not Rhode Island, and sure as heck not Nebraska.

Nebraska is the heart of the midwest, the very center of the country. We have farms that help to feed the rest of the nation. Blood is shipped from the midwest to all over the country, because the people here generally think a lot about others and are faithful to donate. We have beautiful seasons, rolling hills, streams and rivers. Our sunsets are to die for. The people here are laid-back and friendly, they are generous and enjoy the simple things. There is a sense of community and family felt here that I've never felt anywhere else. Nebraska truly does welcome you.

As I think about my move up north to Minnesota in just a few short weeks, it's hard to think about leaving my family. It's hard to think about leaving the church I've become a part of and grown to love. It's so very hard to think of leaving my niece and nephew...of not being close by when more babies are born. And it's also hard to think about leaving the state itself; the state that has been my home for far longer than any other place ever has.

However, I refuse to make the same mistake twice. I held tightly to my Texas life, and to everything I had there, and for that reason, when we moved away I felt like I was being torn in two. That could've been prevented if I had not held so tightly; if I had understood that my life is not my own.

So now, as this chapter of my life draws to a close and a new one is about to begin, I am simply trying to focus on being thankful to God for everything that I've had for the past 13+ years. For the family that I've had close for all this time. For the school I've had and the start I've been given in a career. For the privilege to live in my parents' house and enjoy my family, especially in the light of knowing now that I am moving away. For the friends that I've made. For the good times and adventures.

And I am also thankful to the great state of Nebraska, for welcoming a girl who had nowhere to call home, for teaching her the value of honest hard work, for giving her the opportunity to go to college and earn a wage, for giving her roots, and then wings, for showing her some of the most beautiful things she has ever seen in her life, from sunsets to flowers to microscopic wonders that boggle the mind.

And as I begin to pack my life into boxes and realize that moving away is real and happening soon, I try to hold loosely my Nebraska life, difficult though it may be.

Goodbye, sweet Nebraska. Thank you for all the adventures. You are beautiful and full of splendor, and don't ever let anybody tell you different! GO BIG RED!

Nebraska State Song:

Beautiful Nebraska, peaceful prairieland,
Laced with many rivers, and the hills of sand;
Dark green valleys cradled in the earth,
Rain and sunshine bring abundant birth.

Beautiful Nebraska, as you look around,
You will find a rainbow reaching to the ground;
All these wonders by the Master's hand;
Beautiful Nebraska land.

We are so proud of this state where we live,
There is no place that has so much to give.

Beautiful Nebraska, as you look around,
You will find a rainbow reaching to the ground;
All these wonders by the Master's hand,
Beautiful Nebraska Land.

You Never Know What You Have Until The Night Before It's Gone

I sit here in the silence, fingers hovering above the computer keys, trying to find the words to communicate all the thoughts and emotions tumbling around inside me.

Change happens, I know that. I don't like it, but it happens whether I like it or not, so I accept it. So if in this post you hear two different voices, that's just because part of me is trying to hold fast to something that I love which is going away, and part of me is trying to be an adult and come to terms with the fact that it's going away whether I'm happy about it or not.

The past few years have been a whirlwind for everybody in my immediate family. My dad graduated with his PhD, I graduated with my Associates, my younger sister graduated from high school, my older brother graduated as a Doctor of Dental Surgery, and those who haven't graduated from things are still living busy lives. A lot has happened, but we are a tight-knit bunch and our support group is strong.

The younger of the kids don't remember too well all the moving around throughout the years, but the older of us do. We remember the insecurity of a new home in a new state, the uncertainties associated with new. We remember very well the novelty of living in one home for longer than a year or two after my dad retired from his military life. We recognize what a tremendous blessing it is to have a home, to have roots, because for a long time, our only real home, only real consistency, and the only certainty we had in this life, was each other.

For this reason, as I've said previously, my family is tight-knit.

And that is why it is so hard to accept that one of us is leaving. My brother who just recently graduated as a dentist has found a job an hour and a half away, joining another dentist in his practice. An hour and a half, you ask? That's not very far. That's true; it's not. It could've been three hours, or twelve. It could've been China. An hour and a half isn't much to complain about. I understand that. But a downside of the tight bond my family shares is that distance is felt more acutely. An hour and a half is a painful distance to accept.

Today was moving day.

Last night my brother and his family stayed at our house. Even though it was late and we all had to be up early in the morning, my two brothers and I sat on the couch for a while and watched funny videos on YouTube. We laughed until we cried watching baseball bloopers and Jimmy Fallon lip-syncing with Emma Stone. And at one point, I sat back and took in the moment. The sound of the laughter, the lateness of the hour, the three of us, comfortable in the closeness of brushing shoulders and bumping knees. It was a scene that had happened many times throughout the years. Laughing over videos late at night, Jim and I chugging coffee against our better judgement while Josh would politely decline. But suddenly I realized that, quite possibly, I would never have a moment like this again. Just me and my brothers, laughing over stupid videos late at night. This might be the last one.

Our lives are changing; slow but sure. My brother was the first to move away, but he won't be the last. Eventually, the siblings will be scattered around. We will find spouses and build families and move to where the jobs are. Life will change and be different, and it will happen so slowly that we sometimes won't even realize that it's changing. One day we just wake up and realize that it's been years since we've gone to coffee with our sister, or heard our mom play piano, or played a rowdy game of cards around the kitchen table. Or worse...maybe we won't even realize.

Last night, when I was relishing the brief moment with my brothers and trying so hard to commit it to memory, I got a little bit mad at myself. Why had I never done this before? Why had I never basked in the joy of a moment, until it was possibly my last? Why does it have to be the last one before I see it as precious and so very special? Wouldn't it have been better to have an entire arsenal of memories to call upon when my brothers are far away and I miss them?

Time is short. Lives are here and gone. Nothing is for certain and life is chock-full of surprises, good and bad. I don't want to have to search and hunt the dark recesses of my mind to find vague, hazy memories of my family and the good times we've shared. Unfortunately, I can't go back and re-remember the past. What I can do is enjoy the heck out of the time I have left, committing to memory all the good times that I can with the ones I love. Then, perhaps, if the Lord wills that I should live to see old age, I will be able to hear a song or smell a scent or see a sight that will open the memory vault, and I will be flooded with glorious, vivid memories that have stood the test of time. And I will travel back and live the good times all over again.

And again.

And again.