Oh, just more sad things

You know, while I was away from blogging I kept on thinking of things I wanted to write about.  I know people probably don't believe me on account of my occasionally loud external personality, but I do kind of  a lot of thinking.  (I may or may not be facetious right now.  I leave it up to you to decide what I would even have to be facetious about in this paragraph.  I make nothing easy on anyone.  I also might just be in a weird mood.  I might have finally redeemed my Starbucks birthday reward and gotten two extra shots of espresso in my caramel macchiato, simply because it was my birthday drink and it was freeeeee also I've always wondered what would happen to me with two extra shots of espresso and I think now I know.)

I never posted any of my musings because, well, this was a terrible year and I hated to admit to even myself that there were moments in which I was musing on other things.  But life goes thusly.

I went ahead and deleted all of those drafts this morning.  I just wasn't feeling it, also, venti Starbucks drinks sometimes, you know, make me delete things willy-nilly.  Anyhow, one of the posts I'd deleted had been some non-sensical musings (much like these?) about rings.

Rings?  rings.

You see, I remember years ago, seeing a widower, just a few months after his wife had died, with a bare left hand (had to Google which hand the wedding band goes on.  Left or right is not my best skill).  I had to wonder, looking stalkerishly at that empty ring finger, what sort of process it was to take that ring off.  What was the decision process, how did he decide it was time?  What sort of emotional toll does it even take on a human, to take off the symbol of commitment, because the person to whom you were committed has died?

It was kind of awful, actually, that day I noticed his bare hand.

But the reason I was thinking about it this summer, after all these years, was because I noticed another widower, whose wife has been with the Lord for the better part of a decade, whose ring is still firmly in place on his ring finger.  And I wondered: what does it feel like, to see that band, and know that its whole reason for existence is no more.  What sort of daily emotional roller coaster might that band represent?

I don't know why I didn't feel free to write about this over the summer, because it pretty much 100% matches my mood.  Which is to say: life is hard.  People make decisions all the time, people have to face those sorrows in the darkest cracks of their heart, and decide what steps to take, and what actions are right for them.  Because no matter what the choice is in this particular scenario (which is to say, when it's an appropriate time to remove a wedding band or not) it doesn't change the fact of it all, that the finality comes not with the removing the wedding ring or not, it comes with the painful separation that is death.  And I can tell you, I don't even have as much to be sad about as half the people I know, but my bruised-enough-as-it-is heart positively shudders at the thought of ever being in that position.  May the Lord grant immeasurable comfort to those who, for whatever reason, have to face these questions on a personal level.

Kindling a little fire

I am super blessed.  Which we already knew.  But a kindly gift for my birthday caused me to be the happy recipient of a Kindle Fire, which, may I dare say, is swell.  Turning pages in it is so fun... Is that a nerdy thing to say?  Yes, yes it is.  But anyhow, it does all sorts of fun things, and has many apps, and no, no, I have not downloaded Angry Birds onto it.  I find that game irksome.  I do have Bejeweled.  I could waste hours on that game.  Sometimes I do.

But that is all besides the point.  My real point is that it is lovely and wonderful and pretty. 

Dear Amazon,
Thou art brill.
The End.

I love it!

Not to go all Job on everyone (ever notice that Job talks about the weather pretty much all the time?), but the weather here is fantastic.  It was cold over the weekend, in the 40s, and I had to shut my bedroom windows so we could turn on the heat in our house.  It was a sad moment for me, as I try to acknowledge winter only when November rolls around.

But today is fantastic.  It's in the upper 60s and I just want to run across a field in my barefeet.  I just may do that, in fact.  My birthday falls on a Sunday this year, so I'm taking today as my fake birthday.  I slept in, haven't done a single virtuous thing all day, went to two bookstores and the library.

A marvelous birthday gift to myself, I must admit.

But seriously.  This weather.  I, like Job, shall call it "Fair weather" and declare it came from the North.  Obviously, I'm directionally challenged and don't know my left from my right or my North from my South, but it's fantastic, no matter where it originated.

My Father's Shoes

Last night I had dinner at my grandparent's house. My whole family (all of the unmarried parts, at any rate) was there, as well as two of my aunts and an uncle. We also had another close friend of the family, and it ended up being rather a party-like situation. But then, of course, we got sidetracked (long story) and started reading poetry. Not like Robert Frost-type poetry, but poetry my aunt has written.

All was going well until we had my dad read a poem called "My Father's Shoes." It's a poem my aunt had written for one of my grandpa's birthdays, and it was just one of those poignant poems that make you cry, because my grandpa's health is failing, and it was just that kind of poem. Well, we didn't all cry. My aunts and dad did, along with my mom and my grandpa. But my grandma? She was in one of those jovial moods and would not be deterred. Every time someone shed a tear, she made a joke. When my grandpa started telling a story about one time when he thought my aunt (the poem-writing one) had died (she was little and swallowed something sharp), he was in tears and my grandma was just serenely saying, "Well, I never saw him cry so much. He really thought you were dead." and just carry on eating like it was no big deal.

Honestly, it was hilarious.

As badly as I felt for those shedding tears, the dynamic between the all of them was just so funny. And there was no way to sober my grandma up. When my grandpa told this story about some girl who held her little sister in her arms as she breathed her last (he was in this weird let's-talk-about-sad-things mood), I asked when that was, meaning how long ago. My grandma just goes, "When? It was when she died!" And that was that. I couldn't even pretend to be solemn any longer.

But it was sort of sad. How many more times will my family be sitting around like that? Even my immediate family is at risk of changing, due to the increasing ages of those of us not as yet married. So, even though I took sides with my grandma and we just laughed our way through dinner, I wasn't quite as jovial as she.

All good things must come to an end though. Except Heaven. That's one good thing we can all count on lasting for, well, an eternity!

Where the heart is

I recently had another birthday, and now, apparently, people think it's high time for me to fly the coop. When I say "people" I mostly mean my group of people at the Y where I always hang out. They find it surprising that A) I still want to live at home and B) that my parents still want me. But I honestly can't imagine just moving out for the sake of it. My family keeps me grounded, and in touch with reality, and I tell you what, I won't find meals or Bible readings as cool as we have it at home!

Last night I was joking around with my parents about them trying to marry me off (we have this whole arranged-marriage thing that nobody finds funny but us), and my mom was saying that they'll keep me for as long as they can. It made me rather cheerful.

And so this morning, as I was going around the breakfast table on my way out to work (I say good-bye to my bother, remind him of what time I'll pick him up from school, kiss my dad, my mom, and then my little sister, and then my mom follows me outside to wave me off. It's quite the process), I was just thankful for my family. They're the best.

Things that keep me busy

No sooner did I comment to my friend Rachel that I was finally blogging again then I pretty much stopped blogging. To my credit, I've been busy. We passed the anniversary of my brother's ex-birthday, we passed my birthday, I went away for a long weekend (Columbus Day is a holiday in my books!), and in general, have been sleeping a lot.

Being a year older doesn't feel different at all, I'm not going to lie. It never does, but since this was a monumental year, one that required me to renew my license and such, I though perhaps it was as big a deal as everyone said.

Not so much.

Anyhow, it's all good. Each day brings new blessings, each day brings new challenges. Seems to, anyhow. It's a good feeling, knowing that no matter where life takes me, or what it hands me, I've got the Lord on my side. Whom shall I fear? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Birthday wishes

Today is my mom's birthday. It makes me happy that my mom has a special day just to herself. The rest of us keep using it for regular, mundane things, but it's her day! She emailed me this morning and told me that she was planning on doing nothing today but curling up with a Karen Kingsbury book (the one about the arsonist, not my favorite, but whatever) and then my dad is taking her out to supper. Now isn't that the sweetest thing ever?

So, to my mother (who doesn't actually read this blog, as far as I know), Happy Birthday. I love you.

Overaged

Some people are superstitious, this much I know. For instance, the number 13 seems to be basis for a number of popular superstitions. If I were superstitious (which I am not, no matter how many times my foot/nose/palm itches and people tell me I'll walk new ground/kiss a fool/get some money), I might think it was a superstitious event that my older brother died when I was 13, or that my grandpa died the day before my little brother turned 13, or, better yet, I might have a crazy theory about today.

Today, if you'll recall, is the 13th day of October. It's a Tuesday, so there's certainly nothing Friday-like going on, but today is just an odd day. My little brother? The one who is three years older than I, the one who was six or so years removed from my older brother? Yeah, well, today he's exactly two months away from being 17. Which isn't that crazy in and of itself (except that, aww, he's growing up), except that it means that he's officially as old as my older brother was when he died. Several hours older, in fact.

And it feels so funny to be measuring things by hours, after six entire years have separated us from the death of my older brother, but I can only seem to wrap my mind around the hours thing right now.

I remember the day I turned "older" than my older brother. I sort of wanted to vomit, truth be told. It's such a lost feeling, having the laws of nature do that to you. Naturally speaking, when one person is born before another person, they are older than the second-born. But when death switches up the picture, rules like that don't apply. I remember trying to mentally sort out what it even meant, turning older than my elder. I never really came up with a good answer, I guess, and clearly I still can't articulate it very well.

But I'm happy for my younger brother. I'm happy that he and I are friends, much like my older brother and I were. I'm excited for him, that he's been able to walk the paths he's walked, and come out on the other side. Does it weird me out that he's gotten farther in life than my older brother ever did? Yeah. But it doesn't feel like as much of a betrayal to my older brother as I sometimes mused it would be. Because life doesn't follow rules like we think it should. Life happens, and it's only through the strength of the Lord that we're able to make it day by day, even when the days feel like they come completely out of order.

But I guess, when you think about it, that if our steps are ordered by the Lord, than the days in our lives can't really come out of order. Which is a good reminder, since I'm apt to be dramatic about pretty much everything. But with the One Who ordered the Universe on my side, I know that my life is similarly ordered, and as such, I have nothing of which to be afraid.

I press towards the mark

I have a birthday coming upon me fairly quickly, and for some reason, I've decided that this year I am going to set goals for myself, and I am going to accomplish them. I can do all things through Christ Which strengtheneth me, is my logic, so why not accomplish a few things using said strength?

So I sat down with some paper and a trusty black pen, and started to make a list of my goals. It was odd, though, I've never done anything like this before. I don't even make new year's resolutions--if I want to change something in my life, I'm not waiting for a new year to do it, that's for sure. So anyhow, I couldn't decide if maybe I should have guidelines for how specific my goals should be, or just do whatever. So I've got a rather odd combination of specific and vague items.

So this year, Lord willing, I will sew a thing. That's right, in the next twelve months I will have done a project that required sewing. That was one of my less specific ones, I have to admit.

Also, I'll read at least one ministry book a month. Lord Willing. And I'll throw away things from my bedroom at least once a month.

The list goes on, but it includes such things as reading Newberry medal books, passing out tracts (this is for more than once a month, I promise), doing word studies (Oh, Strongs), actually writing in my journal, calling friends I don't normally call, becoming friends with a specific person, scrapbooking, things like that. I was just telling Brother J that I didn't stand much of a chance, accomplishing this, and he looked solomly at me and said, "But when you make a covenant with God..." and then I felt convicted into properly accomplishing all that I have agreed upon.

So, with Christ I can do all. Take that, flesh.