Almost exactly three years ago I wrote about losing my two grandparents in October and how it feels like a month of grieving for me. Grandpa died on October 7, 1996 and Grandma died October 30, 2008.
It took me a few years to just accept that in October I will always feel sad. I learned to let those feelings run their course and take the time to remember them and their legacy in my family. Because of that, October has always been just an “off” month, but the last few years’ worth of Octobers have been relatively good.
Until this year.
When my Grandma went in to the hospital back in July for stomach pains that resulted in major surgery, I was moderately hopeful she’d recover, at least to a degree. She started therapy in August and was making some progress.
But as the days went on, she grew tired. She stopped eating well and started sleeping most days. She began to look gaunt, her face thin and drawn. I went to see her one day and she just looked deathly. I was horrified when my mom said she had looked worse the day before. At least we managed a conversation about the difference of iced tea in the South versus the North.
I went back a week later and Grandma didn’t remember me until maybe halfway through my visit. During that time, she would reach for my hand. I’d hold it for a few minutes, then she’d pull it away. It was upsetting and to be honest, traumatizing. Her brother from Oregon called while I was there and watching her struggle to communicate with him was equally hard. Words and stories were never a problem for her and that struggle told me all I needed to know about the future.
I could feel the grief begin to come back in full force.
She was gone three days later.
Grandma had always been so articulate and sharp. Nothing, and I mean nothing got past that woman. I confessed to her about stealing mints she made for my uncle’s wedding off of the table 18 years after the fact and she responded with, “Oh, I knew. I just wanted to see how long you’d live with the guilt.” She always had something to say and while her stories got long and frankly a bit boring, I am going to miss her talking my ear off.
Her funeral was nice. A lot of family came in from very far away and that meant a lot to everyone. It was pretty obvious Grandma was the favorite aunt of my dad’s cousins and why wouldn’t she have been? There was lively conversation, laughter, and tears. Grandma would have loved it. It was a perfect testament to her life.
Grieving is going to come in waves, just like it did with my other two grandparents. Some days I’ll be fine, others will be overwhelming.
Grandma had a hard life. She lost three young children close together. If anyone had reason to be bitter about life, it would have been her.
But that wasn’t Grandma. She was happy, at least as long as I knew her.
I want to be like Grandma as I grow up. Two lines from her obituary are what I am going to strive for in life:
“Rebecca had the gift of hospitality, and loved hosting guests. She was known for her good cooking, especially making pies. She was fully involved with life.“
That guiding goal will help shape me from now on in everything I do, including making pies.
A few weeks ago I checked Instagram and saw a new t-shirt on sale by a popular motivational and spiritual company. I’ve been a semi-regular customer of this company for years and I appreciate their merchandise. Wearing their shirts have been a great way to start conversations about my faith and sometimes I need the reminder to chill out and just “Breathe”.
It was an all grey shirt, and the letters are very small. In the top corner above the heart, it says, “Not today, anxiety”. I scrolled past it, not really taking in the message.
My initial reaction was ambivalent. I didn’t really care for the shirt. It was just another feel good product.
But then, because I think about things a lot after my initial gut feeling, the shirt began to bug me.
We’re living in an interesting time when it comes to mental health. More and more, people feel comfortable talking about their struggles. This is great, and I’m glad we’re getting better at this. Unfortunately, our health care system is woefully behind in ensuring insurance will cover treatments like medication or therapy. There’s this awkward relationship of acknowledging anxiety, depression, etc is a real struggle for people, but not having resources to tackle it head on. People still aren’t educated on what exactly anxiety, depression, and other mental illness are. Depression isn’t just sadness, and anxiety isn’t just worrying.
I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression on and off since I was a young child. Being adopted, I don’t know my whole mental health history, but I know enough to know I’m at a risk for it. I thankfully was adopted into a family with a Grandpa who had many siblings who struggled with mental illness. He was such a good support to his siblings and that in turn gave my mom a lot of knowledge about how to navigate the waters of treatment and seeking help.
But I remember as a 9 year old wishing I could just stop feeling anything and just disappear. There were a lot of long, dark days. I felt so alone and so sad all the time. I saw a therapist for awhile and took some medicine, which helped. In high school and then again in my early 20’s, I fell into a less severe depression. As a kid, I worried about everything from my house catching on fire to my dog and cat getting swept away in tornadoes. Looking back on that time, it was definitely anxiety manifesting, but I just thought I worried a lot. Some of the worries were realistic, many were not. But my brain wouldn’t shut up. I would tell myself to stop worrying, that I was being irrational.
But just telling yourself to stop worrying doesn’t work. No matter how many times my brain goes into overdrive and I know my thoughts are irrational, I still wake up at 3 am, heart racing over something very minuscule, yet it feels so overwhelming and real in the moment.
And that’s what bugged me about the shirt. Just saying, “Not today, anxiety” is never going to cure me of anxiety or depression. I can say that over and over and still struggle. I will have weeks, months even, where I feel great. But it always comes back.
I can’t choose to not have anxiety. I sure didn’t choose to have it. Anxiety isn’t a mood. It’s not like the “Choose joy!” shirts. Yes, I can choose to work hard and fight against those feelings, but I literally cannot willfully change my brain chemistry (without medicine) and magically be anxiety free. It’s just part of who I am. And while my anxiety and depression isn’t very severe anymore, I know how awful and terrifying it is to feel that way every day.
It isn’t my intent to stop people from buying shirts like this or to protest a particular company. I still appreciate their optimism and positivity. And if a shirt helps you battle anxiety, that’s great! I just think we need to be sensitive to those who are struggling and not just offer a cute and upbeat “Not today anxiety!” as a fix to their situation.
We are all going through stuff. Sometimes motivational sayings don’t always work, but a little bit of kindness and understanding goes a long way.
Back in April, I decided I didn’t want a lazy summer. Last summer I worked almost full time at the church, but my hours cut back a little over the fall. That was fine for me, and it was great with classes in session. But after a pretty chill week of spring break, I did not look forward to working only two days per week.
A few weeks later, I got an email from the chair of our English Department about a summer internship in Lancaster City working for Jess King, a progressive congressional candidate running in my conservative district, I thought, “Why not?” I think I was a little more excited than that, but I’ve learned to have low expectations in case things don’t work out. I had no idea what I was getting into, but I liked what I read about Jess, and people who know her personally had very good things to say about her. Plus, she’s Mennonite, so why not support my fellow Mennonite girl? I also figured it’d make a great story to tell any future kids one day. I applied, and a little over a month later, I was started as an intern on the events planning team.
I never really thought I’d work on any type of political campaign. Politics are often seen as dry and boring, and traditional campaigns do not look fun at all. But after the 2016 election, something changed in me. I found it hard to just sit back and do nothing. But I also had no idea what to do. I tried to better educate myself on politics and started to pay more attention to local elections, but I wasn’t actively doing anything. Then that email came along, and I knew it was something to try. Bonus: I need an internship to graduate. Double bonus: This gets me just a little closer to becoming Leslie Knope. Triple bonus: I get to help try to flip a typically conservative district to a.. hopefully less conservative district. #resist
So here I am, in the middle of July, a solid month into this internship and let me tell you, politics are not boring. Campaigning is not boring, especially grassroots campaigning (Think of Barack Obama’s successful campaign in 2008 and Bernie Sanders’ in 2016, even though Clinton beat him for the Democratic nomination). Every day spent in the office is a nonstop party. We work hard and we’re making things happen. Two weeks into starting, I along with Abbey, another intern, was promoted to leader of the events team. I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m enjoying a bit more of the leadership that comes along with the role. The last weekend of June we had TWELVE Town Hall events. In 4 days. It was wild but so fun. This coming August we’re doing eleven events in 3 days. We’re in the thick of booking venues and promoting the events and it’s busy, but rewarding.
This whole internship really once again seems to cement the theme in my life of, “Hey, let’s try that thing and see how it goes.” I really didn’t see this opportunity coming because before I took my writing for civic change class, I never would have considered this internship. But I did because why not?
And even though politics and English typically don’t go together, they should. Don’t we want our President and other leaders to be good and effective communicators? I’m not talking just about public speaking, I mean in every area of communication. Even tweets with glaring grammatical errors make leaders look sloppy. English helps with that. Sadly, I think I might be the only English major in attendance out of close to 70 interns. Nearly everyone else is not surprisingly, either a government or economics major with the exception of perhaps the finance team or those still in high school. Why are English majors avoiding the political realm? This is something I hope to further investigate.
I have no idea where this internship may lead. I don’t currently see a future in politics, but clearly, I never know where things lead. I do know that I find this whole grassroots campaign style intriguing. Whether or not I find a spot in politics I know I want to write about Jess and this courageous race she’s in. I certainly did not apply just to have good writing material, but at this point, I realize everything in life is writing material. And like everything else, we’ll see where that leads too!
Let’s just say this summer is anything but lazy. It feels so good.
My grandparents moved to my family’s town a few years ago. It was an exciting time, as they had always been at least 1,000 miles away in the land of 10,000 lakes, Minnesota. Part of the deal of them moving closer was that they would give up their driving licenses. They both were aging, and while Minnesota is quiet, our area is always bustling with a lot of traffic. It was a wise choice.
Because Grandpa and Grandma had no way to drive, that meant my parents and I took on the responsibility of driving them places. It’s always an interesting adventure. If you know my grandparents, you can only imagine why. They are quirky, but cute, and strangers are only friends they haven’t yet met.
My relationship with this set of grandparents is really special to me. My other grandparents are both gone now. Grandpa died when I was 9, and Grandma when I was 21. I loved them a lot, but our relationship was much more formal than with my dad’s parents. In general, these grandparents were just a bit more aloof, but that was due to their culture. I didn’t really experience a lot of affection from them, yet I still knew I was loved.
But every once in awhile I remember something really special about my grandparents who are no longer here.
A few months ago, I took my grandparents grocery shopping. We went our separate ways in the store, and as I walked down the ice cream aisle (my favorite aisle!), I passed by the Klondike bar section. I stopped and stared at all of the different varieties they have now. My thoughts turned to my maternal grandma.
Grandma was a very practical woman, not one to spend her money on fancy ice cream or anything like that. But Klondike bars were another story. My mom says that a promotional flyer with coupons for Klondike bars arrived at their house. Grandma was curious, so she bought some to try, even though money was tight in those days. Coupons worked on her, being the good Mennonite woman that she was. 😏
She loved them. After that, they were frequently in her freezer, or at least they were there when I was a kid. Money was not nearly as tight as it had been when my mom was at home. I spent many hours at my grandparents’ house while my mom worked as a nurse and my dad was finishing up his Ph.D along with working at my Grandpa’s roofing business or teaching at a small Mennonite school nearby. It was usually pretty boring because Grandma didn’t talk much but sometimes I’d get to hang out with Grandpa and my aunts in the office. However, Klondike bars always were exciting and somehow I found adventures to occupy my time.
After Grandpa died and Grandma moved in with her two single daughters, I rarely had an opportunity to have a Klondike bar. I don’t know if Grandma didn’t ask for them given that she was no longer doing the grocery shopping or if she lost interest, but they just weren’t a part of my visits with her. And after she passed away, I honestly kind of forgot about Klondike bars.
But seeing boxes on boxes of that memory brought it all back. Even though Grandma might not have physically or even verbally showed me much affection, her supply of Klondike bars and her caring for me showed me otherwise.
Taking a cue from Grandma, I reached for two boxes because they were on sale. I thought of how Grandma would be so amazed and probably annoyed at all the different varieties. Her practicality would say you only need the classic Klondike bar, but her curiosity would probably once again get the best of her.
After nearly ten years without Grandma here with us, it can be so easy to forget things like this. But a steady supply of Klondike bars in our freezer hopefully will always keep her memory fresh with me.
Now that spring has finally gotten around to showing up, it has been my Craft of Writing class’s goal to be outside as much as possible. Our professor has indulged us a few times and Monday he sent us out on a walk to “be inspired by spring”. We could write anything we desired, as long as it was inspired by being outside and observing spring.
As I wandered campus on such an idyllic spring day, I recalled my first day here. Cold, snow covered, and a delay greeted me on that day in January 2014. And technically, it was the second day of classes, as our official first day had been cancelled. A snow day is usually a lovely gift, but that one was just another day to panic. I was a nervous wreck, convinced I would be lost every day and never feel comfortable in this setting. To be fair, I did get lost that very first day, but thankfully, that was it.
But it’s funny how things change so fast. It didn’t take long to feel like I had been on campus forever. And as a commuter, I was afraid I’d never make friends beyond the few people I knew attending Millersville, but I did. Some lasted a semester, some are still friends. A few have drifted away and that’s okay.
As I walked past the gazebo and pond, I thought about how things have changed so much since this semester began. I moved in to the city, watched my grandparents both fall deathly ill and somehow miraculously recover; I managed to find some wonderful new friends… and say goodbye to some really special people. It was freezing out, and I was so ready for warmer temperatures.
And now it’s May. Another semester is done. Spring is finally here to stay, I think.
Life comes at you fast. Four years or even four months fly by, and you wake up one morning and think about all you’ve done or haven’t done. It’s a little discouraging but also inspiring. There’s always a new day to wake up to, and new opportunities to take on.
The beautiful thing about life is that it goes on.
The last four-five months have been a complete whirlwind of emotions and I fear that if I don’t write them out, I will never feel better.
At the end of November, our pastor retired. Change is so hard for me and yet I knew it was inevitable. I am so grateful to have had the privilege to work for him and soak up all his wisdom and knowledge. I think our church is adjusting to our new normal, and we’re excited for our future.
I finished up my semester in December. It was such a good one. Two online and one in class made it a fairly easy-ish semester. However around the same time, my Grandma began to have some serious health problems. She couldn’t keep food down and lost a bunch of weight. I though this Christmas was the beginning of the end. And it may be, but as of now, she’s doing better.
January brought on most of the emotions. I decided in December to move to Lancaster City with a close friend from church. Packing everything up was exhausting and emotionally draining, but I was really excited to be a city dweller. After I returned from a spectacular trip to Los Angelas, I officially moved in. Around that same time, my grandpa caught the dreaded flu. I literally was boarding a plane to go back home when I found out. It was pretty bleak for a few weeks. I once again thought this was the beginning of the end. It’s been so hard working through these feelings. I was okay saying goodbye. I was preparing for it. But just like Grandma, he’s bounced back like a champ. Mostly. He’s definitely weaker than he was, but he made it to 96! It’s great and all, but I now am adjusting back to having him here for longer. It’s just a rollercoaster of ups and downs. Meanwhile, church and work had some things going on that I can’t go into, but lets just say January was really rough. February was a bit brighter… and March is finally here.
On top of all this, I have learned just how hard relationships really are. I’ve never really divulged my relationships on here because, well, I usually have no idea what to say. But here goes. I met this great guy a few months ago and we hit it off quite well. He’s kind, he’s funny, and smart. He made me forget about the last guy, who was 100% not worth my time, but I wasted two years of feelings on him. So here enters this other guy who even hit one of those little things I’ve wanted since I was much younger when it came to dating someone. And I think it might be mutual. But of course as my luck goes, he moved away, because that’s just how things go for me. And I was so determined to finally, finally, be brave enough to tell someone how I actually feel about them and could I? Absolutely not. I regret it so much and knew that I would, but I still kept it locked up. I know part of why I stayed quiet was because he left. I didn’t want to add to whatever he might have felt about moving with my feelings toward him on top of all that, but now I feel like I should’ve just gone for it. The other part of why I didn’t say anything is because what if it was all in my head and it was definitely not mutual? My lifelong fear of rejection will forever be the thorn in my side.
If you got through all my ramblings, bless you. My head feels lighter and my heart feels freer, even if there are still things struggling to get out. If I can leave you with anything, it’s: don’t be a Karen and keep feelings bottled up..because you never know what will happen.
Every once in a while, something comes along that really gets me really excited to be an English major. I really like the English world and all it entails, but honestly, sometimes it’s, um, well.. boring.
I am an English major because I love writing, something I’ve mentioned multiple times on a blog. It’s pretty obvious by now I want to be a writer. But I have to admit, I haven’t been really excited about any big cause yet. I’ve liked certain topics for sure, but nothing has struck me yet.
Until this semester. I am in a writing for civic change class and we are required to engage in a community project. I had no idea what I was going to do. I thought about doing a book drive for underprivileged schools, or something to do with mental health awareness. But before I started on a plan, our professor emailed us about an opportunity with an organization called OneBook. Basically, a campus like Millersville University chooses a book to focus on for a year, or more. They hold events and try to get the author to visit and do talkbacks and panel discussions.
I love books, so this sounded like something right up my alley. I love the idea of promoting a book that a campus can really read and delve into.
The book that was chosen was called “All American Boys” (above) and its main focus is on police brutality. It’s a unique book as it’s written by two authors and it’s from the perspective of a black boy and a white boy. The black boy, Rashad, is beaten up by a cop, and the white boy, Quinn, witnesses the event. The book grapples with both boys processing the event. Quinn knows the cop personally and it’s fascinating to see the journey he goes on as he learns about racism and how silence is adding to the problem. Rashad is processing getting beat up by a cop – a symbol of protection to most, but to him, an abuser of power.
This book comes at a poignant time in our country. We see news like Rashad every few days and we still do nothing. We might protest, but two days later, there’s another thing to rally over. We are so afraid to talk about these issues to deal with the problem, but if we want to see change, we must push past the fear and get to work.
That’s why this book is important. It’s not just Quinn who looks at himself to see if he’s perpetuating the problem by staying silent, it’s others in the book as well. And we as readers must do the same.
It’s awkward, I know. I know I’ll never fully understand, but I want to at least try.
So, if you’re interested in beginning a discussion, there will be a keynote address with both authors of All American Boys. On March 27 at 7 pm, Jason Reynolds and Brenden Kiely will be at Millersville University in the Student Memorial Multipurpose Room (SMAC) and will be talking about writing the book, racism, and police brutality. I know it’s going to be a great evening. Check their websites (listed under their photo) and read their other books!
(No, this is not an ode to the essential pop-punk album by New Found Glory…but that is an excellent album, if you’re into that genre.)
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
That phrase is such a lie. I’m sure we all know that by now, but I learned it early on in life.
See, I was a preteen when the “blonde jokes” were at the height of their popularity.
You know.
How do you confuse a blonde? Put her in a circle and tell her to go to the corner.”
I mean, it’s sort of funny.
Unless you have blonde hair and are even just a hint of gullible. Which, incidentally, I was. I also was a new student at a new school in 6th grade. Perfect combination.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of humor. Give me a comedy over a romance film any day. I’ll pick watching The Office or Parks & Recreation over dramatic television series nearly every time.
But the problem I had with those blonde jokes wasn’t that they weren’t funny. They could be entertaining at certain points.
The problem was that as a girl with blonde hair, I believed the jokes to be true.
As a kid in elementary school, I was tested for learning disabilities. I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder with the Hyperactivity (basically, ADD but the technical diagnosis was as I stated) as well as learning disabilities in math and writing (Ha. Take that, testers!). My intelligence is in the gifted range, but the learning disabilities affected my grades and overall performance in school. I was in a fragile state.
So when the unaware and typical preteen boys told blonde jokes in school, it felt very personal, even if it was unintentional. If I didn’t get a joke or missed something in a conversation I heard
Karen, you’re such a blonde.”
I was so ashamed of my hair. I wore it up a lot to distract from the color. When I was teased for being a dumb blonde, I defended my hair color as “LIGHT BROWN”. I pointed out other girls with the same shade hair as mine in an effort to distract them from my blondness. Nothing changed.
The worst part of the whole thing was that I truly believed I was dumb. Logically, I knew my hair color had absolutely nothing to do with my intelligence. It was as ridiculous to believe my hair color made me less intelligent as it is to believe that those with a certain skin color are better than other groups of people. It has nothing to do with who I was as a person, but I let myself believe it anyway.
It was a terrible time.
That shame and utter hatred of my hair color followed me all through middle and high school. The blonde jokes petered out eventually, but those comments stuck with me for a long time. School was still a struggle, but I found a love in English. I began to write and eventually that became my biggest strength in academics
But then sometimes, I would play up the dumb blonde act for attention. It worked and I liked the attention, as much as I am ashamed to admit. In the moments afterward, I’d berate myself for stooping to such a low level. Even though I was well read and educated, I acted like I wasn’t. What if those jokes weren’t really jokes? What if I was really dumb and just thought that I was smart somewhere deep down inside?
Finally, as a junior in high school, some friends and I decided to change something about our hair. I think we did it as a youth group girls bonding time. Everyone decided on highlights.
Not me.
Here was my chance to FINALLY break free from years of being the dumb blonde. I chose a dark reddish brown.
It was a good look on me, to be honest. It brought out my blue eyes and contrasted with my pale skin well.
I didn’t hear blonde jokes anymore. I do think I was taken a bit more seriously. I wasn’t called a blonde ditz.
But, as I am sure you have guessed already, I didn’t feel better. Changing my hair color didn’t change my perception of my intelligence.
I wish I could tell you my perception changed really rapidly. That I had some lightbulb moment of “Oh, you ARE smart!”. It took awhile to get there.
There was one time when I knew I wanted to go back to college. I was working in Canada at a vey conservative Mennonite mission. Typically, (not always, but in some circles) college is looked down upon. As my time there was winding down, I mentioned I was considering college after I moved home. One guy had the audacity to ask why I would ever go to college when women are supposed to stay home with their children.
I was livid. Nothing convinced me to go to college more than that generalization of what a woman is supposed to do. I do know after that moment, I decided to drop the dumb blonde act. I think it was a whiplash moment for the staff I lived with. Gone was the ditzy blonde girl and in her place was a girl who read a lot and liked history and had opinions on politics and religion and society. It was the fire I needed.
I think sometime after that, it clicked that my hair color didn’t dictate my intelligence, I did. I control how much I push myself to engage in deeper conversations, to search out answers to questions I have, and to keep learning.
After many years of growing up and nurturing, I came to embrace my blonde hair color. Sometimes it takes years to overcome the things we have despised about ourselves for so long. By now, I can hear the rare blonde joke and roll my eyes, confident in myself and who I am, blonde hair and all.
As I have written many, many times before, the beach is my favorite place to be. It doesn’t matter where this beach is, as long as it’s an ocean beach. I love lakes, don’t get me wrong. But there’s nothing like the beach along the glorious Atlantic or the vast Pacific. When you know the water before you leads to another continent, the ocean feels so magnificent. That’s the beauty of it.
The last weekend of October, I got to spend time at a very special beach.
My Dad’s family roots are in southeastern Virginia. Chesapeake, Norfolk, and Newport News are all cities I’ve grown up hearing about almost as frequently as Lancaster and Harrisburg. In that part of Virginia, water is always visible. The canals, rivers, the Chesapeake Bay, and the beach were all important parts of their lives.
I’ve always been fascinated with that part of the state. The beach pulls me there. I love the history of Williamsburg and Jamestown. Maybe it’s because Grandpa and Grandma always talk so wistfully about their life there. Whatever it is, I always want to go there.
As a girl raised in Mennonite Land, otherwise known as Lancaster County, I’m surrounded by people whose ancestors have been here even before America became a country. This applies to my mother’s family, but not my father. My mom can trace her lineage all the way from Switzerland to America, well before 1776.
My dad’s family hails from all over states like Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Ohio, but Virginia finally became home in the 1800’s and 1900’s. In some ways, southeastern Virginia is like Lancaster County to my dad’s family. Roots are deep there. Not as deep as most families’ roots in Lancaster, but relatively deep.
When I told my grandma I was visiting her hometown as well as Virginia Beach, I saw that wistful glimmer in her eyes. She excitedly told me where all the family sites were located and where to find the best milkshakes. She said how much she loved visiting the ocean and wished she could go with me.
On Saturday after a glorious few hours on the beach, my friends and I parted ways. They went off to watch the highly anticipated Penn State University versus Ohio State University football game and I drove toward Chesapeake.
I’m not sure how to explain the phenomenon of driving those roads leading to Chesapeake. I never grew up there, so why did it feel like returning home? I recognized road names, all because I had heard Grandma talk about the other Mennonite Church nearby that they’d occasionally visit.
I finally found myself on Mount Pleasant Road, where Grandma grew up. I visited her church, where her grandparents and parents are buried. It was slightly awkward because there was a fall festival happening at the church and there were a lot of people around. I felt like I couldn’t really spend as much time looking at the gravestones as I would have otherwise.I then headed to Bergey’s Breadbasket, an adorable cafe that was originally a large dairy. My grandpa worked there for years as a herdsman and milkman, delivering milk in the early morning hours, surely with a song as he went about. There was a corn maze happening so yet again, there were so many people around. I had wanted to introduce myself to the owner, but my social anxiety in crowds prevented it. Later when I told my grandpa about trying a milkshake, his eyes lit up and he exclaimed, “wasn’t it delicious?” He was right, it was delicious.
I also had done some extensive research into finding the spot where my great great grandfather was murdered. I found the spot, originally a lumber mill. But when I drove closer, there were large “NO TRESPASSING” signs posted. Because I am mostly a rule-follower, I stayed away. But according to a friend I saw the next day, that was basically an invitation to go explore. Maybe next time. Definitely next time.
I think as I continue to watch my grandparents age, connecting to their life down in Virginia fels more pressing than ever. At this point, they’re still well enough to make at least one more trip to see the few family members who still live in the area. I don’t want the memories and love of Virginia to die with them.
After I came home, I stopped in to see Grandma and Grandpa. I showed Grandma pictures of the beach, the church, and the gravestones. That same wistful glimmer crept into her eyes and a few tears, too.
I am well aware that Virginia Beach is nothing special. It’s pretty average, as beaches go. I’ve seen the beauty of California beaches and the Italian beaches along the Mediterranean Sea are breathtaking. But something about the Virginia coast feels like home.
This beach feels like home because it is home. Not my home, but my grandparents’ home. And that makes it feel like home to me. My grandparents are aging and my time with them is running out. Maybe not tomorrow or next month, but for sure in the next few years.
I think that’s why I’m so drawn to their past life in Virginia. It’s a way of connecting to them. If I have my own personal connections to Virginia, I will have a link to a tangible place. I will always have Virginia to remind me of them.
Sitting by the Susquehanna River always brings back a flood of memories that don’t usually surface in my everyday thoughts.
This river has always been a part of my life. Growing up on the outskirts of Elizabethtown meant the river was an easy 10-minute drive away.
I grew up hearing my mother tell of her escapades on this river. She and a friend happened to be out “rock hopping” because the river was quite low one summer. They kept following the rocks and eventually came to a dry dam. They thought it was a great idea to walk along the dam until a security guard appeared. Turns out the dry dam they were walking on was on the property of Three Mile Island. The power plant sent out their guards and kindly escorted my mother and her friend off the property.
The river is a place that is so close, yet so far away. Most of the time, I find myself conscious of the fact that it’s there, but I don’t take the time to sit by and observe.
But when I do find myself by the river, I breathe it all in.
The slight breeze blows by my ear, tousling the flyaway hairs. A child nearby is jumping in and down on the boat ramp, splashing his less than impressed older sister.
It reminds me of the countless times I spent down on the same boat ramp. My mom’s friend (the same one from the TMI escapade) used to watch me while my mother was working and my dad was writing his dissertation. She lived right in Bainbridge, a few blocks from the river. In the summer, we used to go down to the park and pavilion. We’d have a snack, and then I was free to explore the water. I knew I was only allowed in the water up to my knees, but that was enough.
For a child who always had a healthy fear of water, I deeply loved water too. I was fascinated with where the water eventually went. I took my dad’s advice and opened up the Encyclopedia to read about the Susquehanna River. I learned that this mighty river in Pennsylvania eventually reached all the way to the Chesapeake Bay.
Life is full of connections. This river so close to my home leads right to another part of the country that is so special to me.
My grandparents were both born and raised in Southeastern Virginia, with the Chesapeake Bay close by. Grandma told me stories of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel construction. She and her family were so excited for the tunnel as it made traveling to Delaware much more accessible.
Grandma and Grandpa always talked about the bay as if it was such an important part of their lives. Once I started learning about it in science classes, I realized that it was integral to not just the bay area, but our country as well. It is a life source for many who live by the bay. It provides jobs, food, and recreation. What a beautiful and sacred place.
Back on the river, a hawk flies overhead. I have no idea what kind of hawk it is, but it is a beautiful sight, watching it soar and glide overhead.
Just like the bay, this river is also a life source. Many creatures survive because of the river. The water helps provide power to many homes through Three Mile Island, which also provides jobs.
As I sit and continue to observe, I remember my parent’s engagement photos. Taken when the river water was once again low, they chose the rocks as a unique setting for photos.
At the moment with the water at a higher level, I cannot comprehend being able to jump from rock to rock all the way across the water. I must admit a twinge of jealousy that my parents experienced that, and I have not.
Not every memory from this river is happy, however. When I was younger, a friend invited me to spend a few days with her and her family on their houseboat on the river. I was fine until darkness set in. Then homesickness came sweeping in like a mighty wave and I was distraught. It was so terrible I ended up going home the first night.
Every few months, I read stories of bodies pulled from the depths of the river. It’s a reminder that this river is not always calm and kind. On the surface, it’s glassy and smooth, but underneath is the current that pulls the water out to the bay, and eventually the Atlantic Ocean. It can be deadly to those unaware of its strength.
This river has provided much adventure and exploring as a child, teenager, and adult.
My cousins have a tradition of biking to our house every fall. They live about 35 miles away, and grew up near the Conestoga River. Every year they visit, a stop at the Susquehanna is inevitable. They love the majesty of the Susquehanna. They are much braver than I, jumping in and swimming around for a few hours. After a few hours of biking, I imagine it was quite refreshing.
After a rail trail was built along the river leading out to the White Cliffs of Conoy, I spent time exploring the area. There’s a railroad track that runs parallel to the trail and there’s a section of old building ruins. It almost resembles old Roman ruins I saw last year. Whenever I miss Rome, I wander out there. I can pretend I’m not in little Bainbridge, but a world away in Italy. Escapism is a beautiful tool some days.
When stress levels reach too high, the White Cliffs provide a source of calm. High above the river, I find serenity in watching the river flow by. The best time to go is on a weekday, middle of the day, especially when schools are in session. The fewer people around, the better time I have. Hiking down to the water ensures less company. Seclusion and quiet bring peace. As someone who finds water to be calming, this place brings that solace.
Another place that I hold dear is Chique’s Rock. Just like the White Cliffs, I usually go to Chique’s Rock during stressful periods in my life, but not always. In high school, my friends and I would go to the lookout some days. It was an easy meeting place and was an inexpensive alternative to our usual coffee shop hangouts. We would sit out on a ledge and talk about our lives and our hopes and dreams. We’d speculate about the future and if we’d still be friends. We decided that friendship is almost like a river. Ever changing, but still yet the same.
Every once in a while, I have the deep desire to be by the water. One day after class, I spontaneously pulled into a lookout over the river in Columbia. The view was stunning and glorious. I was struck by the fact that this view is never the same, but at the same time, it is. Just like the river.
I often find myself complaining about the fact that I don’t live near an ocean. But here, only ten minutes from my house, is a glorious, rushing river. It’s not the same as the ocean, but it leads there. And on some days, that will have to be enough for me.
Yesterday instead of working, I got to hang out with some of our kids and youth ministry leaders and volunteers from church and attend a conference in Lancaster called Orange Tour. There were so many great speakers all in one place and it just what this semi-newbie senior high Sunday school teacher needed to hear. The theme this year focused on what it means to be a neighbor. It comes at a very fitting time in our world today. With so much division and hate, I think we have forgotten what being a neighbor looks like.
Because I’m still processing (as usual…), I thought I’d just throw out some of the things that really jumped out at me.
While all the speakers were excellent, one of my favorite speakers was Jon Acuff. I have been following Jon’s work for a few years and he’s quite the inspiration to me as a writer and editor. (Side note/shameless plug: My friend Sheri wrote a book called Dear Ellie and I had the joy of editing it! You can find it here: Dear Ellie.) He has some great books out right now such as Finish, Start (ironic that those followed each other), Quitter, and Do Over. His main session talked about goals and how we are terrible at following through with goals. 92% of New Year’s resolutions fail by the third week of January! I don’t even make resolutions because of that fact. It was really awesome to put a voice to a writer and he was as funny as I expected. Here are some of the high points from Jon’s talk.
“Starting is fun but the future belongs to finishers.”
“You remember the goals you don’t finish. Goals you don’t finish don’t disappear. They become ghosts that haunt you.”
“Nothing attracts new ideas like trying to finish an old one. Don’t let “what’s next” distract you from “what’s now.” Don’t shame the new idea. Put it aside until you’re finished.”
“Make it fun if you want it done.”
“There are things in your day that aren’t fun. Let’s be honest- kale isn’t fun.” (I disagree.)
“Atheists don’t say “I don’t know your Lord, but man do Christians have fun!”
“Nothing demoralizes a team like a leader who picks the wrong size goals.”
“If you can’t stop everything, simplify it.”
“Borrow someone else’s diploma. Learn from others. Ask other churches how they grew.”
There was much more to the conference than just Jon’s sessions. I also went to hear Tasha Morrison talk about “Coming to the Table” and how that ties into being a neighbor. She talked a lot about how to do this in terms of racial reconciliation. She stressed how important it is to listen. It is so key to just listen to concerns and hear about people’s experiences. She has a great curriculum out about racial reconciliation that I’d love to dive in to. Something she said echoed what I learned in my psychology of racism class.
Don’t be color blind. Be color caring. Be color caring.”
When we’re color blind, we’re essentially ignoring cultures and things that the cultures bring to our world. We need to celebrate those things. Being color brave and color caring means looking beyond something like skin color and embracing each person for who they are as people. If we ever hope to bring reconciliation, we need to start seeing each as people. And the church needs to step up and get things started. We unfortunately are not doing nearly enough as we should.
I came away from this conference feeling more renewed and also excited for all that God has planned for our church. We have a lot of changes happening, but I think they are good changes, even if I hate to see certain people move on. I’m there are bigger and better things to come and I’m excited to see what they are.
I started working for my church in June. Back when I was working at another church, I always wished to work for this church. It honestly makes things so much easier. I can’t claim to know nearly everyone who attends this church, but I have a much better idea of who people are compared to the last job. I get to work with people I have looked up to in leadership and that has helped me feel more at home in the congregation. We even have a courtyard, which is pretty cool. Have I utilized it yet? No. But I will.
I also have the opportunity on very quiet, slow days to take a few minutes to just sit in silence and think. On most week days, the sanctuary is empty and eerily quiet, perfect for contemplation.
Last week, I was brooding over things while working in the office. I had gone outside to get the mail, and wandered through the sanctuary on my way back to my office. I’m not entirely sure what led me to walk through the sanctuary, possibly the fact that earlier it was full of energetic children practicing for their upcoming musical.
I slowly wandered through the room, only lit by the sun streaming through the windows. It struck me how much different it can feel on a Wednesday afternoon than it does on a Sunday morning. There is a rush of activity and so many people in the sanctuary before the service begins. But on Wednesday afternoons, there is stillness and peace.
I almost felt as if I shouldn’t be in the sanctuary. But at the same time, a calmness swept over me. I sat down on a bench for a moment and then decided to lay down on my back.
When I was a child learning how to pray, I somehow picked up the habit of looking up to the ceiling or sky, depending on my surroundings. I know most people bow their heads. But as a child, I pictured God living above us in the sky. So naturally I looked above when praying.
As I lay on that bench, I stared at the white ceiling above me. I don’t know what I even said to God; I think he said more to me than I said to him. I do remember the calmness and serenity washing over me.
My life can be so busy that I forget to take the time to listen. I am a good listener to my friends, but I don’t always listen so well to the spirit. The spirit isn’t tangibly in front of me so it’s easy to forget about it. But taking even just those five minutes in the day to listen, nudged me to want that more.
Our world is constantly yelling at us. But in the sanctuary, there was none of that.
I realize not everyone can retreat into a silent sanctuary and just be still and silent. But taking just five minutes can drastically improve mental health. I hope to build those five minutes into much longer periods of silence and listening.
A few weeks ago things seemed very bleak as I processed possibly losing my grandmother. Her prognosis looked rather dim and there was a chance she wouldn’t be with us much longer.
She had surgery a little over two weeks ago to remove tumors from her bladder. However, when the surgeon reported back to our family afterward, he was happy to say he couldn’t find any. He took a few samples to make certain and those tests came back saying there is no cancer. They think her stubborn UTI was showing up as a mass on the scans, or it was simply a miracle. There’s still possibly a mass hiding behind her kidney, but that will be addressed later.
But for now, Grandma is doing great. Her energy has returned and this week she and my grandpa are taking a trip back to Minnesota to visit friends and family.
I think this whole process has really nailed down the idea of grace for me yet again. I struggle so much with grace. I can never quite grasp the fact that even though I don’t deserve grace, God still pours it out. I was in no place to even begin to think of losing my grandmother. Now we have been given the grace of more time.
I also experienced grace a lot this past semester. There was one particular day when I had two substantial papers due. It was any student’s nightmare. Especially an English major who is so good at procrastinating. I managed to finish one, and almost finish the other one, which I knew was a draft as we were spending time editing papers in class that day. During my first class that day, our professor said she herself had an intense week and that we could hand in our papers the following week. I nearly broke down in tears, partly out of relief, but also frustration. I considered skipping the one class, finish the paper, submit it a bit late, and miss the editing process. But I went to class anyway, and was one of the 10 students who showed up. The final copy was due the final week. Grace was again poured out as I had an entire week to polish both papers. I pulled off exceptional grades on both, which I really didn’t feel like I deserved. I know I didn’t put as much time into them as I should have and both professors remarked that they could tell I put a lot of thought into the papers. That is partly true. I definitely thought about them a lot, but that didn’t always translate into doing the actual writing.
I think God realizes how much I struggle with grace. He continually finds ways to lavish it on me. After one summer job fell through, I was asked to be interim administrate assistant at my church. I never really wanted to be a church secretary again after the last time, but this felt so right. I know the staff well, and in general the atmosphere is light and positive. I’m looking forward to my summer spent in the office. Grace yet again.
All these things are helping me to accept grace. One of my favorite hymns has been running through my head the past few weeks:
Marvelous, infinite, matchless grace,
Freely bestowed on all who believe!”
I have been dreading writing about this again ever since my maternal grandma passed away nine years ago. Grandma had always been a bit frail as long as I could remember, and with congestive heart failure, I always knew it was only a matter of time until I had to say goodbye. I was upset, yet prepared, when she left us.
I was left with only my grandparents on my dad’s side, and at that point in time, they seemed invincible. They travelled all over the country, lived easily on their own, and even made a big move back to the East coast a few years ago. I was elated to finally spend time with them on a regular basis. We celebrated Grandma’s 90th birthday a year and a half ago, and Grandpa’s 95th just this past March. As long as I can remember, they both have been energetic and healthy.
But in the last few weeks, my grandma has been having health issues. Pain, nausea, and general discomfort. The doctors say cancer. No one can agree on exactly what it is, or how much time she may or may not have left.
Typically, my grandma is very talkative, but after an appointment last week, we sat at her kitchen table in silence. I think we both knew time was winding down, but how do you even acknowledge that?
I am not ready for this. How does one ever prepare to lose someone so close and dear to them?
As cliché as it sounds, all I can do is make the most of the time left. It could be a few months, or longer. There are still pies to bake, and scones to try, and if we’re really lucky, a trip to Chesapeake, Newport News, and Virginia Beach. I suppose only time will tell at what memories are left to be made.
Memories… let them fill your mind, warm your heart, and lead you through.”
I have two papers due on Thursday so naturally I’m writing here instead. It seems to help to clear my head before I begin concentrating on academic matters.
A lot of things have been on my mind lately. Classes are nearly over, and next semester should be my last. Of course, God loves to throw curve balls, so it may not be. I’m starting to look at my options after I finish, and as usual, I’m overwhelmed. I was talking to my pastor about that on Sunday and he encouraged me to view those options as a positive. I know that in my head, but it’s still a lot to think about.
I want to do something that fulfills me. I don’t need to make a lot of money. I want enough to be comfortable, as well as afford to travel. Other than that, I just want to work in a job that brings life to me as well as others.
I recently took the Myers-Briggs test again. I tested as an ISFP. Having identified as an ENFJ since high school, this was a bit shocking. I took the test another 3 times to be sure. ISFP every time. So I took it on another site. Still ISFP. I need to do some research into this and think about if this actually matters in my daily life. I do think the Myers-Briggs assessment offers some good insights into personality types, but I don’t think it should necessarily define a person and keep them in a box.
I recently invested in a Fitbit fitness tracker. I have to admit, I was a bit cynical about the device when they first arrived on the scene. But lately I have become more aware that leading a sedentary lifestyle is harmful, especially to future me. I’m planning on writing more about how my habits have changed in the last few weeks, but I want to give it some more time to really track my progress. I will say I have become much more active in little ways daily and I do feel much better, physically and emotionally.
I’m looking forward to this semester ending and getting to travel again. I’m planing on finally visiting Virginia again, specifically the area that my dad’s family is from. My grandmother’s family arrived in Mt. Pleasant (a neighborhood of Chesapeake, VA) in the early 1900’s and were leaders in a church there. I’m excited to also visit Newport News and see the home my grandfather helped his father build when he was a teen. I can see the places where my mom’s family has lived, worked, etc, very easily, so I’m looking forward to the family history in Virginia. Other trips include Pittsburgh, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. I’m also considering another trip to California in celebration of my 30th birthday. Hopefully that’ll cushion the blow of turning 30. The other week I was asked if I was still in the youth group at church, so at least I still look young.
After seeing the new Beauty and the Beast movie, I have been steadily listening to the soundtrack. It’s a perfect accompaniment to writing papers.
Which, speaking of papers, is exactly what I should go focus on.
The Shadows Prove The Sunshine 