A one, a two, and all together now: "Colorado Rocky Mountain high! I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky. They say he'd be a poor boy if he never saw an eagle fly!"
We made it, up and up and up until we arrived at Denver, a full mile above sea level, and then up some more to Estes Park, about 7500 feet high. This tiny town of 10,000 people is nestled in the crook of the Rockies, which tower over us at every turn. It was an absolutely stunning drive to get here - I do believe my mouth hung open for about 10 miles! The land is so rugged, covered with pine trees and other hardy creatures (like sunflowers, believe it or not) that seem to hang on for dear life.
On Saturday and Sunday, we made our acquaintance with Denver. We drove on 1-70 the entire way across Kansas, which surpisingly was not totally flat - the eastern portion is quite hilly. Also, Colorado is not totally mountainous, another fact strange to my East coast mind. The plains of eastern Colorado allow Denver and the Rockies to make a dramatic entrance. After mile upon mile of nothing but fields punctuated by farmhouses, suddenly in front of us, we catch glimpses of peaks lost in the clouds. Planes descend rythymically, heading for Denver's airport off to our right. And slightly to the left, at this point seeming as tall as the Rockies, are the skyscrapers of downtown Denver. For miles they grow and grow until we arrived right in the midst of them at our motel.
As we approached Denver, it dawned on me that I wouldn't be leaving (i.e. going home) until Christmas. This was it, the final stopping point, at least for now. Being in Denver and walking her streets made the move here much more real and tangible, in a way that both thrilled and terrified me.
We attended mass at the Cathedral on Sunday, a breath-taking gothic church blocks away from both the Capitol and my new home on Pearl street. After church, we went to a thrilling Denver Rockies game (they bested the LA Dodgers 9-6) in Coors field. So many landmarks here boast of the mile elevation, and even at the stadium, there was a row of purple chairs high up in the nosebleed section - you guessed it, a mile above sea level.
Forgive the brevity and relative rambling-ness to this post! We'll be in Rocky Mountain National Park for 2 days, and then it's back to Denver! I ask for your prayers for our safety and joy in each other's company. Vaya con Dios.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
the jumping-off point
Hello faithful blog readers!
This update will be pathetically short, due to the expense of internet cafes (aka Kinko's) in the US! grrrr. We are here in Kansas City, MO, baking under the midwest sun. Tomorrow we leave for Denver, which means a 10 to 12 hour jaunt across the entire state of Kansas until arriving at the foot of the Rockies. I hope to see some sunflowers, and maybe a pair of ruby red shoes too...=)
There is way too much to say about the trip. It has been exhausting, exhilarating, nourishing, and long at various moments.
Highlights so far:
- Sunday mass at the Cathedral of the Incarnation, Nashville. More than any place so far, that felt like home. It wasn't just the beauty of the architechture or the calmness of the liturgical rhythm, but plain and simple it was Christ. Just the same as at home, and anywhere, Christ was there to nourish us in his body and blood, and it was very, very good.
- The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville was quite fun, even for a non-Southern belle like myself! I lovedddd the bluegrass, especially the bango finger-pickin' madness.
- Oceans of Fun waterpark with an amazing slide involving tunnels and getting soaked - need I say more?
- The World War I museum in Kansas City. Very sobering, very informative.
- The peanut butter cup + fizzy chocolate syrup I enjoyed this afternoon at Clinton's Soda Fountain in Independence, MO - the very same shop that former president Harry S. Truman had his first job at!
Also, this lovely poetic twist to our trip has come to my attention: Tomorrow we are leaving from very near Independence, MO. Its fame (besides for being the birthplace of Truman) is that in the 1830s-50s, it was the key departure site for wagon trains heading west to Oregon and beyond. How fitting that our foray west will begin at the same site, traveling toward the same sunset. Pioneers we are certainly not, but hopefully some of their pluck and determination will be ours!
Until later, hopefully Denver...
This update will be pathetically short, due to the expense of internet cafes (aka Kinko's) in the US! grrrr. We are here in Kansas City, MO, baking under the midwest sun. Tomorrow we leave for Denver, which means a 10 to 12 hour jaunt across the entire state of Kansas until arriving at the foot of the Rockies. I hope to see some sunflowers, and maybe a pair of ruby red shoes too...=)
There is way too much to say about the trip. It has been exhausting, exhilarating, nourishing, and long at various moments.
Highlights so far:
- Sunday mass at the Cathedral of the Incarnation, Nashville. More than any place so far, that felt like home. It wasn't just the beauty of the architechture or the calmness of the liturgical rhythm, but plain and simple it was Christ. Just the same as at home, and anywhere, Christ was there to nourish us in his body and blood, and it was very, very good.
- The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville was quite fun, even for a non-Southern belle like myself! I lovedddd the bluegrass, especially the bango finger-pickin' madness.
- Oceans of Fun waterpark with an amazing slide involving tunnels and getting soaked - need I say more?
- The World War I museum in Kansas City. Very sobering, very informative.
- The peanut butter cup + fizzy chocolate syrup I enjoyed this afternoon at Clinton's Soda Fountain in Independence, MO - the very same shop that former president Harry S. Truman had his first job at!
Also, this lovely poetic twist to our trip has come to my attention: Tomorrow we are leaving from very near Independence, MO. Its fame (besides for being the birthplace of Truman) is that in the 1830s-50s, it was the key departure site for wagon trains heading west to Oregon and beyond. How fitting that our foray west will begin at the same site, traveling toward the same sunset. Pioneers we are certainly not, but hopefully some of their pluck and determination will be ours!
Until later, hopefully Denver...
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Smokies
July 17-19: Great Smoky Mountains National Park, TN
We arrived in Gatlinburg, Tennessee after 12 hours of driving over foothill after foothill of the Appalachian mountains, from southern Pennsylvania through Virginia through the upper-left corner of Tennessee and finally into Gatlinburg, which nestled in the crook of the Smokies, north-central. Our first taste of Tennessee, authentic off-the-highway Tennessee, was Pigeon Forge, a sprawling strip-mall town north of Gatlinburg that boasts Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede dinner show, along with shows hosted by Dick Clark, Elvis, and every variety of fiddler/honky-tonk combo imaginable.
The accents here are just lovely, smooth sliding over all the vowels. My yank way of speaking seems stunted and way too efficient in comparison.
Gatlinburg describes itself as the “Gateway to the Smokies,” which seems apt since even from the parking lot of our motel, a 360 degree turn gives views of the mountains in every direction. Our first morning here, we turned left at traffic light number 8 and drove for a few miles before arriving at the trailhead for Rainbow Falls, our destination of choice for a day hike. “A rainbow,” promises the brochure, “produced by mist from this 80-foot high waterfall is visible on sunny afternoons.” Unfortunately, our weather was anything but sunny. We sat in the nearly abandoned trailhead parking lot, listening to the rain pound on the van roof, and watching each other for signs of hesitation beneath the several pounds of bright plastic ponchos. Nope, none recorded, or at least shown.
The hike up was a wet, wet, wet 2.7 miles, culminating in a rather disappointing waterfall. But the day was certainly not wasted. Walking through the forest fosters contemplation, and with the added curtailment of conversation by noisy rain, our hike was supremely peaceful. I find that I think well while I walk, and my mind traversed many memories and dreams to come en route to Rainbow Falls.
The Smokies are home to around 1500 bears (although the sheer volume of salamanders actually awards the latter the prize for most combined weight) but the only one we’ve seen is the tiny stuffed black bear/backpack my mom bought at the giftshop. Our new traveling companion, “Smoky,” finds his way into most of our pictures, and really does look genuine if his straps are hidden and the picture is somewhat blurry.
I was surprised to find that plenty of people have at one time or another called the National Park, home. In fact, several thriving communities were established in the mountains when the land became a national park in 1935, and mountain-dwellers had to leave. Most went to nearby towns like Gatlinburg, and augmented the growing tourist industry, while others found logging work in the Northwest or factory detail in Detroit. All that remains of their years of plowing, clearing, loving, and living on the land are their abandoned homesteads, now preserved by the park system.
We drove by several former settlers’ homes on a scenic motor trail. They are shaded on all sides by new forest growth, a testament to the resiliency of the forest even after being transformed into cornfields a few decades earlier. According to a video at the visitors’ center, even the homesteaders who lost their land to the national park now are grateful that the land they loved is conserved for every generation. And yet, I wonder how difficult the decision was to create public land out of what had been someone’s private property. And the settlers weren’t the first to lose the ground they had cultivated; the Cherokee Indian tribe were the first recorded dwellers in the Smokies, and their heritage and lore draws deeply on the natural beauty and danger of the region. In the 1830s, because of white settlers’ thirst for land and the discovery of gold in Georgia, the U.S. government forcibly removed most of the Cherokees from the Smokies and relocated them in what became Oklahoma. Their journey west became known as the Trail of Tears.
Back to the more recent upheaval between white settlers and conservationists, two groups who had different and yet arguably positive uses for the land – to use it for the maintenance of one’s family and community, and to protect it from continual stripping and eroding. It’s not a black and white choice between people and land, as if to care for a tree disregards a person, because the settlers’ style of clearing and cultivating the land was slowly destroying it, and without change would have ended in a dearth of land on which to live. I’m grateful for the land set aside by the U.S. government for the enjoyment of natural beauty and the continuation of ecosystems and wildlife, and yet it tugs at my sympathy to see log cabins painstakingly built and now abandoned.
Tomorrow we leave Gatlinburg and continue on to Nashville, where country music and humidity awaits us. I ask for your on-going prayers for our safety.
We arrived in Gatlinburg, Tennessee after 12 hours of driving over foothill after foothill of the Appalachian mountains, from southern Pennsylvania through Virginia through the upper-left corner of Tennessee and finally into Gatlinburg, which nestled in the crook of the Smokies, north-central. Our first taste of Tennessee, authentic off-the-highway Tennessee, was Pigeon Forge, a sprawling strip-mall town north of Gatlinburg that boasts Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede dinner show, along with shows hosted by Dick Clark, Elvis, and every variety of fiddler/honky-tonk combo imaginable.
The accents here are just lovely, smooth sliding over all the vowels. My yank way of speaking seems stunted and way too efficient in comparison.
Gatlinburg describes itself as the “Gateway to the Smokies,” which seems apt since even from the parking lot of our motel, a 360 degree turn gives views of the mountains in every direction. Our first morning here, we turned left at traffic light number 8 and drove for a few miles before arriving at the trailhead for Rainbow Falls, our destination of choice for a day hike. “A rainbow,” promises the brochure, “produced by mist from this 80-foot high waterfall is visible on sunny afternoons.” Unfortunately, our weather was anything but sunny. We sat in the nearly abandoned trailhead parking lot, listening to the rain pound on the van roof, and watching each other for signs of hesitation beneath the several pounds of bright plastic ponchos. Nope, none recorded, or at least shown.
The hike up was a wet, wet, wet 2.7 miles, culminating in a rather disappointing waterfall. But the day was certainly not wasted. Walking through the forest fosters contemplation, and with the added curtailment of conversation by noisy rain, our hike was supremely peaceful. I find that I think well while I walk, and my mind traversed many memories and dreams to come en route to Rainbow Falls.
The Smokies are home to around 1500 bears (although the sheer volume of salamanders actually awards the latter the prize for most combined weight) but the only one we’ve seen is the tiny stuffed black bear/backpack my mom bought at the giftshop. Our new traveling companion, “Smoky,” finds his way into most of our pictures, and really does look genuine if his straps are hidden and the picture is somewhat blurry.
I was surprised to find that plenty of people have at one time or another called the National Park, home. In fact, several thriving communities were established in the mountains when the land became a national park in 1935, and mountain-dwellers had to leave. Most went to nearby towns like Gatlinburg, and augmented the growing tourist industry, while others found logging work in the Northwest or factory detail in Detroit. All that remains of their years of plowing, clearing, loving, and living on the land are their abandoned homesteads, now preserved by the park system.
We drove by several former settlers’ homes on a scenic motor trail. They are shaded on all sides by new forest growth, a testament to the resiliency of the forest even after being transformed into cornfields a few decades earlier. According to a video at the visitors’ center, even the homesteaders who lost their land to the national park now are grateful that the land they loved is conserved for every generation. And yet, I wonder how difficult the decision was to create public land out of what had been someone’s private property. And the settlers weren’t the first to lose the ground they had cultivated; the Cherokee Indian tribe were the first recorded dwellers in the Smokies, and their heritage and lore draws deeply on the natural beauty and danger of the region. In the 1830s, because of white settlers’ thirst for land and the discovery of gold in Georgia, the U.S. government forcibly removed most of the Cherokees from the Smokies and relocated them in what became Oklahoma. Their journey west became known as the Trail of Tears.
Back to the more recent upheaval between white settlers and conservationists, two groups who had different and yet arguably positive uses for the land – to use it for the maintenance of one’s family and community, and to protect it from continual stripping and eroding. It’s not a black and white choice between people and land, as if to care for a tree disregards a person, because the settlers’ style of clearing and cultivating the land was slowly destroying it, and without change would have ended in a dearth of land on which to live. I’m grateful for the land set aside by the U.S. government for the enjoyment of natural beauty and the continuation of ecosystems and wildlife, and yet it tugs at my sympathy to see log cabins painstakingly built and now abandoned.
Tomorrow we leave Gatlinburg and continue on to Nashville, where country music and humidity awaits us. I ask for your on-going prayers for our safety.
Monday, July 16, 2007
P.S. - the cusp of ripeness
Visions of plump cherry tomatoes have danced in my head since mid-May, when we planted a healthy-looking Supersweet 100 seedling. The infant plant grew gangly, and to date has yielded a miserly handful of its crimson bounty, just enough to whet my desire. And now, hours before our dawn departure to the far west, the Supersweet has passed its awkward puberty and is dripping with bulging bright green tomatoes, ready to burst into scarlet redness any moment, probably the instant our tailights fade from view.
What compels me to leave my garden just at the cusp of ripeness? I don't remember strapping wheels to my shoes in a fit of wanderlust, and I happily by-passed any stage of teenage angst that involved swearing to insert a distance of two oceans between yourself and your parents as soon as the ripe adulthood of 18 arrived.
Nonetheless, the fact remains that over the past 4 years, the longest time I've spent in one location has been 4 months, and that was in far-away Honduras. I place most of the blame on being an out-of-town college student, we're as transitory as migratory birds. But I also pinpoint as culpable the seismic shift from dating to unattached that took place about a year ago, involving me and one high school sweetheart. Such an earthquake couldn't help but embitter many joyful memories at home. Looking back, I see that my instant reaction to a broken heart to be the same as that expected in the presence of a charging ox: flee, or be mangled beyond recognition. And so I fled - to Costa Rica, to Honduras, to college, all basically ex-boyfriend-memory-free.
Of course, the ox eventually loses interest and the broken-hearted must pause, panting, and forgive as courageously as possible. This I did as well, and praise God, forgiveness has turned out to be the best balm for a bruised heart - in a strange way, for it is disguised as a brillo pad that scours the stubborn vestiges of bitterness.
My my, forgive such a rabbit trail, this is quite beside the point, which is that the tomatoes are ripe and I am leaving. But hallelujah, this transplant from home to elsewhere feels so different; it is moving forward in hoping, not away in fear.
I wonder now at two options: a) this constant wandering is a test of my ability to rest in God in lieu of a consistent dwelling-place, or b) it is rather a mere taste of much more of the same to come. Only time will tell. If someday I could grow tomatoes and still be there when they fall ripe into my eager hands, I will rejoice at such a gift. But if not, there will always be neighbors who (I'm sure) eye the luscious Supersweet as much as I do.
What compels me to leave my garden just at the cusp of ripeness? I don't remember strapping wheels to my shoes in a fit of wanderlust, and I happily by-passed any stage of teenage angst that involved swearing to insert a distance of two oceans between yourself and your parents as soon as the ripe adulthood of 18 arrived.
Nonetheless, the fact remains that over the past 4 years, the longest time I've spent in one location has been 4 months, and that was in far-away Honduras. I place most of the blame on being an out-of-town college student, we're as transitory as migratory birds. But I also pinpoint as culpable the seismic shift from dating to unattached that took place about a year ago, involving me and one high school sweetheart. Such an earthquake couldn't help but embitter many joyful memories at home. Looking back, I see that my instant reaction to a broken heart to be the same as that expected in the presence of a charging ox: flee, or be mangled beyond recognition. And so I fled - to Costa Rica, to Honduras, to college, all basically ex-boyfriend-memory-free.
Of course, the ox eventually loses interest and the broken-hearted must pause, panting, and forgive as courageously as possible. This I did as well, and praise God, forgiveness has turned out to be the best balm for a bruised heart - in a strange way, for it is disguised as a brillo pad that scours the stubborn vestiges of bitterness.
My my, forgive such a rabbit trail, this is quite beside the point, which is that the tomatoes are ripe and I am leaving. But hallelujah, this transplant from home to elsewhere feels so different; it is moving forward in hoping, not away in fear.
I wonder now at two options: a) this constant wandering is a test of my ability to rest in God in lieu of a consistent dwelling-place, or b) it is rather a mere taste of much more of the same to come. Only time will tell. If someday I could grow tomatoes and still be there when they fall ripe into my eager hands, I will rejoice at such a gift. But if not, there will always be neighbors who (I'm sure) eye the luscious Supersweet as much as I do.
Eve of the departure
All our bags are packed, and we're ready to go! Our big old blue van is stuffed to the gills with all the essentials (and probably quite a bit of non-essentials) for a three-week road trip. As I've gathered what I think I'll need for a year in Denver, the advice from the CVV directors has stuck with me: "As you pack, exercise discernment in what you bring. Let this year be a year of challenge. If you don't have something, it will be an opportunity for someone else to share with you." Have I packed according to these guidelines? I hope so. How do you know what to take and what to leave behind for a year away from home?
Several songs have been echoing through my mind: Somewhat predictably, John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" is one of them. If I may have the liberty to do so, I'd like to change the words a bit, because I find my version quite fitting for the year to come - "She was born in the summer of her 22nd year / coming home to a place she'd never been before / She left yesterday behind her / you might say she was born again / You might say she found the key to every door."
I'm not sure of the author of the other song, but it is compelling and comforting all at once: "You will cross the burning deserts and you shall not die of thirst / You will wander far in safety though you do not know the way / You will share my word in foreign lands and all will understand / You shall see the face of God and live / Be not afraid! I go before you always / Come, follow me, and I will lead you home." May that be my mantra, may that be everyone's mantra - be not afraid! The same God who creates, completes his creation in tender and surprising ways.
I heartily ask for your prayers for our journey!!! We pull out at 6 AM tomorrow and, as Dad would say, "Lord willing and the creek don't rise!" we will arrive in Gatlinburg, Tennessee sometime after sunset. I hope to keep you posted, as internet is available. Until then, may the peace of Christ be with you.
Several songs have been echoing through my mind: Somewhat predictably, John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" is one of them. If I may have the liberty to do so, I'd like to change the words a bit, because I find my version quite fitting for the year to come - "She was born in the summer of her 22nd year / coming home to a place she'd never been before / She left yesterday behind her / you might say she was born again / You might say she found the key to every door."
I'm not sure of the author of the other song, but it is compelling and comforting all at once: "You will cross the burning deserts and you shall not die of thirst / You will wander far in safety though you do not know the way / You will share my word in foreign lands and all will understand / You shall see the face of God and live / Be not afraid! I go before you always / Come, follow me, and I will lead you home." May that be my mantra, may that be everyone's mantra - be not afraid! The same God who creates, completes his creation in tender and surprising ways.
I heartily ask for your prayers for our journey!!! We pull out at 6 AM tomorrow and, as Dad would say, "Lord willing and the creek don't rise!" we will arrive in Gatlinburg, Tennessee sometime after sunset. I hope to keep you posted, as internet is available. Until then, may the peace of Christ be with you.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Snapshots of the summer
1st Top: The view from the top of Pole Steeple, a hike at Pine Grove state park. 2nd Top: My most successful herbs this summer, lemon basil and pineapple mint. Left: the view from my deck steps (you have to imagine the sweet fragrance of the butterfly bush). Right: Kara, Seretha, Carrie, Rebecca and me while on an afternoon stroll
Departure: 3 days and counting! My room is piling up with half-filled boxes, shopping lists, and the scent of nostalgia that grows stronger by the day. I am reminded of a beautiful scene from "The Little Princess" - as Sara's father prepares to leave her at a boarding school and travel halfway around the globe to India, she tenderly runs her fingers along his cheeks. "What are you doing?" he asks. "I'm memorizing your face," she answers.
In various ways, I have been doing the same thing as I prepare to leave. Every time I ride my bike into town, I am surprised by another nuance of beauty that had escaped the morning before - a tree bursting with tiny crab apples, the curve of the hill - and I want to remember it all, down to the last detail. The pictures above capture times of great joy this summer. I am blessed to know places and people of beauty. I want to live with that kind of awareness, always.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
an extended farewell - one week and counting
Hello again, faithful blog readers! Forgive the delay in posting even a jot of thought - but actually, I am confessedly grateful that during this week, my family and friends, prayer and reading have crowded out time for blog posting. I had a slight trepadation (sp?) upon beginning the blog that it would become addictive and now I'm glad to say that I feel happily in control of how much time I spend posting!
With that said, it's been a fabulous week. My parents and I leave one week from today (!!) for our epic journey across the continent. I'm already anticipating the sultry beauty of the Smokies, the crisp taste of southern fried chicken (is Tennessee far enough south for real fried chicken? I'm not sure) and the golden waves of grain in endless Kansas.
But for now, I'm quite enveloped in making the most of my extended good-bye to home and all its trappings. My mom has started getting teary-eyed about every other day, and more recently I've begun to do the same, thinking of the distance that will soon separate me from home. A few days ago, I was sitting in my favorite place on earth - three wooden steps that lead up to the deck out back. At this time of year, two huge butterfly bushes arch over the steps, creating a fragrant alcove of solitude. I love to gaze at my backyard, hopping with life in the form of lilies, black-eyed susans, and the hawk family that lives in the field. And as I sat there, I realized that after next Tuesday, the next time I would see this chunk of earth, aka home, will be in the wintertime, long after all the plants are dead or hibernating.
Why exactly am I going to Denver? Like the rational animal that I am, I've pondered this question countless times ever since making the decision, and somehow no answer entirely satisfies me. I want to live in a different part of the country for a while - True. I want to be with other single young adults, serving in a community of faith - True. I have no marriage prospects, career, or solidified grad school plans, so why not? - True. All of my reasons are fine and plausible, but not really complete in the sense of an air-tight case against which there is no arguing.
Instead, I find myself thinking, why am I leaving home? It's quite lovely to shop and bike ride and worship with people who know me, some since I was a toddler. I catch my breath at the beautiful rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Furthermore (this hesitation cuts the deepest) what if I spend bucketloads of energy planting roots and making a home in Denver, only to relcoate again after 11 months, leaving all the relationships I cultivated behind, and having to start from scratch to make another place my own? I know that it the feeling of transitoriness is part of being human - made of dust, we are meant for heaven. And yet my identity as a sojourner is now exaggerated by a cross-country move and it feels as uncomfortable as an itchy sweater that won't seem to fit right, no matter how much I squirm.
And it's not that I don't want to go! I received the list of the other volunteers this past week and I was thrilled to have names of the 11 people I'll live, work, and pray with. I daydream about hiking in the Rockies, and I can't wait to give 40 hours a week to the service of the poor instead of swiping credit cards and reshelving lampshades. Suffice it to say that my own second-guessing of moving to Denver seems strangely removed from my emotions. Instead, my hesitations are rather like reading a story about a heroine who decides on a path that doesn't seem the most logical, but sure does make the story interesting!
Okay, enough careening through the labyrinth of my mind. Besides, it's too late to turn back now. My feet are set toward the sunset and I'm not stopping until I'm a mile high =)
One more thing (I'm sure you hope by now that I post more than once a week instead of cramming it all together =)) - I would be remiss if I did not praise God for the gift of loyal friends. I had the bottomless joy this week to spend time with Allison, Kara, Carrie, Seretha, and Rebecca - 5 amazing gals from Eastern (among many more) with whom my heart has found a home. To be able to reunite after weeks apart and still laugh genuinely, share deeply, and love fervently smashes every fear I had about friendships fading after graduation. Love is an anchor, to ground those of us who wander. Alleluia.
With that said, it's been a fabulous week. My parents and I leave one week from today (!!) for our epic journey across the continent. I'm already anticipating the sultry beauty of the Smokies, the crisp taste of southern fried chicken (is Tennessee far enough south for real fried chicken? I'm not sure) and the golden waves of grain in endless Kansas.
But for now, I'm quite enveloped in making the most of my extended good-bye to home and all its trappings. My mom has started getting teary-eyed about every other day, and more recently I've begun to do the same, thinking of the distance that will soon separate me from home. A few days ago, I was sitting in my favorite place on earth - three wooden steps that lead up to the deck out back. At this time of year, two huge butterfly bushes arch over the steps, creating a fragrant alcove of solitude. I love to gaze at my backyard, hopping with life in the form of lilies, black-eyed susans, and the hawk family that lives in the field. And as I sat there, I realized that after next Tuesday, the next time I would see this chunk of earth, aka home, will be in the wintertime, long after all the plants are dead or hibernating.
Why exactly am I going to Denver? Like the rational animal that I am, I've pondered this question countless times ever since making the decision, and somehow no answer entirely satisfies me. I want to live in a different part of the country for a while - True. I want to be with other single young adults, serving in a community of faith - True. I have no marriage prospects, career, or solidified grad school plans, so why not? - True. All of my reasons are fine and plausible, but not really complete in the sense of an air-tight case against which there is no arguing.
Instead, I find myself thinking, why am I leaving home? It's quite lovely to shop and bike ride and worship with people who know me, some since I was a toddler. I catch my breath at the beautiful rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Furthermore (this hesitation cuts the deepest) what if I spend bucketloads of energy planting roots and making a home in Denver, only to relcoate again after 11 months, leaving all the relationships I cultivated behind, and having to start from scratch to make another place my own? I know that it the feeling of transitoriness is part of being human - made of dust, we are meant for heaven. And yet my identity as a sojourner is now exaggerated by a cross-country move and it feels as uncomfortable as an itchy sweater that won't seem to fit right, no matter how much I squirm.
And it's not that I don't want to go! I received the list of the other volunteers this past week and I was thrilled to have names of the 11 people I'll live, work, and pray with. I daydream about hiking in the Rockies, and I can't wait to give 40 hours a week to the service of the poor instead of swiping credit cards and reshelving lampshades. Suffice it to say that my own second-guessing of moving to Denver seems strangely removed from my emotions. Instead, my hesitations are rather like reading a story about a heroine who decides on a path that doesn't seem the most logical, but sure does make the story interesting!
Okay, enough careening through the labyrinth of my mind. Besides, it's too late to turn back now. My feet are set toward the sunset and I'm not stopping until I'm a mile high =)
One more thing (I'm sure you hope by now that I post more than once a week instead of cramming it all together =)) - I would be remiss if I did not praise God for the gift of loyal friends. I had the bottomless joy this week to spend time with Allison, Kara, Carrie, Seretha, and Rebecca - 5 amazing gals from Eastern (among many more) with whom my heart has found a home. To be able to reunite after weeks apart and still laugh genuinely, share deeply, and love fervently smashes every fear I had about friendships fading after graduation. Love is an anchor, to ground those of us who wander. Alleluia.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
After 60 years
Their marriage demanded determination even before it began: on March 2, 1947, two days before John Musser and Mary Crider were to be married, a ferocious and untimely snowstorm blanketed the ground. Undaunted, John trudged several miles to town, suitcase in tow, to get a haircut before continuing to Mary's farm. The next day, the betrothed couple rode in a bob sleigh to a local pastor's home, where they took their vows. After a wedding meal prepared by Mary's sister, the newlyweds traveled to Chicago for their honeymoon.On Sunday, surrounded by friends and descendants, John and Mary celebrated their marriage's snowy beginning 60 years ago. And it was good. Evidenced by a lack of appropriate cards at Hallmark, 60th ann
iversaries are rare, endangered by both death and divorce. Reflecting on my grandparents' 60 years of life together, I thought of how bold the wedding vow is, indeed the act of two daredevils. When John and Mary pledged themselves to each other at age 22, they did so with no idea of what was to come, in the form of children (or not), changes galore, hard work and tenacious joy. I mused at how much of an adventure marriage must be, with real peril and many close-calls. Perhaps my grandparents' marriage was not perfect (does such a thing exist?) and yet they have truly triumphed. Giggling, they fed each other cake while all arou
nd them stood evidence of their faithfulness and fruitfulness in all shapes and sizes. As of July 1, the progeny of John and Mary is 9 children, 23 grandchildren, and 13 great-grandchildren, with 3 on the way. Many of the branches and shoots of their family tree stood to applaud the beauty of a long and beautiful marriage. In the twilight of their lives, John and Mary can bask in their legacy, and be glad that John braved that snowstorm 60 years ago.
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