Rent

I saw a production of “Rent” this past weekend.  The theatre department at my school put it on.  WOW, do we have some talent here!  They sounded amazing together.  I came close to crying many times throughout the show.  For those of you who haven’t seen it, Rent is rock musical about a group of friends, most of whom are dying of HIV AIDS.  It follows a year in their life, chronicling their journey with each other and the disease.  Like most modern musicals, it makes you think and reflect.  I watched as one girl pole danced, another started a lesbian relationships, a third watched his gay partner die.  I just wanted to run up on stage, hold each one in my arms and ask “WHY? Why are you doing this to yourselves? Go back home! Go to college! You can have a wonderful, prosperous life.  You don’t need to be rebellious!” 

How tragic that this is very prevalent in American society.  We’ve told people that truth does not exist and whatever feels right to them is the correct path.  We’ve led them straight to their deaths; we should feel intense shame.  Every time you treat someone’s sexual struggle with anything less than empathy and sincere love, you have helped push them down a path you don’t want them to go.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  I’m a firm believer in personal responsibility.  People need to own up to the responsibilities of their actions.  But that includes us.  I’m sick of people pointing a finger at gay communities while failing to examine their own hearts.  

If you have ever prayed for God to break your heart with the things that break His, you should not allow your heart to feel disdain and anger at people who are hurting.  Even if it is of their own doing.  The prodigal son received censure only from his brother.  His father’s arms were held open for the day when the prodigal would return.  

Blessings,
Em

p.s. Here are my two favorite songs from the musical!

anniversaries

Yesterday was my grandparent’s 50 anniversary!  When they were married my grandpa was 24, my grandma 17 (yikes!).  Here’s how the story goes.

Grandpa was drafted into the army and stationed far from home (I’ll exclude specific places, as this is the World Wide Web!).  He made a friend with my grandma’s brother, who was also in the army, but lived near where they were stationed.  During their days off my grandpa, unable to return home, would go home with his friend and sleep on their couch.  My grandpa never saw combat, they were just in training together. 

Well, as the story has it, there was another man vying for my grandma’s attention (sheesh, popular gal for being so young!), but my grandma made her choice.  Her choice came with sacrifices, however.  She didn’t have a big wedding, the family just went to the pastor’s house and they were married there (she wasn’t even wearing a white dress; it was green.).  After that, my grandpa returned home to farm with his family.  So, he took his young 17-year-old-bride–still just a girl, really–halfway across the country and for awhile they lived with his parents on the farm, until his parents–my great-grandparents–built another house on another farmstead we have.  So, my grandmother left all she knew to come live with complete strangers.  50 years ago, they didn’t have much communication.  She was in a place with different food choices, climate, attitudes and ways of living.  She had to learn how to be a farmer’s wife and help her husband. (Her dad had worked in a lumber factory of sorts.)  She had to try not step on her mother-in-law’s toes, since it was her house.  I don’t even know if her in-laws knew about her until she arrived.  Talk about pressure!

She then proceeded to pop out six kids–only one of which was a girl.  Five boys.  The woman had to raise five rambunctious boys!  By the time she was my age–19–she’s already had a kid (my dad) and was pregnant again.  I can’t even imagine it.

I hope she doesn’t have any regrets.  I love my family.  Today we’re all hosting an open-house for them and it will be the first time all of us have ever been together, due to many recent additions to our family.  It’s an exciting time.  A time to celebrate love and sacrifice.  A time to recognize just how much we owe my grandparents. 

If I ever become half of the woman my grandmother is, I’ll be happy.  She’s the kind of grandma who’s always got some baked goodies for you to have, assumes you’re staying for dinner if you’re over and mends all my clothes for me.  She loves to read (like me) and we’ll talk about books together.  She’s into family history and putting together geneologies, so last week I spent hours with her doing that.  We decided we’re going travelling together someday!  My grandma has her mother living with them (she did keep in touch with her family throughout the years.).  My great-grandma is scared to be left alone, so my grandmother for the past several years has basically had no life, being home-bound with her.  Some of us take turns baby-sitting my great-grandmother for her, so she can go shopping or go to church occasionally, but it’s nothing compared to what she needs.  But without blinking an eye, she stepped up to that job.  She knows sacrifice. 

I hope that we (her children and grandchildren) have been “reward” enough.  Because we aren’t all perfect, sweet-tempered people like she and my grandpa are.  Not even close.  Yet she’s always on the defensive for us.  Bless her heart.

Anyway, that’s my romantic story.  Now tell me yours. How did you meet your spouse??

Good-bye, Baby

(I did not post anything yesterday, due to a tragedy that happened to my family.  I’m not sure how this will effect the rest of my posts in the future, they may be somber or unusually cheerful.  Who knows?  Just please bear with me!  I wrote about what happened on Facebook, and decided to bring it over here, for it is, definitely, another “Footstep” of my life.)

I wrote an entry to start this whole process, so I’m going to write another one as it’s ended. And by “it”, I mean “she”.

My cousin Whitney, that so many of you have faithfully prayed for and cared about, died this morning. And I just want to say “thank you” to everyone. Ever since I told her story on Facebook (I also blogged the same story, here.) so many–and I mean SO MANY–of you were continually asking about her over many months.

Whitney lived to be 11 weeks and 3 days old, if I’m calculating right. Which is about 80 days of life. 21 of those days were very scary and spent at Mayo, but our family had 59 beautiful, happy and thankful days to cherish with her.

A lot of you maybe have questions, but I have no answers. I know little, except that she’s gone.  She spit up blood, was rushed to the hospital, was stabalized.  We thought everything was okay.  Suddenly, with her oxygen levels running at 50%, she died.  An autopsy is scheduled for Sunday morning. (today)

Once, again, my dad came to my room early this morning with the news that he and mom were leaving to the hospital (she was still alive at that point.) Why is it that bad things always happen at night? Every tragedy I’ve had in my life happened at night.

Anyway, I got up. I prayed, I journaled, I fell asleep on the couch, curled up in a blanket. And I woke to the phone ringing. It was my dad, with the bad news.

Now, I know Whitney was a very sick little baby. Every time you looked at her, you were reminded because of the tube in her nose and the gloves on her hands (to prevent her from pulling out the tube.) Every time you held her, you were reminded b/c you couldn’t hold her like you would normally hold a baby.

Despite that, I still thought she was invincible. She was such a tough fighter, had come through so much. Every doctors appointment brought excellent reports. . . how can she be dead?

With that one phone call, my dreams went up in smoke. Ever since my aunt got pregnant, I have literally had visions of coming home from college during vacations, running up the steps to her house, picking her up and twirling her around in my arms. I’ve drempt of helping her brush down her family’s horses, and lead her while she rides, I’ve drempt of playing catch and hide-and-go-seek and other fun, outdoors-y games. I was going to buy her clothes from my college and bring gifts . . .

I can’t believe she’s really dead.

But, do you know what I feel the most, right now? Fear.

Fear for the future. For my family–especially my aunt and uncle. Fear for all the little things that will change. Fear that, even though we’ll all recover–and I know that we will–no one will ever be the same.

Here’s another person I fear for: my great-grandma. She’s almost 90 and before Whitney came, she had all but stopped living. Her world, for many years, has consisted of sleeping and eating. With her eyesight and hearing so bad, she can’t do or enjoy anything anymore. She lives with my grandma, and my grandma started babysitting Whitney when my aunt had to return to work. The change in great-grandma was AMAZING. She opened up more, started caring about life more. . . she even started to get dressed in the morning, something she hasn’t done in years. I’m actually afraid that, due to Whitney’s death, who she counted on for life. . . she’ll actually die, too. That may be ridiculous and irrational, but it scares me.

And, most of all, I fear facing my aunt and uncle. Especially my uncle. I never wanted to see them as hurt as they were at Mayo, after Whitney’s birth. That tore my world upside down. I want to support them and I WILL support them, but the look in their eyes–which I have yet to see–will haunt me forever. My strong, generous, hard-working role models. Kind. Humorous. Loving.

I had mentioned to my uncle that my wish was to ride his fairly-new horse before I left for college. We’d scheduled to do it last sunday, but when they started combining, I gave up my dream. I’m a farmer’s daughter, I know how it goes. But on either wednesday or thursday night, I got a call from my uncle, telling me to come over. That it was the last night he’d have not in the field, and he’d sattle up Bits for me. It was 8:30 at night, a beautiful sunset. My aunt put Whitney in a stroller and came out and watched. The four of us laughed and talked . . . nothing heavy. He rode, she rode (her first time since having the baby). They took turns slowly pushing the stroller back and forth, because Whitney was fussing a little. We took pictures. (I don’t have any of Whitney, b/c she had a mosquitoe net covering her stroller). It was beautiful. Afterwards, I helped my uncle put the horses in. I fed them, brushed them. We talked. All was right with the world. Family. It was the way God intended it to be. No one rushed, just giving each other time, love and beauty.

I’m so grateful for that memory, now. I’ll cherish it forever.

Rest in Peace, Whitney. Let Jesus hold you close. I love you!

Love,
Emily

p.s. The picture of me in my “About” section is one where I am holding Whitney, if you care to see what she looks like.

Typical, I know.

Gee, I wonder what people will be blogging about today??  Not to be too un-original, but, ya, I’m gonna take the easy road and copy everyone else’s topic:  MOTHER’S DAY.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY.  To anyone reading this who is a mother, thank you for all you do. 

I don’t believe my mother reads my blog  🙂   but, in case she decides to today:  I love you, mom.  Have a happy mother’s day.  Kudos for ALL you do! 

Now that I’m 18, there are even more things I’m discovering that moms have done for us.  How does that old country song go?  “The hand that rocks the cradle, moves the world.”  VERY TRUE.  Now that I have my own license, it has hit just how inconvenient it is to chauffeur your kids all around. . . multiply that by the number of kids and it equals a mother without her own life.  I can’t cook.  (I’m gonna have to find a guy who can, sadly.  He’ll starve if he depends on my burnt/undercooked/over-baked/over-mixed stuff that was supposed to be food.)  It makes me love my mother and her willingness to stop what she’s doing an hour before supper to whip something together for us.  It also makes me appreciate her when she DOESN’T do that and tries to teach me to make it myself. 

It was my mother’s image of sitting in the chair with her Bible in her lap that led to my desire to live with a faith like she does.  Now that I’m older, we differ on some issues, including those relating to faith, but I find that most of my rantings and tears of frustration find an encouraging home in her.  She also gives good advice.  Just yesterday, she basically made me start talking to her about my tough decision I talked of yesterday.  She knew it was bothering me.  She asked me questions that made me think and examine my decision at the right angles. 

I love listening to my mother play her guitar and sing.  The simplicity, love and faith in her sweet worship makes you want to cuddle up next to Jesus’ side and hum along.  Nothing showy, just authentic. 

So, what is it that YOU appreciate about your mother?? 

Emily’s Eden

Here is an excerpt from an old story of mine.  I was 16 when I wrote it.  It is 100% fiction, a rewrite of a story I started when I was 10.  I used my own name merely because, at the time, I couldn’t come up with another.  🙂  Enjoy!

Emily’s Eden

Dusk had fled the earth, giving way as thick, inky darkness settled snuggly about the atmosphere.  At one small farm in northwest Minnesota, it cloaked the forest of mighty spruce and oaks like a dreary, foreboding presence of evil.  But there, cutting through it with a righteous blaze of light, hung the moon, full and powerful.  It was God’s symbolic disciple, turning what usually represents evil into a place of peace and serenity.   How many of us can deny that Power, that magnetic Pull?  That which settles over our souls and whispers words of comfort and encouragement into our ear.  It comes in various ways and places.  To a farmer, that still small voice comes in their tractors; no one around but wide open sky and acres of dirt and dust.  After a long day’s work, you stand back and view what you’ve accomplished and sigh in contentment.   Many find it listening to the radio, cruising down the interstate, or lying in a boat in the middle of a lake with the sun shining on your face and the wind blowing your hair.  Many cowboys simply jump on a horse and trot across the prairie or up a hill and look down over the world.  Children-or children at heart-may lie in the grass and look at cloud formations or stars.   But no matter how it happens, what’s important is that it is.  We cannot deny it.

Neither could young Emily Hill.  She, a girl imprisoned in the harshness of our modern culture.  A victim.  One denied of her rights as child and her freedom of sweet naivety.  A living, breathing tragedy, who represents millions of other little Americans.

So many times in her short eight years, Emily had come achingly close to finding that eternal peace.  That satisfying purpose in life.  She had held it in her hands time and again, only to have it slip through her fingers like sand.  Why wouldn’t it stay?  Just once, couldn’t this deprived, needy child hold sweet understanding, if only for a minute?

Yet, how could she?  How could anything sweet, holy and pure enter a place full of bitterness, anger and cursing?  Does God Almighty lower himself to the devil’s level to help us?  How could He?  Or instead, does he send us all “moons” to pierce through the evil and reach the lost souls?  If so, Emily could have used one.

It was all part of the vicious circle that made up her world.  Neglected children didn’t have parents who would take them places, to run into people who would notice her, would see the silent plea in her eyes, and would help her.  And what no one saw, no one could solve. 

And so she sat, waiting night after precious night for it to happen. And tonight, she had just missed another chance.  “It” was the aforementioned peace.  The peace Emily knew was there, and was waiting to catch.  She had already decided how it would happen; picked out the right combination of nature’s gifts.  She had ordered a bright, full moon, and a strong, healthy tree to climb.  It would be planted next to the river that snaked through their woods.  She would climb as high as she was able and lay there all night, listening to the river gurgling and the owls hooting…that was what would give her that connection, that peace. 

But her full moon, so luscious just last night, tonight was already receding.  She’d missed it yet again.  If only she could find such a place; such a tree.  Deep down she knew it was there.  She didn’t know how she knew; it wasn’t something she could explain.  Not that she’d ever try.  Her parents would laugh at her.  No, this was her one little secret.

Emily also believed this is what would give her fulfillment.  Peace, happiness, joy, harmony, love…these were the essence to what life was all about.  It was also what she had none of. 

Some nights, as she lay in bed, and what she’d termed as her “soul ache” grew unbearable, she’d whisper aloud all the blessings she had in her life.  That list is what put me to shame and urged me to study and recount her life for you.  Emily was achingly honest, and there was but one human name on it:  her infant brother, Jimmy.  The rest went something like this:

• The sky, the way it turns so blue it makes my eyes hurt, or becomes so gray and angry I immediately want to apologize to it for some unknown wrong.
• The Clouds, the ones that billow up like marshmallows, or spread thinly across the sky as if Mother Nature smokes cigarettes…or maybe a cigarillo.  (Then she usually named a specific cloud she’d seen that day.)
• The Bright Sun that bathes my hair
• The glowing moon reminds me of a sharp knife.
• The River, that sings its own special song to me.
• The weeping willow in the backyard that looks like its nymph must have died and cries for her at night.
• Mother Birch, for only scolding me lightly with a scrape on my elbow when I knew I climbed her too high. 

Her list went on and on like this…appreciating things I don’t even glance at anymore.  And not even having the stuff I do appreciate.  I learned much from this young girl’s life, and invite you to do the same…