Home

I have this tension within me. I got to spend the last week with my family, and it was wonderful. I only get to see them every year or two, and I wish it was more often (without someone almost dying). I feel like this week was especially great; I had some really great talks with my various family members, my nephew is almost 4 now so he's getting to a more fun age (in my opinion), my niece is almost 2 so she says really hilarious things, and overall it was just great for sisterly bonding.

And then I flew home to Colorado. Back to my puppies, back to the mountains and the nice light air. Back to actually feeling dry when you get out of the shower and hardly any mosquitoes. I love living in Colorado so much. I remember visiting about 5 months before I moved out here and feeling like I'd come home. It's just such a beautiful place.

So I feel this tension between home feeling like Colorado, but wishing I could be with my family more. I feel torn over the geographical definition of home - which definitely feels like Colorado - and the relational definition that home is where the heart is - with my family (if my puppies were there too).

I'm just waiting for the day when they invent transporters like on Star Trek. And only charge like $10 to use it...

Crying

I've been spending the week with my family, including my 1 and a half year old niece and my almost 4 year old nephew. There have many occasions when one of them began to cry over things like not getting to play with a certain toy, or having to eat another bite of carrot before they can have a chip, or some other silly little thing. And I keep thinking, "Oh, if only you knew how not big of a deal this is. I know you're upset now, but in five minutes it won't even matter. It will be a lost memory."

I've also had a lot of a reminders of Buttercup - she lived half of her life here - and tonight when my mom gave me a container for her ashes with buttercups on it, that was the last straw for my emotions. But as I sat in my bed crying, I thought about God's perspective. I thought, I bet he's looking down at me, with his perspective of heaven and an eternity void of pain and tears, and thinking, "I know you're upset now, but soon it won't even matter."

One day all of our tears will be done. All of our pain will be gone. Not just new causes for pain, but the ones we're feeling right now won't even be a memory.

Politics

I hear people worry and argue a lot. About the economy, about political views, about all the things the government is doing wrong. About the environment, about abortion, about the degredation of America. About war, about international relations, about the starving children in Africa. About the hidden bacteria in our grocery bags and the cancer-inducing water bottles we drink from.

And for a moment, sometimes I worry, too.

But I always come back to the same thing. We live in a broken city, in a broken state, in a broken country, in a broken world. In this world there will never stop being wars, corrupt politicians, bad policies, and economical concerns. America may collapse, and as hard as it would be to live through that, I think...this is not my home. That's what I always come back to. This is not my home.

This country, this earth, it's so temporary, so broken. It hurts to live through the brokenness, especially when it touches those you love. It hurts to see my cousin deal with the loss of a leg as he sits in a hospital in Germany in critical condition, all because of war.  I can't imagine losing a limb. Aside from the excruciating physical pain, the emotional pain he must be feeling is overwhelming. The wondering about how his life will be different. The memories of what he's lived through. I can't even imagine it. I stub my toe and I turn into a big baby. Losing a limb? I can't fathom it.

But even as I read the updates on his health and pray for him, I hold on to that same thought: this is not his home. It is not my home. We are passing through. We live the best way we know how, to bring God glory, in the midst of a broken world, knowing that all the while, God is really the one in control.

Sometimes that's so hard to believe. But I trust him, I know that he knows so much better than me, and I know that no matter what happens with our government and our world, one day it will all be over. Josh will be restored to a better body than the one that just lost a leg. And I know where I'll be. My hope is not in this world, so I don't worry about all the things I can't change about our country. I do what I can to impact lives for God, and I'm trying to leave the control up to him.

Cleavage

The first ride we went on at Cedar Point was Millennium Force. We got in line behind a couple, and the girl was wearing shorts and a bikini top. Not the normal attire for a roller coaster; most girls were wearing shirts. (Which the sign stated was required, but I guess they count bikini tops as shirts.)

I watched as each time the line wound around the poles, every guy's gaze dropped to her chest. She seemed unaware of this attention. I was disturbed. (And I admit, a bit tiffed that my husband had to spend over an hour right behind a half naked girl.)

But I can't blame it all on the guys. After all, she was the one walking around in a bikini top. One guy at the park had a shirt that said, "Please tell your boobs to stop staring at my eyes." While I don't think he should shirk all responsibility, there's some truth to it. Walking around with your cleavage exposed means you're inviting people to look at it. And not just the cute guys your age, but also the men old enough to be your father or grandfather, and men who haven't showered or brushed their teeth in a while.

Our small group read a book that offered insight into the mind of a male. It said that even well-meaning, devout guys who want to stay pure can't avoid noticing an attractive woman - particularly one flaunting her body. He can choose to look away rather than lingering. But noticing it? There's a radar they just can't turn off. And once he's seen that image, it can unexpectedly pop into his mind at any time.

I for one was glad I was adequately covered, that it wasn't my chest guys were staring down each time they passed me in line. Girls, if you want to be treated like more than just a piece of meat or a pair of boobs, you've got to take some of the responsibility.

Stuck

It's been almost three months since I lost my precious baby girl. Three months that feel like so much longer. I tried to picture her the other day and I couldn't really do it, not without looking at a picture on my phone.

After she died, I was sad to keep taking more pictures of Peanut and Biscuit. I have been, but I knew with each click of my camera, that was one more I'd have to scroll through to get to my pictures of Buttercup. I hated to think that we were making more memories that didn't include her.

But even though I was able to overcome that feeling of stuckness and take pictures of new memories, there are so many other ways I still feel paralyzed.

Like I've been wanting to make a photo collage of my best pictures of her. I bought the frames and everything. But they've just been sitting there gathering dust because I can't bring myself to do it. I like looking at pictures of her here and there to remember, but sitting down and looking at pictures from her whole life, knowing it's over...that just feels too hard.

And a few years ago, I started writing a book of devotions about ways Buttercup taught me about God. It later came to include Peanut and Biscuit. I had ample material, and I've been writing one devotion a week to keep up with it. Or at least, I was, until April. You see, I've had inspirations that I've just written about that week, but I also have a whole list of ideas for devotions I want to write. Many of which include Buttercup. I always thought I'd finish the book while she was alive. I had a great idea for a cover shot with the two of us. Writing it now feels so hard. I feel stuck.

I so want to do these things - make her photo collage, finish the book - to honor her life and the way she touched me. And I believe someday I will. I'd love to see my devotion book published some day, with a nice picture of her and her siblings on the inside cover. Then a lot of people can be touched by her the way I was.

If only I didn't feel so stuck. I just want to hold her in my arms again. To wrap her around my shoulders like my little lamb. To show her that book, published, and celebrate with her.

Oh, how I wish I could.

I keep having this image in my mind, of a time last summer when we went to pick her up from our friend after a vacation. She was relaxing in the shade in the backyard and didn't hear us at first. So our friend said, "Buttercup, look who's here..." and she turned and saw us. She jumped to her feet and ran towards us, licking our faces and jumping at us. I hold onto that image with the hope that one day when I die, I'll see her again and she'll run toward me just the same way.

My Thoughts on Workcamp

I went to Group Workcamp two years ago in Connecticut. I have to be honest: I was miserable. I didn't want to go again...ever. But Dan wanted to go this year, and Group staff's spouses can only go for free if the staff member also goes. So off we went, my expectations low.

By Wednesday I was looking at the 2012 brochure to pick which camp we should go to next year.

There are a few things that made a big difference.

1) My role was a good fit for me. Last time I was the program team member. That's the person who goes around to all the sites taking pictures. It was fun, but let's be honest, I'm no photographer. But more importantly, that role requires you to round up kids, get their energy up to take fun pictures, and just be an outgoing person. I tried my hardest, and it was so draining for me.

As cafeteria host this year, most of my work was behind the scenes. My free time was when the kids were off site, my working time was when they had free time. So I didn't have to force myself to mingle. Instead, I could build relationships while helping kids gather their lunch items or guiding them through the dinner line. That distraction was good for me. Ironically, I felt like I built more relationships this year than I did last year, because instead of seeing each kid once when I went to their site, I was seeing the same 1/6 of the kids come through the lunch line each day. I'm much better at mingling once I know who people are.

2) I gelled quickly with the other red shirt staff. Don't get me wrong - the summer staffers at my last camp were awesome people. I loved them. But it took me a few days to feel like I was friends with them. And by then, the week was half over. And there were a couple volunteers that year that kind of got on my nerves. This year, I loved everyone I served with, and I felt like we all connected on the very first night. Having that "team" feeling from the get-go makes a HUGE difference.

3) I was comfortable. I'll admit it - I'm a selfish person. If I'm not comfortable, I have a hard time giving of myself. I'm not saying I need a 5-star hotel - an air mattress will do - but the room I shared with 4 other girls this year was twice the size as the room I shared with 12 other girls last time. Which meant last time was so cramped, and I never had a chance to re-coup from the energy I was exerting trying to be outgoing.

The room we stayed in last time had AC - but it was in a separate building from the showers, office, and cafeteria. This meant a lot of walking and that never-feel-dry feeling after a shower. Which was communal. This year, there was a private shower room right off of the room we slept in. Which meant I could take real showers and step out into the nice, dry, AC.

Bonus: as cafeteria host, I could have them set aside some leftover pasta from Monday night so I had something to eat instead of Tacos on Tuesday and BBQ on Thursday. Yum!

I know I can't guarantee that #2 and 3 will always be that way. But this year was a great experience, and I'm willing to take the chance at another workcamp.

Decay

Dan and I had the privilege of serving in Youngstown, Ohio last week with Group Workcamps. When we picked up our rental car and told the agent where we were headed and why, her response was, "Oh good, they really need help there."

When we got to Youngstown, it was quite a site. This was nothing like being in Groton, Connecticut, site of our last workcamp, where some of the residents' houses were quite nice, and even those living in trailers had huge flat screen TVs with satellite dishes.

No, Youngstown was falling apart. A few decent neighborhoods sprinkled here and there, with average sized houses that were well-kept. But for the most part, Youngstown was comprised of abandoned homes, shot out windows, and ready-to-collapse buildings.

But the thing we noticed as we drove around was how huge some of the houses were. Giant mansions, obviously once the home of very wealthy residents, were now decrepit and boarded up. It was obvious that Youngstown wasn't always the poor city we were seeing. In my mind's eye I could almost visualize it back in its heyday, and it must have been beautiful and abundant.

I don't know the history of Youngstown. I don't know what happened that caused so many houses to be forgotten and abandoned. I don't know how the 4,000 squarefoot mansions were degraded to the homes of raccoons and spiders.

But whatever happened, I doubt anyone intended for it to happen. It probably snuck up as a result of ecomonic troubles when the steel industry lost its oomph. And little by little, without anyone meaning for it to happen, beauty became rot. Wealth became poverty.

It struck me that the same thing could happen to my heart. If I'm not paying attention, rot and decay can sneak up on me, too. The mansion of my heart that I invited Jesus to live in could be declared an unsafe residence with boarded up windows. It is my prayer that my heart never becomes like Youngstown.