A Vacation Alphabet - Part 6

P is for Pizza

If you ever find yourself near Leadville, Colorado, stop in for a pizza (and some crazy good garlic bread) at High Mountain Pies. Trust me (and Travis, and all the 5-star Yelp reviews) on this one. 

 Travis and I shared "El Hidalgo," which featured a garlic oil base topped with thinly sliced beef sirloin, dried cherries, caramelized onions, blue cheese, and arugula--a delicious combination.

 My parents chose their own toppings: a basil pesto base, topped with roasted chicken, roma tomatoes, and mozzarella--modeled loosely on my homemade version, of which my mom especially is a big fan.

Q is for Quandary 

 quandary (noun): a situation from which extrication is difficult, especially an unpleasant or trying one; a state of uncertainty or perplexity

Yes, Mt. Quandary is aptly named.

R is for Reflection

In the Company of True Friends

I spent this past weekend in New York City, where I was joined by 6 of my dear sister-friends (of the 11 total) from college, who came in from Colorado, Illinois, Ohio, and Pennsylvania to join Lynn, who lives there. The occasion was our annual girls weekend, the 8th since we graduated from Taylor.

It "just so happened" (as in, God miraculously arranged) that girls weekend was also opening weekend for Redd Tale Theatre's Triumph of Love, the show in which Lynn brilliantly plays the lead. The weekend also included pedicures, street food, a leisurely afternoon in Central Park, a "homemade" baby shower for Becca, and lots of time sitting around together, sharing the highs and lows of the previous year. My heart feeds on these weekends and I always come away with a renewed awareness of how blessed I am by these friendships.

In the company of true friends...

...it's perfectly acceptable to go from laughing to crying in 10 seconds flat.
...it's safe to confess our fears and anxieties, our longings and frustrations, our hopes and dreams.
...it's okay to ask those vulnerable questions we can't ask anywhere else, and to wrestle with the answers.
...I am inspired to trust, to hope, and to believe.
...I am moved to give God glory and turn to Him for help.
...I am most myself.

To my friends: 

Thank you for loving and encouraging me. You are beautiful and strong and brave. I would not be the woman I am without the reality and promise of your presence in my life, year in and year out. I thank my God for you.

Awful Library Books and Wedding Vows

Joining Cake Wrecks and Awkward Family Photos on the list of sites that make me chuckle (see below right) is Awful Library Books, a blog by two librarians (Mary & Holly) that documents actual library holdings. Explain the site's authors, "The items featured here are so old, obsolete, awful or just plain stupid that we are horrified that people might be actually checking these items out and depending on the information."

The timing of my discovery of this site is quite appropriate, since just this past Friday Travis and I applied for our Oak Park Public Library cards. I didn't have "Awful Library Books" in mind as I combed through the selection of wedding related titles, but now I want to go back and reconsider the offerings in light of this blog...because I know I passed over several volumes based on their apparent obsolescence. (They say you can't just a book by it's cover, but really, sometimes you can. If it's pink and decorated with doilies, I'm gonna say it's probably not the wedding reference book for me, and that it likely wasn't printed in this century.)

One book I was pleased to find on the shelves (and subsequently checked out) was The Complete Book of Christian Wedding Vows: The Importance of How You Say "I Do". Travis and I have started working on the various elements of the ceremony, and one of the tasks related to that (though "task" seems too laborious a word to describe a very meaningful and enjoyable activity) is writing our vows - those promises we will make to one another that will bind us together in covenant commitment.

With my own wedding approaching, I find that news of others' engagements, marriages, separations, and divorces affect me more--or maybe just differently--than they used to. Several "friends" (the Facebook kind who were legitimate friends at one point in my life and are now merely acquaintances who share a common history from a past season of life and spy on one another's lives via the ubiquitous social networking site) have gotten married in the last few weeks and months. I find that I am so very happy for them, in a sappy, cock-my-head-to-the-side-as-I-click-through-their-wedding-pictures-and-sigh kind of way, and yet I am also sobered by the statistics that tell me that one out of every two of their marriages will not last till death does them part.

When I heard (also via Facebook) that my high school youth pastor and his wife celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary, I couldn't have been happier for them. I clapped my hands in delighted applause, breaking the silence in the solitude of my office.

When I heard the news that Jon & Kate Gosselin are separating I was deeply saddened, willing them to instead demonstrate to a watching world that a marriage is worth fighting for, that it's worth the hard work of salvaging and forgiving and rebuilding. That what's best for their children is not a household atmosphere devoid of tension and conflict, but a family intact with two present parents who are fiercely committed to the vows they made 10 years ago (and incidentally just renewed very publicly on an episode that aired last season).

And when I saw the headline of this article from Time Magazine (Is There Hope for the American Marriage?), I found that I wanted to read it...to find out what the author thinks the answer is. Here are a few notable quotes:

"In the e-mails exchanged between the governor [of South Carolina, Mark Sanford] and his girlfriend, they trip over themselves to praise the other's virtues. She was 'special and unique,' 'glorious'; he was a man of emotional generosity who 'brought happiness and love to my life.' These two humanitarians were engaged not only in worshipping each other's high-mindedness but also in destroying another woman's home, hobbling her children emotionally and setting her up for humiliation of a titanic proportion. The squalor and pain that resulted from the Sanford and Ensign midlife crises make manifest a bleak truth that the late writer Leonard Michaels once observed in his journal: 'Adultery is not about sex or romance. Ultimately, it is about how little we mean to one another.'"

"There is no other single force causing as much measurable hardship and human misery in this country as the collapse of marriage."

"Think of the touching moments on Inauguration Night, when at ball after ball, crowds of young people swooned at the sight of Barack and Michelle Obama dancing together, artlessly but sincerely and clearly with great affection. They are an immensely appealing couple, and it was a historic night, but what we saw reflected in the faces of those awed young people — and in the country's insatiable appetite for photographs of the First Family's private life — was wonder at the sight of a middle-aged man and woman still together, still in love."

'What we teach [our children] about the true meaning of marriage will determine a great deal about our fate."

I'm a winner! And a writer!

Yesterday I entered a five-sentence romantic story contest put out there by Jason Boyett on his blog. And guess what! Today, I was declared the winner of said contest.

Follow the first link above to view the rules which governed the entries, and then follow this link to read my prize-winning submission inspired by the photo below.
Yesterday I took a few minutes to write a simple story inspired by an absurd photo, but in a way I think I really needed to enter this contest (and winning certainly doesn't hurt). Why? Because in the busyness and stress and activity of moving and wedding planning and juggling the responsibilities of life over the past several months, I'd forgotten that I'm a creative soul who's perfectly capable of writing something more interesting and far more profound than another to-do list or chronicle of recent events. And that doing so can be extremely satisfying, and even a little relaxing.

I want to write more. I think I need to write more. Because writing requires reflection. It necessitates stillness of body and activity of mind, when these days I am more prone to ceaseless activity of body and distraction of mind. I also need to write more because it makes me a better editor. I'm generally more eager to mess with someone else's paragraphs than I am to generate my own, but writing keeps me in touch with the process, strain, and frustration felt by those other writers in producing their product.

Writing my contest entry yesterday rekindled my verbal creativity, while at the same time reminding me that it's a good idea to write from what you know - in this case, PMS and engagement. And that unitards are always hard to take seriously, but funny to write about.

Inside the Mind of a Bridesmaid

This past weekend I had the honor of standing up as a bridesmaid as my friend Bethany pledged her constant faith and abiding love to her new husband, Nate. (Congrats, friends!) As I stood there at the front of the church, off to the side, to bear witness to the event, my mind was a flurry of varied thoughts:
- she's such a beautiful bride
- don't lock your knees, Suzanne! bend, bend!
- these flowers smell good
- my feet hurt
- oh, just look at the love beaming from his face!
- her veil is gorgeous
- i like that music
- i wonder what comes next
- i should have read over the program more carefully
- awww, look how happy they are!
- ooh, i really like how that was worded
- in a little over 5 months it's going to be me saying my vows - wow!
- why am i crying right now?
- why didn't i bring a tissue up here?
- i like that element a lot - have to remember that
- yay! i'm so happy for them
- i need to remember to ask bethany about that
- i get to dance with my fiance tonight - whoo hoo!
- i wonder if i'll cry when i'm at the altar
- i'm hungry. why didn't i eat more at lunch?
- hee hee, that was funny
- how can i subtly shift my feet without falling off this step?
- marriage is amazing. i don't know how anyone can enter into it lightly.

Yes, there are a lot of thoughts that crowd for attention inside the mind of a bridesmaid, most of them fleeting. The thoughts and impressions that linger this time around have to do with how sacred and mysterious and incredible marriage is, and what a HUGE deal it is that in a little over 5 months, I will be the one exchanging vows with Travis and entering into a covenant that will bind us together for life. I've always loved weddings, but with my own on the horizon, I find myself impacted by not only the joy but also the weightiness of the occasion.

Return to Big Rock

Yesterday afternoon Travis and I went snowshoeing again, taking advantage of my membership to the Morton Arboretum (which was just renewed for another year by my father--Thanks, Dad!) and the copious snowfall enjoyed by Chicagoland this winter. It was a not-unreasonably cold and unwindy day, which have been rare, and proved perfect for a trek through the woods.

The latter portion of our three hour hike took us down the Heritage Trail and back to "Big Rock," which is (you guessed it) a huge granite boulder geologists believe to have been deposited by glaciers many thousands of years ago. Big rock sits on the dividing line of prairie and forest, causing historians to speculate that it was somehow dragged to its present location by farmers of a bygone era who wanted the obstruction out of their field.

It was on Big Rock that Travis and I took our very first photo together back on March 29th. This was our first trip back to the spot since then, and of course we had to take another photo. It's incredible to think about all that has transpired in between!
As we stood there and reflected, we realized that big rocks have played quite a role in our relationship. It was on this big rock that we took our first photo. It was near the boulder where Travis grew up hunting that he proposed (with a super sparkly rock!). And during a mountain descent last summer Travis picked up what we've come to call "The Rock of Love," a substantial hunk of white (quartz?) rock he found sitting all by itself, gleaming brightly in a field of dark scree. The rock made him think of me, and so he carried it all the way down the mountain, and from Colorado back to Illinois, via Columbus, in his carry-on. For now it rides in the backseat of my car, but we hope to someday display it on a mantle or shelf in our home, with a little placard that says "Rock of Love."

Calmer of My Troubled Heart

Sometimes a song can settle...still...provide a moment of solace as it points the listener to the Prince of Peace. I've found one of those songs. I recently downloaded "Love Shall Never Die," the new EP from Indelible Grace's Matthew Smith (you can download the album here) and I'm completely taken with the song "Calmer of My Troubled Heart (Hallelujah)." Here are the lyrics:

Calmer of my troubled heart
Bid my unbelief depart
Speak, and all my sorrows cease
Speak, and all my soul is peace.
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Comfort me when e’er I mourn
with the hope of Thy return
And til I Thy glories see
Help me believe in Thee
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Simple, but so calming, so comforting. Praise be to the calmer of our troubled hearts.

Be Mine.

Today is Valentine’s Day. Although it’s 4:40 and I have yet to speak to anyone other than a “Thank you” to the mail carrier, through various media I have been wished a Happy Valentine’s Day by dear friends, indifferent acquaintances, Al Roker, and Spongebob Squarepants (albeit rather indirectly by the latter two). While I’m not thrilled to be spending my 27th consecutive February 14th without a significant other, I’ve decided to deal with my…whatever emotion this is…by spending a few moments to ponder love. Which, all arrow-shooting naked cherubs and Russel Stover boxed chocolates aside, I think Valentine’s Day was originally supposed to be about anyway.

Be Mine. This time of year those words pop up everywhere—on Valentine’s cards, teddy bear tummies, candies and cakes, stickers, balloons—pretty much every printable surface. In grammatical terms, it’s an imperative sentence. It’s a command, really, given to an implied subject—you. You know who you are, and with such an intimate request, one hopes you know this person imploring you to belong to them. Because isn’t that really what it’s saying? Be mine, because I want to be able to say—to know—that you belong to me, and no other?

I wonder if we’d be saying something different if “mine” didn’t conveniently rhyme with “Valentine.” I mean, we love people all year round, right, but it’s only in the hyped up season surrounding February 14th that there’s a run on items asking, imploring, inviting that special someone to “Be mine.” What if this particular saint’s name had been Rufus? Or Clarence?

And what does it mean, really, if I say, “Okay, I’m yours”? On the surface (and, bias admitted, to someone who’s never really been in love) it sounds awfully proprietary and not a bit unsettling. I mean, it’s no small thing to give yourself to someone else, and a huge responsibility to receive another person who’s trusting you with…all that they are. It’s no wonder people get their hearts broken so often, or that the wise author of Proverbs charged his readers to guard their hearts.

I attended a concert several years back (ironically, on a date with the one and only boyfriend I’ve yet had, though that’s surprisingly not relevant here). While introducing one of his songs, the opening performer, Jason Morant, said something that’s obviously stuck with me, because I think of it every time I hear the song or stop and consider the words, “Be Mine.” Jason said that he thought the highest, purest form of love was to say to another, from the depths of one’s being and with complete abandon, “I Am Yours” (which happens to be the name of the song he then sang). He sings the song to God, of course, which elevates my pondering now to the spiritual realm. There are lots of days when I can’t honestly sing the chorus of that song. I want to belong utterly and completely to God, to say with total honestly to the Creator and the Lover of my soul, “I am Yours.” But so much of the time my heart and attention and affections are so widely dispersed, and with shame I feel like what’s left is more for hiding than offering.

And this is where God’s perfect love is so radically, mindblowingly different from the love we give and receive as humans. Because ever since that day over 20 years ago when I sincerely “gave my heart to Jesus,” I’ve been His, regardless of how I feel on any given day. Regardless of how deeply I grieve His spirit with my sin, regardless of how scattered my affections can become, my name is carved on His hands, and no one and nothing can pluck me out. In Isaiah (43:1, 7) God says to his people, who have been going through the cycle of sin, rebuke, repent for centuries,

This is what the LORD says—
he who created you, O Jacob,
he who formed you, O Israel:
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
…everyone who is called by my name,
whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made."

Every moment of every day, to those who have been given the right to be called sons and daughters of God by a manner of love we can hardly behold, God makes both the declaration, “You are mine” and the invitation, “Be mine.” Behold, our God of the reconcilable paradox.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

I AM YOURS by Jason Morant

What is this place I've found
This sacred ground where You and I will run
O that I'd never leave from here
And with every second spent the world around me seems to fall away
And with it all concerns and fears

So I'm thanking You now
For showing me how to love You
For showing me how to find myself in You
Here's my song

I am Yours

What is this grace I've found
That brings to light the deepest parts of me
And yet it's this grace that pulls me through
And with every glance from You that comes my way
I'm feeling more alive
So I'm going to keep my eyes on you

So I'm thanking you now
For showing me how to love You
For showing me how to lose myself in You
O here's my song

I am Yours

This is my hometown.

As I drove to work this morning I found myself wishing that I were the kind of person to soak up the inspiration before my eyes and then sit down and write the lyrics to a country song--a ballad to this place I call my hometown. Today is July 3rd, and as I drove down Main St. I started grinning like a fool at the sight of all the blankets, lawn chairs, stakes and strings that have already appeared to reserve prime viewing spots for tomorrow's Independence Day parade.

It's nothing new, but it still makes me smile every year. In fact, I think one of the reasons I'm so delighted by this hometown custom is that despite all manner of change and progress over the years--and the fact that the parade has since become an incredibly LONG and drawn out display of hometown pride mingled with conservative politics--some things HAVE stayed the same as they were when I was still a freckle-faced kid, sitting on the curb, waving my cheap little piece-of-stiff-cloth-stapled-to-a-dowel-rod American flag, hoping the next group to come down the street would toss candy into the crowd, sending us all scrambling for a Tootsie Roll or Dumdum pop as they skittered across the pavement or sunk into the grass around us.

Tomorrow morning those who've reserved seats will take their places, and the crowds will press in, and a slice of wholesome Midwestern life will pass slowly by - the classic cars and the marching bands, the Shriners in their funny little cars and the church with the shopping cart drill team, the cheesy floats and the convertibles with smiling politicians sitting in the back, the cheerleaders and the Boy Scouts, and the brigade of red and yellow emergency vehicles from up to five neighboring towns, blaring their sirens, causing dogs to bark and kids to cover their ears, even as their eyes open wide to take in the flashing lights and the gallant looking firemen and officers waving back at them. And then, when it's all over, there's the street sweeper, the signal that it's time to disperse to back yards and picnic tables to enjoy hamburgers, togetherness, and the freedom in which we live.

This is the 4th of July in my hometown. Though it's been a couple years since I've attended the parade myself, and I imagine that some day I'll move away from here, I think this will always be a part of who I am as an American.

Food for Thought

"Sabbath reveals that redemption comes through Jesus Christ, not through our hard labor. The Holy Spirit is our source of power. We are God's beloved children, utterly dependent on God, receiving everything good from the hand of God. Because we are so easily addicted to taking ourselves too seriously, because we so easily fall into patterns of idolatry that we elevate our own significance, we need the sabbath, stopping productivity, so we can remember that God is God and we are not."

Lynne Baab, in "A Day Off from God Stuff?" in Leadership Journal, Spring 2007

Congrats Erin & Peter!

Over the weekend I had the delight of being a bridesmaid in the wedding of my dear friend Erin. During those jittery pre-wedding moments when the bride and her attendants are tucked out of sight as the guests steam into the church, it's always a bit of a dance...how do you occupy the bride, acknowledging how special those moments are and how important the ceremony that's about to begin will be while keeping things light and steering clear of any topics that will trigger anxiety, nerves, or tears?

This time around one of the "safe" topics that came up was Girl Scouts, and how Erin and one of the other bridesmaids and I had been Brownies together way back in the day. It's funny the things that stick with you. While I couldn't tell you about a single badge I earned, one of the things I do remember is singing the "friends song" in a round as we sat in a circle on the floor. "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold." Erin is my oldest friend. We met when Erin moved to town and joined my 2nd grade class. On a class field trip that involved walking on the Prairie Path, my mom (who was along as a chaperone) made me go talk to the new girl (which is no reflection on Erin and simply due to the fact that I was horribly shy as a child), and as they say, the rest is history.

Unlike any of the other weddings in which I have played a role, this wedding was an international affair, drawing family and friends from Ireland, England, Canada, and Korea, in addition to various U.S. locales. The result was a fascinating collection of people and accents, so in addition to being lots of fun, it was also an educational experience. From Mark I learned about schooling in England; from Trevor I received the clearest explanation to date of the whole point of curling as a sport (he's from Canada); from Fergus I learned that Irish gatherings must always involve singing (even if it gets hotel security called on you repeatedly); from Pat I learned how to say "delicious" in Korean, though I've since forgotten; and from the attention I received I learned that in some gatherings being a 6ft redhead can make one feel a bit like a novel curiosity. I was shocked to learn that the majority of Pete's friends had never been to a wedding before, and humbled by how much those from other countries know about the U.S. and what's going on in the world and how little we know about anything beyond our own borders. As I replied to Brian, Pete's brother and my groomsman counterpart, when he found me sitting off to the side with wide eyes and a slight grin, "Oh, I'm just taking it all in."

Triggers

Today is March 15th - the Ides of March.

Which triggers thoughts of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, in which a soothsayer utters the foreboding line, "Beware the Ides of March."

Which triggers memories of sophomore year Advanced English class with the late Mr. Harris, in which we studied Julius Caesar, along with rhetoric and debate (for which we divided up into teams to verbally duke it out over how to deal with passive aggression in the public schools, for which my team came up with "P.A.R.E. - Passive Aggression Resistance Education," for which I came up with a killer logo) and science fiction (for which we were required to write short stories, and mine was about an eerie world in which women could no longer have children. I can't remember what I titled it...it wasn't "Children of Men," but I still think perhaps I should get royalties...)

Which triggers memories of high school classmates I have not thought about in years, and I wonder what has become of them, and if I will see them at our 10 year reunion next year.

Which triggers incredulity that it's already been almost 10 years since I strode the halls of my high school, tall and proud and insecure and carefree and stressed out all at once, a top-two-percent-national-honor-society-varsity-athlete-choir-member-forensics-competitor-school-spirit-fanatic, and how I thought all those accolades and activities would get me somewhere and make me someone.

Which triggers thoughts about how the life I am living today is not at all what I imagined for myself back then.

Which triggers questions of what life would be like if it HAD turned out the way I'd imagined, and how I feel about the fact that reality is really quite different, but mostly wonderful all the same.

Which triggers my recollection of a paragraph or two near the end of Phil Vischer's Me, Myself, and Bob, which I finished reading recently, in which he proposes that as Christians we really have no business having "big, hairy audacious goals" or a strategically plotted answer to "where do you see yourself in 5 years?" other than "In the center of God's will" or something equally submissive and not-the-pilot-of-this-ship.

Which triggers relief, because honestly I don't know where I will be or even want to be in 5 or 10 years, and frankly I'm rather gun-shy about committing to any ideas about that because where I saw myself 10 and 5 years ago never happened, and it's hard to accept that I am where I am and I'm not where I could be if there's this expectation that where I saw myself is where I'm supposed to be and where I am instead is all my fault.

Which triggers a sense that I'm no longer making much. Sense, that is.

So, yeah, the Ides of March. Beware.

Rocky Mountain Highlights - #1

Last week I attended WorldVenture's annual Renewal Conference in Denver. Ironically, I went into the conference less burned-out than in past years, and yet came out of it more renewed than ever before. One of the sweetest experiences from that week was getting to know Sherri, one of the missionaries with whom I had up to that point only communicated via email and phone (which is the case for most of the missionaries and staff with whom I work), and having her pray over me. At the beginning of the conference, I was drawn to Sherri by her ready smile, her contagious laugh, and probably her red hair (redheads tend to stick together). As I got to know her, I was touched by her gentleness, sincerity, and the size of her heart. As we bowed our heads to pray together the afternoon of the first day, I felt dwarfed and awkward...this woman has been a missionary in Africa for almost as many years as I've been alive. I know that my faith is real, but hers has been tested and refined by trials way beyond my experience and understanding. I prayed for her first, for the concerns she had voiced, and in the way I knew to pray.

And then she prayed for me. It was one of those experiences where you just know the other person is totally in tune with the Holy Spirit, because as she went before the throne on my behalf, she prayed for things so deeply intertwined in my hopes and fears that I hadn't dared mention them. That alone reduced me to tears, but on top of that I could tell as she prayed that she entertained no doubt about God's goodness and His ability and desire to answer those prayers, and I felt the gentle admonishment of the Lord, "Oh Suz of little faith." I want to have Sherri's depth of faith and confidence in prayer, but if I'm honest I am scared of and not at all eager to embrace the suffering, tests and trials that would produce it.

snow

It's been snowing here all day. Big, fluffy flakes, sometimes floating gently down, sometimes driven diagonally by the wind. I've been watching the snow accumulate, forming a rounded extension of the railing visible from my office window, a fluffy blanket covering the balcony outside the back door. Now in the darkness that follows dusk, flecks here and there catch and reflect the light of streetlamps, reminiscent of the shiny bits in Formica.


A friend said the other day that if it's going to be cold, she'd rather have it be cold with snow. I think I'd have to agree. When it's just cold--achingly, bone-chillingly cold--it feels like punishment. But when it snows, the cold almost becomes forgivable, or at least forgetable, for it's no longer the main attraction. Snow steals the show. It makes the world look soft and pure. It causes headaches on highways and runways. It makes us dig out our sunglasses in the middle of winter. It crunches or squeaks underfoot.

Cold is just there and we resent it. Snow demands our attention. And though we may grumble at the extra time spent cleaning off our cars or getting home from work, I think there's still a part of us--sometimes buried very deep inside--that gets caught up in the wonder of snow. Of no two flakes ever the same. Of the possibility and memories of snowmen, snowball fights, snow forts and snow angels. Of its incredible whiteness.

"Come now, let us reason together," says the Lord. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."