When You Don't Know What to Say

Last week, a dear friend of mine received some very sad news that she had lost the sweet baby she was carrying. It is her story, not mine, so that's all I am going to say about it specifically, but for me personally, it's been hard. This comes a few days after reading Steph's post about losing her baby; Rachel blogged about losing her baby this past fall, and Cassie shared about hers last summer.

Those, of course, aren't the only ones. With statistics like these, I'm sure we all have known someone who has had a miscarriage. This is hard for me for obvious reasons being that I am currently 22 weeks pregnant but also because I am just so incredibly sad for my friend.

This post is not about how to comfort a friend after miscarriage, because I don’t really know how to do that yet. This post is about what to do when you don't know what to say. Because I understand even more now why it's hard. Everything sounds trite and cliche. You want to be sensitive and not accidentally say something hurtful, but you also don't want to say nothing.

And I just really don't want to say nothing.

I had written a few posts for this week already, but I just can't move on with normal content yet. I've gone back and forth about it, but it just doesn't feel right. I know everyone handles grief differently, so each situation, each person, is unique, and what one person finds comforting might not be so for someone else. But I thought about what I would say even when I don't know what to say, and I decided to share it here.

I by no means am any kind of expert at comforting a friend going through something like this, and I freely admit that I don't always know the right thing to say. In fact, a lot of times I say the entirely wrong thing. But I hope this is a comfort in some small way to my friends, both those close and dear to me and those I only know online.

* * *

Dear friend,

I’m heartbroken over your loss, and I’m so terribly sorry.

I don’t know whether you told a lot of people about this baby yet or only a few, but no matter how many knew about this tiny life, I want you to know that this baby was very much loved and very much wanted.

You didn’t get to officially meet this baby, and I know that you wanted to so badly. But that in no way makes this baby any less real or this loss any less significant.

I want to give you space but also hold you close. However this process of grief looks for you, that is the right way, and I will do my best to support you in whatever way you need.

I'm here if you want to talk and I'm also here if you don't. Know that I'm going to check in on you, but don't feel pressure to respond to my calls and texts unless you want to.

And if you want to talk, I’m here too. I promise to try not to say any of those unhelpful things people sometimes say when they are trying to be comforting after a loss, and I want you to promise to tell me if I accidentally say or do something hurtful.

I want you to know that God is very much saddened by your loss. (If you need proof, look no further than Jesus grieving the loss of his friend Lazarus. It is the shortest verse in the Bible: John 11:35, "Jesus wept.") I always find it a comforting thought that God is never surprised, and nothing has ever happened or will ever happen that God doesn’t already know about. But that doesn't stop me from wondering why certain things happen. 

Because honestly, I hate this.

God is faithful, and he is good; but sometimes he doesn’t seem good at all, and it's okay to be sad and it's okay to be angry. Those feelings are normal, and God is not offended by them.

I am praying for you, dear friend. Praying for peace, for healing, and for your marriage as you walk this journey together.

Most of all, I don’t want you to feel alone. I can imagine it might feel like you are very much alone right now, but we all loved this baby, and we all love you very much. I know you won't forget about this baby, and please know that I won't either.

I'm here for you.
I love you.

Love,

Your Friend

*I thought about turning the comments off, but I think it would be good to allow response. Whether or not you have experienced a loss of this kind or been the friend trying to comfort, please feel free to share your story. I think it's important that those going through something like this know they are not alone, and I personally would like more dialogue in general about how specifically a friend can be a comfort during this time. Thanks for reading.

How to Kill a Basil Plant (in 10 easy steps)

Step 1: Buy a basil plant

You obviously can't kill something unless you have it. The real key to fully embracing Step 1 is to get really excited about buying the basil plant. You should probably tell your friends and maybe even blog about it. Start collecting recipes that call for fresh basil.

Step 2: Keep the basil pot on the ledge outside your apartment.

You want your basil to get sunlight and shade, and the ledge is the perfect spot!

Step 3: Water the basil plant

During Step 3, you are creating the illusion of growth.  You are careful to give your basil just the right amount of water. Your basil is growing! Excitement abounds.

Unbeknownst to you, however, in an effort to be nice, your neighbor is secretly watering your basil when she waters her flowers, which are sitting on the ledge right next to your basil.

Step 4: Become confused when the basil plant starts turning yellow.

At this point you think maybe the basil isn't being watered enough, so you water it more. Google tells you this is a terrible idea and that basil leaves turn yellow when the plant is being watered too much.

Step 5: Freak out and completely stop watering your basil plant. Notice the leaves are continuing to turn yellow and are now starting to fall off. Mass confusion ensues.

Step 6: Become suspicious that your elderly neighbor might be secretly watering your basil plant.

Step 7: Stage a stakeout and catch elderly neighbor in the act.

Step 8: Instead of confronting her, passive aggressively move the pot inside where your neighbor can't get to it.

Step 9: Return to a routine watering system.
Step 9a: Get excited when your basil plant seems to be improving.

Step 10: Leave the country for a week. (To here, in case you missed it.)

Sweet Home Chicago

I just need to say it. 

Again.

Chicago is hands down my favorite place.

And before you go all but, like, where have you been, because you might just have nothing to compare to...let me stop you right there. I've been to Hawaii, Texas, Indiana, up the entire East Coast, Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, Idaho, and more. I still like Chicago the best, mkay?

This weekend Jordan and I flew to Illinois for a wedding, and I planned out four days of travel to all my favorite spots both in my hometown (Winfield) and in downtown (Chicago). 

At one point on Saturday Jordan told me that this was my vacation and we were doing everything I wanted to do. I was offended at first...until I realized that he was right. We were doing everything I wanted to do. I choose not to let this make me feel like a horrible person, because really I'm just doing him a favor by letting him see all the amazing places I grew up loving. 

The last time I was in northern Illinois was December 2011 for my grandma's funeral. There obviously wasn't time or desire to visit my old haunts at that point because it was just about being with family. The last time I was in Chicago was the year before that--Christmas 2010--when Jordan asked me to marry him. The proposal itself was a huge shock. I don't think I'll ever live down my incessant, naive blabbering about Jordan's inability to hide anything from me. But even more special than the actual moment was the fact that Jordan chose to ask me in Chicago because he knows it is my favorite place.

This isn't a secret. Actually, it's one of the first things I tell people. I'm sure all my friends think I'm super annoying.

"I'm originally from Chicago," I say. 

Then they stare at me blankly and ask the inevitable follow-up question. "So...how did you end up in Oklahoma?"

Now don't get me wrong, Oklahoma is home, and I love living here, odd as that might sound to people who still think we drive around in covered wagons. Jordan is an Okie through and through, and if you try and say anything bad about his beloved state, he'll either start listing off the ridiculously long list of famous actors and artists and musicians who call Oklahoma their home state (Carrie Underwood, Garth Brooks, James Marsden, Ron Howard, Walter Cronkite, Louis L'Amour, Mickey Mantle, and his great-uncle James Garner, to name a few) or just strongly consider punching you in the face.

(The OKC airport has a wall of windows with the names of all the famous Okies. 

I took a picture of this one because, as I said, we're kind of related.)

This weekend as I introduced Jordan to the best friends that I've known since sixth grade and pulled him around to my favorite spots and forced him to eat at my favorite restaurants, I realized something: he's never going to love it as much as I do. And although on the one hand that does make me sad, I also realized that that's okay. Because it's not even Chicago that I love so much. It's not the food or the entertainment or the ease of public transportation. It's the memories I have associated with all those places. That's what makes those places special and exciting for me, and I loved sharing that with Jordan. 

My family drove into Chicago on Christmas Eve every year. We went to the same Italian restaurant and got the same 2 dishes and laughed when my mom got mad at the waiter for trying to collect our plates before we were ready. Then we drove to the Lincoln Park Zoo and stopped for coffee and hot chocolate at the Starbucks on the corner.

Every summer my friends and I took the train downtown. We stopped for pizza at Giordano's or popcorn at Garrett's. We watched movies in the park and wove through millions of people at the Taste of Chicago. One time a few of us stayed overnight at my friend's aunt's apartment. We stayed up late and ate ice cream for breakfast and felt like grownups. I mean, as much as grownups who eat ice cream for breakfast.

One year, my family had season tickets to the Cubs. I drove my brother and I downtown for a game once, and we got lost, and I started crying and my brother was yelling and it took us 2 hours to get there when it should have only taken 45 minutes.

A few times I've sprinted to catch the last train back to Winfield. Lack of careful planning that I never took the blame for.

When I was in elementary school we went on class trips to the Shed Aquarium and the Art Museum. I saw the King Tut exhibit when it came to the Art Museum on its trip around the country. I've gone up in the Sears Tower to visit my friend who's worked there every summer since high school.

We went swimming in Lake Michigan and rode bikes along the beach. I remember listening to Nomar Garciaparra's very first game as a Cub. Everyone thought he was going to take us somewhere. My dad brought a radio down to the beach, and we sat on beach towels and cheered along with a thousand other cub fans.

Since moving south, we've made the drive to Chicago a few times. Six people crammed into our Suburban shouldn't make for a good time, but some of my favorite memories have been made on car trips.

So this weekend I took Jordan on a tour of everything I love about where I'm from. We danced with my best friends. We took the train downtown and went to a game at Wrigley. And we ate pizza and hot dogs all weekend.

He says he had a good time, and I hope he did. I wanted so much for him to see and feel what I do. But I guess in the end, Jordan was right: it kind of was my vacation after all. And I enjoyed every single minute in sweet home Chicago.

So tell me, what places do you love?

[And stay tuned for a post about our trip to Wrigley! Spoiler alert: Cubs win!]

3 Discoveries of Late

1. I like running a 10k.

I ran my second on Sunday. Clocked in at 56:21, which is a good 2 minutes faster than my last 10k time. 

Jordan, good husband that he is, came to watch. I've decided I like 10ks. 6.2 miles is long enough that I feel accomplished but short enough that I can do it with relatively no mental or physical preparation. My half marathon is in less than two weeks, and I will need much more mental and physical prep than I currently have (see #3).

2. You can brush too hard. It's a real thing. 

Forget circular brushing. Apparently the next phase of teeth awareness is brushing too hard. Who knew that was a thing? I sure didn't. I went to the dentist yesterday for the first time in at least 4 years. I learned that:
A) I still have no cavities. Hurray! 
But I also learned that:
B) I brush too hard, which has consequently brushed all the enamel off two of my upper teeth and exposed the root. 

If I continue in this brushing pattern, I could scrub off the root completely, and my tooth will fall out. This conclusion is horrifying and disastrous and not what a hypochondriac like myself needs to hear. I'm upset, of course. Why wasn't I warned about this?!

3. Oklahoma has given me allergies
3a. Allergies are terrible and should not be wished upon your worst enemy.

In Illinois, allergies are not common. Then I come to Oklahoma, and everyone I know has allergies. Including, now apparently, me. I currently sound like a ninety-year-old smoker, and I have since Monday. It's getting old. 

I'm blaming allergies on my strange dreams as well, because otherwise I have to assume they're foreshadowing an event in the near future, which I really don't want to see happen since the last few dreams have involved the untimely deaths of my husband and my mother. 

My allergies have drained me of motivation to do anything except drink hot tea. I'm going back to Illinois. 

Until next time, don't brush too hard! And sign up for a 10k. They're fun.

The Thing About Funerals

I went to a funeral on Saturday. New Year's Eve. 

The reason we were gathered there--the death of my grandmother--was not in itself completely unexpected. She was 88, and we had all seen her grow thinner over the past year. Ever since the cancer diagnosis last November, the reality had been moving ever closer. Still, when it was finally happening, it didn't feel like I was actually sitting there on an unfamiliar church pew between my cousin Jake and my sister, Sarah, listening to them speak about my grandmother in the past tense. She was. She would have. 

But wait, I wanted to say. I just saw her last week. Why are you using those words? She is. 

But she's not. 

That's the truth that kept smacking me in the face all weekend.

And, truth be told, I wasn't even that sad about her. 

She lived a good life.

My grandpa ended a family prayer with this line: "Thank you for preserving her sound mind to the end."

What a blessing. 

There were no long hospital stays. There was no memory loss. There wasn't a wheelchair to push around or a nursing home to visit. 

It was my grandma and my grandpa. Together for 65 years. Living in their house together. Visiting their children and grandchildren together. Taking trips around the world together. 

The only thing they couldn't guarantee was dying together, which is why my heart breaks for my grandpa. Through a series of circumstances I won't go into, that night after the funeral, I ended up taking a drive with him. Just the two of us for about an hour.

We sat in comfortable silence for most of it, and later he thanked me for coming with him. He said he needed the escape but that he was glad to have company. He would simply break the silence every so often to whisper, "Amanda, I can't believe your grandma is gone. I just don't know what to do." 

And I'd start crying all over again.

As we drove, I thought about all the things she's taught me. Of course, she wasn't perfect. No one is. But my grandmother was a woman after God's own heart. She rarely complained. She never spoke negatively about my grandpa to others. She served and witnessed and was inside and out a beautiful person.

You see, the thing about funerals is that they're sad. Really, really sad. There's no way around it. But it's also beautiful, because that's when you celebrate a life well lived. It's also when family gathers, and that's always a good thing (at least, it should be). No matter how far you've gone, you come back. 

And it's not really for the person who has died, although sometimes it is. Mostly, though, it's for those who are left behind. It meant so much to my grandpa to have all 17 grandchildren and 14 great grandchildren travel from as far away as Alaska to be there this past weekend. My grandma would have loved it. 

We caught up on life and shared stories about Grandma and took pictures. A lot of pictures.

The thing about funerals is, it allows you to take a break. Stop and really think about life and what kind of legacy you want to leave with your children and grandchildren. Think about what's really important. And about whether or not we're ready to go.

That's what this weekend was about, really.
So many hugs. So many tears. So many memories about a wonderful woman.

65 years ago, my grandma and grandpa married.
And 65 years later there were:

4 sons
4 daughters-in-law
17 grandchildren (+8 grandchildren-in-law)
14 great-grandchildren (+ one on the way)

Oh, how she would have loved this.

My Grandma Lee

Today, my sweet grandma Lee went home to be with Jesus.

I'm so thankful that I got to see her just last week. She and my grandpa drove themselves from Illinois and spent the week in Texas and Oklahoma visiting my family. Grandma Lee's brother--my great uncle Bill--lives in OKC, and Jordan and I spent last Tuesday evening at their house. My dad was there too. 

We ate my great aunt Dorothy's delicious homemade banana cream pie and sat around the table telling stories and making fun of my dad because he and my grandpa have the same I-don't-want-you-to-take-my-picture-but-I'll-humor-you face. Or, knowing the two of them, it's an I-have-a-secret-joke-I'm-laughing-about-in-my-head smirk.

My grandma celebrated her 88th birthday earlier this month, and she and my grandpa celebrated 65 years of marriage this year as well. Can you even believe that? 

So many people lose a grandparent early in life. I am blessed to have known her for as long as I did. 

Love you always, Grandma. 

The Murder of Tweety

Twelve years ago, I made a paper mache pinata.

It was a project for Spanish class, and it was one of those ridiculous assignments where neither parent nor child is entirely sure what the point is. But meaningless busywork never did stop me from being the straight-A student I was, and I immediately got some newspaper and glue and went to work.

Too late into the process I realized that I'd either blown up the balloon too much or had just used too large of a balloon in the first place, because I ended up with an oval that was twice the size of a normal human head. 

I debated about what to make out of it, because I knew I was limited due to the intense size and odd shape of my final product. In the end, I used white, blue, and a lot of yellow tissue paper to make a Tweety Bird head. To this day, my parents and I can vividly recall the uncounted hours we spent gluing yellow paper all over the gigantic balloon. I'm a perfectionist and insisted that we get the right look, so the paper had to be as close together as possible. And that head was large, so it seemed like to took forever.

It was also slightly disappointing, because after all that, the Tweety head was just sort of ugly and large and, I'll be honest, a bit frightening; but I turned it in on time, and my teacher hung it up in our classroom with the rest of my classmates' artistic, attractive pinatas. 

Eventually the time came to bring the bird home, and the question immediately arose about what to do with dear Tweety. Throwing him in the trash would obviously not do justice to the time it took us to bring him to life in the first place. But we couldn't put him anywhere he might be seen by anyone, especially after dark. 

So Tweety was attached to a rafter at the back of the garage, and there he hung for the next nine years. His bright yellow fur collected dust and, over time, turned his color to a pale yellow, almost white, proving that even cartoon birds eventually turn gray with age.

Occasionally I'd catch a glimpse of him back there, swaying peacefully back and forth between a bike and an old fishing pole with a sad look in his huge blue eyes, and someone would mention getting rid of him. But then my parents and I would remember the hours we spent that we could never get back, and we'd tell each other that the perfect time would come to pay homage to our hard work and give our wingless friend a death he deserved. 

That time came in the summer of 2008, when a semi-truck pulled up in front of the "for sale" sign that had been sitting in front of our house for almost a year. My family was moving to Texas, and we decided to fatten Tweety up with candy and then beat him to death with a baseball bat to celebrate our last night in our Illinois house. 

Unfortunately, we ran out of time to kill Tweety. It took us much longer than anticipated to get everything in order, so we packed Tweety in our suburban with the rest of our most prized possessions (everything we didn't trust with the driver of the semi), and headed sixteen hours south.

Upon our arrival at our new home, Tweety was unceremoniously tied to a rafter in the garage and left to the dust and old age. That was three and a half years ago. 

On Friday, Jordan and I arrived at my parents' house with our sleeping bags ready and our bags packed for the 2nd Annual Texas November Reese Family Camping Trip (I made up that name; we don't actually have shirts made up with a logo for that or anything). 

We had barely walked in the door when my dad approached with a suspicious grin on his face. 

"Guess what?" he asked.

"Ummm, I don't know... what?"

"Guess what activity we have planned for this weekend?" He paused. "We're going to kill Tweety!"

My sister burst out laughing. "And we're going to fill it with my Halloween candy!" she shouted.

"That's awesome!" I said. Then I turned to Jordan and explained what was going on so he wouldn't think he'd secretely married into a family of ax murderers.

When my brothers heard, they were excited as well, and the die was cast.

 Tweety's days were numbered.

We arrived at the campsite on Saturday morning and found the perfect place to hang Tweety--on a pole by the picnic table.  In his final hours, he protected us from campsite creepers (though we took him down at night, because no one wanted to get scared by the whites of his huge eyes). 

{Here he is watching Jordan carve some wood.}

The next day, we prepared for the assassination. 

First, Jordan carved a flap into his skull for sticking the candy. Poor Tweety didn't even put up a fight.

Then, we fattened him up with Reese's and Heath Bars and Snickers.

After that, my mom forced Jordan and I to take a picture together because we accidentally wore the same shirt. 

{Then I changed because I hate matching, which isn't relevant to this story except to explain why I'm wearing a different shirt in the following pictures.}

Then, the main event.

We gathered our materials: bat and bandana, which Jordan luckily had in his truck. 

And my brother found the perfect (thought slightly perilous) spot from which to hang Tweety.

 I was elected to take the first hit, and though Tweety had hardly made a squeak when Jordan knifed him, it was clear he wasn't going to go down as easy this time. (Or perhaps it's just a fact that twelve-year-old paper mache folds more than cracks when hit.)

 It took four of us to bring him down.

{Pictures courtesy of my sister}

During the beating, there were two injuries other than the holes we were putting in Tweety. Somehow, both Jordan and Austin ended up on the ground--Jordan because he got so dizzy he fell in the dirt and literally rolled down the hill until he could stabilize himself; and Austin because Daniel accidentally hit him in the eye with the bat.

When it was all over, there was nothing left but pieces of bird and yellow feathers scattered amongst my sister's Halloween candy.

{Side note: it's not as much fun to break open a pinata when you have to pick up the candy and hand it all over to your little sister...which probably explains why we stood looking at it instead of rushing to pick it up.}

We collected the various pieces of Tweety's head that we found lying around the campsite and threw them in the trash. There was no sadness, though, because we all felt that this murder, premeditated though it was, was justified and a long time coming.

As our last hurrah for our fallen fowl friend, we read snippets from the paper I used for the mache part. We also talked about Tweety being like a time capsule. Except who knew we'd keep him for 12 years? No one. As such, there wasn't anything cool inside except yellowed newspaper dated from 1999 and the broken balloon I'd blown up all those years ago.

And here's some food for thought: you haven't been on a successful camping trip until you've busted open a 12-year-old Tweety Bird head pinata.

So concludes the story of the murder of Tweety. 

May he rest in peace.

Bonhoeffer--A Book Review

Last night, I did it. I finally finished Bonhoeffer. 

When I use the word finally, I don't mean to sound scary. But I have a job where I sometimes have to read an entire book in one day, so when a books takes me two and a half months to finish, I feel it's appropriate to say finally. 

I'm not going to beat around the bush; this book is dense. It's important you know this, because if you do choose to read it, you need to be aware of what you're getting into. That being said, it's been a while since I've felt so accomplished upon finishing a book. 


In case you didn't know, Dietrich Bonhoeffer is an historical figure from the WWII era. He was a German, a pastor, a theologian, and, ultimately, a martyr, killed for his role in the plot to assassinate Hitler. Though I'd heard of the man himself and knew about him from my religion classes in college, I soon realized I didn't really know much at all. 


I expected this book to be about the man, Bonhoeffer. And it was, for the most part. But what I loved about this book--what, in a word, surprised me the most--was that it wasn't just about this one person. Bonhoeffer taught me about Germany and showed the rise of Hilter through the eyes of the German people. It was truly fascinating. For one thing, I didn't know that many of the top German officials didn't like Hitler, that it was actually the men who got close enough to see the real Fuhrer who hatched a plot to bring him down. 

Germans in general have a bad rap, but the real story is more complicated. It involves feelings of humiliation and anger over the treatment of their beloved country after WWI and an intense patriotism for their homeland. Bonhoeffer had an uncanny, almost prophetic, glimpse of a future Germany under a man like Adolf Hitler, and he was one of the first and only to speak out against him, attempting to convince others of what he was already so sure. They eventually started listening, but it was already too late.

Another thing I loved about this book is that it was beautifully written. The language, the style, and the word choices all came together, and even when I was tired and felt a bit bogged down by the amount of material contained in each paragraph, I still loved reading it because of how it was written. 

I couldn't help but think about the hours upon painstaking hours it must have taken Eric Metaxas to compile this information. I appreciated that he not only wrote about Bonhoeffer, but he included snippets of Bonhoeffer's sermons, parts of letters written both to and from Bonhoeffer, and quotes from those who knew him personally, such as his twin sister, Sabine, or his fiance, Maria.

(This same style was used in the last book I read, Unbroken, which I also greatly enjoyed and reviewed in this post. Apparently I've gotten myself on a WWII kick.)

I found myself wondering what it would have been like if Bonhoeffer had survived. (Don't worry, this isn't a spoiler. The author mentions his death in the prologue. And also, hello, it says martyr on the cover.) What would this man have thought of the sermons being preached in 2011? What would it have been like to hear him preach? I honestly don't know, but the beauty of the thing (as least for me as an editor) is how much I cared about Bonhoeffer, enough to think about him as a real person and wonder what it would be like if he stood in front of me.

Earlier in this post, I said that after I closed the final pages, I felt accomplished. This is in part due to the size (almost 550 pages), but also because this was not a book I expected to like. Yet when I finished and started thinking about what I wanted to write in my review, I realized that this book, cheesy as it may sound, enriched my life. I learned about a period of time that's been widely discussed and written about, but this time I felt as though I was on the inside, viewing it not from across an ocean but from the same room. 

In closing, it seems fitting that I copy a few quotes from the book itself. I hope you enjoy, and maybe if you have a month or two, pick up a copy of Bonhoeffer. It's not a quick read, and it most likely won't make you gasp or burst into laughter, but I promise you won't be sorry you did.

[383] "Yet the Lord makes no mistakes. Whomever God calls home is someone God has loved." (Bonhoeffer, in a letter referencing the death of a few close friends)

 [446] "'Who stands fast?' he asked. 'Only the man whose final standard is not his reason, his principles, his conscience, his freedom, or his virtue, but who is ready to sacrifice all this when he is called to obedient and responsible action in faith and in exclusive allegiance to God--the responsible man, who tries to make his whole life and answer to the question and call of God.'"

[473] "It will be with me for a long time now--the memory of having the four people who are nearest and dearest to me with me for a brief moment...I found myself repeating over and over again, 'This is really great!' I always hesitate to use the word indescribable about anything, because if you take enough trouble to make a thing clear, I think there is very little that is really 'indescribable'--but at the moment that is just what this morning seems to me."

(I loved this passage not for it's theological wisdom but because it shows a bit of his humor and also his literary mind.)

And finally, part of a sermon he preached while a pastor in London

[531] "Whether we are young or old makes no difference. What are twenty or thirty or fifty years in the sight of God? And which of us knows how near he or she may already be to the goal? That life only really begins when it ends here on earth, that all that is here is only the prologue before the curtain goes up--that is for young and old alike to think about. Why are we so afraid when we think about death?... Death is only dreadful for those who live in dread and fear of it. Death is not wild and terrible, if only we can be still and hold fast to God's Word. Death is not bitter, if we have not become bitter ourselves. Death is grace, the greatest gift of grace that God gives to people who believe in him...Death is hell and night and cold, if it is not transformed by our faith. But that is just what is so marvelous, that we can transform death."

And so, it sits no longer on my nightstand but back on the bookshelf, waiting for Jordan, I think

Flashback Friday--My Death-Defying Jump

On July 25, 2010, almost one year ago today, in celebration of our July birthdays (and to cross something off our bucket lists), a friend and I suited up like this: 

Climbed in this: 

And did this:

Then we pulled our chutes and slowly went down, down, down: 

That's the short version. Read the whole story about how we almost didn't get to go and then how I could hardly breathe on the way down here.

* * *

Flashing back with Lauren! Link up and visit other blogs to see more flashbacks. It's fun! Do it.

Spiders and Feminism

I'm scared of snakes. Scared out of my mind, in fact. Jokes where people throw a rubber snake on me because they think it's funny don't go over so well with me. I scream and then start crying. I refuse to even step foot inside the reptile house at the zoo.

I'm really not, however, scared of spiders. Yeah, they're creepy and have lots of legs, and they might even be poisonous. And I would never want one on me. Still, I don't freak out and run away screaming when I see one (like I would if I saw a snake).

The point of all of this is to say that two days ago I was on the phone with Jordan when I turned and saw a dangling black thing coming from the ceiling. Where it came from, I have no idea (I know it came from the ceiling, but I mean where did it come from?); but it was there, and it was slowly making it's way down, probably looking for a nice head to drop on.

"Oh my gosh!" I said.
"What?" It was Jordan, on the other end of the phone.
"It's a spider! Ihavetogokillit."
"Oka--"
I didn't even give him time to finish; I just hung up the phone and ran to get a paper towel, with which I was going to crush the life out of that spider.

It was fairly large. I mean, it wasn't huge, but it wasn't one of those little baby ones.

I stood on a chair and positioned the paper towel evenly between my hands. Since the thing was hanging, my plan was to go from the bottom. I reached out, and just as I was about to lay on the death squash, it crawled farther down the string (or made the string or something; I don't really know much about spiders). This freaked me out just a bit, because I became worried that if I missed or failed to adequately kill it on the first press, it would fall down my sleeve and run around inside my shirt. Then what would I do? Standing on my chair, I hesitated, staring at the spider up close, daring it to move again.

Finally, I decided this was stupid and I should stop playing the eye-blinking game with a dumb spider.

Pull yourself together, I thought. Just kill it.

Then, as if I needed verbal affirmation of my fortitude, I said out loud,

"You are a strong, confident woman."

Nevermind that I was the one who said it, it was exactly what I needed to hear. So I pressed my hands together (felt a bit of a squish between my palms, if you want to know the truth) and calmly walked (okay, ran) to the bathroom so I could flush its remains down the toilet. 

I then called Jordan back but only got his voicemail. After leaving him a rather dramatic message about how I was surprised he wasn't waiting by the phone to see if I'd made it out alive and, hey, doesn't he love me anymore? I put the chair back, washed my hands, and laid down to read my book, glancing at the ceiling above me every couple of minutes just in case Spidy's friends decided they wanted revenge.

See? I'm not scared of spiders one bit.

The Aftermath

I'm glad I didn't go to Seattle. Not only because I'm glad I stayed for the funeral, but also because right around the time I would have been flying out of Chicago, my friend (whom I was going to vacation with) sent me this text: 

Plane was struck by lightning. Flight to Seattle was canceled. Not kidding. Trying to get rescheduled.

I called Justine the next day to check on her and found out that she finally made it to Seattle after a 10.5-hr layover in Chicago. And believe me, O'Hare is not the sort of place you want to be stuck for almost a dozen hours...although it does make for some interesting people watching. But how long can you really do that for before you consider selling your earrings just to get a seat on the next flight to anywhere? 

Meanwhile, I was sharing a bed with Jordan's twelve-year-old sister in this bed and breakfast in small-town Hobart, Oklahoma. 

It was actually a really cute house, and the owner fixed us some delicious sausage and cheese quiche in the morning. Then we headed off for Hollis, OK, where, to my surprise, it got even more small-town Oklahoma. (Jordan says Hobart, a town of 3,600 people, is a "bustling metropolis" compared to Hollis, a town of just over 2,000.) 

That's where Jordan's grandparents grew up and met, and that's where both sets of maternal great-grandparents are buried. 

It was a long, emotionally draining day, but I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't love being introduced as "Jordan's fiance" to everyone we saw. No sarcasm. I really did love it. It's fun being a step up from girlfriend. I'm officially legit. And meeting all his family and friends and seeing the love for his grandpa and grandma was something I would have hated to miss.

Here's us looking stellar, as always.

Jordan wrangled a pair of his grandpa's cowboy boots and a hat and wore them all weekend. Even though I'd never seen him in either before, they don't look half bad. (I'll have to take a picture and post it.)


We arrived back late Saturday night, and I spent Sunday and Monday cleaning up what I could of our new apartment. My brothers, sister, and parents are coming this weekend to move the rest of my stuff in so the apartment won't look like this anymore: 

 

I'm trying to be nice and leave space for when Jordan eventually moves in after we get married, but it's hard! I have a lot of stuff, and it seems to have multiplied since putting it in storage. It's all threatening to spill everywhere, but hopefully I can hold it together for a few more months. Sixty-six days, to be exact. Yeah, it's that close.