tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76649849680871327552024-03-13T21:51:16.690-05:00Job's Impetuous UnderstandingCan you solve the mysteries of God? Can you discover everything about the Almighty? Such knowledge is higher than the heavens— and who are you? It is deeper than the underworld— what do you know? It is broader than the earth and wider than the sea.
Job 11: 7-9ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-81044571442090794212011-05-12T11:04:00.000-05:002011-05-15T20:55:54.470-05:00Questions About Angels --Billy Collins<div style="text-align: center;">She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful</div><div style="text-align: center;">eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over</div><div style="text-align: center;">to glance at his watch because she has been dancing</div><div style="text-align: center;">forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiId5k8e6DEwFq9lcmryjudV1JjzrCespzxMRCkfVwvHy_S6xEnOlv5Z1T2tUbGxH5JujAgcriCRbNUQso863yhQrh5YwBTeT_ERnbuSrGYVnal_JLnGIxlArbKpoW76UAdde92tyQOA9s/s1600/SailingAlone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiId5k8e6DEwFq9lcmryjudV1JjzrCespzxMRCkfVwvHy_S6xEnOlv5Z1T2tUbGxH5JujAgcriCRbNUQso863yhQrh5YwBTeT_ERnbuSrGYVnal_JLnGIxlArbKpoW76UAdde92tyQOA9s/s320/SailingAlone.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-22656998519200055302011-05-11T10:15:00.000-05:002011-05-11T10:15:23.044-05:00College graduation: part oneI've got some Madeleine Peyroux on Pandora and it's quite lovely. Today and everyday I suppose. <br />
<br />
Today is grey. As it should be in April and at the end of this life era. I graduate from college in two days. I'm a college graduate. Almost. <br />
<br />
I planned to write this many-party saga on this topic because I really do have a lot to say and words don't come as easily anymore. And perhaps I will if life allows because this graduation from what I've known to what is unknown is something I am having a strong reaction to. A surprising reaction at that. <br />
<br />
I've been in school for 17 of my 21 years. And the four before my elementary career are hazy at that. I'm pretty good at memorizing things. I attribute that to my years in AWANA memorizing Bible verses. I never really did catch on to reading essays and text books and I've gotten by well at bs-ing my way through essays. My process of elimination has bid me well in multiple choice situations and I can tell the difference between T and F ok. <br />
<br />
During my first year of college I was extremely overwhelmed with the phenomenon of a syllabus. With the knowledge of everything that had to be done during the semester, I felt I had to continually work until the work was done. That soon passed. And procrastination became a problem soon after. Studying for tests the hour before, writing papers the night before and handing them in without any editing. <br />
<br />
I had high school down to a T. I was one of those kids who actually liked high school. College was a shocker at first but finally after about 3 years I was feeling comfortable in my own skin. I found a good rhythm. <div><br />
College has been really, really great. And I'll expand on that at a later date. This year has been quite grandiose - engaged, got a husband, bought a house, got a real job, graduated, moved. I'm ready for all of that to start. <br />
<br />
Being graduated and ending (not permanently though) my school-going career means a few things. One of those: Graduation means I can read again. <br />
<br />
I read a lot in college. Things that I normally wouldn't pick up on my own like "The Sociology of Housework" and philosophical writings on oppression of genders. But now I can read again without feeling guilty (like I need to be doing homework or writing an article for the paper.) I can read books form my guilty pleasure authors Candace Bushnell and Lauren Weisberger who give me my fix of NYC. I can start on my summer reading list I accumulated a few months ago from an hour spent at Barnes and Noble. I can pick at the New Rivers Press books of poetry and short stories. <br />
<br />
Graduation also means settling in. I can get the feel for a real job. I can have all my things at home in Washburn, instead of split between Fargo and never fully unpacking my suitcase. I can just be Scott's wife. We can think family. <br />
<br />
Graduation means being a grown-up. And the big 'ol word that entails. Lovely, I'm sure. Up and down, swirly sometimes I'm also sure. <br />
<br />
College opened up a lot of new worlds. And I'll write my appreciation to MSUM later. But I remember just being plain excited for life and everything I could be and do and become. And now that that bridge is done being crossed, I'm so excited to put all of that excitement into action.</div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-37959325388960588982011-04-03T18:54:00.000-05:002011-04-03T18:54:03.635-05:00Sultry Wife<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Its this beautifully dreary day. Wonderful, really. Our home is giving shelter as the North blows its spring rain hard. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Adele is on, a nice way to feel instant sultry. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Sultry, an attractiveness of a woman that suggests a passionate nature. Maybe. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The last sip of tea is cold. And this strange flock of black birds are flying unjointly in the back yard. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I want to stay here forever. I want to be his wife and be allowed to direct all my love and energies to that man. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Time to learn to cherish each other. </i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I miss him, my husband. Leaving this morning, I miss him here with me. This house is so quiet. But please don't take this to mean anything more than the rantings of a <i>sultry </i>wife. Passionate for a man she has learned to love in such an unusual way, as all lovers think their love shines brightest. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Last night I helped, as in I watched and handed him a screw driver when he needed it, as Scott fixed his pickup. And even though it was 11:30 p.m. when he was done and he had to leave for work at 4:30 in the morning, he came in and helped me measure and level to put my shelf up in the kitchen. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Whenever he leaves for work (and he leaves for 10 to, now, 30 days at a time) I get in this sad, depressed place. I know that once the hustle of the week begins tomorrow, my sadness will subside, today is trying. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I have always prided myself on how ok I am to be alone. And it still is something I am happy to say I am. And maybe the past years that I learned that trait, it was working me and callusing me into being prepared for and be sustained during the times my husband would be gone from home. I love how God provides for our lives in such a long run, big picture. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Dear Jesus, I cannot begin or end my thankfulness to You for Scott. I am truly no deserving. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">-e.kingston</div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-26603595473326908092011-01-19T17:09:00.002-06:002011-01-19T17:11:58.572-06:00Quiet.<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Quiet: noun, absence of noise or bustle; silence; calm, verb, make or become silent, calm or still. New Oxford American Dictionary</span></span></i></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Its snow globe snowing. You know, tiny white snow flake balls floating straight down, in no hurry. I haven't noticed in a while. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I used to spend a lot of time in coffee shops when I was a freshman in college. Mainly because I hated being in the dorms and always on campus. So I'd leave and spend hours in various coffee houses doing homework to the sound of whatever music I happened to be in the mood for. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I stopped doing that when I moved into my apartment. Suddenly making coffee at home was a great way to save the little money I had. But I lost something along the way. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Quiet solitude does something to a human soul. Pop culture has made us believe that college is this big hype of being busy and studying and parties and this big group of friends. You're doing college wrong if you don't have something going on every night of the week. If you don't stay at school over the weekend you're some kind of weirdo who goes home to mama too much. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We are a social species. We need human contact. We were made to love and be loved. But we don't have to love everyone. The internet and the Facebook generation have learned to say "I love you" to anyone who bids you a nice, kooshy compliment. We are loosing something. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I'm comfortable with who I am. I don't need approval from everyone anymore. I'm going to piss people off sometimes. And my college experience was spent meeting a few good friends and learning to appreciate the ones I already had. I spent a lot of time alone - I lived alone, I did homework alone, I'd even go to the occasional movie alone. I'm the freaky girl, right? Maybe. But solitude has formed me, quietness has left me to discover parts that are well-hidden. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">And those times when I went home instead of staying to "hang out" with the random acquaintances of the week, it ended up allowing me to spend all the time I possibly could with my dad. Regret? Absolutely not. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I never would have considered myself busy because I know people who have a lot less free time than I. But here I am, sitting in this familiar old friend of a coffee shop and I'm remembering what it is like to be </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">excited.</span></span></i></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Now, I'm the furthest from pessimistic as you can get, but I've somehow missed this feeling of excitement for life, for tomorrow, for the floating snow flakes. And its because I haven't been quiet by myself for so long. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Facebook is great and fantastic but you're never really </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">alone.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> We are constantly telling everyone where we are and what we're doing and reading that Jill "made a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and is watching Jersey Shore." Facebook is never silent. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I know life gets busy. And I know TV and the internet seem like great ways to fill the void in the time between work and sleep but what if the silence is the difference? The difference between holding onto that grudge to realizing how trivial is in the bigger picture. The difference between having a crappy day to seeing that when you throw it all together, it really wasn't </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">that </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">bad. The difference between the mundane and the joyous. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">So take time to sit and just listen. Listen to whatever sounds may fill your ears. Listen to your kids playing in the living room, to your husband coming in from outside, to the refrigerator hum. Be quiet. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Quiet down before God, be prayerful before him. Don't bother with those who climb the ladder, who elbow their way to the top. Psalm 37.7 The Message.</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-21910343364517475402010-11-11T14:43:00.001-06:002010-11-11T14:45:13.992-06:00If you asked me where I live...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">if you ask me where i live</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">i live right here</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> on the land my father worked</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and loved</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and showed to me</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">with such enthusiasm</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the land that eventually held him as he left</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the land that holds him now that he </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">has </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">left</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">i live right here</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">where we girls were taught</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to shoot better than the boys</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">where the sky held us</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">down to the earth,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the ground had no control</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">i lived right there</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">where i could believe in</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">people and marriage and the grocers</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the doors remained unlocked, we trusted</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">but home left</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in a sudden rush to get out the door,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and slam</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">dust in my face, my eyes</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in an affair, it left.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">it left in i a car accident, at a funeral.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and so im left now roaming, homeless</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">leaching and loving on anyone with a promise.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(this was an assignment in my poetry class. written 090810)</span></span></div></span>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-28496985156805971942010-07-19T16:38:00.000-05:002010-07-19T16:39:54.229-05:00Keep it to yourself.<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i>Human: (adjective) mortal, flesh and blood; fallible, weak, frail, imperfect, vulnerable, susceptible, erring, error-prone; physical, bodily, fleshy. -New Oxford American Dictionary</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You could have kept that to yourself," I was told. Don't bother anyone. Know your boundaries and stay in them. Don't divulge too much of yourself because too deep gets too uncomfortable too fast. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It seems these phrases are the code I've learned to live by; don't tell too much of yourself because people simply do not care. So as a little girl I learned such things through interpersonal relationships. I learned to read people, watch their body language, know when to stop. Know when the story gets dull, the anecdote runs dry, interest lost. It's easier, usually, to simply say nothing at all. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But we have a lot to say. We have opinions, desires. We've been taught to <i>express, </i>but to do so neatly. Use your imagination and color beautiful pictures, but stay in the lines. Write your story, please tell it to us in your own words, but you must structure your sentences correctly, punctuate. Sing your song, but stay on key, don't cuss. Tell us about your loss, but keep it light. Telling us to give the beautiful parts and keep the mess, no one wants to deal with that. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Well sometimes I just can't use comas and sometimes I don't finish my sentences, I hate capitalization and a swear word is sometimes needed. And sometimes I sing off key when I'm worshiping because I know Jesus doesn't care if I'm flat. The rules just need to be broken now and again and we need to be free.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Some of the best songs sing about sex and the heart-wrenching heartache of loss and neglect and pain. And they move us. They move us because they hit us somewhere inside in a place that was shut off because no one wanted to hear about it. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We are fallible and week, vulnerable. We need to talk about our losses so that we can make them real and understandable and not so scary anymore. We need to discuss our loves in life so we can appreciate them and indulge ourselves in them. We need to be vulnerable with each other so we can stop fearing what is in ourselves. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">This past semester I was scraping for relevant credits and ended up finding a class that counted as one of my generals that had 1 out of the 80 seats open. It just so happened to be a class called "Issues of Death and Grief." I took the remaining open seat. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">For those of you who don't personally know me, my dad, Jon Anderson, - my favorite person in the world - died in December in a vehicle accident. In January the class began. And some days I sat in tears, holding back sobs as we talked about the funeral business and cremation. Some days I would get so mad because of a naive comment from someone who had obviously not experienced loss. But I sat through the uncomfortableness and I discussed my feelings with the large group and at the end death was a few degrees less scary than it was before.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So what I'm trying to say is that there are things in our lives that are hard and taboo and scary and unaccepted by those around us. And our family and friends can be wonderful comforters and listeners and understanders but a lot of the time they also aren't.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So if you draw or take photos or create as a form of expression, get an account at www.deviantart.com and share your abilities with other people like you. If you have a secret you need to get out of you but you can't tell anyone else, send it to Post Secret (www.postsecret.com). Writer? Find a blog site and let it fly. However you dot it, get it out into the open. Lay it on the table and dissect it and discuss it and try to wrap your hands and heart around it. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Lucida Grande'"><b>"Sometimes the only honest, healthy, human thing to possibly do is to shout your question and shake your fist and rage against the heavens and demand an explanation. But the wisdom, the kind we find here with Job - the kind that endures, the kind that sustains a person through suffering - that kind of wisdom knows when to speak and when to be silent. Because your story is NOT over. The last word has NOT been spoken. And there may be way more going on here than any of us realize. So may you be released from always having to know why everything happens the way that it does. May this freedom open you up to all sorts of new perspectives. And may you have the wisdom to know when to say, "I spoke once, but now I will say no more." </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Lucida Grande'"><b>-Nooma's "Whirlwind," (talking about the Bible story of Job) by Rob Bell.</b></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-76553618800522298442010-06-14T20:00:00.002-05:002010-06-14T20:05:28.594-05:00Pivotal.<div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were all started somewhere. And I don't mean the birds and the bees or anything with such concrete and structural attributes. I mean the pivotal points in our pasts that we can sift out from the rest as the times we realized a little further of who, exactly, we are. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The day a father pats his young son on the back after he properly hooks the tractor up to the rake; he knew then that a farmer he would become. The stay in the hospital when the nurse said just the right words to the scared little girl who had just had her tonsils out; she realized that she could help others like that, too. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am a writer. Obvious, huh? But I mean more than just a reporter or a journalist or a hobby poet. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am a writer. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When life treats me well and I am joyous for the life God has given me, I write about it. When He takes things away from me and shakes up my world, I write. My mind is always reeling and observing and most of the time words get jumbled up and don't come out of my mouth right, but you give me a pen and any surface to write on then I will give you a picture of what my thoughts look like. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The other day I found myself in a situation in which affirmation flowed like rain and I knew I was doing the right thing, going down the right path in my life. I was seeing Jewel (country/folk singer) in concert at the Fargo Theater. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now her and I have a little history; her CD was the first one I ever had, I checked out her book of poetry so much from the library in high school that Mrs. Anderson gave it to me for graduation, I have DVDs of her concerts, all her albums and books and I even read her blog and follow her on Facbeook. No, I'm not obsessed, I just admire her to no end. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So Jewel has been a source of inspiration, formation and admiration since the beginning; my own writings have been molded from hers. And I was sitting in the theater the other night, watching this woman who molded me without any knowledge of it, listening to her words that have become so familiar. I just stared at her. In that moment, everything was promised to be OK. I knew that a writer was the only thing I could be. I knew that these stormy times would pass me and a new normality would set in someday soon. I knew that where I was and what I was doing was exactly what was supposed to be. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; color: #333233"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've learned that times like this are few and far in between and to just sit back and reel them in when they are presented. And thats just what I did. I put my pen and paper down, shut my camera off and just watched in awe of this women who so gracefully kept true to herself and to me for so many years and let her tell me that all is in place. Just as it should be.</span></span> </p></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ti9szklC4kkUvBgs_AdtN1p4XReh9_oLgYVehnKFZQPWRUrE3rxSXT4V7yHdg7APQMz6JVi1nTWoo54hUjZsaKdqp3LyAf1Byr8DH2jGDFz5QqfSHClFAXTCqA0S3PxDZp2mQuHL4N4/s1600/IMG_0543.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ti9szklC4kkUvBgs_AdtN1p4XReh9_oLgYVehnKFZQPWRUrE3rxSXT4V7yHdg7APQMz6JVi1nTWoo54hUjZsaKdqp3LyAf1Byr8DH2jGDFz5QqfSHClFAXTCqA0S3PxDZp2mQuHL4N4/s400/IMG_0543.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482799120080372002" /></a><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; color: rgb(51, 50, 51); "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><b>"Did it ever occur to you that I'm behind all this? Long, long ago I drew up the plans, and now I've gone into action…" said Jesus. 2 Kings 19:25a</b></span></i></p>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-68107614341537950732010-06-08T08:33:00.012-05:002010-06-08T09:16:16.476-05:00After a long pause...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rHdNKFHzXno313XqrdGO9fU7mjc8hscOTeNCAUxtsB5jxvpg4_R3rc3X7yP0XQ0HtJcZuuEL5by8W2NfxmqTJHRteNt-PouFtv6lQtOA9bjhd2V5LhyzkKc8PMXo9oQSfcIcwvZBWMM/s1600/IMG_0407.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_rHdNKFHzXno313XqrdGO9fU7mjc8hscOTeNCAUxtsB5jxvpg4_R3rc3X7yP0XQ0HtJcZuuEL5by8W2NfxmqTJHRteNt-PouFtv6lQtOA9bjhd2V5LhyzkKc8PMXo9oQSfcIcwvZBWMM/s400/IMG_0407.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480402122203010674" /></a><br /><div>So it's been a while. I haven't done much writing, as little has moved me. Which is strange because I feel <i>so </i>much love. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the past months, so much has changed. And I fear (?) I am among those things. Not all of me, of course, but parts. Like a that bridge I've been trying to gap as to what my future will even remotely resemble has finally been gapped. Or at least I have the resources to allow myself to see across that vast ocean. It is so sweet. I pray it's more than an illusion. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so this is what I've always wanted. And this is it. So I just breathe now. Breathe in and out and over and over again, trying to find the big picture among all these slides piecing together. Even if one has a tear, the show will go on and end happy or sad as all movies do. And my role in it all will forever be out there int he universe for those to call on and say, "Remember her... and them... and he?"</div><div><br /></div><div>So now I will walk to the bathroom and put on my makeup as if I were born to. And I will go about my day as I usually do; calm, still on the outside. Composed. While the rivers run deep in my heart, pulling to shore wantings and longings and photos of your face.</div><div><br /></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-60230157233345588082010-04-13T16:06:00.002-05:002010-04-13T16:08:32.756-05:00Crocuses.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHsF38vIv-IWyaDdjAYbz3ewRHHMU_mNbjNgOwE480iyowtauuUFAcRBCFpzL_W9Sw4B3jQPtp4idKRdMY6Oc_SzTr7j_PZ6pE2Ag5tRpooNPL9DQsSSUwmkhURwANyzlx4-FyB6UiOs/s1600/CROCUS.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHsF38vIv-IWyaDdjAYbz3ewRHHMU_mNbjNgOwE480iyowtauuUFAcRBCFpzL_W9Sw4B3jQPtp4idKRdMY6Oc_SzTr7j_PZ6pE2Ag5tRpooNPL9DQsSSUwmkhURwANyzlx4-FyB6UiOs/s400/CROCUS.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459731854608926818" /></a><br />The last time I was home, Scott offered to hook the cattle trailer up to his truck and load up my horse Jack and take him out to my family farm. I loved the idea, so we got it all ready and I rode Jack around the pastures that we own. <br /><br />Mom never came out and worked cattle with us or drove the fields and pastures with us; it was always dad, Lindsay and I. Those hills and those fences are dad, they are what I used to be. <br /><br />Every spring, crocuses bloom. They are the first flowers to come up, they are up before the tulips can think about their beautiful bloom. Dad, Lindsay and I always picked them. Ever since I was little, every year we’d see them blooming from the road and go pick a bunch for mom. When we didn’t have a bucket with us, we’d fill dad’s breast pocket of his coat with the flowers. He would take off his gloves and we’d have crocus bouquets in dad’s dirty, oily gloves. <br /><br />When I was out riding Jack, I noticed the dainty purple flowers. It was spring. And dad wasn’t here. It wasn’t really a sad feeling. It was a feeling that I can pinpoint as thankfulness. I am so thankful that even though throughout life’s raging waves and spins and flips, there is always going to be constants. The sun is always going to rise to chase out the dawn. The moon will always pull and mold the ocean tides. Tomorrow will come, no matter how long the night seems. Crocuses will always bloom in the spring. <br /><br />We will bury dad soon. Most of him will go in the cemetery above his own dad’s grave, but I am going to take part of him for myself and place him on “my hill.” The hill he always posted me for deer hunting, the hill where he picked a tiny purple prairie flower and gave it to me saying, “I guess I’ll have to buy you flowers from now on.” Crocuses bloom there. I hope one day they will bloom in top of him. I think it will feel like home then.ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-56428577599823167712010-04-01T09:29:00.011-05:002010-04-15T12:06:49.193-05:00"Each man who dares to dream..."<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yesterday I found myself on Harry Chapin's Website. A site that gives me one of those I-haven't-been-home-in-a-while-but-oh-Lord-I-have-returned kind of feelings. Do you know what I mean? Like you've been on vacation all your life and you finally get to come home to your own bed. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From the site, I was lead to YouTube to listen to that man's stories singing to me through my headphones in a stuffy campus computer lab.</span><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 269px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455179823965005122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hqr5A89NbTgVKittZ6Ohhda27ILAcmvNc0ew5WUrc_f7eENZjXDWPhBv16x3N-dlYlKENK43prmHBZwl90FarfzXr_bcCvC8GEMsC8Ekzloz1ZHO_cQBaHDMD02cdYuGE1QB0N0p83s/s400/HarryChapinNormanre.jpg" /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I've never met this man. I never saw one of his concerts or listened to him from a standing-room-only, sold-out concert. I didn't grow up when his songs were on the radio or go to the store when one of his CD's first came out. But there is no one else who can make me remember how things used to be like he can. No one else can remind me of dad better than this man and his carefully molded words. </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Month 4 is coming around very soon. And through these months, I have learned ways that I can feel ok about everything that has become of my life.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yesterday I was reminded of how much Harry resembles so much of dad. Maybe they formed each other in ways I'll never know. Dad had a way of taking everyday things and making them into this beautiful kind of scene - he romanticized things. Like on Sunday mornings when he would come up from his shower just before we were to leave, he'd say "Wow, Etta, you look so nice." Harry did the same thing in songs like "Dancin' Boy" and "Corey's Coming."</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />"Folk singer Harry Chapin died in a bizarre 1981 accident on New York's Long Island Expressway," Google let me know. I guess they weren't much different in their death, either. Just change the year and Long Island Expressway to North Dakota's Highway 46.<br /><br />As I've been writing this, Harry's "What Made America Famous" has been playing on repeat: </span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff6600;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"</span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff6600;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We have the choice to make each man who dares to dream reaching out his hand a prophet or just a crazy God damned dreamer of a fool, yes a God damned fool."</span></b></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff6600;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And I now find myself wishing so badly that I could have met this man, perhaps become his wife in some different kind of life, shared his on-fire-passion for those stories he tells so well. But then I know that how things are now is how they are supposed to be. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Every part of it. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From my heart-ful love for Harry to my heart-heavy want for those Sunday morning compliments just once more. </span><br /><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><!--EndFragment-->ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-14994199695881883012010-03-09T10:32:00.011-06:002010-04-15T11:56:04.612-05:00Thanks to you MSUM.<div style="text-align: left;">I never tire of the fact that life never allows us to go bored for too long. We are never left to think that our days are mundane. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>This morning after my first class I was walking in the hallway to get a Diet Coke. As I passed the mass comm lounge the chair of the department was walking into his office. He saw me and stopped. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>"I'm sorry about your dad," he said.</b> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>He wished me well in getting to England someday and thanked me for helping out with tutoring a student (I was originally going to be in England this semester; I'm helping a Japanese student out with some reporting.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I'm from Gackle. College was a very impersonal jolt into reality. No one knew me or really cared to know me when I first got here. Now that I am older I have either become even more comfortable with who I am or I have just relaxed and found my own way. I now say "hi" to people in the halls and my professors have become more human. </div><div><br /></div><div>But to be able to walk down the hall of a college building and have a professor stop me and talk to me about this personal thing is this amazing blessing. And I'm not so sure that one could get that anywhere else. </div><div><br /></div><div>I always struggled with where I was supposed to go to college. I always assumed NDSU was where I'd be. But throughout it all, MSUM was the only choice that sat right with me. The support I've felt here and the friends I've made - Jackie, my love; my professors - Deneen and Camila and all the others that have been concerned for me; I simply couldn't ask for anything else.</div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NdP52XNwux77ey85uLpBkhuSdoutkCc21Qo0Iz7V0rDiUbOJ5TrJtcwaBbH9_IjB82ShZKjbyVbgDUq1HmgLEejEvyFHZtzatGTakIDII6sxuIn6Qkyfe1ZA6Rxqqjznnd9O2QpooPY/s400/4229699.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446679113732222770" /><div><br /></div><div>So I guess this is a <b>thank you</b> to everyone here. The personal, familiar, homey feeling that has become Flora Frick and this mass comm lounge. It's almost as familiar as the halls of Gackle-Streeter high school became.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I've said before, I'll say again:</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I am <i>so </i>Blessed. </span></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Here is a song for you today: </div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Xz3R6icUTU</div><div>Shadow on the Wall - Brandi Carlile</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYgZMjW0TTE</div><div>Humble Me - Norah Jones</div><div><br /></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-3454543451729526402010-03-09T09:08:00.011-06:002010-03-24T12:30:34.440-05:00They've got the hardships too.<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfmbTkcrejJFPjSOcuI0oQAwJyRpRGM0dMdUsWLmQtQzQkaLq32WDIbVIix4QqLBKUN1_yT8RE8CfNUcxDnNlDWK9lCWyT9ERLtWBfGSk5SeyzMXRh0ncj6OJYpGQpqnhuSpwIm7ooE8/s1600/beauty.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452251717272780642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfmbTkcrejJFPjSOcuI0oQAwJyRpRGM0dMdUsWLmQtQzQkaLq32WDIbVIix4QqLBKUN1_yT8RE8CfNUcxDnNlDWK9lCWyT9ERLtWBfGSk5SeyzMXRh0ncj6OJYpGQpqnhuSpwIm7ooE8/s400/beauty.jpg" /></a> <span style="color:#006600;">“our disappointed hearts will heal.”</span><br /></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(photo from Google)<br /></span>We come from all of this innocence. We are born with an abundance of it. And then we grow up and learn that, hey, maybe princesses don't always live happily ever after. We see one day that our parents are <strong><em>human beings </em></strong>and are less than perfect in a beautiful kind of way. We learn that the things we said we'd <em>never </em>do when we were 5, we end up doing when we are in our teens - things like kissing boys and moving away from home and perhaps learning to love someone. We find that sometimes people just want to use us. And that people who shouldn't disappoint us do. And that one day you'll get that phone call that you never wanted about something you never could imagine.<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" align="left">Life seems to be this inevitable journey from illusionment to full blown disillusionment. And we are expected or we strive to keep a child-like faith and love the butterflies in the spring and the first flakes of wintry snow. </p><div align="left">There isn't a purpose to most of my rantings. I lose track quickly and words often fail me. But do you understand where I'm coming from, perhaps, where I'm going?</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">It's just one big contradiction. We need to grow up to become less naive but keep our spirits young and youthful. We need to realize that people are sinful human beings who will stab, kill and disappoint but to never loose our trust in humanity. We need to treat everyone fairly but still know that each of us has dark secrets that are seemingly unforgivable. We need to have balance and live in harmony and share houses with spouses and children and be a wife and a mom and a good woman to a good man but still keep our individuality and passions we had in our 20's. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Contradiction and ambivalence. But its what keeps it all fresh and hard and challenging. We can never be ok because there is always something that could be changed and made new and made better than before.<br /></div><div align="left"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" align="left"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><div align="left"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" align="left">God has saved us and called us to a holy life. NOT because of anything we have done but because of HIS OWN PURPOSE AND GRACE. this grace was given us in Christ Jesus before the beginning of time. --2 Timothy 1:9</p><!--EndFragment-->ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-77599257220407995992010-03-03T21:12:00.005-06:002010-03-03T21:44:05.828-06:00Month 3.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Yet again, I am amazed by the way things change.<div><br /></div><div>Just how quickly we can believe and un-believe and let our minds run away and come back. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I am thankful for it all. I'm not guessing; I am thankful. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful for the way we can can forgive. The way we can understand things that should probably never be understood. That we can fathom the unfathomable.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CSx-2zlIs9tGPJMTtII2J1QGeY23uLo5UwfOaW-ERNbruZHFoGHne0Bj5i_hfnFBcL2kOzS12pfrJmV9AzSwtfvmqiWL9f6MCLqhG4GR8fnzLbVvO0SuGHWHptDeogfx7I9bg8Hrwtk/s320/111111R11716A+-+Copy.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I mean just look at that picture. Really look at it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Dad has been gone for 3 months. Today I was talking to my mom and we both agree - time seems to both have absolutely flown by and stood still. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It seems like my whole life has been lived without my dad and that I talked to him yesterday. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's the contradiction that I love so much. We neither need to choose nor live in apathy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Dad, I love you so much. And I wish you could see my new nose ring and how burnt I got tanning the other day. You would think it ridiculous, but never say it out loud. I wish you could wake Lindsay up tomorrow morning and kiss her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">God spoke and this is my life now. And it's a beautiful, scary thing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>I have been <i>so</i> blessed. </b></span></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-85358604339554630772010-03-02T11:05:00.006-06:002010-03-02T11:29:31.622-06:00Forget.<div style="text-align: left;">Again, I drove back to Fargo, leaving at 6 a.m. Because of various events and conversations thatwill remain unwritten for the simple fact that I just can't bring myself to type it out, I got little sleep this weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div>With a cloudy, thought-filled, aching head, I made it - slowly enough - to town with help from numerous cups of coffee, Augustana and an ever-moving train of thought and question. </div><div><br /></div><div>In one weekend, so much was said and realized - things that remained silent because they were a little too scary to ever say aloud.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now they are out there, forever in the universe. And they can't be taken back. <b>E<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>ver.</b> The only hope of mercy is that lovely, beautiful forgetfullness thing we do so well.</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I guess forgetting is necessary to go on, to continue on the same road you had been on. Forget what hurt you so you can remember all the things that make your heart so red-full of love. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll love you.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsC9jzWq-SJl7yDr08VkHSoMTzf3WWvuTtlYpfl8bkxd6Yj_CB5airYcvjLVyq9P1zW8NEekVTjtT97VM0C-AzFG0qZwlIVuDLsbQzhw2SHkwdQFtz1XWgVrvT3ZOt-AHZsOSxc2oIjv4/s320/forget.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">picture from PostSecret.com</span></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-71807970967367425522010-03-01T18:52:00.004-06:002010-03-01T19:09:24.534-06:00There's pigeons nesting on our saints.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFBFCJMIvXql1qEztqvqj1bZHEG6vMLv5TmhrkWST_bbmbTgEhCoxgdI32kzteJHGFwQY9PZ1-xlGmy4rtpAJ0GtAJWa7ek8G5GXq6QBmGMlFBYhKZ1aVmznWks7PiaxN6eM5hLvF-Yw/s1600-h/heart.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFBFCJMIvXql1qEztqvqj1bZHEG6vMLv5TmhrkWST_bbmbTgEhCoxgdI32kzteJHGFwQY9PZ1-xlGmy4rtpAJ0GtAJWa7ek8G5GXq6QBmGMlFBYhKZ1aVmznWks7PiaxN6eM5hLvF-Yw/s320/heart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443836068133769122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I'm having one of those nights, or weekends to be more accurate, where I'm so full of absolutely everything.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;">just help me, i'm running out of things to say</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />If I speak the truth, it will become real and there is just so many things that don't need to be that way... just yet. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go from here.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;">just tell me, will he love me anyway?</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />I want to love and indulge and live simply. <span style="font-weight: bold;">SIMPLE.<br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;">lately i feel i'd rather not believe love's blind</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Please, just love. Nothing else.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-57138916883236184742010-02-24T09:37:00.006-06:002010-02-24T09:50:28.706-06:00Morning, I have missed you.It's been so long since I have had a morning to myself. I have missed my little basement apartment so much and today I feel her telling me the same. Dashboard's 'Dusk and Summer' came on my iPod and writing was just the natural thing to do from there.<br /><br />All the details are promiently saturated today. The screen saver on my computer is a PostSecret saying "<span style="color:#c0c0c0;">I have found the love that makes me forget</span>." I collect secrets.<br /><br />Sitting on my counter isn't the most comfortable place to sit but it's the only place to be right now. I woke up and came right here; made coffee with my milk and sugar and and called a sleepy Scott. This is how I wish every morning would start.<br /><br />From my seat by the sink, I am eye-level to my little kitchen/hallway window. It's just perfect with the sun creeping sideways and around the snowbank that hinders most of the view - and by view I mean the white house with black-trimmed windows that doubles as "Vivian's Beauty Shop" frequented by walker-pushing grandmas.<br /><br />On the window sill, yes - I have a window sill and I love it quite possibly more than anything else in my house - are teal tinted Ball canning jars filled with coffee beans, Friendship tea and packets of rasberry ice Crystal Light.<br /><br />My black New York City frame reminds me of that gorgeous city by holding a picure of Tim and I by the NBC/ABC/CBS peakock. (I dont remember whos peakock it is.) The ring box that my 'Papa Jon & Etta Jean' ring came in quietly sits towards the front.<br /><br />The rest of the sill contain the books I have started or want to start, just begging me this morning to browse their lovely pages. My Utmost for His Highest, A Year with C.S. Lewis, The Ragamuffin Gospel (my dad's copy), The Message, Captivating, The Case for Christianity, Shadow of the Almighty, Jesus Wants to Save the Christians, Passion and Purity, Sex God and a black notebook. Just typing these out makes me want to run away and read in a small, cold costal town for a few weeks.<br /><br />After I got off the phone, I just sat here. And if I breathe, it feels all is ok. My stories for class will get written. My chemistry paper will too, someday. My family will be ok because I can pull it back together. I will make amends with my sister. Scott and I will be good. I will balance out my life again, the whirlwind will stop eventually. I'll be in Arizona with Lisa soon.<br /><br />If I just sit here, I can see the world for how it is supposed to be. Simple. I can see that all these petty things really don't matter all that much. And if I just breathe, I can get through it all. (Not by myself, of course.)<br /><br />I have missed my mornings alone. On my fridge beside the picture of me, my dad and Lindsay and the little 'I love you' note that Anna laid by my pillow one morning at the lake is a bundle of index cards. The top one reads;<br /><br />"<em>Listen to my voice in the Morning, Lord</em>. Each morning I bring my requests to you and <span style="font-size:130%;">wait patiently</span>." -Psalm 5:3<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441835435186780098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYMl5AKcXAmCa-wywq0XYOERRnfdVEo5GtuMJWUuXWkDanVymT_NSrYjhyphenhyphen-3jLo5I0XKFEweHVeow-iKve8ErIVmf1Bs4f2_lZSyuxkjPRZH6LKnGjKtJiiH0mjgtNdGOWC2NX_sk3os/s320/window.jpg" border="0" />ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-3571229300417076502010-02-23T17:50:00.008-06:002010-04-15T12:10:56.835-05:00This is my home.Although I look a little like a boy with the hair cut that I still resent my mom and dad for giving me and baby Lindsay looks somewhat like a wet cat - dad looks quite possibly the best I ever saw him. He is so proud of his girls, a smile he saved only for us.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb2AzL8wb3Dgz73v2xggasZ6z0QvhCQoW4ifc-Cx_CvWlgjqlMl8dBwCn7RXZxg_HmFUdR3wsWcJ7gLxKrSDxj28MHkG-jOi53NIaIQvHMirEvnalst5M9ztSrmQv8YW6QADVQyzP3QA/s1600-h/dad.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 257px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441590641486681570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb2AzL8wb3Dgz73v2xggasZ6z0QvhCQoW4ifc-Cx_CvWlgjqlMl8dBwCn7RXZxg_HmFUdR3wsWcJ7gLxKrSDxj28MHkG-jOi53NIaIQvHMirEvnalst5M9ztSrmQv8YW6QADVQyzP3QA/s400/dad.jpg" /></a>And that is my house how I like to remember it. How that wall looked will <i>always </i>remind me of mom. That <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Rolodex. That cord on the phone that always twisted. Mom behind the camera. <i>This picture is my home. </i>It holds everything I've ever loved with every ounce of myself. Even that terrible hair cut. </span><br /><br /><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I am </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">blessed.</span></b>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-14429953987572102962010-02-23T09:30:00.006-06:002010-02-23T10:46:21.101-06:00That beautiful calm.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGisfiCQa_1ACd6ApJHOW9iBN60pwFK1_eIQ1LmlsSLL4ig5Qj1-d2bZOtDsW6jjH-20sTbJPhOPtkgH4PNswrhyphenhyphenBp9DJgt96NMcWuFT2DvBx5Ux3pt25FU1PpxqzisqPt1Sw6DU8SO6Y/s1600-h/calm.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGisfiCQa_1ACd6ApJHOW9iBN60pwFK1_eIQ1LmlsSLL4ig5Qj1-d2bZOtDsW6jjH-20sTbJPhOPtkgH4PNswrhyphenhyphenBp9DJgt96NMcWuFT2DvBx5Ux3pt25FU1PpxqzisqPt1Sw6DU8SO6Y/s320/calm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441473146189145490" /></a><div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">I was driving to Fargo from my weekend spent doing little in Gackle this morning. At about 6:30 a.m. it was really cold and windy, the snow was drifting across the road in that eerie way that snow does, giving the illusion of a moving interstate.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Driving along, there were patches where the snow just didn’t drift. After noticing these spots, I thought that there must be some hills or snow banks that hindered the snow from swoooooshing vertically into the vehicles. But looking I found nothing of the sort. It seemed that these spots of calm </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">just happened.</span></i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Days go by in a whirlwind. We are running along through sometimes hard, iced over drifts and other times sweet little pillow drifts that “ploof” when you hit them.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But along way, when we are oh-so-tired, there comes these periods of calm. These periods that we learn to take in and just bask in their peacefulness.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On days when we feel that we are headed north along an ever-shifting east-bound lane, God presents us with this spot of calm. Calm where we aren’t expected to move or walk or even look around. We can just sit or lay or curl up in a ball and stare straight forward or close our eyes.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the midst of a snowy, drifting storm, the brief clear spots quietly pull you into stillness. For that short time, we are nourished and replenished and ready for days or months to come because we have seen this snipit of the larger picture.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We have foreseen that even though the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">right now </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">is a blurry, grey haze the immense result of everything is that it will be </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ok</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. And it will be. It will be </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ok.</span></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"There is no fear in love." 1 John 4:18</span></span></b><span style="font-size:16.0pt;font-family: Georgia;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--></div></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-22846393341506759802010-02-18T14:05:00.007-06:002010-02-18T14:16:42.774-06:00Lunch with Grandpa.This afternoon grandpa was in town. We went out to eat at the Village Inn, our usual spot to catch lunch because its simple and familiar. Lunch went as usual - how was your day? how is school? what are you doing this weekend? We talked about my and Lisa's soon spring break trip to stay with them in Arizona and about the details that go along with such a trip.<br /><br /><div></div><div>What I love most, and what always seems to happen is this: Grandpa will tell me this long, elaborate joke with all the fine-tunings and every word put in, as to not leave out a single thing. At the end, he will laugh and laugh and laugh at his own joke, as if it was the funniest thing any person had ever uttered! As I sat and listened to him, I kept thinking, "This is what I'll always, always think about when I think of grandpa." </div><div><br />His own-joke-laughing spurts will be one of those things I tell my husband about him and my kids someday and my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">grandkids</span>. Yeah, I've got a pretty awesome grandpa.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">(The picture below is my grandpa during one of grandma's fashion shows that she usually has us put on. It captures the very <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">essence</span> of grandpa :)</span></div><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 245px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439678891512256610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiatvaoi7wvaL1_bNejUeHBwHJO7gAhxyennJtf-q-rhxscjqxAA2zmQSEdtINNFabT-gAiQpM7zMPiJ6qXLEYRCQOt_VwS0al2LhmktrnE9HxW2hfOoW9ZctqdTc4vS35v8R2kLIn0X9E/s320/grmpa.jpg" /><br /><div></div>ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-6037780185816023112010-02-18T09:01:00.012-06:002010-02-18T10:52:13.486-06:00It's a beautiful, foggy Thursday morning.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8fTzVnnYm8hSYpGrlGSpdUhQ4g_5EY6vAIAsisqfQK5vdNDmEP20VN9p7l9DS9TlPkKmTESlXN-e28aR6X3BN3GIU2xR2lFvlW60SbbPT606dpJJK4EvqU7UoauP19fgV82oQBZwauI0/s1600-h/n506544855_1654926_7832679.jpg"><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8fTzVnnYm8hSYpGrlGSpdUhQ4g_5EY6vAIAsisqfQK5vdNDmEP20VN9p7l9DS9TlPkKmTESlXN-e28aR6X3BN3GIU2xR2lFvlW60SbbPT606dpJJK4EvqU7UoauP19fgV82oQBZwauI0/s320/n506544855_1654926_7832679.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439623116919776146" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now, a little fact about this girl is that I love nothing more than a slightly cool, dark, dreary morning. This Thursday morning is beautiful. It is cold, frosty and foggy. And the best part is that I get to have lunch with my grandpa at noon, go to my Death & Grieving class (more on that to come, I'm sure,) and then GO HOME. Going home seems to have become one of my favorite things to do. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As I was driving to school - freezing, seeing my breath the whole way but not out my front window - I realized that nothing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">that's</span> going on right now is </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that bad</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If God can give me this astonishing Thursday morning drive and He took the time to make it </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">just right</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, then I can get through the assignments that will be late and the grades that are just a little lower than I expected and the hours when missing my dad seems to overwhelm me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I can get through those because God has taken the time to shape me in just the right and perfect way that He wanted me to be shaped. And that even though I'm not in New York City or England right now, He will meet me and use me today in Fargo and tonight in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Gackle</span>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There is a </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">hope</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> that comes with the morning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span></b></p><blockquote style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Psalm 143:8 (The Message)</span></span></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664984968087132755.post-55732773066002079062010-02-17T19:31:00.007-06:002010-04-15T12:20:00.735-05:00Welcome to it all.I guess an introduction to this blog would be the propper way to start. To start, I can tell you that I won't post everyday, maybe weeks will go by with no word from me. I have learned that the will to write - to write beautiful, world-stopping words - comes in and out of my mind's soul in unknown patterns.<br /><br /><div></div><div>I have alot to say. And sometimes (all the time) words just don't come out of my mouth right.<br /><br /></div><div>So at a young age I found that paper and my always-faithful pen proved themselves useful in allowing myself to figure out just who I am/was/am going to be. </div><br /><div></div><div>Somedays what I have to say will be meaningless to you. Somedays this blog will make you want to punch me in the face because of my apparent stupidity. But somedays - and this is my hope - that somedays my voice will ring so true to your life and what is happening in the little, quiet places that no one else sees. That somedays you will pull a word, a phrase, a whole paragraph from my writing and let it pass over you, if only for a moment, and touch you and hold you. </div><br /><div>God bless you forever and a day.</div><div><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439397299387250242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrlwRSDCnN2lLdU16goAU6sSKrzvisrurcsq_jW2T54eOZk_imbrueFYRUmrfwET3soispLGZ1QTTtFCPuk4fxV_o1yrtRMszTNKbIr3v4yZFADKiNac3vTsIFR0SjIVNn3qK5FgOIDs/s320/DSCN4447+-+Copy.JPG" />ericahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13890490942110668423noreply@blogger.com0