In Which I am Overwhelmed by a Shirt...

So you may be wondering, "Who is Emily Rose? Which series is she in?"

It's a sensible question.

She's mine, friends. She's in the Light-Bearers Series, which is neither published nor even completed. My agent is pitching Emily's story to publishing houses, and while I am SO EXCITED that some editors have asked to read my manuscript I am also SO ANXIOUS because I can't do anything to make them take it. So I wait.

I work on the sequel to Book One. I plot and plan another project. I work not one, but two jobs. I go to church and choir rehearsal. I try to make time for a social life. I scrap and I save and I cobble together a living and I make sacrifices in order to write. I go to conferences instead of visiting friends, buying clothes, or going out very often. Because that's what you do to chase a dream. Sweat, blood, and tears, right? Oh, so many tears.

I get discouraged and disappointed.  And I get so tired.
SO. TIRED.

I tell myself that it's okay; what will be will be, and it's good that I have some distance from Book One, seeing as how I'll probably have to deal with editors passing on it. I start to wonder if maybe this book won't sell. I remind myself that this is the writer's life, the #writelife I tag on so many social media posts and photos.

And then --
Then I open a gift from my sister-in-law. I see my girl, my Emily Rose, sharing space with Frodo and Harry, and I make a sound that frightens me. I double over in tears, completely overwhelmed by emotion. Even as I am crouched crying, holding a white t-shirt in my hand, I know that my family is worried....even the Littles got quiet. All I can do is lay the shirt out so they can read it.

Mom cries, too. As do Sisters, and probably Dad, too. I am reminded that no matter how solitary the writer's path seems, I am not alone. I am reminded of how much my stories mean to me, and am given a hint of how much they may someday mean to others.

It's amazing. Sometimes the simplest things - like a white t-shirt - can hold an ocean of meaning.

Here's hoping you and yours have a wonderful day, friends. I hope that you, too, are gifted with reminders that your sacrifices are worth it.

Much love and Merry Christmas to you,

Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Let's Talk About Guilt, Baby

I've been intending to post for...oh, about 2 weeks. I've had great experiences to draw on, too. Good things are happening with my writing. I just spent a long weekend at a conference in New Orleans. I'm currently in Nashville visiting my sister and her family.

Doin' the Nashville hipster photo pose

So, so much.

I actually wrote a little something about NOLA, but couldn't shake the feeling that it was off.  Not bad, but not the right post at the right time.

But really, how cool is NOLA?  I will write about it soon.  Promise.

And then - well, then something relatively minor happened and I became afraid that I had hurt someone I love dearly. Suddenly I felt guilty. Oh, so guilty.

You know the feeling: pressure in your chest, churning in your stomach, the inability to focus on anything else for long...that horrible assurance that you are truly the worst friend/daughter/sister/HUMAN in the history of the world.

You know. Guilt.

It's a crappy feeling.

However, I've learned Guilt is like any other uncomfortable feeling: it's kind of hinged in the middle.

Guilt lets us know when we've taken a misstep. It's our alert for when we act in ways that are incongruous with who we are. It lets us know when we are being selfish, careless, self-centered -- when we are in danger of wandering far and away from our Truth.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us well.

But Guilt has a much more sinister side. It often overstays its welcome.  It can keep us down. It can whisper dark lies in our ear, keeping us away from Good. It can call over its big brother, Shame, and convince us that we are not worthy.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us poorly.

There are some who would claim I feel guilt because of my religion, my faith. They state that I have been conditioned to feel this way anytime I step outside the accepted rules of the establishment. Keep 'em down, keep 'em in line.

I don't agree. In fact, to those who say my misguided guilt is put upon me by my church, I kindly and gently call BS.

Sure, sometimes people suck, and due to suckiness will try to impose harmful rules on us. But that's a people problem, not a God problem.

You see, my God straight up said that I don't need to be kept downtrodden by Guilt.
"It is finished."

That's what He said.
"It is finished."

Hanging on the cross, enduring the worst humanity could offer, being mocked and scorned for His sacrifice.

"It is finished."

There is no need to keep opening up the door to the past. No need to pick off the scab. No need to stay in the gutter of our mistakes. We are not too dirty, too broken, too ANYTHING to move on. We deserve forgiveness. We deserve love.

It is finished.

Thank you, Jon Acuff.  And Pinterest, for the photo.

So I know that when Guilt comes to visit, bringing along any of his family members - Shame, Fear, Despair - I can say hello, hear the lesson, and then let him know he is not welcome.

Guilt can drop off the road map, but he does not get to come on the journey back to myself.

Photo from crazytraveler.com

And that is totally okay.

This Elevator Is Making Me Dizzy - OR - Adventures in Hotel Travel

This is it.  This is the day. 

This is the day of the WARRIOR DASH!!!!  Let us rejoice and be glad it's finally here.  Let us also keep our thoughts from the idea of what lies ahead and remember that we signed up for this so we will do it, gosh darnit.  Because our stomachs have recently been filled with banana, bagel, and coffee, and the butterflies that take flight when we think about the Dash don't exactly sit well with all that food.

But hey, it was a continental breakfast....I had to take advantage of it!  Even if that did mean eating more sub-par food than I actually wanted to.  It's one of my weaknesses.  I have a soft spot for a good continental breakfast, and by "a good continental breakfast" I really mean, "any continental breakfast."

Is it the packaged muffins?  Maybe it's the 2 types of cereal they offer - bran flakes or corn flakes - that have probably been in those containers with the plastic scoops for at least a week.  Or maybe it's the packets of hot cocoa.  I love hot cocoa.  And coffee that tastes like it was brewed in a gas station.  I love that stuff.  (Really...ask my friends.  I really love gas station coffee.)

And how could I pass up the opportunity to sit awkwardly with other hotel guests while we all watch ZzzzzNN - I mean CNN - against our inclination?  I suggested changing to the Disney Channel, but no one jumped on that idea, which is strange since half the people eating looked to be under the age of twelve.  I couldn't have been the only person there wishing we could catch a rerun of Wizards of Waverly Place.  But, unfortunately, the little soccer team either didn't hear me, or they just didn't care, and shortly after making my suggestion my mom and I went back upstairs. 

My mom is here!  Did I tell you that??

She felt sad for me that I had to come on this trip on my own (my co-warrior, Lara, got sick, and I do hope she is feeling better!), so my mama decided pretty last minute to come with me.  It's been a long time since I've had hours of one-on-one time with my mom, and it was pretty great!  The drive up definitely passed more quickly than if I had been on my own, and it was really great to have someone to laugh with.

Which is a good thing.  Because from the warning from the clerk about the bed ("Now, you do realize there is just one bed, right?") which was the first clue that the "queen size" bed was not actually a queen, to the crazy blinking wrench on the thermostat ("Mom, I think that means the AC can't turn off!!"), to watching a fully grown woman walk around the hotel in boxers and a t-shirt ("Isn't it strange how in a hotel people do all the things they would NEVER do at home?  Like walk around a public place in their underwear?"), to the conversation with one of the soccer moms in the elevator ("Yeah, our girls are headed to a costumed soccer tournament.  They're the Zombie Grass-Fairies."), there's been no lack of laughable things. 

Side note:  I want to be on that soccer team.  They sound extremely cool.

And here's to hoping that I can laugh my way through the WARRIOR DASH!!!!  Because now, just thinking about it, those butterflies are taking flight again.  So Mom and I are going to hit the town for a bit, do some sight-seeing.  (It shouldn't take too long here...my view from the hotel window is the back of the hotel's facade.  And the freeway.  And some weeds next to the freeway.)  I promise I'll blog about the Dash.  If nothing else, you'll get to hear an awkward story of the day I decided to be a warrior.

Till then, think good thoughts and send some prayers up for me.  They will be most appreciated.

My Blog's Name - FINALLY Explained

I've been thinking the past few days about why I named my blog "A Life of Fiction."  It's always been clear to me, but I know it may not be clear to everyone else. 

You see, I have a fairly strange and bizarre life.  Sometimes I think I actually do lead a life of fiction; at times there is no other way my life could be described.  In college I developed a theory about why this is so. 

I appreciate the little things. 

That's all it comes down to.  I take such delight in the lttle things, feel such exultation in small miracles, find such joy in embracing the ridiculous, have such fun in laughing at the bizarre that I tend to be a magnet for amazingly big deals.  Lately, unfortunately, I haven't been embracing the little things.  It's been sad.  I've gotten caught up in life and all its details that somehow I have somehow missed out on what I love so much about LIFE.  In a weird way, I seem to have been so caught up in looking at the forest that I haven't been able to notice the trees.

I am happy to notice how that has been changing as of late.  I think I first noticed it when the other day I checked my Twitter feed and saw that a friend had tweeted 'I'll never get married in a castle. I couldn't bear to hear the pastor say "I'm sorry, but the princess is in another castle".'  I busted up laughing.  It touched the nerd in me, and shot me back to a youth spent playing Nintendo (and watching my brothers and the neighbor play Nintendo). 

It is so nice to be taking joy in the little things again.

And I was pleased to feel that it wasn't just a fleeting thing.  When I climbed into my car the other day I discovered that my CD player had suddenly decided to play twice as fast as normal.  I found amazing joy in hearing SheDaisy sing like the Chipmunks.  I wished someone was with me to share in the moment.  I wanted to laugh with someone.  And then later, at my parents' house, I heard my sister say, "Wait...Is this Later Gater?"  I walked into the living room and saw my family - including my 6-year-old brother - watching the SyFy channel.  They were all totally engrossed.  And the fact that my sister could identify the movie made me smile.  And the evening only got better...My little sister came home from gymnastics and had to get in the shower.  We were all doing our own thing and I suddenly said, "Is that Ginny?"  We listened, and sure enough, Ginny was singing in the shower.  It wasn't one of her usual, tweeny-bopper songs she makes up, but was an operatic scale.  Cat and I looked at each other and laughed.  Topped off by watching Bones with my parents and sister, it was a great day. 

I could feel myself appreciating the little things again.  Which is good, because this morning I had a bizarre phone conversation, and it would have been terribly sad if I hadn't been able to appreciate it. 

Here's a little background information:

-About 2 weeks ago I got a phone call from someone asking me if I was the number for roof repairs.  I said no, and was told some unliscensed roofer had inadvertently put my phone number down instead of his.
-I have been recieving plenty of phone messages since then from people asking if I could fix their roof.
-I kind of feel badly for the roofer, but then I think, He/She put my phone number down...Mayhap it's a good thing that these poor people aren't getting their roofs fixed by him/her.

So here is the conversation I had this morning:
Me: Hello?
Her: Hi.  I am calling to see if you could repair my roof?
Me: Oh, no.  I am so sorry.  I'm not the roof repairer.
Her: No?  Darn.  I really need to get some leaks fixed.  The ad says, "Best prices roof repairs." Is this your number? [says my number]
Me: Yeah, I know...You aren't the first person to call me about this.  But I don't do roof repairs.  Sorry!
Her: Darn it.  I was starting to look forward to having a hot female roofer come to my house.
Me: .....
Her: Really, I would appreciate that more than seeing a man.
Me: tinkling laugh [really, I was just unsure of what to say]
Her: Well, that's disappointing.
Me: Oh, I am sorry about that.  Hey, do you know what company you were trying to call?
Her: It just doesn't say a name.  Sooo...What do you do?  You sound nice.
Me: Uhh...I work with kids.
Her: Well, I have a couple of those.
Me: Oh, neat.
Her: I also have puppies.  Do you work with them?  I can't control them either.  Well, I had puppies but then the puppies had puppies.
Me: [non-comitally] Oh, wow.
Her: [probably picking up on the fact that I was starting to get a little nervous that she would randomly call me back sometime in the future] Well, you probably want to get your phone number taken out of the paper, huh?
Me: Yeah, thanks for the info.
Her: Thank you for sounding so wonderful.  Have a really lovely day.
Me: Thanks!  You too! [hang up]

Yeah...I think I lead a life of fiction.  And, honestly, I love it.

On Heroes

I just saw Captain America...I know - finally.  You would think a Disney fanatic such as myself would have seen this before.  Somehow I just hadn't gotten around to it.

Now it's no secret I love superhero movies.  What's not to love?  They are action packed.  There's always some sort of romance.  They address pretty solid themes (the classic good vs. evil comes to mind).  The hero is always attractive and has an interesting, and - yes - sexy attitude that makes him just plain irresistible.  So we have discovered, once again, how deep my waters really run. 

Anyway, I was watching Captain America, and thought that while I still love Ryan Reynolds, not only does Chris Evans give him a tough run for his money, but the movie itself was about a trillion times better.  Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed Green Lantern very much.  I know if I watched it right now I would still enjoy it.  But it's like the difference between eating a store bought, packaged cookie as opposed to a warm, homemade cookie.  You enjoy the one you bought at the store, but you'll typically choose the homemade cookie every time.  And while I was considering this and trying to push that strange guilty feeling away (I promise I wasn't saying anything horrible about Ryan Reynolds!) I thought about just what it is that makes superheroes so amazing.  Some people would claim that there is nothing super special about superheroes.  Strip away the suits, cars, weapons, radio-active spiders, kryptonite, etc. and what do you have? these people scoff.  Well, I have an answer: 

The ultimate self sacrifice. 

Superheroes are amazing because they always put "the other" before themselves.  Wow.  Think about it.  In every superhero movie you have seen the hero has at least a small moment in which he or she makes the conscious decision to sacrifice him or herself for the love interest, the city, the nation, the world...It seems this trait is what makes superheroes so gosh-darned special. 

Well, DUH, Steph! you say.  We all know that.  Talk about stating the obvious.

It is obvious - or it should be.  But we tend to view these characters as complete and utter fiction.  Now I know they are.  I realize there is no such person as Steve Rogers/Captain America, Hal Jordan/Green Lantern, Clark Kent/Superman, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Peter Parker/Spider-Man, etc.  As much as I love viewing the world through my fantasy lenses I know there is a difference between daydreams and reality.  My point here is this: we shouldn't be so shocked at the idea of people who are willing to give themselves for someone else when we have the opportunity to witness this everyday.

My older brother has made a conscious decision that if it comes down to it he will lay down his life for someone else.  My younger brother has made the same conscious decision to put his life on the line for another.  I guess they must have something in common...

I know the police, especially in LA right now, get a lot of bad press.  And there is something to that: there are ordinary people on the police force - ordinary people who make good, and bad, decisions everyday.  And, like most ordinary people, they make mistakes and falter and fall.  Yes.  There are true "bad cops" out there.  Unfortunately we shine a light on these ordinary human beings, focusing not on their humanity but in their inhumanity.  We throw up our arms in outrage - how dare the police do these things??  And to a certain extent we should.  It never does to have people in positions of authority using their place for harm.  The trouble is we focus so much on these bad pictures that we forget about the good.  We forget about the men and women who every single day strap on their guns and badges and walk around understanding that if it comes down to it they will make the ultimate sacrifice that day.  How quickly we forget that without these amazing men and women we would be lost, and in serious danger.  We're so quick to judge them, to see them as villains, when in reality when we see those black and white cars we are looking at a true Batmobile.  When we see the blue uniforms we are looking at a real Superman suit.  Every day we see honest-to-God superheroes.

It's interesting...If we villainize cops, I think we can easily say we dumb-down fire fighters.  I do it, too.  I look at a fire truck and don't always see Spidey's webs - the tool to get around town.  When I pass a firehouse I have to admit there are times when I see a calendar, with an attractive guy for each month.  It's horrible!  I can't even begin to count how many times I've heard, or been part of, a conversation that goes something like this:

Well, I was running late but there were fire fighters in the store so it wasn't all bad.
That's the best!  I love looking at those fire fighters.

In our rush to view fire fighters as the golden boys we forget that they are much more important than eye candy.  Every time they receive a call they know they are heading to an emergency.  And while most of the situations may be medical emergencies many of them are not.  Structure fires, accidents, goodness - the hills of Santa Barbara seem to be on fire all the time.  All these situations are dangerous, and the fire fighters not only hold a hose in their hands, but the knowledge that they will risk everything to protect another person.  Everything.  We somehow miss the superhero when we see them.

I see heroes everyday.  I have true heroes in my family.  And I pray everyday that they will be safe.  That the people they protect will not require that sacrifice, because I know my brothers will make it.  I stare at the women who love them in awe - it takes a special, strong, heroic woman to love a man who has made the decision to be a superhero.  I hope the people who cross paths with my brothers will treat them as heroes, rather than villains, or calendar boys.

How can you be sure they are heroes? you may be asking me right now.  Well, it's because I know if they see this they will respond with the same response all the superheroes make: "I'm just doing my job."  And they will - even if they job means laying down their lives for another person. 

God bless the heroes.

"Remember Your Last Name"

When I was in school I took a marriage and family class that was strangely anti marriage and family. It was pure torture to sit through that class, listening to the hateful comments my classmates made and pray that I would forget the things they said. Even the textbook had a pretty strong stance against men. I never understood it. After all, for the complete development of children don't we need both a strong female and male influence? I realize that sometimes this isn't exactly possible. We live in a fallen world, and that shows itself in our broken and hurting relationships. Unfortunately, there are many situations in which mom and/or dad are not able to safely be in the picture. So then the influence comes from outside the home. 

Recognizing this as a sad truth, however, also allows us to recognize the importance of having mom and dad in our lives. It's a situation in which the lack of something proves its importance. In my job I have the opportunity to meet and interact with a lot of fathers. In the course of meeting all these dads I have come to a realization: My dad is pretty special.

It's true! I am so blessed to have a dad like mine.  Let me tell you just some of the things he's done for me through the years.  My dad said my prayer with me most nights until I was in high school, and he woke me up with a song every morning until I left for college.  He made breakfast Monday through Friday, and set out all the vitamins I needed to take.  He played "spy" with me in Costco.  He taught me that it's a good thing to be able to laugh at myself, and at those around me - he taught me to develop and keep my sense of humor.  He explained to me that sometimes all we can do is just "hang on" until things get better.  He let me know that crying is absolutely not a weakness, and is gracious enough to let me get tears and mascara on his shirt.  I will never forget the evening he came and sat next to me on the couch and explained that if that "security guard" at school didn't leave me alone I could stand with him, and my brothers, and my uncles as they talked to him.  He taught me that as much as we hassle and bicker within the family we rally the troops and circle the wagons if someone attacks from outside the family.  We always look out for our crew, regardless of how frustrated we might be with them.  He taught me that following the Lord, while not always easy, is always right, and there are so many ways to experience Him throughout even simple, seemingly mundane things.

My family, like most, has a lot of family lore - stories we pass down through the generations.  There are the funny ones: the ones no one can tell or hear without laughing so hard we can't breathe.  There are the scary ones: the ones no one can hear without thinking, He actually did that???  We have quotes that are passed down and said, sometimes as a joke ("I don't make trash like you; I burn it."), but other times in true seriousness: "Remember your last name." 

Everything we do reflects back on our family.  It doesn't matter whether the people who see us know our parents or not, they will forever associate the Braun name with our actions.  Remember your last name.  Do not forget that you carry with you a heritage of faith, strength, loyalty, goofiness, justice, perseverance, and love.  Remember your last name.  Keep the faith.  And always look out for your crew. 

Yeah.  My dad taught me that.  Happy Father's Day, Daddy.  I love you SO much!!

Just my dad's old practice jersey from college.  I keep it in my room.  It's a constant reminder of all those lessons.  And I LOVE it. 

Glass-Blown Fairytales

While in Nashville visiting Amanda and Elijah and their twin daughters Aida and Sophie, Manda, the girls and I met our Granddaddy at Cheekwood (the botanic gardens of Nashville) and saw the amazing glass art of Chihuly.

Now let me be honest here: I was much more excited at the prospect of being with Amanda and her daughters for the day than looking at plants and glass. Don't get me wrong - I expected the exhibit to be interesting and cool, but I wasn't planning on falling in love.

I was suitably impressed when we arrived at Cheekwood and the girls cried, "We are at Cheekwood!  We are at Cheekwood!"  My nieces are so clever to be able to recognize the road leading to Cheekwood.  Manda pointed out the first Chihuly display as we drove into the parking lot.  "It's macaroni and cheese!" Sophie yelled from the backseat.  She had a point: it looked like an enormous pile of mac and cheese - giant yellow, orange, and white tubes twisted and intertwined, climbing higher and higher. 

Sophie has a point, doesn't she?  

When we walked up to the "macaroni and cheese" and I stood there in awe.  The sculpture was humming - apparently they light up at night, so this was an electric display - and I imagined it was singing itself a little song of contentment.  I hurried to keep up with Amanda, Sophie, Aida, and Granddaddy and we wandered across a dewy lawn to a pond full of glass "Walla Wallas." 

The Walla Wallas in the pond.

I expected them to float into the air at any given moment.  Or maybe if I looked away, but turned back quickly enough I could catch them flying around.  I tried, slyly.  It didn't work. 

My main moment of amazement, however, was on the other side of the pond.  It was a piece called Sunset Boat and this is where I fell in love.  Red, yellow, orange and white glass filled a boat to the point of overflowing.  Points shot out while spirals slithered within the boat.  Globes rested quietly in the middle of chaos and I swear I saw a fairy dancing on the water.  I was smitten.  Even after walking away and looking at other pieces I saw the Sunset Boat in my mind.  I had to go back and look at it.  I felt the subtle sting of tears as I borrowed Amanda's camera and took a few pictures.  I needed, somehow, to keep this boat with me. 

I was in love.

Sunset Boat

Eventually, however, we needed to move on.  (I mean, really, we had two 3-year-olds with us...They needed to keep moving.)  In the house at Cheekwood were some more glass displays: chandeliers. 

I was struck still again by a huge white, champagne, and gold chandelier that immediately brought to mind Christmas.  Glass ribbons and spirals hung midair and I could almost hear sleigh-bells ringing (despite the warmth and bright sunshine outside).  Chihuly's blend of elegance and whimsy was magical.  I was transported to a different time and place.  I'm sure it was only the presence of Amanda, the girls, and Granddaddy that kept me from completely losing myself and becoming "that weird girl" that stood at each display much longer than was necessary. 

A close-up of the "Christmas" chandelier

The stairwell with the "Christmas" chandelier

Another chandelier.  Amanda loved this one.

I know fairytales aren't real...But as I have mentioned before I am inclined to want to believe in them.  And at the Chihuly exhibit at Cheekwood I found something that allowed me to do so: Glass-blown fairytales. 

All of the pictures are from newspaper articles or other blogs.  The use of cameras was prohibited inside the house at Cheekwood and I don't actually have a camera.  So special thanks to those people from whose blogs I snagged the pictures. 

Genesis 1:14-19

Celebrating Life

Today I had the opportunity to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. 

I looked around the park in awe, marveling at my god-brother's talent in making a space simultaneously elegant and welcoming.  I offered my help in setting up, and had to chuckle at how dismal my party-arranging skills are compared to his (we all have our talents, don't we?). 

I stood, mesmerized by the slide show - 54 minutes long - that made me smile, cry, and laugh.  I got butterflies in my stomach when a song that my god-brother and best friend and I sang came on, followed by satisfaction that I was able to do something to help, no matter how small.

I looked around, unsurprised, as a seemingly endless stream of people came in.  So many people were touched by this one life.  So many people wanted to pay their respects.

I felt happiness for my cousins and their growing catering business.  The food was delicious and I was proud of my family and their ability to build their business from the ground up. 

I felt joy at seeing my younger brother laughing with his friends.  It has been years since they were all together, and anyone could see they were practically revelling in each others' presences.  Later Mary and I would spend time with them all, joking and laughing and enjoying the day.

It was bittersweet when I greeted the family, asking them how they were doing and knowing that whatever answer they gave would be only a half-truth.  Knowing that no matter how "fine" they said they were it was too soon to be completely true.  Wondering if it would ever be true again. 

I felt extreme gratitude that my dad is still with us.  He is such an anchor and rock in my life, and in so many others.  Many heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving have been sent heavenward in the past month. 

And I felt love and pride mingled with sadness as a 17-year-old stood in front of the group and spoke about his dad.  I stood in awe as I realized that although I have seen him, and loved him, as the 4-year-old he was when I met him, this 17-year-old is now a man: a man I am proud to call my friend.  I cried as he reached out with only a few words and touched lives just as his father did.  And I listened as he hoped everyone present would take something away with them. 

I did take something...I took a firm desire to live my life to touch others.  I took with me a hope to be a vessel of God, to shine love to people, the same way this man shined love.  I took a need to celebrate life, mine and others, and to give thanks for every part - the beautiful, the painful, the bizarre, the sorrowful, the joyful. 

Memory Eternal, Bobby.  You are missed, and very dearly loved.

Psalm 30:5

Just A Good Fall Day...

Everyday I discover new things. I am constantly coming to realizations about everything - random little things, myself, life. One such realization I have come to is this: some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times.

I am blessed. I was able to escape the real world and head toward the South. I've been staying with my sister and her family in Tennessee for the past few days. We haven't been doing much; my three-year-old nieces' schedule pretty much rules when we can head out. Plus the weather has been stifling hot and humid.

Until today, that is.

Today we opened the door to go to church and were met by a cool breeze rather than the heavy heat we had closed the windows to yesterday. All three grown-ups exclaimed over the coolness, trying to convince the three-year-olds that Fall had come and they didn't need their white, Summertime church shoes. (It didn't work.)

The air was even cooler when we climbed out of the car after the 30 minute drive to church. "Wow!" My sister, Amanda, said. "What a good Fall day!"

"No, it is not," came the response from a three-year-old still upset over her shoes.

Amanda and I looked at each other with wry smiles. I had to agree with my sister: it was a great Fall day.

In church I was reunited with friends and family whom I have not seen in around four years. Four...Far too long. It was a beautiful and happy church service, and I was thrilled to be surrounded by family.

After church was family dinner at my grandparents house. Some things never do change. Again I was surrounded by love and family and yummy food. Oh, and don't forget the football on TV. The game was on the radio during the drive back home (much to the dismay of the three-year-olds in the back seat..."I don't want to yissen to fyootbaw. I want myusic, Mommy.") and on TV again as soon as we walked in the door.

And an after-church nap...A-MAZ-ING.

Of course, what is a house with two three-year-olds without a few meltdowns? During one such meltdown we decided to leave the house and go to an open field and "fly Daddy's plane." See, Elijah (my brother-in-law) makes little wooden gliders and likes to fly them from time to time. "Usually we are here until he loses the plane," Amanda said. "But he likes to make them so it's not really sad when they're gone."

The wind kicked up on the walk to the field, and the evening grew a little cooler. Amanda and I sat and watched her daughters run after their Daddy and his plane. We chatted a bit, but we spent more time laughing over the girls and the plane. And as one of the girlies ran toward Elijah she yelled, "It is a good Fall day, Daddy. It is a good Fall day!"

Some of the best times are the quieter times: the normal, day-to-day times. After spending a day surrounded by people and things I love I have to agree with my niece. It may not have been an extraordinary day, but it was a good Fall day.

Proverbs 15:13a