I was running ahead of time, for perhaps the first time…ever? So instead of pointing my car west, towards the church, I drove north, to a coffee shop. I ordered my favorite, tall, nonfat mocha, with just a touch of whipped cream. One should never be completely denied whipped cream.

I checked the clock. Still early.

I decided to take the scenic route. I drove through neighborhoods, the windows down, a chilly breeze ruffling my hair, sending receipts swirling around the backseat. I had no idea where I was, but as I cruised down streets, my arm hanging out of the window, I knew what I needed to do.

Keep driving toward the mountains.

Through gaps in the trees Pike’s Peak soared, snow capped and brilliant against the blue sky. It was always there, never wavered. The mountains showed me west. I knew I just needed to keep driving west, and I would eventually reach my destination.

Keep driving toward the mountains.

My iPod shuffled through some random playlist, and soon Bruce Springsteen’s voice, raw and thick, filled my car, floating out of the window, coating the streets with his New Jersey grit. I turned the volume up. Anthems can only be played at top volume.

Keep driving toward the mountains.

It has been an exhilarating few months. The highs have been very high. And the lows have been very low. Writing about life can leave me feeling like I have been turned inside out, every nerve bared. I have felt emptied out. Inadequate. Exhausted. But I have repeated my mantra. Sometimes whispered it. Sometimes shouted it. Just keep writing.

Keep driving toward the mountains.

My car felt full that morning as I meandered down quiet streets. I bid Bruce to sing to me again. And I prayed for peace and disquiet. I prayed for strength and humility. I prayed for understanding and mystery. And all the while, Bruce sang at the top of his lungs, reminding me that hard times come, hard times go, just to come again. And Jesus whispered a reminder that this story woven into my mind, my heart, have a greater purpose. And when I think I’m lost, the answer is really quite simple.

Keep driving toward the mountains.

I have no notions that anybody really reads this blog anymore. Or will feel the need to comment on it. And that’s okay. Currently, this blog is like an old friend who I can’t quite squeeze time in with lately. No time. No energy. Nothing much to say.

But today, I am sitting at a wobbly metal table in front of one of my favorite coffee shops. It’s breezy, and eating my egg salad sandwich was difficult, as my hair kept blowing in it. But I persevered. And the bright yellow stain on my white shirt can be easily hidden by my scarf.

In front of me are office buildings, but in between them peeks mountains, still holding on to bright white ribbons of snow. In my ears, my writing music. A mix of depressing and upbeat. Some days I skip all of the upbeat ones. Today I’m trying to let them in.

The music is loud, and I’m probably damaging my hearing. But the guy at the table next to me is a complainer, and I don’t want to let his words into my head. It’s too easy to crash these days, so I will not let his complaints about the general state of the world interfere.

Every few minutes I take another sip from my iced mocha. It’s watery from melting ice cubes, but the sugar and caffeine still do their trick.

And that is where I am. Stained shirt. Freshly pedicured toes wriggling in the sun. Walking this journey step-by-step.

Just wanted to wave to you all from my seat

Tonight I sat down to write a paper for school. I pulled out my laptop, but the heady, sweet smell of roses distracted. And the words that crowded my mind, that weighed down my heart, were not the words of a research paper.

Ten years ago, my stepdad, Dennis, died. Dennis was like a father to me for 19 years, and this year, the anniversary of his death felt particularly painful. He has been gone a decade. My whole adult life he has been absent.

The day of Dennis’ funeral, I stood alone in our house. The funeral home needed someone there when they came to deliver the flowers, and I needed to get away from the crowds of people sharing a meal in our church fellowship hall following his funeral.

Workers from the funeral home carried in load after load of flowers. Vases of cut flowers. Small plants in pots. A ficus tree with glossy red leaves. And the lilies. Dennis died just a few weeks before Easter, and the florists had stocked up on the calla lily plants. I counted seventeen in our living room that March afternoon. They pulled on delicate green stalks, dropped powdery white pollen onto the blue carpet. The smell of them overpowered me, and I stumbled on the porch and heaved over the railing.

The next few days passed in a blur, but I remember a lot of sitting at the dining room table, going over paperwork or sharing meals with people who had dropped by. A huge pink oriental lily sat in a vase of flowers, and I found the smell of it sickening. I threw the whole arrangement in the trash one afternoon.

I went back to college the next week, numb and alone. Friends avoided me, and I understood why. I didn’t even want to be around myself. Nobody knew what to say to me, and I was ill-equipped to carry the conversation myself. But a few reached out, stepped into the grief with me. One evening I soft knock came on my dorm room door. I opened it, and two freshman girls stood there shyly. One held out her hands, and in them was cradled a small violet plant, the pot wrapped in crinkly green paper. I took it, and felt grief and hope swirl in my chest. I don’t know that any of us even spoke. But I never forgot their kindness.

And today, ten years later, flowers again. Delivered to the front desk of my office. “Oh what pretty flowers,” people said as I walked back to my desk, breathing in the scent of roses and carnations and daisies. I just smiled and nodded.

Those flowers sit by me right now, their perfume thick in the room. I try to wrap my mind around the significance, the symbol of these flowers in the face of Dennis’ death. On the edge of my brain tickles thoughts of plants and life and death and seasons. But I can’t quite get there.

All I can tell you tonight is, I miss Dennis. For 10 years, I have missed him. But the velvet petal of a rose, the delicate curve of a lily, the sweet smell of a violet bring a touch of beauty into a place of pain.

In a little less than a week, I will be back in Baltimore. I will be surrounded by “my people,” people who talk about books and grammar and writing and story. That has been one of my favorite things about starting grad school, is just meeting this amazing group of people that I have little in common with besides the love of story. But that one thing has meant so much.

I know that while I am in Baltimore, I will be asked “how’s your thesis coming along.” And that question makes my stomach knot up. Because, I’m not sure what my thesis (aka my manuscript) topic is. I thought I would know by now. I thought I would be running headlong into my thesis by now.

Instead, as I begin packing for my trip east, my head is a tangle of thoughts. Snippets of story. All warring for my attention. It is nerve wracking. I write for hours and walk away exhausted and confused. I re-read what I wrote and proclaim it drivel. This other piece is so much better. I hack away at that idea. To reveal–more drivel.

I know that I’m too close to it. I know I need some distance, some perspective. But how does one get distance from the story of her life. As soon as I tease out a paragraph, memories rush in, stumbling over each other to get out. They rush from my mind, to my fingers, to my computer, and on neat lines on white paper. And then I break out my red pen (yes, I edit myself with a red pen) and I slash until my memories are sorry they ever got out.

I need to be nicer to them, those memories of mine. Let them whisper to me. Let them tickle my mind until even more memories come forth.

I don’t know what my story will end up being. But I do know I can’t wait to find out!

My word feels so full of words right now.

They bounce around my head. Rouse me out of deep sleep. Eager to be set free.

They stumble from my pen onto legal pads and journals. They trip over themselves and come out loopy, letters out of place, smudges of ink, a jumble of thoughts tangled on the page.

They click from my fingers, neat rows of letters stream across the screen. I pause, all is quiet, and the cursor blinks at me. Waiting for more words.

I read words, words that bounced out of someone else’s head, their words building their stories, some sturdy and strong, others wobbly, built on the wrong words.

I read my own words, printed out, highlighted, crossed out. New words fill the margins, cram into the slim white spaces between the lines.

Words, everywhere the words. Everywhere. Scribbled on envelopes. Spilling out of teetering stacks of books. Slippery words waiting to be written, rewritten, forgotten.

So many words.

Does anybody just want to go to a movie?

I love birthdays.

And with that, I can practically hear my friends all roll their eyes. My poor friends who have had to put up with my countdowns to my birthday, my relation of every date to how many days it is from my birthday, and my general birthday obsession. But what can I say? I. Love. Birthdays.

I’ve loved them for as long as I can remember. I loved my second birthday when my mom made a cat-shaped cake with a huge wax “2″ sticking out of its stomach. My 13th when I had a sleepover and we did Glamour Shots. My 16th which was postponed so many times that we didn’t actually have it until February. My 18th when my friends and I went to see Titanic and swooned over Leonardo DiCaprio. My 21st, when my friends and I played outside in the freezing cold, sliding on ice and having a snowball fight while my mom, stepdad and aunt and uncle played cards in front of the fireplace. My 29th when a dear friend ended up having to celebrate with me no less than four times in a single week. I love the phone calls and the happy birthday songs and the 1,398 Facebook wall posts.

I love birthdays.

I know. It’s not popular for adults to love birthdays. But I’ve rarely done anything that has classified me as popular. But I’m okay with that. Because I would rather feel loved and valued by my friends and family than feel popular. I would rather wear a giant sombrero at a Mexican restaurant and eat sopapillas with wax drips from a lone birthday candle than feel popular. I’d rather squeal over the perfect gift, the one that’s handmade or that reminds me of a beautiful memory, than feel popular.

I love that we each get a day that’s just for us. That the anniversary of the day we were born becomes a celebration. One of cards and cake and hugs and joy. Of course I love the parties and balloons. But more than that, I love feeling…loved. Of course I feel loved the other 364 days of the year. But that one day, that birthday, I can’t escape it. I can’t forget it. There it is in flickering candles and floating balloons and puddles of ice cream by slabs of cake. There it is in the smiles of my friends, the warbled “Happy birthday to you…” voice mails, the precious time with people I love.

Birthdays overflow with love. And I just can’t get enough of it.

So tomorrow, I will be that girl. The one with the cheesy grin and the smear of frosting on her cheek.

The really happy one.

The birthday girl.

So, I’m not a big resolution person. Mainly because I suck at them. I tend to actually do the opposite, which I guess means my resolutions should actually be gain 20 pounds and sit on the couch more.

But over the past few years, I’ve noticed more and more people claiming a word for the new year. And that is something I can get behind. I love me some words. So for the past few days, I’ve been contemplating what my word should be. Pretty early on in the contemplation time, a word came to mind. But I kept thinking it was a strange one. But the more I thought, the more I realized the word stuck in my head is not as strange as I had thought.

So, without further adieu, my word for 2012 is story.

Stick with me here. Story is a word that resonates with me on so many levels. On the surface, there is simplicity, in the sense that I am a storyteller. But it goes so much deeper than that.

This year, I want to remember that every person I encounter has a story. I won’t know most of those stories, won’t get to hear them or experience them. But a story lives in every person. Story is woven in their emotions, in their actions. I need to see people as the complicated, messy, beautiful stories that they are. Some I will encounter for a chapter, others for a page, still others for just a sentence. And when I am particularly blessed, I get to see the whole story.

Another way that story resonates with me is through the idea that I was created in the image of the master Storyteller. I serve a God who is infinitely creative. And that brings me great comfort. The source of my story, my creativity, is never ending. That quiets my fear. It makes writer’s block seem silly. It reminds me that there is purpose in my life. That there is a master plan in the chaos. That my Creator writes my story. He sings my song.

So this year, I will cling to story. My story. The stories of others. The story my creator speaks into life.

What is your word for 2012?

This was my first Christmas away from my family. It was full of ups and downs, emotional highs and lows. But as I prepare to enter the new year, I can leave the old year feeling loved, valued and blessed beyond words.

• Skyping with a room full of people who have never done a video call. Lots of shots of the ceiling, up noses, and foreheads. People forgetting the video aspect goes both ways (you see me, I see you!) Aunts and uncles running away from the camera. Little cousins fully embracing the camera. And one sleeping niece completely ignoring the camera. Love them.
• Listening to the crinkling paper as loved ones open gifts with you on the phone.
• Best friends texting you and wishing you were there, and knowing they mean it.
• Loved ones filling your inbox with words of affirmation and love.
• Having new traditions with just down the street friends.
• Friends who treat you like family. Who greet you at the door in their PJs. Whose kids love you. Who feed you cinnamon rolls and all manners of tasty foods.
• 1-year-olds in Christmas pajamas.
• Singing in the car with a friend who doesn’t cringe at your voice.
• Christmas lights and cinnamon roasted almonds.
• Friends who love you.
• Family who misses you.
• A longing for home that stirs a deeper longing for a different Home.

The lights were dim and through the west window the mountains were were jagged and purple against the cold blue-gray sky. In my hand I rolled a small, white candle, its wax sticky on my fingers. At the front of the sanctuary, two women played Christmas carols on cellos. The tone was deep and humming, and my very heart seemed to vibrate along with the thick strings. It felt heavy in my chest, a heaviness that seemed to echo from my heart, into my head, my chest, my soul. Its vibrations reaching as far as my wax coated fingers.

I sang the songs. I shook hands, brightly said “Merry Christmas.” But my heavy heart felt so far away. I missed my family, missed laughing with my cousins and the comfortable warmth of being with people who have always known you. Always loved you.

But then, into my hands, a basket of bread. The body. The flesh. I took a piece and held it in my palm, balanced it with the candle, the light. Gently lifted a cup, the blood, from the plate as it passed. And for a moment, the heaviness was eased. Lighter by just a breath.

Mary and Joseph weren’t with their family on that first Christmas. Weren’t somewhere comfortable or warm. They were alone, in a city filled with strangers. And Mary struggled to give birth to her Savior. A  baby, wrapped in flesh that would be pierced. Blood that would be spilled. And with my waxy fingertips, I placed the bread on my tongue. Poured the juice in my mouth. And my heavy heart hummed its praise.

A stranger reached over to light the candle I still clutched in my hand. The warmth of it touched my face. Light in the darkness. A drop of wax dripped hot on my hand. Warmth in the cold.

Alleluia. The Deliverer has come. God dwells with us. In the hard places. In the dark places. In the cold places.

Immanuel.

Flesh and blood, born a babe
Flesh and blood, you lived and breathed.
Amazing love, you came and gave
Your flesh and blood to set me free.
– Andrew Peterson