love anyways

It’s kind of amazing to me that you can know someone your whole life, even be related to them, yet know so very little about them.

As I sit here at my laptop this evening, full of red wine and pasta, I remember that today is my dad’s birthday. Or is it so I think. Every year I second guess myself, is it the 30^th or the 31^st? Tonight, I took to googling my dad and finding that there is a record of my dad being 66, which would make his birthday today. Great, problem solved. I send a text shortly after wishing him a happy birthday and wonder about calling. The fact that I wonder about calling my dad on his birthday makes me so very sad. I hardly know him. He hardly knows me.

My heart sinks and I know this is not how it’s supposed to be. Family is a tighter unit, at least my definition of it is and I wonder how this piece of my family has drifted so far. I was thinking about a sermon I heard a couple weeks ago. Our pastor talked about the love of God as being a love that initiates. I have such a hard time initiating love. How will I know that my love will be returned? What if I am hurt? Those are the questions that stop me from initiating love and the very ways in which I wish I could love more like Christ loves. I guess that’s where I am for a reason and that is precisely what I am learning these days in this here rainy city. How do I love despite the great risk. It’s easy to love when I feel confident of someone’s love for me but impossibly difficult to love in a moment when I doubt or question that love. I am thrown back to the beginning. Love anyway. Trust anyway. Love because you were first loved, not by a mere human, full of flaws and imperfection and fears, but by a mighty God who knew He would be rejected by many and yet, still He loved.

Instead of hoping for a fatherly love that initiates. I want a heart that will love anyways, that will love first, even if it feels impossible.

The Impossible Dream

To dream the impossible dream

To fight the unbeatable foe

To bear with unbearable sorrow

To run where the brave dare not go

To right the un-rightable wrong

To be better far than you are

To try when your arms are too weary

The reach the unreachable star

This is my quest, to follow that star

No matter how hopeless,

No matter how far

To fight for the right

Without question or pause

To be willing to march into hell

For a heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true

To this glorious quest

That my heart will be peaceful and calm

When I'm laid to my rest

And the world would be better for this

That one man scorned and covered with scars

Still strove with his last ounce of courage

To reach the unreachable star

I was sitting in a coffee shop editing wedding photos and listening to Pandora this morning. Patty Griffin’s sweet and soulful voice was singing “top of the world” and at the song’s end came silence and then she continued on with “to dream the impossible dream”…

I felt my heart tug and I stopped, wondering why those words struck me so. Then I remembered that it was one of the songs that my Grandma would sing, just out of the blue or sometimes she would sing it to me over a voicemail on my birthday. It’s been a song that has woven itself into our relationship all these years. I’ve been hearing her sing those words since I was just a little girl. I don’t think I’ll hear her sing them again in this life. Dementia has taken her captive and she can scarcely remember anyone in our family. As I listened to those words, I’m taken back to a few years ago when I was visiting her in the nursing home and she kept telling me every other sentence how proud she was of me and how she loved me “to the max”. She was her sweet self, so full of joy and kindness. I took a bunch of hold-out pictures of us that day and we laughed and laughed at our own silliness. Then she walked over to the piano and played Impossible Dream and sang for me and it was so beautiful. I didn’t realize what a gift that day was. That was the last visit I had with the Grandma that I knew all these years. She’s different now and the disease has laid claim over her mind and body, but I am so glad I have that sweet day to remember her by.

I am a lyrics girl when it comes to music, so I was surprised that I had never really thought about the words to this song. Now, as I sit here reading the lyrics, I love the song even more. What a great life anthem; I may need to adopt this one as my own.

May we all dream the impossible dream.

"love to the max"

Today, I imagine, my grandmother is sitting in her wheelchair in the nursing home she now calls home. She is frail and small and feisty. She is no longer the sweet presence she once was. We mourn the loss of her as she sleeps more and more and remembers less and less each day. Her body has been claimed by an awful disease we call Alzheimer's. It is so hard to come to terms with the fact that this is my grandmother, the woman who is remembered by most she has ever met as one of the sweetest women they have ever met and was voted citizen of the year many moons ago. How does one reconcile the loss of the woman she once was?
My best guess is by remembering the woman that she once was and that I believe is still inside buried in the darkness of this tragic disease. Rhea was born in the 1940s on Bainbridge Island during the boom of the Port Blakely Lumber Mill. She was the last of five children and quickly named "her father's darling". Her high school years were seemingly idyllic. She was a cheerleader, sang in the glee club, and played in the orchestra. Lest you think she was all roses and dresses, after learning how to drive a Mack truck, she quickly became known as the girl who could "double-clutch like an old pro". She was sunshine and auto grease. She'd drive trucks with the best of them in the morning and later waltz and Jitterbug the nights away.
Growing up, I couldn't get enough of Grandma's house. I remember hours and hours of play in her attic. Dressing up in her old clothes and playing on the old rocking horse and creating endless imaginary tales and scenes. The aroma of her goulash creation, perhaps the one entrée she knew how to cook is stamped in my memory along with the cans and cans of Diet Coke lining the fridge. I felt safe in her house, running up and down the stairs and in and out of rooms lost in a fairytale wonderland my cousins and I had created.
Her house may have been safe but her driving was a whole other animal. I don't think she once wore a seatbelt. She would zip around the island at least 20mph over the speed limit in her little sports car. I remember she let my cousin Erin and I squeeze in the back seat for a joyride around town. The wind blowing our hair every which way made us laugh 'til we thought we might pee our pants or fear we might swallow a bug. I loved every second sitting behind my Grandmother driving fast just to feel the wind in her hair. That may have been the only joyride as our parents were less than thrilled that we had been driving with Grandma and without seat-belts. I didn't walk away from that one without a record breaking lecture around driving safety.
She was a woman who had a kind word to say about everyone she encountered. She knew everyone and we could rarely go anywhere with her without being stopped every ten feet with another friend stopping to say hello. She is one of those island staples of my hometown. People I've met throughout the years who happened to have been to Bainbridge maybe a handful of times will jump in excitement when I tell them my grandma is the sweet old woman they remember from the small little grocery store or the little ice cream shop. She left an impression of kindness on everyone who crossed her path. It brings me comfort to know that so many people will remember my Grandma for the compassionate, loving, and vibrant presence that she was so many years ago. I know that piece of her is still inside, but it's such a shame that it just appears for fleeting moments like shooting stars. But for those of us who catch a glimpse of those precious moments, we are blessed.
She used to call me every year on my birthday and sing me happy birthday while playing the piano and signing off with "love you to the max". It was the most precious gift I received every year. This is the first year I didn't get a call from her, but I will definitely remember when she did.
love to the max.
This video is from a couple years ago during one of those precious moments, sorry for the sidewayziness..
love you to the max, grandma. :)

thankful in the midst

The seasons seem to be changing again and I feel as though hard things come around in the winter. I have a hard time thinking of a winter that wasn't tough. The leaves change into glorious colors all vibrant and bright and then they fall leaving everything barren.

As hard as it is, I appreciate the rawness of winter. There are no leaves, less color, gray skies and a season of waiting of anticipating, of advent.

Thanksgiving is next week and though I have an abundance of things to be thankful for, it's hard to be thankful when cancer becomes part of the equation. Walking alongside my Dad as he awaited tests, results and the end result of cancer was and is not an easy path to tread. He is going in for surgery on Monday. My family and the doctors are hoping a surgery will be all that is necessary so please pray with me.
I know I am not ready to even think about where the path might lead. I feel far too young to think about losing my parents. I fear the path ahead but I also have a great hope that a transformation is possible; in the medical outcome and in our relationship. God does his biggest work when we're at our worst and I am holding onto that trust that He will be faithful in the work He has begun. I'm thankful for a lot of things God has done, but I'm hanging onto the gratitude that I'll feel for the work He will do.

a quote from my favorite pastor in Seattle, Richard Dahlstrom,
We think that gratitude is all about remembering the good things God has done for us and giving thanks. Surely this is a piece of gratitude and thanksgiving. If we limit our thanksgiving to recalling the gifts that God has given us, we will miss most of the story, because most of the story is about how God transforms us right in the midst of challenges in this fallen world...
So perhaps this is the year when we'll give thanks, less for what's happening in this present moment (though God knows that there's still plenty of reasons for gratitude if we take even a cursory look around us), and more for what God will do as we collectively walk through these 'very interesting days', as I recently heard them described. I hope and pray that on the far side of these crisis, we who claim to follow Christ will be shaped, liberated, and transformed, so that our lives will overflow with the purity, generosity and joy that is the heart of Jesus.

may we all choose to be thankful in the midst...

i am my father's daughter

(whoa, haven't blogged in while! it's been a little wild with GRADUATING, hooray!!...but get ready for a lot more writing because i've got some tiiiiiiime...)

I’ve been thinking about my Dad lately. Maybe it’s Father’s day coming up or maybe it’s just that I have a lot of time on my hands now.

I was having breakfast with my dad and step-mom not too long ago on the island. Visits with my dad are few and far between, they always have been. But still we both try and make time for that relationship and try and restore what’s been missing all along. I was thinking back to that breakfast and how we are more alike than I know.

The server walked over and made some pleasant conversation about the weather and tides. She turned to take our order, my step-mom abruptly ordered a long and complicated meal with substitutions and specific requests, hardly making eye contact and with a bit of a huff. The young server, clearly overwhelmed and visually nervous about what order may follow next looked my way. She was a sweet girl and throughout my step-mom’s order, I was trying to decide what to compliment her on, she had a great necklace, boots and haircut. I told her I couldn’t hold in a compliment that I loved her antique necklace, cowboy boots and cute haircut. She smiled big and accepted gracefully. I ordered French toast and coffee. She let out a breath of relief and looked to my dad, “Canyon Combo with coffee, please.” She smiled big and turned away. My dad looked at me and says loud enough for the server to hear on her walk to the kitchen, “She was a very sweet girl. I think we lucked out and got the nicest server that works here.”

…once our food arrived, I noticed my dad pouring generous amounts of syrup over his pancakes, bacon and eggs and I smiled. My step-mom was quick to comment on how absurd this was and who would put syrup over everything on their plate? I smiled, recalling to myself my secret love of syrup on both eggs and bacon.

At times I feel like I know strangers on the street better than my dad, which breaks my heart a little, but there are other times, like at breakfast when the littlest things will remind me that I am his daughter; our mutual love of syrup, uncomplicated orders, and kindness to those that serve us. They are small things, I know, but at the time and even now, it’s those little things that my dad and I have in common that mean the world to me.

Lost in translation

My family from Korea is visiting Seattle this month and I am so thrilled to have them here, but also bummed that I am a three hour drive from them and am still in school, thus limiting my time with them to a couple extended weekends.

My Grandma, my Aunt and my cousin are so much fun and the good times roll especially since we can’t communicate through our words. It’s been a long time since I have experienced this extreme language barrier. In my trips to Malawi, language was hardly a barrier as English was one of the national languages and we were encouraged to speak in English to help the kids practice their language.

To communicate with my Korean family, we are both stretched. Communication comes in the form of wildly exaggerated movements and actions that looks similar to championship charades combined with even more laughter and head nodding, even if you have no idea what is going on. It is pretty hilarious. Even if we can’t have deep and meaty conversations which I so love, we can be in each other’s presence and bond over our many failed communication attempts and hilarity. My Grandma will talk to me in Korean just as if I speak Korean too, and for a few minutes. I have no idea what she is telling me, but I will talk to her in English for a couple minutes, too. If only my mom were there to translate the completely unrelated conversation we are having with each other.

I’m remembering my communications classes from UW and how 80% of communication is nonverbal. It’s amazing how much we can communicate purely through facial expressions and actions. I communicate through laughter and big grins. My cousin communicates through crayon colored picture gifts and enthusiasm. My Grandma communicates through back slaps, dancing and deep belly laughter. My Aunt communicates through charades and gentle laughter. It may not be the most effective communication style, but it brings us closer, which is all I can ask for.

Where I come from

I love writing exercises that switch up the way I think or write and this one was particularly cool to me as I love reflecting on the people and places that I come from. I saw the template on this cool girl's blog. It's called Where I'm From and I think all of you should try it as well. It's thoughtful to think through and it's a lens for others to see a bit of where you come from.
Go here for the template.

I am from salty beaches with seashells and sand dollars, from Peachios and cartwheels on the lawn.

I am from the orange house on Pleasant Beach, the aging speedboat and the tire swing twirling in the afternoon sunlight.

I am from hardy rhododendrons that bloom vibrant and fit perfectly behind the ear, the sweetly fragrant lilies that wake me every Easter morning and unwavering dandelions that push their way through cracks in the patio.

I am from road trips guided by theme parks, from stepping lightly after curfew, from Harmony in Korea, from Katherine Williams and Uncle Ambrose.

I am from great lengths for the love of family, from five hour drives every other weekend to keep our family together. I am from my dad’s heartbreaking stories of loss witnessed in a life-time of fire-fighting and service in the Vietnam War.

I am from wheelbarrows full of fuzzy caterpillars, play clothes and school clothes, and puddles you could jump right through.

I am from a house full of skeptics, wincing at street corner preachers, televangelists and abortion protesters, unconvinced that heaven could hold both a sinner and a saint. I am from youth leaders who never uttered a word about God or unfolded a prayer but always found time for flashlight tag. I am from that still small voice that whispered to me that we are all meant for so much more.

I am from the ferries of Bainbridge Island en route to Seattle and the leap of faith that crossed oceans for love. I am from Grandma’s Christmas goulash everyone pretended to love and the chocolate chip cookie dough that vanished before the cookie sheet appeared.

I am from first dates post World War II, running terrified from the theater when the opening scene exploded on the screen, the girl who could waltz in her sleep and double-clutch like a pro, and Clapper the Clown at pancake breakfasts, and walking in the fourth of July Parade to celebrate the honor of citizen of the year.

I am from puzzle time with old ladies, telling stories about their loves and the latest romance novel.

I am from beaches of drift wood and Hurricane Ridge, from hallways of frozen moments of awkward years, from dusty piano tops alongside Frank Sinatra and Etta James. I am from cold Christmas Eve nights on the porch listening to carols sung from fire truck speakers.

This is where I come from and I’m forever grateful..