Mama cut out pictures of houses for years From Better Homes and Garden Magazine Plans were drawn and concrete poured Nail by nail and board by board Daddy gave life to mama's dream I thought if I could touch this place or feel it The brokenness inside me might start healing Out here it's like I'm someone else I thought that maybe I could find myself If I could just come in, I swear I'll leave Won't take nothin but a memory From the house that built me Miranda lambertThis has been one of the most painful seasons of my life. It has been filled with too many goodbyes to count.
My Uncle Richard, Grandpa, and Grandma Bruckner each passed away in the Fall. Within four months, three of the people I had always known as being cornerstones of my family were no longer with us. Life began to change at warp speed, my head was spinning, and I couldn't mentally keep up with all of the wreckage that I was sifting through. School was hard. I was drowning in my depression, struggling to see my friends (as none of our schedules seemed to line up the way we had wished) staying up way too late at night, sleeping in way too late into the day, and nonchalantly drifting through my classes and putting "just enough" effort in to get by without having to work hard. In the time that I should have been working, studying, or spending time with friends, I would change into sweats, sit on my couch, and watch Netflix for hours. I think it was all an attempt to avoid grieving. So many changes were looming in the not-so-distant future. I think it just overwhelmed me into numbing myself. I became a drifter in my own life; the freight train of senior year kept speeding by, and I wasn't quick enough to jump on. I watched it whiz by. After the train passed, I was left breathless and stunned at the stillness around me. I graduated. I packed up my student-house. And I moved back home. I unpacked. I went to California for a week to visit family. I came back home, and then went Up North to the cabin. Came home again, dated a guy for a couple weeks, got dumped by that guy, and now... here I am. Here I am. It's my first still moment in a year -- if you can even call it "still." I'm moving out of my childhood home on Thursday, and moving into my own apartment for the first time. I'll be on my own, working at my very first "adult" full-time job, paying my own bills, and trying to make a foundation that I can build the rest of my life upon. This is the biggest time of transition in my life. Sometimes it just leaves me frustrated and feeling desolate. Lord, where are you? It's just one of those seasons of life when the low-blows just keep on comin'. Last week, I had to say goodbye to my grandma and grandpa's house in Michigan. Like, goodbye for good -- as in: I will never walk these halls again. My grandfather built this small house in a field with his own two hands. His own father helped him. I can't help but picture the youthful face of my grandpa, pouring concrete and studying blueprints. This is the young man who was drafted into World War II, fought in the Pacific as a sailor in the United States Navy, weathered storms, walked the grounds of Hiroshima, and saw the flag raised from his ship at Iwo Jima. He was like a walking time-capsule of one of the most fascinating periods in our nation's history. He told my dad and his siblings stories from his childhood and the Great Depression --- of stealing coal off of freight trains just to keep their family warm in the winter. This small house in the field that my dad, my aunts, and my uncles grew up in and called "home" was more like a museum of times gone by --- times when men worked hard, women mothered their children with pride, and children played out in the streets until the sun went down. My grandpa had even rigged up a morse-code system in the house, and would spell out the word d-i-n-n-e-r when it was time for the family to come inside together at the end of the day. He set up a baseball diamond in the field beside the house for my dad, his siblings, and the neighbor kids to spend long hot summers playing on. He was an emotionally distant man. But he was a caring father. As the years went by, my grandfather was stricken with an illness that caused him to gradually go blind. For the entirety of my life, I always knew him as the completely-blind old man who would occasionally tell stories from the war if he was in the right mood, or play his harmonica, or joyfully sing to the concertina. He had a rocking chair that nobody else dared to sit in. It was his place of pride in the home that he had built himself, and in the life that he shared with his beloved wife. My grandma was a sweet little Irish-Catholic Sullivan with rosy cheeks and always a song being hummed under her breath. She loved singing more than she loved most things. She was sweet and soft-spoken, and endlessly patient with my grandfather. She was quiet, frugal, and intelligent. I wear her tiny little gold wedding band on my finger every day. And I smile every time I see the tiny tan-line being made by it. It's like she's always with me. I don't think I can put into words what this tiny house in the field means to me. Growing up, July was my favorite month of the year. My aunts, uncles, and cousins (who all grew up and spread out to the far ends of the country) all gathered at this tiny house in the field for the first week of July. July meant family and cousins and swinging in the backyard and sleeping on cots in a tent in the field beside the house. We were all so thrilled to be with each other that we would spread out into every nook and cranny of the house to sleep and spend the week with one another. Fourth of July and sparklers and family and this tiny house were staples of my childhood. My memories of this house come in flashes. I remember grandma and grandpa sitting under the shade of their favorite tree on a swing, either singing together or working on the crossword puzzle out loud together. I remember being a toddler, stripping down on hot July afternoons, and getting into the little kiddy-pool with my cousins. I remember sparklers and fireworks on the horizon year after year. I remember sitting in a cardboard box in the backyard, pretending I was driving a racecar. It was the day of the 2005 Indianapolis 500. And Danica Patrick had made racing history. I remember grandma and grandpa wearing green on St. Patrick's day, and eating corned beef and cabbage as grandma's eyes glowed with the pride of being Irish. I remember endless pans of lasagna, tents covering the fields, and playing soccer in bare feet with my cousins. I remember croquet tournaments and signing songs and dragging the ping pong table out of the garage. I remember exploring every nook and cranny of the house, playing with the toys in the attic, and watching the Laurence Welk show with grandma and grandpa. I remember the perfect morning. I was maybe 8 years old. I had decided to spend the night at grandma and grandpa's because I didn't want to leave. We lived about 40 minutes away, and so we were simply just going to go home for the night to sleep, and then come back the next day to celebrate the Fourth of July with everybody. But I looked forward to this one week out of the year so much, that even one night of separation from my Bruckner family was too much. So my parents let me stay the night while they went home. I slept upstairs in my dad's old bedroom, and even at 8 years old, I remember pausing to think about how cool it is that some things in life go full circle. I'm sure my dad never stopped to think that one day his young daughter would be spending the night in that very same bed because of her separation-anxiety induced by leaving her grandma and grandpa's sweet little house. I remember waking up to the most perfect, hot, sunny morning. I remember how the light poured in through the window. I remember being filled with such a warm feeling of contentment and happiness. I could hear the voices of my cousins downstairs. But I didn't get up right away. I just laid there in bed for a few minutes. I just wanted to take this moment in and somehow capture it --- put it in a jar like a firefly, and watch it glow forever. Have you ever had a moment like that --- a moment you long for so badly that you wish you could freeze time in order to live in it for eternity? I would kill for another July morning like that. The nostalgia and the longing is so thick that it cuts deeply. It hurts, but in the best kind of way. Another memory that stands out so brilliantly was of a cold winter day that my parents had decided to go up and visit grandma and grandpa. There wasn't any snow on the ground, but it was frigid cold. The ground was hard and frozen. We pulled into grandma and grandpa's driveway, and gasped at the sight of a beautiful monarch butterfly, frozen on the ground of their front yard. I leapt out of the van and scooped up the little butterfly. I must have spent an hour at the very least cupping it in my hands, and watching in amazement as it began to move and warm itself back to life. It was a magical moment. It finally warmed up enough to fly out of my hand and into the distance. It was so enchanting. Which brings me back to how beautiful it is when things in life are brought full-circle. Last week, the day I had been dreading finally arrived. It was time to do the final sweep of grandma and grandpa's house, say goodbye to it, load up the last few things we were taking with us, and leave. It was the moment I had numbed myself for months ago --- the moment I was hoping would never come. I wandered around the property for hours in silence. I passed my hands over every worn nook and cranny, trying to memorize every tiny detail. I went outside and began to wander in my bare feet through the field that I had spent my childhood playing in with my cousins. The grief that I had been avoiding all year finally hit me with the speed of that train that I had let pass by. The pain hit me like bricks. I fell to my knees and finally let it all out --- I sobbed hard and long. All of the pain, all of the longing, all of the memories came bubbling to the surface. And I cried and cried and cried. Where are you, Lord? Where are you? I looked up. Through my tears, I broke into a smile and began to laugh hysterically. Because a few feet away, and flying toward me, was a monarch butterfly. It landed on my finger for half of a second, and flitted away. Tears streaming down my face, I was now laughing uncontrollably. Isn't it so like God to stun us with beauty like that? -- the kind of beauty of a moment being brought full-circle? Of course, I thought to myself. Of course He hasn't left me. What a good God He is. Thank you, I breathed out loud. I don't even know who or what I was thanking. I was just...thankful --- to my grandparents for giving me a sweet childhood filled with memories, to God for my life and for that butterfly, and to that little house for being the home to my heart. I don't know who bought the house. But I hope that one day, those white-washed walls will once again know the sound of children's laughter as they scamper about. I hope that someone has a sweet childhood filled with memories here. I hope that a loving little couple grows old here together once more. And I hope that God brings hundreds of little things full-circle on this little property for years to come. I hope that a sweet little girl wakes up one morning to light pouring in through her window. I hope she feels glad to be alive. And I hope she wonders about who else woke up and lived their days out in her house. I hope she wonders.
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"The trees have grown up. So have you."
I should start out by saying that the thought of writing these little reflections exhausts me. It's difficult to find the words to express just how monumental a small cabin in the woods has been in shaping me into who I am. The happiest of memories from the blissful days of my golden childhood came and went in between the sunrises and sunsets over these 15 acres of woods. But if I'm going to do this justice, I guess I'll just have to begin at the start. My family has a small cabin in Northern Michigan (known simply in the Michigan vernacular as Up North). It belongs to my Aunt and Uncle and two cousins --- and by "belongs" I mean that they built it from the ground up before I was even born. Surrounded by dense Northern woods and patches of wildflowers, it simply is one of the most beautiful places in the world. As a small child, this place simply left me enchanted. Summer after summer I would come away from my stay at the cabin with skinned knees from chasing my little brother around gravel paths, small toads (kept as pets) which I collected proudly in the woods, sunburn from afternoons on the shores of Lakes Michigan and Superior and our beloved nearby Burt Lake, and the smell of smoke in my clothes from a week's worth of campfires and gooey burned marshmallows. It really was an enchanting way to spend one's childhood. My favorite part about being at the cabin was always the field at the bottom of the driveway. At the edge of our woods, my uncle had planted a field of tiny pine trees, no taller than me. Encircling the field of pines was a dirt path that we would spend hours tearing up with dirt bikes and four-wheelers. Being the little girl with perpetually scraped knees who wanted to be a race car driver when she grew up, this little clearing of pines at the edge of the woods was akin to paradise --- a true Edenic garden of dirt, tires, and the smell of gasoline. My little brother and I would have to wait to take turns to drive the four-wheeler around, because we were too small (or so my parents deemed) to learn to ride the dirt bikes. At the beginning of the circular path was a tall tree that I would spend countless afternoons sitting under with my helmet clutched in my little arms, waiting for my turn to drive the four-wheeler, and watching my little brother carefully make lap after lap. I loved sitting under this tree. I loved this field of baby pines. I loved driving the four-wheeler. And man, I loved my family. I was a tender little girl with big, observant eyes and a shy, innocent heart. And life was bliss. My uncle, who owned the cabin, passed away suddenly when I was entering the seventh grade. He died at his favorite place in the world --- that clearing of tiny pine trees at the bottom of the hill, near my favorite tree. His death absolutely shattered me, and rattled every fiber of my being which had previously felt carefree and secure. The stabbing pain of a sudden loss left me gasping for breath more times than I could count. It is this sudden loss in my life that triggered years of anguish which sought to be resolved through a hardening of my soft and tender little heart. I learned that there is pain in this world too great to be born alone. I learned that some heartaches never go away, but only become more bearable as time passes. And I learned that I had so much growing to do. The years have passed. Time heals and restores what has been torn to bits. Gradually we begin to find ourselves again after seemingly losing ourselves a hundred times over. And things get better. I was a seventh grader then. I'm a graduate student now with a full-time job helping to run a non-profit organization, bills on the counter to pay, a tattoo of wildflowers on my arm, and those same wide, observant eyes. And year after year, I still make my trek Up North to the cabin. My cousins who lost their dad are now dads themselves --- with beautiful little children toddling after them enthusiastically. They married good women who now have claimed their own spots in my ever-stretching heart, and in this ever-growing family. My aunt still has the same red hair, the same laugh, and the same love for the cabin that she always had. That's one of the things that I love most about this thing we call life: some things change entirely, while others always seem to stay the same. Last week, my parents and I went up to the cabin with my brother and his girlfriend. It was a relaxing week, and I was relieved to settle in once more to the familiar and cozy scent of truly being home. Especially after the whirlwind of this past month. One evening I took a walk down to the clearing at the bottom of the hill. It was the first time that I had really taken the time to realize that the "baby" pine trees are babies no more --- they're ridiculously tall and large and have completely overtaken the dirt path where I would once ride the four-wheeler. My dad had to forge a new path with the lawn mower, weaving in and out of the trees which now tower over the field that I love so much. It looks completely unrecognizable, but beautiful. I passed by a pine which was once so small and soft like the little girl I once was. I passed my hand over the scars and divots in the trunk of this pine from where my brother had once hit it with the four-wheeler. The pink fleshiness of the inner tree was no longer visible. Even the trees have healed. Lost in thought and wandering down a new path in this familiar place, I was startled at the voice of my dad coming up from behind me as he joined me for my walk. I shared with him my mild distress at how different everything now looks. "The trees are so tall... I just can't believe it." With all of the radical simplicity that is so characteristic of my dad, he simply replied softly, "The trees have grown. So have you." And like this clearing of pines so dear to my heart, it is in this moment that I realized what the years passing must have been like for my father --- as he has watched not only the trees, but his own children grow. And like the pines, I am unrecognizable. But beautiful. These pictures make it seem like I just returned from the most relaxing trip in the wilderness of some faraway land with trees as far as the eye could see, no cell phone reception, no cars, and no noise, right? Wrong. I took these pictures in Yosemite National Park -- I place I had always dreamed of traveling to. I imagined mountains and wild animals and pleasant little walking trails and silence. While I certainly saw mountains, this trip was anything but quiet, let alone silent. What you don't see pictured is the hustle and bustle of the thousands of people that I was actually surrounded by, the honking of car horns (as traffic in the Park was at a stand-still), and the sea of iPhones in the grubby little hands of every pubescent teenager who was begrudgingly dragged along on this road trip by their parents. What you don't see is the look of shock on my face as I realized that this trip was going to be a far cry from what I anticipated. Isn't that so characteristic of life, though? It is often when things turn out to be exactly the opposite of what we had thought them to be that we end up learning the most. And it seems that I had a lot to learn. I didn't expect that I would have three different family members die within four months of each other this year. I didn't expect that senior year at my university would be the hardest one yet. I didn't expect that I would make new friends, travel to new countries, or discover new desires in my heart this year, either. I also didn't expect that Yosemite National Park would be packed with tourists and noisy as hell. My point is, while at times the unexpected can be tragic or even just uncomfortable, sometimes it can take us by surprise and stun us with beauty. For me, hiking in Yosemite turned out to be one of those beautifully unexpected things. Of course, there were the "expected" items on my bucket list that I was able to check off. I hiked under Bridal Veil falls and got soaking wet. I was blinded by the mist as I stared up at the top of the falls and into the sun. I snapped an annoying and over-abundant amount of pictures of El Capitain and Half Dome, and got the T-shirt to prove it. I sat at a picnic table and ate my lunch with my mom and my aunt, and looked down at my dirty and worn feet, strapped into my bright blue Teva sandals. Excluding the tourists and the noise, it was turning out to be the perfect day. In my selfish (and honestly, just really introverted) head, the only thing that could possibly ruin this day would be...other people. Sure enough, as I sat down at a picnic table while my mom and aunt searched for a bathroom, a young man in mountain climbing gear got out of his van, laid out a tarp right next to me (ignoring the giant field of space beside me that was entirely empty of, well, me), and began organizing his equipment. He nodded at me, trying to appear nonchalant. Great. As I braced myself for him to hit on me or start up unwanted conversation with me, I was surprised as I was greeted by... his silence. He didn't try talking to me. He just got to work, organizing the equipment for his climb. Now, I was intrigued. He was handsome, but seemed comfortable being alone. It didn't appear that anyone was accompanying him. I watched, curiously, as he used his arm to repeatedly measure out lengths of his coiled rope. He had clearly done this before. With worn hands that had probably gripped granite crevices on hundreds of climbs, he kept moving skillfully from one task to another, gathering his equipment. He was comfortable in the silence of my presence. I had a lot to learn from this unexpected vagabond. My mom and aunt returned, chattering at each other cheerfully over their relief of finally finding a bathroom. My aunt shot me a knowing look when she noticed the interesting young man just feet away from me. Always the friendliest of the bunch, Aunt Janie gave a "hello" to him in her cheery, sing-song voice. He looked up, grateful to be greeted, and returned her "hello." Then, he looked down, and went back to his work. Now, I was more than curious. "Getting ready for a climb, today?" I could have kicked myself for finally asking such an obvious question. "Yup," he replied. As Aunt Janie and my mom laid out fresh cherries and drinks on the picnic table, the young stranger actually got up and joined as at our table. "Mind if I sit for a second?" What followed was probably one of the most interesting hours of conversation I've had with anyone in years. A true modern vagabond, this guy has traveled all over the world climbing mountains. Besides being a professional, sponsored climber, he also served in the Navy, fought California forest fires as a "hot shot," (his actual job title), and joined YOSAR (Yosemite Search and Rescue team). I listened to him tell countless stories from his childhood growing up just miles from the Park, of mountains that he's climbed across every continent, of his time in the military, and on his current "missing persons" cases in YOSAR. He never went to college, lives in his giant white van, and randomly owns 200 acres of California ranch land that he someday hopes to build a home on. We were the first to leave, as my mom and aunt were eager to get back on the road. The kind and interesting stranger left to go meet up with his climbing partner. And I was left with a lot to think about. I am so grateful to this handsome and adventurous man. Thank you, kind stranger, for reminding me that my life doesn't always have to look "expected." You chose the most radical and unexpected life path, and have all of the beauty and happiness to show for it. It would have been so easy for you to do the "typical" high school --- college --- 9-5 job --- retirement path of life that most of us embark on. But you have reminded me to leave my life open to the breath of fresh air of possibilities. And for that reminder, thank you. Thank you for quietly being in my presence, even though you probably sensed my discomfort. And thank you for reminding me that more beautiful than any mountains, or trees, or wildlife is the face of a person you have never met before. Thank you, kind stranger, for being the most beautiful and unexpected thing that I encountered in Yosemite National Park. But you have reminded me to leave my life open to the breath of fresh air of possibilities. And for that reminder, thank you. ArchivesI graduated from the Franciscan University of Steubenville this month. There's a million different things that I could say about this school which I have grown to love so much over the past four years. The pertinent fact here, however, is my time that was spent in Rosa Mystica Household. There's no Greek life on campus. Instead of sororities and fraternities, there are similar groups of men and women called households. Each household is based around a different spirituality, and has different common times for prayer together, and various devotions to certain Saints and Scripture verses. Naturally, the household that I joined revolves entirely around gardens. I joined Rosa as a dorky and eager freshman, and over the course of four years, it became commonplace to think of my life and my faith in terms that my heart naturally grasped --- terms that revolved around earthiness and gardening. Growing. Watering. Cultivating. Planting. Blossoming. Wilting. Harvesting. Tilling. It is this notion of tilling that I think perfectly encapsulates my life, and more specifically, my four years at Franciscan. That is what this blog is dedicated to: tilling the garden of my life. Tilling is hard work. Tilling is painful. It involves harrowing and plowing the soil to prepare it for planting. Over my four years at Franciscan, my heart was tilled and plowed and harrowed until I thought that I could take no more. The sharp edge of the plow of my sufferings dug into the dust of my heart as deeply as it could, churning and tearing up the earth beneath in order to loosen it up and render it open to the possibility of fertility, new life, and growth. Without tilling, the earth of my heart would grow stagnate. There would be no room to plant. A plow (traditionally) is pulled by two yoked animals walking side by side. Alone, one animal would not have the strength to pull the plow. The yoke joining the two animals together combines the strength of both of their efforts, and enables them to pull the plow. It is my household sisters that I have to thank for plowing the garden of my heart alongside me. Many nights of crying in the arms of my sisters, laughing with them over our goofy antics, sharing my meditations and reflections from prayer, listening to their problems and sufferings and joys, and celebrating every nook and cranny of life together tilled my soil day after day after day. The rains fell --- some peaceful, and some stormy. The sunshine of happy days poured down upon my fields. The seasons of my life came and went over four years. My garden grew. The Divine Gardener has looked upon all the green lushness of my vineyards. And He has looked upon all this beauty that we have harvested and reaped together and has said: "It is good." To Grace: Thank you for showing me what it is to stand by someone's side at the foot of the Cross. As dramatic as it sounds, you and I both know what that means for us and our sisterhood that we fought for day after day. We know. Thank you for late night talks and cries. Thank you for being my sounding board. Thank you for reaching out to me with newness each and every morning that we lived together, loving me even when my heart was icy and cold and miles away from your gentle heart which was sitting only three feet away from me. Thank you for inviting me to let down my walls, for your patience in watching them fall, and for your warmth when vulnerability left me terrified and hardened to your friendship. Thank you for standing bravely at the "ground zero" of my conversion to Jesus, and my healing. You fearlessly wandered through the brambles and thorns of my garden, and helped me to weed out all that doesn't belong there. And I will never have the words to thank you for who you are to me. Thank you for witnessing to the Resurrection in my life and for celebrating in the healing of my life with me. Thank you for letting me hold you on your weak days in turn, and for sharing your sufferings with me. I love you with the entirety of my heart. Your friendship has saved my life in a hundred ways. To Jessie: Gosh dang. Thank you for fighting for a "me" that I didn't even realize was there underneath all of the crap. Thank you for unrelentingly fighting for my friendship when I wasn't even sure I wanted to let you in. One of the greatest victories of Christ in my life was the day that I decided to stop fighting your love and friendship. You filled my life with springtime blossoms. I love you, and every little thing about you. Thank you for letting me into your heart and for trusting me enough to see you. Our friendship is truly a very rare pearl of great price --- it is such a gift to be seen and known by another person. Though at times it seems that we couldn't be more different, we have almost never failed to see each other. We walk leisurely through the beauty of each other's gardens. And man, your heart is such a sight to behold. Thanks for being so beautiful. To Briana: Dude, I don't even know how you and I are alive right now. But PRAISE God. Thanks for all the glasses of wine, all the crying, all the laughing and hysterics, and all of our ridiculous antics. Thank you for letting me drag you to Damon's a million times and for taking me to your home and for allowing your family to be my second family and for SUGAR and for shopping sprees and for living life to the fullest with me. I met you --- truly met you --- during one of the darkest hours of my life (and I think it's safe to say that the same goes for you). There. are. no. words. for. what. you. have. been. to. me. this. year. Thank you for helping me survive senior year, for becoming one of my best friends, and for being in my life when everyone else opted to run away. Thank you for your friendship, and for your ridiculousness and laughter on the good days. Thank you for spontaneously getting on planes with me and going to foreign lands. Thank you for not judging me for how bad my sunburns get, and for snuggles and for loving me. To Rachie-Rach, my COCO! Thank you for being the best thing that EVER could have happened to me during junior year. Being coordinator of Rosa Mystica Household was such a great privilege, and spending it with you by my side was joyous beyond words. I mean it with my whole heart when I say that I could NOT have done that with anyone else but you by my side. You are strong, and faithful, and honest, and good, and brave --- and I love you. You are a holy woman. You are a ridiculously funny woman. And you are my sister forever and ever. Thank you for allowing me to be my freakishly weird self with you by my side. Every day is like Christmas with you, baby ;) Thanks for being the only person in my life who will ever love Santa as much as me. To Corinne: Honestly, I just want to applaud you. I have no idea how you put up with me! You got so much crap from me freshman year (and sophomore year, let's be real). I came into this school as a stubborn, hardened freshman who had no idea all of the healing that Jesus had in store for me and my achey breaky heart. I'm an intensely emotional person, and during this transitional time of my life, it seemed like every part of my heart was in an uproar. But you stood there with me. And I was in awe. Amidst the anger and the growing and the stretching and the hiding and the excuses, you saw something in me that it took years for me to see in myself. Thank you for being my Big, for leading me through formation, for being the kind of woman whom I could only hope to emulate in some small way, and for always being there for me. You're going to be such an incredible mom to Baby G! You are what made me join Rosa. And I love you to infinity and beyond. To Anna Grace: Gosh I love you. I can't really explain what happened with our sisterhood this year other than by saying that it was the most beautiful and unexpected gift that Jesus could have given me. How beautiful and how rare that I am closer to you now than I ever was when we were in school together! Thanks for the newness of your friendship and for being my CHAMPION in so much of my suffering this year. Thank you for marrying a good man because dang girl, your vocation fills my heart with so much joy and awe and gives me a hope that I never had before. To Julia: Thank you for being the most unexpected ray of sunshine in my life. You are this beautiful little poet with the heart of King David and I cannot get enough of you. Thank you for seeing parts of me that nobody else sees, and for reminding me of all things that are innocent and joyous and good and deep. Thank you for sharing your beautiful writing with me, for opening your beautiful mind to me, for sharing your thoughts in such an eloquent and fascinating way, and for reminding me that I don't have to be perfect or have it all together to be worthy of your love. Thank you for accepting my love, even when I'm busy and it looks messy. To Alexandra: H-o-l-y S-m-o-k-e-s. Honestly, I'm at a bit of a loss for words. Thank you for persistently loving me and spending time with me even when I can be unbearably miserable and lame ;) Thanks for always being down for satisfying my Dunkin Donuts needs, and for Netflixing with me constantly. Thanks for being my other half in so many hysterical and profound ways. You went out of your way to show kindness and friendship to me during such a lonely year of my life, and for that, I will never be able to properly repay you. You are a GIFT to me, Alex. A really, really beautiful gift. Thank you for being the Jack Sparrow to my Ron Swanson. "We amaze me." And so, I find myself uprooted from the garden where I have grown so much. But that's okay. I cannot wait to see where God replants each and every one of us. I guess I just wanted to say "thank you." Thank you for tilling my garden. I truly believe that the best is yet to come. |