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. |