Fields of dreams

October already, one of my favorite parts of the year.  It always has been.  

Since we moved to California, I find myself increasingly grumpy as the weeks of September drag by and the temperatures seem to rise unceasingly.  This year sent us soaring above 105 multiple afternoons in late September and my mood was sent plummeting after it.  

I’m a self-declared, never to recover, fall-aholic.  This is the time of year that never ceases to capture my amazement and childlike observation of all that is beautiful and meaningful in the world around me.  My obsession was trained into me as an elementary student by my fall-loving mother, who would take us on “leaf walks” the first week or two of October--just an afternoon out of the house in a hoodie before we needed a real coat.  We would roam through neighbor's yards and the local park collecting treasures...acorns (the ones with the hats are the best...unless you can find the very rare in-tact double), interesting twigs or long grasses to go into vases, and leaves...leaves of every color and shape, small as a my finger and large as my face.  These collections were poured into shirt-buckets and crammed into sticky fists until we trudged back to the house in waning yellow light, pink-faced with nipped ears and dripping noses, ready for cocoa.  We melted old bits of wax in the frying pan, dipped the leaves and dried them on paper towels to make them last the whole season.  

The kids spread the treasures around every counter and toilet seat and cabinet shelf that night, and we cherished giving Dad the grand tour when he returned from a long day.  Late that night, mom would re-collect and repurpose them into truly beautiful embellishments all over the house which would accent our home through the season. I’m not sure how she did it.  She could turn anything organic, be it living or dead, into something beautiful.  We felt some secret pride in adding to her talent.  

But California makes it challenging.  And perhaps adulthood too.  My soul tugs at my mind this time of year, longing for a respite, a hunt for the beauty, and my mind somehow can’t see it...certainly not until the temperature drops below 70.  Last week I had the blessing of a new camera that arrived on my doorstep (thanks to my love) which changed everything.  I got off work late one night, too late really to get any good photos, but I left the house anyway and walked the 2 blocks to the local park.  And there, after 10 minutes of casting about, I began to see things.  Long rays of light, dancing grasses, curled bark, withered flowers, and even a bit of a song on the wind.  And I returned to my house that night with new energy, new life.  It seemed not a incongruous thing that my mind and heart feel sapped the last few weeks.  It felt right, that there is a sense of change and transition brewing in my spirit again. 

I am reminded again that fall is not a season--it is not a climate change or a wardrobe shift or a chance for Yankee candles to thin our wallets over the pursuit of dessert and beverage-flavored wax.  

In many ways, fall is a death.  The summer’s peak has come and gone, the harvest must be collected before it falls un-useable in the field, and the beauty which has inspired and given life in the months previous is fading away.  As it crumbles, it leaves skeletons of itself behind--rustling reminders of the previous bounty, and of the stores we have gleaned for the winter ahead. There are days for tilling the soil under, days for reflecting on the memory of what is behind in order to be prepared for the dark and chill days that are coming.  

This time of great change often leaves a scene that is lackluster and unimpressive.  But its lack of color, of vibrancy, is vital if the next season of growth is to spring forth.  Without fallow ground, without time for branches to grow and swell, without time to recover and replenish there will be no more life to give.  

Perhaps it is because my own life has had so many significant events during this season, the fall always seems like a reset button for me.  After PA school graduation, moving back to my home town, and my wedding all in the same month in 2011, and the move to California in 2012, reflection on the past is almost automatic for me this time of year.  I find my stubborn friend, Nostalgia, to be at his prime when the days grow shorter.  His lure on me is strong; there are many days I would prefer to sit and bask in the glory of the dying growth than to see its shortcomings.  There is nearly always some not-so-metaphorical mess as well...a chaotic settling of the summer’s activity and the setting of one’s jaw towards the coming year which takes not a small amount of gumption.  

And I find, on my other shoulder, a sense of discontent as well, an urgency to learn broadly, create deeply, build differently, prioritize more skillfully.  There is an irritation with the clutter, like an arm sweeping the desk clean in broad strokes, laying ready crisp new paper and a sharpened lead which sit empty for weeks.  Empty and waiting, until gradually sketches emerge of what could be, what should be, what is impossible. 

If spring is for celebration and revelry, fall is for contemplation...for learning to see what is past as gone, though all around the leaves and pods and flowers are still visible, dried echoes of their former glory.  Beautiful, yes...and purposeful too.  The harvest nourishes and satisfies long after it has died.  But it will not last forever.  It will not carry us through next season.  So as we bake and store and rake and burn we must also be wondering, pondering, envisioning the coming spring.  

This fall, I find myself dreaming again.  Having survived a rather traumatic transplant into the desert, I look around and see my family, small and seemingly insignificant, yet thriving and just beginning to draw a harvest.  We are still seedlings in many ways.  I find myself ready for more, for deeper, for adventure and hard work in pursuit of the things that will last: life in community, learning, reforming of character, growing and developing of skills.  I find myself needing time for play and failure and new ideas.  Wanting to focus on service, wellness, mentoring, and giving.  

I find myself sitting back, and watching, stubbornly unwilling to miss the vision for what is next.  I ask the Lord to make it clear as I take time to notice the what this season has brought.  And I ask that my joy from the harvest around me will not overpower my will to start planting again. 

These dreams and visions are not the crisp and crackling textures of today, they are what will spring up from the ground next.  They are the small, parched seeds waiting in the cold earth for the day they will feel warmth.  They are the reason that death must occur.  

This week has highs projected in the upper 80’s, and I am making pumpkin-spiced treats and fall soups in pure defiance of California’s seasons.  But as I turn up my nose and stubbornly celebrate, I am also so thankful.  My eyes are open again to the simple things around me--I will continue to make time to celebrate this death, and all the new life it can bring. 

Fall: forward

It's a deliciously calm Saturday morning here...after a busy few weeks we are enjoying a day of sleeping in, coffee, chores, and catching up on projects and school work.  I find myself anticipating the coming holiday season and spent some time on Pinterest this morning looking for decorating ideas and gift inspiration.  The holidays will be different this year...our first Christmas ever which will not be spent with family...and I am already realizing that God has blessed me by giving me a work schedule during the holiday weeks that will not afford me much time to worry about being far away.

But I digress.

For now, it is still fall, and we are amazed as we look around us these days.  Headed into our second year as Californians and our third year of marriage has us stunned.  Time is flying by, and we find more and more familiarity around us each day.

Last week, we welcomed my Mom and Dad for a short visit.  They were flown out to do a choral festival with a large high school district about an hour away, and we had the joy of stealing them away for a 72 hour pass.  Unlike their last visit, when we had been here less than 3 months and barely knew the lay of the land, on this visit we found ourselves with so much we wanted to show them.  There were dozens of people they got to meet who have become part of the fabric of our lives...fellow teachers, health care providers, and church family.  We drug them to our favorite coffee shops, riverside parks, restaurants, and scenic overlooks.  And we were blessed to have them on a weekend with some "pivotal" moments for us---the first pep-band and drumline performance at a football game, and a big announcement weekend at our church.  Although we had only a long weekend together, we all commented that it felt like the longest time we have had together since Matt and I moved.  We have been home several times, but our visits have been a bit overshadowed by weddings and major family events.   This trip was wonderfully uneventful, allowing time and space for sharing, games, discussion, good food, and co-reflection.  Saying goodbye doesn't ever seem to get easier...actually I think I'm getting worse each time.  But leveling out after the emotional upheaval does happen a bit more quickly with practice.

Showing Mom and Dad our favorite local restaurant.  Hard to say if the food or the view is better. 

Time by the riverside...seeking out the few branches that count as "fall color"

There was a running joke about standing on one foot all through the weekend...yes, we sang our favorite childhood song about flamingos while mom and dad were in the middle of the river...

Matt doing his thing with the band...

Friday night lights with the folks...

The other amazing highlight of this fall so far was our anniversary camping trip to Pismo Beach. Initially, we had planned to travel to Yosemite for our first big adventure since moving to Cali. However, it has been so dry here for the past year that the falls were dry by July, and on top of it all there was a large wildfire (actually the 3rd largest in Cali's recorded history--over 200,000 acres or more than 400 square miles) that included the western side of the park and covered much of the sights in smoke about a week before we would arrive.  So we made a quick switch and decided to head to the beach instead.  I haven't been camping in over 10 years, and we don't have much gear this early in our marriage...just a tent, a lot of blankets, and enough childhood memories of great camping trips to make us feel it was worth the effort.  

"Camping" is a fairly loose interpretation of what we did...yes we were in a tent, but in a more crowded campground and with warm showers (25 cents for 2 minutes) just a stone's throw away...and while we cooked a few meals over the fire just to say we could, there were hundreds of great restaurants, coffee shops, and grocery stores within a 15 minute drive, and on more than one occasion we simply drove away and ate food that didn't involve carcinogens, burned fingers, and awkward outdoor preparation.  The benefits to this setup were wonderful-- we were a 5 minute walk to an open beach, and had parking access to all state-park land on the water during the 2 days we were there.  

Call us lame, but it turned out to be a much more relaxing and romantic version of camping.  Someday we will attempt a more legit trip, but for the time being, this was perfect.  

Trip highlights included: 

1) Sunset dinner overlooking the rock cliffs just west of Pismo Beach at the Spyglass Hotel

                                     

                                        

2) Watching the surfers and the dolphins (no pics but the first I've ever seen in real life!) over the Pismo pier.

3) Enjoying hours of beach walks, making friends with local wildlife and talking about everything

4) 2 person camp fire--this one took some getting used to, because normally a bonfire involves big groups or lots of family around.  It was a bit strange to be just the two of us, but we had some great chats and beautiful surroundings to enjoy.  (favorite quote--"when I was younger I never got to play with matches because it was dangerous...well now I'm an adult and I'll play with as many matches as I want!"--Matt)

 

5) Playing with my camera amidst the ever changing light and motion of the beach scene

6) Driving aimlessly up route 1 on our last day, stopping for anything we wanted and enjoying the sweet little towns and breathtaking views we encountered (including a seal colony!).  

We had a lot of time to talk about our past 2 years together, and so much about our future.  We both agree that marriage is a wholly satisfying endeavor so far--no matter what struggles and conflicts we face together, there is a depth of comfort and support neither of us could have imagined.  And let's face it...we just have a ton of fun together.  There is nothing I love more than laughing with him.  I love telling people about how Matt and I met...and the fact that the first 14 years of our relationship was littered with friendly pranks, frisbee games, youth group trips and lock-ins, and a strong brotherly camaraderie far before romance entered the picture.  He is simply the greatest gift God has ever given me...and his friendship, almost as much as his love, is what steadies me day by day.  

Our best times together in the last year have centered only around each other...and we still find this new.  We have had so much TIME here in our new home that is not occupied by family, friends, or work obligations.  And while we look forward to having a family some day and acutely miss our family back home, it is easy to see the way that time alone has bonded us together.  The vacuum on our lives this year has felt lonely at times, but it has not remained empty.  We have explored the valley around us, learned to love playing music and singing together, served in a church alongside each other, formed friendships as a couple, learned to fish and windsurf together, and grown more intertwined than I could imagine.  

This season, we are blessed for the first time since marriage to not have a life-changing event shaking us up and causing us to be on "high alert" for all the coming transitions.  This fall we are, for the most part, settled.  And it is such a relief.  Change continues to come, but it seems that we just might be moving, progressing, establishing.  There is great joy as we look around us, then ahead of us.  We are going, together, forward.

Free-falling

In my worst nightmares I'm always falling.

Sometimes I'm pushed off a tall building, or a gorge ledge gives way from beneath me.  In others, I'm strapped to the seat of a roller coaster car, staring down from the top of the first drop and realizing the tracks extend to infinity.  I think if Lucifer were to design a personal hell for each soul, something that was physical representation of eternity away from God as understood by the human mind, mine would be eternal free fall.

When we were dating, Matt and I got into an argument on this point.  He wanted to go skydiving for a birthday or graduation and I flatly refused to go.  What started as a joke ("don't you love me enough to jump out of a plane for me?") ultimately became a bit of a heated discussion.  I like to think that I would take a bullet for my husband if given the choice between his life or mine, but to this day I'm not sure I could willingly jump off of a platform into nothing.  I'm told that after the initial acceleration the jump feels less like falling and more like floating on a column of air.  At some terrifying moment, the amount of air pushing against you is equal to the rate at which you are hurtling towards the ground, and at that time you can catch your breath and look around and wonder at the miracle of life...that is until you start wondering if the chute will work when the rip cord is pulled.

I find myself these last few months in one of the longest falls I could imagine.  Among the many lessons and blessings from my Grandfather's death at Christmas has come a new wave of uncertainties and fears about our life here in CA.  I was just starting to get my feet under me, it seemed, when out of nowhere one of the most solid things in my life--my family--was threatened, and ultimately changed forever.  What surprised me was not the initial shock...for I knew it would feel like the ground had given way beneath me initially.  What surprised me was looking around 5, 6, now 8 months later and realizing the atmosphere is still hurtling past.

Changes form a line and silhouette the questions and uncertainty I still feel.

In March, changes out of anyone's control made my employment "part time" at best, with great hopes but no firm promise of gradually moving to full time work.  2 weeks later I got a call from one of the other 2 offices in town...a full time position with permanence and the chance to work with kids again.   A tug-of-war between loyalty and common sense, God's provision and my plan, smart choices and hurt feelings was fought for days, and yet it was clear: another change was upon us.

Our sweet pastor and his wife announced in May that they would be stepping back, making way for a new pastor, a 30 something and his family who were youth pastors in the LA suburbs and moving back to her childhood home to shepherd our flock.  And as much excitement as this brought, I realized I had somewhere along the line become comfortable in our church body, we had found a way to serve and felt we were growing, and now it all might change again.

Even the sudden loss of my childhood dog, Tucker, in May left a feeling of great loss, and greater injustice.  Saying goodbye over Skype to one of the great representations of my home and my childhood felt like one step too far.  When will life cease to change?  When will things be "normal" again? When will I find my way back home?

The answer, of course, is never.

It fascinates me that I have to continually learn this lesson: the only constant in this life is change.  There will never be another yesterday, and returning to the past is like holding the waves on the sand with a 2x4.  Even were I to return to Illinois, to my home, to my closest friends, change would be all the more evident.  My life, I realize, is and always will be a steady fall through the old and into the new.

And then, out of nowhere, I feel my weight come up against something solid in mid-air.  The lift of the racing, changing world is stronger somehow than my lack of control.  And I have found with some surprise recently that there are moments in the midst of it all to glance around and feel, I daresay, comfortable.  Like yesterday, when I picked up the phone at work to dial Matt and punched in the area code 760...failing to connect me to the same 217 number I have been dialing for 7 years.  Or today, when we walked into church and face after face approached with a hug and a smile and a knowledgeable question about our lives.  Or last month when Matt said "I feel like celebrating" and we knew without clarifying who we would call and where we would go for good food and great conversation.  Or early this summer when we welcomed our new pastor by unpacking clothing into drawers and said thank you to our old by moving furniture.  And I realized, suddenly, as I watched their eyes and their actions, that for the first time in a while I was the "unchanging" part.  We have become established here in Cali, and a full year has passed without us even realizing it.  My emotions still remind with frightening frequency of all that is "unsettled," and yet there are those close by with even less stability.  As my arms have been flailing about in the past months, they have met others, and we have grasped at each others elbows,  forming a falling star-shaped mass of bodies, a solid structure which has no choice but to follow gravity closer to the ground.

As life moves along, layers are inevitably added to the silt of our banks.  And while we feel exposed and afraid when we are first deposited, time will slowly but certainly cover and then imbed us in the newly familiar.  What I may call a passing event, even a reminder of my solitude, today may be a cherished memory in a year.

I continue to question, I continue to ask for a calling and vision here.  I long to feel that I am rising to a purpose rather than surviving a breakneck fall.  Yet how else will my faith be tested and strengthened?  When my feet are solid beneath me and the pathway is clearly marked, there is no incentive, no need, to draw on a higher power.  But weeks and months of uncertainty, of taking another breath and another step and dreaming another dream--that is the place where God's might can buoy me on thin air.  That is a place where I will learn to value the lives he has drawn around me.  That is a place where I will see new possibilities not as lofty goals I must trudge to complete, but as exhilarating possibilities that I am blessed to experience.

For the first time in many months, I am learning to view the past year not as a challenge I have (somehow) survived, but as preparation for what is coming.  Perhaps our purpose here in Cali is not clear because I am not yet able to dream big enough, to imagine far enough.  Perhaps stepping out of the plane into the vast unknown was just the first step in clearing my head and my heart of the familiar, the solid, and the certain.

I can hear the spirit whispering, faintly audible above the roar of the wind in my ears. As I sit under the teaching of my new pastor, as I form new relationships that I realize are going to last, as I work in a new and inspiring environment, now and then I feel resonance in my soul.  A shimmering sensation of expectance which is oddly similar to that "stomach dropping" feeling just before free fall.

As if to say...the time is coming. As if to say...you haven't seen anything yet.  As if to say...don't you dare close your eyes.

As if to say...buckle in, and hold on tight.

The Way

For the first time in a long time I'm saying no.  Fridays are my "day off" and yet there is always something to do.  Endless paperwork, lending a hand at the busy hospital, putting out fires for overwhelmed receptionists.  Not today. It's time to take a breath.  There are herbs to be planted, pictures of beautiful nature to be edited, a husband on spring break to be loved, and of course 3 large piles of laundry.  Mostly there is great need for a bit of quiet.

My heart feels a bit bruised today.  It has been a challenging week at work, with potential for big changes and hurt feelings along the way.  My loyal, people pleasing, avoid-conflict-at-all-costs self has had to stand up and make tough choices.  Loneliness has ebbed again.  And above all I find myself wrestling with my purpose here in this lovely state and quaint town.

Six months later I grow impatient that God's plan for us, and for me, has not been spelled out.  For the first time in my life I am not sure where I am going.  I got my education, I followed my passion, I married a wonderful man, I started into a clearly God-given job.  And then we were called.  I remember the way I fought it, the questions and tears, and the ways I was reassured that God's will was so clear.  And I believe it still.  But I am still waiting, apparently swept along and unable to find a paddle to guide and pursue my own existence.  My sense of injustice grows as I struggle to find my place professionally, personally, spiritually.  I long for a passionate mission, for lives I can see changed or helped, for sharpening friendships, for a home full of a giving and hospitable spirit.  Instead I feel frustration and isolation and even occasional fear creeping towards the thresholds of my life.  In desperation I grab a notebook and bible and stubbornly refuse to move until God will speak like thunder, write words on the wall, or reduce my uncertainty to the ever-sought "peace."  I think of myself proudly in these moments, that like Jacob I will attach myself like a writhing leech to the Lord and come out with a new name, a clear identity, and a to-do list that I know will work.  When the thunder and the message do not ring clear, it is easy to assume that I have missed something, that I made a mistake, or didn't try hard enough.

Sometimes we don't get to know.

I feel like I should have learned that lesson somewhere around 2nd grade, but somehow the principle seems to allude me.  As I face big choices professionally this week (more on that later) I find myself desiring to know that answer that is TRUE.  And by true I mean the most spiritually fulfilling, the most aligned with God's kingdom plans, and the best suited to mold me into a girl after God's own heart.  My  motives, though I may be biased, seem to be pure.  I long to follow.  I don't mind the weight of a cross.  I can manage pain.  But first, I need to know that what I am doing is worth it.  My fears are of finding out at the end of a long and painful road that I chose the wrong fork 400 miles ago...that my struggle was not only in vain but laughable.  On the other hand, I fear the "easy" road.  If it is easy, it must not be God's will.  My circular reasoning is more than frustrating, more than hilarious.  It is truly ridiculous.   As I read and question and pray, I beg for "the voice behind you saying 'This is the way, walk in it'" (Isaiah 30:21).  What I hear is silence, and decisions do not make themselves.

Last month I did something very rare for me.  I picked up a book.  Not a reference book, not an old physiology notebook, not even a medical journal.  A real book.  Actually, one I've had on my shelves for years.  Through Painted Deserts is one of those books I was supposed to read long ago.  Self-aware conservative Christian girls who didn't want to get too painted in were supposed to pick up edgy, hip words from the likes of Don Miller alongside their CS Lewis and Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul.  It was how we proved we weren't scared of "the outside."  It made us feel sexy and relevant to be dealing with a more angsty and unsettled version of our faith.  And of course it stroked our intellect to be able to refer to this mainstream-unorthodoxy.  By the time I got around to reading it I expected something quite cliche and perhaps without much substance.  What I found was a soul, searching, and leaving some words behind.

"It strikes me as I think about it, how beautiful we find massive structures, either man-made or organic.  I wonder if we find them amazing because they make us feel small and insignificant, because they humble us.  And I remember feeling that way back in Colorado, that I was not the center of the cosmos, that there were greater things, larger things, massive structures forged in the muscle of earth and time, pressing up into the heavens, as if to say 'the story is not about you, but for you'...as if to remind us we are not gods."

Donald Miller

Through Painted Deserts

His documented road trip leads him through AZ and then CA...through MY desert, over highways I can identify and through desolation and beauty I have seen.  Maybe I am drawn to the fact that his journey had no other purpose than to experience something new.  He discovers people, hikes natural wonders, has car trouble, eats weeks of black beans, and develops friendships.  He does not "figure it out" or "arrive."  There is no giant guidepost to his future found by the side of the highway or in the deepest depths of the grand canyon.  Yet there is beauty and joy and pain which somehow clarify his existence.  He does not fight the answer like a fish pulled along by a hook.  He allows grace and frustration, failure and revelation to be equally relevant.  Mostly, he questions the world from a position of curiosity and desire for intimacy with God, rather than from a cowardly human fist being shaken at the sky.

In my own search for "the way" this week, I have not been given the answer.  I have come to a crossroads, and leaned more into common sense in the absence of divine intervention.  And I am not sure this is wrong.  In fact, it requires every bit as much faith as a down-from-heaven message.  No matter what I do, I long for it to bring glory to my maker.  That is the only thing that matters.   And as I do so, as I experience all that is around me, as I watch and question and live among the mountains, I hope to feel small.

Happy Friday, everyone.  May you find joy and blessings as you walk your way today.

In Memoriam

That Christmas morning began differently, but only because of our age. We slept in, chatted in the bathroom with my sisters-in-law, and told Christmas eve tales. Our celebration with the Holmes clan was full of singing, food, twinkling lights, and the spinning of memories. And while gifts are not usually defining to these holidays for me, my grandfather's offerings of some cherished family relics, bequeathed to the newly-weds in Arizona and California, left a feeling of tradition and of blessed connection with the generations in my mind. Our family service that night was full of old strains. Lyrics and chords that out-dated the men beside us who had stolen our hearts and replaced our last names. Grandpa chimed in across the room, resonant bass notes joining with those of my 6'2” little brother. We sang, we worshiped, we laughed. We proclaimed glory to the newborn king, born again in our hearts, a fresh reminder of the Peace he brought between God and man for all eternity.

Peace, peace, bearer of peace
Men of goodwill receive Him
Holiest of nights, oh most wondrous of days
Shepherds and kings lift their voices in praise
Join in the chorus His praises sing
Glory to God, to the newly born King

It's a cruel thing for a Christmas celebration to be interrupted before it begins by your husband's deep eyes and solemn tone with a phone in his hands. “Let's go sit down” never implies coming peace. The heart races a bit as you take in the words, having difficulty comprehending their meanings. “At the hospital with Grandpa.” “Went for a walk...” “Unconscious...” “heart is beating on its own again.” We chew on delicious cinnamon rolls and attempt to direct the conversation away from the hospital for a half hour, but soon realize that there is no hope of a normal day. We climb in the car somewhat resistant, as if arriving on the scene would make the situation real. The roads pass slowly, the hallways are long, and the faces are tear stained as we enter. The doctors speak with compassion, even pain behind their eyes. “I'm just so sorry, we are going to do everything we can.”

The next few days are a blur. There is a strange thing that happens to time in the ICU waiting room. You sit and stare at the wall through every agonizing minute, making small talk with cousins and munching on food brought by thoughtful friends, and yet the hours speed by. And you discover the great mercy that worry and tears seem to flow fluidly into memories and gentle teasing, which give way again to silence. There seems to be no emotion which fails to express what we feel, for each in it's own way is true...and necessary.

Gradually, the pieces fall together. Grandpa had gone for his daily 2 mile walk that morning and never come home. When a jogger spotted him she ran for the nearest house and called paramedics, who revived his pulse-less body on the scene. Every test was run, every scan performed, history questions came in waves every few minutes. No stroke. No heart attack. No blood clots. In fact, his only true physical irregularities seemed to be residual. 8 fractured ribs, 2 displaced fractures of his c-spine, and a low potassium level. For 36 hours the doctors tried to keep his body cool enough to lessen or reverse the spinal damage, while attempting to control blood pressure and pulse rates. We took shifts watching his bedside, speaking to his body, squeezing his strong but limp hands, watching Grandma attempt to perceive this shocking reality, and listening to her quote to him the scripture she repeats every night before she falls asleep.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures
He leads me beside quiet waters
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies
My cup runs over
Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life
and afterward I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

As the hours stretched into days, the doctors confirmed what we already knew. Seizures and posturing showed evidence of irreversible damage, EEG's showed no normal brain waves. Mercy shown again as all test results conclusively gave us answers. There was to be no playing God, for the sovereign decision had already been made. That morning, we gathered around his bed, closed the door to his room, and sang every old hymn we could think of. Tears flowed, generations locked arms, eyes met and locked and fell again. There were no need for words to describe the significance of this moment, even to it's youngest member. To see the end, to glimpse the portal that spans time and eternity, to worship in relatively miniscule sonar as the number in the heavenly chorus grows...this is what man was made for. This is the presence of holiness. This pain is the passageway to completion. What we left behind us that day was mere flesh. Who he was is now a memory. What we are awaiting and striving for in this life has never been more clear.

This weekend, I found myself home again, 2 months to the day since Grandpa's home-going. I found my eyes often drawn out the window where the bike trail is silhouetted against the snowy ground. My mind returns to his joy while we sat and talked together in this very room, to his tears as he said the blessing before our evening meal, to his efforts to downplay one of the most beautiful gifts I have ever been given. I curl up in the bed where he spent his last night on earth, and closing my eyes, years of science experiments, twinkling eyes, and spiritual guidance come rushing back to me. And singing...there was always singing.

Family friends bequeathed my mom with the most lovely set of wind chimes, from which hangs an etched sign that reads “In loving memory of Robert James.” As the invisible breezes engage the instrument in dance, its tone haunts and illustrates both our grief and our joy. The soundtrack, it seems, should not settle so well into both stories. But life, both the living and the ending of it, houses the same truths universally and eternally. Mercy and pain are tools of equal value, and analogous purpose in the hands of a loving God.

Change will follow. As will new life, and true love, and tragedy. And death will find us again. What ebbs and flows in and out of this life is as unpredictable as it is beautiful. Without it, our time here has no meaning. May our eyes be more and more open as the Day approaches.

Peace, peace, wonderful peace
Peace to the world is given

2012 was a huge year for our family...I wanted to post a photo documentary of some of the highlights from our year, as an addition to the Christmas letter we sent out.  Enjoy!

I have loved every minute of being a new Higgins.  Here I am with my wonderful siblings-in-love (we did a photo shoot for Pat for Mothers Day)

Matt got a new car!!

TJ graduated from high school and started college as a Freshman at Millikin University

Here we are in the Sierra Nevada's just after being offered a position at Kern Valley High School.  What then seemed like a crazy dream is now our home

Nana and Gramps aren't the only ones who can't get enough of Asher David. 

We LOVE being an aunt and uncle.  

In July, my baby sister got married...

And I got a few more siblings!

Family vacation in Colorado just before Casey and I (and our respective husbands) moved west to our new jobs and homes. 

There are no words to express how much I love my family!

My time with my Grandparents this summer is even more precious since Grandpa's home going.

One of the first activities in our new homeland has been learning to windsurf.

Our hiking adventures at the Sequoia's "Trail of 100 Giants"

Sibling time during Thanksgiving break

Our sweet, sweet nephew is growing up!!

Our sweet friends, Jake and Maddie, who are wonderful people and awesome pumpkin carvers!

A beautiful shot of our new home

Much love to you and yours!  Have a great 2013!