Dear Lisa,

That is how my letter to my 33-year-old self will begin. Part of me feels that it is super cheesy to write to your future self, but it's not. There are some things that I really want that Lisa to remember. Things like how scary my life is right now. Everything is being held together with bits of string and spit. I feel like I'm waiting for it all to dissolve in my hands and escape through the net of my fingers.

There are other things I'm going to write about too. Things like how firmly I'm fixing my eyes on Jesus and trying to trust that He wants to take care of me. Life is changing, He is not. I may feel that there is nothing to hold onto, but His Spirit within me has been working to teach me that there is Truth and Goodness and Hope and that I too can be a part of these things.

There is Joy in All.

Dear Lisa, (I might say) I am having a hard time right now. But God is Good and Faithful. And sometimes you need to capitalize the important things. Dear Lisa, I hope that you are more financially stable and are with someone who loves you. I hope that you are engaged in work that delights and fulfills you. But if you are not, and if your spirit is heavy and your heart is aching, know that there is still Hope and still Purpose and still Life to live. "For no one is abandoned by the Lord forever. Though He brings grief, He also shows compassion because of the greatness of His unfailing love."

There is Joy in All.

Love, Lisa

Trying to say Something with Lists.

Family. Fambly.
1. Something you choose. Those people who are guaranteed to be around for every wedding and every funeral.
2. Something you don't choose. Those people who are guaranteed to be around for every wedding and every funeral.
3. Friends who stick around and want to know everything.
4. My cousins and their mothers. We are alike for a reason. Who knew so many strong-willed, outspoken women could exist happily in the same space. It wasn't always happily.
5. Kyle and his wife Dena and our shared experiences and our love of games. Games!
6. The realization that my aunt is really my aunt and I can't do anything about it. Thank you.
7. Permanency. A sense of "for better or worse."
8. Holding hands with your cousin and knowing that there is something more than choice that makes you call one another when bad things happen.
9. Understanding why you do things the way that you do them.
10. Realizing that we all laugh hardest at our own jokes. Gilhams are retarded in that way.

Growing Up.
1. Finding music that I love and playing it over and over again.
2. Looking at people in the eye and knowing what to say.
3. Paying for groceries and telling people that fruit is expensive.
4. Feeding cats.
5. Waiting for phone calls.
6. Knowing when to take some space.
7. Talking about forgiveness.
8. Taking advantage of these last years with my grandmother.
9. Two beers.
10. Telling, not asking. Discussing, not arguing.

I always have more to say than what I write. Here below is just a hearty sentiment from my deep Christmas insides. :) Does that make sense?

Joanna Newsom makes me feel so deeply that it is good to be a woman. Thank you, Jessica, for making me listen to her on the way to Delynn's wedding. I think I've played "Ca' the yowes to the knowes" twenty times in a row today. My life is better. :)

pretty people

I have such beautiful people in my life. I can be neurotic and insecure and they love me somehow. There are only a handful of people in the world that I assume love me, that I expect to love me. Everyone else continues to surprise me.

I'm glad that winter is here, but it's making me slightly bi-polar. I am a mess in the winter. A mess, do you hear me? I'm drinking tea every day though. And being productive and un-productive. you know. Dear goodness. Sometimes I think people must think I'm a pretentious jerk. Maybe I am. But I can't stand dumb people.

Thanks for loving me even when I'm crazy. Winter is here. I have no idea what I'm doing or what I'm thinking or why I'm acting the way that I am. I apologize in advance for all the ways that I may offend you in the next few months.

Please love me anyway. And I'll be surprised every time I realize it.

Cats have their own brains. You can't control them; they think for themselves. And they move in their cat-like way and sit the way cats sit and look at you.

My cats follow me from room and room and look at me. They sleep curled up together and walk side by side through the house. They are black. One is a boy and the other is a girl.

Cats are like statues. They sit perfectly upright and look at what interests them. They like windowsills so they can see outside. When they see something move quickly, their eyes get big and round and yellow. These cats are sweet and cuddly and they can jump high. Jump, Cat!

This is not a real blog post.

The Bare Arms of Trees, by John Tagliabue

I was walking up Henry's driveway the other day, breathing steam into the air, and I said to him, "Look. There are no more leaves on the trees." And my spirit said, "Finally." It was cold that day. And it felt right.

O Winter, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers.

As much as I wished it to be otherwise, I felt so unsettled with Autumn. I kept shifting my weight around in that big orange armchair, unable to find a comfortable position. It was odd; I thought it would be easy to love. So many of my friends come into their own once the leaves start changing. I wanted to wrap my hands around Autumn and breathe in that warm pumpkin-scented spiciness. But it didn't seem to fit. I found myself looking out the window at that corner, thinking, "Winter, where are you?"

I've come to realize that I am a Winter Woman. I get so cold and so lonely and so quiet and so tea-filled. Winter is sometimes dark and bitter and difficult and slow, true. But it's honest. And I trust that there's life underneath and in it all, even when I can't see or even imagine it anymore.

O Winter. Winter gives me that great grey space in which to breathe. Winter lasts. I get to unfold and settle down. I'm not squeezing every moment out of it, not clinging to it like Summer. I'm not rejoicing in its triumphant arrival, like Spring. It's not Autumn, for goodness sakes. But Winter is my time and my season. This is when I come into my own.

There is Joy in All

Today I woke up too early and drove downtown to have coffee with Sarah Reid, which meant that she had tea and I had nothing (long line). It took me less than 20 minutes even with traffic! We talked and smiled and were sad and happy. It was joyous. Then I came home and made tea and watched "Glee." When I watch that show and I hear those men sing, I can physically feel the joy swell inside my ribcage. Dear sweet music. It makes me squeal and dance about my kitchen while waiting for my tea to steep. Steep, tea, steep! While I dance out my joy.

Life is crazy good. Crazy and good. And Glee delights me. And tea tastes like London and home. I can walk to work. I can hold hands with a five-year-old. I'm bringing the cats home tonight. Penney already loves them. We will have good times. I will be able to afford my rent. And that is wonderful and happy.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

O Peace.

When I came home from London I wrote about peace attending me. It was a phrase I had heard in a lullaby: "Sleep, my child and peace attend thee, all through the night." I loved the idea that peace was active. It was alive and working on me. Peace wasn't passive, it was aggressive. And then, frustratingly enough, I lost it. I didn't know how to hold onto it, or let it live in me. I wanted it; I asked for it; but I felt as though it had slipped through my fingers, or run away when my back was turned.

These past few weeks though, peace has come attending again. I glimpse it through the windows. I hear it in my choir. I feel it in my slippers and taste it in my tea. I look down and I'm holding it in my arms. O Peace. You're right in the middle of these hard things. I am still so uncertain and insecure. Life isn't stopping and things are spinning and spinning. But Peace is holding my hand, reminding me everyday of my undeserved blessings.

Peace is found walking around a Farmer's Market, holding Henry's little hand, feeding him little kiwis. Peace is his ridiculous adaptation of that favorite American pastime and his silly boy laugh and his short lived exclamation, "Holy thin apple!"

Peace is this new and surprising gift I've been given. It's late nights and new housemates and someone who is just mine. O Peace. Living in my house. Driving in my car. Attending me, all through the night.