Janet

My friend Janet is very courageous. She stands opposite the glaring eyes of injustice. But justice has nothing to do with it when it's family. There is no law or rule at stake, but merely the bond of blood. Human against human. Brother against sister. Yet it seems unjust, inhumane, and absurd.

Tomorrow she will come to work, most likely dressed in a Christmas sweater with a festive pin and a deliberate smile... a genuine one.



She should be going to her father's funeral. She should be dressed in black, with her hair neatly combed and groomed for the reading of the eulogy she carefully prepared. "Beautiful words" her friend called them. She should be in the presence of family and friends remembering and celebrating the life of the man she called daddy.


The blizzard came yesterday. The airport closed at 1:00pm, only to be opened again days after the scheduled funeral. All roads leading to Denver are closed. This blizzard is big. We prayed the wind would stop, but it didn't. She left work early on Wednesday, just after our Christmas potluck to try her luck at the John Wayne Airport.

We arrived this morning to find Janet at her desk, typing diligently at the computer. There was a box of Smith's donuts on the table, and a small jug of 1% milk in the fridge. Janet brought the staff breakfast.

Her brothers won't postpone the funeral so their sister can attend. We'll miss you, they say, but their words are empty. We can't change the date, they argue, someone might show up at the church and nobody will be there. Sorry. The blizzard roars 1100 miles away and the funeral must go on.



Everything will go as planned, as Janet planned. People will be in their places, scriptures will be read, the casket will be viewed... Janet planned it all. She and her father discussed it as he was dying. She was close to her dad.

The meticulously planned arrangements will commence at 10:00am in Colorado. Just as planned, minus the blizzard. But who can control the weather? Besides, the blizzard is mild compared to the storm which chills her family.



These are her chains. She wears them because she is faithful. She suffers but she believes. The Gospel is poured into this precious daughter of the King... her outflow speaks of nothing else. Jesus is her king and her heart is obedient. The command to forgive is the cross she carries. And when she is not strong enough it is carried for her by the body of Christ itself. And Christ is glorified.

This woman, this very courageous woman who does nothing but give, will find peace tomorrow in her Father's arms. She won't be present at the funeral tomorrow, but God has other plans and Janet knows this.

She told me so as I ate the Christmas frosted donut she brought this morning.

We Bought the Tickets, and They're One Way

Saying good-bye is becoming the reality of our world. A couple weeks ago we bought the tickets to Kailua, HI for January 10, 2007. Now, as we pack up only about 1/3 of our belongings, the impending move is all we think about. "JD, do you think I should pack this book on the Reformation? What about the complete set of George Herbert's poems? John Keats? My climbing gear? Maybe I'll bring only 2 robes instead of 4..." Oh the joys of consolidating our simple lives into small boxes. I've now moved in to 'throw everything away mode' for fear that sweater will no longer be in style two years from now. It's very odd to put some of our belongings away for a couple years. I mean, I'm really excited about our wedding dishes, but let's be honest. They're not going to make it to Hawaii - they're going to sit in a storage shed. All moving obstacles aside, the move to Kailua is getting more and more exciting. We both feel like we're in a place of obedience and are ready to start the next adventure.

Life As It Should Be

Bakersfield is a funny place according to its visitors. The air smells like farm animals (or a sewer as one friend put it). No matter where you go in Bakersfield, there is a small chance that in the morning or evening, you might get a whiff of the farm life that outskirts the city's borders. I like the smell personally. It's homey to me. When I step outside my parent's house on hot, summer evenings, the smell is particularly potent and rich. Caitlin and I talked about it one day. We agreed that we are somewhat fond of taking a deep breath of Bakersfield air on those nights. I doubt visitors to Bakersfield understand, let alone agree with our liking to the familiar scents.

Home to one of Bakersfield's finest breakfast dining experiences, Pappys exudes all that Bakersfield stands for. Being one of the most conservative pockets of California, parallel only to the Midwest and the South, Bakersfield flags its conservatism across the city, particularly within mom and pop joints such as Pappys. French toast and french fries won't be found on the menu. If you want the tasty treats, you'll have to order freedom toast and freedom fries. A picture of George W. on the wall smiles with you as you eat the defiant food on your plate.
Pappys also salutes the oil industry in Bakersfield with dozens of pictures of the oil fields, which, after awhile in Bako, begin to resemble a family portrait. Furthermore, the ceiling of Pappys sports stuffed heads of about every huntable animal one could think of. This morning the buffalo, coyote, and bear are adorned with santa hats to celebrate the upcoming holiday.

Despite its quirkiness, Bakersfield is home, and home to a community who loves each other deeply. I walked into Pappys this morning and immediately spotted 6 people I know at two different tables. I didn't think twice about it, but my companions who are from LA were shocked. This city feels a lot smaller than it is. People generally care about each other here... contrary to big cities where hustle and bustle is all people know. I think that's why people come back... to get a taste of community, stability, and the occasional whiff of the nearby farm.

The Flux of Writing

My internal alarm clock woke me at 7:00 this morning. I looked over to see JD still sleeping, and nowhere near waking up, so I got out of bed and prepared myself some oatmeal with honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I've been bitten with the writing bug again so I decided to read some past writing - summer 2005. I scrolled through post after post of my blog entries in Europe, and fell in love with the experience all over again. I emailed Teddy just to remind her of the Charles Bridge, Ebel Cafe, our massages, Cream and Dream, and the 20 pounds I gained overseas.

Now I'm nearly finished with my oatmeal and JD is snoring softly in the other room. These moments of solitude are precious to me. I thought of driving to a coffee shop, but home is nice and knowing my husband is nearby comforts me. Besides, Bakersfield doesn't get much more original than Starbucks here, and buying drinks for full price at my previous place of employment is depressing.

Blog entry ideas have been floating around my head for days now. Just long enough for the novelty of the story to wear off and another new idea to surface. Time in my day does not often allow for the fruition of creative thought and so my ideas remain merely that - ideas. However, as I mentioned earlier, I've been bitten with the wriitng bug again. References to writing, stories, etc., literally flood my mind and enter my daily life throughout intersecting moments of each day. This frightens me. I owe it to God and myself to do something about it, but when it actually comes to sitting down with my laptop strategically placed and fingers hovering the keyboard, I feel as if I haven't a clue where to begin.

And then God says, "write for me."

Truth be known I haven't written in months. More than months. My blog entries and meager journal entries do not constitute the discipline of sitting down with the intention of compiling extensive creative thought into an outline and then something cohesive and tangible - a story or essay perhaps. Herein lies my struggle. My expectations for myself shoot through the roof, and my perceived expectations of others go nearly as high. Instead of settling with writing crappy stories, essays, and poems (with the possibility of improving this craft), I simply run away and occupy my time with something else. Like myspace or facebook. Just as productive.

But it's not about me. Or others really.

JD says, "just write."
"Write about what?" I ask.
"Anything. Just write." His candid, frank, and honest response.
He tells me Bakersfield will be very disappointed if I don't get a book published someday ;)

Another encounter with my writer friend, Jenny Hall, further prods me to get over myself and just write.
"If you don't like a story, just scrap it and start something new. If you see potential, work on it," She says after I ask her what she does with stories she doesn't like.
Jenny is going to start writing nonfiction again. I think I like nonfiction. It's easier to write. Anybody can write about themselves.

Do you see what I do to myself? I put all this pressure and emphasis on the success of my silly words. When really, I just like to write sometimes and if I am writing for God, truly writing for God, then it doesn't matter what I or anyone else thinks of it. God and I had this conversation the other day when He hit me with the epiphany that writing is worship and a discipline and it pleases Him. So do it because it pleases Him. (I'm dense. really dense sometimes)...

Oh, and another thing? It doesn't have to be Christian writing to please God. Obviously I will most likely incorporate Jesus into my writing, but for some reason I put this burden on myself to produce cheesy Christian writing when it still glorifies God to write about ESPN (which I might blog about to explain later). It's the craft not the content that brings Him glory.

Anywho... if you followed this nonsense all the way through - first of all, congratulations and thank you, and second of all... I'm going to start writing. I told my husband, and I am telling you. Once a week I will sit down for a few hours (to begin with at least) and write whatever my little heart contents and if it ever becomes something, fantastic, if not, fantastic - at least I wrote.