Sparkle

I’ve been having a lot of deep conversations lately. You know, those stay up until 3:00 in the morning over a bottle of wine (or in this case a six pack of beer) exploring the mysteries of the universe and your soul.  I’m around the people who bring that out the most in me – though, to be fair it is not at all difficult to suck me into psychological, philosophical, or moral discussions that creep into the wee hours, I just love them.

As always, I’ve left most of these conversations reflecting on what others and I’ve said. Recently, I've also walked away with a salty dissatisfaction with myself. Most often I’m dissatisfied because I feel like I’ve come across as hard-hearted and cynical and certainly not the hopeful, humanitarian who sees the good in all things (as I hope to be perceived). If I were to comprise a theme to my input, it’s generally that people and the world are broken and selfish and there is little hope that whatever they do or say is going to fix it. 

And the truth is I believe that.

I have been reading the Mitch Albom book For One More Day. The first day I was reading I came across a quote I just had to write down:

Maybe you figure men like me, men who play in the World Series, can never sink as low as suicide because they always have, at the very least, the “dream come true” thing. But you’d be wrong. All that happens when your dream comes true is a slow, melting realization that it wasn’t what you thought and it won’t save you.

I believe that. I cannot underline, highlight or exclamation mark that truth enough. No wordly dream is what you thought. No person is what can fix you. Not even your inherent beauty or humanity. No, no, no. And I feel like I’ve been thrusting forth that message with such clarity and force that the only conclusion I can draw from listening to myself is that I am a hopeless cynic who doesn’t see the beauty in people, only their short-comings and failures.

But that is not true. I love people. I think people sparkle. Even the most broken soul still sparkles in the light. They can’t help it. They are created by God to sparkle.

But here’s the deal – sparkling involves two entities: the prism and the light.

See what the world tells us is that we don’t need the light to be beautiful. Which in some sense is true, I mean prisms are neat looking with or without sun shining through them. But prisms are meaningless without light (what is a prism for except to refract light?) and they certainly don’t sparkle. I see it everywhere – do this, buy into this or that ideal and you’ll be fixed. But the only way – the only real and lasting way to find meaning is to hang in the light and let it shine through you. Sparkle.  

So I think I feel cynical, because I keep incessantly shooting down every other option. 

It’s a weird juxtaposition to me. Here I am, at once and earnestly cynical about this world, yet also entirely hopeful for the hand of God to redeem, to dust off and to make us all sparkle.

Welcome home, Paula

So this is it… my first official post from the farmhouse.

My brother sent me a post a few days ago that said “Welcome home.”  It’s weird to think of this place as home and not some vacation spot. I found out a few days ago that it actually has been a retreat destination.  It has certainly been that for me this far.

I love old houses. The way they sound (creak, crack) and smell (dust and age). Houses this old seem wise. Let me share some of my favorite bits of this old house:

Stained glass windows… Aren’t they perfect? Stained glass reminds me of my paternal grandmother’s house. My Grandma Emke was (and is) this generally stoic German woman whose house was always immaculately kept. She also baked up a storm. Stained glass windows remind me of the Easters I spent at her house eating delicately frosted sugar cookie bunnies (her famous recipe) with little red hots for eyes. Delicious. It also reminds me about the way she used to stand at the door and watch us drive away. She would wave her hand and one tear would slip down her cheek. There is something so powerful about when those who hold their cards so close to the chest show emotion visibly. It’s so tangible and real. Something that makes you feel really deeply but simultaneously respect them.

Patterned Wall paper…. Along the halls and some of the ceilings is this white wallpaper that looks like punched tin (one of my favorites). It’s peeling back in places. My anal retentive side wants to get out the wallpaper paste and fix it, but my heart likes the age and imperfection. It’s beautiful and it’s old. I think there is something really comforting about that for me.

 This old vanity/hutch in the upstairs bath…. I just love all the drawers. Makes me feel like I am five years old wondering what could be nestled inside. (BTW – Right now there is nothing nestled inside, but one day…)

I also love the deck and the river and the porch and the garden and the sticky weather and the huge windows that let in light everywhere. I love the trees and the hammocks, the flowers and the bug bites and the smell of rain in the air. The hardwood floors, the ever playing sound track of music, the stream of welcoming visitors. The doggie boys dancing their dance whenever I come or go.

But the bits I love the absolute most are the hardest to share. A spontaneous bear hug from behind – “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” People who are interested in listening to you tell the same old stories over again; smiling, laughing or crying at all the appropriate spots. Hearing new and old stories. Sharing a bottle of wine. Trying a new type of beer (Lingen-something er other). Watching as ones I love so much, giggle and experiment with our forehead thermometer for Sydney – “I wonder how different my temperature is from my head to my arm” or lift her up so she can “climb her first tree.”

I’ve had all of my fear of rejection brokenness surfacing here. It’s seems so out of place in this context, but I see what this is. These circles of friends have always meant rejection for me. Look at how close “we are.” But here, in some way that is undeniable to me, it isn’t “we” but “us.” It isn’t theirs but ours.  

I guess that is what my brother probably meant when he said welcome home. 

Welcome home, Paula.