Poetry Reading

     Yesterday I ate lunch with my 85-year old grandmother. My mom, sister and I made the 20-minute drive to her home and picked up food to go at Bob Evans, my grandma's favorite restaurant. I am convinced that Bob Evans is some sort of Mecca for wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and purple hair dye. We were the youngest people there by at least 50 years. But they do have good soup and salad; I'll give them that.

     My grandma isn't as sharp as she used to be (understandably), but I always have fun talking with her. During our time together, she told stories from the Great Depression, from the time her family lived and worked at the fairground, from a time when people sewed their own clothes. She also informed me that the love of cake baking runs in our family blood, and that there is an ancient, glass, cake stand to prove it. (Although that might be true, I'm a little nervous that domestic finesse skipped my generation.) She reminded me that her left eye is still giving her trouble, that her feet still swell, and that she still has to take a handful of pills with every meal. I don't want to be old.

     As promised, I brought along my poetry portfolio from writing class. I sat next to her while she patiently read through my work. My grandma has always loved poetry. When I was younger, I used to have sleep overs at her house and she would read me a book of children's poems before we went to bed. She used to write her own poems, too. She keeps the yellowed papers in an old shoe box, in a forgotten drawer in her bedroom. I am determined to help her find them sometime, because I know I would enjoy seeing them. After she read my poems, she recited some of her own poetry, at least, as much as she could remember. They were simple and beautiful.

       I told her she probably passed the love of writing on to me. She just smiled and said, "Yes, you always used to write me stories for my refrigerator. I would show them to my friends when they came over for a visit." She paused for a minute and then began reciting another poem as it peeked out from the corner of her mind. It might seem silly, but I think that yesterday was one of my favorite moments with my grandma. Reading poetry together on a cloudy, Wednesday afternoon. And as her memory begins to fade, I hope that those are the kind of times she will be able to treasure, too. 

Summer

by Heather D. Moline

She smacks her lips together and she smiles

while sunlight folds into her gentle curls.

She takes a breath, then putters, laughs and tries

to blow another bubble to the sky.

The tree transforms into a hideaway

where cops and robbers meet to have a fight

His box of secrets, stashed beside the trunk,

is marked with X and safely out of sight.

She learned to lace her skates all by herself

though balance didn't come as easily.

The race begins-- To lamppost. Touch. And back.

She took the turn too fast and scabbed a knee.

But summer sets, realities arise.

Imagination waves its last goodbyes.

Hopscotch, marbles, jump rope, trade them in

for war and tax and saturated fats.

My futon has an attitude

I had a "Miss Independent moment" on Wednesday. My roommates and I had just finished final exams and were beginning the horrible process of packing up/cleaning up our room. Part of that task included disassembling the futon. In the past, my dad has put it together and torn it down, but this year, I was going to do it myself. After all, how difficult could it actually be? 

Answer: very. 

I put my full effort into twisting apart the stubborn screws. It probably didn't help that all I had was a miniature pink tool kit and some sort of Handyman wrench contraption my dad had given to me. At one point, I was so frustrated I told my roommate Lindsey I wanted to swear. (ha!) She reminded me that there were parents helping their daughters move out and "it probably isn't a good idea if the Hall Chaplain is swearing at the furniture." Good point. I kept my composure, barely.

After 45 minutes of wrestling with the futon and pinching my fingers and pleading with those bolts to release their grip, I was able to convince 6 screws to comply. Really, only six. 

I left for lunch, while the half-apart futon sat in the middle of the room, mocking me. I would show it who was boss later. It would be sorry.

When I came back, my friend Adlai had taken apart the futon. He said that he did it in 5 minutes. Seriously? So, instead of feeling like Miss Independent, I felt like a little girl. A little girl with wimpy pink pliers and a futon with an attitude.

In other news, I'm home now. I still have a lot of unpacking to do, but summer has officially started!

Engine Grease and Eternity

My Dad has a really cool car. I know it’s cool for a few different reasons; first, whenever I tell my guy friends what kind of car he drives, they do the classic, chin tilt, wide-eyed, “Niiice!” followed by questions about RPMs or pistons or the exhaust fumes or something I don’t completely understand. Next, I know because it has a special spot in the garage, and it never goes out in the rain. Finally, I know it’s cool because men stare whenever we ride around town. And although I’d like to think they are looking at the way-cute daughter in the front seat, I know that their honks and waves are directed at the manicured tires and flawless racing stripes. Oh well, can’t win them all, I suppose.

   My Dad has put so much work into restoring his ’67 Shelby Cobra (Yes, men, this is when you can ooh and ah.) I’ve been thinking about my Dad’s car a lot the past few days because of the sermon our pastor gave on Sunday. He was preaching about spiritual “restoration,” a word that most of us don’t truly understand (at least, I know I didn’t.) I looked it up in the dictionary and it means “to return something to its original owner, place or condition.”  

   The thing about restoration is, it doesn’t come easy. Just ask my Dad. He and his friend, Mike, spent hours upon hours making that Mustang shimmer. When they started working on it, it didn’t have a floor, it was missing parts and it had been sitting behind someone’s shed for a few years covered in weeds and cobwebs. But my Dad and Mike, they saw potential in that old car. They were willing to put in the time and effort to make it something beautiful again, returning it to its original condition (or maybe even a little better.)

   I think that God looks at us the same way. He sees our rusted wheels and rotting seat cushions and scratched paint. He sees the bad choices we’ve made and the scars we’ve acquired and the times we’ve done our own thing instead of His. But He chooses to see past those things. Instead, when He looks at us, He sees incredible promise. He offers the gift of restoration for anyone who chooses to accept it.

   Another thing my pastor pointed out was that most of us don’t like change. He’s right. Sometimes I hate it. But you can’t be truly restored if you aren’t willing to be changed. Healing requires you to remove yourself from the weeds and allow yourself to be sanded, twisted, and molded. And that can be painful. Usually I just want God to give me a quick fix, to restore me completely, without breaking me of the things that are wrong in my life. But that’s not how it works. Restoration is difficult. In fact, real life change is impossible on your own. Hear that. You can’t fix yourself. Thankfully, we have a Master Mechanic who is willing to get his hands dirty and take a look under our hoods. He can make us beautiful again. No repair is too big or too small for Him, and that is something worth squealing your tires about.

Tick Tock

            Today has been a bittersweet day, my last Friday at IWU before summer break. We had our last chapel today, and we sang two of my favorite worship songs. I sat in my final math class and almost cried tears of joy when I realized that I would never be forced to stare at another algebra equation on a chalkboard. I ordered my final Iced Caramel Macchiato at McConn, the campus coffee shop; I am officially out of points. I went to my final job interview, so now I get to keep my fingers crossed for the next six days. I attended a bridal shower for two of the senior girls on staff. I realized that it is probably the last time we will all hang out together before they graduate and become wives. And now I’m sitting at Payne’s coffee shop with a group of friends and procrastinating for one last time before the reality of exams sets in. In five days I will be done with my second year of college. I’m halfway there, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. Not to mention I still have a dorm room full of clothing, nicknacks and old papers to pack away. Time is going so fast.

Prom dresses and Poverty

I like to spend my Thursday afternoons with Dr. Phil and Oprah in the TV lounge. Usually I bring my homework or catch up on e-mails or flitter an hour away on facebook while I watch. On this particular day, I witnessed the last 5 minutes of Dr. Phil. It was a typical show. Something about a rebellious teen and psychotic mother who had been with at least 15 men over the past five years and couldn’t quite pinpoint why her daughter was so promiscuous. Thankfully, Phil knows everything. So he set them straight and hooked them up with three guaranteed-to-fix-your-life therapy sessions. They’ll probably be okay, now. Oprah interviewed a 19 year-old boy who weighed almost 900 pounds. The bad news was, he could only get up to go to the bathroom and might not be around for his 20^th birthday party. The good news was, his mom served him hamburgers and nachos for lunch everyday and he had gotten really good at Mario Kart.

After Oprah put in her two cents about why the desire for cheese covered hot dogs is a deeply spiritual problem, the local news came on the screen. I watched it for a while, and I noticed a theme. It was obvious, really, and I’m sure you’ve noticed it too. The anchorwoman with teased blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes informed me that our economy is going down the toilet. Americans everywhere are struggling to keep their homes or sell their homes or heat their homes. Car companies are sinking while gas prices are skyrocketing. More layoffs are expected this week. And the only raises in our near future will be the dough that Uncle Sam demands. Ugh. Poor America.

I wasn’t feeling especially hopeful after my first few moments with the people at Channel 13. Then they did a special report. A cute, brunette reporter stood in the middle of the formalwear section at the mall, where a high school girl and her mom were shopping for a prom dress. Due to the struggling economy, the pair was looking for a stylish bargain. When the reporter interviewed the mother, she asked if they had set a price limit for the gown. The mom thought for a moment and then said, “Well, I am unemployed. And I’m trying to put myself through school. So yes, we have a limit. She will only be allowed to spend $150 on the dress.” My stomach sank. $150? For a dress? For one night? Is that really what economic struggle looks like in America? The reporter ended the interview with some shallow and cheesy line about how everyone is cutting back these days and how she is confident the poor little girl will have a nice night, despite her low-budget purchase. I thought I was going to be sick.

One month ago, I stayed in a Costa Rican home where having a fork for every person was a luxury. I met mothers who were desperate for me to snap a picture of their baby because it might be the only photo they ever have from their childhood. Members of our team shook hands with village leaders who begged for $140, the amount it takes to feed an entire village of school children their lunch for a year. And here was a story on the local news about the unfortunate Americans who are forced to scrimp and scrape and spend that same amount on a prom dress. Something didn’t seem right to me.

I think we have a wrong idea of what it means to “struggle.” I don’t want to be insensitive, because I know that there are Americans who are in desperate need. I know that there are hardworking dads who were laid off by no fault of their own. I know that there are small business owners who have done everything right, but can’t stay afloat in a stormy economy. I know that there are people losing their homes. I know that some families didn’t celebrate Christmas like they usually do. I know. But there is something wrong when we call ourselves poor, when we view ourselves as the victims, the bottom, or the most unfortunate. The truth is, we are incredibly blessed.

Struggle is not being forced to carry a Nokia instead of a Blackberry. Struggle is not selling your SUV for something with better gas mileage. Struggle is not clipping coupons to save money on Stouffers lasagna at the grocery store. Struggle is not buying a prom dress on sale. These things point to prosperity, not poverty. We are so fortunate to live in the United States. Not because we are the wealthiest nation in the world, but because we are in a position that allows us aid others. But too often, we look at ourselves. We think that our problems are the biggest, that our needs are the greatest.

We are mistaken if we think that we have a tough life. In truth, our “struggles” are equivalent to someone else’s luxury. Maybe if we changed our perspective and became sensitive to the reality of others, we would appreciate the little things in life. We wouldn’t feel so miserable about rising gas prices, because we have a car. We wouldn’t feel so frustrated by an unsold home, because we have a roof. Instead, we’d be grateful. That’s what I’m committing myself to; I want to be thankful for everything I have. I want to focus on the blessings in my life, not the needs.

Hi, Frank.

Today I met Frank Peretti. Christian fiction writer. Author of books like, This Present Darkness, The Oath, Hangman's Curse, House. Yes. That Frank Peretti.

He was visiting for the World Changers Society induction ceremony, which is something IWU does every Spring semester. This year's inductee was Joni Erickson Toda, who was injured in a tragic diving accident. Despite the fact that she is a quadriplegic confined to a wheelchair, Mrs. Toda has become a well-known artist (holding the paintbrush between her teeth) and the founder/supporter of organizations that work on behalf of people with disabilities. She's an amazing woman. Her faith was evident as she spoke, and I can't imagine the amount of perseverance she must possess to overcome everything that life has thrown at her. All that to say, Peretti was the 2004 inductee, so he and his wife returned to celebrate the induction of Mrs. Toda. 

I sat near the front, and after the ceremony was over I waited around, shook his hand, and told him I was an IWU writing student. He put his hand on the side of my face and said, "Well bless you!" (Which I think meant, "Good luck, kiddo.") Then we talked about writing a little bit. He told me that the most important thing is to write even when you don't feel inspired. He told me that writing isn't easy. That there will be days when you would rather not do it. "But sometimes you just have to put your tush in the chair and write. You'll get something eventually." I needed to hear that. 

I told him I liked his work, and that my mom was an especially big fan. He signed my program, which I'll probably always keep because I'm sentimental like that and because it will remind me to work hard. It will remind me to write, even on days when I would rather watch Oprah or organize my junk drawer or repaint my toenails, because doing stuff like that is so much easier. Instead, I will write.

Thanks, Frank.