Category: anecdotes

the blessing of misadventure

We had big plans.

The Fleur Cinema in Des Moines is about as big as plans can get on a hot Thursday night in central Iowa. Wes Anderson‘s new film Moonrise Kingdom would have been a treat in any theatre, but The Fleur kicks up the classy and adds the right amount of hip.

But, we never made it there. Eddie (my 2002 Honda Civic) had other plans that involved us not being stranded on Interstate 35. On the way out of town, in the middle of our build-up-this-weeknight-like-it’s-the-weekend excitement, Eddie became averse to third gear. No matter how hard I punched my foot to the floorboard, he wouldn’t budge past 27 mph.

I instantly imagine two things: this Thursday will not be spent at the Fleur and an Ames mechanic will quickly become my new best friend.

As you know by now, these things don’t surprise me, but I felt terrible for my friends who may not experience series’ of unfortunate events on a regular basis. They were like a pair of peaches, though, as we coaxed little Eddie along the backroads, up a gentle slope and over to the dead end on Oak Street where I counted at least four repair shops within two blocks.

I was breathing thanks to God for all the little things – all those almost disasters that we avoided.

We walked in the direction of our houses and then parted ways on 9th street, where I promptly called my brother who began diagnosing my car by the sounds I described (like a regular episode on Car Talk). He had it pegged as electrical or alternator-related in about 10 minutes, right as I saw my two girl friends pull up alongside me. They waved me into their car for some car trouble therapy and we filled the night with laughter.

Oh, how I love this strange series of events.
Life doesn’t skip a beat.
I just jump out of one current and into another. I might flail a bit at the change of course, but nothing is ever as disagreeable as it could have been, if things had worked out differently.

Posted on by Caroline 0

things that don’t surprise me

The heat is borderline unbearable, but I still love it.

People think I’m crazy, but I love getting into my car and letting the thick, stale air hug me for a minute before the sweat starts to trickle. I wear my hair down and drive with my windows open and try to remember how much I longed for these days in December. I love summer.

This summer day reminds me of the days I lived in Chicago. The oppressive heat is part of it (it was walk or public transport if I wanted to go somewhere), but today makes perfect sense in light of my track record (read funny stories here) of strange things.

I had a meeting at the University for a social media project I’m working on. I know – you’re jealous already. I’m getting paid to do social media and I’m still giddy about it. I decided to bike to campus because parking tickets are outrageous and because I love biking (thank you craigslist and that nice family man in Des Moines who sold me a purple beauty). I realized soon after I started that I would not show up to my meeting looking refreshed.

After I parked my bike and booked it up two flights of stairs to be 5 minutes early, I was wiping sweat off my nose and eyebrows for the next 20 minutes. After I had introduced myself and sat down, I realized my flip-flop was broken. Between my heaving breaths, sweat wiping, and random throat tickle (of all times to get a tickle attack!), I managed to ask intelligent questions while planning an exit strategy with a broken flip-flop.

At the end of the meeting, I peeled myself from the chair in the conference room and squeezed my toes in a last ditch effort to walk out with my dignity (and my broken flip-flop). When I realized this was impossible, I picked up the beaded thrift-store sandal (thanks, Dad) and said, “Well, I guess my flip-flop broke. That’s awkward!”

I thought I’d dealt with the worst of it when I walked out of Ross Hall barefoot and then I climbed on my purple bike. With one flip-flop on and one flip-flop in my right hand, I biked back to my house with a ridiculous case of the giggles. I imagined the inner conversation of every person I met, “I wonder why that girl is barefoot… Doesn’t she know it’s illegal to ride a bike without shoes? Humph…. high school kids! Seriously, she’ll lose a toe!”

And I just giggled.
These things never surprise me.

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

Posted on by Caroline 7

it was 1994

“… and then you put your legs up like this and be careful because my legs will swing around really fast. Now, put your knees up, balance, and jump.”

I was transported to my nine-year-old self in the middle of this manic Monday as Meredith swung upside down from the metal bar on the swing set. She took the tone of teacher as she swung with the seriousness of a backyard gold medalist.

I know that seriousness well. My grandpa knew it, too. My birthday gift was unlike any other 9-year-old I knew. It wouldn’t fit inside a gift bag and you can’t find one at a store. It was a custom-made, hand-crafted balance beam with a limited edition, special carpet cover.

It was beautiful and it sat in our backyard where I was Dominique Moceanu or Kerri Strug on summer afternoons. My performance always decided whether we got the gold or the silver medal. The air hung thick with pressure (and good Iowa summer heat) and the beam was more than inches off the grass. It felt like miles.

I positioned my socked toe in front and stretched my arms up high (everyone knew the judges gave points for style and I never wanted to lose any – that was the easy part). I twirled, jumped, steadied, and then positioned myself for the dismount. The dismount decided everything – everyone knew that, even my dad. The question would pound in my head through the whole backyard routine, “Can I stick the dismount?”

I would back up to the very edge of the beam and then start my swirling combination toward the other end, where I would flip end over end (in my mind) and always land with two feet nestled into the Iowa grass.

My arms would erupt from my sides and I would proudly stick out my chest, acknowledging the audience of trees and cattle and cats on all sides.

It was 1994 and I just clenched the victory with that landing in my stocking feet.
And it felt good.

Posted on by Caroline 0

the chase

Isn’t it funny how little ones love to have someone run after them? Very few kids turn down the chance to be caught and smothered in hugs and giggles. They may act like they want to escape, but they can’t hide their excitement about being wrapped up at the end of the chase.

Oh, the chase!
Don’t we love it when someone seeks us out to show us love – when someone chases us down just to collapse with us into giggles?

Today, I was babysitting a little one with a fever and I couldn’t tell if his laughter was delirious or if he just loved the game that much. When we weren’t snuggling or singing, I would hide behind the coffee table and say, “I’m… gonna… get… you!” When my head appeared from whatever direction, he would burst into a fit of giggles that I couldn’t resist.

I would join in and admire his dimples.

And then we’d do it all over again.

Posted on by Caroline 4

I almost forgot: the importance of clamará

I was standing between pews of neat rows and English words hung in the air above my head. I was supposed to sing along after the guitar solo opened the song, “Inside Out.” I was supposed to be thinking of God’s attributes. I wasn’t doing either of those things. I was thinking about the word, “clamará” and the first time I heard this melody.

Panic froze my praise. I grasped for the words – the right words – to fill in the space between me and the sky. I wanted just the right words to put my heart’s love to song and English wouldn’t do. The drums swelled and voices harmonized and I stood unable to sing.

I tried to read the words on the screen and translate, but the order is all wrong in English. The phrases are all out of place and the r’s are dull.

I closed my eyes and my heart opened up.

Dios eterno, tu luz por siempre brillará
y tu gloria incomparable sin final
el clamor de mi ser es contigo estar
desde mi interior, mi alma clamará

Every word climbed on top of the next, an expression in process – a verb in past, present, and future tense all rolled into one presentation of praise to my Lord. The word, “clamar” means “to cry out” and I love to picture my soul crying out in a way that rolls over into future tense. In Spanish, the chorus reads,

“God Eternal, your light for always shines/and will shine,
and your uncomparable glory has no end.
The cry of my being is to be with you
From my innermost, my soul cries/and will cry out”

I’m starting to think the notion of “heart language” or “native tongue” can mean many things and sound many different ways. This morning, singing praise to my Savior meant communion behind closed eyes with the Lord in a second language that seemed to better explain the verb tenses of my soul.

A little waterfall followed my communion, but I meant that to be praise as well. I knew the Lord would understand. He speaks all languages and knows the importance of clamará and remembers the events that make it mammoth in my understanding of who He is. He knows each young lady who pushed me to a more honest “clamará” in Tegucigalpa as I desperately wanted to know, love, and delight in Him so that they would, too. He understands the unspeakable desires in my heart that won’t ever find an outlet in letters. He knows my delight is and will always be found in knowing Him, finding out what pleases Him, and delighting to do those things.

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

Posted on by Caroline 4

my car smells like a freshly showered man

I originally ventured into the automotive section at Walmart because my grandpa told me that a product called, “automotive goop” would remedy the flappy piece of fabric hanging from the door of my car. Of course, he told me to go to O’Reilly’s, but I didn’t have anything else to pick up at an Auto Parts store, so I opted to make it one of many things I could accomplish in one place (ever the efficient go-getter).

Somehow, after wandering the aisles for several minutes and not finding this “goop” product (and, frankly, questioning the existence of such a product), I came to a familiar conclusion: my time in the automotive section would not be wasted. And that’s when I saw the air fresheners. I’ve actually been meaning to pick up air freshener for my car (I had a little episode with ham and bean soup and another with coffee), but it was never at the top of my list.

The number of scents was overwhelming: fresh linen, citrus sunshine, new car scent, alpine meadow, summer breeze. I got impatient and went with “titanium rain.” I thought – who could go wrong with rain scent? I love rain!

Well, turns out, they should have called it, “a mix between old spice and irish spring that smells like a freshly showered man.”

The thriftress in me refuses to choose another scent and waste $2.53, so it’ll just be another thing that brings out the gauche in me. Just so you know, if you see me driving eddie (my little honda) wafting in the fresh air with all the windows down, it’s to balance out the smell of a freshly showered man inside my car.

Come on and laugh with me, will you?

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

And if you’re wondering, I ended up finding the “goop” product at Hobby Lobby when I was looking for something else and have since handy-manned that flappy fabric problem like a pro. 

Posted on by Caroline 0

brown sugar vanilla cappuccino

I know what you’re thinking: this is either me taunting you about a delicious drink I bought for $5.00 OR me taunting you about a delicious drink I found on Pinterest that you would never make.

Surprise! It’s neither.

This delightful little number will make your morning, noon, and/or night taste like comfort. And, just so you know, the directions are about as simple as they come (which is good, because I spend a lot of time trying to make things in my life complicated).

Here’s what you do:

1) Throw some of your best brew in your coffeemaker (nothing fancy, but make it on the strong side)
2) While your java’s brewing, fill your mug halfway with skim milk
3) Add a capful of vanilla to the milk and a few lumps of brown sugar
4) Heat the milk in the microwave for 30-45 seconds
5) Place a wire whisk in your warmed milk and slide your hands back and forth to create a good, stiff foam
6) Pour your hot java into the foamed concoction
7) Sprinkle a little cinnamon on top to make it look like someone else made it

ENJOY!

This is how my morning started today – with a coffee that looked like it was ordered off a hip, chalkboard menu. If that doesn’t put a person in a good mood, I don’t know what would.

*My cousin Vince told me yesterday that my post was, “weird.” I guess I’m trying to take a little break from the long-winded posts as of late. I’m sure my grandparents will thank me. 

Posted on by Caroline 0

regular about the best things

Last night I was listening to my grandparents tell me all their secrets for staying regular. Grandpa, a self-proclaimed cereal connoisseur, has got a mix for his mornings that’s a perfect combination of taste and function (so he tells me).

I think the recipe goes something like this:

1/2 bar of shredded wheat

a “shot” of All Bran nuts

a shot of Wheat Chex

some sweetened Puffed Wheat

a tablespoon of peach juice

peaches (optional)

milk poured over the whole masterpiece

Grandma rolled her eyes through the telling of this recipe and then plopped a container of prunes in front of her finished dinner plate. “He does all that cereal stuff and I do prunes,” she told me.

There are a lot of things people do regularly, but not all of them serve a function as important as our internal pipelines. Our culture makes sure to get a regular dose of TV programming every week, meet for regular happy hours, and be a “regular” at the corner coffee shop. As crazy as our culture loves to be, we still like pieces of our lives to be regular. There’s a certain steadiness and safety about knowing what happens every Tuesday at 7 pm and every morning at 8:35. We like regularities because they serve as mile markers on our journey that remind us we’re still on a road (even if we’re lost).

When we’re young, we can be cavalier about what we make regular. When you get older, though, your body starts to decide for you – it makes priorities about what needs to be regular and you’ll know it when you’re not.

The body has a way of reminding you that you can’t escape it’s function.
And even in this we see the intentionality and creativity of the Father. Our bodies are made with a rhythm.

And sometimes (can I say this?), faith is like that.
Meeting with the Lord every day is as regular as the way our body functions… and sometimes just as unsophisticated.

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

and load up on fiber!

Posted on by Caroline 0

Occupy Life: Stones

The eyes peeped out from under raised eyebrows with extra height from tippy toes. I was sitting square at my desk, imploring my computer screen to talk back when I asked it questions about facts and figures. Maybe it was because of my secretarial intensity that I didn’t notice the peeping eyes right away. But when I did, I willingly jumped into a game of hide-and-seek with the boy standing on the other side of my office window.

I spotted his Dad a few feet away, making sure the landscaping in front of the building reflected the glory of the Spring season. And down he disappeared and wide went my gestures as I “searched” for him. Then, he slowly rose with two rocks and a broad smile, as if to say, “Can you believe I found two rocks? And aren’t these wonderful?”

He placed them triumphantly on my ledge and I gave my most excited “Ah!” face in appreciation for his find. Then some more peek-a-boos and then up came those little hands with two more rocks. The same wonder filled his face, as if to say, “Can you believe I found two rocks? And aren’t they wonderful?” He set them on display just outside the first two.

It didn’t matter that he’d already given the first two rocks or that the parking lot had many rocks. His wonder at the rocks never waned because of quantity or accessibility – His wonder simply was because the rock was.

Two more rocks found their way to my ledge before he got distracted and traipsed off, but I left them there.

I want to remember that there is wonder in today, but not because of rarity or some arbitrary value. There is wonder in today because God is breathing it into existence. There are clouds and sunshine and meetings and people and rocks because God is willing them into being in this very moment.

And I want to hold each thing up in my hands triumphantly and see the wonder.

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

This is another in a series of posts called Occupy Life. Each day you and I occupy physical time and space, making bold statements about what is most important in this life (whether we’re holding picket signs or not). Other entries: Spanish at an Irish Pub, pancake batter, tying ribbons, Alejandra,  Lunch Hour, Delaney and Roland or the original post Occupy Life: Things One Might Do While Unemployed.

Posted on by Caroline 2

when faith is about living

I leaned up against the bed post and nestled in to reading position as I flipped the old, typed pages of a faded blue folder. These were weighty words – letters to my grandmother from friends and family shortly before she died. Some sent stories of college excursions and others talked about her hospitality. Nearly every entry spoke of her generosity and strong spirit. Many didn’t say it just like this, but when people looked at my grandma, they saw Jesus.

I didn’t mind getting weepy as I read about her nickname “Tillie the Toiler” in college and about her effortless way of putting others first. But it was toward the end of the simple, typed pages that my eye fell on an entry from my dad. At the top it read, “From Dick and Cindy Nichols, third child and his wife.” Though I’d been reading similar titles designating relationship to Grandma, this one shifted something inside and made her closer – more kindred.

I re-read the entry several times and my eyes fell on this sentence halfway through the last paragraph,

“I’m convinced that to live life to the fullest you must be able to face death confidently and with eternal assurance.”

Part of me felt my own convictions fall freshly into step with my dad’s, though I hadn’t ever heard him phrase it that way. I was seven when my grandma passed away, so my eyes were still inward and unable to see my dad’s pain and healing as he watched his mom wither and fade. But here, in these words, I found something beautiful like blooming Spring.

Though my flesh will fight it, my heart as a single woman is to serve the Lord and nothing else – but not as a regrettable sentence. I know with certainty both my supreme joy and greatest delight lie in this one passion. With eyes fixed on eternity, every moment of life has potential to be filled to abundance because Christ has overcome. This is all there is and somehow Grandma was able to keep it simple. With eternity figured out, she set about doing everything she could to bring the Kingdom to earth for those around her, knowing her reward was already stored up in forever communion with her Savior.

My dad shared a story about a pastor visiting Grandma in the hospital and saying, “It would be normal for you to ask God, ‘Why me?'” Grandma answered (predictably, according to my dad), “I have never asked God why – I never ask God why.”

When everyone expected her to cave… when everyone would readily excuse her for having little faith and a tired heart, Grandma kept her gaze steady on Jesus, the Author and Perfector of her faith. Jesus, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame and sat down at the right hand of God. With this kind of vision, Grandma understood that joy was possible to the very end, even when others expected her to run out. Christ filled her to overflowing every day she endured the painful decay of a mortal body. She knew she would sit down with her Savior soon and it gave her great joy to use every earthly moment sharing this blessed hope.

I’m not sure if it’s true, but my dad wrote,

“I don’t think you ever thought about death much; because of your faith there was never a need.”

She may not have thought about death much – the physical act of it with all the human details and baggage – but I know Grandma thought a lot about eternity. Her faith was not about escaping death. Her faith was about living.

She believed every moment could be lived abundantly on this side of heaven, spilling over into the lives of every person you touch.
She believed death was not the end, but the beginning of a life where her faith would be made sight and she would sit joyfully with Jesus.

These old, typed words on yellowed pages introduced me again to this woman and again to her Savior.
Oh, that I would live with this kind of faith.

let LOVE fly like cRaZy

Posted on by Caroline 3