Label It Satan.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a fierce phrase: Battling Satan for my Family. Like blocked computer pop-up screens, things pop up and flash at me. Things that catch me off guard, and and send me reeling to find and click an "x" box. Only, in real life, when it's your family, there isn't an "x" box.

I am starting to train myself to label some things "Satan." Because only he could connive such twists and turns, lies and truths, and split and divide us along the lines as such.

I was asked this weekend how I came through my "anger" stage and what that journey was like. I responded that I still am caught off guard by it and don't understand all of it. As I think about it, I see growth in me here though and know I have really trained myself to let family things bounce off a bit more, and not take all of it to heart, or let it cause havoc on my life and self for days.

But I also note telling the ladies that as they leave, I would pray for their protection. Because when God does a good work, as he did with their presence being here, Satan is always looming on the edge waiting to attack and break down what the Lord has accomplished.

Could it be that maybe I needed to pray this for myself too?

Sure enough, when Monday night rolled around and I split open the mail, a wedding shower invitation for Julie arrived -- with bridal registry cards and all. Anger spurted from me. My arms flailed as I my steps pounded down to take my exacerbating to my roommate. The reasons for my rantings were founded and justified.

But the spark of my anger and the burning of it still this morning, is not. I do not want Satan to have a hold of me like this. Only he would connive sneaking this jolting piece of mail into my pile after having such a blessed weekend. Only he would try to ruin me and set me off as such, and sit back like the Grinch at my twisted reaction.

I'm going to label it Satan. I'm going to see his work as I fight. I'm going to train myself to be aware of his lurking presence and then to arm myself to battle it. From now on, as I battle for my family, I'm going to label it Satan.

Four Women.

I want to be like them.

Four women from Crossroads drove 14 hours on Friday to spend Saturday & Sunday with me and drive another 14 hours back on Monday. Four women, from my community group, with relationships to me that combine teacher, mother, mentor, fellow journeyer, teacher, comedian, and worshipper. They are my friends.

As we went through the God-given block of time together, a few thoughts trickled through me.

~ Friday night, I left their hotel room and wrote: "They are solace to my defeat."

~ Saturday night I was baking cookies in the kitchen and heard them in the living room playing games with my roommates, and wrote: "It is a sweet sweet sound in my ear. It's beautiful. It's giggles and exclamations, and silly chidings. It's mixings of voices and inflections. It's communal laughter, in unison, beckoning me to hear the tones of it's melodies." What joy.

They are women who challenge, who love, who live. They ask hard questions. They are willing to give hard answers. They prod, encourage, wrestle, trust, and worship with me. I am grateful; I am blessed. I am touched, by the presence of these four women.

Conquered Death.

I am so glad that Jesus Conquered Death.

That he has the last victory.

He isn't in the grave. She isn't in the grave.

He has conquered death. And We will have the Victory.

This is hope, this is freedom, this is My God.

I Remember.

So what happens during these times of anniversary, is you remember many things. Some of them sad, some of them funny, some of them sacred. Here's just a few from those categories...

* My last two conversations with my mom were Thursday afternoon and Friday afternoon, both afterschool. They were beautiful days, the first gorgeous days of spring, and I sat outside on the lawn. Her discussing and us praying about her starting a mentoring program for younger women in her church. We talked Thursday for nearly an hour, then came back to revisit the topic Friday. And I still remember the Lord speaking clearly to me those days. And the warmth of sitting on the blanket on the freshly grown spring grass.

* That Friday, I was setting up for my Bloom Brunch, and decided to stay home to do so. I was giddy and excited, placing name cards and flowers around the condo. And staying home to get a pizza and movie for myself. My mom and I laughed about how fun that was for me.

* That night. I had called dad because I thought someone was in my house (long story...) so when the cop called, I thought he was referencing this, because he kept saying "I'm at your house with your dad..." Then, I thought maybe it was a student posing as a cop. Then I asked about my brother and sister, and he said they were also on their way. I finally figured it was the Homerich house but was still wary and he just said he would tell me information once I got there, and to take my time driving. I called Kelly. Josh picked up. I could hear Kelly in the background. That was all I needed to know. I got in my car and knew I would remember that drive for the rest of my life. So I drove slow, wondering if bricks had fallen on dad, if someone robbed them, if dad had a heart attack... I remember my mom saying the cops called them all to her parent's house when they were killed... but was trying not to freak myself out. So I remained calm the whole drive.

* My shoe. I will never get in a car again with only one shoe on and not think of this moment. I left in such a rush that I only got one shoe on. I pulled up to the house in the dark and the cop wouldn't let me pass. I stood on one shoe and held the other in my hand. Josh was on the front steps waving me up and in, but the cop was on the phone, and wouldn't let me pass. This went on for minutes. Finally, I just proceeded past the cop and met Josh on the porch... Kelly and dad in the front entryway, clinging to the stairs...

* I remember making phone calls. And people's exact responses when I had to tell her closest friend's the news. I can still hear their voices.

* Carolyn Deppe. The Friday night, I was crouched on the fireplace and she came over and said, in front of the thirty or so people there, loud and clear -- "You're mom and I were just talking about you this week. And we were both praying that you would marry a missionary doctor." Wow, of all times and places to discuss my dating life. I wanted to laugh and crawl in a whole at the same time, exposed in front of the crowd.

* Trying to arrange food. Whoa. That is a job in itself. Thankfully, Kelly took over most of that one. And made sure her and Melissa got a lot of Aunt Dawn's veggie pizza :)

* Trying to write the obituary. I think it was the first time that I felt my brain seize up. I remember sitting downstairs at the corner of the table of Cook Funeral home, and realizing that I wanted, I needed, to write her one last letter. Usually words tumble from my fingers, but I got so angry and cried all over the table because I just couldn't get to writing that obituary in the pressure of that twenty-minute time zone while also picking out headstones, caskets, bulletin wording, etc. Agr! It makes me angry and frustrated just thinking about that moment.

* Walking into "our section" of the funeral home the first time.

* People coming. People flocking to our house all day Friday, Saturday, Sunday, & Monday. My dad's friends walking in with wrenching tears and grasping him. My sister's best friend never leaving her side. My brother's entourage walking as one unit up the driveway. The neighbors with baskets and baked goods. Scott, Kimie, and Jill as that cousin bond unleashed fresh tears. People walking into the funeral home. Kate & Michael standing there. My students. Crossroads people. Amanda Cupp & Mandi Campbell. Laura, Jenny, & Missy never leaving my side. Countless friends from camp, high school, college, work, and beyond. Standing next to dad as a protector, and ushering people on.

* Consciously thinking, "I should be crying... Can I laugh? Why don't I feel pain?" And knowing I was almost third person at times, while other times envisioning things how I thought they would be instead of how they were.

* Sitting in the big red chair in the living room. Voices all in the kitchen talking, and tears just quietly and silently rolling down my checks.

* Taking Jaxson for walks any moment that I could. He was my safe place. My nurture. My quiet amidst the storm.

* Spending sleepless nights on the couches, floors, and beds at dad's house. (And transferring language from "mom & dad's house" to that). And each morning, us up before the sunrise, all awake and sitting talking for hours.

* Lots of coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

* Going out for Sunday brunch with the family to Boatwerks. I remember thinking, "Wow. These people just keep living. They just keep mowing their grass, going to church...." And also the freshness that we felt getting out and getting food.

* Wanting to flick off everyone who drove by ever-so-slowly and stared out their windows at our house.

* Getting the message for the phone call during the funeral home, only to find it was Channel 8 in disguise, and having no idea what they were talking about.

* Anne staying with me my first night "home." Just quiet and silent and patient.

Love Comes In Packages.

If love comes in packages, then I know I am loved.

If it feels braggy or materialistic to say so... whatever, today I am fine with that. :)

I have great friends. GREAT FRIENDS! My roommates don't know what to make of my great friends who this past year keep sending cards, books, cds, postcards, flowers, mugs, lotions, chocolates, cookie cutters, and yes, even rocks & stones, in the mail.

If love comes in packages, then I know I am loved. I know that distance and travel and phone calls and text and all the ways we could connect or disconnect during this season and space are void, because somedays, these days, love comes in packages.

French Fries.

Right now, friendships are equated with French fries. I just got home and am anxious all inside, and embarrassed at the same time. Trying to fit in and finds friends in Charlotte is easy and hard at the same time. This Tuesday, it is exclamation marks. I went out with some people after a gathering of Christian singles worship, thinking it would be conversation and general chat about our weeks. Instead, it turned into people throwing French fries, sugar packets, and whatever across tables to be silly. I was so embarrassed to be labeled with them, and especially labeled as Christians in that restaurant, that I wanted to creep out of my seat from beneath the table.

At this point in my life, I want to be tucking my children in. I don't want to be ducking adults French fries at a restaurant. I live this life of single, twenty-seven, and am trying to find other adults/women to really dig into life of greater meaning with others that have the space/capacity for me also. Husbands, children, whatever. It doesn't matter, as long as I am still welcomed along. I have friends with both of these, and we are still core friends. But, how do I connect and meet with some of them deeply here?

And not sit at a booth where they are throwing French fries.

Missing Home.

"I need not despise one to enjoy the other,

and I need not to be ashamed of missing one

while living in another.

There will still be times of sadness

and much that I will miss.

But I do not want to miss the present

by missing the past,

or miss the here for missing the there."
~ Victor L. Luther

This quote was written by a third culture kid, a TCK as their labeled in Missionary World, and was given to me during my training for the Philippines. It struck me and connected with me.

The last couple of weeks, it has become like glue to my soul. It transfixes on me, with its depth and truth, and gives me permission with its reality.

I miss Michigan right now. It's not that I don't want to be here, but I miss it. I miss having people who have known me for more than a season. I miss being able to drive twenty minutes and be on a sandy coast. I miss having great little nooks like East Grand Rapids, Holland, Grand Haven, and Rockford. I miss "my" places like Roses and the pier and Crossroads. I miss the people there, and the way they go about life. I miss chicks who wear John Deere T-shirts and braids in their hair, but drive Grand Prixs and wear Lucky jeans. I miss guys who get dirty during the day, but put on their button up at night. I miss wild and care-free life at the lake, my nephew, and my seat in the gym worship. I miss Meijers, Gap Body, Schueler, and coffee at JPs. I miss a homemade latte at Lynda's, brunch with Bekah, bike-riding with Anne, and opening day of BDD with "the girls." I miss day drives to Traverse, climbs on the dunes, picnics at Saugatuck, weekends at Mackinaw, and roaming through Nordhouse. I miss being able to connect with spaces in a sense so norm to me that it doesn't seem "culture."

I thought, in so many ways, things would look different. I thought I would always be able to go "home" in the summer and spend a month there during the season off from teaching. I thought it would always be a safe place. I thought I would find "nooks" and places like home in N.C. But I keep driving and looking. I thought I would miss MI more throughout the year, but with mom not there, it doesn't linger with the same appeal. But it's summer burns in me with lusting fire. I miss MI in the summer. I knew I would, and I do.

It's also different because, though I love the South, I keep finding how much I'm not a part of it. I keep finding ways to label it "another country" and knowing it really is. It's a place that does bridal portraits, high noon weddings, and dressed-up days at the lake. It's a place where country doesn't equate in any way with city, and shows no blurring of the in between. It's a place where it's talked about constantly, and labels itself with daily reminders spoken of "the South." It's a place where cities like Charlotte bear license plates with messages, and children with couture floral dresses and smocked shortalls. It's a place where I try to fit, but can't find the mold.

Really, I do love the South. I do want to be in the mix of it. But I don't fail to reckon that I'm not of it. That I'm Mid-West born and raised. And that though I hate snow, slush, gray days, and not-married-at-twenty, it's still the most of me. I don't have to hate one to love the other. I don't have to neglect to miss one while being in the other. I'm a TCK. Third Culture "Kid." Of foreign lands, of living here, of missing there. Of wishing and wanting... Home.