A Walk to the Sycamore

I sit on the couch with my legs scrunched under me, twenty minutes into a new book. As I glance up momentarily, my eyes dart to the window and the woods outside. A thought and five minutes later, I have bundled up, tromped across the gravel of our driveway, and disappeared into the woods.

Book tucked under my arm, I follow the path meandering along the bluff and to the creek. Once I turn away from the water and its gentle gurgling, I hop the sagging electric fence and strike out over the resilient thistles and tufts of orchard grass in the neighboring farm's cow pasture. I make a bee-line for the sycamore by the little stream - my sycamore. Its thick, warped trunk juts sideways before sending up three separate branches, forming three perfectly smooth seats. I've come here so often: to pray, to sing, to cry, to pick off bits of bark and throw them into the water and think of nothing.

I choose the middle seat this time, and scramble up onto the wide bench. Stretching out my legs to prop them on a small branch, I dive into a little girl's story and let the world slip away.

As the light grows dim, I pause to survey the sky and gauge how much time is left in the day. The view that meets my eyes is breathtaking. Mist crawls up the banks of the creek and seeps lazily across the fading green grass. A fiery, red-orange sky burns with an intensity that only the sun can manage, turning the leafless trees into stark, skeleton-like silhouettes as dusty purple clouds edge in.

I gaze. The longer I let my mind be idle, the louder I can hear the thud of heavy thoughts, pushing their way to the front of my mind.

No.

I close the book, draw my knees to my chest, and let the tree around me become the living walls of my sanctuary. I thank God for the beauty of a sunset. I watch, blissfully empty, until all that is left of the flaming masterpiece is a fuzzy halo of pink on the tops of the distant mountains.

Sliding off my perch, I stand for a moment and straighten my fuzzy hat, complete with pompom. Then, with a sigh, I head back up the hill - back to life.

It Was Not a Good Day for Pigs

Warning: if you are easily grossed out, this might not be a post for you.

It is very rare that my alarm goes off before six in the morning and I am excited to be awake. Yet, there I was, bright eyed at 5:45, piling on layers of old clothes - on the first day of Thanksgiving break. Why?

Tradition - that of my family, and of others.

Before I was even a thought in back of someone's mind, my grandfather was unhappy with the amount of fat in the hams he bought to smoke. Logically, he decided to raise his own pig. Since I can remember, butchering on Thanksgiving is a family affair at my grandparents' Arkansas home. The cleaning, anatomy lessons (we are a medical family, what do you expect?), the scrapple, chasing each other around with various "gross bits", wrapping the meat: I have memories of all of it.

However, for various reasons, including the fact that my grandfather is now almost 90 years old, we have not butchered a pig in several years. He did raise some, but they were taken to a butcher rather than butchered at home. Lucky for us, we have recently gained connections to another, rather closer and larger, pig butchering.

So, for the first time in a while, our Thanksgiving included pork rather than turkey. Yesterday morning we bundled up and headed to my boyfriend's grandparent's farm. When we rolled in the driveway at 7:30, the affair was in full swing: one pig being scraped, two others already down, and numbers four and five waiting on the trailer. Not being prone to shyness, I grabbed a knife and jumped in.

Let me tell you, this was a fine-tuned process that we simply did our best not to slow down. Once dead, the pig was scalded, scraped, hung, gutted, rinsed, and halved. Once this was done, the halves were brought into the garage where each household sectioned and cleaned their pig to their liking. My jobs included scraping, carrying organs to the "to be cooked" bucket, cleaning kidneys, skinning and cubing lard, watching the lard cook down, and grinding, mixing, casing and marking sausage.                     

But I can't talk about my jobs without also including "eating" in that list. Oh yeah, that is a duty. Before the pigs were even in the kettle, I was asked "you hungry?". Hunger really has nothing to do with it, though, when you have access to a table holding bacon-wrapped water chestnuts  whoopie pies, veggies, apple cider, and three kinds of pie. A little after noon, one could hear the word being passed around: "The kettle's off, help yourself". The few interested in a liver sandwich (yes, I tried it, and it was good!) got theirs first, but everyone gradually gathered around the tray that the meat chunks were being forked onto. Each grabbed a potato roll and filled it with the bits they chose before adding butter or salt and digging in.

Once lunch was over, it was back to work, as we cranked out sausage, pon haus, and cracklins. By the time all the accoutrements were washed up and all the meat was packaged, it was around five o'clock. We talked, looked through the museum of farm equipment above the garage, gathered our share of the pig, and headed home. All were tired, but very happy.

Whether or not this sounds like fun, and regardless of how grossed out you are at this point, try to see how beautiful the bigger picture is. I'm not even talking about how cool it is that in a world of processing and lack of understanding as to the origin of what is on our plates, a family decided to go back to the home-grown way. I'm thinking of the joy of tradition, of teaching and learning, of an accomplishment that you can taste for months ahead, of coming together and working alongside each other. That is something to be thankful for - unless you're a pig.

I had to make myself a little taller to mix the sausage, Colby doesn't seem too happy about that :)

Hannah shows off her muscles while cranking sausage into its casing.

the meat picking crew - notice the bag of rolls for eating

Blessings

Forgiveness, second chances,
just one more day.
Double rainbows,
extra P on my PB and J.

Dancing eyes to laugh beside,
a little more speed
to put the joy in a joy ride.

A good book
for a rainy day,
someone to tell me “it’ll be okay”.

The chance to smile,
legs to run,
and water to chug once I’m done.

The God I pray to,
the sun in each day,
roof over the bed in which I lay.

So many people
from everywhere,
who love this girl more than her fair share.

What am I thankful for,
you say?
For every second
of every minute
of every hour
of every day.

When I Get Brave

When I get brave, you're gonna know it by the way I walk,

Because when I get brave, I'm gonna be a Jesus freak.

When I get brave, I'm gonna go sky diving.

When I get brave, I'll wear a scarf every single day of the week, just cuz they're comfy.

When I get brave, I won't disappoint people.

When I get brave, I'm gonna flip out on those kids at lunch who will not stop cussing.

When I get brave, I'll hug trees - all of them.

When I get brave, I'm gonna grow out my hair until it sweeps the ground.

When I get brave, I'm gonna rock a baby to sleep.

When I get brave, I'm going to sing as loud as I want no matter who is around.

When I get brave, I'm going to run into the middle of a war zone and pray until people stop hurting each other.

When I get brave, I'll get lost in the woods.

When I get brave, I will trust.

When I get brave, I'll climb to the top just to see the view.

When I get brave, I'll do a drum solo.

When I get brave, I'm going to hug you, and I'm not going to let go until I'm good and ready - so you might want to clear your schedule.

When I get brave, I'm gonna run a marathon.

When I get brave, I'm gonna go to an orphanage and adopt every single child.

When I get brave, I'll look people in the eye.

When I get brave, I'm gonna buy a ball gown - oh yeah, and cuz I'm brave, I'm gonna wear it to dance in the rain.

When I get brave, I'm gonna walk a tight rope - and look down.

When I get brave, I'll do art.

When I get brave, I'm gonna say "I love you " again and again and again.

I hope that someday I'll get brave.

Why TCK's Need TLC

To those of you who know me, it's not big news that I am weird. Well, I am here to tell you, there is in fact a reason for that:

When I was five, my parents packed up me and my sister and hauled us off to Central America. We went under an organization called Mennonite Central Committee, which focuses on relief and development in third world countries (go to www.mcc.org to learn more). In the tiny country of El Salvador, my dad re-built earthquake-resistant houses and taught permaculture, while my mom home-schooled us girls. After four years, our term was up, and we moved back to the States. That's it.

...Except its not.

I'm different. I have been completely immersed in another culture - so much so that my nine-year-old self liked to think I was "Salvadorean" rather than "American". Shortly after returning, we spent a weekend at a re-entry retreat, where they gave me a name for what I had become: a Third Culture Kid. Culture #1: United States + Culture #2: El Salvador = Culture #3: my own personal little culture made from parts of each.

So what does that mean? Well, for starters, I'm bilingual! This is very handy when entering a competitive job market or, say, taking an AP Spanish Language test.

I'm also pretty flexible. This has become more true through the years. I have a comfort zone, but being outside of it isn't really stressful, and is actually kind of normal. 

But the thing about being made in two different places is that, while I can fit pretty well in both, I'm not a complete fit for either. The whole "belonging" thing doesn't work too well for me. This was pretty hard while I was going through middle school, where everyone is convinced that your value comes from being part of some clique or other. I put myself through misery, trying to fit my odd-shaped self into standard-shaped holes. 

When I hit high school, I thankfully realized how pointless fitting in was, and gave up on it. I'm comfortable in my own skin, and am so happy I had the opportunity to live overseas. When you grow up outside of your home country, you are able to look in on it with an objective view and see that it is not so much about "our country" as it is about "our world" - a mindset that seems to be sort of uncommon.

So when you notice that I'm just a tad bit weirder than usual, remember this: I'm a TCK. I don't quite fit anywhere.

I Started This Against My Will

I didn't want to start a blog. I had no intention of doing it. Sure, I might have thought about it, and yeah, it makes sense for someone who enjoys writing like I do, but I didn't have time. Plus, the thought of people reading my ponderings and judging what I wrote and maybe not liking it was too scary. So, I didn't start a blog.

Along came senior year, and with it the thought that I better quick take the classes I want before I go to college and things get serious. Creative Writing? Why not?! I'm good at writing, I like it! Lets do it! Little did I know that one of our assignments was to start our own blog. So much for "it's too scary" - the alternative of a whopping zero was much scarier.

I think taking this class was one of the best decisions I made this year. It blocks out a time and says Remember all those ideas skittering across your mind that you never take time to put on paper? Write 'em! It made me start this blog, which I now love adding to (and which people actually like!). It made me conquer my fear of my writing being critiqued. It made me imagine stories. It made me try all kinds of new things, like Diamante Poems:

Hardcore

intense, dedicated

unswerving, uncompromising, enduring

spirit, journey, growth, identity

accepting, serving, loving

humble, selfless

Mennonite

A Campfire With Jesus

"Once we're in heaven, we can all sit around the campfire with Jesus and He will explain it to us." 

When I heard this comment, I momentarily left the conversation in my youth leader's living room and went off on my own tangent. What would I ask Jesus? Since I often organize my thoughts by lists (probably a side affect of my type-A personality), I immediately begin listing things. I'm sure it will be much longer by the time I make it to heaven, but this is a list of my current queries for God:

- How do you feel about "Jesus Junk"?

- What should we do if someone break's into our house and puts a gun to Grandma's head?

- How many species have we yet to find?

- Why cancer?

- How does it feel to have people fight wars in your name?

- Was there anyone who ever really got the picture?

- What was the first sunrise like?

- How hard is it to sit and watch us mess it all up?

- When we fiddle with your design, how much is too much? (modern medicine, makeup, animals, etc)

- Just how big is the universe?

- Can I please have a hug?