Clouds of cotton

I was folding sheets the other day, and it was fluffing up memories in my mind.

See what I did there?

Namely, as I was single-handedly (well, double-handedly, but single-bodiedly) folding a sheet, I remembered when I used to fold sheets with my brothers as children, and how it was a team effort, because we were wee.

I think my mom told me once during my adult years – or maybe I read it in Woman’s Day at Grandma’s – that she would let us fold things like linens, because who cares if the washcloths are uneven in the closet? It was less important that sheets and blankets be wrinkle free than her silk 80s blouses, especially with four kids to love on at home and a busy Human Resources office to manage by day.

So us kiddoes received sheets to fold, as a way of earning our adorable blonde keep, and probably to keep Mom and Dad from going over the edge with all their parental duties.

We often received several plastic baskets of white socks and undies, and would be informed that we were at a “Folding Party” (joy!), and we would proceed to grumble, sometimes laugh, and wait for our eyes to become bloodshot as we grabbed for yet another sock, hoping it would match the seemingly identical one already in our other hand.

I think we even used bright permanent markers at one point to put green, orange, purple marks on the toes of the socks to make this matching task easier, but I don’t recall it actually speeding up the process.

It seemed like Folding Parties occurred at least once a week, and with the party favors being…socks (albeit clean ones, can’t complain too much), well let’s just say these parties never lived up to the “Party” in their name.

So socks sucked, but sheets on the other hand were actually pretty great.

Mom used to grab sheets straight from the buzzing dryer and go in search of her children, watching TV, playing video games, doing homework throughout the house. Once found, she would dump the warm sheets on each of us, and it was like living in a happy cloud of cotton and something without an exact name, really, but akin to world peace and no school and giant ice cream sundaes.

Something like that. The stuff of childhood, and the stuff we never stopped wishing for after we outgrew our twin-sized bedding.

The heat from the sheet cloud evaporated quickly, within a minute, even, and when I finally shrugged out of the Little Mermaid or koala or Sesame Street print fabric, my skin was chilly, giving me a shiver. But it was totally worth it while it lasted. Every time.

My parents also tasked us with the feat of folding our bedding, which was risky given our varying heights, which were for a long time well under five feet apiece. But we were somehow able to fold several sets of sheets, so we charged on and boldly assisted with this household chore.

I loved folding pillowcases, because they fit more easily in my tiny hands, and that tiny bit of Dad's engineering blood in me made my technique pretty accurate. But I also loved folding the big sheets, with the big brothers.

It was (at least) a two-person job (sometimes a third kid would pinch the middle section of a sheet to keep things tidy between folds), requiring each kid on the two-person team to grab two corners each. This was enough to spread my arms to their full wingspan, clutching a wrinkled corner in each fist, making sure not to let loose the silky fabric and delay the process.

With the parachute of cartooned cotton stretched between us, we would walk toward each other, carefully and clumsily mashing our sheet corners between our palms, pressing tight so as not to drop them.

Somehow we would smooth out the points, and one kid would steadily hold the four-turned-to-two pointed corners, now thicker than before, while the other kid would make sure it was safe to let go, then reach to the floor to grab the folded end of the sheet. Then this bro or sis would back away from the sibling, stretching out the sheet like a runner being unrolled at a wedding.


Then we would pinch our own corners together on our own ends of the parachute, my left hand to my right, brother's left hand to his right.

Then we would turn the sheet to make it lie horizontally suspended again, making eye contact for a moment first to make sure we were in sync to turn the sheet in the same direction. Sometimes we got it right, others we ended up with a twist in the smooth folds of our parachute. More eye contact would correct the twist.

We now had a very narrow, long sheet of several folded layers between us. We would walk toward each other again to mesh our corners once again. As the sheet got more tightly packed together with itself, we moved faster, handling the giant flag of fabric more easily in our kid-sized hands with each move, our confidence evident in our swiftness.

...........

As I was folding my own sheets the other day, I was thinking about how massive that sheet used to be between me and my fellow folders. So big that it took all of our concentration not to let it slip from our hands. One wrong, accidental twist and we would get frustrated, one nagging the other that now the process had to begin again. Other times we were more forgiving, willing to slow down to correct the error.

I could be misremembering, but I loved the task of folding sheets. I felt grown up, powerful and brave, even, being trusted with the task of handling something so big. Not just washcloths and pillowcases, but BIG sheets. Something ten times my size.

It took me plenty of years as a twenty-something to realize it, but I love having a role, and as our family gets bigger with sisters-in-law and a niece and nephews, having a role feels almost imperative to me, to prevent my disappearance in the crowd.

Folding sheets was an early role for me, along with doing dishes and later shoveling snow (the brothers will argue that I didn’t do my fair share of shoveling, but I have my explanations, friends, if you'd ever like to hear my side of the story). Now I've come into other roles -- sending my niece stickers in the mail, making inappropriate jokes at family gatherings, cross stitching things for babies' nurseries. Writing.

The sheet between me and my brothers feels sometimes wide again, these days. My closest sibling, geographically, is 1,000 miles from me. I haven’t seen him in almost two years, nor have I met his newborn son. 

But I once called this same brother when I, at 21 years old, for the first time in my life, hated my life. I cried on the phone and he prayed for me across the electrical wire. I sat on the floor of the kitchen, sort of listening, sort of relaxing as best as I could into the sound of his voice.

Mom was in the next room, and had tried her best to help, but knew there were some things only a sibling can fix with another sibling. Sometimes she sends one of us in to coax the other to do something, or to talk them out of a bad mood, or whatever. If memory serves, it may have been her who dialed him that night eight years ago, looking for him to help her daughter. And he helped.

This brother has since married, gained another degree, moved a time or three. I have learned to kiss boys (late bloomer), gained another degree, quit a degree program, and moved a time or eight. This brother is not my current, go-to mentor (and we’ve taken my love life off the table of conversations, because we just do not see eye to eye on it, so why waste time?), but I still love him. And I miss him. Sometimes in a crippling way, other times – as I ventured yesterday with my therapist – in a non-overtaking way.

And all of it makes me think of the sheets.

There is giant parachute space between me and my brothers right now. And most of the time, the sheet remains extended rather than folded. Skype calls and witty Facebook comments make their way across it, but actual airfare is rarely purchased to make the corners touch.

And the expanse feels wide – because it is – but it was wide when we were kids, too, at times. We didn’t develop the magic sibling eye contact required to keep the sheet from twisting overnight. It took several folding party sessions to get there.

And we used to bicker at each other when someone dropped a corner, because we were young and the sheet folding was new and difficult and it was frustrating to have to start again at something we hadn't yet mastered.

But we would always start again. And now we’ve matured, slower to snap when someone drops a corner (sometimes).

More people are holding the corners, and edges of the sheet, now – wives, babes. New tabby cats.

Sheets are flung on air mattresses, futons, on the floors of babies’ rooms or living rooms, when we visit at Christmas, or baptisms, or graduations.

Corners touch for a moment, but when we go back to our home corners after each visit -- Wisconsin, Minnesota, Kansas -- the sheet doesn’t remain folded. It's an extended parachute, hovering over "fly-over" country once again.

Touch, unfold. Touch, unfold.

I guess what I’m realizing, or experiencing, at this exact moment in history (because I wouldn’t be surprised if it changes), is that I’m doing OK – much better than I have done, or been – with the not staying folded thing. I don’t know if it’s because I’m enjoying my own life right now, or something else, or a combination of several things. It's taken many therapy sessions and conversations with friends, and tears, and prayers from friends to get here, but it feels like, for but a moment, I'm here. Not thinking about some vague "there," of what could or should be.  

I would like more touches of the corners, for the sheet to stay folded longer. But if Skype and three days at Christmas are what I get, I’ll take it over the other option, which is to remain always unfolded, or with one corner dropped and the other corners being unforgiving and not willing to rework the system to make the lines clean again.

We folded then. We dropped corners. We twisted, or we got the eye contact just right. We bickered. We unfluffed our valiant folding work to make our beds, then stripped them when Mom hollered upstairs for us to bring her laundry.

She washed, she dried, she dumped the clouds on us once again, the clouds of world peace and no school and endless ice cream.

And we emerged, shivered a bit, and then we folded. And we figured out a groove.

And we always had those moments before the folding parties, in the clouds. Somehow things were most perfect when crumpled and heaped, instead of neatly folded and stacked. When we weren't thinking about the logistics of folding, but were just existing -- happy, and warm.

I plan to dump sheets on my own kids, should I have them, and I hope they find their groove with each other, at their folding parties, in their twenties, and beyond.

Home sweet home (says Dibbs)

Well, Dibbs was happy to arrive home after a long visit with Grammy and Grampy.

His tail was actually wagging shortly after I brought him inside.

I think he was happy

a) to be out of the car,

b) to finally eat after being restricted so he could travel without getting sick this time,

c) to be away from those kittens who eat his food, and

d) to be away from those kittens who think his tail is such a fun toy.

Did I mention he's happy to be away from the kittens? What can I say, he's a spoiled only cat. Whatever, he loves me and I'm totally okay with that, even if he doesn't play well with others.

Anyway, I miss Grammy and Grampy (aka Mom and Dad), and good old Kansas (who is about to turn 150!), and I will soon miss the leisure of, well, not reading and writing pretty much all the time save for time spent sleeping, sitting in class, and--if you're lucky--eating something that actually qualifies as a "meal" or getting in a work out.

I know what you're saying, "Bailey, you're a total nerd, you're always practically bragging about how you're an old lady who reads and cross stitches and pets her cat and wants to be a writer."

I know, friends, but I have limits. Limits with margins! (Are you reading this, Pastor Dan? That was the topic of his sermon today, about living fully, serving God and His people, but leaving breathing space (i.e., margins) so you're not snapping at people all the time and, ultimately, not really serving people or God with a happy heart which is God's whole point of asking us to bother to serve in the first place. Okay I totally just summarized and probably botched what Dan said,

anyway!

If you go to this here linky (and scroll down a bit once you arrive safely there) you can watch Andy Stanley--the guy whose original sermon series Pastor Dan is modeling--talk to you about limits and margins. And then eventually when it's posted you can go here and watch Dan put his own spin on it.)

Point being. I like to read, yes. I love to write, yes (actually I love more so when I have written something than the actual act itself, but we're not getting into that now). But I also like to color (yes), watch TV, work out, occasionally be social (gasp!) and go out with a friend or two or ten, and then talk way too much and make a couple of people wish they hadn't come out with me. Ha ha. :)

So yes. I am a little frightened of re-entering the study-intense universe. But this break has been freakishly long and I need to just get a move on and quit whining, seriously.

And I'm hoping to do a major tear up cleaning, organizing, rearranging dealio on my apartment tomorrow. We'll see about that--that's the spirit, Bails!

Okay, loves from the newly displaced (?) Bailey and Dibbs. Chat tomorrow, same place, probably different time.

A movie review brought to you by Grandma

Sometimes I feel I am equal parts 5-, 25-, and 85-years-old.

Par example:

Early this afternoon as I was getting ready to meet my friend Tom for lunch, my mom asked me if I wanted to join her and Dad for a movie later in the afternoon. Minutes later, she was on the phone and I whispered, "Is that Dad?"

Then she told Dad to hang on and asked if I wanted to ask him something.

I did, in fact.

"Can Tommy come to the movie too?" I asked.

(This was the 5-year-old in me.)

I went to lunch with Tommy, where we complained about job searching, crankiness as a result of break-up withdrawal, Tom's business plan. You know, grown up, twenty-something topics.

Then we went to see a movie with my 'rents, which I suppose is a mature, 25-year-old activity. Seeing an indie British film with your parents, on a Wednesday afternoon? Sure. We'll call that grown up.

I should probably be fully honest in my disclosure here and mention that after some chatty settling into my movie seat, as Tommy and I exited the theater to get popcorn Dad told me to run off some of my energy before returning to the theater.

So I relapsed for a moment into 5-year-old Bailey. See what I mean? Who am I?!

Okay, I will move us along to the 85-year-old portion of this post shortly, but first we will pause for a movie review.

Today we saw The King's Speech, with Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, and Helena Bonham Carter. It is the true story about King George VI and the speech therapist who helped him overcome his struggle with stuttering when he suddenly succeeded his living brother as king during WWII.

Friends, I cannot express enough how much you should go see this film. It was excellent. All four of us loved it. It was a wonderful story of friendship, it was funny, it was touching, terrifically acted. Seriously.

GO. See. It.

And yes, Riley Francis, that was Mr. Desplat's work you heard in the trailer (for those of you who breezed past it without watching the trailer, march your mouse back up to that link and watch it! This is the bossy 5-year-old speaking!). And you would L-O-V-E love the soundtrack as much as you will love the film itself when you

go. See. It.

Okay. Seriously. Go see it. Please. This is coming from a girl who has little patience for movies, and rarely solicits them.

Okay now moving on to the 85-year-old portion of my day.

This evening, while Dad watched TV after dinner, I continued work on my current cross stitch project.

I have been suffering from a mysterious muscle ache in my right hand and it occurred to me just as of late that it could be the result of cross stitching too much.

Last night I also cross stitched in the living room, while Mom and Dad dozed in front of the TV, and BooBoo slept on Mom.

The other day Patrick called and asked what I was doing for the afternoon.

"Well, I just made some tea, I'm gonna cross stitch, and take some ibuprofen because I'm kind of sick."

"That's a grandma afternoon!" he told me. "The highlight of your day is taking some Advil!"

Yes, Patrick, yes.

Well, I quite like my age-confused existence. And why am I not ready to go back to school, aside from the fact that the books and constant reading and writing will soon loom over me again?

Because I'm not done hanging out with my parents, who are my friends. Or our cats.

So there.

Yours truly,

Granny

Do Re Mi, ABC, 123, Baby You and Me Girl

Inevitably all friends eventually discuss their idiosyncrasies together.

My friend Corie has to have the volume on the television at a level divisible by 5. So, you know, the green notches that appear when you adjust the volume, have to be at 10, 15, 20, etc.

I have discovered (not discovered, maybe decided to embrace and admit to myself and to you privileged others) that when I watch TV I immediately turn to channel 23. That in itself is not weird at all. I think everyone has their preferred channel. The kicker is that then I proceed in, I kid you not, this exact order:

23, 24, 25, 26, 27

99, 98, 77

64

53, 52, 51, 50, 49

43, 42

(quickly through 41 and 40 to get to)

39, 38, 37

then to

3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

and then back to 23.

It's like a really messed up version of Do Re Mi. I showed this to my mom the other night and she didn't bat an eye; she thought I was totally normal.

Lost

Kim leaves for the Peace Corps tomorrow. Corie leaves for Boston in August. The 'rents and sibs who I am so close to live hundreds of miles away from me. I won't lie, I'm feeling a little (or a lot) helpless at times. I fear what will happen to friendships, I fear that I will miss deadlines for big life choices for myself. Then I remember that God is in charge of the perfect timing and I am not, but for a person who doesn't consider herself a control freak, I guess I do desire a little bit of control in that area. It's not exactly a funny joke to me if I realize I should have taken the GRE 3 days ago in order to get into a program that starts in 2 years, and now I have to wait a whole extra year to apply (that didn't really happen, this is hypothetical. That said, I would not be even a little surprised if that did happen to me, hence my concern).

My mom was thinking out loud the other day and realized how long a year can be for someone in their lower 20s, and I was glad she had the epiphany because that is something I struggle for my elders to understand on a daily basis. To tell someone, "oh it's just a year of your life" when they are 24 years old: People. That is 1/24th of my life. To my dad that is only 1/60th of his life. Of course he can shrug it off better than I can. Hence my occasional panic attacks while steaming milk at work, feeling the sudden desperate need to run out the door, board a plane and fly to whatever city or country I want to spend my thirties in, chat up all the single men on the flight there, so that when we touch down I've got a diamond on my finger and we can cross that marriage step off the list.

This is not making a whole lot of sense.

I was telling my friend Brittani the other day that when I was growing up, I very rarely compared myself to others. Seriously. I walked into middle school and totally missed the memo about self-consciousness. I was like, "So...explain to me again why I'm supposed to stop enjoying myself because that girl has a boyfriend/is cuter than me/has more friends than me?" When I went to middle school I was so excited that I had seven teachers in one day. And a locker for my books? Sold. So really, it just didn't phase me. I think it's in my genes, particularly the set from Daddy. Dad's motto is, and it's not really a motto at all, it's a serious mantra for him: "Never give up your right to be easily entertained." What can I say? I'm a good listener, and an obedient one (note extreme enjoyment of locker ownership above).

But...in my twenties, it is SO HARD not to compare my life to others. I was talking to Kelly back in February, and he called me out on it and said, "Bailey, I'm hearing a lot of what your life isn't, but what about what your life is?" My answers to that question were a little lacking and therefore depressing, but it put things into perspective. All I seemed to be able to report to him was what my friends were up to--what made me jealous. In today's culture and world, you can do just about anything and everything when you're young. This is why all the older adults think it's so great to be this age (which, I'm sure the wise elders are right on a lot of things, I don't mean to get into a generation conflict here). I told Brittani, at my age I could be in the Peace Corps, married, single, with kids, without kids, in a steady job, in an unsteady job, in the Americorps, overseas, on the coast, in Kansas (check). The possibilities are endless.

Point being here, friends, this is what is on my heart. Just wanted to share--which is the point of this blog, so good work, Bails. Mission accomplished. I do hope that in reading, you guys come across feelings you can identify with (be it mad love for Celine Dion or frustrations in growing up). Much love and coalition to you.

Boyfriend(s)

Just had another (what count are we up to, Brad? 100? 200?) amazing late night convo with Braden. It was so late that driving home my heart was pounding because I was afraid my Mom would be up worrying, but luckily she was sleeping soundly.

Dibbs has just emerged from under my bed, where he was waiting for me. Now he is lying belly-up, ready for some petting.

Here's to Brad and Dibby: love you both. Tons-ies.

Dress Up and Find a Place to Go!

My mama bought me 3 delicious dresses today. One is orange, one is blue, and one is cranberry. I love them all.

I was putting them in my closet and realized the number of dresses in my collection is getting a little out of hand. I wonder if I'm up to 27 yet--I'm a little too scared to check.

When the movie 27 Dresses came out, my friend Corie and I went to see it with a group of girls, and we tried to get them all to wear formal dresses to the theater. No one was brave enough but us. That's right. We're awesome like that. And yes, people gave us weird looks, but you know how many other times I had the chance to wear that blue dress? Twice. And then I got rid of it. I'm gonna start wearing prom dresses to the grocery store, just to show them. I would wear them to work, but unfortunately there is a dress code there. Sigh...

Les Tournesols

I just finished watching the movie Calendar Girls. I first saw it this winter, and told my parents they would love it, and just now watched it with Mom (she did love it).

Not only is this movie hilarious, I think it is brilliant, and so sweet. It is based on a true story, which makes it all the more powerful than if it were simply fictional, but even so it is a fine piece of art. Every piece of life that the story touches upon--friendship, beauty in age, death, humor, tensions with those you love the most--touches me so deeply and personally. I L-O-V-E love it. Here is my favorite line (spoken in the movie by character John Clark, who in real life is named John Baker):

"I don't think there's anything on this planet that more trumpets life than the sunflower. For me that's because of the reason behind its name. Not because it looks like the sun but because it follows the sun. During the course of the day, the head tracks the journey of the sun across the sky. A satellite dish for sunshine. Wherever light is, no matter how weak, these flowers will find it. And that's such an admirable thing. And such a lesson in life."

'Cuz now it's time for the Birthday Rap!

Today's my birthday.

Thank you, thank you. :)

Well as you may have (hopefully) noticed, I blundered yesterday and forgot to post. But you will have to excuse me, because I was celebrating Birthday #1, aka Fake Birthday. So far it seems Fake Birthday went better than Real Birthday (although Real Birthday has been fine, honestly, I am blessed and aware of my blessings).

Fake Birthday (to review, Fake Birthday=yesterday) went as follows. Early alarm, sleepy girl, but all this was quickly shrugged off, because I had volunteered to wake up to an alarm to get RILEY FRANCIS, baby bro extraordinaire from the airport, i.e. my birthday present!!!! On the way home from the airport Riley and I had near panic attacks as we stacked more and more miles on the trip odometer and couldn't find a gas station. 310 miles when we pulled up to the pump, usually I refill at 270. Just saying. Then lunch with parents, grocery shopping for party, chores, blah blah blah, then friends and fam at my house for BBQ, cake, and general carrying on. A fine time had by all.

Real birthday (today). Earlier alarm than day before, after late night (see "general carrying on" above), due to early work schedule. Yes, that's right, I had to work, on my birthday, on a Saturday. "Yeah...I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday..." It honestly wasn't that bad, but there goes the day, ya know? So then I get home and Riley and Mom and I decide to go get pizza and hit up a movie. Well after pizza Ri decides to ditch us (it's okay, he's forgiven), so Mom and I go to the movie, just the two of us.

We went to see Is Anybody There? with Michael Caine. Now, Mom and I both agreed it was a good movie, and Mom said she would recommend it to others, and I wouldn't say it necessarily has a bad ending, but let's just say I was a little unsettled. Now don't worry, I'm not going to ruin the ending for you, but there are just a lot of layers and a lot of emotion throughout the film, and I was very tense during the whole thing because I never knew what was going to happen. So whenever I see a film like that I think, "this better have a good ending or Girlfriend's gonna be mad." (Seven Pounds? Don't even get me started.)

I took an Intro to Theater class my freshman year of college and I remember we learned that Aristotle said that for the theatrical viewer, a play is a form of catharsis. You watch the actors go through a range of emotions, you feel the happiness/sadness/disgust/rage alongside them, and at the end, you are purged. Or something like that--whatever, I didn't write a dissertation on the man. Well Stotty was right tonight. So about ten minutes before the end of the film, there is an obvious scene where you feel, "this is the height, I should grab the tissues now." And you certainly have tears brimming on the lids. But then the scene is over, and ten minutes later the whole movie is over! There's closure (okay so maybe I lied, I realize I am ruining this for you, but I'm only ruining the concept, not the details), but you still feel "I didn't get my chance to cry! You made the scene too short, dammit!"

So then credits roll, Mom starts laughing and apologizing for bringing me to such a depressing movie on my birthday and I say, "that's okay, it was good, but now I need to cry!" And people are wanting to get out of our row, so I am in the aisle, hugging Mom, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion, not quite sobbing, but almost choking because I am so caught offguard by my own tears, arising too quickly for my slower awareness of them.

Anyway. It was a good film. View at your own risk. I wouldn't recommend going on your birthday. But this blog is getting long and I'm not done yet. So THEN, we get home, and somehow I manage to get these tiny tiny but MEGA painful splinters in my hand! Where did those come from??? So whatev, I'm thinking, "work, sad movie, splinters...." But I did have a profound thought as I was picking at my hand with a needle and tweezers, which inspired me to write this, and here it is.

So the difference between splinters and other injuries, bodily nuisances--bruises, scabs, sore muscles--is that you have to deal with a splinter right away. I would say I'm a big fan of instant gratification, but the emphasis there is on gratify. If it's a fun activity, I want to do it right away. If it's not so fun? The word "later" is one I've used probably more than most in my life, right up there with "precious," "holla," "Brad said," "Dibby Wibby," etc. But a splinter? Gotta deal with it. Birthday or no birthday, be it fake or Round Two, you've gotta stop what you're doing, and keep stabbing at the little punk embedded in your skin until it's out. Nothing else comes first. This is a hard concept for me, but one I continue to slowly learn nonetheless. I realize that grass needs to be mowed, bills need to be paid, doctor's appointments need to be made, before I watch America's Next Top Model, or read a whole book, or eat Laffy Taffy and whisper sweet nothings to the cat. Ahh, the first lesson of my twenty-fifth year. Thanks, God. Appreciate it. Thanks for 24 great years, an amazing family, all the people who love me and teach me lessons, kitties, and all your other blessings, day in and day out. All glory truly is to You.

The Mitsubishi Abyss

I predict that 7% of you will reconsider being my friend after reading this. I just cleaned out my car, and here are the tallies of what I found:

18 pieces of mail (1 piece not mine)

15 cds

11 socks (note the uneven number)

10 used napkins or tissues

9 gum wrappers

6 receipts

4 pairs of shoes (1 pair not mine)

4 pens

3 of each of the following: straws, Starbucks cups, free literature brochures

2 of each of the following: coffee travel mugs, issues of the NY Times, sweatshirts, tissue packs, pieces of tape on the back windshield (that, um, remain from my temporary license plate from when I bought my car 2 years ago)

AND the following miscellanea: 1 pair of broken sunglasses, a drawing of me as a Muppet from Brad, a spoon, water bottle, 1 penny, book, hat, Cat in the Hat doll, a crust of bread (I am not making this up), cup, piece of paper, ice scraper, Mom's coat, McDonald's bag full of trash, A LOAF OF BREAD, an almost empty bag of Cheetos, a Coke can, an empty bagel bag, a piece of paper that says "I [heart] U" that I gave to Brad and he gave back--jerk, a hair elastic, a cough drop wrapper, a yogurt container top, a pound of coffee (Italian roast), a Dora sticker, an empty grocery sack, and my dentist goodie bag (i.e., new toothbrush, floss, paste)

For those of you who were brave enough to finish reading this, please still be my friend! Don't judge a girl by her Lancer!

Mamacita

I'm not sure if my favorite memory of my mother will ever be replaced by a better one. She continues to be an amazing mom, no doubt, but this memory will always be just a breath away.

When we were kids, after our baths, one at a time she would wrap us in our towels, put down the toilet seat lid, and sit down with us in her lap. She would wrap her arms around us to clip our finger and toenails. Being so close there was no need for loud voices, so we would talk quietly to each other. I was literally completely enveloped in Mom during those moments, which is all anyone can ever ask for.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mothers' Day.

Indecisive

I was grocery shopping with my mom a few months ago and she asked if she should pick out some yogurt flavors for me.

I said, "I don't like yogurt until further notice."

She thought it was pretty funny. I guess it was, but it was also the truth. I'm a big fan of the truth. And I'm only occasionally a fan of yogurt (I did eat some about an hour ago).

Here comes the beep, you know what to do

Sometimes checking my messages is the most entertaining part of my day. I just came home to the following four messages:

1. My brother Patrick, asking if I want to go to a Royals game in June.

2. Patrick again, with his wife Jenny, the two of them saying "please call us, please call us, please call us" in varying voices, finishing with a giggle from Jenny.

3. Mom, saying she just got done volunteering at the Festival of Books, where she met Bob Barker and told him "God bless you." Then she said, "I'm waiting for the bus, here comes a bus but it's not mine, oh! A Previa! Love you, bye!"

4. Brad, calling for Dibbs. "Dibby? This is Uncle Brad. I just wanted you to know that Mommy's on her way home, I'm following her right now, she'll be there soon. Did you survive the storm? Dibbs? We were nervous too, we had a radio ready. Mommy'll be there soon. Bye Dibby."

Hands

I have various memories from my childhood spent in church. When we used to sing the song "Down in my Heart" in Sunday School, I thought the words were:

I've got the love of Jesus love of Jesus
down in my heart
Where?!
down in my heart
Where!?
down in my heart
Tuesday!

The words are "to stay." (I think. Well the point is the words do not include "Tuesday.") Picture it, little Bailey (bowl hair cut), belting "I've got the love of Jesus TUESDAY!!!" You're smiling, I know you are. :)

I also used to think that a "sermon" was a person, an usher, to be exact. Mom would always tell us we could have gum "after the sermon," and she always passed out pieces of original Trident as the ushers were collecting the offering. Thus, I thought, "man walks down the aisle, then I get gum, he must be the sermon."

When I was nine, my family moved to Colorado and discovered an amazing church that was incredibly formative of all of our personal faiths. Most obviously illustrated, but no less powerful than the rest of our stories, is the fact that my dad walked in the doors of this church an engineer, and walked out five years later a first year seminary student. It was our pastor at that church who first asked my father if he had ever considered the ministry.

But I digress. My mom used to have this really thick hand cream, we're talking intensely thick, it was Neutrogena Swiss Formula, and she only ever had it in travel sized tubes. I figured this was because it was so freaking thick that it would take her a whole lifetime to use the entire thing. She'd put this stuff on our fingertips and I felt greasy for the rest of the day, it seemed. I remember her putting it onto my hands during church sermons (the part of the service where the pastor preached, not when the ushers collected the offering, to be clear. Though there might have been some Trident gum occasionally involved), and I think onto my brothers' hands too, but I remember more vividly watching her massage this Neutrogena lotion onto my father's hands during church.

Calmly (my mom does most things in a calm manner), but laboriously, she gave Dad a little manicure many Sundays. She always kept her eyes on the pastor, only occasionally glancing down to oversee her work, as if her brain and heart were the supervisor, her hands the obedient workers. I knew that Mom's focus was always with the pastor, so in love with her friend Jesus, His love in return so crucial to her every moment, thus deserving her full attention during the Sunday morsel of a lesson. Her heart was always in both places, of course, in love with my daddy and Jesus.

Her hands treated Dad's one at a time, one finger at a time. First she'd open the tube, swiftly put a dob on her finger, hastily like an expert, knowing exactly how much to use unlike her daughter who suffered from greasy hands in her grabby eagerness. Then she'd dab a little bit on each cuticle of one hand, then start rubbing one finger at a time, from the tip downward. Then on to the next hand. Dad always had a little grin on his face, enjoying the pampering, also looking forward like Mom, occasionally glazing over a little in response to the manicure's sensory grasp of his focus. But he was always listening, absorbing the words that he would one day form in his own style and share from the pulpit to a crowd including the woman holding his hand, the woman who has held his hand faithfully for 32 years. While Mom tended to Dad's hands and heart, Pastor Flannery and Jesus tended to Dad's heart and mind.

We remember things better if we have one of our senses stimulated while we take in some piece of information. A whiff of cinnamon can put each person in the world in a different place all at once. Thin, greasy fingers webbing their way through your own would magnify a preacher's words, I am sure. The fact that love was involved in this mix of lotion, sermons, and hand holding made the imprint impenetrable upon my father's heart, I have no doubt, even if he has no conscious recollection of this weekly ritual (I mentioned to my Mom recently that I remembered observing this interaction between her and Dad in church, and I'm not sure she even remembered the event).

Jesus washed his disciples' feet before he died, a concept I still don't quite understand, one I am honestly afraid to grasp fully for fear it will terrify me, to comprehend love so deep. I also can't comprehend the disciples' love for Christ, so devoted even while being chastised and tortured by others for their devotion. Nonetheless I regard this love as sacred and never want to let go of this man who washes my feet new every morning, every minute, every day. All He wants is our hearts, and He may have mine. Simply for giving me parents who love each other and myself and my siblings so much, shown in the way they hold hands in church, the way they hold our hearts and always have, and by giving us the best gift they could, introducing us to Jesus.

Last week I visited my parents during Holy Week, and my dad washed my hands during the Maundy Thursday service with the rest of the congregation. "Bling Bling," he said, gripping my hands in the soft terry cloth towel, "love one another as He has loved us."

Pass the Salt

24 hours ago I was at the beach. I frolicked in the water, got my jeans wet, and let my dad bury me in the sand. On the way to the airport I admired the wavy line of white on my jeans created by the salt of the ocean water dried on my jeans. Three hours later, about to touch down at my home airport, there was salt on my cheeks. I wasn't ready to come home, and now, 24 hours later, I'm still not ready to be here. :(

Matthew 5:13 says "You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?" My confirmation verses were Matt 5:14-16, and verse 16 says "let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven." At the age of 13, I chose these verses because they certainly represented (and still represent) who I am--full of bubbly, energetic light. It hurts to cut vacations short, to have my parents on one end of the country and my brothers on the other, and come home to only a cat (though do not underestimate the value of said cat). But it is the diversity of my experiences, both with vacation beaches and everyday cats, that give me my unique saltiness.

I had a friend in college, Braden (not to be confused with my newest friend, also a Braden), who I discussed with once "the name game." This is the game where you say, "I am Awesome Abigail" or "Stunning Stefanie." Well Braden and I discussed the crappy selection of "B" adjectives--we got tired of saying "We are Bodacious Braden and Beautiful Bailey." So we did a little research, and Braden discovered the term "brackish: having a somewhat salty taste, esp. from containing seawater." While it may not be an appropriate description in the literal sense, we enjoyed that it described us as flavorul people. If you think about it, we actually always probably taste a little bit salty, thanks to our sweat.

I feel I am at yet another crossroad in my life (I feel like ages 20-30 are one big crossroad, can I get an Amen?), explaining my tears yesterday. Part of my sorrow was that I just plain didn't want to leave the beach, the sunshine, the break from work and everyday boring life. Another part was that I didn't want to leave behind my parents, who so seldom get to see their children, and who are such brave, faithful stewards to journey to sunny California in their late 50's. I wish my mom, who's so talented, could have the employment she deserves. I know that me being with her doesn't solve that void, but it can offer her a happy interruption to the waiting. I also don't know what's next for me in life, grad school, boyfriend? :), different job, travel the world, travel the country, stay put? If I think about it all at once (let's face it, I do), I get overwhelmed. And scared. Really scared. And sometimes sad.

The tough thing about being brackish is that you have to get wet in the cold ocean sometimes to earn that cool little design on your jeans. And in the meantime, you have to wait to dry. That salt line doesn't appear instantly. The salt is there, but it's invisible to the eye while it's wet. As cliche as it is, how true is it that when we're in the storm it's impossible to see the light behind the clouds? But the truth is that the light is always there. Jesus told us to let our light shine (and not to let Satan "poof" it out), and to keep our salty taste. Admittedly, sometimes when I read verse 13 I think, "What?" But I also like the poetic metaphor it offers. Being told that we are salt and light is encouraging always, even when it doesn't make perfect sense.

I definitely wouldn't erase my past good memories just because there are bad memories interspersed with them. It's a joke with my friends and family that I can't go anywhere without either seeing someone I know or making a new friend. I am this way partly due to my father's gregarious genes, but a huge chunk of it comes from the fact that my family moved to a new city every few years while I was growing up. With each move came the unpleasant task of asking, yet again, "Can I sit with you at lunch today?" and making annoying, empty small talk, but you know who I got to know over one of those public school lunch tables? Big Bird. Haha, no. My best friend Corie. All those times being tossed around under the violent surf lead to glorious baths in the sunshine on my favorite bed of all time--the sand. When I laid down on the sand yesterday (moments before Daddy Dearest began kicking sand on me), I told my mom, "This is heaven for me."

All of this "chin up, trust in God" talk is easier said than done, obviously. When I am in a storm, I become terrified. I fall silent or ramble on about silly things to keep myself from feeling like I'm drowning. What I learn every time is that I am not in fact drowning, but that God washes me in the salt of each storm at sea, and gives me renewed energy and personality to tell others my stories, and His stories.

While I know God never leaves me alone in a storm, it often feels the opposite, so it is important for us to remind each other always that we, in addition to God, are here for each other during our storms. Feel free to share with me your storms, and I'll lift them up in prayer for you. I hope this blog is a little salt lick for you to snack on during your next storm. God's blessings to you all, until next time.