I sit beside the fire and think of times there were before. . .

Dear Aaron,  

Today is Labour Day. The end of summer in some ways. And the start of Semester all those years ago. I remember riding down in a Summit van with you and Elizabeth, and Noelle... All of us carefree and loving life.

Today the September breeze is rustling through the trees, the nuthatches are calling their repetitive little sound, and there are Colorado peaches and homegrown zucchini on my kitchen counter. The weather is autumnal, reminding me the seasons are starting to shift (so thankful!), yet there is much life bursting out in flavours and sounds and colours. The persistent scrub oak saplings out the kitchen window are nearly bleached yellow with the sun shining through them. There are strawberries waiting for me to make them into preserves, to go alongside the fried apple preserves I made last night.

Today is Labour Day, mellow with sunshine and life—and full of memories. Seven years ago on Labour Day it was your last day under the sunshine. And though time and marriage have shifted many things in me, it does not mean I don't grieve. That I don't think of you every day. Especially today. 

This year I started the Hobbit journey a little early and am nearly to "The Breaking of the Fellowship," though it is only the beginning of September... Though I'm familiar with Bilbo's poem from the Fellowship, I didn't realise how fitting it would be for today until I reread it this morning: 

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
 
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
 
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
 
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
 
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
 
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

"I think . . . Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were," in so many ways sums up much of our time at Semester. Though there were also "still so many things [we had] never seen," we got to see so many amazing things together. And for that, I'm grateful. 

The Lord is kind, my friend. I wish you had been able to fight the good fight and continue in the Land of the living, knowing His goodness through your own eyes. I wonder what songs and stories and poems you would have dreamed up... I hope you're saving all of those you're working on now to share with us when we get to the Kingdom.

"I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door."

Come, Dance in Joy and Sit with Sorrow

How is it September? In just two weeks I get to marry my sweet man! 2024 has been a full year—for me, a mostly happy year. A quiet year on my blog and in my journal. I'm often too busy or tired to reflect. . .or too happy to write from the depths of my soul. Too happy? Shouldn't our great joys be just as deep as (or deeper than) our great pain?

Recently I've thought that perhaps there are so many sad songs because sorrow is achingly personal. Sadness is so raw that we must process it in writing, in poetry, in song. And our happiness is much more 'in the moment'—to be lived here and now. The immediacy of our delight and wonder is what makes it (in part) so wonderful. It's not something we sit around pondering, it's something we live. It's what makes all those memories we treasure and ponder over when we've lost something or someone. 

But the truth remains that I resonate with sad songs much more than with happy ones. In fact, I prefer sad songs and minor chords. One of my friends once told me they had experienced too much trauma and sadness to listen to sad songs... And my response was, I've experienced enough loss, sorrow, and abandonment to know how deeply I need sad songs. 

You don't write the blues because you've lived a cheery life. Writing, playing, or just listening to music is one of the best ways to process our emotions. Swelling joy, patriotism, sadness, regret, nostalgia, longing, and even the hope of good to come can be felt in music. We feel it in sweeping scores in films. We find a camaraderie with others when we share a love for the same musician. Sometimes we are the closest to our truest selves late at night, listening through a stream of songs alone, absorbing the music and lyrics.  

After reflecting, I find that I write more, feel more deeply, slow down, and am quieter when I'm sad. And when I'm happy, my blog and my journal stare at me as I cuddle up with Nick for a movie night or head out the door to spend time with friends... As I live the life I've been given and make the memories that are so precious to me. 

I have felt guilty for not writing more, because writing does truly help me process both the good and the sorrowful. The happy and the horrific. And let's be real, we live in a very broken, fallen world that is full of tragic news, of fear, of deep pain. I want to remain present to myself and my emotions, both glad and hard. There is so much life to be lived, experienced, pondered... And lately I find myself doing that pondering aloud with Nick or Kasey or my family a lot more than with my journal. I process the pain aloud in prayer in my kitchen or on my porch or on a walk... And in the arms of this man who is not afraid to cry in front of me, to cry with me, and maybe even to cry for me. 

September Snapshots

The wonderful thing about September is summer-melting-into-autumn and the slant of the sun. Work finally slows down and I feel like I can breathe again. And this September I've had the gift of getting to spend a lot of time with Nick. :)

Vibes game—thanks for the second-row-behind-home-plate tickets, Brandi and Ruble! Nick and I are fairly convinced that part of the coaches' salary is based on their theatrics in getting kicked out of the game. Also, Vibes fans don't practise good sportsmanship. That has been repeatedly disappointing. The fireworks, however were amazing! Second time Nick and I have watched fireworks together this summer.

Nick and I don't have the same days off normally, so it was fun to have Labour Day off where we could actually spend a day together. We went to Twin Lakes to hike Interlaken and have a picnic lunch at the dock.

It was late in September
And I'd seen you before
You were always the cold one
But I was never that sure
You were all by yourself
Staring up at a dark grey sky
I was changed

Cry 

—Mandy Moore

Post-picnic (Pic-Nick!)

Sunset on our way back to the car. . . We had to stop by the water to skip rocks and enjoy this amazing view—God sure knows how to paint the sky! We also saw a big black bear when pulling into Manitou. :)

____

The next weekend we went to the wedding of my coworkers. Their vows and celebration of the Eucharist (their first act as a married couple) brought tears to my eyes. . . And the pastor's wedding homily was both encouraging and challenging. (Not pictured: I caught the bouquet, a first for me!)

_____

Rather spontaneously, I flew to MN to meet up with Nick as he was driving home from a family vacation. We made the long drive rather slowly, but somehow managed not to take any photos! On the way, we got to stop in Omaha to see Kasey (alas, no photos of us together, either). She sent us home with a loaf of homemade sourdough bread and maple leaf cookies, and Nick shared cheese curds as we sipped caffeine and had a lovely evening. I have the best friends (well, friend and boyfriend)! In place of the photos we didn't take, here is Nick with family:

_____

I do plenty of things without Nick, too... I just don't always get photos of them!

• I went for a long hike to clear my head and heart after a long summer stuck in my basement office.  I saw grey jays, downy woodpeckers, a stag and hart bounding up a mountainside, and way more green than I normally see in Colorado at this time of year.
  
  
• There was an open Scripture Circle with Rabbi Noah, reflecting on the last chapter of the Pentateuch and how it is a reversal of several things in Genesis 1-2, and the completing of some things for Moses (a view of the sacred future of Israel, even though he doesn't get to Hebrew [literally cross over] with the Hebrews; finally seeing the face of God and indeed dying—having his ruach return to the mouth of God—and Drawn Out [the meaning of Moses] was put in the adamah by God Himself).
  
  
• Then I've been working my way through the "Who is God?" Bible Project podcast. It's been very interesting and offering bigger ides and new categories to help me process the Trinity.
  
  
• Packing and unpacking things with Lyndi as she moves into a new space and a new season of 'roommating' again.
  
  
• Last weekend I saw a large buck on my neighbour's roof. Amazon ain't got nothing on Rocky Mountain Santa's delivery team.
  
  
• Jeremy and Grace had a handful of us over to Celebrate Rosh Hashanah on Sunday... We enjoyed good food, lively conversation, and a very fun/funny game of Cards Christians Like. 
  
  
• And lastly, I discovered that chiropractors really are magicians. Wow.

With that, I must retire to Dreamland and await October in all its splendour. 🍁

My Only Remedy

 

 

Dear Aaron,

"Unmerited favor is my only remedy." Do you remember writing that to me a hundred years ago? You spelled "unmerited" with two rs, if that helps.

Four years. . . It's been four years since that September day that you left me behind. Sometimes it feels like forever ago; sometimes it feels like I just found out. I don't wake up immediately thinking that you're gone every day now, but I do think about you every day. Did you know that? Did you know that I still miss you when it rains? And when September rolls around, I close my eyes and go back in time. . . I think about all those years ago when we were prepping the Lodge, meeting everyone for the first time, not knowing we were about to become something altogether bigger than the sum of our parts: family.

This spring I stumbled across some photos from your student session at Summit...it was like finding buried treasure. You looked so happy and alive. I know you're more alive now than you ever were before, but that doesn't fix things on this side. It doesn't stop these tears from flowing. It doesn't make me stop missing you on rainy days. Or every other day that I also miss you.

Sometimes I still wonder. . . What if I had called that summer? I never got to say goodbye, you know. And while I don't think you would have talked to me, I still wish I would have tried. I wish I could have said thank you for all the things you taught me; the generosity you spilled out on me. I didn't say it then, but I can say it now: Thank you, Aaron. Thank you for Oxford, for making my world bigger and sprinkled with beauty, for giving me the chance to meet my best friend, for all those nuggets of wisdom you were always strewing about in your letters. . .for helping me like Switchfoot. 

Every now and then I see you dreaming
Every now and then I see you cry
Every now and then I see you reaching,
Reaching for the other side. . .

What are you aiming for

Out here alone?

[You] said "I'm aiming for home"

You're home. You've reached the other side. And the world is a poorer place for your relocation. I know, because I am a richer person for knowing you, and I feel your departure keenly. 

Most people don't really understand the scars I carry with me because of my love for you, friend. They don't get you—but in all fairness, I spent the majority of our friendship not really "getting" you, either. We shared some similar sadness, loneliness, and loves. But you were and always will be light years ahead of me in perception. 


When it comes down to it, until the Kingdom comes fully, grief leaves us bleeding and broken, with unmerited favour as our only remedy.

❤ always,

Johanna

* "Red Eyes" Switchfoot, Jon Forman 

Glory!

That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes...

—Sleeping at Last, Saturn

Wanderlust

All those golden autumn days the sky was full of wings. . . The wings and the golden weather and the tang of frost in the mornings made Laura want to go somewhere. She did not know where. She wanted only to go.

"Let's go West," she said one night after supper. "Pa, can't we go West when Uncle Henry does?"

. . . "I know, little Half-pint," said Pa, and his voice was very kind. "You and I want to fly like the birds. . .”¹

Wearing long-sleeved flannel shirts and seeing snow geese—all glossy white with black-tipped wings—are among the signs that September has arrived in all her tawny glory. The incense of woodsmoke, the vaulted vibrant blue skies, and the slant of the afternoon sunlight all beckon me to come out and play. “Come West,” they whisper. And I do. I nose my car through fresh winds, snaking over mountain passes until I find a place to get lost in the wild and the beauty. Like little Laura, I ache to go West, to live freely. Free from schedules—the ever-pressing fist of time—and free from others’ expectations.

Familiarity feels like the level ground I need to leave behind on the hunt for paths that climb ever-upward. What is it that I long for, that I can’t get out of my blood no matter how often I hike until the stars wink open? The leaves of my favourite books rustle with the answer. I would never have believed just one of them; but when the overflowing shelves all carry me from an unassuming front door to wild lands, beasts, and men, only to arrive back at home, I take notice.

Home revolves around the familiar, the mundane. It is family and friends going deeper, butting heads, holding hands, reaching out, being still, being vulnerable. Though the familiar and intimate draw things out slowly and graciously, I often find myself like a ruptured seed buried in the earth. I struggle toward the surface, feeling the urge to keep pressing upward, though I don’t know why or what lies ahead.

Often I vacillate, wanting the routine and familiarity of the daily—yet restlessly craving the freedom and thrill of the untamed, the unexplored. I want to run away from all I have known and taste something wild and fresh. Restlessness, however, stems from dissatisfaction—named or unnamed; whilst imagination breathes life and satisfaction into the daily and the anomaly—the level ground and the arduous uphill climb.

How little I have learned from those tales of adventure—everywhere I turn, home is the way things end. Like Chesterton’s farm boy seeking a giant only to find he always lived upon one, or dissatisfied John in Pilgrim’s Regress, I suppose I will have to hike the whole globe ‘round to wind up at my own front doorstep, with my own mountains out the window.

“There are two ways of getting home; and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place. . .”²

Tolkien ends both The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings with the Hobbits’ return to the Shire. To be sure, the quest challenged and forged those who dared to go on it—fitting them for both the scouring of the Shire and the honest work of rebuilding and guiding it. But it is the cosy hearth fires of home and the minding of one’s own garden that the Hobbits are about for most of their lives. The quest of the Ring made each character wiser, nobler, and deeper—fitting them richly for the quotidian tasks of Shire life. The love of home is worth leaving it and fighting for it, in order that others might have that very home, even if they are unaware of those who have gone to great lengths to keep it free, peaceful, and beautiful.

If our ancestors and those in our military have sacrificed what is most precious to them that we might have a home, why do we often fly from it like so many birds on the wing? It is not the familiar and comfortable that stop my ears and blind my eyes to the gifts I have here and now. It is my own sins that make me “grow old” as Chesterton puts it. Adventure sounds alluring, but the heights are so windy that tears blind us, the ground is rocky and hard to sleep on, the uphill climb makes our lungs and legs burn. Do harshness and denial make us grateful for our everyday gifts of running water and a comfy beds? Does the beauty of a new place resonate in our hearts because it calls to mind that which we first loved, the beauty learned at home?

How do we live on the level ground, the familiar and cosy, whilst still pursuing the upward trek of adventure and all its hardships? We need both. The adventure takes us far enough away to see that what we have been looking for is in our own gardens, as Dorothy says in The Wizard of Oz: “If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard.”³ It took quite the journey for her to gain that perspective.

Some find home by staying there, but others of us must circumnavigate the globe all the way back to our own cosy Hobbit holes. It is a long journey, but perhaps when we land, we will learn to appreciate what we had all along, rather than taking it for granted—to see life abundant in the mundane, and beauty all around. After all, “there’s no place like home.”⁴

---

1. Wilder, Laura Ingalls, By the Shores of Silver Lake (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers) 126, emphasis mine
2. Chesterton, G. K., The Everlasting Man (Garden City: New York, Doubleday and Company) 11
3. Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz (Directed by Victor Fleming and George Cukor. 1939 MGM studios)
4. ibid

September Days...

"What a splendid day!" said Anne, drawing a long breath. "Isn't it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren't born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one."

~ Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery -- Chapter 15

And that is precisely how I feel about this day. Oh, how thankful I am for September days!

(photo credit: mountainphotography.com)