View from the Prairie Box

As a kid I moved around quite a bit. My family shifted around the country as my dad responded to job offers, and we landed in Lincoln, Nebraska, just in time for me to start junior high. So much of who I am and how I view the world has been shaped by these moves. I honed my skills of empathy as a I grew, in large part because I was often the new girl in the classroom. I began to read people more clearly, to figure out who they were and who I was in comparison (which, yes, has a downside as well!). I also developed a nice acquaintance with cities and geographies across the United States.

Aside from one year on Lookout Mountain and three more in St. Louis during my college years, I’ve remained in Lincoln for the rest of my life. For so many years we were the ones who left for new adventures, but for much of my adult life, I’ve become the one who stayed. Eventually I even moved back into the zip code of my teen years—which really threw me for a loop. The longest house I ever lived in was the first one I shared with Jeremy, though I bet we’ll break that record with our current address.

I’ve stayed.

And others, dear to me, have left.

The grief connected to others leaving is a slow-burn kind of grief. My life doesn’t change drastically when a loved one departs Lincoln. My little family unit remains stable. Our address, occupation, schools, and church stay constant. Meanwhile the friends are dealing with a tumult of changes, some that go quickly and others that move slowly. Perhaps it’s a bad job situation, or even a long interview process that leads to a job offer. With some girlfriends I’ve spent years praying for God to reveal the next step. The sadness in my heart is a delayed one, like a knife cutting painfully slow. There’s not much to cry about at first, there’s just the day after day of it all—the long unveiling of future plans. Houses get sold. Moving trucks are filled. And then there’s simply an empty hole where an entire family used to be. But I keep driving my kid to the same school—now minus a beloved friend—and on Sundays we keep showing up to the same place of worship—minus a beloved friend.

I often text or email or message with the words, “I miss you,” but surely that gets tiresome to the ones who have moved on. My sentiment is 100% true, but I wonder if they don’t know what to say to it anymore. Do they feel responsible for the missing part? Are they so busy trying to create a new life in a new city that dwelling on us left behind feels exhausting? I suspect yes on both counts. But even saying “I miss you” doesn’t feel like enough. The bonds we’ve created together have to become elastic in order for us both to survive. Time will tell whether the friendship will be sustained long-distance or whether it’s best to let the other move on to other relationships that inevitably require time and energy.

I am not the kind to easily let these bonds go.

I miss our friends with an intensity that sometimes surprises me. After years of finding comfort in these relationships, I often feel like a boat cut loose from the dock, only without purpose and direction for awhile. The friend who was quick and witty, direct with her words and love, who could handle my worst at any moment of any day has moved away. The one whose heart matched mine and had a gift for affirming others has gone on to bless a different community. The one who mentored me during the hardest years of life has left, and the one who nurtured my early marriage and raised babies alongside me now lives states away. More dear ones are moving on to new adventures very soon, and their departures leave another hole in our world.

As much as I grieve these losses and as much as I hate to say goodbye to these incredible people, my rational mind knows that the goodness in their characters is being spread much like dandelion’s seeds that blow in the wind. Wherever they go they will find new people and they will bless them amazingly. It helps to believe in a sovereign God who actually cares about the movements of our days. Though I feel terrible being left behind, I know that God has called them to new locations to do new things. And you know what? He has planted me here, to do things both new and old. I know that God cares for His children and allows these hard times to grow and stretch us, to make us more like Himself, to cause us to depend on Christ. So while my friends depend on Him as they start new adventures, I can cry and still depend on Him right here in Lincoln, Nebraska. He is doing a new thing… and sometimes staying steadfast and relying on Him is one of the hardest things to do.

Oooh, it feels good to be back in the saddle again. Or really, to be back in the position I really love—playing with children and documenting their funny looks, shyness, boldness, and general hilarity. I’ve written before about this sentiment, but it’s still true of my process as a photographer: I fall in love with your kids as I edit the images from our photoshoot. And as a mother, I see the value in documenting THIS period of life, this stage of quirks, because time keeps marching on. Children grow. They never stay the same, so this time is worth capturing.

I had the joy of shooting portraits for a birthday surprise for a grandmother. And, from what I hear, the results of our covert photoshoot were entirely worth the cost of staying silent about our fun in the library a few weeks ago! These five children—with a sixth on the way—filled me with joy and it was absolutely a privilege to spend time with them.

It’s become more common to see pictures of adorable infants surrounded by their mama’s IVF needles. Really, it’s very artistic and creative, and in the middle is the glorious result of all the pokes and aches women have faced in order to produce a snuggly babe. These pics? Yeah… they’re a little different. If I had saved all the syringes since my diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis some 14 years ago it might equal a small mountain. And what do I put in the middle of the picture? An image of me walking down some stairs or putting away the dishes? Ha! Not quite as charming. I am a work in progress though, and I am not ashamed of the medication that keeps my joints functioning. None of us are promised easy lives, and what you see above is a bit of my burden and how art can be found in anything—even images of syringes without a chunky cherub amongst them.

Here is one of the most important lessons of life that I can pass along: EVERYTHING REQUIRES MAINTENANCE. The sooner that a person can learn this truth, the better.

Your body requires maintenance so quit avoiding the dentist (that’s for me; hello, dental anxiety).
Your car requires maintenance, so either figure out how to do an oil change or visit Valvoline even though you feel intimidated every time you drive in there.
Your spirit requires maintenance so don’t neglect to feed it good food.
Your lawn requires maintenance.
Your sprinkler system requires maintenance; heck, even your outdoor hoses require maintenance. (Drain and unplug before the first frost each season!)
Your carpet requires maintenance. Buy a good vacuum.
Your friendships require maintenance. Trust me, you will wake up friendless and alone if you do not invest in other people.

We all want to be lazy people and yet somehow enjoy our best lives. That is not going to happen. A little maintenance on a regular basis will let you actually enjoy your existence without dealing with crises at every turn. There you go, my life lessons, FOR FREE.

I don’t know why God gave me the eyes that he did. I see loveliness in the most ordinary of places and get caught up in the way the light flickers over a t-shirt, the way a tulip curves beyond it’s vase, the way glassware drying next to the sink gleams. I have an eye for the beauty in ordinary life, and that’s oftentimes what you’ll see represented on my blog.

While I want to be great and accomplish something incredible and make a book someone wants to read, I wonder if my life will instead look a bit like the gleaming glasses next to my sink. Very ordinary most every day, but, hopefully, extraordinary for the people I’m closest to. Perhaps my legacy will be the little bits of myself ordinary self that I’ve given to Jeremy and to Livia, to my family and to my church family. Whatever happens long after I’m gone, I know there will be a large number of files on this computer that show off the sweetness found in the ordinary. Because I think, many times, that the ordinary is actually extraordinary.

Case in point: salad in a jar. I made them yesterday with wonderful people from church, and this week I shall eat them. I think they’re lovely.

I’ll be on my back deck if anyone needs me. So far I’ve done some writing, some reading, some thinking, and some repotting of my succulent babies. Spring is coming. Fist pumps to all who have fought to survive winter this year.