Spits and Wiggles

I’ve been away from home this week (35.9 miles from the nearest Starbucks – hashtagLordhavemercy), with 16 amazing teenagers, at a magical place called Love Packages.

About five years ago, maybe more, I started to wonder if there was anyone who could make good use of my old Bible that was just sitting on a shelf in our little apartment. I got online and quickly found Love Packages – a small organization that collects used Christian literature from all over the U.S., and ships it overseas to people who would otherwise never even dream of seeing a Bible.

I read the founder’s testimony. I read all the FAQ. (Can people overseas actually use English bibles, though?) I read dozens, if not hundreds, of testimonies, and then I discovered they operate out of a little town just four hours south of us. A little town just beyond the little town I visit several times a year to see my grandparents.

I packed up some books and planned a solo road-trip. (Well, I planned a two-person road-trip, but my wingman ended up not feeling well.)

When I got here that day, the founder, Steve, left his humble post at a folding table – in the midst of a sea of cardboard – to talk to me. He offered to give me “the nickel tour,” and I decided I could stand to walk around a bit before turning around and driving four hours home.

I’m typing this from the bottom mattress on one of 16 bunk beds in their upstairs dorm room. It’s now the fourth time I’ve been here in five or six years. Monday was the fourth time I’ve taken the nickel tour, and the fourth time I have been completely blown away by these guys.

Their two warehouses are always full.  Read more…

Sometimes I scroll through my own IG profile to count my blessings and to remember where we’ve been and to remind myself what I’m doing right now. (Seriously.)

Some people’s IG profiles scroll like art exhibitions. Mine scrolls like a scrapbook, and I’m okay with that.

I get down through a few months, and I come to these three black-and-white ones.

Sometimes they’re in the same row and it’s like a line in the sand, or a run in the fabric. An intermission. A scratch on the CD. A shadowy valley. A tick on a timeline, but not a little one that only goes up or only goes down from the big line – a big one that cuts through it, top to bottom.

I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t intentionally do a “series” of black-and-whites. I didn’t determine to make it a trilogy.

And usually those photos don’t bother me as much as the three that come before them.

That window is one of the worst pictures I’ve ever posted. It is on the side of our favorite little breakfast place, and I remember that morning when everything was normal. It was probably the Monday before the Wednesday, but we had no idea.

That window was shared without a filter, without comment, and it only has a handful of little hearts beneath it.

That grapefruit was breakfast about a week before, and it’s funny because until just a few years ago, I hated grapefruit. I confessed that to my mom recently and she was surprised. Because I always ate it when I was little. Dad really liked grapefruit and he would usually invite me to split one with him. He would even – for a while – cut out each little wedge for me. I could hardly stand the flavor. It was just tart and for the longest time I never got why he liked those things, but every time he offered I would sit and eat half a horrible grapefruit. Because I wanted to share it with him.

That grapefruit was also posted without comment, without any reference to my dad, and only got double-tapped a couple of times.

That baby had just turned three months old. He was just finding his voice, just getting good at sitting up with support. Just seeing the world.

Those pictures make me cry sometimes.  Read more…