… It wasn’t me, that’s for sure!

They say time flies when you’re having fun.

Apparently it also flies when you have so many responsibilities putting a vice grip on your skull that your eyeballs are in danger of popping out.

Of course, I’m sure that magical time when I will have magnificently fulfilled all of my responsibilities and am able to spend all my time cuddling in a cozy blanket with a warm cup of tea and surveying the wickedly-organized serenity that will characterize every aspect of my life from my sock drawer to my day planner is just around the corner, right?

RIGHT?

Ah, well. I have a vague notion that all of this is good for me, somehow. And by “all of this” I guess I mean “life,” because I honestly do not expect it to get any less hectic. But we’ll see.

Christmas has come and gone. We had a lovely little celebration with our family, from which I will eventually post pictures. In the meantime, please enjoy this column which I wrote for 20Below about Christmas. It was published in the paper today, and you can read it online. But I am also copying it into my blog so that it will be saved if that link ever breaks.

Here it is:

One night, when I was about 7 or 8, I sat in the back seat of our family car with my nose pressed against the cold glass. It was a long drive home, and I occupied myself by staring at the headlights of the oncoming cars, watching them creep closer and closer to our car until WHOOSH! they were gone behind us into the night.

Somehow, this reminded me of looking forward to something. You waited and watched as the special event crept ever closer, and then suddenly in the blink of an eye it was gone.

That is exactly how I experienced Christmas. Around Thanksgiving I would start to realize that my favorite holiday was right around the corner, waiting for me at the end of a torturously long month. As the big day approached, my parents and my brother and I would put up decorations, get a Christmas tree, watch our sputtering VHS tape full of cartoon Christmas specials, and count the days on our Advent calendar.

Finally, I would find myself lying in bed on Christmas Eve, clutching my comforter and squeezing my eyes shut, trying desperately to stop thinking about the next morning so it would just be here.

Christmas was simple back then. Our traditions were comfortingly familiar, year after year. It was never something to worry about it was only something to enjoy. But, like most things in life, Christmas has become more complicated as I have grown older.

Some of the complications are small: my older brother, who used to enforce our Christmas traditions like they were scripture, has moved out and become married. And while we love his wife and her family, watching him start to separate his traditions from ours is bittersweet.

What’s more, my brother and his wife may be moving to another state next year, and I probably will have moved away from home. Next Christmas, our family’s landscape will be completely different. And even though these changes are good, they tug at the heartstrings of that little girl who loved sitting around the tree on Christmas morning with her family.

But some of the complications are more significant. I don’t know whether the world has really become sadder since I was little, or whether I am only now beginning to really see and understand it. I suspect it is the latter. In either case, many of my dearest friends and family have sadness and struggles in their lives—illness, family tensions, loneliness problems that will not magically disappear because of Christmas.

As a child, I heard about people who didn’t get excited about Christmas. They were the reason that the “Whos down in Who-ville” had to reach out to the Grinch—the reason that Tiny Tim had to melt Scrooge’s heart. But I never understood how anyone could actually feel that way.

Now, in light of our messy lives, and the changes and struggles that come at all of us throughout the year, I understand that we could all use some encouragement at Christmastime.

Of course, some things never change. I really do still enjoy Christmas I still love the decorations, the music, the times I get to spend with my family. And Christmas still feels like a car speeding past us in the night.

But now, with a few years of perspective, I can see that while Christmas is an exciting, wonderful time, it is not as simple as I used to believe. And now, more than ever, I appreciate the story of the baby born so long ago in Bethlehem. It is a story that should bring hope to us all, no matter what our Christmas looks like this year.

Because, as Linus put it, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

The following conversation was recorded INSIDE MY HEAD last night at approximately 12:30 am:

“Ummph. I can’t sleep. Why can’t I sleep? I’m tired. My room is dark. It’s quiet. I didn’t drink caffeine today. I’ve tried counting camera lenses that I want and everything. What’s the problem?”

The problem is probably that your hyperactive brain won’t shut down for the night. You should try rolling over to the side on which you normally sleep. Maybe it will get the hint.

*rolls over *

“AGH! The pain! In my abdomen! What was that? Why did it only hurt when I rolled over?? Am I dying???”

Uh oh, here it comes. Here comes the senseless worrying. The countless scenarios spun out past all probability. Please, let’s just avoid all of that and go to sleep.

“But, I mean, what could it be? It couldn’t be, like, my ribs poking into my heart, could it? I couldn’t be internally bleeding right now, could I? Or could I be… having a heart attack?”

No, that’s silly. Good grief, don’t let the darkness and your fatigue get the better of your common sense. You know everything seems scarier at night. It’s probably nothing, anyway. Remember that one time when you were like eight and you were in the shopping mall with your dad and brother and kept screaming, “My tummy hurts SOOOO bad! Dad, I feel AWFUL!” And he said back to you, “Erin, it’s probably just GAS.” Do you remember how that shut you up? Do you remember how crimson your face turned? Well, that is probably what is happening to you right now. So I recommend that you forget about it and go to sleep.

“I suppose you’re right. But, now that you’ve got me thinking about it… isn’t it scary to imagine all the little things that could go wrong in your body? I mean, if any one of the hundreds of tiny processes that sustain your body stop working, it could very easily cause a chain reaction leading to your death—or, at the very least, your severe discomfort.”

Oh please. Don’t start with that one again. You did enough of that in your Biology class.

“No, but really, think about it! There are so many things that could go wrong! How can you possibly just go on existing without trembling in fear?”

Hold on there. Don’t forget who’s controlling this whole operation: it’s not you, and it’s not nobody. It’s God, and He is a whole lot better at it than you ever could be. So if He says your body’s going to keep on working, it’s going to keep on working. And if He says it’s not going to, then it’s not going to. And remember, this world is not what it’s all about, anyway. Death and discomfort are not the worst things that can happen to you.

“Thanks. I needed that. Sorry for whining… the dark must have addled my brain.”

Told you so.

“Well, goodnight, then.”

Pleasant dreams.

*zzZZZZzzzzZZZZzzzz… *

I would like to think that I am a pretty great person.

I would like to imagine that people like me and that I am in many ways the pinnacle of God’s creation.

I don’t articulate that literally, of course… but, if I am to be brutally honest about it, that is the way I usually carry on my life.

But no matter how many right answers I give or how many smug, self-centered jokes I tell, I still manage to sometimes shove my foot so far down my throat that it is in danger of coming out my rear end.

It is then, in those moments of shocking clarity, when my balloon pops and comes plummeting back down to earth, that I realize I am just as capable of hurting other people as the people that I tend to judge as being hurtful. Turns out I’m really not so great after all—in fact, I am decidedly human.

And that is when I say, “God? Thanks, but… no thanks. I could use a little less ‘being humbled’ right now. It is seriously messing with my plans to be the awesomest person in existence.”

… Add that to the list of “prayers we don’t really want God to answer.”

Tonight I did something that I did not expect I would be brave enough to do. I opened up my journal.

I have always been a bit fickle about keeping a journal. I have a shelf full of half-empty diaries and notebooks starting from the time I was six that I simply stopped writing in for some reason or another.

But despite my inability to stick to one journal and finish it, writing in a book appeals to me. The sensation of pen stroking paper has always made me tingle with a happiness to which blogging cannot compare.

Anyway, this afternoon I bought some new pens, and I felt that I needed a good way to break them in, so I decided to bring out my latest journal and write a little—the old fashioned way.

The journal in question is one that I started in April of 2004. It is also a book that I have not touched since I broke up with Elijah earlier this year. I could give you a whole list of reasons for this—but I suppose it really breaks down to a combination of my native procrastination and the fact that I was terrified of what I would find inside.

But tonight I bit the bullet and looked through the entire journal. And a funny thing happened as I read through those entries that talked about my years with Elijah, through the good times and the bad—they didn’t hurt.

Instead of finding pain in the knowledge that things didn’t work out the way I hoped they would, I found lessons in every naive word I had committed to paper. I also found a certain peace about my relationship with Elijah. Not that I exactly was not at peace about it—I honestly have not been thinking about it much for quite a while—but reading through those journal entries resolved issues that I did not even know I had. Time truly does bring perspective—a fact that you cannot appreciate until that time has already passed.

A couple of entries leaped out at me as being particularly clear—and still helpful to me in my struggles today. So, although I am still debating the wisdom of posting such personal thoughts on the internet, I want to share two parts of entries with you because I think that some truth crept out of these words that might be beneficial to others, just like it was to me:

“Erin, this is more important than anything: keep your life in perspective. You are not made for this life; this is not the place in which to seek fulfillment. This life will fail you—its fleshly pleasure will fail you. You will fail yourself. Elijah may be your ally, your true friend—he may be a person that can boost you above the treacherous waters once in a while, but he is not your life preserver. You, he and your relationship are all subject to one person: God. God is the One to whom you must cling in stormy weather. He is the One on whom your life must be centered. Your relationship with Elijah is a wonderful gift—and hopefully you can help each other stay centered on the truly important Truths. But that is the key: you must stay centered on God and the Truth. The moment that Elijah becomes more important to you than God, you jeopardize your relationship and both of your salvations. So, Erin–please keep your life in perspective. Even if it changes what you thought you wanted, it will only make you stronger.”

From another entry, about three months later, some thoughts on death:

“Death is a hideous beast that creeps up on all of us. It is the elephant in the living room that everyone is so desperate to avoid noticing. … I take my youth and energy so much for granted—but the answer is not to become so grateful for them that I cling to them to save me. Each one of us must come to terms with mortality. It is not wrong to hate death; it is an ugly, soulless vacuum that taunts us. It is not wrong to hate it, because it is the embodiment of what is wrong with this world. It is not wrong to hate it—as long as we realize that it is not the end.

If I could have one truth tatooed in my brain so I could never forget it, it would be this: This world is not our home. IT IS NOT MY HOME. You see how clearly everything falls into place when illuminated by that truth? All of the sin, and grief, and pain and chaos, and despair, and heartache—all the silly priorities we set up for ourselves—all the times I’ve set myself before another person, when I should have helped them—all of it can be seen in heartbreaking perspective. God is in control. This is not our home.

Death is still difficult to accept. It is a hard pill to swallow for every human being on the face of the earth. But we must come to terms with it, not hide from it—because God is in control, and death is a necessary step in the journey to meet our creator.”

There you go. Two letters to myself, from myself, written about two years ago. I hope they give you some food for thought.

• Make myself work.
• Go to bed on time.
• Get up when my alarm goes off.
• Get all of my schoolwork done on time.
• Stop myself from being inconsiderate.
• Put others before myself.
• Tell myself “no.”

… But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped trying.

Everyone has struggles in life. These are some of mine. If you are feeling forthcoming, what are some of yours?

Today was our first day of classes at Gutenberg… and suddenly life does not fit into all the neat little boxes which I have so carefully set aside for it. Not because all of a sudden I feel a paradigm shift coming on, but because now I am juggling transportation and classes and homework and socializing and all my responsibilities outside of school and work and sleep and nutrition and good-lord-how-do-you-people-survive.

Dad spent the better part of this evening trying to talk me off the ledge of self-pity and overwhelmedness upon which I found myself today. He says that all students, and especially Gutenberg students, have to go through this transition period… and that it’s an even bigger deal for the students who have moved here away from home for the first time. And I know that he’s right.

But the thing is, I’ve never been a big fan of the whole “throw you in the water and you will learn how to swim” deal. I always preferred to cling to the clammy edge of the pool until all the blood drained out of my arms or until I felt completely 100% sure that I wouldn’t screw up. Guess which usually came first.

I guess that’s my way of saying that I KNOW that balancing life takes practice and I KNOW that I just have to learn to deal, but you’re going to have to drag me kicking and screaming into actually LEARNING those lessons, goshdarnit.

Good thing that’s why I signed up in the first place.

Yesterday (Friday) was my mom’s birthday. I was not sure exactly how to begin this post, because whereas I began the post about my birthday with the words “Yesterday was my 18th birthday,” I believe that Mom would like me to be less forthcoming with her digits, so I will just say that “Yesterday was my mom’s birthday upon which time she reached an undisclosed, definite age.”

Let me take a moment to tell you what a remarkable woman my mother is. She and I have had our fair share of scuffles, especially in the last few years, mostly because we are so darned alike. And, as a result, I rarely give her the respect that it is both my duty to give her and that she deserves. But the fact is, my mother is one of the most admirable people I have ever met.

Her life, like every person’s who is willing to admit it, is not neat. She makes mistakes. She makes choices she knows she doesn’t want to make when she makes them. But Mom has always modelled humility, honesty, and graciousness of character for my brother and I in her everyday interactions with other people. She is always thinking of other people before herself—a fact that, to my great shame, I often do not recognize as she provides for me. She also has real wisdom born of experience, and has shared it with me to my great benefit on many occasions. (Not to mention the fact that she is insanely organized and has done a fantastic job of making sure our household runs smoothly for decades.)

I do not think my mother is a perfect person. And sometimes, all that my blind eyes can see are her faults, perhaps because I know so many of them are also my own and I am afraid to own them. But when God opens my eyes, I see that she is a true woman of Character and Virtue, who has been faithfully doing her best to serve God and her family through the years.

I talk a lot about what a big deal this period of transition to adulthood, of starting college, of moving on and growing up has been for me. But it has been just as big a deal to Mom. She has watched me grow and struggle and learn. She has watched me prove what a selfish sinner I am time and again. She has watched me succeed and fail and encouraged me to look at what things are really important in life. Heck, she even faithfully reads my blog (and all your comments, FYI ).

And I know that she is proud of me, but I can also see that as she watches me prepare to leave the nest, her heart aches with that bittersweet mother-ache that I suppose I can’t yet fully understand.

I don’t know if I can possibly make that ache better, but I hope that letting her know how much I appreciate her will help. Thank you, Mom, for being a role model, a teacher, a comfort, and a friend. Thank you for sharing wisdom and caring and endless patience. Thank you for supporting my crazy ideas and interests, and for always being there for me. Please forgive me for the disrespect I have showed you and the pain I have caused you. I really do not think I could have had a mother better-suited to me. God knew what He was doing. I love you. Happy birthday.

Last time I wrote I was sitting amid piles of clothes waiting to be packed. Tonight, a week and two days later (oh dear!), I have barely finished unpacking those same piles. Of course, Mom and I have been home in Oregon for three days already. But, unlike my Mother the Mightily Organized, I do not possess an innate desire to unpack and sort and fold and put away all my clothes and accessories the moment I arrive home from a trip.

My unpacking method is a bit more subdued—I tend to pass by my half-opened suitcase, abandoned unceremoneously on the floor, ten or twelve times, thinking that if I will only believe hard enough, my shirts and socks and pants will grow legs and crawl themselves back into their appropriate drawers.

Suffice to say, my room stays messier longer than Mom’s.

I meant to write a blog entry every night that I was in California. But every night Aunt Annette and I ended up talking or surfing the web together or watching a movie into the wee hours of the morning. (Or all three, often. ) I decided that quality time with my Aunt (who I hardly ever get to see) was more important than regular blog entries. (Besides, one can never see A Knight’s Tale too many times!)

On the first night (Sunday night) I wanted to tell you about the long car ride down during which we only stopped once and during which we had to endure an audio book that sounded like it had been recorded by a chipmunk on crack.

On Monday I wanted to let you know about my early 18th birthday present from Grandma, which was a new lens for my camera (picked out by my uncle the photography buff)! (It was an EFS 17-85 mm f/4-5.6 IS USM, for those who care. They also gave me a UV filter, a polarizing filter, and a lens hood to fit the new lens.)

Tuesday I would have written that I loved my new lens and that we visited the beautiful mission at Santa Clara University to take pictures, but that I made the mistake of switching to RAW format on my camera for half the afternoon, only to discover that I could not download the RAW pictures onto Aunt Annette’s computer with any of the software that she had (or if I could I couldn’t figure out how).

On Wednesday I would have mentioned our visit to Hakone Gardens in Saratoga, and maybe Uncle Tom’s book on portraiture that I found very helpful to peruse.

And on Thursday, perhaps I would have told you about the haircut that Aunt Annette gave me, or the photoshoot of me that she orchestrated in order to practice lighting and camera operation. (She is thinking about getting into professional photography… professional pet photography, to be exact, but I am choosing not to draw any unsettling conclusions about her choice of model on this particular day. )

But though I would have mentioned all of those things, you all probably would have seen right through them if I had not admitted what was really on my mind: my grandma.

In a lot of ways, this trip down to see her was not as difficult as I imagined it would be in my exhausted pessimism the night before we left. Imagination is often worse than fact in these situations. But, it was still plenty hard.

I think this anecdote sums up the experience pretty well:

One evening, we were stopping by a pizza place to get dinner. Mom and Uncle Tom had walked inside to get the pizza, and grandma and I sat outside in my family’s station wagon with the windows rolled down. For the first few minutes we sat there in the slightly awkward silence that has come to characterize my time with Grandma in the last few years. Whether because she is lost in her own thoughts or because she is too disengaged from her surroundings to make meaningful conversation, I don’t know. But I made a few attempts nonetheless.

“It sure is hot out.”

“I wonder how much longer they are going to be with the pizza!”

She would chuckle a bit at these pronouncements, but then she started to become more engaged in our conversation.

“I like your shoes!” she announced at one point, looking at my tennis shoes.

“I bought these shoes for work, because I have to wear close-toed shoes there, even in the summer time!” We both chuckled. She started asking me questions about work, and I explained my job. Then we talked about some of the people going by the window and a few of the shops we could see.

Among the many things about my grandmother’s body that are shutting down, her memory is failing. I knew this. I have known this for quite some time. But I could not stop myself, knowing that this might be one of the last times I would ever talk with her, from bringing up things that used to be meaningful to both of us—phrases that she used to use, and stories that she used to tell.

After a remark about food, I said, “You know, Grandma, you always used to say that you were not a picky eater; you always said you would eat anything except snails and frogs’ legs!” I had heard this phrase at least once a visit from her my entire life. “And it’s still true!” she said through her almost-toothless grin. It hurt, because now she can only eat liquids and she rejects most things set in front of her. But I was still glad I said it.

“Grandma,” I said, “do you remember Brian (my brother) when he was a little boy? Do you remember him splashing through the mud puddles?” She had told me the story of Brian in his slicker and boots splashing through the mud puddles so many times that I knew it by heart. Now, her eyes became distant as she fought to bring this memory back to the surface. “Yes,” she said, finally. It hurt, because I did not know if she was telling the truth, and this had always been one of her dearest memories. But I was still glad I said it.

“Grandma,” I tried next, “do you remember when you and I would go shopping together? Don’t you remember, we called our outings “adventures”?” Before my grandmother’s health declined so much, she would take me on a trip to the mall every time she visited. It was a highlight of her trip. This time she was really struggling to remember. “Okay, if you say so,” she said. And it really hurt, because I knew she did not remember, and those times together had been precious. But I was still glad I said it.

“Grandma,” I said, “you have been a fantastic grandma. I’m so glad you are mine.” She turned and looked at me. For a moment, her eyes were not distant or staring. They were fixed on mine with a clarity I had not seen in them for quite some time. I saw in them a spark of the stubborn, spirited personality that has carried her through life and made her the person that she is. “Thank you, Sweetie!” she said, sounding genuinely surprised and grateful. And that moment hurt and was sweet with all the bittersweetness I could bear. But I was very glad I said it.

I may not have typed out all the stories and emails that I meant to while I was in California. But, in real life, I think I said exactly what I needed to say.

Here I am sitting in my room amid piles of clean clothes and dirty clothes and luggage and explosions of hair accessories. I’m supposed to be packing for our drive down to California, but the whole night I have been hemming and hawing and subconsciously avoiding the urgent preparations beating down my door.

Add to that the pressure of all the pictures I haven’t posted (that you’ll love) and all the awesome things I’ve done (that I’d love to tell you about) and all the various responsibilities I’ve accumulated (that I’d love to fulfill). Since the Webvisions conference I have attended two country weddings and a birthday party, spent a weekend in La Pine, OR, and shot my first two professional photography gigs. Needless to say, my hard drive is sighing under the weight of all those unprocessed pictures that are just waiting to be distributed to clients and family members and my flickrstream.

But I really can’t ignore the fact that tomorrow at 9:00 AM my mom will expect me to pile myself and all my accouterments into the family car and drive with her down to the bay area.

So why am I sitting here writing instead of getting ready?

I’ll be perfectly clear: My grandmother (my mom’s mom) is, as far as any of us on this earth can tell, at the end of her life. She has been sick for several years, but now she is losing weight and vitality more quickly than ever before. She could have a few more months, but it doesn’t seem that way.

So Mom is making an unplanned trip down to California to see her. And I am going with her—partly because I managed to get the next week off of work, partly to visit my aunt, but mostly because… I think Mom will need someone there with her. This is not going to be easy.

Honestly, I am terrified. Fear is not Jack the Ripper or spiders or goblins. Fear is driving nine hours down to an assisted care facility to visit your dying grandmother.

Thus my subconscious unwillingness to fold my clothes into my suitcase and decide what to take with me. How does one prepare for a trip that is probably goodbye?

The answer: in some ways, one doesn’t.

But holding onto the fact that God is good and He is in control is helpful. No, it’s more than helpful… it’s everything. Even if this trip is endlessly painful and awkward and terrifying, He is still at the helm. And I’m counting on Him to give us strength when we need it most.

(I will be staying with my aunt and we will have internet access, so I will still receive any comments or emails while I am away.)