Ticket to Ride

Roller coasters have always been a thrill for me.  I love the building anticipation as it starts and slowly makes its way to the top.  I love the sinking feeling in my stomach as the car crawls over the first hill and how my insides lurch as I begin to feel the rush of the descent.  Feeling the wind rush through my hair as we race down the tracks is exhilarating and refreshing at the same time.  I love the thirty seconds of up, down, and around excitement.

As much as I love roller coasters, I hate yours.  Roller coasters were meant to be ridden with friends but you've created your own and then sent me on a ride alone.  At first it was okay because I like roller coasters.  The beginning thrill was fun but roller coasters weren't meant to be ridden for too long and yours has no end in sight.  The never-ending exhilaration of the hills and loops is making me dizzy; nauseous even.  Which is quite an accomplishment I must say; it usually takes a lot to make me sick on a ride.  You've built up the anticipation greatly but now instead of lurching with excitement, my stomach is just lurching.  The rush is not refreshing it is only sickening.  I can't handle these up and down motions for much longer; if at all anymore.  I love you but if you keep making me ride this roller coaster alone I'm going to puke.  Join me on a different ride or watch me jump off of this one.  You might think that I won't survive a jump but you have no idea just how resilient I can be.  You've given me a ticket to ride, but if you don't reconstruct this ride soon you're going to watch me cash in your ticket for a ride that's worth experiencing.  One that gives me that exhilarating rush that I love and deserve.

Eleven

I have been with the brown eyed girl since the first time she picked up a volleyball.  However, I remained hidden in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart for many years until she became ready to acknowledge me.  Ours is an unlikely relationship, you see, she is slightly obsessive compulsive and I... am a dreaded odd number.  Nevertheless, before she was willing to accept me, I was there.

I was there during her first rec-league volleyball match in 6th grade, the year she was home-schooled.  It was then that she realized she was actually good at this game.  Before then, she had believed volleyball to be nothing but a 'wimpy girl' sport.  But it was during that first match that that attitude began to change.  She realized that with a little hard work, practice and intensity, volleyball was just as good as any other sport... in fact it was better.  And I was there.

I was there when she joined her first club volleyball team, Mountain West, in 7th grade.  It was this team that introduced her to the real world of competitive volleyball.  It was on this team that she learned just how hard she would have to work and just how fun volleyball really could be.  During this season is when she first fell in love with the thrill and pride of getting a bruise.  Bruises and blood, to her, meant she was working hard.  This team also brought with it many trials to her doorstep.  Trials that taught her how to be a teammate and a leader; trials with coaches that prepared her for experiences in her future.  It was during this season that she became addicted to the game.  And I was there.

I was there for the next two years of club volleyball in the 8th and 9th grades.  These two years provided her with great leadership experience and sharpened her volleyball skills.  Many hours of many weekends were spent on various volleyball courts, leaving her mark in the form of bloodstains on almost every one.  Here she had the opportunity to work with teammates of varying personalities and skill levels which taught her how to work with many different kinds of people and how to adjust to various situations.  She still didn't know it but I was there.

I was there for her during her freshman season at North Cache.  She is one who easily slips under the radar at school, but as the starting setter for her team, she could no longer hide.  People began to recognize her and soon labeled her the volleyball girl.  This season helped her earn new levels of respect from her peers as an athlete, a leader and a person.  And I was there.

I was there when she returned to her home state of Montana and joined the Hamilton High school volleyball team.  Although she was the shy, new girl, it took only one practice for her to earn the respect of her new teammates and it was in the first game that she earned admiration from the crowds both home and opponent.  I was there when she slammed her head into the pole and had to get stitches.  But thankfully she had still not welcomed me yet... that was a bloody mess I didn't deserve.  This team is where her confidence soared to new levels as she surpassed expectations and made the varsity team.  Perhaps my proudest moment of her is when she aced the star player of the number one team... in front of the rogue, opponent crowd.  This season was the hardest she had to deal with up to this point.  She dealt with a coach who didn't have control of a team as well as with senior teammates who were jealous.   But she survived and only grew stronger because of it.  And I was there.

Her junior year at HHS was possibly one of the best in her high school career.  The biggest reason being... this was the year she finally accepted me.  But also, she had earned the respect of almost all of her teammates as well as the position of floor captain.  Living in a small town, it wasn't long before many members of the community had heard of her abilities and came to support her. This season she was surrounded by mostly fun, talented, and supportive teammates along with a new coach for whom they all had respect.  This was the year that she fought her way to lead the conference in aces, even scoring 11 in a row in one game; our favorite number.  It was this season that she became notorious for running into chairs, tables and even cheerleaders while chasing volleyballs during some hard-fought matches.  Only this time I couldn't avoid the bloody messes.  Proudly standing on her back, despite the blood, I was there.

I was still there with her during her senior year, which was a fun but tough one.  Fun because she was the team captain with good teammates surrounding her but tough because we weren't sure if this was going to be our last year together.  This season was an exhausting one as almost all of their matches went to five games.  I was drenched in sweat or blood or both after almost every single match.  But I didn't mind because I knew she was working hard and enjoying what could maybe be her last season. The end of the season came all too soon and I was there to soak up her tears at the final whistle of the last match of the season.  Although the end of the chapter was sad, beaming with pride at her election to all-state, I was there. 

I was there in spirit as she got a scholarship offer to play for Montana State University Northern and we worried that we would be temporarily separated.  But by the grace of God, we were able to stick together.  Two old friends, taking on a new team.  This year turned out to be the hardest she would ever endure but we endured it together.  She dealt with being abandoned by a coach, temper problems of a new coach, and teammates with no morals.  To go into details of the struggles of this season would take days... but it sufficeth to say that it was miserable.  But at least we were miserable together because through all the tears, extra blood, stress, and pain... I was there.

I was there when she decided to join another team after taking a year and a half break.  This time she ventured out to Southern Virginia University and although it was far, she brought me with her.  This season got off to a rough start with the switching of coaches and not knowing anyone on the team but ended up being tolerable.  The new, inexperienced coach switched us back and forth between positions so much I swore she was getting whiplash, but we survived together.  This season taught her many lessons but the biggest was about being grateful for opportunities despite difficulties.  Through all the lessons this season brought her, I was still there.

I was there for her final season as a competitive player, although she didn't know it was her final season right away.  This year brought another new coach that would be her favorite and new friendships with old and new teammates.  By far this was the most enjoyable season we'd had together.  Although it wasn't without its trials, it was this season that made all the trials of the previous ones worth it.  She created beautiful memories with her teammates and coaches and experienced a lot of consistent success.  She even earned 'athlete of the week' honors for the country following a particularly successful weekend leading to ultimately being named an honorable-mention all-American.   She was surprised to receive such honors but I was not.  Standing on her back and in her heart, more proud than ever before, I was there.


Last week it became official.  Official that we would never step on the court together again in an organized, competitive setting.  Letting go of volleyball was one of the hardest decisions she's made, but it was a good one.  Volleyball has taught her so much.  So much about competing, learning, fighting, enduring, working together and life.  She has had many great experiences paired with many bad ones and each taught her something that has made her who she is today.  Although she never imagined life without volleyball she looks forward to new experiences and sharing her volleyball experience with other young girls and boys who love the game like she does.  After thinking, struggling, and praying she has finally decided that it's okay to hang up the knee pads.  And even though I will miss our time together greatly I will always be there in the back of her mind and in the bottom of her heart as her longest, favorite teammate and favorite number.  Number Eleven.

Learning to Reject the Novocaine

He injected the needle into the lower, right side of my gums.  Instantly I could feel the intended effect already beginning to take place.  But I fought it.  I fought it so hard.  To me there is nothing worse than being numb.  Even if not being numb means feeling pain.  I'll take pain over numbness any day.  When he pulled the needle out I could feel the right side of my face start to tingle.  A tingle so terrifying to me because it was slowly taking away my ability to feel and ultimately my ability to control a part of myself.  Slowly, but still too fast.  The moment of complete numbness came swiftly and whisked away the control I once had over the right side of my face.

Novocaine.  What a terrible substance.  Many like it during dentist visits because it blocks one's ability to feel pain, thus making the experience a less miserable one.  However, that is exactly why I hate it.  Taking away my ability to feel pain takes away a portion of my control.  Feeling that pain helps keep me humble and aware of what is going in my own mouth.  It helps me understand and judge what I am capable of.  It forces me to stay mentally strong and learn to deal with pain in instances that I cannot inject myself with novocaine. 

As I sat in the dentist chair yesterday, beyond irritated that half of my face was numb, I had nothing else to do but think.  I couldn't help but let my mind wander to the fresh and prevalent disaster that occured in Boston.  I reflected on the tragedy and people's reactions to it and as I did so I couldn't help but notice a connection between my feelings toward the Boston Marathon bombing and my hatred toward novocaine. 

While under the influence of novocaine, one can only feel in the injected area under the most immense pressure.  All other levels of pressure go undetected and ignored.  As a society I feel as if we are all sitting in one big dentist's chair allowing our systems to be penetrated with novocaine. People are suffering to some degree all around us every day.  Right in front of us.  But we don't see it.  We just ignore it.  We have been force fed novocaine through the media, poloticians and many other facets of society for so long that the majority of us are desensitized.  Our gift and ability to feel has slowly been warn down so that all that's left, if anything, is a slight tingly feeling.  Pathetic.  Only under the most immense pressures of the world, such as a national disaster, are we able to feel anything again.  Only when a bomb goes off at a national event that effects hundreds, do we seem to remember that we are capable of feeling.  And even then it never seems to last long.  A few days later and everyone is back to what has become normal.  Slightly tingly. 

Why is it that we are all so quick to take the novocaine of society?  Why do we accept the desensitization that is happening to every one of us every minute of every day?  We have been given the ability to feel, physically and emotionally, but we spend a good portion of our time and energy trying to dull those abilities.  Why?  We want to avoid pain, so we dull it.  We ignore it.  And we continue to do so for every little injury that we might sustain until we are struck by something so large we can no longer ignore it.    Pain reminds us that we are in control.  It helps us learn and grow and endure.  It helps us become stronger.  While ignoring it only makes us weaker. 

My thoughts and prayers go out to those who are suffering as a result of the Boston bombing.  But my thoughts and prayers also go out to every single one of us every single day in hopes that someday we will learn to say no to novocaine.  In hopes that we can learn to deal with pain instead of avoid it or ignore it.  In hopes that we can learn from pain instead of be surprised when it gets out of control.  And if we can learn than maybe, just maybe, we can slowly eliminate the amount of disasters that occur in our world.  If we can deal with pain, if we can learn from it and grow from it then we will be making ourselves physically and mentally stronger, making society physically and mentally stronger and better equipping ourselves to deal with such disasters as the tragedy that occurred in Boston just two days ago.

Three Hours

The world tells me that I am wrong and that three hours is much too long.  

But when they talk I get quite sad, because three hours just isn't that bad.  

He hung up there and died for me, on that great cross on calvary.

He died for me to wash my sins, and that every battle I might win.  

By my side each day He stands, as I explore all His lands.

Every day I feel His blessing, as He calms my constant stressing.

When I am hurt and feeling low, he heals my wounds with a radiant glow.

He hears my cries and wipes my tears when I succumb to many fears. 

Every path I walk, He walks with and I know His love is no myth.

He died for me that I might live, a better gift He could not give.  

So they can tell me that I'm wrong and that three hours is much too long.

I go for Him and I am glad, because three hours just isn't that bad.  

Tale of the Dock

Summer is my favorite time of year because, well, summer is my time.  My time to offer my services and my time to shine.  Summer is when people love me again.  Winters are cold and long but most of all they are lonely.  People don't want me in the winter because the water beneath me is frozen.  In the winter, I am useless.  Nothing but a few pieces of wood nailed together, freezing alone in the cold, waiting for summer to return.  But in the summer I am a valley favorite.  I am no longer just a few pieces of useless wood.  I am a masterpiece; I am a launch pad.   A launch pad that springs the regular visitors into some of the warmest water in the valley.  I am a launch pad where memories are made.  It is my back that the kids, and an occasional adult, stand on when they need an afternoon break.  They use me for their creative experiments; some successful, others failures in the form of back flops.  But all great memories.   There are many groups that come throughout the summers; some young, some younger.  But all fun-loving and free-spirited.

The most frequent visits come in the dead heat of the summer afternoons.  But there are a few who like to visit me at night.  Often these late night visitors come in pairs and it is during these visits that they share some of their deepest thoughts, desires and fears with me.  I could write a book about the hearts of the teenagers that have come through this valley. But they confide in me and trust me so I keep their secrets engraved in the slivers of my spine.  They sit on my back pondering life and building friendships, and I am happy to be the sounding board and foundation for so many of their philosophies, plans, ideas, and relationships.

I have been here for years watching my regular visitors grow older and welcoming new visitors.  Some have moved on to live the dreams they've discussed on my shoulders and others will inevitably follow suit.  But I will always be here, waiting for old friends to come back to tell me how they've missed me during their cold winter months and waiting for new friends to come and discover the relief I can offer from the blazing sun and the intense pressures of the world.  Here I stay waiting for every summer to offer the best of my services.  I wait here for my time to shine and be the best version of myself; to be the best dock I can be.

The Best Kind of Sunshine

The worst kind of storm is the one that follows a beautiful, sunny day.  Had it been rainy and cloudy already then the dreariness would be routine; normal even.  But because only just yesterday you could feel the warmth of the sun soak into your skin and the light-hearted feeling of the baby blue sky soak into your soul, the storm feels more intense than it would have, had it come another day.  The rain feels wetter than usual and seems to saturate your clothes, skin and hair, seeping its way into your very core, drowning your soul that was so care-free yesterday.  The darkness of the clouds seem to shield more than just the sun.  They appear to dim the light to your soul and block any glimmer of hope and joy.  Though miles away, the crashes of the thunder feel as if they are in your own mind, shaking the contents of your skull.  The lightning bolts appear so high in voltage it is as if they strike your heart, electrocuting you; paralyzing you.  They say that lightning never strikes the same place twice but when these storms hit it is as if they are old addicts coming back for you, the drug they can't help but desperately abuse.  

Weathering these storms that seem to take everything away from you is the hardest thing we've been asked to do in this life.  Through the rain, the clouds, the thunder and the lightning we must try to remember that we were never promised that it wouldn't be hard, only that it would be worth it.

Just as any drug supply eventually runs out, every storm eventually begins to fade.  The rains begin to fall lighter allowing your soul to catch a breath.  The clouds begin to break, making way for a glimmer of light.  The thunder is slowly dulled providing an avenue for you to hear again; to think again.  The voltage of the lightning is weakened making you aware and in control of your limbs again; of your heart again.  It is only after enduring these storms that we can experience the best kind of sunshine.  

Swingsets

I remember as kids playing on the swing set.  Aiming high with your feet toward the sky.  You on one swing and your best friend on the other.  Every time you and your friend would begin in opposite motions.  One going forward while the other's going backward.  But slowly, as you each manipulated your motions and speed you would gravitate towards the same rhythm and motion.  After some effort the two of you would be swinging perfectly in sync.  Your perfectly synchronized rhythms formed a connection and it was in that moment as a kid that time seemed to stop.  Nothing else mattered in that moment on that playground except you and your friend.  It seemed that the two of you could carry on like this forever, perfectly in sync.  But inevitably, the perfection always came to an end.  Either one or the other would get caught by a breeze, or brush their foot on the ground and their rhythm would be altered.  Soon it was back to opposites and only with a great deal of effort could you two get back in sync again.

You are my best friend in so many ways and although we are grown, I feel as if we are still kids playing on a swing set.  We are opposites in more ways than one and our motions seem to always be in opposing directions.  When I was moving forward you were pulling backward.  When you began to move forward, I was at a standstill.  I feel as if I can move forward with you now but I can see your motion starting to change again.  I feel as if we are missing that perfect moment of synchronization by only seconds. If we just get into rhythm we can figure this out one way or another.  Because in that moment, in this world, nothing else will matter, except you and me.   I wonder if we will ever get there and it scares me to think not.  I can feel a breeze holding me back and I can see your foot lightly brushing the ground.  The wind and the earth can be fought but I can't do it alone.  Only by combined efforts will we ever find our rhythm.  I'm putting forth mine and I'm waiting for yours, praying it comes.  Praying because no kid wants to swing alone. 

The House on Fifth Street

I drove by your old house tonight.  The one that is home to more memories than we can possibly comprehend.  As I stared at the house my brown eyes absorbed the scene and filtered the images to my heart.  My heart opened up and swelled with the memories that we have in this house.  Not two, not three, not even a hundred... but thousands of memories.   I glanced at the front door and with a smile on my face I recalled all the times that the two of you would race to it when you knew I was coming.  As I would wait by the door for my two best friends to answer, a common thought that would wait with me was, "I wonder if they'll have clothes on this time..."  Nine out of ten times that the door would open, you would both be there welcoming me with nothing but your underwear, a bow in your hair and a huge hug.  And then we were off.  Off to a world of our own where we would play for hours.  It was in this world of our own, inside this home, that the foundation for our friendship was built.  The narrow, steep staircase that led to the basement also led to our own chamber of secrets.  It was here that we felt safe and secluded enough to share the deepest desires, philosophies and secrets of our toddler hearts.  The bedroom on the main floor served as your fortress.  A fortress that you both welcomed me into on multiple occasions for some of the best sleepovers of my childhood.   It was in this fortress that we had our first late-night conversations and nail-painting parties.  Even the bathroom holds a certain sentiment in my heart as I recall the innocence of us three best friends bathing together after a long day playing out in the yard.  Ah yes, and the yard.  The yard adds a key element to the beauty of this house and to the beauty of my memories of it.  Tonight I saw that big tree and I could see that old teeter-totter sitting underneath it.  It seemed so real in fact that I could practically feel the teetering motions as I reflected on the hours we spent on that thing.  "Teeter-totter, bread and water..."  My eyes then wandered to the stream that runs beside that big, beautiful tree and flows through to the back yard.  For years the three of us have been known as water-lovers and much of our friendship has been spent jumping into ponds and streams, racing down water slides and late-night lake swims... but here, in this stream is where it all began.  I could almost see the three of us splashing around in the tiny stream that seemed like a raging river at the time.  We would race to catch water bugs, have splashing competitions and ultimately just enjoy the cool, clear water in the hot, summer sun.

Eleven years have passed since you left that house but it still seems like yesterday that we were conquering the world from fifth street.  The three of us have grown older since then (wiser too, might I add) and so has the house.  With time and experience the house has grown more beautiful.  We are not there anymore but the house still serves as the headwaters for memories of other children and families that have occupied it.  We too have grown more beautiful with time and experience in mind, spirit and body.  It has been over twenty years since our friendship began and since then we have had adventures together and on our own.  Each of us has set out to conquer the world in our own way using some of the philosophies we discussed with the brilliance of our four-year-old minds in that chamber not so long ago.  We have had our own educational experiences as well as traveling experiences.  But through it all, that foundation we built in the house on fifth street remains unshakable.  Even now, when one of you is serving a mission for our beloved Heavenly Father in the deep south, the other about to graduate college as a talented photographer, and me ready to set out on yet another international adventure... the foundation of our friendship remains ever standing firm.  Just like the house on fifth street, our friendship has been there for years providing comfort, love, fun, and memories and will remain in my heart for eternity.

The Perfect Heart

Today I found myself doodling on a piece of paper... again.  I find myself doing this often.  Anytime there is an extra piece of paper and a pen lying around, I'm bound to use it.  I'm famous for drawing flowers, stars and the occasional squiggly thingy but every once in a while I branch out to try new things.  Sometimes I stray from my norms to draw a heart.  Well, I try anyway.  Tonight was a heart-doodling-attempting kind of night.  As I was drawing these hearts, only half way successfully, I was getting a little annoyed with myself.  I could feel the stares of my parents' eyes as they watched me silently struggle.  I looked up at them and exclaimed, "I'm on a quest to draw the perfect heart!  I can only ever seem to get half of it looking decent!"  They laughed a little, shrugged their shoulders and continued on in their conversation that I wasn't listening to.  I then started to think about the perfect heart.  What is it exactly that constitutes the perfect heart?  Is it that it is perfectly symmetrical?  Is it the size?  Is it the shape?  The color?  Who is it that defines 'perfect' anyway and why am I so obsessed with it?

Pondering these questions I realized that the same could be asked about our hearts.  Our real hearts.  I, like many others, am in the dating phase of life.  The phase where my main focus is to date, find the one I'm supposed to marry and start a family.  On our individual quests for a mate, I think we often get caught up with finding the one with a perfect heart.  But again, I ask, what is it that constitutes the perfect heart?  Is it one that is always happy and never sad?  Is it one that is never angry or conflicted?  Or is it one that will always beat to the same time and tune as mine?  If any of us are so inclined to think that the answer to any of these should be yes, then I am inclined to think that the perfect heart does not exist.  Imperfection is in our very nature and we all struggle with various imperfections on a daily basis.  A search for the perfect heart would be a hypocritical one.

 I must recognize my own imperfections (like my inability to draw a perfect heart)  while searching for a heart that will be a companion to mine. We must all recognize our own and as we do so we will be more willing to accept those of others'.  Tonight I realized that a flawless, perfect heart is not what I should look for but one that tries his best.  One that seeks after the right things and works hard despite all the imperfections.  And most of all, one who can accept both of my imperfect hearts; the one inside of me and the one on my doodling paper.

Princess

She stands on the stage and stares back at the faces who nominated her, the ones of her classmates, the ones who put her here.  She looks at the crowded blur of people and wonders why she is standing in front of them.  This is not her scene and they know it.  The crowd looks back at her in the long, stunning dress and are overtaken by her beauty.  Her silver necklace provides a beautiful accent to her dazzling red hair but to her it is suffocating.  Suffocating because she doesn't like jewelry and she doesn't like dresses.  It is far too superfluous for her taste and is quite a stray from her usual style of t-shirts and jeans.  The biggest thing bringing her comfort in this moment of confusion is her trusty pair of Nikes.  They go everywhere with her and tonight is no exception.  Perhaps she should be wearing something a little more glamorous but she's already sacrificed a great deal of comfort for the dress and necklace, so the shoes stay.  For the most part they stay neatly tucked under her long dress but occasionally they peak out to remind people that although she is out of her comfort zone tonight, she is still the girl they love.  In a moment they will announce the winner.  The winner of the crown and the winner of the title, "princess."  She waits with the crowd and her fellow nominees and then she hears it.  Her name.  They have called her name and she has won.  The crown is hers; the title is hers.  She is their princess.  She steps forward to accept her crown and give a smile to those that voted for her.  As she does so she wonders still how she came to be here.  Even with her beautiful brown eyes and her sparkling red hair she has never considered herself a beauty queen.  She doesn't waste time with makeup and hairspray and she certainly doesn't enjoy all the glamour and glitz that inevitably accompany nights like this.  But the crowd doesn't wonder.  They know exactly why she is here.  They put her here.  To this crowd a princess is so much more than just outer beauty.  Their princess is one who has beauty eminating from within her.  Their's is a princess of class, of integrity, of humility.  One who is a great leader and who genuinely cares for others.  One who isn't afraid to be herself.  Their princess... is her.

Kindred Spirit

I remember the day and so does he.
It was the day we met that set us free.
The mem'ry written on our hearts in ink.
No more searching for that one special link.

We were fifteen and became such great friends.
He knew and I knew it'd last 'til the end.
Eight years have passed and he remains the one,
Who reads my mind, and will never be done.

He holds a key to a place in my heart.
Turning it oft even when we're apart.
Our mutual brown eyes create a pathway,
To our own world, where our friendship stays.

He talks to me, when no one is around.
Another like him will never be found.
He doesn't speak loud, others can't hear it,
But I feel love from my kindred spirit.

The Puzzle I Call Life

Ever since I was a little girl I have always loved doing puzzles.  I love examining each piece with its unique shape and design.  I love the sense of satisfaction I feel when I find a piece that fits perfectly with another to compliment the beauty of each other's detail.  I always start with the edge pieces to lay the framework for what will soon be a work of art.  Then I work inwardly, focusing on the most intricate and difficult sections first.  When those are finished I can focus on the less difficult but equally beautiful sections of the masterpiece.  Occasionally, throughout the course of work, I come across a particularly stubborn piece.  One that does not seem to fit anywhere.  But it has to, I know it has to so I persevere.  I compare it to the picture of what it is supposed to look like and sometimes it helps right away and sometimes it doesn't seem to.  Sometimes I will take a break to find the easier pieces but I always come back to the stubborn ones because they must have a place.   Ignoring them would make for an incomplete work, which is not an option.  Eventually, when I inevitably find where they belong I realize that the piece was not stubborn but rather I was.  I couldn't see what is so clear now, because I was either focusing on the wrong thing or not focusing at all.  But regardless, that picture remains at my side just in case I need its help.

Currently I am working on a 3000-piece puzzle and it is by far the most difficult one I've attempted yet. Every time I sit down to work on it I can't help but to think about how these puzzles of mine seem to parallel my life.  Just like the puzzle I, as we all have, started at the beginning to lay the framework.  My edge pieces are made from the lessons I learned as a child both from experiences and from parents and mentors.  As I grew older I began to work inwardly on some of the more intricate details of my heart and mind.  I piece my thoughts and experiences together to form my beautiful feelings and beliefs.  With more experience and time my puzzle grows and already I can see the potential masterpiece it can one day be.  I have come across many pieces that don't seem to fit and questions that don't seem to have an answer.  But I know that they must because my guide would not have brought them to me if they didn't.  I turn to my guide often  for help and sometimes I hear His answers right away and other times I do not.  I often turn to the smaller issues of life as a break from the larger ones but I always find my way back to the pieces that don't seem to fit.  My guide, my example, always helps me fit the pieces together in the end and I always realize that it was my own inability or lack of willingness to see that ever held me back in the first place.

As I continue to work on my masterpiece I will always keep my guide at my side.  He has never failed me before and I know that He will always be there to help me piece together this puzzle I call my life.

Spring

Fires in the Bitterroot usually mean one thing... miserable summers.  Our smoke-filled summers make for some unpleasant memories of evacuations and an increase of hospitalizations due to smoke inhalation.  But perhaps the most devastating part of the Bitterroot fires is missing out on the beauty that God has surrounded us with.  As Bitterrooters I think we often forget that fire doesn't always bring misery and destruction.  It is April now and as I look around the valley I see tiny plumes of smoke and my senses are filled with the faint smell of burning fields.  These smoke plumes and smells comfort me and remind me that spring is coming.  It is just around the corner.  Soon the falls of Como and Skalkaho will be roaring once again, filling our precious river, streams, and lake to capacity.  The trees will be full and green again, mirroring the envy of those who do not have the privilege of living here. 
This time the fires do not signal danger or destruction, they signal the beginning of a glorius spring in our beautful corner of the world.

Cracking the wall

The touch of your warm hand sends through my body a pulse.  A pulse that travels through every nerve until it finds its way to my heart, where it is abruptly halted.  Halted by a thick glass wall that surrounds my heart.  My heart beats steadily inside, protected from outside forces.  Forces that they call love.  Love, as if I even know what it is supposed to mean.  It means to me heartbreak and disappointment.  Disappointment because no man has ever been able to break the wall.  The wall only grows thicker with every attempt.  Every attempt is different.  Different because some use bricks, some use hammers, some use daggers and some do not even try.  Try something less fierce.  Fierce will only anger the wall.  The wall that is so terrifying already.  Already many have failed and I have lost hope.  Hope that true love will crack the wall open before it becomes impossible.  Impossible is just around the corner, approaching swiftly.  Swiftly coming to seal the wall forever.  Forever is a long time to be alone.  Alone, trapped in a glass wall, looking out and longing for the happiness I see around.  Around the wall your pulse waits.  Waits for me to let you in.  In the wall is where I want you, but I need your help.  Help me let you inside.  Inside the wall I fight but my heart fights back.  Back in time it reminds me of a time from before.  Before now, when you thickened the wall.  The wall waits for you to prove yourself worthy.  Worthy of another attempt, while on the inside I scream.  I scream to you that you are worthy but the wall is sound proof.  Proof is all my heart needs to crack the wall.  Cracking the wall will not come by force, but by your gentle touch.  Your gentle touch is all I need.  All I need to tell my heart that it is okay.  Okay for you to come inside the walls.  The walls that only you can crack.  A crack that can only be formed by the pulsating brought by the touch of your warm hand.