Full Circle

I've been struggling to come up with words to explain what the last two weeks were like. It started with a busy week leading into a last-minute decision to go on the youth group mission trip as an adult leader. The first part of my busy weekend involved a funeral, then a pool party, then a baseball game. Strange combination of mourning and grief, then celebration and family time. The pool party was its own combination as I dealt with emotions of being with my friend who's going through a divorce and the reality of that sinking in hard. The funeral was my friend's father who died kind of quickly from brain cancer. The next morning at church I needed to get away from worship and pray and weep the tears I hadn't been able to the day before.

That afternoon we had another joy-filled event that I'd been anticipating for a long time. Some kids from my class had organized a 20-year reunion. Not my school class, but my youth group. 

I can't even explain the beautiful experience it was. Yes, it was great to see everyone and take that walk down memory lane together. But it was more than that. Our youth pastor created a group where we could all invest, and that kind of leadership allowed all of us to have a place of belonging. We led worship, we planned outreaches, we shared our spiritual growth with each other on trips and retreats. There are bad memories from those times, but overall, there was something really special between us. Being together again, older but the same, was a special feeling I've never had. Feeling accepted and known, mutual affection that the adult world doesn't offer in the same ways. 

We hugged, we laughed, we sang our old songs together. While not everyone articulated it, we had the same beautiful memories that wove us together on our hearts, and we wished for more time together, and for more of us to be there. Standing there singing the best of our old songs, I wanted to capture one of those experiential photographs, just hold on to that moment and return to it whenever I wanted. I wanted a day-long conversation with everyone there. I wanted to listen to everyone's stories and memories and hear where God had taken them in the last 20 years. Alas, there was so little time. But the joy between us was so real and alive. It was precious to be with people who I knew when my faith was still young and being explored, who knew me at vulnerable times and grew with me through those years. They were short years, but impactful. 

I left one week later as an adult leader for my youth group's mission trip. And in those moments we shared together I felt the same beautiful, unique memories being formed for these young people. I wanted so much for them to share the same kinds of bonds that I have with my church friends all those years ago. We experienced some great moments together, and I hope that when they look back it will be with the same fondness and affection that I have toward those years in my life. To have the same joy of pure fellowship. To experience gratitude for where God was leading them at that time. And mostly, that they'll be seeing Jesus at work, woven into every interaction and every memory. 

We sang some old songs on that trip (left photo), songs from when I was in high school. And while we did I thought about my little high school heart, reaching out to God in the only ways I knew how, and all of the places he's taken me since 1999 when I really thought life couldn't get much better. It got better, and everything got deeper. Looking at the students I was with in that moment, I just thanked God for carrying me along and putting me there in that moment, a full-circle face to his goodness and mercy that follows me all the days of my life.

Sad At Christmas?

 Sometimes you just don't feel it. The lights are all on, sparkling in the winter darkness. The kids are dressed up, the tree is up with its nostalgic ornaments, the books are read, cards are sent, the presents are wrapped, and you're just... blue. You WANT to feel the happiness that everyone around you seems to be reveling in. You want to get that childlike feeling of anticipation, and you want to enjoy the time with your loved ones. But it just isn't happening.

Last year was one of those years. We were getting our ceilings replaced on our entire living area due to "the storm" and the damage that happened in the summer. This was the only time it would happen, ten days before Christmas. We moved to my parent's house like I was in college all over again, and spent the fun week leading up to christmas watching movies and sitting around without a lot to do. While my beautiful, peaceful, organized house, was turned inside-out and completely covered in construction ruins. When the work finished, we got to go home but there was more work for me to do than I could even manage in a month. Painting, dusting, moving furniture, re-organizing. We got to work, and Christmas was just another thing on my eternal to-do list. A burden. There would be no fun decorations in my disastered house this year. We did buy a fake tree to put up and I somehow got the presents wrapped (actually a family from church came over and did them all) and no one complained. The kids probably didn't ever realize how sad I felt, deep inside of my heart. I don't think anyone really understood.

But then I realized that's sort of what Christmas is actually about. About a baby who came into a disorganized, chaotic world full of people who were wandering around without purpose, feeling forgotten and alone. His name means "God With Us". And he didn't show up to a neatly organized home with happy smiles and a cozy fire and perfectly baked cookies. He showed up in a barn to a mom who maybe wasn't really ready for her life to change like that, and a dad who probably wondered how the heck he was going to get it all put together and make things okay. And then God invited some messy sheperds to join the party. That was the beginning, but the big Story was God just coming in man form to be with the people. To live among them, to show them himself, to eat with them and celebrate with them and show them he saw and understood all the things that made them human. He cried when they mourned; he feasted when they celebrated; he joined the traditions and recognized the holidays, knowing that they were all reflecting pieces of his Father and of Him. And he knew, maybe even as a baby, that his life was coming to an end that would involve great suffering.

I think that it's okay to not feel it at Christmas. Sometimes you just know the upcoming year will be full of stuff you don't want to do, full of more suffering, maybe more of the same stuff you hate. Sometimes you see the year that's passed and wish it had been different. You can put a positive spin on it all, you can see God working in it, but it isn't "happy". Sometimes that feeling can overwhelm you too, and sometimes you just don't want to celebrate like everyone else. But someitmes all they're celebrating is lights and trees and a guy in a red suit and family nearness and some nebulous "spirit of christmas".  And that's not really what I'm into. What I celebrate at Christmas is a package: You can't take the holiday lights and trees and presents without the deeper things. Just like you can't have the angels singing without the dirty shepeherds. You can't have the beautiful Mary and Joseph without the mess they were in. You don't get wise men and gifts without a long hard journey. And you can't take the baby Jesus without taking his future death. But with that death is also resurrection, new beginnings, and eternal life. And I think that being blue at Christmas is a way of bringing it together, of finding the hope that's still in the manger, the hope of Jesus, and knowing that our "light and momentary suffering is producing in us a far great weight of glory." If you suffer, you get Jesus in that suffering. If you're sad, you get Jesus in that sadness. And He knows. He sees. He's God With Us. Forever.

Matthew 1:23 "All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: 'Behold the virgin shall conceive and bear a son and you shall call his name Immanuel, which means God With Us.'"

Graveside

I wrote this after the funeral of my friend. It's not great but I have to write stuff sometimes to help me figure things out.

Graveside

 You knelt at a graveside weeping
even though you were the Resurrection
you cried in front of all your friends
even with all certainty of the future
    You knelt as his graveside weeping

Was it the loss that got to you
or the curse of sin that caused decay in your world
    Or were you moved with such deep compassion for the mourners
that you could do nothing else?
Did you know how many would see this show of power
and still choose to reject the way of life?
    You knelt at the graveside weeping
and still you prayed to the Father
thanking him for listening.

        Are you listening to me now?
where the weeping as turned into silence
and the questions only keep coming
Are you still weeping with me
over that one lost sheep
    who still rejected you
and wandered beyond my reach?

She once said i was like her sister
--a title quickly gone
But you stick closer than a brother
and give comfort like a mother
and you find us in the thorns 
and call us home.

You were at her grave with me
weeping the tears I couldn't find
And you can carry us both together now
Compassionate friend--   
    see our struggles and help me to see you
here at the grave
and beyond

Copyright May 2021 KB Snodgrass

Sometimes you just need an old friend.

In 1996 the internet was pretty new and chat rooms were new and people were just figuring out how they all worked. Being a cutting-edge teenager, I had an account and spent a lot of time meeting people in chat rooms and trying to find some connections that I didn't have in real life. The summer before I went to high school, I met someone who, looking back, was an unexpected gift to my awkward and lonely teenage soul. I think his screen name was Breten2, and we liked to go to this chat room. He was in school for youth ministry and I was... a youth. We connected a lot on instant messenger and with other people in the chat group. It was fun. And don't worry, it was wholesome. Back then I was really immature in all of the ways everyone around me was mature, and more mature in the ways that everyone around me wasn't. I think it made it hard for me to connect with people. But Breten2 didn't care. He just accepted me and went along with my craziness. And in the midst of the weirdness and insane teenage moments, he managed to ask the right questions and reach my heart. I think the anonymnity of a screen helped a lot. I didn't meet him in person until my senior year (I did know he was a real person becasue one of my mom's friends had a son at the same college and confirmed it. He also at one point emailed my parents so they would know he was talking to me and keep everything above board. Because he's cool like that.) 

I became less lonely as high school went on, and I had friends and I eventually met my husband-to-be. Breten2 was there through all of the stuff, though. I had to switch churches freshman year, and that was really difficult. I had a bit of a crisis of faith in that. I had lots of questions and a lot of normal-ish struggles as I navigated high school. Friendships that didn't go so well, boys I liked, youth group drama, my first kiss, my siblings, all kinds of things. Sometimes just being able to write out what you're thinking is helpful. Being a college student, Breten2 was often on messenger late at night, and I'd talk through things with him. I process easier in writing than I do by talking so it was a perfect combination. He was the easiest to talk to, and he did something very few people in my life were doing: He listened. And then he gave the best advice. Like, no one can do it like him. He just understood better than a lot of people, and even when he didn't, he still somehow knew the things to say. God used him over and over to help me see things the right way, to help me figure out relationships, and to just feel better about myself. He had such a great way of building me up and letting me see myself the way God did. He had a way of erasing my insecurities with assurance and truth spoken in just the right way. Recently I was thinking about how badly I had needed and wanted a person at church to mentor me and be part of my every day life and it didn't happen because we'd switched churches and I was actually a pretty quiet person who rarely drew attention to myself. But I got a mentor who never took credit for it. A big brother.

Slowly after I got married and became an adult, I didn't need a Breten anymore. We always stayed in touch and checked in once in a while. He got married also, and we've been pretty busy with our own seperate lives in seperate countries. Since our relationship was never in-person, it isn't weird to stay in touch only online. Our memories together are awesome and I love him for all that he's been to me. we're very different now and have less and less in common. But last week I went to the memorial of my aforementioned friend Twan and I felt horrible afterwards. I can't even articulate exactly how or why I did, but I did. And after sitting and stewing in it for a few days, thinking through so many things and remembering high school with her as my best friend, I felt like I needed some outside help to process it all. It's just such a weird and personal thing to lose a friend like that, and I spend a lot of time overthinking who would be the best person to talk to about things (usually I resort to not talking to anyone). I realized the perfect person to share with would be Breten2. We're friends on facebook, so I sent him an abnormally long message dumping my feelings and thoughts. Just like the old days. I actually felt better just doing that. It would have been enough to have just said it all to someone I knew would read it and pray for me. I told him that I just wanted him to be Breten and fix it.

He did it. He replied with the insight and widom of a counselor and youth pastor, but he also replied as my friend. Who knew me when I knew Twan, who understood the weirdness of high school relationships and how they shape us but how they aren't permanent. He gave me assurance and peace, and he helped me heal. Because that's what he does. It might not have even been everything he said (although it was helpful), but just being heard and understood and loved in the most fitting way made me all warm and fuzzy inside. Sometimes you just need an old friend. I could never thank him well enough or thoroughly enough for all the ways he's helped me, but I think he knows. At least a little. ;) Breten2 is a world-changer, but he does it in small ways that the big world doesn't see. He's a God-lover and a people-lover and if you don't have a Breten in your life, you should get one. But probably don't go looking in a chat room.

The Truest Friend

 It's been a minute since I've posted anything. I have better things to do with my life right now. But sometimes I'm not sure they're actually better. Just busier, more urgent, more... something. This year has been full. Parenting and schooling and being married and ministering and trying to be a good friend... juggling all of it sometimes makes it hard to do what I actually want to do. And on another level, a lot of my life recently hasn't really been the kind of stuff you publish onto the internet. It's been hard and ugly and good all at the same time. Because good things often have hard before they are good.

That's been on my mind the last few weeks. My best friend from high school died unexpectedly, and left me reeling with so many questions and doubts and a looming sadness that I can't shake. We weren't best friends anymore, which is probably its own post. These things happen. I'd found peace with that. I'm the kind of person who wants to hold on to friends forever. Probably because I spent so much of my life not really having any. But not everyone feels that way, not everyone is built that way, and that makes it hard when you have to reconsile your desire for that forever friend with the reality of most people not really feeling that vibe. Anyway, back to my friend. My best friend. The hard that came before her good happened twice. Once before I met her, and then during a period where we lost contact.

Maybe it was an unrealistic expectation. To have "that" friend, the one who spends the night at your house on weekends, goes to the games with you, likes the same things, and sees the world like you do. But that was what I wanted. ever since my elementary best friend Stasia got put in another class and I spent all of fourth grade with literally no one to talk to except a couple of nerdy guys who liked drawing cartoon characters (they were great guys but they never saw me as their friend, just a girl who was around and liked drawing like they did). I spent 4th through 8th grade wishing for someone at school who would just understand me, who cared about the things I did, who wasn't the freak smart kid who no one liked. I just wanted one friend. One.

Twan was God's answer to my prayers. I really had prayed over and over, just one friend, Jesus. One friend who cared about the things I thought were important and wanted to hang out with me sometimes.  One friend who could laugh at the rest of the world with me, not care how weird I was. I met her the first day of school. We randomly took a seat next to each other in science class at a table for two, and honestly the rest is history. She was quiet but not an introvert, and we soon found out we had things in common. Our birthday being one. Our weirdness being the other. By weird, I mean wacky. We both liked childish things and found humor in similar things. With four classese together every day and lunch, we spent a lot of time together. Slowly figuring out just how much we had in common. Slowly realizing that we just "got" each other. We were by all senses of the word, best friends. she had other friends, I had other friends. We had mutual friends who we spent time with also. We both hated math class and we both loved our science teacher. English class was so bad she ended up quitting it (that's another story). But all through high school, we found time for each other. We fought some battles together, like her first car accident the day she got her lisence, like hating some teachers that sucked the life out of us, like that angsty friend who actually seemed to want to fight with everyone. We were almost always just on the same page about it all. 

That's why I never actually figured otu what changed. We both moved on in college. I got married and I think that made it hard for her to relate for a while. Her worldview morphed into something different than mine. We were also in completely different parts of the country so we never saw each other, and the online communication back then was sketchy. So we drifted. I always, always missed her. My house and my memory boxes were full of reminders that always carried a sadness when I lifted the lid, remembering that person who really meant so much to me that I'd somehow lost, pushed away unintentionally. I never forgot, and I don't think she did either. She even admitted how her past and her parents made relationships difficult for her. So I don't blame her for what happened between us. I just spent so much time wondering and wishing, hoping we'd run into each other somewhere in town and remembering that sparky connection, embrace and start again. Pick up where we'd left off.

That didn't really happen, but we did reconnect. She found me online by accident. she saw something I'd written in my blog and it helped her undrestand her hurt toward me. We reconsiled as much as we could, and we stayed in touch after that. Every year we've sent each other birthday gifts. Written letters and notes, commented on each others' social media. That was the best we had after that, but I'm so thankful for it. It laid to rest so many questions and insecurities I'd had about what went wrong. We talked about writing and reminised about the dumb things we both loved. We were in a good place.

Then last month I found out she'd ended her life. I'm crushed. It wasn't really a surprise but it was unexpected. She battled mental health, and she fought so hard. She was a voice to explain issues and things others couldn't put words to. She was the truest friend to so many people. She loved well. And now I'm kind of back to where I was in that in-between time when we weren't in contact. I'm wondering what went wrong, if there was more I should have done. Wishing in the secret parts of me that it was all untrue, that somehow it's a ruse. And I know it isn't. She's gone, and this time it's forever. We're cut off in the longest and most painful way, and it's hard to even settle into that reality. 

Not everyone agrees, but I believe in eternity and I think that our souls connect with others in ways that can't be explained in just fleshly ways. That was us. And I hope that some day we'll be reunited. Maybe all of our relationships are temporary in that light. Even on a shallow level, relationships are fleeting and not all of them are meant to be that forever kind. We change, we move, we need different things. I'm learning that in my thirties. I'm sure it will take a lifetime to overcome the pain of loss, especially this one. I think it will take a long time to even find another friend like that--there's no one like her at all--but one who understands that core person of who I am, not just the things I present as myself. There aren't a lot of connections like that for me, maybe for anyone. I'm thankful I had it for that season when I needed it so badly. I wish it would have lasted forever, but forever on earth is probably an illusion.

A Eulogy for A Tree

We had a giant storm come through a few weeks ago. It did the kind of damage tornadoes do, but it was straight winds stretching across Iowa. Trees got uprooted and torn down, pulling down power lines and houses with them. It was horrible.

My house took a pretty big hit from just the wind. Trees are still small on our lot which was formerly a pasture. 

Trees are not small in my old neighborhood, though. The place I grew up. We moved there when I was ten, from a farm we'd rented and I'd loved with my whole heart. On the farm we'd had free reign to roam and get into all kinds of adventures. A windbreak grove of cypress trees grew on the edge of the yard of that house, and we each had a favorite tree we claimed as our own "fort". Mine had ropes tied around it, an old hose that served as a Bat-pole, and a little tin cup that I pretended was a telephone. Moving to town meant I would have to leave that tree. The house my parents had chosen barely had a back yard, and there definitely were no good climbing trees there. Just two saplings on the side yard. Nothing to brag about.

Moving was hard for lots of reasons, but for some reason I fixated on the tree situation. I eventually acclimated to town living, appreciating the nice paved sidewalks and a few neighborhood kids to do things with. We'd ride through the 'hood, discovering new territory every day. We could get down to Czech Village easily, and occasionally we'd make it to the river on family bike rides. Slowly and surely, that new neighborhood became our home--my home. I walked to school every day for four years up the back alley, through the church yard, and up to Wilson.

Trees are part of our perfunctory view. We don't even really notice them until someone decides to chop one down. The trees all around that neighborhood that we moved to almost thirty years ago are in a large part gone now. They blew over and uprooted and lost limbs, leaving open wounds that are un-healable. The pines in the alley where I could look out my bedroom window and almost pretend I was in the mountains, the oak trees with the acorns that I walked over and cracked on the walks to school, the neighbor's lofty tree that was for sure the tallest one in the neighborhood--they're now reduced to logs on the side of the road, waiting for the city to haul away and turn into mulch and firewood.

The tiny trees in my parent's yard grew through the years. One of them ended up being removed and then the remaining one grew and grew. There was a limb that hung low, and I'm kind of convinced it did because of all the times we hung on it, pulling ropes and trying to swing from it. In the fall we would rake piles of leaves up from that tree and jump off of the trailer top into it. That tree that I hated because it represented the loss of my favorite place at the farm, became shade for the house it stood next to and eventually shade for my own children when they visited Grandma. A part of the perfunctory scenery of that post-war neighborhood where families grew and moved on, and new families moved in to live.

The storm pushed that mighty tree over, leaving a ball of roots sticking up into the air, grabbing the lines all around it, and also taking out the corner shrub that had been there when we moved in. I wasn't prepared for the shock and grief that happened the day I finally got to see the neighborhood of my childhood, post-storm, littered with the trees that watched my childhood. There are still some there, but it will never be what it was. But even by the time we moved there, it had already changed from what it was in the beginning. Time goes on, and houses and trees fall to the inevitable atrophy that comes in the space we live in as age and weariness pull apart the treads we've woven together to call a community.

I'll miss that tree, just like I miss the way the neighborhood looked in those first days of wonder as I rolled down the street in my old banana seat bike, noting the houses and their inhabitants who were laboring to make their yards feel like home. I'll miss that tree like I miss the neighbors, the Czech ladies who built their lives in the new world and watched their beloved homes make way for new families like mine, kids who walked on their flowers and rode bikes down the street and stayed out in the street lights, hoping for one more day of summer. I'll miss that tree like I miss being able to climb it or any tree, like I miss the moments of my brothers and sister together with the neighborhood kids. I like to think it had a mind of its own in some ways, and it willed itself to grow into the sheltering tree it was in the end. That it made its branches spread while we played soccer and went to band practice and raked the leaves up every fall. Maybe I'm crazy to think that its beauty mattered even a little in a world full of changes and fast-paced decisions. but maybe that's why we hurt a little when the trees leave us, because nothing about them is fast-paced or changing. They grow consistently slowly, they change in season like they're meant to, and they offer for us a view of God who makes all things beautiful in his time.

90's Halloween and the Family that Didn't

My siblings and I grew up knowing that witches were evil and all of the other satanic things that go along with them like Halloween were too. My parents had heard the rumors about kidnappings and satanic rituals that happened on Halloween so we really didn't get to celebrate it like most kids. I'm not even going to argue about that. I still have suspicions. But both of them had grown up trick-or-treating, and my mom, being from small town Iowa, understood that kids kind of feel left out if they're the only ones not doing it.
Which did not push her to get us included. Instead, she just kind of did her own thing with us each year. There was a parade at school in elementary which we never dressed up for but got to be in. Teachers were cool. I never heard a kid say anything bad to me about it (but I was also socially unaware so that doesn't mean they didn't).
Around that time churches started hosting "harvest fests" which we all knew was Christian Halloween. So we'd go to those sometimes. But the epic years were the years when we just stayed home. Being a homebody introvert I didn't really care about missing out on all the stuff. I just wished I could eat candy. (Parents were also sort of all natural hippies so candy was pretty sparse in our house).
One year my older brother had a roller skating party to go to and my baby brother went to bed early, so Mom and I watched Meet Me in St. Louis on TV. It was my first introduction to that amazing movie and to some pretty weird traditions that people (apparently) used to do on Halloween at the turn of the century. It was a good memory for me because I got some rare one-on-one time with my mom. Also my brother came home with a giant bag of candy, which my mom put into a little tin and hid on top of the pantry cupboard and I would occasionally sneak in there and steal a couple pieces.
When we moved to town, we weren't sure what to do, being fundamentally opposed to Halloween. My parents decided to give out candy but we didn't participate in trick-or-treating. That was fine. I was ten anyway, and this way I had unlimited access to the stash. Mom also decided to keep us home from school since it was just a big Halloween party day anyway. She rented a movie (A Christmas Story) and we stayed in watching one of the best movies ever. It became a little bit of a tradition to watch a Christmas movie on Halloween then. We also still watch A Christmas Story every Christmas.
We had a few trick-or-treaters that year, including a couple of guys from my class who we all knew were too old to be out begging for candy. The doorbell rang after we'd shut the light off and all of us gathered by the door, curious who had the gall to trick or treat without a light. A huge figure stood in the door frame dressed in a trench coat and a warm Russian hat. My mom didn't want to answer the door but my brother threw it open anyway. "Trick or treat!" a voice said. A familiar voice. It was my dad. He'd sneaked around the back door to try and surprise us all. My mom spent a while recovering from the heart attack she almost had while the rest of us laughed about it for quite a while.
There were good times together those years when we all stayed home. Once my brother found one of those mutated carrots that didn't get thinned out enough in the garden and it looked like a hand. He would shove it out the door when the masqueraders came a-knocking, making it look like a creepy monster was passing out candy. He also hid behind the bushes a few times planning to jump out at trouble-makers and scare them.
Eventually we all went our own ways and Halloween wasn't a concern as young adults. The first year I moved back to town, though, husband and I threw on some wigs and masks and decided to play a little trick on my parents. We showed up as a cowboy gorilla and a blonde-headed hippie. My mom (again) thought it was trouble, and they legitimately considered not opening the door until they heard my voice and realized what we were up to.
I don't celebrate Halloween with my kids, at least not the way the rest of most of America does. I do still enjoy a good prank, and we dress up for the church's non-Halloween fest. On Halloween night, there's always a movie going at our house. Plus candy. Because no one should miss out an scads of crap poison disguised as colorful treats just because their parents prefer not to join in the evil festivities. ;)