flowers, bitches.

If I could I would work 20 hours a week, be super poor, and do all the fun things that I love to do. I'd have all the flexibility in the world, and be completely happy. All you two-jobbers out there amaze me. That is not something I would ever want to put upon myself. Never will I submit myself or my time to the position of holding two jobs... except for this one week.
I'm currently in transition from going from Starbucks to Trader Joe's, and the working is overlapping by one week.
Shoot me now.
Yesterday I got to enjoy my first day at Trader Joe's at a not-so-bright and early hour of 5am. After getting off work at 130pm I made my way right over to Starbucks where I worked a full shift from 2pm-10pm. That's allotah work, dude. But it gets better.
The next morning I oh-so enjoyed waking up at 4am to start my second day at Trader Joe's at 5am for another hearty eight-hour shift (no Starbucks to follow.. thank the heavens above).
But oh, it get's better.
Errit. Rewind. When I first scheduled my interview I actually forgot the day it was scheduled for about five minutes after I hung up the phone with the person. Awesome. I had to call back later to find out when my interview was scheduled for.
tirrE. Fast forward. Yesterday, when I showed up for my "first day" everyone was acting funny around me for a few minutes until I was approached to be told that I actually wasn't supposed to start until the next day. Oh, wait, you mean that brain thing up there is for storing useful and important information such as really essential things about when I'm supposed to be interviewed and start a new job? Why did they hire me again?
Because I work 23 hours in two days and don't complain about it, bitches. Okay. Sorry. When my eyelids start to shut down, the gloves come off, the vulgarity comes out. Deal with it, bitches.
Just kidding ;)
Anyway. Now I'm going to transition this from saying vulgar words to talking about Jesus. It's a big leap. Live a little (I should be telling that to myself for the last 48 hours of my life I just lost spending most of it clocked into a time-punch, answerin' to Tha Maan.)
Back to Jesus.
Yesterday when I had about four hours left of my working day I was about to lose it. I was trying to multitask with little to zero brain power, and then a poor new-hire got stuck with me to train him on Drive Thru while I was being the miserable, sad little girl that I was. Whaaaa. No coffee in the world could give me enough energy for this. But I pushed through, so, so, so in love with my bed when I got to un-gracefully trip into it when I finally got home to take a nice long nap in the middle of the night before my long morning at TJ's the following day, my "first day", right? Serious run-on sentence.
This morning, going in for that last, long full shift at TJ's I was summoned to go work with Cindy in Flowers for the morning. From 5am to 830am Cindy and I talked and arranged flowers. I unpacked the most beautiful calla lilies, orchids, sunflowers, marigolds, and savored the aromas of the potted herbs. My whole morning zipped by in a joyful, sensual chapter. As soon as my fingers grazed the edges of those velvet flowers I felt the Lord taking care of me. I prayed all week that I would survive these long few days. On the home-stretch God pairs me up with the flowers and says, "I take care of you, Sarah". I was energize by the life, the colors, and the beauty. All my senses were adrift, thinking mostly about a fluffy bed, probably. At 5am this morning they came together and were brought to life.
I was struck by how fragile those flowers seemed... and were, really, but how resilient they actually were with the help of a little water, sun, and love. I felt like those flowers in a lot of ways today.
They thanked me for taking care of them by giving me life.
And I thank my God for taking care of me by being a part of his body and taking joy in his creations, including the people around me, and those colorful flowers.

Beatus and praus

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

Yesterday morning I woke up and read the Beatitudes. The term comes from the Latin word Beatus, which sort of translates to Blessed. Fortunate, blissful, happy. Here, Jesus presented to us an ideal for Christianity that has more to do with compassion and and love. These are the values that Christ cares about out.

Blessed are the meek.
This one stood out to me.
They shall inherit the earth. 

It's easy to read the Bible and take some of it in literally, and some as some sort of figure of speech that really means something else. I'm really no expert on these ancient times, their ways of speaking, the translations, the culture. Often times I can get left in confusion, so I take a little in at a time.
But here I find myself reading:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you."

Jesus probably doesn't clump these things together with some of them having just a spiritual meaning, and some just having a literal meaning. It's got to be one or the other. Most all of these beatitudes can be said literally. We shall be called sons of God, and we will be in the Kingdom of Heaven, we'll receive mercy. All these things I learned growing up in Sunday school.
But what about inheriting the earth? That one is a little different. If the rest are to be heard literally, then this one should too. How do we take literal inheriting the Earth? What does that mean? Is it going to matter one day when the Christ returns to us to take us home. Home, I have often hoped, is much like this earth we live on, this beautiful place He made. Maybe it is this earth, restored to what it was meant to be.
Will the meek inherit the earth in the days to come before Christ returns to us? Will the meek inherit the earth after Christ returns to us? Will heaven be here on earth? I understand that we should be stewards of the earth and take care our planet here, but how does inheriting the earth compare to the rest of these beatitudes? If we follow these beatitudes we can see God, have the Kingdom of Heaven, receive mercy, be satisfied with our hunger towards righteousness. These are very literal, and spiritual-based things. Inheriting the earth is a much more tangible thing than the rest, and if it were meant to be spiritual as well, how does that work? How do we spiritually inherit the earth?

Now let's talk about what meek means. From the Greek word praus, it was used to refer to domesticated animals. Not wild animals. Powerful domesticated animals like oxen, who serve great purpose. Meek, we could say, means strong and in control. Not weak or passive. I read somewhere that "the meek see God, and they see God in everything." Truly. He is in the world around us and the people around us just as an artist is in all of his artwork. So we can be comforted that, although the wicked occupy this world for a time, God is in all things around us. God is in beauty and truth.
To become meek, we must take a sense of belonging of the earth, but only through God, as all things are His. We must be humbled by his presence in these things. When I think of meek, now, I think of a mountain man: living off the earth, taking care of what is around him, respecting the power of nature, as well as the beauty delicacy of it all. Living with it, not living on it, or despite of it.
I want to be meek. I want to inherit the earth. I want to be an advocate for this creation we live in.

Still, when I take it apart I understand it more. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. But I still have questions that go along with this beatitude. I don't need answers always. The desire is to be meek. God will take care of the rest.

"...Do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body and what you will put on. Is life not more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds in the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? Which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?... Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble."

Bikes and Bodies

Two summers ago I decided to let this boy I knew wisk me away to Branson to be his girlfriend. I had everything on my back. My travel pack was stuffed full of everything I needed (and probably more than what I needed). I had been living in Central California with few responsibilities, less money, and nowhere to be. It turns out it's a lot easier to live without a car out West than it is in Southwest Missouri, so one day Aaron found some bikes on craigslist for me, fixed one of them up, and once again I was mobile. I first got on it and wobbled around a bit, unsure of where the height of the seat should be, afraid to turn a corner too sharp, scared of steep hills. Guy, my childhood neighbor, taught me how to ride when I was five years old. I spent many childhood years riding my bike to the candy store and to the park. It had been awhile, though, and it felt like it was going to take some good practice to get back into the rhythm of this riding-my-bike thing. I struggled up small hills (emphasis on the small), yet braved my way through the streets of Branson in the rain or shine. When I say braved, I mean it. Bransonites aren't exactly used to anyone riding their bikes on the streets. Most of them had no idea what to do with themselves when they found me peddling away off to the right of the lane. But for the sake of my freedom, I endured.
Soon enough I found riding my bike to be some of the most enjoyable moments in my day. I loved leaving my neighborhood on my way to work and passing the RV park next to the lake, shaded and content, old men playing guitar under their awning lit with chili pepper lights. I dreamed and hoped that one day my future husband and I would be a happy old RV couple with chili pepper lights. Laugh. But it's true.
On my way home from work it was usually dark. The humid night air felt refreshing on my bare skin after changing out of my work clothes and into bicycling clothes. My headlamp dimly lit my path in front of me as I headed home and down the hill towards the RV park, once again. A wall of cold air would hit suddenly when I neared the lake, and my soul was filled with joy.
That bike brought me freedom and joy.
Fast forward a bit.
 January 2011: It was horrible. I lost my nephew, my first love left forever on a train, my car broke down, I was broke (all within the same week, mind you). So I moved to Champaign on whim. I had a fever and a sore throat the morning I left to catch the train from the Burbs down to Central Illinois. It was 4am and blizzarding outside. I had a garbage bag and a backpack full of what I needed to get settled but barley had the strength in my body to hold on to it all. Once got moved into Kati and Jeremy's spare bedroom I was going to bed at 8:30 on a nightly basis; My heart was deeply sad.
I finally decided to make a special trip up to Chicago to pick up my beloved bike. My baby. My freedom. I took her everywhere. I fixed her up, gave her new handlebar tape, protected her from the elements, and rode her around town like nobodies business. Once again, she gave me freedom.
My nightly bike rides back from work started to liven my soul and invigorate me once again. Endorphins were flying all over the place! I felt alive. My body loved it, my soul loved it, and I'm pretty sure the environment loved it.
Relying on my bike brought me out of deep pit of sadness. I truly think things would have been different if I hadn't been dependent on her.

Once again, now, back here in Illinois, my bike saves my soul. Coming from a place in Colorado where I was surrounded by beauty, adventure, and freedom, I'm now surrounded by stoplights, cars, and beauty salons. Escape comes but two blocks away from my front door where the Prairie Path begins. I can follow it towards marshes, forests, little lakes, and most recently... Wisconsin.
I have come from struggling up teeny little hills in the road to feeling like my bike is now just another appendage of mine. How amazing is it that we can fit whatever we need on the backs of those things, and they roll with us? Bigger adventures are yet to come. Perhaps one day I'll even get rid of my little Abigail Von Wedge and seek to live with only Abigail Von Bike. Ride Across Illinois? Down the Pacific Coast? Across the Country? Around the world?
I am inspired and invigorated. That bike carries me through and away from hard times, and into adventure and freedom.
What a truly wonderful blessing it has been that my car was stolen three years ago in January. That one incident continues to shape my life. Without that, none of the following years would have evolved as they did.

Our bodies are strong and AMAZING things. God has gifted us with these amazing bodies. Treat it well, do with it what you love to do. Get drugged up by those endorphins. They're life savers.
Remember, though, our bodies and minds are linked together. So much of it is mental. If you think you can, you can. I truly believe that. Tell yourself that you're amazing. You are.

This is a great link:
Women on Wheels 

Of all the places

Today I surprise my parents. By the time this blog is posted my family and I will have stood around my new bedroom in my new house and explained that I'm not actually visiting... I'm staying, man.
That is scary. This week has been an overwhelming one. I'm from here- this greater Chicago area. I've also been back here countless times after I moved away into the world of traveling gypsy. This is different. This time I am over-sensitive to my surroundings. After having lived in Estes Park for eleven months (a big feat on my part- The Drifter) my surroundings have become not only a place my body is, but a place my spirit is and a place my spirit feeds off of. Mountain after mountain lined up, just miles away from where my feet were planted, huge snow caps. When the darkness falls it still does not cover the majesty of the mountains; the moon will shine and the snow caps will still glow. The bears and foxes come out. In the day time the elk gather in massive herds, and all things feel as though they should be.

Then I hopped in my car and changed my life. How did I change my life? I don't know yet, I just have this deep feeling that this coming year in life will be a big one. A huge one. Probably not and easy one. But here I stand in the middle of too many cars, busy roads, and an over-stimulated culture. I am overwhelmed. A pretty big part of me just wants to be back to where I am comfortable. Back in nature, where I can just walk to the base of most of those mountains from what used to be my front door. I miss my dear Joanna, and I miss going to work at probably one of the best jobs I've ever had. The reasoning for that being the people; the people I worked with who I keep so close to my heart, and the people who would come into our store for their caffeine fix. I have a whole lot of love for them.
But now I pray for continuing trust, and peace. If I didn't have either of those things to begin with I wouldn't be sitting in my new house, in my new living room, right across the street from my sister and her family in Wheaton, Illinois. Wheaton... of all places. Of all the places in the world I have lived, of all the beautiful things I have seen and done, of all the ties I have and places I could be, here I am.
The Lord is doing something exciting. I'm actually a little scared. I feel like I am sitting here in the dark waiting to have a glimpse of light be revealed to me about what I am here for. Right now I know nothing. I just trust.
A fitting week this is to move here: Holy Week. I've attended some of the services at my new church here and already have had an inexplicable flood of emotions come from just a couple of powerful evening services. These services are meant to mourn the death of Christ before his Resurrection. How fitting these services are to my emotional state here, now. I feel as though I am also mourning a death of a part of myself, eager to have a resurrection of my own.
Until then, I sit in the quiet darkness with my God and I trust him. In that I find comfort.

Mother Nature: Mama Hater.

Driving home in the cold night air, thinking about how wonderful my two-hour massage on Thursday is going to be, and how so very much I need it.
I pull into my neighborhood that is well-known to trap vehicles into the abyss of the mountain hills for a long, long time. So I gun it. Thirty miles an hour and I make it to my driveway, the deep snowdrift in my driveway not phasing me because my mind is not in the snow. It's in the clouds. Until a snowball hits my nice little daydream and my car stops.My car is severely stuck halfway into my driveway.
Temper ensues. Rage. My dirty sailor mouth tells Mother Nature how I really feel about her, and instead of her giving me a little gust of wind behind me to boost my fruitless slander and smashing my gas petal, she laughs at me in anger. Mwah ha ha.
I get out of my car, wind thrashing my hair into my eyeballs and whipping the straps from my backpack in my face (sweet revenge from Mama Hater). Every step I take balances gently atop the snow drift, and then my foot plunges deeply to the depths of the ground beneath me almost sending my face to the snow every time. "EFFF YOU WIND! EFFF YOU SNOW! YOU SUCK MOTHER NATURE!!!", my voice lost in the roar of the wind. I kick the snow at her with no avail, and almost fall again. Snow fills my boots, wind in my face, cold darkness surrounds me, and my front door seems like it's 97 miles away.
The door slams shut an hits me in the butt. I throw my keys on the counter and pout like a little girl.
Joanna's suggestion: A flame thrower. But she doesn't suggest a flaming torch to melt the snow in our driveway; she quietly knocks on my door with a soft voice, "Sarah," and I open as she shares her idea of a flame thrower complete with motions as if she's holding a machine gun, feet planted, torching our hellish driveway with what it deserves. Death. Flames. Melting horror! All I see is Joanna outside in her pajamas with goggles on, fiery glow in her face, holding a giant torch, laughing heartily, hot wind blowing, and melting away the evils of what Mama Hater has brought upon our household.
We fall to the ground in exuberant laughter.
Mother Nature, why you hatin'? Next time you bring this upon us Joanna and I will indeed flame your ass.

Shame, I have naught.

If you take Ex-lax, this is what will happen:

You will probably take Ex-lax at the end of your shift at work. A co-worker has some; she says it works like clockwork, so you willingly go along with these heathen-istic actions. What were you thinking? Shame.

What’s going through your mind is that it’s only 7:30pm, and you don’t work until noon tomorrow so you have a perfect window of opportunity to let the Ex-lax do it’s business, or rather, let it let you do your business. Everything should go smoothly as planned. Yah know what I mean? Right?

The problem is that Ex-lax is actually against you, you silly person. It has a demon soul. The problem is that you will swallow these laxatives, and then pull into your driveway only to find that there are many, many cars there. Your driveway is… clogged, if you will. Much like your bowels. And your house. Bad. 

No, actually bad is when you walk into your door absolutely mortified to see that your home is full of very attractive men. About ten of them. All of whom are currently drinking beers and having a jolly time, being attractive, and scruffy, and mountainy, and climbery… and will be sleeping all night on your living room floor. I repeat: what were you thinking? This mortification will promptly be followed by approximately two glasses of wine to try and ease the pains of… the pains. The stomach pains, that is. Instead, all you get from the wine and the devil drug is a night full of bad dreams of sharing bathrooms with good-looking mountain men, and standing in god-awful lines to use the toilet. Every once in a while you will wake up from these dreams in cold sweats, grasping your stomach because it begs you to just let it do what it wants to doooo.

A cold shower at 7am will not work. Promise.

What you will think, though, is that since they are off to do some ice climbing for the day they will be on their way bright and early. Not standing around, leisurely making breakfast and coffee. But you are wrong. They will be standing around all morning, leisurely making breakfast and coffee. More cold sweats to follow. In this situation, pass on all offers of coffee and any fibrous foods. Don’t. eat. anything.

Finally, the only thing you will be able to do, thank the heavens above, is to jump in your car, smile, and tell them you’ll be off to work early today… to… umm… use some of the resources in town. But Ex-lax can outsmart you, you see, because as you head down the hill from your house, your car will surely get stuck in the ditch, and you will have to grasp your stomach in excruciating pain while walking back to all the attractive men to ask them for help to get your car out of the ditch. That’s bad, until the car that comes to rescue you from the ditch also gets stuck in the ditch. I know you didn’t believe me that Ex-lax has a demon soul, but you do now. Ex-lax knows just how to humiliate you and keep you in pain all day.

Don’t think that one trip to that porcelain is going to make everything go away and feel better. Expect some terrible stomach cramps, light headed-ness, and the feeling of wanting to essentially rip out every single one of your intestines so this will surely never, ever happen again.

So I say, after this day has finally come to a close, you too, will fully understand the meaning of “Holy Shit”. But do you really want to understand the meaning of Holy Shit? Just say no.

Drink some prune juice for heaven sakes. Ex-lax came from hell, I tell you.

nylon death straps

You know those times when you go home and do things you used to do when you were kids, like lay in bed with your sister at night talking and giggling? It’s actually a wonder I ever get to sleep in the same bed as Julie anymore since Josh can barely take his hands off of her. They are in ooey gooey mushy love, and they’ve finally mushed their gushy love into a bun in the oven. But let’s not get into those details. 

My last night in Illinois a couple weeks ago Julie and I went to bed and the comfortable feeling of lying there together kicked off our nostalgic (and not-so-nostalgic) childhood reminiscing.
“Remember when we lived in that white house?” I asked. “I was four, and you were eight, and mom worked waitressing at Potters in town.” Of course she remembered. But I was eagerly and bitterly getting to a point here.

“Remember that time you wanted to go see mom at work, so you thought it would be a good idea to ride bikes? Only, we weren’t riding bikes. We were riding bike. Singular.” In fact, Julie strapped me to the back seat of mom’s adult bike. May I remind you of our ages? Four and eight. Do you know an eight-year-old who can ride and adult road bike with a child strapped to the back? Me either.  This is early independence at its finest, folks. Where was our supervision? Julie laid the bike down on its side, strapped my silently terrified self into the seat atop the gravel driveway, mounted the bike upright, and thrusted forward with her eight-year-old legs on either side. We wobbled back and forth for a second while Julie tried to gain balance until this leaning tower of child-on-metal came to a crash on the gravel. Julie escaped. I, on the other hand, being unwillingly strapped to the bike like a four-year-old prisoner, had nothing but my teeny little hands to stop my head from bouncing off the gravel road. Crying and looking at the blood on my hands is my last memory as a four-year-old. I’m sure repressed memory syndrome had a lot to do with it. I did learn to hate that bike. Other lessons though, took me longer to learn such as thinking about what my sisters were trying to get me into before I brainlessly followed along. I’ll bet I was fun little sister.

That’s the thing about time. It heals all wounds. (Mostly). Perhaps that’s why we were able to lay there and laugh hysterically in the dark, picturing our sad little selves laying in that gravel driveway. However, I’m still a weenie about falling off a bike.

The bad bike memories don’t actually stop there. Add a couple of years, replace Julie with Kimberly, and keep that same awful bike. But that’s a story for another time. 

I vow on this day to never strap my child into one of those terrifying plastic seats with nylon death straps. No no no.

Remember how January kills? How it sucks all things good and well from all good people?
January 6, 2010 - My car was stolen with everything I own in it.
January 15, 2011 - My sister find our her unborn baby isn't going to live for much longer. Two weeks later Jonan passes away. My first love leaves on a train forever. My car breaks down for two months and since the Pie Shop never paid me, I don't have any money to fix it.
January 1, 1012 - My brakes on my car go out while I'm driving downhill on a windy road in the dark and I'm supposed to drive to Chicago in two days to have a family Christmas, and I find out I can't find my drivers license.
Can we please skip January this year? January 1 is not off to a good start so far. 

Roots

I think we must lose ourselves now and again to find ourselves that much stronger, to know ourselves that much more. To have the ability come back to who we were made to be we must be in tune to the fact that we have forgotten who we were, and to come back to who we were made to be we must take the time to remember who that person was, and why. When we take the time to remember who that person was, we inevitably discover things that have been hidden, lost, or completely undiscovered yet. What a wonderful thing to peel back the things hiding us and find the core of ourselves, our heartbeat, our colors. Every time we lose ourselves, we come back a little bit brighter. When the winter melts off the trees and the leaves grow back we’re finally able to see what kind of trees surround us, what kind of leaves they grow.

Before a tree dies for the cold winter season they lose their leaves and leave them at base of their roots. Not an accident, I’m sure.

Find the dancing colors

I think our lives are dependent on beauty. Beauty means that things are living, growing, being noticed and taken care of. Ugly brings death. Beauty brings life. But lack of beauty has been evident in my life lately. Ugly has infiltrated itself into my life and blinded me from good things. Good things that bring joy, like looking out into the brisk mountain air through the window and seeing flurries of snow dance around the waving tree branches while I sit comfortably in a blanket of warm, peaceful air; letting the beauty of sounds, whispers, music, and every day voices be my soundtrack, my comfort, my home; allowing the scents of my surroundings bring me to a place of peace and excitement. Instead, I use my senses to drift me slowly into a nostalgia of days more sorrowful, more joyful, more familiar times rather than living in the reality of the moments I find myself in, feeling all the feelings my Lord has given me, and then thanking Him for the great gift of these senses.

Now I learn to take joy in the feeling of my soft blanket on my skin, engulfing me through the night and keeping me warm from the chilly mountain air, the sounds of my keyboard beneath my fingertips typing out my thoughts and tapping me into the reality of the beauty that surrounds me. I take joy in the thin, subtle smell of cold air, and the sight of the mountains at night when the moon is full, the snow-caps glow softly in the midst of the black sky. Lastly I bring myself back to the simple flavors of a good cup of coffee, or homemade bread, good whiskey, or a good ol’ stinky cheese. These things that once brought the colors to my happiness I have so quickly forgotten to notice.

Today I will notice, and I will soak in every color I can find. Colors make our eyes come alive. Colors mean the light is dancing, and God is Light. To notice the beauty is to notice God. He makes things beautiful. He made my life beautiful.