Graceland Part 2

“If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would you choose?”

At some point in time we’ve all been posed this question. While it is often asked as a form of entertainment in a group or party setting, I believe our answers to it our significant. Who we would choose speaks immensely about who we are, where our passions lie, what we are afraid and curious about and what we are desperate to have guidance on. 

It’s been a long time since I’ve been asked to consider my answer to that question. Honestly, I can’t even think of any of the people I would’ve picked in my earlier years when I was asked—although the list has undoubtedly changed. But I think for most of us though our answers would be different each year depending on our age and life circumstances. 

When we’re younger, we want to meet the heroes in the books and movies that help shape so much of our conception of the world. Or we want to meet someone famous like a rock star, president or someone from the royal family.  We want the chance at our own celebrity moment and to be able to brag to everyone afterwards about who we just met. But as we grow older and start to see more, hear more, do more and learn more about what this life can really be—all the good and the bad of it—I think we find ourselves more desperate for answers to the big questions. And the chance to have dinner with anyone on earth that has lived a large, full life and that possibly has the answers to those big questions is an opportunity I think we would all jump at. 

As I find myself a mere two months away from celebrating my 30^th birthday I realize I am filled with nothing but big questions on life and all that God still has in store for me. When I imagine actually having the opportunity to sit down and talk with anyone on earth for a few hours, several considerations come to mind. Like who is someone that could teach me how to deal with the hardships, disappointments, and strings of failures that life is often wrought with? Who could teach me how to be successful and what the true definition of success really is. Who could teach me how to make peace with my past and instead move forward with hope and fearlessness? Would could teach me how to be truly happy at every moment in my life no matter my circumstances? Who could teach me more deeply about God and how to live my life more according to his will? 

So who would my dinner guest of choice be today?  There’s only one major name that comes to mind—Mr. Elvis Presley. I know that he would not only be able to answer all of my questions but his answers would deliver me from all the fear and doubt I am too often burdened with. My recent trip to his Graceland home in Memphis, Tennessee only reaffirmed that for me. 

In Elvis’ short 42 years on earth he achieved more than more of us could in 100 years. He earned countless awards and recognitions and will forever be honored with the title of the King of Rock and Roll. But when I think of Elvis, I think most about his compassion, generosity, humbleness, and unconditional love for all mankind. And during this Christmas season, I have found myself thinking about Elvis a great deal and the kind of example he still sets for us on how to live our lives.

Most people know Elvis as one of the legends of music history whose voice, stage presence and show attire were always larger than life. But unlike many celebrities today, Elvis’ life wasn’t always so grand.  In fact, he had the most humble of roots. He was born in a two room shack in Tupelo, Mississippi and spent most of his youth dreaming of the day that things would be better. He has even been quoted as saying “When I was a boy, I always saw myself as a hero in comic books and in movies. I grew up believing this dream.” Fortunately for Elvis, God did have larger plans for him and his dream did come true. 

 

By the time Elvis finally passed onto his true home he was known and adored worldwide but never once did he forget about those less fortunate than him or take for granted the blessings bestowed on him. During his lifetime Elvis gave away houses, cars, motorcycles, jewelry, clothes, and money—many of which were personal items of his own--as though they hardly mattered to him. He was also a frequent contributor to numerous charities in the Memphis area and elsewhere including the March of Dimes and St. Jude’s Hospital. Elvis also held a number of benefit concerts, including one in Hawaii that raised funds for the USS Arizona Memorial. 

While touring Graceland two months ago, I saw numerous framed checks Elvis wrote in making donations to different businesses and charities. Many of these donations Elvis made on the strict conditions that his name was never to be released as the donor. Elvis understood that the point was to do good deeds for the sake of doing them…not for the notoriety of it. Like it is said in Matthew Chapter 6 of the Bible, “Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them….when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing.” (Matt 6:1-4)

Outside of his charitable giving, Elvis was also very much a man of God. His spiritual journey began as a child where he listened to the preaching and gospel music at the Assembly of God Church he attended with his family. But Elvis’ interest in religion and search for meaning and truth in life continued throughout the course of his life. This involved delving into the study of numerous faith denominations and ideologies. He was an avid reader who sought answers from books like The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran and the Impersonal Life by Joseph Benner. And if you’ve ever heard or seen any of Elvis’ gospel performances, you’d know that through every word of those lyrics he was seeking and praying to God in those moments as well. 

 

One of our last night in Memphis, I had the opportunity to tour Graceland at night. As I was walking down the sidewalk between some of the out-buildings, I was struck by the deafening silence of the grounds save for the faint chirping of crickets. I found myself wondering if Elvis ever wandered the grounds on nights as still as that and contemplated the large questions we all have about life, love, and God. I’m not sure that Elvis found all the answers to his questions during his lifetime, but for me, the way he lived his life has certainly been the answer to many of my questions.   

Elvis achieved an extraordinary amount of fame, fortune and success in his 42 years on this earth. But he lived each day of those 42 years with thankfulness for all he had as well as determination to pass on the blessings of his life to others. He was never too wealthy or famous to share a few kind words with a common man. He never stopped seeking out truth, meaning and ways in which he could become a better man.  Elvis is a man who nearly 40 years after his death continues to elicit adoration, curiosity and respect by the masses. He is the man that, given the opportunity, I would gladly sit down to dinner with and discuss life. 

  

Graceland Part 1

“It’s been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in….”

This quote was one of the opening lines in the iconic movie, Titanic. Decades after the sinking, the character, Rose, shared with a scientific crew what it felt like to be one of the passengers on the ship’s maiden and only voyage. A few weeks ago, I shared in a similar experience when I stayed at the Guesthouse at Graceland Hotel in Memphis during its opening weekend.

It’s been nearly 40 years since Elvis Presley left the building for the final time—having been called home for some much needed rest. Since then, family, friends and adoring fans have fought to preserve the musical and humanitarian legacy he left behind. 

Tours of Elvis’ beloved home, Graceland, began in 1982. Over time, the property across the street became dotted with touristy shops offering every type of souvenir imaginable plastered with the King’s face. Up until recently, the only accommodations available for guests making the pilgrimage to Graceland were a Day’s Inn and the Heartbreak Hotel. Both were similar to the types of establishments Elvis had to put his guests up in while he was alive—never having had a formal guesthouse on the grounds of his home. But a comfortable and luxury guesthouse was something he always dreamed of.

Some 30 years in the making, the Guesthouse at Graceland is Elvis’ dream finally brought to life. And I was there to share in that historical moment.

My dad has been a lifelong Elvis fan…and not the kind that likes to collect corny collectables and grow out his sideburns for Halloween. He is the true kind of fan who has come to know, admire and respect Elvis as much as a person possibly can having never met him. Four years ago, I made my first trek to Graceland with my dad and he showed me around and brought Elvis, his home and the life he lived to life for me far greater than even the most knowledgeable tour guide could. A year ago, when we first leaned that construction was starting on the Guesthouse, we both agreed that being there for the opening weekend was a must.

When our plane finally touched down in the land of the Delta Blues the day before the hotel officially opened, I believe all of us (my dad, mom, husband and I) were all brimming with excitement. When it was time to catch a cab to check in to the hotel the next day, it was all I could do to keep from hanging my head out the window to catch the first possible glimpse of the hotel. When it finally came into view, it echoed so much of the look of Graceland. With the front paying tribute to Graceland’s colonial architecture and a long driveway that wound up to the doors, it really felt like we there to be guests in Elvis’ own guesthouse. 

 My eyes widened and mouth dropped open when we first walked inside. The lobby was stunningly lavish with touches of gray and fuchsia. With unique wing back chairs, mirrored ceiling and exquisite floral centerpiece, I could tell immediately that the Guesthouse was designed to reflect the unique and trend setting style that Elvis exhibited his entire life.     

  

 From record shaped end tables and blue suede drapes in the bar, light sconces with Elvis’ initials down the hallways, a heart shaped gas fireplace out by the pool, lightning bolt lights in the Founders Room and even a grand staircase designed to model the stairs leading up to Elvis’ private quarters at Graceland, every thoughtful detail of the hotel whispered Elvis. I say whispered because the touches were obvious but not overt. One of the guest speakers during the weekend explained that Elvis was and remains the type of person that you only need a minute detail of to recognize. Whether it’s the corner of a glitzy cape, an oversized gold ring, some aviator frames, or lush slicked back black hair, a true Elvis fan can spot him from a mile away. It doesn’t take much.

  

 

Nearly every feature of the hotel was subtle…..except for the one I nearly stumbled into within my first twenty minutes. I was lagging behind my parents as they wandered down one of the hallways towards the hotel’s theater. Quickening my steps to catch up with them I suddenly looked up to see a large group of people walking down the hallway toward me. My heart quite literally stopped when I realized that the front runner of the group was Miss Priscilla Presley herself. Dressed to the nines in stilettos and a brightly colored dress, she was absolutely beautiful and moved towards me with a grace and determination that shook me. The moment was over so quickly but it was one that I will never forget. 

Priscilla was intimately involved in the design of the Guesthouse and worked to make sure that a tasteful tribute was paid to Elvis’ life and career. “We didn’t want it so Elvis-themed and Elvis everywhere, because you can see that at Graceland,” said Priscilla. “He wouldn’t have wanted a hotel full of his picture.” After three nights at the Guesthouse, all I can say is, well done. Elvis would not only be stunned….he would be immensely proud. 

Over the course of my weekend at the Guesthouse I was privileged to listen to stories and conversations shared by members of Elvis’ band, two of his movie co-stars, a girlfriend from his early days and others who had the opportunity get to know Elvis on a more personal level. They didn’t talk about Elvis the performer who jumped about the stage in flashy jumpsuits. They talked about the real, down-to-earth Elvis who kept his band members up till all hours of the night regaling them with hilarious stories. They talked about the humble Elvis who desperately only wanted to make one good film in his career so that the industry would quit making fun of him. They talked about the Elvis whose fascination with police led him to acquire not only several personal badges from cops but also a ticket booklet and light for the top of his car. 

 

When I told people I was going on vacation to the opening of a hotel I got a lot of strange looks. Yes, my family and I also visited Graceland and paid our respects to Elvis at his grave, but we really did go for the hotel. Because for Elvis fans and the city of Memphis, the Guesthouse is more than just a hotel. It is the glorious beginning of a new era for Memphis and the Elvis legacy. Not only will the hotel work to clean up the rather dismal and run-down part of the city that is home to Graceland, but now when fans from all around the world travel to pay tribute to Elvis, they will have the kind of luxury accommodations that Elvis would have wanted for his visitors. 

 

I am grateful to my dad for not only making the trip possible for my husband and I, but also for raising me to respect and appreciate Elvis for all that he was. He was far more than a singer. Anyone who visits Graceland and sees the hundreds of signatures on the wall near the entrance to the grounds will see just how many people his life continues to touch even 40 years after his passing. Take a walk down the Hall of Gold at Graceland and you will realize that he accomplished more in his 42 short years than most of us could do with 100. Watch one of his recorded concert performances and you will see a singer who literally dripped passion for the work that he did. Spend a night at the Guesthouse and you will understand that a person who inspired the building of such a grandiose hotel isn’t someone who is dead and gone in the grave, but rather very much alive in the fans that refuse to let him go. 

 

During my tour of Graceland, I found myself lingering in Elvis’ racquetball court—a room that has been transformed into a monumental display of all of his posthumous awards and several of his stage costumes. With his Aloha from Hawaii concert playing on a screen nearby, I fought back pooling tears as I looked up and around at so much success by a man who remained grateful, generous and humble up until his last breath. But I teared up even more when I looked to my right and saw another girl wiping away tears for what I knew were the exact same reasons. 

 On my way out of the racquetball court, I glanced up at an award I never noticed before. It was engraved with the words “Before anyone did anything, Elvis did everything.” I smiled knowing how immensely true those words were. Those words lingered in the background of everything I saw and heard during my weekend in Memphis. 

 

Elvis you may have left the world before anyone was ready……….but you have never left our hearts. 

   

Marriage

Laid out on the black velvet liner, the chain flickered with a brilliant radiance outdone only by the stars in a Montana sky.  When I clipped the delicate chain behind my neck and turned to look in the mirror, the light danced off its every groove and crevice. It was stunning. Perfect.

“I’ll take it!” I blurted out. 

“Ok, that will be $300,” said my friend Daniel, who works at a local jewelry store. 

I sighed as my head dropped and lips pursed together. 

“It’s too much money,” I said. “Andy would be furious if I spent that much on just a chain………..”

On the day I chose my wedding dress, I was wearing a small white gold cross necklace that my soon-to-be in-laws had given me on the night I was baptized into the Catholic Church.  The owner of the dress shop commented that afternoon on how perfectly it complimented my dress. That was the moment I realized it would be the necklace I wore on my wedding day. It already bore the memory of the most important night of my life but, more importantly, it represented the most important relationship in my life….the relationship that is meant to guide every aspect of our lives. For those reasons and so many others I knew it was the one piece of jewelry I was meant to wear when I spoke my vows. 

The only issue was that the chain was a bit long for the neckline of my dress. So a few weeks before my wedding, I visited a local jewelry store to inquire about a shorter chain for the cross. But instead of purchasing the expensive one, I simply had my friend clip a few links out of the existing chain and went home.

Flash forward to the night before mine and Andy’s wedding. We had just arrived at our rehearsal dinner and Andy pulled out a small white bag that he said he wanted me to open. As I gently pulled the ties and opened the bag, a delicate silver chain fell out into the palm of my hand. It was the chain from the jewelry store that I had fallen in love with. I was almost as stunned in that moment as I was the night Andy got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. 

The next day, I slipped the new chain through the loop on my cross pendant, clasped the necklace behind my neck, and left for the church to marry my love……………………….

Last month, Andy and I celebrated our first anniversary together. On that day I found myself reflecting on all I had learned about love in the previous 365 days. What came to mind was not all the blessings of marriage but rather all of the small, seemingly insignificant moments where unconditional love was shown—much like what was represented in that humble chain Andy bought me and in the cross it held. For me, the grace of marriage is found in many places….although not always the places that first come to mind.

Love is the look Andy gives me in the middle of Mass when we are supposed to be concentrating on the priest’s homily. It is him stepping aside to let me go into the line for communion first.

Love is holding Andy in the morning light of the kitchen and sending up silent prayers of thanksgiving to God for blessing me with someone so wonderful. 

Love is dancing to our wedding song on our anniversary in bare feet on the living room floor. 

Love is lying in bed watching TV and looking over to see Andy smiling at me. 

Love is found in completing frustrating projects side-by-side like scraping botched epoxy off the garage floor. Or spending three long days raking rocks in the yard to prep for installing a sprinkler system.

Love is Andy cleaning my motocross goggles for me even though I’m convinced they aren’t that dusty. Or buying me new hockey gloves when mine become so smelly I can’t stand them anymore. 

Love is Andy telling me to try again after I roll my snowmobile for the tenth time and scream at him that I’ll never ride again. Or him cheering me on as I take the checkered flag in absolute dead last after a brutal motocross race. 

Love is Andy holding my face up to his and telling me I’m beautiful after I’ve collapsed in shame over the way I perceive my appearance.

Love is Andy holding me as I cry on the bathroom floor from all the rejections and failures I face each day. 

Love is fighting over and over again with each other but always saying “I love you” before falling asleep that night. 

Love is Andy telling me I’m wonderful each day even though I still apologize to God each night for all the things I am. 

Love is forgetting why you first fell in love with someone—because every day you fall in love with them again for all new reasons. 

Since man first entered the world, love has been sung about, rhymed out in poetry, discussed over empty bottles in the twilight hours, brushed across canvas with oil and bristles, shot out through the fingertips and toes of dancers and collected in damp stains on our shirt sleeves. It is all encompassing and confusing…miraculous and wretched…..desired and despised. It will always be bigger than us—yet—small enough to witness in the dilating pupils of someone we cherish. And sometimes it is found in something as insignificant as a chain…or two perpendicular lines. But it’s there all the same.

Every day since I married Andy I have reveled at what marriage is. Not the big or beautiful moments of it. But the overlooked and ugly parts. The parts that make you wonder why anyone stays married at all or how they enjoy it if they do. 

The kind of love that marriage is supposed to be about is loving someone at their darkest…. when they can’t even love themselves…..when they feel like they’ve slipped too far to ever be rescued. It’s the love that always forgives and walks by your side each and every day. That is the love of Christ….and the love Christ blessed me with when he gave me Andy. 

My Home at St. Mary Catholic Community

The other day I read a quote by Anglican priest, Nicky Gumbel that said, “Church is not an organization you join; it is a family where you belong, a home where you are loved and a hospital where you find healing.”Gumbel’s words struck a chord deep within me and made me smile in agreement. It may have taken me 27 years, but I am happy to say that I found a church that over the past two and a half years has become a family, a home, a purifying hospital and so very much more. I am blessed to call St. Mary Catholic Community of Helena my church home.

Two weeks ago I had the privilege of sharing in St. Mary’s 50^th anniversary jubilee celebration. The event overflowed with vitality, grace, and peace. With the Bishop in attendance, a choir whose voices rose like angels, a decadent picnic and a blessing of one of the lushest gardens I’ve ever seen, it was a celebration that all in attendance will remember for years to come. 

With my husband, Andy, unable to attend the event, I arrived to the celebratory Sunday Mass early and alone. After blessing myself with water from the baptismal font, I meandered slowly down one of the aisles and took a seat at the end of one of the wooden pews. I was delighted to see that the choir and some accompanying musicians were playing prelude music before the service began.

With my arms folded in my lap, I sat listening as a stunning rendition of Ave Maria played on the piano and violin began. As each note was carefully drawn out across the strings and tinked on the keys, more and more memories of my time at St. Mary drifted into my mind.  

I remembered my first visit to the administrative offices at St. Mary….when I sat down with Deb Kralicek, faith formation director, and told her I wished to be baptized. That was the moment that marked the beginning of the single greatest decision of my life.

I recalled the first Mass I attended after deciding to join the church. My boyfriend (now my husband) was out of town and unable to accompany me so I attended my first Mass ever on my own….with no Catholic confidant by my side. I was utterly terrified. I sat down in one of the far back pews and tried to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze or drawing attention to myself. I prayed in that moment for God to give me some sort of sign to let me know that I was making the right decision. And just moments after my prayer Canon in D began playing. It was a song I’d always loved and I instantly teared up knowing that in some small way, that was God’s way of comforting me and letting me know that I was right where I was supposed to be. The more beautiful part of that memory is that a little over a year later, I walked down the aisle of St. Mary to that very same song and married my best friend and love. 

I remember quite vividly the most beautiful and grace-filled moment of my life at St. Mary—the night I was baptized and confirmed into the Catholic Church. There aren’t enough words to describe what that night was like. I remember professing my vows to God by the side of the baptismal font. I remember stepping into the warm water of the font and my robe flowing around me. I remember my head slipping under the water three times as I was baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I remember walking back down the aisle in my white robe for the first time. I remember the radiant light glowing from my baptismal candle as it was handed to me. I remember the sweet smell of the chrism oil as Father made the sign of the cross on my forehead. I remember the wholesome taste of the Eucharist as I placed it in my mouth for the very first time. I remember feeling forgiven…peaceful….saved. 

 I remember the immense inner peace St. Mary gave me when I brought Andy there just days after he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. I had contacted our priest and asked for the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick to be bestowed on him. I had only been Catholic for about a month and knew very little about the church still but I knew this was the kind of moment where you have to turn to God. So I reached out to the only people I could think of….my church family of St. Mary. As soon as I notified the church of Andy’s condition, I was informed that the prayer groups were raising petitions up for his healing. People I barely, if even knew at all, were praying for us. I’ve never forgotten the immense level of compassion and mercy we received from the people at St. Mary during one of the most difficult times in our life. 

I can still recall how nervous I felt the first time I went up to read during Mass after signing up to be a lector. As soon as I was baptized, I knew I wanted to continue being involved in the Church. The most natural ministry option for me was serving as a lector. As a writer, I am particularly drawn to the written word of God. I understand the power of the written word. I know how hard it is to write down your beliefs and thoughts…especially when you are fearful of persecution. It is an honor to help preach God’s word and even better to help spread it through my own written word.

I remember sitting outside the confessional booth one afternoon reviewing my mistakes as I waited for my turn with Father. Soon, I was the last one waiting. When the girl before me finally exited the confessional, she walked right over to me, stuck out her fist to illicit a fist pound and said, "You've got this." I looked up at her and smiled as I pounded my fist back against hers. I don't know why, but something in that moment made me think it was Jesus in disguise...trying to comfort me in a moment of shame and instilling strength in me to make a good confession. I love that memory.

When it came time for Andy and I to plan our wedding, the location selection was easy. There is no other place on earth I would have gotten married than at St. Mary. Growing up, I never knew if I would get married in a church. And after meeting Andy, I knew that if we married someday it would have to be in the Catholic Church, even though I wasn’t Catholic yet. But when our special day finally arrived, we shared our vows in the presence of all our family and friends….and God. And we shared in the Eucharist together—both as full Catholics. I could have chosen to get married in beautiful Glacier National Park or on a mountain overlook like many Montana brides, but after being baptized and joining St. Mary I understood the importance of having our ceremony in a church and focusing on the sacramental aspect of the union. And having Father Richard—who baptized/confirmed me and anointed Andy—help facilitate the ceremony was an especially unique and touching aspect of our day.  

This past Lent, I remember the special honor I received when I was asked to assist in the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday. I remember sinking my thumb into the small bowl of gray ashes and drawing two lines across the foreheads of dozens of parishioners that evening while repeating “Repent, and be faithful to the Gospel.” My decision to join the church was largely prompted by an immense desire and need to be forgiven for the mistakes and sins of my life. So helping share in a day that reminds us that we all fall short of perfection and need God’s mercy was very special.

Also during this past Lent, I remember being asked by our musical director if I would give the address during one of the Friday evening prayer sessions. While I felt overwhelmed and unsure of what I should say in regards to the topic of mercy, I knew it was the opportunity I’d waited for since deciding to join the church. I wanted to share my story. I wanted others to know what truly feeling redeemed is like. I wanted to impose on people the urgency to turn to God at every moment in their life….regardless of how many failures or successes they’ve had. To simply be willing to turn ourselves and our lives over to God is critical because He will guide us, heal us, and save us in ways we never thought possible. Afterwards, people asked me if sharing my story was hard. The answer was no. History is the greatest testament we have to the fact that God often calls upon the most broken and sinful among us to help carry out his will. If I don’t share my story, I am dishonoring His call to me so I could be saved. 

While I have only attended St. Mary for the past three years or so, it is remarkable how many ways it has filled the voids in my heart and become a home away from home. The people and culture of the parish overflow with love, generosity, mercy, and faith. It is a community I feel blessed to be part of and I would do anything in my power to give back and support it in the way it has always supported me and my family. 

More Than a Feeling

Windows rolled down. Soft brown waves twirling hand in hand with the breeze. Mirrored aviators pushed up on the bridge of my nose. Lips pursed together with the slightest of tugs upward to form a smile. Fingers spin the dial around cranking the volume up as the electric guitar reverberates out through the speakers.

When I think back to any given summer afternoon while I was in high school or college, this is the image that undoubtedly always comes to mind. Just me riding solo in my car on an aimless drive…windows rolled down and 70’s classic rock music blasting. I didn’t have a care in the world about how much gas I was wasting or whether or not I ever ended up somewhere purposeful. All that mattered was the drive….the music….the escape. 

While most kids my age growing up had cd cases and iPod playlists filled with the current hip hop and pop music of the day, my music collection was largely restricted to ACDC, Van Halen, CCR, the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Guns and Roses, Kiss, Led Zeppelin, and most importantly…..Boston. I suppose I owe my love and appreciation for the classic rock artists to my dad. Riding around with him in his little red truck when I was little, it was the only music he ever talked about or played. I was raised to believe that that was the only music worth listening to or that would withstand the tests of time. And all these years later, I still agree with him on both counts. 

A few months ago, when I heard the news that Boston was coming to perform one of their 40^th Anniversary concerts in Billings, I was absolutely ecstatic. Boston’s music has the rhythm and lyrics that has always made me close my eyes and drift away from all the chaos of daily life. It’s the kind of music that makes you want to drive and never once think of looking in your rearview mirror. Their upcoming concert was not only one I needed this summer but it was one that my dad and I had to attend together. 

After telling my dad the news, he quickly purchased 3 tickets for myself, him and my mom. Then the countdown to the music event of the summer began.

It was a nearly four hour drive to Billings the day of the concert. But we knew the drive would be worth it. After arriving at the MetraPark and getting in line at the door, I observed that I was clearly one of the youngest people there. Most everyone else looked to be about my parents’ age. It made me sort of sad but I knew everyone else was missing out on an amazing event. The funny thing is, I think a lot of people my age actually love Boston’s music but they aren’t aware of who the band is. A few days before the concert I was telling a friend about how I was going to see Boston and he just laughed and said he hoped I hadn’t paid a lot for the tickets because it was just a bunch of old men. Ironically, not long after taking our seats at the concert, I received a text message from this same friend who said he’d looked up some of Boston’s music and actually loved a lot of their songs. He admitted what an idiot he had been earlier. The text made me smile. 

 

“We were just another band out of Boston, on the road and tryin’ to make ends meet….” Those epic lyrics were the ones that Boston opened the night with. I immediately started singing along and when I glanced over to look at my dad, he was singing too. It was a beautiful moment.

For the next couple of hours, the band rolled from one song right into the next one. Each word, drum beat and chord of the guitar strings was like a trip down memory lane to every summer drive I’ve ever taken. The concert was like listening to my every summer’s soundtrack. Truly incredible. 

There aren’t very many aspects about this life that everyone can agree on….musical genre included. But the one unifying aspect about music is that we all love some version of it. It’s transformative and transports us to places and moments we’ve long forgotten or left behind. It can motivate or comfort us. We can use it express things we have no other way of expressing.While my musical tastes have certainly expanded well beyond the borders of classic rock, there will always be a special place in my heart for that generation of music. Soon all of those artists will exist only within the music they played so I am extremely grateful to have been able to witness the real thing performing the songs I know and love.

Sunflowers

Sunflowers…….

My goodness, I think I could sit and stare at a single sunflower bobbing its head in a field all day long with a smile on my face. They are by far one of my favorite flowers. To some they are merely glorified weeds, but to me they are magnificent.

It isn’t their beauty that captures me, but rather their resilience and persistence. They grow in the most desolate and harsh of locations—on the sides of the road and in dusty, weed-strewn fields. They can grow in masses in bountiful fields but aren’t afraid to pop up fearlessly as a solo entity in the middle of an abandoned dirt plot. And no matter the conditions, whether being whipped by passing cars or being choked out by dry and barren soil, sunflowers always turn their heads to face the sunlight above with a confidence and optimism that I can’t help but admire.  

It should come as no surprise then that I chose to incorporate sunflowers into my wedding bouquet last year. When I think about what it takes to build and maintain relationships….whether it be with friends, family or your spouse….I think of all the same qualities that I see when I look at sunflowers. You have to be persistent, resilient, hopeful and always be looking upwards in faith to the source of everything we have and need in this life. And with all the bumps and twists in the road that Andy and I have overcome so far, it only seemed appropriate to include sunflowers into our special day. Though I’m quite sure I’m the only one who knew why. 

Ever since our wedding, however, I find myself needing reminders of what sunflowers represent to me….not just about surviving love and relationships….but about surviving life as a whole.

In the past few weeks I have bowed my head in dismal prayer on more than one occasion for the sake of several friends who are presently suffering serious and life-threatening ailments. I don’t believe there is a single person on earth who deserves to suffer the things they are dealing with, but it always seems like it’s the very best of us who are struck down by the greatest hardships. As strong as my faith in God is, these are the kinds of moments when I find myself stumbling the most. 

The times we are living in—filled with the suffering of so many—are difficult times indeed. I often find myself not wanting to get out of bed and start another day because it seems as though nothing good lies ahead. I am overwhelmed by the suffering of those around me, particularly those I am close to. I feel useless when it comes to helping them and feel that offering up supportive words is superficial and does little to improve their circumstances.

The truth is, there is little most of us can do for people suffering physical illness—both in our lives and around the world. We have to trust a lot of that work to doctors and medicine. About the only beneficial thing we can do—for ourselves and those suffering around us—is to be like sunflowers.

We have to be resilient and not let grief and fear overcome us. We have to be persistent in our fight alongside our friends and family and let them know that we will never give up on them. We have to be hopeful that healing and peace will eventually come. We have to fight the urge to flee or shrivel up from the burden of being caregivers or supporters but instead keep our faces turned towards the light---be that hope, determination or faith in God. 

In the neighborhood I recently moved into, several new homes are still under construction and a few dirt lots still patiently await buyers. With the summer heat and rains, weeds have begun sprouting up all over the place. I hate their ugly appearance and the depth to which their roots so quickly dive. And I’ve spent a good deal of my summer pulling and hacking away at the weeds in my yard to get rid of them. But a few weeks ago while I was tackling some more weeds in the back yard, I glanced over to my neighbor’s yard. As bad as our yard is, his has become a veritable jungle of spiky green masses. But there in the middle of all the ugliness, was a single sunflower stalk rising up above the weeds. And it made me smile. 

Like I said earlier, sunflowers themselves are considered by many to be just another weed. But there’s a brightly colored bloom on the end of them that suggests otherwise. They suggest that there is more than meets the eye and that something beautiful can be harvested from anywhere, no matter how dismal. 

As the weeks have gone on, I’ve noticed more and more sunflowers sprouting up on other lots around us. I like to think that they’ll encourage people to look past the weeds and see the potential beyond them---they’ll see the future home for their family. But regardless, they are daily reminders for me of my need to stay strong and hopeful even in the midst of so much pain and sickness. Being a sunflower won’t cure my friends of their illness but it will help me stay and fight beside them. And it might even encourage them to become sunflowers themselves. And sunflowers, it seems, are entirely unwilling to ever give up or give in. They choose only to see the light and all of its promises before them. 

    

Sisters for Life

Growing up, I frequently received surprised looks and sympathetic words for my so-called “disadvantage” in life when people learned that I was an only child…..devoid of any siblings.

“You must get so lonely.” 

“Don’t you wish you had a brother or sister to play with?”

Those were phrases I grew quite accustomed to hearing. But I was always quick to respond to them with a confused look and the deliberate shaking of my head. Their concerns, while appreciated, simply didn’t make any sense to me. And they certainly weren’t any concern of mine.

I’m a strong believer in the phrase, “Family isn’t always blood.” And while my parents may not have given me any siblings, God had blessed me over the years with several individuals who have loved, supported, and taken care of me to such a profound extent that they’ve become indistinguishable from the family I’m bound to by blood.

In particular, God has been especially generous to me in blessing me with so many sisters to call my own. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about seven ladies in particular who have shaped my whole being and the way I see the world. 

 

 

I have to start with my very best friend since kindergarten…..Miss Jamie. Jamie and I met on the very first day of kindergarten at Four Georgians Elementary. Something between us just clicked. From learning our ABCs and building rock forts to twirling about in tutus and bombing around the mountains on four-wheelers, we’ve been building memories for roughly 25 years. Jamie is the only person whose phone call I’ll answer at 2 a.m. after she’s pitched all of her boyfriend’s clothes out the window.  She knows how important it is that I get my chocolate orange each year at Christmas and she’s definitely the only person who supported the over 3,000 wedding photos I demanded be taken. She can out-burp any boy, has the most contagious laugh and has more fearless ambition and drive than anyone I know. We got lost in the Nature Park together and walked several miles back to our cabin after burying our four-wheelers in a swamp. Together we’ve belted out Spice Girl melodies, played dress up, and taken hundreds of selfies before “selfies” was even a word. She’s been my biggest cheerleader, my partner in crime, and my sister for life. 

 

There’s my sister-in-law Maureen. Maureen is my opposite in nearly every respect, but that’s exactly why I consider her such a badass. I first met Maureen when she was still a little curly haired, brace faced middle schooler on my first trip to Arizona with my future husband. Over the last 10 years though I’ve watched her blossom into a radiant, fun-loving girl with more confidence and muscle strength than practically every other girl I know. She isn’t afraid of hard work, being the center of attention or out-playing the boys. She’s outspoken, tenacious and a natural born leader. I’ve got no doubt she will one day go on to be the next CEO of a major company…..either that or spend her days sailing the seas on a private yacht. 

 

Holly is my quieter sister-in-law but the one I have a feeling I’ll grow the closest to down the road. She shares the same natural “brave” hair as me, which is how I knew we were destined to be family. Holly is quiet and sweet but has a tinge of sass you definitely don’t want to mess with. She’s passionately driven and goal-oriented but knows how to squeeze in a bit of fun and laughter each day. She’s devoted to her family and friends and does her best to help everyone around her. I admire her passion for numbers and am grateful to have someone to finally explain all of that Shawshank money laundering to my curious mind. From the first day I met her 10 years ago to watching her walk up and accept her college diploma one month ago, I have been nothing but grateful to know her and am extremely proud that she’s now officially my sister.   

Tara is the random gorgeous girl who plopped down next to me at Starbucks one night and didn’t stop talking to me for at least two hours. She’s the only person who understands the life or death importance of getting mini donuts from the county fair each year. She loves baking even more than me and is the only person I could’ve recruited to make 200 cupcakes with me in a single baking session one afternoon. Tara is one of the most compassionate, supportive and loving people I’ve ever met. She’s devoted entirely to her faith, which is why I chose her as my Godmother for my baptism at 27 years old. And when you get her away from her kids for a night, she’ll surprisingly be the last one rocking the night away on the dance floor. Every minute with Tara is a special one.

 There’s Michaela. Now, I’ve lost track of exactly how many years Michaela and I have been friends….but I believe it all started one day in middle school when she sat down next to me in the cafeteria at lunch. Michaela is one of the rare individuals who has taught me to never give up on myself or anyone else for that matter. She’s my favorite pumpkin pie Blizzard loving, Pirates of the Caribbean watching, tennis warrior, Starbucks coffee date ever! And did I mention, that she’s also the only person in the universe who would study abroad in France for an entire year but still make time to dial the likely 46 digits necessary to reach Montana by phone to check in on me. 

 There’s also my cousin Samantha. Sam is my adventurous, free-spirited, Montana-girl-at-heart bestie who just so happened to also find her passion in life in writing. Sam was the one who helped me name the goldfish in my grandparents’ pond, practiced her fouettes next to me in ballet class, and has more personal style that Miss Carrie Bradshaw. She’s the only person who regards our family’s tradition of eating Chinese food on Christmas Eve as completely sacred. She can juggle raising two pigs for the fair while also rocking a sky-high pair of stilettos. And somehow she landed a dream job working at a classy resort in the Bahamas. I’m only slightly jealous.    

 

Then there’s Sarah. While not pictured in any of my wedding photos as one of my bridesmaids, she is most certainly one of my sisters. She’s simply the rebel pirate of the group who knew that the best seat at the wedding was several feet away from all the chaos and flashing cameras and several feet closer to the funfetti wedding cake. Sarah is my mermaid-loving, sushi eating, truck driving, sailor swearing, mean girl of a sister who once sat right at my side when we had one of the greatest office bitch show-downs of all time. My day simply wouldn’t be complete without one of her frantic, neurotic or complaining text messages…..or a cat picture or two.

These seven amazing women are not the only special ladies in my life but they are the ones who have stood with me through thick and thin. They’ve loved me when I’ve been unlovable. Had my back when everyone else turned away. Cheered me on through all my wild endeavors. Helped me eat more sushi, ice cream and chocolate than I care to think about, and just been an inspiration and blessing to me each and every day. 

I never felt like an only child growing up because I was surrounded by so many wonderful sisters. They are the strong, ambitious, gorgeous women that God delivered to me one by one because he knew they’d serve me better than any sister by blood. I am grateful for every one of their smiles, hugs, and laughs…..I am grateful they chose me just as much as I chose them.