The Year of Being Thirty: Life Upside Down (and God Exactly the Same as He's Always Been)

One of the sweetest things to measure from this year:  tons of great together time with  a guy I adore.

Writing is my favorite way to log where I've been. I'm fortified to move forward with confidence when I have concrete evidence of how I felt in past craziness AND how I saw God bring me through it.

On my thirtieth birthday last year, I wrote about trusting God with my future, believing that the things He's chosen to put into my life are part of His "inheritance" for me -- and believing that I will be able to look back and say those very things are "good." Not just bearable, but good. And I stepped into my thirty-first year with expectancy.

I cannot believe all the things that happened to me when I was thirty. The list is overwhelming:

I started grad school, pursuing an exciting Masters in Literacy Education program.
I wrote like a fiend for the first five months, putting 2011 on track to have far more blog posts than any previous year.
I watched a friendship with an amazing guy blossom into...something more.
I summoned every giddy bone in my body when he called to ask me out -- and quickly said yes.
I flew over the handlebars of my moped (on our second date, just thirteen days later), spent three days in the hospital, and came home diagnosed with a mild-to-moderate brain injury.
I spent months with my curtains drawn, sleeping half the day, avoiding noisy or bright places, living a tiny sliver of the frantic schedule I'd kept up in my former life.
I learned to watch TV. In large amounts.

I cried when I was told I couldn't return to work this year because of the injury.
I left my grad program behind for the same reason, but with less emotional fanfare.

I enjoyed countless hours with Dave (the aforementioned amazing guy, who proved to be even more amazing by sticking with me through everything and contributing way more than his share to our relationship!).
I logged hundreds of hours at therapy appointments and doctor visits.
I gained enormous amounts of knowledge about medical bills and health insurance.
I experienced far greater generosity than I could ever have anticipated.
I said goodbye to my roommate of six years, and I moved in with my brother and his family.

All of these things, in less than twelve months.

I'm six months into year thirty-one, and from this near position, I can already look back and see that what God has included is good. Not often easy, but good. And I am grateful.

Not A Question I Expected

Last Sunday, my boyfriend and I paid a visit to a family who's very special to me (I was their nanny for the past two summers, and I love those kids dearly!). I was so excited to see them -hadn't since August- and to introduce them to Dave.

We arrived, and of course dad had to go rustle up the kids from their hiding spots. "Megan's here, guys!"

Mr. Five Year Old came into the entry, took a long, hard look at Dave and me, and paused. Then he looked up at his parents and asked, "Which one is Megan?"

While I can understand him not quite recognizing me (I was wearing a hat, after all), I can't say I expect Dave and myself to face that question again...

We've been told we're sappy, crazy, and over-the-top cute, but never before that we are indistinguishable.

A Tale of Two Waiting Rooms

This couch is the focal point of the waiting room in Clinic A.

At Clinic B, I wait in a row of chairs in the hallway.

Since my accident in July, I have spent a lot of time at two excellent clinics (I'll call them Clinic A and Clinic B) here in the Twin Cities, receiving therapy for different repercussions of my injuries. I am so grateful for the doctors and therapists who've treated me in both places, have been impressed by their knowledge and compassion, and will gladly recommend each of them to anyone.

I'm not sure I feel the same way about their waiting rooms, however. You see, I've spent a fair amount of time waiting at each of these clinics, and it's the waiting that sometimes has the strongest effect on me. Based on my waiting room experiences, I have to recommend Clinic B.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining about EITHER clinic running behind schedule (especially not since I've had such attentive, helpful appointments once getting in). The actual waiting hasn't been the problem. Rather, the problem is my heart, and one waiting room seems to be much better therapy for it than the other.

Clinic A sports the most luxurious clinic waiting room I've ever experienced. It's obvious that an interior designer had a hand in its appearance. It's lovely. Some furniture still fits the waiting room mold, but the room is flavored with something akin to opulence.

Clinic B, on the other hand, ran out of waiting room space a long time ago. Patients wait in the corridors of this hospital-turned-clinic space. There is no classical music playing while you wait here. Instead, the constant bustling of patients being transported to appointments and clinicians conferring with each other as they hurry to their next assignment provides background noise.

The activity and noise in the hallways of Clinic B have not always been comfortable for my oversensitive brain; however, the things I've observed while waiting in those hallways have been good for my heart.

See, when I'm at Clinic A, I look around and see people who, like me, have choices about the medical care they seek and the places they go. In that waiting room, I'm often reminded of what I don't have. I find that suddenly I'm concerned whether I wore the right pair of shoes to match the jacket I chose that morning. I think deep thoughts like, "Why did I not switch purses before I came?" I worry about fitting in and measuring up.

That's not true at Clinic B. There, I see people who have limited choices, people who have injuries far more severe than mine. One man I saw regularly for weeks had just one leg. Another had screws holding his head and neck brace in place. Some people are there as inpatients because there is no one to provide support or care at home. I've seen people who are making it, but who face immense challenges.

And I'm reminded of how much I have. How much is still intact. How much I have to be grateful for. How much I have to give. Instead of discontentment, I often walk out of Clinic B with a profound sense of wealth. I pray that sense may turn to gratefulness and compassion. I hope that what I've seen while waiting there changes the way I see the world and live in it.

Letters to an Absent Miss Djerf

One question I’ve constantly fielded this winter is “Are you missing teaching?” There are two answers:

 No, I’m not missing the stress of teaching. Right now, the idea of managing the noise and activity of first and second graders all day is synonymous with thoughts of torture.

But yes, I’m missing the students. Terribly!

I missed them even more when I received letters from the class near Christmas. Their unfettered affection, creative spelling, and imaginative drawings (one featured me snowboarding down a steep mountain with the caption "your wining Miss Djerf", while another depicted me with some serious eyelash augmentation) triggered all kinds of warm-fuzzy emotions. 

Here are a few of these precious missives, nothing added except for titles (which double as summaries of my experiences with those particular children):

The Compassionate One

Dear Miss Djerf

I am having a good time at sckool. it was nicer when you wher hery. today wee are having hot choclit. The sckool has chached sinc your gon. But I feel bad that you hert.

The Enthusiastic One

Dear miss Djerf,

I was excited when I hrd this nys!

I hrd this

I hrd i wus cuming in youer klasrum.

I jumpd up!

I wos so hape!

I love your voys

it sos god.

you or nis

The Distracted One

Dear Miss Djerf

I hop you feel betr so you can come to shcool but after the shcool yer you are going to go to shcool so you will feel betr so you can go to shcool nest yer

I hop you cood feel betr I like you a lot

The Precise One

Dear Miss Djerf,

I really am looking forward to seeing you next year. Why not come on February third that is my dad’s half birthday.

Merry Christmas.

Boy, do I miss them.