A lighter look at Twenty Thirteen

And now for something a little lighter than my last post...

Photos!

Here is 2013 in a photo-shell.

January:

Ashley and Meghan and I got up early and hiked up Steamboat Point.

 We celebrated Mardi Gras with an official King's Cake from Meghan's parents in Louisiana.

King's cake.

February:

I left my job at the Sidewalk Cafe and began working as a reporter at The Sheridan Press. 

 Me and Heather on my last day. I miss her.

March:

Finally met my dashing nephew, Cable! 

 My niece, Maria, feeds the ducks. 

April:

Spent time with some of the most lovely, wonderful friends a girl could ask for.

 My best friend Lindsey and I went to a ladies retreat and enjoyed time together. 

 I ate at one of my favorite restaurants with two of my best girl friends: Sarah and Becky.

 Sarah and I snuck up the mountain and did some snowshoeing before I had to head back home.

 Meghan and Ashley and I went snowshoeing and built snowmen and chopped wood on a fine April day.

May:

I moved out of one cozy apartment with a crazy landlord into a cozy apartment with a nice landlady. I only have photos of my old place, but I will remedy that in a future post about my new place. 

 Meghan and Ashley and I went puddle jumping. It was fun. 

 Meghan had a birthday! Yay! 

 June:

June was packed with hiking and photography adventures...and the shooting of guns. 

 Justin and I went over the mountain and found a neat tree and an old barn. 

 Justin shooting with his Mamiya film camera. 

 My gal pals and I went backpacking. 

 We played cards in the tent. Yes, they are Lisa Frank cards with rainbows and dolphins. 

 Meghan and Ashley take aim. 

 

My first time holding a hand gun.

Me and my dad enjoyed a hike and some frappuccino on Father's Day. 

July:

In July, Justin and I made a spontaneous trip to Colorado to go backpacking, and eat at my all-time favorite restaurant: Snooze. 

 Car troubles put us behind schedule, so we got a couple rooms and camped at the Marriott the first night. 

 Snooze! Best pancakes in the world!

 Backpacking in Estes Park. 

August:

Justin and I trekked to the Teton Mountains. We used only film cameras for the adventure. 

 Ahhh, camp coffee.

 Snake River Brewing...the best beer I've ever had. Hands down. 

 Cooking frozen waffles on the camp stove.

 Kayaking below the Tetons.

We met up for some disc golf with Justin's sister and her husband.

September:

We threw Justin a Star Wars birthday party. And, oh, Justin and I got engaged at 9,500 feet on top of Black Mountain. 

October: 

I turned a year older. Justin had a gallery showing of his photography. And we got outside a bit.

 Justin and his mom at the opening reception for his show. 

 Justin and fellow photographer Roger Appell. 

 A pretty walk. We went out to find fall colors and found snow instead. 

 We picked pumpkins! 

November:

My folks and Justin and I took a nice walk on Thanksgiving, and I sat on a hay bale. Justin got me flowers, as he often does because he is super swell like that.

December:

I baked gingerbread men to celebrate the six month mark until Justin and I's wedding. It was completely dorky, and I would definitely do it again. We got a Christmas tree in the mountains with my folks and spent a lovely Christmas day with Justin's family. What an incredible year! 

The wedding is June 14. Not too far away now!

Running toward home

This year brought so many changes to my life that I feel like I am looking back not only at 365 days, but, well, a lifetime.
The year 2013 was pivotal. It's the year all the winding roads I've walked suddenly seemed to actually lead...somewhere.

I've never regretted all my wandering. But, it has left me wondering at my own sanity and my own purpose in life much more than once.

The year 2013 was...contentment. Calm. Rest. Security.

When I first moved to this small Wyoming town, I told my pastor's wife that I felt like I was running away from something. It was a vague statement, and even I didn't know what, exactly, it meant. I just knew I felt it: unrest, like an idling car just waiting for that shift into drive.

My pastor's wife and I met again recently, and she brought up that statement spoken by what seems like a different me. Maybe, Hannah, you were running towards something instead? she asked.

Yes. I like that idea.

In the book "The Sacred Romance" by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge, there is a chapter about the "arrows" that pierce our hearts, the failures, disappointments and judgements that lodge so deeply we hardly realize their damage until years later.

When I was a young child, I wore a brace on my leg because I was born with a clubbed foot and cerebral paulsy on my left side. I had speech troubles because I was nearly deaf. A boy named Ian told me I was ugly and stupid, and I believed him most my life. I didn't want to, but his insult wedged deep.

When I was a young pre-teen, I was coaxed into a man named Gary's house. I had met him a few weeks before when he hung around me and some girlfriends as we gave away kitties out of a brown plastic laundry basket by K-mart. I was walking my purple bike home after an early morning ride when he began walking alongside me. I was scared, and I didn't know how to tell him no when he asked me into his house.

He gave me a tour of his house, and I knew something was wrong. I told him I had to go because I hadn't eaten breakfast and I was hungry. He gave me a banana. I told him my brother would be looking for me soon and moved towards the door. He blocked my way and leaned over me and kissed me -- twice -- on my mouth.

I don't really remember how I got out. I just remember running with my bike towards my house, banana in hand. I remember hating that banana and squishing its guts out before throwing it as hard as I could into the garbage can.

I woke my brother in a frenzy of sobs and told him about what had happened as best I could. He held me, and we called my parents. My dad was at work; my mom was visiting her sister (I think; it's all so blurry) in another state. I told the cops my story, and Gary went to jail.

I thank God I wasn't raped. I was protected. But for years, I felt weak and guilty and stupid. I should have run away sooner.

When I was a senior in high school, I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. All the missionary schools I was looking at said, very plainly, on their websites that diabetics would not be accepted because having diabetes on the mission field was too risky.

My lifelong dream died before the computer screen.

My body had failed me yet again. I wasn't okay. I was sick and useless.

Alas, I went to college and traveled (diabetes and all) to many exotic lands on short-term missions trips. I lived like a vagabond for a few years and worked a dozen interesting jobs. I began to realize I was not useless or weak as I learned to take care of myself and saw God work in my life-- and protect me from more than a few sticky situations -- time and again.

As I grew into my teens, I learned -- with sickened heart -- that there are bad men and women in the world who do much worse than Gary did to me, and that it wasn't my fault. My guilt washed away.

A bout of depression, and failed attempts at becoming a freelance writer, and a dwindling bank account due to my inability to land a full-time job led me back home, back with my parents, at the age of 29 in January 2011.

For a while, I felt pretty lame. I felt like I should have it figured out by now.

But my parents loved on me day in and day out, and I began to heal. I got a job as a grant writer and then as a barista (my true dream job!). I made a few friends and got involved in church and moved into my own apartment.

I soaked in the sunshine Wyoming so freely gives. I began to breathe again and feel whole again.

In fact, about two years ago, in 2012, I began to feel so strong and healed I started looking for jobs...elsewhere. The restlessness began to bubble. 

But then I met Justin.

We "hung out" for a while, and then he asked if he could court me. I didn't say yes immediately because I knew the commitment that meant. However, it didn't take long for me to decide. I'd watched him, and I very much liked what I saw.

I saw a man who loved God with all his heart. I saw a hard worker. I saw integrity and the way people in the community respected him. I saw someone who could make me laugh. I saw honesty and steadfastness.

Justin told me I was beautiful.

And I believed him.

That arrow lodged so early and so deep by a boy named Ian finally came out.

And now, as Justin and I walk into 2014 -- the year we will get married! -- I know without a doubt that God was moving me towards this person in whom I've found home.

And I know that ultimately God is my home, and He always has been, even in -- especially in -- those moments I felt so lost.

As the sun shines in the snowy tree branches outside my window, I say, "Hello, 2014. It's nice to meet you. I'm especially looking forward to your month of June." 

Kleenex interviews

Sometimes when I finish an interview, I walk away with a somewhat unsettled realization that I would never want to be on the opposite end of what I do day in and day out. I would not want to answer my own questions.

What is this complicated issue? How do you see it impacting these people? Are people angry about this? What are you doing about that? Do you feel like a scum bag? Why is this important? What, how, when, who, why, why, why?

Don't get me wrong; I see great value in the work of journalists around the world. I regret that bias has swept into the industry so rampantly, but I still believe in my profession. 

I believe the presence of reporters in city council meetings and court proceedings keeps people honest. I believe in informing the community and in telling stories because humanity can be so moved by story. I think those tough, probing, revealing questions need to be asked. And I think the dumb questions need to be asked, too.

But still, it can be awkward.

I am a private, introverted sort, and I marvel at what I ask people to do. Would I be as open as they are?

There are times that I feel so humbled to be hearing what someone is saying to me. Who am I that they trust me with their words, their image, their knowledge, their hurts, their joys?

Several years ago, I did a series of stories about domestic violence. I began my work, as I often do, with tons of research. I had stats about the freakish commonality of abuse and studies about why women stay in abusive relationships. I KNEW stuff.

Or so I thought.

And then I met a woman at a coffee shop for an interview. As she told me her story of being abused, I dutifully took notes and nodded and hummed in all the right, compassionate places. But I remained detached. Or, in journalism speak, objective.

But then, as this woman told me about what if felt like to have the corner of the coffee table punch into her ribs as she was pushed down by her husband and about the guilt and sickness that boiled in her stomach when she crawled into bed with her husband that night, knowing full well her plan to finally leave the next morning, something happened.

She began to cry. I stoically grabbed her a Kleenex box and murmured reassuringly that she should take her time.

She used one, and then two, and then three Kleenex.

The silence became awkward. She apologized as the tears streamed down her face.

And I suddenly didn't know why in the world she was sorry. She was apologizing for becoming emotional about recounting a hellish night, a hellish relationship smothered in confusion and shame, a hellish life.

But it was I who had asked her to relive it. I was the one who should have been sorry.

I put my pen down. And I grabbed a Kleenex.

That was the first time I've cried in an interview. It was not the last.

Ever since, I have prayed before almost every interview that I will hear with my heart and honor the honesty I am asking for. I pray that my heart will be behind my words when I write, but also that my words will remain objective as my profession demands. It's a hard balance to strike.

But I try. And now, as I've been pondering the questions I ask people every day, I've been trying to turn similar questions on myself. Why do I believe that way? What will I do about this problem? How can I help, and when will I do it?

It's been a good practice. It stems apathy and cynicism, and that is crucial in an industry where it becomes easy to hide behind skepticism and blockade oneself from the humanity behind the story. But I don't want to hide. I want to be human, too, even if it means carrying Kleenex with my pen and my notepad. 

Tidbits

Random observations:

My dirty dishes get done more often when I take time to put away the clean dishes in the dish rack.

I am more of a people pleaser than I ever realized. I hate letting people down or feeling like someone thinks less of me. I have a really hard time letting go of mistakes that make me look bad. This is a pride issue, and I've been taking it to God in prayer.

Seeing the flowers on the table that my fiance brought me is a highlight many times in a day.

I don't miss caffeinated coffee in the afternoon as much as I thought I would. Decaf Americanos do just fine for me.

I am quicker to judge than I thought I was. God help me see with your eyes and love with your love.

I feel better when I drink two glasses of water in the morning when I wake up.
 

Wow your guests

First, a confession.

A couple weeks ago, I was at the grocery store buying yogurt, cereal and bananas. You  know, the standard working woman's fare for a woman who lives alone and considers cereal with a dessert of a different kind of cereal a balanced meal. (Ah, how life will change come June when I am a married woman with a husband for whom to cook!)

Anyway, the confession. The bananas are rather close to the magazine section in my nearest grocery store, so I meandered casually over and picked up a TIME magazine. But I didn't really look at it. It was a ruse. I then set TIME back in its slot and reached for...a bridal magazine.

Believe me, in that time when Justin and I had looked at rings but he hadn't yet proposed, I had wanted to look at those bridal magazines so badly. But, I just felt too self conscious doing so without a ring on my finger. It seemed presumptuous, and I worried I'd look a little sad and sorry flipping wistfully through a magazine full of wedding dresses without that reason sparkling on my hand.

So, I refrained.

But now, I held the magazine so that diamond and that gold band would be visible and started to leaf through the pages.

Thick and glossy, those pages were painted fairy-tale white. Yards of satin and tulle, glistening with sequins like dew on a white rose, made me squeal very, very, very quietly. Page after page cooed to that little girl inside every woman who dreams of twirling beneath a starry sky with her Prince Charming...in yards of satin and tulle so long and lavish no eye in the room can look at anyone or anything else.

I leaned against my shopping cart and turned page after silky, white, fairy-tale page.

After a while, though, I began to notice that none of the 6-foot-5-inch brides were smiling. Their bodies were contorted into completely unnatural poses that flaunted the curve of a hip, the firmness of a thigh and the suppleness of a low neckline. The flowers, and baubles, and table settings seemed stiff and lifeless. Something, lots of things, seemed off.

Second, a revelation.

About two-thirds through the 100-page magazine, there was an advertisement. It featured a photo of a wedding scene in which the bride and groom were kissing in a completely uncomfortable Hollywood fashion with lights twinkling in fine crystal wine glasses in the background and guests looking delightfully stunned by - if not a little jealous of - the perfection of the moment.

"Wow your guests!" it said in swirly lettering.

My breath caught in my chest, but not because I was sold by the add. On the contrary, I suddenly felt sad and a little angry at it all.

"Is that the point of my wedding? To 'wow' my guests?" I asked out loud.

No.

Don't get me wrong, dear friends and family, I am giddy with excitement to have you all join me and Justin on our big day (June 14!), but I have no intention of wowing you, not with my sexy dress or shiny baubles, anyway.

Since when has a wedding become merely an extravagant party that maxes out a credit card or two for the purpose of wowing people who should instead be awed by God's goodness in bringing two people together in that sweet, almost inexpressible bond called love?

Please, dear ones, be wowed not by the party we throw but by what it represents.

I will be wearing a handmade dress made just for me (Shelley, you're the best!). It will be lovely, and I will twirl in it. It will be white because I will be enjoying sex for the first time in my life the night after I wear it (blushing now).

I will be wearing the most beautiful piece of jewelry I've ever seen, and I'll be looking forward to seeing it every day on my finger for the rest of my life.

We will be surrounded by the people who have walked with us to this moment, and who will hopefully walk with us long, long after it as we learn all the ins and outs and ups and downs of married life. What a beautiful thing to celebrate! I cherish each person who will be at our wedding and hope Justin and I will strive to serve and love them throughout our lives.

There will be flowers - daisies - because they're the most happy flower and I like them. There will be old cameras because my man is a photographer and he likes old cameras. There are rumors of a game of Twister. These things represent nothing deep...just the fun and joyousness of the occasion.

Because a wedding should be fun and joyous. And serious beyond serious as two people pledge to become one in body, heart, faith, love.

Two become one. Wow.

I put the magazine back on the shelf. And I was glad I had looked through its fairy-tale white pages because in them I found that I'm not looking so much for a fairy tale as I am for a little help writing that first page of our story as Mr. and Mrs.

Third, a foreshadowing.

You should be prepared to be wowed by the dessert table.

~Hannah reporting in...