Better Things Are Ahead

My Grandpa Gesch died this summer. My dad's dad. I haven't been able to write about it or talk about it much, because it hurts to think about it for too long. I know that avoidance is not the best way to deal with death, but it's unfortunately the method to which I'm drawn. Those two, Grandma and Grandpa Gesch, are pillars in my life. Protectors and leaders and spiritual giants that raised me right along with my parents. Carpool drivers and babysitters, devotional readers and scrabble game players, they are forever a part of who I am and who I want to be.

One of the most routine memories of my grandparents is one of the sweetest for me. I played soccer all through my childhood for my town's team. I was the only girl on my team for my fourth grade year, and loved meeting all the neighborhood kids that I didn't get to play with at school. Being somewhat of the odd one out who attended Christian school a town away in Oostburg, I had to take the bus home and get a ride to soccer practice each week while my parents were working. I'd hop off the bus, bike or walk a few blocks to Grandma and Grandpa's house, and sit down at the table where a stack of oreos, a glass of milk, and my two-person fan club awaited me. They'd ask about my day, update me on their walk to the post office, and generally just chat about life. I'd often lose focus and forget that an oreo was soaking in the glass of milk while we talked, so Grandma would go fetch me an extra cookie to dip in and save the other that had floated to the bottom on a rescue mission. After that, I'd change into my cleats and Grandpa would drive me to practice, with a hearty "Go get 'em!" yelled out the window as I sprinted out to join my team on the field.

I think of all they went through and all they accomplished, all the people they had in their lives, and here they were interested in a chat with me, a regular old 10-year-old kid, over a stack of oreos and a glass of milk. That's why I loved our weekly rituals so much; to them, I was worthy of stopping the day for their full attention. They helped me learn how to make people feel important.

When I think of my grandparents I think of puzzles, board games, a never-ending-scrabble tournament (Grandpa always quick to point out that Grandma was way ahead in the standings), and a two-a-day program of reading the Bible together. I think of kindness toward one another and a marriage based on true friendship and simple joy. I think of five brilliant boys that turned out to be my dad and uncles, how they raised the perfect guy to be my dad one day.

I think of being friendly to everyone because it's the right thing to do, and taking the higher road even if others choose to dwell in mires of gossip and judgment. I think of correspondence and encouragement, support and involvement. I think of musical talent, appreciation of nature, time spent in the workshop, and praying in German before lots and lots of meals spent together. I think of interest in other cultures, languages, and just a pure love of people. I think about a love of learning that never stops for an entire long lifetime.

I think about positivity and gumption and constant joking around. I think about that unending energy paired along with a slant towards understanding sadness and loss, too. My grandparents taught me that it's okay to have both sides of that coin very much alive in your life. I learned that it's okay to be a walking contradiction sometimes in that way. They were the first to teach me the lesson that as a follower of God you don't need to have it all together. They taught me one of my favorite truths in my life: that it's okay to not be okay. You don't need to be flawless on your own. God's grace is enough for it all.

I think about daily faithfulness and love and prayer and hard work and discipline and joy and family. All those good things.

I am such a blessed person, to have these themes as a part of the legacy I inherit. I consider myself to be so rich in all the best things: people, heritage, and faith. This is what I owe to my Grandpa and Grandma.

I don't know what heaven will really be like, but one of the cheesy things that I like to imagine is a kitchen table on linoleum flooring where my two grandparents are back at their rounds of scrabble, shared meals, and daily devotionals. When I'm extra cheesy, I like to imagine a spot saved for me with a stack of oreos and a glass of milk.

I don't know if God created heaven to be like that.

I do know this: If it isn't like what I imagine, He will have designed it to be something even 
better.
  

Lost and Found

I have to tell you about how I just watched an amazing movie. I suppose I should say I just watched an amazing FILM, because FILM is the term you use when a movie turns into something more than just a movie. FILM is also a term you use when you want to sound like a snobby-indy-flick-type, but I digress. I'm out here in D.C. visiting Alex and Heidi and we three watched it tonight after the Easter festivities died down.

It's a documentary called Searching for Sugar Man, and it tells the poignant story of Rodriguez, a musician who produced two albums in the early 1970's that completely flopped in America, but were underground megahits in apartheid South Africa. Long story short, this flick tells the tale of a music journalist who tracked him down in 1997, 20 years after his records released, and found him living modestly in Detroit working manual labor. His anti-establishment message spoke to the South Africans who were under a tightly censored regime at the time, and circulated from a bootlegged copy of his album Cold Fact. It spread like wildfire through the nation, inspiring fellow musicians to make music with similar free-thinking messages. His album was censored but still sold over a half million copies in spite of the ban. In South Africa he was considered to be in the same ballpark as Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan, yet no one knew anything about him. All they had was his photo on the album cover. Urban legend told the story of how he had supposedly died by a dramatic on-stage suicide and that was that. But that wasn't that. He was alive and well, living in obscurity in Detroit, the victim (I presume) of some sleazy record company people who didn't pay dues to where dues should have been paid. But there he was, all the same, unaware of his superstardom across an ocean. They flew him out in 1998 to perform in a half dozen sold out shows, where he was finally accepted and adequately recognized for his remarkable talent. Rodriguez was back from the dead and performing in front of sold out crowds at last. What a story.

What got me the most was the where is he now? element of the documentary? This movie had him wrapped in mystery the whole time; we didn't get to actually meet him until over halfway through the footage. Now we've finally found him! He's alive, performing music, and gaining recognition! Roll out the Beverly Hills mansion and new record deal, right? Wrong. The guy still lives in Detroit in the same house he's lived in for over 40 years. He gave the proceeds from his sold out shows and promotions to his friends and family. He continues to work hard in construction and renovation. I'm not saying that people who embrace their financial success are doing something wrong. But I am saying that it is a wonderful thing to see a true talent who loves what he does for the sake of what it is and not for the purpose of what it can get him. He is a thoughtful, sensitive, profoundly humble guy.

There's something about a poet or singer or writer or artist that can get at the real heart of stuff. I found Rodriguez to be a heartbreakingly great human being. The film ended with a shot of his walk home to his rundown residence in Detroit. Out of a pretty wretched place shines a brilliant talent. It makes me want to be in the business of helping to tell stories like this. We all need to hear stories about truth breaking through the hardship and darkness, giving way to a beautiful song.

Friendsgiving

I am thankful for good people. I am thankful for good friends.

There were more than these people here, but this was the Trinity crew that was present. 

Let me tell you a little about this group of people. They are not my college roommates, nor are they the people with whom I spent most of my weekends. These were the friends I met when I was doing things in college. These are the friends I met while participating in Residence Life activities, playing in soccer practices, acting in improv, debating in Student Association meetings, and leading in freshman orientation week. These are my kindred spirits. People who love to be involved, think critically, and have great conversations about real things. These nerds probably enjoyed attending class as much as I did. I love these people because they are open, articulate, hilarious, and original.

Liz. The hostess with the mostest. 

Let me tell you about Liz Brice. She is not a touchy person and she hates how I exploit this with my hugging/arm nudging ways. But more important, she is a friend of mankind. She loves to bring people together. So last week she hosted Friendsgiving. It was wonderful. Basically, about 30 of us came together from all different friend groups and hung out and ate like crazy at a huge potluck. (I made a big plate of truffs and they went over really well. Click the link for a recipe.) It was a great time.

Jon, Jacqui, Sasha, and Cat. 

My new friend Luke. Sorry for cutting off your face, but this picture looked artsy so I kept it! 

The chalkboard that greeted us. 

Sam and Jon. You've met Sam before. If you haven't, go scroll down a few posts. 

Going through the line. Yumm.

Little talks. 

This is one tradition that I hope I always uphold: getting together with good people, being thankful for them, talking about real things, and eating lots and lots of good food. 

Notes from Gate 14

I'm sitting here in the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in Washington, DC, about to head back to Chicago and real life after this amazing weekend for Alex and Heidi's wedding. I love airports and as I'm sitting here I decided to write up random notes about this airport experience of mine today.

An airport named after Ronald Reagan. My kind of place. 

#1. I am such a Gesch. I can't escape it. I can't deny it. I got to the airport three and a half hours before my flight leaves. Granted, my parents gave me a ride downtown and had to coordinate it with other obligations, so we didn't really CHOOSE for me to be here this early, but I'd be lying if I said a teeny tiny part of me wasn't a little gleeful at the idea of getting somewhere so far ahead of schedule.

#2. Public transportation isn't too bad. Sometimes it can be daunting, annoying, and crowded, but I've found it so helpful this weekend. Last week Thursday I took the CTA in Chicago to O'Hare, landed in DC, then hopped on the DC Metro to get to Heidi's apartment. Gotta say, the small town Wisconsin girl is starting to catch on. Plus there are super nice people on there! One guy helped me figure out where I needed to switch to the yellow line to get to the airport today out of the goodness of his heart. People helping people...that's what it's all about.

#3. Some people in this airport need to lighten up. Okay, okay, we all get it, YOU HAVE AN IMPORTANT JOB. You may or may not have control over whether you travel around in a full suit and carry all leather bags. Other things, however, you can control. Take the freaking bluetooth out of your ear for two seconds to smile and talk to the check-in desk lady. How rude. And for you Full House fans, that last sentence was in fact supposed to be read in the voice of Stephanie Tanner.

#4. Some people in this airport need to step it up. Okay no judgement whatsoever at people who like to travel comfortably. I'll let a pair of leggings go if you're on a trip. Sure. Why not. But as a general PSA to sorority girls everywhere, I'll just say that you don't need to dress up like Lindsay Lohan fresh out of rehab in order to board an airplane. The 3-day bleach blonde messy ponytail, XXXL sunglasses, neon orange headbands, and a triple mega grande latte aren't in fact necessary. If that's what you actually like to do, great! But I have a sneaking suspicion that someone told you that this was the only way to travel, and I am here to tell you otherwise. You can dress like your regular self. No need for the drama. You're just sitting on a plane. That's all.

#5. Bonding with strangers over the annoying qualities of another stranger is fun. I was sitting in my gate and a kid across the way started to yell/sing the same four notes over and over and over. After one minute of it, the people in my gate started to give each other "get a load of this" glances and give nods of agreement in our unity against this disturbance of the peace. After 5 minutes of it, someone made a funny comment out loud and we all laughed at how nobody has made their kid stop pesting all the gates in our row with this noise. After 20 minutes, when a different stranger finally walked up to the kid (who was sitting with his oblivious mother) and kindly asked that he keep it down (which stopped the madness), our whole bench high fived in our gate. I then proceeded to have a great conversation with the mom and daughter next to me flying to Alaska to visit their friend who is a teacher there. Look at that. Who would've thunk that a shrill disruptive child would bring everyone together.

#6. The airport is a great place to support your servicemen/women. As awkward as it can be sometimes, I try to say thanks to people in uniform at airports when we cross paths. I don't sprint out of my way to track everyone down, and sometimes people look like they're in a hurry, but if I pass by, I say something. Not a huge gesture, but I am really impressed that while I am running around to visit friends and family and live my life, someone else is running around to ensure that I can still do those things freely. With today being September 10th, my mind wanders to friends, family, and strangers who sacrifice for me, someone they night not even know, every day.

#7. The airport is a great place for sentimental moments. I had my own earlier as I hugged my dad goodbye before I got on the Metro. There's just a great air at the airport of wonderful reunions, bittersweet departures, and everything in between. Today I saw a guy stand and wait at the edge of security while his girlfriend waded through the maze of a line to go through to her gate. He sat there for 30 minutes, smiling and nodding every so often when she would look back and smile at him or make a face or wave. When she went through and waved goodbye on the other side he blew a kiss and then left the airport. I know that seems ridiculous, but his extra 30 minutes probably just made her day. Presh.

There's my list for today. I think it's time to book another trip.

Shine On

I like to think about the easy stuff. The nice, pretty, fun, safe stuff. When we start to venture into the world of death, difficulty, and darkness I don't always know what to think. Or say. I like to think I can explain just about everything with a generous dose of thoughtfulness and consideration. Just talk it out, right? 

Well, sometimes life just sucks. Sometimes it's mean, ugly, sad, dangerous, and confusing. March 30th, a beautiful day for a million other reasons, will always have a note of this darkness surrounding it. A year ago today, on a set of train tracks in the middle of the night, my friend Lindsay Huenink took her own life. 

I was in Spain when the e-mail entitled "Sad News..." from my camp director popped up in my inbox. I had volunteered as a camp counselor (where I also was a camper as a kid) for the past three summers and my fellow counselor Lindsay was one of the most vibrant girls I'd ever met. She was a girl who was just intrinsically popular and you had to love her. Always up to something fun, always laughing, always with friends, and of course always some guy was after her and that blonde hair. God gave her an inner spirit that was contagious. She was a senior in high school, a week before her prom, and with a pretty cool future ahead of her. I know it's kind to say these types of things about people after they pass on, but with Lindsay it's true. She just had that "IT" factor. She and her best friend Jackie were co-counselors together. Two young and beautiful kindred spirits. 

Some bunk bed shenanigans with the 5th grade
boy cabin. Lindsay's the bombshell to my right.

So when I heard the news, I was just confused. I felt all of those emotions people tell me I'm supposed to feel when someone ends their own life: anger that she would do this to those of us left behind, love for her as I miss her spirit and wish I could laugh at something ridiculous she says one more time, and immense sadness for her that she had such a heaviness to bear on her own. A darkness that she thought she had to carry alone. My heart breaks for her family as this date comes around this year and each one after. I think of Jackie a lot and wonder how it would feel to lose your best friend like that. Ugh. What a helpless feeling. 

So what should we say? I think the answer has to be found in her life, not her death. That ugly seven-letter S-word (that I just can't bring myself to type) that characterized her death cannot characterize her life. A bright girl like her can't be defined by a darkness like that. What we can look at are those years she was here and the impact she did make. Each year I saw firsthand the way 5th and 6th grade girls in her cabin looked up to her and caught her spirit. She passed it on to her family, friends, even to me in those three summers we led at camp together. Her passing is a reminder to guard one another against that heavy darkness, a reminder to ensure that no one feels that they must carry that burden alone. When I think of Lindsay, I get reminded to Shine On, to keep fighting off that darkness for myself and others every day. I get reminded to rely on the assurance that the darkness may have claimed her earthly life, but has absolutely no say in her eternal one. 

I'm friends with the One who can explain it all and hopefully someday will. He knows what he's doing and he's got Lindsay right in his grip, where she's always been. So I guess it's a good thing I don't have to explain everything. Because when it comes to Lindsay, I just can't. 

Senior Citizens

Well, friends, it's late March in my senior year of college. Time to start getting sentimental, everyone! The other day we had our friends over for a cookout, walked over to the nearby school field for a game of pickup football, and finished the night climbing up on the roof of the house that my roommates and I rent. There was no talk of the future, no talk of homework, no talk of drama or stress, just good clean fun with good friends.

Of course, my cousin/roommate/bestie Karley got the ball rolling on getting everyone together. She always does. Been doing it for all four years of college. You want a game, event, or party planned where everyone is sure to have a good time? Put this chick in charge. It's a fun form of bossy. She tells you to have fun, and you just do. We'll call it leadership.

There was a point where I looked around and took a mental note of everyone milling around on our driveway and front lawn, eating hamburgers, and playing bean bags. I've known almost all of them for my whole college experience, and their friendships mean the world to me. And not just these people from this random time of being together, but all those Trinity people that have made my college life what it is. I have so many memories of pulling all-nighters, climbing the library roof, weekend get-togethers, soccer games, special downtown excursions, and 2 a.m. pizza runs that I could go on for hours. While we all are of age and are allowed to have a beer or two together, the thing I love most about my college friends is that we don't need a big keg in the middle of the room in order to have a good time. My senior class (and other class imports of course!) is full of people like this. 

There's something special about knowing a person for your whole time in college. My class has seen me at my weird freshman year stage, the naive Wisconsin girl with the Brett Favre poster above her bed. We had those weird first impressions that were righted with actually getting to know one another. We played the "freshman dating shuffle" for awhile and can laugh at the different "who liked who" situations that went down over the years. I definitely missed them for a semester away studying in Spain. We came in together and will leave together as we walk across the stage in May. The idea that in less than two months we won't be able to do this stuff all the time does not seem like a reality. It seems ridiculous! Why wouldn't I just text around to see whose house we're going to? It blows my mind that it's all wrapping up so quickly. 

And while this is so sad, it's exciting too. I know I'll hear about how everyone's lives continue, grow, and move along in unexpected and cool ways. I can't wait to see what happens to us. No matter how much time goes on after I'm away from my class, I know I have an amazing foundation of friendships and memories that will never go away. In less than two months I'll be starting on my own road. A slightly intimidating experience, to be sure, but I know it's possible to keep going along and growing on the way because it's happened already for the past four years with this group around me. It's doable. And I'm not scared, because they have successfully proved to me that God has a great little habit of putting fabulous people right in my path everywhere I go. 

Life is moving along quickly and it's going to be a long drive. But with people like this, the trip is worthwhile.  

Three Little Words

Today started like any Tuesday. I woke up after too few hours of sleep, crammed in some homework before class, ate breakfast, and got ready. I sat down in my English 375 (Advanced Writing) class four minutes before its 9:30 start. Today was a pretty normal day of class, but there was an exceptional lesson learned within the middle of it that made it memorable for me. We were talking about writing tips for our upcoming essays and how basic choices of verbs, nouns, adverbs, and adjectives strengthen our paper. We got to the slide on nouns and said that generally, the more specific the concrete noun, the better (Daisies instead of flowers, Big Mac instead of hamburger, you get it). Then we got to this:

Abstract nouns are hardest to use well. Like love. Our use of love tends to be lazy. 

Well. I know that the sentence was concerning our usage of "love" in what we write, but of course my mind started to wander. I thought that sentence perfectly describes our (or at least my) everyday life. Love is hard to use well. 

I am guilty as charged. I say "I love you Mom and Dad," in one breath and then turn around to say "Ohemgoodness I love that TV show!" in the next. I just like to love things, so I will admit my contribution to cheapening the word. But I'm not the only one guilty here, people. Now I've never said those words to someone in THE BIG WAY, but how many people have you seen say, "I LOVE YOU AHHH" all over Facebook to their significant other and then after the breakup schmear (yes I consider that to be a real word) their ex any chance they get? Or friends who say "I love you and don't know what I'd do without you!" and two months later could not care less about the well-being of that same person. Obviously hurt feelings happen and emotions run high in those situations initially, but I think with time, eventually, you have to think: 

Hey. I told that person those three little words at one point. And that wasn't just a flaky statement, that was a promise. 

I think when you say those words to someone, whether that be your boyfriend, girlfriend, parents, brother, sister, friend, roommates, teammate, or dog (haha), you are making a promise. Easy to say, hard to do. You are promising, "I'm going to always be patient with you!" and "I won't get jealous of you, won't constantly try to one-up you, and will never think of myself as more important than you!" Yikes. Those are big promises, and that's only the beginning. With those words you're also promising:

"I won't be rude to you."

"I won't expect anything back for stuff I do for you."

"I won't jump to angry conclusions with you."

"I won't keep track of stuff that you do wrong. I'll forgive you every time." 

"I'll tell you the truth and be honest with you."

"I'll protect you and your reputation when I talk to you and about you."

"I'll trust you, and trust that God has a plan for you."

"I will hope for the best for you, and always assume the best about you."

"I will always hang in there with you, and I'm always on your side." 

"I won't ever fail you. You can count on me."

Wait. So it doesn't mean "I love you, except when you mess up and I don't feel like acting like it anymore." And it doesn't mean "I love you, but when you annoy me I reserve the right to be rude and angry at your stupid habits." Shoooooot. That makes it a whole lot harder. 

But as we know, love is a hard word to use well. 

Maybe we should be more careful about using love well even though, as my professor highlighted and I've discovered, it is an arduous job. It's difficult. But I think if we can even start to chip away at living up to that list, when we stop using love in a lazy way, we start to reflect the one who loves us perfectly. And that makes it worth it. 

Because while love is a difficult noun to use well, it's the greatest noun of them all.

Bob the Great

I'm going to take this moment to recognize someone who just made my day. Trinity people will understand who this is, and if you aren't from Trinity, take this moment to learn about a fabulous person. Let me set this up for you:

I was running errands all afternoon after class, very flustered (as usual - I wish that wasn't my default setting during the weeks before exam time), and I finally got home to check my million e-mail messages, only to read that I had to drive back to Trinity's campus (I live in a house a few minutes away) to pick up a book from the English department offices before everyone leaves, usually around 4:30. It was 4:28. Whew. I had to write a large chunk of a paper today, so this was kind of important. So I got back into Remy and zipped back over to school, where I ran (yes, I ran. I was that kid who runs on campus) to get to the faculty secretary's office where the books were waiting for me. I get to the building, run upstairs, knocked on the office door, and alas...

The door was locked. Ugh.

So I'm thinking to myself, "Anna, it's totally fine, you got this...get down what you can on paper...you can get the books tomorrow morning and somehow squeeze in time to work on it before your class...yada yada yada," knowing full well that I really did kind of need them tonight. Enter the hero of the story...

Bob Rice, Dr. Bob Rice. History professor and human being extraordinaire.

I don't even have him in class this semester, but he had noticed that I had knocked on the secretary's door and heard that there was no answer from inside. He took the time to ask me what I needed, and I explained how I had books waiting for me inside the office "but that's totally fine, I'll come back tomorrow morning!" Nope, he wouldn't let me leave without getting those books. He stopped what he was doing to help me out. He knew my name right away, told me he was excited to have me in class next semester (he had already checked and remembered that I was registered for his Russian History class in the spring), and joked that he would not want to be involved with hindering a student's reading. He went back to his office, retrieved his spare key to the office, and unlocked the door for me. I got the books, thanked him obnoxiously, and he smiled and said to have a great week. Now, instead of leaving the building completely frustrated and sans books...

I am loving life. First, I have the books I needed. Secondly, and most importantly, when someone takes a moment to cut through the hustle and bustle to help a sister out, dang it, it just gives you hope for humanity.

Did I mention that Bob Rice is blind? Oh yeah, that too. He did the whole shebang (remembering my name by my voice, my schedule, the keys, the office doors, etc.) like the pro that he is. But that's not the important part. The important part is that I now learned a little lesson that the books I'm reading tonight probably won't teach me. People like Dr. Rice have taught me that people matter and that no matter how busy you are, you always have the time to be kind.