Prompt: Write from an object you interact with everyday.

What’s the value of a blank piece of paper?  Maybe a penny?  Maybe more?  I wonder what kind of tree was cut down to start the paper-making  process?  I think of all it took to float the log to the paper mill, grind it up, mix it with rags, and somehow make the stinking mess into a big roll of paper.

Then, someone had to operate a cutter, wrap the paper, truck it, display it, and sell it.  So, behind that one sheet of blank paper stood a long line of people who made it possible.  To only pay a penny seemed like a good deal!

But there is another question.  Is the value intrinsic to the paper itself, or in how it is to be used?  The answer to that is up to me.  Will it be wasted, or can I put something on it that will make it worthwhile?  I wonder if the people who made the paper the U. S. Constitution was first written on ever thought of the value it would eventually have.  Quite obviously the value didn’t rest in the paper, but in what it was used for.  I am the last one in the long line of people who had a part in this blank page, and it is now my duty to determine its destiny or value.

The history of paper is awesome.  It originated in Egypt about 2400 B.C. and was perfected in China early A. D.  Newsprint didn’t arrive until 1838, and the first square bottom paper bag was created by Margaret Knight only 140 years ago in her own paper company.  Paper plates came along in 1904.

We have China to thank as well for the idea of paper money.  Maybe that’s the reason we need to borrow so much from them now!  I found hundreds of images of paper money and stamps ranging from a golden goddess to a toilet stool and a roll of $1 bills on a toilet paper dispenser.  Paper money has a huge variety of appearances dependent on the whims and ability of some government employee.  Gold is in much demand these days, but I am glad I don’t have to carry it around to the grocery store and WalMart.  Paper money is only paper.  What’s on it makes the difference.

But you say, “I am not looking at a page of paper, but a blank computer screen.”  “I know, so am I.”  But, think again.  Does it really change anything?  I cannot imagine how many people were involved in making this one in particular, plus the whole inventing process.  No doubt there is a small Chinese lady working for a pittance in a factory on the other side of the world, to make some component part.  Wikipedia says that a computer can be made of billiard balls.  Maybe so, but I prefer this one.  And so, be it a blank page of paper or a blank computer screen, my life has been touched by a myriad of nameless and faceless people that I cannot thank.  I can take what they have done and put it to good use.

My Bible is another paper product that I mostly take for granted.  The one I am reading has 1,426 pages that were once white “India” paper.  When I was doing printing in a vocational ed class, I often had trouble feeding ordinary paper into the fast running press, the result being a crumpled mess.  I have to be amazed at the modern machinery that can print so rapidly on such thin paper!  Gutenberg really got something started in 1439 but he would be amazed to see what’s happened since then.

Bible means “book” but this one took 1600 years to be written by about 40 different authors in two major languages.  It took more than human wisdom for it to result in a common theme throughout.  This first book printed by Gutenberg in the 15^th century has remained a best-seller ever since.

I would hate to go back to papyrus, or even the pen and inkwell of my childhood school desk.  I would hate to go back to the old manual Underwood typewriter I used to produce so much work.  But the instrument is not the point.  A nice lady by the name of Christin has made me realize that what is on the blank page is much more important than the page!  And so, I must stop staring and start writing!

Wayne Wright is a retired teacher/minister, having served over 40 years in both overseas and stateside Bible College work, teaching a variety of related subjects.  In addition to his bachelor’s degree he has two master’s degrees and an honorary of divinity degree.  He has also served as an executive director of the missionary ministry of his church.  He has been married 61 years and has three grown children, seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren, and enjoys creative writing.

Prompt: Capture with as much fidelity as possible, a moment from this past week.

I am sitting in front of the open hearth at my in-law’s house in Boerhaar, Holland, in a heavy wooden chair covered with a plaid blanket. Burnished copper kettles reflect the firelight; they sit on the edge of the hearth with the heavy old-fashioned iron and a tidy stack of gardening magazines. I am drinking cognac; my husband Adri and my father-in-law, André, are sipping whiskey. Every now and then, we grab a slice of dried sausage from the cutting board in front of the fire. On the roughly-hewn mantel, my wedding portrait stands proudly next to a small carved figurine of Saint Christopher with the Christ Child on his shoulder, staff in hand. The giant is three inches high. There is an assortment of knick-knacks on the mantel and around the hearth, but the effect is cozy rather than chaotic. This is my first night back in Holland – a vacation – after leaving it for frenetic Southern California two years ago.

I’m American by birth and Dutch by virtue of a piece of paper that cost me 500 Euro. (I did have to prove first that my marriage to a Dutchman had withstood the test of time… if you’ve been married three years, you’re in.) I had lived in Holland for five years, before the Big Move. There, I was officially a “sojourner” – the academic term for one who chooses to live abroad temporarily – but can you be a sojourner if you are a citizen, if you have put down roots, borne a child, mastered a language? In moving to the US, was I coming home or emigrating?

The first years of my marriage were spent in the Dutch city of Groningen. Those days were occupied with studying, taking long walks over cobblestone streets, having deep conversations long into the night as students do. I came as a newlywed, as the bride in the portrait on my in-laws’ mantel: slender, freckled, with long red hair. I was dizzy with excitement at thoughts of the future, and rigorous in my attempts to be a Dutch huisvrouw worthy of Adri. I scrubbed the floors with indefatigable enthusiasm. We shared a one-room basement apartment in an Art-Deco era townhouse – freezing in the winter, humid in the summer, but close to downtown Groningen on a buzzing street. Our living room window looked out on all of the feet and bike tires that passed.

Around the fireplace in Boerhaar, as jet lag sets in and I become pleasantly sleepy, Adri’s parents describe the neighbors and the neighborhood. I have never been here before, never sat around this fireplace before, as André and Dorothy moved to Boerhaar after Adri and I had left for the United States. Boerhaar is a village of around 60 souls; there is a Catholic church here, an elementary school, a restaurant, and a dance hall (which has been vacant for years). They’ve lived here one and a half years, and Adri’s parents know all of the residents, their dogs, and their kid’s names. Boerhaar is familiar to me, although I have never been here before. The tidy hedges on the perimeter of each garden, the brick roads, the rosy-cheeked teenagers biking home from school: it is all oer-Dutch. I feel like I haven’t actually ever left the Netherlands, as if the past two years in California have been a dream.
In California, we live in a ‘70s-era apartment with dark wooden cupboards and faux marble bathroom counters. It feels like a hotel, like the condos we stayed in on ski vacations when I was a kid. We scrounged most of our furniture from the dumpsters behind the apartment complex, or inherited it from kind friends. Our family has perched there for two years; it has always felt impermanent. We’re just passing through as Adri completes grad school, with no intention of rooting ourselves in LA.

I’ve given up scrubbing as a pastime, in favor of scientifically observing the mold growing on the Cheerios under the baby’s high chair. “Doesn’t matter,” I think to myself, “We’ll be moving out soon, anyway…”

Boerhaar lies along a canal and dike, which runs behind my in-laws’ brick house, at the back of their garden. Beyond the garden, the green flat fields stretch to the horizon. The waterway was dug out a thousand years ago; I suppose the village grew up around it. The canal used to run right through the middle of the village, with houses on both sides of it. Andre told us about how the villagers re-routed the water in the ’70s – it bends around Boerhaar now, behind the backyards on the eastern side of town, and its ancient course has been replaced with a road.

Apparently the villagers used to have to walk a long ways to cross the canal in order to visit the other side of the water, and they were tired of doing that. What a mammoth effort, re-digging that ancient canal… the second undertaking on such a grand scale in a thousand years. I believe the villagers in Boerhaar intend to let the canal be for the next millennium.

Our apartment in California lies along Route 66. Our next-door-neighbors are the McDonald’s and Burrito Village. If you knock on the stones from which the Burrito Village is constructed, you discover that they are hollow.  Painted  fiberglass, I think.

A thousand years ago, Indians may have camped here – their lifestyle characterized by impermanence. Seventy-five years ago, there were citrus orchards as far as the eye could see – an idyllic, rural vista. Migrant laborers came here from all over America to pave the last stretches of Route 66. This, in turn, led to the mass exodus from the East in search of sun and surf. They drove through this land, stayed, tore up trees, built flimsy wooden structures, strip malls… they built our apartment complex; they built the McDonald’s drive-thru, which enables you to actually keep moving as you eat…

When I was a freckled newlywed in Holland, I learned about rootedness and hospitality. I was a stranger, a foreigner, and Adri’s parents took me under their wings and loved me as one of their own. This is hospitality: acts of love and service that have become so natural to the host that he or she views them as an obvious function of being human. Offering a cup of coffee and cookies, taking the time to sit and look at one another, listen to each other. Enjoying a three-hour meal with the requisite bottle of wine.

Hospitality demonstrates acceptance of a person, which engenders love and confidence in its recipient. Love and confidence embodied in a person are prerequisites to that person engaging with those around him or her, becoming part of a community. In this way, finally, hospitality brings about rootedness in a place.

I long for a return to the rootedness that I had invested in and enjoyed in Holland. This summer, our family will leave Southern California for Washington State. We’ve bought a house there, an old farmhouse with centenarian trees in the yard. I hope we’ll be there for a while. I know we’ll practice hospitality and help other sojourners to root, as well. Maybe, when people ask us where we came from, we’ll say we’re from LA. Maybe we’ll say we’re from the Netherlands. Maybe our answer will depend on our mood.

In Boerhaar, the fire in the hearth snaps and fizzes. My father-in-law grabs a fire iron and pokes it a bit, then sets another piece of wood on the flames. A pleasant woodsy, smoky smell fills the room. I let my sip of cognac evaporate on my tongue, sweet and strong. The glasses are almost empty, the fire will soon die. For now, it’s good to be home.

Growing up in rural Oregon, Kelly Fonteijn dreamed of becoming a World Traveler.  She completed her MA in English as a Fulbright Scholar at the University of Groningen, Netherlands.  She taught  International Communication at the Hanze University Groningen for four years before returning to the USA.  Kelly and her family currently live in Pullman, WA, where they minister to international students through InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.

Prompt: Write about a significant moment in your past.  Research national or world events that occurred during that time.

I have never had alcohol aside from cough medicine, so I had to take the nurses at their word when they said, “The effects of magnesium sulfate are like being drunk.” Everything was blurry.  The room and the sheets smelled like antiseptic. The “mag” was required to prevent seizures due to the preeclampsia I had developed.

But I was going to be able to deliver my baby.  Finally!  It had been a horrific pregnancy.  From multiple hospitalizations due to nausea induced dehydration to Bells Palsey leaving me looking like a stroke victim to PUPPP (a severely itchy and painful skin rash) and then to preeclampsia which caused so much water retention I looked more like a balloon animal than a mother-to-be.  I was not a glowing pregnant woman!

It was one o’clock in the morning on May ninth 1999 – Mother’s Day.  The on-call doctor had checked me and I began to push.  Nothing seemed to work.  I hugged my bloated knees.  I pulled on a towel.  I even pulled on my husband’s hands because there was more resistance; this gave him a whole new meaning to the term “active labor”.  His arms were sore for three or four days.

Three hours after beginning to push, the doctor asked me if I would agree to a cesarean.  Looking back now, I realize no one should ask a woman in the middle of the most painful experience of her life for permission to do anything.  I had in my mind that I was going to finish the way I started.  Maybe that is what it is like to be drunk.

The anesthesiologist was called to give me a second epidural because I could feel everything.  Apparently the second epidural was like being drunk twice.  Is that possible?

I don’t remember all the questions I asked the nurses, but I do remember that I asked if my mid-wife, Penny Brown, was going to be able to be in before I delivered.  “It isn’t her night on-call, Lassie,” the gruff Irish nurse informed me.  But I felt as though I needed her; I wanted her with me.  Just to see her ever gentle expression, her short blonde hair which rested on the collar of her white lab coat would not only comfort me, but allow us to celebrate the end of all the dreadful days and months prior.

Seven and a half months earlier, I met Penny the day after I had found out that I was pregnant.  I had begun to throw up so frequently that my husband insisted I visit the emergency room.  She was on-call in the ER that evening.  Her gentle manner instantly put me at ease.  She was always attentive to what I was feeling, how I was progressing, and what my current condition was.  Her touch was much like a mother – not a doctor.

I called Penny’s office the next day, and she agreed to be my doctor over the next agonizingly complicated months.

About a month after meeting Penny, while in the hospital again for nausea issues, I developed an unusual reaction to the anti-nausea medication, Reglin.  My muscles flexed and lifted from the bed randomly for eight hours straight.  It was excruciating!  Penny sat at my bedside for over an hour gently caressing my arm.  Would a doctor ever do that?  Penny did!  She placed a piece of herself into the mosaic of my life.

The great thing about a mosaic is that each piece can be haunting or delightful depending on the memory of each moment.  The great mystery of life, is that often these pieces are placed side by side.

Four hours and 15 minutes after beginning to push and after having the doctor push him back in and turn him, Isaiah Paul was born.  It was 5:16 am.  He looked like a beautiful raisin.   Love finally had a face.  His cry was a squeal.  It was melodious!  I wanted to share him with Penny and thank her for all she had done to assist in his safe arrival.

For another forty-five minutes the doctor and nurses assisted with the plethora of complications which arose.  Such as the moment I became unconscious during the seizure in spite of the “mag” due to my elevated blood pressure.  I prayed God would sustain Paul, my husband, and our little baby.  I was certain in my drugged state that I was dying.

It was my first Mother’s Day.  The hospital gave me a pink carnation on my breakfast tray to celebrate.  I don’t remember a lot about that first day because of the drugs.

I do know Penny never had the opportunity to see Isaiah.

The hospital provided a celebratory meal on Monday night (not the usual lame excuse for a meal).  I had just fed Isaiah, and Paul had turned on the news while we ate.  Instantly the name the newscaster mentioned caught our attention.  “Penny Brown.”

“What about her?” Paul’s tone was uncharacteristically concerned.

“She probably got some award or something.”  I knew she deserved it anyway.

The newscaster began, “The town of Salamanca and Olean, New York were shocked to find the body of Penny Brown just off a path this afternoon.  She was reported missing yesterday afternoon when she had not returned home after a jog.”

I am certain the newscaster said more things, but my ears refused to hear it.  My joints became achy – like when you have the flu.  I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.  I had no appetite despite the elegance of the meal.

What have we just done?  What kind of world have we just brought our son into?

We left the hospital as soon as possible the following morning.  The staff were mourning the loss of their coworker while we were trying to rejoice in the birth of our first child.  I told myself I had to be happy for my son’s sake.  Looking back, I realize I never had the chance to mourn for Penny.

The newspaper later revealed that Penny had been brutally suffocated and raped by a fifteen year old.

She was so gentle and kind.  Penny was eager to learn.  She asked the doctors questions about my condition frequently.  She cared beyond the nausea.  She made me feel special at a time when I felt awful.  Her pieces remain permanently and affectionately yet hauntingly within the mosaic of my life.

I wanted to write to Penny’s family many times, but I never knew quite what to say.  Because I never took the time to mourn for Penny, to write that note, to say good-bye, it became an uncompleted mosaic, a space waiting for Penny’s contribution which would never be provided.  She was gone.

But, can’t the lives she touched continue to be blessed and warmed by the pieces she contributed while she was alive?

There are days when I am filled with anger and regret that I did not get the opportunity to see Penny hold Isaiah.  Within my mind, this would have been the final contribution from Penny to my mosaic and in turn, it may have added to hers.  I realize I now have a choice.  Do I hold on to the empty space left within my mosaic due to her life being taken, or is there something more that Penny taught me?

I choose to offer pieces to others’ mosaics, pieces of the same spirit of compassion Penny showed with me.

Bethany Swanson lives in beautiful Azusa, California with her husband, Paul.  When she is not homeschooling her two children, she enjoys walks with her dog, baking home cooked meals, camping with the family, taking photos of some of the places she has traveled, sketching and writing both nonfiction and fiction.  Join her atwww.bethanyswanson.wordpress.com to read more.

Prompt: Write from your latest trip or vacation.

I sit on a grey, discarded stump on the desert’s edge of Northern California, waves of August heat rising from the  asphalt circling our campsite. My flip-flop feet are covered in dust. The campground is deserted, all but one family of sunburnt, swearing, shirtless wonders with a blaring radio down the road. They knew to bring a gas grill. Their smoke rises and the smell of beef makes my stomach growl. Jeff and I have only charcoal bricks and a cast-iron pan. It is fire season, I am told.  So these are not allowed. No one knows we are in hell.

…

I’m longing for childhood hikes along the misty Columbian Gorge: deep, rich soil like a mossy sponge under foot and the smell of cedar and pine. I long for the sound of trickling water and a cool breeze, to be eating cold fruit from paper bags along the rivers edge.

…

I curse my foolishness for picking this place, paying the 3-day deposit ahead online, spending our last forty bucks at the time. The pictures looked great; it had everything: hiking, a fishing lake, a river and shade, and–although we drove through the desert to get there–it even claimed it was a short drive away to connect to Highway 101 and the sea. The world is full of lies.

…

Earlier that evening, the car’s AC had gone out across the desert.  Our backs drenched in sweat while our red-cheeked toddler slept, we were eager for a swim as we pulled up to the camp ranger.

“Which way to the fishing lake?” Jeff asked.

“It’s closed: mosquito’s,” she said. Her loose straw hat cast checkered shadows across her aged, sun-worn face and matted grey bun.

“The river?”

“Closes in ten minutes; four-O’clock weekdays. Lot a flies, though.”

Jeff takes a deep breath.

“How are the trails here?” He said.

“Don’t you know?” She said, “It’s fire season. They’re blocked off till the brush is cleared.”

“The turn-off to the ocean, is that close?”

“It’s shut down; big fire. Detour is about 40 miles around the mountain,”

she said, adding, “Oh, and don’t use the fire pits: State rules, too risky. Enjoy your stay.”

Jeff and I said nothing as we drove slowly past the river to set up our tent. At least we can dip in the river tomorrow, I thought.

…

I remember swimming in the rain in Walla Lake, deep green waters speckled round under the wide gray sky. These memories pool to the surface in moments such as this; these un-surpressable, undeniably rose-colored moments fill my heart to the brim and threaten to drown me with longing. I tread the uncertain waters of my discontent.

…

Now Jeff is hiding, crouched behind the tire of our car to light three charcoal bricks in our skillet with a pie-tin on top trying to warm our ravioli dinner. I sit lookout. Our toddler wakes at last in the car, wailing like a banshee.

“Hot!” she cries. I wrestle to get her out of her car seat. She is wearing a sweet blue bathing suit with the Little Mermaid on her tummy and pink flip-flops, deep sleep-lines across her face. Her brown-copper hair is a wild mess. I tell her dinner is coming, it’s coming. She sees the tent and jumps to explore, but the moment for glee is fleeting.

“Bu-uugs!” she cries. A swarm of gnats has pressed in thick around our site. I hand her a dish towel. “Wave this, honey, say ‘shoo, fly, shoo.”

Jeff hands me the dish of ravioli and a plastic fork.

“I think that’s as warm as it’s going to get,” he says. It is cold. I know he is kind not to complain about the site, not to tell me what a terrible idea this was, not so say ‘I told you so.’ It is kind.

Our toddler is screaming and running in circles, waving the towel like a terrified matador as she wails, “They eating me, they eating me!” Jeff and I crack smiles at each other faintly, the absurdity of this trip is too much to bear, but now the sun is setting. We head for bed early.

…

The night is worse. The heat is thick. All night long, deer shuffle through the dry leaves around our tent, it is a strange sound. We wake with tired bones, packing up the tent at dawn to dip in the river before we hit the road; the Ranger was right, even the river is covered in flies.

We drive. Three dollars left to our name, we are hundreds of miles from home and have no where to go.

…

We stop at a gas station and get the toddler some french fries and a lemonade. The air-conditioning is nice; it is already about 105℉ outside. Jeff decides to find a bank, even if we overdraft, at least we’ll be able to afford a place to stay tonight. We kiss, he drives off. He is kind to brave the heat while we wait.

…

We wait a long time. I refill the lemonade, twice. It’s been well over an hour. The toddler is beginning to fidget and whine.

“Hungry,” she says.

“Daddy’s coming, he’s finding money,” I say, “no food yet.” I wince inside that if he takes much longer, I will have no means for food. My cheeks turn red as I wonder if the people hear me, what they might think of this young mother that can not feed her child. But they do not see us; they are busy eating, laughing, leaving. I ponder begging for a dollar. I feel my inner walls crumbling, my strength dissolving. I am ashamed. I have never felt so poor.

…

“I couldn’t find a bank,” Jeff says. Dark sweat caked his brow. “This place has nothing.” he adds, “But, I’ve been on the phone all morning … I got us a place to stay.” My eyes are wide, the relief brimming on the edges of my tears. “It’s in Santa Barbara, a church with a loft, about an hour away. The guy says we can have the key.”

When we arrive, I can not contain my shock or joy. The loft looks like a castle, stairs winding up to two french doors that are overlooking main street, just along the sea. The beach air is cool and sweet. The loft stretches wide–for youth events–five couches, a game room with basketball, air-hockey, a new Wii, and a kitchen filled with snacks and coffee and cream. There is even a widescreen TV with cable. We put on “Princess Diaries” for the toddler; she is elated.

I step out on to the balcony, and a strange feeling overtakes me with a sudden fierceness as I stand there like a queen; even wave to a few party-buses cruising by the street below filled with laughter and wine. What do the people think now, I wonder, my head is high. I have never felt so high.

…

Then, I notice her.

The woman below sits on the sidewalk two stories down, her hair thin, her feet bare, her clothes crusted with time. She swears loudly to herself. I wonder how we will get to the beach with her there, blocking our doorway below. I wonder if she will ask for money. A breeze kicks up and her stench meets my nostrils.

Oh, that poor woman, I’m so glad I’m not her …

… Before the thought is even finished in my head, I am reeling in my own hypocrisy. The tears held back in that hot desert campground rain down now, my shame covers me as if bursting from my veins.

Everything we have is borrowed. I deserve nothing.

If I feel that I am less, when I have less, and feel that I am more, when I have more, how can I possibly have compassion for the “the least of these?” I can hardly bear the shallowness of my heart.

…

In the story of Daniel, three men were thrown into a blazing furnace. They kept their faith, refusing to bow down to the king’s idol, even as it meant their eminent death. God spared their lives, not a hair on their head was burned, and wilder still, there was a forth man seen walking with them, perhaps Christ himself.

It turns out that the furnace, the scariest situation I can imagine, was the safest place of all: it is where God showed up.

The only thing burned through the fire were the chains that bound them.

…

I pray forgivness, in this quiet castle by the sea. Not for shelter. Not for food. Not for wealth or glory, or even safety. My prayer has changed: “Oh Lord, do not let me out of the furnace until the chains on my heart are burned away, do not let me escape calamity until I have found You completely.”

…

The ocean breeze drifts in the window, sweet and cool.

I dream of a summer day when I was young, scrambling the massive iron wreckage of an old Navy schooner at Cannon Beach. There is no such thing as fire season on the Oregon coast; the air is wet, the breeze is strong. My brother follows me around the rusted forward hull, but he can not reach me as I scamper up the slippery frame, standing at last braced precariously on the top of the bow, the ocean spray across my face. It was a magnificent moment, this victory, the very aliveness of it all.

Teresa Jansen grew up roller-blading around beautiful Portland, Oregon. In a moment of passionate insanity she moved to greater Los Angeles, where she now resides with her husband and two girls. Teresa has been a freelance artist and muralist for twelve years as well as a professional writer. She has a degree in Communication from Cal Poly Pomona. Follow Teresa for more information and current social musings at www.graspingthedash.blogspot.com or Twitter: @tfjansen.

Prompt: Write from your latest trip or vacation.

It was a last minute plan, but one that was desperately needed. Perhaps a three-day getaway to a secluded spot in western Hungary wasn’t sufficient to fully recover from the marathon of travel, people, and work that my husband, Dennis, and I had run in the past three- months.  But hey, one day for each month was better than nothing.

We had recently made a huge shift in life.  We moved from 30 years of local church ministry in the U.S. to overseas mission work in Europe. The new role in leadership requires travel to 11 European countries where the mission organization we serve under has focused work. Finding the rhythm for this new lifestyle has been a challenge, and we have yet to figure out a harmonious beat. The off- beat of the previous months – living out of suitcases and sleeping in umpteen different beds – demanded some time to rejuvenate for the next round of travels.

The day of our departure began with an unusual leisurely pace as we finished up some got-to-get-it-done-before-we-leave stuff in our small, but cozy Budapest flat. The knowledge that the weather was going to be rainy and unseasonably cool for the beginning of September made the task of packing a bit disheartening, but we weren’t about to let the weather dampen our spirits for a much needed getaway.

The Szepalma Hotel, nestled in the High-Bakony Mountain region, was highly recommended by friends. A 3-hour train trip would take us to the closest town, where a hotel employee would pick us up and drive us to our destination a good 20 minutes away from the train station. Szepalma, meaning “beautiful apple,” conjured up images of a peaceful countryside setting where we could hike and enjoy the beauty of nature, which is something we both find energizing.

An extra bonus that morning was a 10-minute walk to our favorite coffee shop. The fine drizzle seemed to add a mystical romanticism to the day. Who needs an umbrella? Ah, this was the beginning of time for just us. A caramel latté would begin to ease the tiredness of our weary souls.

By the time we left the coffee shop, the light drizzle had turned into a steady rain. Making a dash for the nearest bus, we went back to our flat to finalize packing. We were at a good place time-wise. We love the public transport system in Budapest so much that we decided not to buy a car. Even on the public transport we had plenty of time to make our 2:11pm train departure. After a final check on my Mac weather widgets, I set wishful thinking of sunny days aside, reluctantly finding a couple places to squeeze two umbrellas in my luggage.

Not even a year into our move, it is still a foreign thing to consider how long it takes us to get out of our flat, especially with suitcases in tow. Four doorways and a gate create a mote-like protection around our second-story flat. With keys in hand, we made our way out, unlocking, then relocking every door, until we reached the gate. Through two doorways, descend the concrete stairs, to another door that leads outside to the rear of the house.  Around the corner to a tunnel-like structure, which was perhaps once a carriage entrance for this 80-year-old house, takes us to the front entrance, the fourth doorway that opens to the stone drive where we open the iron gate to the sidewalk.

Just as Dennis was about to unlock the fourth doorway I wondered what I was thinking when I packed the umbrellas. We would need at least one umbrella to stay dry in between bus and tram stops.

“Honey, I packed the umbrellas. I need to get one out,” I said.

Without saying a word, Dennis, who was pulling both suitcases, stopped to set my suitcase down so I could open it.  Thirty years ago, this moment right here would have created a down pour of tension and frustration in our marriage.

From the start of our marriage, Dennis and I learned two things about each other pretty quickly. Dennis is time-oriented, and I am not. I tend to stroll through life living in the moment without much thought of time. We’ve learned to accommodate and compromise through the years, but this wasn’t the day I wanted to make it an issue. I knelt over the suitcase, rummaging through it’s compartments.  Which zipper section did I put that one umbrella? While Dennis waited patiently, I unzipped four different sections until I finally found it.

We hurried out the doorway, through the gate, down the sidewalk, around the street corner, just in time to see the 212 bus leave the bus stop. That was the bus that would take us to the 61 tram, that would take us to the train station.

My stomach sank. My mouth suddenly went dry. I chastened myself for stopping to get the umbrella. I looked sheepishly over at Dennis. This wasn’t the first time that my lack of time consciousness muddled up things. Somehow I knew those brief moments were going to cost us time, and I wondered if Dennis was thinking the same thing. Of course he was!

As we scurried to the bus stop my apology was received with grace and assurance.     “We’ll be okay. We’ve got time,” he said.  I was thankful for his patience, something that has developed far greater than my efforts to be on time. I mentally ran through the bus routes, hoping and praying that the next 212 bus wouldn’t be long.

In the time that we waited, every bus – numbers 86, 250, 53 – came and went, every bus except the 212. Again, I regretted the umbrella stop. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I should have just forgotten about the umbrella. Are we going to be late?” I asked.  He again assured me that we would be fine; the bus would eventually come. Besides, there wasn’t anything we could do to change the situation.

So, we waited.

This was supposed to be a leisurely journey to the station, just like the morning began. Agitated about the wait, and with myself, I positioned myself on the edge of the curb with umbrella in hand while Dennis waited under the roof of the stop. I leaned out into the street, poking my head out further to see the coming traffic, as if my intense gaze would make the bus come sooner.

Ah, finally, I could see the 212 coming our way. My umbrella search cost us a ten-minute wait. I turned around, giving Dennis an affirmative nod that the bus was on its way. As it approached the stop, I double-checked the bus number behind the foggy window just to make sure it was indeed the 212. I saw the 2’s on either end, assuring myself that we were now on our way to the tram stop to catch the 61. We boarded, glad to be out of the rain, and situated ourselves in the designated standing area in order to accommodate our suitcases.

“Sorry about that honey. I’m looking so forward to this time with you. I can’t wait till we’re on the train and on our way. Are we going to be late?” I asked again as we watched the rain trickle down the foggy windows. My hand gripped the handrail for balance, while the other curled around his arm to steady my heart.

“We’ll be okay.” Oh good, he’s not irritated. He’s so patient. We’ll be okay, I assured myself, hoping that his seeming calmness was an indicator that we would make the 2:11 train.

Several minutes into our ride, I leaned into Dennis still dreaming about our get-away, oblivious to the outside world. Then, with panic in his voice, frantically searching for landmarks through the rain-stained windows, Dennis said, ”We’re not on the right bus!”

“What?!” I didn’t understand. I was sure the bus number was 212.

“We’re heading out toward Ikea, in the opposite direction.”

By now we were heading out of the city streets and entering the freeway. I frantically asked the young man seated to my right, “Do you speak English?” and without any pause for an answer I continued on, “Is this the 212 bus?” Right then I was wishing I was further along in my language studies. He looked at his watch and started to tell me the time of day. I was shaking my head “no” to this misunderstanding and pointing my index finger down to the floor of the bus, as if this was going to help him understand, when the bus slowed down for a stop. Just as the young man was trying to tell me the correct time, Dennis said, “Honey, we need to get off now!” I whisked out the door following Dennis as he maneuvered both suitcases behind him.

I led the way in the pouring rain, not bothering to even use the umbrella. This was no longer a romantic walk in the rain. We had to hurry. Grateful for the crossover walkway, we crossed to the other side of the freeway where we stood and waited for another bus. Now we were getting worried. Would we make our train? It was best not to ask questions or rehash the past twenty minutes. We both knew we were in trouble. There was absolutely nothing we could do but stand and wait.

I felt awful. By now I was holding back tears. I’d feel terrible if we missed our train. The foggy window must have skewed my view of the number one in the 212. We had boarded bus 272, which wasn’t even supposed to make that particular stop.

Fortunately, we waited only a few minutes for a bus that took us back to our starting point – just around the corner from our flat. Off that bus and across the street, we stood to wait for the 212 again. Bus 212 pulled up. We boarded. With minutes ticking away, our bus couldn’t move fast enough. Up ahead we could see the 61 tram stop, but the bus braked for a red light at the intersection prior to the stop and there we sat through not one, but two red lights!

With only minutes until our departure, we decided the only way to make the train was to catch a taxi, and that would be close. As soon as we stepped off the 212 I saw a mini-van taxi just ahead. I rushed on ahead, opened the door and said, “Deli put.” He would know it was the train station. With only two minutes to spare, the cab driver sensed our urgency as we made hand motions and showed him our tickets in trying to relay to him the time of our train’s departure.

Dennis threw a bill in the front seat as we approached the station and as soon as the driver pulled up on the sidewalk, we flew out, grabbed the luggage, running toward the train platforms. We entered the station right next to Platform 16. Which train? Stopping to show our tickets to several station workers, we were directed to Platform One. You’ve got to be kidding? Platform One – on the other side of the station!

Running with suitcases dragging behind us, we arrived at Platform One where a blue train sat motionless. We ran along side the train frantically trying to figure out which car to get on. A stationmaster making a final check was walking toward us. With another show of our tickets, he verified that we were at the correct train and motioned us toward the second-class car. We stepped up on the train and in a matter of 15 seconds we felt the train lurch, making it’s slow, rhythmic move down the tracks.

Phew! We made it. We looked at each other, each giving a big sigh of relief.  Keeping our balance as the train moved forward, we located our seats and sat down out of breath, sweaty, and wet, but glad to be on the 2:11 train.  We took off our wet coats, hoping to be dry by the time we reached our destination. So much for an umbrella, the very thing that cost us this frantic journey.

I leaned over giving Dennis a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being so gracious.” For some, the umbrella stop might have been a trivial matter, but for Dennis and me it was a test of an age-old issue called time.  Dennis has said for many years that there are two types of marriages, bad marriages and good marriages, because good marriages work hard to love, know, serve, and celebrate each other.  Never was I so glad for all the hard work Dennis and I had put in over the years to give grace in our differences.  It is a grace we didn’t have 32 years ago.

He looked at me with his boyish grin, “Hey, we made the train.” We both laughed away any thoughts of what might have been. “No rehashing the last hour, okay? Let’s start over.”

“No, let’s begin,” I said as I snuggled up to my sweaty husband eager to experience the next three days of rest and time together.

Gwen Jackson and her husband, Dennis, live in Budapest, Hungary serving the Global Partners mission fields in Europe. No matter where she’s at in the world she finds time to read, write, hike, and run. She also finds time to Skype her family scattered across the U.S., including her four grandchildren. And though she and her husband are on opposite ends of the personality spectrum, she continues to be madly in love after 32 years.

I Can’t Remember Prompt: Write from what you have forgotten in your life.

Josh was born on April 27, 2000 weighing in at 9 lbs., 3 oz.  He was big, beautiful, and perfect.  Unlike when his brother, Jacob, was born three years earlier, I felt great and couldn’t wait to take him home. My fears of sibling jealously were unfounded.  Jacob adored his baby brother and was eager to help in any way I would allow.  Josh only cried when he was hungry or needed to be changed. He was, in my humble opinion, the most perfect baby ever created.

On Saturday morning, Josh’s fourth day on the planet, I bounded out of bed marveling over how quickly I was recovering from giving birth.  My husband, Rick, was set to head back to work the following day. His week of paternity leave was up but I wasn’t worried about handling two boys on my own. I felt great and was very confident in my skills as a mother.

After a quick breakfast, I got dressed and headed to the bathroom to put on “my face” and contacts.  Josh would be up soon and I wanted to get dressed while I still had the chance.  With the left contact lens comfortably in place, I moved on to the right.  It was not cooperating.  No matter what I did, it would not stay in my eye. Thinking it was defective; I tossed it and tried a new lens. It still wouldn’t stay in my eye.

Turning to Rick, I opened my mouth to speak and suddenly my right cheek went numb. My right lower lip drooped.  I could barely talk.  Was I having a stroke? I couldn’t be! 27 year old women do not have strokes.  Or do they? Rick noticed that my eyes were not blinking in sync and that’s when I started to panic.  I wanted to go to the Emergency Room; Rick wanted me to call my OB.  The cooler head prevailed and I called Dr. “L”.

I struggled not to cry and told Dr. “L” my symptoms and asked him if I was having a stroke.  He laughed. I should have been irritated that my concerns were dismissed in such a way but his laughter led me to believe that whatever was going on was not serious.  “Oh, you just have palsy”, he said.

Palsy? What’s palsy?

“You’ve got Bell’s Palsy. It’s temporary, don’t worry about it. If you get uncomfortable, just call your regular doctor.”

I hopped online and started looking up Bell’s palsy and was not at all encouraged by my findings. The information was so limited. A nerve in my face was on the fritz and caused temporary facial paralysis. Nobody knew the cause, no definitive treatment and no prognosis on how long it would last.

By the following day, I was a completely different person. I couldn’t close my right eye, it watered horribly, I couldn’t speak very well and I had to hold my bottom lip up to a glass with my left hand when I took a drink.  To my embarrassment, I drooled.  I couldn’t control my mouth muscles to swallow.  I had to tape my eye closed at night to sleep.  The pain was unbearable. It felt as if a railroad spike was being hammered inside my head.  Rick had to go back to work and the nearest family member was 250 miles away.  I could barely function and I was home alone for 12 hours a day with a newborn and a three year old who so desperately wanted me to play with him. Along with the growing fear I felt, I also found myself growing angry at being dismissed by Dr. “L” so carelessly.

I have no idea what transpired those few weeks. Very few things stand out in my memory and none of them are related to my new son.  I remember going to see my regular doctor who prescribed a steroid for three weeks which meant I could no longer nurse my baby. I also remember that those pills might as well have been M & M’s.  I remember telling my brother that I wouldn’t be able to do the Scripture reading at his wedding because no one would understand me. He begged me to wait and see.  I refused. I would not ruin his wedding by drooling and slurring through a reading of 1^st Corinthians 13.  He was very disappointed.  I wish I would have listened to him and been patient. I did recover in time for his wedding and I regret that I didn’t do the reading.

I remember waking up one morning to a strange voice inside my house calling, “Hello?” I remember stumbling out to the kitchen in my pajamas, holding Josh and being very frightened. In my kitchen, stood a women dressed in jogging attire leading Jacob back into the house.  My three year old son was in his pajamas and carrying his shoes.  He had been very angry that I couldn’t take him to the park. Tired of Mommy being sick, he rose while I was asleep, grabbed his shoes and decided to go by himself.

Jacob walked down the driveway to the corner and then asked the jogger to help him put his shoes on. I shudder to think what could have happened if she hadn’t been there. I don’t like thinking back on that day.

I remember bursting into tears and hugging him very tightly.  I turned to the nice stranger and began to explain but I guess it was obvious that something was wrong.  She held up her hand to stop me, dismissed my apologies and said her daughter had a rough time too when her baby was born. She very quickly headed on her way. I looked for her every day for months afterwards to thank her but I never saw her again.

I remember calling Rick at work and telling him that I was an unfit mother and that I could no longer take care of our children.  I also remember begging him to tell no one what had happened. The shame of being unable to care for my children was embarrassing and frightening. I was convinced that someone would take my boys away from me.

Rick is unable or unwilling to fill in the gaps for me during that time.  He says he remembers that I cried myself to sleep at night. I don’t remember that. He says he held me many nights while I sobbed due to the pain and the inevitable depression that occurred. I wish I remembered that.  I have no doubt that he loves me and our boys with every fiber of his being, but he’s not demonstrative. I wish I remembered him taking me into his arms nightly until I fell asleep.

I have no memory of our day to day existence. I can only assume that he cooked most of our meals after a 12 hour shift and a 1 hour commute home every day. I also assume that he probably ate a lot of spaghetti and frozen pizza on the days I was well enough to cook.  I do remember that he never complained.

Somewhere in the midst of those chaotic weeks, the teachers of our Bible study group, Jim and Ellen, came to visit. I sat on one end of my couch, while Ellen sat on the other end playing with Jacob and holding Josh. Jim sat in the arm chair, leaning forward on his knees and asked me, “Can we help you?” I insisted I was fine and avoided making eye contact. Ellen repeated the question. Again I refused. I wouldn’t admit that I couldn’t take care of my children and needed help. On the outside I was insisting that the situation wasn’t that bad. On the inside, I was screaming for them to not believe me and take over so I could sleep.  I wept bitterly when they left. I wish Rick and I would have communicated to both of our parents that we were drowning and needed help, but we didn’t.

Both Rick and I were raised by self-made parents who instilled in us a strong work ethic.  I don’t think either one of us saw our parents ask for help with something as we were growing up.  They found a way to figure things out for themselves and I guess Rick and I modeled our lives that way as well.

I remember praying very hard one night for God to take this away from me.  I remember very clearly hearing a very specific answer to that prayer. It’s the only time so far that I’ve “heard” God speak to me.

“I’ll heal you, but not completely. It will be on my time frame, not yours.”

By the beginning of August, I was at a new normal. I gradually improved and to the naked eye, I appeared back to my old self. But I could and still can feel the difference. My eyes are not completely in sync and when the weather gets very cold, the right side of my mouth feels numb.  There are other reminders as well.

Josh is 10 years old now.  As I continue to expand his scrapbook every year with new photos, I see the gap from his first few months of life.  It’s a reminder of a time when I wasn’t there for him or for Jacob. I put my pride before their welfare. That’s a painful sentence to write and even more painful to admit.

Once in a while when I let myself get overwhelmed and refuse to ask for help, a strange thing happens.  The Bells Palsy symptoms start to flare up again.  I wonder if this is the reason why God said He wouldn’t heal me completely. I think this is my permanent reminder from God of what pride has cost me. That’s a price I’m not willing to pay again.

Vikki Huisman is a writer and Worship Arts assistant at her church in Illinois.  She and her husband, Rick, have been married for 16 years. When she’s not working or acting as a chauffeur to her three kids, she blogs at vikkihuisman.wordpress.com.

Prompt: Write from a piece of music that has been important to you in your life.

I’m not sure when I first heard U2, but I know for certain my dad introduced me to the band at a young age. It was one of several bands we’d listen to on the long, six- hour drive home from Mammoth Lakes, our favorite family vacation spot in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

My dad says I never fell asleep on those drives. The rest of the family would be out cold, but not me. He’d reach his hand around the backside of the driver’s seat and tickle my ankles until I squirmed. Always the thinker, I would turn around and stare out the car’s back window as we pulled onto the highway towards home. It became my tradition to watch the ski mountain slowly fade further and further away until a bend in the road would wipe it from view completely. I think my dad had his own tradition as we left town because U2 always seemed to be playing.

I’d feel sad as we drove away, but it wasn’t for the obvious reason of vacation being over.  What I felt was the weight of something changing; life slipping into a new season. Each car trip marked another year older, and a sense that these family times would not always be routine. It was a heavy realization for a little girl.

I’m not a musician and neither is my dad. In fact, I can’t carry a tune. But even at a young age, I sensed something bigger when I listened to U2’s ballads.  The songs would build and build—the guitar and drums beating louder and faster—reaching a climax of emotion that I didn’t quite understand. The lyrics also carried the weight of a complicated world and hints at a God I hadn’t yet met.

“With or without you…”

“In the name of love…”

“I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”

“Wipe the tears from your eyes…”

“I believe in the kingdom come…”

As an adult, I know much of U2’s music is rooted in messy spirituality and politics; a cry against the world’s injustices. But back then, as a child, I didn’t know anything besides the beat and the passion of songs that touched my heart in a way other music had not.

At 18, I started my freshman year at Westmont College. I’d found Jesus in my early teens, but like many college students those four years would be a defining time as I discovered my own faith, friends and interests.  The first semester of school would be particularly hard. Against my parent’s advice, I chased a boy named Andy. He was a surfer and very charming. He was also a heartbreaker. A few months after we started dating, he called one day to break it off. Convinced I lacked good judgment about boys, I swore to not date again until I knew it’d be someone I could marry.

One night soon after the breakup, I remember hearing a radio advertisement for the new U2 album. At that point, I didn’t even realize U2 was still creating music. I now know the 1990s were a difficult time for the band as they struggled with poor reviews, but in college I only knew the one album I’d grown up hearing on car trips. So with the little money I had in my bank account I splurged on All That You Can’t Leave Behind, released in October 2000.  Critics would say the album “represented a return to a more conventional sound for the band.”  To me, it sounded like the U2 I’d always known. A familiar voice, a familiar beat, passionate lyrics—all to be discovered for the very first time.

Looking back, I think I clung to U2’s music because the band reminded me of home, and a childhood that had officially slipped away. When I listened to Bono’s voice, I thought of my Dad. Now, at 28, I still think of my dad when I hear some of U2’s songs, but I also think of a new man—my husband, Jonathan.

It took a long time for Jonathan to convince me to date him. We met when Andy and I were still dating.  He never liked Andy and made it very clear. By the spring of 2001 we’d become fast friends—and that was it. Period. With him I felt safe to be myself; safe to laugh, to sing out loud, to be real.  There was chemistry, but it wasn’t the flirtatious kind. It was a comfortable friendship that existed from the beginning. Unlike other boys, there weren’t any games. I think that’s why I never believed he was chasing me; which was a good thing because at the time I didn’t want to be chased.

Together with our friend Rob, Jonathan and I bought tickets to see U2 in concert at the Staples Center. None of us had seen the band in concert and we’d have to wait months before the anticipated concert date arrived. By fall 2001, a lot of things in the world had changed. Jonathan confessed he wanted to date me. Rob decided to sell his ticket. And, worst of all, two huge towers had fallen from Manhattan’s skyline.

Everyone remembers where they were on September 11. I was standing in line at the Dining Commons, waiting to swipe my card for breakfast. The line wasn’t moving. Everyone stared at the TV in the corner. As smoke filled the screen, and details were still as cloudy as the air, I knew the current reality of American life was changing.  Like the mountain disappearing with the road, we were driving into an uncharted future.

Just a few weeks later, on a cold and rainy Tuesday, the long awaited concert date arrived. Jonathan and I ditched class and slowly made our way down Highway 101 in my Pontiac Sunbird convertible. It was a scary and unreliable little car so he drove. We sat in the chaos of Los Angeles’ congested freeways, excited for the band we’d both been waiting to see, but also a bit nervous. I’d seriously considered selling my ticket after learning Rob sold his. I loved spending time with Jonathan, but things were different now that I knew he liked me.  We were just friends, but was there a spark? And, more importantly, could he be the man other boyfriends had not been?

I remember analyzing—“Is this a date?”—and then assuring myself  it wasn’t because we’d planned it so long ago, and I’d paid my own way.

But it was a date, and I knew it as soon as we sat down at our nosebleed seats and gazed down at the heart shaped stage. I knew it when, before the lights went dim, he leaned in close for a photo. And I knew it when the stadium went black, the camera flashes lit up like stars, my heartbeat immediately joined the drum’s familiar rhythm of expectation.

A lot of moments about that concert are still clear to me, but nothing sticks out more than the song One. I’d never heard it until that night, and it begins differently than other U2 songs I grew up listening to. There is no lengthy prelude, no building anticipation. It’s slow and lacks the familiar drums.

Screens dropped down as the song started and names appeared. They belonged to nearly 3,000 people presumed dead in the September 11 attacks. Their names scrolled quickly, one after the next, as a haunting voice filled the arena.

One love

One blood

One life

You got to do what you should

One life

With each other

Sisters

Brothers

One life

But we’re not the same

We get to

Carry each other

A lot of people think One is a song about romance, to which Bono has responded, “Are you mad?” Instead, the band members have said, “It is a song about coming together…It’s not saying we even want to get along, but that we have to get along together in this world if it is to survive. It’s a reminder that we have no choice.”

My favorite part of the song, a line I have come to love since that moment, is when Bono sings, “We get to carry each other.” We don’t have to carry each other, but we get to. We get to offer grace, if we so choose.

For a brief time after 9/11, we looked up from our familiar, secure lives and realized the world as we knew it had changed.  I think our nation chose to carry each other that fall.  I certainly felt this spirit of unity in an arena filled with thousands—even if it was just for a fleeting moment. And, I felt a connection with a boy who’d been pursuing me so long, who recognized my fears, and offered me grace to heal in the ways I needed. I would still need more time, but that night was when I first felt something bigger than the music itself.

After the concert, the night sky surprisingly clear, we rolled down the top of my convertible. I turned up the heater as we cruised back up the highway towards Santa Barbara. I wanted to reach for his hand, but didn’t. Later he told me he wanted to reach for mine, but didn’t either.  On the radio, U2 played softly. Life was slipping into a new season again. A different stretch of highway; a different man in the driver’s seat.  I looked out the window and thought about where we’d come from and where we might go.

Lesley Miller is now happily married to Jonathan, and currently works as a public relations director in Sacramento, CA. She loves running, writing (of course!), curling up with a good book, dinner parties, and skiing.  You can read all about her most recent U2 concert experience and other fun tales at www.barefooton45th.com.

Prompt: Write about a significant moment in your past.  Research national or world events that occurred during that time.

Late in the summer of 1991, as new countries emerged and broke off from the U.S.S.R. during the collapse of the Soviet Union, a tumor was forming in the brain of my younger brother Evan. I was 11 at the time and unaware of either event. The freedom that the new post-Soviet states were yearning for was achieved through multiple coups until they finally were victorious. A world superpower was breaking apart, and soon my world would break into smaller pieces as well.

My aim that summer was to play hard. I had just completed my first year of Jr. High School, the most challenging social experience I have encountered to date. All I wanted to do was play football, hide and seek, and ride bikes. I wanted to stay out until it was dark, and then stay out some more.  That was my aim.

Although Evan and I were gaining new found freedom and independence that comes with age, that summer was the last time I remember being allowed to act carefree and childish. To adolescents, this coming of age is the equivalent of suddenly waking up with super powers and not knowing how to use them for noble causes, and so these powers are used for selfish endeavors instead. The old boundaries of how far from home you can go, or how late you can stay up are gone. We only used the new territory and curfew for the larger and later games of tag on our bikes.

All through the summer, Evan would complain of headaches, or sometimes have upset stomach symptoms even with vomiting. He was taken to the doctor a few times, but nothing was found. Every time a symptom would show itself, there was uneasiness inside me.  Each time Evan suffered with a new pain, I was overtaken with an emotional and intellectual paralysis. My entire head, from the neck up would tingle, the same way my hands or feet tingled when they fell asleep from being still too long.

When school started up again in the fall, Evan was in his prime. His nick name was Doogie, because his brushed back hair made him look like the actor Neil Patrick Harris when he played Doogie Howser M.D. Evan was also very smart, and he was the one who got good grades in the family, so this added to the creation of the nick name. He was literally the kid in his 6th grade class that all the other kids wanted to be. I would be lying if I said I was not at least a little jealous of his style and popularity.

I was also jealous of something else. Even though I was the oldest of three brothers, each two years apart, the middle child, Evan, got his own room. I never understood this. I shared a room with my youngest brother, Ben, even though I was the eldest brother! It may have had something to do with Evan being an overachiever, who was especially protective of his neat room and all the belongings in it. He knew when even one little thing was out of place.
It was one night right after we lay down for bed that our dad came in to our room and explained that they had taken Evan to be seen by a friend from Church who was a Chiropractor. He told them to take Evan to the Hospital immediately after seeing the buildup of pressure behind his eyes. They had done a scan and found a tumor on his brain that needed to be operated on immediately. This was one of the few times I cried myself to sleep.

There is a picture of Evan that has been seared in my mind.  I stared at it so often, wishing for that version of my brother to return. The picture was taken of Evan the morning before his surgery. He is standing in front of an arcade game turned and staring at the camera with a huge smile on his face. He’s wearing brightly colored surfer shorts, his arm bandaged with an IV stand next to him. He’s aware of why he’s checked into the hospital, but he’s still joking around and having fun. This picture to me represents the brother I never saw again.

They did the surgery. They removed the tumor. It was successful. Except Evan remained in a coma from just before the most silent Thanksgiving of my life until sometime after my birthday in late April. I remember March 23rd passing that year, which was Evan’s birthday, and wondering what was going on inside his head.

The head of our United Republic, my Father, was a man with many issues. I believe he was probably most happy in life when I saw him working on the church softball league with Evan as his assistant, or when they would watch sports together. I wasn’t into sports, other than occasionally playing them with friends. Evan was my Dad’s favorite child. Evan’s tumor and the changes it caused were probably the hardest on my dad more so than any of the rest of our family.

I can’t help but wonder now how the role of Evan’s tumor, coma, and the slow recovery affected my Dad long term. He was already guarded, but this seemed to bring a crack into our family causing all of us to break apart from each other like the pieces of the Soviet Union did. For better or for worse, it was our family, and things would never be the same again.

Looking back now, I only wish I had known to pay attention to the time I was spending with him. Even with the heads of the house starting to argue more, and the voices of disapproval were becoming louder and louder, I wish that at least my youngest brother Ben and I had bonded more closely to deal with the shaking up of our entire world.

I’ve still never fully unpacked this issue for myself. I felt like God owed my brother something more.

Evan eventually woke out of the coma, but he was never the same again.  To this day, Evan is a model for me in faith. He still holds to the thought that even though he can’t run, and he is legally blind yet can see, he knows there is a purpose for his life. It helps me to see my younger cousins and my daughter play with him and know they don’t see him any differently than anyone else.

I’m still in awe of Evan’s perspective on the whole circumstance. He holds on to a grateful attitude, knowing he came very close to death with his Traumatic Brain Injury. In the same way I was forced to mature early to cope with his cancer, and our family’s dysfunction, Evan sees these events in his life as a way that God has taught him to mature too. He has spoken to young adult groups at his Church, telling them that even though he gave his heart to Jesus at 8 years old in children’s Church, in a way, he’s  been born again twice.

Evan accepts the event as something that caused him to hold closer to God, the one thing he could cling to during the fear he had before the operation and who he prayed to during his long road to mental and physical recovery after awaking from his coma. “I know He was with me, even though I didn’t know what to think. I was scared.”

Evan learning to mature over again and regain lost time has been a parallel journey of faith for him that is his own road to discipleship. His confident faith is what allows him to continue walking better without his wheelchair, and serving others with greater disabilities in his own independent assisted living environment. Evan thinks that God can take anything and make it into a good thing. He’s living proof.

Erik Fisher was a resident of Rochester New York for the first half of his life, and a Marion, Indiana resident for the second half. He graduated in 2001 with a Bachelor’s degree in communications from Indiana Wesleyan University in Marion Indiana.  He currently works with social media networking and management and branding at erikjfisher.com and podcasting about social media at social media serenity.com and health and wellness at wellness break radio.com

Prompt: Write from what you have forgotten in your life.

I don’t remember meeting my younger brother, Seth, for the first time, but apparently I was aggressive. My mother snapped a picture of me in fight stance, 18 months old and wearing a diaper. I stood in front of the couch on which my preemie-sized newborn brother lay snoozing and unaware of how invasive he was. I hit my mother in the knee. Thanks, Mom, for bringing home a dumb baby.

Then Seth got bigger, and he turned into a fine playmate. We lived in a small town in the southern tip of Texas, a short drive from Mexico. Sometimes we would go to the grocery store, and Seth’s red hair and my blond hair would draw a great deal of attention. Old women liked to rub our heads for luck. We thought it was funny—I remember that. Mom did not think it was funny. It made her nervous.

Years later, my hair is dark, and Seth has gone prematurely bald. He Bic’d his head when he joined the army. Dad says he looks like Mr. Clean. Seth has blond eyebrows and eyelashes, and I like that about him. There’s something about the fairness around his eyes that looks childlike, not like a soldier. He is like a giant 6’4” child. I am proud of him, but I am scared too. In November, he is going to Afghanistan.

I don’t want to write about that. It makes my stomach hurt.

Seth has a son, my nephew, who is a year and a half old. His name is Duncan, and he is Seth 2.0, red hair and all. The other day he accidently locked his mother, Seth’s wife Erica, in the closet. To his credit, he did try to jiggle the handle to let his mother out, but gave up and took advantage of the moment and went downstairs to play with the kitchen utensils. Eventually, Erica escaped. We plan to tell that story during the toasts at Duncan’s wedding.

I talked to Seth on video Skype last week. He is in training in California right now. The connection was horrible, but he assured me that the connection would be stellar once he went overseas. As it flickered in and out, he told me about the training exercises. I could see in my mind the other soldiers milling around in the background, all in their olive drab. I can’t remember everything he said, even though the conversation was last week. I just remember the fairness around his eyes.

When Seth and I were little, we had plastic dinosaurs. Seth would be the triceratops, and I would be the brontosaurus. We played like pioneers on the Oregon Trail. I would make mud pies and Seth would chop wood. Seth loved to build things like ramps for bicycles. We also built a “ship” out of pieces of 2×4 and took turns playing captain. No one ever drowned because if anyone fell overboard, we would send our dog Lucy out to rescue them. Lucy died when we were in high school. Who will save us now?

I think about Duncan, and how Seth is such a good father to him. I think about how much that surprises my mother, and how little it surprises me. I think about my own son, his precious few hours of life, and how much I wish Seth could have held him the day he was born. He doesn’t even know what Sam looked like. I haven’t seen Seth recently, so I haven’t been able to show him pictures.  Our son Sam died within hours of his birth due to genetic complications that developed in the womb.

It is a kind of loss my brother and I share. Seth and Erica lost a baby before they had Duncan, a miscarriage. “I know it’s not the same as you losing Sam, but I just know it hurts,” he said to me when he phoned before the funeral. Am I going to have the chance to sit down with Seth and show him pictures of Sam? Is Seth going to be at Duncan’s wedding to tell the story about locking Erica in the closet? Or will someone else have to tell it? And how much of all of this will I remember? Will I remember our heads being rubbed by old ladies? Will I remember building things with my brother? Or will I slowly let go of all of this, letting memories fade like the poor Skype connection, blocking the trauma that is life on earth?

I actually have two other siblings, but we are spaced in age like two sets of siblings. Seth and I are brother and sister, and Ben and Katy are brother and sister. The two sets are bonded to each other like Noah’s creatures, two by two. I wonder how it will be if I have to be bonded to my younger siblings, one by two. I wonder if I will be allowed onto the ark, into the family, in the same way, without my brother.

When Seth first learned that he would be deployed, he talked with me like he was trying to scare me. He told me how dangerous it was. He did the same thing to my mother, and she was so shaken, she asked him to not talk specifics. Looking back, I don’t think he wanted to scare us. I think he was asking, “Do I matter to you? If I don’t come back, will it all be the same? Will you still make Thanksgiving dinner? And will someone stir the cranberry sauce instead of me? And will you wish it was me stirring instead?”

I will, Seth.

Megan Moore lives in Colorado Springs with her husband, where she enjoys an afternoon hike with her sketchbook. She is a writer, artist, and is assistant editor for the online arts and faith journal, Namesake. You can read more of Megan’s work at Aviv Publishing, or by visiting her blog, Pearlmusic.