sunrise on mt. cadillac

"No matter what happens now,

you shouldn't be afraid

because I know today has been the most perfect day I've ever seen."

 --radiohead

a year ago, today.

the coast of Maine; six a.m. sunrise.

the land, the ocean, the wind---

transcendence.


Exactly one month later, Dad suffered the stroke that killed him. It's funny how we never know what's coming. If we only knew---how much tighter we'd hold on, how we'd say to ourselves: I will remember this.

How I'd have taken pictures with my heart, not just with my camera: faces uplifted to greet the sun. Blueberry pancakes, hikes through the woods, wildflowers. A sheltering arm against the wind. Harmless squabbles, dinner over wine and laughter. Admiring the brightness of the stars.

How much more I would have said, if I'd known how soon he'd join those stars.

On Becoming a Bearcat

Hey Dad,

You've been on my mind and my heart a lot lately.

It's not just that your birthday is next Wednesday, on the fifth. It's not just that looking at all these class schedules reminds me how soon October 18th is--I now know that it's a Thursday, when I have to teach and attend two graduate classes. It'll be a rough day.

But that's not why I've been thinking about you so often lately. I've been reminded of you continually because the University of Cincinnati is still so new and present for me. I still notice the buildings, the signs, the stadiums and the spirit wear. I'm working on reconciling my memory of the campus with my new needs: the fastest way between McMicken and the library, the best place to eat a quick lunch, the route home that involves the least uphill walking. Each day I pause, look around me and think, I like it here. I like the campus and the people. I like the energy and the history and the newness.

Each moment when I get a sense of rightness, a sense that I'm right where I should be, I think of you and the love you always had for your alma mater. I've always cherished the memories of when you'd take us to Bearcat basketball games. We'd park in Burnet Woods to save money, we'd walk down the hill and through campus to the Shoemaker Center. We'd sit up high and join in with the other fans singing the cheers, shouting "Go Home!" or "So What?" as the opposing team members were announced. You know I barely care about sports but I always had such a good time. I remember once we beat Marquette, or maybe it was Louisville, right at the buzzer and everybody stayed and cheered for nearly ten minutes afterwards. We just went crazy. Sometimes we'd leave right after it ended, but you always stayed long enough to sing along with the UC Alma Mater. I could never understand the words, (except Varsity, dear Varsity), but you knew them all. You'd take off your hat and sing along so proudly. Then we'd leave, listening in to the interview with Bob Huggins on 700 WLW on the drive home.

I think about you, here, in this place. I think about which buildings you probably took classes in as an undergrad, and which buildings are definitely after your time. I think about how you probably took a 1970s version of English Composition 1001, maybe from a graduate student instructor like me. I try to imagine Langsam Library in the 70s--no computers and...I don't know, wood paneling and shag carpet. I think of you reading biology textbooks and diligently taking notes. Maybe Dad looked out these exact windows, I thought today, as I sat at a table struggling to read Michel Foucault. (He's a French literary theorist. Yeah.)

A friend said to me the other day that our lives, yours and mine, are merging in the space/time continuum. (Ever seen Doctor Who?) That somehow, right now, I'm living a life parallel to yours during your undergraduate and med school years, despite how different our experiences are. Everything was ahead of you then, just like things are for me now. It's a pretty remarkable thing.

It's remarkable because I didn't exactly plan to attend "your" university. Before you died, I'm pretty sure I blatantly told you I wasn't considering UC because I absolutely would not stay in Cincinnati. I never thought you were disappointed in that, and I know you would have been excited for me no matter where I ended up. I didn't even decide to apply until after you died, because I realized I didn't want to be far away from our family. I wish I had made that decision without your death. I wish I could have shared with you my good news--acceptance and a full scholarship and a teaching job and a stipend--from UC, your dear Varsity.

I don't know if you would have said anything to me about being glad that I chose UC. I don't even know if you'd have mentioned it to Mom, or to a friend. But I like to think (and you're not around to contradict me), that you would have been secretly so happy.

I know you were (and are and will always be) proud of me. When I got accepted, Dad, aside from wanting to just share my news, I wanted to thank you. I know I said these things during my goodbyes, but seriously--thanks, Dad. Thanks for teaching me to read. Thanks for sharing with me your love of learning. Thanks for believing in me. Thanks for contradicting me when I made self-disparaging comments about how I'll never get into graduate school. Thanks for showing up at my concerts, my award ceremonies. Thanks for threatening to take away my violin if I didn't start practicing more. Thanks for reading my Honors project. I always dreamed that if I ever wrote a book, I'd dedicate it to you and Mom, and that's still true. Someday, if I ever finish my dissertation, you're going on the first page. You got me here, and you've made it special.

I wish I could share this experience with you, Dad. I wish you could have helped me move in. I imagine that you would have worn a Bearcats t-shirt, and a Bearcats baseball cap. I imagine you and Mom driving down for an evening. We'd go to a game or a CCM concert, then eat dinner at Ambar India and I'd walk back to my apartment. I imagine that we'd all walk around campus before the game, and you and Mom would tell stories about classes, about meeting each other, about your memories of being so young and full of promise.

I wish I could buy you a stupid, overpriced "Proud UC Dad" bumper sticker.

The Hill

So here we are.

I've officially moved into my new apartment.

My books are all unpacked and organized. I decided on the exact placement of my posters, my African souvenirs, my clothes. I haven't finished organizing the kitchen yet but I'm not worried. I've got my kettle and my mugs unpacked; that's enough. I figured out a few new shortcuts to avoid traffic and one-way streets. I explored the CVS that's less than a block from my house, successfully navigated to a part of Cincinnati I'd never been to before, and deposited a check at my neighborhood bank. I filled out a form with my new address for the postal worker.

I went on a walk this morning. I woke up before nine to sunlight streaming into my room--a new feeling, since my bedroom at home faces west. When I realized it was only 75 degrees outside, I knew I just had to get out and enjoy it. So I decided to time the walk from my apartment to McMicken Hall, the building that houses the English department and where I'll be spending the majority of my time on campus.

McMicken Hall

It's on Clifton Avenue, a major artery for the area around the University of Cincinnati, and one of the most recognizable buildings on campus. I live a ways down Clifton, in a neighborhood called the Clifton Gaslight District. It's full of old houses, even older trees, and the fabulous Ludlow Avenue business district, featuring one of the only indie movie theaters in Cincinnati, my favorite Indian restaurant, and, of course, Graeter's ice cream. Plus a post office, my bank, the library, and a hookah bar. Everything I need. (Just kidding, of course!)

The only problem about living in this great area is walking up the hill between my apartment and UC's West Campus. Between Ludlow and Martin Luther King Drive, you face this steady and steep incline that's over half a mile long. (Thanks, Google Maps.) Some of you might remember me complaining about Headington Hill in Oxford. (Or you know it yourself.) When I was studying abroad over there, I was too cheap to buy a bike or a bus pass; both would have cost around 100 pounds,  or $175-200. So I walked everywhere for three months.

We lived in this house outside city centre, at the top of the infamous Headington Hill. To get to any of the libraries, the SCIO office, or my tutorials, I generally had to walk a minimum of forty minutes. And it was much longer going back up the hill. Obviously, it was good for my fitness level, but I HATED that hike. Every day, I would pause on the corner of Marston and Headington, take a breath, and readjust the straps of my bookbag, which was inevitably full of books and groceries and a half-gallon of milk. I dunno. It seemed like I was always carrying jugs of milk up that freaking hill.

Headington Hill

It was a beast of a hill. I always thought, "maybe if I don't buy groceries this week, I can buy a bus pass!" I often stopped in the middle because I just had to take a break. I'd stand there, panting, sweat soaking through my cardigan, and some fit English person would run past me up the hill.

RUN. UP THE HILL. When I could just barely walk it. I always felt like I wasn't good enough to challenge Headington.

But the Clifton Avenue hill is longer than Headington! And once you get to the top of that hill, you only have a short relief before you have to tackle a much steeper, though shorter, hill to actually reach McMicken! Living in the northern suburbs, you forget just how hilly Cincinnati really is. Which is very.

But I was thinking today about hills, both literal and metaphorical. I was thinking that these two long, steep hills are a great metaphor for where I'm at right now. It's a hike, it's a slog, and sometimes you've got to carry all your baggage along. No matter how much you might want to drop the books and let the milk jug roll into the street. Sometimes, you give everything you've got and you're still being passed by skinny people in fancy workout clothes.

There is a point on Clifton--and on Headington Hill--when I always think: Okay, it's never going to end. I'm gonna have to stop. Maybe I'll just drive! You feel like the hill, the struggle, goes on forever. But then suddenly, almost imperceptibly, you realize that you've arrived at the top. Sometimes you focus so hard on the hill that you're distracted from the truth: you are actually doing it. Even if you're sweating or panting or swearing under your breath, all that truly matters is the fact that you've progressed up the hill. Eventually, the ground evens out and the steps come easier.

It's been a really hard year. At times, I felt like I'd never get past the moments of deep grief, but slowly the happy memories have outweighed the sad ones. At times, I felt that I'd never be secure in my choices. That I would always lie awake at night, my mind scurrying after pointless "What Ifs" and "Why Haven't I's." At times, I felt that peace and excitement and joy would never outweigh anxiety, loneliness, and frustration. At times, I felt like I'd never survive the Hill.

And yet, and yet. Here I am.

I definitely have a lot of uncertainty about the coming two years--I don't really know anyone yet, I don't know if I'll be good at teaching, I don't know if I can hack it at grad school, I don't know if I have what it takes to be a full-time scholar. I don't even know who will be my roommate next year! But I feel really good, really definite, in a way I haven't for a long time. I am happy. I am optimistic. I am ready.

After all the struggle and heartache of this past year, I looked around today and suddenly realized that the ground is pretty level. I've made it, for now. It's enough.

Heart Break

I think it's fair to say that I've revealed a lot of myself in writing this blog. For me, it's cathartic. Writing helps me to know myself and to find meaning in what's happened. On the day that I decide to stop writing this, whenever that might be, I want to be able to look back and see honesty. I want to see my journey laid out behind me. I want my collected words to express something meaningful as a whole.

That being said, I feel like it's time for some real transparency. Despite my honesty, I often feel like I have to censor my more difficult thoughts: the unfair, the contradictory. It's hard. I don't want to offend or upset or worry my non-grieving friends, those who don't know what it's like to lose a parent. The feelings of bitterness, frustration, and anger that I struggled with for many months aren't easy for me to express, much less for other people to understand. So I've tried to spare people's sensibilities for the most part.

But right now, I feel like I want to try to talk about the one thing that breaks my heart the most.  

It's weddings. Well, actually, it's the Father of the Bride. The toast, the first dance, the image of some proud, watery-eyed Dad leading his little girl down the aisle. It's not one of those, aw-nostalgic-sad moment. It's not just a "Oh, I would have loved if Dad could be there at my future wedding, just like this, but it's okay."

No. At every wedding I've been to since, it's a dagger to the heart. It is BRUTAL. I try to cover it up, try not to show how much I need to go weep uncontrollably in the corner of the room. I mean, it's supposed to be a happy day. But hearing a father speak about his daughter, his voice breaking with emotion--it destroys me. For a moment, I go back to the pain immediately following Dad's death. I'm listening to someone else's Dad talk about how much he loves his little girl, and my Dad's deaddeaddead all over again.

Keep a gentle smile. One or two tears are acceptable; it's supposed to be a moving moment. No bitter twist of the mouth, no ironic self-pitying smiles. 

I hope that someday I can make it through an entire wedding reception without that burning, bitter feeling in the back of your throat when you desperately need to cry, aloud, right now. Your body aches to give physical evidence of your heart being ripped in two--but you can't. It's a damn wedding. It's the damn happiest day of my damn lucky friends' lives. And I genuinely do feel happy for them. But in the midst of all that good feeling, my grief swoops in, piercing me. Like a sudden gust of cold wind that only I can feel. The DJ is playing "Shout!" and everyone is dancing and I'm suddenly adrift in regrets and held-back tears and anger at my stupid Dad for dying and leaving us. 

I know my feelings will change--it's still a recent loss. Maybe someday I will be able to feel almost entirely nothing but happiness at my friends' weddings. I'll watch my friend waltz around the dance floor with her dad, giggling at his missteps or his dorky moves, and I won't feel that ache in my gut. But for now, it hurts like hell.

It's not just that I know Dad will never be at my wedding. (if there is a wedding...) I have never been one of those girls to eagerly plan and anticipate the color of her bridesmaids dresses and flowers. I can't stand looking at wedding magazines. But I always looked forward to hearing what my Dad would say during his toast. I was counting on that definite message of approval, of love, to send me off into my future. I imagined that he would cry and I would feel so loved, so precious. Like at my sister's wedding. I couldn't wait for it to be my turn, for all my parents' love to be focused on just me, for one day at least.

I don't resent my sister for having Dad at her wedding, I rejoice with her. It was a special day. And I don't actually resent my friends whose Dads are alive. But I sometimes feel terribly, terribly robbed.

Robbed of those few precious words of love, given at the right moment.

I guess the worst of the pain is tied to the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye properly. By the time Dad (or we) knew that he was going to die, he was unconscious and unresponsive. There was no time for final words. I know Dad loved us all deeply. I know this.

But I find myself aching for a memory I don't have. Sometimes I used to think that it's the only one I would have needed: hearing a final confirmation of his love, in his words, before he died. Those words would have stayed with me forever. They would have been a balm on the gaping wound of my grief. They would have been my mantra during the rough days. Instead, I had to create my own mantra of self-affirmation. During the months immediately after Dad's death, I would occasionally have really terrible days at work. The people would be horrible, I'd be bored and depressed and lonely. So, over and over and over, I'd repeat in my head the words: You are beautiful, you are strong, you are competent and well-loved. I'm not sure I ever really convinced myself.

But really it's not just Dad's absence from a potential future event that breaks my heart. It's not just the loss of those words. It's bearing witness to the love a father can have for his daughter. It reminds me that I'm halfway an adult-orphan. It reminds me how much I have lost. It reminds me of all of the unsaid words, all of the missed opportunities. It reminds me that I am still such a young girl, and I should not have lost my dad. I'm too young. 

"During this time I wanted my mother to say to me that I had been the best daughter in the world. I did not want to want this, but I did, inexplicably, as if I had a great fever that could be cooled only by those words."
--Cheryl Strayed, Wild

Father's Day, and a Story

Well, it's Father's Day.

I'm not sure what to say. I'm not even sure how I feel. I wanted to say something big, something meaningful. Some grand thank you, love you, miss you to my dad. But the words weren't coming. Somehow, even after all of the gushing I have done on this blog...today, I want to keep him to myself.

I want to keep my grief, my memories, and my love quiet and safe--held and cherished within. Does that even make sense? I guess I mean that from now on, Father's Day is a private thing. It's just between me and my family and Dad. Since I can't thank him in person or tag him in a Facebook post, it's only and it's all in my heart. I don't need to buy a card or a random gift--all the giving and receiving is done now. What's left is the pure stuff: the truth of our bond, the echo of Dad's deep love, the reality of the sacrifices he made for us. One year or ten years won't change those things.

I want to tell you a story that's only slightly about my dad.

A couple of years ago, I spent a semester studying abroad at Oxford University in England. During our spring break, I went with a group of people on a trip to northern Wales. We rented a house in Llanberis, and from there we drove to places like Caenarfon, Conwy, and Harlech to explore these fantastic medieval castles built by King Edward I. It was awesome. I spent most of my time at Oxford buried under massive piles of books and my tutors' expectations--but at least I can say that I saw some legit castles. We were staying right on the edge of Snowdonia National Park, very close to Snowdon itself, which is apparently the highest mountain in Wales. (Thanks, Wikipedia.) Anyways, when not visiting 13th century castles, we hiked in the gorgeous, rugged landscape around us.

One day, we went on a long hike up in the mountains. We were warned that it would be a strenuous hike, and that there would probably be snow as we got higher up into the mountains. It won't be that bad, I thought. I mean obviously I am not fit or strong at all, but I do like hiking. It'll be fine.

And it really was fine. The mountains were impressive and the views were expansive and I had a great time. We took a break next to a clear lake that was just beginning to thaw for the spring. I ate lunch while looking out at the valley below, where I could see tiny, tiny wind towers standing far, far away.

It would have continued to be fine, except for the unexpected depth and iciness of the snow. The trail finally disappeared beneath a layer of snow when we got to the vertical climbing section. I stood in foot holes kicked into the snow with nothing between my back and the rocks below but hundreds of feet of empty air. I'm not brave at all, it turns out. I hated that part. Hated it. I absolutely do not trust my own strength to hold me onto the mountain. I only made it because someone climbed directly behind me and told me not to cry anymore because it was going to be okay.

At a certain point, our group leader decided the ice was making the route too dangerous to continue up the mountain. And we couldn't go down the way we came. So it was decided that we would slide down the snowy face of the mountain, on our butts, to get to the level ground some hundreds of feet below. I guess it was a good enough plan. At that point, I was so freaked out by the traumatizing climb that I didn't care how we got down as long as we went down. Sitting on snow sounded better than clinging to rocks.

So it's fine, it's okay, we're making it. It's slow going, it's steep. But it's alright. We were going down in groups of three, and my group was first. One moment we were making our way down carefully, and one second later all three of us were sliding uncontrollably down this mountain. I fell first. Or maybe, I fell and they half-slid down after me. I don't know.

So there I was, tumbling uncontrollably down the steep side of this random mountain in Wales. The snow was incredibly slick and I couldn't grab onto anything--there wasn't anything to grab. Afterward I was told that the people watching above were sure I'd hit my head because I rolled over some of the rocks that jutted out from the snow. I don't know. I was turning over and over and I had enough time to think, Wow, this is not good. I might die here. I knew there was nothing to stop me from falling the rest of the way to the bottom of the mountain.

But here's the best part of the story: I'm fallingfallingfalling and I suddenly heard our group leader call out, "I'VE GOT YOU!" and he proceeded to tackle me. He landed directly on top of me and miraculously we stop sliding. I didn't even mind being squished. ALIVE OMG I'M ALIVE ALIVE. We untangled and Simon lifted me bodily and placed me on the hill. And with nothing else to do, I put my hat back on, readjusted my backpack and followed them down the mountain. A couple of hours later, the three of us safely arrived at mostly horizontal ground that was mostly not covered in snow. Glory hallelujah.

(Of course, my tumble had saved us a bunch of time and we had to wait another hour or so for the rest of our group to make it down. We huddled for warmth in the lee of a boulder because I suddenly realized I was soaking wet and my muscles were cramping and I was injured. The fall, or possibly the rescue, had pushed my jacket up so that I had these horrible scrapes and bruises around my midsection from the ice and the rocks. Couldn't comfortably wear pants for weeks.)

But mostly I was glad I survived this crazy, legitimately life-threatening situation. Many people might not have been so terrified--or in as much danger as I was--because they are strong or experienced or unafraid. But I didn't have any control over the fall. I didn't make myself slide, but I also didn't stop myself. I was saved.

A few days after the Mountain Madness, we arrived back home in Oxford. I called my parents to tell them about my wonderful trip and also to tell them about the few hours of sorta-terribly-scary-hiking-but-I'm-totally-fine. Suddenly my dad interrupted my story.

"Wait, was this on Tuesday? In the afternoon?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah. How did you know?" I'd said "the other day," not Tuesday. I was sure of it.

Then my dad told me that Tuesday morning, he'd been at the office and was suddenly overcome with a need to pray for me. Desperately. And he had, briefly, not knowing what to pray for. He prayed for my safety. I thought quickly. Accounting for the time difference, my dad had felt compelled to pray for me at the same time that I was on the mountain, maybe even the exact moment when I fell.

I'm a rather skeptical person. I don't often see "God moments" or "Heavenly coincidences" in my life--I tend to think first of, well, actual coincidence or Western medicine or chance. But when Dad told me he'd prayed specifically for me on that Tuesday morning, without knowing why or even that I would be hiking that day, I couldn't help but believe.

Simon saved me. But how, with what power, with what timing--I like to think my Dad's prayers, his love and his positive thoughts reached across the ocean that day and helped to save me on the mountain.

I was thinking about this story the other day. I thought about my fall and my dad's inexplicable sense that I was in danger and his prayers for me. I laid in bed and wondered....Who will pray for me the next time I'm falling from a mountain? I mean this metaphorically, of course. I'm trying to avoid dangerous hiking situations in the future. But who will worry for me like that? Who will protect me now that he's gone?

Then I thought of a lovely quote from Harry Potter. When Harry doesn't understand how his mother's sacrifice can still protect him from Voldemort, Dumbledore says, "To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."

I don't have an answer to my question. There isn't anyone yet who can step into that void, though I'm hopeful. For now I'm just clinging to the rocks as best I can.

But maybe the air behind me isn't quite as empty as I'd thought. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Love you.

Family Vacations

It's funny.

I've spent the past week in a city I've never been to, in a state I haven't visited for at least eight years. Though I do enjoy the white sand beaches, the sunsets, the seafood, the Key Lime pie, I don't really care about Southwest Florida. I don't particularly have any special memories from our past vacations there.

Mystic Seaport, Connecticut

So I found it pretty strange when I teared up as we were driving away from the airport last week. I sat in the backseat, watching the sun-streaked sky as the palm trees flew past, thinking about the differences between Florida and the north. The tropical plants, the flowers, the fruit trees, the palms. The low buildings, painted mostly in shades of tan except for the occasional pop of color: teal, lemon, purple, brick red, aqua. Flat, straight roads that dead-end at the beach. Sand everywhere. I looked up at the sky, excited to be starting another family vacation, and I was suddenly struck with a sense of Dad's presence, there with us. Despite the fact that I have no memories of him in that place.

I know, it's cliche: "I felt him there, watching over me." I always thought this was a cliche because I've never felt it, not once, since he died. Dad is dead and Dad is gone. That's always how I've felt. He's not forgotten, but he's gone. I thought that people were making it up, that they half-convinced themselves they "felt" their dead loved one, when really they were just sad or nostalgic or wistful.

Chimney Rock, North Carolina

But I really did get the strongest sense, just for a moment, that Dad was with us, too. That he was setting out with us on a brand new family vacation--just like he always had. I could so easily imagine him in the driver's seat, wearing his clip-on sunglasses and a sun hat. He and Jason would talk about making a tee time; Mom and I would point out the outlet mall--"We're going there!" Mom and Dad would harmlessly bicker about what lane to be in, how to operate the rental car. Us kids would look at each other and roll our eyes; silent, annoyed. Then someone would mention the story about the giant meatball, or how excited they are to go sailing, and we'd all laugh it off. Vacation!

At first I wondered why I felt him so strongly in a strange place, but then I understood. I have many memories of Dad at home, good memories. But the best memories, I've realized, are tied to the family vacations we took over the years. Those trips--to Florida or Tennessee or California or wherever--were the times when our family was closest and when Dad was only ours.

On vacation, he wasn't Dr. Brown. He didn't have to answer to all of his other responsibilities. No phone calls or trips to the emergency room or office hours or dictation to do. On vacation, he was just Dad--goofy and funny and kind and enthusiastic. He was the guy who dragged us to museums and historical forts and retired battleships. He was the guy who threatened to just turn the van around and go home if we didn't stop complaining!

San Diego, California

On vacation, Dad was relaxed, he got enough sleep, he ate well. He was goofy. He wore fannypacks (in the 90s) and loud golf shirts (always). He wore high socks. He made us try interesting new restaurants wherever we were. He laughed so much and told corny jokes. He snored less. He slathered on sunscreen and wore dorky wide-brim hats. He read every single piece of information at museums. He braved active volcanoes and crash-landed planes and waterfalls...on putt-putt courses across the country. (Putt-putt is a Brown Family Vacation tradition. It's right up there with Breyer's ice cream and fighting when we get too hungry.)

Vacation is the place--or the state of being--where I feel closest to my memories of Dad. The memories of Dad and the rest of my family on vacation are just so much more intense--purified of everyday concerns and work and deadlines and homework. With all that removed, we were just family. Enjoying the sights around the country, experiencing new things, getting on each other's nerves, laughing together. And Dad was--and still is--an integral part of that.

Bar Harbor, Maine

On this trip, I felt closer and further from Dad than ever. All week I was reminded of great vacation memories of my dad. We told Kelly, Chris' girlfriend, the classic story of Dad and the Soapy Pancakes. I thought of the random organ concert that he took us to at Balboa Park in San Diego. I laughed thinking of that time we tried to teach Dad how to play Mao, and he was so confused that he refused to speak, even when we told him he could. On Thursday, I walked into this tourist shop and found a whole line of Hawaiian/tropical golf shirts that my Dad would totally have worn. It felt like walking into his closet.

But this time, he's not here. There are things I know he would have loved, like our catamaran cruise, the seafood restaurant, the sunset on the beach. There are things he wouldn't have chosen--mainly the alcohol and the severe sunburn. (Sorry, Dad!) He would have loved to have been at Teddy Collins' wedding. It's sad that he wasn't there, but it's also okay. I thought at first that it wouldn't feel like a proper family vacation without him, but I was wrong.

I was wrong because it was an absolutely wonderful week. I was wrong because life always moves forward. I was wrong because I still have a wonderful family that I love being around. We can still laugh and play and talk and vacation. Even without Dad. It's not the same, but it's enough.

More Than I Knew

When I was little, my absolute favorite musical group was Out of Eden. Don't remember them? They were a Christian R&B or "urban gospel" group, made up of three sisters, who were mostly active during the nineties. Basically, they were the Christian version of Destiny's Child. I loved them.

I had the cassette tape of their 1996 album, "More Than You Know." For years I listened to it obsessively. The words and melodies became so ingrained that I could sing the entire album to myself, without the music. I loved it more than my Point of Grace cassette tape, more than my Avalon cassette tape, more than my Wizard of Oz soundtrack! Obviously, I really hadn't discovered secular music at this point. Or CDs. But that's besides the point.

I have no idea what happened to my collection of cassette tapes--maybe I threw them away? I'm not even sure when I last owned something with a tape deck in it. And my musical tastes have obviously evolved since 1996. Back then I had about ten cassette tapes, now I have 12 days worth of music on my iPod. Now I prefer music of the indie alt-folk variety--basically, give me a guy sitting on a bar stool with an acoustic guitar (banjo is optional) and I'm happy. If he's British, even better.

But I discovered earlier tonight that I can still sing every single word of "More Than You Know." Every single word, every ad lib, and yes, every rap break! Every so often, I like to listen to the bands I loved when I was younger, the nineties rock bands and boy bands and pop groups. I like to jam to Goo Goo Dolls and sing my heart out with Mariah Carey and laugh as I listen to *N SYNC or Backstreet Boys. (Only legit fans remember the asterisk!)  But only certain songs really, viscerally throw me back to my childhood.

It was so much simpler back then. It's not that I miss childhood--I don't! I remember when growing up, I'd have friends who wished they could be five again, so that they wouldn't have to deal with homework or algebra or boy troubles. I was never like that: I always wanted to be older. I couldn't learn fast enough, I couldn't grow up fast enough. I felt frustrated by my ignorance.

Listening to Out of Eden makes me think of: that garish pink tape player I had. I think of my old friend Leah Dykstra. I think of laying on the carpet, drawing or reading Sweet Valley High books. It reminds me of Trinity Christian School: the playground, art class, Mrs. Penn. It reminds me of Sunday school and Children's church. I think of playing Barbies--my favorites were Baywatch Mitch (he came with a Sea-Doo and a life preserver), and a brown-haired Barbie I named Caroline. Yep, my favorite guy Barbie was based on David Hasslehoff. How nineties! I think of American Girl magazine, I think of horse camp at Camp Campbell Gard. I think of sleepovers. I think of how simply, purely, unthinkingly I loved Jesus then. I think about how I wanted to be a veterinarian, or an artist, or a judge.

I feel like I'm obsessed with remembering my childhood lately. Not just the events, the crushes, the school field trips, but the feeling, the sense I had of myself. The sense I had of my place in the world, and of my family. What did I think about my Dad? What did I think about my future? Did I feel secure and hopeful? I try to scrape together the memories, but most of the time they're only a whisper, a scattering of thoughts buried beneath the buzz and clamor of my current life. Texts and emails, phone calls and meetings, responsibilities and bills all shout for my attention. Anxiety and grief and desire and boredom chase one another around my head and my heart. I look at the blue sky, but I don't even see it through my mental checklist: Get to work. Do laundry later. Turn left.

I can't stop trying to reconcile Me, now, with Me, then. Or even with Me, at 15. So much has changed. A while ago, I dug out my high school diary and found an entry I'd written the day before I started my first real job. I was so excited to receive my first "real" paycheck! I wrote about how I had just finished driver's ed and I was excited but nervous about the responsibility of driving. I wrote about how much older I felt. I wrote about how I was totally not going to obsess about boys, like, ever again.

Today, I think about how different I am from that 15 year old girl: I'm wiser, I'm older. I know what it is to work, I know sacrifice and sleep deprivation and dedication. I know heartbreak. I understand how ambiguous life can be. I've traveled the bumpy, dirt roads of East Africa, sat through the sudden downpours and smelled the flowers (as well as the filth) in Nairobi. I've walked the dusty streets of West Africa, felt the tug of the Atlantic ocean swirling about my legs. I've seen the beauty and brokenness of the children of the slums. I've sat in English pubs and dashed down cobblestone streets and explored centuries-old Welsh castles. I've fallen into books and reveled in others' words and fought to find my own. I've been drunk and sick and made a fool out of myself, more than once. I've filled out a million applications, for jobs and programs and schools. I've gotten rejections. I had a paper published. I discovered what I actually think about social and political issues. I've voted. I watched my dad die.

I think. I think I'm happy to be where I am. Regardless of the tears that brought me here. Listening to old favorites like Out of Eden reminds me that I really am the same girl. She isn't lost, she isn't forgotten. She isn't even far away: I still have her drive, her joy, her love of learning and a good '90s urban gospel song.

Jessie at 10, listening to cassette tapes and dreaming of the future. Jess at 15, learning to drive. Jessica at 23, learning...I'm not sure what, yet.

Every once in a while, since Dad passed, I've thought to myself, I wouldn't want my life to have happened any differently. And most of the time, it's true.