A 30th Birthday Reflection

My friends. I've missed you. I'm not sure how a week break from blogging turned into two months. The whirring of the clock's hands seem to be accelerating at a shocking rate — a surprisingly welcome development as we've been experiencing a heat wave here in southern California and can use all the fans we can find.

I hope these last few months have been full of good and beautiful gifts for you. So much has happened in my life since I last wrote — travel and friendships and calculated risks and out-of-town guests and new tutoring clients and sickness and weekend getaways and, most recently, my 30th birthday.

In the months leading up to my birthday, I so did not feel ready to be thirty. Thirty means I was learning to drive fifteen years ago. Thirty means I am no longer the hip, young teacher my third-graders venerated for her high tops and Nike jackets. Thirty means my skin is changing. Thirty means gravity will begin working its magic any day now. Thirty means I'll be forty in ten years. Thirty means I'm halfway to sixty, AND HOW IN THE WORLD WILL I FIT EVERYTHING INTO THIS ONE, SHORT LIFE?!!

Birthdays always provoke reflection for me; they send my mind running over the contours of the previous year with all its gifts and hardships. Thirty has been especially reflective for me. And this last week, as I've surveyed my life, I've been floored by the gifts that have entered my 30th year with me. As it turns out, being 30 is not a big, bad, horrible thing because: oh. the. gifts. 

These people:

They're one of life's greatest gifts.

Early morning birthday breakfast

Birthday dinner with some of my closest friends

These people know me. They know all 12 of my allergies and all of my favorite snacks from Trader Joe's. They know when I need to have a good laugh or an invigorating run. They know my love for beauty, fear of flying, and need for verbal affirmation. They know about the post-trauma fear I’ve been battling the last several post-sickness months, and the academic hopes I have for the future. They know what my makes my soul swell with life and what makes my heart bleed pain.

And somehow, wonderfully, they still love me with a give-of-yourself, commit-till-you die kind of love.

Post-dinner birthday dance party

Post-dancing birthday swinging

There is nothing better than knowing fully even as you are fully known, and being loved unconditionally in the midst of that known-ness. It's the kind of gift that teaches you the worth of your soul and the love of the Father.

This gift of community has been made possible because of another gift: without a healthy body I’d never be able to invest in friendships the way I have. 

For six months I’ve felt my body growing stronger, overpowering my illness and opening me to life’s opportunities. And get this: I haven’t had a single relapse since February.

I can run and dance and work and spend time with friends without the likelihood of relapse gnawing at my joy.

Having a healthy body means I can dream about the future — I can reconsider Ph.D. programs, search for full-time work, and fill my calendar without running into the brick wall of physical limitation.

I wish I had words to fully capture and portray this feeling, but I don’t. It’d be easier to do justice to the Alps at sunset, or a warm Mediterranean sky at twilight. Having a healthy body after all these years is an ineffable experience. My cup runneth over.

My friends make me feel swaddled in love; my health makes the future seem hopeful. And my family? They've taught me steadfast sacrifice, tenacious grace, and truest compassion these last thirty years.

I wonder how many hours my dad watched my track meets in the pouring down rain when I was growing up, and how many hours my mom has stopped everything to listen to me process life's confusions and difficulties.

I wonder how many fervent prayers they've prayed for me, bloody knees they've bandaged, pots of soup they've cooked, and hard-earned dollars they've spent on me.

I wonder how many times my siblings have made me laugh till I cry, and how many times they've shared their hearts with me late into the night.

I wonder how many times my family has grieved the things that make me grieve, and celebrated the things that fill my soul with joy. I wonder how many ounces of themselves they've emptied into me.

When life has bloodied and bruised, or buoyed and beautified, my family has taught me to love and follow Jesus above all else, because nothing else matters. And I know if my world crumbles to a million pieces, they'll all be there, reminding me that Jesus sits with me in the brokenness and somehow, miraculously, uses the brokenness to heal me. I know they will never let me forget that God's grace is sufficient for my body, my heart, my mind, and my circumstances.

And it is. How thankful I am to know that God's grace is enough, always enough. And this is the gift of desperation: it's in the desperation of illness, heartbreak, financial difficulties, betrayal, abandonment, disappointment, and rejection that God teaches us his grace.

If we were to divide all of the people Jesus met in the Gospels into two categories, we'd find that one group of people was desperate, and the other was not. And then, if we examined what happened to each group of people upon encountering Jesus, we'd find that the desperate folks received the miracle.

And this is the gift of these last four, difficult years: they have kept me ever desperate, ever aware of my unwavering need for God's grace, ever awaiting the miracle.

I thought the miracle that would suit me best and teach me deepest grace was physical healing. But it turns out, when Jesus said he'd give his followers more than we could ever ask or imagine, he meant it. He meant he'd take sin's curse — the curse that causes illness and physical limitation, and weaves the inclination toward betrayal and injustice into our very DNA — and turn it on its head.

He meant he'd take the pain caused by our sin — the pain that signals our imminent, eternal death — and use it to make us good, beautiful, and eternally alive. He meant he'd take sin's thorny choke-hold and turn it into a cross and nails, and upon that cross he'd crucify the part of us that gravitates toward lies, ugliness, and badness, so we can be free of it forever.

Satan and sin cannot be victorious in the life of the Christian because God takes every sinister plan and turns into a portal that leads to freedom and joy. Because Jesus lives, we can live — really live — with him. Our souls can be healed forever.

And this is the very best gift. This is why my 30 years of life, with all their thorny disappointments and dark seasons of loss, make me breathe deep delight. These years have taught me that the Psalmist is right: when we entrust our hearts to God, he makes goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives. Goodness and mercy are the sticky shadows we cannot shake. They are the ever-present reminder that we are loved by the Loveliest One.

And oh! how we are loved!

A Kayaking Adventure

One of my favorite Pacific Northwest adventures this month was kayaking on the Willamette River with my sister.

There were lots of things that made the adventure so enjoyable: the company was adventurous and funny (my sister is full of wit), the sky was blue, the sun was warm, the wind was cool, the river was full of poop.

Except really: the river was full of poop. It's just that it didn't add to the fun. The good news is human feces are no longer being pumped into the Willamette as the city is trying to clean up the river. The bad news is the geese seem to have taken it upon themselves to re-fill the river with poop. So if you go kayaking on the Willamette, just be sure not to swallow any of the water.

But aside from the geese poop, it was a glorious day.

I posted this picture on Instagram with a subtitle about the outset of our raging river kayak adventure, despite how very non-adventurous we look whilst sitting contentedly in our kayaks, on the dock:

"Joke's on us," my sister said as we laughed over the photo together. Don't worry, though: we did eventually try our hands at kayaking in the water.



But first, we enjoyed the view of the City. Portland sits on the edge of the Willamette, in all its artsy glory.

There was so much to see from our vantage point: the buildings, the bridges, the trees, the virtually-naked man sunbathing on the edge of the dock.

For your protection I have covered the naked man with a butterfly. I sure do wish he would have considered covering himself with a butterfly at the outset of his sunbathing experience.

Oh Portland, why are you so weird?

Once we had adjusted our kayaks to fit our bodies, we eased into the river and headed downstream.

We loved our kayaks. They were even named after us!

The first jaunt of our journey was a piece of cake: we cruised easily downstream in the spirit of Pocahontas. However, on the way back, we had the arduous task of kayaking up river, against the current, and into the wind. It was a meandering, tippy, strenuous affair void of painting with all the colors of the wind, but finally, we made it back to the dock where, thankfully, there was no longer a practically naked man sunbathing.

Life is just full of gracious gifts, isn't it?!


© by scj

The Fourth of July

I know, I know: the fourth was weeks ago. I'm terribly behind in my blogging. But I can't not blog about the fourth. If I did then you would miss out on the cutest photos of some of the cutest little people you ever did see.

My cousin, her husband and their two young children recently moved from Orange County to Portland so they joined us for the fourth. Also present was my brother's college roommate, Kyle, and our dearest of dear family friends, Elizabeth and Anne. It was a celebratory group!

We didn't get a full group photo; this is just 1/3 of the group

From left to right: Me; Elizabeth; my little brother, Marc; and Marc's college roommate, Kyle

My cousin's oldest is a sweet, vivacious, and active two-year old. He loves airplanes.

He loves playing with his dad. 

He loves us enough to let us dress him up.
 

He loves my dad, his great uncle Paul. "Unca Pah!" He calls him. They sat on the swing like this for quite some time in silence, just enjoying each other.

We love having this little guy around. And then, last month, my cousin gave birth to a baby girl, and now we love having her around, too!

Isn't she the sweetest little thing?

We played "pass the baby around" all night. Everyone got multiple turns because nobody could quite get enough of her.

There were other fun things that happened on the fourth, like good food and a spectacular fireworks show down by the river, but those things aren't NEARLY as cute as these guys.

Don't kids make holidays ten times better?!



© by scj

River Rafting

Two nights ago I dreamed I got a package in the mail containing a shiny new pair of roller blades. Oh, wouldn't that be lovely!

Alas, my blades are still dead. I'm not sure if they're mostly dead or all dead, and since Miracle Max is not here to tell me, I have let my blades lay in peace while I do other fun things on other fun toys with wheels.

Like my friend, G's, motorcyle, for instance.

Oh how I love hopping on the back of that thing and flying through the countryside, cruising alongside meandering rivers, and stopping to admire waterfalls.

Sunset Falls

G is my friend from high school. And college. And adulthood. We've been friends for 14 years and have a grand old time when we're together.

You may remember G as my duck-loving friend, or my skunk-gifting friend, or my cookie-licking friend, or my hat-wearing friend. Life is always more fun when G is around.

When I first arrived in Vancouver, three weeks ago, I had an itch to float down the Lewisville River under the hot summer sun.  So G and I headed to Walmart, surveyed our floating device options, and left the store with a set of new friends.

And then we skidded across slippery rocks, and braved the frigid water, and splashed downstream, and swatted bugs, and satisfied our need for thrashing white water.

It was a jolly way to return to my Washington river-roots.


P.S. Are water socks still a thing? Because they should be, Jack.

© by scj

And now, for a special report

I'd like to interrupt my summer adventures with a report from Canada.

My sister-in-law, Natasha, is in Ottowa, Canada this week competing in the heptathlon at the Pan American Cup and the Canadian National meets. (To read about my sister-in-law and her event, the heptahlon, click here).

She's been high jumping,

She jumped 1.81 meters in the high jump

hurdling,

She ran 13.43 in the hurdles

long jumping,

She long jumped 6.09 meters

running the 200 and 800 meter races,

She ran a 24.36 in the 200, and 2:13.15 in the 800, which is the last event of the two-day competition

throwing the shot put,

She threw 11.01 meters in the shot put

and throwing the javelin, all with speed, agility, accuracy and finesse.

She threw 33 meters in the javelin

And you know what?

SHE WON!

You can see in the background that her final score was 5928 points. The qualifying mark for the Olympics is 6,000 points. Once you hit that mark then you have to place top 3 in the Olympic Trials to go on to the Olympics.

Natasha beat dozens of the best competitors in Canada, America, Latin America and South America to win the Pan American Cup, and she took second in the Canadian Games. She reached a number of personal records in her events which added up to make for a record overall score for her in the heptathlon.

Isn't that exciting?

Tash had a foot injury that necessitated surgery two years ago. The surgery precluded training for a year, so she is just getting back into the world of training and competition. Her performances this meet are so encouraging, especially considering the rough couple of years she's had! She's just getting started!

Woo hoo!

Having a moment with her coach while the Canadian flag flies in the background

Goooooo, Natasha!


Photo credit: Natasha's mom!

© by scj

A hike with my penpal

I'm still in Washington at my folks' house, and I just can't get enough of this place. The verdant hills. The damp forests. The winding rivers. The stately mountains. The people up here whom I've known since childhood. There just doesn't seem to be enough time in the day to see everyone I want to see and do everything I want to do.

I've got a lot of adventures to blog about so I'm going to try to post my Washington adventures in manageable chunks, starting with one of my first excursions, last week, with my penpal, Mrs. T.

Mrs. T. has watched me grow from the time I was one year old. She's been a faithful encourager and prayer warrior for my family these last 28 years, and her weekly letters to me are a bright spot in my week.

Mrs. T. with my sister and me when we were 1 and 3 years old, respectively. I'm on the right.

A few days after I'd arrived in Washington, Mrs. T. gave me a call and suggested we take a trip up the Columbia River Gorge to Multnomah Falls. The Gorge is an 80-mile-long canyon housing the Columbia River, which borders Oregon and Washington. Its views are spectacular.

We enjoyed the beautiful drive up, and stopped at lookout points whenever we felt like it.

Orange County friends: no doubt you noticed the amazing combination of my running shoes with  my skinny jeans in the above picture.

Pacific Northwestern Friends: no doubt you didn't notice my amazing outfit because you are currently wearing a similar outfit.

The Pacific Northwest is a tennis shoes, jeans, t-shirt and no makeup kind of place. It's also a no deodorant, shaving, or brushing your hair kind of place.

I'm surprised at how easily I've shed my Orange County ways and have assimilated with the Pacific Northwest natives. Minus the no-deodorant or no-shaving part. That is a norm with which I cannot get on board.

I suppose my acquired Orange County ways have made me a bit of a deodorant snob. I never used to notice the, er, shall we say "granola" ways of the people in my homeland. But these days the smells of the Pacific Northwest never cease to surprise me. And I'm not talking about the scent of pine...

Nonetheless, you can't take the Washington out of an Orange County girl.

Mrs. T. and I hiked halfway up Multnomah falls and chatted about all sorts of things. She told me how she and Mr. T. met and how they each came to know Jesus, and she filled me in on some of the goings on in my hometown.

Multnomah Falls

Mrs. T. is truly lovely. I hope I'm like her when I grow up. I especially hope I am as faithful in prayer as she is. Daily, she asks the Lord to give me great joy. And I must say, the knowledge that she is asking God for this gives me great joy.

When we were finished hiking we ate lunch on sunny patio of the restaurant at the base of the falls. And then, when our tummies were full, we headed home where I met up with a friend for another adventure.


Hope your weekend is looking to be lovely!

More later,

Sarah

© by scj

Let's party like it's 1776!

Happy 4th of July, you lovely friends of mine, you!

Pictured: Little brother, Marc (right); Marc's college roommate (bottom left); our childhood friend E (middle); and I

Let freeeeeeeeeedooooom ring!


© by scj