The Grand Adventure

conclamatum-est asked: you're lovely.

you’re random! What ever made you say that, my dear friend?

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

{this happens to be one of those times when ‘lovely’ is not quite how I feel.}

     Well, I guess it’s time I say this, but…my Grand Adventure has come to a close. I am now home and so happy to be here. 

     Originally, I was going to keep blogging about the “grand adventure of life” here, but I’ve decided to start a new blog instead. I want to have THIS one as a keepsake from the nine months I spent an ocean away from home, but I want my new one to be…well…new :) Something fresh, ya know?

      The Grand Adventure is officially closed. 

     If you’d like to keep following my life, thoughts, and Faith, comment on this post and I would be happy to give you the URL of my current blog.

My tumblelog is:

http://dustofmysoul.tumblr.com

    Also, if you scroll to the bottom of this page and click “archive,” it will be much easier to see the past nine months of my blogging…rather than having to click “older” all the way back. :)

Keep pursuing Truth, my friends. Our Creator WANTS you to love Him.

-Ciao!

Well, friends, I have successfully depleted every last penny in my bank account (literally,) so it looks like it’s time to come home.

     Home:

Where my bed is free, and I don’t have to look for a new room every night.

Where everyone knows how long I’ve been gone, where I live, the GPA I graduated with, who my last boyfriend was, and what my dreams for the future look like.

Where I get to eat food purchased by someone else (thanks Mom and Dad!)

Where I know my way around town like the back of my hand, and the only map I need is the one in my head that is a picture of every friend’s house I need to stop by.

Where I can put my clothes in a closet and ditch my well-worn suitcase.

Where I find my favourite cereal in the pantry and mom’s still-warm chocolate chip cookies on the counter

Where I don’t have to pay for my laundry.

Where I can look outside and see all my pals in the pool, waiting for me to bring them some fresh pumpkin or zucchini bread.

Where we pile all three kids and two dogs into a queen bed…and absolutely love it.

Where I can run around barefoot.

Where I don’t have to worry about who the last person was to “use this toilet or these sheets.”

Where I can shower without flip-flops.

Where I can ride horses for miles into the forest, get lost, and lose track of time with old friends.

Where I’ve known most of my buddies since we were six years old, hiding in the tires on the playground of the elementary school.

Where I don’t have to use a converter to charge my laptop.

Where I wake up to the smell of pine trees, sage brush, and the sound of my beloved bloodhound howling as she begs me to let her out of her kennel.

Where I get to hike Black Butte under a full moon, in the middle of the night…just because it sounds like fun.

Where I can talk to friends on the phone.

Where I run into people I’ve known for a decade and a half everywhere I go.

Where I don’t have to worry about what I’ll eat for breakfast.

Where I can drive my little blue Jetta down the highway, sun-roof and windows open, breeze rushing through my hair, and country music blastin’ on the radio.

…and most importantly:

 Where I get to see the people I love most every single day.

Don’t get me wrong: this little escapade to Europe has been incredible—it was everything I dreamed it would be and more. But I suppose there’s a point in everyone’s life when it’s just time to go…HOME.

So Daddy, Jake, Jared, puppies, and friends…Here I come. 

See you at the airport on June 3rd. (1:30pm)

Can’t wait.

Well, friends, we set sail tomorrow morning aboard the Astarte. I cannot wait to feel the rush of wind against her sails and fall asleep to the heartbeat of the rocking waves. Sailing is one of my favourite things in the entire world, and it’s been way too long since I’ve been out on the ocean.

    Goodbye for a while, crazy world. Time to read the Good Book and swim in waters that my Lover painted turquoise for me. Jesus, you are beautiful. Thank you for holding my heart and for the fresh flowers every morning and for the birds singing and for the sunshine and for the tree swing I sat in and journalled under the sun today. YOU are amazing.

I wish I could love more like You do.

 See you in a while. Bon Voyage!

A post from Ann Voskamp’s blog: www.aholyexperience.com. She has such a beautiful way with words. Enjoy.

Houses may be bought, built, or borrowed.

But homes can only be made.

And  only with bits of ourselves.

The kids and I sit together close in a house with dishes on the counter and read about painters and artists and look at a flock of ducks, preened and nestled, a painting, oil on canvas.

The children press in close for a better look at the open book, at Alexander Koester’s “Ducks“, and I read aloud the caption under the painting.

“Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests to line their nests.”

I look around at the house. I pause.

And the children gaze thoughtfully at a clutch of plump white, blizzard of feathers fallen down.

But it’s those words that mesmerize me: “Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests, to line their nests.”

I lay my hand on the page, on a duck breast puffed, mother plunging beak in deep, and I say it out loud: “How else did you think nests were lined?”

With leftovers.

That’s what I thought.

With feathers discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers.

I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.

But no. No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom.

She lines the nest with bits of herself — the best of herself.  

A mother cups her brood not with leftovers — but with her own sacrifice.

The kids pull at the corner of the page, anxious to see the next painting.

Reluctantly, I turn the page. But for weeks, I’m the one turned.

For weeks, part of me lives among Koester’s ducks.

I scrub out the arches of muffin tins after breakfast on a misty morning, the clock ticking insufferably loud in my ears, time running down.

Children need books and learning, and I’m tuned for the expected chime of the doorbell, a service personnel’s scheduled visit.

And the words rise like this lava, “I don’t have time for this! No muffins tomorrow morning!”

Pluck.

It’s like I can feel it.

Like I can feel this tugging.

The service man meets me with muffin tins still in the sink. He meets happy kids. Could I meet needs with a bit  more of me?

There are times, too many, when they call, “Read me a story?” “Wanna play a game with me?” “Can you come help me?”

And this mother refuses to pluck.

Something, some task, someone (me?), rates as more pressing, more important. I deem our nest acceptable just as it is. I don’t want to sacrifice more of me.

Then it comes: the pecking, the scratching, the squawking. When the feather lining of the nest wears thin, the nest chafes hard. We feel it. We hurt. Life gets hard.

Nests need feathers deep.

Someone must pluck.

When will I learn: The down we sacrifice from ourselves — this is what settles and soothes.

Scraps won’t suffice.

Not mere snippets of time, leftover me, a trinket, a diversion, tossed.

Mother ducks don’t line nests with feathers, dirty and trampled, the molted and unnecessary. Why would I? Nests need feathers fresh, warm with mother’s life.

The pain of the plucking can linger long.

The parts of oneself sacrificed, this can hurt.

But was it really sacrifice? Or was my skin just too tender? It’s done, it was necessary, and it was for something better.

Some nights, when all sleep, I feel along the hidden bald patches.

Come evening, I ask a boy to vacuum up popcorn and paper remnants and bits of the day.

Dinner needs making, laundry needs rescuing, math needs marking. My head aches. Popcorn crunches under the feet.

The boy hauls the vacuum cleaner out of the front closet. I should have noticed how his eyes had this glint. He plugs in the machine and it grumbles loud and he recalibrates that vacuum cleaner —- to fire socks.

He’s firing sock cannons across the kitchen.

His brothers dive in. Socks fly. Brothers howl and whip and it gets loud.

Caught in the cross-fire with a pot in hand –  a mother can either erupt. Or Pluck.

This old mother, she tosses the pot and chases down future men, wrestles them down and pins them in tickles. It feels good, wild and alive.

We warm here in laughter.

Us close, one atop the other, nesting down into sacrifices, soft and small, a solace. 

Night descends. Kids crawl into beds. I read stories, stroke hair, say prayers.

Prayers to Him who plucked hard from His own heart.

A sacrifice, staggering and true, for love of His very own.

We learn love from His laid down.

Tired heads nestle into pillows, into these pillows of down.

We rest on all these feathers plucked…

     Well, we have loved Athens so much. It’s a crazy city with way too many apartment buildings, grafitti everywhere, and thick pollution (although apparently they have worked really hard to fix that!), but it truly is wonderful. I think what makes it so special are the PEOPLE. We’ve spent countless hours with the locals, finding out about their lives and sharing a bit of ours with them. Isn’t that what life is about? Sharing with each other, loving, listening, learning, and telling others about the One who created all of this Beauty. 

      But, tomorrow we depart. We take a ferry to Paros, will explore the island, and then embark on our sailing trip the next day!! :) THEN…HOME!!!

      Hopefully I’ll be back on here again before we sail. If not, bon voyage! :)

      Take care,

      -J