Movin'

Alright guys. 

I itching for a change. 

I'm always looking for something different and I've found it to keep me satisfied for the time being. 

I'm moving over to a different blog. Starting crispy new. 

E Tells Tales is the bigger and better. I just need a change of scenery. 

I hope you continue to follow along. Change your bookmarks, follow by email. Please do. 

I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas!

Photographs of the lost

I never thought I'd write about this, because to be honest, I have been avoiding the news and Facebook and Pinterest pictures at all cost. But I think I need to get some things out of me. 

I know what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I've seen each of their faces. I've cried. Ever since I had Jack, I've been able to cry at the drop of a hat. I don't know, like my chemical balance tipped a little. This tragedy is not a drop of a hat situation, this is something unspeakable. But it has been shocking to me as to how I have reacted to the children's and teacher's deaths. 

The process of grief after my dad died was and is an interesting walk. You never know the things that will set you off or make you happy or make you feel like dirt with sadness. I get this sharp and pointed pang when I unexpectedly see a photo of him. Still to this day. I love my dad to the ends of the world and I think about him all the time but those photos… they just hurt me. They remind me too well of what I don't have. 

And I felt that way the first time I saw the faces of those babies. They are just too sweet and too happy to be gone. 

I think about their parents. I imagine what their homes look like now and how they are dealing with their own sadness as well as that of their other children who just lost a brother or sister and might not quite understand what is happening. 

I see the grandparents there, trying to help and keep order and comfort their children and children's children and themselves all at once. 

There is something about the picture of someone who has died. It changes. It yellows a little, it means a little more. 

That picture is eternalized. The person in it will be the same forever in our minds, never growing older. My dad will always be 54. He will never turn grey. Rachel Scott of Columbine will always be the same. These children will remain kindergarteners. 

My prayer for the families and friends of the teachers and children of Sandy Hook, and to everyone who looses or lost, is that they find their own way to grieve. It might not be what you expected. You might be more sad than you thought you would be. You might not be as sad as you assumed. It's ok. Grieve in the way you need to in order to remember and find a way to live beyond the sadness. 

I pray that they are not bitter at the situation - at the shooter, at God, at the school, at the community, at the NRA, at the government, and especially at themselves. Being bitter and placing blame does nothing. 

I pray that they can be sad together and mourn the loss of those they love. And find the happiest memories and hold on to them for dear life. 

It's never going to get easier. But our minds are so wonderfully perceptive, dulling pain over time so getting up in the morning is manageable. It will all be ok, even if we cannot imagine the day that it will. 

I will love you for being just a man

Lovin' me some Rachael Yamagata today. 

And this song, "I Don't Want To Be Your Mother"

I want to be your sweetheart
I want to be your lady
Oh, I want to get swept away
Let me cry for a change

Don't need no lone survivor
I need someone by my side
We don't have to make it perfect
Oh, but maybe we could try

Love me for the woman that I am
And I will love you for being just a man
Love me for the woman that I am
And I will love you for being my man

Christmas babe

It's been looking like Christmas around here for a while. It's pretty chilly outside. The trail to the dog is pure ice. The space heaters are going. The decorations are up. The stockings have been pulled down. A few times. 

But today my baby is feeling the spirit. 

We have been reading Christmas stories and it is just so wonderful to have a child during the holidays. It is just a complete different outlook and feeling for me. I feel so much like my own mom. It's my turn to be Santa. 

And the other night this little bug woke up at 10 p.m., so we snuggled up on the couch and looked at the Christmas lights until we both fell asleep. 

The memory of the just are blessed

(A column by Erica Kingston published in the Tri-County News.)

[November 18, 2012]

I wrote last about our family time capsule. It has since been opened, dug through, seen and shared. 

All these years I had been excited to see what I put in the capsule when I was four. I knew my parents had put in a cattle sales agreement and a publication of some sort. My contribution ended up being a candle holder and a quote carved in clay that was obvious someone else had written for me. Disappointing. 

Others had put Sears catalogs, newspapers from the towns they had been living in. There were baby shoes and photos. Typical things. 

But then there were two letters sealed in Ziploc bags. One with "Lindsay" on the front of a plain white mailer envelope and one with "Erica," written in dad's handwriting. 

My letter was a single page, front and back. I sat there and read it at the kitchen table with tears and a heart full of thanks for this gift my dad had decided to give us 20 years earlier, not knowing where we or him would be in that future that had just become the present hour. 

I cannot tell you how I felt reading a letter from a man that has been gone for three years.  Or now seeing his handwriting was so warningly familiar. The letter is invaluable and irreplaceable and on the top of the list of things I would quickly grab if my house started on fire. It is a gift that cost no money and five minutes to complete but it tugs at my heartstrings like nothing else has. 

I've been writing things down for my son Jack since he was born. Jotting, really. I have Post-Its and napkins of scribbled stories and "firsts" with their appropriate dates. I began a notebook for him with moments that made me feel full of love as well as difficulties he has made me face and "man times" that Jack and his dad have spent together. 

But I haven't written in the book for a few months. It just gets pushed to the bottom of the daily list, after dishes and laundry and trips to the grocery store. It's something that I keep telling myself I'll have time for later. It's not going anywhere, I can write anytime I want. 

But the truth is that memories are fleeting. Our minds so graciously forget and the vividness of the moment gets hazier with each day. What I could have written in great detail today will be a generalized anecdote in a week. 

I need to make the time. 

If God decides to take me while Jack still needs a mama, I want my baby to have those notebooks full of our stories. If I live to be 105, maybe my son can read those pages to my great grandchildren. And maybe what I write will simply give me something to read and remember when I'm sitting in the nursing home. 

Whatever the case may be, recording our history is vital to me. The dishes can wait, the dust can stay a day longer and the laundry can pile a little higher. I need to remember what is important. 

"Find the time. The time to read, to smell the flowers, to paint your dreams, to have coffee with a friend, to learn a new craft, to write a letter, to bake a surprise cake, to go somewhere special, to really be with the person you love, or even to do nothing for a while…"

And unsubscribe to Netflix for a while, put the computer away, shut the phone off, unplug the TV, take a day off. 

I'm not saying that I think everyone and their uncle should write pages and pages and record every little thing. I'm just saying to put a photo album together or make a phone call or spend a few more minutes at the dinner table. 

Because we don't have all the time in the world. It's so easy to get caught up. I've said this a million times over. It's so easy to get into a routine and slide through every day. But when you think back, you don't remember the days that you simply survived, you remember the ones that were an adventure, the ones that were challenging and the ones you really lived. 

"The memory of the just is blessed." Proverbs 10:7a

Her wishes for her family

I've been writing a column for my hometown newspaper, The Tri-County News, for a few years now. I took time off after having Jack and am just getting back to it. I grew up in Gackle, a town of 500 people. Everyone knows who I am, who my family is, who my grandparents are. It's a strange blessing to be able to share the deepest parts of my heart with all of them. These writings are some of my favorite ones of mine. From now on, I'll be sharing them on my blog after they have been published in the paper. I have a few backlogged that I would like to share, so there will be a few postings now, and then they will be approximately ever two weeks. Please enjoy.

[October 5, 2012]

Our family just came back from about three weeks in Gackle. God's country, yes. 

Scott's two weeks off of work in October always equals some quality time between him and his pheasant dog. And this year, it also meant farm time for our son, Jack, and I. It's good for the soul to go back to the place where you grew up. And it was good for me to use grandma for as much free babysitting as I could squeeze out of her. 

Jack played with the kitties, met the horses, played in his first snow and became reacquainted with aunts and uncles and cousins that we don't get to see everyday. And great grandma Betty, whom he has always seemed to love a little more than the others. She's got the touch. 

The Anderson family buried a time capsule on our farm in 1993 at a North Dakota BASH (Big Anderson Summer Holiday.) It was supposed to remain in the ground until November of next year, but we decided to dig it up a year early. 

It was snowing, but my uncles dug, we watched, the kids sat in the wheel barrel.

We hit something. I found a corner. Dig back a little further. It was pulled out of a 19 year slumber. 

Turns out the Rubbermaid Roughneck tub is a sturdy product. No gopher holes, no tree root punctures. Just a little squishage from the burden of dirt. 

The top was opened and inside was the actual time capsule, wrapped in plastic. But what was inside took the back burner for me to what was on the inside cover. 

My grandma had typed a note for the future generations. My uncle Carlton read it for us:

"This capsule was buried in the fall of 1993 and is to be dug-up in the year 2013. The Anderson capsule contains precious memories of the Jalmer Anderson family. It is my wish and prayer that when the family gathers to open this capsule that all of you will be trusting and living for the Lord as your Savior." 

As he read that, I first thought that the ending would simply say that she hoped we would be living. All being present for the opening, fortunate to still be around. 

But she wished for us, her family, to simply and essentially be trusting the Lord. 

When we are in situations where we think of the future, say a wedding or a graduation, we usually go straight for earthly wishes. I hope your marriage is blessed. I wish you all the happiness in the world. I hope you are successful in your endeavors.

She wished for us to be trusting the Lord. Nothing more, nothing less. 

It's a legacy for our family. We won't inherit money or land or castles far away. As my great grandparents handed to my grandparents who then instilled in our parents, they gave us every chance to have the opportunity to gain a heavenly inheritance. As my cousin said, "I am so thankful for a faithful, godly heritage."

We are here on borrowed time. This is our temporary home.

And so what will I leave for those who come after me? Where will my treasure be stored? How am I forming my legacy from day to day? It's a conscious decision. The road is narrow and difficult. And no one gets it all right. But our Lord is a merciful God. 

Lord, you alone are my inheritance, my cup of blessing. Psalm 16:5a