Pantry Closet Banana Bread

I have very fond memories of the kitchen in the house I grew up in. I can picture it now in my head. It was big. Not huge, just big. Big enough for my grandmother, and then my mother to cook and feed their families of six. The back door led out to the garage. As soon as you came in the door, you stood facing the stairs to the basement. To your left was a broom closet. Next to that was the refrigerator. Around the rectangle-shaped kitchen further to the left was counter space. Lots and lots of counter space. The back wall of this counter space was usually occupied by baking canisters and tons of cookbooks. Then there was the double sink, with the window overlooking the backyard, and further more counter space. If you made a 180 at this counter you would be facing the oven. Oh, that sweet oven. We put a microwave next to it after we moved in, but I believe that space was previously reserved for dog bowls, or something of the sort. And then we end off the rectangle with more counter space.
I can't remember what color the cabinets were (I think they were oak), but I can tell you exactly what the floor looked like. It was this horrid green speckled linoleum-type stuff. It lasted forever, because most things did back then. The kitchen shared the same large space as the dining area, which had a big window overlooking the deck and backyard. Originally, the backyard had no fence, and led into a field, which led back to woods and train tracks, and then further back was farmland and a lake. When I was growing up, there was a fence, the same field and woods were there, and the neighbors had mowed a section of the field, which we pretended was a baseball field, and used it as such. We could always see storms rolling in out that window, or the big picture window in the front room. Nowadays, that field is gone and has been replaced by a housing development. I try not to think about it, as it makes me sad.
The kitchen was always a great room in our house, mostly because my mom is a mean cook. Nothing was ever fat free, or even reduced fat. With a family of six, we were very familiar with casseroles. Lots of casseroles. There's so much that can be made with Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. You can pretty much whip up any meal with that one little can. Our pantry was stocked with canned peaches, the freezer with blueberries, green beans and venison. We picked or killed it, then we canned and stored it. Fish fries from catches at the lake were a treat.  But the thing I liked the best was the stuff that got baked in that oven. Particularly bread. I love bread. I blame it on being Dutch. We love bread...and cheese. The usuals in our house were zucchini (with zucchini from our garden), banana, cinnamon, wheat, white, and apple breads, strudels, pies, crisps, muffins, etc.  Yum.  And because I was mommy's little helper, I was in there all the time, kneading, rolling, latticing, pinching, watching dough rise. I learned it all, and loved it. (I loved eating it too.)
Now as an adult, I find myself trying to replicate all the things I loved, so I can share them with my friends and family. My mom passed down her banana bread recipe to me, and that is where this hugely long pre-story is landing us.
Tonight I came home at 11:30pm after work, and went where I go every night as soon as I walk in the door...the kitchen. I clean the kitchen every night. I clean dishes I haven't eaten off of, pots and pans I didn't use, counters I didn't prep on, the stove I didn't cook on. I load and unload the dishwasher, and sometimes cook myself a meal, or in tonight's case, work on making something for the family.  I do this for anywhere from a half hour to an hour every night. This has become my nightly routine.
A request was made earlier in the week for more banana bread, so bananas were purchased and have been sitting on the counter ripening for the last several days. I started cleaning tonight, and got done as much as I could with the space I had, then decided the bananas were the perfect shade of brown to make the bread. They must be brown of course, not rotted brown, just brown. They have the best flavor and make the best bread. I wouldn't dare use a yellow banana in my bread. Save those for eating straight. Use the "bad ones" for the bread!
Why I forget that a blender is required for this recipe is beyond me. For some reason, in my mind, I can use the hand mixer. You cannot use the hand mixer for this recipe. It doesn't come out right. Nobody wants lumpy bananas in the bread. Ewe. Well tonight, as everyone in my household lay cozily sleeping in their beds, I had a mental debate about using the blender. My blender is really loud. Ninja blenders are great at cutting things, but unlike ninjas, they are not quiet. There might as well be a plane taking off in the kitchen. I knew running it would wake them all up, so I decided to just try the hand mixer. I mixed...and mixed...and mixed. Not happening. Lumps.
What was I going to do? I could save it for the morning, and just stick it in the fridge for now, but I didn't want to ruin the mix by putting it in there. Ahah!! Bright idea! There's an outlet in the pantry!!
My pantry is located at the end of my kitchen. It has a folding door to close it off...and it has an outlet. Perfect. I grab the blender, plug it in, scrape the contents from the bowl into the blender, walk into my closet-sized pantry, close myself in, and turn on the blender.
As I'm standing there for the 20 seconds it takes to blend my now pre-mixed egg, butter and banana concoction, I start laughing at the irony that I am, in fact, closed into my tiny pantry, with my blender on the floor, trying to keep the noise from waking everyone up. This is what my life has come to. Pantry closet banana bread.

I finish making the bread and pop it into the oven, making use of the next hour and fifteen minutes to check up on my latest cynical rant on Facebook and respond to everyone commiserating with me about it, encouraging me to get over it, or shaking their head while reading yet another of my dramatic, snarky takes on singleness. This is also my life. While I'm doing all this, I start smelling the bread. Oh, glorious bread. It's making my mouth water. This hour and a half can't move quickly enough. My belly is grumbling. "Feed me now!"
My kitchen is now the rest of the way clean. I have finished cleaning up the messes of the day, and now have cleaned up the flour explosion that happened, and my own mess from baking. When I cook, it's obvious. I dirty a ton of dishes, and somehow every surface. Flour was on the counter opposite of the one I was working on, and stuck in a corner no less. How did it get there? Magic, I guess.
The bread is finally done, and of course it must be tested. Duh! So I carve out a piece. The ends are the best, nice and crispy on the edges, then sweet, warm, tasty goodness in the middle. This is the way all bread should be. And then butter.
The dog is now following me around, hoping I'll trip (see her in the picture above), or drop something so she can get a piece of the action, and I sit down with my plate of heaven and bite into my own blessed creation. Yum.

The whole time I'm cleaning, cooking, Facebooking, then eating (it is nearing 3am as I write this), I'm thinking about the irony of my life. The last six weeks have been somewhat of a blur. My house has expanded by one person, a teenage person no less. My personal space has shrunk (diminished, really), my bank account has followed suit, as well as my free time, and the amount of sleeping hours I used to enjoy. My grey hairs have increased, however, as well as my stress level, the amount of nerves that people sit on every day while I try not to lose it, my chore load, as well as my knowledge of current slang terms and acronyms.
As I cleaned up the kitchen for the 5th time this week, wiped off the same counters I did last night, cleaned out the crockpot for what seemed like the bajillionth time, I tried not to be angry about having to take care of the people in my house, or the house itself. I tried not to be resentful or annoyed, or selfish, in feeling like I'm the only one that cleans anything up. Does anyone see this mess? How hard is it to bring your dishes from the living room to the kitchen? Doesn't anyone feel the dirty floors? And what about that pile of clean, folded clothes that has been sitting on the couch for the last five days, that I have asked her to take care of...for the last five days, that has been annoying me...for the last five days? I came home tonight, and there it is again, that stupid pile of clothes, those dirty dishes lying around, the same messes to clean up.
I should be grateful. I should be joyful. I should be a lot of things. Sometimes it's a real struggle to be them.
I do a lot of my best thinking when I'm cleaning. I hate to say it, but cleaning is a stress reliever for me. Sure, it's tiring and I hate doing it, but I feel relieved when it's done. It's like going to the gym, for me. I go in stressed, and come out with a clear head and some direction. Tonight was no different. As I cleaned my kitchen I worked through all those emotions I was feeling in doing so. I stood there at my sink thinking about the things I had asked God for, and how he had given so many of them to me, yet I hadn't noticed, and now was ungrateful for them. How selfish.
It was a tough pill to swallow. The answers to my prayers had come to me in ways I didn't expect, in ways that maybe I didn't appreciate as such, but they came. And now I have the choice to be grateful even when I'm tired, to be thankful even when I don't feel like it, and to appreciate the life I have, even if it's not always pretty and clean and just the way I expected it would be. This is my life, after all. I get to choose my actions and reactions.
So there I was, now with a plate full of yumminess about to enter my belly, the kitchen cleaned, my best thinking complete for the night, my anger and stress turned into resolved gratefulness towards the blessings I have been given.  I turned on some country on my iTunes Radio, grabbed a fork, and dug into that bread...that sweet pantry closet banana bread.

And then I wrote about it. :)

Still practicing...

Writer's Block & Substitute Parenting 2.0

 Oh, the sweet dry spells of writing.  Or not.

I haven’t written anything on this blog for…way too long.  I’m not even sure how long.  Two months almost my blogger tracker tells me!  I just know it’s been a long time, and I have felt it!  For a single girl I should have all the time in the world, right?  Right.

My life is always a little crazy.  I always have something going on, sometimes multiple things.  I try to take it all in stride, but sometimes that doesn’t happen.  And most of the time, I always end up cutting someone or something out that’s important to me. It’s inevitable.  There aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything.  But I hate it, because everyone I love, I love, and everything I do (for the most part) I really enjoy doing.  So, what gives?

In the last three weeks, my life literally took a 180, and I have ended up a substitute parent to my 15-year old cousin…again.  She was here about a year and-a-half ago for about 5 months.  It’s a bunch of family stuff I won’t get into, but it was a chance for her to be away from her life, and the issues that were happening around her.  It was incredibly hard, and incredibly rewarding during this time, as she not only survived, but thrived during her time here.

After being back home since then, she once again requested to come back.  This time, circumstances were a little bit different, but the whole situation was like deja vu.  Literally the time between her bringing up coming back, to the time she arrived, was about 12 days.  The necessity came because of school starting so early here in Arizona.  We knew she would need time to get acclimated again before starting school, so it was another rush job in getting her here.

So here she came, with two suitcases, 5 more boxes in the mail, and anxious expectations about the next 4 years of her stay here.  In the meantime, my bedroom was rearranged to make room for another twin bed, I got rid of some more stuff to make some space for her things, and we have put a dresser for her clothes in our dining room.  We’re making use of every inch of space in our two-bedroom apartment, for a third person.  She has what she needs and so do we, so the space crunch is just a little hiccup in the plan.

When moving into this two-bedroom, we ("we", as in my sister and I) got rid of all of her stuff, not expecting that she would be back.  Now, here we are 5 months into our lease, with no 3-bedroom option available, with none of her stuff, and left with the decision to do a quick move, or to put up with the lack of space until the lease ends next year.  We chose the latter.

Hello.  I am now a substitute parent for the next 4 years.  I’m currently sharing my bedroom with a 15-year old, and have spent the last three weeks preparing for her arriving, preparing her for school beginning this week, cooking meals, cleaning, running errands, furnishing a room, moving her in, building Ikea furniture, and trying hard to get 8 hours of sleep a night.  Oh, AND I started a new job last week, with a completely different schedule.  So...yah, about that.

Writing has just seemed to take a back burner.  Honestly, I love writing, but I have been getting writer’s block for a while now, since my last post.  I have about 5 posts written, all unfinished.  They’re about halfway completed.  I get to this point while writing them, and then…nothing.  I can’t seem to finish the story.

I’m starting to get a little complex about it, actually.  I know writer’s block happens, but I’m the type of person that scans their innermost being to find out the reasons why I do things, and what my motive is in doing them.  I’m not quite sure if this is a good or bad thing. So, I overthink this writer's block as something deep inside of me that is blocking my chi.  I don't know that really.  I just threw it in there.  But really, I do feel like something is blocked there.  The flow is gone.  Maybe I'm just tired, maybe I can't string two thoughts together right now, maybe I don't have anything to say.  Okay, that last one is definitely not the reason.  Maybe I'm just in a mellow kind of mood lately.  Whatever it is, the writer's block thing is seriously annoying, and needs to hit the road.

I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about butterflies lately.  Relating my life to them, feeling somehow resembled to them.  And that has had me wondering why.  I’ll writing on this topic soon.  It’s one of my unfinished projects.  Hah.

With becoming a guardian, and parenting a 15-year old, I’m sure I will have many stories to share, and they may not all be related to singleness.  The blog name is staying the same for now, but this journey is anything but focused on being alone.  I may feel alone many times, but I am never really alone.  Few of us rarely are.

Now I just have to find a way to get past this writer’s block, and finish the works I’ve started.  I could write all day, but I have a job, have a kid to take care of, and have to get out of my house sometimes too.  I have enough inspiration to keep me going forever, but time is something I haven't learned to stretch.  

The other day I got to listen for almost an hour and-a-half, while the teenager pulled out every single item of make-up she owns, told me where she got it from, how much it cost, and if she liked it or not and why.  I was laughing on the inside, but she needed my attention.  Even though it seemed ridiculous, and I had to ask her to speed up her presentation a few times, it still meant something to her that I was watching and listening.  My summation of the make-up presentation, however, is that she “loves” about 5 different lipsticks, and has more eye shadow than a room full of drag queens.  I don’t know how one person could use all that, but then again, I’m not a teenager anymore. 

Thank god for that!! :)

Blessings!

Part 2 - The Dream!

Time for Part 2.

None of this will really make sense without reading Part 1, so if you somehow saw this, but never got a chance to read my last blog, go there, read it, and then come back!

I believe we all have dreams inside of us.  They start out when we’re young, mostly consisting of professions like nurse, teacher, doctor, fireman, etc.  When we get older our dreams are to get out the house, go to college and make a million dollars.  And even further down the road we start thinking about families, houses, stable jobs, retirement accounts, and traveling.  But is that really all we dream about?  I tend to think not.

In the midst of aimless wandering around life, we can land in this place of enlightenment – that sweet spot where it seems the gods are shining down on us, and the light bulb of life suddenly goes off and we just “know” what we are meant to do with our lives.  It’s a great feeling.  I feel we are made for a purpose, and without one, life can seem point-less.

It took me a while to have this ah-ha moment.  In high school I had dreams of going to art school for interior design, but I also wanted to be a CEO of a major company.  Then in college I wanted to become a missionary, traveling around the world.  Then I settled into a busy life doing anything and everything under the sun, all fun things and things I loved, but spreading myself thin and remaining unfocused.

Then, the worst thing in my life happened.  A tragedy.

I went from being totally independent to totally DEpendent .  I went from being active to being completely sedentary, not even able to sit up.  I went from walking to being confined to a wheelchair.  I couldn’t put on a pair of socks, couldn’t turn myself on my side in bed, had zero energy, lost weight, my muscles atrophied.  I went from having a will to live to wanting to die.  Why is this important?  Because there are so many people feeling JUST the same way, going through SO many of these exact things, and feeling helpless, hopeless, and ALONE.

I sometimes feel that the easiest part of my journey was being IN the hospital because I had a handicap accessible place to stay, someone delivered food to me every day, and my bedding was changed and room was cleaned without me lifting a finger (well, almost).  But when I left the hospital and nursing home, and moved into a regular home, and eventually back to my mom’s house…well, that’s when the real fun began.

Can’t fit the wheelchair in the house because the doorways and hallways aren’t big enough.  Great.  So I use the walker, which also barely fits, and I have to “walk” sideways to get into the bathroom.  How do I get into the tub?  Oh cool, they have these really cool bench seats you can get where you can slide in.  What about sleeping?  How do I do that?  How do I get in and out of bed without hurting myself?  How do I put my socks on?  And what about going to the bathroom on a toilet that’s so low I have to hold onto the counter and tub and lower myself onto it?  These aren’t really things you think about until you’re staring at your sock, then your foot, you are restricted from bending over, and you suddenly realize you lack the necessary tools to perform any basic living functions.

And you can forget about housework.  How are you supposed to vacuum a house while you’re only allowed to use the back of one foot to stand on?  Exactly.  Then there are the 15 weekly doctors, therapy, and counseling sessions you need to attend.  Who’s going to drive you?  You certainly can’t do it yourself!  You can’t grocery shop by yourself either because now you need to ride in the motorized cart, standing up every time to get something off the shelf, so that by the time you make it halfway down the first aisle you’re ready to collapse from exhaustion.

You can’t work either, so how do you survive?  Where can you get help?  What about health insurance, disability and community organizations to go to that offer assistance?  How do you find out about those, and what do you need to do in order to apply, or better yet, qualify?

This was my personal experience.

Because of the legal aspects of my case, I was connected with a victim’s advocacy network through the state of Pennsylvania.  These were the most awesome people!  Funds were available to help me with out of pocket expenses, which added up quickly.  I had an amazing community in my church, which also took up donations for me while I was in the nursing home, to help out.  They helped move my stuff out of my apartment and into storage while I was in the hospital, even painting my room back to normal.  They took care of me and my family in every way.  I transitioned to a friend’s handicap accessible house after the nursing home, had a mom who stayed with me from the time I was in the hospital until I was ready to be on my own again, 6 years later.

I had family, friends and community.  But later on when I was finally on my own, but still needed help I was lost as to where to go to get help.  Try to think about what you would do and where you would go if you suddenly had nothing, could do nothing, and had no one to help you.  What would you do?  Unfortunately, there are many people in this exact position.

One of the most frustrating experiences I went through was going to a community organization to try and get financial assistance for my medical bills.  The first time I went, I made it up to the desk only to find out I needed 6 other items to prove my financials, housing and proof of nationality in order to even be seen.  The next time I came, in so much pain, with my 6 items, only to sit for 3 hours with several other people waiting to speak with someone.  I finally got called, the person rattling off a list of questions, taking copies of my documents, and sitting for another half hour before hearing I wasn’t eligible for anything because I “made too much”.  As I hobbled away in even more pain, and now even more discouraged, now with a list of several other organizations in the area who “may be able to help”, I couldn’t help but think this was the worst waste of time, and I was never going to get the help I needed.  It ended up being true, as I went through that list, visiting a couple more places, getting more lists of more places to go, and never receiving any help.

I got to thinking about ways this could be simplified, how things could be different.

What if…

There was a one stop shop.  A networking center, partnered with all services in the private, public, state, federal and local governmental services as part of a database.  Clients come in once with all their paperwork, signatures and demographics, enter this information into the database and are matched with available programs based on their eligibility for those programs, and the needs they have.

What if that same networking agency was then able to fill out applications for all eligible programs, using signatures on file, or using an online signature program, so the client can sign off from the comfort of home?  These applications could then be submitted directly on their behalf.

Not only would this facility do the networking, but there would also be affiliated social workers, available to meet with clients and/or organizations to liaise on their behalf. 

The other side of the coin is helping people to remain in the homes they have, and finding ways to make that affordable and logistically possible.  To make this a possibility there would be a website, kind of like an “Angie’s List” for disabled people.  After building strong vendor relationships and partnerships, specials and discounted services would be made available for people within this network.  Services would include anything needed to keep people in the homes they love, or to make them as comfortable and self-sufficient as possible in the place they call home.  Anything from housekeeping, pet care, grocery shopping, personal groomers, visiting nurses/doctors, landscaping, home repair, home renovations to expand doorways, build ramps into your home, etc., purchase discounts for handicapped vehicles, medical supplies, medical service providers, automotive repair, etc., etc., etc.  You name it, it’s on there.  Clients can also rate all of these vendors and providers, and provide feedback on services they received. 

You’re probably sitting here thinking, “This girl is nuts!  This is impossible to do in one lifetime!”  Perhaps it is.  I may only get to do one of these things on the list, or maybe find a place that’s already doing one of the things on this list, and help them in their goals.  A dream is never a concrete thing.  The vision and mission of one’s dream is solid, but the logistical and practical applications of those dreams can take on many forms.

You might be able to understand why I’ve been holding onto this dream for 5 years, just keeping it to myself, in my little treasure box.  The problem with treasure boxes is…that’s where the treasure stays…in a box.  It was time to let it out and give it breath.  It just seemed like the right time.

I recently had an opportunity to take a position with a local health organization.  I had other offers at the time, but felt like taking this position would put me in line with my future goals, giving me networking capabilities with social workers, patient advocates, vendor relations and purchasing, marketing, non-profits, and even database engineers.  I couldn’t have asked for a better “in”.  I don't believe things "just happen".  This is a God-sized dream, full of God moments in the making of it!

So now what?  Ummmmm…well, that’s a good question!  I honestly have no idea.  Well, I have some idea.  I know the occupational experience and school I need to get in order to have a solid foundation.  I know I need to develop a business plan and network, network, NETWORK!  

Sometimes I get all panicked about this God-sized idea, and then He reminds me that He’s the one who put it in my heart, so I should just relax and let him handle it.  Then there are other times where I feel a sense of urgency, and like I am wasting time at 35 years old, wondering how this dream is going to play out.  I mean really.  This is a LOT to take on.  That seems like the biggest understatement on the planet!

So as scary as it is, putting this on paper, giving it breath, making me nervous about the accountability I will face from others and myself on how my life is stacking up to this crazy idea I have in my head, at least it’s out there.

It’s out there!

Oh, did I mention I want to write a book and do speaking engagements?

Hey, if you’re gonna go grandiose, you might as well shoot for the moon!!

Part I - The Nightmare

I have lived in Arizona for about 2 ½ years and now have this amazing community of friends that I love dearly. I believe the more you get to know people, the more you find you DON’T know about them, and the treasures and pains they hold close to their heart. Sometimes unearthing these treasures and pains is like chipping away at a block of ice. Other times it’s like finding a geyser, looking inconspicuous at first, but when it erupts you stand in awe of what’s in front of you. Even with this amazing community of friends, I have yet to see so many treasures erupted and pain chipped away. We are all a work in progress, are we not? We all have these pains and treasures that have shaped our lives in ways we usually never see coming.

In my eyes, my story is no different than anyone else’s. I have suffered pain, have felt love, have experienced tragedy and have counted blessings innumerable. So, it is with that understanding that I write this. This is part one (and a VERY compacted part one) of a story I have been encouraged to write. What story? My dream. But the dream I have comes from a part of my life where I experienced tremendous hurt and pain. Isn’t that just the way of it? Beauty from ashes, blessings from curses, and triumph from tragedy? My dream story will be Part 2, so hang in there. I’m in the midst of school and traveling, and new jobs. Somewhere in there Part 2 will be written, but Part I needs to be shared first, because without it, the dream won’t make sense. So…here it goes.

There is a part of my near past that has really shaped who I am. For a long time it defined my very existence, but now it has become an unshakable part of my past, and a catalyst and purpose for my future. I have mentioned to people “an accident”, and they look at me strangely. Lots of people have car accidents. Lots of people go through tragedies…

In July of 2004 I was a 25 (almost 26) year old, very independent woman, living just outside Philadelphia, PA, where I had moved three years prior. Life was good. I was working at a private university where I stood ten classes short of finishing my Bachelor’s degree. I was also involved in an amazing church, sung in the choir, played piano in the praise band, acted in the Easter plays, helped lead a single’s group, and taught Kindergarten Sunday School classes. I loved my life. At 25, I made no time for any dating relationship. Who would have the time with that kind of schedule?! Hah! My days were full. My life was full…of all these things I loved. And I was started to feel like maybe this schedule was a bit too much, that maybe I was neglecting my personal life in all the business. After all, school was getting more difficult, it was probably time for something to go.

I was a couple of weeks into the second summer session of school. It was a Thursday afternoon, and I was headed down I-95 from my job in New Jersey, to my home in Levittown, PA. Since it was the summer, we got off early, which was great because I had a vet appointment to take my dog to as soon as I got home. It was a beautifully clear day, sunny and warm. I had the windows down, the radio up and cruising along…after getting through the daily traffic jam at the bridge, of course!

I was about 3 miles from my exit when I started to hear sirens. I could tell they were getting closer, but I couldn’t see any emergency vehicles. “Oh well”, I thought, “I’ll move over anyway, just to be safe.” Traffic was backed up on the other side of the divided highway. “Maybe there was an accident”, I thought to myself. Traffic was heavy, in a little cluster as I was trying to move to the outside lane. There was an entrance ramp there as well. If you know anything about driving in that area, you’ll understand when I say if you have an inch, you take it, and I was looking for an inch to squeeze into.

Off to the side in the large grass median area I saw a pickup truck, looking like it was trying to make a U-turn from the other side of the highway onto our side to avoid the traffic backed up on his side. This was pretty common practice out there, so I thought nothing of it. He wasn’t going fast, or driving erratically. I was more concerned about moving my car over because I kept hearing the sirens from this seemingly invisible emergency vehicle!

I turned my head back around from looking in the next lane for an open spot and there he was, his dark green pickup truck like a flash of white light. I screamed and hit the brakes.

“Ma’am. Can you hear me? Ma’am, can you hear me?! I’m ______ from the ______ department. If you can hear me, can you say something?” I don’t know if you consider groaning a response, but it was the best I could get out, and at least he knew I wasn’t dead. My body felt immovable, straight down to the vocal chords. That’s the first thing I remember.

What seemed like seconds later it was another attempt from someone (I think) from the fire department. Being down the street, it didn’t take them long to arrive. This time I was a little more responsive. I think he asked for my name this time, which I’m pretty sure I gave him. And then he asked me to move my foot. And I remember this clear as day because I suddenly became aware that I couldn’t feel it, nor could I move it. A slight panic set in. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I could feel blood running down my arm. I don’t remember hearing any other sounds until my next memory.

“Okay Ma’am, we’re going to have to cut you out of the car. You’re going to hear some loud noises, and a bunch of crunching metal. Don’t be scared. I’m just going to put this towel over your face to make sure we don’t get any glass on you. Just hang in there. We’re going to get you out of here.” I honestly had no idea what was happening. I mean, I knew where I was, I knew I had been hit, but other than that I was in an unconscious state. I do, however, remember the sounds of the Jaws of Life as they peeled the roof off of my car.

Up until this point I had no feeling of pain necessarily. It felt like my body was stiff, immovable and like someone had a heavy press lying on top of my body. That’s the best way I can describe it. I had no idea of what, if anything, in my body was injured. That is until it came time to extract me from the car. Enter…pain.

I’m no small fry to begin with, but now I was a large fry AND dead weight. Thank God for hefty firemen! As they lifted me out of the vehicle I knew I was injured badly. I would later find out that my pelvis and hip were completely shattered on my right side, all the way through to my acetabulum, a very hard bone to break (so I hear). Basically, my leg was holding on by skin, tissue and muscle. The bones that used to hold it together were now in pieces. So as my leg dangled there, as I was being lifted out of my car, the first words I screamed in pain were, “MY LEG!!!” And that is what I kept screaming.

I was taken to the local hospital where I was met by an amazing trauma team. I don’t remember seeing anything. I must have had my eyes closed. My right eye had been split open. But I remember the list of questions. Name, date of birth, social security number, phone number, emergency contact, their phone number, closest relative, their phone number, blood type, etc., etc., etc. I rattled them off like I wasn’t even in an accident. I even told them which pocket in my messenger bag my cell phone was in so they could contact my family. It was obvious I had no brain injuries.

Then they started asking about what happened, what color was the car that hit you, what do you remember? They told me I was doing great. I asked them what happened to the other driver. “He’s here too…unfortunately”, said the nurse. I asked what happened. “He was drunk, Sweetie. Unfortunately, we have to treat him just like we do you. But, don’t worry, he’s surrounded by police and he’s not going anywhere.” I asked if he was hurt. “Just bumps and bruises.” “That figures”, I thought to myself.

The doctor (who was super awesome) says to me, “It’s okay to let it out. If you want to be mad, you can just scream, yell, and cuss him out, whatever you want. You’re not going to hurt our feelings at all.” My response was “I’m not that kind of girl.” That made everyone laugh. That doctor remembered me for that, and reminded me of it when he came to visit me at a different hospital several weeks later. It was apparent at this point that along with no brain injuries, I also had no loss of my Midwestern sarcasm and good girl manners.

Despite my funny comment, I was actually in and out of consciousness the whole time, and very weak. I was able to talk to my mom. The nurse thought it would be good for my mom to hear my voice before she spoke with her, so she dialed the number and held the phone up to my ear. My mom answered the phone.

“Mommy?”
“Hi baby. What’s wrong?” (She could tell.)
“I got in an accident.”
“What?!”
“And I have to have surgery.”
“What???!!!”
“I have to go now because I’m starting to fall asleep again. The nurse is going to talk to you now.”

I was out again. But the next hour and a half became the quickest packing and preparation period my mom ever had in her life. With a suitcase full of magazines (for the hours of waiting room time she planned on having) and summer clothes (because she wasn’t staying long, of course), they hit the road for the 12-hour drive from Michigan to Center City Philadelphia, where I was being transferred.

By this point there was a small army of people from my church camped out in the waiting area praying for me. My family started calling everyone I knew. My friend Mary, who worked at the hospital started calling my family and friends, and passing out numbers from my cell phone to my sister, who called everyone to let them know what happened.

Because my injuries were so extensive, and the insurance I had allowed it, I was air lifted to a trauma hospital in downtown Philadelphia, where I would spend the next six weeks, undergoing two 10-hour pelvic reconstruction surgeries, at the skillful hands of my amazing, amazing, amazing surgeon, Dr. Susan Harding.

My parents and step-parents came in right away, my dad and stepmom arriving first. I actually don’t remember what I said to them. I remember being extremely anxious for my mom to arrive. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my dad there, because I absolutely did. But I needed my mom for this one. I needed my mom to tell me I was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t true. After I was airlifted, most of my church people had to go home, as the security staff strictly patrolled the waiting room and freed it from “evil after-hours visitors”. Shame on them!

My mom had only been there a half an hour when they tried to kick her out because visiting hours were over. I’m not sure if “angry mama bear” is an accurate enough description of what took place in that moment. Needless to say, mom was staying…after some intervention by hospital administration.

Three holes were drilled through my knee area, and a traction rod was put in. It was attached to a pulley that hung off the end of my bed with weights to keep my leg dislocated. The purpose was to keep the intact part of my femur from getting damaged further from the other pieces of bone. A week went by before my first surgery to allow time for the swelling to go down. In the meantime, I lay almost motionless, except for bedding changes.

Bedding changes started the day after I arrived. First, I was disconnected from the pulleys then I was turned on each side. I cannot describe the pain this caused. The thing about being loaded up on drugs is all of your inhibitions are removed, so when you’re writhing in pain, you scream…which I did - enough to send my mom to the hallway throwing up. I went through this every day. It’s the worst pain I have ever been in in my life. I can’t describe it any other way.

After 2 weeks in to my 6-week stay at the hospital, I was still under the assumption that my injuries would only need about 6 weeks of recovery time. I mean, what did I know?? They had just completed surgery number 1 and I was still optimistic. My spirits were still up, my determination still at peak. I was ready to get out of there! The first blow came when I actually asked the doctor about the recovery time. At this point, no one had told me anything. I think that was on purpose.

The words, “At least a year” hit my ears like a ton of bricks. “A year”, I asked, and then started sobbing. A year of my life, are you kidding me?! What about school? What about work? What about my life?!

I endured another surgery, and then it was time to start preparing for my exit from the hospital. It would have been lovely to go home and recover there, but that was not an option. Instead, my mom took on the task of trying to find a suitable nursing care/rehabilitation facility for her now immobilized daughter to start therapy in. After several visits to nearby places, we found a place not far from where I lived.

During this entire hospital stay, I had a constant flow of visitors, some I don’t remember seeing at all because I was so drugged I slept most of the time. My 26th birthday was three days before the accident. A couple of guys from my singles group brought in cake and sang to me. I missed that entire party. I was there, and have a picture of me sleeping with the cake sitting on my bed. Good times.

My constant visitors were people from my church mostly. My room was full of banners from kids that I taught at church, stuffed animals, flowers. You name it, it was in there. Food was brought to feed my family and visitors practically every day. The staff at the hospital made room for our stuff in the refrigerator, and we gladly shared food with them. We always had a ton of leftovers. Oddly, the thing I craved the most while I was there was fruit. Word got around, and fruit was put on the delivery menu.

My mom had moved into the hospital. You think I’m joking. No, she was literally sleeping there…on one of those horrible chairs. When they finally moved me to a private room, she was upgraded to being allowed to sleep in the empty bed next to me. She deserved to stay at the Ritz. Not only did she move in, she also took over my care.

Several times, my mom stepped in when mistakes were made in my care, saving me from massive infections, and delays in my progress. She became my advocate, fighting for me while I slept. She changed my bed sheets, gave me my sponge baths, handled all the bedpans (ewe), and kept me going. She became the rock I leaned on for every single thing. This was both good and bad, to be so reliant on her, but I am confident when I say if my mom hadn’t been there, my recovery would have taken a very different route.

When my dad and stepmom came to visit, I had friends who lent them a car, and gave them a place to stay. My stepdad was housed as well when he came out to visit and eventually stayed along with my mom. There wasn’t a need I had that was not taken care of by the people in my life. My church took up a donation for me to help with any extra expenses I had, in addition to everything else they did. They were such examples of Christian love.

My time in the nursing home was hard. There is no other word to describe it. I not only had to learn how to walk again, but I had to do so on one half of one foot. See, not only was my right leg damaged and completely non-weight bearing, but my left big toe had been crushed as well. Two 3-inch long pins were inserted into my foot to keep the bones set in place. I was fitted with a special boot that only allowed me to put pressure on the back side of that foot. Walking turned into more of a test of arm strength than anything else. It was a terrifying process.

I spent another six weeks in the nursing home learning how to walk. I was finally able to sit, but only at up to a 60 degree angle. That was how I would sit for another few months after I left too. That’s what had to be done in order for my pelvis to heal. I had a special wheelchair that allowed me to sit at different angles.

I had victories in the nursing home like being able to “walk” ten feet. Walking was with a walker and 3 people surrounding me, but still, I did it. I even learned how to do a stair. I actually sat on a toilet for the first time (at a 60 degree angle). I even got to take my first shower (in my wheelchair). It felt so good. I sat under the water for so long I got so weak. The Bible study group I was a part of at my church, relocated to my nursing home, holding their weekly meetings in the visitor’s room so I could attend if I felt up to it.

But my time in the nursing home also brought new challenges. Depression hit so hard I thought about taking my own life. I developed a Deep Vein Thrombosis in my leg, so that was another ER trip, and then anti-coagulant treatments for the next three years. And then I had to figure out where to go next after the nursing home.

Thankfully, word got around my church family (yet again), and a friend of a friend had a handicap accessible house for both my mom and I to stay in. Finally, a real bed! I wheeled around, becoming more independent in my bathroom and shower use, but still lacking a lot of strength when it came to getting around. I had in-home physical therapy and occupational therapy visits until I was able to travel more in the car to go to the office.

After about another six weeks there, it was time for me to make a more permanent decision about my care. I was about ready to start weight-bearing on my legs, and physical therapy was about to get more intense. I made the decision to go back to Michigan and continue my care. After almost 4 months, I said goodbye to my wonderful friends and second family, fully expecting to be back and working at the end of this “yearlong” recovery.

By January of 2005 I started pool therapy. I loved it. I used this machine that I slid onto from my wheelchair that would move me over the pool and lower me in. Then I would get out, but would have to hop on my better leg until I got into much deeper water. The deeper the water, the less pressure on my legs to hold me up. The first time I put both feet on the ground and stood up straight I was so happy. It felt amazing! I was only allowed to do this for very short periods of time at first. But the more time went by the longer the stretches, and the shallower the water.

Not only was there pool time 3 times a week, but also strength and mobility training the other days of the week. Every day my mom would drive me to doctor’s appointments. And it wasn’t just therapy appointments; it was the family doctor, the orthopedic, the x-rays, the MRI’s, the this, the that. It was painful…so painful. It was stressful, exhausting and laboring for me and my family.

Getting around my house was a challenge. Getting into the bathtub was a challenge. Getting into the car was a challenge. Everything was a challenge, took 50 times longer than normal, and was more time and stress on my mom, who was still wearing all the hats! There were people and things that helped along the way, but it was just hard. That’s all there is to it.

I’m skipping over SO MANY details during this time. I could go on and on, and tell so many stories of things that happened over what turned out to be my 7-year recovery process. I say seven years, because it was after that that I started working again, but honestly my recovery continues even today. I have pain every day. There are certain things I can’t do anymore, always precautions I have to take, and things I have to consider before doing many of the things I love. But I am walking, biking, hiking, dancing, and finally laughing again.

My move to Arizona was not by chance, but a choice I made for my own health. It turned out to be a great one! I feel like the weather and heat has allowed me to do many of these things. I wish I could live near the water, because I am happiest parking my butt on a beach and just listening to the waves roll in, and watching the sunset fall on the water. But my body can’t survive there anymore…at least not right now. So I survive in the desert!

I have looked back on this time in my life and grieve over the things that happened. Grieving for things is healthy. Ignoring the things I went through is just as detrimental as dwelling on them. So I grieve when I need to, and then I count my blessings. And this is what I stand on. Blessings, upon blessings, upon more blessings. I can’t even count them all, there are so many. And they came from this community of people I had surrounding me and my family. Most immediately were my church friends where I lived in PA, and my family. But my story made its way around the world, where people prayed earnestly for me about every detail of my recovery.

When I really think about the people praying for me, all the blessings, the protection, the providence in my life it gets really overwhelming. For a long time, I felt guilty for surviving, and even thriving. I met so many people along my journey that have lost loved ones, or have suffered horrific injuries in accidents similar to mine. I would feel so bad, and wonder why I survived, why I was given the blessing of walking, among other things. I questioned God so many times. Why did this happen to me? And at the same time, why save me and not them? Why let me walk again, and not them?

The answer is I don’t know. I don’t know why bad things happen to good people, why good things happen to bad people, and why some suffer, while others thrive. These are the questions I’ll bring to Heaven, because I think the answers are reserved for God alone. I do know that in the midst of my struggle I was given a verse from 2 Corinthians 2:4, “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” I hated this verse when it was given to me. Absolutely hated it!! But the more I have lived it, the more I understand it.

This brings me to Part 2 of my story, which will come later – The Dream. It’s been on my heart for about 5 years now, and I know it’s where I’m headed. It’s one of those God-sized dreams, the kind you know you can’t do on your own because it’s so huge you couldn’t possibly. With everything that He has allowed and given me in my life, I can only believe that it is with purpose, for a reason I may or may not fully understand in my lifetime. But I can be sure that my life has meaning, that this disaster in my life had purpose, and that without the people in my life I had carrying me through everything I would not be the same person I am today.
Please stay tuned for Part 2 of this story!

Here, Let Me Push You!

Wow, it's been almost a year since I posted anything.  Yikes.  Alright, here it goes...

My church has been going this series titled "The Worst Friend Ever".  While you might think it's all about having a bad friend, or what to do with bad friends, it's really about asking yourself if you ARE the bad friend!  The series was, I believe, on week #4 today, and the message brought this morning is really resonating in my heart.

Our pastor likes to use props and demonstrations to get his point across, and he's very conversational in his "preaching", which I love.  He's talking with us, not at us, or down to us.  It's refreshing.  This morning he asked for a volunteer.  The man got up on stage, and Pastor Linn explains to him that he's going to push him in a direction, and wanted the man to resist him.  The prop at the other end of this was a cross.  It was to illustrate, a friend pushing the other friend towards the cross, towards Jesus.

The whole point this morning was that we, as Christians, need to surround ourselves with people who will push/nudge/guide/nurture us towards Jesus, and asking ourselves if we have and are those kinds of friends.  My immediate reaction was yes, I do have those kinds of friends!  I have this amazing support system, this community of believers who speak truth into my life, who challenge my thinking and my heart, to follow God in everything I do.  And we walk this way together, not because we are better, smarter, or holier than anyone else, but because we are called to be this in each others' lives.  We are called to edify, encourage and support each other.

I, of course, have friends that are not "of my faith", and therefore don't necessarily point me in the direction of God.  Am I any less whole for having these people in my life?  No, because they offer a perspective that my Christian friends can't.  They challenge my thinking, my beliefs, and my faith.  They test me, maybe even criticize me at times.  As our pastor put it this morning, they "drain me".  The "draining" process can be both good and bad, and I better make sure I have people there ready to help fill me back up again.  (The friends that point me right back to God.)

It got me thinking though.  If you're pushing a friend towards Jesus, that means they're either resisting, or they're walking the opposite direction, because you're having to push.  If you were just walking alongside them, in the same direction, no action would be necessary.  So, how does it go for you when you're pushing someone the opposite direction?  You meet resistance.  How does that translate into friendship?  Do you love silently?  In other words, do you not say something or do something you know you should, to help your friend, because you're worried about it "ruining" the relationship, or causing friction?  Or do you face the fact that it might make things awkward, it might get really uncomfortable, that person might reject you, hate you, walk away completely from you, and do what's right in love for this person?  Tough decision.

I was having a discussion with a man in our singles group after coming out of this service.  He hadn't been yet, so he was unaware of the message.  We were talking about how sometimes people say, "Oh, all I need is God.  I don't need people in my life to fulfill me."  Seriously?  God created us to live with people, to be in community.  We are the essence of God in people's lives.  God can't hug you, deliver food to your house when you've got so much going on you can't think about planning meals.  He can't loan you a car, run to your aid when you're in trouble.  But His people can!

So, why do people say that God is all I need, and I'm just fine without friends or people in my life?  I mean, I get it.  I get that God can supply our every need.  But He does that in so many ways.  One is through people.  I honestly think that the main reason we want to retreat to a world less people is because it's freakin' hard to deal with people!!

Relationships are it.  It's like the thing that makes the world go 'round.  But we're flawed humans!!  We screw up ALL the time!!  We do and say hurtful things to each other every day, and have to apologize, forgive, move on and deal, all while balancing the consequences of what we do with learning to forgive ourselves, accept forgiveness, still knowing that we're going to jack things up again the very next day.  It's a mess!!  We try, we really do.  But honestly, we're just plain and simple flawed.  It's these flaws in ourselves and in others that make living in a community so hard.  It's humbling, scary, and flat out annoying knowing that no matter how hard we try, we're still going to fail someone or ourselves, in some way(s).  Wouldn't it be grand if we were all perfect?!  Some say yes, most say no.  The jury's still out. :)

All I'm saying is, I have friends in my life that when the going gets tough they offer one-liners and "that's too bad's", or "you should try meditation or yoga", and then I have other friends that point me to Jesus and say, "Go ask for wisdom, forgiveness and grace, because he's the only one big enough to give it, and he's the only one who's never going to fail you."  And while sometimes I Really hate hearing that, and want to tell them to "buzz off and just feel sorry for me for once", I know they're right.

They might be pushing me towards Jesus against my stubborn will, but at least they're pushing me in the right direction!!

And if that doesn't work, there are always the proverbial 2 x 4's upside the head.

I was challenged this morning to look at myself AS a friend.  Am I being That friend?  Am I joining God in what He's doing in the lives of my friends?  Am I helping them stay on that path?  Am I showing love at all costs?
And what about my friends?  Am I surrounding myself with people who are guiding me back to Jesus?  Are my friends filling me, or draining me?

Can't wait for next week's challenge in "The Worst Friend Ever" series!

Little Jesus Worshiper

I went to a Diamondbacks baseball game the other night, which included fireworks and a concert from The David Crowder Band.  I went with a large group of friends from the singles group that I attend.  It was a lot of fun watching the game, catching up with friends, eating hot dogs and a couple handfuls of cotton candy.  What a great weeks end!
I had never had the opportunity to hear The David Crowder Band in person, but am a fan of their music, so I was excited to be able to go to this concert.  I dig his style, and his sold out lyrics and music, praising Jesus through worship and a good 'ole country hoedown.
As I was sitting there in the stands, listening to beautiful music on an absolutely gorgeous night, I looked over to to see a young girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, hands in the air, singing along and praising Jesus.
A general definition given to the term "reckless abandon" is this:  "To do or say something without regards for the consequences".  Children have this down pat!  The older we get, the more we lose that innocent, childlike faith.  Children can see things we adults cannot, because for the most part they are untainted by the world around them.  They have imaginations that run wild, and trust far easier than adults who have experienced hurts and lies from people they were meant to trust.
Matthew 19:13-14 shares a tiny blip about a few parents bringing their children to Jesus, and being shewed away by his disciples.  Almost as if they were annoyed with these people for bringing their children to Jesus, when he had so many other important things he could be doing.  Jesus was a busy guy.  He didn't have time for these kids.  What do they need from him anyways?  There are tons of hurting people out here all wanting him to save them, help them, heal them.  Surely these children didn't have these kinds of urgent matters to attend to.
But Jesus corrects his disciples, "Let the children come to me.  Don't stop them!  For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children."  Childlike faith.  Reckless abandon.
Scripture is littered with examples of people forsaking all for Christ, and yet it took me forever to feel comfortable raising my hands in worship, IN CHURCH!  The place where I am among fellow believers, and I am worried about what THEY think instead of worshiping God with everything I have, and no regard for anything else.
This little girl, who I watched as she sang and waved her hands in the air, unconcerned with who was watching or what anyone else thought of her, reminded me of the childlike sincerity that God desires from each of his children.  We have an audience of One!
It made me smile, watching this little Jesus-worshiper, and knowing that God was smiling too, as this child, in reckless abandon, let her soul free in worship. :)  What an example!

Camping in Sedona!

I remember camping as a child.  It was definitely not my favorite thing to do.  My main memory is of camping with my grandparents, and having to sleep on this bed that was about 6 inches away from the ceiling of the camper.  I couldn't move.  It was hot.  It was so uncomfortable.  That, and walking half a mile to the restrooms. 
I've had some better experiences camping as an adult, which gave me a little courage to take a camping trip with my friends, and 60 other single people, to Sedona this past weekend.  The group is part of a local Phoenix church, and a group that I had never met before.  I was glad to go with a couple of friends, for that reason, and decided I could handle 24 hours of "pot toilets" and all things camping.
 
Honestly, saying I was "roughing it" out in the wild, would be a far stretch, as dinner was hot dogs, hamburgers and tons of other food.  Breakfast was bacon, eggs, muffins, fruit, and even more food.  I spent the night in my van, with an air mattress and blankets.  And although we had no hand-washing stations, and the bathroom stalls were just a deep hold in the ground with a toilet in a large stall, that was the extent of the "hardships".

Driving into Sedona, Arizona is breathtaking.  Everything red (rocks and dirt) juxtaposed with the desert flora and fauna, and the green of the trees, including pines, and the white of the alpines, makes you stand there in awe of things so beautiful.  Huge mountain cliffs everywhere, that look like hiking thrills waiting to happen, until you get close and realize how massive these things are. 
My traveling companions and I stopped at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, which is built into the side of a mountain.  From the road, you can see the huge cross against the glass of the side of the chapel.  It's beautiful.  Even more so when you go into the chapel.  That glass wall you can see from the road, once inside give you a breathtaking view of Sedona, while the huge cross casts shadows through the room.  It is peaceful and serene, the kind of place I could spend an hour or two in just praying, thinking, reflecting.  But there was no time for that.  Although I did get a picture, and that will have to do!

Normally I find a sitter for my dog for trips like this, but I decided it was time for Neena to get out of the house and enjoy the great outdoors.  I was a little worried about her "spunky" attitude being too much for such a large group of people, but she did great.  This trip wore her out, which kept her calm, and she had fun visiting all the people in our group.  I'm pretty sure she loved being the center of attention!

We got to the campsite, which was on a creek.  Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love the water,  so this immediately drew my attention.  Forget the hiking, the camp games, and get me to the water!  Within 30 minutes my water shoes were on and I was down in the creek trying to walk the rocks while carrying the dog.  Not the smartest of ideas, but my dog doesn't like the water.  It worked out fine, and I was able to make my way out into the middle of the creek, park myself on a rock, and enjoy the beautiful scenery.

The creek bed was bull of rocks and boulders, surrounded by trees, and through the trees...mountain cliffs.  It was so picturesque, like someone should have had a canvas out right there, painting this beautiful scene.  The water was cold at first, but was so refreshing I couldn't help but keep my legs and feet dangling in the current.  I could have stayed there all day, but eventually my body got tired of sitting on a rock.  So I did a little more wandering through the creek, and then made my way back to camp.

I decided to take some pictures along the creek, and as I was doing so, the dog yanked on the leash and my camera fell right out of my hands, straight into the dirt.  After thinking I got it all cleaned off, I tried to open and close it.  It got stuck.  It was broken.  Good thing I took a ton of pictures before it busted.  So much for my nice camera.  That lasted all of a month. :(

It was great to meet some new people on the trip.  I was surprised at how large the group was, and then found out that the group itself is about 250 people, all 20-30's singles.  Wow.  It was interesting to watch the eclectic group of people that attended.  Conversations sparked and invitations were made to come to more events, which I'm planning on doing.

Our night was filled with singing songs around the campfire, with a guitar, and 60 voices.  While our campground neighbors were enjoying Cinco De Mayo celebrations, we were singing and listening to one of the guys preach about God.  I couldn't help but think about how this must look to these people.  I'm sure they're thinking, "These people are crazy."  Not that I care.  I've been there, done that, wondering if my religion is real, if God is even real.  At this point, I know why I believe what I believe, and what other people think is not going to deter me from practicing my faith.  But as I've been through some things, my understanding of what other people think of Christians has grown.  There's more to say here, but I'll wait...

Since this was the night of the super moon, we were able to enjoy it from the outdoors.  Unfortunately, because we were in the mountains, we couldn't see it until it was all the way risen.  But, as I was sitting there enjoying the cedar wood campfire (heavenly smell, by the way), I looked past to the creek bed and thought for sure someone had a spotlight shining on it.  The moon was so bright!  We hiked up to the road to see it and take some pictures.  I love full moons, night skies, stars.  Love the stars.  I could stare up into a night sky for hours and still want more!

I had the smart idea of sleeping in my van again, which was awesome.  I had an air mattress, and egg crate mattress, blankets all lined up in the back.  Sleeping on the ground, or out in the open is wonderful, but cold temps and hard ground doesn't really go that well with all the metal residing in my body.  And while I'm miles better than I have ever been, I didn't want to push it.  I knew if I slept on the ground I would be so uncomfortable the next day.  Hence, the air mattress.  

My plan would have turned out great, except my air mattress sprung a leak, and somewhere in the middle of the night I woke up sleeping on the floor of my van, which was pretty much like sleeping on the ground.  I think I actually starting laughing at this point.  So much for that idea!  I woke up two times during the night, shivering cold.  The dog was shivering too, which is definitely not good.  Good thing I was in the van.  I just turned the car on for ten minutes the first time, let it get warm and then went back to sleep.  The second time however, I woke up and turned the car on, but fell asleep in the nice hot air pumping through every single vent in the vehicle.  The car ran for about 45 minutes before I woke up super hot!  Oops.  Oh well.  It was worth it.

The only bad things were the air mattress deflating, the broken camera, and the renegade pebble that cracked my windshield on the way back to Phoenix.  I could think of worse things that could happen.  I honestly enjoyed myself.  And it was great to meet some new people as well.  Just another adventure to add to the list, and I'm sure there will be more to come.

After my 24 hour camping experience I can honestly say I could do it again, and would love to have stayed longer.  So much for bad childhood camping experiences!!