Leigh Kramer

An Open Letter to Winter

Dear Winter,

There was a time in my life when I looked forward to seeing you again. You meant snow angels, snow forts, snowmen, sledding, and the most sacred yet rare Snow Day. You meant Christmas and ringing in the New Year. You meant cozy sweaters and hot chocolate. Every child's dream, right?

The good old days

I'm not sure when it changed. Probably when I hydroplaned in to a curb as a 16 year old driver. Suddenly, I viewed you and your choice of precipitation in a whole new light. And I most assuredly did not like it.

I'd brushed aside your less than positive moments before. We all know you have to take the good with the bad each season. But Winter, you always had to go one step too far.

Exhibit A: my January birthday. Sub-zero temperatures, snowstorms, icy roads all of which translate to changed plans, missing guests, or rescheduled parties. Why can't you leave my celebrations alone?

Exhibit B: my phobia of walking/slipping on ice. Is that a real phobia? In any case, I'm slower than a Grandma when the roads and sidewalks are iced over. Don't mind my shuffling steps and for the love of Lloyd Dobler, sprinkle some salt!

Exhibit C: it's so freaking cold. It's hard to be fashionable when you have several layers going on. Also, I miss spending time outside.

Exhibit D: Seasonal Affective Disorder. Enough said.

My Midwestern roots prepared me well for whatever you tried to throw at us. I own long johns and the best snow scraper known to mankind. I'm a self-described sweater whore.  I may not like it but I know how to drive in the snow. I can scoff at your attempts to break us with the best of them.

I will concede that I do not have quite the same enmity toward you since moving to Nashville. Why, just the other day saw weather in the 60s. In December. Be still my heart! While it's presently only warming up to the 30s and 40s, we'll see 60 again on Wednesday. This is a gift. Thank you, dear Winter, for being kind to middle Tennessee.

I take that back. When you bring snow to middle Tennessee, roads become parking lots. No one knows how to drive in an inch of snow here. But let's let bygones be bygones.

Winter, I'd like to propose a truce. I realized last year that my hatred of your ice and cold has clouded my judgment. I've missed out on the unexpected beauty of snowflakes. I don't want to forget the fun of making a snow angel or ignore your purpose. You pave the way for Spring, when all things are made new again. You are in fact necessary.

Christmas is one of my favorite holidays and part of its allure is the weather. Truthfully, I don't know what I'd do if I had to celebrate Christmas in the heat and humidity. My favorite Christmas movie is White Christmas. I joke that Christmas is the only time I want there to be snow- and it should fall overnight Christmas Eve, melt after the holidays and not come back until next year. I recognize it's not fair of me to limit how you express yourself, Winter.

I walked outside my house the other morning, greeted by the white rime of frost on the ground. I had a rather violent reaction and cursed your name. But when I saw Facebook status updates from loved ones back home talking about actual snowfall, I was thankful to live in snow-less Tennessee.

I made a decision then and there: I would not spend the next 3 months complaining about you and your weather. Instead, I will seek beauty wherever I am, enjoy another cup of tea, and discover the gift in hibernation.

However, when it does snow and the whole state forgets what they learned in driving school, all bets are off.

Sincerely,

Leigh Kramer, former Winter hater

(Thank you, Megan, for reminding me what Winter could and should be about.)

 

How do you feel about Winter?

Spilling Secrets on to the Page

You're curious. I know you are; it's only natural. You're wondering what secrets I might have. You're aware, dear reader, that there are topics that do not grace this corner.

I might write about my grandmother's death but I do not talk about what that really means for me. When I share stories about my family, I'm mindful that, good or bad, it's merely my interpretation and recollection of our history. Also, don't hold your breath for details about my most recent date or life-giving conversation with a friend.

Some things do not need to be shared in a public forum.

It's not always my story to share, for one. For another, sometimes it's best to live a situation out, see which direction it will go, and wrestle or enjoy privately in the meantime.

For all the writing and blogging I do, I've become unacquainted with my journal, to my detriment. I paged through and discovered I've only written five times this year. FIVE. While I've meandered through certain circumstances here, there's a lot that's been left unsaid.

I wonder how I've processed any of it apart from these sacred pages.

I started writing in a journal when I was in 6th grade. Something about the act of recording the highs and lows resonated with my teenage soul. A year later, my journal saw me through depression. Where I didn't feel freedom to talk to anyone about my pain and struggle, I let emotions out by pen and paper.

Every once in awhile I'll read through entries from that time and I cannot believe that she and I are the same person. Skip forward just a few years and I traipse down memory lane with my details of pranks, class projects, and of course, my latest crush.

It's entirely too easy to forget the details we swear we'll always remember. I wrote pages about my best friend's wedding, from the cute groomsman I flirted with all weekend to realizing just how hot I looked. (That may come off as conceited but it was the first time I'd ever believed that particular descriptor in reference to myself.) I love reliving Tracy and Joel's day from my then 24 year old vantage point. As I read, I can't help but reflect on all that's changed in the 7 ensuing years since they exchanged vows.

My journals contain stories about how I dealt with unemployment after finishing grad school, what freedom looked like in college, and the time a monk taught me to meditate in Thailand. Sometimes my excitement leaps off the page and other times the old anxiety needles at me. I have the advantage of hindsight, no matter what.

When I read through my old journals, I rediscover myself. All this has been leading up to who I am now. I can't afford to forget that but it's unfortunately too easy to do so.

Quite a few things have happened the last few months. My journal has been packed in suitcases and stowed in my purse on the off-chance that I'd be inspired to take the time to commemorate.

Until this Monday night, however, the pages stayed blank. I finally opened it up and pressed pen to paper for a couple of hours, interrupted occasionally by my surroundings. True, much of what I wrote has already been hashed out with my inner circle. But that didn't lessen the necessity to write.

When I journal, I express exactly what I'm thinking and feeling. I don't need to positively reframe or consider my audience. I don't worry about grammar or sentence structure. I could care less about my Voice or the cadence I create when I'm Writing Seriously. And that's why it's important for me to journal: to unleash my words and emotions without concern for anyone's feelings or fear of reprisal. There is no censoring here.

Unless you sneak a peek, I'm the only person who will read my thoughts about October through December 5, 2011. My hand hurt when I closed the leatherbound book but my heart felt lighter. I didn't solve my problems or walk away with greater insights.

But that was never the point.

Do you ever write in a journal? What secrets do you choose to keep?

Birth and Death are not Bookends- Guest Post from Shawn Smucker

Have you ever read the story about "living between the dash"? It turns out there's more to it than that. I'm honored to feature my friend Shawn Smucker today. I never fail to learn from his writing and today is no exception.

Incidentally, Shawn offered me a complimentary copy of his book My Amish Roots (disclosure: affiliate link) and I am absolutely captivated by his family history. Not being one who normally seeks out Amish material, it's worlds better than anything Beverly Lewis could dream up. Be sure to add Shawn's blog to your Reader and follow him on Twitter.

My story does not begin with my birth.

Part of it began in the 1600s with a wandering peasant somewhere in Germany. And the story of me continued with his son, the Lutheran minister, and his son’s son, the wig maker (I have lived part of this man’s story, the pressure a preacher’s kid feels to follow in the footsteps of his father).

Much of my story was shaped by a man named Nicholas who lived in the 1700s. His parents died when he was young, and he left the Lutheran church to marry an Amish girl. In doing so, he gave up his rights as a citizen and could no longer own land or live wherever he wanted. A hopeless romantic.

And in him I see other pieces of me, ten generations before I was born.

* * * * *

Nicholas sailed to the new world on a ship named Polly. Not exactly a luxurious crossing, since the regulations of the day only required that

there must be room for each passenger, and that these rooms must be three feet nine inches high in the forepart and two feet nine inches high in the cabin and steerage, and that no more than two passengers shall be put together in one bedstead except if the Father and Mother want their children in the same bedstead with them they may do so. These berths were 18 inches wide and six feet long.

In Nicholas I see glimmers of my restlessness, my adventurous spirit, my willingness to leave home.

* * * * *

When my great-great-grandfather Amos died, and his farm was sold, they tore down an old barn. But they found something remarkable etched into the boards: his writing. He often wrote there, his smooth script waving along on the wood.

Even his Amish culture, with its lack of higher education and ignorance of art, could not keep the words from coming out. And in him I see another piece of myself.

* * * * *

I am learning that my life did not begin with my birth but began a long time ago, in these people that led to me. I am also starting to understand that a person’s story does not end with their death – it continues on long after they are gone, in the lives of the people on whom they had an impact.

When you die, what will the continuation of your life look like? What heritage are you leaving for those who will come after you?

Shawn lives in Paradise, Pennsylvania with his wife, four children, four chickens, and a rabbit named Rosie. His most recent book, My Amish Roots, explores the roles of family, death, life, tradition, and legacy against the backdrop of his Amish ancestry. He blogs daily at shawnsmucker.com about writing, the strange things his children say, and postmodern Christianity.

A Spirit of Expectancy in the Waiting

Lately my mind has been wrapped up in the tension of waiting. The last few months I've found myself in an unexpected situation that has wavered between promise and uncertainty.

When I chose expectancy as my #OneWord2011, I could never have guessed all that the year would hold. I didn't know I would quit my job in June and devote myself to writing. I would have called you a liar if you'd told me my brother would get married and that my Grandma would die. I definitely couldn't have predicted the people I'd meet or the relationships that would be built.

I knew only that I wanted to live with more hope and find a better way to wait.

Back in January, I wrote:

...if I could anticipate that God is at work right this minute, that He is bringing forth something in my life that is more than I could ever ask or imagine.  I think if I can be expectant in all of these ways, I will be an entirely new person by the dawn of 2012.

I am going to live with expectancy that as the year progresses, I will see traces of God at work and glimpses of what my dreams will be. 

I admit that I didn't keep "expectancy" in mind every day. But as I look back on the past 11 months, the traces of God are so clear. I started counting the gifts and training myself to look for God all around me. I saw God do a work in and through me in ways big and small. And when the bad came, my prayers became less "why me?" and more "use even this."

With all the ways I found hope in the day to day, this current situation flummoxed me because it's the area in which I find hope to be fleeting. But I was determined to try. Expectancy: anticipating God's goodness even there.

And do you know? I have found it. Not in the ways I might like necessarily but it is there just the same. The belief that God is at work, that there is a lesson to be learned, that waiting can be good for this soul.

It seems timely then to consider Advent, the season in which we wait expectantly. The Jews fervently hoped for the Messiah then. We know how the the story unfolded, how it came to be that a Savior was born in a manger. We wait expectantly to remember and celebrate.

I was never the kid that tried to find her Christmas presents early and picked at the wrapping paper to see what gift lay beneath.  To this day, I like the build of anticipation and wondering which presents I'll receive. I love being surprised by whatever my loved ones have chosen for me, even if it turns out to be something better suited for a White Elephant exchange.

In turn, I love finding the perfect gift for my friends and family. I love watching the expression on their face as they tear at the wrapping and see what I found. I love giving good gifts.

This year I've been reminded that all good gifts are of God. They don't come just once a year or because we deserve them. They are lavish and perfect and do we ever feel loved. Sometimes they arrive in the nick of time, sometimes they don't but it's all filtered through His hand. And really, I'd rather not know ahead of time how my life will unfold. Surprise and mystery can be good for us.

The thing is, waiting doesn't equal passivity. We are to do our part, control what we can control and act where we can act. My life is not on hold, nor does this consume all my waking moments.

I don't know how or if my current situation will resolve but when I find myself anxious about it, I choose to pray on my knees. There, close to the floorboards with my knees creaking, I remember that I don't need to know how it will all go. He knows. And I can trust that He has only good for me.

That is something I can expect and hope for. That is how I will wait.

What helps you during seasons of waiting?

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