I am currently sitting at Melisa's old desk, which is covered with my stuff.
My feet are up on the desk and my laptop is on my knees.
I am my father's child. And I am proud of that.
I baked an apple pie on Friday.
I washed dishes while the pie was in the oven.
I washed dishes today.
I feel like I have washed dishes about six times this week.
I probably have, because I made cinnamon rolls on Tuesday and had to wash those dishes.
And others.
Dishes accumulate quickly in this house and most of them are mine.
But I almost always wash them within 24 hours (this month).
And I have changed my method.
I am my mother's child. And I am proud of that.
I started organizing stuff this weekend.
I need to decide what to take home over break and what I need this summer.
(I'm living in an apartment in Mishawaka this summer with two other Bethel students and a Rose-Hulman grad who is now an engineer. The house is owned by a Bethel prof. She has four cats. I will be surviving on air fresheners and allergy medicine.)
As I was going through stuff I flipped the page in the Swanson Family Calendar to April.
And looked at the picture of my grandpa.
And started crying. I look at a picture of my grandpa every day. There's one on my desk. And I never react to it. Habituation at its finest.
But there I was, alone in the house, crying.
And Grandpa was in my dream last night. He was in a wheelchair, hooked up to all kinds of medical equipment. But he had that smile on his face. I leaned over and hugged him and wondered why I hadn't seen him in such a long time.
Then I woke up and had to think really hard before I remembered. I hated that.
I hated that I had to have that dream and I loved that I had that dream. I was able to hug my grandpa for the first time in over a year, I think. Because I didn't hug him the last time I saw him. I didn't even say good-bye. And I live with that regret and pain.
I am in a terrible mood. I have been all weekend.
I'm really good at hiding it until something annoys me enough. And then I snap and no one knows how to handle it and I don't know what to tell them to do.
It's Birthday Week.
I will be home in a few days.
I have no plans for Break, other than church.
I have no plans for celebrating any time this week, because I cannot justify skipping class to go to dinner, even if it's free stir fry at Flat Top. That can wait.
I'm not even looking forward to my birthday.
I'm just ready to be home for a few days. And I'd like to not be sick this time.
I will have plenty of homework to do, and I'm okay with that.
Because I will be home.
I have been more homesick this year than ever before. I have liked this year a whole lot less than the previous two. It has been difficult. I have had to face things about myself that I did not want to face. I have struggled with friendships and crushes and school and sleep and roommates and insecurity and sin and loneliness and complacency and and laziness and sadness and theology and identity and trying to put up with things that I feel like I have to business putting up with and cancer and death and friends who are hurting and and and and and.
A year ago I was counting down the days to England. Bob didn't have cancer. Mike's mom was still alive. My grandpa and Katie's grandma and Brandon's grandma and a bunch of other people were still alive. My grandma hadn't been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I wasn't angry. I was blissfully unaware of what the next year held. I thought I had just finished the worst month of my life. I had just celebrated my birthday with some dear friends by going to Gino's for pizza and coming back for cupcakes and raspberries. I was happy. I was going to see my brother for the first time in months in just a few days at a concert in Chicago with my dad, aunt, cousin (the one with whom I share a birthday), sister-in-law, and a couple hundred screaming teenage girls (well, my cousin is included in that group). I was wearing an incredibly cute blue dress, I had spent hours curling and pinning my hair, topping it with a hat found in an abandoned building, plus my power heels. I looked good and felt good.
I often wish I could go back to that time.
But. Baby D wouldn't be alive, filling Janelle and Evan's lives with joy.
Amelia wouldn't be alive, filling Adam and Becci's lives with joy.
(And a bunch of other babies, like Angelina, Emma, and Palmer. So many babies.)
Some of my friends would still be far away and others, who are now far away, would be stuck here.
I wouldn't have gone to England and left my heart there.
Big Brother would still be on tour instead of home with Sister-in-Law and my puppy-niece.
A thousand people wouldn't have gotten engaged over the summer.
I would be missing out on having nephews and a cousin.
Abbi and Josh would not be married.
I would not know the things about life that I now know.
So, really, I wouldn't change anything.
Because I got to say "good-bye" last night.
Welcome to Birthday Week.
What a way to start.
Just an audition, a quiz, a few papers, and a midterm.
Then I can get in the car and fall apart for real.
For now, I'm held together by grace.
Three more days.
Good night, dear readers. You are wonderful for sticking with me all the way through this post.
I am thankful for you.
