View from the Prairie Box

Time spent with the women of my church small group has been very sweet this past year, and for sure one of the big events of our summer is celebrating Clarie’s upcoming marriage to Ben. We had the job of hosting Claire’s church shower last weekend and it was a delight.

Today I am grateful that the God of all creation—the one who made me as well as the grasses at Holmes Lake—loves me as a Father.

6 A voice says, “Cry out.”
And I said, “What shall I cry?”
“All people are like grass,
and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.
7 The grass withers and the flowers fall,
because the breath of the Lord blows on them.
Surely the people are grass.
8 The grass withers and the flowers fall,
but the word of our God endures forever.”
9 You who bring good news to Zion,
go up on a high mountain.
You who bring good news to Jerusalem,[c]
lift up your voice with a shout,
lift it up, do not be afraid;
say to the towns of Judah,
“Here is your God!”
10 See, the Sovereign Lord comes with power,
and he rules with a mighty arm.
See, his reward is with him,
and his recompense accompanies him.
11 He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.

– Isaiah 40:1-11

Anthony Bourdain ended his own life today. And Kate Spade—though I really only recognized her name at first—commited suicide a few days ago. But it’s Bourdain’s death that feels the most cutting to me.

I’m down about it. I feel shrouded in grief this morning and it seems so… dumb… in a way. I mean, I didn’t know the man personally. But something in me was formed through Anthony Bourdain. Maybe not “formed” but definitely more understood. At some point I began reading kitchen/restaurant/food books with a passion. I think it started with Ruth Reichl, but Bourdain was right in there among the first I read. I felt like I had this interesting window into the world of kitchen creatives. I loved hearing them talk about food, write about food, describe food, and I especially loved the remarkable communities built in kitchens. I think this is why Ratatouille is my favorite Pixar film. The toughness of kitchen workers is a trope built in reality, and it was Bourdain who revealed that life to me best. I like to cook just fine—it’s not my calling in this world—but I can read and enjoy cooking books like no one’s business.

I also love travel stories, and Bourdain has long combined his loves of food and traveling to open people’s eyes to the beauty of this planet. I’ve watched him travel all over, his lanky frame and kind-yet-rebellious attitude intriguing me as much as the locales he featured. He was always drinking. Always smoking. Very badass, but it was easy to see the heart underneath the gruffness. By the point I was watching his shows I was a full-fledged adult, so I could also see the heartache underneath the rough exterior. It almost felt too personal, this watching him be tough and insecure all at once.

When I woke up today to news that he had died, I immediately hoped for something reminiscent of Steve Irwin. Perhaps Bourdain died in a plane crash or a bus accident on location for a shoot. Maybe a bad case of food poisoning? No, it was a demon he couldn’t shake. Something that left him so hopeless that life seemed utterly unbearable. The man had been married twice, had a daughter who is only 11. I read a headline recently that he had a new girlfriend and seemed quite happy. No one who read Bourdain’s books or watched him on tv would be surprised that he had demons, but I think we’re all taken aback by news of his death today. What did he have to live for? Us. He has US. We toured the world with him, tasted street foods with him, drank too much vodka with him, and woke up the next day ready to get on a plane and do it all again somewhere else. He had us.

Suicide cannot win, folks. It just cannot win. In a message thread with my brothers I said that suicide reminds me of a book whose last chapters have been ripped out or set on fire. They just don’t exist. Suicide leaves a giant gaping hole where a life should have been. It’s absolutely wrong. It’s empty. You’ve got all the suddenness of a plane crash but the cause is… what now? It’s a lot of nothing. It’s the entire world looking at Anthony Bourdain in the face and saying, “You have us. We like you a lot. We see better because you exist. Now is not the time for you to be done.”

And yet, he is done.

The last chapters have vanished, and there’s only grief left to fill them.

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Suicide is heartbreaking and mental illness is no joke. Reach out to someone who loves you if you’re having darkness that you can’t shake, and if you can’t reach them or they can’t help you, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You are worthy of life and love. Suicide is not the answer.

One of the Bradley kids asked me yesterday why I had my camera with me. It was more of a “why not” scenario actually, as the truth of the matter is, if you don’t have your camera, you certainly won’t get the shot. Gorgeous, sunny summer days and uninhibited children mean I should be carrying my camera.

We’ve been hosting more friends at our house lately—I think this has to do with me having more margin in my life, which means I feel more at ease with long conversations over meals—and guess what I don’t do when I host? Get out my camera. It’s like I can either serve up a pan of brownies OR snap pictures but I absolutely can’t do both. This is a little sad because we’ve had lots of cute kids at our place in the past month. So maybe I need to drop the hostess schtick and start snapping instead? Very possible. Photography is my happy place, and these kids I’m around are growing fast.

Happy are the pansies who have survived early heat and made it to the rainy spring days. Their little pansy faces shall blossom on the back deck and bring joy to all in the light of the setting sun. Amen.

As a kid I moved around quite a bit. My family shifted around the country as my dad responded to job offers, and we landed in Lincoln, Nebraska, just in time for me to start junior high. So much of who I am and how I view the world has been shaped by these moves. I honed my skills of empathy as a I grew, in large part because I was often the new girl in the classroom. I began to read people more clearly, to figure out who they were and who I was in comparison (which, yes, has a downside as well!). I also developed a nice acquaintance with cities and geographies across the United States.

Aside from one year on Lookout Mountain and three more in St. Louis during my college years, I’ve remained in Lincoln for the rest of my life. For so many years we were the ones who left for new adventures, but for much of my adult life, I’ve become the one who stayed. Eventually I even moved back into the zip code of my teen years—which really threw me for a loop. The longest house I ever lived in was the first one I shared with Jeremy, though I bet we’ll break that record with our current address.

I’ve stayed.

And others, dear to me, have left.

The grief connected to others leaving is a slow-burn kind of grief. My life doesn’t change drastically when a loved one departs Lincoln. My little family unit remains stable. Our address, occupation, schools, and church stay constant. Meanwhile the friends are dealing with a tumult of changes, some that go quickly and others that move slowly. Perhaps it’s a bad job situation, or even a long interview process that leads to a job offer. With some girlfriends I’ve spent years praying for God to reveal the next step. The sadness in my heart is a delayed one, like a knife cutting painfully slow. There’s not much to cry about at first, there’s just the day after day of it all—the long unveiling of future plans. Houses get sold. Moving trucks are filled. And then there’s simply an empty hole where an entire family used to be. But I keep driving my kid to the same school—now minus a beloved friend—and on Sundays we keep showing up to the same place of worship—minus a beloved friend.

I often text or email or message with the words, “I miss you,” but surely that gets tiresome to the ones who have moved on. My sentiment is 100% true, but I wonder if they don’t know what to say to it anymore. Do they feel responsible for the missing part? Are they so busy trying to create a new life in a new city that dwelling on us left behind feels exhausting? I suspect yes on both counts. But even saying “I miss you” doesn’t feel like enough. The bonds we’ve created together have to become elastic in order for us both to survive. Time will tell whether the friendship will be sustained long-distance or whether it’s best to let the other move on to other relationships that inevitably require time and energy.

I am not the kind to easily let these bonds go.

I miss our friends with an intensity that sometimes surprises me. After years of finding comfort in these relationships, I often feel like a boat cut loose from the dock, only without purpose and direction for awhile. The friend who was quick and witty, direct with her words and love, who could handle my worst at any moment of any day has moved away. The one whose heart matched mine and had a gift for affirming others has gone on to bless a different community. The one who mentored me during the hardest years of life has left, and the one who nurtured my early marriage and raised babies alongside me now lives states away. More dear ones are moving on to new adventures very soon, and their departures leave another hole in our world.

As much as I grieve these losses and as much as I hate to say goodbye to these incredible people, my rational mind knows that the goodness in their characters is being spread much like dandelion’s seeds that blow in the wind. Wherever they go they will find new people and they will bless them amazingly. It helps to believe in a sovereign God who actually cares about the movements of our days. Though I feel terrible being left behind, I know that God has called them to new locations to do new things. And you know what? He has planted me here, to do things both new and old. I know that God cares for His children and allows these hard times to grow and stretch us, to make us more like Himself, to cause us to depend on Christ. So while my friends depend on Him as they start new adventures, I can cry and still depend on Him right here in Lincoln, Nebraska. He is doing a new thing… and sometimes staying steadfast and relying on Him is one of the hardest things to do.

Oooh, it feels good to be back in the saddle again. Or really, to be back in the position I really love—playing with children and documenting their funny looks, shyness, boldness, and general hilarity. I’ve written before about this sentiment, but it’s still true of my process as a photographer: I fall in love with your kids as I edit the images from our photoshoot. And as a mother, I see the value in documenting THIS period of life, this stage of quirks, because time keeps marching on. Children grow. They never stay the same, so this time is worth capturing.

I had the joy of shooting portraits for a birthday surprise for a grandmother. And, from what I hear, the results of our covert photoshoot were entirely worth the cost of staying silent about our fun in the library a few weeks ago! These five children—with a sixth on the way—filled me with joy and it was absolutely a privilege to spend time with them.