thoughts on packing, fathers, and the like.

Next week at this time I will be on Wheaton Passage-most likely backpacking/kayaking/canoeing with people I have never met before. I'm nervous. Very nervous. Maybe even more nervous than when I left for Seattle. Wait, scratch that, I was definitely more nervous going to Seattle--but this is a close second.

I did a majority of my packing this afternoon, and I think the reality of it all is finally setting in.

I'm transferring, and at this point, I would probably be less nervous going back to Seattle in the fall than starting a new school and going backpacking with strangers. Oh goodness gracious.

And all I want to do is to talk to my dad about how nervous I am (my dad is still not able to talk because of the triach in his neck). All I want is for him to comfort me.

I remember the night before I left for Seattle. Meghan and I ate fried chicken with my dad at a pond next to 55th street. On that hot September day my dad seemed more excited for me than I was--we were all sad, knowing that this was it for a while, but I remember him looking at me in a way that realized I was no longer a little girl and that I was ready to go.

Gosh I could use a look like that again.

It's important for a daughter to have a father, and at this point, I need to hear my father tell his little girl that she is ready to go.

Naturally, this summer has turned out to be far from what I expected it to be--seems to be a theme in my life, and sometimes I wonder why I don't expect the unexpected more often.

It's been a draining week, as my dad is in intensive care again. At this point, I bet I can drive to Northwestern Memorial with my eyes closed...but I don't plan on trying. More than anything I want him to be well and free--to "enjoy the best city in the summer" as he says, to laugh and joke with him--gosh, to hear his laugh would be the best thing. I'm hoping and praying for my dad to find his way through those tangled tubes and to live.

And so there I was: sitting in my dads hospital room, reading Everyone's Normal Till You Get to Know Them by John Ortberg, and I stumble across this gem of a thought:

"All day, in a million different ways, in our homes, our neighborhoods, our churches, our families, our friendships, our cities, you and I are either moving the world a little closer to God's picture of shalom- peace- or moving it a little farther away".

I spent some time in Michigan City this weekend, and even for a mere 24 hours, it was so good to have pure summer fun. There was one point this afternoon when I found myself laughing so hard I could not breathe. And so there I was: on the top bunk-bed, a slab of fudge in one hand, a nauseating amount of smoked meat in my stomach, and laughing so hard with some of my closest friends that I could hardly believe I cried earlier that day.

In the midst of it I couldn't help but think "this is Holy". Honestly, it was. The trauma that this summer has delivered makes it harder to hope--but in that basement this afternoon, I believe I got a taste of shalom--confident that laughter has some place in God's picture of peace.

Please pray for my dad. Pray for healing and lots of strength.