Looking Up

Call me Buddy the Elf, but I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with escalators. I remember the first time I successfully overcame my fear enough to leap onto one of these department-store magic carpets—picture 8-year-old Miss America waving victoriously as she mysteriously ascends above the crowds on the ground floor. But as I’ve gotten older, escalators have lost some of the paparazzi. They’re terrifying chunks of metal that never stop moving. I mean, I could die on one of those things, and it wouldn’t stop. Sure, they’ll get you where you’re going—but only if you get on them in the first place and pick one that’s headed in the right direction. Once, when no one was watching, I tried to run up a downward escalator with my younger brother. I was only 11, but I won’t forget how frustrating and exhausting it was.   Sometimes, life feels like that: a looming, ever-descending escalator that I’m trying to climb. It never stops moving, and takes no pity on those who fall beh...

Oreos and Bananagram play-offs at midnight? Heck, why not. Coming home late after a day of exhausting responsibility, the sight of my roommate and a friend hunched over a very non-violent round of my favorite little word game was rather...relieving. Maybe it's okay to forget about that midterm for a bit. Hey, the guy next door even came by: Oreo joy was spreading. I was just throwing a cup of tea in the microwave when our conversation took a wild U-turn.  "Hey! I like that: 'The Bible isn't a rulebook'." Bam. The conversation I had been waiting for for weeks. Right now? Right now. The alphabet tiles would have to wait.    He was reading a poster I had printed off of Facebook and plastered to my dorm-sized fridge.The simple message is something I need to be reminded of again and again: "The Bible isn't a rulebook. It's a love letter. I'm not an employee. I'm a child. It's not about my performance. It's about Jesus' on the ...

"What does ‘grace’ mean?”  My challenge reverberated across the scuffed island counter as my coworker riffled through an apparently-neglected corner of her brain. Her expression of curiosity and apprehension reminded me of the way she approached our bait shop’s cold, slimy minnows. Her sculpted eyebrows tightened around blue eyes that matched the dark lake across the highway. “You know, we talk about grace all the time at church. But… I really don’t know.” It was hour three of the late shift at the neighborhood gas station and general store. By now, chalking up my second summer here, I knew that this was the ideal time to take a short break. So when the younger girl I was working with brought up the topic of pastors and her church confirmation, I took the plunge into the deep end of conversation. Based on data I had compiled over previous shifts, Kelsey fit the profile of a stereotypical “good girl.” Near the very top of her class, partying and drugs wer...

“Bam! Screeeechhh…” My sunny bluegrass jam session was abruptly interrupted. The red Honda Civic convulsed and then shuddered as metal grated on blacktop. We obviously hadn’t hit any ordinary ice chunk. For all I knew, my infallible little car had struck the fatal iceberg, giving me only seconds to abandon ship. Uneasily, I glided the car to a stop on the icy shoulder of the freeway and clicked on the hazard lights.  After a semi roared past, I jumped out and ran around to the back. Crouching, I cocked my head just past the recognizable bumper and exhaust pipe to the land of unknowns. What on God’s green earth is that ?!  No gushing oil, no smoke, no dripping coolant—only a bizarre hook of metal dangling from the underbody. It was tangled with what appeared to be a black cable. Dialing home, I tried not to panic. This adventure definitely wasn’t written in my planner. My parents were 60 miles away. I was 15 miles from Bemidji and in arm’s reach of Cass...

It didn’t bother me the first time. The third time? No big deal. But now (what was it, like trip number 28?) my fermented attitude was about as chipper as orange soda missing its fizz. Why do I have to take out my roommate’s garbage again ? Why doesn’t she ever clean the sink? Why…why… I flung the white trash bag over the rim of the green dumpster. I nodded approvingly as it neatly slumped into place among its other grumpy compatriots. There. Maybe I won’t have to worry about it overflowing in our bathroom for a few days. I crunched on through the muddied snow, mentally cataloging my list of grievances, when my typewriter jammed. Wait a sec.   I get to do this. I swigged some steamy coffee from my travel mug and nearly choked. The photos plastered on the mug were of my family and my friends. There was so much laughter and love in those memories. Did I deserve that? Absolutely not. Did I deserve to be healthy enough to walk to class? Nope. Actually, I dese...