Category: Family

Yes, Honey, They're Brothers

Colin and I should be on HGTV.

Brothers can be completely different, get on each others’ nerves, and be super-competitive. All of that can describe Colin and me at some point past or present, if not in an ongoing sense. But brothers- in this case we– can totally be on the same wavelength sometimes.

Colin’s drums have been in the FROG1 for several weeks now, to give him more room to jam with his friends. With about half of my guitars and both of my amps up there for roughly the same reason- just to get them out of my room- and Daniel’s and Jacob’s guitars and guitar cases sometimes present, it’s been a pretty hazardous place to be lately.

So between a general desire to be able to safely navigate the FROG and complaints from everyone in the house, Colin started cleaning it up yesterday. This was also motivated by the addition of a powered mixer and two speakers.

For those of you not really into sound equipment, that’s basically a small, portable all-in-one PA system designed with microphones and instruments in mind, but with enough cables and adapters, you can hook anything into it: TV, Xbox, iPod, computer… you get the idea.

Without asking what the vision was or the plan of action for getting there, I joined in the cleaning. It was obvious to anyone that the room simply needed to be cleared out, rearranged, and organized if even a fraction of its contents were to remain and the room was to become easily traversed. But it was obvious to the Peck boys the potential this room now had to become what Kelli would call a “man cave.”

First order of business, pack up the instruments. Fortunately there was only one guitar present at the time that did not belong to me, so all the cases were handy. The air hockey table was pushed against the window and all guitars placed underneath. The Foosball table was pushed against the daybed by another wall and the chairs pushed up against that. Amazingly, this caused a sudden hole in the middle of the room from which to work against the remaining chaos.

While Colin set up his drums (and I think he finally has all his drums and cymbals set up together, which takes quite a bit of space) I began clearing off the computer desk, mom’s drafting table and the shelf behind the drums where the VCR2 was located. We finished at roughly the same time, with a net result of extended the open space and having two more surfaces to work from.

Before I knew it, Colin was pulling an old TV cabinet out of the closet. We have these two huge closets in the FROG where the roof slants down on either side of the dormer where the daybed is located. One is used to store camping and sewing equipment and the other is used to store Christmas decorations and old toys so that any of the above are accessible at shorter notice than they would be if they lived in the cubby3. The particular TV cabinet that Colin was pulling out is a pretty small, cheap, black shelving unit and formerly where the family TV downstairs lived. It is only a couple feet tall and the TV sat on top with the shelves underneath storing movies and Super NES accessories. When my parents replaced it with a nicer piece of furniture, I talked them into keeping it in case I ever finish college and leave and want it.

Colin got the powered mixer set up on top, with the Xbox 360 on top of that, and I set up the VCR and Gamecube underneath, running all the cables and putting four generations’ worth of video games into their respective cases as I went. Colin set up the speakers and with a couple of really useful adapters, I set up my laptop on the drafting table and connected it to the mixer, thus enabling me to stream music from my desktop in my room over the wireless network and play it through the newly-re-erected sound system.

With the furniture back in place, I thought we’d be finished. But Colin mentioned a general desire to have his computer up there for recording purposes. I figured we might as well get that done while we were on a roll, so with some quick thinking and some maternal advice, the drafting table was folded up and moved to the corner where the computer desk was. The computer desk was taken downstairs and placed in my van for transport to Albemarle Music (more on this below). The other closet, this time the one with the Christmas decorations- including tree- was accessed, cleared completely out, and a folding table removed from the very back, from behind about two dozen boxes and really heavy wooden shelving unit.

The folding table was erected, fitting perfectly against the wall between the end of the TV cabinet and the door, and about this time, Daniel showed up intending to pick up his laptop and leave, but staying to help move Colin’s (monster) desktop computer from his room to the FROG. This was quite an adventure because though Colin’s room and the FROG share a wall, you have to go from Colin’s through the upstairs hall, down the stairs, through the foyer, den, kitchen, and back hall, then up the other set of stairs to reach the FROG.

With the computer set up and the chairs replaced, we transported ourselves, the desk, and our moving and staging skills to Albemarle Music. We initially moved the couch in the office, then moved it back when we realized its new angle made the room feel much smaller. With the desk placed against the back wall, we moved the office computer off the counter and now have a much more professional-looking space and enough surface area for three people to eat lunch at once.

In summation, we’re awesome and so is the new man cave. Pictures are forthcoming, and if anyone wants an air hockey table, let me know.

 

1FROG is a real estate term in this region that’s become pretty ubiquitous in tidewater area vocabulary. It stands for Finished Room Over Garage and is what most of the rest of the country would refer to as a “Bonus Room.”
2Yes, believe it or not, we still have a VCR. It wasn’t that long ago that it got a lot of use for watching Disney movies with all my female friends- one in particular- and now mainly serves to extend the coaxial cable from the wall to the TV and as an extra set of RCA inputs for gaming systems.
3The cubby is an eccentricity of our house. Despite two attic access doors, one in the FROG and one in the upstairs hall, because of their precise locations the attic is still pretty inaccessible, and the cubby serves as our attic. It is basically a crawl-space-sized hall stretching from an access door at the top of the FROG stairs back over the rest of the house.

Strange sense of Home

My friends all talk about “coming home” to Elizabeth City between semesters or to see their parents and friends. And in conversation I’ll do the same thing. But in reality, I have half a dozen places that I refer to as “home” and several more that, though it would seem strange to say out loud, feel quite the same way.

Moving around as a kid certainly had a lot to do with that. I remember my private form of rebellion at moving to Clarksdale, Mississippi in junior high was making a point (in my head at least, if not out loud) of using the phrase “going to our house“, as I just didn’t want to think of anywhere in Clarksdale as “home.” Going to Atlanta for a visit was always what meant “home.” For those two long, character-building (so my dad says) years, going home was seeing Derek Martin, Kelsey Page, and Allison Dennard at Berkmar UMC. It was having Thanksgiving at Aunt Sue’s house and quiet afternoon at Grandma Kay and Grandpa Bill’s in Dunwoody.

When our family moved to Elizabeth City, home became the tan house on the corner, even though that sentimental part of me missed the homes that Oakhurst Junior High and St. Paul’s UMC had been (a feeling that came from the people there, if not the places themselves). But despite the way my mom made sure I had familiar photographs and wallpaper, it was the fact that she and Dad and Colin were right there with me that made E.C. home.

By that time I’d already figured out that “home” didn’t mean the place where my mail was addressed. It was where I was comfortable and loved and where I loved to be. And more than just the house in Winfield, the NHS band room and James and Mike and Billy and Megan’s houses came to mean those things as well. People-oriented Ecuadorian culture has become home for me more recently. Amongst Ecuadorians at church in Shandia or Babahoyo, or squeezed onto couches with too many other gringos at a missionary’s house in Quito, that feeling that you belong just follows you around.

So it’s been no surprise to me the past few days here in Dunwoody again that I’ve just felt at home. As Monsignor Lopez said this morning at the funeral, the house on Summerford Court has been a home to him (just as it’s been to the rest of us), not because it’s simply a familiar place, but because of the love of my grandparents. Even without Grandpa Bill there this week, it’s full of memories, good times, and (lately at least) more family members than I knew I had.

In fact, with all the Pecks, Thums, Brocks, Joyces and Jeffersons around for the last five days, it took until the reception at St. Jude’s this morning for me to realize that there’s really nobody my age around. My cousin Guy is younger even than my little brother, who’s not around himself, and Amanda has just seemed infinitely older than even the 3.5 years she’s got on me since she started doing things like getting married and having kids. But it took me five days to realize this because I’ve been at home, even surrounded by people who are all more than twice my age (and who are sure to make snide remarks about this paragraph when they get around to reading my blog). Around family, I just fit in.

Everyone has been saying good-byes this afternoon. And as I’ve gotten handshakes and hugs, my aunts and uncles and cousins have asked me “When are you and your dad going home?” And though I smile and say something like, “Well, we’re driving back on Friday,” I can’t imagine being much more home than this.

Twenty-three

I don’t usually make a big deal out of my birthday. I tend to be proud of myself when I make it through the second week of January and nobody at work has realized it’s gone by. But since I’ll never get around to writing anything meaningful to every person who sent me some kind of message today, I figured I’d make a mention of it here.

By the time I came home for brunch between church services today, I had birthday messages from 5 countries on three continents. Yeah. By 10:15. I won’t even list off States, but they streched from California to Vermont and Florida to Washington state, representing friends, family, and friends that feel like family.

Sophia and I were talking the other day about getting facebook messages from people you’d otherwise hardly ever talk to. But much as I laughed at some of them, it was really cool to realize how many places and times and stages of my life were represented by the pile of little “Happy Birthday” and “Feliz Cumpleaños” posts, e-mails, and phone calls I got. There were even text messages from Mississippi, California, and Taznakht, Morocco in there. A text message from Morocco, people. Holy crap.

I also feel like twenty-three is a good age. Seems like every third rock band writes a song about (or at least mentioning) age twenty-three.  Plus I got to play guitar all day and eat quesadillas three times within 23 hours. And it’s the last birthday I’ll celebrate in this country for at least 729 days. So all together, it was great. Thanks for all the birthday wishes.

Turn It Around. You'll Get More Leverage.

A couple days ago my parents bought a new chair for the computer and desk downstairs. My dad opted not to pay the $4.99 to have Office Max put it together. “It’s probably only in two pieces,” he said.

Colin and I were both home when they got there and Dad handed Colin the keys to his car and told him to bring in “the package” in the back of the Jeep. Mom, Dad, and I were talking in the kitchen for several minutes before Colin came back, somehow managing to open the door with one hand and hold this gigantic box in the other. Deeply engrossed in whatever we were discussing, nobody noticed the gigantic racket he was making as the poor kid struggled to get it in the house. After a minute or so of banging noises, a roughly 3′ x 3′ x 4′ box on legs went by us, saying “No thank you, family, I don’t need any help.”

We laughed sheepishly as Colin thunked the big box on the floor and said “Danny can put it together.”

I rolled my eyes, but my dad said “Go ahead, it won’t be hard. It’s only in two pieces.”

Dan: “You should have just paid the $4.99.”
Dad: “I’m trying to be green and save money.”
Mom: “What’s green about saving money?”
Dad: “I’m saving my green.”
Danny: “I would have paid the $4.99”
Colin: “Yeah, that would be green and save energy. Ours.”
Dad: “Office Max probably makes a ton of money off lazy people that do that. This will only take 30 seconds. It’s only in two pieces.”

I opened the box and pulled out seven pieces, a box of screws, an Allen wrench, and a bag of wheels. “You should have paid the $4.99, Dad.” “Oh well,” said Dad, “it still can’t be but so hard.”

The directions had me stumped by step two.

Connecting the wheels to the “star base” was not much of a problem. But when I put on the cylindrical part that actually holds the “chair” section to the “base” section, nothing held it there. “Mom, I can’t figure this thing out by myself.” I took off the cylindrical mechanism and handed it to her. Colin walked away before anything could be handed to him, probably to relax in the old computer chair that has now made it to his room.

Said mom: “Well it goes right here.” She placed it in the same place from whence I’d just removed it, in the same way the directions showed to do so. Nothing held it in place.

Oh well. We went on.

Assembly of the “chair” section meant using the box of screws. We managed to attach the “gas lift” mechanism to the bottom, which should have been the complicated part. Flipping it over, we began the “easy” assembly of the seat, back, and two armrests. Mom held each piece in place as I began to place the washers and screws and tighten them. By this time we’d spent twenty minutes putting together this “two piece” chair that should have theoretically taken 30 seconds. Dad was now observing again.

Dad: “Dan, use the other end of the Allen wrench, you’ll get more leverage.”
Danny: “Dad, I’ve put together a lot of crap with an Allen wrench at Goody’s and Albemarle Music.”
Dad: “Yeah, okay. But use the other end. You’ll get more leverage.”
Danny: “I will turn it over when I get to where it needs to be really tightened.  Right now I just want it to turn quickly.”
Dad: “Right. With the other end you’ll get more leverage.”
Danny: “I want it to turn fast right now while I’m screwing it in, until it gets tight. I can’t turn it as fast if I flip it the other direction and hold the long end.”
Mom: “You’re just like your dad.”
Danny and Dad: “Hey!”

By this time, the screw was in plenty far and began to resist as I tightened it. I flipped the Allen wrench around (just as I had intended to do) and my dad thought he’d won. “See. You get more leverage.” My hand flew off the Allen wrench. “See, I can’t hold onto it. You should have paid the $4.99.”

We attached the two armrests to the seat. Next was connecting the back to the armrests so it would stay in place relative to all three other components. I began with the fifth screw so far out of six total.

Dad: “Will you turn that Allen wrench around? You’ll get more leverage.”
Danny: “I will when it starts to get tight.”
Dad: (Reaching for the wrench and then stopping himself multiple times) You just need to- Will you turn it ar- I’m just gonna- mmm.”
Mom: “Do you just want to do it yourself?”
Dad: “So I don’t have to watch? Yes.”

Dad took the Allen wrench, which I gladly ceded as I stood up from a crouching position on the floor and traded places with him to watch the continued efforts struggle.

After ten more minutes, Dad still hadn’t managed to line up both the screw holes both the left and right side of the seat back at the same time and get a screw through one of them without turning the seat back to a position that would leave it impossible to finish the other side. Finally, I placed the seat back in the correct position, my mom held it there, and my dad started to screw it together.

He turned the screw. And turned the screw. And turned the screw. “It won’t go in there.”

Danny: “Maybe you should turn the Allen wrench around and get some more leverage.”
Dad: “Danny!”
Danny: “Or you could have just paid the $4.99.”
Dad: “Danny!”

By this point my mom and I were laughing too hysterically to really be helpful anymore. I’m not even exactly sure what held the components of the chair together until Dad actually got it screwed together.

It turned out to be a really comfortable chair, and a good hour of family entertainment. But next time they buy a disassembled piece of furniture, I’m going to Adam’s house. And next time I buy a piece of furniture, I’m paying the $4.99.

What's In A Name?

Several people have called me “Dan” this week.

I’ve been “Danny” all my life. Unless I’m in a Spanish-speaking environment, I introduce myself as “Danny” or “Danny Peck,” which tends to be transmuted into “Dannypeck,” one word. My family calls me “Dan,” which I don’t mind, and would never have even really taken notice of except that my aunt once introduced me to several people at her church as “my nephew Dan,” and I thought that was a little strange (as this is how those people would know me, rather than “Danny”) until I realized that that’s pretty much all she ever calls me and would have seemed strange to her to introduce me as “Danny.”

But other than from my family, I hate being called “Dan.” There are some notable excptions, though. Like when I was a sophomore in high school, a certain group of my female friends got lazy and began calling everyone by the first syllable of their name, whether it sounded right or not. Somehow, in coming about that way, I don’t mind being shortened to “Dan” even to this day, but only amonst that group.

Then somewhere around junior or senior year of high school, Celia coined the nickname “Dirty Dan” for me (a mantle from which I’ve tried to distance myself more and more lately). The audience present at the time happened to be a rather large group of my guy friends, and among this group the name stuck, also sometimes simply shortened to “Dan.” It’s not so much that I liked it, but I perferred “Dan” to “Dirty Dan” in that context and didn’t argue with the moniker.

Jerry has called me “Dan” for years because of that second occurance. I actually asked him to make an effort to call me “Danny” before we left for Ecuador so that other people there wouldn’t pick up “Dan.” For the most part, I tended to get both syllables and ignored the couple instances of laziness.

Now in the words of Ron White, I told those stories to tell this story. The three extra-familial instances of being “Dan” this week got totally different reactions from me, all because of the sources from which they came. One I ignored as a normal occurance, one just seemed a little strange, and one quite frankly ticked me off. I decided that was a little out-of-proportion emotional response and have since totally recognized how ridiculous it is to think somebody needs to earn the ability to call me “Dan,” especially when I don’t usually publicize my general loathing for it.

On a related note, I also hate being called Daniel. Yes, it’s my real name (which funnily enough surprises a lot of people) but I just think it’s an ugly name. Sorry, mom. Maybe it’s just because of the fact that for the first twelve years of my life, only three people ever called me “Daniel.” Two were my grandparents, and they gave in to “Danny” pretty early on. The third person, my Great Aunt Mary, still calls me “Daniel” to this day, but when you’re anyone’s Great Aunt Mary, you can call them whatever you want.

I said that no one else called me “Daniel” for the first twelve years of my life because when I moved to Clarksdale, Mississippi, I actually somehow accidentally started going by “Daniel” at school. It became so stuck even in the first couple of days that introducing myself as “Danny” for the proceeding two years and signing all of my assignments that way never got any friends or teachers that I can remember to call me anything other than “Daniel.” My best friend called me Daniel. My band director called me Daniel. I even dated a girl who knew me both at school and at church (where I was “Danny”), and went back and forth between what she knew I perferred and what she heard everyone else called me.

I actually like “Daniel”‘s biblical meaning and feel it to be pretty appropriate for me. That doesn’t make it any more phonetically pleasing. I therefore quickly corrected all of my teachers’ class rolls when I moved to Elizabeth City and thus managed to preempt almost every use of my legal name.

Upon thinking about this whole Dan/Daniel/Danny thing, I’ve actually realized how many other nicknames I’ve picked up at and for varying times in my life. “Hawaii,” “Yoda,” “Stary-McScarykins,” “Dirty Dan,” “The Bearded Wonder,” “Phantom,” “Prince Charming,” “Wheels McGrath,” “Lord Farquad,” and “Fanny Pack” all symbolize different people, places, and times in my life. No, I didn’t make any of those up myself, and I can’t believe I actually even wrote a couple of them. Several more are staying off the list.

The point is, that while my outlook, experiences, attitudes, plans, and location have changed with just about every one of those nicknames, I probably shouldn’t get mad when people call me something other than “Danny” or “Dannypeck.” If I can deal with Daniel (in a Spanish accent) and recognize it as just a word that symbolizes a person (that happens to be myself), and certainly if I can do that with “Fanny Pack,” (an unfortanate similarity in sounds that no one in my life ever noticed with my name until this summer) I can get over people being lazy.

But still. Don’t call me “Dan.”

Real Fake Food

I’ve been noticing this for years now, and I don’t exactly have an essay on it, but it’s an observation nonetheless. And it’ll probably be another where the intro is longer than the main point. Oh, well.

Up until this morning, my mom has actually been home when I woke up in the morning. Between her not having to be at school, or at least not until later without students there, and that I’ve been up relatively early and had no responsibilities whatsoever for the first two weeks back in the States, we’ve actually been having breakfast at roughly the same time, which is totally not normal. It also means as I stare blankly into the pantry for ten minutes as I wake up, she throws out suggestions, or actually makes the stuff that I’m too lazy to put together before 8:00am (which is anything more complicated than a Pop-Tart).

One day last week, it happened to be waffles. I went to the fridge as they were being made, and scanned for syrup. There was the real Vermont Maple from my grandparents in North Hero, and there was the glass container of the special cooking syrup (what the heck do you cook with maple syrup?). So I asked the obvious question, “Mom, do we have any syrup?”

“Yeah, there’s two bottles in there.”

“No, real syrup.”

“That is real syrup.”

I hate real syrup. When I was little I wouldn’t eat it at all. And actually, even today I wouldn’t have had her start making waffles if I knew all we had was “real” real syrup.

Much as I’m not going to attempt to break myself of my attachment to mass-produced high fructose corn syrup style syrup, of which no part has ever come from a tree, I do recognize how ridiculous it is that I’d rather have “fake” syrup than the old-fashioned stuff of which the grocery store kind is a cheap imitation.

My generation just likes high fructose corn syrup. While my parents grew up eating real maple syrup, homemade ice cream, and butter that actually came from a churn (at some point), the “real” stuff for me- what I grew up with and am used to- comes from a grocery store shelf, and before that, some factory that started with imitation ingredients and packed it full of preservatives and flavorings that are giving us all cancer.

First Methodist Church has an annual ice cream social at the homes of two couples from the church. We go down to the river and bring homemade ice cream. Just saying “homemade ice cream” makes my mouth water and I associate delicious things with the idea, probably mostly due to my parents’ appreciation for the substance. But saying its name and eating it are two different things. Five minutes outside and that delicious homemade mint chocolate chip ice cream looks like the Ooze from the Ninja Turtles. I contented myself with brownies this year and scanned the new arrivals hopefully for a quart of Bryers.

Real sugar is supposed to be sweeter than high fructose corn syrup. I can tell the difference in the flavors of Ecuadorian and North American Coca-Cola because of the one change in ingredients. And I like Ecuadorian Coke. But I’d much rather have a homegrown and cancer-infused bottle from the good ol’ U.S.A., full of stuff that will probably kill me and free of extraneous bubbles and that old-fashioned disaccharide that’s too expensive for money-bent U.S. corporations to ship to bottlers and distributors in sufficient quantities to sweeten Coke for North American consumption.

As the nostalgic, purist type, I ought to appreciate “real” stuff more. But say “burger” to my dad and me, and while he imagines grilling out in Cincinnati, Ohio, I picture a nice greasy Big Mac in a cardboard box in Anderson, South Carolina. It’s what I grew up with.

Yes, I recognize the ridiculousness of it. And yes, I’m going to go have an HFCS- and preservative-filled cancer-giving glass of root beer right now.

This Ruins "Never Have I Ever"

Just to preface this, I’m fine now, don’t freak out.

So I’m sitting in class yesterday and we’d just started. I was pretty much just sitting there copying contact information onto the syllabus and taking notes on what little we talked about the first day. About five minutes into class, my side starts hurting.

It felt like a cramp, except a lot worse. However I sat, hunched over my notes, stretched out in the lab chair, or anything between, it still hurt. Worse, it began to hurt to breathe. If I took a fairly deep breath and then held it, it wasn’t so bad, but breathing out was no fun at all. For the next hour and fifteen minutes (and then some… of course the professor ran over) I just had to do my best to stick it out. Becuase to top it all of, it was the first day of class and I was determined not to walk out; even if it hadn’t been, I would have had to have been in more pain to walk out of a class taught by the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. (But only slightly more pain).

They ask you at the Doctor’s office “how bad does it hurt” with those smiley/frowny face drawings numbered 0-5 with 5 being the worst pain you’d ever felt in your life. If someone had asked me that on the way home, I’d have said a 4. While I was on the phone with my mom, I’d have said a 5. Just sucking enough air into my lungs to breathe enough to speak shot pain up my entire side. Since I was halfway home by the time I decided it was that bad and called my mom, she told me to get there as fast as I could and she’d take me back the the Emergency Room.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been driving, especially because Albemarle Hospital is right next to COA.

Long story short, I was there for about 4½ hours, taking X-Rays and other fun stuff, worrying about whether it was a kidney stones, appendicitis, or some crazy Ecuadorian parasite. Turns out I pulled a muscle in my back.

According the the ER doctor, the back is “poorly designed” (I think God might take issue with that statement) and it’s really easy to mess stuff up there (though even he admitted it’s pretty weird to just be sitting in class and have pain shoot through your side for no apparent reason).

I’ve got prescription strength muscle relaxers and Motrin on my bookshelf now and I’m getting pretty bored laying around. It still hurts to breathe, but not like yesterday, and I’m hoping to be up and running by Sunday.

The whole point of writing this is so that nobody can say “Why didn’t you tell me you went to the Emergency Room!?” And daggone it, next time I play “Never have I ever…” I’ll have to come up with a new “good one.” Mine used to be “…gone to the Emergency Room.”

D-O-N Done

I got home last night and I was just D-O-N Done. Over the course of the day, I said good-bye way too many times. In fact, I described my day yesterday as saying good-bye, sitting, good-bye, sitting, good-bye, and sitting.

In the airport in Miami, we got to see Teddy and sort of get the news that Emily hadn’t made it because her visa expired as Teddy mouthed and motioned through the inch-thick soundproof glass forcing him to go the long way around through customs instead of to where we could actually speak to him at the gate. Then Bryan left us to head for his short hop to Tampa, and on the thirteenth good-bye of the day, I just about lost it.

It was really good to see my mom in Raleigh and to finally say “Hello.” I talked her into letting me drive home so I would have something to do. I was just in a weird mood and needed to accomplish something rather than sitting for another three hours and thinking about how much I just don’t want to be here.

Not that I’m in just this huge “Fight” mode or have a bad attitude or hate the States or anything. But I’ve been saying for a week that I wasn’t ready to go, and I definitely have not had enough down time yet to be feeling ready to process my experience with anyone here. Even in the airport yesterday afternoon, we really didn’t even talk about anything meaningful about the last 3 months or the next few days, and just enjoyed our Dr. Peppers for a few more minutes of relative silence in the appreciative presence of friends who “got it.”

I got to see Billy and Lydia last night, and when I drove MY car (emphasis as a reminder to my brother) home I called Matt Smith at the house. I’ve been calling the States from that phone all summer, but it’s still a strange sensation that I can dial my cell phone and someone in Ecuador picks up. That was when I got the full story on Emily being stuck and just the last bit of Matt and Lane being in South America and Matt’s thoughts on that and me getting to say out loud how totally weird it is to be home.

I also had a chance to go over to Mike’s house and talk to Mike and Laura and Mrs. Dwan, which was good, but I was so shot at that point from antihistamine and lack of sleep that it didn’t last long.

This morning I feel rested, but still just weirded out that I’m even here. I can’t wait to call and talk to everyone else as they get home and at least have a sense of understanding and a similar experience. I’m glad Jerry is here, but I feel like he and I still have catching up to do from the fact that we hardly saw each other whenever we had teams on the ground, and I know it’s going to be hard for both of us when we get put on the spot together and people expect us to have one collective experience that is in truth not remotely the same in most places.

Overall, I’m just a little overwhelmed and I’d like to find a rock to hide under at the moment, but I have a really good processing opportunity that I will take advantage of tonight and I have absolutely no obligations right now until school starts.

Called to be Where We Are

Bryan asked me last night if I was ready for my team to leave. I said “no.” And now they’re gone.  It’s a complicated emotion.

In one sense, and very much on the surface, I’m glad to have some time off. There’s still work to do to finish out Block 2, and it will be fun to remember what “sleeping in” is like.  I get to see the guys now, and even most of the girls are over at the “Frat House” tonight.  We successfully hosted a team, saw them learn and grow.

But we also met brothers and sisters in Christ, and became friends. And now they are on their way home. Sarah said during final debrief that while this has been an incredible experience, now God Calls them to be in Woodbury, Minnesota. And I believe that, but I’m just not good at good-byes.

To top off the fact that the group left, they left us with some very heart-felt letters, some totally unnecessary but greatly appreciated parting gifts (Sarah and I are going back to Crepes & Waffles very soon) and a lot of tears. Paul left giving his sweatshirt to Sarah and his necklace to me, and after having watched him grow so much this week and learning from him, it truly made us feel like we were a part of that. And he’s not the only one who has touched us either, and I just gave out a lot of hugs and tried not to think about it as Amy, Calley, Denise, Erik, Gary, Greg, Jenna, Katie, Lauri, Maggi, Mari Jo, Matt, Mike “Curley,” Mike “Moyer,” Natalie, Paige, Paul, Rob and Robin hugged, squeezed, besito’ed, laughed and cried their way into the airport.

More than likely, there are some in that group that I will never see face-to-face again in this life. I feel honored to have been a part of their experience and blessed to have had them be a part of mine, and thankful that God let our paths cross for nine days in Quito, Tena, Shandia, and Capricho, Ecuador. I’m anxious to see and hear about their fruit, and to be able to share mine with them, which they have definitely impacted, as a group, and as 19 amazing individuals in my life.

I talked to Heather this afternoon when I came back to the house. It was awesome to hear the voice of both someone from home, and someone who can understand this ongoing experience. I missed the “Tangent Minds” so much it hurt this afternoon, and I can’t wait for the other one in South America to make his way back to the Frat House tomorrow (I keep typing “Fart House,” which also would not be far from the truth). At any rate, we talked about being sent to do God’s work, and about (as Sarah put it, which will always stick with me) being Called to be where we are.

I’ll try to convert some of my writings from this week into pre-dated blog entries. But I also had a conversation with Matt Jenson this morning in our meeting about playing “catch up,” and I might just choose not to butcher a good chunk of it.

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A Bushel of Pecks

This weekend we’ve been in Atlanta. I missed the last two family trips, so I was pretty stoked to get to go this time. And for Grandpa Bill’s 90th birthday at that. I’ve been pretty sick and just wiped out (and I haven’t eaten hardly anything) but it’s been an excellent time anyway.

I think my Grandpa was especially pleased because all 4 of his sons were home. So between them and their families and Grandpa and my two Great Aunts and my dad’s cousin, we had a pile of Pecks (and Joyces and Brocks) at dinner tonight. Pretty awesome to see everyone and to give Grandpa Bill all the attention that he would probably normally just as soon hide out from.

It’s always fun to see your family. The people who you know and who know you and remember all the embarrassing stuff you did when you were little, but also who you can drive around with for five hours unsuccessfully1 looking for an Atlanta Braves store and still have a fantastic time with.

1I think Miley Cyrus was in town. We couldn’t get to the one Braves store we actually located at the CNN center. Darn you, throngs of twelve-year-old girls.