Afton Rorvik's Blog, page 16

Life in the “Hood”

“On the bus ride home every day from elementary school, I would look at the neighborhoods we passed—houses close together without barbed-wire fences to separate them. What would it feel like, I wondered, to live so close to people?” (Storm Sisters, pages 19–20)

I know now. I know what it feels like to live close to people, to neighbors. I just have to tell you!

It feels like a belly aching from laughter. At least this week.  Two of our neighbors, Robin and Bryan, popped through the gate and into our backyard one night with great flourish. One assumed the role of crazed author groupie while her husband lurked behind her, camera in hand, posing as the paparazzi. They had just received their pre-ordered copy of Storm Sisters and came demanding an autograph.

These two neighbors many years ago held a book signing for my children’s book, complete with a cake that matched the book cover. They totally surprised me that evening and even invited my mentor from college days.

Life in the “hood.” Wow.

Life with people. Wow.

So much better than talking to sheep over a barbed-wire fence!

Still Me

Ringo and Fritz (vacationing with us for the week) started barking with such enthusiasm that I knew I either had a burglar on the front porch—or a mailman.  As I peeked out the door, I saw the retreating back of a UPS delivery man. And then I also saw THEM—two boxes on my front porch.

I turned to my mother-in-law (also vacationing with us) and said, “It’s my book!”  We started clapping and shouting.

I knew this day would come. I knew I would one day hold in my hands these words of mine brought to print. But, today?! What should I do? What should I say?

Mudder and I opened a box and oohed and aahed. I called John. Texted my agent.  And my best friend, Karen.

Now what?

My two barking friends had begun to pace back and forth in front of the door and eye their leashes. So fifteen minutes after my book arrived, I found myself  meandering around our neighborhood with two furballs and then bending to scoop up their deposits.

It felt good, oddly. Reminded me of who I am.

Author, yes. Scooper of poop, yes.

Just me. Still me.

Just living this life God has given me.

But I’m an Introvert!

Author Susan Cain describes me so well in her book Quiet (page 11).

“Introverts . . . may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family.”

So true! I loved a recent neighborhood party, but I came home and needed a large dose of quiet. In my pajamas. In the basement.

I often wrestle internally with the introvert/extrovert thing. Do I push myself to spend more time with people? Do I push myself to walk into a room of people I don’t know and strike up a conversation? Or do I say to myself,  “I’m an introvert. I can just keep company with myself”?

Something keeps pushing me toward people. My favorite book. The more I read the Bible, the more I see the great strength in connection. I see it in stories of people who tried to go it alone and crashed and burned, and I see it in stories of people who chose community and thrived.  I see it in the life of Jesus.

What about you?

Check out this short quiz from author Susan Cain: http://www.thepowerofintroverts.com/about-the-book/quiet-quiz-are-you-an-introvert/

…and they ran

Raw emotion, family angst, political intrigue, narcissistic power brokers, destitute men and women…

Sounds like a novel, doesn’t it? Maybe a bestseller.

In truth, I describe my favorite book, a book I read every morning–the Bible.

After decades of reading this book, I still sit to read it and stand later changed. This book, more than any other I have ever read, gives me a window to a world I long to know beyond this world, as well as a mirror image of my imperfect heart and the wisdom to know how to tend to it. In this book I read about men and women, imperfect like me, who met Jesus and discovered love, forgiveness, peace….

On this journey of life and building relationships, I often do it imperfectly. Things get messy. I want to run.

Then I open my favorite book and read about other imperfect people. When their leader, Jesus, was arrested, they should have stood by him, risked their lives for him, spoken to authorities as witnesses to his character, rallied other believers in prayer. . . .

Instead, they ran. They ran!

How human. How real.

And that is why I keep reading this book, my favorite book, the Bible.

What about you? 

My Favorite Colorado View

On our recent Colorado trip, my husband and I kept saying, “Wow! Can you believe this?”

Snow-capped mountains (in July!).

Streams of mountain runoff nestled among wildflowers.

A lake full of lily pads tucked away in the middle of a forest.

A moose that wandered over to our rented townhouse for breakfast one morning.

A  sunset that seemed to bounce off nearby mountain ranges creating what looked like three different sunsets . . .

Despite all this natural beauty, one of the views, truly, that moved me most each day was this one:

Silly of me? Overly sentimental? Probably.

But every time I saw that pile of shoes, it reminded me of the people connected to them—people who had come to visit.

A kick-my-shoes-off-and settle-into-the-sofa sort of visit.

A let-us-make-you-a steak-dinner sort of visit.

A let’s-stay-up-late-laughing-and-talking-in-the-hot-tub sort of visit.

Connection.

I Still Like My Husband

On our wedding day, 27 years ago this July 18th, the pastor said, “Imagine spending the rest of your life with someone you can actually stand.”

I don’t need to imagine anymore. I can taste it.

I genuinely still like being around my husband. I like our Friday lunch dates; I like our after-dinner conversations; I like our trips together; I like praying together. . . . And I celebrate my “beste venn,” my best friend—my husband.

We have shaped each other in so many unquantifiable ways.  We have both changed over the years and continue to change. And we have certainly irritated each other countless times. Yet, we still have this common ground, this connection, this friendship—this marriage. I thank God for it.

As I write we are packing for a road trip to Colorado. In our bags we have a copy of Love and Respect by Dr. Emerson Eggerichs to read on the way. Early in our marriage we had the goal of reading and discussing a marriage book together once a year. And then life got so busy. . . .

So in this 27th year of marriage, we return to that goal.

Want to join us?

National Interdependence Day?

So . . . we just celebrated Independence Day. Fireworks, picnics, lots of hoopla, and lots of red, white, and blue.  Maybe a little watermelon and a burger.

As I prepared to celebrate, my word-nerd self couldn’t help mulling over the meaning of the word, independent. And then, of course, I pulled out my dictionary. Yes, the hard cover copy of my Random House Webster’s College Dictionary.

independent adj. 1. Not influenced or controlled by others; thinking or acting for oneself.  2. Not depending or contingent upon something else. 3. Not relying on another for aid or support.

Lots of that word not. Kind of makes me feel sad. And lonely. Especially when contrasted with another adjective: interdependent.

interdependent adj. mutually dependent; depending on each other

That sounds more inviting, doesn’t it? Like calling a friend during a life-storm and hearing the words, “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

Perhaps we should start a national campaign to launch a new nationwide celebration day: Interdependence Day.

Are you in? 

“Help! Help Me!”

One afternoon a few months ago, I stopped at our local grocery store to pick up a few items. As I left my car to head for the front door, I heard a woman’s voice shouting, “Help! Help me!” I looked around frantically and could not see the person attached to the voice. She shouted again, “Help! I’m by the car! Help!” By this time another shopper had located the woman in distress, and we both ran to her aid.

As we helped her stand, she explained, “I have cancer. I am so weak that I fell trying to get into the car.”

I wonder if when she fell to the ground, she lay for a few minutes and started an internal dialogue. I would have. Should I just lie here until my daughter comes back? Really, I am okay. I’m just weak. And is it safe to ask for help from random strangers?

As I think back to this event, I so admire this woman. She was down and out—literally—and had the courage to own it and say that four-letter word we women so struggle to say: “Help!” I want to be this kind of woman.

What about you?

A Storm? What Storm?

Here in Illinois tornadoes appear frequently and devastate randomly. I respect them. And so I head for the basement when I see or hear the warning signs . . . well . . . usually.

One night my husband and I woke to the sound of our teenage daughter knocking on our door: “We have a tornado warning! What should we do?” We should have jumped out of bed and rushed for the basement. We should have grabbed some bottled water and a flashlight on the way. We should have turned on the radio. Instead, one of us muttered, “It is okay. Just go back to sleep.”

Sadly, I often take a similar approach to the storms of life. If I don’t react to this difficulty, maybe it will just go away. And, truthfully, I often go back to bed.

What would happen if I—if we all—took more of a tornado-aware approach to life? What if when the storms come, rather than trying to downplay them, we instead gathered those we love and headed for shelter? Together. What if when the storms come, we could turn to a store of ready provisions, including friends and faith?

What do you think? 

Sticking around When Storms Come

I so enjoy watching Tom Skilling on WGN. He loves weather. He waxes eloquent about precipitation, jet streams, low-pressure systems, and statistics that compare this year to other years. He stated this year that we in Illinois had our 3rd coldest and snowiest winter on record (and that record goes back to 1884). Ouch!

John and I talked more this winter than ever about relocating someday to a warmer place.  And we made the mistake of checking the weather in Denver frequently: 50°F and sunny (!) when our thermometer read -10°F.

Alas, we know that we need to stay here and face next winter, and the next. . . . Maybe if I keep watching Tom Skilling, some of his enthusiasm for harsh weather will wear off on me.

When life sends storms my way—the death of a loved one, depression, physical illness—I find that I react much as I would to physical weather situations, such as a long winter. I just want to relocate, move to a warmer, kinder, gentler climate where all seems happy and good. And when storms hit a friend’s life, I fight the same urge. Storms create mess, and that makes me nervous. I would happily just see and talk about good weather.

What about you?