i am from 28.July.2008

I am from the rolling, foliaged hills.  I am from rows of corn, standing tall and packed together.  I am from empty pastureland, from brome grass, black-eyed Susans, and phlox, from where bumblebees forage for pollen.  I am from cicadas sawing their rhythm into the gathering dusk.

I am from Childcraft books and the big purple dictionary, from orange, deep green, and light green carpet, from painted blocks that smell like wood and dirty fingers.

I am from the farm.  I am from the green lawn with a homemade tree swing and butt-pinchin’ time.  I am from the black-soiled garden where potatoes are dropped into holes beside the cold, narrow spade.  I am from the long lanes and the hoghouses and the warm, dust-coated barn where the kittens live.  I am from pick-ups smelling of sour grain.

I am from loud-talking Germans and plates of Spaetzle and Knoepfle, from the clicking closet and from damp kisses, and squishy, infrequent hugs.  I am from hard, grey cookies, and I am from lusciously chocolaty buckeyes, English toffee, and boob cookies.

I am from lots of laughter, from notebook paper filled with preteen handwriting.  I am from puzzles, crochet, cross stitch, and the Lucky Clover 4-H club.

I am from the church on Virginia, from veiled, calm-smiled women and black-coated, sober men.  I am from church potlucks and crowds that smell like leftover potluck food.  I am from the back pew, where I make tallies of the number of times the minister clears his throat.  And I am from the second pew where I listen for a word from Jesus.

I am from blue crinkled eyes and the biggest callused hands in the world.  I am from nonsense songs in the countryside and “Will you scratch my back?”  I am from “Little Black Sambo” and “The Cookie Monster.”

I am from job charts, shiny hands, rounded fingernails, and Grandmother’s Apple Dessert.  I am from the chair in front of the purple robe, from curling irons, French braids, and breakfasts on time.  I am from a surprisingly soft hug.

I am from the quiet places alone, from sobbing corners, and from conversations with imaginary friends.

I am from a God who sent me Jesus.  I am from a self-prescribed cure, and I am from a pool of grace.  I am from “I am screwed up” and from jubilant heights of freedom.

I am from dust.  I am from eternity.

I don’t know where this meme originated, but ever since reading Mary’s collection of stories on Owlhaven, I have wanted to write my own “I am From” story.  Ann from A Holy Experience reposted a beautiful rendition called “From” on her blog this morning, and I decided hers was too inspiring to wait any longer.

one hundred things about c.l.beyer 3.August.2007

1. I am Carrie Louise.
2. I first wanted to be a writer when, as a little girl, I read a biography about Louisa May Alcott.
3. The most memorable scene in that book was when Louisa’s dad made her and her sister take their bowls of soup to a poor family for complaining about the food.
4. I love to read Anne Lamott, Madeleine L’Engle, and C.S. Lewis.
5. I want to be a missionary and a mom to lots of babies.
6. There was a notice for a job opening posted on the library door today, and I almost drooled over the possibility of being a librarian.
7. My favorite root beer is Barq’s.
8. My favorite pop is root beer.
9. I’m from a part of the country where people call soft drinks “pop.” And there’s nothing wrong with it.
10. I get nostalgic thinking about wide open fields.
11. I was the best bunter on my softball team when I was little.
12. It drives me nuts when people don’t know how to spell “Isaiah,” and when they don’t listen when I tell them how: “a… i… a…”
13. I wish I took more artistic photos.
14. I can be frugal when I want to.
15. Being frugal gives me a sort of high.
16. I think we’re getting new neighbors today.
17. I could be pregnant right now.
18. But I don’t think I am.
19. I worry that that was too personal.
20. Unloving, critical people bother me.
21. I have a pimple on my forehead. Well, a pimple or two… or three.
22. I have four big sisters, but they’re all littler than I am.
23. Opa is my wonderful Serbian grandpa who was a Nazi in World War 2.
24. I know how to cook and clean and fold laundry better than most American women.
25. Texas taught me how to cook pretty good Mexican food.
26. I used to be an email-checking junkie.
27. Okay, I still am.
28. Suburbs drive me nuts. Maybe I’ll blog about that sometime.
29. I am in the middle of writing four novels, but I haven’t worked on them in almost a year.
30. In elementary school, I always got goosebumps when we sang the national anthem.
31. I still get goosebumps when I hear touching stories, but not when I hear or sing “The Star Spangled Banner” anymore.
32. There are 195 (now 196) posts on my blog, and I’ve been blogging since 2004.
33. I ache for American Christianity because so much of it seems superficial.
34. I wish I had a larger vocabulary.
35. I am reading Honey for a Child’s Heart right now, and it’s wonderful – a resource I’ll use all my life.
36. I love baking sweets but hate cooking supper.
37. My clean house gives me a high.
38. My house is dirty right now.
39. I want to run a coffee shop where people are addicted to the love they feel while they’re there.
40. Outside my family, I have two very good friends with whom I would feel comfortable sharing almost anything.
41. When people ask where I met my husband, I say we’ve known each other our whole lives.
42. My husband is sensitive, helpful, handsome, and driven.
43. To relax, I read books, watch movies, take baths, and accept massages.
44. I don’t like shopping.
45. I feel like a strong, accomplished woman when I mow our lawn.
46. I grew up on a farm in Kansas, but I didn’t have help out with the farming, except to hold piglets and cats while they were neutered.
47. I got engaged in high school.
48. I love chips and queso.
49. I like to support the little independent restaurants instead of the big, chainy ones.
50. I’ve been to Haiti, Mexico, and St. Lucia.
51. I’ve been to England, France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, and Liechtenstein.
52. I speak a little German with a pretty good accent.
53. I hate pickles.
54. I’ve been in Colorado, California, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Florida, Georgia, Connecticut, Ohio, Indiana, Minnesota, Arkansas, South Dakota, and Pennsylvania.
55. My baby’s awake now.
56. I am so thankful when Isaiah wakes up happy.
57. My philosophy is to get rid of anything I don’t use, even if it’s in perfectly good condition.
58. My mom is almost perfect.
59. I love being in the mountains, but I’m a weenie about hiking.
60. My first car was a stick-shift red Ford Tempo.
61. In high school, my after-school pit stop was Sonic for Ched-R-Peppers with ranch dressing.
62. Growing up, we had desserts called Bear Boo Boo, Goose Gaggalie, and Boob Cookies.
63. I made Goose Gaggalie Monday.
64. My Bear Boo Boo never tastes as good as my mom’s did.
65. I have never made Boob Cookies.
66. I play the piano, trombone (used to, anyway), and banjo (sort of).
67. We had the best cat names growing up: Sugi, Olga, Dunstan, Godfrey, Hooga, Ooga, Big Dirt, Little Dirt, Pork, Beans, Reuben, Peter, Muriel, Beetrice, Something…
68. Music I love: bluegrass, Texas blues, hearty jazz (not elevator music), old country, classical, rock oldies, folk
69. Song that most recently was stuck in my head: “Wide Eyed” by Nichole Nordeman. Good lyrics.
70. I have had one traffic ticket in my life – for going 74 in a 60 mph zone.
71. I have worked at a home for handicapped adults, a lumber yard, two schools, an Italian restaurant, and a scrapbook store.
72. I have never made more than $10/hour.
73. I am currently learning how to shop grocery store sales wisely.
74. I have been in hospitals to get stitches on my face (twice) and have a baby.
75. Dar Williams’s music is playing right now.
76. I wish I could buy more books.
77. I would consider breastfeeding someone else’s baby if its mother couldn’t.
78. When I was a kid, I could stick my belly out really far. I used to act like it was bread dough rising; then I’d punch it down.
79. My dad used to ask us kids to scratch his back, but he didn’t like us to plug his nose.
80. I think Edith Pargeter and Annie Dillard have the most beautiful styles of writing of all the writers I’ve read.
81. Books I love: Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Harriet Beecher Stowe), Blue Like Jazz (Donald Miller), A Wrinkle in Time (Madeleine L’Engle)
82. I have 23 nieces and nephews.
83. The Catcher in the Rye made me laugh out loud when I read it.
84. I would rather be a nun than the President.
85. I have emotional conversations with invisible people when I’m alone.
86. A few movies I love: The Spitfire Grill, One Night with the King, The Shawshank Redemption
87. I publish an Aberle family newspaper called The Genuine Giraffe.
88. Being a mother makes me feel important.
89. Recycling stuff makes me feel responsible.
90. In fourth grade I wrote and acted out a skit called “Always Pay Those Taxes” with my friend Anna Tennal.
91. One of my good friends from high school just moved 20 minutes away from me this week!
92. I am ridiculously fond of getting the mail.
93. My current car is a 2002 burgundy Honda Accord.
94. Kyle’s current car is a totaled 1995 tan Honda Accord that’s still running great.
95. I was driving the car when it was totaled.
96. But Kyle totaled his red Ford Escort two days before, and it’s not running anymore.
97. My sisters and I all have different noses. (That is, they don’t look alike.)
98. I have a beautiful nine-month-old son.
99. I have the most wonderful husband in the world.
100. I’m in a lifetime love affair with Jesus Christ.

     The End.

     p.s. Let me know if you want to see blog posts on any of these factoids.

childbirth 12.January.2007

You prepare like the dickens (or you have good intentions to), hoping Kegels and breathing will somehow make this a painfree experience for you, the most prepared woman in the world. By the time the contractions start in earnest, you’ve forgotten all about breathing and you know you’re in for a long ride.

You kind of wish you could just go to the hospital and get it over with already, but you call your doctor, a nurse, the hospital, the hospital again, and everyone keeps saying, “Just wait until the contractions are closer.” Closer. Harder. Closer. Harder. If you have to have this baby at home, they’ll be responsible, you vow. So you talk to your sisters and your mom because they’ll know best, better than those doctors and nurses, who haven’t had near as many babies and don’t have experience with your family’s genetics. Talking to family makes you cry, but at least they assure you that the medical professionals are probably as whacko as you think they are. But still you stay at home because you think you can take it just a little longer, but the whole thing has been going on for over a day now, and you wonder if this labor part will ever turn into delivery.

Four o’clock in the afternoon and you say “enough is enough.” You’re not waiting for closer contractions because you know your husband’s not keen on delivering his firstborn in the car.

You get to the hospital, feeling like a champ for laboring so long on your own. The nurse tells you you’re doing such a good job for being at this stage, but who knows if every woman gets told the same thing. You walk around, you lean over, you read your book, you crunch on some ice chips, you take a bath. You sit on a big blue ball, convincing yourself it helps. The hours drag on; the pain gets worse. The television noise has got to go. The big blue ball has long since stopped fooling you of its helpfulness. You climb into bed. You ask yourself if you will ever have more children. Is there a back-door exit to this delivery thing? You try to breathe calmly, but it’s no use. Enough of being macho: where’s the painkiller?

The moments get hazy — of seeing the head, of counting and pushing. Somehow in the midst of all your straining and breathing and pushing, someone up and steals your brain… or it wanders away when you’re not paying attention. (Sometime after delivery, you’ll realize it’s gone and can only hope it’ll find its way back soon.) But you don’t notice because a flood has just been released from your body, your soul. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over. The squalling baby is alive. It’s alive. It’s perfect. It’s your baby. It’s yours.

You try to catch your breath as they place a living being on your chest. You have just experienced a miracle.

The next day or two are blurry due to lack of sleep, but you’re delirious (and sore). Before you know it, you’re home and wondering who exactly was crazy enough to trust you with something so perfect, so fragile. Didn’t they check your list of credentials? Didn’t they realize you have no idea what to do with a live baby? As you sit there in the darkness and try to nurse, you realize that despite your brain being AWOL and your body being subject to a stronger force of gravity, you still remember how to love. And you figure that’s a good place to start.

me and the drunk 4.May.2006

Me and the drunk — we gathered up our pieces, the only ones we saw of our tattered lives. There could have been pieces more important to the big picture, but that was all we could see, so we had to work with what we had. We picked a few up — broken shards, memories, and the like — hoping, knowing we’d be able to see better soon.

pieces 8.November.2005

Let her bring God back to you, Little Town. Let her step into your world without conforming to it. Let her be herself, fulfill her dreams in you.

The town drunk says, “This used to be a liquor store,” and she says, “Did it now?” She knows it used to be a liquor store because she had her eye on it back then; she had already claimed it as a girl, but she didn’t know what for. It’s too beautiful to be a liquor store.

A lady playing a guitar in the corner brings people in, but it’s God who brings the love. It’s the love that keeps people coming in for another shot, another smooth escape.

People keep coming in like they want to see the speakers, hear the music, but they don’t always pay attention — most of the time they do, though. Monday or Tuesday is story day — written, remembered, fiction, not fiction, whatever. She loves those days most because they’re so true.

“It’s ’cause of you, you know. This place brings people into town,” they tell her. No, it’s not. It’s ’cause of God; all because of God: builder of dreams.

Students studying fill the tables and chairs with their sprawl of learning. She walks into the library and says, “You oughtta renovate the upstairs.” But they ask, “How could we afford it? We can barely afford buying new books for our shelves.” And she says, “You oughtta put a can on the corner of your counter that says: ‘Donations for the Expansion of the Library.’ Books are important. Here’s your first check.” Ha! That’d make ‘em do it.

The hours are long, but people keep coming.

She doesn’t dress like the rest; she dresses like herself.

She says, “I’ve got a surprise tomorrow at four. You should come by.” She smiles a wry smile. “Why’s that?” “It’ll be worth it.” Four o’clock comes along and she lifts the cloth from her book — her published book. “In between getting drinks, I somehow found time to write a book. It’s ’cause of y’all this place stays open. Drinks on the house and a copy of this for everybody.” She winks. “You don’t have to read it.”

She loves books, and she wants others to love them. Books cover an entire wall, or they did until half of them got checked out around town. She only keeps track because someone else might need to read one of them, and she might need to track her copy down in a hurry.

She loves people, and she wants others to love them. Sometimes it’s hard to know where to draw the line, so sometimes she just doesn’t.

Clergymen come in and say she’s not representing who she ought to represent, or she’s taking away their crowd. Gas station says she’s taking away their customers too. She gives them a drink on the house, and says she bets their business has actually improved.

She’s got jars on the counter, stuffed with money to feed the hungry, rescue the orphans, clothe the poor, birth new Christians. She didn’t tell people to fill the jars; they just did. She puts in her salary and wishes she didn’t have to pay the bills. People forget the days when jars and shop were empty, but she doesn’t. She remembers well.

Sunday is her day off, and she watches the sunset and takes a breath before Monday. She wishes she could do more. She wishes others would come by, others who won’t let themselves be touched.

The walls, the pictures, used to be the definition of perfect decorum. Now, the place is kitschy, but it’s the reflection of love, so it’s all okay.

It’s an anomaly; she acts like it’s normal. People come from out of town, but just to gawk. The people touched are right next door, and they’re addicted to receiving love and giving love. They can’t stop.

Let Him be Himself, fulfill His dreams in you.

demotion 8.March.2005

I’ve been informed that my blog postings are usually depressing. And just to convince you I’m not a generally depressed person (although I do often write when I’m down in the dumps), here’s a reason to smile:

I asked for a demotion from my job yesterday. Yep, that’s right. I’m still wondering if I may be crazy, but I’m rather giddy about the whole situation. I told my manager it was just too much, these nights and weekends, and I didn’t feel like I was taking full advantage of spending time with friends and family. I told her I believed relationships were more important than my job, and it was time to set my priorities straight.
I wonder if people will believe that. I wonder if anyone will congratulate me on my demotion (ha ha!) or if they think I’m just not ready to accept responsibility. But you know what? It doesn’t really matter what they think. They don’t know the conviction the Lord has laid on my heart to be a more dedicated wife and friend.

So here I am, heading into my last week on the management team, excited to be a housewife, excited to spend more time writing, excited to be able to spend time with the people I love, and especially excited to spend more time with God. This is the life!