whitney dziurawiec

I feel old, you guys. It hits me like a snowfall, one tiny flake at a time. I feel it lurking in my back, snapping in my wrists, grinding in my knee. Not all at once, of course. I'm not 80. But just enough. Enough that I'm starting to see these senile snowflakes accumulate on the ground and it's getting slippery and I might fall down. Sometimes pain traps us in our bodies, but this pain oddly separates myself from it. What is this thing that surrounds me, moves around when I want it? Why does it hurt? I feel oddly separated from my body when my knee flares up; I find myself staring it at as I would a flat tire or a check engine light. This home of mine for 25 years that has stretched as I have grown, shook as I laughed, wiped its own tears away, seems foreign and  other  as it begins to wear down, which is disconcerting, but couldn't we all use a smack of eternal perspective every now and again? I even feel old as we sit in church and I fi...

We can officially call it Christmas now: whatever's been whirring around and nestling in our hearts. We have eaten the feast and set up the trees and as I sit here watching it glow and reflect, there is a relief in reading Advent words and listening to the songs of yearning; the world finally allows me to dance in the glitter of this time of year that normally hides away in my heart (I am a year-round lover of Christmas). The forecast says "snow" and I'm all giddy with the shades still open at 10 pm, on the lookout for any hint of it, because snow is the ultimate accompaniment to Advent. Weathermen predict snow while our baby Savior proclaims purity and forgiveness, promises stains to be blotted out; forecasts the fullness of salvation. Christmas aside, this time of year has always been one of celebration, and the reasons for cake continue to multiply. What started as the birthdays of two brothers, a cousin, and I, has added three more birthdays from my husband'...

October has flown by, along with most of the leaves, but the geese still waddle around the pond close to our home. November settles around us, not radiating like brightness of last month, but subtly, softly glowing. November has a darker backdrop, less leaves; it gives us a beautiful picture of the remnant; November provides us one of the few times that death is visibly stunning, only when it precedes new life. Perhaps if these were the last leaves to ever grow, their brilliant colors would fill us with certain dread and doom. If each tree that joined the ranks of barrenness would never see leaves again, our autumn would fill us with panic. But we know, we have seen the seasons change for decades, reliable as time itself, that life will follow this death. And this is the only factor that allows us to celebrate Autumn in its glory. Oh that I would see the death in my own life with such faith! Each time my plans crumble, or my pride shattered. Ea...

Summer has lost the battle, as it always does when October nestles itself into our trees, and this morning our sun room is gray from this rather sun-less Friday. Socks have become a necessity, blankets are pulled tighter, the windows must be closed at night. We feel normal now, our lives that were once cooped-up, packed up, are beginning to ooze gracefully out of our bodies, even out of our home; we are leaving our messes everywhere as students' hearts let us in and we let theirs in, as we pour out our selves to a church, spill out our hearts in prayer for new things, greater vision, changed lives.   We have done more than unpacked our boxes. We feel our hearts unloading, our guards diminishing, and calling anywhere else "home" grows more and more foreign. We drove back from our Fall Retreat on Sunday and as we found ourselves between the two Mankato bluffs, crossing the river, I realized that home, a once far-off dream is now a reality, and autumn makes any hom...

Long weeks have passed since my last post, but I sit here with measuring cups, bowls, and cookbooks surrounding me, bread baking in the oven, pots and cutting boards poking from the sink. I've been investing in my new love of the kitchen, turning ingredients into meals. I'm not sure how long this love will last, but I'll savor each sniff of bread that I can. The air has cooled down again so we've re-opened our windows while we keep watch for the leaves to change. From a slow, disappointing summer to a bursting, exciting fall. What an abrupt shift, like waking up to a brand new, exciting life from the discouraging and emotionally demanding nightmare that preceded it. I still feel like I'm recovering from a tragedy of sorts; still blinking and blinded in the sunlight from the passed-over fog that surrounds the ones who support raise full-time. Somehow, support raising does that to us: makes relationships and even conversations forced and awkward. I was worried I...

I write this post from a new town, a new home. And all our furniture is taking its first breaths of air since March, I have Febreezed everything and washed all the dust off the Tupperware and glasses. And yesterday was the first time I'd felt it. The rain fell enchantingly from the sky and soup simmered on the stove and piles grew in the sink and it hit me for the first time since we'd been here, the first time since we'd been homeless, since we've gotten married, really: Welcome, long-awaited normalcy . Intangible, inexpressible, and yes, fleeting. I knew normalcy was never the goal; I knew stability could always be (and was, often) ripped out from under us. I knew travel, moving, and packing were part of the job we have. I'd prayed for many things to occur after we'd moved here but this feeling was not on that list. Yet it flooded my heart warmly as I listened to the rain and emptied the dishwasher. I had planned to write about my hatred for this time o...

A week from tomorrow we will have a real home. A return address, a place for our pots and pans, where our shoes will be inevitably strewn haphazardly around despite our various attempts at keeping them neat. My husband's green thumb will ensure we have plants and lots of them, and I will put a candle in every room. Perhaps we will finally print our wedding pictures. We will rebuild a home, and walk with as much faith we can muster into the next stage of our lives. The summer is almost over, and the heat is welling up inside with anticipation. It is quiet now, as we play house in my parents' home while they are away; finally cooking what we want, not being cooped up in a room when we need alone time. There is space to breathe in every room, and goodness is this how it is for everyone else? Next Saturday has always felt forever away, but now it is next Saturday and we aren't sure what to do with all of this. This summer has drug us to the outskirts of our trust, forced ...