You might guess that I'm going to write about being an American. I could write about that. I could also write about how I had a friend whose birthday was on Flag Day and I would tease her and say "Happy Flag Day" instead of happy birthday. She would ask me "Do you know what day it is in three days?", and I would say jokingly, "Of course, it's Flag Day". Flag day is also the day 16 years ago that I moved 800 miles away, on her birthday. I celebrated it with her on June 13th that year.
I was 21 and restless, wanting to make a life of my own, seeking adventure, not wanting to move someplace colder or windier to the big colleges in the same state after getting that associates degree, not knowing what job I wanted to have for the rest of my life, floundering, not wanting to be sheltered by my parents anymore. What was my plan? To move to the same city as my oldest brother in Kansas and start college there. Wow a big city! Or so I thought since I grew up in a town of 55,000. My heart used to beat faster driving into big cities--I loved them!
I ended up moving down here right after a big tornado, and it was hard finding an apartment because of all the displaced people whose homes were wrecked by it. We finally found a place for me in a studio apartment way across town from my brother, and I learned what it was like to have a full-time job, having to pay the rent, how long it takes to build up vacation time, and what it's like to be lonely.
So on June 14th, I always reminisce about following my dad's motorhome that was leaning to one side (since my bed and dresser and a loveseat were in there, too) in my Mustang with my mom in the passenger's seat and dreaming about the new adventures I would find in Kansas. I remember stopping at a rest stop, my dad asking "Are you sure you want to do this? Please don't move so far away." And I am thankful for the experiences and where God has led me today.
Skinnytaste Dinner Plan (Week 88)
10 hours ago