Making Days

Back in college, when blogging was still a new thing, my friend, Lindsay, and I each took a class called Weblogs and Wikis.  I know some may snicker at the sound of such a course, but it was legitimate, with a syllabus, two textbooks, and everything, and it counted towards our shared major in Creative and Professional Writing.  For the blogging component of the course, we had to create a project blog and maintain it throughout the semester.  As a twenty-two-year-old newlywed, my blog was entitled I Married You at Twenty-Two, and I used it to chronicle the highs and lows of being a young, newly-married college student, as well as to reach out to and connect with other girls who were in the same boat.  Lindsay called her blog Making Days and used it to record people’s reactions to the random acts of kindness she spontaneously performed in their lives.  It was similar to the idea of “paying it forward,” but without the prerequisite of having kindness shown to her first.  I remember her writing about helping her friend, Cyona, make a veil for her upcoming wedding, taking extra shifts for her coworkers at Applebee’s, and also about the time she assisted a struggling stranger schlep their groceries to their car. 

I know this sounds terrible, but when she first told me about her project, I remember thinking, “Ick!  Why on earth would she want to do that?”  It did not sound like any fun to me.  It only sounded like a lot of extra work, because, in addition to writing and networking with other bloggers for the assignment, she’d also have to find time in her busy schedule to actually do things for other people, because she wasn’t the type to fabricate when strapped for time.  Don’t get me wrong—having grown up under Christian teachings, I wasn’t a stranger to ideas like “it is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35) and “value others above yourself” (Philippians 2:3)—but as a perfectionistic college student with a goal of graduating with a 4.0, I was more than a little self-focused.  The thought of juggling married life with my final year of studies was overwhelming enough for me.  It was actually the reason I chose the project I did—as an outlet for my stress.  A way of killing two birds with one stone, if you will.   

I wasn’t the only one who crinkled their nose at Lindsay’s choice for a project.  There was a guy—a fellow student—who criticized her in front of the class, suggesting that her kind acts were disingenuous and only motivated by her desire get a good grade.  I can’t help but wonder if, like me, he only raised his eyebrows because he felt guilty that he wasn’t taking the time to reach out to others in the way she was.

Lindsay really did love to put a smile on other people’s faces, even when she wasn’t outlining her experiences in a blog.  After an older female classmate shared a personal essay she’d written in which she mourned the loss of her abilities to move—and especially dance—the way she used to before suffering from arthritis, Lindsay came up with a plan to record a special song for her.  It was a very fitting song about the freeing feeling of dancing, and Lindsay learned to play it on her guitar just for the occasion.  I remember sitting with her in front of a glowing, white computer screen in a tiny, dark room in the building dedicated to the studies of music and theater, alternating verses with her as she strummed softly to our singing.  I still have our recording of the song on a CD, and although I cringe every time I listen to my overreaching vocals, I still feel good because of the memory.

Lindsay always had a way of making me feel good back in college, whether she was lending me her cute clothes and claiming I wore them better than she did, setting aside two hours before our 9 am church service to style my long, thick, high-maintenance hair with her triple-barrel curling iron, talking up my singing voice like I could be the next American Idol, or giving me a poignant poem she’d written about our friendship.

Though the past nine years since we studied together in Minnesota has brought me places like North Dakota, Nebraska, and now Wyoming and her to the extremes of both Alaska and Florida, I’m glad to say we’ve continued to be in each other’s lives in spite of all of the moving around, and she’s continued to make my days by sporadically sending surprises like CDs, recipes, sparkly slip-on shoes for summer, and the one ugly, smelly T-shirt she had in college that I mercilessly mocked her for, as well as by simply calling to say, “Hey, Lon” in her friendly, familiar voice.

She really made my day last August when, completely out of the blue, she offered to let me use her air miles to visit her in Palm Harbor for two weeks with my seven-month-old daughter, Alice.  The trip was a cinch to arrange, since neither of us were working outside of our homes at the time, so by September 7^th, Alice and I found ourselves touching down on the toasty tarmac of Tampa International Airport, giddy from glimpses we’d caught of the gleaming Gulf framed within the thick, rounded edges of our bubble-like window. 

As if taking care of my airfare wasn’t enough, Lindsay stayed true to her form throughout the next couple of weeks, showering me with so much generosity I started to feel guilty.  She shared her skills as a budding photographer with us, snapping professional-grade headshots for my blog in her beautiful backyard and capturing precious portraits of Alice I couldn’t have otherwise afforded.  She also gave me expensive makeup she said she didn’t need, bought me The Civil Wars’ newest CD, dyed my hair “deep chestnut” brown, and passed on several nice tops and dresses she could’ve sold in her upcoming garage sale. 

I’ve always loved Lindsay’s taste in clothes.  I even like the garments she gives me better than the ones I choose for myself, and even though we’re shaped differently, hers somehow always seem to fit me like a glove.  It reminds me of the magical jeans in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, which, is actually one of Lindsay’s favorite series of books. 

Lindsay also gave Alice several of her four-year-old daughter, Lucy’s, former baby clothes, even though I knew they still held a lot of sentimental value.  And as soon as I mentioned how much I wanted to get a jogging stroller so I could start working out while taking care of Alice, Lindsay was scouring the local Craigslist ads for an affordable sport utility stroller that I could fold up and fly home with me.  She did end up finding one the day before my departure.

In addition to all of the tangible goodies Lindsay gave me, she also gave me some much-needed friend-time by shopping with me for unique, inexpensive clothing at Marshalls and her favorite local thrift stores, crawling into the salty, blue-green waves at Honeymoon Island State Park and Clearwater Beach (because going in too deep freaked me out), watching What Not to Wear with queso dip and candy after our kids had gone to sleep, and also spending time together with the kids—Alice, Lucy, and Lindsay’s two-year-old son, Lincoln—walking around the block, picnicking on Chick-fil-A beneath the front yard palm tree, and swimming in their pool out back. 

I had to get creative when packing my bags for my return flights because of all of the treats I’d racked up during my stay, but I made it work.  According to my calendar, it was the official last day of summer that I left Lindsay’s house feeling so full and so fresh, so ready to take on the new season.  Before going to Lindsay’s, I’d sensed I was starting to fall behind in a lot of personal areas, suspicious I was sporting that “first-year mom” look—not that that was a bad thing—but after my two-week trip to the Sunshine State,  I somehow felt suddenly caught up. 

And when I looked at the portraits she took of me, I saw Loni the woman, Loni the thirty-year-old, and Loni the mom.  And surprisingly, I liked her.  I’d always been fearful of growing up as a kid, unsure of who I’d become and whether I could handle the pressures that accompanied adulthood, so being given the opportunity to see my present self in such a positive light was truly uplifting.  I thanked God for this unexpected gift.

Speaking of gifts, Lindsay’s been given a gift for seeing a need and gently tending to it, of unobtrusively, nonjudgmentally, serving those around her.  I could feel the effects of her mild-mannered maintenance as she, Lucy, and Lincoln loaded my bursting bags into their vehicle and drove me and Alice back to the airport late Saturday morning, giving us the old heave-ho as they dropped us off to return to life as usual in northeastern Wyoming.  Although I did start to wonder if our extended stay was starting to wear on Lindsay and her family, I say “heave-ho” in the most positive way possible, because, like I said, I needed a push—especially with all of the added weight from all of the gifts.  While I wheeled Alice towards airport security in her new, used stroller and me in my new, used T-shirt, I really did feel like I’d been given a running start.  I knew I’d miss my fabulous friend, her family, and all of the fun we’d had, but more than anything, I felt good.  Equipped.

Anyone who could’ve listened to our most recent phone conversation earlier this week for even a few minutes would’ve been able to see that Lindsay’s still at it, from the glamour shots she just took of the girls in her Bible study, to the tip she gave me about a new place to submit my writing, to the Canon Rebel DSLR camera she’s sending me for dirt cheap. 

Lindsay has always insisted that we each give and take an equal amount in our friendship, but I have long begged to differ.  To steal the final lines of the poem she penned for me in college:

I pray His blessing ever

Crowns you with grace
And the innocence, charm
You wear; it flows
Beyond
As you continue on, Outreaching.

I think those words fit you better than me.  Here’s hoping all of your kindness comes back to you, Lindsay.  I’m blessed to be called your friend.