The Steadfast Heart

As a 90’s kid, I was a self-proclaimed tomboy, often wearing oversized camp t-shirts and checkered hand-me-down Umbro soccer shorts. I pulled my hair back with scrunchies and left the straight across bangs my mom cut to fend for themselves on my forehead. When she had her way, I was in cotton floral dresses with a brush run through my hair. I had two brothers who shared a wallpapered room with bunk beds and a love for Star Wars. As the youngest, I was strong-willed and strong-minded, often getting told by elementary school teachers that I talked too much at carpet time.

We lived on the same block as my grandparents, who had a pantry stocked with Nutty Buddy’s, Star Crunch cookies, and Teddy Grahams. Mom would pick up the landline to give a heads-up that my brothers and I were coming. We’d race through the neighbor’s backyard into their back door, often met with the smell of sourdough bread and fabric softener. We’d fight over which color silly straw we wanted for our can of pop, to the sound of the laundry beeping from the room just off the kitchen.

One of the first chores I remember having was shucking corn outside our closed-in patio. Sitting in a white plastic chair, I’d toss the husks into a paper bag from Shop ‘n Save before returning the ears inside to my mom. After dinner in the summertime, we’d ride bikes around the block with the neighborhood kids or play catch behind our house. When Dad had free time, we’d play Around the World on the basketball hoop. Sometimes we’d go to the park and swing till we were dizzy, begging to be pushed or given an underdog just one more time.

Nearly every week, Dad would shuffle us to Family Video to pick out movies for the weekend. I would run in and go straight to the Mary-Kate and Ashley VHS tapes, hoping Holiday in the Sun was there. Our freezer held a safety stock of TV dinners, and my favorite was Salisbury steak with corn and a brownie. I’d get in trouble for not wiping down the TV tray before putting it back in the coat closet, where we stored them. Our pantry was too small to hold whatever health fad my parents were into at the time, but the most memorable was the Hallelujah diet. A fitting name for a pastor’s family, my brothers and I suffered through carrot juice cleanses, the disrupting smell of BarleyMax powder, and watching stiff videos discussing the differences between “live” and “dead” food.

When we didn’t have school and the weather permitted, we had to run two miles, down to the stop sign at the other end of the subdivision and back. It was a love/hate relationship for me, but what was funnier was seeing whether my brother was going to throw up by the end of his run. Back then, my cousin in DeKalb and I committed to being faithful pen pals. I’d walk my latest letter to the mailbox with stationery I got for my birthday and anxiously await her reply.

On the occasional Saturday night, we’d pack into the minivan and head to church, stuffing bulletins for the next morning. I’d pull open the drawer I was looking for, and white containers labeled “SortKwik” in pink and black lettering would roll from inertia into view. Standing on a stepstool in pajamas, I’d swipe my fingers over the pink moisturizer and stuff as many message notes as possible into the folds of paper. I can still hear the sound of Dad cutting the paper with the X-Acto, before stacking the half sheets with precision and handing them off to us. Sometimes we’d sing while we worked, and sometimes my oldest brother would make us laugh. When we were done, we’d turn the lights off and drive home together as it got dark.

The best days, though, were library days. The drive downtown felt eternal, but the smell of paperbacks was ceremonious. When I was old enough, I’d go unaccompanied to the children’s section and find the next Boxcar Children book in the series. After wandering the rows of shelving, I’d plop into a beanbag chair and lose all concept of time. The fluorescent lights would flicker above my head, and I’d notice I had goosebumps on my legs. Whether it be from the air conditioning contrasting the hot day outside or my awe for the story, it was hard to say.

I’d eventually find Dad in another wing of the library, looking at the At Home in Mitford book series on cassette tape. We’d wait to check out at the circulation desk before walking out with arms full, eyes adjusting to the sunshine once again.

Memories like these are roads my mind drives down when life seems all-encompassing. Some people think it’s a waste of time to look back on what we can’t change, or to miss what we can no longer have. I disagree. Having to rewind the videotape in the VCR at home before returning it to Blockbuster without a fine isn’t exactly what I would call simpler times. It’s not the outdated technology that I miss.

It’s the sense of familiarity.

The knowing what to expect and being surprised by the stories I found in the library, all at once. Being able to bet on my grandma being in her kitchen when I came over, or that Dad would have enough Breyer’s stocked in the freezer. Knowing that on Sundays, we’d go to China Star Buffet with my cousins after church. In a world that keeps on changing, with mental pressure to always be improving, I just want to live like a kid again.

Where certainty and spontaneity collide and create the fun we didn’t know we needed.

Where the ordinary things earn significance over time.

Take care & take heart,