Wild Things

We had a long day yesterday. I came off of a rather personal high on Sunday -- a beautiful worship service, with Don singing a fantastic version of "Precious Lord, Take my Hand" in his deep, classical-yet-soulful bass voice that I haven't heard in a long, long time. The sermon was part of a series about Joseph -- very fitting. In the afternoon we attended a party hosted by our intern and his wife, and we had a really great time hanging out with some church folks. As each week goes by, we are really starting to feel like we are truly home. It feels good -- and is tremendously healing -- to feel like we fit in.

Then comes Monday, and we certainly did not start off on the right foot. The kids woke up at the horrible hour of 6:00 a.m. (I believe they're waking up earlier and earlier) and I was far from pleased. I'm frustrated beyond belief that my mom has to wait for her treatments. Everything takes time -- scheduling appointments with doctors, getting her port put in, waiting to see someone else for a second opinion (the reason being the fact that her oncologist, who sees all kinds of strange tumors and cancers daily, has never seen this one before. Figures.) -- but with this new kind of cancer being so terribly aggressive, isn't waiting the last thing we should be doing? Isn't time something we cannot afford to waste? It's extremely frustrating to feel like your hands are tied, having to wait on others to fit your very life into their schedule. My mom found out yesterday that her chemo will start on August 13 -- a full month after her mastectomy. A month!

While my mind was churning with these thoughts, I hear Aidan in the living room, telling me that he's freezing and needed a blanket. As I put the blanket on his little body, I felt the heat of his skin before I even touched him -- he was burning up. Now where did that come from? Couple that with my daughter's current condition of diarrhea and nasty diaper rash -- our two-story house is turning into some kind of infirmary. Instantly all my plans for the day went out the window; we were going to be stuck indoors with a sick little boy. [Update: he woke up fine this morning, cranky but no fever. Strange. Wake up time was 6:30 a.m., though. Not fun.]

I needed a grace-snack yesterday, big time. It actually came in a very unexpected form: a cute little visitor in our yard -- a baby rabbit. All summer long we have seen an adult rabbit hopping about the yard, thankfully doing no damage other than leaving behind piles of droppings and driving our Beagle nuts, and now the offspring have made their appearance. It's quite a surprise -- my dad has lived in this house for almost 60 years and this is the first year he has seen a rabbit in the yard. Our neighborhood is a very old, crowded "suburb" so any kind of wildlife always looks a bit out of place. My dad had fertilized the grass and was out there watering it with the hose, accidentally spraying them out of their hiding place. I think I was just as excited as our kids to see these little creatures. We had lived in a rather rural area at our second church -- where Aidan was born and spent most of his little life -- so we saw wildlife on a daily basis. There are days when I miss that, so yesterday's visitors were a nice little treat. I then saw some movement in the sweet alyssum behind this little guy, and sure enough, there was a fuzzy sibling hunkered down between the plants and the wall. Later on my dad said he saw a third close by. The biggest treat of all came later on -- I was in the kids' room talking on the phone, casually looking out their window, when I saw movement in the peonies on the other side of our fence. Out hopped one of the babies, followed by Mama Rabbit, and they snuggled together for a few minutes by the garden. It's too bad I wasn't quick enough to grab my camera; talk about a precious moment.

A photographic nightmare

It ... was ... HORRIBLE.

No, no, that's just too nice of a word. How about horrific. Appalling. Dreadful. Atrocious. With a ghastly cherry on top of this horrendous sundae. I'm talking about Grace's portrait session on Saturday, an event in which I entered with low expectations. Clearly they were not low enough. Not by a mile.When events like this occur, I am completely convinced of the T in the Christian Reformed theological "TULIP" anagram -- total depravity.

The afternoon started out great. Grace had a terrific nap, she was in good spirits, she looked cuter than ever in her blue floral dress, her short bobbed hair shining like auburn silk. A true baby model in the making. Ha -- try "diva" ...

The portrait studio was incredibly crowded -- not a good way to start. I filled out the form and we had to wait. Thankfully it wasn't too long, but Grace stuck in her stroller is never a pleasant time. She started to squirm, and her whining gradually increased in volume. Uh oh ... Finally our name was called and we went into the little room. Grace was very interested in her surroundings: good. We put her up on the platform/table thing and she instantly started posing: great. She laid on her belly, chin in her hands, the most cherubic smile and big bright eyes all set to go: awesome.

Now enter the photographer. A very cheerful young woman who either truly likes children or actually hates them but is a good actor. She got her stuff ready, then walked over to Grace and told her it was time to sit up, all the while attempting to manipulate her little limbs to sit "ladylike." Grace didn't quite protest, but she looked at her like she was an idiot. Alarms started to going off in my head. Grace, though, was indulgent -- the first shot (the one we ordered) is as sweet as can be: head tilted to the side, a sweet almost coy smile lighting up her face, legs neatly tucked under her dress. Truly picture-perfect. The next couple of shots, too, were equally cute -- however, the smile was slowly disappearing.

Finally Grace had enough of sitting -- she wanted to lay on her belly. "No, no, no!" said the photographer. "Just one more sitting and then you can lay down, all right?" Ummmm ... what? Do you realize you are talking to a two year old? She's done, lady -- let her do it her way and just snap the pictures. She picked her up and plopped her down on her bottom (rather roughly); Grace's eyes began to darken with warning: "Watch out, lady. Just keep it up ..." Her methods of bribery didn't work either, and that's what really started the meltdown. "Do you want the teddy bear? OK, fine -- but you have to sit nicely for me first." That was it -- Grace is not a dog that will sit for treats. She gave one fierce look at that photographer, and we were in full tantrum mode. Don and I looked at each other and said, "That's it - time to go home."

The amazing part of this is that out of the mere five pictures that were snapped, four of them were truly adorable. The smile clearly faded from picture to picture, but even her more serious head shots were beautiful. However, the nightmare continued ... as I stood by the screen, viewing the pictures and holding Grace, my girl wanted out of that place in the worst way. She wriggled, she screamed, and finally she gave me a loaded look and hauled back and slapped me right in the face. Yes, in a room full of people, all watching this interaction. I believe this is one of those moments that parents truly dread: how in the world do you react? What do you do? (Friends and parents of two year olds, especially ones that slap: what would you do? This is new territory for me. She also started biting, but that's another story.) You were just slapped by a two year old (a motion which was repeated, I might add, a minute later). In my mortified state, I managed to hold her hands tightly and say, "No!" quite sternly (this is what prompted the second slapping). Unbelievable. I was at such a loss at that point that I just handed her off to Don and he whisked the kids away. I believe my face was as red as the proverbial beet. I could hear her screaming all the way down the hall. I really don't blame her completely; she was truly miserable. Little ones have at most a five minute window where they will cooperate, where their attention is focused. After that, they're done. But this experience pushed her way beyond that window; she didn't understand it, she hated it, and she didn't know how to express it (other than the means she resorted to). I get that. But still ... I looked around at all the little quiet cherubs who witnessed the event and wished for a deep, dark hole.

Like I said, the photograph choice was actually quite difficult since all the pictures were wall-worthy. I ended up selecting the first one where she is sitting quite ladylike -- her moment of indulgence -- a supremely sweet smile on her lovely face. Maybe I chose that in order to fool myself at how horrific the event really was. She doesn't look like a demon-child, right? Ah, my girl ... such an independent spirit that is so tricky to shape and mold. Thank goodness for photography -- what would we have done two centuries ago, having had to sit for a painter? I pity that artist with my girl as the subject ... What a spit-fire.

Weekend Musings

Jack is OK, thank goodness. His blood work was perfect, which means he picked up some kind of doggie virus and fever somewhere along the way. A shot of penicillin from the vet did the trick, knocking it out of his system. $200 later ...

I was needing a "grace-snack" big time yesterday, after a week of difficult news on the health front. We found out my mom's cancer is very different than the one two years ago, this time much more aggressive. The fear of it spreading is forefront is our minds. This is all just so heavy -- feeling like a sodden, weighty blanket weighing us down. My "grace-snack" came in the form of a nice visit from a friend -- her son and my kids played nicely indoors and out, while we had coffee and banana bread and talked. I was able to unload a bit, cry some, resent this latest wave that has crashed on our shore. Unloading helped, with a caffeine kick to boot.

Today we bought a beautiful red Gerbera daisy for my mom to cheer her up. Gerbera daisies are some of the most inherently cheerful plants -- how can you not look at it and feel your spirits being lifted? Bright red blooms set against the rich green leaves -- it's gorgeous. There's a little grace-snack right there. Thanks, Trader Joe.

This afternoon we're heading out the mall for a portrait appointment for Grace. This is a "tradition" we've followed, having a professional portrait taken for each year of their little lives. I have a cute little blue floral dress all set to go, but I am going into this with very low expectations. My girl is a spit-fire with ants in her pants, as the saying goes. I am not expecting perfection, a sweet little girl sitting serenely in front of the camera for a great length of time. I'm expecting silly faces, blurry shots, perhaps even a tantrum or two. That would be more true to life, of course -- capturing a girl on the go.

Don is singing another solo on Sunday, and this one is a killer for me: "Precious Lord, Take my Hand." The last time I sang this song was on my grandmother's death bed, having arrived at the hospital a few days after her terminal stroke. She hadn't been responsive since it happened, but the gift to me was the fact that when she heard my voice she opened her eyes for a moment, and tears started streaming down her face. I'll never forget that moment. My mom took her hand, I held her other, and we started to sing this song --

Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light:
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

When my way grows drear, Precious Lord, linger near,
When my life is almost gone,
Hear my cry, hear my call, hold my hand lest I fall:
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

When the darkness appears and the night draws near,
And the day is past and gone,
At the river I stand, guide my feet, hold my hand:
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.

That was the last time I ever saw her. I can't sing this song without shedding tears, and especially now, living in our latest shadow ... oh man. Another wet Sunday.

Happy thoughts: we started our day with homemade blueberry muffins, courtesy of my husband. You can't beat that. It will be a good day.

A Doctor Kind of Day

Today my mom goes to the oncologist to discuss the "game plan." This is truly a field for the competitive-minded: if you're not into sports, go into medicine. Cancer, especially. It's a game of sorts, a race to figure out who's going to win. Round One: we thought we won, but cancer threw a sucker punch and came back, despite the year-long drug she was taking to fight it and, in theory, ward it off, keep those nasty cells from forming. Well, they formed, and here we are. Round Two: surgery, a success. Now on to the rest of the game plan. I can almost picture her doctor, donning his white lab coat and terrycloth headband, chalkboard in hand as he gets down on his haunches, shouting "Let's Do This!" If he says "no chemo," I will be one of the most surprised people on the planet. I'm figuring on that path. Talk about a fight ...

Now my dog is sick too. He threw up twice in three days, both times at dawn, with nothing in his stomach. This morning, while he didn't puke, his lethargy was almost creepy. He didn't want to go outside, he didn't want to go down the stairs, and when he finally did he went one slow step at a time, as if he was 187 years old. When he finally came to the bottom of the stairs, he sat down ... and if there's one thing about Jack, he does NOT like to sit on concrete. He finally got up and walked like an old man over to the grass. The trip back up the stairs was the same -- one slow step at a time. I figured I would just keep an eye on him, until I noticed that, later on, he pooped in the yard, and when I went to pick it up, I saw that it was bloody. Our appointment with the vet is 6:20 p.m. At least he's eating OK -- you know that there is something seriously wrong when a Beagle won't eat. Jack's my "first baby" -- I wouldn't hesitate calling a doctor for him at a moment's notice, just like I would for my kids. I just hope it doesn't break our feeble bank.

What a day ... It didn't help matters that my morning-children woke up at 6:30 a.m., a horrible hour for me to even think about functioning. Busy kids, a cancer battle, a sick dog ... I can't wait until lunch is over, when we hit the sack, read some stories, and escape into a nice little nap ...

Meltdown

I had one of those calgon-take-me-away parenting moments yesterday morning. I had some errands to run (bank, library - having returned a DVD, without the disc inside ... duh), and on my way home I stopped in at my pastor's house to pick up a telephone directory. The timing turned out great, as Jacie was just cleaning out her attic and came across some of her daughter's old clothing, so now I have two great bins of stuff to sort through for Grace. I love those moments! Anyway, we started talking, she made some coffee, we ate delicious blueberry bread ... a nice and unexpected way to spend the morning.

Aidan and their son Caleb were playing with Tinker Toys, and Aidan wanted help building a jumbo jet. After some effort on Jacie's part, the jet was built. Unfortunately, Aidan is an extreme perfectionist (a very difficult trait in a 4-year-old) and he was starting to get a little cranky over the fact that the tail wasn't just right, as shown in the picture. Unfortunately, the pieces weren't cooperating and the sticks kept falling out of the holes. But, the jet was built, mission accomplished, and it was time to go home for lunch.

Oh ... my ... gosh ... What happened next was a bit of a nightmare for me. Aidan just completely melted down. But it was more than that: it was a full-blown tantrum. He sat on the floor and started screaming like a witch. Truly, I was stunned into silence and inaction. I had not seen that kind of behavior out of him in more than two years. A 2-year-old throwing a fit is understandable, and even expected. But a boy who is almost five ... I was kind of shocked. I really had no idea what to do -- hence, my nightmare. Here I was, feeling completely inept, in someone else's home, just appalled at his behavior. I actually started laughing at one point, because in a way it was completely comical, seeing this boy who is usually quite good be so completely transformed into a beast-child ... but laughing really added fuel to his fire. And what it made it all worse is that it just didn't end! I joked to Andy that when there's no answer to this kind of behavior, demon possession always works ... but it does make you wonder. I mean, it was almost as if I was looking at some other kid, some stranger doing something my boy doesn't do. I know every parent has a moment, or many moments, when their child completely freaks out. But I can honestly say that this was my first experience with this kind of complete and utter meltdown, at his age. It was just weird. I got Grace in the car and then went back inside for Aidan, who at this point started screaming now that he didn't want to go (like they wanted him to stay?!) and he was running around like a crazed, screeching chicken, trying to keep away from me. I had no choice but to grab him and carry him to the car.

He cried the entire way home. I was a bit panicked -- I just knew that I wasn't going to handle this correctly. Indeed, I had no idea what the "right way" was. All I knew is that I could feel my own horrible Irish temper flare up once we got into the relative privacy of our car. I know my yelling didn't help, other than make him cry harder and louder and longer. He's a very articulate boy; I tried to get him to use his words and tell me why he behaved that way but he couldn't/wouldn't answer. The only thing I got out of him was, "But the jet's tail fell apart." That didn't jive for me, in a "punishment doesn't fit the crime" sort of way ... his reaction/response certainly didn't fit the situation. Is this one of those moments where you chalk it up to really not understanding your own kid? I worry about stuff like that. What if I never understand him?

I worry about my own lack of confidence in parenting and discipline. If I screw this one up, will it stay with him and mess something up later on down the road? I hate that feeling of having no idea what to do. I have a little boy who is still like a lump of clay, his formation occurring on a daily basis, his whole life in front of him ... what if I make a wrong move? What if I say the wrong thing, in the wrong tone? What if I hurt his little spirit in my own display of anger and frustration? Maybe this hit me in a strong way because of something tragic that occurred this week -- the sudden death of a young man (mid-20's) from my parents' church from a drug overdose. Here's a young guy that was raised in a good, healthy, Christian home ... but what happened along the way? I know, I know -- just because the "externals" look good doesn't really mean anything. But how did he get so messed up in a destructive lifestyle? What must his parents be going through right now? I think of other kids who grow up to lead questionable or difficult lives, and when asked how they got there, some respond that their parents told them they were worthless, or good-for-nothing, or a bother ... and that's where they ended up. What has slipped out of my mouth as a parent? The realm of the "what-if's" isn't the best place to be.

I thought about all of this while Aidan was in his room, sobbing away. How can I make him understand how utterly wrong his behavior was? I can explain it to him, he'll respond "I understand" but then I know it will happen again. Aidan, it's not nice to hit your sister; don't take a toy out of her hands. You don't like her to do that to you, do you? -- do you understand? Yes, I understand ... and then 20 minutes later it's the same thing all over again. But what he did today, screaming in such an uncontrolled way, was really horrible for me. What on earth would ever prompt him to do that kind of thing? The mind of a parent is a tormented thing.

I know -- I'm probably over-thinking this. But I know when Aidan was crying in his room, I was crying along with him. I don't want to see him sad, but I don't want to see him react in such incredibly inappropriate ways either. This is a tough job ... and he's not even five. Talk about a journey ...

PEACE

I experienced an interesting turning point this past weekend -- Friday night, to be exact.
The event: a birthday party for Grace, who turned two.
The place: our backyard.
The time: 6:30 p.m. - 9:30 p.m.
The participants: my husband, myself, my children, my parents, my two brothers and their families, my aunt and uncle.
The end result: PEACE.

I felt it. Yes. I really, truly did. We have spent the last several years in turmoil for various reasons, mostly having to do with vocation issues. Sure, we have experienced tremendous blessings, joy, and moments of great happiness. But it's been a while -- a long while -- since I really felt at peace. But what does that word really mean? Interestingly, I looked it up online for a true definition and I was stunned at the answer. Not that I didn't believe it, but I was stunned at how appropriate it really is for this part of my life. The primary definition of peace is this: "the state of prevailing during the absence of war" (Wordnet - Princeton) or put another way, "the absence of war or other hostilities" (The Free Dictionary). That's it! I felt a true absence of "war." For the last several years, that's what our life has felt like: a war, a constant and unrelenting battle. When we were quite literally removed from the front lines and moved here -- back home -- in February, we were seriously battle-weary. That's one of the first things our counselor said to us when we met; we had been in the trenches for so long and now we've been pulled back.

OK -- I know my Mennonite and other peace-loving friends (myself included) might balk at this kind of reference, but sometimes it just works -- and in this case it really is the best way to really sum it all up. And so that's what peace is: an absence of war, of fighting, of hostility, of back-stabbing, of malice, of hurt, of pain. And for the first time, in a long, long, long time that's what I felt. Friday night -- peace. We were celebrating the birth of our beautiful daughter, surrounded by those who love us the most and unconditionally. The five cousins played marvelously together; the adults sat around and talked and laughed. Bedtimes went out the window, and as the sky darkened the kids played with glow-in-the-dark necklaces that I got at the Dollar Store; the outdoor "party" lights and lanterns were on and the adults continued to talk and laugh and sip freshly brewed coffee (thanks, Don!). No one wanted it to end.

Somewhere in the midst of all that, I felt it: peace. It sort of snuck up on me, but all of a sudden I felt the unburdening, I felt truly happy. The second definition of peace is this: "a state of tranquility; serene; free from strife." For the first time in a long, long time, I felt just that: free. Tranquil. Serene. Free. For the first time, really, I felt OK with where my journey has lead me. But it was more than just feeling OK; I felt complete. I felt grounded. I felt a new sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I felt that, yes, this is where I am supposed to be. I'm still not sure why, in the "big picture," but maybe that's just it: I need to stop looking at the "big picture" and heartily embrace this gift that I have been given. For the first time since coming home, I am able to recognize this as a gift rather than an escape; a homecoming rather than exile; wholeness rather than a broken dream. Yes ... I truly felt peace.

And the cool thing is that Don felt it too. Neither of us acknowledged any of this until after our guests left and our kids went to bed. We sat on the couch (or rather, collapsed -- while fun, it was also tiring) in silence for a while, just holding hands. Don spoke first: "Yes ... This is what it's all about." He felt it too, for the first time -- real healing and wholeness. Peace.

"This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes." Psalm 118:23

Thoughts of couch cushions

One of my oldest friends came to visit last week, and in preparation for her arrival I had to clean the house. As I was vacuuming the living room carpet, I decided to go the extra mile: tackle the couch cushions. This is not a job I relish, and I know I don't do it enough, but it was way overdue. With two kids and a dog, I could only imagine what kind of nasty conglomeration of dog hair and food bits that had settled in the cracks.

Thankfully it wasn't as bad as I imagined. While the amount of dog hair was insane (Jack sheds when he's nervous, and raucous, fast-moving children make him nervous, so ...), I managed to find only a Matchbox race car and a penny. But as I was vacuuming, I really took note of the condition of my couch. We bought it as a set from Storehouse furniture, along with a love seat and chair with ottoman, when we moved to our second church's parsonage in 2000. It's only seven years old, yet it certainly does not look as beautiful as it did when we purchased it. We fell in love with it when we first saw it: a deep, rich maroon chenille with a faint "gold" pattern in it. OK, maybe that sounds a little strange or tacky, but we loved it. Yet now, after seven years, it has faded in color a bit, there are definite worn spots, and the cushions are getting completely smushed, making you feel like you're sitting on a ship tilting sideways. Forget the firm support it once proudly offered.

I then thought back to my home growing up, and the furniture we had. Sure, it became seriously dated after a while, but I think in the course of my parents' 48 years of marriage, they have only had four couches. Their first was some kind of turquoise blue number from their early days of homemaking, followed by an orange and brown-patterned thing that was there for my early years. Then came another one, acquired in the early '80s, until their most recent purchase about 2 years ago. That 70's couch lasted about 20 years! Sure, it was ready for the heap toward the end, but think about that ... At a mere seven years, my couch is already looking worn.

And that's just the beginning. I can't tell you how many telephones we have been through in our 11 years of marriage; we are on our third TV (OK, our second one was just fine -- 20 years old and a hand-me-down from Don's grandmother. We gave that to my parents when Don came home with something "bigger and better" a month or so ago), and we're on our third car. We had to get rid of our Volvo wagon last year, at the ripe old age of ... 9 years??!! ... because it was falling apart and the repairs were killing us. I then thought of my parents' old Chevy wagon which lasted forever, refusing to die. Our living room end tables, purchased at the same time as our couch, are already nicked and scratched, not seeming very durable for its young age. Yet the end tables upstairs in my parents' house are 48 years old!! They've gone through four children and seven grandchildren and still they look great. My microwave is about my 6th, while my parents just received their second at Christmas, replacing their very first one given to them years and years ago. Don't get me started on other appliances ...

What the heck is going on with our consumer culture? Maybe this is a naive question, but do these companies purposefully make crap so we have to buy more? Did I just answer my own question? My parents have been able to hold on to things for years, and I'm replacing things left and right. If this really is the case, no wonder people around the world have some "difficulties" with America. We're terribly wasteful. Something as simple and mundane as vacuuming couch cushions can really make you think ...

An UN-photogenic family

Don was having a very cute moment on the couch with the kids this afternoon, all cuddled up and listening to the Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (I'm not kidding -- a favorite of Aidan's. Now Grace loves it, calling them "wo-bops"). Don asked me to take a picture of him with the kids, to capture that perfect moment. Thank goodness I grabbed the digital camera rather than our "old school" camera with 35mm film, because it would have been a major waste of film. Out of the slew of pictures I took, not a single one turned out well. It was really unbelievable! Here are a few winners:

Grace apparently learned the "Loser" sign, seeing her Daddy's bad pose

Daddy still can't keep his eyes open, so Aidan assists

This eye thing is contagious ... now Aidan falls prey

Grace getting in on the act -- goofy kids with goofy faces. I don't know what happened to my beautiful girl ...

My all-time favorite: Grace's lovely gesture and Aidan ... what is up with his eyes? I can't look at that for too long without laughing. Just click on this picture to get the large version ... I guarantee you will laugh at these faces.

We have definitely gone the way of immature humor lately ... and it's awesome. Laughing at goofy faces and funny pictures -- always good. But add to that Aidan's latest "interest" -- a whoopie cushion. We went to a local store the other day to pick out some brightly colored and polished stones to add to his rock collection. In the next aisle he saw the whoopie cushion and said, "Mommy, we have to buy this -- it will really cheer Grandma up!" Sure enough ... we've been laughing all weekend long. I don't know what it is about those sounds but it's completely contagious. Aidan even showed our neighbor, John, and his girlfriend (Linda was wondering what those sounds were coming from behind the bush/fence in our yard). John was so impressed, finding a kindred spirit in this little boy-neighbor, that he came out with his own gimmick: a remote control fart machine. You should have seen Aidan's face ... utter awe. A gassy weekend + crazy faces = lots of good, hearty, healthy laughter.

An unexpected trigger

I haven't talked about painful "triggers" in quite a while. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that means that healing has truly begun and things that once brought us tremendous pain -- i.e., merely stepping foot in a church -- aren't serving as triggers any more. Maybe, though, they are still there (to some extent), but now so many other serious things have come to the forefront which demand more attention.

Yes, I do think they are still there, though certainly involving far less pain and anguish than before. Not only are we now regularly going to church, but I have officially joined and our kids' baptismal records have found a new home. And we are slowly getting involved. I have been asked to serve as a scribe of sorts, to sit in on a meeting of the worship committee (I think) and write down a cohesive mission, or vision, statement out of their brain-storming. Don agreed to play his guitar during a service a few weeks ago and looks forward to being a part of the worship team. He even said to me (gasp!) that he felt so renewed, so energized -- just by being up front -- that he is starting to really long for a chance to do some preaching again! That was a huge surprise. My ever-cautious self says, "No! It's way too early! Just ease in -- don't push it!" but then that's Don ... jumping in with both barrels. That's OK.

Sure, some of the anxiety is still there. For me personally, I was recently asked to be a part of the hospitality team, getting stuff ready for coffee hour after the service -- a simple, once-a-month commitment. For some reason I balked at that and felt that strange, almost inexplicable fear start to surge. Maybe too much involvement? I'm not sure.

These are things that we're working through, and pushing forward, thinking things are going well. But then there's little Aidan. He loves Kids Church, he absolutely adores Miss Christy (his Sunday School teacher), and he's starting to make friends with Caleb and Henry and Anneke. All is well, right?

Ahhh ... enter the trigger. I mentioned it earlier -- Don played the guitar two weeks ago during the service. He had to leave early that morning, so I gave Aidan a heads-up so he would know what's going on. To my utter surprise he completely freaked out. Just thinking he was cranky from a late night and too-early morning, I pretty much ignored him. "But Daddy has to sit with us!" he kept insisting. He will, Aidan, as soon as the songs are finished he'll sit back down with us, I assured him. It's no big deal!

Oh, but it was a big deal for him -- bigger than I realized. When we got to church and picked our seats, Aidan took one look at Daddy up there practicing with the other musicians and a look of utter dread washed over his face. I could see he was fighting hard not to cry, but finally the tears started rolling. Admittedly, by this point I was getting a little annoyed. I was happy Don was doing this -- to me, this was very, very positive and healing. Why the heck was he making such a big deal out of nothing? But he kept at, and then started to become completely belligerent ... and that's when I knew something was up. I looked at him -- I mean, really looked at him -- and calmly asked him what was wrong. "Daddy has to sit with us!" he insisted again. OK, I know that ... but why?

"Because it's not safe. He has to sit with us. It's not safe for him up there."

Oh, man ... He sees these baby steps back toward Daddy-the-Preacher, and he feels fear. He associates Daddy's "old job, working for God" (his words) as a bad thing, a thing that brings hurt and sadness and pain. He was happy when Don got his new job -- that means he's free on Sundays and can sit with us. Safety, security, wholeness. But now Daddy's back up there -- not preaching yet, but it's a step. And our little guy is terrified.

I did my best to console him, to reassure him -- "See, buddy, Daddy's smiling! He's happy up there! It's really OK!" I'm not sure if he bought it. I know when the music was over and Don headed down toward our seats, Aidan finally smiled ... and ran halfway down the aisle to meet him with open arms as only a four-year-old can do. I don't know what's going to happen this Sunday, when Don not only plays guitar again but will also sing a solo, a beautiful song that he composed several years ago. I guess we'll just have to address this each time it comes up. My heart just breaks at what he's going through, and how he processes things. I feel intense anger once again tat those who inflicted this upon our family, wondering if they know -- or care -- the damage they've done not just to adults, but to a little boy too. My prayer is that with each baby step forward, Aidan too will see that everything is OK ... and once again he'll love seeing his Daddy up front, with no fear attached.

Happy Birthday, little Grace!

My baby turns 2 today. I'm still trying to digest that. We're not planning on having any more, so this is it -- our slow exit out of babyhood. Two years old ... unbelievable. I will never cease to be amazed at how different my two kids are. My pregnancy with Aidan was a breeze, but labor -- all natural and extremely and excruciatingly long -- was intense and not-so-fun. OK, fine ... it was horrible. I don't remember much of his first year because he never slept much, and neither did I. I spent a great deal of crying and feeling so incredibly inept.

Then comes Grace (in more ways than one!). While the pregnancy was a little more difficult (I think just because I had a two-year-old under foot), labor was actually a hoot ... thanks to the epidural. I felt nothing ... and I was completely giddy of it. I actually completely and totally enjoyed my experience in the hospital, and I laughed through the entire delivery. Once the drugs wore off I felt like crap -- way worse than after Aidan -- but I got through it.

Grace was my easy, easy, easy baby. She played by the baby rules. She slept through the night after just one week. Since "they" say you should wake up a baby to feed them at such an early age, I did so ... she didn't seem to care a bit. She would nurse in about 10-15 minutes, get her diaper changed, and instantly go back to sleep until the morning. It was heaven.

Sure, we had our heart-breaks with her -- or rather, her clubfoot. Her first cast at two weeks, surgery at 4 months. While I think that searing anguish will forever remain with me, thankfully she will never remember a thing.

And now today, she is a hearty, raucous, extremely happy, extroverted, musical, bright, galloping two year old with the biggest eyes and curliest lashes I have ever seen. She's a spitfire, with a bubbling temper under that adorable surface, and I know we will have immense struggles in her teen years. But for now, she's still my baby, and my dream.

Happy Birthday, sweet, sweet Gracie-girl. I love you with a passion I didn't even know was possible. You're a tremendous blessing to me, a bundle of Grace.

I'm an aunt ... 3x over!

My sister-in-law April had triplets today! Triplets!! They join twin sisters, Maggie and Ellie, age 6. They even have a girl dog and cat. Well, they thought they had two girls cats, but it turns out the dude cat was a little sneaky. My brother Dave is now clearly out-numbered. But I think he likes it that way.

I'm still completely blown away by these babies. Check this out:
Identical twins: Elizabeth Renee (weight: 4.2 pounds) and Anneke Grace (weight: 4.4 pounds)
Third baby Jessica April: 5.12 pounds!

I mean, come on! Jessica alone could be the weight of a single baby ... and then there's two more! That's over 14 pounds of baby! That's awesome for the babies and their overall health and development. April, April, April ... you are my new hero.

My brother called my parents a short while ago with the news. He's on a total high. I hope that high carries him through this transition! They'll do just fine. If anyone in our entire family could handle this situation, it's them. Hats off, congratulations to ALL of you! Can't wait to see pictures!

A Family Affair

My second oldest brother is, among other things, an author. That's really cool. When we returned from our mini-vacation, we had a good amount of mail waiting for us, including a big envelope from my brother's university, addressed to me. Inside was his latest book, "Hope in Troubled Times: A New Vision for Confronting Global Crises," as well as a letter typed on his stationery: "Dear Sue, Enclosed please find one gift copy of my recent book. I am so thankful that you're my sister. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it." The signing of it was funny: "Grace and peace, David Van Heemst, Ph.D." I never thought of signing my name, followed by "B.A." -- especially to beloved family members. "With all my love, Susan, B.A." Maybe I should try it some time!

I felt pretty honored to get this. Honored and proud. I mean, he's my brother, after all. This is his third book, joining the ranks of "Empowering the Poor: Why Justice Requires School Choice" and my all-time favorite (in title only, since I've never read it), "Herman Dooyeweerd And Eric Voegelin: A Comparative Study (Studies in the History of Philosophy)." It was cool to type in his name on Amazon.com and see these books come up. I'll admit I've never read any of them, and this latest is the first that I now own. No offense to him or his interests, but this isn't a book I would normally choose to read. I still think this is very cool.

My Brother the Doctor/Professor/Author is also going to become a father of triplets this week. Yes, triplets! Actually, perhaps by tomorrow already. They already have twin girls, who turned six last month, and now they are adding three more girls to the mix. I think writing three books would be far, far easier than having three babies at the same time. He's got an impressive c.v., to say the least! Way to go, guys. We're rooting for you and waiting in the cyber-waiting-room, passing out cigars, reading your books, and waiting for the news.

vA ' kA ' shun

Definition: leisure time away from work; devoted to rest or pleasure

We haven't had one of these -- really -- in several years. I think our last "real" pack-your-bags-and-you're-off! kind of vacation was our trip to St. Martin in the Caribbean for the celebration of our 5th wedding anniversary, an incredibly marvelous experience. We tried going to Lancaster once when Aidan was around two, but it was kind of a bust. Sure, we had some fun, but overall it ended up being a very exhausting experience. Last year, when Grace was still in her infancy, a friend of ours (who is very financially blessed) gave us money to go on vacation. We had been dealing with several extremely difficult years in our second church, which ultimately lead to the termination of the entire staff as well as cutting Don to part-time. Our friend had been by our side through our years of struggle so he knew the emotional need for a vacation, a getaway. However, after tossing some ideas around, we realized this: going anywhere with our two kids would be the antithesis of the definition of "vacation." Some parents can do it; I simply cannot. We ended up hatching a brilliant plan: we took the kids to Dutch Wonderland in Lancaster, PA for a day (all we could handle), and we took the remainder of our financial gift and went to Le Bec Fin, a world-renowned restaurant in Philadelphia -- an experience we will never, ever be able to repeat. It was truly a once in a lifetime experience, and in those few other-worldly hours, we cherished a true "vacation."

We are back in our financial straight-jacket (indeed, we never left it -- it will probably always be a garment hanging in our closet) and with Don a few months into his new job which provides just enough to pay our bills and rent and a few little comforts on the side, we knew that a vacation was not in our plans. At least not the kind where you pack up your car and head out to some destination for a week. Again, for me at least, the thought of going somewhere with my four-year-old and two-year-old did not compute into "leisure time away from work." Forget the ultimate price tag of such a trip; there would simply be no devotion to rest ... and that would have been my ultimate goal. So I just put the thought out of mind, figuring that we'll just stick around here for the summer.

Oh, how pleasantly wrong I was -- I got my true vacation after all! It was short -- a quick weekend -- but it fully embraced the very definition of the word. It started on Friday with the arrival of one of my oldest friends, a girl with whom I grew up since kindergarten. She now lives in Maine and I do not get to see her very often (indeed, our last face-to-face visit was two years ago) but we do keep in contact regularly through other means. She was able to embark on an impromptu visit back "home" to her family here in NJ, and we spent Friday afternoon together. She admitted how strange it was to come to my new home, knowing it was my childhood home and a place she visited countless times over the years as children, teenagers, and young adults. but just spending those few hours with a kindred spirit, having our children play in the yard together, was a tremendous gift for me, truly just "being" in the moment.

My "vacation" continued bright and early the next morning -- 6:00 a.m., to be exact -- as a flurry of packing commenced for our overnight trip to visit another old friend, my college roommate, Jen. Not too long ago she moved to a state which makes visiting each other much more conducive, so I was longing for this day when our families could come together. On a surface level, I needed this getaway desperately, to physically remove myself from my house and from the difficulties of the week. After going through the struggle of my mom's surgery and all post-events and occurrences, I was utterly exhausted (physically and emotionally) by the end of the week. I sat at the dinner table Friday evening, just staring bleary-eyed at my food, having finally reached that point of utter depletion. I couldn't even pick up my fork, I was so tired. Don asked me how my visit with Missy went and I responded that I just couldn't talk to him at the moment. It was nothing personal; I just couldn't summon the energy to open my mouth and produce words. Don't get me wrong -- I was more than glad to help my mom, and would have done anything I could, anything that was asked of me. But by that evening, all of that emotion and physical "running around" truly caught up with me. I desperately needed that "leisure time away."

Our weekend at my friend's home was the absolute embodiment of that: rest, play, laughter, a physical removal from my current life. I was somewhere else, geographically completely disconnected from my own world and circumstances. There's something about truly removing yourself that is healing in and of itself. Add to that the envelopment of love, of a friendship that has grown and mellowed and stayed strong, of being able to pick up where we left off, even after years of a physical absence from each other. It was magical. Their two children are roughly the same ages as my two, and the four of them got along splendidly, something which gave me tremendous joy.

Aidan, my oldest, found a great new mate in their oldest, sharing interests and activities which brought a smile to my face:

Both of my kids learned something new in this brief visit, with Aidan strapping on roller skates for the first time ...

And dear little Grace ... she found her soul mate in Matt, Jen's husband. Somehow Grace's adoration always settles on the older male. It was a joy to see my little girl's independence unfold in a new challenge set before her: tackling the slide, all on her own. Her first obstacle: climbing up the ladder ... "I see that hand, Mr. Matt. Don't even think of touching me. I'm doing it all on my own!"

"See, I told you I could do it. Now for the trip down ..."

...and into the arms of her beloved new friend.

I experienced a great gift this weekend. What started as a quick trip to see a friend turned into a true vacation for me ... and a vacation for my parents as well, who needed a weekend of quiet and rest. And now we are back, and thrown back in "life" with the force of a cannonball. Upon our arrival home, we immediately drove over to my baby brother's house, to pick up on the tails of a party celebrating his 34th birthday. Aidan, a bundle of excitement to see his cousins, tripped, fell, and literally bounced down the sidewalk in his running to the house. My arrival to the party came in the form of me carrying a crying, screaming, bloodied child (who is now covered in band-aids). My neat-and-tidy home -- which was the way we left it Saturday morning as we left -- has already been destroyed. The kids played nicely for a while but then started screaming at each other. I discovered that my aunt (on my dad's side) has Alzheimer's, another shock to our family. My mom paid an emergency visit to her doctor -- her first trip out-of-doors since her surgery last week -- because of an issue with her drains. The visit included unexpected news as well, that the pathology reports came back and her lymph nodes indeed were cancerous, which means chemotherapy -- a horrible ordeal -- is unavoidable despite our desperate prayers for the opposite. Oh yes, we are back in our-life-as-we-know-it. And yet I refuse to forget my vacation, where my spirit was refreshed, some joy was restored, I was able to see some incredible blessings in my life -- profound, life-sustaining friendships being just a part of it. I felt like it's Christmas in July. It's beautiful.

As only a child could say ...

I will never stop appreciating the way kids say things. I don't know when, in our lives, we make that shift from childlike insight or phrasing, but it's almost a shame that we lose that. Aidan has always been a very articulate child, mastering language from a very early age (by his first birthday he was saying about 60 words). At almost-five, I can't get him to stop talking, but much of the time I find what he says completely endearing. I love the way he looks at things, the way he processes things ...

- Aidan said to me the other day, "Mommy, you sure do have a lot of jobs to do. Your job is to always do something [oops - is this a chastisement of my neglect? More Candyland and less cleaning toilets?], cleaning up, going places ... and loving me." How could I not hug that little boy and say that's one of the best jobs that I could ever have? It's one of the most difficult sometimes, but what a great thing to say. He then said, "I have jobs too. My job is to clean up, to teach Grace things like not to hit, and to give you hugs." What a kid.

- When I looked in the rear view mirror to check on my kids in the car, I saw Aidan looking back at me very intently. I asked him what he was doing, and he said very seriously, "Mommy, you do not have an eye on the back of your head." What?! Where did that come from? "Daddy told me he can always see me because he has an eye in his head. But you just don't have one, so you can't see me." Oh, little boy, I can certainly see you ...

- When driving home from an errand, Aidan opened his window and took a deep breath. "I'm just smelling the wind, Mommy. Just smelling the wind."

- I couldn't keep Aidan in the dark about my mom's condition any longer, since he clearly knew something was going on by the fact that she was absent for quite a while, there's been lots of crying in the house, and his daily trips upstairs "just for a little visit" have been curtailed. I explained to him that she had to go to the hospital for "one sleepover" (his frame of reference) ... "Just like Curious George!" he said. I then said he has to be very careful when he sees Grandma because she is going to have a very big boo-boo. I got a little anxious when he asked where, since we haven't delved into anatomy lessons much, but when I answered it was her chest, he said, "Oh, OK. I understand. I'll be very careful when I hug her." Hmmmm ... hugging makes me a little nervous, so I suggested he hug her leg or some other neutral area. After some contemplation he responded, "No, I don't think so. It's just not the same. I'll make sure I huge her real, real loose."

- Aidan was trying to figure out the concept of having an allergy. I don't have any so I wasn't very helpful. He asked if Daddy had an allergy, and I said yes: to cats. He asked if Jack had an allergy, and I said yes: to grass (I'm not kidding. My Beagle, my hunter-dog, is allergic to grass). He then said, "I have an allergy too." I said, "No you don't, although you do have strange reactions to Motrin." He argued, "Oh, yes I do. I'm allergic to bad boys."

- My oldest brother, Steve, and his family came to visit my parents. In order to allow them a quiet visit together, I took their son, Steven (3), outside with my kids. Aidan and Grace have these giant rubber balls in the yard, about the size of exercise balls, and Aidan enjoys inventing fun tricks such as running and diving on to the ball (and promptly rolling/bouncing off), etc. I overheard him say, "Steven! Watch me do this cool trick!" Steven answered, "I can't." Aidan replied, "What?! What do you mean? You're my cousin -- you have to watch me!" Love the logic.

- Gotta add Grace in here. She chatters like a squirrel on speed, but as the summer has unfolded so has our understanding of her language. One thing that I like harkens back to Aidan's babyhood. When some kids want to be picked up, they say things like "Up" or, as one sweet girl we know says, "Uppy-Down." Aidan always said, "Mommy held" or "Daddy held," obviously depending on the parent. There are some cute things a parent just loves to hear, and I never corrected him. In fact, at almost-5, he still says this on those rare moments when he needs to be cuddled (often after a fall, or if he's not feeling well). You can imagine my happiness when Grace picked up on this; now she too says "Mommy helt" (yes, that's a deliberate misspelling -- she sticks a "t" on the end, for some reason). This morning when she woke up, Don went to get her from her crib, and I heard him laugh. He later told me that when he walked in the room, he was followed by our dog. Grace looked at Jack and said, "Jackie helt! Jackie helt!" Jack's not the biggest fan of Grace -- he doesn't reciprocate her devotion. She's pulled his tail or tried to ride him like a horse one too many times. I seriously doubt he's going to pick her up any time soon, but what a cute thing for her to say.

Super Grace to the Rescue

Yesterday was an incredible whirlwind of a day. The kids and I spent the morning making gifts and crafts for Grandma's return home from the hospital, and in the afternoon I dropped them off at a friend's house (bless you!) so I could go to the hospital alone to spend time with her. It was a bit of a challenge for me: I don't like driving alone in a city of which I'm somewhat unfamiliar (at least when it comes to driving alone); I don't like parking garages; I don't like hospitals; I don't like seeing people in hospitals. But yesterday I tackled all four, for good reason. I stayed with my parents for about an hour, chit-chatting like usual. Nothing will stop my mom from a good conversation. When I left, the skies opened up in a thunderous deluge, which made driving (alone, in the city) somewhat freaky, but it was really awesome.

We got a call last night from my dad around 6:30 saying my mom was ready to come home. The plan was to transport her in our car, since -- being a "crossover" -- it's higher than a regular car yet lower than an SUV ... meaning, she can just slide her tush in and out of the car with no struggle. The call came at an awkward time -- Don had a conference call of sorts at 7:30, which is also the time the kids go to bed, and he couldn't do both. The solution: my brother Jim came over (he wanted to see mom anyway), and the two of us -- plus the kids -- drove to the hospital to pick her up. Well, "the best laid plans ..." right? I think my dad completely underestimated how long it would take for her discharge to go through, and we sat in an "illegal" spot in front of the hospital for about a half hour, Grace screaming her displeasure for all to hear. Finally we decided to go for a drive, asking them to call us when they're finally ready. 15 minutes later we drove back, picked her up, and settled her back in at home. I apologized profusely to my brother, feeling bad that the evening didn't turn out as planned ... but the nice thing is that I got to spend a good chunk of time with him alone, something we haven't done in a long, long time. There's a grace-snack for you!

So today is a new day ... bright and beautiful, the air conditioner is finally turned off, and a cool breeze is blowing in the windows. One of my best, childhood friends is coming home for an impromptu visit today, so I will get to see her after a very long absence. We will be spending the weekend with my college roommate and her family at their new home, something we haven't done in about 10 years. My mom is home now and the journey toward healing has commenced. I know it's going to be a long road, but that's the thing about roller coaster rides ... once you are strapped in and the car starts rolling, you can't do a thing about it. And just yesterday I received a terrific boost, having an actual super hero, cape and all, in our corner. We can conquer anything with "Super Grace" -- and God -- on our side! Super Grace just needs to work on her costume a bit -- a ratty dish towel doesn't look very distinguished.

Tiger, Tiger

My mom had successful surgery yesterday. A part of her body was moved, and our prayer is that her cancer has been eradicated. We experienced an incredible outpouring of love, prayer, and support and our spirits are lifted. I'm feeling a bizarre mixture of relief, residual anxiety, exhaustion, elation, feeling that the first step of this new journey is now over, but as my brother said, "Yeah, but that was the easy part. The hard stuff is still to come." True ... but I have recognized that I only have a certain amount in my Strength Bank, just enough for today. My mom might be coming home today, since Medicare will only cover one night (Oh, Michael Moore, where are you?). Today will be a strange day.

No matter what weighty, grown-up things are swirling around me, my kids are underfoot, being the blissfully ignorant kids that they are. I got a healthy break this morning from my grown-up world, delivered personally by my two precious little tigers:

The funny thing about this picture is how it spans a generation. Grace is wearing the tiger costume my mom made for me when I was in the first grade, playing a tiger (well, duh) in my elementary school's production of Noah's Ark. Now my daughter is wearing something my mother made for me almost 30 years ago. Cool.

So right now my little tigers and I are heading to the kitchen table for a rare craft time. Yesterday Aidan bought Grandma a gift: a scented candle (pumpkin pie -- "because she makes yummy things") and a little toy frog. He wants to wrap them, and then create a big sign that says "Welcome Home, Grandma." That's my morning. These little tigers will be good medicine, for all of us.

The Tiger
William Blake

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This same God who created the mighty tiger cares about my mom and can heal her. Beautiful.

Selah

I slept fairly well last night, except for those few occurrences when Don -- who had gone out with the guys, ate rich food late at night, and consequently could not sleep -- jolted me awake with his own tossings and turnings. That's all right. Knowing that my parents were leaving at 7:30 a.m. for the hospital, I hopped out of bed -- my mind instantly switched on (a rare occurrence) with the knowledge of what "today" is -- and took a quick shower before heading upstairs to talk a bit and say good-bye.

I walked in on my parents praying in their bedroom, my dad sitting on the side of the bed and my mom in her chair. Oops. My mom was crying, responding "I'm a little bit OK" to my question of how she was doing. I asked her to tell me what she was worried about. "Are you afraid?" I asked. No, not really -- it wasn't that. "I'm just so, so sad," she said. She was sad about losing a part of her body, she was very humanly struggling with this fact of her life, and this journey she does not want to take. "I just don't want this," she said. "I don't want to do this again, I just don't. I know I have to, and I know I'll get through it, but I just don't want this."

As I heard her searing honesty, I knew I was not going to spew forth the usual platitudes: "It's going to be OK" or "God is in control." Sometimes I really think there is a time not to say those things. Of course she knows it, but she also needs to address her true feelings and emotions. Interestingly, when I listened to my mom this morning, I immediately recalled my own state two years ago, when I was almost ready to give birth to Grace. I knew she was going to be born with a clubfoot; those last four months of pregnancy were heart-breaking for me, feeling so dejected, all that anticipatory joy of having a newborn somewhat sapped with the knowledge that my newborn was going to face pain, surgery, difficulty. I prayed constantly for healing; I read books about praying for your unborn child and the miracles that could happen; I asked a friend/priest and his wife to come to our home to use their spiritual gifts of healing as we prayed together. And still my baby was born with a deformity.

I remember when Grace was about two weeks old and my parents were staying with us for a short time to help us out. I cried the entire day before we left for her first visit with her pediatric orthopedic surgeon -- a visit that would result in the first of many, many casts on her tiny twisted foot and leg. I remember saying over and over to my mom, "I don't want to do this. I just don't want to do this!" I wanted a healthy, complete baby; I wanted to hold my sweet newborn without a cumbersome cast getting in the way; I wanted to cradle her in my arms without a heavy chunk of plaster sticking in my ribs. We had been going through so many excruciatingly difficult things with the church and our ministry; why is God making us go through this on top of it all? Why couldn't He give us a beautiful gift without strings attached? "I just don't want to do this!"

But of course, we all know how it went. We went to that first appointment; she screamed as he manipulated her foot in the opposite direction, stretching that shortened tendon as he plastered her little leg; I cried as I sat next to her helplessly stroking her head. And then it was over. We learned to live with it. We had no choice but to accept her deformity. We had no choice but to visit that surgeon every week for a new cast. We had no choice but to hand our daughter over to him, watching her look at us over the nurse's shoulder as this stranger carried our precious gift down the long hallway to the operating room of the hospital. "I just don't want to do this!" But we did. Not on our own strength, since we had none. Talk about grace-snacks ... we had a heavenly feast.

Now two years later my mom is -- understandably -- crying out those same words. She just got over her first bout with cancer. She was just getting her life back on track. Now once again her life is interrupted with tremendous force. In about one hour she will go into surgery. Nothing will stop that hour. If all goes well, she will be out in 5 hours. We were given the great gift of a day off (paid!) for Don, so he could be with us. He's out now with the kids, running errands and leaving me in a peaceful house. In just a minute I will put on some music -- probably the group Selah, one of my mom's favorites, with the opening hymn "When Peace Like a River" -- and start cleaning the house, a good way to keep busy and distracted. And before we know it, it will be next week already. Then next month. Healing will continue with each passing minute. No, we don't want to go through this ... but we are. Fasten your seat belts ... there's no stopping this ride.

"Seeing" God in a Dramatic Prayer

In church on Sunday, I experienced one of the most profound events of my life. We were hosting a drama team from Northwestern College in Iowa, and one of their theatrical fortes is listed as "Ancient Israelite Dramas" -- basically considering the Old Testament as a book of plays, their re-enactments taking on a rather minimalistic, almost mime-like, method, coupled with the concepts of ancient oral tradition and story-telling. It was truly marvelous. These are some extremely talent young people.

The enacted stories were great, but what truly captivated me was their time of prayer. One of the actors, who seemed to serve also as spokeswoman, attempted to explain to us what they were going to do -- basically take a prayer request from someone in the congregation and, since the visual is extremely important to them (and us) and clearly in their gift range, they would "act out" the wordless prayer. OK, I thought, sounds pretty cool, although I had absolutely no concept at how utterly transcendent this would be. I got chills when I "saw" the first prayer, requested by a woman who was struggling with doing God's will. With quiet music playing and not a vocal sound whatsoever, this prayer to God was incredible. One young woman played this woman who requested the prayer; another played a caring friend; another played that character which tries to keep us from God's will. This guy was great -- basically acting like a pest, getting in her face, leading her where she shouldn't go, covering her ears or her eyes. Three actors played God -- one with the friend in prayer for her, and two surrounding the woman, constantly and gently pushing the pest away, uncovered her covered eyes, releasing her from an un-Godly grasp. Very, very cool.

They asked for another prayer request, and this is what did me in. My friend Jacie (also our pastor's wife) took the microphone and asked for prayer for my mom, and briefly described what we're going through. There was no chance my eyes would be dry. One young woman played my mom, another the surgeon; one guy played my dad and another represented our entire family. Again three people played God, while one represented my mom's cancer. It opened with my "mother" going about her typical day, doing the dishes or some other task -- God was with her, upholding her, but there too was the cancer character, following her wherever she went, never letting her go. Silent, but present. God was with the surgeon in the corner, guiding her hands as she looked at charts and films; God with with my "dad" and the rest of us, surrounding us with a constant presence. As my "mom" met the surgeon, and the surgery followed, the cancer character became more aggressive, clinging more strongly. But the God characters become equally aggressive, enfolding my "mom" and finally casting away that cancer character, until she/it stood alone -- defeated -- in a corner. Lots of smiles as the prayer ended ... lots of tears from the congregation.

I have never, in my entire life, seen anything so powerful. A dramatized prayer -- a way in which God spoke to me. In a mighty and intense way, I was able to "see" God at work in a way that I haven't been able to see before. It was almost as if my eyes were opened to the divine unseen around us -- I have been enveloped in this fear of the cancer character, this invasive and angry and deathly thing. But through that dramatic prayer, I was able to truly see God at work too -- just as present, just as aggressive, with strong and powerful arms upholding us and at the same time keeping that character at bay and finally breaking its grip. The ending: triumph. It was earth-shattering for me, powerful beyond words. I was a blubbering mess, but so were others. Afterward I went up and thanked that actor/spokeswoman for presenting such an incredible method of prayer, and ministering to those who need it in an almost unearthly, profound way.

Visual imagery is potent. As my mom goes into surgery tomorrow -- and in the days following -- I am going to cling to this memory of this visual prayer. I am going to pray that my eyes are continually opened to the tremendous good that's surrounding and enfolding us, not just the evil characters. For every "hand" that's working to spread sick cells, there are more "hands" working to cleanse them. For a long, long time I have asked God to help me see. My prayer was answered in a way that I never expected, but in a way that I needed more than anything.

Happy 8th of July. The 9th? - Not so much.

Our 4th of July ended up being a rainy bust, with a very disappointed four year old, who was greatly anticipating -- as only a 4 year old can -- his first trip to the fireworks display in town. We had driven by the school just in case, only to see a large sign posted declaring its cancellation and new date of Sunday, July 8.

So last night our belated festivities began. We put Grace to bed about 7:45 and brought the monitor upstairs so my parents could listen, as they were too tired to come with us. According to their report, she didn't fall asleep until an hour later, close to 9:00 p.m. Oh, great.

Off we went, with our lawn chairs stowed in the back of the car. We found a great parking spot in town and followed the throngs to one of the ballfields which had a clear view. The usual vendors came along, yelling out in a sing-songy kind of way, "Glow-Lites! Get your Glow-In-The-Dark Necklaces! Glow-Lites!" Don purchased one for Aidan, a $3 trinket that is already no longer glowing. We had to wait quite a while until the darkness settled in, but it was fun to "people-watch" and take in the sights. Quite a few people brought their newborns, which kind of stymied me because my newborns would have freaked with all the noise. There were two families sitting right behind us with super-hyper and obnoxious boys who completely disrespected their parents, who never once followed through on any of their threats (Super Nanny would have a field day with them). There were those who simply brought a blanket to lay on, and those who brought a full set-up with chairs, a cooler, blankets, and a portable tiki-torch. The mingling of smells couldn't be ignored, with the chain-smoking woman behind us (it was horrible!), the citronella of the tiki-torch, various scents of bug repellent. But the best of the people-watching for me was watching my own son, who was wide-eyed and fairly quiet, just soaking it all in.

The start of the show was signaled by the first shot up into the sky, a bright flash and a super-loud boom. I was a little concerned about how the noise would affect Aidan, a child who has never liked loud noises. But after that initial blast, he said, "Whoa! That was cool! I'm not scared!" Well, all-right! So there he sat, my big-little-boy, in his own little frog-embellished kiddie fold-up chair, his Power Rangers cap low on his head, eyes bigger than ever, his sweet face lighting up with each burst of color, dimples showing amidst acclamations such as "Whoa! That's so cool! Look at that! Awesome!" I wonder if I watched him more than the fireworks.

When the show concluded, Aidan stood up and said, "Is that it?" Yes, I said. "Well, that was just beautiful. But now I'm ready for bed." Of course, he had to stop upstairs first and tell Grandma and Grandpa all about it, but thankfully he gave us no opposition as he hit the sack at 10:15. I hit my own sack shortly thereafter, looking forward to a sound night's sleep and a quiet morning with two exhausted children sleeping in.

Ummmmm ... now you think I would know my children better by now. Did I really say they would "sleep in?" Oh yes, I wished for that fiercely, but I suppose somewhere down in my deep dark unconscious I knew they would defy me. And sure enough: today's wake-up time for my overtired little ones? 6:00 a.m.!!!! Don had just gotten up, his usual waking hour, and at 6:20 a.m. I was rudely awakened to the sounds of "No, no, Grace! NO!!!" as she burst into my room. Now I must admit she is as cute as a button. I first heard her intake of breath, as if she was surprised to see me there, followed by, "Oh, Mommy! Hew-wo Mommy! Wake up, Mommy!" She then climbed up onto my bed (with a little help from me, answering her pleas of "He'p! "He'p!" since it's a very high bed) and wiggled and snuggled and kissed and wiggled some more. Not a bad way to wake up ... but at 6:20 a.m.?! NO! Aidan came in too, swirling what was left of his dimly-lit glow-lite, chattering away. I love my kids, I do ... but remember: I am NOT a morning person. This was just too much for me. And my hunch was right, that this super-charged cuteness would only last so long. By 7:00 a.m. Aidan was disobeying my order to not throw the ball around the house and Grace was whining fiercely about ... well, I don't know what about, but probably just whining about everything.

This is not how I wanted to start my day. I need to ease into my morning, letting my energy slowly build itself up -- not jump right in full-throttle at some ungodly morning hour, taking a loan out on my Energy Bank by rapidly depleting energy that I don't even have yet. My mom's surgery is tomorrow so I have a lot on my mind. Don has plans to go out to dinner with some colleagues after work (tonight of all nights!), so I won't even get that respite that I so look forward to when he comes home from work. It's going to be a scorcher of a day, with the heat index reaching 105. Where did last night's bliss go? Lord, grant me an extra measure of grace today ... we're all going to need it!

An Unintentional Pilgrimage

A few months ago we made a trip to visit the "home" of Tony Soprano -- a very fun pilgrimage of sorts for us. We've seen a few other spots around the area, too, but nothing compared to that ultimate spot.

This morning Don returned to the inspection station, to get that embarrassing and ridiculous red FAILED sticker taken off our windshield. On the way home, he decided to stop at Rita's Water Ice, a delicious place to visit on a steamy hot day. We had many Rita's in PA, but here in NJ they're very scarce. This one, however, is technically the closest to our home, and was literally on the return route. He stood in line for two quarts -- mango and pina colada -- and service was painfully slow. As he looked around and started to really take note of his surroundings, he was shocked and amazed to find that he was standing directly across the street from ...

HOLSTEN'S!

The place of the very last scene of the Sopranos; the scene that ended years of a (fictional) family's saga; the scene that left viewers with mouths gaping open, either swearing at the TV screen or praising the genius of the show's creator (or both in one breath); the scene that was, or was not, responsible for the whacking of the fictional) mob boss (I say no). How fun to completely stumble upon something like this so unintentionally! The picture stinks, but what can you expect from a cell phone. I think that really made Don's day ... that, and a refreshing scoop of Rita's. He was very tempted to run in there and take out an order of their prized onion rings ... next time. Next time.