Light in the Valley

Did you ever get that feeling right before something "big" happens? The day before a snowstorm is predicted, as you watch the skies slowly darken with each passing hour; the days leading up to Christmas, as the festive music plays nonstop on the radio and kids seem to jump up and down more than usual? There is "something in the air," as the saying goes -- something intangible, inexplicable, something almost tingly and anticipatory.

There's no snowstorm coming, and Christmas has already come and gone, but that "feeling" is in the air again. It's subtle; it ebbs and flows throughout the day -- but it's there.

On Sunday, Don is going to preach.

This is a huge step for him, and for us. Don is a gifted pastor, with preaching as one of his passions. While I would pass out from pulpit-exposure, he gets a charge out of it. He loves diving into the text, uncovering new words or insights, threading together a message, hearing what God has to say. He's passionate about his role, standing up in front of all those people (all of those eyes looking back!), delivering God's word. He's natural, he's comfortable in that skin. He loves doing what he was called to do.

This journey has been rocky, to say the least. His final sermon was delivered before Christmas 2006 -- over a year ago. That's a long, long time to be away. So when he agreed to preach again, I wasn't sure how it would play out. Would he struggle? Would he break down? Would painful memories swell up and overwhelm him? Yes, I'll admit it -- I was a bit worried.

For the last several weeks he has been going to work each day, hanging flat-screen TVs, installing sound systems, running wires, calibrating components. And each day he has been thinking, reflecting, working the text over and over in his mind: Psalm 23:4 -- "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me."

I can say with conviction that I, for one, now look at this very differently. Don shared some of his research with me, that the "valley" spoken about by the Psalmist was a deep, narrow, vast gorge that was darkened and lifeless from the lack of sun, full of treacherous rocks and dangerous paths -- a place of certain death for an aimless sheep. How often did it feel like I was wandering in that very gorge? Calling out for God's deliverance, needing aid, needing light, needing direction? But then realizing that there is nothing to fear ... that's powerful.

The Psalms are a favorite of mine, in part speaking to a poetic "writer's" side of me. The language is unsurpassed -- "the shadow of death" ... how I have felt that cold shadow slowly crowd out God's Light. But God is right there in that gorge -- I need to trust in that. And now here we are, over a year later, still journeying over an unknown and unfamiliar path. An image came to my mind, of wandering in that gorge, and now feeling that the shadow is behind me. I don't feel as if I have emerged completely, but I am not alone. I feel that I can see that Light beginning to break through the walls of the valley. A corner has been turned.

I'm glad Don is preaching on Sunday. I'm happy to see that sparkle in his eye, that charge as he talks about his ideas with me. He's excited again. God is working wonders. It's one more step forward on the journey, one more step out of the gorge, one more step toward the pasture, holding God's hand all along the way.

All in the Family

First there was Aidan ... (age 3)

Now the torch has been passed ... (age 2 1/2)Trust me -- I had absolutely nothing to do with this. She took up the mantle on her own accord today. It's all in the genes, baby!

Centennial

I’ve been thinking a great deal of my aunt these past few days, having attended the viewing and funeral service last week. Since that part of our family lives in Michigan, we so rarely see them. My parents see them about once a year, on the way home from their annual trek to my brother’s house in the Midwest. But as for me, as I said in an earlier post, it had been about seven years since I last saw my aunt – until last week.

I thought a lot about the life my aunt had led. 100 years of living and breathing on this earth, going through childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, and so on. 100 long years! Born in 1907 ... think of it – 1907!!! It kind of blows me away, I guess hitting some major “history geek” chord in my being. This was the year that Oklahoma became a state; Hersey Park opened in Hersey, PA; the first Hoover vacuum came on the scene; W.H. Auden was born.

I also thought about my family on my paternal grandmother and great-aunt’s side, three (living) girls with four brothers. One sister died of croup at the age of five (scary to think that Grace suffered through croup this past fall and, thankfully, lived to tell of it), and an 11-year-old brother died of appendicitis. A while ago, in my seven-year quest to uncover our family history, I came across some copies of documents pertaining to their arrival to the U.S. from Holland. Amidst the papers were a couple of letters written by my great-great-grandmother – their grandmother – while on board the ship taking them to their new home. Her husband had gone ahead as so many men did, finding a place to live and possibly establishing a source of income, and when ready he sent or the rest of the family.

My great-great-grandmother wrote of tremendous hardship on that ship, having to take care of several small children, one of whom was my very young great-grandmother Antje, who would become the mother of my beloved grandmother and Aunt Effie. It’s been some time since I’ve read those letters, but I don’t recall hearing any telltale sign of a bad attitude, or griping about her situation, although it was truly difficult. She wrote of people stealing her soap, or her food. She worried for her children. She wrote of sickness and horrible smells. She missed her family. Yet she knew what was waiting for her; she knew it would be worth it. I’m not sure what kind of life they were leaving behind, but as with so many immigrants they believed what they were leaving was worse than what awaited them in a new country.

I thought about my great-grandmother Antje (the oldest woman in the above photo, seated in the center, surrounded by her children and grandchildren at the celebration of their 50th wedding anniversary), after whom we considered naming Grace, making that long, treacherous, and scary voyage as such a very young child. What went through her mind? What did she feel? Was she afraid or did she have that childlike freedom of any sense of fear, only excitement and adventure?

One word strikes me as I recall these stories of ancestors long gone: brave. These people were indeed brave. We have no idea what it would be like to do something like this. Sure, I’ve picked up and moved many, many times … but it’s a different world by far. My great-great-grandmother traveling alone with her children. My great-grandmother growing up and living here in this new country, so foreign and unfamiliar. My grandmother and Aunt Effie, born in the infant years of the 20th century, growing up in the decadent 1920s and smiling in countless photographs together.

I said good-bye to my grandmother when I was 8 years old, a child just beginning life and experiencing the first great rift of a loss through death. I said good-bye a few days ago to her sister, my Aunt Effie, now at age 35 and with a family of my own. It’s all pretty amazing to me.

I am so blessed to be a part of such a heritage, such a family. God knows it could have been very, very different. I was given a gift. I am truly blessed.

A Little Birthday Fun

My birthday is coming up very soon, and the older I get unfortunately the less I look forward to these events. I'm not old; I just lack the enthusiasm and giddy anticipation I once had. All a part of life, I suppose.

I borrowed this "Friday Five" from a friend's blog, when she filled it out for her own day o' birth. Even though it's a week early, I thought it would be fun to think about too. I'm too tired to dive into anything too cerebral or profound or journey-themed this morning. This will be light and fun. Here we go ...

1. When is your birthday? Does anyone else (famous and/or in your own life) share it?
Interestingly, I know of three others who share the day with me -- an old neighbor-lady named Dot, with whose granddaughter I used to play as a child; Don's sister Kim; and the most recent and surprising discovery, my friend Jacie (not only same day, but same year, same hospital ...). As far as "famous" birth-buddies, I checked this out online out of curiosity and found a few familiar names: Jean Harlow, Alexander Graham Bell, Perry Ellis, and King John II of Portugal (1455). OK, that last one is just funny.

2. Do you prefer a big party or an intimate celebration for the chosen few?
A big party.

OK, that would be ... NO. Just kidding. "Intimate celebrations" are more my speed.

3. Describe your most memorable birthday(s)--good, bad, or both.
Oddly enough, when I first read this, three birthdays simultaneously popped into mind, but they're all "bad" memories. I hope that doesn't mean I'm some sort of crotchety pessimist ... but hey, I can't help unbidden thoughts. Maybe I just need a bit more perky coffee.

Memory #1: Early March is a bizarre time of year, with the whole "lion and lamb" theme going on. You just never know what to expect weather-wise. I recall one of my very earliest birthday parties, so eagerly and excited planned, was wiped out because of a blizzard. My disappointment at that tender age was like death. I can still feel that wrenching break in my tiny sad soul.

Memory #2: Shortly after my snowed-out birthday, another disappointment of astronomical proportions came on its heels. It was 1981 and I was about to turn 9. A few weeks prior to the day I was about to explode with elation as my mom and my grandmother, the dearest person in my little life who lived downstairs from us, took me to a local toy store to purchase my first pair of "sneaker skates" (remember those?). I couldn't handle my excitement -- I can still feel it. The roller skates of bright blue with yellow detailing were the gift from my grandma, and I couldn't wait until the party, to sit on my grandma's lap and officially open this grand gift. The following week -- six days before my birthday -- my grandma died. I will never, ever forget that day.

Memory #3: I was living in PA. I was turning 30. I had miscarried a few months earlier. I was unexpectedly pregnant again. I was an emotional mess. Don arranged a pseudo-surprise party for me, inviting my entire family to our house for the day. I was so happy ... until my mom got sick and couldn't come. I cried on the phone to her for a long, long time that morning.

Sheesh ... how morbid! There's gotta be a good memory somewhere. Yes -- there is. My "Sweet 16" birthday, where my parents invited a few of my closest friends over for a surprise party. Low-key, relaxed, a complete surprise. I loved it.

4. What is your favorite cake and ice cream? (Bonus points if you share the cake recipe). Or would you rather have a different treat altogether?
Ah, no hesitation here: a Carvel ice cream cake, preferably with an extra thick layer of those little chocolate crunchy things in the middle. Mmmmmmm.....

5. Surprise parties: love 'em or hate 'em?
Actually, I do love them, which might seem surprising for a person of my introverted, reserved bent. But I do, and I've only had two in my life: my 16th birthday and my bridal shower. I was thrilled both times. What it shows me is that these people must really, really love me to make this kind of effort. It's a wonderful feeling.

Bonus: Describe your ideal birthday--the sky's the limit.
This is actually harder than I thought! I'm not sure where to begin. Let's see ... I would love a day to myself, a day of pampering -- a spa, money to shop, time away from "Mommy! Mommy" to recharge and be me for a while ... that's a start. Time away with Don would be a great gift -- a few days in a warm place with warm sand and a warm ocean ... nice. Tucked away in there would be great restaurants, an orchestral concert, and perhaps some diamonds (I might be fairly "earthy" but I do like some flash!). And, I think, a day at the zoo, or a good hike, with the kids, to see their beautiful faces and realize once again what a tremendous gift they are to me.

None of this will happen -- at least not this year. I'm happy with our plans in the making: a shared celebration with Jacie and her family on Saturday, involving a homemade pizza taste-test, lots of laughter, kids entertaining themselves, grown-up fun. I said to Don that I don't want or need much as far as "gifts" are concerned. We can't afford much, for one thing, and that's OK. But what I would love more than anything, as a gift from him, is a good old-fashioned date of dinner and a movie, pre-kid style. The last movie I saw in the theater was "The Passion of the Christ," (ironically on another birthday) -- it's been too, too long since we've done this kind of thing, and it would make a perfect gift.

Happy birthday to me (and Jacie and Kim and Alexander Graham Bell and) ... soon!

Grace in Grief

You never quite know when or how God will speak to you.

I’ve spent this weekend in a kind of parallel state of reflection – going through my days, doing my daily tasks, yet all the while silently and subtly reflecting on some serious God-nudging that, frankly, I didn’t see coming.

I wrote a bit about reconnecting with a branch of my family’s tree with which I was rather unfamiliar – meeting cousins and second-cousins and stringing silent threads from one person to the next, everyone interconnected in some way in that room, all there for the same purpose. It was intricate and marvelous.

Friday was the memorial service, and we woke up to a thick blanket of snow. Great, I thought. Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be today. Thankfully our car does well in inclement weather, so I became the designated driver, with my parents as passengers. I was expecting the usual funeral service – eyes tearing, noses blowing, fond memories, a few Bible verses, a hymn or two. Sure, that was offered, but I didn’t expect to receive. I didn’t expect to hear God.

My “Uncle” Neal – my great-aunt’s son-in-law – was the speaker. One of my favorite parts of the service occurred at a time designated for remembrances, where Uncle Neal gave a brief life history, spanning 100 incredible years. I learned a few things about my aunt – that she was born with a Dutch name, Aafke, which lead me to wonder if my grandmother too was born with a name other than Ida (we’re still wondering). I learned about her younger years, her first date, her courtship, and so on. I love family histories. I grieved the loss even more.

But there was more to the service – so much more. As I sat there in the pew, I knew God was there. I just knew. I could sense it. It was comforting yet beautifully sovereign. As Uncle Neal spoke, I felt a sense of awe. I sat up straighter. Somehow I knew I had to listen.

Two things really spoke to me that morning, both obviously pertaining to my aunt but also reaching out and grasping my hand as well. The first was an attribute that, in a way, could summarize my aunt’s life: contentment. She was a non-complainer. She never raised her voice; she never complained.

“Are you chilly today, Mom?” they would ask.
“No, I’m OK.”
“Are you hungry? Too warm? Thirsty?”
“No, I’m OK.”

She was OK. She was content. She was happy with her life. She put her entire life, her faith, in the Lord, and she was content. She lived 100 long, eventful years with the Lord by her side, and she was content.

And her faith … oh, her faith! Her favorite Psalm was Psalm 23 – that no matter where God lead her, no matter if her journey’s path was rocky or smooth, no matter if she rested in green pastures or stumbled over rocky ground, her faith stayed strong. Her faith kept her content. She not only loved God that much, but she trusted Him completely. It was simple yet profoundly strong.

I listened intently to those words, and I realized how easy it is to live in darkness. I realized that I am not content. I realized that I complain about my lot in life. I resent where God has lead me. And trust … yes, what about trust? Do I trust God completely? In those times when I felt let down, betrayed … was that God’s fault? No, not at all. It’s my own stumbling. My own discontent. My own slipping of faith.

I’m sure my aunt had her moments. But oh, what a testimony. What a lesson. I listened that day, for I know what God wanted me to hear. I need to trust Him. I need to be content. I need to embrace where I am, in this place, in this life that He has given me. I need to let go of the past, I need to forgive, I need to rejoice in where I am now.

I went to a gathering to grieve a loss.
Little did I know how much I would gain.
Amen.

Snow Day

We finally -- finally! -- got "The Big One" on Friday. Of course, Murphy's Law struck once again, after wishing for the white stuff for weeks, only to arrive on one of the very worst days possible -- my aunt's memorial service. More on that later. The kids, though (and, admittedly, myself included) were ecstatic to see the snow fall and fall, hour after hour, the inches steadily rising. I was surprised that Grace had some difficulty once we got out there in the afternoon, struggling with her mitten-restricted hands, crying once she got them off and, bare-skinned, covered with burning snow. Not a fun moment for my usually adventurous, outdoorsy girl. I have a hunch she'll be an Amazon jungle guide rather than an Arctic explorer or Everest climber.

Here are a few snaps of our snowy afternoon, a pictorial testament that we did indeed finally get a winter worth its weight in ... well, snow.

Grace makes a new friend and promptly puckers up
(we'll have to work on this when she gets older)Aidan the Older and Experienced One had no trouble in the fluffy stuff

Helping with the shoveling chores

Grace finally succumbs to mittens and hat, and can now enjoy herself

My angel -- with a side of snow

OK ... now I'm satiated.
I'm ready for spring.

Sabbath Observance

Where two or more are gathered ...
Clearly Jack knows full well that Sunday is a Day of Rest.

Grief and Grace

It's been several days since my fingers have tapped the keyboard -- several busy, emotional, challenging, and grace-filled days. Two events occurred of great importance, both signifying an end to a journey, as well as a new beginning ...

On Thursday, my mom finished her last radiation treatment. She's done. She's healed. That journey -- so full of pain, emotion, fear, and grace -- is over. Praise the Lord for an end, and for the new beginning. She can grow her hair out. She can get her life back. She can travel. She can see her grand-triplets for the first time in the spring.

That same evening, my parents and I visited the funeral home to say good-bye to a beloved woman. Funerals are one of the most odd "life events" one can attend, so full of complexities -- sadness yet joy, emptiness yet fulfillment, an end yet a beginning, a parting and a reunion, of farewells and (re)connections. I think the event of my 100-year-old aunt's passing symbolizes far more than I can realize at the moment, remembering my aunt's journey and now her rest, learning so much from her as I journey on my own path. A lot has happened over these past few days, and the more I sit with it the more I believe I will come to realize just how profound it all really was.

Thursday night was a homecoming of sorts. I saw people I have not seen since I was a child. I was called "Susie" more times that evening than I can count, for that's what they called me then, a name which doesn't fit me anymore yet to them, somehow, time stands still. Most folks I remembered through a hazy childhood memory; a few I couldn't recall though they knew me well; still more I met for the very first time -- cousins and second cousins and other woodpile relations, all connected from that one beautiful, frail woman now at peace. It really blew me away.

It was emotional for me -- these things always are. The casket was open, and I was able to see my aunt for the last time -- a woman who was so frail, so small, so old. In some sense I didn't even recognize her, but then of course how could I not ... a woman who was always so sweet, so dear to me, my grandmother's younger sister. She looked very much like my maternal grandmother who died just four years ago, memories of that day and that loss intermingling with the present, adding to the grief. "Good-bye, Auntie," I whispered before I turned away to greet another new-to-me cousin. "I love you."

Why is death so hard? I believe in resurrection. I believe in God. I believe in heaven. I'm not sure how it all plays out, exactly, but I have hope. Why, then, is death such a blow to me? Why do I hate these good-byes? And yet, even in the midst of this, something pretty profound spoke to me, something I'm resting with. God was there in a quiet, powerful way. I'm listening.

A day of complexities. I loved my aunt dearly. I love my family. And the journey continues ...

"Project Purge" - Completed (well, almost)

I just finished tying up the last bag of my sweet baby girl's clothes.

I wanted to write down my thoughts as they're still fresh in my mind, and in my heart. So how did I fare? Well, obviously, I did it ... I never stopped breathing, I never broke out in hives, I never needed any medication or (serious) counseling of any sort. It went quite smoothly.

Today, however, was the hardest day as I tackled the final bins, ranging from newborn to 9 months -- the cute, cuddly, soft, tiny little outfits that wrapped up the first days, weeks, and months of my babies' lives in this world, clothes that were destined to produce an emotional reaction. I went through Aidan's bins first, and what I found to be interesting is that the 3m - 6m bin was by far the most difficult of all. I had been doing very well up to that point, picking out one special item from each bin -- shirts that he wore for each portrait (a tradition of ours, having a "formal" portrait taken around each birthday), his first Halloween costume, and so on. Even the newborn bin wasn't that emotionally draining, perhaps because the majority of items were sleepers or sacks, as well as given the fact that I don't remember much of those early months due to severe sleep deprivation combined with a total state of cluelessness. Those 0-3m items represented sheer survival for me, fairly easy to pack up. But my boy came to life at the 3m-6m range, and those clothes were tough to sort through. Before I knew it, my "keep" pile was beginning to overtake the too-slowly-filling garbage bag. That had to be remedied. I did a second sort-through, even harder than the first, for every item had a beautiful memory attached to it -- an outfit that defied sweetness; tiny shirts and shorts worn on his first vacation to the shore; a teeny pair of jeans; his first "this" and his first "that." I did it, though -- I narrowed it down. In the end, I did end up saving a littlemore than I anticipated but that's OK. There's room.

I'm not sure why I left Grace's clothes for last. I suppose I thought hers would be easier, since it wasn't too long ago that she wore them. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong ... I think what made her clothes harder to part with was because I actually remember her babyhood ... and I loved it. I adored her from Day One -- not to say I didn't love my boy, but it was just a different situation. He was my first, I was scared and clueless, he never ever slept. But Grace was a sweet dream, with tiny outfits to match. I could picture her in every single outfit, each outdoing the other in emotional importance -- a velvety-soft sleeper with pink rosebuds; a yellow jumper worn on her first outing in Skippack's antique district; little summery pink one-piece rompers ... the list is endless. It was very, very hard selecting the "keepers," but somehow I got through it. And it made me miss her.

So the bags are all tied, awaiting their destination later this week. I can't go back. It's a good thing, I know. Interestingly, no tear was shed -- but that is due largely in part by the fact that I am operating at the brink of sheer exhaustion and have no energy for tears. Also, my dad and my uncle were in my apartment fixing various things pertaining to sinks and tubs, and the kids were fighting horrifically ... all taking away from an emotional scene. That's OK -- it was probably a blessing in disguise anyway.

Even though I kept my emotions in check -- at least outwardly -- I don't feel the elation I thought I would, at climbing my own personal Everest. I tackled something huge; I scaled an emotional mountain. I should feel good about myself -- jubilant, even. But I don't. I feel a kind of heavy emptiness, a sadness. It made me feel old, somehow. I guess this is how someone might feel when they're turning 50, or some other milestone age, realizing they're on a different leg of their journey now. I'm not middle-aged, of course, but it's a similar feeling. Yet looking back, I see that I often feel this way as I leave one season of life for another -- a bit of grieving before embracing: leaving home for college; leaving college for the "real world;" and especially leaving the season of being half of a young couple to being a mother. And now I am no longer, nor ever will be, a mother of babies. It's a tough thing to let go.

At least for now. The next season is already here. And I do love it.

I'll Never Understand People

Don granted me quite a boon on Saturday, staying home with the kids so I could make a much-needed run to Target. I thoroughly, immensely, completely enjoyed my time alone without my two little added appendages, so much so that the Saturday traffic didn't even bother me. Two funny, quirky things happened during my freebie afternoon:

- As I pushed my cart down one of the main aisles, I saw a man approaching me, carrying ... a shovel. At that moment I sincerely wished I was an off-the-chart "E," an extrovert of major proportions. I wanted to walk up to that man and ask him a question: why ...

- I was almost home, winding through the myriad of narrow side-streets, when an old(er) woman nearly hit me head-on. I quickly swerved out of the way as she careened down the street. And why? Because, what I had thought was a giant grizzly bear in her car impeding her ability to drive, was merely her massive fur coat, along with a cell phone in one hand, while her other hand was preoccupied with the important task of puffing away on a cigarette. 1 + 1 = no hands on the steering wheel. Very nice.

"Project Purge" Progress Report

After a few days of purging my kids' belongings, I am happy to say that it's actually going quite well! I guess if I linger in the basement of bottomed out expectations, I can only end up surprising myself with success of some measure. So let's recap where I've been:

- Clothing: I've tackled Aidan's 3T-5T with relative ease, except for a minor choke-up in the beginning. I also bagged up all of Aidan's old shoes, save for his first pair of tiny denim soft "sneakers" and his first pair of adorable sandals. Footwear was followed by winter-wear: all winter coats and snowpants. I had been saving Aidan's outgrown winter coats for Grace, knowing how expensive they are and wanting to recycle the bigger-ticket items, but when I saw the still-beautiful coats -- dark blue, dark gray, black, olive green, etc. -- I knew I couldn't dress my girly-girl in those, especially when she'll be around 4 years old, probably in preschool, with other kids who would definitely include in their group some smart-mouth who would make some hurtful comment (although knowing Grace, I doubt she would let him/her get away with such a comment ever again). No, the very-boyish coats and winter-wear got bagged up with the rest.

- Baby Items: Joining the ranks of clothing are other baby-related things, such as receiving blankets (save for the two flannel hospital blankets in which my babies were first wrapped), lap pads, cradle sheets, crib sheets, an extra crib bumper, wash cloths, sleep positioner, etc. I branched out and bagged up my well-used Baby Bjorn, Boppy pillow, bottles and cups, infant car seat covers, and so on. You get the idea. The one thing I could not part with, however, was Aidan's baby snowsuit -- a sweet Peter Rabbit number, sack-shaped with no legs, the cutest bundley item ever.

- Toys: This was not planned, but since my kids are still under the weather we had to stay home from church yesterday. They were getting bored and restless (as was I) so I took a risk and asked Aidan if he wanted to help me sort through his toys. I was very nervous; my pack-rat gene has always manifested itself in my boy, and I feared that this endeavor would result in nothing getting purged. However, I was greatly surprised -- not only did he want to join me, but I was amazed at how much he was willing to part with! Major success on that front.

Despite this great triumphant start, I do realize that I have just been putting off the inevitable: tackling my babies' tiny clothes. I have a few more small boxes of toys in the attic to weed through and combine with the others, but after that I must face my "giant." I've come this far -- I know I'll be OK. A tear or two, maybe, but OK nonetheless.

So what's on tap for today? Well, first a true test to see how "triumphant" I can actually claim to be. This morning I am heading over to our local community center to give them some of the bagged clothes. It's one thing to take them out of a bin, put them in a garbage bag, label them, and put them in the basement. They're still in my possession -- I've just moved them around a bit. The true test comes in picking up that bag and placing it in the hand of someone else, of actually letting go. I wonder how I'll feel ... A little sad, I'm sure. "Finality" is never easy for me in any shape or form. But I think it might be a pretty empowering thing, to give something back to a community who has helped me in my own time of want, to give "to the least of these," having worn those shoes myself and knowing what it feels like to receive. I just need to spread a little extra dose of courage and strength on my bagel this morning.

My kids are still sick, with Aidan suffering a surprising relapse after a weekend of improvement. He's back up to 103.4 and pale as a ghost. Grace shuffles between little or no fever, but something is bugging her, turning her into one grumpy, dissatisfied, unhappy little girl. Later today I'll head back to the attic, this time diving in to the bins that I've been putting off, able to do that no longer. Or maybe not. I'm exhausted, having been up several times during the night with my shaking, feverish boy. It's gray and rainy again, not aiding a cheery disposition. I have a difficult task to do this morning.

Maybe I'll just take a break.
Tomorrow is another day.

Another Good-bye

This is one of the most beautiful photographs I have ever seen. It's the wedding photo of my dad's parents (in whose house we now live). I never knew my grandfather (but oh, how I wish I did!) but my grandmother was a big part of my life until the young age of 8, when she passed away. 27 years later, I still miss her, and now even more so, as I have taken up residence in her house.

Yet this post isn't about my grandparents. Rather, it's about the young maid-of-honor in the photograph, standing behind my grandmother in glorious 1920's garb, my grandmother's sister Ethel -- affectionately known as "Auntie" or "Aunt Effie." Since my grandmother held such a special place in my heart, and since I lost her at such a young and impressionable age, my great-aunt too became very, very dear to me. While it's a mite difficult to see here, later in life they looked very much alike. When I couldn't look at my grandmother anymore, I found comfort in looking at my aunt, a tie of some kind. I loved my Aunt Effie dearly.

Interestingly, this home in which we now live housed many generations of my family, both upstairs and down. While my grandparents and my teenage father lived downstairs (his two older brother married and on their own), Aunt Effie and her family lived upstairs, moving out when my own parents married and took up residence upstairs. My Uncle Mart, her husband and the Best Man in the picture, died when I was in college, and while I recall feeling a sadness for that loss, I never had much of a connection with him. It was my great-aunt, my grandmother's sister, with whom I felt connected. When her daughter and husband moved to Michigan several years ago she went with them. I only saw her once then, about seven years ago, on the way home from a road trip to see my brother and his family in the Midwest. Little did I know that would be the last time I would see her.

I received word this morning that my dear Aunt Effie passed away at the glorious age of 100. Her health had deteriorated rapidly; her sustenance consisted of 1/3 cup of milk per day, then mere drops of water. There doesn't need to be great sadness when a woman departs this earth after 100 years of life, and yet ... I'm sad today. I have never handled loss well of any kind, but the loss of a loved one is heart-breaking -- even of someone who was more than ready to go. And it's sad to see the faces of the photograph disappearing one by one, a generation now gone. There is no life anymore in those black-and-white pictures, just stories and memories.

She's coming home to be buried later this week. I'll get to see her one last time, but not in the way I would have liked. But at least I will be able to say good-bye.

Plunge

The plunge has begun.

It all started with our enforced two-hour shifts Thursday night, waking and stumbling to care for a sick child.

And that experience cemented an already-known-yet-not-quite-admitted-to fact: no more kids.

(For those of you with "Oops Babies" or similar stories of that neighbor's aunt's third-removed cousin's wife's sister who said the same thing ... I don't want to hear it!)

Armed with this freshly-acknowledged information yesterday, I started the process.
I went into the attic.
I surveyed the neatly stacked and even more neatly labeled bins.
I grabbed the closest bin and brought it downstairs, followed by another one.
Two plastic containers sat in my living room, this time in front of my face rather than the out-of-sight-out-of-mind attic.
The bins refused to budge.
The journey began.

Yes, I started this new leg of my journey, this sorting through my kids' outgrown clothing. It's funny how my subconscious took over, clearly knowing what was best for me and how I would most successfully survive this first plunge into the icy waters of purging:

- I started with Aidan's 5T clothing. Cute, yes, but I just packed them away. There were no real emotional attachments, other than the fact that for a brief moment I allowed myself to actually think about what I was doing. A momentary choke-up as I reached for the first garbage bag.

- I "randomly" selected a time to begin this process: while the kids were napping. This gave me a goal, to get it done before they woke up, because once they were up they would want to know what I was doing, then I would have to talk about it, then the lump in my throat would expand to a noticeable size, then Grace would undo everything I did ... No time to dawdle, no time to reminisce -- just rip off the band-aid.

- I had the TV on, which I didn't "plan" on doing, but which afforded me the distraction to keep that throaty lump at bay and keep the traffic down on Memory Lane.

And you know what?
4 bins are emptied.
11 smallish garbage bags are in the basement (neatly labeled by size and season, of course)
I am breathing.
I am still alive.
Some personal apocalypse never occurred.
All is well.

I feel good. As I told my friend Tricia, if only that feeling transferred over to my own personal loss of actual physical weight I'd feel even better! But I do feel like I tackled something significant. I feel fairly triumphant.

But here's the thing ... there are many more bins. And I haven't even gotten to the tiny, cute baby things yet. 5T jeans with slightly worn knees have nothing on sweet plush cuddly sleepers. But I took the plunge ... now I just need to start swimming.

Omniscience

Somehow a mother just knows.

We had a really nice morning, for the most part -- at least my kids did. I somehow paid bills with almost non-existent funds, I called a local establishment which helps the community, seeing if I could donate my baby items (I'm making progress!), I carried down two of the bins of clothing to start on Project Sorting (Aidan's clothes, 3T and 5T -- figuring it was easier to start with the big clothes, not as cute). It felt good to get some things done.

It was wonderful to see Aidan perk up again. He ate a slice of toast, the first solid item he's eaten in days. After I washed him down he said he wanted to wear "real clothes" (and a good thing too -- his PJ's desperately needed to go in the laundry), so he grabbed his favorite Spiderman T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. But when the poor kid pulled on his pants, they slid right back down, pooling around his ankles. I had no idea he lost so much weight (how can I get me some of that?!). But he's happy today and able to play nicely even with a fever of 101. He's getting there.

And sweet Grace was a dream. I had found a bin of some old toys my mom had saved from my childhood days -- old Barbies, some ratty dolls, and a few stuffed animals. Grace grabbed the stuffed animals and immediately started a party, 1980's-style, complete with Garfield and Woodstock. Happy kids.

The morning wore on and I continued with my chores. Now, I was just in my bedroom vacuuming and the kids were watching TV. When I was finished, I wheeled the vacuum out the door into the living room and quickly glanced up.

I just knew.

This is what I saw:
All it took was one quick look at this sad little creature.
Grace is sick.
102.8.

Here we go ...

Laugh Lines, Among Other Things

The mountain of bins containing all things baby are still in the attic. I got as far as moving them out into a sorting area and then haven't gone back. Yet. I will soon. Sentiment has been running strong, especially coupled with a peek now and then at my kids' beautiful baby pictures. Are we sure we don't want another? Are we absolutely sure?

After last night ... yes. I got a roundabout glimpse into what life would be like with a newborn and my conclusion is this: I cannot do it again.

Aidan has been sick again, and yesterday his fever lingered at over 104, refusing to crack no matter how diligent I was with the dosing of Tylenol. I was a bit concerned when he went to bed, his fever still raging. Fevers often skyrocket in the middle of the night, and since his was already high I was afraid of what could happen. Don and I talked about it, both of us concerned about leaving him unattended or unchecked throughout the night. We decided to check on him every two hours, with my first shift starting at 1:00 a.m. I went to bed around 9:30 p.m. (I was wiped out), read a chapter in Philip Yancey's Prayer, and then went to sleep. That horrible alarm went off right on schedule, 1:00 a.m., and I trudged out of my room.

The scenario felt very much like Grace's infancy, my baby who loved to sleep. During her second week of life, I had to do the same thing -- set my alarm every couple of hours to feed her (rather than I being awakened by her hungry cries, like her big brother) -- until she was old enough to make it through most of the night without eating. I thought about this as I shuffled blindly into Aidan's room, checked his temperature (102.8 - phew), and gave him more Tylenol and a drink of water. I thought about this: what if this really was a newborn? This would be happening not just one night, but every night ... for weeks, months ... maybe even a year!

Two hours later Don woke up for the same routine (minus the Tylenol), and so the night continued. I really couldn't get back to sleep after my first 1:00 a.m. shift, so needless to say I am working on major deprivation mode today (again, just one night -- what if it went on for weeks and months?!). I'm glad to say that Aidan seems much better this morning, cooler and perkier (too perky, really, having come into my room at 6:00 a.m. wide awake, for some insane reason). I'm glad he's improved. But how am I feeling?

Like I just got through the night with a newborn.
I think now tackling those bins will be a whole lot easier.
And maybe ... just maybe ... even a little fun.

Now, for a little humor to end the long, grueling, illness-infested week:

*******************************
One of my favorite movies is The Apostle, starring Robert Duval (the soundtrack is terrific). I’ve always been rather fascinated with a more Pentecostal flavor to worship because, well, it’s not a flavor I myself tend to partake of (it's an introverted thing). I think my son, however, is on his way to becoming a good old-fashioned Gospel preacher not unlike Sonny in the movie (minus the murder with a baseball bat part -- we can just skip over that). A short while ago I wrote how my kids get such a charge out of the commercial for the Time-Life Worship CD collection, singing along and raising their little hands high into the air. It’s a sight to see. And this morning was not unlike any other, with my kids still singing their little hearts out. When the commercial was over, Aidan said to me:

“Mommy, we should get all of those CDs. Then we would learn how to worship God even more!”

Amen, Brother Aidan!

********************************
Aidan and Grace were playing so nicely in their room while I was washing the dishes. Our house is very small, so I had no trouble hearing what was going on, and I was in for a treat. The kids were sitting on Aidan’s bed – the top bunk – and Aidan was reading a book to his little sister. Suddenly he said:

“Eeewww! Yuck! Gracie, you pooped!”
Grace responded, “No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes you did!” said Aidan.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No.’
“Yes!”
“No.”
“Yes!”

Back and forth the argument went. Finally Aidan felt it was time to pull out the big (convincing) guns. The passion in his voice was remarkable.

“Grace, Grace, listen to me! Listen to your big brother! You have to believe in yourself! You have to BELIEVE! Grace, oh Grace, you have to believe ... in Jesus! YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE … IN GOD!”

My goodness, the sincere urgency in his voice was priceless. Who wouldn't convert after that?! :)

In a Word: YUCK

That's the kind of day it is, for oh so many reasons ...

I love snow. While I do not participate in winter activities such as skiing or snowboarding or ice skating (can't afford it, no time, etc.), I nonetheless love the white fluffy downpours we get this time of year. Or ... that we're supposed to get. This winter stinks. I feel gypped. We've had flurries, random coatings, but that's it. I've been sorely betrayed by Old Man Winter who, I believe, must be vacationing in Florida and shirking his duties.

So you can imagine my glee when yesterday's snow shower started to accumulate. My hopes started to rise slightly as the tiny flakes began to stick. Before dinner, as dusk began to settle, I went outside to clear off the steps and sidewalk. It was like brushing bits of cotton, light and fluffy, with no exertion on my part (although I could have used some serious raising of my heart rate). I was starting to feel happier, that finally -- finally! -- I'd get my winter wonderland.

Fast forward to this morning, when I was awakened to the sound of ... rain. I looked out my bedroom window and saw not the fluffy white mounds of yesterday, but instead a giant mess of slush. Wet, heavy, translucent slush. Don informed me that water was leaking into the basement, so he trudged outdoors to scrape the cold mush away from the foundation of the house. At 7:30 a.m. (yes, a.m.) we participated in our own changing-of-the-guard, as Don passed the shovel off to me so he could come inside and get ready for work.

I went outside, the rain pelting my coat. I put the shovel on the ground and pushed. A loud slurping sound erupted, as if I was trying to shovel up a gigantic spill of dye-free slushee on Aisle 5. The shovel full of this mess weighed more than a sack of rocks; it landed with a nasty "schlump" on the pile of previously shoveled snow. Schlump, schlump, schlump ... it was gross. I was wet. I was miserable. I felt betrayed once again.

It didn't help that I was up all night with my sick son, whom we now believe with all certainty is allergic to Motrin. We had our suspicions when he was a baby; we tried it again for good measure when he was a toddler. Instead of helping him, it made things worse. Not his symptoms, of course, but his reaction to the medicine is, in a word, bizarre. He gets edgy, hyper, belligerent. And, to top it all off, he can't sleep. He's a terribly poor sleeper anyway when he's sick, but add Motrin to the mix and he might as well have downed 8 cups of coffee. Last night was no different. We gave him Motrin because we ran out of Tylenol, and since his next dosage was due at 11:00 p.m. I figured all would be well. He was sleeping tightly when I propped him up to hold the little cup to his lips; what harm could Motrin do at that hour?

An hour or so later I felt a little hand pounding my back. "Mommy, mommy! I need more Tylenol! I need it! NOW!" What the heck?! I tried to explain that he already had his medicine, he just needs to go back to sleep. He threw a tantrum; he was irrational; he was frantic. I was even doubting his level of consciousness. He made no sense, he was babbling, he was crying. Somehow I got him back in bed when the belligerence started. He yelled; he refused to lay down; he wanted to sit there all night. Crazy stuff. I'm blaming the Motrin.

Off and on through the night I felt that little hand pounding me, needing one thing or another. He woke up at 6:30 a.m. in near-hysterics, waking up his sister in the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when that Motrin wore off. Instantly he became calm, quiet, restful. Feverish, yes -- almost 103 first thing this morning -- but more like himself. He requested a damp cloth, "because my eyes hurt." He's been drinking lots of orange juice (a first for him -- unfortunately he swears off liquids when he's sick for some reason) and now he's in bed resting.

After a sleepless night and a sick kid, I woke up to shoveling a slurpee.
In a word: YUCK.

Cheers for the Underdog!

As a proud owner of a beagle, I’m happy to say that history has been made.

The 132nd Westminster Kennel Club dog show was held recently, and for the first time since 1939 a beagle won the hound group. Way to go!

But he didn’t stop there. The 15-inch beautiful Uno ended up winning Best in Show, the first beagle to win the coveted title in the history of the event.

One of the most endearing attributes of this little guy is his personality. According to an article in the New York Times:

“At some point when he shows, Uno bays, for no reason other than to say his piece … ‘He bayed at the judge,’ Wilkerson [the handler] said. ‘He does it on his own. He’s saying to the judge, ‘Look at me.’ So he just plants his feet and bays away.’ The judge, Ralph Lemcke, said he had no memory of being bayed at. But he said he will remember Uno, whom he had never seen before.”

Uno’s not only a winner, but he’s a memorable history-maker with character.

I love historic events.
I love beagles.
It doesn’t get any better than this. :)

It's All in a Name, Baby!

I have been really tired lately -- in part because of a busy weekend, coupled with a cold snap, and a sprinkling of the fact that I hit these depleted wells every once in a while. As far as writing goes, the synapses have been fizzling more than firing lately (not a good sign with a big church newsletter waiting in the wings), so this morning my mind drew a blank. No topics today; nothing stellar occurring in my life to write about. In fact, things have been so oddly quiet that it's making me a little nervous. This knee-jerk feeling stems from what we endured at our last church (indeed, even before), this fretting about the quiet before the potential storm, for whenever we experienced a lull, we could bet our life's savings (if we had any) with 99.9% certainty that something "bad" would come swooping in on its heels. And sure enough -- in some bizarre, uncanny way it did. This is an unhealthy cycle of thought, really. I need to move out of it somehow. This isn't how God wants me to live. I want to feel OK in these quiet spells, these drama-free moments, to see them as gifts instead of worrying that as soon as I take a breath the whack-a-mole mallet will come crashing down. Part of my journey has been stumbling upon the rock of realization that I'm not sure how to live a "normal" life. In the churches in which we've served, we spent a tremendous amount of time "fighting," of strategizing, of discovering that being faithful caused ... well, problems. It shouldn't be like that, but that's what we faced. That was our reality. So now, with that behind us, we are facing a new way of living, and strangely enough it's not easy. You get stuck. It's incredible how people can really mess with your head ... and you're left to put the pieces back together.

Hmmmm ... it's funny how someone who says there's nothing to write about just spewed out a paragraph of something lurking in some dark brain-corner. :) What can I say ...

So, since I had "nothing" to write about, I went to the funny website where I gathered the "coffee quiz" from a few weeks ago, a site full of these random quizzes that produce a few chuckles. I clicked on the first one I came to (an easy one requiring a minimum amount of thought -- in fact, requiring basically no thought at all) cracked me up, a great way to start my day. Check it out!

Your Rockstar Name Is...

Chocolate Agony

What's Your Rockstar Name?

Don did the "quiz" too before he left for work this morning, and his new moniker is "Jello Danger." Awesome. So, friends, give it a try -- and share the results with me because sometimes (OK, often ... OK, OK! All the time!) my sense of humor is quite juvenile and it truly makes my day. :) At 35 years old I like blooper shows, gag reels, "America's Funniest Videos" ... just the other day I watched some "Outrageous Moments" show and laughed hysterically, tears spilling from my eyes, about a horse race with the announcer going nuts, shouting that "Hoof Hearted" was winning ... trying saying that name fast. :)

Chocolate Agony ... oh, what a day this will be!

Monday Miscellany

It's Monday morning and one of those days which feels like I'm moving in slow-motion. We had a busy weekend, most importantly celebrating my dad's 72nd birthday (Happy Birthday, Dad!) with a low-key party on Saturday. Fun times.

I just finished labeling my archive of posts, thrilled to be finished with such a monotonous, tedious task. At least now my thoughts are organized a bit.

After a few months' hiatus, it's time once again to dive into the spring issue of our church's newsletter. The template is all set to go; now I'm just waiting for the articles to trickle in so I can get to work. The last issue was a scramble, with several articles arriving after the due date, and some not making an appearance at all. I'm hoping this time things will be different.

On tap today are rather mundane tasks, most importantly tackling the myriad loads of laundry spilling out of the hamper as well as chipping away at the mountain of dishes waiting to be washed. In 5 minutes I will get the kids dressed and get Aidan started on a Valentine assignment -- making cards for his cousins in the midwest as well as one little card for each of his classmates. His class is having a Valentine's Day party and each child must bring little cards for all of the kids in the class so no one is left out -- that comes later in middle and high school when the pretty girl in your class gets flowers and cards and you get nothing. It's nice that "fairness" is a requirement for now.

Technology graced our abode once again, this time in the form of a webcam attached to my parents' computer. My brother who lives a thousand miles away sent it to them so my parents can see their five little girls -- older twins and baby triplets. Travel is a near-impossibility right now, so it's sweet to have the opportunity to see them while we talk. Don hooked up the system yesterday afternoon and we had great fun, watching their robotic movements as the motions couldn't keep up with the conversation. It was nice to see the triplets for the first time, now six months old. Aidan declared to the older twins, "Send me a Valentine's card! I'll send one to you too!" So that's our activity for this morning.

Time to get going. I wish I could turn on a switch to evaporate this morning fog in my brain. Maybe a few trips to the basement with my laundry will do the trick.

Blessings to you on this day.

Grace's First Tea Party (or: Insight Into a Little Girl's Personality)

Yesterday was an interesting day for both Grace and Mommy. Don needed some lumber and tools in order to work on a side-job (while working on a Saturday and evenings isn't great, the extra income is), so Aidan went along on a "Boy's Morning Out," leaving me alone with my little girl -- something that so very, very rarely happens. But it gave me a glimpse into what life will be like when Aidan is in school all day, as well as a glimpse as to who my girl really is.

When the boys left, Grace was in tears. "I want Aidan! I need Aidan!" I quieted her down and the tears stopped, but a new dilemma faced her. She had no idea what to do. Her buddy was gone. She was listless. She wandered around the living room, picking up a Power Ranger and then putting it back down. She shuffled into the kitchen, where I was washing dishes, and she sat down on her chair with a (very melodramatic) sigh. She soon got up and went into her bedroom to lay on her bed. She was bored.

This was new for me. Grace? Bored? Never before. But now she's alone -- we're alone. One-on-one time for the girls of the house is a foreign thing ... but I'd better get used to it. I immediately fell back on the old stand-bys for Aidan when he was two. Would you like to color? No. Would you like to paint? No. Would you like to do a puzzle? No. Would you like to play with play-doh (I was desperate here -- I hate play-doh). No, no, no.

Uh-oh. Now what do I do ... Clearly she is not like her big brother.

"Gracie, would you like to have a tea party?"

Her big eyes lit up, her smile widened, she hopped out of bed with a loud, "Yes!" She grabbed a big white blanket sprinkled with lavender flowers (one of my baby blankets) and spread it on the floor. I brought in her Dora porcelain tea set while she set to work inviting some friends. This is where it really got interesting.

First she positioned two of her dolls. Then she propped up a big teddy bear, after which she found a spot for herself. She sat there for a minute, surveying the scene. Something wasn't right. But what could it be? She sat and she thought ...

There weren't enough guests.

The next time I looked in on her, a few more friends had joined the party: two dinosaurs and an elephant. But still she wasn't satisfied.

A few minutes later I heard her calling from the bedroom, "Mommy! Come here! Come to the party!"

I laughed when I walked into the room, beholding the sight on the floor. My little extrovert, "Daddy's daughter," at last was happy with her arrangement. She had gathered every "friend" that she could find and placed herself right in the middle of the entourage. And she was in heaven.

That's my girl ... or rather, that's Don's girl. I would have been happy with one doll and myself, with maybe a bear thrown in for good company. This little party-going extrovert needs a real bash, the more the merrier. She's got quite a personality, that's for sure. And I'll be seeing a lot more of this in time ...

What do you do on Friday nights?

OK, things have been WAY too serious in my little blog world as of late. Lots of emotion, lots of decisions, lots of ... yeah, that's it. It's time for some laughs of the belly-aching variety.

Some people have parties on Friday night. Some go to the movies or out to dinner. So what do we do in our house? Forget the movies -- we can't afford it. Forget the parties. Forget the kegs. Forget the masses of people. All you really need is a Grandma-Cancer-Survivor and her trusty wig to provide hilarious entertainment.

It first started with a joke. A knock-knock joke, to be exact. Aidan threw out a few of his favorites:

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Amos.
Amos who?
Amos-quito bit me!

Then my mom thought she would join in. But here's the thing -- my mom is still suffering from a condition called "chemo-brain" where ... well, your brain just doesn't always work the way you want it to. Here's her knock-knock joke:

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?

Knock-knock
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Orange you glad I didn't say ... orange?

I'm still laughing over that one, even as I type. It's not the joke that's funny -- it's the chemo-brain version of it. Grab the tissues -- the tears were rolling.

Next came ... well, there are just no words to describe it so pictures will have to suffice.

I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard.

Pictures of a dorky family? Perhaps.
Pictures of a family loving each other and having boundless fun?
Absolutely.

It's a great way to laugh in the face of cancer.
It's a great way to spend Friday night.

More than a Homecoming (so much more)

Before my qualms about all things b-a-b-y took center stage, I was struggling with a myriad of issues about what to do regarding school for my big little guy. I am his mother. I love him fiercely. I have been entrusted with a great gift. I want the absolute best for him. But what does that exactly mean … or, how will it play out …

This multi-layered onion of a decision was too big for me to gulp in one shot. So, thankfully, I peeled off each layer at time, prayed about it, addressed it, questioned it, waited, prayed some more … and then came an answer (well, maybe, kinda-sorta). After a few of these more tolerable layers came the next dilemma, and the biggest: where to send my precious boy.

I prayed. I fretted. OK, those two verbs shouldn’t necessarily go together, but what can I say. I constructed mental lists of “pro’s” and “con’s.” I talked to friends, to teachers, to family. I prayed some more. Christian school or public school? Back and forth I went, like a ride on a splintered see-saw, back and forth, with no answers forthcoming. My “heart’s desire” cried for the former, but the one obstacle in the way was a biggie: the price tag.

Last night Don and I attended the Open House for the Christian school. When Don held the door open for me and I walked over the threshold, that odd time machine started whirring as I went back 30 years … to my childhood, to my school. Indeed, I saw a little red-headed girl in awful '70s clothing in that same hallway; the room into which we were ushered was my kindergarten room. I saw the gym where we had our chapel/assembly each week, where my older cousin worked as our gym teacher and where she taught me to tie my shoes. I saw the office where I sat crying when I missed my bus one afternoon. I saw the nurse’s office where I sat in stunned silence, my head split open from falling on some giant plastic block. I saw my first grade classroom where Greg threw up his hot dogs and where I embarked on my first foray into the dramatic arts, portraying a tiger in our school play of Noah’s Ark. It was an incredible experience to walk through those halls again.

Then suddenly I was momentarily gripped by some self-questioning: is my reason for desiring Aidan’s attendance here based, for the most part, on my own nostalgia? Can I picture my son in that building because simply I myself graced the halls? Oh, I know there is more too it than that, but what is the primary foundation of my wanting him to go there? Is memory lane the strongest player in this game? If so, then I've got a big problem.

After we signed in and picked up our white folder chocked full of information, we headed for the restrooms (note to self: chill out on the lemon-lime seltzer at dinner before events like this). I quickly tossed up a mini-prayer, feeling those long fingers of doubt starting to squeeze. God, what’s really the driving force here? If mere nostalgia is the primary reason I want Aidan to attend this school, then show me. Show me why he needs to be here … or if not here, then elsewhere.

We found a seat with other parents in my former k-room, now media room, and the principal got up to pray to open the evening. The more he spoke – followed by the superintendent, the assistant principle, the teachers, etc. – the more I felt those fingers of doubt slipping off, losing their grip. I can’t avoid nostalgia; I can’t ignore memories. But what my eyes were opened to last night was the real reason why.

In a conversation months ago with my friend Jen about this topic, she gave me some good advice. While I can’t remember the specific wording, she said that one priority revolves around excellence – finding the school that will provide my child with the best education. In some cases, a public school would provide that, rather than a local private school. You have look at your options, be informed, and strive for excellence. In all of these months I have never forgotten that advice.

Interestingly, after the program was over and we had visited the teachers and classrooms, we had a conversation with the superintendent (who, as it turns out, is my mother’s cousin). He said to two very cool things that I feel answered that Kwik-E-Prayer offered outside of the restroom earlier that evening. He acknowledged that the school is not cheap, but then he said this: we are providing excellence on every level and in every discipline, and this excellence is our offering. I just loved that – it answered what I had been holding on to. I thought of Hannah, wrestling with God in her own passionate prayers, being given the gift of Samuel, and then offering her son -- her gift -- back to God. It's a profound way to look at education and it hit home. He went on to say, “We look at the kind of individual we want to graduate from 12th grade, and then we take that back and start it in kindergarten.” Excellence indeed.

The kind of peace that I felt after we left was beautiful. I was extremely thankful to realize that my reasons for wanting to choose this school were not based on nostalgia or continuing some kind of legacy. It’s nice, yes, but it’s not important. What is important to me is the kind of education he’ll be receiving – one centered on God, and one steeped in excellence. I felt tremendous peace.

Now I need tremendous faith.

Bird by Bird

I can't tell you how many authors I have read over the years, but one of my favorites -- and one whom I keep forgetting that I like -- is Anne Lamott. She's quirky, she's odd, she's rather controversial at times, but she's true and she's honest and I like that.

As much as I love to read, I am not, however, one of those individuals who can have multiple books going at one time. I'm a savor-one-book-at-a-time kind of girl. I like to dive into a book, immerse myself in a plot, chew and digest what the author is saying. If I combine Harry Potter with, for example, Jonathan Edwards, I have a potential problematic stew on my hands ("Sinners in the Hands of an Angry ... Voldemort?"). Every once in a while, however, I make an exception. Right now I am reading a "broccoli book," as my friend Jacie would call it, for our Book Club entitled Prayer: Does It Really Make a Difference? by Philip Yancey. It does indeed fit into the weighty green vegetable category and in all honesty I can only tackle about a chapter each night before my tired brain puts on the brakes. But I was compelled to make that exception to my single-book rule, and tucked in the drawer of my nightstand is a smaller paperback by Anne Lamott.

It's a book of hers that I picked up at the Writer's Conference in PA back in November -- a small number entitled Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. I don't often write in my books as I read them, for no real reason other than I don't usually have a pencil by my bed or otherwise just can't be bothered. But this time, I curl up in bed with my book in one hand and my pencil in the other, ready to scribble away.

I'm not very far into the book, having gotten through the oddly long introduction and the first few chapters (Prayer's broccoli does tend to get stuck in my teeth), but already I am marking up that book like a bad term paper (but in an oh-so-good way). It's her down-to-earth honesty that intrigues me, this knack that she has for setting up shop inside my head, settling down into a comfy chair and chewing the old fat. I appreciate her insights especially and on this particular topic -- the love of writing -- I'm not only finding it practical but human -- a part of me, a part of life -- as well. As the title suggests, Bird by Bird is not only about writing, but about life itself.

"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. [It] was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

I look at that in the context of my life -- my journey, things big and small that pop up along the way. But as I wrote my post the other day, about my difficult process of letting go (specifically of my kids' clothes, but oh how deep that can go), these words -- "bird by bird" -- rang true. How hard it was for me to move those bins full of my precious babies' clothes; how daunting it was for me to see that wall of neatly labeled plastic in front of me. How can I do this? How can I sift through five years of Aidan's life, represented by each little outfit, each tiny flannel shirt, each painfully adorable pair of jeans? How can I weed through two and a half years of the life of the most precious girl I have ever known, every cloud-soft sleeper, each tiny sweet dress?

"Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

One box at a time.
Aidan, 0-3 months.

The tiny green, yellow, and orange striped one-piece outfit, so baggy on his little frame -- the outfit in which he came home from the hospital.The little white cap he wore to protect his sweet red-fuzzed head.The adorable brown corduroy pants, the miniature blue denim shirt, the tiny brown and blue striped sweater vest -- the outfit in which he was baptized.The rest ... the rest ...

Bird by bird.
Bird by oh, so sweet little bird ...

Pancakes and Politics: Super Shrove Tuesday

Well, there's an odd stew, a strange liturgical twist, a rare occasion of mixing "church and state" and, for once, it's OK. Two biggies collided yesterday -- a heated political race and the commencement of Lent.

I won't get into the politics of it -- it's way too controversial a topic for this early a.m. hour. I didn't vote, though, even though I discovered that Independents such as myself can indeed vote in the NJ primaries. I just didn't get my registration into the mail in time. For many reasons this race is making me very, very nervous, more so than any previous election. Perhaps it's because I'm older, I have more at stake, I have children, the world is a frightening place, and I really don't care for any of the candidates, making me feel quite helpless. Who knows. Moving on ...

OK -- technically Lent begins today, Ash Wednesday, but yesterday was marked by its own designated title, Shrove Tuesday. Having spent my entire life in the Reformed/Calvinist tradition, Shrove Tuesday was fairly new to me (as was Ash Wednesday). God, enjoying new ways to un-box Himself, and in his Divine Sense of Unfathomable Humor, deigned to hook me up with an Anglican, of all people. Suddenly, these "foreign" church traditions started to blip on my radar. At our churches in which we served, Shrove Tuesday was a much-anticipated event. Church-wide pancake dinners were packed, sausages and fluffy pancakes and syrup were devoured. It took me, the little Reformer, quite some time to figure out just why we were making carb-gluttons of ourselves, until I read up on the tradition. Historically, Shrove Tuesday was taken very seriously, and their devouring of rich foods and cleaning out of cupboards were not merely nice traditions but a necessity, in preparation for prayer and fasting – yes, fasting – during Lent. It was serious stuff.

But today? In all honesty, I can’t say that I thought about any of this when I walked into the parish hall over years past and ate too much. It was not a tradition I was used to. And the meaning was lost on me, centuries later, as I was able to go back to my home, belly stuffed, with my own cupboards still filled with flour and sugar and eggs.

Now that we are out of this Episcopal/Anglican circle (at least for the time being), I have easily slipped back into my Reformed roots. The blip ceased on my radar. Yesterday at 5:00 p.m. I stood in my kitchen, on hand on the cupboard’s handle, my eyes staring inside, trying to figure out what to have for dinner. There were no blips whatsoever as my eyes landed on the box of pasta, when suddenly the phone rang. It was Don.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
“I think I’m going to make Mafia pasta,” I said.
There was silence.
“Um … can we have pancakes?” he asked quietly.
I was surprised and still clueless. “Pancakes? Why?”
“Well …” he paused. “It’s Shrove Tuesday.”

Oh. Right.

My heart went out to him at that moment. Even though I never became an Episcopalian, and even though it was very easy for me to let slide some of those traditions, the same isn’t true of my husband. He’s lost so much and now … all he asked for were some pancakes, a little connection to his own tradition, a tradition that he misses greatly.

So last night we had pancakes and sausages. I felt kind of gross, as I usually do on the wake of those kinds of dinners, and I was still full this morning. But I guess that’s the point – I’d be right on track if I fasted during Lent. But I don’t. It’s extremely important, of course, but I don’t fast. And today is another tradition – Ash Wednesday. And again, in years past, I would always forget what day it was, since it was not a day we typically observed. Every year when Don came home with a smudge on his forehead, I would open my mouth to inform him … but then, oh yes, it’s Ash Wednesday. This morning I asked him if he was going to find an Episcopal church today but he said no. I’m not quite sure why.

Maybe, for now, pancakes are enough.

"To Stick or Not To Stick" (in a craw, that is)

I am perusing my List of Motherly Things To Do and checking off a few items.

Transition Grace into a big bed: check.
That particular item that has been sticking in my proverbial craw as of late is now taken care of, with minimal damage. Phew.

So what's next on tap for the craw?

Let's see ...
Find out what a "craw" is, exactly. I'll get on that.
Next:
Potty training?
No way. Moving on.

Ah, here it is ... the hard one for me. The one that must be done. The one I don't think I can avoid any longer. The one that will break my heart.

Giving away our baby things.

Oh, the pang, the pang! But the Call of Practicality has been sounding loud and clear and cannot be ignored any longer. Grace is slowly but surely beginning the spurt out of 3T into 4T (at two-and-a-half?!); Aidan just got another big bag of hand-me-down clothes from his cousins. What do I do with the old stuff? In the past I boxed it up, labeled it neatly, and stacked it away in the attic. But I can't do that anymore. The attic is filling up. There's no more room in the inn.

I've written about this before. For some reason, it just breaks my emotional heart. It's 80% sentimental, 20% journey-themed. Bitterness (of the irrational sort) churns in my gut toward those who (again, irrationally -- well, somewhat) put me in this position in the first place, having to make these difficult decisions. That's the journey part -- a work in perpetual progress. But the sentimental cog is much, much stronger. I just don't want to give away those clothes. I don't want to close that chapter in my life, in their little lives. I can never get my babies back, but if I hang on to pieces of it ... I know -- I'm nuts. There is that purge-happy side of me that barks, "That's completely impractical! Buck up! Purge away!" I can't keep saving clothes. Even if that phenomena happens to knock on our door down the road -- that "oops" baby -- I can't save bin after bin of clothing, "just in case." Oh, it's crazy emotional for me.

The other day Don and I were in the attic, shifting boxes around in order to access the Grace's "big girl" mattress, wedged between unused box springs, unused twin bed frames, and Don's boxed up clergy existence. He then spied the wall of neatly labeled, neatly stacked clothing bins. He looked at me. "You really need to do something about this," he said. Not meanly -- just matter-of-factly.

I burst into tears. I surprised myself, really, but I surprised him even more. His eyebrows shot heavenward, his eyes widened, his arms flew around me instinctively. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"

I spewed out some of what I was feeling, rather jumbled, quite incoherent. I don't think he understood -- he heard me, yes, but it's a bit of "women are from Venus" for him. What he saw was very manly-Mars-like ... he saw unused clothing; he saw our finished family; he saw much-needed space being hogged by un-needed items. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he also saw tears, dreams, emotions ... a confusing jumble. But it's my jumble.

It has to be done, I know. But if I am being completely honest, it hurts. It's a grieving process for me. I began yesterday, starting small. I took an old Pampers box and filled it with some baby toys -- graduated rings, stacking blocks, shape sorters -- to make room on a small shelf in the living room, a shelf that will now house Power Rangers or Hot Wheels. I am OK with shedding the baby toys -- well, sort of. I still hear those "what if ..." whispers in my ear. Next I planned to move on to the bigger items -- high chair, exersaucer, swing -- and put them all in one place, ready for pickup. My parents' church routinely makes trips to Cary, Mississippi in a huge truck, bringing donations of all kinds to needy folks there with whom they have a partnership. I do feel good about giving my well-loved items to folks who have nothing, but still ... I'm a mother. I'm an emotional, sentimental, big-hearted mother. It's hard.

I spent a few hours in the attic yesterday. I lovingly picked up every bin and moved them out of the front room, placing them in a different part of the attic. I shed a lot of private tears as I looked at each box -- Aidan, 0-3 months. My baby Aidan. My boy who struggled with sleep. My first child whose first year I don't remember much. The items in that 0-3 months box are a link to my baby -- a link I have to break. Grace, 0-6 months. My sweet baby girl. My baby with none of the stress of the first. My baby whom I enjoyed so much I found at times I didn't want her to grow up. Another link to sort through. Each box was moved and piled up, awaiting their sorting fate. It was hard just to move those bins; how much more so will it be to rummage through them and -- ultimately -- carry it all away.

Friends have told me to sort through and keep a few items from each child, those clothes that either meant something, were especially adorable, and so on. A few items? Just watch me. I'll find something important, some string attached for each and every single one, and nothing will be discarded. Just watch.

No, it must be done. But I'm starting small. I'll get up there again soon. Oh, why must my small ones grow so big ...