Halloween Weekend, Part I

November 1st is here, so this morning I replaced the ceramic pumpkin and ghost on the kitchen table with the ceramic turkey, and later today I'll get out our little pilgrim figures. More importantly, I scooped up most of the Halloween leftovers and put them in the freezer. This is a little mental trick I like to play on myself. They're out of sight and hopefully out of my mind, then I'll stumble across them in February or March when cleaning out the freezer (optimistically) and think, "Halloween leftovers...goodbye!"

We do what we have to do.

We had one of those weekends that was jam-packed with activities and every sentence ended with, "...and then we had candy." Elaine woke me up at 6:00 one of these mornings and asked if she could have candy. [Picture a 4-year-old tapping on my cheek relentlessly.]

On Saturday, the girls had a birthday party to go to. It was a fancy tea party at a country club, which went from 11 until 2. I had to go to the rehab hospital to pick up my dad and bring him home, but I got them as ready as possible before I left. I helped them with their showers and did their hair and told them wear their robes until it was time to get dressed. Darren said, "I don't think I can handle dressing them. Can't you put their dresses on before you go? Then they can just sit on the couch for an hour."

"Have you met our girls?" I asked him. I then reiterated to them that, for all of Daddy's wonderful qualities, he doesn't do hair, so to please not run around until it was time to leave.

Here they are--didn't he do a great job? The man had to navigate tights and shoe buckles as well as dresses.


Here is Lucy, looking so grown up and poised it takes my breath away. Where did that chubby-cheeked baby go?


When we all got home, they told me all about the tea party. I wish you could hear it in Lucy's voice, which sounds like an odd cross between mine and a Valley Girl, complete with dramatic facial expressions and hand gestures.

"MOM. It was sooooo fun. We decorated our treat bags and played a sugar cube relay and played musical chairs and I met this really nice girl named Alex but I bet her real name is Alexandra," she said, all in one breath.

"AND WE HAD A PINATA THAT LOOKED LIKE AN ICE CREAM CONE," broke in Elaine, at top volume.

"Then, GET THIS," Lucy added, "You would just DIE, Mom. We had this fancy tea with little sandwiches and blueberry scones that were sooooo yummy and cake and ice cream and the cake was pink with flowers and the ice cream was golden and looked kind of like pumpkin ice cream but it didn't taste like pumpkin ice cream and we had THREE drinks--I had all three--water, lemonade and tea but at first the tea wasn't sweet but then they passed around sugar and I took one of those little blue packets and added then and then it was sooooo sweet and tasted really good." Also all in one breath.

The next day was Halloween, and I tried to get them to settle down in the afternoon but you know that was a completely lost cause. At 5:30 (we had weird hours this year: 5:30 to 7:30), they were dressed and ready to go. Since the day after Halloween last year, Lucy has been saying she wanted to be an American Indian. Elaine wanted to be Fancy Nancy until a few weeks ago when she adamantly changed her mind and decided to be Raggedy Ann. She adores Raggedy Ann. I ordered her costume, and it just got here on Friday.

On Thursday, Katie and I took all the kids in their costumes to visit my dad in rehab, so I threw together a Fancy Nancy outfit for her then. But she was relieved that her Raggedy costume arrived in time for trick-or-treat.


Here is the back view so you can see the papoose tied to Lucy's back. (We don't have an Native American dolls. How negligent of us. So, we just used her Bitty Baby.)


And here is my dear little Raggedy Ann.


They ran around in the cold to all our neighbors and got more candy to add to their Trunk-or-Treat stash from Wednesday and the pinata stash from Saturday.

However, the most exciting part of the weekend happened Saturday night, but I'll leave you hanging until tomorrow.

I'll give you a hint though: Meow.

Scraps of Things

First, I'll tell you about a new tween series I just stumbled upon at the library: The Mother-Daughter Book Club series by Heather Vogel Frederick. Currently, there are four books, the most recent just came out last month--about a group of mothers and daughters in Concord, Massachusetts, who, against the daughters' will, are forced into a book club together. Among the daughters we have Emma, the chubby bookworm; Jess, the introverted farm girl; Megan, the snobby fashionista; and Cassidy, the hockey player.

The first book runs in tandem with Little Women; the second, Much Ado About Anne, with Anne of Green Gables; the third, Dear Pen Pal, with Daddy Long-Legs; and the latest, Pies and Prejudice, with...well, I'm sure you can figure that one out. The books deal with all sorts of contemporary pre-teen issues: bullying, trying to fit in at school, loss of a parent, getting a step-parent, getting a new sibling, being embarrassed of your mom, trying to balance different types of friendship, romance, etc. vis a vis the heroines of literature and seeing how they had to deal with the same situations.

Here is a Library Journal Review of Pies and Prejudice:

"With four effervescent heroines, several budding romances, an ambitious cooking venture, and a hefty pinch of drama, Pies has instant teen appeal, even more so if readers are Anglophiles. When Emma's family announces they are moving to England for a year, the book club selects Pride & Prejudice in honor of their adventure and keeps up regular meetings via webcam. Austen fans will appreciate the character nods: Emma deflects the advances of a Mr. Collins-like oaf, Megan falls for the amiable Simon Berkeley (aka Mr. Bingley), and Cassidy spends much energy detesting Tristan Berkeley, the obvious but nonetheless enjoyable Mr. Darcy character. For teens who may not recognize these parallels, the author makes them clear with quotes at the head of each chapter, as well as pointed comparisons made by the characters themselves. With interesting facts about Austen interspersed throughout, and a visit to relevant sites in England incorporated, this book makes an excellent introduction to one of the most masterful–and popular–writers of all time. Don't be surprised if 12-year-olds start checking out Pride & Prejudice after reading this teen-tailored adaptation."

In short, the books are sweet and funny (and clean) and I wish I had written them, but my hat's off to Heather, who also has a really fun blog. I would say the books are perfect for 9 to 12-year-olds, but I bet 13- and 14-year-olds would enjoy them, too. Also 41-year-olds.

In other news, today is the last day of school for this week because tomorrow are Parent-Teacher conferences, and Friday is a teacher in-service, which is the brilliant way our school escapes the drama of Halloween every year.

I got Lucy's first quarter report card the other day, which is what we'll be discussing at the P/T conference. This is my girl who every day, when I ask, "How was second grade today?" without fail answers, "AWESOME!" I'm not worried. At the beginning of the year at the parents' open house, her teacher told us that at least in the first report card, she does not give grades above "3" (Consistently achieves the standard) or "S" (Satisfactorily meets expectations). The highest grades are 4 and E. Lucy got one 4, for her independent reading goal, and one E--in art. The rest were mostly 3s and S's.

Here was her teacher's comment: "Lucy has adjusted well to 2nd grade. She is a fun-loving and creative child. Her skills are solid at this time. She loves chatting--often at inappropriate times, which I hope to help her curb. She is delightful!"

I dunno--does this lady get my daughter, or what? I think we will have fun, "chatting" together tomorrow.

Oh and just to add--the other day, Lucy came home and said, "Mom! We rearranged our seats at school and now I'm next to Lily and Tomas so we can chat as much as we want to!" I put that as my status on facebook, and my friend Tom said, "Somehow I'm seeing Lily as Ethel and Tomas as Ricky."

Lastly, tonight is Trunk or Treat at AWANA, and the girls are supposed to come dressed as their favorite Bible character. This was their conversation coming home from church last week:

Lucy: I want to dress up as either Queen Esther or that Egyptian princess who got Moses out of the water.

Elaine: I'm gonna dress up as Eve.

Lucy: ELAINE! That means you would go to AWANA without any clothes on. Not even your UNDERWEAR.

Elaine: Oh. I do not get that at all.

I told them that I had already bought the Halloween costumes they wanted (that have nothing to do with the Bible) and I don't know how to sew, so unless they want to wrap themselves in my pashminas and be Mary and Martha, they can just wear their playclothes like always since it will be dark out in the parking lot and no one will notice anyway.

There's only so much a mom can do, can I get an amen? To go along with that, I'll leave you with this great post by my friend Alysa. Now, knowing her, she probably would whip up Bible costumes on a moment's notice...but she'd never make you feel bad that you didn't! Love you, girl!

Somebody's Knocking at Your Door

A couple weeks ago, the doorbell rang. Usually when that happens, the UPS man has dropped off a box from amazon, so I went to the door to get it. Instead, it was a lady from the Jehovah Witnesses. I opened the door and listened to her talk; she read me some verses out of the Bible and gave me some literature…and promised she would come back again soon to talk with me.

When I closed the door and went back to the living room, I felt ashamed that I hadn’t said anything about what I believe. I just listened and nodded my head. I just remember growing up, whenever we saw the JWs or the Mormons canvassing the street, my mom would say, “Quick! Lie down on the floor until they go away!” I wasn’t prepared for that lady—I thought she was an amazon box. I would have lain down on the floor and waited until she went away if I had known.

Recently, a friend of mine posted something on facebook about Christopher Hitchens. I commented on his post because, wait for it, I kind of like Christopher Hitchens. If you’re unfamiliar with him, he’s one of the most famous atheists in the world today. While I disagree with many of his premises and his life philosophy, I don’t disagree with him on everything, and frankly, he’s a great writer and I enjoy reading him.

My comment on my friend’s post led to a small interchange, which led to an extensive correspondence that we took to email—because my friend is a dedicated atheist as well. Hitchens is one of his heroes.

My friend and I ended up discussing and examining each other’s viewpoints on God. We've been asking each other questions and listening to the answers. We've been having what Os Guiness calls, “civil discourse in the public square,” except it's not that public.

During our correspondence, which has been pretty extensive, my friend has been nothing but gracious and courteous, genuinely interested in what I have to say. Also—he is far better read, more intelligent, and much better at asserting his views than I am. I’m thinking if you were on the fence and you read our letters, you’d probably end up siding with him.

He has read the Bible from cover to cover. He’s also read Lewis, Chesterton, Augustine, Aquinas, Tillich, Buber, and more. Kierkegaard is one of his favorites. During the course of our letters, I felt utterly inadequate. I don’t say that for people to come around and pat me on the back and say I did a good job. I kept thinking of the verse from I Peter: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” I tried to do that, but as I said, my friend could give a much better defense for his viewpoints and beliefs than I could for mine. Honestly, I was still metaphorically lying on the floor, waiting for the doorbell to stop ringing.

At one point, he asked me this question, in lieu of my acknowledging my own occasional doubts: “But if you've had an intimate relationship with Creator of the universe, why would you ever again have reason to doubt His reality? (I know that once I've met someone, I no longer question whether that person exists.)”

Here is my reply:
-----

Yes, I do doubt sometimes. Because I am just a weak human being with an average intellect. I look around at people and think, "Am I the only person here who believes this stuff? What if I am totally deluded? Other people seem to be doing just fine without God."

Even though I have felt and known God's presence and love and goodness, I get exhausted with life and tired and wonder if it's all just some big cosmic joke.

You mentioned that you don't think the world is an awful place. I agree that this world is beautiful and is filled with wondrous things and places and people and relationships. Watching the leaves change, hearing my kids laugh, enjoying a great meal with friends...it is good, and I try to be conscious of all the good things and be thankful for them.

But two hours ago, I stood at the curb in a small town and watched as a motorcade went down the street, followed by a hearse, carrying a 19-year-old Marine who was just killed in Afghanistan. He had been there only 3 weeks. Someone handed me an American flag to hold, but I had a hard time thinking about duty and honor and freedom, when all I could think about was that young boy’s—because really that's all he was—that young boy's mom. I kept having that Kipling poem run through my head:

Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Yes. I do think this world is an awful place and though I know and love God, sometimes I wonder where He is and what He's doing and why. Also, I can't see Him.

But when I doubt, I go back to what His Word has said, as in Hebrews 4:16 "Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need."

Or I go to one of my favorite statements, written by St. Paul "Nevertheless, I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto him against that day."

For me, the reassuring reality is not in the strength of my grip on God. It's the strength of His grip on me.”
-----

This conversation has been challenging me to think a lot this past week. I have taken numerous courses in evangelism, systematic theology, hermeneutics, and apologetics. I don’t know if they’ve helped me much at all—not because they weren’t good classes, they were—but because they were a long time ago; I’ve forgotten a lot; and in the meantime, life has taken over, I’ve had two little kids, and I read a lot of Kipper the Dog books these days, instead of philosophy and theology to sharpen my mind and defend my faith.

But the whole interchange with my friend has brought to my mind the great 20th-century theologian, Karl Barth, who spoke and taught and wrote so eloquently and at such length, particularly on the transcendence of God. Yet when someone asked him to sum up his theology and the millions of words he had written, he answered simply this:

“Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

I don’t know how to say it any better than that.

Questions

I had this blog post written in my head, all about the stress of life, and then I realized, why would you want to read about the stress of our life? I'm sure you have enough of your own. Then I saw on Anne-Marie's blog that she did some fun question thing that she was tagged for, so I'm just going to lift that idea, without being tagged. And maybe I'll change some of the questions too. So, here you go:

Given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go?

I would go either to Cornwall, England, or to Japan. I've always been fascinated with Japan, ever since I did my country report on it in 6th grade. I'd want to tour a lot of Japanese gardens and check out lots of Japanese dolls.

Besides the Bible, what is your favorite book and why?

My favorite book (say it with me now) is Stepping Heavenward by Elizabeth Prentiss. I go to it for comfort or advice or inspiration. If I ever write a book, I keep thinking of it as a modern Stepping Heavenward, then I get intimidated since that's like saying writing a modern Pilgrim's Progress or something. It has so many favorite quotes of mine, but one I think of on a near-daily basis is this: "Suppose, then, you content yourself for the present with doing in a faithful, quiet, persistent way all the little, homely tasks that return with each returning day, each one as unto God, and perhaps by and by you will thus have gained strength for a more heroic life."

My other favorite book (among many of course) is L.M. Montgomery's The Blue Castle. Just because I love it. But someone needs to design a new cover for it.

Do you re-read favorite books? If so, which ones?

I'm a huge re-reader because if you have books, you have friends, and who wouldn't want to hang out with your friends over and over again? Basically, if I enjoy a book, I'll reread it again at some point. There are some I make a point to re-read every year, such as Little Women and Jane Eyre. I recently reread The Great Gatsby (pure brilliance). Some I haven't read for awhile and want to read again soon: Graham Greene's The Quiet American. Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.

What is the biggest difference (other than gender) between you and your husband?

We're very different from each other, but probably the biggest difference is that he's an extrovert and I'm an introvert. We've both come each other's way somewhat over the last 15 years, but it still is interesting sometimes.

What is your favorite soup?

Definitely my mom's minestrone in first place, but in second place is Italian wedding soup. I have a great recipe for it that I got from my cousin's husband, Yang. I always say I learned how to make great Italian soup from a Korean guy.

If calories, weight gain or health were no object, what food would you eat all you wanted of?

Oh, you know, flax. Or alfalfa sprouts.

Actually, cake. Chocolate eclair cake. Carrot cake with that cream cheese frosting. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Poppyseed cake with caramel frosting. Cake in almost any form.

I think that's all for now, and that was much less stressful than my original post, so aren't we all thankful? I won't tag anyone to do this, but feel free to steal if you're running dry on blog topics!

School Pictures

First, an update about my dad: The surgery went very well. He was in the OR from 1:30 until around 6:00, the doctor came to talk to us. He was pleased with how it went, though it will be a fairly long road to recovery. We finally got to see Dad around 8:30 at night, but of course he was completely out of it. I'll see him later today; he'll be in the hospital for a week and then in a rehab facility.

Next, here are the girls' school pictures. Forgive the poor quality--I took a picture of a picture, and not very well. I haven't figured out how to work our scanner yet, so pictures of pictures it is.

Here is Lucy Nan, 2nd grader:

And here's Elaine Frances, Jr. Kindergartner:

Both of them decked out in bows by Bowture, of course!

Belated Birthday

Last Monday was Darren's birthday, but we were on our way back from Door County so we didn't make a big deal of it. And let's face it, he is not like me. He doesn't really want anyone to make a big deal for his birthday anyway. But I think he should still succumb to our ministrations and let us sing to him and buy him presents and make him a birthday dinner.

So, that's what we did yesterday evening. We all decided to meet at my dad's house because today he'll be going into the hospital for a reconstruction of his spine. I packed up the food--Italian beef, pasta salad, Mrs. Fischer's potato chips (evil, evil, addictive food item)--and the cake: orange crunch cake decorated with salted pecans to look like Miss Cleo Marple the cat, who hates all of us except Darren. More on that later. Oh, so much more.

Chuck and Rome came too, and Rome brought cinnamon rolls like my mom always made for birthdays and also apple-parsnip soup, which was made on her show this week.

We all gathered around that table for the first time since my mom has been gone. While I was setting it, I wasn't sure what to do with her place. Should I sit there? Should I leave it empty? I ended up rearranging everything so that it just wasn't there anymore. But it was OK.

After dinner, the girls were so excited for Darren to open his presents. Before we left this afternoon, Lucy had written poems on typing paper and taped them all over the patio door for him. At dinner she had a card she picked out herself at Target and written her own message. The girls and my dad all gave Darren different types of bird feeders and bird food, because that's what he wanted--basically, my dad has turned us all into bird-watcher nuts.

Elaine was doing a little dance of impatience beside him because she couldn't contain the secret of her card any longer. First, she had actually written "Daddy" on the envelop and "Elaine" on the inside all by herself. But the real reason was that when Daddy opened the card (which she did for him) it played, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" This was also something she picked out at Target. Actually, she first picked out a cat in a tutu that when you opened it, it played "Dancing Queen," but I convinced her that she probably liked that a lot more than Dad would. So, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" it is.

The rest of the evening, she would sneak up on Chuck with the card and play it because he couldn't stop singing it either. While we were doing the dishes he said, "Now I'll have that stupid song in my head forever. I just got rid of 'The Entertainer.'"

I said, "The Scott Joplin song? How did you get that stuck there?" and he said, "No, Billy Joel's 'The Entertainer,'" which called for us to belt out together:

I am the entertainer,
I come to do my show.
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.

Then we took some turns playing on the piano, and the girls begged Darren to play "Heart and Soul" with me, which he's supposed to play the plain, boring bottom part, but he always showboats and tries to steal the limelight from my showy top part.

When we got home and I tucked the girls in bed, Lucy said, "Mom, I have to tell you something I just want you to hear. You know, I think people are like llamas."

I wanted to burst out laughing because it was so random, but she was very serious so I kept it in check.

She went on, "You know how when llamas get married and one llama dies, the other one is so sad. People are like that, too. We're just better together, aren't we?"

"Yup, Luce," I told her. "People are better together."

Then Elaine piped up from her bed, "Mom, why is Packa going in the hospital tomorrow?" and I explained to her, "You know how Packa took such good care of Manga while she was sick? Well, now his back is all worn out, and he needs to get it fixed. Like when you make a tall, straight tower out of blocks, but then you knock it over? That's what Packa's back is like. And the doctors are going to make a nice, straight tower out of it again for him."

"Do we get to keep any of the pieces?" she asked.

So today, Chuck and Rome and I will be at the hospital with my dad while Darren holds down the fort here. The surgery will take about four and a half hours they say, so if you think of it, prayers are appreciated.

At least we'll all be together--we know we're better that way. And if you hear anyone singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" you'll know why.

Pie and Pandora

Now that fall is here, it's time to turn the stove back on and start some baking. Over the summer if you ask me what's for dinner on any given day, it's probably a) sandwiches, b) pasta salad, or c) sandwiches and pasta salad. But now it's back to regular food and extra baking with ingredients such as cinnamon and nutmeg.

My friend Mary, and she really is my friend even though we've not officially met, recently posted about pie. I don't know why, but after I got my new laptop in August, I cannot comment on anyone's blog except my pastor's. That sounds oddly rigged, but I'm sure it's not. So I was dying to comment on Mary's about pie, but I just emailed her instead. This turned into three or four back-and-forth emails, all about PIE. And we still haven't exhausted that discussion. Then she posted again about pie, but it doesn't have a title so I can't link to it. Then I figured I better post about pie, so here I am.

We talked about our favorites, and it made me think about all these pies my mom would make: rhubarb, lemon meringue, strawberry (a slice of spring in pie form), my ultimate favorite--her Swiss apple (Mary wanted to know what Swiss apple is, and it's what other people call Dutch apple or French apple. But my mom was Swiss, so it's Swiss apple), and pumpkin--which is my dad's favorite but not mine. Something about the texture is weird to me. But my dad will eat it for breakfast.

I make a caramel apple upside down pie that my family seems to like, judging by the fact that it's never around for very long. I'll give you the recipe if you want.

In the midst of all these pie thoughts, I ran into my friend Toby at the library and we started talking about pandora. If you don't know what pandora is, it's a site where you can create your own radio stations, as many as you want. If they play a song you don't like, you can thumbs down it and they'll never play it again. When I first told my brother about it several years ago, his comment was "Finally. The Internet's starting to pull its weight," and ran off to create his Lyle Lovett station. Toby and I were comparing our stations, and here's what I've got (some I ran home and created after talking to her):

Choral Music

W.G. Snuffy Walden--acoustic guitar music

Carl Davis/Thomas Newman--guys who write soundtracks, such as "Cranford," "Pride & Prejudice," "Little Women," "Shawshank Redemption," etc. etc.

Wynton Marsalis--classical, you can also have a Wynton Marsalis jazz station, which I'll probably add

Harry Connick, Jr.

Judy Garland--holiday station; you can have a Judy Garland non-holiday station, too

Yo-Yo Ma

Travis Cottrell/Robin Mark--worship music

Keith Green/Larry Norman--old school Jesus music

Van Halen

Dave Grusin

Frank Sinatra

Chris Botti

Der Kommissar (80s)

Bruce Hornsby

Natalie McMaster (Irish)

Liz Story (piano)

I'm telling you, the best way to spend an afternoon is to turn one of your pandora stations on, get your pie ingredients out, and start baking.

Right now this is my personal favorite to bake to. I think it automatically infuses food and makes it taste better.



OK, so what's your favorite pie and pandora station?

Picture This

It's been an interesting week or so. A week ago last Friday, I went to the women's Bible study I go to, and Elaine came with me since she doesn't go to school on Fridays (there's childcare provided). About halfway into it, they brought her in to me, and she was trying not to cry. Very unusual. I picked her up and she whispered, "I want to go home. My ear is hurting." So, we went home and, wherever you were that morning, if you heard earth-shattering screams for about 25 minutes, it was Elaine.

By the time we got home though, she was half-crying, half-asleep, so I gave her some Motrin, put her nightgown on her, and popped her in my bed--where she spent most of the rest of the day sleeping, off and on and drinking ginger ale.

The next morning she popped out of bed and said, "My ear's feeling better," so we went on our full day of errands, the four of us. On the way home in the afternoon, Darren looked back at her in her carseat and saw her--white as a ghost, sleeping, and with some unidentifiable yellowish goo trickling out of her ear and down her neck.

Yikes.

He called a friend right away who fortuitously happened to be working urgent care at the clinic by our house, and he said to bring her right in. Diagnosis? Her eardrum had ruptured. And the other ear was infected, too.

The next day, all of us except Darren stayed home from church because our throats and ears hurt and we were coughing like barking dogs. And I'm just thinking, "We're supposed to leave for Door County in 4 days."

But, leave in four days we did, and it was glorious. You'll have to take my word for it because I packed everything and asked Darren to bring one thing, ONE I tell you, the camera--and he forgot it. That's two trips to Door County in a row that we haven't brought the camera.

So, you'll have to just try and picture it all in your mind: turquoise blue water and sky, maple leaves such a bright red it almost hurt your eyes, evergreen mixed in to soothe, and showers of aspen leaves, sprinkling down like handfuls of gold coins.

The weather was some of the nicest we've had too--it can be dicey in October there, but it was so warm and sunny we didn't even need jackets and could eat outside (at the Cookery, natch). Somewhere along the line, I picked up Elaine's ear infection, so I felt kind of cruddy all while we were there, but it almost didn't matter.

We still went to Peninsula Park every day to walk in the woods; we went to the harbor in Rowley's Bay to walk on the beach; we drove the country roads with the fall trees making an arch above us.

I read one pretty good book and one not that great one and one awful one. Darren and I finished watching all the episodes in our latest TV addiction, Doc Martin. We ate cinnamon rolls and cherry/almond scones and thin crust pizza and other Door County specialties, until we both declared that we are 100% back on the healthy eating program from now until Thanksgiving.

We got back late yesterday afternoon, and I have a garbage bag full of laundry to do and things to catch up on, and I grocery-shopped this morning since all that was in the refrigerator was a carton of moldy strawberries and some milk that was well past its sell-by date.

I wish so much that we had had our camera with us since there were a lot of moments I wanted to capture. But I know that I'll always remember some of the little moments--Lucy going out in her nightgown with Darren to look at the stars; Elaine running down the beach, yelling, "Daddy, Daddy, look at the big shell I found!"; both girls, giggling, bent over a game of Sorry.

They're all titled the same thing in my mind: "This is now--when the girls were little."

Looking at the World Through Pink-Colored Glasses

We didn't find out before our girls were born that they were, indeed girls (I figured they were because that's what I'd asked for, but that's another story). At my shower for Lucy, I got a lot of little sleepers in white, green, and yellow. So it was a big thrill for me when she was finally born, and Jennie and her mom, Mary, came to the hospital with a pink bag containing a pink ruffled outfit, pink hat, and pink shoes.

It's been non-stop pink at our house ever since. As you can see from our blog tagline, "You never have to pray about pink."

Now October has rolled around, and I don't know what it looks like for my international friends, but here in the U.S., it's officially Pinktober--the month where many of the products in the stores are pink, there are pink ribbons everywhere, and even when you open yahoo or Google, there is pink. Pink, for Breast Cancer Awareness.

The title is a little ironic to me because if there's one thing I actually am aware of, it's breast cancer. Not long ago when I was over at my dad's house--and do I call it that now? my dad's house, instead of my parents' house?--and he had gotten my mom's death certificate in the mail. It was one of those things where you don't want to look at it but you're compelled to, so I opened it. There was her name, her birth date, her death date and location, and under "Cause of Death"--Breast Cancer.

I remember the first time my mom got breast cancer--10 years ago. One of her sisters had died from it, but it was a shock nonetheless. She went through surgery, radiation, and two courses of chemo until they could pronounce her "cancer free." But the doctors told her, "Your cancer was not estrogen-based [as much breast cancer is]. It was an aggressive, genetic cancer, so there is at least an 80% chance it will come back."

When it did come back, I remember sitting in Mom's living room with her and her saying, "I'm at peace. I know it's time. People keep wanting me to join things, to join the fight against cancer. I'm so tired. I just want to be around someone who doesn't have any plans or goals."

"Like ME!" I told her.

"Yes," she laughed. "Like my dear daughter."

And of course if you read this blog, you know our whole journey: through more and more pain and some treatment and hospitalization and saying goodbyes and hospice and always that cancer, over taking everything, until one day, when it had invaded her brain and distorted the world so terribly for her, my mom--who never murmured or complained--held her head and cried, "Oh, this cancer, it's tormenting me!"

A couple of days before her death, a friend of hers came to visit the hospice and we stood together over Mom's bed, crying, and her friend said, "Isn't cancer so evil?"

One of my great struggles has always been fear. I have gone through the wilderness any number of times on that issue, my mind running the worst possible scenarios, my heart racing, waking up in the night, heart pounding and sweating with anxiety. I have memorized verses and hymns, so that any given time I might be saying or singing (usually in my mind so I don't wake anyone else up!) things like, "I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone oh Lord, make me dwell in safety" (Ps. 4:8) or "Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid" (Isaiah 12:2) or "When through fiery trials your pathway shall lie, my grace all-sufficient will be your supply" (How Firm a Foundation).

It helps and it calms and reassures me so I can go on again.

And now that Pinktober is here, and everything from Campbell's soup to Swiffers are pink (I have a pink Swiffer, of course!), I will not lie. I am afraid. I've been to a breast cancer specialist at Northwestern who told me, "Most women have a 1 in 300 chance of getting breast cancer. You have a 1 in 21 chance. But you knew that already, right?" Well, I guess I feared it, but I didn't know it until you told me (thanks!). Aggressive genetic cancer.

I'm afraid to get a checkup. I'm afraid to get that phone call. I'm afraid of chemotherapy and tumors and dying in agony and leaving my girls without a mother. I told my internist at my checkup this summer--you know, the normal kind: breathe in, breathe out, open your mouth and say "ahh," the harmless kind of checkup--"It probably sounds silly, but I'm a little afraid to go get a mammogram. Not because of the procedure, but what if they find something?" He said, not unkindly, "I'm going to tell you what I tell my wife: 'I don't care. Get yourself over there now and get it done.'"

I'm so thankful for everything the Susan G. Komen foundation has done with regard to furthering the fight against breast cancer. Did you know that in at least the last 10 years, maybe more, not one grant, piece of research, advancement, anything having to do with breast cancer has not been touched by the "pink" foundation? The fact that we now set aside this entire month, draped in pink, is amazing to me.

I do my part in donating when I can and buying pink products, but I'm not out there raising funds or going on the walks or being visible in this fight. It's all too mixed up in my mind for me right now. It's too scary, honestly.

I listen to the song "In Christ Alone," that we closed my mom's memorial service with over and over, and right now, the line I keep repeating to myself is this: "From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny."

He commanded my mom's and He commands mine. I'm going to try and trust and not be afraid.

But this month, and every month, I am praying about pink.

This is something I didn't know I'd ever discuss here

When we were in Tennessee, Joseph--my-cousin-who-is-my-extra-brother--and I exchanged a stack of books. We do this occasionally since we're both voracious readers and have overlapping interests. He lent me two Lawrence Blocks, The Perfect Storm, LA Confidential, and the book I'm gonna tell you about now: Salvation on Sand Mountain, a memoir by Dennis Covington.

That was the one I picked up first, and I can't really figure out why, because it has a picture, not a drawing mind you, but a photograph, of a woman holding a ginormous rattlesnake on the cover.

Yup, it's a memoir about snake handling. Why I was drawn t0 it, I don't know because I am utterly terrified of snakes. Once we went to a family camp. Darren and Lucy went on a boat ride, and I took Elaine, who was a baby at the time, on a walk. We were on a steep hill, so I was carrying her up it instead of using the stroller. As I walked up the path, I heard a soft rattling sound in the grass nearby. To this day I don't know what that rattle was, but as I held my darling baby oh-so-close and pressed my face to her downy little head, I whispered, "Sister, if a snake comes across this path, it's every girl for herself."

I don't even want to think about snakes, let alone read about them--nevertheless, I was compelled to pick up Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia.

Dennis Covington was sent, as a journalist, to cover an attempted murder trial of a pastor who tried to kill his wife with rattlesnakes. I thought the book would mainly cover the trial and its details, but it only spent a brief amount of time on that and honestly, that is a good thing because I don't mean to be rude, I really don't, but those were some insane, trashy people and the less time spent on their antics the better. Trust me. You can hardly believe what happened. As my dad says, "There's no such thing as fiction."

The book is really about what happened after--how Dennis Covington became friends with the people at the snake handling church up on Sand Mountain after their pastor got put in jail. He and two photographers spent two years, attending services until eventually one night, Covington took up the snakes himself and handled them.

He tells how he and one of the photographers, a man, spent much of their time discussing the "how" of snake handling. He talked about how the church goers would just reach their hands down into a box of rattlers, how they would walk on copperheads, drape snakes around their shoulders, or shake the snakes and let them lick them with their forked tongues. (I know. Did a shiver just go up your spine or what?)

Finally he stopped thinking about the how and asked the question we really care about: Why?

If you're unfamiliar with the reasoning behind religious snake handling, the practice is based on two verses in the New Testament:

Mark 16:18 They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

Luke 10:19 Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.

Why would a group of people gather up to three nights a week, sing mountain gospel music, listen to some bad preaching, and then pick up poisonous snakes? The book explores some of the reasons--the main one being that this is the most power these people will ever know--and also how the author himself got caught up in it, which was less understandable to me. He's an adrenaline junkie, ok, I get that, but he also discovered that he had snake-handling ancestors and this was a way to connect with his roots. Now, I've got bootlegging-on-the-Illinois/Iowa-border ancestors, and I don't have any need to connect with them by taking up bootlegging myself. (I know that point is moot. But you know what I mean.) Honestly, if some of my ancestors handled rattlers and drank strychnine out of Mason jars, I would do everything I could to cover that up instead of celebrate it.

I have to say though, this is a fascinating book despite its bizarre subject. For one thing, Covington's a great writer. It's so much more than "How I Spent Time With Snake Handlers." He somehow manages to turn it all inward and examine his life and relationships through this experience. The whole thing's chock full of Southern pathos, (a fancy Nancy term for alcoholism and craziness, really). It reads like a novel. He's also funny. For example, here's a brief snippet between him and one of the snake-handling elders:

"'The Bible says you're gonna suffer for your faith,' he said in his soft Georgia accent, which differed only in degree from my own. 'Look what happened to Stephen. I'd rather die of snakebite than get stoned to death. And what about Peter? Didn't they crucify him upside down on a cross? I'd rather die of a snakebite.' He glanced over the top of his glasses to gauge my reaction. It sounded like a toss-up to me."

Covington even brought his little girls to a New Year's Eve service at the snake church. One of the little girls ran back out of the church and sat in the car the rest of the service. He said it was because she's an artist and wanted to draw pictures of the people and snakes. I think she was an "it's every girl for herself" kind of person, and I applaud her for it.

All in all, I'm glad I read the book, and I highly recommend it. Besides taking away some new knowledge of a sub-culture, the book made me think about some things I can actually use outside of a Trivial Pursuit game (hey, are there questions on snake handling? I can answer them now!)

1) Beware of doing Bible balloon animals with verses and twisting them to mean something they don't.

2) Beware of having to have experiences that you think will put you in touch with God. Having spiritual experiences is wonderful. Having to have them is only going to lead you to a bad place.

I wanted my dad to read the book, but when I told him about it he said, "Why in the world are you and Joseph reading about rattlesnakes? Don't even bring that snake book in my house." See? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

But YOU should read it, and tell me what you think!

Snapshot

I don't know why I thought life was going to quiet down in the fall. Instead it has ramped up unbelievably. But I'll give you a snapshot of life with a second grader and junior kindergartner.

The other night when I was tucking Lucy into bed, she caught my face in her hands and said, "Mom, I have got to tell you something. First, I love you soooooo much! And second, can you believe it? I am going to have a GREAT year again! I just love school and my teacher. How do I keep getting the best teachers?"

I guess the feeling is mutual since we got her mid-quarter progress report, and her teacher said, "Lucy is a darling girl. [I KNOW! She so is! Thank you for recognizing it! Love, Lucy's Mom] She is doing well academically, and I enjoy having her in class."

She is also swimming on the team again, meaning practice two nights a week; she's joined AWANA at our new church, and she's also joined Brownies at school. She's pretty much a busy, happy girl.

Elaine is busy and happy, too, but these two sisters are so different from each other. She is shy (except at home), and it's harder for her to make friends. Everything takes her more time, but once she gets it, she goes full steam ahead.

She is busy learning the alphabet in her class, something we tried off and on all summer that never seemed to take. Darren and I would take turns reading her this wonderful alphabet book, but each time we showed her a letter she would guess and guess what it was in vain.

But now, each week is a different letter at school, and there's a song to go with each. Total ear worm. I still remember them from when Lucy was in this class.

There are also ample chances for parents to be mystery guests. When Lucy was 4, I procrastinated until almost springtime when finally the teacher cornered me and asked me to teach French words to the class. This year, though, Darren stepped up to the plate and volunteered right away (yay! I don't have to go up in front of 18 4-year-olds!). He said he would go in and play the baritone for them.

"Why don't you play your trombone like Roger in 101 Dalmatians? " I asked him.

He just looked at me. "Because the baritone is a lot easier, Alice."

Fine. I guess he was not willing to sacrifice for literary integrity.

Here he is as Elaine's Mystery Guest:



And here he is with the whole class--do you see what they're doing? They're playing kazoos, provided by Darren. I guess they had a whole band going. I know the teachers and other parents were thrilled.



Other than school and church activities, the girls always have a continual obsession. Long-time readers I'm sure remember the Riverdance obsession. There was also the Meet Me in St. Louis obsession, the Singin' in the Rain obsession, and the Pride & Prejudice obsession.

Right now, it's Little Women (that's been ongoing). Lucy gets to be Jo, Elaine is Amy (perfect type-casting), and I am relegated to Marmee, which makes me kind of sad since I guess my days of getting to be any of the sisters are over.

This preoccupation with Little Women means that whenever we take the butter out of the fridge, we sigh, "Ohhh. Isn't butter divinity?" The other day when Elaine and I were waiting for Darren to come out of CVS Pharmacy, when she finally saw him, Elaine leaned out the window and said, "Hark! Who goes there?"

Or she'll say, "I want to be Lady Violet. I'm exhaustified of being the boy!" and Lucy will answer in her best Jo voice, "The play is the thing, Amy. You're too little to be Lady Violet!"

Other favorite quotes we say on a regular basis (most of which are Amy-isms):

"Marmee, Marmee, we've been waiting for you--we've been expectorating you for hours!"

"You'll be sorry, Jo March!"

"What's that strange smell--like burnt feathers?"

"I'm so degraditated. I owe at least a dozen limes!"

In short, they are active, happy, healthy girls this fall, and I am so thankful for it. I will leave you with the alphabet song for this week; we're on the letter D (there will be Detective Day, Bring a Stuffed Dog Day, Me and Daddy Day, among others). I feel it's only fair that you should have this in your head as much as I do. Please sing it to the tune of "Jingle Bells."

Daisy Doll, Daisy Doll,
Tell me what you see
There are lots of things around
that start with letter D


Daffodils, dandelions,
dogs that dig in dirt
Daddy working in the yard
in his favorite shirt!


You're welcome.

The Law of Kindness

Fall has kicked off in a big way, and I feel like I'm running behind as usual, but on Saturday I got to do something I have been anticipating for more than a year.

I was here. (I hope the video works for you--it took me a couple tries.)

My friend Kay Lynne and I hit the road by 7:00 a.m. and got to the Rosemont Theatre by 8:15 (the doors opened at 8:00), and there were no seats left together on the main floor so we headed to the balcony.

There were 8,000 to 10,000 women in the theatre, but since this was also a simulcast, there were 125,000 women participating across the U.S., in 11 different countries, with hosts from 30 different denominations, at 5 army bases, and 1 soup kitchen. The t-shirts for the event read, "125,000 women and a few brave men."

Oh, and among the 8,000-10,000 women there, I ran into Lucy's second grade teacher in the bathroom!

It's impossible to try and describe the day (the video does it best, I guess) but the lesson was from Proverbs 31:26 "She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the law of kindness is on her tongue."

Here are just some snippets from my notes:

The law of kindness referred to in the verse is translated "torat-hesed"--literally, "the Torah of kindness."

Why is it important to spend a whole day contemplating the Law of Kindness?

a) Because we live in a mean world, and it's gonna get meaner.
b) Because "she opens her mouth"! It's inevitable that we are going to open our mouths, let it be with kindness on our tongue.

(I loved this part: Note that after the resurrection, Jesus first appeared to some women. Why? Because He wanted to get the word out!)

Women are teachers and all-around opinion givers; we are all published every day in what we say, meaning we put it out there publicly. (One of my favorite points)--Our editor must be the Holy Spirit. Refrain from just making noise. Refrain from lexical food fights. Look it before you facebook it.

Then Beth gave us eight tastes of kindness from Scripture, briefly:

1) Kindness is not weakness. Ps. 141:5 (Another aside that I loved. Kindness is not niceness. "Nice"originally translated from the Latin means "ignorant" or "not knowing"--basically, the reason you're nice all the time is because you're an idiot. Kindness knows--and is still kind. The saying goes, "Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what girls are made of," when it's really more like, "Pumpkin spice and a caffeine vice, that's what we're made of!" Can I get an amen?!)

2) Kindness is not an action; it's a disposition. (I think I missed the references for this; I can't find them in my notes.)

3) Kindness wears down when we do. Daniel 7:25, Matthew 11:28-30, Ephesians 4:12, 16, & 29

4) Kindness looks pain in the face. Job 6:28, Titus 3:3-8

5) Kindness is a Savior. Romans 8, Ephesians 2:4

6) Kindness has a good memory. Ps. 106:7, Hosea 11:4

7. Kindness craves an outlet. II Samuel 9:1

8. Kindness leaves a legacy. Acts 28:1-2

And a final point--If we have children growing up in this mean world who are kind, it will not be an accident!

Interspersed throughout the teaching was worship with Travis Cottrell, which I just kind of don't have words for.

All in all, it was a great day of renewal for me that I have needed so much. Kay Lynne and I looked at the future schedule for Living Proof Live and saw there is one next May in Minneapolis. We looked at each other and said, "That's only five hours from here--road trip in May!" Check out here if there are any near you; it is a great experience!

A Solitary Tale Among Many

One of the things I've been doing for the last month or so is tearing through several piles of fiction books, sifting through cozy holiday tales and bonnet novels for something to recommend to our magazine readers.

Ironically, I had a conversation about Christian fiction a couple weeks ago with one of Darren's cousins who is a youth pastor. He told me, "What I don't like about Christian fiction is that everything always has to be wrapped up in a neat bow at the end." (Not only a problem with Christian fiction.) He added, "And also, it feels like the author's goal is for people to get saved by reading their book. Not that it couldn't happen, but most of us just want a good book to read."

In the midst of that conversation and the pile of happy fiction I received, something completely different arrived on my doorstep by an author I've never heard of (whom I now realize is pretty prolific!): Solitary by Travis Thrasher. It is the first in a series of four (to come) called The Solitary Tales.

I began by reading the back matter where the publisher usually puts interviews with the author, book club questions, etc. Except for this book, instead of the usual fare, there were three playlists: one for your Walkman, one for your iPod, and one for the movie soundtrack. Then there was a short article by the author about how the inspiration for this series is John Hughes films. Oh, Travis Thrasher. You had me at Depeche Mode.

Solitary is about a 16-year-old boy named Chris Buckley. His parents have recently gotten a divorce--for reasons you would not expect that are revealed well into the book--and Chris and his mom, Tara, move from the Chicago suburbs (Libertyville shoutout!) to Solitary, North Carolina, a small town where Tara grew up.

They live in Tara's brother Robert's cabin in the woods...except Robert isn't there. His stuff--clothes, toiletries, duffel bag, and extensive 80s music collection--is all there, but Robert is inexplicably gone. No one seems to know, or at least will say, what has happened to him.

There are other strange things too, in fact, Solitary is kind of a weird place with sinister people and lots of secrets. Chris starts high school there and immediately falls in love with Jocelyn Evans--but is just as immediately warned off from her by almost everyone else he meets.

As well, it seems as if he's being watched. He gets mysterious notes in his locker, referring cryptically to people, events, and yes, more secrets. He is bullied constantly. His only whiff of normality comes from Ray, who's the big man on campus, but friendly and welcoming. He invites Chris to church, but it's unlike any church Chris has encountered. He can't wait to leave, but the pastor finds him and sits down for a little chat, which is far more menacing than friendly, with yet more warnings about Jocelyn.

The story progresses as Chris observes more about Solitary--who is the man on the estate that seems to have a stranglehold on pretty much everyone? And why does Christmas come and go completely unacknowledged? He begins to uncover some of the town's dark secrets, which are more horrifying than he could ever have imagined. As for the ending, I'm not saying anything. Not anything. You've got to read for yourself. The only thing I will say (I know! I can't help myself!) is that it's certainly not wrapped up in a neat bow, and I don't know how I'm going to wait until June of '11 for the next installment, Gravestone.

Why did I like this book so much? For one, Travis Thrasher really captures the voice, heart, and soul of a teenaged boy, I feel. Not that I know tons of teenage boys, but sometimes when authors write in a voice they're not, it's glaringly obvious. I've gone on record saying how much I like Alan Bradley, but sometimes his 12-year-old girl protagonist sounds much more like a 70-year-old man. Chris Buckley is a genuinely likable kid, but man, he does dumb stuff--just like a teen boy. Why does he keep going into the woods where he knows some bad scary stuff is waiting, and he doesn't even bring a flashlight?

Here's another little element I enjoyed: portions of the book are conducted by notes, you know, good old-fashioned notes on paper like we used to stick in each other's lockers in the olden days. It's an effective way of lending a more secretive atmosphere to the book, but the author adeptly disposes of more modern communication tools aka texting, in a way that's not clunky at all.

Honestly, I could not put this book down. The chapters are short and have attention-grabbing titles; each one leads you into the next and there's really no good stopping place. You just have to keep reading until 3 a.m. You certainly get answers to some of your questions, but you're left with many more. Travis Thrasher didn't just write a spooky, plot-driven novel; these characters stayed with me. It's been a week and a half since I read it, and I'm still thinking about them: in particular, the shadowy figure of Chris's dad, whom I'm guessing we'll find out more about in the books to come.

Where does the Christianity part come in, you ask? I'm at a loss to explain it, but it does. However, it certainly doesn't beat you over the head, and you don't have to be a Christian to enjoy and appreciate the book. It doesn't have a hidden agenda; it tells a fascinating story and lets you think things through as you go.

I've been recommending this book right and left to whomever I talk to, but I really hope that some parents will start reading them simultaneously with their teen kids. In fact, I wish I had teen kids (ohhh, just had a mini-heart attack there. Maybe not yet.) so I could talk about the themes in this book with them. Maybe I could borrow your teens instead?

And please don't be scared off by all the teen references. I obviously loved it, and I gave it to Darren to read, too (he has to take a break sometime from those thousand-page commentaries on Exodus or whatever that he reads). Maybe if you are really into Amish love stories--and seriously, no offense. We all have our preferences, right?--you won't like this. But anyone else--please check out Solitary and let me know what you think! It's the perfect read for fall.

I now have to a) set aside my stacks of books for work without guilt, and b) make peace with the public library (read: pay my fines) so I can check out more Travis Thrasher books and stave off my anxiety for installment two in the Solitary Tales until next summer.

Pushing the Grass Apart

Since January 2009, I've had the opportunity to work as a writer and field editor for the faith-based magazine, Significant Living. It really is a job that just dropped down into my lap from heaven, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. I have the honor of working with some of the most gifted and nicest people I've ever met. Naturally, there are certain issues that I like more or am happier with than others. However, the Sept/Oct 2010 version that just came out this week is my absolute favorite I've ever worked on.

Each issue we have a theme or tagline--this one's was "Leaving the Painful Past Behind." It deals with some of my favorite themes to think/talk/write about: forgiveness, healing, restoration, fresh starts. Since the issue is so brand new, the articles are not up on the website yet but when they are, I'll direct you to some of my favorites--they really are life- and perspective-changing stories.

This past year, in addition to writing some of the features, I also write the final page in the magazine, a column called "Grace Notes." It is usually taken from this blog or whatever other ideas I might have kicking around in my mind at the time. The post below is this month's Grace Notes. You'll probably notice that it's a little more polished than my usual style and has no a) extended food descriptions, b) references to 80s music, or c) pleas to watch various British television shows. That's because I had an editor!

Pushing the Grass Apart

“To the flowers we never have to say goodbye forever. We grow older every year, but not the garden, it is reborn every spring.”—May Sarton

I am a known plant killer. No matter what I try to grow or what plants people give me as gifts, I end up watering or fertilizing them too much or too little, and they all meet the same sad end. My outdoor containers look like something from Morticia Addams’ house—withered,dried-up sticks and leaves.

“I just can’t grow anything,” I once sighed to my mom. “I have a black thumb instead of a green one.”

“I refuse to believe that,” she replied.“Your grandpa and your uncle Ray could make anything come from the ground. Your dad is a master gardener. You have gardening in your genetic makeup!”

She looked fondly at my two daughters. “You’re just growing something different right now. But someday you’ll have a beautiful garden, I know you will.”

Early this summer, I lost my dear mom to cancer, and I now find myself trying to dig through the rocky ground of bereavement. I want to be like Katy from Stepping Heavenward, who vowed to move forward with fidelity and patience after the death of her mother, and cried, “I would not have her back for all the world. She has gotten away from all the suffering of life; let her stay!”

Instead, I find myself dreaming of my mom—in one dream she is miraculously her vital, healthy self, sitting at the dining room table and telling me she’s found a little time to work on her Christmas cards. In another, she is in the hospice where she suffered so terribly at the end, wearing her peach-colored pajamas, and I am holding her, knowing that I have only a few moments left before she slips away. After each dream, I wake, desperate to somehow get back to that dreamworld again and knowing these shadowy moments are the only times I can see her on this Earth.

During these months, I have discovered that grief is not one deep stab wound, rather, it is a thousand tiny slings and arrows. It’s reaching my hand down in the car door and finding one of her lipsticks, hearing a hymn that I’ve heard her sing a hundred times, or remembering the cheerful, determined way she would wake my brother and me for school in the mornings: “Up and at ‘em!” This holdover from her farm days, which, frankly, we kind of hated at the time, is something I would now give my life’s savings to hear her say just once more. If I take one of her silk scarves, spray it with her signature Gloria Vanderbilt perfume, and wrap it around my neck, I can close my eyes and pretend she’s right next to me.

There’s a line from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Stricken too sore for tears, I stand . . .” and that is what I am. Gone are the previous, cleansing bouts of crying because all my tears now seem to be internal. The rest of life and humanity carries on around me (how dare they?), and, though I maintain a calm normality on the outside, I am weeping on the inside. Hemorrhaging.

I gain some comfort, as so many others have, from the Psalms—Psalm 126:6 in particular. “He who goes continually forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing shall doubtless come again with rejoicing,bringing his sheaves with him.” I cherish the thought that the Bible doesn’t tell me to stop crying and just get over it. It just tells me to go forward, continually,weeping yet still sowing.

How can I move forward when I just want to remain in the past? Fall is coming, the season of harvest, and I am emptyhanded. I know most people love autumn for its beauty, but it fills me with dread. Fall is just a harbinger of death tricked out in a party dress. Winter will follow on its heels—a slow season of emptiness with no life, no growing in sight.

And yet, there is still hope. As a Christian, I look back on Good Friday from the light of Easter day. Without death,there can be no new life. Even though winter will cover the earth, there are wonderful things going on under the snow. Millay has another poem I have long loved, containing the line: “God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Your heart.” I’m wondering if God will meet me in the garden as He has so many before me. With His help, will I be able to cultivate this stony ground?

I need a plan of action, so this autumn I’ve got some fresh soil to put down in my old flowerbeds and hundreds of spring bulbs to bury. I may weep while I work,but I’m going to put my back into it and go forth continually until every available space has a little promise of life sown. I don’t want to miss out on any resurrection that might come my way.

Though I ache for my mom with everything in me, I know, deep down, I would not have her back for all the world. Let her stay!

I, too, will bear on with fidelity and patience.

Up and at 'em.

It’s time to plant.

Martin Goes to Tennessee

This weekend was our annual roadtrip to Memphis. When I picked Lucy up from school on Friday afternoon, she was clutching Martin the Moose--the second grade class mascot. Each kid gets Martin for a weekend, and they have to journal about what they did with him and then read it to the class. Lucy's teacher leaned in the window, "Is this OK with you--bringing Martin on vacation? I didn't think you'd want to, but Lucy insisted that her mom said it was fine." I said, "Oh yeah, sure, no problem, though could you let me know where you bought him, in case I have to buy a replacement?"

So on Saturday morning, Martin set off with us to Memphis. About an hour down the road, the girls started bickering about which DVD they were going to watch until finally Darren reached up, snapped the player closed, and said, "This is family time. You two are getting way too spoiled. Mom and I never had movies to watch on vacation. Now everybody look out the window and see how many hawks you can count."

That was met with a little protest, but then, after not seeing any hawks, they decided to play I Spy and that went well. My contribution to this vintage portion of the roadtrip was to look out the window and listen to Don Henley sing "Dirty Laundry."

Ten hours or so later, we hit Memphis, and within 15 minutes, the girls were in the pool. The next day we took Martin to his first landmark, of course, Graceland.

Then we spent time scanning the wall and finding all of our names on it so we could pose next to them. Here's Lucy:
"I miss you, Elvis--Elaine":

My personal favorite:
If you couldn't read what that said close up, it is: "Thank you Elvis for the music and helping me become the man I am today--Darren." Actually, "Darren H. Presley." Was his actual last name Presley or did he change it when Elvis helped him become the man he is today?

"Alice" was much harder to find. I guess people with that name don't scrawl it on the wall outside Graceland, so I had to settle for simply "I heart Elvis." Also, while I'd love you to believe that I'm dressed up to visit the King's house, it's really because we just came from church.

On Sunday we had the big family reunion/fish fry. We had at least 70 people there, with all sorts of kids jumping in and out of the pool non-stop, including my two. I didn't take pictures of the spread this year, and there's no way I can recreate everything that was on offer, but I'll just start with fried fish, french fries, hush puppies, coleslaw, and homemade red velvet cupcakes. Oh yeah, we were Down South.

Sunday afternoon we headed to Chattanooga to see my Aunt Sandy and Uncle Joe, my cousin-who-is-my-extra-brother, Joseph, and my cousins Dawn and Paul who came up from Atlanta. I thought it took four hours to get from Memphis to Chattanooga, but it actually takes at least 5 1/2, plus longer if you stop 3 or 4 times with your kids and there's a time zone change to EST, and you get lost up on Lookout Mountain. We told them we'd be there at 8 but actually got there at 11.

The next day we took in downtown Chattanooga. I haven't been there since I was in high school, and it's completely different. There's a beautiful riverfront park that includes a fountain area for kids to play in and a restored carousel.

Lucy on her choice...

Elaine on hers...

Playing in the fountain--Elaine got up in the morning and put her suit on underneath her clothes. She figures you never know when you might get some water to play in so you better be prepared. I brought a coverup and dry clothes for Lucy.
Perched on a stone turtle...

Next we visited the famous Chattanooga Choo-Choo, where Martin the Moose had another photo op.


At night we had a fantastic cook-out on the patio and surprise, the girls swam in the pool until it was almost dark.

In the morning, we headed for a brief stop in Nashville to have lunch with Darren's brother Scott and his wife Denise and our nephew Joseph. Our other nephews were at school. They all just moved to the Nashville area, actually Brentwood, a suburb. Unfortunately, Martin did not get a photo taken in Nashville. I offered to jump out at a road sign by a gas station and hold him up, but on closer examination, the sign posts went down into a ditch and I would have to be about 11 feet tall for that to work. We did eat at MacAlister's Deli where Darren saw some NASCAR person, so he was moderately pleased.

And that was basically our road trip. We headed back through Jackson, Missouri, and got home yesterday around 4 in the afternoon. Darren printed the Martin pictures, and we pasted them in the class journal while Lucy wrote about his and her adventures. At the end she wrote, "I love Tennessee!"

Yup--we all do, including, I'd like to believe, Martin. And I didn't even have to buy his replacement.

In the Swing of Things

We're midway through our second week of school, and things are going much better. I don't mind getting up early to hustle the girls off to school, and then for three blissful hours peace and quiet reigns.

They are both loving school. When we sit around the table at night, each girl gets to take a turn, telling about her day. Lucy's classroom has a clock that sounds like a loon calling, and that's when they know it's time to eat lunch. They have a math problem of the day. They're learning beginning Latin, and in a week, they'll start Mandarin Chinese. By this time Elaine can't contain herself and bellows, "We've got Miss Norman for Spanish and we say 'adios amigos' and we're learning ENGLISH, too!" (Well, that's a relief.)

"That kid needs volume control on her voice," Darren mutters.

Last night Lucy asked me, "Mom, will I go to college where you did?"

You will be proud of me--I did not immediately shout "Yes!" and burst into "God bless the school that D.L. Moody founded..." I told her, "Well, it depends on what God wants you to do with your life and where the best place for you to go to college is."

She said, "Well, I feel it in my heart that God is telling me to go to your college" (as I am wiping away the joy tears).

"It's a great place to go if you want to be a missionary or if you want to be a teacher," I told her, "Have you thought about either of those things?"

"Actually then, I better go to cooking school first," she replied. "Because you know I've always wanted to be a cook. And when I have my own cooking show, you can have a guest appearance on it and making sponge cake."

Sorry, Moody. I lost you an enrollment 10 years early. Better you add a culinary major.

I've also been working on the seasonal clothes changeover, not that I really feel like it in this 90-degree weather, but it's a huge job and the sale is coming up on the 11th and I need to see what we've got already. I had Elaine try on a possible fall outfit, a hand-me-down of Lucy's. She got it all on and looked in the mirror.

"I look groovy," she told me. "But this whole thing would be a lot cuter if I had some red boots to go with it."

And we've been reading a lot: a book by Mary Stolz called "Cider Days" for Lucy and a big, old book called "The Gateway to Storyland" for Elaine. I'd forgotten how fun it is to read "Little Black Sambo." I just revise the racist character names, and we're good to go. Frankly, there's more tigerism than racism in that story anyway, in my opinion.

I also bought them both new devotional books, which I can't recommend highly enough. They're called "God & Me," written by Lynn Klammer and published by Legacy Press. They're broken down by age: 2 to 5, 6-9, 10-12, and they have them for both boys and girls, with unique themes to each. On every left hand page, there is a verse, a small story or meditation, several questions, and a prayer. On each right hand page, there is a fun application activity. Elaine and I do hers together, but it has been so cool to see Lucy doing her devotions in the morning by herself.

Let's see, what else? Oh, I'm sure you've been dying to know about Miss Cleo Marple the Cat and how she is settling in. The day we adopted her, the lady from the shelter said something along the lines of, "She isn't really a cat I'd recommend for first-time cat owners, what with her social issues and all. Good luck!"

We've had her three weeks now though, and she has greatly improved. At first she would hide under our dusty, dark dresser and not make a sound. More often than not, she would hiss if you tried to get near her. But now she is quite loving, letting us pet and brush her almost as much as we want. She talks to us, particularly if we've forgotten to fill her food bowl. She doesn't play much because I think no one ever played with her, so she doesn't know how (which kind of breaks my heart).

Lucy said, "Cleo loves Dad the best because he's so magic with animals. Then she likes me, because I give her nice massages. She likes you third, Mom, because you're kind of like a servant--you know, you feed her and empty her litter box and stuff. She likes Elaine last because she's kind of rowdy still."

And Elaine says, "I love Cleo even though she's bited me two times."

When it all gets too much for the poor creature (usually around 3:15 when both girls are home from school), we can find her in a corner behind the guestroom bed, where I have some [more] bags of the girls' clothes.


Girl, I can sympathize. Sometimes I just feel like crawling into a Nordstrom's bag, too.

So, that's us lately. This weekend, as I mentioned before, we're getting ready for our annual Memphis road trip/family reunion, code name: FISH FRY. As Darren always says, "Strap on the feed bag."

Cleo will be alternately cared for by Emily the Wonder Babysitter and my good friend and neighbor, Kay Lynne, who has four cats of her own. The girls call her Miss Kittie ("as long as they don't call me 'The Cat Lady,' she says).

Maybe by the time we get back, I'll get bumped up from third-class servant into maybe second place cat masseuse. I can only hope.