time gap

It's 11:19 p.m. here in Hawaii, and these evenings have turned out to be my lonely hour, because everyone back home is asleep. I've always been a bit of a night owl and yet never liked being the last up in my home or at a slumber party. I kind of feel that way now--like I'm the last one to turn in for the night and my buddy fell asleep right there in the sleeping bag while I was trying to tell them something.

This was the part I did not like about Hawaii before, and I can tell you I don't like it much this time either. I'm hoping that I'll eventually learn to love these peaceful hours, to rest with God after my children have gone to bed and all possibility of chatter has ceased.

The other night John said something that irritated me, and I wanted to shun him and yet, what could I do, considering my desperate condition--a night owl and extrovert situated on the most isolated island chain in the world--with nary a friend to dial?

So when he tried to talk nicely to me I gave him a look and said, "Just so you know, I'm just talking to you now because you're my only friend on this time zone."

To my far away friends and family--it seems there is only one way to be close to you while you sleep. When the nightly urge to call comes up I'll try to restrain myself and pray for you instead. I believe that prayer closes the time gap, the distance gap--every gap actually--and that it is an act of holy intimacy and a privilege.

So I am praying for you tonight, and I hope your sleep will be untroubled and expansive and that you will untangle some worry or fear through your dreams, that you will wake refreshed and whole, ready to receive every good thing that comes to you. And I'll be praying for those good things, too, that they will come unexpectedly and steadily, like snowflakes at twilight, covering the green grass and branches and pavement and making everything fresh again.

house, church

So we had our Christmas services in the home of Darrell and Pat Hill. We drove about four hours total between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, on a long windy road through lava fields--barren and fertile at the same time--ocean on one side and a snow-capped mountain on the other. It helped me, a little, to see some snow for Christmas, even if we didn't get close enough to play in it.

The services were lovely--I was moved by the icons set up in an artist's studio(can you find the paintbrushes and easels?). There was something so good about being together there--a sweet spirit seemed to permeate the air. Christmas Eve, the wind howled against the house, so strong at times that it lifted the roof and dropped it with a thud. We celebrated the liturgy on Christmas Day with sun streaming in the windows, illuminating the falling rain.

Here's a photo of Anna at work on her picture for Santa:






















On Christmas Day, back at home, we encountered a large snail and exchanged yuletide greetings:

beginning to look a lot like . . .

On our second night here there was a huge storm which caused us to loose power, flooded our road, and caused the ocean to swell. I've mentioned before that living near the ocean is lovely, but I don't trust it any further than I can throw it, and during the storm I was begging it to behave properly.

Our condo is built on old Hawaiian burial grounds, which is a fact that I've made peace with, especially because the spots where bones were found are fenced off and protected according to Hawaiian custom. But that second night, in the dark, I was a little uneasy so we headed out to Wal-Mart to buy flashlights and candles.

As I was weaving my way through the snow-flecked blinking Christmas trees, past the beeping toys and blow-up Rudolphs of Wal-Mart in a state of total disorientation--the song, "It's Beginning to Look A lot Like Christmas" came over the loudspeaker and I could only shake my head. As far as I'm concerned it doesn't look anything like Christmas around here.

The fact that Christmas is nearly here is something that I can't really make sense of just yet. Kind of like how I still can't believe that as I write this post most of the people I love are sitting down to dinner but I'm still sipping my coffee, or the fact that at night, when I really want to call a friend, they're all tucked in for the night. My internal clock remains confused, to the point that any local could tell me it was any time of the day and I would believe them.

To that end, the days continue to pass at a marvelously slow rate. It's calming for me to move slowly and to feel that if I'm late nobody will panic because people are expected to take their time, to "talk story" and to be available to whatever experiences present themselves.

I used to think the "Aloha Spirit" concept was made up for tourists. But I've come to believe it is a real thing and that we are being changed and washed by it. It's a hospitality of soul and openness, a willingness to accept, both within the church and outside of it, as my friend Rachel said, "That most everyone is doing the very best they can with what they have."

So this Christmas, I'm doing my best to celebrate in this rather odd context that has no reference point in the childhood of my youth. This best included assembling a ginger bread house on the lanai (no bugs please!) and then storing it in the fridge, attending one Christmas hula pageant (who would have known the hula girls were there in the manger!) and getting my toes ready for the season, a small detail that never would have made it into my holiday plans back home.

I must close because Anna is warning me that Santa will only be at the open air market for one more hour . . . So I'm off to see Santa and hoping against hope that he won't be wearing shorts or toting a surfboard.

vespers

So we had Vespers on Saturday at a tiny Catholic church nearby. I totally fell in love with the church, sweet as it was against the blue sky, light pouring out from that little door. I just couldn't stop looking at it--and I didn't mind too much when Natalie fussed and I had to take her out, because then I could take it all in.

When we arrived there was a couple waiting to greet Fr. John with a lei and a fruit basket with limes and grapefruit from their yard. They had been responsible for much of the recent repairs to the church, and they beamed as they spoke about how they'd been restoring it over the past six months.

Fr. John wasn't there yet and this wasn't our normal church, so some people were worried he might miss the driveway. One the founding members of the mission went down to the road to wait for him, and I called to make sure Fr. John knew where to turn. Fr. John said, "Oh no--are people waiting for me?" When I repeated this question to the man beside the road he turned and said, "We've been waiting for him for years."

Anna's Christmas Hula

life in the slow lane

Yesterday I had to take Anna to the doctor for her TB screening. Unfortunately, Fr. John had the car and was two hours away. Although Anna's school is just a thousand feet from our door, the journey ascends directly up a mountainside and involves a highway crossing. Add this to the the fact that Hawaii suffers from a severe shortage of sidewalks and you have for a pretty unpleasant walk, unless you're the type of person who likes climbing the stair master in the sauna with a baby on your back.

As it happens, I'm not really that type of person, but yesterday I had no choice. Things took a turn for the worse when it started to rain. I looked up at that ominous sky and prayed for a ride. At Anna's school, sweaty and wet from the rain, I asked if there was a back way to get to the doctor, which was just down the highway. "No," her teacher said, "But it will only take you about five minutes."

Now five minutes on the shoulder of a highway stepping over shattered beer bottles in sandals with a baby on your back and a six-year-old who takes micro-steps when protesting can make for a loooooong five minutes. It can be particularly treacherous when it is raining and thorny branches extend into the road so you have to step over the yellow line to avoid them.

But we'd only walked about four paces along the highway when a pick-up slowed to a stop and a Hawaiian lady called out to me, "You're pretty brave, but would you like a ride?"

Gratefully, we climbed in and she drove us to the doctor. We arrived at the doctor about four minutes early. I was thrilled to have made it. But those forms are tricky when you haven't managed to memorize your own address just yet. So I called my dear friend Bethany in Nashville who laughed and laughed when I explained my reason for calling.

She also told me that when her four year old son Rilian mentioned that he had not seen Anna for a million days, she told him that Anna was in Hawaii. "I know where that is!" he said. "In Hawaii everyday is a party, but not with cake, just with fruit."

I sure didn't feel like I was at a party after my hike along the highway followed by my hour long wait for the doctor while Natalie ingested magazines and Anna moaned, "Can we go now?" The office didn't seem particularly crowded, but when nobody rushes, ever, everything does seem to take an awfully long time.

We finally met the doctor, who was a nice enough man. No white jacket for him, of course, just one of those crazy Hawaiian shirts that John has developed an embarrassing soft spot for. We were the last patients of the day, so we left just as the doctor was pulling out of the parking lot in his Jeep. He smiled and waved. The passenger seat was occupied by a gigantic surf board.

And then we had to cross the highway again. We stood beside the road waiting for a gap. Suddenly one car stopped and a woman waved for us to go. I was scared for her, as stopping on the highway seemed almost more dangerous then attempting to cross it. But then the car in the other lane also stopped, so everyone was stopped and nobody honked and everyone waited.

After we'd made it safely across, Anna turned to me and said, "I like Hawaii highways."

"Why?" I said.

"Because here," she said, "People stop so you can cross."

praying mantis

So we've had a Praying Mantis hanging out on the porch the last few days, and it sure is an impressive--and reverent--bug. I can't decide if it looks more like it is praying or directing the choir (Veronica, if you're out there, please advise!) Anyway, I pointed it out to Anna yesterday.

"Look Anna, It's a Praying Mantus. Do you know why they call it that?"

She shook her head.

"Because it's praying!"

"Bugs don't pray, mom," she said.

"Oh yeah they do," I said, "Just look at it."

"Who is it praying for?" she asked.

sleep on it

So we're still a little dazed and confused here in Kona, but we're slowly learning the ropes. I feel a little more settled each day as I become accustomed to the slower pace of life--at Lava Java today they actually gave me a pager to hold while they made my mango smoothie. I mean, how long could it take to make a smoothie? As it turns out, it can take a really, really long time, especially when you have to saunter out to the mango tree, pick the mangoes, wash them, peel them, discard the peels, take the garbage out, kneed some bread, feed the dog* and talk some story all the while...

As much as I enjoy the slower pace of life here, part of me sometimes feels like I'm watching a scratched DVD and the movie keeps freezing up on me. This makes me a little anxious while waiting for a smoothie or a latte. Each day is full of so many pauses, really, and nobody is rushing. I mean, why rush when you're on an island? I mean where exactly does one rush to?

And I find that my Chicago intensity does not match the spirit of those around me. The other day Anna made some friends here at the complex--I love how sweetly and quickly little girls can befriend each other! They met just a few days ago, and now they're always around--even today when I brought Anna back from school they were out back. They came running to Anna saying, "We were waiting for you . . ."

So anyway, the girls wanted to come over to play. I found the mother of one of the girls to ask her permission. She was perfectly fine with her daughter playing here, although she did not know my last name or cell phone number, and she never did run a criminal background check on me. The other little girl said that her dad was sleeping. So in a lapse of judgment I let her come along to our apartment, and the girls played for about fifteen minutes before I began to panic about the father, sensing how worried he must be.

So we rushed out, and sure enough, he was out looking for his daughter. I thought, "Oh man, I'm going to get it. How irresponsible it was for me to harbor his daughter without permission." But when I saw his face it was not tense and stern as I'd expected. His expression was all loose and smiley. He extended his hand to me and welcomed me to the complex. I asked if he was worried about Reese. "Well I knew she was around here somewhere," he said.

So now Reese's parents have been filling me in on life in Kona, and I listen with fascination to their stories. Reese's father tells me that one of their daily irritations is that Reese keeps bringing gecko eggs home (they look like white jelly beans and can be found in the small spike holes at the base of palm trees) and letting the babies hatch inside their apartment. This is really no problem for the baby geckos, which don't require any special neonatal care, but Reese's parents do try to explain to Reese that "The mama geckos leave their eggs in certain spots on purpose."

I also asked Reese's parents about places where I could pick fruit off the trees. Reese's dad told me that the best place to look for that is the classified section of the paper. He said that people actually run ads that read something like, "Mango overload, please help!" followed by their address.

So all this to say, I'm not in Chicago anymore, and the learning curve is steep but the climb is thrilling. And the regular daily tasks do help me feel more oriented. I'm oddly comforted by making the beds, loading the dishwasher, ignoring the crinkled laundry in the dryer for as long as possible.

And I was happy, the other day, to have an idea for our bedroom. It's been a little stuffy at night because our bed is tucked into a cozy but windowless corner. So I pushed the bed flush against the windows, and now all night long the ocean breeze washes over us. So I'm sleeping on it, and sleeping in it, and slowly making sense of this place which is so unfamiliar and yet comforting just the same.

*In the interest of not defaming my new favorite coffee shop, please be aware that there was no dog at Lava Java. I was just trying to imagine all the steps that might be involved with said smoothie.

new school

Here's a photo of Anna at her new school, wearing her Hawaiian print uniform. I couldn't resist buying a tiny uniform for Natalie.

baby gecko

aloha

So we arrived in Kona last night, after a mostly lovely (with a few tense moments mixed in) day of travel. I know that sounds strange, considering the fact that we were traveling with two small children and that the flight was nine and a half hours long (just to Honolulu) followed by a half hour flight to Kona, but it's true.

We left at about seven am, after a herculean effort to get our life in order. Even the ride to the airport felt peaceful, because finally we didn't actually have to do anything. After months of packing, preparation and decisions, it was near bliss to just sit there in the car. But there was a worry nagging at the back of our minds: Although the parish had offered to buy a seat for Natalie, it seemed excessive, because she could, technically, ride on my lap.

The idea of Natalie squirming on my lap for nearly ten hours was getting less and less appealing as we approached O'Hare. We had tried to call United's call center to request a baby block, but we'd been routed to a call center in India (sigh). But when we finally got on the flight, we were shocked to discover that Natalie and I had the whole five center seats to ourselves! I spent the duration of the flight rejoicing over that surprising and lovely twist of plot.

When we arrived in Honolulu, we were struck by the friendliness of everyone there, and the fact that our kids could run around and play without me barking warnings every few moments. The adults flirted with our kids and I felt as if some the tension I've been carrying for so long was starting to work its way out. "Perhaps I won't have to wear my mouth guard anymore!" I told John, giddy at the idea that I might be able to stop grinding my poor teeth.

At the airport, I called my neighbor Marji and she reported that there was fresh snow in Chicago--six inches, in fact. How strange it was that we'd left when it was so clear and had no idea that later that day, other planes sat on the tarmack for six miserable hours. What a gift to have escaped the storm.

And then last night, when we arrived in Kona, members of the parish were there with leis to greet us--even little Natalie got a tiny purple one. Mine was so aromatic that this morning I can't stop smelling it--it is not unlike that wonderful paradise smell that some holy relics emit--I imagine heaven must smell something like it.

And then we arrived at our new home, which is lovely. To our astonishment, there was a welcome basket full of tropical fruit complete with Anna's favorite breakfast cereal. On the counter was a Bose radio, playing soft Hawaiian music, which was identical to my beloved Bose at home, and oddly, the dishwasher is exactly the same as ours on Kenwood, as well as the blue booster for Natalie--not to mention the garage door opener which is, oddly, the exact same one we use in Chicago. On Anna's bed was a brand new Strawberry Shortcake doll and a little airplane for Natalie. All this familiarity makes us feel a little more at home--and a whole lot less alone--here on the most isolated island chain in the world.

And last night, as I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore, I remembered my earlier fear of the ocean. We are very close, much closer than I meant to be, as a person who doesn't totally trust the sea. So I said to Jesus, "Dear Lord, you wouldn't have brought us all the way here just to wash out to sea as we slept? That just be so, um, inefficient."

And I said this against the rhythm of those waves, which never did answer me, but in the morning we woke when it was still dark, and we were still here, in the loving presence of God, surrounded by so much evidence of his tender care. We sipped Kona coffee together, John and I, and remembered that first time we were Hawaii, 13 years ago, when we found each other and first decided to take the adventure that came to us.

Just this morning, I picked up Fr. John's Bible and a card fell out. The last time we were in Hawaii, just beginning to know each other, I'd jotted down this passage for him from the Song of Soloman, Chapter 2: My Beloved spake and said onto me, 'Rise up my fair one, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs. Arise my Love, my fair one, and come away.'"

one baby bee, one black cat

Baby bee is almost walking.





















Anna with Ms. McIvor in the Halloween parade.

home, sweet home

The beach across the street from our Kona rental.

So we now have an address now in Hawaii, which is great comfort, although the search has already been an adventure. A few nights ago, we nearly settled on a rental home. It was simple, but nice, with a gorgeous view of the verdant cliffs and ocean. It was surrounded by coffee and fruit farms.

But there was a problem--or a few problems--not be overlooked. First, the isolation. The home was so private that there was a bathtub on the back porch, which the owner explained that he was able to use for its intended purpose because of the seclusion.

"Secluded" was the operative word here, a word that filled me with an ominous sense of dread. Isn't living on the most isolated island chain in the world secluded enough? Considering the fact that when I sit on my back porch and hear footsteps from above I think hopefully, "Could it be Marji? Could it be Mary? Perhaps they'll have a moment to chat with me!" I might not be cut out for this sort of existence.

And then there was something else about those lovely cliffs. According to my book The Big Island Revealed, these cliffs were caused 150,000 thousand years ago, when a huge piece of land fell into the ocean, causing a massive tsunami that washed over two other Hawaiian Islands and deposited choral on the mountains. Hmmm. Now that wouldn't be so worrisome if I hadn't gone on to read the next sentence, which read, "This area is, geologically speaking, still unstable. Just didn't want you to run out of things to worry about."

And then there was the bit about the human sacrifices that occurred on the shore just below the property, where, perhaps not coincidentally, the first Christian Missionaries also arrived and had their first service. And then there was poor Captain Cook, who came ashore near there and was much beloved by the locals. But one day, one of his traveling companions died, so he held a burial, which shattered the going illusion that he was a god. When the natives realized their error, they were forced to kill him. They then presented his bloody innards wrapped in a cloth to British sailors, who were--understandably--horrified.

Now all this might be quite interesting to contemplate--unless, of course, I was soaking in the tub on the porch under an expanse of lonely stars with nary a sole to hear me scream as Cook's spirit creaked up the stairs and . . .Enough of that!

Anyway, so I worried about the seclusion all night long, but John found another listing on Craigslist--a condo which looked wonderful--two bedrooms plus loft, nice kitchen, across the street from the ocean, interior tub, a well-run complex with pool and spa, five minute walk from Kona. But when I checked the date of the listing my heart sank--October 10. We've seen how these rentals get snatched up and there was no way that such a lovely and reasonably priced condo would still be on the market.

So I sighed and emailed the owner of the condo, hoping against hope that it had not been rented. In the morning, there was a warm email in my inbox from the owner, with some intriguing questions. He asked, in particular, how our Orthodox faith might shape our expectations of where we might live and how we might inhabit the space.

I wrote back: "One of the famous Orthodox writers, Fyodor Dostoevsky said, 'The world will be saved by beauty.' Orthodox services seek to reflect the beauty of heaven in their worship experience, and homes are, in a sense, an extension of that quest for beauty, order, and harmony. So I don't know if this is by coincidence or by design, but we always try to dwell well in our homes--we work hard to keep the place orderly, to be attentive to each other so that peace is present, and invite beauty into the home whenever possible!"

Within a few hours he wrote back, suggesting that we--he, John and I, speak by phone. It felt like a dating relationship where we had somehow made it to the next phase. Yeah! He also told me that he'd been interviewing possible renters for a month and hadn't yet found a good fit--until now.

I continue to awe at the way all of this has unfolded, and we rejoice in the beginnings of possibilities--known and unknown.

aloha dog rental?

So we're headed to Hawaii to serve a mission in Kona from December to May. We met in Hawaii 13 years ago, and we are overjoyed at the idea of going back in an Orthodox context, to serve a community that we've heard wonderful things about. We're ready for a new challenge and adventure and we rejoice in this opportunity.

Each time I'm out among strangers, at the Gap or the hair salon or on the train, I have to resist the temptation to share our news with innocent bystanders. And sometimes after I've casually mentioned that I really do need these t-shirts because I'm headed to Hawaii in December, I have to take myself aside and ask myself if it was really necessary for me to volunteer that information.

Anna can't wait to snuggle up with the geckos, and she's elated about wearing flip-flops all winter long. But there is one problem. The other night, as she was settling down to sleep and Freda was curled at her feet she asked me if we could get a puppy.

"Not before Hawaii, because we would have to leave the puppy here," I said. " Even Freda will have to stay here."

"But are there pets stores there?" she asked.

"I don't know--we could look around," I said.

"Can we rent a dog?" she asked.

to moodle or not to moodle?

I don't know if knitting really counts as moodling, but the image is restful just the same. Photo by Amber.

So you see the imagination needs moodling--long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering. These people who are always briskly doing something and as busy as waltzing mice, they have little, sharp, stacatto ideas, such as: "I see where I can make an annual cut of $3.47 in my meat budget." But they have no slow, big ideas. And the fewer consoling, noble, shining, free, jovial, magnanimous ideas that come, the more nervously and desperately they rush and run from office to office and up and downstairs, thinking by action at last to make life have some warmth and meaning.

--If You Want to Write by Brenda Uelan

a prayer for those whose work is invisible

Photo by Amber, who teaches me to live with eyes open wide.

For those who paint the undersides of boats, makers of ornamental drains on roofs too high to be seen; for cobblers who labor over inner soles; for seamstresses who stitch the wrong sides of linings; for scholars whose research leads to no obvious discovery; for dentists who polish each gold surface of the fillings of upper molars; for sewer engineers and those who repair water mains; for electricians; for artists who suppress what does injustice to their visions; for surgeons whose sutures are things of beauty. For all those whose work is for Your eye only, who labor for Your entertainment or their own, who sleep in peace or do not sleep in peace, knowing that their efforts are unknown.

Protect them from downheartedness and from diseases of the eye.
Grant them perseverance, for the sake of Your love which is humble and heedless of reward.

-By Mary Gordon, from The Paris Review

an endless listening

I recently read an astonishing article called "In the Presence of Death" by Christopher Bamford about the process of caring for his wife as she died. I loved the article so much that I wanted to run out to Kinkos and make copies for friends far and near. I can't find a copy online, or I would link to it from here.

I wanted to start a book group (or would that be an article group?) just so I could talk it through, in the same way that Ser and I have chewed over every issue of Brain, Child (Ser, did you read "Holding Baby Birds" yet?), and Amber and Bethany and I have explored poetry and self-help books together.

But truth be told, I haven't even managed to shower for the last few days--we're all sick with colds--so the best I can do is share a few choice quotes. As always I'd LOVE to hear what you think and which quotes resonate with you. And if you are a silent lurker on this blog--you read it, but never comment, come forward--out yourself!

So without further ado, here's Christopher Bamford:

"I have come to understand that life is praise and lamentation, and that the two are very close, perhaps one--and that they are transformative. Despite the almost constant sadness, confusion, setbacks, self-pity, and other burdens of ordinary egotism, I feel the wound, the opening, and sometimes the joy, the certainty of knowing that meaning exists even if I am not yet able to cognize it fully."

"But the liturgy continued, life continued, on both planes. Her body, though it was only her her body, had served nobly in the service of her life and was a sacred, numinous thing, to be handled and regarded with awe and reverence. The children bathed, oiled and washed her with tenderness and love. The house was filled with people. There was an enormous sense of stasis, of in-betweenness, liminality. It was as if, like her, the space we occupied lay between worlds, not yet here, no longer completely there."

"All this meant that not only was heaven a human place but that life, her story, was endless; that all our stories are endless. And that to understand the meaning of an endless story--mine, hers or yours--would require a new way of being in the world. And a new way of listening, an endless listening. For we are not used to stories that have no end. We neither know how to live them nor how to tell them nor how to listen to them."

first steps

Natalie is walking with her walker!

bells in winter

Photo by Amber

Ring the Bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
that's how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

little (and big) leavings

Anna with her buddy Skylar waiting to go into school.

Today is Anna's first day of kindergarten. I was a little teary (actually a lot teary) as I dropped her off. I had to hide in the hallway and brush the tears away so she wouldn't see me. My friend Sasha saw me out there and she said, "Jenny, I know, I know--she's beyond your control now."

I've generally rejoiced as Anna has become increasingly independent--and the way this also liberates me, but there was a certain sobriety about this morning. I'm starting to grasp how fast our children actually grow and how sweet and fleeting our time with them is, despite the sometimes eternal afternoons and relentless nights. But they do grow--Anna has grown--and is growing--quickly.

This morning and last night I wanted to weep and ask her forgiveness for all the ways in which I failed her when she was smaller, when she needed me most. I wanted to sing Willie Nelson's "You Were Always on My Mind" as I headed out the door of her classroom. But that's not, of course, what she needed.

She didn't need my remorse, my tears or my fears. She needed me to convey confidence--to act as if this leaving, like the hundreds of larger and smaller ones to come are just part of the process, a process I (mean to) trust.

Frederick Buechner captures this bittersweet mixture well in a quote about getting his girls off to school:

Creation is underway, breakfast is underway, steam from the tea kettle is fogging up the windows . . . Somebody is crying while somebody else says it is her own fault that she is crying. We break fast together, we break bread together fast. The clock on the wall over my wife's head is ticktocking our time away, time away. Soon it will be time to leave for school, soon it will be time to leave.

optimism

The first few people you meet in any place can have a dramatic and lasting impression on your overall experience there. Within our first few days, we met a couple, Bruce and Leigh, and their 6-year-old daughter Reese.

Bruce was brought over to the islands by Wal-Mart, as a manager, to help establish new stores. His impression of life here is quite positive, and it was exactly what we needed to hear in our dazed and confused state. I asked him questions about the things I was afraid to ask about before. What about roaches, centipedes, Vog? What about crime, drugs and the public schools?

To each of my fears, he offered some kind of positive antidote. For example, about the roaches, he told me that they do exterminate here, but, should I see one, I could just apply some chemical to my home, leave and voila! No more roaches. About the Vog
(a volcanic smog generated when the lava hits the ocean) we're just too close to the ocean to be bothered by it. Centipedes? You'd have to be out barefoot and careless, or flipping over rocks to get bit. As for crime, he told me, there is almost no gun crime on the island, and his daughter is thriving at the local public school.

Now I believe his impressions are based on real experience here, but I also think his perceptions also help shape the experience. You have to have the eyes to see what is good around you--and an ability to receive every good thing with eyes open wide.

It's not just your eyes that need to be wide open, though, I also think it is your view--you want a wide view so that you don't fixate (as I sometimes do) on things like roaches, centipedes, or the fact that you currently live in a tsunami evacuation zone and and at the base of a volcano that is expected to erupt at an unknown time.

A little over a year ago, Bruce was hit by a car when he was on his motorcycle. The car smashed him against a stone wall, breaking more than 30 bones and nearly killing him. The doctors were so unsure that he would survive that they didn't set his arm or shoulder. His heart stopped three times.

And Bruce, who was a manager at Wal-Mart and both a father and grandfather, lost most of his memory, his ability to walk and communicate and work. But you should hear him talk about the accident--there's no despair. In fact, he feels the timing was just about right, if that sort of thing had to happen.

He'd recently sold his home at a profit when the market was good, and he'd put money into savings and moved into a rental. The savings has helped the family to pull through while they await the final settlement.

His wife tells me that they never let him feel sorry for himself, not even for a moment. Now he's walking, talking and swimming. There are gaps in his memory but he accepts that as part of the bargain. He is alive to watch his children and grandchildren grow. It is a fine, fine bargain, considering the alternative.

And he has a job now too, against the wishes of his doctor. He's a cruise ship greeter for the Hard Rock Cafe. When the ships come in, he rises early, goes down to the cafe, cuts up some watermelon and walks down to the docks where he greets the tourists as the come off the ship.

But now Hard Rock Cafe would like to put him in a management position, which would be way, way, against the wishes of his doctor. And while he does have extensive management experience, he's not sure how handy it will be because he keeps drawing a blank about those Wal-Mart years. "But at least," he said, "I can remember that I was a manager. That's something isn't it?"

darkness and light

Photo by Amber the Magnificent

The aroma of apple crisp was just beginning to fill our kitchen when the lights flickered, dimmed and went out. Anna and her two friends came running out from her room, saying "The lights are out." Then I heard Fr. John in the hall.

"Note to self," he said, "Don't try to print and run the air conditioner at the same time."

Do you really think you blew a fuse?" I asked. He ignored my question, dug a flashlight out of the utility cabinet and shone it into our fuse box.

I repeated my question as he began to flip switches.

"John, the entire neighborhood is dark," I said.

He finally looked at me and let the words sink in. We'd lost power, once again. The last time this occurred three days passed before the lights came back. As our electric company tactfully explained, "We don't service the South Side at night because it is too dangerous."

Truth be told, I've always been a little (sometimes a lot) afraid of the dark. So the fact that Con Ed considers my neighborhood too dangerous for their macho trucks did nothing for my psyche. But I remembered the verse from Job, The darkness and the light are the same to you, O Lord, and I was a little comforted. I repeated it to myself as I checked the locks, checked the girls and washed the dishes by candlelight.

I headed into the dining room to top off the lampada. As I stood there beside the icons I realized that I was not alone. I shone a flash light into the corner of the room, and there was a small figure standing there beside the window. I almost screamed, until I realized it was Anna, drinking a small bottle of holy water from Lourdes.

After I'd resettled the girls in their beds, John and I headed out back to watch the lightning. It was strangely peaceful without all those city lights glaring down on us. A cop car drive slowly through the alley, shining a search light into each yard as it passed.

Around ten, my neighbor stopped by and offered to cook us some hot dogs on their gas grill. By this time, the girls had reappeared and were hungry, so we requested a few extras. My neighbor also brought down two gallons of ice cream. I decided this was a divine sign that it was time for the apple crisp. So we ate our half-baked crisp ala mode on the back porch with the lightning as our witness. Zoe said, "This is like camping!"

Just before the girls fell asleep the lights came back on. We all hugged each other with relief. As I lay down that night in my cool dark room that verse kept coming back to me--The darkness and the light are the same to you, O Lord.

"What exactly does that mean?" I asked John.

"It means the Lord does not see with physical eyes."

"Boring," I said.

It's got to mean more that that. Perhaps it means that there is no reason for fear even when we feel most powerless, even when we can't see two feet in front of us, and we keep walking into the garbage can--even when we don't know what to do next in the the big and little things. O Heavenly King, the Comforter, The Spirit of truth, everywhere present and filling all things. Darkness, light, confusion, clarity, God is there, to see us through.

phone curse

For several years we have been afflicted by a "phone curse." Every phone connection we've ever had has been unstable and unpredictable. People call our home and our cells and get a variety of results, anything from the buzz of a fax machine (we don't have one) to a busy signal (we do have call waiting) to a reroute to our cells or our home so that the number called is not actually the phone that rings.

We are nearly as befuddled by our phone situation as the small remnant who still continue to call us. Our problems may be at least partially self-inflicted (today I was explaining to Amber that my "unique genius" is that I never read the manuals for anything but instead glory in the process of figuring things out all by my lonesome).

My hubby, for his part, loves new technology and is always experimenting with new and exciting phone innovations. I can't help but feel a little like the woman who is married to the contractor who always lives in a partially finished home. All technology around our home is a work-in-progress.

I can't resist including a recent message from my inbox to illustrate the point. John has set up all messages to go through our phone and land in our email inboxes. It used to be that they only went to his, and he would only forward my messages on occasionally, when he was feeling especially congenial.

After much pleading on my part, our messages now go to both of our inboxes (although mine sometimes accidentally get deleted when I'm erasing the 149 spam emails that arrive in my inbox each morning). As an added bonus, John pays for each one to be "transcribed" by our computers with varying results. Kind of makes me miss the olden days when a little red light would blink on the answering machine and one could simply press "play," and viola, a message!

Here's a recent ticklish one, from Amber, voicing a complaint about said "phone curse":

"This. Call is my fish a complaint the jenny cellphone rarely work. Returned my call and it says it's wireless customer is not salable. I'm sorry. Frustrating it's not like even and that's it and michigan it's just it's a weird like. Any being. Expired. Is not available. in used you guys right. Church or else you're still on vacation but spots. Comes here since it was dropped hangs because they can't get a hold of jenny whenever i want to Alright i love you both thanks. I love all for it you know hm. Bye."

a starfish for Sally

John's Aunt Jan, placing a starfish in Sally's grave

A few weeks ago we traveled to New York for John's grandmother Sally's funeral. As John's uncle David said at the funeral, we didn't lose her the day she died, but we lost her in pieces--so many pieces--over the years, as the tide of Alzheimer's washed over her again and again, seizing first her passion for travel and cooking, then her ability to drive and whip me at Scrabble, finally her ability to dress herself and remember the names of her beloved children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Elie Wiesel described the process of Alzheimer's this way--if a person were a book, the disease tears out the pages one by one until only the front and back covers are left. I find this description to be insightful but incomplete, because with Sally at least, as the binding broke, and the pages began to tumble out, in the midst of this heartbreaking chaos--some other part of Sally became available, some part of the Sally essence that infused all her passions but also transcended them.

I understand now that it the essence of a person that captivates us. Warren, Sally's husband, taught me that by his devotion to Sally as she withdrew further and further into herself, by the way he would flirt with her and kiss her on the lips when we went to feed her in the nursing home.

I remember how Warren and Sally used to be--they were madly in love with each other, but they were both gutsy and opinionated, sparks would fly sometimes in the car or the elevator or over the chocolate mousse. But as Sally slipped further and further from us, Warren instinctively reclaimed that first language of love, the one I use with Natalie because she responds so openly to it--tenderness. Warren was all tenderness toward Sally, and she continued to lean in toward him to receive his kisses, even after she'd lost the ability to focus her eyes or say his name.

Sally's funeral was beautiful because it seemed to me to be a reclaiming of the woman we knew and loved, and because it was tangible and true, as we scattered sand and shells over her remains, as we remembered who she was to us, and all that was lost and found as her life drew to a close.

bridges fall; God is love

(photos taken while driving do leave something to be desired--this is the church sign from my childhood parish, just down the street from my parent's house--it reads, "Pray for the victims of the bridge collapse").

I'm at my favorite Minneapolis cafe, the Turtle Bread Company. I smell fresh baked bread, hear the whir of the espresso machine. It's drizzling outside. Everything seems just about right, save for the fact that at the table beside me a mother is trying to explain to her young daughter what it is to be a first responder. I can't hear all her words but she's saying something about ropes and knots and dangerous debris. Now I hear her saying, "Falling 200 feet . . ."

"The chances of this happening again are very, very slight," I hear the mother say.
Her daughter sips her drink thoughtfully, "Like about 5 percent?" She asks.
"No, honey, more like .00005 percent."
"I don't think is going to happen again at all," the little girl says as the two drop their trash in the garbage and head out into the rain.

I'm sipping my latte and munching a scone, and thinking about bridges that fall the terror of twisted steel, smoke and concrete. Cars slipping into the river and bodies crushed under debris, a school bus tipped on its side with the emergency door swung open. And of course I'm thinking about all those kids who miraculously got off that bridge safely,just after the taste truck burst into flames just a few feet from their bus, killing the driver. And I'm thinking of that bridge which I've traveled thoughtlessly-trustingly--over so many times, which we were planning to take tomorrow.

And then comes this other thought, like a tide that I can't stop from surging up, over and over--"God is Love." I try to hold this idea up to our present reality, and the truth of the statement and the truth of that fractured bridge seem to repel each other like magnets turned backwards.

And yet with each passing day, I become more certain that God is love, even as my life brushes up against so many catastrophes. I was in NY for September 11, awaiting Anna's birth. The day before Katrina struck New Orleans we escaped by steamboat, and this week I arrived in Minnesota the night before the bridge fell.

That night as we flew into the city at midnight, Anna and I marveled over how beautiful the Twin Cities looked from above. I pointed out the bridges connecting Minneapolis to St. Paul and Anna commented on how twinkly they were, how perfect.

But now we're struggling to integrate the knowledge that those perfect bridges weren't so perfect after all, that the 35W bridge was stressed and cracked in all sorts of hidden ways that nobody could see from above. If you've ever been to Minneapolis, you can imagine how strange this feels to everyone here, in our tidy, obsessively organized city. As my friend Amber says, "The bridge collapse has brought down shame on your Scandinavian ancestors."

With that shame and sadness come so many questions, especially for those of faith. I'm struggling to hold together the idea that God is Love despite the many pockets of anguish in my own life and in the world beyond. These past few years, we've lost people we love to cancer, car accidents, a heart attack, and AIDS.

With each passing day, I become more certain that life is fragile--that our bodies can be broken in an instant, that life is a tangle of agony and joy. And I also become more certain that God is love.

I asked my friend Bethany about this, about how it can be possible to hold together so much that seems irreconcilable.

"That's part of aging," she tells me, "learning to live in paradox."

So that is the paradox I find myself in on this rainy day in Minneapolis, with cars still submerged in the river a few miles away, with a cracked expanse of concrete and steel etched into my heart.

Each time I hear of another loss, I take a few moments to let it sink in. I cry a little, strike a match and light my lampada before the icons. I surrender all that is broken to the one who heals, and I accept this awareness that life is fragile, I let it remake me even I wipe down the kitchen counters, rock the baby, sip a latte.

With each passing day, it seems more gift, more grace, that I'm able to clean and cry and love, to grow older and learn to dwell in that rough, waiting place where thoughts don't always need to be reconciled, where bridges keep falling down but God doesn't stop being love.

on slow learning

If you have ever owned
a tortoise, you already know
how terribly difficult
paper training can be
for some pets.

Even if you get so far
as to instill in your tortoise
the value of achieving the paper,
there remains one obstacle--
your tortoise's intrinsic sloth.

Even a well-intentioned tortoise
may find himself, in his journeys,
to be painfully far from the mark.

Failing, your tortoise may shy away
for weeks within his shell, utterly
ashamed, or looking up with tiny,
wet eyes might offer an honest shrug.
Forgive him.


Reprinted from Compass of Affection: Poems New & Selected by permission of the author, Scott Cairns, and Paraclete Press. To find out more about this beautiful collection visit this page.

manic manicure

Today I took Anna, Maya and Natalie with me to get my nails done. We waited until Natalie fell asleep in her infant seat and then we seized the moment. I found a parking spot a mere eight blocks from the salon and lugged the sleeping Natalie in her car seat as I limped along, thanks to an unfortunate episode involving my big toe and the stone step into our kitchen.

I was suffering between the toe and the cumbersome infant seat, but of course the five-year-olds had the greater angst. "This is such a long way," Anna said. "I can barely make it." A few times Anna halted conveniently in the middle of intersections to ruminate.

But we finally made it, and the neon lights of the salon were an oasis in the desert. Soon my feet would be lovely and soft again! To my great relief, Natalie slept peacefully during all procedures while Anna and Maya acted extraordinarily grown-up as their fingernails were painted in matching gold hues. Just before I left, Natalie woke, and I looked down and realized that my big toe had been smudged.

I asked Anna to hold Natalie for a few moments while I had the toe fixed. Natalie started to wriggle out of Anna's arms, and the woman who had painted my nails came over to help, because I didn't yet have the use of my fingers.

She held Natalie in her arms and said, "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A girl," I said.

"She doesn't look like a girl," the woman said.

"Well she is in kind of a boyish outfit," I conceded.

The pacifier then slipped from Natalie's mouth to the floor. I asked Anna to drop it in the infant seat, because I still couldn't pick it up with my wet nails. But the woman said, "No! It must be washed." I said, "Oh yeah, Anna, Maya, will you wash this for me?" The girls were thrilled with the task and headed to the sink at the back of the salon.

And then the woman said, "You really should trim your baby's nails. They shouldn't be long like this. She could scratch herself."

I nodded. What an astute observation and handy bit of advice!

Then, with Natalie still in her arms she bounced her and sang this clever ditty (to be sung to the tune of "Nah-nah-a-boo-boo, stick-your-head-in-dog-do"), "I don't have any babies, but I know how to take care of babies."

But she stopped cold when she noticed my next crime against humanity. "Do you have a dog? She really has an awful lot of hair on her. She shouldn't be . . ."

I stood up. "This is an unpleasant experience for me. I don't think I'll ever be able to visit your salon again. You don't have any babies yet, but when you have them you can take care of them however you please, in the meantime, I'm not interested in your advice."

I swung Natalie onto my hip and told the girls it was time to go.

"Do you carry your baby like that?" the woman asked.

I jerked my head back at her, fire in my eyes. The ladies who were drying their nails looked up at us. Lucky for them, this was grander drama than they could have anticipated. Why go to the theater when you can get a manicure?

"Stop." I said, firmly and loudly. I looked the woman in the eye and pointed at her."I don't want to hear one more word from you." (Apparently I spend way too much time around five-year-olds and not quite enough in the company of adults).

"I was just asking," she said.

sparklers

I was raised in a wilder time. We didn't bother with car seats or even seat belts much of the time. I remember riding in the back of a neighbor's pick up truck--she did, of course, tell us to duck when we passed the police station. I also "smoked" candy cigarettes, built ramshackle tree houses sans nails, walked to the store by myself by the time I was Anna's age, jumped from the second floor to the sofa and rode my sled off the cabin roof ("Yee-ha" for you Dukes of Hazard fans out there).

My generation is more safety conscious--perhaps out of necessity. We're all about forcing our infants to sleep on their backs in their blanketless/pillowless cribs, car seats, organic eating, bike helmets and knee pads. And I don't even want to get into my paranoid obsession with "the gap" and the lectures I give Anna about it every time we take the train. We live in a dangerous world and our kids know it (at least mine do). Anna even has a whistle to blow should some creepy guy slip in through the back gate.

With all our safety procedures in place, something slipped through the cracks last year when my neighbor offered Anna a sparkler. I was honestly horrified that they let their kids play with these "mini finger incinerators" and I was equally floored that the father actually does "tricks" with fire. That's just what I want Anna to see--a grown-up playing with fire!

I allowed Anna a sparkler last year with much trepidation and many barked commands as she tried to maneuver it. Did I mention that when I was a teen I was hit by a firework and had to "stop, drop and roll?" Anyway, during Anna's first experience with the sparkler I was totally hands-on and sweating. I just read my friend Romani's post about sparklers and I was amazed to read that her parents let her and her sisters RUN with the blasted things!

And yet, I understand a little better this year. Sparklers are beautiful, they're fascinating, and they give our kids a chance to try something a little dangerous on their own. For me, at least, taking risks was an essential part of growing up. I needed to be trusted with a little so that I could gain confidence in my ability to take on more with each passing day.

So here's Anna, holding her sparkler far from her face and body just as I told her to, looking at me with her wide eyes, and beginning to light her own path through this dangerous world.

first words

Natalie seems to be a lady of many words, although for the most part we have been unable to make sense of them. But the other day she woke John by rolling over and grabbing his beard and saying "hidada." You may call this mere coincidence but I believe that her first word was actually no word at all but WORDS. (Read it and weep Esme!) And then, as if to confirm the matter, today during church she looked up through the royal doors and said, "hidada."

ordinary gifts

Two weeks ago the husband of my friend Cindy, Andy Wierzba, died of a heart attack. Andy is my third married friend to die young and suddenly, and I haven't had words to write about this for two weeks. I've been tiptoeing around the computer, wanting to say something but at a loss for words.

Cindy and I began seminary together in 1999, and she married Andy in 2001. Seminary was difficult for Cindy--she was a business woman who didn't have a lot of patience with the esoteric elements of theology. She would startle us all during a lecture in dogmatics or Church history when she would raise he hand and say something like, "But what does this have to do with Jesus, anyway?"

As a business woman, she was able to hire out all her writing. She used to tell me that in the business world, "writers are a dime a dozen."(Thanks Cindy!) Anyway, since she didn't have to write in her professional life it was a foreign experience for her to sit down at the computer and build an essay brick by brick, and many of her papers went unfinished for many years.

The last time I spoke to Cindy she told me that Andy was pushing her to get her degree and that when she lost courage he would gently nudge her until finally, one month ago, Cindy graduated. But when she finally got the diploma she fought so hard for, she didn't really want it. She knew it belonged to Andy as much as it belonged to her, so she tucked it into his casket.

When Cindy and Andy were newly married they attended our parish. They were a lovely couple--different but complementary. Cindy was bold and impulsive, articulate and unpredictable. Andy was gentle, consistent, self-educated and steady. He was also handsome and poised. Cindy told me that at their parish in Rye, New York there was a woman who always used to stare at him during the services, and Cindy took pleasure in the fact that she had the best looking guy at the church. But after Andy died the woman came to her with tears and said, "Now I'm going to have to pray during church!"

On Monday Amber called to tell me about the New York funeral. She said she had been crying all day, but it was a good kind of cry. And then she said something beautiful. She said, "We go to funerals not just to mourn the dead but to recommit ourselves to the project of living."

So I continued that project of living for a few days, all that living infused with the knowledge that Andy was gone and no amount of thinking would untangle this. A week ago Thursday I woke to attend the Chicago funeral. As I stumbled out of bed I thought, "I am just going to cry and cry today."

At the Greek funeral, it was sobering to see Andy, laid out in the casket, looking so unlike himself, as he was fit and athletic in this life. And it was sweet to see Cindy, who was her gracious loving self, despite her grief.

There was one moment that expressed so much of who Cindy and Andy are to the world and what they were to each other. At the burial, after the prayers had been said but everyone was still around, Cindy started pulling roses and daisies from the bouquet atop the casket, calling people by name to receive one last gift from Andy.

This photo is from that moment. I was a little nervous snapping photos at a cemetery, so I unfortunately cut off Julia and Esme's heads. But still, the moment is there, Cindy handing Esme a beautiful red flower, and Esme studying it with that academic look of hers. The arm reaching into the bouquet is Andy's mom.

After Cindy's gesture, everyone seemed a little confused because we didn't actually lower the casket into the ground. On the phone today, Cindy told me that she was troubled by this and a few days after the funeral she inquired about it. She was told that they no longer do that because it is "too upsetting."

She said, "But how will I know that you actually buried Andy right here?" She asked if they might dig up the casket for her so she could double check, but was told that she'd already spent $2,500 for the casket to be buried and she was forbidden to disturb the grave.

She eyed the sod covering Andy's freshly-dug grave and was troubled at the careless covering and yellowing grass. "Andy was visual and he liked everything neat," she said. So she got down on her knees and pulled the sod off the grave. She grabbed some fresh, healthy sod and rolled it carefully over the dirt.

"I felt like I was combing his hair," She said.

After the grave was settled to her satisfaction, she took a moment to lay down on that fresh grass, to rest with her husband in that quiet, wordless place.

P.S. To learn more about Andy and Cindy visit Julia's blog-- http://flakedoves.blogspot.com/2007/06/andy-through-cindy-shaped-glasses.html.

new do, no do

So I got a new haircut, and it is exactly what I wanted, a no-do-do. What I mean by that is that this haircut looks exactly the same when I roll out of bed in the morning as it does after I've showered. I don't dry, curl or agonize any more. No product, no hassle. In fact, I'm going to carry my curling iron right out to the alley as soon as I sign off (yeah)!

I'm a little embarrassed to post this, but I need to hear from my dear girlfriends, because my hubby has been less-than-enthusiastic about the new do. In fact, when I came through the door with it, he simply said, "Oh."

At that point I was feeling a little delicate, as if I'd made some kind of cosmic error by chopping my hair. On the long walk to the train, I kept peeking in every store window on Michigan Ave hoping to catch my reflection. Maya and Anna finally said, "What are you doing?"

When I got home I called my mom for advice. She said, "Just be with it and see what you think in a few days." I must say that it is delightful to have one less to do on on my list each day.

P.S. I took the photo myself. Amber is training me into the fine art of self-portraiture.

the year of the cicada

So it is the year of the cicada, which was initially a pretty creepy concept to me. Apparently the cicadas go in 17 year cycles, and when they come, they bring all their friends and relatives and they party in every tree in the Chicago suburbs. They're so noisy that you can barely think when you get near one of their hang outs.

Recently, at a birthday party for one of Anna's five year old buddies, Anna managed to catch and cuddle two cicadas. The other girls were pretty frightened of the orange-headed insects, but Anna loved them with a strange passion. So much so that in the car she suggested we open a window because then perhaps more cicadas would join us. What delightful company a gigantic, screaming, orange-headed insect would make on our hour long trip home!

Anyway, as I was watching the cicadas crawl up Anna's arm with a mixture of horror and awe, I realized that the next time the cicadas come our way, Anna will be in college--or possibly have even graduated. I can't think or write these words without aching for my Anna, who is growing faster than I realized.

In light of the circumstances, I've come to think of parenting in a fresh way, one that seems to trim the task down a bit and bring more delight to the process. This summer, I'm not in the business of making perfect, successful, savvy girls. My job is simpler than that--for now, at least, I'm gardening--planting memories in the fertile soil of their hearts. I'm hoping that the lovely memories will outweigh the not-so-lovely ones which will inevitably slip in.

As Dostoevsky wrote in the Karamazov Brothers:

"Remember that nothing is nobler, stronger, more vital, or more useful in future life than some happy memory, especially one from your family home. A lot is said about upbringing, but the very best upbringing, perhaps, is some lovely, holy memory preserved from one's childhood. If a man carries many such memories with him, they will keep him safe throughout his life. And even if only one such memory stays in our hearts, it may prove to be our salvation one day.

Speaking of memories, Anna may have relished the cicadas at that party, but Natalie was all about the frosting . . .

victory

This just in: John passed the German exam! This past year, our family theme song was "I fought the German exam, and the exam won." Now we'll have to find a new soundtrack.

CHEERS!

awe

"I've been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly . . . I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again."

-Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

P.S. I was headed to my computer to post this quote, with my nose in the book. I suddenly heard John shriek. I looked down, and there was Natalie, in the midst of a diaper change, just where my foot was about to land.

P.S.S. Guess who this is and where the photo was taken. To see more stunning photos click here.

now what time was that train?

While I was getting ready for our trip downtown, Natalie ate the schedule.

teacher for the day

So Anna was "teacher for the day" which means that she got to wear Mr. Jeff's keys around her neck all day long, she got to sit in the teacher's chair and generally rule the classroom. I believe that she's been aspiring to this type of role for years.

When she woke, she asked me to help her pick something that an adult might wear. She insisted that she look "totally plain" (this might be a slam, I'm not quite sure). Anyway this what we came up with, grown-up as can be.

one good heart

After a scary episode in the ER, my dad found out that his heart is in great shape. He sent me this photo just to prove it. I wasn't sure how to feel when I pulled my dad's heart out of the envelope, but here it is--after forty years with type one diabetes--pulsing with life.

I just got word that he is headed up to the Gunflint Trail to try to protect our family cabin from the most serious forest fire in Minnesota history. Nearly 350 square miles have burned already from a fire that began as a single unattended campfire. Please pray for rain!

My dad's courage in going up to stave off the fire says more about his heart than any photo ever could.

a prayer for tattered creatures

Last night as I was tucking Anna in she showed me a butterfly's wing she'd found in the back yard. To her amazement and mine, she was able to identify the butterfly in her animal kingdom book by slipping the wing on top of the butterfly image in the book.

Just before I left I asked her if there was anyone we should pray for.

"For butterflies that have lost their wings, for butterflies with a tear in their wing and for the ones who died," she said, "And also for dogs with only one eye."

check mate

Tripping Over Joy

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a Saint?

The saint knows
that the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God

And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move

That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, "I Surrender!"

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think

You have a thousand serious moves.

(Poem by Daniel Ladinsky, from his book I heard God Laughing: Poems of Hope and Joy, Penguin Books, 2006, used with permission of the author)

the golden ticket

My train tickets arrived today--from Croton-on-Hudson to New York City to Boston to Portland, Maine. I can barely contain my giddiness as I hold the tickets in hand. I want to tell you--Amber, Rachel, Warren, Sally, Sherry and Emily--I'm coming!

I can hardly wait to see you all, but I expect I'm going to enjoy getting there almost as much as being there. This is part of what the train has given back to me--a chance to relish the journey as much as the destination.

I love the way it hums along the tracks like a wordless poem, the way you step on without being jostled through tense security checkpoints. The way it invites you to watch and wonder and wait.

Two days ago, on the Metra, I watched three passengers fall asleep within moments of boarding. They looked a little like Natalie after she's nursed--satisfied and safe, ready for some respite from the constant shoving of life. They had already navigated Chicago's grimy rush hour on foot, passing the panhandlers, nudging their way through the crowds. It was time to be lulled into another, quieter space.

Yesterday Lauren Winner gave a wonderful lecture at the University of Chicago. One of her most compelling points was that we now define time in purely economical terms. We no longer pass an afternoon, we spend it. We don't cherish moments, we maximize them. We're fixed on efficiency at the expense of grace.

We're expected to perform around the clock, to perpetually check our email and to always keep our cell phones on. Lauren said that she can't quite grasp why we fought so hard for the forty hour work week only to hand it right back to our employers.

I don't want to buy, spend or maximize time. I want to live fully through it--to dwell in the days given to me with gratitude. I want to come to a fresh awareness of the grace-upon-grace of life in this dazzling mud-flecked world of ours. I hope to pass--not spend--more hours on the train.

The Great Blessing of Circus Peanuts

On Pascha Anna snuck some Circus Peanuts into our basket. I mentioned that I was concerned that Circus Peanuts might be just unblessable.

Derek Bowers took me to task when he devised this blessing for them. This blessing won't make it into The Great Book of Needs (for goodness sake--who could need a Circus Peanut?) but it is certainly worth publishing:

GREAT BLESSING OF THE CIRCUS PEANUTS

I know, O Lord, that I partake unworthily of these, Thy Circus Peanuts, which Thou hast prepared for the nourishment of Thine unworthy servants, for oft-times have I scorned Thine artificially flavored foodstuffs. Verily, from the day that my mother bore me, I have been reared on the choicest flesh of fattened calves and the most costly of spirits, and I have forgotten the vision which Thou didst reveal to Thine all-holy and laudable Apostle Peter who beheld upon the housetop at the sixth hour a great sheet descending from the heavens which was filled with four-footed animals of the earth, wild beasts, creeping things, and birds of the air. And then there was the voice: “That which God hath cleansed, thou mayest not call unclean.” But how can I, who have ne’er partaken of even so much as a creeping beast of the earth, dare to bring forth to my defiled lips the Circus Peanut, a substance the nature of which Thou hast not deigned to reveal to the minds of earth-borne men? Thou bringest to my mind, O Lord Who makest all foods clean, the example of the holy king and prophet David, whose company Thou didst once nourish with the Bread of Thy Divine Presence, a thing incomprehensible to the mortal mind. And so, as Thou didst once strengthen the heart of David Thy servant to eat the bread of Thy mystical presence, a thing far stranger to the minds of men than even the Circus Peanut, so now give me the courage to say with boldness: “These Circus Peanuts are blessed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” May they be neither to the deterioration of the enamel, nor to the fattening of the flesh, nor to the orangification of the tongue, but rather to the nourishment of the body, the reinvigoration of the mind, and the pleasure of the palette. Amen.