I Dreamed a Dream

The reviews are in: everyone I know who has seen Les Miserables loves it. We saw the play live many years ago, and I’m looking forward to seeing it on the big screen, hopefully soon!

The most familiar song from the musical is probably “I Dreamed a Dream.” It’s poignant and beautiful, full of an aching sadness. Sometimes when I’m having a pity party I feel the words sum up my life, but I think it probably actually describes my grandmother. Even my earliest memories of my father’s mother were of a frail, older woman, although she was only in her early sixties, hardly old by today’s standards. But like many in her generation, life wasn’t about romance and parties, but of family and hard work. I am under the impression that she and my grandfather struggled financially, putting in long hours in low-paying jobs. They had their passions and their pastimes, of course, and they had one child, my father, who was both a delight and a conundrum. I think he was quite a handful in his youth.

The three of them built a life near the shore of the Netherland’s North Sea, where there was no end of adventure for my free-spirited father. And then one spring day, after a night of non-stop air strikes, the Germans drove their tanks over the border, and the Netherlands became an occupied nation. 

My father was a teen by this time, fearless in the face of air raids and bombs and public shootings. But I can imagine my grandmother watching her only child and her husband slowly starving to death, and wondering each time they parted company if they would see each other again, or if my father would be hauled off to serve in the military or shot for some reason—or for no reason. And I can imagine her thinking, “I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I’m living.”

Just weeks before the end of the war, an Allied bomber took out their home, with all of them in it. (The attack was a massive mistake, intended to take out Nazi weapons that had been moved weeks earlier.) Miraculously, they survived, but they lost virtually everything they owned. My siblings and I each have small blue china cups, among the few items to survive the blast. It reminds me of my grandma: frail and beautiful, but able to survive under some pretty grim circumstances. She was much stronger than I ever knew.

In so many areas of the world, even places close to home, mothers face horrible dangers and choices each day. They dream of things many of us take for granted: clean water, adequate food, safe shelter. They dream of a better life for their children, and for the strength to survive long enough to see that better life realized.

So here’s to the new year: may it be a year of dreams come true. And may we see peace in our time. 

Emmanuel

Preparing the way of the Lord: During the first week of Advent, while digging through boxes of decorations, I came across a small nativity scene that one of the kids received as a gift a year ago. It’s a cute set, appropriate for a child, and complete with all of the main characters and a host of animals. I set up the scene in my daughter Kelsey’s room; from the moment she notices it she takes delight in using the pieces to enact the story.

Away went the manger: A few days later my oldest son, Phillip, provoked by something Kelsey said and trying to get her into trouble, drops a bombshell. “Have you been in Kelsey’s room lately? Did you notice that she lost the baby Jesus?”

We turn to Kelsey. Her silence tells the story.

“What happened?”

“Well, I was playing with it, and I dropped baby Jesus, and I couldn’t find him.”

Despite my annoyance, we assure the kids that we’ll find the baby.

After a half hour of searching everywhere we could imagine in her small room, I am less convinced. We can’t find the baby. “Tomorrow I want all of you to look again,” I order the children.

The cattle are lowing: A week later, still no Jesus, despite repeated searches and interrogations.  As I pass my daughter’s room I observe Mary and Joseph on bended knee, silently worshiping an absent savior. To compensate for the horrible emptiness, Kelsey has moved the animals to center stage. The magi, piously kneeling with hands clasped, look with adoration at livestock. Holy cow.

The loss of the baby has done little to diminish Kelsey’s infatuation with the set, but each day I get more frustrated. How can something drop and then not be there?

What child is this? Somehow, we get through Christmas without the physical presence of the baby Jesus. A few days later, Kelsey and I roam the mall, seeking post-holiday bargains. In a china shop I spot him: an orphaned baby Jesus, asleep on the hay, with no family or shepherds to guard him. Although by comparison he is huge for our baby-less set, I figure it’s better than honoring the friendly beasts. He’s not marked with a price; the clerk shrugs and suggests $2. Kelsey and I take the foundling home. Our little family is again complete, although the baby would be more than an armful for the diminutive mother, rather like the cartoon mice who adopt and raise a kitten as their son.

Joy to the world: On a blizzardy February Saturday long after I had put away the decorations, Kelsey and I are cleaning her room. While rearranging the books on her shelf, I have difficulty getting them to line up. I yank one out and there, wedged between its pages, is the little Lord Jesus, completely unconcerned that he has missed his own birthday. After a proper amount of rejoicing over the lost lamb, he is tucked away with his family and his oversized stepbrother, ready for Christmas 1999.

Lessons and carols: This Christmas, I will try not to sweat the small stuff. I’ll try not to criticize how others celebrate the birthday of Jesus. I will remember that Jesus is always near, whether I can see him or not. And while the isolated and lonely will always be welcome in my home, I won’t waste my time looking for Jesus in the mall. I’ll look instead into the face of a child and the pages of a Book. 

Away in a Manger

Many years ago, I bought a small Polyresin crèche through a school fundraiser. I chose it because all of the characters were dark skinned; most crèches sold in the US have white characters, with perhaps a token black wise man. (I think it would have been interesting if this crèche had included a token white wise man, or maybe an Asian.) When it arrived, one of the figures was broken, and while I’m sure the company would have replaced it if I had asked, I was able to repair it with a little glue.

When I was a kid we used to play with our nativity—a little. My dad thought he was hilarious when he would put the sheep up on the roof of the rustic stable; Mom was less amused. Several of our current crèches are “interactive,” or at least unbreakable, and the kids have played with them—gently— over the years. When the bio kids were younger I allowed each kid to select a nativity to put in their rooms, but as they got older they were no longer interested. This year each of the younger kids got a set; I gave Lewi the set with the black figures, and he promptly broke off the glued head, and then a second figurine’s head, which led to a one-sided conversation on the difference between figurines and action figures.

Over the years I’ve amassed quite a collection of nativities, most of them created in other countries and purchased in stores that support overseas artisans. I also pick them up at “regular” stores at a deep discount in the days following Christmas, and I rescue them at estate sales. One of my favorites, which cost a dollar at a garage sale, is from Poland. It’s unusual in that it only includes Mary and the baby. I kind of like the image of Mary alone with her child, pondering things in her heart.

Each culture and artist offers a unique and beautiful perspective on the holy family and those who visited the stable. There’s a lot of variety, but it’s interesting how similar they can be. Stereotypically, Mary kneels, hands on her chest; Joseph stands, often leaning on a staff; the Magi, full of dignity, carry their wares; and there is always, always a donkey.

Often the most interesting figures are the angels, because they tend to look like they are flying, singing, announcing— doing something besides staring at the baby. They are almost always depicted as feminine and sweet, a contrast to the biblical record. The only two angels mentioned by name in the Bible are male, and since angels tend to begin their announcements with the words “Fear not,” it seems to me that there must be something awe-inspiring and a little bit intimidating about angels.

Angels bring good news, but with that good news there is change, which can be more than a little scary. And they don’t hang around as protectors and guides, helping God’s favored ones to navigate the difficult aspects of the task they’ve been handed. They say their piece and leave, leaving the humans to figure it out and face the future.

But the message of the angels stays with us. Fear not: you can do this, because God is with you. Fear not: in the darkest hours, in the saddest times, God is with you. Fear not, even in the face of the impossible, because with God, nothing will be impossible. Fear not. The road will not be easy, but it will be blessed.   

Driving Miss Rita

Meijer Gardens is a fabulous combination of horticulture, art, and education. Attractive and sophisticated, it also provides kid-specific areas and activities, as well as walking trails for the fitness inclined. In December, Christmas trees representing world cultures enchant visitors young and old, and in the spring the conservatory is filled with live butterflies. During the summer, an outdoor amphitheater hosts a variety of musicians who perform everything from jazz to country to 80s rock. In every season, each nook and cranny of the garden, from the farm to the waterfall, is beautifully decorated with seasonal botany. I love this place; I see something new each time I go. 

The garden’s 1,000-plus volunteers do dozens of jobs: they lead tours, sell tickets, drive the tram, plant annuals…it’s a big place and there are plenty of ways to help out. On Wednesdays I volunteer as a bus buddy. When busses of kids pull up, we instruct the teachers where to pay, tell the bus drivers where to park, and remind the kids how to behave. Then we bring them where they need to go and release them into the garden. 

My partner in this endeavor is Rita who, with her husband, volunteers at the garden virtually every day. Like most of the daytime volunteers, Rita is a retiree. She might be all of 5 feet tall in heels—although I doubt she’s owned a pair of heels in her life. Sensible shoes: that would be Rita’s style. Although her gravelly voice and general appearance give every indication that she wouldn’t care for kids, in fact she loves them. She taught elementary school and then ran a home daycare for many years while raising her own six kids. She gets her “kid fix” as a bus buddy, and while it is her favorite job at the garden, one day a week on her feet is plenty, so other days she works other jobs.

On weeks with few groups coming in, Rita takes the shift alone. But this particular week, although there were only two groups, the first group was huge—160 kids and 40 adults—and Rita figured it would take two of us to manage it. Because they were arriving at 9, she was a little panicked: she didn’t think she could get to the garden in time. Her husband had a morning meeting, and Rita does not drive. Her husband transports her to the garden, which is one reason why they often work together.

So that Wednesday morning, I went to pick up Rita. She lives in a post-WWII neighborhood just off a main artery. The neighborhood is pleasant enough, if a little tired. As I pulled up to her modest cape cod-style house, I couldn’t imagine raising six kids there. I could probably fit two of Rita’s houses inside my house. (And let me confess: I love my house, and I know it is much more than most people have. But it is far from ostentatious.)

Rita had warned me not to pull into the drive because it needs some repair, so I waited in the street while she made her way out to the car. She moves slowly; some of that is age, but as compact as she is, her stride has never been long. She settles in next to me and we make the short trip to the garden, chatting as we always to about our husbands and our kids and the day’s schedule.

We’re ready when the three buses pull up, and the teachers and kids are off the buses and in the garden in short order. Rita can handle the next group alone and she sends me on my way, but not without thanking me—for the twelfth time—for picking her up.

And for the twelfth time I assure her that I’m happy to do it—anytime. Doing things, even small things, for others is its own reward. And helping out a friend like Rita, who gives so much of herself to others, well, that’s just the icing on the cake.

Teeth

When we began the adoption process, the adoption agency did what it could to prepare us. We were required to read books on adoption behavior, things that are “normal,” or at least not unusual, in children who are adopted. The list is long and mostly unpleasant: lack of attachment, bed wetting, tantrums, hoarding, lack of boundaries, sleep disorders… the list goes on. We also took some classes on becoming a multiracial family, and because we were adopting older children, we also were given some specific advice on how to help their transition.

Like most parenting advice, the reality rarely matches up with the theory. But the education, coupled with our own experience and the fact that our kids are pretty much AMAZING, must have done some good, because three years later, Lily and Lewi seem to have adjusted well. Which doesn’t mean that some issues won’t emerge later, since that is also common with adopted kids. But for the moment, we feel blessed.

The agency also mentioned some medical issues we might expect, and within 48 hours of landing in Detroit we were in the pediatrician’s office. The kids were checked for AIDS (again) and for parasites, and were negative for both. They did, however, have nasty ringworm—Lily still has scarring on her hand from a particularly aggressive patch. They needed all of their immunizations, since in developing nations the vaccination schedule and the quality of inoculations can be a little uneven. None of this was unexpected or difficult to deal with, and in general the pediatrician seemed happy with their overall health. We felt blessed.

And then I took the kids to their first dental appointment.

The kids had mouths full of rotten teeth. It’s not clear how their baby teeth got in this condition in just a few short years, but it’s likely a combination of bad hygiene and bad nutrition. I also suspect that the kids drank a lot of soda in their early years, especially since water quality in Ethiopia is poor, which could account for a lot of the damage.

Lewi, then a child of three, had five teeth that were so damaged that they needed to be rebuilt. Lily’s teeth were a little better, but not much. We couldn’t leave the teeth alone, since the rot could ruin the adult teeth, and we couldn’t pull them, because it would mess up the spacing for future teeth. (Besides, the kids needed teeth to eat. That seems pretty obvious, but I was surprised by the number of people who forget this important function.)

As the staff explained all that had to happen and how many thousands of dollars would cost, I managed to remain calm, but I’m sure I was getting paler by the minute. As I was paying for the day’s visit and making arrangements to come back, the woman patted my hand and said, “It’s not really that bad. It’s going to be okay.”

She was right, of course. The dental office helped us space out the work over a couple of years so that we could maximize the amount insurance would pay. Now the kids have begun to lose some of those baby teeth and their new ones are growing in strong. There might be more dental issues coming, but for now both of them have beautiful smiles, and we feel blessed.

In North America, we have dozens of types of toothpaste, floss, and dental rinses, and proper and consistent dental maintenance goes a long way toward preventing future problems. . We have whiteners and orthodontics and dentists who can solve all sorts of pains in the mouth. For those of us with access to good dental care and insurance to offset the cost, it’s easy to forget that, for most of the world, good teeth are a luxury. We are blessed.

So remember to floss. And remember to smile. If you’ve got ‘em, flaunt ‘em!

Democracy

Okay, so there was an election….

And some candidates and ballot issues won, and some lost. Which upsets some people, as it has since the dawn of democracy.

When it comes to elections, I have lived through what I consider good years and bad years, and most years it’s a mixed bag. This is the nature of the voting process. As a people, we have opposing ideas and differing values, and as a people we get to decide which of these ideas and values the majority prefers.

And then, together, we live with those choices, whether we voted for them it or not. Those are the rules of democracy.

Over time, we have made some choices that have proven to be excellent, and others that have not stood the test of time. Every elected leader has proven to be flawed; they are human, and most of their mistakes can be attributed to their humanity rather than malicious intentions. And every elected official has done some things right. (No, really. I looked it up.)

Recently, it dawned on me that there is another amazing thing about a democracy: no matter how you voted, your representatives still work for you. Voting for an individual does not make that individual beholden to you in a special way, and not voting for an individual does not absolve that representative of responsibility for you.

So talk to them. It’s your right to make your voice heard, and it’s their responsibility to listen. Voting is only one way of communicating, and there is no reason the conversation should end when the polls close, no matter who you voted for. So write to them. Tell them what you heard that you like. Or present an alternate point of view. Let them know what matters most to you. And listen. Find out what’s going on in the world, and do it through a number of different outlets. None of us can afford to listen to only those with whom we agree. In these challenging times, we need everyone’s best thinking, and the best representatives—and citizens—understand that.

I am embarrassed to say that, in personal conversations, I have not always been kind in my description of certain politicians. I hope that I have outgrown that. There is no reason to be mean and snarky. Personal shots have no place in our political discourse. Those of us old enough to vote are old enough to avoid words like stupid and idiot when describing elected officials, especially in public.

We are blessed to live in a country where we can speak our minds and vote our consciences. Now that the voting it done, our work together must begin. Only together we can create our optimum future. 

Grateful

Several friends have begun doing daily Facebook postings of something they are thankful for each day of the month of November.  I love the idea. In an attempt to be both organized and comprehensive, I began to make a list, but then the writer in me turned into something of an essay. So here’s my “daily” list, all in one shot. Most—but not all—of the numbers having a meaning, a system that helped me to be mindful, and truly grateful, for all that I have been given.   

1. Halloween. It’s number 1 not because it is the most important, but because it is singularly delightful. Part fantasy fulfillment—for a moment kids can be whoever they want to be—part sugar rush, this is a great holiday for kids and for the adults who love them. No one harps on “getting back to the true meaning of Halloween,” and probably few families come to blows over where they should spend Halloween or go into debt trying to fund Halloween. No wonder it is popular.

2.  I have two sisters with whom I share most of my history and a lot of DNA. Over the years we’ve managed to stay close in spite of differences and distances. In addition, I have one step-sister, one step-sister-in-law, and five sisters-in-law, and there have been dozens of women who have been sisters to me over the years; women who have held my hand and my confidences, who have given me council and support, who have loved me and corrected me when I needed it.

3. I’ve lived in three different countries, and traveled to dozens of others. I’m grateful to have sampled such diversity and learned so much about myself and others through these experiences.

4. Bill and I have shared four homes, and before we married I lived in the same house virtually all my life. I am grateful that I have always been sheltered, and that home was generally a happy place to be, full of laughter and genuine affection, and never abuse.

5. My five amazing kids. Quirky, brilliant, difficult, loving, outgoing, introspective, demanding, generous…they run the gamut, individually and collectively. And while the members of this little troupe are always challenging, they make my life worth living.

6. I love food, and am grateful that at virtually any moment I could have anything I crave. Unlike much of the world—unlike my parents and two of my children—I’ve never known real hunger. I am humbled—and thankful.

7. Chocolate deserves its own category of gratitude. Although maybe it could share the spot with ice cream. They are both pretty high up on my personal food pyramid.

8. Friends. Shopping buddies and drinking buddies, prayer partners and work partners, fellow high school nerds and band geeks, people I’ve known for decades and people I’ve known briefly: I’ve been blessed with friends who have been there when I’ve needed them. Turned sideways, 8 mean infinity. While my number of friends might not be infinite, the blessings from these relationships surely have been.

9. My nine in-laws: five sisters and four brothers. They are good people, and I love them dearly.  

10. My brother was born on October 10. He’s a good and honorable man, and even though he is younger, I have learned a lot from him. I also give thanks for my step-brother, for whom I’ve developed a deep respect for the way he has loved and cared for my dad.

11. My dad was born on April 11. He’s an amazing man, and a great dad. I’ve been blessed by him in countless ways over the years, and he continues to find ways to surprise me with his grace and generosity. Many men have influenced me over the years, and I am grateful for them, but my dad was my first and greatest influence.

  

12. Thank you to Bugs Bunny, “Fashion Police,” the Zits comic, many of my Facebook friends, and everything else that makes me laugh. Humor is a great gift.

13. Just over 13 years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I am grateful that it was found early, I am grateful for the doctors who treated me, I’m grateful for all the family and friends who supported me through treatment, and I am grateful for each day of life that I have had since then.

14. I’ve held 14 “real” jobs in my lifetime (not counting babysitting, freelancing, or jobs that remained the same but were given new titles). I am grateful for each of them. Each had elements that I liked and appreciated, and in each position I learned a lot. And each paycheck put food on the table, a roof over our heads, and shoes on my feet. Which leads me to number 15…

15. Shoes. Nuff said.

16. I’ve had about 16 cats, not counting all of the strays that have just passed through, and while the constant presence of their fur is a total pain, I have enjoyed their companionship, their antics, their personalities, and their affection. Being loved by a cat is a privilege.

17. Thank you to everyone who has stood up for a principle. Rosa Parks, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King, every politician who has taken a stand, and every person who has stepped in to stop an injustice, no matter how large or small. It takes courage to take on a cause, and whether I agree or not with your cause, your courage inspires me to be mindful and proactive in making the world a better place.

18.  When I was 18, I voted for the first time. I continue to be grateful for the privilege.

19. I’m grateful for my 19 years of education: nursery school, kindergarten, grammar school, high school, and five years of college. Not everyone has access to such a remarkable gift, and I appreciate everything that I was taught.

20. Wheels! I’ve owned five cars (so that’s 20 wheels, not counting the spares), and each has served me well, getting me safely where I wanted or needed to go.

21. I am grateful for all of my senses. I love art and music, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the taste of a really good burger, and the weight of a sleeping child in my arms. How blessed I am to be able to appreciate all of these things.  

22. I was 22 when my mother died of cancer, and November 22 is the anniversary of her funeral. Some days I still miss her, but I am grateful for the 22 years that we had together. She was a remarkable woman, and overcame a lot in her rather brief lifetime. After my mother died, my father married Mickie, who also had a great influence on my life. Dad and Mickie had been together for 22 years when Mickie passed away. I’m also grateful for all the other women—teachers, friends, coworkers, my mother-in-law, even the occasional stranger—who has been a mother to me. I have been blessed to know so many strong and beautiful women.

23. While technology often perplexes me (ask my kids about my relationship with my cell phone), I am grateful for microwaves, television, computers, the Internet, mp3 players, and everything else that makes life easier and helps to keep us connected.

24. My extended family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins have all had an influence on me. I am especially fond of being an aunt, and I am grateful for the way my nieces and nephews indulge me. They are all awesome kids, and I’m very proud to be a part of their lives.

25. Water. A hot shower, a cold drink on a hot day, the rhythm of the ocean’s waves: water in all of its forms is an amazing gift.

26. There are 26 letters in the English alphabet. Thank you to all of the brilliant writers who have spun those letters into fabulous works of art. From the writer of the Psalms to Elizabeth Gilbert, from Tomie De Paola to Alex Hailey to Anne Lamott, and to all the other incredible writers who have inspired me and made me think, thank you.  

27. I’ve been a member of my local congregation for almost 27 years. This church has supported me in hard times and given me opportunities to serve and to learn. I’m grateful for its people, its ministry, and its witness.

28. Bill and I have been married for 28 years. He’s been my friend and supporter, my biggest cheerleader, and a wonderful father to our children. I’ve been blessed.

29. Slowly, slowly, I am learning to be thankful for the person I am. I have gifts and weaknesses, and I am learning to trust that I have been given this collection for a reason, and am learning to capitalize on what is strong to compensate for what is weak.

30. All good gifts around us are sent from heaven above, so thank the Lord—I  thank the Lord—for all his love.

Unlimited

My husband likes sports—all sports, even crazy stuff like curling, although Red Wings hockey is his favorite. So I learned long ago how to talk the talk, but I’ve never made any attempt to walk the walk. I am a fair-weather fan of just about any sport you can name.  When “our” teams are winning, I follow along, cheering. When they aren’t doing so hot, I have no interest whatsoever.

When I worked for a denominational magazine, I can’t tell you the number of times men would say something like, “You should do an article on the relationship between Christianity and sports. Teamwork, using gifts, building character, blah blah blah.” So about once a year we would run pieces on Christianity and sports, and some of them made valid points, but I never really bought it. There’s nothing wrong with sports; they are not unchristian or antichristian. But to try to put a holy spin on the sports industry never sat well with me.

I now work for a different Christian organization, and the men there talk sports, because that is what men talk about in our society. From my cubical, I hear them reviewing the previous day’s events. They seem particularly partial to Tigers baseball, and who can blame them? Until the actual World Series, it’s been a great season for the Tigers.

On the day of the final game of the American League playoffs, two of my coworkers were predicting the night’s events. “I guess it would be okay if the Yankees won tonight, to stretch out the series and give the Tigers less time off so they don’t lose their momentum,” said one fan.

“No!” said the other, indignantly. “Never, never give them a reason to hope.”

And there it was. The clear and definitive difference between Christianity and sports. Christianity is about hope, and sports is about crushing it.

That evening, at choir practice, our director mentioned a book about the feminization of worship, particularly music, and “the boyfriend song,” in which God (or Jesus) the almighty is portrayed as a tender, almost romantic soul mate who meets one’s every need. Men, it seems, prefer stronger music, with more masculine images of God and Christianity. Songs where Christians are called to battle against our foes and where God crushes the enemy.

Like all art, music is a reflection of culture, so it is no surprise that we are shaping God into characters we know from popular culture. We want God to be the romantic lead in our life stories, or the hero who slaughters the bad guys or scores the winning homerun. We want God to be Indiana Jones or Jason Bourne, someone who is tender with us but ruthless with our enemies. He always has a plan, and he always wins, all within a two-hour timeframe.

Like the authors of Scripture, we want to make God one of us, or comparable to something we understand. In the Bible, God is wind and God is shepherd; God is a mother and God is a father; God is light and God is a rock. If we were still adding to the Canon today we might equate God to a quarterback or a rock star or any number of contemporary images.

God is all of these things, and none of these things. God is more than we can imagine or put into words, which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to put it in words, or in music. But our images of God should help us to explore all of who God is. It’s dangerous to cling to an idea that is comfortable for us and never move beyond that. We need to push the boundaries of our own understanding in order to begin to appreciate the scope of all that God is. We are limited, in our power and our imagination and in our understanding, but God is limitless.

Cafeteria

Although I quit my part-time custodian job several months ago, the school district has kept me on as a sub. Since my “real job” is only a couple of days a week and we have three kids in college, I take extra shifts when I can.

And so it came to pass that, one warm September Friday, I am asked to do a lunchtime set up and tear down at an elementary school. It’s a new gig for me; I had never been to this school, and I've never set up lunch. I am always up for a little adventure.

When I arrive, the secretary at the front desk points me toward the custodian’s office, where I find a set of keys, a map of the school, and instructions written in what I can only surmise is a kind of code. I use the map to find the lunch room, where I introduce myself to the lunch ladies, all of them grandma-types who work very hard for their pay. They are pleasant and helpful, and are happy to answer my questions when they can. Willie tells me that during lunch there are several parents who volunteer, and that part of my duties will include opening granola bars and policing the kids.

I need a few things from the supply room, so I consult the map. The principal, who happens to be coming by, sees me trying to get my bearings and stops to introduce himself. He quickly and efficiently arranges things on the cleaning cart while giving me a few more pointers on lunch procedures before heading off to do administrative stuff.

Cafeteria food has its own particular smell, and when the smell has filled the room, the kids begin coming in: second graders, kindergartners, first graders, and then the tiniest of breaks before the third and fourth graders. It’s like a crescendo of kids: the congestion and noise start low, increase with each grade level, then drop off slightly until the next groups come in. I seem to blend in with the parent volunteers, and kids are more than willing to ask me to open juice boxes or find them a band aid.

The principal, who spends the entire lunch hour in the room, beckons to me from across the room. A pudding cup has oozed all over inside a kindergartner’s lunch box; he asks me to help her get some pizza while he takes care of cleaning out the lunch box. Pretty classy on his part: I’m the custodian, but he takes the messy job while I get the far better task of helping a child. I even earn a shy smile of gratitude as I help her find her table.

As the first lunch fades, I notice an overly tanned mom waiting at an empty table with a multipack of chocolate cupcakes, a birthday treat for her son’s class. She wears hot pink head to toe—hoodie, tee shirt, short shorts, and sneakers—and her bleached blond ponytail is pulled through the back of her hot pink baseball cap. She’s not old, but she’s way too old for her outfit.  Hell, most of her son’s classmates are too old for her outfit. Clearly she does not want to blend in with the other parents.

The older kids don’t need help opening their food, but they are louder, and they do need a little encouragement to use walking feet and inside voices. The lunch ladies and the principal insist that the kids clean up their own tables, and with only a little prodding they do. And suddenly they are gone: the kids, the aides, the principal, the parents, Malibu Barbie mom. The lunch ladies retreat to the kitchen, and I begin cleanup.

There’s a lovely breeze blowing through the room, which makes sweeping up the Capri Sun straw wrappers a little tricky. I finally get everything corralled and into the trash, and I begin mopping. I use a nasty string mop, which is heavy and hard to manipulate, but it does seems to get the job done. I try to work methodically so I can tell what’s been washed and what hasn’t, but everything is so sticky the contrast between dirty and clean is pretty obvious.

One of the lunch ladies comes out and asks again my name. She says, “You’re a hard worker; I’m going to tell Jim [the regular custodian] that you did a good job.”

In blue collar world, this is the highest compliment that can be paid. No one cares if you’re smart or creative or well dressed. They don’t care what your grades were or what other jobs you’ve had. They want to see you work, which requires actual physical movement. In blue collar world, paper pushers are useless and overpaid, because they don’t DO anything.

I am tired, and glad to be finished. I make one more trek out to the dumpster, return the keys to the custodian’s desk, and walk out into the sunshine. Being a custodian is the hardest I’ve ever worked for the least amount of money.  And mostly I hate it, but it does have its rewards. As I walk to my car I remember the gratitude on the face of a cherubic kindergartner, and I smile.

Soccer Mom

When we first talked about adopting, a friend who had also adopted when her bio kids were a little older, was of course encouraging, but she also prompted me to consider carefully all the things that we would have to do again. “You've got to ask yourself, ‘Do I really want to go to all those soccer games again?’” she said.

Every Saturday morning when I’m at the soccer field, I remember that advice. When the weather is good and the kids are having a great time, it’s not too bad. But during the latter days of the season, when the weather is lousy and I’m tired of giving up my Saturday mornings, I remind myself that I chose this.

Both Lewi and Lily seem to enjoy soccer, which at their ages might be more important than having talent. Lewi is sporadic in his play, with moments that are inspired and others that are less than majestic, but Lily has settled into being a pretty good defensive player. She’s not fast and aggressive like the forwards, but she has a great kick, and she consistently moves smoothly into position between the ball and the net while keeping her eye on the play, trying to anticipate where the ball is going.

Over the years all of the kids have played in the rain (and even snow), but there is rain and there is rain. On this particular Saturday it had begun to rain, hard, before we woke, continuing cold and steady throughout the day. We were happy we had the early game, although when we arrived the field was completely soaked. Lily had dressed in layers, as did I, but I knew that was an exercise in futility. We were gonna get wet.

Some spectators set up chairs and huddled under blankets and enormous umbrellas right on the sidelines, but I’m more of a pacer, especially when it’s cold. The field is at the edge of the school’s playground, at the bottom of a little hill. Several of us have taken to setting up about midway up the incline, because it allows a better view of the whole field. Standing there, umbrella in one hand and rapidly cooling coffee in the other, I could see everything that was going on.

On rainy days, dads outnumber moms on the sidelines, and only die-hard grandparents show up (briefly, before remembering they have something really, really important to do).  I know some of the moms, but I didn’t see them that day, although with all of us bundled up like hikers on Everest, I’m not sure I could recognize anyone. It was too cold for chatting, anyway, so I focused on the game.

Lily played in goal for a quarter and as a midfielder in two. She didn’t have to move as much as some of the other girls, which was great, because it meant the team was playing well, but bad, because she was getting colder with every inactive minute. When she was bored she would look for me and wave. She had a couple of good saves and played her position well. By the third quarter it was obvious all the girls were sick of it but, soaked and cold and muddy, they played all four quarters to wind up exactly where they started: zero to zero.

Some days are like that. Sometimes even the things that should be fun and easy become hard work under adverse conditions, and in spite of your best efforts, you come away with nothing to show for it. And if you had seen it coming, you might have chosen a different path. But no game was ever won by second guessing. Better to slog on. Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s about learning to play in the rain.

Think Pink!

Pink is the color of breast cancer awareness, and since October is breast cancer awareness month, you’re going to start seeing a lot of pink in support of this important cause. Sports teams play in pink jerseys, yogurt companies top their containers with pink, charities sponsor walks and fundraisers with pink themes.

A woman’s lifetime risk of breast cancer is about 1 in 8, while a man’s is 1 in 1,000. And although breast cancer has one of the highest survival rates among the cancers, nearly 40,000 U.S. women died of breast cancer last year.

Almost fifteen years ago, on a Tuesday evening in May, I found a lump. At my relatively young age, with no family history of breast cancer, the few people who knew about the lump tried to console me that, statistically, it was probably nothing. Except my doctor, who looked me in the eye and said, “I can’t tell you it’s nothing. We need to get you in for tests.”

Those tests all confirmed the worst. About a month later, I had a lumpectomy. My oncological surgeon spoke with me as I was wheeled out of surgery. In my groggy post-op state I missed most of the specifics, but I clearly remember her squeezing my arm and saying, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

My oncologist told me I had no reason to have a mastectomy, but she encouraged aggressive treatment to take every precaution against a recurrence. It made sense to me; do everything possible to nip this in the bud while I was young and healthy and had fantastic support systems in place to get me through chemo. So over twelve weeks I had four rounds of poison pumped into me. The chemo made me sick to a degree that defies description. It also took my hair (I was oddly okay with this at the time, but now, years later, haircuts freak me out) and put my body into menopause. When chemo was done I went in for daily for six weeks of radiation; although it was annoying going to the hospital each day, the treatment itself was a piece of cake.

I still think about my cancer every day, when I notice the scar high on my left breast or when someone else is diagnosed or when the call goes out for organ or blood donors (a cancer history makes me ineligible to donate). Sometimes the full experience floods over me in waves of nausea, but more often it’s like remembering a bad work experience: an unpleasant event that consumed much of your life but that you survived, stronger than before.

Surviving cancer makes me feel both invincible and vulnerable. When I was diagnosed, I prayed for five more years of life so that I could raise my kids, who were very young at the time, to an age when they would remember me. God granted me more than double that, and I am grateful, but I still have moments when I forget to love my life. Sometimes I wonder what I was supposed to learn from the experience, whether there was something special God was expecting me to do with my remaining days, and whether I have honored my second chance.

Now that I understand the path, part of my journey includes walking with others living with cancer. I do what I can, but this is a hard road. The easier part is to advocate for early detection and support for research, for this and all other cancers. So here’s my pitch: even if you think you are too young, have no family history, are feeling great, are really busy—eat right, get the mammogram, get the colonoscopy. Pay attention to your body. Do the self-exams. Early detection saves lives and body parts.

I love the color pink, and I wear at least a touch of it every day in October. I wear it in honor of breast cancer survivors, and in memory of those who could not overcome. I wear it for my daughters (and sons), with a prayer that they will never have to face what I did. I wear it in gratitude for my wonderful doctors, who gave me hope, and in gratitude for all of those who supported me during those difficult days.

But mostly I wear it because it is a happy color that reminds me that each day is a gift, tied up in a pink ribbon. 

Loss

This week, two families in my circle of friends experienced loss through death. One family said goodbye to a mother. Her death was long, slow, and often painful for her family, and at times for her. Alzheimer’s had taken over years ago and had turned her into a truly horrible person. And then gradually the disease loosened its grip on her personality; she wasn’t lucid, but she was loving, and when she finally slipped into the arms of God, she and her family were at peace, and the love remained.

Another family said goodbye to a teenager. The boy had been born with muscular dystrophy, and had never lived a moment when his body wasn’t trapped by the disease.  Yet he was a remarkable kid with a remarkable attitude. He dedicated time to helping others and held no bitterness about his broken body. He loved his life and his family, and made a difference during his sixteen years. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was gone: he took his last breath in this world and was released from his pain forever.  

Suffering and loss are universal in the human experience. I know that the world isn’t fair, but I don’t know why it isn’t fair. The randomness of pain, the infliction of bad things on truly good people: there should be a better system. It seems to me that a God who can create the Amazon ecosystem and our remarkable brains and so many amazing things could come up with a better plan.  

Theologians point to Adam and Eve and the serpent and the fruit and free will—and I say, “Really? These families should suffer because of a slice of papaya at the dawn of time?” This week, that is not a satisfactory explanation.  

Yes, often we grow and learn and develop deeper faith through pain. I’m not sure the gain is worth the price. And I’m not sure who is supposed to be doing the learning here. I am always frustrated by the story of Job. God allows Satan to test Job by killing his children. The children are like props in this story, which is a crazy way to view people. Job’s wife surely also suffers from this loss, but she’s a throw-away character; in fact, she is harshly judged by history for her lack of faith.

And in the end, the Book of Job provides no answers to Job, or to us. We are allowed to ask the questions, but we should expect no answers, at least not yet. God is who he is, and he does as he does. He’s got control, even when we don’t see it, and he has a plan, even if it is not obvious to us.

I envision heaven as a place where this will all make sense, or maybe as a time when our earthly questions will no longer matter. But in the here-and-now I accept that it is not my task to understand or explain the ways of God. It’s my job to walk with those in pain, to pray for them and with them.  That is all that I can offer, and although it does not feel like nearly enough, it’s all that God requires. 

Lucy and Lily

These lyrics are from “Little Known Facts,” from the musical You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown:

Do you see that tree?
It is a fir tree.
It's called a fir tree because it gives us fur,
For coats,
It also gives us wool in the wintertime.

And way up there,
Those fluffy little white things,
Those are clouds,
They make the wind blow.
And way down there,
Those tiny little black things,
Those are bugs,
They make the grass grow.

D'you see that bird?
It's called an eagle,
But since it's little it has another name,
A sparrow,
And on Christmas and Thanksgiving
We eat them.

My sophomore year in high school, the play was You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. I worked on the sets. I loved going to rehearsals and eventually knew the script as well as the actors, especially the girl who played Lucy, who botched this song every single time. Super annoying, especially to those of us who auditioned but didn’t get parts.

I often think of this song when I overhear Lily and Lewi have a (one-sided) conversation. Lily is a self-appointed expert on virtually everything and, being two years older than Lewi, feels compelled to pass her vast wisdom on to baby brother  (“That’s a hawk, Lewi, but sometimes they are called an eagle hawk”).

On our way to church she explains about Moses (I think). In the way of most children, it’s a confusing mix of a variety of Bible stories, cartoons, and dreams: “Then they threw all the babies in the river. And there was a snake, and Moses held it up and turned it into a cobra.”

When she’s talking with Lewi, sometimes I correct her , but usually I tune her out. She’s practicing language, and I don’t want to discourage her. Most of her comments can’t really cause harm, and if Lewi is as attentive to her as he is to me, all of her sage offerings have evaporated long before they get anywhere near his brain.

I’m less inclined to ignore her attempts to educate me, and she gets super grumpy when I tell her that, yes, I know a few things about how the world works, and that her unsolicited advice isn’t helpful to me.  I’m especially prone to jump on her when she tries to speak for Lewi, who is perfectly able to speak for himself.

Tossed into the role of protector at a young age, Lily seems unable to reclaim her role as a child; she thinks she’s an adult. She also listens to every conversation and happily, and often inappropriately, inserts herself into each one. She might be one of those kids who was kind of born older, but a lot of it is adoption behavior, traits that tend to crop up among adopted kids. Plus she joined a family dominated by teenagers. She’s a natural mimic, so it’s likely she copying some of their behaviors, not understanding that what flies at age 18 doesn’t at age eight. It’s been hard to teach her appropriate social skills, and I worry how she does with her peers.

It’s sad that Lily’s childhood was cut short, and it’s sadder still that she seems unable to reclaim it.  That said, it’s really only sad to me. She seems to be a happy kid. Her attitude suits her, I guess. She enjoys being a little adult. And she does have some delightful childlike moments, like when she plays soccer and when she chooses to dress up like a princess for Halloween every year.

She’s like everyone else in this family: a blend of intellect and immaturity that can most graciously be called quirky. She’s her own person, but she fits right in.

I thought I would be better at this parenting stuff by now, but I’m still learning. Instead of trying to change her, I need to accept her, encourage her, correct her (occasionally), and help her find her unique way, not the path that I choose for her. We will grow up together.

Threads

This summer, my husband, who teaches third grade, took a week-long seminar on teaching reading. He came home completely fired up for the method and knew he wanted to implement it in his classroom. It would be a lot of work, but he had a vision for how it could be accomplished, and with enthusiasm like that, there is bound to be success.

The kids would all read books specific to them, and Bill wanted some sacks to hang on the backs of the students’ chairs to hold these reading materials. Earlier in the year I had bought several yards of fun fabric at a great price that turned out to be perfect for this. (And just to be clear: buying eight yards of fabric with no project in mind when I already have a craft room full of stuff does not make me a hoarder.)I put together a prototype, which Bill approved, and I got going on the other 23 sacks.

The multicolored fabric had a jungle pattern/theme, so I threaded my machine with green thread. I almost never buy thread; I seem to have an abundance of it, some of it older than my kids. I inherited a lot from my mom (she wasn’t a hoarder, either) and over the years I’ve used much of it, but some colors are time-specific. I have a ton of green spools, so green must not have been popular over the past couple of decades, at least not with me. That was about to change.

My mom taught me to sew, so I often think of her while at the machine. My mom worked her way through college and graduated with a teaching degree. She taught for several years, but I’m not sure she was a great teacher or that she enjoyed it. In those days no one really talked about doing a job that you loved; work was work. She was in it for the paycheck, and as a woman in that day, it was a career that was open to her. When she began teaching in the early days of the baby boom, she easily found employment in the classroom.

When the job market shifted, she took a job as a social worker for the state of Michigan, working with abused and neglected children. I think she was good at protective services, but it also ate her alive. She saw horrible abuse and neglect and had to testify in court about what she saw. She had to take children away from their parents and was spit on and assaulted because of it. The paperwork was formidable and, as with every job, she had coworkers she loved and others she didn’t. She wanted to help children and society, but her work must have felt like emptying the ocean with a teacup. And she could never speak of these things, since all records were confidential. It was a heavy load.

Mom found outlets for coping with stress, and one of them was sewing, although I’m not sure she ever saw it as a creative outlet but more a method to acquire more clothing (still doesn’t make her a hoarder). Over time mom sewed less and turned her creative efforts to other things, like cooking. By the time she died at the very young age of 51, her machine had sat idle for a few years. I inherited it, along with a box of fabric and over a hundred spools of thread.

I used up three spools of mom’s green thread making the book sacks. It seems fitting that the thread of a former teacher and children’s advocate lives on in my husband’s classroom. Green is the color of life, of renewal, of fresh beginnings. Even old thread can provide a supporting role in a new year full of promise and potential.

Fire in the Attic

My sophomore year at Hope College I lived in the oldest building on campus, Van Vleck Hall. Although it was 100-plus years old, it had been renovated over the summer, and it was both charming and functional. Smaller than the newer dorms, it had a reputation for being the residence of quiet, nerdy girls. Although I won’t deny that was true, it’s also true that you can get away with a lot if people think you are quiet and nerdy. Let’s just say that the residents had plenty of fun.

On a beautiful April day two weeks before the end of school, the dorm caught fire. Painters had been using torches to scrape old paint off the brick building’s wooden trim, and they did not notice when the dry wood of the eaves caught fire. In a bizarre oversight, there were no smoke detectors in the attic, so the fire crept along under the shingles until suddenly the roof burst into flames. No one was hurt, and while a few rooms sustained major damage, most of us lost only a few things to smoke and water. Although I didn’t lose much, it was still a traumatic experience.

Friends Marilyn and Deb offered the floor of their dorm room for the remaining two weeks of school. A week later, while I was sleeping on that floor, Deb woke us from a sound sleep to announce that the college’s administration building had burned to the ground overnight. I thought she must be joking. She was not. Where Van Raalte Hall had once stood was now a pile of smoldering rubble.

I had been nervous about that day; I had a presentation in one class as well as my final performance exam in voice class. I had prepared, but lack of effort was never my problem. Performance jitters always got the best of me; if I was graded down on anything, it was always related to that. So in addition to doing research for the presentation and practicing for the vocal final, I’d been doing exercises to help me to stay calm. I wanted to do my best—or at least not throw up.

When I heard about Van Raalte, I am pretty sure I went into shock; all emotion left me. But being numb actually was a big help in doing my presentations. With no nerves to get in my way, my psych presentation went flawlessly. I was feeling pretty good, maybe a little bit cocky, as I made my way to voice class, but the smell of smoke as I walked past the dampened ash heap that had been the administration building brought the numbness back immediately. I took my turn in voice class and delivered what was probably my best performance to date. Miss Morrison, my instructor, was clearly pleased, even a little awed.

Relieved to be done with it all, I returned to the room I was sharing with Deb and Marilyn. An hour later Marilyn (a music major) arrived, a little breathless. Miss Morrison had told her about my voice exam, and had told Marilyn that I HAD to audition for the college’s premier choir. The choir director had extend auditions by a day—that day—so Marilyn took me to the music building, helped me warm up, took me to the director’s door, and pushed me through.

I don’t remember the audition going particularly well, but when the list came out two days later, I was amazed to see my name on it as a second soprano. I was proud to be part of the choir; I learned a lot, made some friends, and got to travel a bit, but most importantly, it was in that choir that I met the tenor who became my husband.

I suppose it’s possible Bill and I could have gotten together under different circumstances. And it’s likely that if we hadn’t met each other, we would have had happy marriages with other people. I am a romantic, but I also respect the scientists who have proved that compatibility isn’t limited to one person in the universe, and that happiness isn’t linked to a single individual.

I also know this; the trajectory of my life changed with a fire in the attic. Without the fire there would have been no audition, no choir, no Bill, and none of the great things that have come with that relationship.

Sometimes even the worst days can turn into something amazing. Who would have known, standing on the lawn watching my dorm in flames, that that would be the best day of my life?

Happy New Year

For our family, the new year begins at the end of August, not in January. That’s when Bill and the kids start thinking about the new school year, the time when everything changes. Three years ago, late August was when we brought home Lewi and Lily, another big change that took place at the same time of year.

Bill and I have always appreciated and had a great love and respect for our extended families, our church, our schools, and all the other things that supported us as individuals and as a family. We know that we have been blessed with strong support networks. All of that said, our nuclear family is pretty tight (in a way that isn’t cliquey or cloying). We genuinely enjoyed being together, and usually laugh a lot when we are. Together we have endured cancer and car trips, faced great losses and great opportunities. We’ve cut our individual paths in the world, but at the end of the day, we know we belong to each other.

When I wanted to expand our family through adoption, Bill and the kids respected my calling and supported it. As we went through the process, the agency did a lot of training with us on the problems that adopted kids could have. They talked about the adopted child’s potential problems, and they talked about how extended families and society might react to a mixed-race family. They tried to prepare us, and overall they did a good job.

Like every aspect of parenting, it’s a whole different ball game once you take the field, but I think ALL of the kids did remarkably well—or at least behaved predictably. But I think each of us went through a grieving process: grieving the family that we had been.  I should have seen it coming; I remember the moment when, pregnant with Daniel, I suddenly realized that my relationship with Phillip was about to change dramatically. But even if I had anticipated it, the grief would have come, and we’d each have to go through it. Change—even positive change—is hard.

Family is so much more than common DNA. I give my mom and dad, and especially my late stepmother, Mickie, a lot of credit for modeling this for me. When I was a kid, “family” occasions like holiday dinners always included people beyond “us.” And when Dad and Mickie married, they worked hard to merge their six adult kids (and our spouses and offspring) into one family. We weren’t the Brady Bunch, but we learned to love, appreciate, and support each other, a legacy that has continued after Mickie’s death.

My older kids still have a special bond with each other, but they also have developed special bonds with their younger siblings. They have learned to share and care for others in a whole new way. They are a little less egocentric and a little more aware of the world we live in. And having to make room for new family members has paved the way as they have begun bringing home significant others. Our family will continue to expand and grow, and we’re happy for these new additions.

A few years ago, we began a new tradition. In mid- to late August, we gather as a family: the seven of us, plus boyfriends/girlfriends if they are available. We remember all of the good things we have to celebrate: two late-summer birthdays, the anniversary of the kids’ arrival, the coming of a new school year, the impending departure of those going off to college.

Then we raise a glass to us: the family we were, the family we are, and the family we are becoming. We know that change will come, and it should. We also know that, whatever those changes, good or bad, we are rooted, and it is those roots that give us wings.  

Amazing Grace

Westboro Baptist Church was coming to our neighborhood. This “church” opposes homosexuality (their slogan is “God hates fags”), and church members get their message across by picketing high-profile events like military funerals. It’s a sad, sick, legally protected attempt at attention, and no one likes it much.

So when a Marine from nearby Zeeland was killed in Afghanistan during his sixth tour of duty, the hate mongers of Westboro Baptist prepared to show up at the funeral. In response, a peaceful protest began to brew in support of the family of Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Price. The goal was to line the streets with people, creating a human shield that stretched the four-plus miles from the church to the cemetery. If Westboro showed up, they would be invisible behind a wall of flag-waving individuals. The call went out on Facebook and by word of mouth, and momentum grew.

On Saturday morning Bill, Kelsey, and I drove to Holland, my hometown, where the funeral and burial were to take place. We left our car near the park where I used to go for family picnics and walked to the cemetery, where we took a few minutes to visit the graves of family members. Then we took a spot on the funeral route, about halfway between the cemetery and what used to be my Uncle Herb’s house (where we would watch the Memorial Day parade each year). We stood with our flags and waited, watching the crowd gather.

All manner of humanity showed up. People with tattoos and interesting piercings, grandparents with their grandkids, people pushing wheelchairs, parents pushing strollers. Some wore the ugliest red-white-and-blue shirts you’ve ever seen, while others wore military uniforms. Most carried flags, some of them the flags that had draped the coffins of fallen soldiers. Some brought lawn chairs and blankets so they could wait in comfort. Although the area isn’t exactly known for racial diversity, this protest was blessed with a variety of skin tones.

A foul-mouthed family with cigarettes and a pit bull fell in next to us. People distributed bottled water. For a while it felt like a parade rather than a funeral. But as time passed, the crowd grew quiet and anticipatory. Finally, at about 12:30, we saw the flashing lights of the lead police car. Following the cop were the motorcycles of the Patriot Guard Riders. This unlikely grassroots effort began to counter the poison of the Westboro group; bikers will escort the funeral procession so that the noise of their bikes covers up the sound of the protestors. Two by two they rumbled by—men and women, old and young, some obviously vets and military supporters and others who seemed to be pacifists—a line of bikes stretching two miles.

They were followed by a white hearse, and then by car upon car carrying family and friends, many of them in uniform. We stood at attention with our flags for forty minutes as they all filed safely into the cemetery, where the honor guard waited to lay Daniel Price to rest.

The funeral route was over four miles long, and people lined both sides of the streets for the entire route. There were rumors that Westboro members were in the area, but there were no signs of their protests. Word on the street is that the number of human shield participants scared them off.

It was a beautiful thing, to see so many people with nothing in common come together to do a good thing.  Certainly some came to support the military and its people. Some came to oppose the message of Westboro. Some came to protect a family in its time of grief. It was good to stand together, if just for a moment, armed with nothing but love for humanity and a desire for peaceful change. You know that cliché, America at its finest? I think that was it.  

Ready

On warm May evening many years ago—our last evening in our first house—I sat on the front stoop, looked up at the stars, and tried to imprint on my memory a moment that was pregnant with both history and promise. It was time to move on to a larger home, and we were ready.  I didn’t want to stay where we were, but I did want to take a moment to honor the many happy moments we had shared in our tiny bungalow.

Generally I have lived my life thinking forward. I don’t want to rush time, but each season has its own beauty, and usually I’m excited to see what comes next, in my own life and in the lives of my kids. As they’ve grown I’ve been appreciative of each stage, each milestone, each challenge, and happy to see them figure out how to get to the next one.

But for the past six months, as Kelsey has finished up high school and set her sights on college, time has gone by so quickly it takes my breath away.  I’ve tried to enjoy this time, and I think she has, too, but she is ready to leave some things behind and begin this next exciting chapter in her life.

She’s not the first child to exit our nest, and not the last, but this transition feels more difficult for me than when her older brothers headed out. Maybe it’s the mother/daughter thing: we’ve always been close, and to date have had little of the tension that can accompany these teenage relationships. Maybe it’s my age or hormones or phases of the moon. Whatever it is, it’s been difficult.

I’m an emotional person, but a month of brooding and tears is extreme. In an effort to shake it off, I tried to focus on the upside of Kelsey going off to college. Although I am crazy about her, she also makes me crazy with some of her behaviors. So here are the top five things I will NOT miss when Kelsey’s at college.

1.       I won’t miss getting up at 5:30 each school day to wake her up. I didn’t mind getting up early to see her off to school, and I didn’t mind making coffee (since most of it was for me). What bugged me was that I’d fill a travel mug for her each day—and at the end of the week, when she finally brought her collection of travel mugs in from the car, I’d pour almost all of it out. She rarely had time for more than a sip. You’d think I would have learned, but I didn’t. That also goes for item #2…

2.       I won’t miss making healthy lunches that she would pass on in favor of cafeteria French fries. She might eat part of the lunch, but she was especially good at ignoring anything perishable, like yogurt, which went bad after a day in a hot locker. I know that at her age I didn’t owe it to her to make a lunch, but I was making them for the younger kids, so what’s one more? Anyway, I did figure that one out and stopped making her lunches…eventually.

3.       I won’t miss her stuff. Everywhere. The car she was using was pretty much a four-wheeled purse, littered with all manner of empty food containers, clothing, and memorabilia. If she’s in the house, there is evidence of it on every flat surface of our ample home. Her purse, her shoes, her keys, her shoes, her sunglasses, her backpack…and did I mention her shoes? Some people have a place for everything and everything in its place; Kelsey has everything and nothing has a place. Which leads us to #4:

4.       I won’t miss looking for things. You name, it, she’s misplaced it: clothing, jewelry, her debit card, important paperwork.  When she leaves her things around the house, I bring them to her room, hoping she will find a secure spot for them, but I long ago gave up asking her to clean her room. It’s fine with me if her domain is a tragic kingdom, but it does mean she never knows where things are, and sometimes I get sucked into helping her look. Even when it costs her time, frustration, and money, she refuses to change her ways. She couldn’t find her driver’s license for more than two weeks and finally went to the DMV for another one; a week after her new license arrived, the old one turned up—in the car, a place she had searched multiple times.

5.       I won’t miss drama. I love knowing what’s going on in her life, but occasionally she gets overly involved in something, or she rehashes the same problems—some of her own making—over and over and over and I want to tell her to LET IT GO. (And just to be clear: I have no idea where she learned this; I NEVER hold onto issues past their expiration date…)

So I guess there is an upside to her moving out. Do I feel better now? Nah. I’m going to miss her—I’ll even miss all the things she does that I think I’m not going to miss. But it’s time. I hold onto this moment that is pregnant with both history and promise, but I let my daughter go.

As long as she takes her stuff with her.

Fighting Fire

Okay, so let’s talk about movie murders in Colorado.

In my previous life as a magazine editor, I traveled to and wrote about some tragic places: El Salvador during some of its dark days of corruption and revolt; Honduras after Hurricane Mitch; Littleton, Colorado, after the Columbine shootings.  After 9-11, I wrote pieces on some of the people who died there, as well as pieces on churches and individuals that did ministry in those trying days and months. All of these experiences touched my soul and forced me to think. Even before I knew I would be traveling I was reading and researching, because I wanted to connect with what was going on: I wanted to understand, empathize, and find a way to move forward in light of awful circumstances.

But after the shootings in Aurora, I feel nothing. I’ve made no effort to read about the incident or to read people’s stories. I know nothing about the victims or the back story of how a night at the movies can go so horribly wrong. I am indifferent.

There is something wrong when the only response I can muster in the face of such horrible violence is, “Oh, well. What did you expect?”

As a civilization we have begun to evolve to the point where weaponry is less important; sane and reasonable people can come up with solutions that don’t demand firepower, globally and locally. I long for—pray for—a world at peace, and the end of warfare. True peace only comes with justice, and I know we are a long way from that, but I keep imagining that we are evolving into a more adult society that can find solutions without death and mayhem.

But here in the United States, it seems that we have decided that mass shootings are an acceptable part of our lives; the unfettered right to bear arms is far more important than the right to stay safe. We must fight fire with fire, and we should expect a certain amount of collateral damage. As a people, this is the path we’ve chosen.

To be clear: I don’t think the solution is to take guns away from those who know how to use them. Nor do I think the solution is to arm everyone, a suggestion that I’ve actually heard from some people. These are the folks that seem to blame the people in the theater for not wearing Kevlar; how dare the movie goers assume that this might be a safe place!

Yes, there are plenty of other ways to kill people, and wackos and those who want to make a point will find other ways. Gun control is no guarantee to the end of random violence. But if we’re looking to curtail these incidents, to refuse to consider changing the way we buy, sell, and perceive weapons seems ridiculous. Digging in our heels is no way to solve a problem. If we want to change our future, we have to find a new way of doing things, of reforming laws or procedures. We can talk about all kinds of other things, too, but we need to talk about weapons.

In so many other areas the world is changing for the better. Sometimes slowly, slowly, but at least moving—if not globally, then at least heart by heart. While violence and prejudice still rear their ugly heads on a regular basis, in almost every area—racial and gender equality, increased concern for the environment, world peace—someone, somewhere, is always moving forward, pulling the rest of us along. But on the issue of gun violence, it seems we cannot move at all.

There are those who continue to advocate for changes in gun laws. It seems like the most hopeless of causes now, but great things have come from small groups of dedicated people. I pray for them and their cause. The future rests with them. 

Requiem

I was at the mall when my phone rang. Bill had decided to replace his old van, and he needed my Social Security number to complete the transaction. I was a little surprised that he was buying a new van without letting me know, but I gave him the info and then, in a small passive/aggressive gesture, bought a pair of truly hideous leopard-print fuzzy dice to hang from the rearview mirror of the new vehicle.

Twelve years and 150,000 miles later, Bill removed the dice, along with all of our other personal possessions, and traded the van in for a new car. The van had been limping along for about a year, and finally it breathed its last. We had to let it go.

While it wasn’t altogether unexpected, it did feel sudden. The poor thing had been through the ringer.  Over the years, rust spots seemed to bubble up out of nowhere, eventually eating away at parts of the metal. The big scratch on the side: yeah, that was mine, acquired in when I sideswiped a support column in a Chicago parking ramp while shuttling a group of Girl Scouts. During the past year Kelsey was primary driver on the van, and she did her share of damage. The van wasn’t pretty, but it had a lot of heart, and in the end it was its heart that gave out.

Trading in the van was a more emotional experience than we expected, like a death, but on a small scale.  At some point, the van became a member of the family. Maybe it was during the day-to-day trips to school, to work, to church, to the grocery store, with the kids fighting in the back, as kids do. Maybe it was while it pulled our camper up to Ludington, where we spent fall weekends enjoying long walks and smoky campfire talks with friends, and where the van got a few dings as we learned how to connect it to the hitch. Maybe it was during our family trips to Florida. Each of those trips was special, but one was special for a different reason; my stepmother was failing, and we weren’t sure if we would get to her in time to say goodbye. The van sped through Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and the whole length of Florida, and each mile we prayed that my stepmom would hold on. Our prayers were answered. We were able to have meaningful conversation with Mickie before she died—a gift from God.  A month later, the van carried us to the cemetery where we laid her ashes to rest.

We took our last trip in the van just over a year ago, when we all traveled to Omaha for our niece’s wedding. It was our first, and probably last, trip as a family of seven, and we thought it might be long and boring. But we had a great time together, safe and snug in our aging minivan.

In a few weeks we’ll drop the kids off at college, and for the first time, we won’t have the van to help us. I’m sure we’ll manage, but it is forcing us to think of things differently. That’s not a bad thing. We look forward to better gas mileage, a little more space in the garage, and that, at least for a while, we won’t be slapped with $1,000 repair bills.

We will miss the van, but as we roll on into our future, we bring our memories with us, grateful for where we’ve been and who we’ve been, and excited to see where our new vehicle will take us.  

The Soon-to-Be-Famous Ice Cream Diet

For those of you who don’t know, July is National Ice Cream month. How great is that: a whole month to celebrate one of my very favorite things! July also happens to be the month of my birth. (Coincidence? I think not!) The combination of these things makes me feel justified—nay, compelled—to eat ice cream every single day in July. It would disrespectful not to. Well, maybe not disrespectful, but certainly a missed opportunity.

July is also the season when I am most self-conscious of my body shape, and my extra padding. I don’t want to add to that. So I’ve devised a special July diet that allows me to eat ice cream every day. And I’m willing to share my secret with you.

The diet is essentially an enhancement of the South Beach diet. South Beach promotes lean protein, lots of veggies, a few healthy fats, and reduced sugars and grains. Plus drink lots of water, stuff like that. It’s a pretty common-sense, easy-to-follow kind of plan, and generally I can lose weight when I follow it.

One of the South Beach proteins is eggs, and I think that eating them helps me lose weight more quickly. So most mornings I have eggs for breakfast, which is enjoyable the first morning, tolerable the second, and from then on feels a little like taking medicine. I try to dress them up with veggies and hot sauce, but that doesn’t always help. Every couple of days I cheat and have something else, but then I try to do eggs later in the day to take advantage of their magic weight-loss power.

Every weight-loss plan is more effective if you increase activity, so I do a half hour of something each day. I hate to exercise—and I’m sure that a future blog will outline this in painful detail—but for now suffice it to say that it’s not my favorite thing. But for the ice cream, I do it. I usually walk, but yoga, biking, running, marching in front of the TV are all acceptable. Even cleaning and gardening count, but if that’s my day’s activity, I usually try to do it for at least an hour. Better still, I take the walk AND do the cleaning.

Then I add ice cream. Now, if you’re a sick and twisted person who would be satisfied with just a spoonful a day, you could probably just eat that without any kind of damage. I am not that girl. Although I have never eaten a full pint in one sitting (so that’s still on the bucket list), I want a full serving, so often I’ll skip a meal and substitute ice cream. Sometimes it’s a scoop, sometimes it’s a sundae, and when I’m really feeling decadent, I’ll have a Dove bar. Usually I just raid the freezer at home, but sometimes I go out for a cone or a shake. Whatever I eat, it’s generous. There’s no sense doing this if you’re not going to commit. In the words of Reformation preacher Martin Luther—taken completely out of context—If you’re going to sin, sin boldly.

During the first week I’m pretty disciplined, and I’ll actually drop a few pounds. But then my resolve lessens, and when the temperature rises, as it is prone to do in July, the exercise is even less appealing. So I cheat a little, and I stop losing weight. But I don’t gain, either, and I get to have ice cream every day. Life is full of these little trade-offs.

Over the decades I’ve made lots of choices, large and small. Not all of them were smart, but I can live with that. Not all of my choices were kind, and those are the things I wish I could go back and change. The reasons behind the choices are more important than the choices themselves. I don’t regret the choices made out of love, or the times I chose to have the right attitude in the face of undesirable circumstances. And it’s never a mistake to choose joy—to choose something that makes you happy.

Like ice cream. Every day in July.