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.