December 22nd

Sort of a nothing day. And I'm feeling like I belong right squarely in the middle of this "nothingness." Sitting on the couch, nursing a full-blown head/chest cold, aimlessly surfing the net, looking at two baskets of unfolded laundry, and pausing occasionally to referee a disturbance of the brotherly sort, I am feeling very unChristmaslike.

I've been reading Advent materials, seasonal blog entries, even trying the Christmas Carol CDs, but not much is moving me towards "that Christmas feeling." Maybe some snow would help? But for some reason even if we got snow right this minute, it would seem like so much of an afterthought. Hm. I even bought a more-than-usual supply of goods to bake sugar cookies and gingerbread men, but the very much unbaked supplies are still in the cupboard--in part because we still have so many leftover sweets from school, that it seems only right to eat those first. In part, because, well, it seems like a lot of work to mix, roll, cut, and decorate all of those not-at-all helpful-to-my-health treats.

It seems that we have been shopping, wrapping, and decorating for quite some weeks, but those weeks have felt like October outside. Ah, well, maybe some years are just this way? Or maybe it is the cold medicine.

Done

One of my mother's favorite words/phrases, as in, "Well, I got that done." We in the Finch Family like to "get things done," "checked-off our list," "project accomplished." Tonight, however, I'm an entirely different kind of "done." It is the day before final exams begin and I'm exhausted-- mentally, physically, even a bit spiritually tired. It has been a really great teaching semester--although I would guess that my family would argue that it hasn't been the best mommy semester ever.

 I am deeply convicted that I am a better mom because I teach--God called me to this vocation, and I think it important that my kids see me fulfill that gift. I also am deeply thankful everyday that I have the kind of career that places me squarely in the middle of my kid's lives everyday--we have the same schedules, I know their teachers, I understand how their school district "works"--and even one day, we'll all land at the same building together and it will be totally uncool that their mom could be their teacher--or at the very least, their friends' teacher. But. Does all of that make-up for the hours I spend every evening grading and reading and planning--when I could be playing with them? Or, if I am playing with them, my mind is not always in the present . . . I'm ruminating over a new idea for a lesson, or running through how to handle situations within my department, or, or, or. On a good day, or for that matter, almost every day, I know in a very clear, "the-spirit-is-moving-kind-of-way" that this is the life for us. But on December 15th, when I've just poured myself into 5 months of other kids' lives, I am grateful that in three days I will have a few weeks with my boys to become "undone."

The Roman Missal, Third Edition

Sigh. Harumph. Ergh. Argh. Oh dear. Those are the exact emotions I felt during the progress of  Mass this morning. Now, I know that it is the human condition to resist change, and that I'm certainly not exempt from any kind of human condition, but I went from a little dismayed listening to myself and the rest of the congregation stumble over "consubstantial" during the Nicene Creed, to unsettled with the new word, "chalice" in place of "cup" during the Eucharistic Prayer, and then irritated with the word "many" replacing "all" in regards to exactly who Jesus came to save, outright saddened and angry that we no longer elicit God to "protect us from all anxiety" at the end of the most perfect prayer.I had loved the beautiful, thoughtful placement of that plea following our acknowledgement of all that IS through Him. And then, just when I was into a full-on feeling really sorry for myself that my Mass had been so hijacked,we told Jesus that He could make us worthy to "Enter Under Our Roofs." I giggled. Seriously? I mean, were there no linguists working on this new translation that had any sense of the beauty of language? The word "roof" serves only to make me think of 2X4's and men working with power tools.

To be fair, I like the new response, "And with your Spirit." And I love me some King James words like "Behold" and "O"--so I'm good with all of that. But, I'm not sure why we need to say that Jesus "suffered death" instead of "died" during the Nicene Creed, and let's suffice it to say that I was thrilled when Fr. elected to not choose the Penintential Rite option that would have had us all beating our chests and admitting to commiting sin through our most "grievous faults" times three. I might have been looking for the ushers to pass out hairshirts at that point.

Sigh. I admit that I haven't delved into all of the history of this new Missal--I've read the requiste columns in the bulletin, the booklets the boys have brought home from CCD, and a few articles in the Catholic Post--but the only thing I've really been able to garner about WHY this change has come, is because after Vatican II, the translation from Latin into the languages of the people was too rushed. So the big dogs in Rome have decided that we needed to revise the language of the Mass in order to get closer to the original Latin. Now, I adore Latin--love its intonation and formal, repetitive structure--Lent is even my favorite liturgical season because it is one of the few time of the year that we dust off the Kyrire, et al. BUT . . . without even knowing what I'm talking about in any official way, the creeping feeling in my skin at Mass this morning was enough to tell me that this move was definitely a conservative one--and one that seems to hold the people at an arm's length from the Mass.

 Words are powerful--and they can serve to unite ("And with your Spirit") or alientate (i.e. "consubstantial"). Some of these changes are not what I think Jesus had in mind, with his disciples gathered closely around him in intimate quarters, raising common bread and a cup, asking for his friends to do this in memory of Him. Not what he had in mind at all.

Illusions Shattered

I recieved an email from the boys' principal yesterday. She sent it to let me know how grateful she was that 10-yr-old reported that there was a student with a knife on the playground. She offered that there had been some other students who had seen the knife, but hadn't said anything. I was surprised to get this email. Being a high school teacher, I'm certainly not naive to the happenings at schools, however, it just had not crossed my radar that this particular kind of happening would involve my children. This is not because I believe that they are special, or especially protected--I just hadn't really thought about it. And then I went to pick-up the boys . . .

 They jumped in the truck, and 10-yr-old instantly began to tell me the rest of the story . . . "Mom, when I saw that he had it, I said, 'Give me the knife--you are going to hurt someone or yourself with it'" With my heart starting to pulse a bit faster, I asked for the rest of the story. 10-yr-old said, "Well, then he ran away from me and when he saw me tell the teaching assistant what was going on, he tried to drop the knife behind him hoping no one would see. But I did. When the TA went over to him, I kept all of the rest of the kids clear of the knife."

 How exactly does a Mom respond to a story like this? I didn't know where to start--so proud of his bravery--so worried that in his attempt to do the right thing he could have so easily implicated himself in the "having a knife situation" had the student actually given it to him--so astounded that he took control (even telling the TA what to do)--so stunned that he didn't even consider that he could have gotten hurt in the whole thing.

I took a minute to gather my thoughts, compliment him on everything he did right, and then promptly fumbled all over myself trying to explain to him why he shouldn't have asked for the knife. In his world, it made perfect sense--he knew how to handle a sharp object, he was older, and he is very protective and responsible. Why wouldn't he try to fix the situation? Ugh. How awful that I had to try to explain that not only could taking the knife have been the thing that got him hurt, but also that had the student given it to him, the student could then have tried to turn the story inside out and gotten him in trouble. 10-yr-old sat next to me quiet. A little confused. And trying to process. I could barely contain my angst for him. The ripping away of the illusion that doing the right thing, the safe thing, is not at all simple, nor straightforward was as painful to watch as the idea that my dear boy could have been physically harmed, felt.

9-yr-old sat in the backseat quiet, wondering what all of this meant for him. The boy with the knife was not a close friend, but in his class, and definitely a playground football friend. Now what? Was the certain look on his face. Am I somehow guilty by association? And, mixed-in those deep brown eyes was also some, Would I have known what to do? anxiety.

We relived the story with Dad at dinner, and he too reemphasized 10-yr-old's bravery and leadership, while trying to assauge 9-yr-old's nerves. We found ourselves groping for the right way to present reality, while desperately trying to hold onto their little elementary world for them. I think we all knew though, that things had shifted just a bit--and that no matter what words are spoken, anytime a 10-yr-old handles a scary situation like a man, a little bit of childhood is over. There was more than one illusion shattered yesterday.

Letter to Santa

I came upstairs from the never-ending laundry chore this evening to find nine-year-old sitting by himself at the kitchen table writing a letter to Santa. I'm not sure how it happened exactly, but he was so sweetly in earnest that I stepped away, hovering in the next room in case he needed me. Sure enough, my proofreading skills were quickly demanded--because, it is important you know, to make certain that one spells all words in a letter to Santa correctly, lest one receive gum instead of a gun.

This letter writing was such a gift of the season for me, as ten-year-old and I had just shared a conversation a few days back about how one needs to pretend to believe in Santa if one still wants to receive gifts. Ten-year-old and I were both convinced that nine-year-old had also ceased to believe, but we decided to keep our doubts about his doubts to ourselves. So one can imagine how tickled I was to see little man's gangly legs wrapped around the legs of the dining room table, tongue stuck-out in concentration, writing to the dear Claus man on looseleaf paper with half-chewed pencil. So real, so true, so believing.

But what really moved me, was how ten-year-old sat quietly in the background, not jeering his little brother or even making the move to share a covert wink with me. He sat rather, and let his brother have his space and the ability to believe--just one last year.

It's all a gift

Read a daily meditation this morning from the Center for Action and Meditation that had as its central message a reminder that we do nothing to deserve grace, that everything, even the hairs on our heads are given to us, but coming to this understanding, and certainly being open to recieving this grace is one of the most difficult tasks set before Christians. Amen, I say to this. How much of our energy (okay, my energy) is spent trying to be worthy when, all along, I have already been? How appropriate the timing of this meditative gift during this week of thanks! A truly transformative way of viewing our abundance--not something given to us lightly, so therefore, not something that we should steward lightly either. But with this realization comes not the usual pressure, but instead a heart that feels grateful and untethered in its duty. A gift within a gift--I'm learning that it ALL is.

It wasn't even a deep fried Turkey

BAM BAM BAM!!! Someone was slamming on our front door and then RINNNNGGGGing our doorbell at 12:20ish this afternoon. Husband, Parents-in-Law, Daughter and I all looked at each other and than ran for the door. I was thinking that the bang slamming was a little rude for our neighbor boy, and then OMG--it wasn't the neighbor boy, but a random good citizen out for a jog who saw what looked like our garage on fire. We threw open the doors and were met with the nastiest smell and solid wallls of dark grey smoke--the entire garage was filled with what looked like steel wool.  . . . Husband ran into the abyss, and thank God, the only thing on fire was the grill and the 7 pounds of chicken wrapped in 2 pounds of bacon.

Husband had agreed to cook this grill delicacy (marinated in pinneapple juice, terriyaki, and soy) for a joint birthday celebration of the 20- year- old and 9- year- old. They agreed on the meal, harrassed Dad to grill it even though it was November, and once Grandpa arrived the men moved the grill to the garage out of the 30 mph wind--and I do not exaggerate. Dad/Husband is master griller, and kept religiously checking his chix--so we don't know what happened exactly, but for just a millisecond of time I had a flash of what being caught in a real fire might be like. I was able to shut the house doors, Husband grabbed the grill and all but threw it in the driveway, and the only thing lost was the meat. The grill is still TBD. Scary, and wierd, and surreal, and I might add, really stinky. The garage is working on a nice blend of oil, old boots, and now, charred farmyard.

What about dinner, one might ask? Well, the same men who initially moved the grill to the garage, and then wrestled the fiery beast out of the garage, took to Grandpa's truck, a.k.a. "meal rescuer" and drove to the Jewel in search of some more protein. So the birthday kids still had their brown sugar carrots (which were rescured from the dragon), parmesan red potatoes, peas, and Jewel Deli Fried Chicken. And now they have a story to tell as well. And we have a new grill to buy--or so Husband hopes.

She's 20

The little blond urchin, in love with all things Disney--okay, all things Disney Princess and Lion King--turns 20 today. So much fun watching her grow-up. It doesn't hurt that she is happily studying history at my alma mater, and is an active in my dear old sorority, but even if all of that weren't true (which happily it is!) I am so proud of the woman that she is becoming. I wish I could offer to her all of the things that I now know that I certainly didn't at the age of 20--but that is not to be, as I wouldn't want to rob her of her own beautiful growth even if she did want her stepmom's wisdom (not!). She has so much in front of her yet--right on the cusp of all that life has to offer, and it takes my breath away for her. Perhaps that is the gift of this age--everything is still possible, yet, when one is 20, one is blissfully unaware of this overwhelming that is waiting right around the corner. One lives in the moment when they are 20, and, I think, this is the way that it is meant to be. Regardless, it does indeed seem like yesterday that we were helping her tie her shoes, look behind the seat for stuffed Simba, watching the Little Mermaid over and over again, and painting her room purple.

He'll always be different

These were the wise words my mother offered me almost nine years ago after the birth of my youngest. He was born with Pierre Robin Syndrome, which brought with it much confusion, tears, questions, surgeries, multiple hospitals, teams of doctors . . . and, in short, a whole new way of looking at parenting, and, well, the world.

There is so much I could say, such an involved complicated story to share about almost-nine-year-old's journey from a beautiful, but very sick little man into the funny, charming, bright young boy by my side. Today we are celebrating one specific milestone in his journey--the end of speech therapy. He "graduated" from his IEP at school this week--which marks the end of a journey that started when he was only a few weeks old with dear Donna, the ever-patient therapist who visited our home weekly to help us get Ethan to eat. Being the stinker that he is, he fought us tooth-and-nail--he would have none of what we were offering. We (okay, at least I) was in despair, thinking that he might never eat by mouth . . . until one day Donna had a brainstorm that maybe it wasn't that he didn't want to eat by mouth, but rather that he didn't want to eat all of the liquids and paste-like things we were giving him. She offered him a graham cracker well before a typical child should get crackers, and he went for it! About a week or so later, Daddy was in the kitchen cooking chicken, and little man started pounding on his highchair, trying to signal that he was hungry. On a whim, Daddy ground-up some chicken and little man gobbled it up in a flash! We should have known back then that almost-nine-year-old just wanted to do this eating thing "his way."

From those first months of feeding, we moved into teaching little man sign language so that he could communicate even with his tracheostomy. From there, we moved to getting to hear his voice with the Passey-Muir valve, and then, finally, decannulation, which brought with it a break from therapy for a while. When preschool rolled around, it was time to help my now precociously verbose little comedian with his consonant blends, s's, r's, z's, and all other sounds that required him to move his mouth and tongue in ways that were never natural to him.

We should have known that his little stubborn nature would also be one of his best assests, as he dug his heels in, determined to be a rock star speech student. After some major orthodontia the past year which caused some further pronunciation setbacks, he has worked even harder, and improved leaps and bounds. His brother no longer has to "translate" for him when others can't quite understand, and he came home all a-grinnin' yesterday, and announced at supper that he is "done with speech--Mrs. Dunneback said I'm done for good!!"

We are so proud of our little monkey--nine years ago I could have never imagined that our little man would be the bright, kind, funny, and verbal dude that he is. Mom was right, he'll always be different, and so will we for getting to be his parents.

If I could just . . .

I find myself thinking, "If I could just . . ." and then filling-in the elipse with any number of things: get these papers graded, finish-up the laundry, read that chapter, spend more time with the buddies, actually see my husband when we're both not exhausted . . .

I wonder what the second half of that thought is though. For example, "If I could just get the house picked-up . . ." then what? I would feel better? Be complete? Win a million dollars? Hm. I'm curious where I got the idea to talk to myself like this, why I continue to do so, and what exactly I think I'll "win" if the "If" would always come true?

I suspect that I'm not alone in this type of self-talk. Actually, my guess is that most women with too much on their plates and too many expectations of themselves recite this or other similiar mantras almost daily. Or hourly. Perhaps my experiment for this weekend should be that everyone time I hearing myself "If I could just . . ." I'll fill it in with " . . .sit here" or " . . . pray" or " . . . do nothing at all." My guess is that while this is what I need to do, it will feel very uncomfortable. Now, if I could just get through the rest of the day so that I could start this experiment  . . .

Philos

from the Greek, often used to refer to love for one's family. Also, "of one's own." Its opposite, (those Greeks loved antithesis) is "Ecthros," or, "not of one's one." Also frequently used to mean, "evil," or "the enemy." Love these words. I can't think of any more perfect way to describe how one feels about familial love, or how one might better describe evil in this world--"not of one's own"--something rejected, something decidely "other."

I've been teaching these words to my AP students, as we read Antigone, but I am fully aware that I'm more in love with rolling around in their meanings than are my students:) In order to avoid being too heavy on this cold and rainy October day, I'll just throw out for kicks a few things that are definitely "of my own":

Anything red. Especially red Mary Janes.
Anything involving carbohydrates.
Musicals.
High School and College Football.
American History.
A Damn Good Book--particularly if it is Historical Fiction.
Anything that involves me wearing "wubbies"--family code for jammy pants and sweatshirts.
Jewelry.
My three men, and a young lady.

Definitely NOT "of my own" a.ka. things that I find to be evil:

Mayonaise.
Mushrooms.
Math.
Mean people.
(I'm sensing an allterative trend . . .)
Grading 90 of the same Sophomore Essays.
Overlong summer vacations.
Did I say Mayonaise?
Crimes against the Holy Spirit.

Okay, better stop before this becomes too much fun. Back to the ungraded essays.

It Doesn't Get Any Better

It has been a good weekend around here for the ten-year-old. We must first consider that he eats/drinks/sleeps football, and then we must remember that if it is Notre Dame football, then we begin to hear angels sing as well.

It began Friday afternoon when he got to walk in the high school Homecoming Parade wearing is Irish jersey. Then we attended the high school game, where my boys won--and 10-year-olds' favorite players were in true form. Saturday morning 10-year-old went with Mom back to school to help decorate for the dance, and besides the two donuts he scored from the deal, he also got to hang-out with the high schoolers, and be helpful handyman, moving chairs and tables, taping-down balloons, and just being generally useful-- all right up his alley.

Saturday afternoon brought THE BIG GAME. Having lost to their town rivals, the Cardinals earlier in the season, 10-year-old and his fellow Irish have been focused on nothing except beating them this time around to finish their season and to give the Cardinals their first loss. The football gods were a'smilin' on the blue and gold as my little quarterback/linebacker helped his team win 18-12. Anyone in attendance might have thought that they had just won the Super Bowl and the World Series--simultaneously. After the game, he got to meet the grandfather of one of his teammates who was a REAL Irish player--a Notre Dame football alum from the 1960s. Yep, he got is picture taken with him.

It was supposed to be all downhill after that--with the exception of the end-of-the-year football banquet this afternoon, BUT when we pulled into the parking lot at church this morning there was an enormous tour bus in the back of the lot  . . . taking a pew a few rows in front of our usual one because church was filling-up rapidly, we looked across the congregation to see the Notre Dame Men's Glee Club. They were visiting for Mass after having been in town for a concert the night before. 10-year-old didn't take his eyes off of them--he was enraptured. I'm pretty positive that he doesn't even remember sitting, standing, genuflecting . . .but he could probably tell you every move that each of those young men made. We were treated to a post-Communion hymn by our visitors, and 10-yr-old didn't move a muscle. He left church grinning from ear to ear.

Sometimes, it just doesn't get any better.

A little gratitude

I'm thankful for:

Sisters who call and make me laugh.

Sisters who call back and make me laugh even harder.

Dads who like to stay up late talking.

10-yr-olds who still like to snuggle their Momma.

Friends with eternal patience.

Moms who understand. And then some.

Huge black tree trunks with electric yellow leaves.

Moms who love the same trees I do.

Husbands who grocery shop. And grill.

Football.

Pumpkin cake. Pumpkin Ice Cream. Pumpkin Lattes.

8-yr-olds who love to laugh.

A God who sees fit to give me all of this.

An Ode to the Stomach Flu

Oh Stomach Flu, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways . .
I love you to the depths of my tubs of Chlorox Wipes,
to the breadths of couches and chairs covered in sheets and little boy bed pillows.

Your little germies infiltrate the unsuspecting bellies of my buddies--
cutting short the school day and delivering us all home to rest. We
fidget in the strangeness of daytime television, not quite knowing what to do
with ourselves
who
find our legs in jammies, and heads on pillows when the sun is still high.
Boxes of kleenex, cups of ginger ale, and take-home work juxtaposed with
remote controls and baskets of clean unfolded laundry. All quotidian, yet
strangely out of place.

So, how do I love thee? Not so much. But I did:
Rub backs
Grade Papers
Get Kleenex
Answer Emails
Offer Ice
Update my blog
And wish that it was me instead of them.

The Kind Touch of a Stranger

Dropped ten-year-old off at football practice and headed to run a few errands last night. Eight-year-old upon realizing that we weren't going straight home, burst into tears. Now, I know my little man enough to say that yes, he does indeed sometimes cry over nothing, and can be quite sensitive and pouty--but this cry was one of those "different" crys--it said, "I'm feeling left out--and I just wanted to go home and maybe play with the neighbors a bit". Of course eight-year-old didn't articulate this--but I could see it in gasps he was trying to smother in-between tears.

The problem was, that I had to make at least one more stop--needed a present for a wedding this weekend. So, eight-year-old withdrew himself from the backseat and then wrapped his arms around me in the store parking lot trying to get his crying under control. I was not the least upset with him, nor self-concious--just let him hug me until he gathered himself up. He still had his arm around me as we entered the store, so we were moving a bit slowly. I caught then out of the back corner of my eye, a woman walking patiently behind us as we were blocking her way. We quickly moved on and I nodded an apology at her.

A few minutes later in the pasta aisle, the same woman approached eight-year-old with a very calm, soothing voice, took his chin in her hand and said, "what a beautiful face."He was shy, but I could feel his body next to mine relax--and mine with his. She stood there grounded and calm, and as if this were the most natural thing in the world--to approach a stranger and her child and to offer her presence. And it WAS the most natural thing in the world. I used to love that show, "Touched by an Angel"--corny and sappy as it was, I was/am enamored by the idea of people moving in and out of our lives in ways that we can't/don't even fathom--for the sole purpose of offering love and peace.

 Eight-year-old steadied himself to finally meet her gaze and nodded at her. She smiled again and told him that he is beautiful, and then lightly touched my arm as she went on her way. I mouthed a heartfelt "thank you" to her, and the moment was over. Except that it isn't. Twenty-four hours later, I'm still thinking about it. And while filled-up by this act, I also feel a lovely debt to be this woman for another Mom.

Butterfly

For those of you who actually read this blog (not sure if I'm writing to a pretend audience?!), thought I would offer a quick update:

George is a girl.

Yep, the beloved caterpillar has emerged from its chrysalis and stretched its beautiful wings and flown away. And eight-year-old relayed this to me with an impish grin of delight because he was holding-back the information that because of the markings on the wings, it turns-out that George is really Georgina.

Things aren't always what they seem, I guess. But in the case of George/Georgina--it didn't change our adventure at all. Funny that.

Getting Old or Is this my body?

Been thinking about getting old lately. It might have been when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day and did a double take because I swore it was my mother looking back at me. Perhaps it is the fact that there is very little I eat these days that doesn't get stuck between two of my back teeth--perhaps my gums are receeding?? Or the funny moles that have shown-up out of nowhere, or my left knee that aches through the first half-mile of my morning run, or that there is very little greasy or highly sugary food that doesn't either give me heartburn or leave me with a belated sugar coma. A dear friend and I were swapping these stories of our bodies betraying us the other morning at work--and we were (are?!) truly disgusted at this unnecessary assault . . . after all, we are only the tender age of 37. Growing-up I remember hearing the menopause jokes, or the elderly, "needing-a-cane" jokes, but no one ever prepared me for this wierd late 30's business. Dear friend said the same. She was disgusted by the black circles under her eyes because she hadn't gotten at least 7 hours of sleep. Ah, what happened to the days when we could do anything we wanted without asking our bodies for permission? Who knew that we wouldn't be 18 forever? 

This strange getting older business was corroborated by my big sister last night when we were pondering the fact that her 20th high school renunion is in two weeks. She nailed it on the head when she said, "I know that other people are getting older, and that they are moms with kids who are almost in high school, but not me. I just happen to be someone who is a parent--I'm still actually 18. Other people have 20th reunions, not me." I know exactly what she means, which led me to wonder if other people actually feel like they are their correct age? I'm clearly 20--not quite a child, but with all of the possibilities of my whole life ahead of me. Someone else is the 37-year-old that occasionally wears my clothes and looks back at me from the mirror with my mother's eyes.

Staying in the Moment

8-yr-old has a new friend. His name is George. George the caterpillar. George has visited our home each weekend on a field trip from school. We get to watch 8-yr-old empty his container, feed him new milkweed, and watch in awe as George grows exponentially every day. Watching my little man's joy in each incremental change has reminded me how easily and quickly I dismiss hundreds of things each day. And had George not visited our home as the beloved science-experiment-turned-pet, I would have dismissed him as just another little bug like all of the others on the sidewalk. George has reminded me that even the littlest things count--a hard reminder for my typical existential- angst- filled self. George changes so quickly, that if we were to turn away for too long, we would miss his growth--we must stay in the moment with him.

I'm thinking that maybe God thinks I need a healthy dose of bugs this week, because while I've been musing about George, two of my AP Lit students, unbeknownst to each other, chose Frost's A Considerable Speck as their poem to memorize for my class. The conversation that ensued following each recitation was fascinating to me--listening to my just-turned Seniors work their way through this very challenging read caught me up entirely. The bell rang before any of us were aware--or for that matter, ready. When the students had gathered their things and left my room, I just sat for a moment and let myself remember that it was for moments like the one we had all just shared that I spend so much time preparing--a little like George and his preparations for becoming a butterfly. He'll get there when he is ready, but in the meantime my guess is that he'll stay in the moment, blissfully unaware that he is "supposed" to be moving on.

Favorite

A week of no blogging means a busy week here at home and school. But just to pacify myself that I did, indeed, blog this week, I'll quickly share one of my favorite things . . .

Sleepy boys in their beds, smelling of warm hair and flushed faces as I kiss them awake in the morning. So safe. All of the possibilities of the day ahead getting ready to stretch out before them. Even better? When a sleepy arm unfurls itself from under the cave of blankets to pull me further into the wake-up call. Eyes not even open, but still wanting their Mom even when they are eight and ten.

Feast or Famine -or-My Cup Runneth Over

Monday. First full day of the first full week of school. Walked into school at 6:48 to find two AP students already waiting for me outside of my office. Taught all day, used my prep time like a madwoman, had brief meeting with principal after school, was caught on way out the door by a colleague who needed help navigating a problem, picked up the boys, took them to get 10-yr-old's new viola, stopped at McD's so that he could change into football gear and 8-yr-old could do homework and get a snack, went to football, changed vehicles with husband coach, drove home, started making dinner, changed a load of laundry, took phone call from dear friend, daughter and roomate made suprise visit to get some sorority sister/stepmom advice, finally ate at 8:00, played phone tag and caught sister, solved the world's problem, called Mom to wish happy birthday, finished some school work, and dropped into bed at 10:20.

Such a far cry from two weeks ago when the days moved like molasses, and I felt so disconnected from the pulse and pull of the world. Monday's rush might have been a bit much, but I was in a place where it was good to be needed. It is only the begining of the year, and my energy and adrenaline are a bit high, but I will appreciate my current perspective (while I have it!) that my cup does indeed runneth over, in the loveliest sort of way, full of people who trust me to be there for them, and for that I am grateful.

Of Blogging and Running and Teaching

While out running Thursday morning before school, I composed an entire blog entry in my head. It was brilliant and witty and poignant and timely--all about how blessed I feel to be able to follow my teaching vocation in a great school with fantastic opportunities to push myself to excel in my classroom. But then school started. And then I took 10 -year- old to football practice, to pick out an instrument, daughter to college, 8- year -old to birthday party, and now, 72 hours later I'm tired, and I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to write. Something about how if one thinks too much about the awesome responsibility it is to be a teacher, the realization can be paralyzing. Also, I think I was going to discuss when I finally figured-out the difference between teaching and learning. And, somewhere in all of that glorious musing I was going to offer that every time I think of the title of my Dad's favorite book, "To Serve Them All My Days" (a book about a teacher at a boys' prep school) I get the goosebumps just running the words through my head. Oh yes, and there was something about being a sucker for teacher movies--you know, Dead Poet's Society, Mr. Holland's Opus, Stand and Deliver . . . Unfortunately, all of this was much more coherent at 5:00 am while I was pounding through 2 miles in the dark. This strikes me as akin to lesson planning in the shower, grading papers at fall baseball practice, and buying justonemorething for my classroom each time I stop at Target. Hm. School has indeed started. (Hip Hip!)

Of bathrobes and baseball hats

Little Man, as we call our 8-yr-old, came downstairs this morning in his bathrobe and baseball hat as though it were the most obvious outfit in the world-- which brought me back to late yesterday afternoon when the closing hymn of Mass had just sounded its final chord, and 8-yr-old turns to me and says, "Hey, do you think that we could go play baseball?" As if that, too, was the most natural thing in the world-- to turn from Communion to The Ball Diamond-- as if they are both some how equally sacred. Oh. Yes. To my 8-yr-old they are. I turned to him laughing and said, "Is there ever a time when you're not thinking about or wanting to play baseball?" Nonplussed, he replied, "Nope, I would even play baseball with a rolled-up sock in the Dominican Republic." When I started laughing, delighted at his witty comeback, he launched into a precis about how Sammy Sosa grew-up learning to play this most holy of sports. He then started explaining to his brother that Sammy and his friends were so poor that they even used cut-out milk jugs for gloves.

This little foray into 8-yr-old's encyclopediac mind is not our family's first. When we were on vacation in Pittsburgh driving through the West Homestead neighborhood, 8-yr-old began rattling off statistics about the Homestead Grays. Um, who are they? Well, they were a Negro League Team who boasted Jackie Robinson on their roster once-upon-a-time. How about the only player to die of a baseball to the head? Care to know what each MLB ballpark used to be called before the days of corporate overreaching? My little bat boy could fill you in.

What doesn't this kid know? Well, right now, I'm thankful that he doesn't know much about steriod abuse, that he doesn't understand the ridiculously alarming salaries that some of his heros rake in, or what happens to a man when his dreams of baseball stardom don't quite pan out. For right now, his games with neighborhood friends at The Corner, and his books and magazines full of glossy pictures of peaceful stadiums and larger-than-life "Caseys At Bat" suffice to fill his every waking, and I dare say, sleeping moment. And I suppose, at the risk of being blasphemous, it is okay with me that for my little obsessed man that Babe Ruth and Roger Maris sit at the same table as Jesus and Mary and St. Francis. Jesus did say, "Suffer the little children to come unto me" and my guess is that they maybe he wouldn't mind playing a little ball too.

Be careful what you pray for

Only one other time since the birthing of this blog have I written about a mess, and since this IS "themessilife" I have obviously been slacking in my tell-the-world-how-it-really-is duties. In order to remedy such a horrible bit of laziness, and to reflect on how God's ways are not our own--especially when it comes to answering prayers,  I thought I might share the mess of a day I just had.

Began with over-sleeping so there was no 2 mile run for me. Shouldn't be a problem, except that I've already gained at least 7 pounds this summer and the pants just strained a little too much around the hips this morning. Lovely start. Feeling messy and frumpy.

Once at school with two boys who didn't really want to be there, I thought I would make my way down my to-do list like an OCD rockstar. Well, the listing-making gods were having none of it. Tried to put something away in the book room only to discover that 12 more boxes of #$!@#! books had been delivered, waiting patienly for me to put them on shelves. Which was a problem because the last time I spent eight hours (yep, count 'em) putting away massive shipments of books (1300 to be exact) I THIOUGHT THAT WAS ALL THAT WAS COMING, so I organized accordingly. Nope. Now there are more books, and no shelf space. I was thrilled. After an hour of sweating and sneezing in dirty book room (whoa, that sounded more interesting that it was) I once again thought to approach my to-do list. This time I was going to cover my bulletin board in new fun fabric. But, um, it was too short. There were absolutely no cuss words coming out of my mouth as I stretched, cut, stapled and fumed my way through that little endeavor. At that point, I thought maybe I could really make some headway on the list, but um, nope. I had already spent two hours at school and was needed at home by daughter.

Once at home, sustained by some protein-packed yogurt, and boys trundled off to play baseball with friends, I thought, okay, NOW I might accomplish something. This time though, the weather gods let loose a torrential downpour so I took off to rescue my boys and the neighbor boys. At the ball field I saw in front of me four muddy children with grass-covered shoes and bikes covered in sand and dirt. I managed to convince them to ride their dirty little selves back to our house and play basketball instead.

Okay. NOW I could focus, type up a syllabi or two . . .until one little friend came in to use the restroom. And then came out saying, "Um, I flooded the bathroom." And, he was right. Two inches of water covering the entire floor, the toliet churning like a waterfall, and the hallway carpet already soaking it up--and I don't think if I need to describe what "it" is.

I think maybe God heard my prayer--the one about being released from my OCD?

The Penultimate Week

I remember learning the word "penultimate" sometime in late grade school, and thought it was definitely a word whose usage by me (ack! Passive voice!) would display to the world my brillance and pithy ability with language. Okay, so none of the above has come true, however, I still think it is a fun word, and it is indeed the penultimate week before school . . . so, I'm usin' it by gum!

10-yr-old and Coach Dad are back at football, so for at least part of the family, all is right with the world. The jury is still out on whether or not he'll be quarterbacking again. According to Offensive Coordinator Dad, he is probably the top candidate, however, 10-yr-old is very concerned that he "earn" the spot--lest someone think he leading because his Daddy is coaching. So proud of that little man! Who taught him to process like that?!

8-yr-old is using the white board to count down the days until school starts. He is bored, and is using his free time to tell me this. Over, and over, and over again. He did however finish reading all of the books of the baseball card series he became obsessed with this summer, and has begun reading Harry Potter. He told me that he thinks he is "finally ready" to read the series.

The Mom of the house is making lists of her lists, I believe, somehow thinking that perhaps in doing so, the items on the list, such as: lesson planning, decorating classroom, making seating charts . . . will somehow take care of themselves. Funny what eight weeks off will do to a teacher.

But, there is chicken in the crockpot, flowers hanging on for dear life on the back deck, school supplies nestled in their respective backpacks, and fall sports previews in the newspaper. All sure signs that it is the second to last week of summer vacation.

Parents

Breaking all of the rules of essay writing here. I have no well-developed thesis tucked into beautiful prose to slyly unfold in front of my reader. Simply want to say that it is fun to hang out with my parents. They were here yesterday mostly to go to a minor league baseball game with my buddies, but we managed to sneak in some good conversation before the game, in-between the obnxious announcer, bad music, and piercing air horn being manned by the socially inept gentleman behind us, and for a bit once we arrived home. Nice to want to be with family. Even more lovely to be known by them. And better still for all of us to still keep choosing each other.

Synchronicity

Happy Coincidences, Line-Crossings, De Ja Vus (sp? Ha!) . . . whatever one might call those happenings that seem just a little beyond our daily concrete realm have always both fascinated and humbled me. I remember being good-naturedly harrassed by my family when my overly-sensitive, and perhaps awkwardly developing intuitive little self would bring things from the "other realm" to their attention: "Mom, isn't it wierd that I was just reading about a blue car and now there is one driving right in front of us?" or "Dad, I had a feeling you were going to bring home Spaghetti Basketti for supper tonight--I had a dream about their strawberry soda last night." After one too many of these precocious pronouncements, my sister began calling me "psychic"--but while her tone was fairly good-natured, and never exactly mean, I could sense the tinge of weariness my Rational big sis had with her Idealistic, Middle Child, little sis. Today, when my big sis calls me "psychic" it is an endearing short-hand in our conversations--made possible by both of us maturing--her with a little more patience and willingness to play with these ideas, and me with employing a filter that tells me that not everything is mystical. I've even gotten my very sensible husband to play along now and again--our version of this we have termed "envelope moments." These moments are when you know something--in his case usually due to rational common sense, and in mine, a more intuitive gut-feeling--and you are so sure of what you know or are predicting that you want to write it down, seal it in an envelope, and then give it to someone to open when the predicted "knowing" comes true.

Why do I write about this now? Because that beautiful little friend, synchronicity, arrived in our mailbox yesterday, and it was such a beautiful reminder that there is more to this world than we ken.

So, what arrived? Just the latest version of Sports Illustrated. I spent about thirty minutes flipping through it and being reminded of what great writers can be found between the slick photos and ostentatious ads. And then there it was on the last page--a final, one-page column about the Pittsburgh Pirates. The article itself was about what it meant to be a Bucks fan over the past forty years or so since Roberto Clemente died so tragically, and what it means to be a Bucks fan now in 2011 when they are finally winning again and currently sitting atop the National League standings. An interesting read, but it was the first two paragraphs that had me. The first paragraph opened by paying homage to Primanti Bros., a favored Pittsburgh eatery, describing the beauty of PNC Park, and  savoring the smells of beer, pierogies, and french fries on a rainy baseball night. Normally, this would have just struck me as some good, sensory writing, but seeing as though JUST LAST WEEK we were at PNC Park eating Primanti Bros., looking for a pierogie but not finding one(?!), and patiently waiting out two rain delays to see the Bucks play . . .well, let's suffice it to say that it felt like the article had been written just for us.

I showed the article to my family--10-yr-old read it and offered a disaffected, "Cool," 8-yr-old read it and said, "Wow!! It's all just like us, except we where there on a Monday, not a Friday like it said," and my husband gave me a knowing smile of the sort that my sister just to placate me with. For my part, I am keenly aware that the writers and editors of SI simply have their thumb on what is hot in baseball right now, and I am fully aware that our family vacation this summer to Pittsburgh was not necessarily pre-ordained by the vacationbaseball gods--our trip being mostly motivated by the desire to visit my 97-yr-old grandmother. But. The synchronicity of it all isn't something I have to stretch for, instead, it comes softly but firmly as the real ones (not the blue car ones) used to when I was small. It tells me that all is where it should be. My 8-yr-old baseball fanactic would assume it  means that the Bucs are supposed to be winning, while I may not disagree with that, for me, these little glimpses beyond our dailiness, remind me that I am indeed not in charge of this realm--or the next.

Home from Vacation

Just home from a family vacation to Pittsburgh. On day one of our journey, just after crossing into Ohio and taking our first hiatus at a rest stop, 8-year-old exclaims in amusement and delight, "Look Mom! You can buy a spoon of Ohio!" I laughed, thinking back to all of the "treasures" that my sister and I used to find at rest stops and various gas stations along the Indiana/Ohio/Pennsylvania Turnpikes as we ventured from our family home in Illinois to The Family Home in St. Benedict, PA. I thought then that I might chronicle all of the boys' discoveries and musings and write a funny blog about our journey upon our return home. I suppose I could still do that, and although it was a good trip in many ways, I find that we're all a bit weary, and my writing doesn't feel very "snappy" at the moment. Instead, we're all distracted by our post-vacation funk-

10-year-old has the strep throat. Okay, well, the doc-in-the-box who took the in-office throat culture says that it isn't, but a viral infection instead. The swollen lymph nodes all around 10-year-old's neck, the tonsils so swollen he keeps gagging, and the not-so-pleasant odor tell me otherwise. I guess we'll just wait for the doc to call us back and tell us that the lab culture does indeed indicate strep, and now, three days of pain and no medication later, we'll finally get a prescription--you'd think we've been through this exact scenario before--like, um, five times in the last year? So, he lays on the couch, sucking down popsicles and watching a Harry Potter marathon.

8-year-old is reading his way through the heat. Mad at Mom and Dad for not allowing him to play baseball at noon in the triple-digit weather, he has succumbed to his baseball books and baseball on the Wii.

Determined husband is outside in the triple-digits trying valiantly to finish the siding on the house before he returns to school in a week. He doesn't "wanna hafta" but, I think he is most weary of this project hanging over his head. And I'm most weary watching him.

And me? Feeling done with summer, not ready for school--only because I have things to do to prepare yet--and just generally a bit fussy. This is a familiar place for me--My body says rest, my mind doesn't like to otherwise it gets itself into trouble, and a few weeks off yet from "normal life" returning. Hm. Must be home from summer vacation . . .

At the risk of offending . . .

I've been pondering John 6 this summer. I've been examining my beliefs, helping my 8-yr-old explore his, and in the process, been wondering about those of others. As a cradle Catholic, there has never not been Eucharist in my life--wondering about it while I watched my Mom receive, preparing for my first time, feeling many times not worthy of it, feeling many times in awe of it, feeling many times as though I don't feel enough about it, thinking it truly bizarre, being offended when others think it bizarre, and my newest (and most blessed experience) to date--actually finding myself craving it. I have read about others having this "craving" experience, so the first few times it happened to me, I thought perhaps I was just "wanting to crave" it--so I could be one of those super-holy Catholics too. But one day late this winter, I found myself walking down the aisle and fighting back tears as I prepared to receive. So of course, I looked forward to going back to Mass as soon as I could--craving Communion, if you will, because I wanted to feel so moved again. No tears this second time, but I have found that these first tears have moved me into a different relationship with both receiving the Eucharist and with my Catholic journey overall--and I am much more aware, with an almost painful, yet peaceful mindfulness with which I accept the Eucharist.

All of this being said, I have also started to notice (perhaps I'm just a slow learner here) in various blogs I happen upon, or the blogs of friends or friends of their friends, much mention of their Christian beliefs. Not all, but many of them are non-denominational or non-mainline Protestant Christians  who list among their core beliefs the Nicene Creed and/or the Apostles Creed. They also write much and deeply about social justice issues. Often there are lovely and profound musings about their sprititual journeys. Frequently these writers discuss the desire to experience Lent and Advent (although not often referred to as Advent) more fully and more presently. One of these bloggers--now a famous published author--even wrote a book centered around the idea of Eucharisto. So, this fairly pedestrian Catholic begins to wonder . . .why aren't all of these lovely people Catholic? It is all there--the Creeds, the social justice, the Church calendar--all except the Eucharist. I suppose this is where I'm afraid of offending, which is not at all my intent. Nor is my intent one of attempted conversion--rather I am asking this question in all sincerity. I will never forget reading an excerpt of one of Gary Will's books--Papa Sin, I think it was, and to bastardize his quote something horribly, he said that that the argument over women being ordained, or a person's use of a condom is NOT why he is Catholic--but rather it is the Creed and Eucharist. That's it. I remember wanting to jump up and down and shout, "hurrah!" I will admit, that my Catholic faith does involve a bit more than that--I love the Sacraments, the candles, the genuflecting, the holy water, and I love me some Saints, but in esssence, Wills, to me, is right. Give me the Creed and the Eucharist and I can hang my hat and take a pew. So, to get back around to the beginning, what keeps all of these people from the Eucharist? What don't I get about their beliefs? (I mean this earnestly). The cycle that keeps running in my head is that many of these people whose blogs I've been reading also profess that the Bible is the inerrant word of God, so, again, at the risk of offending, do they believe that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God--except for John 6? I would love to be snarky when I ask that, except that I don't feel moved to be snarky about the Eucharist, and because I really am curious, truly curious, about what to me feels like a disconnect. Can anyone address this?

A nod to my title . . .

So I'm admittedly a bit obsessive-compulsive about cleanliness and order . . .my husband would probably argue that I'm a bit more "than a bit." Regardless, I have found that while I know my spic and span nature is my feeble attempt at controlling existential angst, whenever there is a HUGE mess going on around me, I have no real problem with it. Take for example the current state of our garage, driveway, and house exterior while my handy hubby re-shingles and puts up new siding over our wood. (Please, dear reader, don't shudder-this ain't a Victorian farmhouse we're maiming--but rather a 1960's bi-level with rotting wood) I am so okay with the obnoxious mess going on outside, because it is bigger than anything I can actually do anything about. And, um, yeah, there is also the small detail that handy hubby might maime me if I touched his tools. But, I have discovered how freeing it is to not feel impelled to clean and organize something. To hand that "should" over to no one in particular, because, well, it doesn't matter that looks like a wrecking zone beyond my front door. I feel like laughing at the gods and sticking out my tongue a bit. But instead, I took to ordering the inside of the house--laundry, clean beds, emptied garbage, cleaned-out email . . .all while there is glorious chaos outside. And I'm okay with it. Sort of.

After the 4th

Spent a really great weekend at the Padres' Casa for the 4th of July. My siblings and I and our families all landed in our hometown to eat Mom's apple pie, burgers, dogs, watermelon and smores. The cousins ran through the sprinkler, caught fireflies, lit sparklers, went to the park and fed the ducks, and slept lined-up like little fleece sausages on grandma's living room floor. It really couldn't have been more obnoxiously cliche--but we all loved it. The dirty, grassy feet, too many people in the kitchen, negotiating for shower space, mom's cinnamin rolls, my parents are hell-bent on giving their grandchildren as many memories as possible, and I adore them for it.

 And then we came home to the "after 4th of July" feeling.

It is too quiet outside--and suddenly the heat doesn't feel fun and warm--just hot.

Went to the pool today and instead of it being lively and freeing, it was loud, annoying, and too wet.

Eight-year-old and I went to local grocery store this eventide, and we saw the nice stock boy shoving the plastic buckets and rakes and cheap yard toys down to an end-cap to make room for the school supplies. I said, "Look honey, they are putting the school supplies out already!" to which eight-year-old replied, "Yeah, Mom, school is going to start again soon ya know-they always do it that way. I'm not surprised." Well. Thank you for the wise resignation little man!

And now I'm in jammy pants and a sweatshirt-not quite ready for school, yet knowing at this point we are closer to the beginning of football then to baseball. And it is always this way after the 4th. And people go away too long on vacations-getting them in before August--and I'm always a bit at lose ends when friends and family are not "were they should be"--even if I didn't plan to talk with them or visit--it is much better when we are all in our rightful places. Oh, and the trees even start to look a bit bored and wearisome from holding their heavy green leaves knowing that they will labor until well into September yet. Funny thing this July business, especially after the 4th.

Summer Panic

I woke up an hour ago with my mind already racing through all of the things that I need to get accomplished today-phone calls to make, emails to return, laundry to wash, errands to run, but the pressure in my chest came mostly from the schoolwork that is hovering over me. For those of you who are thinking, "Schoolwork? Are you crazy? Aren't you on break?" my answer is, "Yes, sort of , and yes." I could use this opportunity to whine and fuss about how teachers don't really have summer breaks--at least many of us don't--we go to conferences, we take classes, we work on curriculum, we re-work lesson plans, we read. And while I guess I am fussing a bit, I am also using this space to remind myself of the old saying that my Mom used to gently admonish me with, "one thing at a time." I do have A LOT of summer school work to do as I prepare to teach a new class, and try to wrap up a total revision of our department curriculum, BUT, I am telling myself as a mantra this beautiful morning, it doesn't all need to happen today. I'll make my "list," try to pace myself, and remember that I can only do one thing at a time and do it well, and do my best to remember that my little loves deserve for their Mom to actually have a summer too.

My little man

So this is the summer that my ten-year-old is no longer a child. Physically he is growing . . . he and I wear the same shoe size, which is no small feet (take that Shakespeare!) considering that mine are ridiculously large; and I can't help but notice when he takes his shirt off to play shirts and skins with the neighborhood boys how his waist has narrowed, his shoulders widended, and the muscles in his arms are well, muscles. But beyond all of that, I notice how he listens. He takes in attentively adult conversations and understands them. He offers solutions to everyday household problems and usually offers something more practical and efficient than I. He loves to feel useful and wants to work like a man. Currently disgusted is he that he is not allowed to work on the roof with Dad. My little priest who once asked how God invented skin, reminds me when we forget our morning prayer. The oldest brother, he is both obnoxiously bossy and lovingly protective. Walking out of a department store restroom today, he told me that it smelled like the two-month-old daughter of a friend of ours that he has fallen in love with. I laughed, thinking he meant the dirty diaper that he saw changed a few days ago, but he looked me in the eyes in earnest and said, "no, Mom, it smells all soapy and good like Bailey." Oh, my dearest little baby bird, please don't ever stop paying attention to the world and all of the questions in your head and the sensory delights that are so much who you are. And while I love your old soul self, please don't grow up too quickly . . .

All Roads Lead Back to Home . . .

Heading home from a week-long conference this afternoon. I've found that it is always a bit surreal to land at the beginning of a conference--new surroundings, strange people, new daily schedule--but in this particular case I am in southern Wisconsin, not far from my northern Illinois hometown so the surroundings are familiar and comforting. Also, I am here with colleagues, so I brought a little home along with me. Re-entry back into my "regular" life after conferencing is also a bit surreal . . . strange to see how my life goes on even when I'm not there! But it is time, over time, for me to return to my loves--their hugs, their funny faces, their sweaty baseball clothes (the last two descriptors not applying to my husband:). It is indeed true that all roads lead back to home--especially if you're blessed. And I am.

Confusing Idea of the Day

I'm sitting at the first morning session of an AP Lit/Lang. Conference. One of the college professors here as a presenter/facilitator spent about 20 minutes telling us that our high school students come to him able to write, but not knowing how to contextualize their writing. Hm. It seems to me that contextualizing one's writing is a college skill, so it might therefore follow that students should learn how to do this once IN college? The professor seemed really bothered that "we" (high school teachers) have underprepared our students for this writing skill. To me, his argument is akin to me complaining that my undergraduate studies didn't adequately prepare me for my first teaching job because I still had things to learn once one the job. Methinks that friendly-AP-college-professor-guy would rather assign things to his students than teach them . . .

Overheard Baseball Edition

Eight-year-old reflecting on his morning at baseball camp, "Mom, there were like only two or three of us in the 3rd and 4th grade camp that weren't messing around during drill time. Can you believe that?" No, honey, I find it crazy to think that all 20 eight-and-nine-year-old boys weren't doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing when the coach walked away.

Ten-year-old fussing about the nasty case of road rash on his shoulder, "I can barely move my shoulder, except when I throw a baseball it is somehow fine." Funny that. Baseballs must have magic restorative powers.

Both buddies after fussing that they didn't want to pick-up the movies, Wii games, and various Narnia costumes spread all over their playroom, or clean-up their own snack bowls, "Mom, will you have our baseball pants washed and ready for the morning?" You will be able to locate your pants, most likely still unwashed, on the floor of your playroom right next to the sticky pudding bowl, since that is where items of highest importance tend to congregate.

Eight-year-old dreaming aloud about his impending mini-vaca to PNC Park in Pittsburgh, "Mom, I think I'm a Pirates fan now. I mean, I still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ." Honey, if only you knew how many people "still like the Cubs, but, you know . . ."

It always seems to happen . . .

 . . . that God reminds us of our rightful place in the universe . . .just as we are feeling pretty good about ourselves. My latest example happened just this evening as I was out with my three favorite men on a family bike ride. I was enjoying the stunning weather, wind in my hair, giggles of my boys, and the faint burning of muscle in my legs, thinking about how nice I've been to my heart and body this week--run a couple of miles every morning, taken a couple of walks each day, and gone on a bike ride every day for the past few days when it happened. The "It" was a very sharp, tight pair of black running shorts and black sports bra being propelled past me by a stunning young woman with equally sharp tight parts to put into those black pieces of exercise show-off. Sigh. Okay Big Guy upstairs and Stars of the Universe--I hear ya, loud and clear. I won't be trading-in my over-washed Macbeth tshirt that hides the Mommy parts, anytime soon.

The Boys of Summer

I haven't blogged in two weeks now--much of my time since summer officially started has been spent at baseball fields. . . which brings me to one of my latest musings and confessions. Confession first. I really like watching my kids play sports, and I am really proud of their abilities, and am brought close to tears everytime I see them high-five a teammate, take control of the mound, help another player, etc. The reason I write this as a "confession" is that in our sports-obsessed, "Soccer Mom," and every-Dad-knows-how-to-coach society, it has become completely un-PC to actually say that you are proud of your kids' abilities, or that you like to watch them play. Instead, the acceptable thing seems to be to spend ridiculous amounts of money on your kids sports, drive them to games 10 hours away, and burn them out, yet NOT actually say that you are getting something out of your child's sports involvement. Hm. Therein lies my musing. I hope that my husband and I are taking a balanced approach to our boys' lives, and therefore to their sporting lives as well, but I would also like to admit that while pregnant with both of them I prayed for them to simply be healthy, and I didn't necessarily ask God to send me athletes--but it sure is fun that they love to play as much as my husband and I do! So, while we watch the boys closely to make sure that they are kids first, I hope it is okay that I'm one proud Mama when my ten-year-old throws strikes or my eight-year-old cracks a double--and that it is equally okay that I've said it aloud.

The Book I Didn't Write

So, when I last posted, I also updated my "What I'm Currently Reading" section, asking, nay, begging for suggestions of something smart and laugh aloud funny to read. I found Mennonite in a Little Black Dress Rhoda Janzen. And it is indeed, smart and laugh aloud funny, albeit, a touch too crass in places. While I'm enjoying it immensely, it is also another one of those books that fall into the category of "The Book(s) I Didn't Write." Which for me means those books that happened because the author actually sat down and wrote all of those thoughts and ideas and experiences whirling around in said author's head (hey, it rhymes!) and then went through the painful process of rewriting, editing, getting published, etc. Unlike me, who has some of the same thoughts and ideas, but I'm never brave enough (there, I said it) to sit down and write a book that someone might actually want to read. But this happens a couple of times a year to me--I'm reading a book thinking, "wow, yes, exactly, I have thought that, done that, wondered that"--but I always dismiss those thoughts with the idea that they aren't quite book worthy. Now, I am definitely the first to admit that my thinking is not quite so witty, nor my writing quite so pity as is Janzen's in this fun romp through Mennoniteville, but when I got to the part where she is describing  how to make Cotletten (German meatballs with ground beef and saltines) I began to wonder if she hadn't visited my Mother's kitchen? And then, when she launches into two pages about how she cooked Hollapse for some of her students, I said to myself aloud, and I do mean aloud so that my eight-year-old was looking at me funny, "She wrote two pages about Pigs- in- the- Blanket? And I'm laughing about it?"  So, the two things that I am left wondering are: could I ever write about the food staples of my childhood and make that many million people laugh, and, hm, I wonder if I would even know how to make my mom's German staples. . . ? Perhaps one of these days I will either ask her to teach me how to can sauerkraut, or I will finally bring myself to write about the stewed tomatoes over potatoes and the ham pot pie.

Far-Flung Roots

Just home from a family wedding in Indianapolis where beautiful second cousin just married the love of her life. It was a reminder of so many things--how old I am getting (I remember holding beautiful second cousin in my arms as an infant), how nice it is to step out of the daily grind of life and go some other place, and most of all, how lovely it is to reconnect with family. There were many "best parts" of the brief weekend, but the most striking was when all of the Eureka Finches and "adopted Eureka Finches" and mates and children were gathered around two tables on the veranda of our hotel. We had a few adult beverages, ate some marginal pizza, but engaged in a lot of laughs and journeyed down memory lane. It struck me as particularly interesting that although we are spread-out across the country--California, Florida, Indiana, and Illinois--that all roads lead back to one bucolic college-town in the heart of Illinois. It doesn't matter where we've gone, how we've grown, or who we have met--we are our most "at home" selves when back with our roots. I suppose it is no surprise that I have then spent much of my adult life searching for a way to get back to that place. With a little hard-earned wisdom, and a lot of God's grace, I have begun to learn that getting "back to that place" can mean more than, and sometimes something other than being physically in Eureka--but one can still idealize a bit, can't they?

A Reading Life

I just finished Ellis' book, First Family about John and Abigail Adams and was left with that same feeling I often get when finishing a book that I have lived with for awhile . . .it is as though I'm losing a friend. I remember well this same feeling from my childhood when I would reread a slim paperback about Capt. John Smith and Pocohontas, and another slightly longer, but equally historically inaccurate (I'm sure) volume about Abraham Lincoln over and over and over. In retrospect neither of these books was probably particularly well-written, but I couldn't bear to part with their stories and my friends the characters, so I spent countless late nights under the dim overhead light in my bedroom, renegotiating my body positions to accomodate for limbs falling asleep just to make it to the end of the book-one more time. I commented to my husband that I had finished the Adams book, and that indeed the story had ended as it always does--they both died, and John on the same day as Jefferson. My husband laughed with me, and said, "Well, thank God for that. Although, don't you think the author could be a little more creative than that?" Unbeknownst to my husband, he had inadvertantly hit on the yearning that drives me to re-read the lives of my favorite people over and over again. I don't necessarily want their stories to end differently--but I don't want their stories to end-- and it as though if I keep at it, keep reading (even the same books) that somehow I will learn something new or different about my friends. It is a sort of search for the Holy Grail for the reading life. Anyone on this search with me?

Overheard Weekend Edition

10-year-old's first comment when picking him up afterschool on Friday, "Mom, jumping off of the swings is sooo exhilarating!"--Yes, honey, it is. Oh, to go back to those days. And, I wonder if he can spell "exhilarating"?

8-year-old who has been limping around on a sore heel for two weeks, "Mom, how is this going to get better?" Mom, "by resting it." 8-year-old, "Yeah, like that is going to happen."--Self-knowledge is half of the battle . . .

Watching the famous John Wayne movie The Cowboys with the family, and 8-year-old says,"what are they doing with all of those cows?" Mom replies, "well, they are moving them from one town to another to try to sell them." 8-year-old replies, "So that's why they are called, 'cow boys'? That's dumb."--Well, honey, I'm not sure that the American Old West was the linguistic capital of the world.

"Mom are we going to Church tomorrow?" 8-year-old asks. Mom replies, "Well, honey, that depends." "On what, if Daddy sleeps on the couch tonight?" 8-year-old reasons.--Much funnier if one doesn't know that Daddy has been sleeping on the couch because he has been sick with bronchitis.

AHHHH . . .

The past week has been, well, a lot. Baseball began, Little Man made his First Communion, we moved Daughter out of her dorm for the year, and we waited. And waited. Waited for news about what my Mom's prognosis would be . . .and it turns-out that she needs a pill. Yep. A pill. Now, I don't know much about this wonder drug yet, and it may have its own gnarly side-effects, but it means no chemo and no radiation. As one of my dear college friends would say, "Hip Hip!" (I think there was always supposed to be a "Hooray" attached to the end--but somehow we never got beyond the first two words). I know we're not out of the woods quite yet, but after hearing the word, "cancer" this news couldn't be any better. And, like clock-work, 30 minutes after the phone call from my Mom, I began to feel achy and fevery and the tell-tale cold sore reared its ugly self a bit more. My body said, AHHHH . . . and then, enough. I suppose one person can only hold so much at one time. Bedtime will be a blessing tonight, and the dreams will indeed be sweet. Cervantes mused, "God who sends the wound, sends the medicine," and I for one am glad that that medicine can come in the shape of a pill, or a pillow.

Art Imitates Life Again

I just started reading The Wierd Sisters by Eleanor Brown. The wierd sisters, named after the witches in Macbeth, are three sisters in their thirties who find themselves living back at home with their parents. Their father, a college professor, has named them Rosalind, Biana, and Cordelia, and he quotes extensively and exclusively from Shakespeare.Their mother is fighting cancer. One line of the book lifted itself up and offered itself to me last week when I read, "First there was a lump. And then there was a biopsy. And now we are a family who is dealing with the word 'Malignant'."  While my siblings and I aren't named after Shakespearean characters, and we don't live at home, we are in our thirties, my father does often shamelessly quote from Shakespeare, and my Mom is now battling cancer. We are too now one of those families who is "dealing with the word 'Malignant'." But the cancer is contained and Mom is strong."Out, out damned spot!" we say, and in the meantime, we'll, "screw our courage to the sticking place. . ."

New Life

On my way to school today, cranky that it is STILL RAINING I was thinking that I would be so much happier if the d@&# sun would consent to paying us a little visit . . . maybe just a little glimmer would do. Still kvetching about the stupid weather and the work that is on my desk to the unsuspecting colleague who happened to make the mistake of saying good morning, my phone rang. A bit surprised to get a call at 6:55 am (only crazy people like high school teachers and students in my district are alive at this time) I said hello to hear a tentative, sleepy, and slightly scared "Coach?" on the other end. The dear voice on the other end was that of a former student and basketball player of mine and my husbands' who has become like a daughter to us. She was calling from the hospital where she has been in labor for nearing 15 hours. She wanted to check-in and let us know that she was there, all is okay (relatively speaking when one has been in labor for 15 hours!!), and that her husband is taking great care of her. And instantly everything changed. Life was again good when the hope and promise of new life is so deliciously near. And the obnoxious cliche of the rain before the flowers, the pain before the birth came tumbling down on me and I laughed at myself and the rightness of it all. Now if someone could just come and take the work off of my desk . . .

Of the Wood of the Cross, Chocolate and Charlton Heston

As I sit here enjoying a few pieces of chocolate-covered almonds that a colleague left on my desk yesterday as a "yay you made it throught Lent" gift, I am thinking about the really great gift of a weekend that I just had with my family. Good Friday morning was spent reading, and helping 10 year old with a school project. It was appropriately dark and rainy and peaceful. The boys and I went to Good Friday service that afternoon--which was beautiful and physical and moving (and I managed to pray for the hobgoblin). We ate cheese pizza and had a family movie night that evening. Saturday the sun came out to play and so did the boys--all three of them-- while I ran Easter Bunny errands. Saturday afternoon Sissy came home so we colored Easter Eggs as a family. Saturday night meant our annual viewing of the Ten Commandments--with the boys asking increasingly more difficult questions each year. Easter Sunday Mass was joyous and a relief to the boys who were quite done with the darkness of Holy Week. We went out to dinner with members from both sides of the family and returned to our house for coffee and pie. And really, the best part of it all, is that other than Mass and dinner afterwards, we hadn't pre-planned the rest of it (I know, I'm hearing gasps from those of you who know me). It was as if the play had been written and we picked-up the scripts and went with it. And indeed, IT was already written . . . so we let it be done. (Catch the snappy Ten Commandments reference??)

Accountability

Reading all of the news coverage as of late about teachers, teacher's unions, contracts, NCLB, you name it, is enough to make me want to run naked through the streets of Washington, D.C. or okay, closer to home, Springfield, shouting, "Don't you people get it????" We are in the middle of hiring in my building right now, and in the middle of rewriting curriculum, and in the middle of scheduling for next year, so I have been processing "what's wrong with education" from a lot of angles. I have finally decided that it is accountability. And this accountability has to come in the form of people. Here is what I mean:

In school A, the teachers are evaluated one a year or once every two years by an administrator. This evaluation may take a few days or maybe a week. At the end of the evaluation the teacher is granted an "excellent" because during the time of the evaluation there were no classroom management issues of note, the teacher and students were "on task," and the administrator hadn't had any major complaints or red flags thrown about said teacher in past year.

In school B, the teachers may be evaluated once every one or two years by an administrator, but that teacher is also evaluated/monitored/mentored by someone in that teacher's discipline who KNOWS and keeps close tabs not just on if the teacher is there and managing the classroom, but also that the teacher in question is actually teaching the curriculum. Every day. Not some days, not when the administrator is there, but every day.

We can legislate, we can rewrite, we can mandate, we can put anything on paper that we want to, but until teachers have direct, constant, and immediate accountability--to themselves, their students and to the school they serve . . . it is all not much more than politics and paperwork. And to be clear, I still believe in the Jeffersonian ideal of public education--just wish more folks had the same ideals.

Holy Week

 Been thinking a lot about Holy Week as oldest son was invited to a birthday party on Good Friday afternoon, and colleagues at school are planning a happy hour on Holy Thursday evening . . . I am not, and don't pretend to be a strictly observant Catholic--I miss some holy days of obligation, don't go to Confession as often as I should, etc. etc. But the idea of taking my child to play laser tag while Jesus is on the cross, or of imbibing Margaritas while Fr. Jerry celebrates the Last Supper just doesn't quite jive with me somehow . . .although I do suppose both events include friends, bread and alcohol . . .

I have very vivid memories of Holy Week as a child, attending Mass for three days in a row, going to Tennebrae with my Mom at midnight, thinking Good Friday would never end, but then hoping it could take a little longer to get to dinnertime because I knew that Salmon Patties would be waiting for me . . . but then the absolute giddy joy of Easter Vigil--both because well, it was finally Easter, and because I could once again eat chocolate, candy, or indulge in whatever other major sacrifice I had suffered through for six weeks. . . . Curious how y'all have spent, and plan to spend Holy Week?

Roots and Community

For all of my adult life I have yearned for some place to "belong." This yearning comes from a wonderful childhood--I went to a small Catholic gradeschool, junior high and high school that lived and breathed the idea of family and community service, my parents were educators in the public schools in town and were very active in community theatre, politics, our church-- you name it. Although I didn't recognize it at the time, there really wasn't anywhere that my siblings and I went that we didn't somehow belong--that someone didn't know us or our parents. This belonging continued into my college years as I followed the family footsteps and attended my beloved Eureka--as the 5th Finch to walk 'neath the elms, Eureka was new, but yet, I wasn't a stranger.

When the time came for me to leave my college cocoon, I thought I was ready. I had my education, I was 21, and the time had come. What I had no idea of however, was how naked and alone I would feel in that first year by myself in a world were no one knew me or my family, and where all the town names and family names would be new to me. I felt disconnected, untethered, utterly alone. As I met my husband, became a stepmom, had my boys, and kept ridiculously busy with teaching and coaching, there was still an empty hole that cried out to be filled--and my husband felt it too. We both wanted the kind of life that we grew up in for our family. Eleven years into our family, this dream still has not come to fruition for us--our jobs and the needs of our children have given us our current life instead. But perhaps my understanding of how God calls us has grown, for while I still have some idealized vision of a different life for us floating in my "somedays"--I have been surprised by my own contentment lately.

A wise mentor shared with me a few years back that we are all called to put down roots--but some of us put them down deep, and others of us put them out wide. I have always thought I was a deep root person, but yesterday afternoon my best childhood friend called and left a message for me, last night I spent back at Eureka listening to a presentation by my father, surrounded by my family, this morning the boys were excited to go to their eye doctor because they said, "at least we know him--we have the same one every time," this afternoon a dear close friend from my current school called to "check-in," and this evening we are going out to dinner with a former student from my first school. Wide roots, I tell myself, might be a blessing after all.

Anticipation

Getting ready for Palm Sunday . . .it always feels like the catch-in-your-throat before the deep sigh. So expectant, so much stuffed-down anxiety, so much waiting. Not the calm before the storm, but the low-rumblings when you can smell the rain already on the air. The green just-living palms cry-out against the death that is sure to come. Forshadowing life to come again. But not. Quite. Yet.We'll join our Church family dressed in red and try to wrap our minds around the horribly beautiful week ahead of us.

Overheard Spring Concert Version

It is time for a second installment of comments overheard and the stream-of-consciousness that follow in the Garard household . . .this time as older brother readies himself for Spring Concert/Musical . . .

"Mom, I have a hard time saying 'Relativity'"--that's okay honey, most people can't spell it either.

Younger brother to older brother upon surveying older brother's "costume"--"You should dress like that all of the time--it looks like a school uniform"--so, younger brother must not like older brother's taste in typical outfit of  overworn generic underarmour shirts, fake dogtags and fedora?

"I need to make sure that I put enough of that stuff in my hair--because my wig will mess it up"--There is nothing one can think when their ten-year-old boy worries about this.

Art Imitating Life?

My husband and I are mini-series junkies. That being said, we were both pumped to see "The Kennedys" advertised. Husband set to business DVRing all of the episodes and then we waited until we had uninterrupted time to watch . . . so, yes, that means we didn't watch the first episode until last night. What horrible, over-the-top, ridiculous, engaging schmuck it is! Like a train wreck--I couldn't quit watching, while all along I knew that the disturbing scenes before my eyes were in no way going to improve me or my life. Oh, what glorious, awful fun. My mind kept rolling all day through scenes of Jackie and Jack, Jack and Bobby, and Joe and the clan . . . funny how I already know the story, but got such a fix watching it play-out. Which brought me to my next thought--what would it be like if someone made a movie of all of the REAL parts of life? The parts where someone is grocery shopping, someone else is mowing the lawn, one child forgets homework in his backpack, the other one is mad because he can't have his turn on the Wii . . .because most movies, tv shows, and fiction show us the moments of highest intensity so that somehow we come to believe that our lives should be filled with those moments, instead of understanding that our live are actually supposed to be filled with emptying the garbage, returning phone calls, wondering what is for dinner, and forgetting to take the black sweater out of the dryer. Not that the Kennedys aren't real, but I'm just sayin'.

Life Imitates Art

I heard shreiking laughter coming from the boys' bathroom after dinner last night. Went to check. Tentatively opened the door a crack, afraid of what I might encounter when my 8 and 10 year olds had been left alone together in the bathroom. I need not have troubled myself however when thrust into the thin slit between door and frame was what was formerly known as an army action figure now had hands where feet should be, and an arm where a head once resided. I paused, wondered, and then was confirmed when 10 year old shouted uproariously, "Look Mom! It's a Picasso!"

Humor is the Best Medicine

So a principal walks into a teacher's office and hands her a book. Teacher looks at principal quizzically and asks, "What is this for?" Principal replies, "Just thought you might need a little sanity." Teacher looks at the title, "Under the Covers and Between the Sheets: The inside story behind classic characters, authors, unforgettable phrases, and unexpected endings" and thinks, yes, this might be just what the doctor ordered. Teacher then opens to random page and reads, "Mark Twain wasn't a lover of all literature: He once wrote of Jane Austen, 'Every time I read Pride and Predjudice I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull  with her own shin-bone.'" I laughed so hard one of my colleagues came running to my office to see what the noise was. Sanity indeed. And I happen to love Pride and Predjudice, but I hear ya Mark! (Cousin Kev, this one's for you!)

Irony of all Ironies

So, when I couldn't decide whether to major in English or History in college (always with an eye on becoming a teacher regardless), my wise parents directed me towards English because "it would be easier to get a job teaching English ". . . I told myself it would be great . . . I had visions of expounding on the virtues of Shakespearian prose, mining Twain for gems of wisdom, reading deeply late into the night the next best poet I would share with my students . . . little did I know . . .
 That I am indeed expounding on Shakespeare--and why indeed it IS POSSIBLE to read and understand him (and okay, let's be honest, this ONLY HAPPENS when you actually take your book home), I am mining Twain--but only for when the next politically incorrect word is going to pop off the page and catch me unawares in front of my Sophomores, and yes, the entire reason that prompted this latest blog--I am indeed reading late into the night--but RESEARCH PAPERS and they ain't poetry folks. Sigh.

April is the Cruelest Month

Each year as the mud begins to thaw, the wind howls and the forsythia fights through, I can't help but think how true indeed is T.S. Eliot's line from The Wasteland, but first  I suppose a little admission is in order here. I don't really like Spring. I know-- I must be broken. I can remember being a small child excited to wake up and see what the Easter Bunny brought me, but yet I always had this feeling that something about the Easter basket and the neon-bright smooth plastic eggs was just, somehow, too much. I could never put words to it of course, and even in my little short brown-haired head I knew that if I tried to explain my distaste for disturbingly large bunnies and too happy unnaturally-colored silicon grass that somehow I would be wierd. Because, being from the Midwest, the party line that begins almost as soon as the Christmas manager is put away goes something like, "Gosh, I just can't wait for Spring," or "Man, it's been a rough one here--just can't wait for the weather to get warmer," or "Won't it be soo nice when we can go outside without all these winter coats, hats, gloves, scarves, boots . . ." Now, don't get me wrong, I love a 60 degree day as much as the next person, but there is something more deeply disturbing about Spring to me than the warmer weather and some tacky holiday paraphernalia. It is, I have found, the "waking" of new life, the the grunting and groaning of the Earth to come back to life that pulls at me, gets in my face and demands something from me that just sometimes seems as I have said before, "too much." I do realize that I am still most likely in the minority with this feeling--as I much prefer, indeed, LOVE the fall with its harvesting, rather than birthing, but about six years ago I heard something very disturbing that unfortunately for the context, opened a window to helping me to see that I'm not the only one who welcomes Spring with an odd sense of dread. I was at a teacher workshop and the presenter was working with us on the mental health of teenagers. She slipped into her presentation an almost off-handed comment that most teen suicides happen in the Spring. My stomach turned-over when she said this--not because I was or am suicidal, but because I instantly felt like I "knew" why this horrible fact might be so. She corroborated my instinct when she went on to say that this is the case because teen depression stays in hibernation during the winter months but the "energy" that come with Spring motivates teens to "act" on their depression. It wasn't a few weeks later when I stumbled back upon Eliot's famous line, and wham! I knew that I was, for better or worse, not alone in my feeling that April is indeed the cruelest month. Relating all of this to my sister while putting up Easter decorations for my family, big sis laughed at me and said that I should be a Minnesota Lutheran. She may be right.

Overheard

One of my favorite parts of my college's newspaper was the "Overheard" column--random comments collected by the newspaper staff and then inserted into the paper, purposefully with no context because, of course the lack context makes the comments even funnier, and often delightfully more suggestive. In homage to that profound formula, I think I will offer periodic "Overheard" snippits from my household and a little piece of my stream-of-conciousness that followed.

Here is a sampling from last night:

"Mom, I think you should be a priest."  --Um, okay . . . well . . .

Pouting 8-yr-old son enters house, shutting door a bit too loudly,"All they want to do is make mud pies and dig for worms" -- REALLY? That is a horrible thing for a group of boys to want to do.

"You know, bacon is really the best thing there is for you" --Honey, I couldn't agree more.

Mom to 8 yr-old wrapped in towel after shower dripping wet on the carpet, "Go get some underpants on silly" 10 yr-old brother added, "Yeah, because we don't want to see that." --Right. Because we never see that in a house of boys.

Psalm 139 Part Deux

Okay, so if God is indeed shining light into all of my darkness, I suppose I should fess up that while typing the previous blog I ate an entire bag of Twizzler Cherry Nibs. And since the blog wasn't that long, and I spent no time editing it . . . yeah, even with fuzzy math the calculation of minutes typing x number of nibs doesn't really come out in my favor.  . . 

Psalm 139

So at Mass on Sunday, our Responsorial Song was based on Psalm 139. A hymn that I particularly like, and have sung many time before, but this particular time I think I actually listened to the words for the first time--not just how they sounded (which I think I do a lot), but what they meant (which I think I don't do enough). Regardless, I was awe-struck for the first time thinking about what it really means if God knows, truly knows all of my thoughts. What it truly means for Him to shine a light even in my dark places, even when I would rather he not. It is at once scary and oddly comforting. This idea of God seeing into all of my darkness because He is already there, would have, once upon a time, frightened me, but while this idea does give me pause, it is quickly followed by great hope and peace. For if God ALREADY knows all of my yucky parts--then I have nothing to hide--especially from myself. So if I am impatient, or judgemental, or intolerant--no point in rationalizing it to myself--God knows. How profound. How simple. And it strikes me--isn't this one of the first things we teach our children? How easily I forgot . . .

Down to Bizness

Okay, now that I'm finished with all of the pre-emptive explanatories . . . the thing lately on my mind is when really smart authors quote other really smart authors. This behavior is very disturbing to me as it drives home the point to me that I am most definitely NOT one of those aforementioned "really smart authors." Perhaps an illustration will help--while re-reading an excerpt from Kathleen Norris' Amazing Grace the other day I noticed her quoting a few pithy lines from Emily Dickinson (okay, that was redundant). This was worthy of note to me because I claim Emily as one of my favs . . . but had never considered those lines as quoted by Norris in quite that way before. The immediate thought that struck me was that I had never obviously really read Dickinson before--perhaps mearly looked at her words arranged on a page. And then, the same exact thing happened to me while reading Keller's The Reason for God. He quotes extensively from C. S. Lewis, from some Lewis titles that I thought I was familiar. But, alas, I read Keller's analysis of Lewis' thinking and thought again to myself, wow, guess I haven't really read Lewis . . . must have also just stared at the page while holding a book with his name on the cover. Sigh. Anyone else have this experience? Also, my apologies go out to Stephen King as I just realized that I broke his cardinal rule of absolutely not ever over-using adverbs.

All by myself . . .

With all thanks to my sister who did the initial design (she has decorated my home as well), I have attempted to do a little redecorating of this site. . . all by myself. This of course means absolutely nothing to those of you who have actually joined the 21st Century, but since I am what they termed "a digital immigrant" at our last school institute day (I prefer "Luddite"), the fact that there is actually some text and a few pretty colors on this site make me feel like that day back in 1980 when I rode away from my driveway on the dark blue fake-denim bananna seat bike . . . all by myself.

As much as things change . . .

I have learned that they tend to stay the same. This cliche holds true in my relationship with my sister. If you are reading this blog post, then you have likely read the first one on this site, so you are already aware, dear reader, that this blog began because my bossy older sister "made me do it." This behavior is not much different than when we were little girls with sunburnt noses and shoulders and I was the one sent inside to get cups for water, or towels for drying-off from the sprinkler. My bossy older sister of the harder-than-steel shins who won every kicking fight we ever had, and who so kindly "allowed" me to sleep on her bedroom floor when the thermometer hit 95 degrees (she had a window unit air conditioner when I did not), is also the bossy older sister who can make me laugh until I cannot breathe, and she can look at me with one eyebrow raised and that one twitch replaces a 20 minute conversation. She is the gracious older sister who was always my biggest fan even when in many situations she could have simply not acknowledged me and no one would have faulted her. Particularly when my extroverted, um, shall we say, "passionate" self could have, and I assume did, crawl under her more introverted skin. Suffice it to say, I'm writing because she has been hounding me for ten years to write something, and since she did the initial blog set-up, I was trapped, er, I mean, I agreed. So, here, I am, may my musings be worthy of her efforts.

My Sister Made Me Do It

This inaugural entry is really prologue -- a guest post by R's sister, Sherry; I'm the gal who decorated this space in an agreement that if I built it, she would write.  And so, the design, title, subtitle, pictures, descriptions, and song list at this start-up are entirely my (Sherry's) fault,  and any grammatical errors, misspellings, or less-than-sophisticated imagery should not be held against Lady R.  I'm sure she will improve upon this space when it is gifted to her and as she has time here and there after taking the reins.

Love to you, Big R!

--Sbug