We've been enjoying Elizabeth George Speare's books. We first read "Sign of the Beaver" which hooked us. We love the adventure, character development, historical setting, and, at least in "The Bronze Bow" the Tablespoon of romantic love thrown in for good Cody-squirming-smiling measure. We just finished this book and both of us can't get it out of our minds. Cody wants a Bronze Bow II! Next of course, we'll read her most famous: Witch of Blackburn Pond. She's a wonderful writer!

"To write poems I need to be alone. When I avoid being alone I avoid poetry and the messages it brings me." from poemcrazy, by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge.

Being alone. What does that look like anyhow? Someone out in the crowd, please shout it out to me. It's like I'm seeing faces all the time. I see faces. I love the faces, moreso than the empty places without the faces. Strange, strange times as extroversion ignites. I remember being the incredibly shy one, being angry at my wordlessness, hoping one day I would speak, and speak well, and speak in a subject-verb perhaps adjective-direct object construct. (Yes, I diagrammed it too.) Mostly, I didn't want that fear of approaching someone else. So I fought it by forcing situations where words had to come out of my mouth. In front of others. I stuttered and spat, spat and stuttered. Those addressed wiped their faces. Shyness covered me with a wooly shame. Ugh, it itched. I got eczema from it. (Isn't eczema a cool word??)

But, it's true. If you practice, twenty years later, you become adept at going overboard. Tonight, a woman called to possibly set up a running date, and I blabbed on the phone to her for about 20 minutes. I don't even know her. Frightening. Do I chitterchatter erratically to the serial killer at my door? I'm thinking that he would have an interesting life to hear about.

Now, according to Wooldridge, it may be essential to backtalk, to return to the feelings and the mood of solitude because it contains essential poetic material, an attentiveness one cannot have while in the presence of others. "Everything's got to do with listening," she quotes WS Merwin. Didn't we just have this talk, Cindy and Jennifer? Yes, indeedy, I can get caught up in the contemplative beauty of the quiet. Thomas Merton, Paul Jones, Julian of Norwich, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Thoreau, Me ... it's all elemental and good.

But then ... I've got a coffee planned on Tuesday with a friend who must tell me all details about his new girlfriend and a ski trip. In turn, I will tell him about baby calves on the farm. And, I've got running planned with mothers who breathe out stories regarding their children or faith. Or, there's a group gathering soon to talk together (for goodness sake) about poetry. Then, there are e-mails to old friends. And, of course, my son rarely ever stops talking which he got from his father who tells me the meat of all of his exceedingly exciting business calls with engineer types. Therefore, I rebel from Wooldridge and poetically assert that society can also be the signifyer of messages and that ~~

Words, words, words pile, pile, pile
like leaves raked to a glorious
glorious glorious
monument
of breath.

Perhaps that little song could have been better had I walked in the desert alone for a while? Yes, most likely. :) I'm just, however, surrendering to my noisy season of life, knowing quite well that in a year, or two, or twenty, silence might surround me once more. For better or for worse.

"Something wonderful has happened," Cody kept saying to his grandmother.

He knew, though, the wonderful event could turn horrible if his grandpa found out that Belle, the Walker coondog, had birthed Bo's (the white lab) puppies. So Cody tiptoed down to the far end of the fenced yard, down by the scraggly garden plot, to the old clapboard doghouse where doleful Belle looked out expecting the worse, suckling her six mixed-up prizes.

I get proud of Cody when he's this way: the champion of little things that should live. I can imagine him having about twenty thousand small animals when he grows up. I can imagine him taking care of me when I'm older too like I'm a mutt of some sort that needs a safe house.

My dad, aunts and uncles are in the throes of caretaking this week as my last living grandmother fell on Tuesday and broke her hip. She was carted off to Springfield to the hospital where she had surgery. When I went to see her on Tuesday, she was all smiles, full of love, holding my hand, not knowing whether it was summer or winter, whether she was at home or at a restaurant. She kept saying, "Well, yes, from time to time, I like to go out and visit places like this." Her gray hair was wild, teeth were gone, once steady gray eyes blurred. She has a form of dementia, possibly Alzheimers, in which she can't remember much of anything. Then, in the hospital, she became confused and when night fell, she became alarmed and demented.

Old age, new unwanted births. Life cuts. My grandmother is now in a nursing home where my dad waits in a recliner, answering the same question over and over, dreading nightfall. She's not allowed to be on her feet for six weeks, yet she has no inkling why not. Her strong character remains undaunted. God, send her grace in the throes of her slow death. She was always so ferocious for God and his purpose in her life. Always on fire, always preaching.

All of us family members wonder if the night will fall hard on us in our winter years too.

All of us hold onto our current health in a gripping sense.

In the hospital waiting room, we only wanted to talk about upcoming vacation plans instead.

God grant us all grace in our throes. Amen.

My daughter is in NYC tonight visiting her father. I drove her to Kansas City earlier where I left her at the gate, and she, the full fledged seventeen year old she is, headed off to her gate, ipod in ears, burrowed protectively down in her songs. I called her an hour and a half later, and she had just landed in Milwaukee for her layover, and, guess what, mom?, the stewardess forgot to give me and my seatmate peanuts! We had to ask for them! She, reassuringly, still needs me to know this.

I called her an hour and a half later, and she was already at stepmother's parents, fully emerged into Dominican Republican flare, far from the midwest, surrounded by tall multi-eyed structures. Secured in the City.

She had been reluctant to go. Other classmates' parents had allowed them to travel to Panama City, Florida, alone. I had been oldfashioned and mean. We had more than too many heated discussions about my decision. Thankfully, she's where she is, supervised, parented.

And now, a breather from the teenager. Like my brother, I must agree parenting the teen is difficult; we've had a tumultous past two months which has stretched me into unbelievable postures and places. I believe I'm going to enjoy my week off, even though still as my child, she's ever present in my mind. Secured in my heart, she'll be waiting on Friday, half kid, half adult, sighing, aaaaaghhhhinng, primed for another go around, which I won't think about until Friday. :)

Are Christians really for torture? According to a Pew poll, the "results" are in to the favorable. Check these out:

http://ncronline.org/NCR_Online/archives2/2006a/032406/032406h.htm
http://www.salon.com/
http://time.blogs.com/daily_dish/2006/03/americans_and_t.html?promoid=rss_daily_dish

Somehow I can't imagine Jesus holding a match to someone's skin and saying he's doing it to protect the country of Israel.

I wish things like this wouldn't blight the name of following Christ.

Sigh.

Is the run supposed to make you feel revved up or wasted? Scientific research sitting on my chair says wasted. I'm so tired, and I'll blame it on the six a.m. run instead of staying up late organizing my son's millionth room object. I'm just so glad that I energetically peeled the potatoes and sliced the onions and seasoned the roast early this morning when I didn't feel as if I dragged a semi around the house twenty times. Now, the smell winds around the corners. It says, "May I serve you?" It says, "Take a bath. I've got it covered." It says, "You deserve a night off." Mmm.... I like my talking and kind pot roast.

Okay, my tribute to Pride and Prejudice is over.:) We had just rented the movie, and I remembered my mulling thoughts, particularly in the interesting angle some take with the book, and it just had to come out. Strange!

The poetry group is forming. We have nine who are interested. It strikes me as crazy that women (and a potential guy) are seriously saying, "Yes! I'm there! (Or, interested in finding out more). I guess I've been a closet type for so long that I forget that the world longs for uplifting language and words. So cool.

Here are the books I'm reading to help me obsess about the topic!

Frances Mayes, "The Discovery of Poetry"

Susan Goldmsith Wooldridge, "poemcrazy: freeing your life with words"

Mary Oliver, 'Rules for the Dance: a handbook for writing and reading metrical verse"

Robert Pinsky, "The Sounds of Poetry"

Heather McHugh, "Hinge and Sign"

Mary Oliver, "New and Selected Poems

Alan Dugan, "Poems Seven"

"Imagist Poetry: An Anthology"

Truly, I should thwart my following thoughts due to a popular (and dare I say political) following of this lovely 18th century novel. The book is a masterpiece, a compendium of social manners, a glimpse into a societal structure, a wit and dialogue extravaganza, a study in subtlety. My daughter could learn to be a lady from it.

However, something bothers me about the perfect "Pride and Prejudice". I'm sure it's personality driven which goes to show that maybe the whole lady concept is troubling to me. But, strikers out there would slap me down with retribution if I extended it beyond my own comfort zone and said the following:

"Pride and Prejudice" is a bleak look at womanhood. Of course, it was realistic back in the aristocratic England for a woman to be engineered for marriage; however, to see all hope and hype directed towards this saddens me. A woman's choices were narrow, yet in this work, stemming from the author who lived in that time, a romanticism caps the other contents. The love story between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth flows beautifully, we sigh, they break through obstacles, we sigh. And, yes, I've sighed. However, I sighed during Cinderella once upon a time too, and not because she became a woman underscored by princedom. Now, it's just I prefer more of an inner look. Perhaps Virginia Woolf has ruined me. Mrs. Ramsay (in "To The Lighthouse") spelled out clearly what the world of social and marital limitations might demand. It's the post honeymoon view, of which I'm more curious.

"Pride and Prejudice", although excellent in many ways, shouldn't be used as a moral and politically correct code book. I've seen quite a few bloggers who wave their Austen in one hand and their Bible in another (ouch, sorry). That's perfectly fine. I can wave my Woolf and Bible too. However, for me, some of this Austen waving seems also judgmentally proclamative in the sense that "a woman should be this way" not "a woman is this way". I guess I just value the suffrage movement (I prefer "Little Women" over "Pride and Prejudice" ) and don't want to return to the 18th century view of women. I also believe that "biblical womanhood" doesn't necessarily mirror an Austen novel where women are kept in neat safe categories. Yes, marital fidelity, goodness of character, are jewels in the Bible; however, one can embody that with some realistic complexity and some compassion for those outside one's own category (socially or religiously).

Austen was an outstanding, avant garde (for her day) writer whom I've appreciated. It just helps, though, to ponder the fairy tale a bit without adopting it as gospel.

Shakespeare: Sonnets. Everyone has heard of you,
and almost everybody can find something
touching in you. You are calm and control
yourself, even though your wisdom and your
messages are no lesser than those of others.

Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by

Saturday at my parent's farm, I sat on a hill that I had walked and ran to with the white lab Bo. It was far off. I had to crash through brown leaves on an old trail to get there. I had to be distracted by the deer stand which I climbed and sat in for a while. I had to examine a rock pile for quartz. Finally, I crested the hill and the trail and found a view of a pond, a couple of stark trees, and the roundness of the old mountain range all around me. I sat there for quite a while, breathing in the air to drive the stale, contained, small air out of me. Something about doing this consciously makes me want to cry, an inherent great need of purification strangulates and messes me up until the clearer air begins to make entry. It becomes apparent that the ability to think and feel has been lost and again rediscovered. I sat without the common anxieties that bite at me. I sat watching the last of a dead leaf flutter dramatically from a tree. I sat looking at a faroff slope where the Penner cemetery holds my grandmother and grandfather. Many of my people have been across this land, this hill. It was amazing to even be breathing and alive and there in the day.

When Bo and I ran back home, I felt buoyant, glad, thankful for spirit,life and air. So happy life offers us pockets of treats.

Now for news on the cul-de-sac ....
After a day of intense life-questioning tossing and turning yesterday (post hillside), I casted and so far... one bite from an interested participant! Thanks to the discovery of a bargain book at a closeout sale here in town, I picked up a copy of Frances Mayes' "The Discovery of Poetry: A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poems", I hope to form a small group to read or write poetry here in town. My whole body / person needs this as badly as sitting on that far off hill. I'm hoping something comes together. (Btw, Jennifer, if you're reading this, you're invited -- prob meet every other week at a restaurant. I know you're crazy/busy, though!:)

A new view. A sitdown. Time to breathe. Ah. Tears and smiles.

Tomorrow is my book club, at my house. I should be finishing the cherry cream glaze on my cherry chocolate brownies, or my grasshopper pie, or tortellini salad, or my romaine sirloin steak salad. And, I definitely should be cleaning. However, stop the madness! No one will care, and if they do, they get booted for being anti-literary. Mostly the women will be wining instead of whining and will be loudly sharing their own personal interpretation of the book. I love the group and how we can agree to disagree on anything: religion, politics, Bridgett Jones, what to wear under a burka (sp?). I'm always replaying all the wonderful quips and laughter of the evening later in bed, wishing that the meeting was still bubbling forth. My extroverted side will glow with post-delight. Our book wasn't too meaningful this time; however, our exchange will still be, I'm almost certain. Now, I hope that I can stay awake for it, because I have a lot left to do. No wonder I don't volunteer to host only once every two years!

I'm a feelin' bluesy, and all I can picture as an antidote is going to the hills this weekend and walkin' it out alone in the woods on my parents' and great-grandparents' farm. I'm just feeling overwhelmed by parenting. I'm taking on all of their stuff. I'm blending myself to where I'm not breathing. I'm not doing some of the heart and soul things that I enjoy. I need to walk and sit on a stump and hear the squirrels scampering and the blue jays calling and the wind rustling and hear my thoughts and God's whispers and know that when I emerge, my deeper breath will have been restored. I'll still have kids, yes. I'll still have challenges to walk through with them, yes. I'll still have lunches to fix out of whatever's available, yes. But, perhaps I'll be resonating again somewhere within myself. Heading south, definitely needed.

It's just a beautiful day outside: blue skies, warmth, shiny-ness.

I just returned from playing board games with homeschool children during a coop period. I'm still envisioning a beautiful little girl who was hyperactively bouncing everywhere today with her big smile and beautiful black hair, off of her wheelchair, down with the other kids. She has no arms or legs, yet she manages on the small bits that decided to grow in their place. She always appears to be one of the happiest kids there. Definitely one of the most beautiful.

For some reason, my daughter is extremely late, way past her curfew tonight, and to waylay worry, I'll write about an event that happened by the potatoes this evening at my favorite grocery store.

And, I never reached for that bag of potatoes that I needed I now realize.

An old work friend was walking by the oranges, when I called his name to say hello. He and I used to run every Tuesday together on the trail (before I knew any women who would were runners) -- we ran through the seasons, hot sticky summer, the snow and ice of winter, four miles every Tuesday. Even though he's about 13 years older than me, and was a ph.d. student in educational and counseling psychology, I ended up being his listener for the many woes he experienced in life. He was a fellow post-Ozarkian which also snagged me a bit (besides the compatible pace and the occasional bluebird sightings we'd experience).

However, after a while (a year or two), the sameness of the woebegone issues began to be wearying, and I purposefully began to distance myself. I'm a fairly optomistic person, a believer in change, a hoper, and when I'd offer that to him, he would Eyore it away, only to return to his lament (Puddleglum is the corresponding character in The Chronicles of Narnia; I think there's some also in "The Inferno", swirling around a core of hell, always rejecting goodness just for the sake of rejecting it). It was sad and frustrating at the same time.

So there in the produce aisle, five years later, he appeared, and we talked for about an hour by those potatoes that I still need.

His lament began to pour fourth again, so readily, hardly anything had changed; however, this guy is in real straits with his profession (no job) and says he's extremely depressed. Not much had changed really. I began to feel the compassion well up inside of me again. And, began to tell him the journey of my faith which accelerated after the time of our running together. I told him the story of God returning me, how faith strengthens me, how it could him, how he could face his older age (56 now) with hope and comfort. He listened, said his faith is gone, commented that he did need a shift. We exchanged e-mails again, and I walked away.

I felt that typical heady, humble rush of hope that happens when I tell someone how lifechanging God can be based upon my own story. Then somewhere in the dairy department, I reminded myself how unlikely it would be for this guy to change. He, in some ways, had already hardwired himself into a certain mode of being, and I knew it too well.

Nonetheless, God does erode, doesn't he?, the walls of soul and heart brick that people construct? I pray for my friend that he can experience the joy, comfort, peace that comes through the belief of Christ. Perhaps there'll be a positive outcome despite the forgotten potatoes.

Five (okay, seven) Little Things that Bring Me Satisfaction or Pleasure

Per Cindy's prompting at Quotidian Light, I've been motivated to post again, after a break in which I've had to focus all of my attention on being a mother. So, here goes!

1. My son's laugh because it comes from his toes and spreads out like rays.

2. Hearing the birds sing on warm winter days like today.

3. Watching my husband's smiling face as he watches one of his favorites: "The Andy Griffith Show."

4. Silence, silence, silence

5. Getting an instant facial steam when I drain freshly boiled pasta in a colander.

6. Rolling down the windows to breathe in the country air as we first arrive and drive down the lane that leads to my parents' tucked away farmhouse way out in the hills.

7. Seeing two women walking and chatting like crazy on the trail or the street.

Keillor wrote in his latest book about an idealized world where people take care of one another (he called it St. Paul:) (Jan Karon calls it Mitford:) (and he attributed it to a society of Democrats, of course:). That "taking care of" aspect of relationship always interests me. It brings me back to my Grandma Cora whom I still see in the headlights of my former little red pickup, waving farewell to her granddaughter and her husband, smiling and yelling earnestly, "Take care [she pronounced it Keer] of each other, okay? Okay?" Her bright head of celestial white hair shone out. She waved over and over like a child.

It was a searing image and moment, and the "taking care of" aspect became a loving grandmother's wise edict, and a litnus test of love forevermore.

So, yesterday, a Dillards salesgirl unknowingly became a lit lamp, revealing that the Divine takes care of his own in some way or another. I'm still smiling over the encounter.

My daughter and I were purchasing earrings, when the sales girl noticed my daughter's school t-shirt and asked what year she was in, and then said, "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but it's almost over for you. You'll look back and it will have been like no time at all. Do you have Mr. ____ as your principal? He's really sweet and caring, much better than any of the others." She had graduated in '03. It was amazing. She spoke directly into the heart of the current struggle. I felt like calling her later to tell her, "You have no idea how God spoke through your words." Maybe I'll stop by her counter before too long to thank her and let her know how she was used for a higher purpose. Maybe I'll pray for her and for help during her struggles.

I love God's active care and audible affirmations which makes me feel calmed and humbled by his powerful beams of love.

Returning home, we encountered some expected words from the school, from the grandmother, from the daughter, and then a note. And, so, we're waiting given the words that were written in haste and defiance. It's quite difficult to allow a child the freedom to be exceedingly vulnerable. All I could think of were the stories of women who've entered my life who were transparent enough to reveal that they too struck out, they too experienced, they too became needful of God's hands and words. I entrust all to you, dear God. Please protect.

One of my women friends is writing a book from a mother's perspective, which she's allowed me to edit when I have time. Within it, I'm allowed the glimpse of what might happen and what to do and how to bend to the process. I've had to integrate this several times already. Now, I'm prepared to do the work, yet, of course, it feels uncertain and, underneath, sad.

Last night, I went out with three women friends to a restaurant and musical coffee shop. It helped to continue on. Taking care of oneself, while devoting yourself to the obligation, is supposed to be best. Fretting and stewing only compounds the wintery mix.

Today, I will wait. Seems like many of us live in the ambiguity of process, transition, gaining awareness, waiting.

I turned to Romans 14 this morning which begins with the worthy verse: "Accept him whose faith is weak, without passing judgment on disputable matters". Acceptance for where a person is can extend to daughters. Lord, stretch your arms in this fold, please.

Not as many interesting words today in Arkansas. A wind, yes, a wind! I think we may have a tornado watch here tonight, but in the hotel, we live in a fake time zone without our belongings around us that we have to catch and capture before they rupture out the window.

Because my husband is still unfortunately sick, I went out to give him peace and shopped. The words in a department store are decidedly streamlined for regulated response: "Hello. How are you today? Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No, I'm just looking."

I felt depressed walking around, looking at bad clothing on the 75% off rack, wondering why I wasn't reading in a coffee shop, worrying that I looked like the rich, bored ladies who have the lost-luggage faces. All the shopping words were clipped, damaged bringing no sign of vitality to the participants.

Finally, I just decided to drive and explore more streets which I did as I listened to some more Keillor, whom my friend used to see walk by his apartment porch all the time in St. Paul. The chapters I listened to made me think of my friend V and an old debate we get into all the time at our book club meetings. She is incredulous that a 'born again' Christian (she spits out the phrase 'born again', because Catholics like herself don't see the need, and because Pat Roberston and others have used such phraseology for division purposes) could be a Democrat. (Although, I've tended mostly to be a critic of both parties -- a type of unfortunate noncommital in a way which I'm seeing more harm in.)

V and I love each other, hug, dialogue, debate with emotions, and walk away saying, "Don't change, but if you do, I'll still love you!" She's a liberal 64 year old, punching theatrical sort who embraces life and ideas with passion. I'm quite blessed to know and enjoy her.

Anyway, the book reminded me of our ongoing debate which caused me to write her today at length. Words more words began to happen. One day, I'll die (maybe tomorrow), and there won't be any more. I really do like them.

Well, my husband, who is still sick, and still out of it, poor guy, -- he even thanked the vending machine today when it remitted his candy -- has asked me to silence the typing of the words.

Shhhhh... too many words! is that even possible?....

"An Arkansas man's invention ... it's a waterfall in your fireplace at the touch of a remote!"
"Are dry counties really dry? Our report shows that over 700 liquor licenses have been granted in these dry counties."

All day long, words have dropped their precious or irrelevant seeds all around me, like the just heard above words from the Little Rock CBS affiliate's news broadcast. It began early on the dark forested road leaving my parents' secluded farm when, heading South with a sick husband as passenger, I inserted Garrison Keillor's velvety voice as he read his book "Home Grown Democrat". Luscious, plump vocabulary, made me laugh, made me question and accept his liberalism, made me think about the power of words to be strung together for this or that argument, for either side. Like many, I've been an admirer of Keillor's Prairie Home Companion; it was first brought to my attention by a fellow Christian college friend, who just wanted expansiveness in both language and ideas combined with the nostalgia of recalling the individual that matters in a story. I discovered that I needed that too. Twenty some years later, still enjoying that voice, particularly that fishing with the language lure for that snag! catch! feast!

Then upon arriving in Little Rock, I dropped the ill worker off at his building, and drove down Markham Street (the most gratifying street ever because it connects all and surprises you at night with a road's edge Lutheran church stained glass window Christ reaching out to you, even you, on a false road) and found the Clinton library.

There, with techno doublewideness, words sprayed everywhere in each booth. The words of politics, Mandela, Americorps, takes a village, health care for all, deficit reduction, Chemical Weapons Convention, impeachment, acquittal, forgiveness of third world debt, AIDS, crystal glass Christmas tree, saxophone, new beginnings, Starr report, legacy.

It's quite luxurious to be in this well of words right now, in the hills, in the city, off Markham, with Bill, G, and the windowed Christ. I can hardly wait to hear what tomorrow brings!

Blizzard

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down --
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes --
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there --
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

William Carlos Williams

Thoughts of snow in the air as the Northeast luxuriates (thrashes) in a bounty of it. I love the images in Williams' poetry: the mix of earth / spirit in a clasp. Our snow garcon has become a petite fille, a small girl with a delicate waist and an upturned nose. Soon, she will spill over, being vulnerable in air. I've grown to love her, like my cats, and I wonder why does love travel to temporary uncertain things so easily?

Something significant stopped this week. Something I didn't expect but consciously chose when the time came. Something that was once incredibly important but became little by little tiring, uninspiring, inconvenient.

I stopped going to my women's ministry meetings at church. Last 'semester', I led a book club and participated in the core leader's group, but this semester, with the travel to Little Rock and the conscious burrowing into parenting teen obligations at a tricky time, I withdrew. Wow, unbelievable: withdrawn from women's ministry, their issues, faces, exploration, transparency (in some cases), friendship.

But after six years of serving there, I feel nostalgic but ... liberated. I can travel more with my husband, focus on the friends I have, spend more time with my children before the big change happens, hunker into my running or guitar. Yes, unashamedly, this feels good. Although community is important, it can come in various ways or seasons.

Confession: I'm not sad, or ready to admit it.

The snow garcon still liveth! I see him standing straight in a bare lawn of greening winter grass; he looks forlorn, yet determined. The day is a 38-er; he should be au-revoiring soon. He's a sight because he wasn't there earlier this week, and now he liveth, and we comment upon his weight loss, and his fluttery scarf, and his scaring the crouching cat who sniffed at his arm sticks. Soon, he'll be off to le maison, his home, his own mere and pere.

My daughter and I were talking last night as we finished a 1000 piece puzzle how it is sad that our two week Europe trip is over. That was in June, this is February. We felt nostalgic or resentful about the new group that's going in June with the fun teachers who plan an amazing trip with a delightful English tour guide named Albert. For both of us, the trip exceeded expectations -- her, for shopping, sights, old friendship -- me, for sights, senses, new friendship. Europe, wow, I'm still reeling with the amazement that I actually went. I always think of the Arc d'Triumph as the heighth of this feeling. We ran up the steps and were struck by the beauty of the Champs Elysses below in the night sky, gleaming. I stared and stared and couldn't get enough. So far from the Ozarks, so far from the cul-de-sac.

Well, the new group will go and will experience the same awe. I will be glad for them, I will try to be glad for them, I will be crying in happiness for them, I will ask for forgiveness ....

"Which one do you think is the cutest?" asked Cody. Hmmmm... the one that doesn't have leaves and bald cypress ferns mushed into its body? Or, the one whose mother taught him to stand up straight? I'm not sure, but one will be around tomorrow while the other one travels off to Paris shortly. I'd better be political in my answer.

Whence cometh divine flakes which floateth into my eyeball at early dawn? I believe that running in snow or warm rain tops most sublife experiences I typically have. I mean I should have been between flannel sheets at six a.m. this morning, leading the unexplored, nonnationalgeographic life of routine and nonexposure instead of throwing myself down a silent cul-de-sac (into the Arctic wilds of snow-emblazoned utility boxes and driveways) in a silent, breathful pace. Should have been in bed. I've never been too sensible. However, once out, it truly was worth it to experience that joy in being in the raw, on the fringe of society in which Nature reasserts itself as the conduit of what is elementally good. Nothing else can imposter this. (Annie Dillard examines both the positive and the cruel in nature in her wonderful book "Pilgrim on Tinker Creek.")

When I was younger, on my parents' farm, I always needed to escape the small home where we lived, and, so I would go on woods walks all the time. (One time in junior high, I even brought a copy of Wordsworth to this amazing clearing by cedars and mossy big rocks -- I can still see it now -- and at one point, I felt that old transcendental surge -- or perhaps it was the holySpirit swoosh -- or perhaps it was the recollection of prebirth, or prelapsarian life -- or Pan -- or psychological respite -- anyway it was real enough then to recall the tingle of it even now.) But, snow woods walking was extremely memorable: the tracks, the sounds within the silence, the unfamiliar familiar, the perfect icing on a log, the accentuated movement of the dark creek. It was all so beautiful. Although we never traveled, I felt faraway in another space and time where a poor hill girl was invited with flourish.

So this morning, heading out into the snow for a four miler, those old feelings rushed back and made me inspired to once again notice and be a participant and be grateful for the open invitation.

I lifted the following from another blog (Bridget Jones Goes to Seminary) because they deserve to be passed on.

Please read these words of Bono as he addresses a faith breakfast in Washington, DC earlier this week. May they serve to both capture our hearts to God and set them free to love God's world.

If you're wondering what I'm doing here, at a prayer breakfast, well, so am I. I'm certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather. It's certainly not because I'm a rock star. Which leaves one possible explanation: I'm here because I've got a messianic complex.

Yes, it's true. And for anyone who knows me, it's hardly a revelation.

Well, I'm the first to admit that there's something unnatural...something unseemly...about rock stars mounting the pulpit and preaching at presidents, and then disappearing to their villas in the south of France. Talk about a fish out of water. It was weird enough when Jesse Helms showed up at a U2 concert...but this is really weird, isn't it?

You know, one of the things I love about this country is its separation of church and state. Although I have to say: in inviting me here, both church and state have been separated from something else completely: their mind.

Mr. President, are you sure about this?

It's very humbling and I will try to keep my homily brief. But be warned - I'm Irish.

I'd like to talk about the laws of man, here in this city where those laws are written. And I'd like to talk about higher laws. It would be great to assume that the one serves the other; that the laws of man serve these higher laws...but of course, they don't always. And I presume that, in a sense, is why you're here.

I presume the reason for this gathering is that all of us here - Muslims, Jews, Christians - all are searching our souls for how to better serve our family, our community, our nation, our God.

I know I am. Searching, I mean. And that, I suppose, is what led me here, too.

Yes, it's odd, having a rock star here - but maybe it's odder for me than for you. You see, I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was...well, a little blurry, and hard to see.

I remember how my mother would bring us to chapel on Sundays... and my father used to wait outside. One of the things that I picked up from my father and my mother was the sense that religion often gets in the way of God.

For me, at least, it got in the way. Seeing what religious people, in the name of God, did to my native land...and in this country, seeing God's second-hand car salesmen on the cable TV channels, offering indulgences for cash...in fact, all over the world, seeing the self-righteousness roll down like a mighty stream from certain corners of the religious establishment...

I must confess, I changed the channel. I wanted my MTV.
Even though I was a believer.
Perhaps because I was a believer.
I was cynical...not about God, but about God's politics. (There you are, Jim.)

Then, in 1997, a couple of eccentric, septuagenarian British Christians went and ruined my shtick - my reproachfulness. They did it by describing the millennium, the year 2000, as a Jubilee year, as an opportunity to cancel the chronic debts of the world's poorest people. They had the audacity to renew the Lord's call - and were joined by Pope John Paul II, who, from an Irish half-Catholic's point of view, may have had a more direct line to the Almighty.

'Jubilee' - why 'Jubilee'?

What was this year of Jubilee, this year of our Lord's favor?

I'd always read the scriptures, even the obscure stuff. There it was in Leviticus (25:35)...
'If your brother becomes poor,' the scriptures say, 'and cannot maintain himself...you shall maintain him.... You shall not lend him your money at interest, not give him your food for profit.'

It is such an important idea, Jubilee, that Jesus begins his ministry with this. Jesus is a young man, he's met with the rabbis, impressed everyone, people are talking. The elders say, he's a clever guy, this Jesus, but he hasn't done much...yet. He hasn't spoken in public before...

When he does, is first words are from Isaiah: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,' he says, 'because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.' And Jesus proclaims the year of the Lord's favour, the year of Jubilee (Luke 4:18).

What he was really talking about was an era of grace - and we're still in it.

So fast-forward 2,000 years. That same thought, grace, was made incarnate - in a movement of all kinds of people. It wasn't a bless-me club... it wasn't a holy huddle. These religious guys were willing to get out in the streets, get their boots dirty, wave the placards, follow their convictions with actions...making it really hard for people like me to keep their distance. It was amazing. I almost started to like these church people.
But then my cynicism got another helping hand.

It was what Colin Powell, a five-star general, called the greatest W.M.D. of them all: a tiny little virus called AIDS. And the religious community, in large part, missed it. The ones that didn't miss it could only see it as divine retribution for bad behaviour. Even on children...even [though the] fastest growing group of HIV infections were married, faithful women.

Aha, there they go again! I thought to myself judgmentalism is back!

But in truth, I was wrong again. The church was slow but the church got busy on this the leprosy of our age.

Love was on the move.

Mercy was on the move.

God was on the move.

Moving people of all kinds to work with others they had never met, never would have cared to meet...conservative church groups hanging out with spokesmen for the gay community, all singing off the same hymn sheet on AIDS...soccer moms and quarterbacks...hip-hop stars and country stars. This is what happens when God gets on the move: crazy stuff happens!

Popes were seen wearing sunglasses!

Jesse Helms was seen with a ghetto blaster!

Crazy stuff. Evidence of the spirit.

It was breathtaking. Literally. It stopped the world in its tracks.

When churches started demonstrating on debt, governments listened - and acted. When churches starting organising, petitioning, and even - that most unholy of acts today, God forbid, lobbying...on AIDS and global health, governments listened - and acted.

I'm here today in all humility to say: you changed minds; you changed policy; you changed the world.
Look, whatever thoughts you have about God, who He is or if He exists, most will agree that if there is a God, He has a special place for the poor. In fact, the poor are where God lives.

Check Judaism. Check Islam. Check pretty much anyone.

I mean, God may well be with us in our mansions on the hill. I hope so. He may well be with us as in all manner of controversial stuff. Maybe, maybe not. But the one thing we can all agree, all faiths and ideologies, is that God is with the vulnerable and poor.

God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them. "If you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness, and if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom with become like midday and the Lord will continually guide you and satisfy your desire in scorched places."
It's not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times. It's not an accident. That's a lot of air time, 2,100 mentions. (You know, the only time Christ is judgmental is on the subject of the poor.) 'As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me' (Matthew 25:40). As I say, good news to the poor.

Here's some good news for the president. After 9/11 we were told America would have no time for the world's poor. America would be taken up with its own problems of safety. And it's true these are dangerous times, but America has not drawn the blinds and double-locked the doors.

In fact, you have doubled aid to Africa. You have tripled funding for global health. Mr. President, your emergency plan for AIDS relief and support for the Global Fund - you and Congress - have put 700,000 people onto life-saving anti-retroviral drugs and provided 8 million bed nets to protect children from malaria.

Outstanding human achievements. Counterintuitive. Historic. Be very, very proud.

But here's the bad news. From charity to justice, the good news is yet to come. There is much more to do. There's a gigantic chasm between the scale of the emergency and the scale of the response.

And finally, it's not about charity after all, is it? It's about justice.

Let me repeat that: It's not about charity, it's about justice.

And that's too bad.
Because you're good at charity. Americans, like the Irish, are good at it. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can't afford it.

But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties, it doubts our concern, it questions our commitment.

Sixty-five hundred Africans are still dying every day of a preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity, this is about justice and equality.
Because there's no way we can look at what's happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we really accept that Africans are equal to us. Anywhere else in the world, we wouldn't accept it. Look at what happened in South East Asia with the tsunami. 150,000 lives lost to that misnomer of all misnomers, "mother nature." In Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month. A tsunami every month. And it's a completely avoidable catastrophe.

It's annoying but justice and equality are mates. Aren't they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain.

You know, think of those Jewish sheep-herders going to meet the Pharaoh, mud on their shoes, and the Pharaoh says, "Equal?" A preposterous idea: rich and poor are equal? And they say, "Yeah, 'equal,' that's what it says here in this book. We're all made in the image of God."

And eventually the Pharaoh says, "OK, I can accept that. I can accept the Jews - but not the blacks."
"Not the women. Not the gays. Not the Irish. No way, man."

So on we go with our journey of equality.

On we go in the pursuit of justice.

We hear that call in the ONE Campaign, a growing movement of more than 2 million Americans...Left and Right together... united in the belief that where you live should no longer determine whether you live.
We hear that call even more powerfully today, as we mourn the loss of Coretta Scott King - mother of a movement for equality, one that changed the world but is only just getting started. These issues are as alive as they ever were; they just change shape and cross the seas.

Preventing the poorest of the poor from selling their products while we sing the virtues of the free market...that's a justice issue. Holding children to ransom for the debts of their grandparents...that's a justice issue. Withholding life-saving medicines out of deference to the Office of Patents...that's a justice issue.
And while the law is what we say it is, God is not silent on the subject.

That's why I say there's the law of the land¿. And then there is a higher standard. There's the law of the land, and we can hire experts to write them so they benefit us, so the laws say it's OK to protect our agriculture but it's not OK for African farmers to do the same, to earn a living?

As the laws of man are written, that's what they say.

God will not accept that.

Mine won't, at least. Will yours?
[ pause]

I close this morning on...very...thin...ice.

This is a dangerous idea I've put on the table: my God vs. your God, their God vs. our God...vs. no God. It is very easy, in these times, to see religion as a force for division rather than unity.
And this is a town - Washington - that knows something of division.

But the reason I am here, and the reason I keep coming back to Washington, is because this is a town that is proving it can come together on behalf of what the scriptures call the least of these.

This is not a Republican idea. It is not a Democratic idea. It is not even, with all due respect, an American idea. Nor it is unique to any one faith.

'Do to others as you would have them do to you' (Luke 6:30). Jesus says that.
'Righteousness is this: that one should...give away wealth out of love for him to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the wayfarer and the beggars and for the emancipation of the captives.' The Koran says that (2.177).

Thus sayeth the Lord: 'Bring the homeless poor into the house, when you see the naked, cover him, then your light will break out like the dawn and your recovery will speedily spring fourth, then your Lord will be your rear guard.' The Jewish scripture says that. Isaiah 58 again.

That is a powerful incentive: 'The Lord will watch your back.' Sounds like a good deal to me, right now.
A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life. In countless ways, large and small, I was always seeking the Lord's blessing. I was saying, you know, I have a new song, look after it¿. I have a family, please look after them¿. I have this crazy idea...

And this wise man said: stop.

He said, stop asking God to bless what you're doing.
Get involved in what God is doing - because it's already blessed.

Well, God, as I said, is with the poor. That, I believe, is what God is doing.
And that is what he's calling us to do.

I was amazed when I first got to this country and I learned how much some churchgoers tithe. Up to 10% of the family budget. Well, how does that compare with the federal budget, the budget for the entire American family? How much of that goes to the poorest people in the world? Less than 1%.

Mr. President, Congress, people of faith, people of America:
I want to suggest to you today that you see the flow of effective foreign assistance as tithing.... Which, to be truly meaningful, will mean an additional 1% of the federal budget tithed to the poor.

What is 1%?
1% is not merely a number on a balance sheet.

1% is the girl in Africa who gets to go to school, thanks to you. 1% is the AIDS patient who gets her medicine, thanks to you. 1% is the African entrepreneur who can start a small family business thanks to you. 1% is not redecorating presidential palaces or money flowing down a rat hole. This 1% is digging waterholes to provide clean water.

1% is a new partnership with Africa, not paternalism toward Africa, where increased assistance flows toward improved governance and initiatives with proven track records and away from boondoggles and white elephants of every description.

America gives less than 1% now. We're asking for an extra 1% to change the world. to transform millions of lives - but not just that and I say this to the military men now - to transform the way that they see us.
1% is national security, enlightened economic self-interest, and a better, safer world rolled into one. Sounds to me that in this town of deals and compromises, 1% is the best bargain around.

These goals - clean water for all; school for every child; medicine for the afflicted, an end to extreme and senseless poverty - these are not just any goals; they are the Millennium Development goals, which this country supports. And they are more than that. They are the Beatitudes for a globalised world.

Now, I'm very lucky. I don't have to sit on any budget committees. And I certainly don't have to sit where you do, Mr. President. I don't have to make the tough choices.

But I can tell you this:
To give 1% more is right. It's smart. And it's blessed.
There is a continent - Africa - being consumed by flames.

I truly believe that when the history books are written, our age will be remembered for three things: the war on terror, the digital revolution, and what we did - or did not to - to put the fire out in Africa.

History, like God, is watching what we do.

Thank you. Thank you, America, and God bless you all.

Her curly red ponytail richocheted in rhythm off her back, and up, off, and up, off and up. I noticed because I was a comfortable couple of paces behind her. I knew that she was military, in the Guard, dawn trained with mainly men which meant that I just had to keep up. The wind coldly challenged, and inside, I began to think about walking. We were on the trail which lends itself to womanly chatter, slow paced thoughts, observation of hidden deer or bluebirds or interesting leaf.
"You're a strong runner," I panted out.
She slowed down and said, "I go with the flow; if you want to walk, I'll walk. Trust me, I'll walk."
This is not what a faltering will needs to hear.
However, I knew I needed the distance. Once during a sermon, my preacher talked about "pushing past the quitting points." I use that phrase constantly now when I need to keep going. We exited the trail going up the steep incline to the road which eventually led to the mother of all hills. My friend and I agreed to try our hardest to make the ascent. I scuffled my feet up, barely going, feeling like I was choking after hitting this wall on the sixth mile of our seven mile trek. Gasp, splutter, cough to the top. I remembered my week and the parenting challenges and knew if I could make this hill, I could maintain strength in a pressing particular struggle. That got me up.
Afterwards my redhaired, relatively new interesting friend and I shared a pot of coffee at my house and plans for future mileage. We're training for a half marathon in April. I really enjoy being an aged athlete ... any pace or crawling or obtained goal is acceptable!

Nuts, bolts, rusted shed tools, industrial throwaways glamorized by marbles or shaping or tile all twisted together or smoothed or warped or stacked high for us. I have bruises on both knees to display as unlikely art as well (perhaps my skin cells can slip, slide, squeal with delight upon them). That's what I felt like today: some sort of micro-organism upon a new scenario that I must embark upon to reproduce (or something like that:). Cody and I went to The City Museum in St. Louis (http://www.citymuseum.org/home.asp) today, and we were enthralled, amazed, frightened, and happy we found such an unbelievable place. And, since I'm experiential Mom (since no one else is around to play with him), I found myself scaling wire cages high in the air (always a fantasy:), sliding down metal twisted slides, way up in a burned out airplane perched high on a steel pole, on my belly in a cavernous tunnel, and much more haven't-I-sacrificed-enough crooks and crannies than I can name. If you haven't been, go -- it's an artistic (new age gothic) as well as a Tom Sawyer land of adventure. Just be a kid, or better yet, bring two. :)

We hung out at the autism clinic office all day while I displayed my boy to those who seemed very interested with notepad in hand.

See, how he smiles, jokes, asks questions brightly? See his knee jerk to the reflex hammer? See his spine notched more perfectly than a crocheter's chain stitch? See his hands with a slightly curved pinkie?

Make him say "Ah", hug his arm, mine his ear, review his thick records.

Three and a half hours later ....

"Your boy will marry one day, hold a job, go to college if he wants -- he has much potential despite the acknowledged high functioning autism (Asperger term for the schools). I think he's a wonderful kid. You are making a good choice to homeschool him since you have the option to do so. Call me for a follow up app't in six months."

We waited one year for an appointment to receive new information, and the doctor told us everything we already knew! I felt like Dorothy after a lengthy dangerous journey to beseech the legendary Oz. I wanted to say, "Wait: they said along the path that you could help us." But, I reckon the doctor did help us, for with her expensive incantation, we became officially "autism spectrum" kid and parents, and were given a blessing for the future. Hmmmm.... I think we still need to search for the straw broom, the reason why. The doctor has pointed us in a certain direction (a research direction for her), yet it seems like the cause, thus the cure, for autism spectrum, still sleeps in the poppy field. But, my boy displayed well, and I'm content to rest for a while on simply his possibilities. That's a good place. Yeah!!!

A woman at a morning Bible study at my church once commented that believers read too many of the interpretive Christian books that are produced, marketed, sold everywhere these days. She believed that these could lead believers astray from reading the Bible itself. I found some sense in what she said (particularly because some of the books I read were just repetitive and shallow and were like noise going in one ear and out the other -- there were definite exceptions though which helped me understand more of the spiritual walk process.) Therefore, for the past two or three years, I've been focusing on primary text reading. However, I decided to pick up the old classic "True Spirituality" by Francis Schaeffer yesterday, and so far, it's delightful and speaks to what inward spirituality looks like (according to him in how he interprets the Bible).

He talks in the first chapter about the negatives and the positive statements found within the Bible. For example, he quotes a negative found in Galatians 5:15: "But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another." With a parallel positive verse: "For all th law is fulfilled in one word, even in this; Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." And the positives, " But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodenss, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law." Both are a consideration in the Christian life.

So far, so good. Inner spirituality produces outward harmony toward others, one in which you love them as yourself. Equals. I definitely need to be reminded of this more.

Reading on ........

While Cody practices his group skills for an hour twice a week at his local elementary school (he takes music and p.e.), I typically slide off to a nearby coffee shop and invite a book or a friend. Today, my Taiwanese friend joined me. We met when I volunteered for the Literacy Action Corp about four years ago. We were both equally lonely and in need of a friend, and she turned out to be a gracious, warm concientious person. We always have lots to talk about either children, customs, Taiwanese/Chinese politics, husbands' careers. Today, we looked over an article in the Columbia Missourian (by Allison Ross) which I found in the few minutes I waited for her. It covered the Chinese New Year customs and so I quizzed her about how she participated in each one of them. Saying "jiaozi" together was the funniest part! Fortunately, she didn't ask how I found the Nian Gao that she brought to my house on Wednesday (sticky rice formed into cake?). Here's a list found in the article and confirmed by my friend of the Chinese new year's celebration:

House cleaning: Usually, a week before the New Year begins, people clean their homes thoroughly. In addition to symbolizing a new start, cleaning also allows people to get the mundane jobs out of the way before the New Year begins so they can actually celebrate.

Symbols of longevity: Chinese people try to incorporate “long things” into their celebrations to represent longevity. People get haircuts so they don’t “cut off their luck” in the first few weeks of the new year. Long noodles, also a symbol of longevity, are often served with the traditional Chinese New Year meal, which varies from region to region.

Fish: Traditional in Southern China, fish is a symbol of prosperity. In fact, the word for fish has the same meaning as “have enough, have more than you need, have left over,” said Mike Wong, owner of Hong Kong Market in Columbia. Fish (yu) sounds similar to the word meaning abundance, or riches.

Nian Gao: This sticky rice dessert translates to “annual cake” and is found more in the southern part of China. Superstition has it that the kitchen god returns to heaven a week before the New Year to report on the family he has been watching. Chinese people feed him Nian Gao — either to get him to give a favorable evaluation or to make his mouth too full to say much when he returns to heaven.

Gifts: Traditionally, money is given out in red envelopes, called Hong Bao, to children and older people. If you are visiting another person’s home, you bring a gift for good fortune, which can range from flowers to fruits.

Reunion dinner: The New Year is a chance to reconnect with family. Shaoming Zou, president of the Mid-Missouri Chinese Association, said that the new year is the busiest traveling time for people going to and from China for celebrations and reunion dinners. “Right now in China is big rush to go home,” he said.

Nian: The dragon-like monster, so often the symbol of Chinese New Year celebrations, comes from an old myth about a monster that terrorized villagers. Nian is frightened by the color red and loud noises, which is why people decorate their homes in red and set off fireworks.

Jiaozi: A boiled dumpling, Jiaozi is traditionally eaten right after midnight at the beginning of the new year. A coin is hidden inside one of the dumplings, and the person who bites into it is said to be the luckiest person of the upcoming year.

Round foods: Luck is round in China, says Phil Wood, a member of the Mid-Missouri Chinese Association. Because the calendar is based on the lunar cycle, Chinese cuisine features many round items during the New Year celebration. Hard-boiled eggs cooked in tea and fruit — especially oranges (symbolizing wealth) and tangerines (for good luck) are especially popular.
(property of Columbia Missourian)

I'm dewinding from a 2.5 hour whirlwind trip out and back to see my lovely (tall) niece play her senior basketball game at her high school in Illinois. And, my other niece play on the team as well.

Cody went with me and we sang Christmas songs at the top of our lungs. At a c-store, he told the clerk he liked alternative music like Reliant K, and she shared her favorites too (Nickelback).

At the ballgame, his shrill voice was heard by his cousins on the court who smiled and looked up when he said things like: "Be a legend, Meagen!" "Do it for Elvira, Micah!" (Elvira is their grandfather's mule) I'm used to people turning their heads and smiling at the funny audible kid whom I should gag at times. But, unfortunately, I'm laughing at the things he comes up with too.

Then on the way home, as we passed the Arch glowing in the air, above the dark rippled Mississippi, Cody commented: "It's soooo beautiful .... Woooo, the arch is hot! Those big buildings want to marry it and have babies."

Which led him to asking the question: Why did God make girls so, you know, pretty?

And then he wanted me to tell him the story of Rudy, the Notre Dame football player, for about 30 miles. He astutely commented that Rudy was a good rare person.

As we were drivng down our road on the final leg, we talked about his sister's moods, and I said that I worried about her. My little godsend said, "She'll be alright, Mom; she's just a teenager right now and she'll grow up to be a good person like you one day."

Ah, my heart is full of interstate wonder at such a cool gift of a kid. I think more road trips are in order.

I went heavily to my obligation this evening at church. All day long, I tried to maintain the perfect mother routine, particularly with my teenager who seriously betrayed my trust yesterday. I am a newly-exited Parenting Your Teenager short course graduate, and I've been trying to apply the principles of: empathy; personal warmth; and being genuine for a week now. I've been going out of my way to be a loving mother to her and to be present in a positive way. So, when the school called, and I had to confront her, I was so happy with how the confrontation was more of a directed concern discussion, with how I tried to understand, accept, walk on eggshells, assist; I held in my frustration and disappointment and tried to continue serving her. She responded openly, moreso than with my anger.

Truly. For half a day, I felt as if I had figured this all out. Like I was an uninformed idiot before. Then, when I calmly set out some consequences and she went berserk, I felt that old familiar strain inside of me. Heaviness. The feeling that something has gone wrong. That this child will learn hard, painful things and point to me as her accomplice.

So I drove to church, talking to my out-of-town husband on the cell phone, talking with the frustration that I kept from her, letting the ugly out. Bemoaning the imperfection I display as a mother by not knowing what to do in the fix-all way to help her get through this muck she's in, which I dive into also. I cleaned up my language before I went into the doors of our well-lit church to fulfill my obligation and serve.

I was given the bread, my partner the juice. And we stood at the front while the mid-section came up to us. And I said over and over again:

"This is the body of Christ broken for you."
"This is the body of Christ broken for you."
"This is the body of Christ broken for you."
"This is the body of Christ broken for you."

Half way through, as the implied suffering, love, and empathy enveloped me, I felt as if my tears were going to spill out, but I needed to continue blessing, reminding, looking into the eyes with as much love as Christ could muster into me as he reminded me of his love and sacrifice. I looked into the caring eyes of strangers, darting eyes of the uncertain, brimming eyes of women friends who mean much to me, the heavy, the downtrodden, the parents of teens, the sick, the harried, and I was given assurance that I too had a body of a prince broken for me, broken for me, in all of my parenting ignorance and trials, in all of my future heartbreaks.

I walked away and cried in the dim recesses of the church. When I exited and sat beside my young exhurberant friend, Trisha, we sang and cried together, and she gave me a huge hug of comfort afterwards.

I so needed the reminder that his grace is all that I need. Grateful.

This is our beloved drum set. The button container especially sounds crisp on a quiet winter morning. Those pencils with their broken lead really pop a cadence. Inside the green tupperware is a camera we never use which gives a nice little residual rattle when Cody practices his paradiddles (who knew drum language could be so just-right?). The rubber pad tests Cody's commitment to a more pricey snare. The rubber pad tests my commitment to a snare.

Here I am smiling at the thought of sleeping under the tent on the hard floor all night and practicing the drum with Cody tomorrow. A mother's bliss, it's called.

Before drum practice, we had tent day today which added to my overwhelming sense of parental accomplishment and collapse. Here is Cody under the red sheets displayed to the heavens. We built it against the balcony that overlooks the stairwell going into the lower level. Tonight he wants to try it out like a campsite in the wilderness. All I can think about are my soft flannel sheets for my soft weary body. However, the boy exhorts quite convincingly, I'm afraid.

I just finished drum practice with Cody which makes me long for hot tea, hot bath, hot toddies. In order to keep him focused, he insists that I do the lessons with him. So I sit on my haunches with two yellow wooden #2 pencils poised for sixteenth notes, half rests, eighth notes, dig a da dahs, which are performed, without help of training, on the lid of my button container. Beside me, on the other side of the chair seat, Cody pounds on his rubber pad (or sometimes batter bowl&lid) hyperactively which causes my right eyeball to repeatedly squint in expectation of getting pierced&rolled. By the time the exercises are all over, I'm ready for collapse. Ah the rhapsodical pain enacted around this house ... tomorrow during our lessons, our teachers will either nod approvingly or refuse to take any more lesson money from us. (please let it be the latter....)

Greg Boyd. Heard of him? Read him? Struggled with tough questions? He's the author of "Letters From a Skeptic" and "Is God to Blame: Moving beyond Pat Answers to the Problem of Evil". A sharp defender of the faith. A graduate of ivy league schools. He's debated atheists, agnostics, doctrinaires.

We were priviledged to have him speak at our church this weekend. I actually heard him twice since I returned with my daughter as her schedule allowed this morning. Twice a treat.

The name of his talk was "Hurricanes, Tsunamis and the Wrath of a Ticked-Off God" He lamblasted the idea of the wrath of God causing destruction (Mayor Nagin, Pat Robertson, Holocaust, aids) on certain people or groups and picked that apart with a tolerant compassionate rational argument. He talked a lot about suffering and why (or how best we can know why) it happens.

His views were orthodox filtered through the view that original sin caused bondage, which causes decay -- 2nd law of thermodynamics, a natural law as well -- which causes suffering in some cases, which has been redeemed by a savior Jesus Christ in a positive ending for those who believe. But his views were tough and well delivered on the fact that to attribute evil to God is arrogant, wrong, intolerant and one of those common half-lies which cause disbelief in God's goodness.

He says if we belive that God caused these ill events to teach a lesson then we should consider this:

* Why is the punishment so arbitrary then? Why do schoolchildren get smothered by a mudslide or buried by an earthquake ... surely that isn't to teach anyone a lesson (and if so we should bow out of this belief system). Suffering happens. Christ promises suffering, in fact, to those who follow him. It's the law of the world.

* Is this a loving and effective pedagogy (way of teaching)? No -- God has a track record of at least telling or warning those of punishment-for-lesson sake in the OT. Prophets wailed on forever (it seems when you're reading them at least!) about repentance and change or else bad things would happen. God, Boyd says, wouldn't have blessing and disaster buttons nearby to arbitrarily push in order to teach a lesson that no one can figure out. This whole belief would undermine the character of God that is presented.

* What about Jesus? He never talks about disaster or illness as a punishment for sins. In Luke chapter 13, he tells about a tower that fell over and crushed some people and asks the question, "Were they greater sinners than anyone else ... " No, the thing just fell over without correlation to a person's sinfulness. Jesus explicitly negates the punishment theology, and he took care of the punishment of sins by love, by sarifice.

He ended by saying that God is good, evil has another source other than God. Freewill can bring about increased evil by choice. The hope of faith is that God wins in the end but right now the world is in bondage, constantly groaning for redemption which a loving only God provides.

The talk was wonderful and I just want to record it. I'm so grateful for Christian thinkers.

I've been in this semi- (no not in the sense of the word 'diesel') state of being for so long. What I mean by this is that I feel like I do not focus fully on one aspect or technique of anything long enough to master it. I have these fleeting passions and obsessions that are circular but not linear, so therefore, I rarely progress from A to M, much less from A to Z in hardly anything. I go from A to D then back to B then on to E. It drives me crazy because I could be grandiose in some category, I'm sure of it, if only I could focus and choose one thing.
For instance, chances are when I am an old lady I will not cross stitch, but I will still be at an intermediate, novel, hobbyist level on the guitar. I choose the same hobby, but yet I skip around much and so, therefore, while I could be Bonnie Raitt, I will be pitiful Grandma Teri playing "This Land is Your Land" in twenty variations, learned from the past 20 years, with grandchildren smiling sideways at one another.

Currently, every weekend at church, I glare at and adore our church acoustic guitarist who is masterful, mindful, marvelous on his runs and strums and plucks. Ah, if only I could concentrate, I too could understand all there is to know about position and composition and interpretation. Every string would have a clear response to a finger, and I would be lost in the creation of the intricate but connected song. Like him. Why him? I need forgiveness.

But then I know my pattern. Spring will come, and I'll get the rush to plant. For about six years, I learned all about flowers to where now I pass a bed and unconsciously rattle off common and (sometimes) Latin names of the plantings. I would sleep with the winter catalogues; I would plan dream gardens on sketch pads; I had full grow tables in my basement; I toured nurseries and gardens with similar sprouting budheads (friends). I was obsessed.

Then I would get carried away with ministry of some sort, or writing, or teaching Hamlet at a high school, or going to coffee with friends, or taking a drama class, or training for a ridiculously torturous run, or homeschooling plans.

But now, every night, my guitar has recaptured me for another round. I practice my lessons for Tuesday where I show my teacher everything he taught me the week before. My left hand is sore from stretching from the first to the fourth position, but I feel focused (for awhile) once again. Happily in pain.

Teri Raitt, Teri Crow, just Teri (like Jewel), Teri Clapton, Teri Flatt.

Well, regardless, I've hopped at least one more letter down the musical alphabet for the future grandkids for now!

I've been tagged by Jennifer (soon to be on my blog roll!) to answer the following. So, here goes!

Four movies you could watch over and over:

1. LOTR trilogy
2. Braveheart
3. That Thing You Do (fun, musical)
4. About a Boy

Four places you have lived:

1. Mtn. Grove, Missouri
2. Boston, Massachusetts
3. Cedar Rapids, Iowa
4. Springfield, Missouri

Four television shows you love to watch:
1. Gilmore Girls
2. American Idol
3. Amazing Race
4. Survivor

Four places you have been on vacation:
1. Lake Lucerne, Switzerland
2. Paris, France
3. London, England
4. Destin, Florida

Four websites you visit daily (Other than blogs):
1. cnn.com
2. Columbia Tribune
3. hotmail

Four of your favorite foods:
1. Chocolate chip cookies
2. Bread
3. Fresh fruit
4. Pie

Four places you would rather be right now:
1. Beach
2. Europe
3. Hiking in the woods
4. At a gathering with friends

Bloggers you are tagging to do this:
1. Beth
2. Laura

National Geographic's latest edition is titled "Love" -- February is coming up. My 14th anniversary slides into place. And, although I, once again, accused my husband of not really listening to me tonight, I know that we're steady and strong, despite lapses. Know, strong verb, aiii .......

This morning I attempted to engineer the love quotient between two opposite sex friends. Engineer is too strong. I said he will be here now, will you? And, she and he both showed up, and I attempted to make them talk to one another. "Did you know that blah blah blah?" I am worn out now with something so potentially huge. Will she hurt him because she's much younger and doesn't know herself yet? Will he not reach out assertively enough?

Okay, too much responsibility. They'll have to take it from here. No use fretting (it's funny but now that I'm playing the guitar nightly with my lessons, I want it when I'm bothered a bit, like now, over something I have no control over. My teacher would be happy to hear of this productive therapy.)

Then, I went to my parenting teen class which has been most beneficial. Tonight, it was all about allowing your teen opportunities to grow and learn and doubt and fail. We shared, commisserated, and I gained much motivation to keep on hoping that the outcome will be positive. Truthfully, it felt so good to gain helpful instruction again in a small group setting. It's good to not be leading a small group during our Wednesday evenings.
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I have two sets which I try to blend.

One group consists of those who know me in church, in ministry, at coffee where we talk deeply upon spiritual matters.

The other groups consists of those who know me in my book club, through old times of employment, through a trip to Europe, at coffee where we talk politics.

One group talks of rigid rules, boundaries as parents. The others do so in a lessened form.

One group met at church last night for the beginning of supplemental, spiritual development courses (I'm in one on parenting teens).

The other met yesterday for drinks and a trip to see "Brokeback Mountain."

I was in the middle of both. Drinks. Gay cowboys. Church. I even brought one of my church friends to the other gathering, and she and I sped off to our church courses afterwards. It was an interesting blend and caused me to think today of that old Francis Schaeffer concept of 'integration' or "all truth is God's truth wherever it may be found."

So often in my upbringing, I was taught to separate from those who viewed things differently than me. Now, I know that I simply can't do that. I'm too interested in other's viewpoints and how God interacts sans formula in people's lives or how people invite or discard Personal transcendence. Or, just how life works without specific definitions which I've adopted or been trained to see.

I guess that I should worry about being influenced negatively. However, I'm not and feel comfortable in my two groups which I hope to bridge even more, if the established thoughts on both sides allow it. It's interesting, though, how we dichotomize as a way of establishing footing.

There’s nothing like an insistent eleven year old to force an overdue family night. Cody took charge. As matter of fact, he did without even wearing his favorite “I decided to put myself in charge" shirt.

At promptly 5:30, we were upstairs with the boys on one side of the couch and the girls on the other for a volatile game of balloon volleyball. The boys, being ones who care about winning, quickly dissolved into verbal squabbling with each other. “Dad, you’re not working as a team!” “Cody, quit talking so much and PLAY!” It was quite entertaining as usual for the female side of the couch, even though we lost by two points.

Then, we hopped in our new little Corolla (great for tight family units where the kids, unlike ours don't scream, "Shut up!" and "Quit hitting me!") and headed to Applebee’s where Cody hugged us tightly all the way to our table, almost knocking each one of us over. While we were waiting for our food, Cody engineered the conversation which went something like this, “Who do you think is cute in here besides any of us?” He had spotted a homeschool cutie crush there of his own. My husband refused to play probably because of his Friday morning men’s accountability group. Good man. I chose the Tiger head football coach who was sitting in the corner with his wife. The teenager chose the waiter. Cody cackled with insane romantic laughter. Then about 30 minutes later during another topic, he chanted quite loudly in his voice that carries, “Mom’s in love with the co-ach, Mom’s in love with the co-ach.”

He was threatened for the upteenth time with a video game ban. Finally, the dinner was over. Then Cody wanted to either hang out at Toys R Us or play tag in the cul-de-sac in the cold dark night. Alas, his coordination time had expired.

To make up for his disappointment, I watched the Muppets’ Oz with him until I fell asleep on the couch. Ah family life ... all in all, an excellent evening. When I tucked Cody in, I realized what a special little family force we have. Thanksful.

"Great peace have they who love your law," says the Psalmist. Sounds like a promise to absorb into one's whole being. I love this about faith; no matter how much I toss and turn, flow and eb, I always know that belief offers something back in return when I pause to refocus. So, this morning (after a six a.m. run on icy streets with the killer pace setting neighbor mom), I made a cup of latte and sat down to the Psalms again to receive my portion, placed on my tongue for ingestion into a distracted and restless spirit. I even wrote out a two page prayer which captured all that seemed to be in particles pressing down my perception, making me feel listless and depressed.

Ah, He is a constant source of help in dark tunnels. Thankful.

"Remember Gilgamesh?"

"And Enkidu! Please, Mom, read this story again!"

This is from a kid who had a bearthick academic-issue-folder (and six grim teachers to back it up) last year in public school. I'm loving the contrast. And, the contrast of teaching Gilgamesh to high school sophomores who hated anything ancient middleeastern, especially the literature.

So, today, we celebrate our decision of a year ago to pull Cody out. It has made such an incredible positive difference.

Back to it!

Alright. Teary at the end. I closed the book on companions with whom I've never been with and most likely will never meet. Yet I could've been there with them, speaking of life, love, and literature in the context of a cultural cloister. Huddled together, fighting the forces, with imagination and spark.

Teary due to a final page and my return to only my life.

If I open to the beginning to read again, will the connection be recreated? Will I continue to share their life in an immediate sense that the reader agrees to upon the opening of the page and the soaking of the words? I appreciate that immersion, have willfully removed my clothes time and time again for the drop into other creeks (this autobiographical one: Iran).

Yes, I think I'll do it. Plus there's lots within the book that begs to be noted or quoted. I still have many more rabbit trails to skip down (naked in continuation of the metaphor? that's imaginative) in various sections. I still want to understand more. I still need acknowledgement of likeminded thinking people and how they flourish, or flounder.

The book is next to me -- the women in careless veils with hair showing. Thank you, Azar Nafisi, for writing your recollections ("Reading Lolita in Tehran") to bequeath companions, and thoughts on freedom and the 'reality' of art.

I've been enhanced!

We returned from Little Rock today; me with lots of thoughts bumping together about the move in a year and a half. A scheduled loneliness, lostness. Must think of the resources that I know about and begin to mull a plan.

The city itself, however, appears appealing. Cody and I visited the state capitol (empty granite, lots of pictures of men on the walls, Governor Huckabee's office, accessible, everyone 'helloed' as we walked by). We drove by the Clinton library and then decided that visiting the monkeys in the zoo would be more interesting. And they were! Especially the Siamang monkeys bellowing, croacking, racketing like bullfrogs in a moss-covered pond at night. The zoo was small-scale, and we talked to the giraffe who was almost touchable. We woke up the lions with our jacket zipper sounds. We communicated ; we networked for the future? There probably were only ten other people there as it was a cold day in Arkansas (46).

We visited Hot Springs' bath houses and wax museum and we stomped up a mountain tower in cool wind (exhilerating). It's a beautiful area. I wasn't aware until later that day when I was reading US Today that HS had a forest fire the day we were there. C'mon, we were up in the tower and didn't see anything. However, I believe that it was small and put out quickly Reminds me of how the news works at times.

Hubby and I talked much about the type of church we would choose once there. I'm up in the air about church in general (however, I commit to going because of the duty, and, hopefully, delight?). It's just hard to move aside this cloud of cynicism regarding organized religion these days (I just heard that my parent's church/denomination just began a bank and built a huge entertainment complex in Branson while the home church is losing their pastor, possibly because of a dismal, dismal salary and not much support from the rich headquarters. The congretation has been shrinking for the last ten years to bare pews. Why are churches getting into business so much these days? Such a scary mix. Why do people just sit around and not demand more from the 'authorities' of faith? Pat Robertson too lately just reminds me of the eternal damage that is inflicted by people like him. Sigh.) Anyway, sorry for that, there's much to consider. We both know that we like more the simple and compassionate style. We'll see.

Lots to look toward.

May God comfort the miners' families during this difficult time.

Do oatmeal packets have an expiration date? Every year for the past several years, I've probably eaten a packet every January 2nd, thinking that I will develop a taste for the highly touted glop. I think I have a supply for five more years.

Cindy over at Quotidian Light made it through my dull resolution list of the other day and discovered the promise of a horse biscuit joke which she eagerly requested. So, Cindy, prepare to either be delighted with a giggle or appalled with a guffaw and an ewwww ... let me know.:) (This must be an old Ozarkian joke btw so you've probably heard it.) Hold on to your hat ..........

There were two drunk hungry homeless bums who had just woken up in a ditch. (Pulls at the ole heartstrings already, eh?). One bum said, "Man, I shore am hungry!" The other one agreed and said, "See that house over yonder? I bet that I can find a way to get a nice hot meal." The ole bum picked up a cold horse biscuit that was laying nearby, and he went up to the door of the house and knocked.

The lady of the house answered, and the bum looked up at her and said, "Ma'am, I am just wondering if you could spare a little bit of butter for my cold biscuit here." The good lady took one look at his horse biscuit and said, "There ain't no way that I'm lettin' you eat that for breakfast! C'mon in here and I'll fix you right up in a proper way." She commenced to fixing him a big hot breakfast of sausage and biscuits and gravy with a cup of coffee to boot.

The bum sauntered back to his buddy all full and pleased with himself. So, the other guy decided he would try out his luck on the next house down. He grabbed an old horse biscuit, went to the door, and knocked. The good lady of the home answered, and he said, "Ma'am, I am just wonderin' if you could spare some butter for my cold biscuit here." She took one look down at it and with a voice full of what seemed like pity said, "No, I can't but you can help yourself to some hot ones right back there in the barn."

Just came across this apt Mills quote in an interesting editorial essay in the NYTimes by Kwame Anthony Appiah, a native Ghanian who now teaches at Princeton. (Strangely, I had the most vivid dream the other night that I was being shown around Ghana by a woman who acted as a guide and attempted to answer all of my questions.) The essay is called "The Case for Contamination", which raises interesting points about cultural protectionism. Here's the link but you may have to subscribe (free) to gain access http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/01/magazine/01cosmopolitan.html?th&emc=th

"If it were only that people have diversities of taste, that is reason enough for not attempting to shape them all after one model. But different persons also require different conditions for their spiritual development; and can no more exist healthily in the same moral, than all the variety of plants can exist in the same physical, atmosphere and climate. The same things which are helps to one person towards the cultivation of his higher nature, are hindrances to another.. . .Unless there is a corresponding diversity in their modes of life, they neither obtain their fair share of happiness, nor grow up to the mental, moral, and aesthetic stature of which their nature is capable."

John Stuart Mill