My Little Monkey Who Wants To Be A Bird

Sadie went to the emergency room yesterday afternoon. She gashed her forehead open after an ill-fated bounce on the couch in our family room led to a bloody encounter with the edge of our coffee table. Here is the conversation we had not two minutes before the accident:

Mom: Sadie, stop jumping on the couch.
Sadie: I want to fly!
Mom: You cannot fly, and couches are for sitting. Sit down on your tush!
Sadie: I need to bounce so I can fly.
Mom: No flying! Sit on the couch
Sadie (sitting on her tush and frowning): I want to fly.

Then, Jason called me into the bathroom to see his progress on painting the walls, and we both heard a loud, "BAM!" not thirty seconds after I left the room. We rushed into the hallway to see Sadie in that silent cry mode (you parents know how gut-wrenching that non-sound is). She caught her breath and started saying, "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" I picked her up and sat on the couch to examine her. That's when I saw the blood start flowing down in sickening streams.

"Oh! Jesus!" I gasped, in a prayer of desperation. Jason and I rushed her up the stairs, into the bathroom, where we could apply some pressure and look more closely. The gaping wound on her forehead, right at her hairline, gave me a ghastly smile.

"We have to get her to the emergency room!" I rasped. Jason was halfway to the car before I finished the sentence. I yelled for him to grab my shoes and purse, while I hastily threw some ice cubes in a kitchen towel. Sadie was sobbing quietly.

I sat in the back seat, keeping pressure on her cut with the ice pack, while Sadie complained bitterly through the whole journey.

"This is too cold!"
"I don't want to go to the hospital!"
"I wanted to fly like a bird!"
"This is too cold!"
"I hate this!"

On and on and on. I was so grateful that she hadn't lasped into unconsciousness. The entire trip, while she listed her grievances, I prayed those short, silent, naked prayers that flood a mother's mind and soul when her intestines are twisted into a knot and her breath catches in her throat. Please, holy Lord, protect my baby. Please, oh Jesus, make it not too bad.

Thank God for American medicine. And thank God for Valley Medical Center. The triage nurse was wonderful. She immediately brought us comfort, while she spoke in reassuring tones and wrapped a gauze bandage about Sadie's head. Sadie remained alert and talkative. Her daddy admired her new injured-Civil-War-veteran look, and I commented that she looked rather like a flapper. Sadie's spirits returned, as buoyant as ever. She chattered away, commenting on the human scene around her. Nothing is more delightful than to see your child acting normally, especially after a head wound.

She ended up getting four stitches. The doctors think that her cut won't scar too much. She was a brave little soldier during the stitching. Sadie-like, she kept the doctors talking and laughing throughout the procedure, and I just stood there watching it all, so filled with gratitude at another full measure of grace from the Lord. After we were cleared to go, the doctor turned to us and said, "How did you get that little girl to be so smart and sweet? You must be doing something right." I could have replied easily and assuredly with the answer that Sadie always gives about the reasons she is smart or pretty or sweet (or talkative): Because the Lord made her that way. I just smiled gratefully and thanked him profusely.

Once in the car, Sadie immediately demanded the chocolate bar she had been promised. She ate heartily last night, and has continued acting in her normal monkeyshines ways today. She still is disappointed that she cannot fly like a birdie, but she's promised only to use couches for sitting in the future. My little monkey. Lord, I am so grateful.

A New Site

Thank you for visiting "The Musings of Justine."
I have a new site that I would like to invite you to visit. It is called "The Singing Sparrow."

I'm still keeping "Musings" up, but I'll probably be posting more personal stuff here, while the reviews, etc. will move over to "Sparrow."

"The Singing Sparrow" takes its name from several of my favorite quotes. One is from Carolyn Arends's song "Dance Like No One's Watching" wherein she sings: I want to sing just like the sparrow, 'cause the sparrow knows that Your eye will be upon her everywhere that she goes. I love when Jesus points out that not one sparrow, which can be purchased at the price of two for one copper coin, can fall to the ground without the Father's knowing. He then proclaims: The very hairs of your head are numbered; do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows (Matthew 10:29-31). So, if even the sparrow can sing in the confidence of the Lord's loving mercy, how much more should I?

I also thought of one of my favorite poems -- this translation of a Victor Hugo verse:
Be like the bird who,
Resting in flight
On a twig too slight,
Feels it bend beneath him
Yet sings,
Knowing he has wings.

I hope you'll visit there and return here, too.

Peace to all!

Spicing Up My Blog Life

In combating blogging ennui and Langeweile, I am updating the template to Blogger's Jellyfish.

Of course, since nothing with computers is ever easy, the template is being temperamental about accepting my customizations. I need desperately to get out of the house today, so I'm calling it quits for this afternoon. But I will be back to struggle onward with it another day.

Thanks for stopping by!

Boring Old Internet

Is it just me, or has the Internet gotten, well, boring all of a sudden?

There was a time when I thought that the Internet never could be boring. Every day brought some new site to explore and new people with whom to interact. It was so vast and meandering and surprising and stimulating. But, lately, it has just become dull.

The blog world, too, has shrunk considerably. Almost everyone I visit regularly is posting less frequently. The rush of putting our thoughts out into the world seems to have perhaps gone stale. At least, that's been my experience. I find myself less interested in posting at all about anything. Either the things that I am interested in are too ponderous to undertake at this time in my life, or my thoughts are too dark to dwell upon them for any length of time, or it's just too exhausting to put so much energy into something with so little in the way of returns. I know others have felt like this, too, and I'm just a slowpoke on the blog ennui front.

I'm not making any grand exits from the scene. I have no plans to go anywhere. I know that the fire will return. But the world just seems so sad and pitiful and crazy right now. I used to care about politics, but now I don't, much. I still care about the travesty of abortion, but I cannot bear to write about it now, because it is such a depressing topic. I still care about exploring Christianity, but I have nothing to add right now, other than that I am in a season of gritted-teeth trust and determined belief. Other things fly by my radar, and for a fleeting moment I consider posting about them, but it is so draining.

This state of listlessness is unusual for me, but it really is only in relation to the Internet. Everything else in my life is fairly positive and forward-moving right now. It is only when posting to a blog that I have to confront just how disturbing things are, in general. I suppose that it is good, in a sense, to confront the yucky stuff, but maybe I can put it off a little while longer.

So, I guess I need some novelty -- some new sites to tickle my fancy. Some really hopping places to read the views of interesting folks. Hopefully something funny and not politically driven . . . any suggestions?

Get 'Em Out!

I hate the Seattle Sonics (it's not personal, I just dislike all professional basketball and college basketball and high school basketball and pick-up games in the park basketball), so I ignore anything I see in the newspaper with "Sonics" in the headline. Granted, this is sometimes difficult to do, especially when big stuff happens like happened a couple days ago. But I persevere, because my contempt for basketball runs so deep. So, Jason mentioned this morning that the Sonics had been sold to a group of Oklahoman businessmen, and he was incredulous at my ignorance of this fateful transaction. I thought I couldn't be more thrilled by any piece of basketball news, but then Jason mentioned that the Seattle Storm was included in the sale. My cup runneth over! More than even basketball, I despise women's basketball, and the Storm is particularly obnoxious, because they actually managed to do something rarely done by Seattle pro sports teams -- they made it to some sort of play-off or championship or something (I didn't really pay attention, though it was annoying just to hear in passing) sometime recently (last year? two years ago?).

Anyway, it would be SO AWESOMELY COOL if professional basketball left Seattle forever!! Apparently the big fuss is now whether this purchasing group will keep the teams here, or move them to OK, where, supposedly, the Okies yearn for a public display of this silly sport. The Sonics have been whining all year about needing a new, taxpayer-funded basketball court, and they were DENIED by the Seattle city council (perhaps the only instance of that particular body's having ever seen fit to withhold taxpayer monies from any boondoggle).

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Please! Yes! Take the Sonics and the Storm to Oklahoma! Whoo-hoo!

And Now For Something Completely Different ...

What songs do you think will play on the soundtrack of Hell?

Here are some of my top contenders:
"Sowing the Seeds of Love" by Tears for Fears
"The Way It Is" by Bruce Hornsby
"The Captain of Her Heart" by Double*

And, if songs purportedly about God can be played in Hell, these ones too:
"Soul Tattoo" by Plus One
"Now and Forever" by True Vibe
Anything by Jump5

*The only problem with playing "The Captain of Her Heart" in Hell is how much amusement this song has provided me and Jason in our endless, creative mocking of the lyrics; which, of course, would bring pleasure to the Realm of Darkness, thus, perhaps, disqualifying it from the endless, looping soundtrack. If you were not fortunate enough to be with a kindred spirit in Hell to make you laugh, though, this wretched song would be appropriate.

God Doesn't Give Neckties or What I Learned at Barnabas, Part 2

We spent a restorative week up north at Barnabas from July 2 - July 7. The speakers during the week we attended were Mark Warren, a pastor in Bellingham, WA, and Carolyn Arends, a singer/songwriter from British Columbia. Their theme was "Understanding Spiritual Gifts."

Please keep this in mind when I write of Camp Barnabas: Barnabas was Paul's mentor Joses's nickname. It means "son of encouragement."

We spent four days at Barnabas looking at Spiritual gifting from every conceivable angle. Mark Warren came armed with handouts -- packets, really -- over twenty pages thick. There were diagrams and fill-in-the-blanks and group discussions. There was a 125-question survey, designed to help the believer zero in on his or her Spiritual gifts. We read Scripture in-depth, looking at what Paul and Peter wrote about the gifts of the Spirit. After these intensive four days, Mark Warren concluded with this statement:

I'm wondering what Paul, who wrote the most about Spritual gifting, would say about these sessions. What would he say about the survey we took? Well, I think he would be both amused and baffled by our striving. He might say, "Why are you worrying about these things? Go and live out the love of the Gospel in your faith communities, and your Spiritual gifting will become apparent."

AHA!

And that was what I took away from four days. Again, man tries to gussy up the simplicity of God, and God sweeps away our frills and lace and brings us back to His sublime purity.

Mark Warren had spoken a lot about how the church should be a grand laboratory, wherein each congregant can experiment in various capacities, until they find their niche. He seemed to say that most church-goers do not feel comfortable trying different roles in the body to find their fit. I guess that I was unusually blessed by the Lord, because I have never felt confined or pigeon-holed in my church. Calvary Chapel's roots are in the hippie, Jesus Movement of the 1970's, and it is an open, casual body of love and acceptance. I have tried out service roles and teaching roles and exhortation roles in our church, and have been blessed in every one, though some have been more comfortable than others. I had never really worried about Spiritual gifting until I attended these sessions at Barnabas. I had never felt that God would put me into a trap or give me a Spiritual necktie every Christmas. If my parents never gave me a stone when I asked for bread, I always believed, ever since I had believed, that my Heavenly Father would do better than that. So, from the bliss of ignorance, I began to feel the burden of knowledge as we dug further into Spiritual gifting.

Goodness me, I began to worry, I have no overarching theme in my Christian life. I'm a Spiritual jack-of-all-trades, master of none, I thought. I was feeling pretty low; in fact, I was loath even to take the gifting survey. I did take it, and "scored" highly in hospitality and mercy, which was nice, but kind of boring. So, I went into the last session, feeling out-of-sorts and weird. Then, the goodness of the Lord shone through in Mark Warren's contemplation of Paul's reaction, and my heart sang.

Live out the love of the Gospel in your faith community, and your Spiritual gifting will become apparent.

Of course.

Why do we, who believe that the Lord knew the days of our lives when as yet there were none, think for a moment that He would let us languish outside the blessings of our gifts? Why wouldn't obedience to Him necessarily put us in the way of using our gifts? Obedience is simply living out the love we were given by the only Giver of good things. Why would we need to add to this by making man-oriented, hubris-inducing surveys and curricula to learn what should be apparent in a life of Christian love? Why pigeon-hole ourselves, when the Lord will love us enough to use our lives for His glory in many different capacities?

So, I'm back to bliss, except now it is bliss grounded in knowledge and freedom instead of mere ignorance. It was almost as if Mark Warren went through all the hoopla to get us to the point where we would accept in gratitude the simplest message. It is kind of like the relief of Christ's grace when you realize the impossibility of living in perfection God's law. Again and again, the Lord will strip it down to the bare essentials: His grace, His love, our need, our sin, our opportunity to know Him, our imperative to live His love and share His grace, our failure, our redemption -- the same themes, over and over and over. And yet, we still want to make Him complicated and, paradoxically, less overwhelming. We still want, at some level, the control that comes from surveys and rituals and extra-Biblical doctrines and seminars. That imagined control of making Him something that can be understood and categorized must frustrate (and amuse) Him to no end. As Clive wrote, "He's not a tame lion."

Live out the love of the Gospel in your faith community, and your Spiritual gifting will become apparent.

Amen.

Turn, Turn, Turn or What I Learned At Barnabas, Part 1

I originally started a really long post about this year's family retreat on Keats Island, BC at Camp Barnabas. Then, I realized that I had about four or five different ideas that I wanted to expand upon, and I know that the super-long posts can get tedious. So, I'm breaking what I took away from camp this year into multiple, shorter sections, which, hopefully, will encourage more people to read them (and not run screaming from this site, as the scrollbar continues its descent seemingly without end).

We spent a restorative week up north at Barnabas from July 2 - July 7. The speakers during the week we attended were Mark Warren, a pastor in Bellingham, WA, and Carolyn Arends, a singer/songwriter from British Columbia. Their theme was "Understanding Spiritual Gifts."

Please keep this in mind when I write of Camp Barnabas: Barnabas was Paul's mentor Joses's nickname. It means "son of encouragement."

One day, back when I worked for Barnes & Noble, I was shelving some books when my boss approached me. She glanced at my left wrist and commented, "I see you wear a watch."
"Yes," I smiled back, a bit perplexed as to why she would make such a pointed remark.
"Why?" she replied with an ironic twist to her mouth. And I knew that she had just thrown me a zinger. I was almost always late to work.
"Well," I answered in the spirit of the ribbing, "I like to know how late I am. If it is less than 15 minutes, I can breeze in and get to work. If it is more than 15 minutes, I know that I'd better be ready to grovel."
She chuckled and turned away. This was, after all, the Pacific Northwest, and being late is a way of life to most of the Latte Set.

And, who among us has not felt the tyranny of time? Whether it is the ticking of the mighty minder of minutes upon our wrists, or the larger, despairing boom of our biological clocks, or the ridiculous, self-imposed pressure cooker of a five-year-plan, we find ourselves slaves to this earthly time. We need everything we want NOW. We push off everything we don't want until an unspecified LATER. And we watch another calendar year pass by feeling stretched to the max and unfulfilled. That is why one of my favorite ideas that I took from Barnabas this year is speaking of time in terms of seasons.

This is perhaps one of the most freeing notions that has ever been introduced in my Christian walk. Mark Warren would use the term "seasons" and eschew those finite terms of days, weeks, months and years. What a blessing! In his use of that word, I caught a glimpse of how the Lord views time. To think in seasons, divorced from the notion of weather patterns or the earth's tilting toward or away from the sun, is to find peace in the midst of disruption. "To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven." We've read the words in Ecclesiastes -- or, at least, we've heard the song by The Byrds -- yet how hard it is to live by that precept.

I once asked Jason how long he thought Adam and Eve were in the Garden before they blew it. He laughed and said that he was always under the impression that they blew it immediately. We'll never know how many days, weeks or years they were there, because they were in a season of trust and obedience before the Fall. We know that Sarah was counting the years, because she laughed when the Lord told her that it was her season to become a mother -- incredulous that such a season should come to her when she was probably in her nineties. How many people whose stories we read in the Bible have had to wait upon seasons outside of earthly time! Their frustrations have been chronicled for our edification and comfort. As Carolyn Arends said in her presentation about Spiritual gifting, part of understanding our calling is to learn to wait upon the Lord.

I know that I've found myself fretting about periods of time in my life that seem to have no relation to hours or days, but have been, in retrospect, definable with a start and a finish. I have made up my mind for certain spans of time to be devoted to this or that goal, with a start date chosen and circled in red on my calendar. Then, I failed to achieve that goal, and I lost heart. Strangely, that goal would resurface without my realizing it at a later date, and it would be fulfilled almost without effort. Now I see that the goal, if it is worthy and of the Lord, will be neither lost nor gained by my effort or timetable. He will not plant out of season, nor will He reap. When the season begins to start something anew, He will effect it. All I need is a softened heart and the strength of Spirit to wait for the right season. What a liberating idea!

I think one example of trying to do something out of season is our entire journey with this house. Jason and I were convinced that life should somehow be easier at this point; that we should have a stash of cash and very little stress. So, we thought we'd sell our house and move to less expensive digs, and life would be great. As the house began to fall apart on us, ever more each day, we saw it as a definite calling to pull up stakes and flee. Then, as we planned and prayed and listened, we heard this idea come through: Life is not meant to be smooth coasting. When you're in your early thirties, life is still in the building season. That was the lesson we needed to learn, because, even without dealing with our house, we needed to know that it wasn't meant to be easy right now. And it is freeing to live with the knowledge that this season in our lives is one of (moderate) struggle and stress. How funny to see that as liberating! But it is, somehow.

I have come away from Barnabas with a new, exciting outlook on my life's span. That is not to say that I'm going to throw away my watch and burn my calendar. That is only to say that I'm not going to be oppressed in my view of time anymore (or, at least, I'm going to try not to be). I'm still going to be at my haircut appointment at such-and-such a time on that particular day; and church service and Sadie's gymnastics will march on at their appointed start times in and out of every season; but, I'm going to try for the eternal viewpoint and not get so frustrated by my failures in the time of man. This clay will try to stop hassling the Potter, and simply learn to trust that He who began a good work in her will be faithful to complete it, in His perfect time.

Barbaro

I don't usually get too worked up about animal issues. I love animals -- I've had countless pets over the years -- but, every time I get a little sad about an abused animal or a lost animal or a sick animal, I just think about the 1.2 million human babies that are cavalierly dismembered and vacuumed from their womb homes every year in America, against which so few cry out; I think of the children across the world who face every day the realities of war and famine and oppression, against which so few cry out; I recall that certain darkened souls plot and enact acts of unspeakable evil against innocents, about which we have gotten too calloused; and I find myself a lot less worried about the animals. Animals are nice, and we humans ought to be kind to them and be good stewards of this beautiful earth and the inhabitants herein, but it's been made clear that He who knits us together in our mothers' wombs, and He who planned out the days of our lives when as yet there were none, finds us far more valuable than sparrows (and I think we can bet more valuable than cats, dogs, spotted wood owls, etc.).

Ah, but horses. I shall always have that special concern for those of the equine persuasion. And that mushy part in my heart gets even more soft when I think of Thoroughbred racehorses. And so, I cry over Barbaro, that lion-hearted colt who is hovering on the brink of death. His case is so painful to me because I once had an ex-racehorse (tattooed lip and all), and I know the nobility of these athletes; also, I lost a horse to laminitis when I was younger, and Barbaro's case is renewing memories of that loss.

Laminitis is an insidious disease that is nigh impossible to cure. My beautiful dressage champion, Inverness Heather, slowly declined with that hoof ailment until she had to be euthanized. It is a wretched thing to witness the pitiful sight of your glorious horse lying on her side in her stall because it is too painful to stand. The last night of her life, I lay down in the stall next to her and rested my head on her belly. Echoing throughout her body was the beat of that noble heart -- the heart of a grand dancer whose precision and elegance were responsible for almost all of the show ribbons in my collection.

Am I anthropomorphizing my horses? Of course! But -- and I think that anyone who has spent time hands-on with horses will tell you the same thing -- horses are different. I suppose that people will say that dogs are different, too. I've never been much of a dog person. Many will declare that cats are also capable of having those inter-species bonds. I guess so, but I still insist that with horses it is different. As I stated, I've had many, many pets over the years. But, the only "pets" that haunt my dreams are my horses -- especially my ex-racehorse, Spirit. I still have heart-wrenching dreams about when I gave him up to go to college in 1994. Twelve years later, I still haven't recovered completely. If he is still alive out there, he would be 25. I'm guessing that he is in greener pastures by now. Is it wrong to hope that the God of Creation will have set aside a corner of eternity for those friends that somehow managed to transcend the barrier of dumb beasts and capture a bit of our souls to claim as their own? Oh maybe, but that's not going to stop me from praying for Barbaro, and my own long-lost equine friends. As always, God's grace is far bigger than my heresy.

My mom and I often didn't "get" each other, especially when it came to my riding. But, when the trailer came and took my last horse, Spirit, to his new home on the brink of my leaving for college, my mom saw my stricken face and wracked soul and made this observation:

Your horses were your friends when you felt all alone. They were your parents when we didn't understand you. They were the school where you learned your toughest lessons. They were your sounding board for all of your fears and hopes and frustrations. They were the biggest part of your life for many years. It is okay to miss them terribly.

That was a very freeing statement from my mom, who, I had always thought, viewed my horse obsession with contempt and disgust. I bless her for that, because it allowed me to go into my childhood bedroom and cry my eyes out. And it still lets me do that today, as I tear up while typing this out. And I bless my dad, without whom I never would have had the joy of owning horses.

I'm hoping for a miracle for Barbaro.

Booknotes and Summer Reading Ambitions

I would love to write a review of Thackeray's Vanity Fair, but I fear that I may never actually finish the book. It is seriously dense. But it is so lively and conversational in tone that it never seems to drag on. This book may be the quintessential Victorian English novel, as Thackeray seems bound and determined that his readers would get the full worth of the eight shillings or so that they spent on this tome. But do not by any means let its length deter you from a heck of a lot of fun. These characters are so vivid, and the omniscient authorial interventions are so amusing and biting and insightful, that it may just be the perfect summer read. Thackeray was obviously a keen observer of human nature and was able to translate every quirk and foible and perversity and those rare snatches of nobility into highly realized human beings that breathe and live in his story (unlike, say, John Irving, who writes erractic, detached characters that never seem fully to come to life). Somebody, read this book! I want a fellow traveler in this tour of Vanity Fair.

Manhunt: The 12 Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer by James L. Swanson is a fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat ride with that old sly boots, John Wilkes Booth, as he plots, executes, and escapes the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Of course, he does not escape for long, but the story of what happens after the bloody scene at Ford's Theater almost seems incredible -- I had to keep reminding myself that every word in this book was truth; every line of dialogue was taken from court records and correspondence and journals. I know that the author has said that John Wilkes Booth was not written to be the hero of this story -- that Swanson finds Booth and his actions despicable. But, I dare you to read this book and not develop a grudging admiration for the sheer audacity and éclat of this most notorious of American villains. I'm no Rebel sympathizer by nature, but a large part of me was rooting for Booth to find that oh-too-impossible method of escape during the final shootout and continue his daring, desperate journey back into the heart of Dixie.

Ogden Nash: The Life and Work of America's Poet Laureate of Light Verse by Douglas M. Parker is a long-overdue biographical tribute to my favorite poet in any genre. When I was twelve years old, my dad gave me a collection of Ogden Nash's animal poems for Christmas; thus began my love affair with this master of wordplay and irreverent interpreter of meter and rhythm. Most joyful to discover was that Ogden Nash was as delightful a man in his personal and professional lives as ever you would assume him to be from his delightful verse. If you've never treated yourself to his poetry, find a collection in your local library or bookstore and drink in his sly observations, understated witticisms, and the unexpectedly keen social commentary that permeate his work. After your interest is piqued by his verse, you will want to read this biography and learn more about the man. He will not disappoint.

If you get as much of a kick out of language as I do, you may want to check out the Latin series by Henry Beard (Henricus Barbatus), published by Villard. Much like the unwilling peasant in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Latin is "not dead yet," and "does not want to go in the cart." At least, that is what Beard wants us to believe. So he has compiled three books of useful, humorous, everyday expressions in Caesar's tongue. Latin for All Occasions, Latin for Even More Occasions, and X-Treme Latin are damned funny and should be read by all those who want a taste of what a time-warped gladiator might spout out at parties or sporting events. Here is a sample of the hilarity from Latin for Even More Occasions:

An All-Purpose Get Well Note
I just wanted you to know that I have sacrificed a good-sized she-goat to Mercury on your behalf in order to hasten your recovery.
P.S. The entrails were auspicious!
P.P.S. Get well soon!
Volo te scire me capram magnam Mercurio sacrificavisse pro salute tuo celerius restituendo.
P.S. Exta fausta fuerunt!
P.P.S. Convalesce velociter!

Also helpful is the handy pronunciation guide that tells you that everything you intuitively know about pronouncing Latin is incorrect. Veni, vidi vici? Try saying it as "weni, weedi, weeki," and you'll feel a lot less emperor-ish and much more Hawaiian. But, apparently, that's the way those crazy Romans spoke. Go figure!

Well, we're off to Canada again for a week at Camp Barnabas on Keats Island, BC. Another Independence Day spent in a foreign land, away from the Americana my red, white, and blue soul craves. I think that next year we will forego Barnabas, at least when Carolyn Arends is speaking, to give Sadie her first, real taste of an all-American Fourth of July celebration. Light a few fireworks for us, will you? See a parade, watch a baseball game, eat some hot dogs. Go to church, kneel in your closet, bow your head around the picnic table with your loved ones and thank the Lord for this amazing country we share -- I will be doing likewise, up in Canada.

Here are the books I'm taking to camp, though I suspect that I won't even get close to reading all of them. The ones I don't finish this coming week will comprise most of my rest-of-summer reading list:
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray, of course -- oh, who will join me on this adventure?
Ann Coulter's book, Godless, has inspired me to read: Darwin's Black Box by Michael Behe; The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin; Icons of Evolution: Science or Myth by Jonathan Wells; Summer for the Gods by Edward J. Larson
Eleven on Top by Janet Evanovich -- though I am starting to get really sick of Stephanie Plum and her dysfunctional, incompetent ways
In Our Hands by Charles Murray -- I've had this for a while now, but have yet to give it more than the cursory once-over
Instead of Education by John Holt -- I love the way this man respected and nourished the individuality of children with his educational philosophies. I treasure his insights.

A Little Ogden To Cheer Up Your Day

As a public service from a very civic-minded chick, I hereby reproduce (without permission -- sorry, Little, Brown & Co.) one of my favorite Ogden Nash poems to add a little sunshine to the day of anyone who comes across this blog o' mine:

Where There's a Will, There's Velleity

Seated one day at the dictionary I was pretty weary and also pretty ill at ease,

Because a word I had always liked turned out not to be a word at all, and suddenly I found myself among the v's.

And suddenly among the v's I came across a new word which was a word called velleity,

So the new word I found was better than the old word I lost, for which I thank my tutelary deity,

Because velleity is a word which gives me great satisfaction,

Because do you know what it means, it means low degree of volition not prompting to action,

And I always knew I had something holding me back but I didn't know what,

And it's quite a relief to know it isn't a conspiracy, it's only velleity that I've got,

Because to be wonderful at everything has always been my ambition,

Yes, indeed, I am simply teeming with volition,

So why I was never wonderful at anything was something I couldn't see

While all the time, of course, my volition was merely volition of a low degree,

Which is the kind of volition that you are better off without it,

Because it puts an idea in your head but doesn't prompt you to do anything about it.

So you think it would be nice to be a great pianist but why bother with practising for hours at the keyboard,

Or you would like to be the romantic captain of a romantic ship but can't find time to study navigation of charts of the ocean of the seaboard;

You want a lot of money but you are not prepared to work for it,

Or a book to read in bed but you do not care to go into the nocturnal cold and murk for it;

And now if you have any such symptoms you can identify your malady with accurate spontaneity:

It's velleity,

So, don't forget to remember that you're velleitous, and if anybody says you're just lazy,

Why, they're crazy.

Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971) -- greatest American poet of light verse -- from I'm a Stranger Here Myself (Little, Brown & Company, 1938).

When Life Gives You Lemons . . .

. . . Lie down on the ground and throw a fit!

At least that was what Sadie did at Safeco the other night. But, I'll tell you the story, and you will understand:

For Jason's birthday last week, we went to see the Seattle Mariners play the San Francisco Giants at Safeco Field. My favorite player, Randy Winn, was back in town with the Giants. Jason bought tickets in the first row of the outfield seats, so that I could watch my boy in right field. These were sweet seats, and Randy Winn was as beautiful as ever.

So, at Safeco there is a kids' play area with all the things that would delight the heart of a child with even less monkey in her than mine has. Sadie zeroed in on that play area immediately, and asked to go inside forthwith. I wanted to get to our seats and gaze upon Randy for the first few innings, so I promised her that I'd bring her back there later.

We ate hot dogs and garlic fries and drank tons of pop. Sadie was having a good time, watching the game, coloring in her coloring book, yelling out to Randy Winn; but she never forgot the play area. At the beginning of the eighth inning, she asked if it was time yet to go to the kids' area. I agreed that it was time indeed, and I complimented her on her patience. So, we went to the play area just as a new session was going in. We got our passes for the following session that would start in 20 minutes. Sadie was cool with that.

To pass the time, we lurked about in the Mariners store, where Sadie tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade me to purchase a large foam finger that declared that the M's are #1. I cannot bring myself to advertise a sentiment so patently false. I mean, I love my Mariners, but come on! I tried to convince her that she needed a Mariners sweatshirt, but she didn't bite. So, 20 minutes passed on by, and it was time at last to enter through those pearly gates of Safeco fun -- the longed-for kids' play area.

We went up with our pass to the man at the entrance, and he dropped the bomb upon us: The play area had had to close early, since a little boy had peed inside one of the play tunnels. They would not re-open that night, because the game was so near its end. I looked down and saw Sadie's face -- wide-eyed with incredulity -- crumple in disappointment. When the bad news had sufficiently sunk in, she promptly took the course of action she felt was called for and threw herself on the ground, yelling and crying. It was a miserable moment, indeed.

I scooped her up off of the ground and carried her broken, sobbing form back to her daddy. He cuddled her in his arms as she spilled the whole sordid tale. Jason reacted promptly in his daddish way, declaring that he'd go find that kid and give him a real reason to wet his pants. He was so sad for her, and I was too. It's really, really tough to see your kid play by the rules and then get screwed over. But that's just one of the harder lessons of life, isn't it?

If only working hard and playing by the rules were the guarantors of the good life! The fact that they aren't is probably one of the reasons that so many people find it hard to finish the race. I've spoken with people who thought that, once they surrendered their hearts in faith to Christ, they would lose the struggles and lose the disappointment and lose the pain. I've been one of those people myself, sometimes. It's like: Lord, why is it still so hard? And yet, He never promised us a life without heartaches and betrayals and sorrows; He simply, beautifully, reassuringly promised us a life in which we would no longer have to face those trials alone.

So, Sadie's daddy dried her tears, snuggled her up in his arms, and bought her some cotton candy. He explained that that situation with the play area was a bummer and completely unfair, but sometimes life is like that. Sometimes locked cars get broken into. Sometimes the worse man gets the promotion. Sometimes the teacher doesn't stop the other kid from taking your toy. Sometimes a boy pees in a play area tunnel, right before it's your turn to play. But, that's okay in the end, and you'll be just fine, Baby Girl, because you are never alone. Daddy will always be here to dry your tears and comfort you.

I also promised that, on our next trip to Safeco, I'd take her to the play area during the first few innings.

By the way, the Mariners won that night. And Randy Winn hit a home run for the Giants. So, it was the best of both worlds.

Where Have All the Blog Posts Gone, Long Time Passing?

Gosh, it seems like I write so much and so often, and yet I post so little. Seriously, I have an attic full of blog posts that I cannot bring myself to put out there for general public perusal. Pollyanna (i.e. Carolyn Arends) has got nothing on me!

I'm still here, kicking about. I have been reading so many good books -- same old, same old. I've been dealing with the house stuff (we're not moving, by the way), and homeschooling stuff (you should hear Sadie's German!), and starting a business stuff (Barefoot Books Stallholder), and friend stuff (one of my very best friends just moved back into the area!), and all that other good stuff too! It is a very happy time right now.

Thank you for still stopping by. My husband is going out of town for a week (a vacation with my father -- yes, I know that's a little unusual, but isn't it great that they get along so well?); so, hopefully, I'll get some posts up -- maybe some reviews and reflections. At least, I'll try to get something up that proves that I'm still alive. I appreciate all the patience and concern of those who e-mail me to ask what in the world is keeping me from posting to this blog.

Peace and blessings to you!

NOOOOOOOOO!

Oh dear! I'm sorry to say, but it looks like, at least in Victoria's Secret Land, 1980's fashions have returned.

Oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why?

I can't live it all over again. I just can't! Not the neon and fluorescent colors! Not the crimped hair! Not the innumerable rubber bracelets! Not the Swatch watches! Not the high heeled shoes with jeans! And not -- never again -- the leggings layered under mini-skirts. No!

Cruel, cruel Victoria's Secret! Stick to naughty undies and leave us content in our new Millennium and natural fibers and logical layers.

A Star is Born

Sadie had her first ballet recital on Wednesday, May 31. The dance was "I'm a Little Teapot." I wish I knew how to post the video of her performance, but I'll have to post a few pre- and post-show instead.

Mom has finished the hair and has admonished Sadie not to mess with it until after the show. Mom is very proud of her handiwork. Sadie grudgingly agrees to throw Mom a bone.

Still sitting pretty. Dad snaps away while Mom gets dressed.

In the car, on the way to the Big Show at the Meydenbauer Center in Bellevue, WA. A first-class operation across the board.

Post-Show: Mom has finally allowed Sadie to rid her hair of all foreign objects. Dad presents the flowers to our little ballerina. Life is good, indeed.

Okay, I think I've gotten the "proud mama" bit out of my system for a while. The waters of this blog ought to be safe and free of Sadie pics for a long spell. Thanks for bearing with me -- I hope all moms are as insufferable as I over their first-borns.

And, If You're Curious . . .

. . . about what Carolyn Arends looks like -- or at least what she looks like after a concert when paired with my daughter -- here are a couple of pictures that we took at the May 12, 2006 concert in West Seattle:

And this one is included just because Sadie is so cute!

An Ode to the O.E.D.

An Ode to the O.E.D. (Oxford English Dictionary)

My O.E.D., dear O.E.D.
My heart sings out an ode to thee
Thou fount of every English word --
Whether common, obscure, or absurd

How oft I turn the page with glee
Of thou, o faithful O.E.D.!
For thou wouldst not think to let me down
Thou bringest smiles, ne'er a frown

Thy tiny print, so hard to see;
I scan thy columns, A to Z,
To find if a new word I've coined
Or merely an ancient text purloined.

Thou hast me in wrong usage caught;
With trepidation I am fraught
Lest such an error I overlook --
An insult to my treasured book!

The mysterious beauty of our tongue,
Each elusive, haunting note we've sung
Has its place within thy pages
Language living through the ages

When I ponder your depth and scope
I am again filled up with hope
That the power of Language will not fade
Though our use of it sadly has decayed

Ignorance, Indolence, Indifference too --
Would all obstruct our love for you
But you stand ever ready against the tide
Whispering, "Treasures here reside."

The fewer words at our command,
The less ground we have on which to stand.
How can one voice his point of view
When limited to words so few?

Let nothing cure me of the need
To value you; Or the greed
To plumb you to your very core
And come out richer than before!

Lord God! I beg, forbid the day
My O.E.D should go away.
I cannot shake this contemplation:
Its fate is shared with civilization.

Dear O.E.D., Sweet O.E.D.!
I will pass on this love for thee;
That Sadie's thoughts won't be controlled --
Her mind contained or pigeon-holed.

O' guardian of sweet liberty
Essential for men to be free!
Those with ears -- proclaim you've heard
By drinking up each blessed word.


Hmmm . . . this started out as a silly, little rhyme that occurred to me while I was weeding our front lawn. I liked the transposition of letters in "ode" and "O.E.D.," and I do love my copy of the O.E.D. quite a bit (thanks, Dad!). As I was composing this light-hearted doggerel, it suddenly took a serious turn. Not that the "poetry" got any better, but my purpose became more sober. This quote from Madeleine L'Engle came to mind:

But I am a storyteller, and that involves language, for me the English language, that wonderfully rich, complex, and ofttimes confusing tongue. When language is limited, I am thereby diminished, too.

In time of war, language always dwindles, vocabulary is lost; and we live in a century of war.

(From Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (Shaw, 1980), "Icons of the True" p.35)

And let us not forget that, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." How powerful words are, whether spoken by our Creator or spoken by mankind!

I'm often amazed when people do not recognize words -- words that I speak in casual conversation, without a second thought, simply because they are the most appropriate to and expressive of the thought I am trying to convey. Even when I worked at Barnes & Noble, where about 80% of the employees were English majors, I'd still get comments like, "Why do you talk like that?" It's strange and unsettling.

Our cultural vocabulary does seem to be contracting, and our addiction to popular media has made a bad situation incalculably worse.

Anyway, language, particularly the English language, is very dear to me. I love words, maybe too much (can't you tell by my rambling style of getting a point across?). I hope that my daughter will adopt and nourish herself upon that love. Then, nothing in this world will be closed to her.

In Case You're Interested . . .

At long last, I have posted something new in Austensorium. If you're a Jane Austen fan who has given up visiting that blog because it has been silent since, I think, November 2005, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I hope you enjoy it!

Coming soon to Musings: A review of Isabel Paterson's Never Ask the End. Don't even ask me if it's done yet. Ha! Ha!

Album Review: Pollyanna's Attic

Title: Pollyanna's Attic
Artist: Carolyn Arends
Label: 2B Records (2006)

What's in your attic? Mine, until recently, had rats, but that's another post altogether. Some people have nicely finished attics -- with bright windows illuminating well-organized playrooms or storage areas. I think that most, though, have dark, seldom-visited areas with the artifacts of memories stowed away in cobwebbed corners and dusty alcoves. So, when Eleanor Porter's bubbly heroine, Pollyanna, leaves off playing the "glad game" one rainy afternoon and creeps away to explore her attic, what will she find there?

Carolyn Arends' music normally exudes sunniness, which is ironic, since she comes from the even-more-Pacific-Northwesty-than-Seattle province of British Columbia, Canada. When we have showers, they have rain. When we have rain, they have . . . really quite a lot of rain? But she, in defiance of environmental influences, has made songs and stories of hope and life in light of that hope almost a trademark of sorts. One typically Carolyn tune, from 1999's This Much I Understand, declares, "You can call me Pollyanna, you can call me a child. But I will not lie down -- that's not my style. And I will dare to dream. I will dare to believe in something, baby. And I will dare to be happy." But no one is inside-outside-upright-downright happy all the time, no matter what the children's worship song says. So, we fans probably knew that a "Prozac and razor blades" album would come someday. And, now it is here.

Of course, that's a little unfair. I don't think that this album represents a current state of Carolyn Arends' emotional well-being (unlike Amy Grant's downbeat offering of 1997, Behind the Eyes, which really did reflect a soul struggling with unhappiness). As she admits in the liner notes, many of the songs on Pollyanna's Attic had been slated for release on her earlier albums, but they had been cut -- either because they didn't fit with other albums' more upbeat tone or, perhaps, Carolyn was a little afraid to reveal the thoughts they contain. I wish, though, having listened to this album through several times now, that she had had the courage to include them earlier. Because, to tell truth, it gets a little oppressive hitting you all at once like this. Even the spoonfuls of sugar to make the medicine go down -- particularly in last two tracks -- are so subdued that, as you are recovering from the heaviness of the earlier tracks, you are too drained to realize fully their hopefulness. But, I am grateful that we have these songs at all, even though I'm a little exhausted by the end of the album. It's a journey.

The songs are everything you would expect from Carolyn Arends in terms of lyrical complexity and musical experimentation. She's really done some very interesting things on this album -- at least it seems that way to my novice ear. One of the first things that struck me in listening to the sneak preview songs that she posted on her MySpace site is how lovely her voice is. That may seem like a strange thing to note, considering that I listen to her music almost every day, but I think that familiarity breeds oblivion in this case, since I know so well what is coming that I'm only listening to the lyrics. When I do not know the lyrics, I really hear her voice. And, on this album, her voice seems to have grown in range and character. It is quite beautiful.

Carolyn Arends collaborated with her long-time touring partner and stringed-instrument maven, Spencer Capier, on two songs that were included on Pollyanna's Attic. The first is the lead-off track, "Just Pretending." This song is about the masks of perfection that people don to hide their cracks and brokenness. The lyrics are quite clever, and the vocals and chords on the chorus are so unusual, that the song captivates the ear. The chorus reminds us that maybe we shouldn't try so hard to project these illusions, since "life's not some greeting card." Let's not forget that "models and movie stars" are "just pretending." Carolyn and Spencer are so deep in their ponderings, though, that I don't think that they realize that a lot of people out there are really as shallow as they seem.

Their second track is the most upbeat song in this collection. "Something to Give," which features jubilant trumpet solos -- a rarely heard, but always welcome, instrument on Carolyn's albums -- is a gentle admonition to use the gifts we are given to glorify the Lord and give a hand to our fellow man. The chorus says it all: "There's nothing so rude as a gift you don't use or a live that you choose not to live. 'Cause you're blessed to bless, and the best of possessions is having something to give." And how true is that?

The third song is one of my favorites, because it addresses something that floats up into my mind, unbidden, most every day. It is "What in the World," and its question is: "What in the world makes us act this way and turn away from You?" This is such a gut-wrenching idea, because it gets to the heart of our human dilemma. Two thousand years after the peace and salvation of Christ was given to the world, and we're still just as perverse and faithless generation after generation -- killing, hurting, warring, fighting, blaspheming, cursing -- cutting into God's heart and each other's too. There is something new, too, in Carolyn's voice as she sings this song. The best I can describe it is as "raw anguish." Her voice cries that darkness is in her heart too. And in mine. And in yours.

The next song is another early favorite of mine, and it might just be one of the most desolate on this album. Its appropriate title is "The Wasteland," and its message is a lot clearer than T.S. Eliot's interminable poem of a similar title, but the clarity makes it more devastating. "There's a snake in the shadows, and he's looking us over. A vulture above us, and he's circling lower. See, we're poisoned and we're dying just a little every day. You've got to lead us away from the Wasteland." And, according to Carolyn's notes, this was to be the last verse in this song. But, God gives mercies anew every morning, and He gave her some mercy to pass along to us with this last verse that came suddenly: "You can give us Your justice, but we'll only defy it. You can give us salvation, but we'll just crucify it. Still You rise from the ruins and You promise us a day when You'll lead us away from the Wasteland."

"The Land of the Living" is the next track and it brings us back into more familiar Carolyn Arends territory, both musically and lyrically. It is a simply arranged song based around Psalm 27:13, which is (in my NKJV): "I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." This is a song about a winter of emotional desolation, with a summer of spiritual fulfillment coming in dreams, only to vanish. The core message is one of holding onto the hope, no matter how seemingly threadbare, that again we shall see His hand in this land of the living.

"To See Your Face" is the first of two covers on this album. This is a Mark Heard song, which Carolyn recorded "Keith Green-style" by singing and playing the piano simultaneously. I love that she did that, because there is an immediacy to this recording that captures a little of what it is like to see Carolyn Arends in concert. Mark Heard was an intriguing songwriter -- his lyrical imagery is astounding. "If I ever get to see Your face, and if You will spare me, I know that my allegiance to the human race will not ensnare me." That is certainly our hope in Christ, but what a lovely way to put it.

The next song is a collaboration with her brother, Chris Jonat. Rock Star Carolyn emerges from a nine-year hiatus (see 1997's Feel Free) to jam on "Everybody Wants Everything." When Jason first heard this song he asked, "Is Carolyn rapping?" Well, it's not rapping exactly, it kind of reminds me of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." It's a really cool song -- I know that's not very eloquent, but I do think it's the best word. The music is throbbing, Carolyn's vocals are husky, the lyrics are bitingly humorous. "Everybody wants it. Everybody needs it. Everybody wants everything."

"More is Less" is next up, and it is the second collaboration with Spencer Capier. The lyrics are a commentary on contemporary consumer culture; wherein goods are so cheap and available, human relationships are both more immediately intense and intensely perishable, and our lives feel emptier and fulfillment less attainable. Here is something that has never been done before on a Carolyn Arends album: She uses the word "sex." I only mention this because she was so funny about warning her fans about the word's introduction into her lyrical lexicon. This is just another example of why I would never want to be a "public Christian" or, rather, a Christian in the public eye. Her use of "sex" is as follows: "Here the money makes you paranoid; there’s no one you can trust. The sex will leave you lonely, and the love all turns to rust." As you can see, there is nothing at all offensive about it, but a warning was issued nonetheless. I appreciate her concern for our children's delicate ears, which I know was a part of the warning, but I'm sure that fending off an attack was lurking there too. I applaud her artistic integrity. In Pollyanna's attic, one trunk apparently contains carnal knowledge. Gasp! I like the bridge: "No one could blame us for wanting more, but isn't it strange how the more leaves us wanting?"

"Free" is track nine, and I'm still trying to "get" this song. It is by far the most negative song on the album, at least to my way of thinking. There is no redemptive kicker at the end -- Carolyn seems to be in a very dark mood, indeed. We -- and by this I'm not sure if she's addressing Western Europeans and North Americans, the "Free World"so to speak, or just the U.S., since she uses a lot of American imagery -- are "free from the cradle to the grave. We are so free of meaning and we like it that way. We are free, and we played it all so smart. Ain't nobody going to bother stopping what we never did start. We are free." Now, in a typical Carolyn Arends song, the song would end with a ray of light shining out -- maybe a declaration that, while our sinful natures condemn us to the baser actions of detachment, indifference and malice, free will (under the guidance of Christ) brings incredible acts of generosity and kindness. No such luck. This is grumpy Carolyn, a Carolyn unwilling throw us a bone and shine the light, even a little. Ouch. She also says "hell" on this album, which, coupled with the "sex" from the previous track, led Jason to ask jokingly whether this album came with an "explicit lyrics" warning. Now, that would have been funny!

The next track is another of my favorites, since it really showcases Carolyn's lyrical brilliance. It is "No Trespassing," and, again a little grumpy, but not nearly as stark, Carolyn examines our unwillingness to cross emotional and physical boundaries lines that are drawn in this world. I'm once again in awe of her songwriting capabilities. Consider the chorus: "See you can't go near anybody else's private grounds, and folks 'round here have got a democratic right to drown. And you're just a fool if you care about the faces in the crowd. We've got a new edition of the Golden Rule: No Trespassing Allowed." She's amazing.

The last two songs are fireflies dancing in the dark. "Not Alone" reminds us that things sure can be overwhelming down here -- we are often disappointed (Almanzo Wilder once told his daughter, Rose, that his life had "been mostly disappointments."), sometimes depressed, in many parts of the world severely oppressed, all of us battling the occasional bouts of tiredness, discouragement, unhappiness gloominess, etc. -- BUT we are not alone. She sings this song with the unusual vocals of Layton Howerton, which I found a little distracting. I guess the groans don't have to be figurative, but their reality can be a bit jarring. The last song, "I've Got a Hope," was written by Pierce Pettis and Eric Fiedor. Again, it is just Carolyn and her piano -- immediacy, intimacy, and introspection are the quiet and stunning results. The last two songs in tandem seem to reflect so well Paul's words of encouragement to the early, persecuted Roman church:

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. (Romans 8:18) . . . For the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body. For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one still hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perseverance. (Romans 8:22-25) . . . Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? (Romans 8:35) . . . For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:38-39)"

Well, that's my first-take on Pollyanna's Attic in a nutshell. I'm sure that future listenings will yield deeper understanding and appreciation. That's always the beauty of Carolyn's songs. Like any truly great work of art, each one offers something new and different with each exposure or perusal. If I were asked to describe this album in just one word -- you who know me know that that is a difficult task, indeed -- I would choose "challenging." As I posted previously on Carolyn Arends' message board, this album challenges both the listener and the artist. Pollyanna's Attic so different, so concurrently honest and vulnerable, that I do think it will come to redefine our understanding of what makes a "Carolyn Arends album." She's unlocked some doors here that can never been locked tight again. And, I like to think that she's overcome some of the fear she may have previously harbored about alienating her listener base or fully revealing her heart. It took a lot of courage to release something this innovative and divergent. We, her listeners, have been taken to a new level, too -- we'll never hear her work in the same way again.

But, some things will never change. I think that no collection of songs will ever truly be Carolyn's unless there is some kind of reflection of her eternal hope. And, that hope is here too -- in the midst of grumpiness and misanthropy and a wee bit of disgust -- it's shining out. A hope that somehow, because there is Someone who loves us so much that He died to show us what love could be, we can find a way to overcome our indifference, our selfishness, our cruelty, our futility. And the hope that, even when we fail so miserably to live out His love, that there will be redemption and a chance to try again.

I think that Pollyanna finds an ancient trunk in her attic. In that trunk is a quilt -- a quilt that's a little moth-eaten, a little stained, a little mildewed. But woven into the fabric of that quilt are threads of truth and light and love and hope. And, though the colors are faded and the smell evokes years of close quarters with little air, the quilt is beautiful yet. So, even long after she folds it up and locks the trunk again, the memory of that quilt will stay with her. The sunshine of a thousand summer afternoons will not erase what she found that rainy afternoon in the glow of a single lightbulb illuminating a shadowy garret. And the "glad game" gets a new dimension and honesty because of it.

The Queer, Dull Ache

I awoke this morning with a queer, dull ache. A tightness had wound itself around my heart, and I felt as though my strength were wasted already. An inauspicious way to start the day.

Today is Mother's Day. And I miss my mom.

This is the eighth year that I've had to mark this day to honor mothers without her. It is the fourth year that I've marked it as a mother myself.

I wish my mom were here to meet her granddaughter.

I tell Sadie stories about Grandma Emilie, and Sadie -- who is amazing -- tells me stories about her, too. One night, a few months ago, while I was getting her bath ready, Sadie startled me. She said, offhandedly, "Grandma Emilie doesn't want you to worry about these things." I said, "What things?" Sadie replied, "All things." I said, "Who is Grandma Emilie?" Sadie said, "You know her. She is your mama." I asked, "Where is Grandma Emilie?" Sadie said, "I saw her in heaven, with the Lord." I started to cry.

(Sadie has an unusual and eerie focus upon living with the Lord. When she prays, she always says that she hopes to live with the Lord someday. She's even argued with me, yelling that she wants to go live with the Lord right now. Funny little girl.)

I wonder: maybe my mother has already met her granddaughter. I do not know the mysterious workings of the Lord -- only that He is mysterious and His hand works within my life for good. There's a lot of my mom in Sadie.

So, I miss my mother, but I can remember with gratitude her life and her mothering. I hope that, even though we clashed loudly and often in this life, she knows somehow that I love her and respect her so.

Thank you, Mom, for always doing the best that you knew how. I wish we had been closer in this world, and I'm looking forward with all my heart to our reunion in the next.

Happy Mother's Day.