Feed the Hungry

Home at last! (Or at least, back to Rochester where all my stuff is). I had left the apartment bereft of food supplies, seeing no need to stock the shelves before heading out. There were other more important things to see to.

We arrived home around noon. Kiel had been right. It was a mere 2 hours to Rochester. But so much easier to navigate in broad daylight without the snow. We unloaded the car, picked up Christmas gifts my sister had brought here from Mom's, then headed to Wegmans for a shelf stocking party.

I ask the question: What do you want for dinner? It is, after all, New Year's Eve. We should do something special. The boys decide on steak, baked potatoes, brussel sprouts, sparkling grape juice, and cream puffs for dessert (the cheesecake is too expensive).

Wegmans is packed to the gills. Every single checkout is manned with lines stretching down the aisles. The parking lot is so full you have to circle for minutes before someone pulls out to make space for you. You could spend a whole day and a million dollars here and get anything your heart desires, regardless of the season. It seems somehow amazing that I have access to all this wonderful food. I have had seasons of lack in my life. I have supported food banks from both sides, donor and recipient. But here I am in a season of sufficiency, making choices about food based on desire and not need. How great is that!

I am happy to gather up the bags of food we have selected and head home for a feast. What a wonderful place we live in. I neither planted nor tended nor harvested these things, but I will TOTALLY enjoy them. Yes, I will pray for those in need too. May God be as gracious to them as He has been to me. And may I be a bit more generous in my next check to Samaritan's Purse for those needing the blessing.

A wonderful conclusion to a productive year of good recovery.

The Long Drive Home

Good thing we decided to leave on Sunday. It was pouring down rain when we packed the car. I purposely didn't leave early, just in case there was black ice to deal with anywhere. After all, we were taking the PA route home, an easy 12 hour jaunt. And the boys had stayed up late the night before playing games and being rowdy. I had a bit of trouble falling asleep, and I wanted to make sure I was fully charged before heading out.

Mostly, the trip was uneventful, other than the rain, and we made good time. Pennsylvania is one huge slant - from our direction, uphill all the way. The weather waited to get nasty until we were well into the mountains, and far from the beaten trail. It was already sleeting when darkness enveloped us, but I kept thinking that we would be on the downside of things and exiting the higher elevations soon, so I forged ahead.

The road kept going up, up, up. The sleet and freezing rain turned to snow, and then blowing snow. Not much accumulation, but certainly greasing the roadway. Two lanes turned into two tire tracks. We crawled along, inching our way through the dark night, fearful of sliding into a ditch. Not much traffic on this road, and no street lights. No sign of salt and sand trucks either.

It was a good hour before despair set in. I had been clutching the steering wheel with a death grip for so long that my hands ached. I tried to relax, but it took all my focus to stay on the road. After two false alarms of starting to head downhill only to find myself climbing higher and higher in altitude, I finally gave up all hope and decided to find a hotel room for the evening. That's no easy feat in the mountains of PA. There aren't many exits, and few of them offered even gas let alone a hotel.

Prayers had been rolling from my lips for a good half hour before we saw a sign for a Comfort Inn. Kiel thought me crazy to stop. By his calculation we were only two hours from home. He wanted to push through. But I was at the breaking point. We stopped. I was physically shaking as I registered. I had been this stressed once before, long before cancer days. I wondered how it would play out. Last time I had sat in a tub of warm water for an hour, tears streaming down my face, before the shaking stopped.

This time, my arm was killing me from the pinched nerve, and my energy had long since evaporated. My boys never complained. But you could tell they were doing their best to humor me. Ah, well. We do what we can and let the rest go. I went to bed immediately. They stayed up a bit to watch TV.

As I lay there waiting for the shaking to subside (which it did within minutes), I realized how like cancer this nightmare drive is. The conditions are adverse and demanding, the way is dark, you have no idea how long it will last or whether you will end up in a ditch somewhere without help. You have no choice but to go on. You can't stay where you are or you will perish. You are pretty much alone in the struggle to keep the car on the road. Its definitely an uphill climb and though you hope and pray for the downhill part, it doesn't come. If you are lucky, you find a reprieve to give you time to regroup. And if you are really blessed, the morning light comes and with it, a chance to move on.

Thank God for both!

Red Clay

Talk about making an impression! I got up early to inspect DJ's back forty. OK, back 3. He has a nice spread of land behind his house, carefully "mowed" by his two goats, Kanga and Tigger. In the summer the grass grows tall and wavy. Now, its short and stubbly and slopes down towards a land fill out behind their house. There is a roadway back there, and I thought it would be interesting to wander back and see what was there.

It had been raining earlier, and the road was sloppy. The land is mostly red clay, and when wet, you can sink in just like quicksand before you realize how deep you are in! My white sneakers were soon caked with the think red clay, and I was just trying to find some grass think enough to wipe it off on when DJ came back from giving a riding lesson.

I walked over to his car and we chatted as I followed him into the house. Big mistake. There was still clay caked on my sneakers, and even though I took them off at the front door, I saw to my dismay that I had left globs of red on the entry floor. Not the impression I was hoping to make. No time to take care of it, Katie is crying and in need of attention.

I barely managed to get to the rocking chair before DJ deposited the wriggling bundle in my arms. What is there about babies that's SO wonderful? They smell great, even when its poop and sour spitup smell. They cry as if you are torturing them and stop only to throw up on you. But we LOVE them so! I wager you can smell the baby powder right now.

I had so little time to spend with Katie that I grabbed every opportunity to hold her. I am sure Shannon was gritting her teeth as I spoiled her rotten, knowing she would have to straighten it out after I left. The bestest bestest moment of the entire visit was when I was sitting on the couch holding Katie, and Kelly was snuggled up next to me watching a Veggie Tales DVD. Kelly wrapped her little hand around my arm and leaned her head against my shoulder. At that very moment, Katie opened her eyes, looked deep into my eyes, and SMILED. She cooed away for a few minutes, then drifted back to sleep.

How wonderful is that? Pure straight love and trust. Untainted relationships. A beginning of a hopefully long relationship. And GIRLS! Gorgeous, beautiful, gentle, delicate, intelligent and gracious girls! Life is good. Days from now I will look down at my red tinged sneakers and remember this moment and smile. These girls have definitely left an impression on my heart. I hope it stays in place a whole lot longer than the red clay footprints I left behind.

Energy Crunch

I tire of the dabate about whether someone is a morning person or an evening person. I have always been a morning person. Always. I remember when I was in high school getting up before Mom and quickly finding my way to the hot air register in the living room over which I stood to warm up, letting the warmth billow my nightgown out around me while I waited for the household to stir.

I can't help it, really. I just wake up. Even if I stay up late, I just wake up. Once when my sister Deb returned from her summer in Africa where she worked as a missionary doctor, the two of us stayed up all night talking. She was still on Africa time, but I wasn't. In the morning, she drifted off, but I couldn't. I loved hearing all her adventures, but my body just kept its own regular hours.

Problem is, of course, when you live with people who are evening people. My boys all think they are night people. DJs household runs in that mode. I learned early on that I can't burn the candle at both ends. If I don't get enough sleep, I get sick. While its easy enough to stay up and participate with the late night activities, I simply will wake up at my usual time. Unless I am sick, and then I sleep later.

So I do what I can, then retire and leave the night time excursions to those whose systems can handle it. I have to be more vigilant these days to pay attention to those sorts of details. I don't have much if any reserve energy to draw on, and since I am expending additional energy just to travel and do things I don't normally do, I can't afford to stay up late. And I sure don't want to get sick while the long drive home is pending.

I hope my kids understand. I think they chalk it up to "Mom's getting old." But really, its way more than that. For a long time, I thought my old energy and strength would gradually return. Now I accept that this is a permanent situation. Oh, there are better days and worse days, but I will not go back to anything approaching the high energy of precancer days. Its OK. You learn to manage it.

And I still try things to help out. Next month I am trying a new antioxident all natural supplement that other cancer patients have tried. They report an improvement in energy levels. Here's hoping it helps!

Of course, what's impeding things right now are the drugs I am having to take for the pinched nerve in my shoulder. I suspect if I could get off the pain meds, I'd have more spunk. That will come.

For now, I am making the most of the time I have with my grand daughters, and not fussing about lost opportunities. Perhaps I can find an alternative source of energy that will enable even better activities! Global warming indeed.

Frozen Deer

Ah the bliss of reaching DJs and falling into bed at long long last. Their household was still wide awake and bustling, but I said a short hello to Kelly, peeked at my new granddaughter Katie, and headed down the hall and straight into the bliss of a soft mattress and warm comforters.

Mid way through the night, I awoke with a start, the image of a deer, upside down on its back with all four hooves waving wildly in the air while it was sliding along the dotted white passing lines in the highway as we sailed past it, glaring in my brain.

A frozen moment of time. We had finally exited that I95 congested highway onto the quieter, less traveled Route 85, heading towards Durham. The boys were dozing, as I drafted behind an 18 wheeler, shifting about in the seat trying to relieve my tired muscles. Suddenly I saw what appeared to be a huge sheet of brown plastic blow around from the passenger side of the truck ahead of me.

At first, I didn't react. I thought it would blow to one side as paper often does. But something - my guardian angel, perhaps?- made me swerve onto the shoulder of the road, just as we encountered the thing.

Turned out to be a huge buck, wriggling for all it was worth, its eyes wild with fear, sliding along the highway upside down, struggling to right itself. If I hadn't swerved, I would have hit the darn thing headon. It must have slid off the left side of the highway, because the car behind me didn't even dodge a little. I'm not even sure they saw it.

I wanted to call 911 and report it, in case the carcass was on the road. I didn't want another car to be in danger. But the boys assured me that the deer was long gone by now. I kept driving. It occurred to me how narrowly we missed trouble, how quickly our evening could have changed. God is good.

The frozen snapshot I have of that deer stays in my head. Its hard to ignore fear and distress in others, even wild animals. Its the same motivation that keeps me picking away at Jairus House. I know the distress cancer causes. I know there is something I can do to help. I can't get beyond that look. That "I just got hit by a truck and I am fighting for my life" look. So I keep working at it. I know it will happen. I just pray it will be soon.

The Red Sea

I hate driving. OK, sometimes I enjoy the solitude it provides when I am taking a long trip by myself. But in general I dislike traveling. Too many trips made in substandard vehicles without the proper monetary support, stringing along on a shoestring and a prayer, forced to deal with the breakdowns, the getting stuck in bad weather when you can't afford to duck into a convenient hotel, munching stale sandwiches because "store-boughten" meals are too pricey.

I have survived enough accidents, strandings, vehicluar disfunctions, and creative financing expeditions to last a life time. I wish to be free of that sort of anxiety and stress. But sometimes we find ourselves doing things we prefer not to do out of love for our family, especially our kids.

So I found myself traversing the I95 corridor on the day after Christmas, forging my way from Lake George, NY to Haw River, NC. I know the DC area is notorious for heavy traffice, but what we encountered was beyond astronomical. It was downright obnoxious. The already strained infrastructure was completely overwhelmed by holiday traffic added on to workday commutes. I hardly expected to find myself driving at 20mph straight from New Jersey through Delaware into Maryland and DC and on beyond as far as Richmond, Va. Good Lord, what a nightmare. We hit DC around 4:30, creeping and crawling along, starting and stopping, weaving from lane to lane in hope of finding some loophole that would sling us out of the traffic of the locals and into the bypass mode.

Suddenly, there it was. I had just moved into the far left lane when we saw a sign for a HOV (high occupancy vehicle) lane. 3 passengers required. The on ramp was just past the sign, and we were exactly in the right place to jump ship. For a good 15 minutes, we sailed along the crowded HOV lane at 45 mph, gleefully remarking about the poor slobs still in the slow moving traffic. I had every reason to expect our new freedom would take us well beyond the city and the heavy traffic.

But no! Unexpectedly, the HOV traffic slowed to a crawl, moving at a snail's pace that even the regular traffic lanes surpassed. Ah, yes. Merging back into the regular traffic, the three HOV lanes not only collapsed into one lane, they merged into the left lane of the four lanes of regular traffic. By the time we exited the HOV lane, it was dark. Miles and miles of red taillights stretched out before us, all moving at an excruciatingly slow pace. A sea of red. It was downright disheartening. And besides, now I had to go to the bathroom, and there were no rest areas in sight. In fact, there hadn't been for hours.

Now what! Time to pray. Minutes later, as I navigated into the middle lane, we saw the rest area sign. Thank you Lord! Even after a short break the heavy traffic tried our patience for some time. Remind me not to do this again soon. I knew there were reasons I had left the east coast. Well, there's no help for it but to continue forward. It will be hours before we see North Carolina. It has already been twelve hours of driving. There is no second wind these days. Only God's grace. He will enable, and I will move forward. There is always tomorrow to rest.

No Place Like Home

What makes a place "home"? And, really, is there - to quote Dorothy - no place like it? Is it being with people who are family that makes us feel like we are at home? I want to suggest that there are problems with that philosophy. After all, there is more angst about dealing with the idiosyncrasies of our various family members that can drive holiday celebrations straight into pill-popping full blown anxiety attacks. N'est-ce pas?

Is it the familiarity of a place and its accoutrements that makes home feel like home? We have gotten used to the wallpaper, the creak of the third step, the chip in the stove, the tree-lined street, the crooked drive in the front yard. We don't have to deal with the unknown - its all comfortably predictable. But isn't predictability the main reason for boredom? What is it that makes home home?

When we were children, Christmas day began before the sun peeked over the mountains. We kids lay in bed until our clocks said the magic hour of 6am - if we could manage to hold on until then. Sometime in the middle of the night, Mom would have crept into our rooms toting a huge stocking stuffed full of crinkling, Christmas paper wrapped, wonderful little gadgets and geegaws to keep us amused and buy a bit of time before the parents were forced into the "gifts under the tree" unwrapping ritual.

I remember laying in bed, my stomach tingling with anticipation, staring out the window at the star filled night, holding my breath in hopes that I would still be awake when Mom tiptoed in. I should have been exhausted after the caroling, hot chocolate and Christmas sugar cookie fest, the late hour of the Christmas Eve service. Some years, I managed to stay awake long enough, watching through the tiniest slits in my eyelids as I faked being asleep, breathing heavy and regular to help with the subterfuge of being long oblivious to happenings in my room that I caught Mom cracking open the door of my room slowly and peeking in to see if I were asleep.

Then she would tiptoe quietly to the foot of my bed and gently lay the crinkly, bulky stocking next to the bed rail, check me again just to make sure she had not disturbed me, and tiptoe out, quietly closing the door behind her.

I would lay there until I was sure she had finished delivering all the stockings to all the rooms and gone back down the stairs, back to a late night snack with Dad who was still putting the finishing touches on the tree. First, I would stretch my leg down until my toe touched the lumpy stocking. If I wriggled just right, I could feel the outline of the various gifts, and count them. It was always so bulging, bursting at the seams with promise of good stuff. Then I would pull the blankets up over my head and wiggle around until my head was where my feet had been, and I could get a better sense with my fingers poking and probing. I didn't dare come in direct contact with the thing, or I would have to unwrap something, just to tide me over until morning. That would have been a disaster.

It was excruciatingly difficult to fall asleep, but after many minutes of speculation, trying to guess what sought-after surprises might lie within the confines of the red flannel, in mid thought somewhere, I would drift off and dream of wonderful things. Despite my late retirement, my internal clock always roused me at 5:30 am or so. I would lie there debating whether I should quietly turn on my light and start unwrapping, or if I should wait until the permissible 6am to dig in. Usually at about 5:45 one of my brothers or sisters would bound into the room, gleefully shouting, "Look what I got!"

Miffed that they had already unwrapped all their stuff, I would rip into mine, barely realizing what each present was before I was on to the next one. There was no being quiet about it. Mom and Dad obviously knew we had jumped the gun, but they tried to ignore the faulderaul as long as possible. Finally, unable to contain our joy, we would burst into their bedroom, brandishing something from our stocking, yelling "Look what I got!" as if she had not carefully purchased and wrapped each precious item.

Mom usually shooed us out of the room and downstairs where she joined us, trying to get us to eat breakfast as if it were any other day. We were tightly wound springs waiting, waiting, waiting until Dad got up - never before 10 am - and s-l-o-w-l-y ate a HUGE breakfast - how could he DO that to us! Eggs and bacon and pancakes and grapefruit and raisin bread toast and cranberry juice and coffee. We endured every agonizing bite until he was satisfied that he had tormented us long enough and moved into the living room for the tree unveiling.

That home is long gone, we kids all grown, some with families of our own, our parents' house too small to accommodate the entire clan. Most of the things we did together as family don't happen these days. Going to Mom's for Christmas, though so important, doesn't feel like going home anymore. Family, yes. Comforting? Yes. Enjoyable? Yes. Something I look forward to and treasure as a privilege - yes! But its not going home. Its moving forward with life. Changing relationships, relating to my parents on a whole new, enjoyable level.

And home? These days its wherever I am. Wherever I can be myself and participate in activities I enjoy (and even some I don't). I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, and that you spend it doing something you truly enjoy with people you love. The best home places are where I sense that tingling anticipation of unexpected joy - those little stocking stuffers that, while not of huge monetary value, make the day ever so much brighter, enriching my life and giving me something to share with the ones you love.

Look what *I* got - a whole day with my parents and siblings in a homemade A frame perched on the side of Bear Mountain in the Adirondacks, overlooking Lake George! How marvelous!

Merry Christmas.

Christmas Goosebumps

Ever ask yourself why Christmas Eve services are so well attended? Both of ours were full houses. I'm sure it was the same for churches all over the Rochester area, all over New York, all over America, all over the world. True, some of it here is due to kids coming home to be with parents. Some of it is the Christmas-Easter crowd. But some of it is the goosebump-seeking, recover-the-tummy-tingling excitement of our childhood crowd.

This year was cooperating to the fullest extent. There was just the right touch of "snow on the ground, flakes in the air (not enough to make travel dangerous), economy OK, no major world tragedy infringing on the enjoyment" to encourage expectations. Perhaps this would be the year we would experience that sought-after feeling of joyous happiness we so long for.

After all, life is tough. Work is boring at best, painful at worst. Money is tight - money is always tight. Relationships flounder and break, friends come and go, people pass in and out of our lives, health issues impinge on our comfort. Its hard to be happy when things stink.

So we come every year to that moment upon which we hinge all our expectations that we will be granted a moment of joy, a goosebump inducing, good memory recalling, shared with friends moment that will restore our hope that somehow in the future we will have it better. Things will improve. Our days will be filled with happiness.

And so we come, our hearts on our sleeves, daring the world to step aside and let us relive our childhood innocence just for one night, for one solitary night while we worship at the creche, the ultimate symbol of hope in a world gone dark. Please let our burdens be lifted for one night, nay for one hour of the night while we stand with others, holding a tiny candle of light in a dark room, singing Silent Night, Holy Night.

Our plea. Our moment to set aside the business of life and take a moment to pour out our sorrows to a God we hope is still there. Please, God. Don't forget us. Don't give up on us, even though we haven't been in touch much. Please still be there.

Did it happen for you? Did you catch a glimpse of the hope we all so desperately need? Did you connect the celebration of the birth of Christ with the ultimate deliverance of the world from sin, sickness, and disaster?

You don't have to wait for Christmas Eve to have your hope substantiated. Its a good place to begin though. But don't let it stop there. Hang on to Jesus the whole year through. Let His perspective become yours. See the victory. Know His love. Read the end of the book - we win.

Merry Christmas.

Away in a Manger

The children's program *was* church today. It was supposed to be last Sunday in the afternoon followed by a soup/pass-a-dish event in the fellowship hall. But the weather didn't cooperate. So the pastor graciously stepped aside for the kids.

The director was in agony. Nothing had been properly rehearsed, key players were missing, last minute subs were being fitted for costumes while their heads were swimming with stage directions, substitute musicians had never even seen the music and barely had a sketchy sense of where their part fit into the whole. Scripts were hard to come by. Sound technicians were running about trying to guess who got the lapel mikes first.

The house was packed with eager relatives come to see little Johnny or Susie speak their piece. The level of hubbub was deafening! At one point, I think the director just threw up her hands, rolled her eyes, and sat down on the front row, ready to deal with whatever disaster came first.

So we began. It was a clever little play filled with puns and jokes, plays on words, a contemporary slant to the familiar story of Jesus' birth. As we settled into the action, the uproar died away, and soon the audience was laughing at the silly lines, enjoying the actor's antics, holding their breath while the different actors found the right place.

No one paid much attention to the meaning of the story. We were too caught up in the drama, in making sure the cues were met, in our willful support of the young thespians. Until the youngest Sunday School class was herded to their spot on the chancel steps. We expected to "ooohhh" and "aaahhh" at a cute if somewhat spotty rendition of Away in a Manger. Indeed, the youngsters were dressed as angels, their cherub faces scrubbed clean, their hair neatly curled and brushed, their teacher-coaches encouraging them to stand tall like soldiers and sing out.

What happened next was pure Holy Ghost inspiration. We were, en masse, transported to the gates of heaven to peek at the scene of God's birth from a taller perspective than we had seen from before. The gentle, soft voices with their adorable pronunciations seemed truly angelic. Not the warrior-full scale-all out-deafening decibel-ear splitting host of a thousand with shepherds cowering in fear angelic song we are used to thinking of, but the wistful, awe-filled, incredulous amazement of heaven's most innocent as they gazed with wonder at their Lord suddenly become a limited earthly being.

What was this? Did God know? What is He doing? How does that work? Are you sure this is the right way? Oh, my! Ah, a baby. That's amazing!

The rest of the play continued, but we were lost in the wonder, touched anew by the power of God's plan. Afterwards there were congratulations all around, lots of hand shaking and back slapping and wisemen grinning under the adulation. But the innocents just munched cookies, their halos askew and their curls falling into their cup of punch. They had no idea that their special contribution to the play had in fact been the part God used to tell us again how much He loves us.

And He does.

The Mistake

Eighth grade English was one of my favorite classes. Aside from diagramming sentences and reading hefty books and working my way through the SRA box, my favorite part of class was my teacher, Miss Anderson.

I don't know why I liked her so much. She didn't let you get away with laziness or sloppiness. Perhaps it was my affinity for grammar or my enjoyment of literature that made the class so easy for me. Or maybe it was spending most of seventh grade in traction for a fractured vertebrae, during which time I read my way through the neighbor's classics library. I don't know. But I really liked both the class and the teacher.

Mid semester, Miss Anderson was absent for a period of time. She had to have surgery for some thing or another, and I missed her terribly. I was relieved to see her back in her usual place outside the fourth floor west side classroom, smiling and welcoming us back. I turned to say something to my friend in line behind me, chatting loudly and not watching where I was going.

BAM! I smacked right into Miss Anderson before I realized what was happening. She crumpled to the floor, her face a mask of pain. I was crushed. How could I have been so stupid and careless? The one teacher I liked the best and I hurt her through my thoughtless action.

Mr Beauvais dashed across the hall to help her up. He shooed us into the classroom and closed the door. I was in misery, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. After a few minutes, the door opened, and Miss Anderson entered, walking slowly and holding her side. What if I injured her so badly that she had to go back to the hospital? I sunk down in my seat, afraid to even look at her.

The lesson began, sentences on the board to diagram. I usually raised my hand to do the harder ones, but today I just sat there, not looking. I could hear her going through the examples, but I didn't look up. I knew mine were right, and I was too worried about what I had done to care.

The hour stretched out before me in a sea of agony. I was so deflated that I didn't even bother to sharpen my pencil when the lead snapped off from my pressing so hard. I could feel the tears threatening to fall.

Then I felt a gentle hand on my head. Miss Anderson was standing beside me, talking through the final example. She flipped my hair from my eyes, gave my shoulder a squeeze and waited for me to look up. When I finally raised my head, she winked at me, patted my back, and moved on to the next seat, still talking about infinitives. That was all it took for her to let me know that she understood that my action was unintentional.

I think the whole class must have heard my sigh of relief. Miss Anderson was OK. I hadn't injured her. Just knocked her off balance, that's all. The air came back into my lungs, and I got up and sharpened my pencil just as the bell rang.

Secret Angel

When I was in sixth grade, our class decided to do a Secret Angel Christmas. We all put our names in a hat and drew someone else's name. The idea was that we were supposed to do little acts of kindness and thoughtfulness throughout the month of December, culminating in a small gift at the class party when you would discover who your Secret Angel was. It was kind of exciting! You could choose to do as little or as much as you wanted.

I hoped I would get the name of one of my best friends - Janice or Sandy. I reached into the hat and drew out my name and peeked carefully to make sure I hadn't drawn my own name. My heart fell when I saw whose name I had drawn. Karen was the dumbest, yuckiest kid in class. No one liked her. No one, not even the teacher. We all sort of tolerated her, and the sad part was that she didn't know how we felt about her, even when we were downright rude to her.

This wasn't going to be any fun at all. It was a sure thing that she wouldn't appreciate anything I did for her. She could barely see out of her cokebottle glasses, she smelled horrible, and most of the time there was snot hanging from her nose. I pouted all the way home on the bus.

Well, I could probably get away with just giving her something at the party. Maybe something I was tired of. I was so down about the angel thing that I hadn't even thought about who might have drawn my name. I was totally surprised by the little envelope in my locker the next day with an adorable friendship bracelet carefully wrapped in tissue paper. It made my heart sing.

During first period, I put it on and missed most of math class admiring the beautiful turquoise and purple colors. Just as the lesson was ending, I glanced over at Karen. She was sitting with her head down, not paying much attention either. I felt sorry for her. Almost everyone had gotten something from their secret angel except her. No one had given her anything. I don't know if she noticed it or not, but the rest of the class knew. There were whispers going on behind hands, nods in her direction, laughter. I felt terrible. I knew I couldn't let the day pass without doing something for Karen.

I thought about it a lot. I didn't really have anything to give her except my lunch money. I rarely ever bought lunch, but for some reason that day, I had enough money to buy lunch. I thought about it a lot. If I gave my lunch to Karen, I would have to go without. It was only one meal, and I could eat at 3 when I got home. I finally decided to do it. I convinced one of the lunchroom ladies to tell Karen that she had won a free lunch.

I don't know what I expected. I thought she would be excited and happy and grateful - something. But all she did was take the tray, go off in the corner, and gobble it down. No one even knew of my sacrifice. I was disgusted. That was it. That was the last time I did anything for my "angel".

That night I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and tried not to think about it. But I just couldn't put Karen out of my mind. Why was she like she was? What was her family like? Didn't they know that they should send her to school in clean clothes with her hair washed? It wasn't MY fault she was crummy and unkempt.

But I just couldn't get away from the fact that I was supposed to be nice to her. How do you be nice to someone you don't know! I tried to think what I could do that would make her feel special. It would have been easy to think of those things for my friends. I knew what they had and what they liked and how to please them. But I knew nothing about Karen.

The next day, I made a lacy card with a picture of a cat on it and put it in her locker. Then I watched her all day to see if I could learn enough about her to do something that she would like. I was surprised at how alone she was. During recess, we all scattered to various places, and she sat alone. During lunch, we saved each other seats at the same table, and she stood in a corner by herself. When the teacher got called out of the room, we all passed each other notes, and she just looked out the window. Man. This was hard!

I spent the next two weeks watching her reaction to the little gifts and surprises I sent her way. Some made no impact, some she threw away, some she stuffed in her pocket. Nothing seemed to get her attention or make her smile. The day of the party was approaching, and I was still clueless as to what to give her. I overheard several unkind conversations among my friends about Karen and how sorry they felt for whomever Karen's secret angel was. She had probably not done anything for them.

In the end, I went to Woolworth's and got her a cheap doll for a gift. I didn't have the nerve to sign my name. Better she not know who her secret angel had been. It was a crushing disappointment not to have figured out anything to make her happy, even when I actually wanted to.

The only good thing I can say about the whole ordeal is that I tried to be nicer to her after that. Sometimes I stood next to her on the playground and tried to talk to her. I shared my lunch with her a few times. I picked her once for my spelling bee team. After sixth grade, she moved away, I never knew where.

My failure at being a good secret angel stuck with me. Maybe I should thank Karen for making me aware of the people who seem to be left out of things. In a way, it was secret angel in reverse. I didn't do much for her, but she sure opened my eyes. I wonder if she has any idea.

SNOW!

Falling out of the sky in big, wet, sloppy flakes! Perfect for making snowmen and tormenting friends with snowball fights. I couldn't resist taking a walk on my lunch hour, turning my face to the sky, blinking away the melting flakes, scrunching handsful of the cold stuff and tossing it at convenient trees and buildings.

The sky was blue, the air just the right coolness, the sun shining brightly. The glare from the snow covered fields made you think you could close your eyes and conquer the world. I shut me eyes and just stood still. Wait a minute. I hear robins singing. That can't be! All the robins have flown south for the winter - at least all the ones with a half ounce of sense. I looked in vain for one sighting of a bird to no avail. But the birdsong was glorious! It went on and on with voices joining and exiting. More than one birdsong, many. I can't imagine what sort of birds they were or where they were hiding out.

But I was exhiliarated and uplifted by their chorus concert. I stood there for so long my toes got cold, but my heart was warm. What a treat. It stayed with me all day. Imagine what heaven will be like if the music is this good on earth!

Postal Reindeer and other phenomenon

Monday I went to the post office to get some stamps, and the lines were out the door and halfway down the sidewalk. I climbed back in my car and opted for another day. Tuesday I tried again, and even at our tiny North Chili office, the lines were not only long, but discouraging. When you see people wheeling dollies loaded with boxes from their SUVs, its a bit depressing to think you might end up in line behind them!

I braved it yesterday, and by the time I got to the counter, it was obvious that the three clerks, who were all working fast and furiously, were stretched to their limits. I had watched the big bin emptied three times in less than twenty minutes, and though the clerks were all polite, it was a strained atmosphere. No one was smiling or making small talk. Just answering necessary questions. Period.

Today I went in to mail a small package, and there were still lines and *lots* of laughter and friendliness. What a change of atmosphere! When I approached the counter, I began to understand some of the reason for the welcomed change. I was amused to find myself being greeted by a reindeer.

Apparently, whenever Suzie is on duty, she finds interesting ways of expressing her joy with whatever season is currently underway. Today, she sprouted antlers with little jingle bells, a brown turtleneck, a brown corduroy skirt, and klunky brown boots. While she was assisting me with my package, people were taking her picture and chatting about how yesterday she was an elf, and tomorrow she would be a snowman. Everyday she attires her little car with matching accessories. Today her Cooper had matching antlers affixed to the luggage racks, and a big red "nose" on the radiator.

Last Easter she showed up as a bunny, a chick, a decorated egg, and a chocolate bar. Hum. Fashionable. And way better than the strained conversation of yesterday. All three stations were manned, people kept coming in, but somehow the tempers were not short, the lines moved along, and the mail was processed all with a bit of flavor.

I wonder what her supervisor thinks? Can you imagine her annual evaluation? "Employee approaches work with enthusiasm and creativity." "Uniform somewhat nontraditional." "Customer service with a smile and a jingle." Well, kudos to Suzie for her boldness and zest for life. Thanks for bringing joy to an otherwise tiresome task.

I Didn't Start It - Really!

I was standing there innocently minding my own business when an electrician wandered up to the elevator and pushed the button. I had already pushed it and was waiting for the car to come back down. Then I heard humming. Undeniably, it was Winter Wonderland I was hearing. In a warm inviting baritone range. Complete with appropriate phrasing and dynamics and everything.

I glanced sideways at the gentleman in the brown overalls, scruffy flannel jacket, toolbelt dangling off his hips. He had a droopy moustache, the most sparkly brown eyes, full of mischief, and a round little belly -

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the elevator. We stepped in together, and I couldn't resist humming along as we rode up into the stacks. When I joined in on the melody, he improvised a harmony beneath, complete with sound effects, jazz licks and leg slapping rhythm. I started laughing and we both added words at the same time.

By the time we stepped off the elevator, we were singing at a level well beyond library silence mode. We stood at the elevator entrance and finished the song with dramatic arm sweeps and a wee dance step. Our performance would have held its own in any holiday program. He bowed, I curtsied, he kissed my hand and disappeared around the corner to the tune of applause from the few patrons on the floor below who had been privy to our serenade.

What a hoot! How do I get myself into these situations? I didn't start it, really. At least, not this time. But if you can't loosen up and play a bit around the holidays, its a sorry world. Sometimes you just have to make your own magic. I don't know where the man disappeared to - somewhere into the ductwork I suppose. I hope his day was as brightened as mine. And now, back to our regular program.

Wake Up Call

Don't you just hate it when you wake straight up in the middle of the night for no reason? At first you are confused, thinking it must be morning. But no, its still dark outside. You look at the clock: 4:00 am. Then you think perhaps you must have heard something and you get up to investigate. The house is quiet save for the rumbling of the furnace, though Lord knows the apartment is none too warm.



You poke around just to be sure, then go back to bed, snuggling underneath the warm wool blankets, tucking them up under your chin. And stare at the ceiling. Can't go back to sleep. You sigh and roll over on your side, but sleep evades you. This is the point when I think perhaps God woke me to pray for someone.



I always think about my parents first, and say a prayer for their health and safety. Then come the kids, each one in their turn, each with a different struggle or issue. Then friends come to mind for pray. If I am still awake after that, I move towards general categories of people - children who are hungry or living in refugee camps, people living with pain and no relief in sight, people who are cold and have no shelter, people with cancer. One is hard put to run out of people to pray for!



Whether I go back to sleep or not is immaterial. The work of prayer is probably the most important activity I will engage in today. One never knows how far reaching your prayers, whispered into the darkness of predawn hours, will be. I know I was prayed for when I was so ill, I am glad to pray for others.



6am finally rolls around. Easy to rise when you have already been at work for hours. And a great way to start the day in peace and a sense of the presence of God in the world. Even in spite of the snow and cancelled school!

Cantata

It was rather a disappointment, not waking to a foot of snow and climbing as the dire predictions promised. Sleet and freezing rain on top of three inches was still a formidable deterrent. Pastor Sherri debated whether to cancel services or leave it up to attendees to decide. In the end, she didn't cancel, and I arrived at the sparsely populated parking lot, wondering whether I would have enough singers to present the cantata in good form.



We had practiced with the accompaniment CD during dress rehearsal, enough for me to know that if our pianist (who lives on the east side of the city) didn't make it, we would struggle through with my unpracticed plunking. The choir was worried there would be more in the choir loft than in the pews, and for awhile it looked that way.



But we gave an extra few minutes before beginning, and had a fair turnout. The choir did a wonderful job in spite of the smaller-than-usual house, singing their hearts to the Lord, and for the most part remembering all the myriad nuances of phrase and dynamics. I always wonder that we emphasize so much the need for Christ when it seems to me people who consistently attend church should know that. Not that it hurts to be reminded, but we know the story. Our children know the story. We do not often convince anyone who doesn't know the story to come to church.



So aren't we "preaching to the choir"? Maybe. But the Holy Spirit knows what each person is in need of, and I have seen someone suddenly understand a verse they have heard for years and just not gotten before. God knows when they are ready and when they need to be reminded anew of His promises. So we sing them with all the passion we are capable of, and let the Lord quicken the Word. In this day and age, we need all the light we can get, all the connection with God we can muster.



I like to think that God is pleased when He leans down from heaven and hears thousands of choirs singing the story, remembering His gift, still unwrapping it, still appreciating Him. It is perhaps a small precursor to the heavenly choir of which I shall someday be a member. Gloria!

Shopping!

Normally I hate to shop. Tie me to a railroad track while the train is coming. Force me to eat rutabagas. Send me to outer Mongolia. Anything but to the mall to buy stuff. I detest the whole process from driving there to parking (and remembering *where* you parked), to sorting through a million items for just the right thing, especially when you don't know exactly what the right thing is!



And don't get me started about the other shoppers nearby. They are rude, inconsiderate, noisy, obnoxious, and every other epithet I can conjure up. I avoid as often as possible any and every opportunity to shop. I sure struck out in that gene department - yet another reason I don't fit the typical girlie mold.



Except.



Except when I am shopping for someone else, and I know this person well and I can guess exactly what will bring a smile to their face, joy to their days. Then I am all over it. I can't wait to find just that perfect thing that I know they will love, that will bring sunshine to their darkest hour. Especially when they are having a bad year and need something to brighten their season.



My biggest frustration for that kind of shopping is the small size of my wallet. I can think of a thousand things that would help, but I have to set a limit somewhere. Then it comes down to the agonizing decisions of what to leave behind.



Somehow when I am shopping for friends and kids, I don't mind. I set out knowing it will not be easy, but I am ready to face whatever the journey tosses my way. Rude people? I smile and step out of the way. Full parking lots? I relish getting some exercise walking from a mile away. Crowded aisles? I patiently wait for the line to ease up. They just sold the last one? I start the process all over at the next mall. Takes you twenty five minutes just to get out of the parking lot? I listen to Christmas carols playing on the radio and thank God I don't have babies in tow and that I had the presence of mind to fill the gas tank.



Can't help it. Found myself singing out loud right in line at the store. People stared at me like I had lost my mind. Maybe so, but I had rather be happy about the pressure than grumpy. I smile like a maniac. They growl, have loud exasperated phone conversations, push ahead of you, and then stare at you as if you did something wrong. I don't care. I am on a mission. Its a good mission. And when I am tired, I will quit for the day and go back at it later when I am refreshed. No sense driving yourself crazy needlessly. Lots of valid reasons to crack up. At least let it be something more weighty than a shopping trip.

Silence

Snow. It isn't officially winter yet, but we have snow. I open the library early in the morning, as we do every day of the semester. It is ghostly quiet. The students have finished their exams, turned in their last papers, and hustled out of town to be with their family and friends, just in time to avoid any bad weather.



I stand in the Fireside Reading Room, looking out over the deserted campus, struck by the silence. Even the fake gas fire does not crackle or intrude on my thoughts in any way. It is a peaceful silence sans suggestion of any imminent difficulties. I am struck by how seldom we encounter true silence.



There is that phenomenal silence when you look into your newborn child's face for the first time. He lays there quietly sleeping in your arms, as if he had not just been through Dante's inferno being thrust into the coldness of the world. He sighs a deep sigh of contentment, his lips twitching in a sucking motion, his eyelids flickering in dreams. You look unrestrainedly into his face, and even if there is noise in the room about you, it fades into the distance as you connect with this baby. It is you and he together alone, locked in a silent bond that will link you forever.



There is that sad final silence when you share in the dying of someone - it doesn't even have to be someone you knew well. We don't often get to experience this silence. We shuffle our dying off by themselves to a sterile room where professionals see them to the other side. We think we must avoid that gut wrenching emotional distress at all costs. Don't make us face our own mortality!



But once in awhile, if you are lucky, you get to be with someone passing from time to eternity (isn't that a movie title?). And you hear the quiet noises of a body ceasing, sometimes the utterances of a spirit translating. And then the last breath. You aren't sure. Perhaps they are just taking their time, resting before the next breath. You wait. It does not come. Their eyes seem to be open, they seem to be there, and yet they are gone. You take your time accepting it. The world quiets and fades while you intersect with the eternal.



Silence. A more serious silence than just lack of noise. Those rare moments when you are lifted from the incessant chatter of the immediate world to the solemnity of the everlasting. I think that's what Franz meant when he wrote Silent Night, Holy Night . . .

Its SNOWING!!!

Drew is in seventh heaven! It has been snowing all day - gobs and gobs of white powdery fluff. It looks like a Currier and Ives postcard! All we are missing is the horse drawn sleigh. Drew has longed for such an event. Of course, traffic is a mess, evening events including choir practice have all been cancelled. Lord knows whether tomorrow will be on or off. But Drew is happy.

As for me, I am glad that this morning when I had to drive carpool, there were only two or three flakes at best. I arrived on campus just as the first shrift of snow began covering the ground. I have watched while the bucket scrapers and plows have struggled to keep up, their blinking yellow lights reflecting on the paneled woodwork in the library. Students slipped and slid to classes, final exams, parties (yes, lots of end-of-semester doings). The library, despite the weather, has stayed fairly active with those last minute details of studying and research.

The car is buried out in the parking lot underneath a lamppost, the hour approaching for me to dig it out. I suspect I will have a long time to practice piano tonight. I am most grateful that I was able to find someone to cover the 9 to midnight shift - the evening building supervisor called to say she had fallen in the parking lot and hurt her back. But someone else was happy to pick up the shift, so I won't have to go back out at midnight to lock the place down. Yeah!

As the familiar song goes, "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." As long as it doesn't interfere with the holiday plans too much!

Misnomer

We call them speed LIMITS - those signs posted on our roadways telling us how fast we are allowed to drive. But drivers look at that number as a bottom limit, not a top one. If we can drive 55, God forbid we should go 54! And in fact, the expectation is that you will go somewhere around 10 mph OVER the speed LIMIT.


Mind boggling to think that the first official speed limit was 10mph! (The second speed limit reduced it to 4mph in the country and 2 in town!). Can you imagine how difficult is would have been to assign a speed limit to dirt roads traveled by horses, pedestrians, and model Ts?


I am careful to let those crazy drivers by when I see them zooming up on me from behind even when I am already doing the requisite 10 miles over the posted limit. Just because they are speed demons does not require me to be one. Besides, if they can't get themselves going in the morning and place themselves in a position of having to speed in order to get to work on time, that's not my concern. My concern is that their stupidity does not cause me damage.


Some places do post lower limits - not under 40 mph for example. But I wonder how angry people would get if someone was out for a leisurely drive, preferring to actually take the time to see their surroundings instead of focusing on arriving at a destination. What if they reverted to driving 10 mph? Do you think they would be allowed to reach their destination alive and in one piece?


In this day and age? I suspect not. Speed limit is a misnomer. There are no limits. We can do anything we want, legal or no. Or can we? Or should we?

Snow Cat

The morning began with the usual drill: Drew, time to get up. Drew, get up now. Drew! Out of bed! Drew, do you have your lunch? Drew put your pants on. Drew, do you have your keys? Hurry up! Get moving! We need to leave NOW!

I want to migrate to a better morning system. Problem is, if I just left without him to teach him the value of self starting, he would happily sleep all day! I am seriously considering going back to the water-dumped-on-you-after-one-warning system. But at the moment, he has made the high honor roll, and I am happy he is doing well. So I delay the distress until after the holidays.

In the end, I leave the apartment before he does, managing now to exit through the back door so that I only have to deal with one icy step instead of ten. (After six months of pleading, begging, threatening, arguing, asking, whining, and making a general nuisance of myself, I managed to get a key that sort of works in the back door lock.)

Outside, the weather is mild. The neighborhood kids have built a sizable snowman, then knocked it over and smashed parts of it. The bottom huge snowball sits forlornly in the middle of the yard, a sad commentary on the state of the melting snow. I am happy I will not have to chip ice from the windshield this morning, or bother with wipers stuck to the glass. My sad attempt at creating a garage with a tarp and hooks is mostly ineffective.

As I pass the snowman remains, I am startled by a black blob on the top that moved! What in the world? I tiptoe closer to the snowball, and there, curled up in the middle of the snowball is a coal black cat, purring away like crazy. Brrrrrrrrrr! I should think the poor thing would either be stuck fast to the snow, or shivering and shaking from the coldness.

But it was not melting the snow nor sticking to it. In fact, it seemed to enjoy the elevation of its new platform bed. As I stared in unbelief, it lay its head back on the snow and scratched itself comfy, wriggling and turning to get the most out of each move. You would have thought it was cozying up to a wool blanket or a toasty warm comforter.

There is no accounting for taste. One kid's snowman is another cat's delight. I climb into the cold car and start the engine, hoping for a fast warmup. Drew finally appears, ambling along as if the car pool driver's arrival were not imminent. He scoops up a handful of snow from the disheveled snowman, packs into a ball, and tosses it at the car window.

The cat suddenly darts after him, as if to attack the stealing of its snowman, then changes its mind and returns to its lair, walking around and around the snow leaning into it as it would lean into the legs of a human.

I flip the wipers on to dispel the snow and back the car out of the parking space. I wonder what the poor black cat will do when the rest of the snowman melts?

Annual Christmas Doings

Saturday was the Roberts annual staff and faculty and family Christmas brunch, and what an enjoyable day it was. They turn Garlock Dining Hall over to the festivities from 9 to 11, minimally inconveniencing students. Three long tables stretch down the center of the dining hall, loaded with eggs, bacon, sausages, pastries, quiche, fruit - all sorts of breakfast goodies. There is a waffle station if you have the patience and time to wait for the steaming Belgian confections smothered in fresh fruit and confectioner's sugar. All the children receive Roberts tee shirts, coloring and activity books and crayons. Each household is presented with a Roberts ornament - this year featuring the new library. You can have a family portrait taken, and you get to see all your friends and colleagues. Drew was surprised at how many people he knew already even though we have only been here six months. There is joy and happiness everywhere as you meet your colleague's families, match a husband with a wife, chat about everything except work, and rub shoulders with the President and Provost and Deans. Its such a nice thing to be part of a smaller organization where you can get to know so many of your fellow laborers. The decorations were pretty, the weather sported a light snowfall and chilly temperatures, the coffee and tea were warm and inviting.

Too soon the time had flown by and we moved on to errand running and food gathering. The glow of the morning gathering stayed with me all day, neutralizing the frantic hectic pace of the world on beyond Roberts' borders. What a pleasant way to celebrate the season. Here's to many more.

Day of a Thousand Nutcrackers

Tchaikovsky seems to be a theme this year. Everywhere I turn, I hear the enchanting themes from his Nutcracker Suite. They play it on the radio, the Community Orchestra played themes from it at the Christmas Gala Concert at Roberts, Eastman is doing its usual performances, I hear it in the mall as I shop, in the dentist office while I am waiting for Drew, in the doctor's office - he is everywhere!



Perhaps it is just that this Christmas has magic in it for the first time in a long time. The years before cancer hit, I was struggling to balance the demands of work, study, and family; settling in from moving; the year of cancer I was lucky to be upright and moving (I look like death warmed over in the pictures); the year in Connecticut I did not feel like I was at home anywhere. My life was adrift and the recovery process twisted and uncertain. Christmas was just another thing to endure.



But this year, the fog is clearing. Chemobrain has been figured out and minimized. The fatigue that has plagued me for so long is subsiding. I am in familiar surroundings, connecting with people I remember, being freed up to do what I am eager to pursue. And the weather, as if sensing the return of my joy, has cooperated with just enough sparkling snow to set the season without interfering with driving to any great extent.



I find myself singing quietly. I have to stop myself from singing when driving the carpool, but once they are safely deposited in school, I can sing freely, and I do! I am humming while I am grocery shopping (I inadvertently let a little loose at Wegmans the other day, and the man in line behind me joined in!) I sing while I am doing the dishes, while I am vacuuming (you can get real loud then), in the shower, in my office at work when no one else is around, when I am walking on campus - I had forgotten how great it is to sing. And what better themes to sing than Tchaikovsky's charming Nutcracker songs? You can make up the most delicious words - it practically rolls off your tongue before you know it!



It has been a long time since I have felt like singing. It came tiptoeing back when I wasn't looking, and one day I realized song had reentered my life. How great is that! I try not to go berserk with it, but its so irresistible. In fact, combined with my morning person mentality, its downright obnoxious! But I don't care. I am happy to be my old self again. I hope the joy of singing oozes out of me into the hearts of people who have lost their songs. I hope it encourages them to know that that their songs will return, that better days are ahead, that one's soul does not disappear forever.



Tra-la-la-la-la, have one great day (-:

The Arrival

I saw the truck way before they figured out where my apartment was. I threw on my coat and ran outside, down the steps, into the parking lot, flagging them down. The heavy set guy in the red baseball cap rolled down the window and flicked a cigarette out the window.



I had been watching for the truck for almost an hour. They were supposed to come at 11:00 am, but a muffled voice mail from my friend told me they hadn't yet picked up and she would let me know as soon as they left there.



When she did call, she sounded less than positive. How could piano movers be confidence inspiring if they weren't even sure how to get the piano out of the house where it had resided for the last few years? My friend mentioned that they tipped it up on end, and I immediately envisioned the beautiful instrument tumbling down the crazy steep steps outside.



They climbed out of the truck and followed me inside the hallway, remarking about the unusual rise in the concrete steps. I gulped. "That's why I thought you might prefer to bring it in the back - there's only two steps there and they aren't so deformed." They peered out the back door and shook their heads. "Lady, there isn't even a sidewalk out here. That piano is heavy. It will sink into the mud and we won't be able to haul it out until spring. No, we're coming in the front."



I shivered, trying to figure out how they would hoist a big piano up those stairs. The guy on the bottom would get buried for sure. But there was no bottom, so struggle, no sweat. They backed the truck up to the stairs, raised the back gate, slid a long metal ramp from the truck bed to the top step, and rolled it across with all the grace of gliding in a swing.



They were rolling so fast I had to scurry to get the door open. I wasn't sure if it would fit down the narrow hall, but they didn't even blink. They breezed through the living room down the hall and into the bedroom easy as you please. The driver looked at me and said, "On three, yank that dolly out from underneath." Before I had time to think, he yelled "Three!" and I reached down and pulled the dolly out.



They gently set the piano down right where it should be, then picked up the dolly and disappeared, leaving me face to face with the adorable perfect piano. Mine to use until it was needed elsewhere. Mine to regain some small shred of technique, some bit of musical fluency. Mine to allow for choir rehearsals in my own place. To interest Drew in music again, to dust off the scores and play to my heart's content.



I ran my fingers over the gleaming white keys, brush the dust off between my thumb and fingers. I have not had a decent instrument to play since I left Illinois. How I have missed playing. How I have missed hearing my butchered rendition of Mozart and my slow and painfully difficult Brahms (I so love his music) or my agonizing Chopin and Rachmaninov. I cannot wait. I want to play until my arms fall off.



But alas! Before I knew the piano was arriving, I made plans to help a few projects and people. I must tear myself away, duty beckons. I do not want to leave. O for a few minutes! I am already late because the movers were delayed in arriving. What difference if I am a few more minutes late? Quickly, before I can think what I am doing, I rummage through my box of piano music and select Brahms Intermezzo in A. My fingers stumble through the first page, stiff and uncooperative. I bite my lip and try again. Yes, its a little better. I go back and play just the melody - not even the top hand, but just the line, just the beautiful arching line. And I smile. It will come back. All is not lost. I have worked with excellent teachers. I will remember.



I close the lid and force myself out the door. Tomorrow. I will have time, and I will ease back into it. I pick up a CD by my favorite pianist, a good friend of mine. HE does Chopin as no other. I will listen, I will inhale, I will devour, I will learn. And tomorrow, I will begin the painstaking process of beginning again.

Old Friends and New

What a delightful process ~ reconnecting with people you used to work with but haven't seen in awhile. With some, it is as if we were never apart. We just pick up where we left off, catch up on the news, and move forward. With others, it is traumatic, seeing what has happened to them, realizing they are not the same person you once knew, that they have moved away from where you are and there is no easy way to get back together, though not due to physical distance.

Was a time when you moved to a new place that you gave up your friends and colleagues in the old place and developed new ones. Oh, you said you were going to keep in touch, but the reality of new responsibilities and demands on your time caused you to let go of those not in the immediate location.

Now though, thanks to IM, cell phones, email, wikis, blogs, and a host of others communication devices and processes, I do not find that to be true. I stay connected with those who share common interests with me - my choir friends, my library colleagues. It opens up whole new realms of possibility.

At some point, I could easily be connected to a thousand people on a regular basis! Sure beats the "living in the same little town I grew up in" syndrome. The best part is, you don't have to pay through the nose to stay connected. At least, as long as IM and email are free! and cell phones still give you times of unlimited minutes. Now I just have to work harder at remembering to stay connected both in reality and virtually!

Perpsective

Change is the only thing we can count on these days. Everything is changing. The staff here are struggling with how to function given all the change they have been through. New Building. New Organizational Structure. New responsibilities. More traffic through the door and at the desk. New courseware to learn and use. New technology to get comfortable with. New protocols, new levels of service. More work. More students. I am sympathetic towards their struggles to adjust.

For me, the workload here is less than half what I have handled in other places, the stress so much less. But I know how difficult it can be to have the rug pulled out from under your feet and not know which end is up. So I have asked them to list all the changes. Then I asked them to list everything that did not change. At first, they could only list one or two things. With a bit of prompting, the list grew and grew until they finally saw that what had not changed was much more than what *had* changed.

See the big picture - the light at the end of the tunnel begins to glow a bit. You could almost hear the gears turning. WHAT we do has not changed all that much. Just HOW we are doing it now. And that will continue to evolve as things always have. I think of my Grandmother's lifetime. She started out with horse and buggy and ended up with rockets on the moon. She began with a garden in the back yard and ended up with supergrocery stores. She was born before telephones, and ended up with email (even though she personally didn't use it). What a huge paradigm shift she went through. Slowly.

And that seems to be the issue now. The shifts happen so quickly its hard to get any perspective on what will be long term and what will be a flash in the proverbial pan. So when you feel overwhelmed, list the things that are predictable and unchanged. It does help to keep perspective.

PDA

I don't usually witness much public display of affection. Seems I am not in the kinds of places where that behavior occurs. Nor do I have a lot of friends who are in relationships just starting out. But today as I was heading to VAC to do my lunchtime track walking, I passed a couple locked in a tight embrace.

They were standing on the sidewalk by an older white car shedding its rust quietly on the slushy pavement. He was a good two feet taller than she, and unbending. She had wrapped her arms around his waist, reaching a bit up to do so. She was clinging on for dear life, as if they were separating never to see each other again. I wondered if the relationship were ending, so desperate her hold on him.

It reminded me of when my kids were little, and they used to wrap themselves around my leg and hang on, riding along as I walked, giggling with glee at the up and down motion - sort of like experiencing a carnival ride. We would laugh together, and sometimes I would hold on to their shoulders to keep them from falling off.

Finally, the young man bent down giraffe-like and planted a kiss on the top of her head. She lifted her face to his, craning her neck straight upwards. They kissed again, mouth to mouth, rather sloppily as they each struggled to keep their balance in their off-kilter positions. He gently disentangled himself from her arms and stepped back, he on the curb, she on the pavement, adding to the discrepancy in height.

There they stood for some minutes, not talking, not touching, not even looking at each other. Then he turned and strode off towards the gym, reaching it before I did. She stayed standing there on the parking lot a while after he disappeared through the double glass doors.

I wondered what was happening to her. Was it a life-shattering goodbye? A simple disagreement? A power struggle? Whatever it was, she sighed and wandered off, shoulders slumped and bag dragging the ground. A terrible time to have issues, the final week of class what with papers and exams and winding down the semester on top of holiday activities.

Thank God I am not going through such trama! Though of course, it never gets any easier, relationships. And quite frankly, it is nice to see positive and gentle pda - a wee bit of hand holding, a gentle touch on the shoulder, a peck on the cheek. These I see among the long time couples that are still very much in love. How reassuring to know there are some who survive and flourish. As they say, hope springs eternal. I hope someone tells her.

The Walker

She was neither young nor old, though judging by her gait, she must have been ninety. Slightly bent at the waist, rigid and fragile, she tottered slowly across the walkway from the athletic center to the parking lot, stepping gingerly around snow drifts and leaning on the arm of her companion.

I recognized the walk immediately - the posture of someone in a great deal of pain. I have been there. I remember it well. Though I was a tad late getting back to the library after lunch, I did not mind waiting for her to cross. It is no fun being in pain, expending all your energy just to accomplish simple things like walking to the car. I suspect she was not even aware that there were cars lining up, wanting her to reach the other side so they could tear about their business.

How grateful I felt to be in the car and not dealing with the obvious physical distress of the one in the walkway. How fortunate she is to have a companion to help her, someone on whom she can lean. But I have to ask - what in the world was she doing at the gym! (I know, whirlpool, physical therapy on her own, other options I can't even think of).

God help us all stay healthy and not have to face overwhelming pain.

Snowing Sideways

This morning as I drove carpool, it was raining at a steady pace. By the time I exited the expressway, it was sleeting. On the way home, the rain had turned to snow. By the time I got to work, we had white-out conditions, and by the time our staff meeting ended, it was snowing sideways. That's pretty much the gamut of wintry weather, all in the course of a few hours.

Drew is in seventh heaven (whatever that means). He has been disgusted with the lack of snow in the various places we have lived. Sunday he even shoveled off the steps of the building without being asked, without grumbling (maybe I should stick a few bags of trash out there in hopes he will cart them to the dumpster!). I am happy for him though I can't say I share his enthusiasm.

Snow is pretty under the right circumstances. I love to see it sparkle underneath a blue sky on a sunny day. I appreciate the 'picture postcard' look of a New England town in a fresh blanket of snow. I enjoy a good snowball fight as much as the next. I used to do some snowshoeing in the woods when the snow was just the right depth to support without inhibiting progress.

But I have to say I get a bit concerned when the snow is driving sideways past the building and shows no sign of letting up. I stood in the Fireside Reading Room gazing out over the parking lot as the last rays of the sun slid west over the edge of the mountain. My car below is buried in a few inches of snow, and edged with a thin coat of glistening ice. How I appreciate the architect who included the fireplace in the plans for this building! I believe I will take my laptop and work by the crackling gas flame for awhile (I'm not too spoiled, but I am eating it up!).

Perhaps I can take a bit of the Brrrr out of the evening. Now if I could just figure out what to replace it with.

The Perfect Rose(s)

There is a old Advent carol called "There is No Rose of Such Virtue" which has been set by any number of composers from Dunstable to Britten. The text is intriguing:

1. There is no rose of such virtue, As is the rose that bare Jesu; Alleluia.
2. For in this rose contained was Heaven and earth in little space; Res miranda. (wonderful thing)
3. By that rose we may well see That he is God in persons three, Pari forma. (equal in form)
4. The angels sungen the shepherds to: Gloria in excelsis deo: Gaudeamus. (Glory to God in the highest, Let Us rejoice)
5. Leave we all this worldly mirth, And follow we this joyful birth; Transeamus. (let us follow)
6. Alleluia, res miranda,Pares forma, gaudeamus, Transeamus.

An interesting metaphor of which I was reminded at end of Compline this evening. Pre-service was a concert of German lieder sung by a promising young baritone, a nice preface to the evening's offering. As I sat entranced in the candlelit cathedral, I was ever so conscious of the prayer ascending to heaven, and of others' meditations, my own on behalf of the two women I am interceding for concerning their cancer. Especially on my heart tonight was the newly ordained pastor just diagnosed with lung cancer.

As I sat praying, I could hear the pelting rain striking the roof above me. Strange how this icy rain, a bear to deal with outside (especially on top of the inches of snow), created a comforting sound inside. What is there about the patter of rain on the roof that brings a sense of comfort and quietness? It felt as if my prayers were rising and God's tears were falling, His heart as broken as mine about the pervasive suffering that surrounds us.

At end of compline (sung mostly in English this evening), we all sat, reticent to leave, to face the unkind elements outside. We watched as the priests extinguished the candles starting with the ones above the altar, circling around the music stands on the platform. Finally, one brave person stood, and the rest of us followed down the hall to the parlor where there were refreshments and a chance to meet the performers and the soloist (and the amazing pianist who accompanied him!).

My friend, with whom I rode, greeted friends and students, making introductions, giving conversation topics a start. I finally tired of standing and retired to a corner near a neglected little piano. I sighed, happy to be able to still hear the rain, grateful for the sweet punch and teacake, taking in the many conversations buzzing here and there about the grand old room, as ancient and filled with grandeur as the sanctuary itself.

At last, I turned my head toward the credenza by the door and saw a crystal vase filled with a dozen perfect pink roses, their faces more widely opened than I thought possible. "They must be artificial," I thought. "They are too perfect to be real." But as I gazed at their deep blush of color, their gentle arch of stem, I realized that I could sense rose fragrance. Did they spray them with rose water?

I nonchalantly wandered over, reached out as inconspicuously as I could, and touched a petal. It was real! The whole bouquet was soft and warm and real. I bent and inhaled fully. The gentle fragrance caressed my face. As if they knew they were being admired, they shifted ever so slightly so that I could clearly see all twelve of them both in reality and in reflection in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall over the credenza.

The room receded from my awareness. I wanted to pick them up and hug them they were so beautiful. I marveled over and over at how perfect they were, how wide and open the petals, how none of them were decaying, how sweet the smell without being overpowering. A moment of incredible beauty, and no one in the room was even remotely aware of it. People were starting to leave, wrapping coats about them and shivering at the thought of going outside where the rain was pummeling the ground in all seriousness, threatening to start a flood.

I lingered, hating to take my eyes off the roses, mindful of that English carol, mindful of how beautiful Jesus is, how the world does not always notice His beauty, does not realize how fragrant His love for them. I am doubly blessed.

Angels Dancing

Advent begins. How to mark the moment? One of my friends meets me for coffee and conversation, and treats me to a dance concert held at Charles Finney School. It was liturgical dance representing the birth, death and resurrection of Christ. I have never attended such a presentation, wasn't sure what to expect. Many dance companies were participating, each one telling their part of the story in their own way, to their own music.

What a wonderful variety of colors, costumes, ages and stages of dancers, types of music. We entered the small auditorium, and selected seats in the balcony so we would be able to see everything. There was a buzzing excitement in the room as dancers tiptoed about, holding hushed conversations with family and friends in the hall. The place was packed, and we were glad to have arrived early to avoid ending up standing in the back.

The lights dimmed, the narrator stepped to the microphone, and the story began. Between each group, a reading of Scripture (to give the dancers time to exit and the next group to set up) and to thread the presentations together along the continuum of the life and purpose of Christ, our light in a dark world. There was ballet, tap, interpretive dance, modern dance - so many choreographies, so many ideas, so many ways to pour the love of God into the air. The youngest dancers were darling, cute, coy; the oldest confident, secure, graceful.

During one song about Mary, about what she had to endure, while the piano gently felt the emotions and the lush warmth of the singer brought clarity to the text, the troupe dancing suddenly moved in such a way that it brought tears to my eyes. How can I describe it? First, these young ladies clothed in dark blue, floating frocks (neither the youngest nor the oldest dancing), danced apart. They moved in the same way, their arms lifting, their feet turning, swirling in unison (or mostly so), going through the same motions, but separated by space. It was nice, yes.

But at one point, the words spoke of Mary needing help, needing support, of God holding on to her, bearing her up. And the dancers came together to help one who wavered, to support one in the center who was falling, caressing her, lifting her arms, keeping her safe. Words can't convey the intensity of those motions, the impact they had. Is that not what Christians do for each other? Do they not see one going through difficulties, and suddenly rush to their aid, unbidden except by the word of God, to support, to uphold, to comfort, to just be there when the going gets tough?

At least, that's how its supposed to be. I thought of the roughest places in my cancer treatment. Yes, it was like that. People came to help me, to support me, to lift up my hands, to pray for me, to just be with me. I didn't ask, but they heard the whisper of God, and they came. Many of them did not know me. They heard, and they came.

Today I heard of a young pastor just ordained. Just pronounced sick with late stage lung cancer. Not a smoker. No reason for that. She may be wavering, she may feel as if she is falling. Regardless, she needs the words of Christ, the comfort of God. I ask God if I can go. Let me have some small part in bringing comfort through music, through prayer, let me be used of God to bring cups of cool water to this thirsty sister, to be the arms of Christ. She will be my second one to minister to if I am allowed.

Tears roll down my cheek, and I try to be discreet in wiping them away. I do not wish my friend to think something is wrong (not that she would). I am deeply touched with honor and humility that God would allow me to be used in some small way. Will He? Will He let me? Can I be one of the dancers glide across life's stage in order to hold up a hand, to stand beside, to help?

I have always wanted to dance. Let this be the moment I begin.

Noontime Honors

Dr. Noel Magee served Roberts Wesleyan College as assistant chair of the Fine Arts Department and theory professor since 1991, and retires at the end of this semester. He did much for the institution, and music faculty organized a noontime concert to honor him and thank him for his service and dedication. Faculty performed, and it was a delightful concert with a wide variety of presentations from Bach to Glazanov, traditional to spirituals, piano to solo unaccompanied voice.

There seemed to be no touch of either nervousness or one-up-manship. Merely friends who have come together with anticipation and eagerness to hold and support one of their own, a friend who will be moving on. There were no tears or catty remarks, no maudlin emotionalism, no pettiness or gloating - the political garbage that can so often be prevalent in an artsy community. Each gift was performed in a caring way with the recipient in mind, a gentle caress to let him know they treasured working with him and sent him out with encouragement.

At one poignant moment in the program, during a trumpet piano duet titled Autumn Leaves, the packed house watched with amazement as the fall wind swirled leaves against the floor-to-ceiling corner windows in Shewan recital hall. They seemed to dance with the music, blessing the event, celebrating a life of joyous service now turning to other endeavors.

When the music was soft, only two or three leaves danced playfully up and down the window sills. As the music increased in dynamic level and in speed and complexity, the wind tossed a pile of leaves against our view of the world, tossing them around in a mini maelstrom as the tones of the trumpet filled the interior space. Inside and out filled with excitement and happiness!

It was a wonderment! Though the trumpet player did not see what was happening, the whole audience did, forgetting the player, the music, the event. Just like children seeing fireworks for the first time our mouths hung open, our heads following the chase and patterns of the leaves bouncing by, our eyes wide.

Could we but have that same attitude towards moving into a new chapter in our lives, how much easier it would be to say goodbye to one thing and embrace joyously another. As I look back, I rarely ever held that sense of grandeur of the passing of time, rather sliding bumpily from one season to the next.

May your next season's change be marked by all as a time of great celebration and an integral part of the grand scheme of things.

Chivalry is not Dead

This morning I got to drive the new route for carpool pickup. I swan if they keep changing the rules, I'll never keep up! At least I am getting to know where everyone lives and who belongs to whom. Anyway, we picked up a girl I haven't had to pick up before. She was the last one we collected before we began the 20 mile trek to the East Side.

Drew had started out in the front seat, and when we pulled into the drive, he jumped out and hopped in the back with the other boys so Beth could have the front seat. Beth threw her backpack in the trunk, then opened the back door.

"Drew, you can sit up front. I don't mind being in the back seat," she politely offered.

"No, that's OK," Drew responded.

There was an awkward moment of silence, neither kid wanting to inconvenience the other. So I gently intervened. "Girls in the front." They both sighed with relief. How nice to know that Drew was not only conscious of the polite thing to do and willing to do it, but downright uncomfortable about not treating a young lady with the proper respect.

I hope that stays with him for life. Better yet, I hope it rubs off on his attitude toward Mom!

On Being Stoned

Funny how that phrase can mean so many things! In the Old Testament, if you were stoned, they pelted you with stones until you died, usually because you had committed some horrible sin. In the Middle Ages, it meant something made out of stone (a stoned pot). In the 60s, it meant you were totally mellow, intoxicated and divorced from reality due to the drugs you were smoking (stoned from pot). Fruit like peaches have stones. There are stone cutters, StoneHenge, stone's throw, stoneware, and Estonia. OK, maybe that last one is a stretch.

In this case, it is referring to my Dad, who is currently wrestling with a kidney stone. Those of you who have had a kidneystone will sympathize. It is no fun. Dad has a history of kidneystones, inherited from his father. I got mine from my Father. But this little bugger is refusing to exit. Dad ended up in the ER where they dutifully hooked him up to an IV to flush the thing out. Now he is swimming in fluids, but still no progress.

If you have a moment today, would you say a pray for Dad? He would appreciate it, and so would Mom who is keeping bedside vigil now that he has been admitted. Thanks.

Mini Blizzard

It was so easy finding a dentist I almost couldn't believe it, especially after all the trouble getting a doctor. AND the clinic has evening and weekend hours so you don't have to take off work to go. Nice. I had a 6pm appointment to talk about my initial exam results. I left work a few minutes after 5, stopped home to check on Drew (and see if by some miracle he would be willing to go with me), then started towards Strong Hospital where the clinic is located.

The sky was already dark, and the wind was blowing fiercely enough to push my wonderful little Malibu around a bit. Rain was forecast, but between leaving work and leaving the house, the temperature had noticeably dropped. I pulled my wool scarf around my neck, grateful that I was driving into the city while everyone else was driving out of it.

The parking garage was not as full as usual, and I managed to find a spot on the third deck right near the dental center walkway two flights down. I edged gently between the van and the pickup, pulled my collar up around my ears, and stepped out of the car. As I pushed my keyfob to lock the doors, a sudden and unexpected blizzard came out of nowhere, fiercely devouring the scenery right before my eyes. The wind was so strong a trash can flew across the sidewalk while leaves and scraps of paper whipped about, dancing crazy like St Vitus. The ends of my scarf snapped against my cheeks and I had a hard time standing against the galeforce. Snow made the whole sky white, yellowing the street lights dim and quickly covering the green grass. Cars were skidding and sliding about, people caught in the unexpected storm scurrying to find shelter in the nearest building.

I slid into the revolving glass doors of the dental center and shook the snow from my shoulders. Good thing I was so close to the entrance! I checked in, then took a seat in the waiting area. Day shift workers were just leaving for home, and their reaction when they reached the exit amused me. First, shock, then concern, then grumbling and worry. The pattern was unending. Until a young Asian dentist arrived at the door.

Perhaps it was his youth, perhaps his unfamiliarity with snow. Whatever his reasons, he was purely delighted. "Wow! Yahoo! This is great! Come see! Did you know it was snowing? Look outside!" His comments of joy echoed through the lobby, floating to the balcony above. Other employees in the process of leaving smiled indulgently at his enthusiasm, pulled their coats about them, and braced themselves for the short walk to the parking garage.

He just stood there gawking out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, jaw dropped, eyes lifted to the sky. For maybe ten minutes, his palpable joy drew smiles from those passing by. Then, without warning, as quickly as it had started, the squall ended and the wind died down. The young man sighed, buttoned his jacket and stepped out into the normal fall night to journey home.

How refreshing! Better than an amusement park ride.

Silly Geese

Driving west on Buffalo Road in North Chili is an "en-lightening" experience these days. Not only do the telephone poles (do they still call them that?) sport lighted Christmas wreaths, but most of the houses and businesses are decorated for Christmas with colored lights. The landscaping business is totally outlined in white and red, the hair salon mostly white, Pearce Church has its share of decorations and the campus is resplendent with white lighted trees, snowflake decorations outlined with white lights hanging in the Cultural Life Center and Rinker. It's "de-lightful".



It is because of the additional amount of light that a weird and eerie scene greeted my eyes as I drove home in the early and already dark evening. I glanced briefly at the pond, now silent of the spraying fountain which has been turned off to avoid frozen pipes. There, floating quietly on the semi-frozen surface was strewn an entire gaggle of geese. Not one peep or honk could be heard. Just the dark forms bobbing slightly on the left hand side of the pond where the ice had not yet formed.



I blinked and took a second look. What were they doing there, those silly geese? Normally they rest on the center of the track where there is some shelter from the wind and where unsuspecting insects present gourmet opportunities alongside the still green grasses. They weren't fishing or bathing or even interacting with each other. It appeared as if they were settled in for the night and were sleeping.



Did their mothers never tell them to stay out of the freezing water? What if they got frozen into the lake overnight? How silly would that be? I shook my head in wonderment as I drove past. Who would have thought geese wintered in ponds in Rochester. Shouldn't they already be well on their way to warmer climes?

Apple Pie a la Death Cake

S - L - O - W. Drew's idea of making an apple pie for Thanksgiving is surely not mine! It started out alright. First we went to the library and checked out a cookbook with a good recipe. Then a week later he made a list of ingredients that he needed. We already had most of them. There was the important trip to Wegmans in the pouring down rain on Thanksgiving Eve, sandwiched between a few other events. I thought we were all set.

Thanksgiving Day came and went, and Drew didn't make a move toward cooking a pie. That's OK. Lots of time in the long weekend. Friday came, and Drew found so many activities to occupy his time. Saturday found us decorating the school, and running a few errands. Then the pull of playing with friends entered the picture. Still, I didn't mention it. Baking an apple pie would tie up a lot of my own time since Drew had never done it before.

Late Saturday night, Drew decided to make the crust, and keep it in the fridge overnight. OK, that was a good idea. Drew puttered around in the kitchen while I sat in the living room knitting and waiting for him to call me. I assumed he was getting the ingredients nicely lined up. He appeared in the dining room, fussing that it just wasn't right.

He had mixed everything together, and he had crumbs in his hands. Something was definitely wrong. I read through the list, and finally arrived at the butter part. "Are you sure you put in enough butter," I asked.

"YES," he grumbles. "Just what it called for." I am pretty sure he does not have enough butter in the crumbly mix.

"So you put in two whole sticks of butter," I press.

"What? No. That's not what it says. Let me see that." He reads the instructions again, mutters a bit, then admits he only put in a few tablespoons. And he doubled the recipe. Back to the drawing board! I leave him in the kitchen to fix it up, and go back to knitting. After a few minutes, I realize he is using the food processor! Shades of toughness. THAT won't work. I try to delicately suggest that pie dough is a fussy creature requiring gentle manual manipulation so as not to excite the elastin in the wheat. Perhaps he should turn the processor off before the darn crust turns to concrete.

He does so, and the dough is wound tightly around the beater blades. He coaxes it out onto plastic wrap. My heart sinks again. I bite my tongue. Maybe it will work as good as wax paper. I leave that one alone. Drew decides not to cook the crust tonight. I shake my head and inform him that you don't cook the crust for apple pie separately from the filling. That process is only for pie fillings you don't cook. I am amazed at how little he knows about this whole procedure! The dough goes in the cool fridge and we retreat to separate neutral corners for the evening.

Sunday was nearly over when suddenly I realized that Drew was in the kitchen puttering around. He has peeled the apples and mixed the seasonings (seems a bit cinnamony to me, but I resist the temptation to question his recipe following skills). He works at rolling out the crust, asking questions about how you make that darn stuff come out round, whether he should cut off the excess, surprised that you fold it up and pinch it into a juice holding edge. "So *that's* how it works. Neat-o!"

He pops it in the oven and begins marking time. One hour, and we are both anticipating a delicious smell, and irresistible sweet gooey apple delight. But an hour ticks by and I can barely smell it. I peek in the oven. It looks right. Drew takes it out of the oven, asking me if I think its done. I suggest he cut into the top and see if the insides are boiling. He slices into it. I remind him that you can't cut a piece out until it cools sufficiently to gel up a bit. Otherwise the innerds just run all over and you don't get a decent piece intact.

But wait! Something is wrong here. There is no juice, no steamy smell, no goo. Only solid brown insides. That's right. Brown. And SOLID. This can't be right. I question Drew about what on earth he had put in there. You can't even see a single apple slice. He gets a bit testy. "Just what the recipe called for. A cup of sugar, cinnamon and flour."

What? No, no. You would never use an entire cup of cinnamon (I am just beginning to understand why he told me we were going to need more cinnamon and that we barely had enough!). I read the ingredients. 1 cup and some sprinkles of sugar. 3 and a half teaspoons of cinnamon, same for flour. Drew grabs the book and points to the text beneath. Add 1 cup of sugar, cinnamon and flour. He had assumed it meant 1 cup of each. Good grief! What do you do with 2 solid pies that each have a whole cup of cinnamon in them?

Drew knew just what to do with them. He ate a piece, and cut one for me. I gingerly nibbled here and there to be polite. But Drew thought it was grand! He ate a second piece. OK, but I am not tempting fate. Sorry.

The next morning, Drew packaged up four individual slices and took the remains of one pie with him in the carpool. He offered a piece to each student as they entered the car.

"What's this?" each one asks.

"Apple death cake," Drew replies.

They taste it, they like it, they gobble it down. It's a hit! What do you know? Sometimes its best not to have any preconceived ideas of what something should be. You never know when a disaster might turn out to be a discovery.