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.

Service Hours

Part of supporting private schools is the requirement that all families work a prescribed number of service hours - helping with fund raisers, developing the library, monitoring lunchrooms, chaperoning field trips, and various other tasks to help cut costs and still provide a full and complete education.

For other schools, I had always selected Saturday or evening activities that did not require hours of phone time. One year I cataloged library books on Saturdays, another I worked a weekend carnival, another time I helped with the plant sale. Its not easy to find a way to work ten hours in a way that fits my already overbooked schedule. So when they asked for volunteers to help decorate the building on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I jumped at the chance to work off some time.

I called the event organizer, and she gave me the details. There would only be four or five of us, and it shouldn't take more than three hours at most. If Drew and I both worked, we could satisfy four to six hours. Not bad. After all, how hard could it be to stick up a few baubles?

I hadn't counted on the temperature being 20 or the wind being brisk. Good thing I had worn both a hoodie and a winter jacket. At least it had stopped raining, and it wasn't snowing! There were swags to hang requiring ladder climbing, an artificial tree to put together, lights to string, wreaths to hang (one from the second floor window), and various decorations to strew about. It all had to be tied down with "invisible wire" aka fishing line.

Since there wasn't a pre-existing plan, it took a half hour to decide what should go where. Obviously, some of the people there had a problem thinking big picture. Not that I wanted to tell anyone their business, but five swags don't go evenly into three porticoes! It took some convincing that you couldn't just start at one end and hope for the best. We munched cinnamon rolls and listened to a few Christmas carols as we took turns cutting wire, hammering nails, holding the ladder, and fluffing red bows.

A few frost bitten fingers and frozen toes later, all the stuff was appropriately tied down (though I suspect one good storm may mean redoing it all!) and we were congratulating each other on a job well done. The lady in charge said someone was bringing a nativity set later, the capstone of the decor. I had gotten to know three ladies I probably wouldn't have met otherwise, watched Drew do his fair share alongside one of his friends and the friend's Dad (not to mention being able to pry him out of bed before noon!), found out a few bits and pieces of school info I hadn't been aware of, and managed to get some exercise in the process. Not a bad deal. Not bad at all.

Pink Friday

Generally, I refuse to get caught up in the insanity of Christmas shopping on the day after Thanksgiving. I avoid the crowds, the tempers flaring, the gaudy decorations, the obnoxious music and the traffic congestion. This year, though, I want to get stuff for my new grand daughter Katie. I knew of course, that she would be arriving, but I hadn't shopped ahead, thinking that somehow I had lots of time.

I know when I was pregnant, I had everything I needed as early as I could manage to get it. How often I had sat in a rocking chair and folded and re-folded blankets, counted and re-counted little sleepers, tiny undershirts, cloth diapers (I was always opposed to using many disposable ones), dreaming of the day when I would hold my wee one and sing to his bright little eyes. The boys always responded to soft low singing, and would cock their heads and listen, sighing contentedly (when they weren't screaming of course).

I quickly discovered that Penneys marked everything down 60%, and that few if any were looking in the newborn baby section of the store. Mostly they were either in the electronics department or clothes for older kids. So I settled down in the 'sweet little' baby area to decide on what to get for Katie.

Its hard to know what to buy for someone you haven't met. For Kelly, Katie's older sister, I had been told not to get a lot of pink stuff (don't want to prejudice anyone), so I concentrated on purple things. But Katie is her own person and NOT just like big sister. So I sorted through all sorts of cute baby things, searching for something that said 'Katie' to me. There was lots of pink stuff, along with blue, brown, green, yellow, orange, red, and several non-descript colors. There were patterns and themes, cows, ducks, frogs, dogs, giraffes, butterflies, and a host of other critters. There was short sleeved, long sleeved, snapped, velcroed, tied, gowned, pants, dresses. What a plethora of stuff!

In fact, there was so much crammed on every post and shelf, you couldn't really see what was there. Not to be defeated before I began, I sat on the floor, and removed everything from each spindle, one at a time, and sorted through things until I found exactly what touched my heart for my new little girl. It took about an hour for a theme to emerge. Soft pastel yellows and light greens with ducks and frogs. Perfect! Not Kelly, not any set theme driving every decision. Just a nice combination of delicate and soft things to wrap a wee girl in and cuddle her down.

I had been so focused on shopping for Katie that I had blocked out the Christmas hustle and bustle going on all around me. Now that I had what I had come for, I was catapulted back to the reality and noise of Black Friday's straining to make the economy be what was wanted. The aisle next to the baby section was filled with shoppers rushing past with armsful of stuff, some dragging crying children, others glancing at watches, some greeting friends they hadn't seen for some time.

I navigated my way to the checkout and stood in a line that curved down the south side of the store and halfway to the mall entrance. It moved quickly though since they had fully staffed the place. I placed my purchases on the counter, half expecting the clerk to notice that I was not Christmas shopping but baby shopping. She didn't even pick up on that but waved the tickets over the reader, folding neatly as she went. She even scanned a coupon taped to the register that gave me an additional 10% off! How nice!

Next.

And I was nudged out the door, happy to be free of the mall, the tension, the faulderaul. Hugging the precious blankets and outfits, I headed for the car thinking of Katie and wondering how she was coping with the big scary world into which she had so recently arrived. Perhaps it is all a matter of perspective. For me, it had been an enjoyable and uninterrupted day of baby shopping, and I felt 'in the pink' as I headed for home to wrap my gifts.

Thanksgiving 2007

It was a hard decision to make - not going to Mom's for Thanksgiving. There were many factors, but when I sorted it all out, I knew I needed to stay in Rochester. It's not ideal to be separated from family during holidays. How much worse not to have family to spend the holidays with! I am sure there are those who don't have a Drew to share the doin's of the day with. One thing I have discovered. When you are feeling down or blue, take a look at what you do have - the old 'count your many blessings' adage. So this year, I thought I would take a moment to document all the things I am blessed with. Be warned, I plan to be as comprehensive as I can, so I don't expect anyone to really read through this list! Here goes:

I am grateful for:

* a brand new grand daughter!!! Kathleen Danielle born at 5 something am, 7 lbs someodd ounces, 21 " long, and doing well. She came into the world ahead of schedule, and with little warning. Welcome, my sweet little girl! Can't wait to meet you!
*Shannon is doing well, and I am sure she is glad little Katie has arrived

*my boys are doing well

*my parents are in relatively good health (dad has a kidney stone at the moment, but it is passing)

*Being alive!

*No cancer.

*Drew.

*My sisters - I appreciate all four of them, Jael, Jan, Sue and Mary.

*A great job.

*Opportunities to perform music.

*A keyboard in my apartment.

*A grand piano at my disposal for practicing.

*A choir to work with.

*Good friends who call me often.

*Paying my bills.

*A roof over my head.

*a Great car!

*new shoes (sometimes you can't afford to get them when you need them!)

*a warm winter coat, scarf, gloves, and hat

*an ergonomic backpack

*living close to work (both jobs)

*Drew has friends who come over often

*Kiel is getting free tuition! yeah

*I can shop at Wegmans! yeah

*great parks nearby where I can hike

*good food to eat - and so many varieties available year round


*I am not working in a hospital laundry (boy, that was a tough job - concrete floors, hot steam, long hours, and grumpy women to work with)


*I am not closing at either Mc Donalds or the doughnut shop - food places are not easy places to work either!
*I can go to so many free concerts.
*I have a huge window in my apartment (I don't think I could live without big windows!)
*I am able to get around myself and am not wheelchair bound
*I am feeling better every day
*Jairus House is underway and making progress, albeit slow.
*The church I attend in not in conflict
*I have the freedom to travel where I want to go
*I have a great education
*I am blessed to have graduate education
*We are not in the middle of a depression
*I have not lost my life's savings in a bank failure (I knew a lot of retired couples who faced that in Tulsa during the oil bust)
*I have been able to live in a number of different states
*I don't have Alzheimer's
*I can help others in many ways - I have money to give, strength to assist, time to donate
*The possibilities are endless for exploring other areas of interest
*We have not one but several really good libraries nearby with excellent collections
*I can take classes at the seminary next semester
*My Gram made a beautiful quilt that is hanging on my wall.
*I have nice furniture
*I have a comfortable bed
*I have a comfortable chair to sit in
*My office is well appointed
*I work in a brand new building
*Christmas is coming! (Not every country celebrates that)
*I can afford to buy gifts for Christmas
*I can still cut my own nails
*My hair is growing back
*My scars are less ugly
*I breathe well
*My blood pressure is treatable and improving every day
*I have a pcp
*I have lots of good CDs to listen to
*I have time to listen!

I could go on and on, but most of all, I want to thank God that things are so good.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

No stress

I saw them all around me, those women scurrying around getting ready for the big day - Thanksgiving and the arrival of family or preparation to travel where family would be waiting. Some took the entire day off to clean and cook and take care of the myriad details involved in being a good hostess. Others didn't have the luxury of taking the day off, and were harried and rushing and not focused on work, but on the huge 'to do' list.



For once, I stood in neither camp. I had decided not to go to Mom's, and my boys were not coming to see me. I was sad to think I wouldn't see my kiddos or my parents, but perfectly happy not to have to fuss over cooking or packing. No deadline about getting the house in order, no stretching dollars to try and have everything on hand that might be needed, no nagging boys to pick up their rooms - just looking forward to some time off to spend however one wanted. What an extravagant treat!



Drew thought we should order pizza, I wanted a traditional turkey dinner (ordered from Wegmans of course), and my sister suggested we compromise and get turkey pizza! Turns out we were invited to a colleague's house for dinner, so we both got what we wanted. Work let out at three pm (bless you RWC!) and I had just time for a doctor appointment and a quick trip to Wegmans for pie fixings before choir practice.



It was pouring down rain - a regular monsoon - and Wegman's parking lot was so crowded we had to circle a few times before we found a spot. We managed to get inside without getting drenched, and there was nary a cart to be had. The aisles were packed with bleary eyed shoppers throwing whatever they could grab into their carts. Life is so complex, and work so demanding (who doesn't work at least two jobs these days) that few have time to prepare ahead. It was difficult to navigate, especially at intersection traffic jams.



Voices were tense, grace strained, and every checkout lane manned and busy. We found the flour and other few things we needed and stood in line. I observed my fellow line-standers. Some were consulting their lists, others talking on the phone (arguing might be a better word), others sighing heavily or tapping their foot impatiently, some fussing about one thing or another. No one was having a good time, that was quite clear.



How sad that at a time of year dedicated to counting blessings, so few people were even aware of how truly good things are. We face no floods, no fires, no droughts, no war, no famine. Yes, there are personal battles, but on the whole, things are going well. It is the time factor as much as anything. With so much out-of-the-house work, and no one at home taking care of things, we become so quickly overwhelmed.

I think I am glad that I have a small apartment. Less is more. And without the stress of travel or entertaining, I am free to enjoy this holiday time. I appreciate it all the more because I know it will not always be so. It is a rare year that finds me free in such a way. So I am thankful for this season and will treasure it well, applying the lack of stress to the mending from life's hard times. How lucky I am!

Shower of yellow

Outside the library's north side, just the other side of the parking lot and Westside Drive, stand two tall, well rounded maple trees whose leaves have clung to the branches with great tenacity. Sandwiched between naked leafless trees, they are a stark contrast to the hibernation going on all about them. I have watched them every day for some few weeks, sure that the peak of their glorious color would fade and the leaves would turn dull brown and drop to the ground any moment.

But they have hung on stubbornly. Why do they fight the inevitable? Surely they know they are already dead despite their attachment to the tree. I am sure they have not appreciated the biting wind, the snow showers, the rumble of the trucks sucking up the dead leaves from the curb. Yet there they hang, a glorious burst of vibrant color against an already bleak landscape.

I have appreciated their beauty, been uplifted by their cheerful color, touched by their hardiness against all odds, wondered at their tenacity. Today, I pulled into the library parking lot early, just a hair past seven am, and parked on the far side facing the trees. The weather report is for rain all day, and in fact, a light mist covered my windshield. Yet as I glanced up, the sun broke through for just a moment, and smack dab in the middle of the golden light, the yellow leaves began to glide silently down. Not just one or two, but it seemed like the entire ensemble determined to go together.

I could have sworn it was raining leaves, filling the entire vista with their unbelievable color and charm. I sat transfixed for I don't know how long as they sifted down and carpeted the road, the lawn edge, the bushes. They just kept coming and coming and coming. Despite how many now lay silently on the ground, it didn't look as if any had fallen from the trees. After a bit, I tore myself away to take care of opening procedures, still touched by the unusual leaf shower going on outside. I glanced from the second floor as I passed by, and they were still falling, though the tops of the trees were beginning to look bare.

I do not want to see the final outcome. Perhaps I can close my eyes when I go home tonight and not see the tree shed of its glory. I prefer to remember the glorious shower of yellow mixing with the morning sunlight, raining down in slow motion, in a dance, in a celebration of more to come. I am honored to have been included in their moment. I will treasure it for some time to come, and remember it when I am hanging on against all odds.

Window on the World

Whenever I have a doctor's appointment with my primary care physician, I look forward to gazing out the window of the exam room. Her office is on the fifth floor of a gray multipurpose building, and sports a panoramic view of Greece, reaching half way to Buffalo. I learned a long time ago not to fuss and stew about how much time you get to spend in those tiny little rooms waiting for your turn. When I know there are no windows, I have something along to read. But when I know there are windows, I refuse to sit on the table facing an unopening door, watching for the pot to boil. Instead, I stand with my back to the door, gazing out into the wide wide world below, taking it all in.

Today there was a stubbly brown carpet of leafless trees stretching out far beyond the mall and the city, half covering the slightly bluepurple range of mountains. Immediately below, a garbage dumpster half full of discarded rusty mufflers and pipes from the repair shop next door. To the left, a quiet little neighborhood of cape cods, each with their square little sidewalk and collection of shrubs. A few had daring curved sidewalks, wide and so inviting. Piles of bright yellow leave punctuate the curbs, littering the edges of the avenues and obnoxiously creeping their way back up the lawns. To the right, the stretch of newly paved highway, cones still intact, deflecting traffic in odd and confusing patterns.

Little toy cars skitter about, darting into the mall parking lots, buzzing around Panera's, blinking impatiently at the traffic light. An elderly gentleman with a black hooded parka steps gingerly along the sidewalk, hugging his hood about his neck against the biting wind. Any moment he is likely to topple over and sprawl across the cold concrete. The sky is cloudless and silent, awaiting the arrival of some storm or other. The huge cathedral, boasting its abstract architecture, dominates the skyscape, its walls patterned with a decade or so of weather, its tiny bells dangling from the avant garde steeple a gaudy tarnished green.

Quietly, quietly I watch the world unwind and be about the day's business. Inside the clinic, I hear muffled voices, a newborn baby cry, the nurse's footsteps going down the hall, the ticking of my watch. I inhale slowly, taking time to absorb it all, waiting. It is good to be here, to be alive, to be part of this community, viewing it all from my window on the world. I will do as they are doing - take care of what I need to take care of, move at my own pace, go where I am deflected, find a way to the highway, move along.

Music all the Livelong Day

Where else could I have such a music drenched day? It began at 6am with the Crystal Cathedral choir singing their anthem on TV, then on to my own choir and chime choir for both a rehearsal and the service with all the additional hymns and service music. I just have time to run home for a quick bite of lunch, then drive to Eastman's Kilbourn Hall for the Chorale's performance of the Bach b Minor Mass - listening to a CD of Horowitz playing Chopin and Liszt on the way there and back. The Mass is lovely, despite it being a student choir. I am never unmoved by Bach's choral music, and especially this piece sung live. I sing along softly. Good thing I am sitting in the last row as I can't help moving to the music. How can anyone sit still when the air is resplendent with praise to God in such glorious and memorable lines overlapping and ascending until you think you must have reached heaven! As soon as I reach home, I pick up Drew and head to Pearce for a praise concert of contemporary Christian music. What a change from the afternoon performance! It is still engaging, including every beat from salsa to rock. Psalms indeed. I drop Drew at home and proceed to Compline, hearing more CD music, and sink into a comfy pew, comforted by the warm glow of the candles and the soft low tones of the chanting. Sigh. Could a day be more filled with music? Music of every imaginable genre, format, style, and ensemble. How blessed am I to be able to partake of such a rich table of sound! Makes you want to sit up tall and sing. And that is just what I did, all the way home.

No Escape

Now that the weather is getting a bit chillier, I notice places in the apartment that leak. Cold air from the outside rushes easily in where the door doesn't shut quite right or the window sill is askew. Time to break out the caulking and the plastic and cover up those little imperfections (or in the case of an older apartment, those major gaps).

Drew and I picked up supplies over the weekend, and straightaway decided to at least put the foam stripping around the door frame. I hadn't used this type of stripping before, but it seemed easy enough. Unroll a section, stick it to the frame, then pull off the paper covering. That's what we did.

Then we discovered that we couldn't close the door! THAT won't work. So Drew figured that if we put the foam on the other edge of the frame, we could close the door. He carefully peeled away the stuff, patient even when it snapped off in sections, and repositioned it, tamping it firmly in place. Then he slammed the door shut. Ta-dah! It worked. The door was nicely closed, and we felt the cracks for leaks. No air was going to get in past that thick black foam. Good.

Now we need to take the trash out. Drew grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he yanked harder. Nothing budged. "Mom, I think we're stuck in here. I can't get the door open." He is heading for the sliding glass door, figuring on leaping over the balcony, running around the building to the front door, and pushing from the outside.

I take ahold of the doorknob and turn. The door opens just fine. "What? Let me try." He shuts the door, then grabs the doorknob and pulls for all he is worth. It doesn't budge. This time when I try, I have a hard time getting it to open. This won't work. We can't afford to get locked in the apartment. I open and close it a number of times. Then I realize what is happening.

The foam tape is sticky on *both* sides! It sticks to the door frame AND to the door. What on earth? I must have gotten the wrong stuff. Silly me. I never have been very good at 'mechanical' things. We scuff the stickiness, and eventually, the door opens a bit easier. It still won't let the cold air in, but Drew and I have a good laugh.

I think to myself, that's the way life is sometimes. You want to go through a door, but you think its locked to you. In reality it isn't. It just takes some work to get things to function the way they should so you have easy access.

Not Left Handed

Gram Appleby was ambidextrous. I remember her straddling a row of strawberry plants and picking with both hands flying as she walked along at a pretty good clip. She could fill a flat quicker than a rabbit could scoot. Even on my best picking days, I couldn't come close to matching her prowess.

Lately, the ladies who ring in the chime choir are struggling with handedness. Some prefer the smaller chimes because their left hands are not strong enough to support the heavier chimes. Some insist on ringing the right hand chime when the music calls for their left hand chime. It gets downright humorous when you keep hearing, "shoot" "shoot" "o darn" repeatedly!

I have always been strongly right handed. In grade school when we practiced writing with our left hands, my chicken scrawl would be nearly illegible. Left hand was my weak hand when it came to practicing the piano. I could knock off the treble clef melodies and runs just fine, but my left hand was always struggling to keep up, to voice properly, and trills? Forget it!

Hence my surprise to learn how much I actually *do* with my left hand. I open doors with my left hand. I sling my purse over my left shoulder. Can't button buttons without my left hand. When I stoop to pick up something from the floor - left hand. When did I become so left-handed?

What does it matter anyway? Only that with the pinched nerve and my aching left arm, it would be better if I did things with my right hand and gave the left a rest. But instinctively, I reach with my left, feel the jab, and *then* remember that I should have reached with my right. I figure I will just about get it when my arm will be better.

Makes me wonder how many other things in my life I am running on instinct, even when my behavior causes pain. Perhaps I should take a look! Maybe you can teach an old dog a new trick. It just takes a little longer and a more painful incentive.

Pinched Nerve

I have a bulging disk in my neck that flares up from time to time. Ever since the biopsy, where I spent hours on the table with my head turned to the left while they battered away on my neck's right side, I have been having twinges of pain. Today, it flared to a loud roar, shooting pain down my left arm and making more of my hand numb ( my index finger and thumb are always that way, even after extensive physical therapy).

To make matters worse, I ended up having to complete a large invitation printing/folding/labeling job that turned out to be double the number we thought, and that exacerbated the whole issue. I knew I had to conduct choir, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how I would survive. Those of you who have experienced pinched nerves will know just what I mean.

And after that, Drew was counting on going grocery shopping because of payday and the empty larder. Keep going. You can't stop. Figure out what will get you through and just do it. OK. Ice, anti inflammatories, laying down for a bit. And PRAYER! Dear God, make this pain go away!

How amazing that choir practice went well in spite of my lack of energy. Once the music started, I was completely and blissfully unaware of the pain. The relief lasted long enough to complete the shopping trip. Then I could go home and rest. I made Drew carry the groceries in.

I settled into a comfy chair, put my arm over my head, hoping for a decent night's rest. Tomorrow, I will find a chiropractor and see about getting this under control. Shoot, if it's not one thing, its another.

Unexpected Award

2:00 pm. Cell phone rings. It is Drew's coach from school. He is apologetic. He meant to make sure everyone had gotten the flier, somehow Drew was missed. Really it wasn't intentional.

I am clueless what this man is going on about. After letting him ramble on, I finally asked him if there was something I needed to do. He would understand completely if I couldn't make it, being so last minute.

Make what? Come to the point! Turns out that tonight, there is a sports banquet followed by desserts in the cafeteria. It starts at 6:30. He was sorry I didn't know. It was pure serendipity that he bumped into Drew and asked him if he were coming, and discovered that Drew didn't know. But he's getting an award - he doesn't know anything about it of course. It would be great if I could come.

Finally! I get what he is talking about. I glance at my daytimer, and there is nothing scheduled that I have to be at. I assure him I will be there with Drew, and not to worry about the late notice.

The importance of it didn't really hit me until we were there, and the soccer team was standing on the platform, and the coach was talking about the season. Drew was the only 8th grader, and stood taller than almost all the other boys. Next to him, the three 7th graders looked like dwarfs. It was unusual that they all were playing in the varsity games, and even more, I realized that they had probably never given an award to a jv player.

The award was for being the most dedicated, and the most supportive of his teammates. Drew's spirit of encouragement and helpfulness had been noticed. I knew how hard it had been for him. At the first practice, everyone started running the required laps together. After a reasonable time had passed, I watched the first few come over the hill and sit down, waiting for the others. Then the majority of the players appeared, then a few stragglers. No Drew.

I kept watching while the team began their stretching. No Drew. They began some drills. No Drew. Coach sent someone to see if there was a problem, and he got to the top of the hill, then turned around. Five minutes later, Drew came huffing over the hill and joined the group. Good grief. He'll never last. But he did last. He did everything he was asked to do and didn't take any shortcuts, even when it meant he was the last one. He went to every game even when he didn't play. He worked hard, lost weight, got himself in better shape. I was proud of him for not giving up.

After three very difficult years and a long summer, I was so pleased to see him settling in, being uplifted by the high school boys, experiencing somewhat of a normal life, being acknowledged for his stick-to-it determination. And I appreciated that he was being encouraged by the coaches. He had mentioned just the other day how unusual the school was because most of the teachers were men.

I wouldn't have missed the award program for the world. Even if there had been something on my schedule. It is one small step in Drew's evolution from child to man, and you don't get to see that sort of thing very often.

Budding Composers

Two teenage boys, two cell phones, and three fifty-minute trips across town in one day. So often those trips are driven in silence, except for the occasional sound bleed from someone's iPod. No radio or CD since "in the air sound" would make earbud listening difficult. But because it was just the two of them instead of the usual four, they felt free to "play" out loud.

I listened with fascination as they worked on their personalized ringtones. One was doing his version of the James Bond theme. The other was playing through several he had created earlier, including Jingle Bells, a game show theme, and a rap.

What a laborious process! Each keypad number has its own unique pitch. Then there is a function key that determines the length of the note. There are alt keys that provide a sharp or flat pitch. They would hum the melody, then program the notes for as far as they could before they forgot. No concern for key signature or time signature. Just start wherever you happen to start, even if it means using a ton of sharp or flat keys.

This was repeated over and over ad nauseam - especially irritating for series of repeated tones like the Bond theme has. Hum two notes, program one, listen to the playback; hum three notes, program one, listen to the playback; hum five notes, program one, listen to the playback - on and on. You find yourself willing them to remember more, to be able to enter three or four notes before repeating.

Worst of all was when they identified a mistake and had to erase - especially frustrating if they didn't catch it right and away and had to erase eight or ten notes. Once they completed half of the phrase, they listened to it over and over, so pleased with the progress, often singing the rest of the line, then laughing.

Words like "cool" and "awesome" filled the air, and they dutifully listened to each other's creations with appropriate respect. Every two minutes.

On the second round, they discovered that they could text their ringtones to each other and play one's creation on a different 'instrument' - and lo and behold, they did not sound the same! Different phone's concepts of speed and pitch and timbre were vastly not the same. That brought forth peals of laughter and many comments about which version was the best one.

Finally, they began experimenting with melodies of their own not based on something they already knew and liked. They created tones with ascending scales, descending scales, each iteration at a faster speed, each iteration at a new beginning pitch, some with accidentals, some without.

I was amazed at their cleverness and unending creativity. And amused at the amount of time and energy they were investing in this project. I know if it had been a school assignment, they would have complained and whined about how much work they were doing for no good reason.

I wonder if this is how Beethoven worked? Naw.

Satisficing

New word! At least, it was to me. I had never heard it before. Satisficing is a decision-making strategy which attempts to meet criteria for adequacy, rather than identify an optimal solution. In other words, my sons' strategy for taking a test. If you get 60 points and pass, that's good enough.

It came up at the reference desk, in the new faculty orientation meeting as we discussed strategies for helping students reach their full potential, in the staff meeting as we looked at our service goals.

I've thought about that word a lot. I thought about how often I am marking time, waiting for something to happen. Someone to pick me up, some job offer to be extended, some interview to happen, some change that will enable other activities (children reaching a certain age for example). Am I just satisficing my way through life? I don't want to settle for just passing. I want the full shot, the best, the highest, the fullest.

I shall have to give this one some more thought.

Compline

Compline is one of the services of the Divine Office, traditionally performed at the end of the day. Compline seems to have originated as a form of prayer before going to bed. I was surprised to learn that one of the downtown Rochester churches held a service of compline every Sunday. I was curious to attend, not quite sure what to expect, though I had been assured that the music was wonderful.

My friend and colleague Stephen (who told me about the service) and I drove the thirty minutes to Christ Church on East Avenue, and walked the half block from the parking lot to the entrance door. The church was dusky inside, lighted only by candles - dozens and dozens and dozens of candles. We walked across the creaky wood floors to the stiff wooden pews, vaguely aware that there were others already seated in the dark sanctuary.

As my eyes adjusted to the candlelight, I began to see the immense and decorated cathedral ceilings, the beautiful ornate wood scrollwork, the stained glass windows, the religious artifacts placed here and there about the sanctuary.

What surprised me was how well attended this service was - and by a large majority, they were men. And how quiet it was. Nothing was said. There was no conversation, no rustling of programs, no coughing! It was peacefully quiet. Young and old sat in their own reflective meditation, some kneeling to pray, others looking upward, some staring straight ahead.

At the front of the church, there was a huge wall hanging, a portrayal of the Last Supper. In the flickering of the candlelight, the disciples seemed almost alive, interested participants of the proceedings, partnering with us to approach the throne of God with heartfelt prayer at the close of a holy day.

The church bells pealed the hour, and ever so softly, a group of maybe twenty singers entered, encircling the altar, quietly placing their choir folders on the stands. Without sounding a note, the soloist began. The chant lines, punctuated with choral Amens and Alleluias, reverberated in the lofty space, drawing us into the request for a peace filled night, blessing us with settings of the Psalms, demanding our engagment with the piercing cry for mercy, chanting the Scripture lesson, filling the air with anthems, hymns, motets, the Lord's prayer, the Nunc Dimittis, and the parting blessing.

It was so filled with life, you could literally feel your body vibrating, getting in tune with the Scripture, sloughing off the effects of 'bad vibrations', enabling you to relax, to breathe unhindered, to hear the word of the Lord.

I hadn't even had time to think about how hard the pews were when it ended. Just like that. No one spoke, no sermons, no pleas for money, no exhortation. Just a cessation of sound, and while the echoes where still dying away, the black clad singers filed out quietly as I watched. I was still staring at the platform when my friend nudged me. "We can go now," he whispered. Others were slowly exiting, and we joined them on the creaking wood floors, stepping out the heavy wooden door into the bracing coolness of a November evening.

There was something indefinable about the whole experience. I wanted to do it again, to hear it again, to get thoroughly familiar with the music, the Scriptures, the progression of thought. I yawned. Stephen read my mind. "Yeah, afterwards, you just want to go to sleep for the night." he grinned.

Indeed. Way better than any sleeping pill. For sure. I highly recommend it.

Stevie

I hadn't encountered Stevie before, but Ralph had (Ralph is our library intern from Buffalo who works at our reference desk getting experience in preparation for a job when he graduates). I saw Stevie enter the library, pushing the lightweight walker in front of him. His gait was uneven, his progress agonizing, his walker scraping across the carpet. His legs were shaky, his eyes unfocused, his breathing hard. It was extremely evident that every move was taxing, every ounce of strength being expended.

I looked away, not wanting to stare, but he was hard to miss. He made a slow-motion beeline for the reference desk, the building suddenly uncooperatively quiet, refusing to cover the squeak of his wheels, the scruffing of his shoes. Ralph told me that his name was Stevie and asked if I had met him yet. I shook my head. When at long last he reached us, I could see he was young - early twenties if that.

"Hi, Frank," he said to Ralph. Ralph didn't bother to correct him.

He gave his best imitation of a smile, and s-l-o-w-l-y asked how I was.

"I'm fine," I responded. "How are you doing?"

He grimaced (I wasn't sure whether in pain or amusement) and said he was having a good day. There was an uncomfortable silence as he took a deep breath and steadied himself. I wondered how he got to the library, whether someone was with him, if he was a student here since I hadn't seen him before, what research he was interested in. He blinked for an eternity, then asked if we had any large print books.

His question took me by surprise. Large print books? I was pretty sure we didn't have any, but we looked. Actually we had two, neither of which he was interested in. One was a slushy romance novel, the other a boring technical manual. (What are we doing with either one?!). I suggested that he could take whatever he wanted to read to the Learning Center and they would scan it into a reading program so he could hear the contents.

He smiled patiently at me. Then he explained that he was trying to regain his physical ability lost in a recent accident. He was working on the large motor skills (hence his great prowess in moving about), but wanted to exercise his eye muscles. He just couldn't focus on small type sizes. He needed large print stuff to work with.

Oh. That explains a lot. I recommended that he try the public library or a senior center, places more likely to offer large print books. He nodded. Yup. On his list. Just thought he would start with the closest place. A woman appeared and asked him if he were ready. He nodded, and painfully turned his walking contraption around.

How devastating that accident must have been to have robbed him of so much at such a young age. I admired his determination to regain ground. I wished there were some way I could help him. Suddenly he whirled his walker about, facing us again.

"I'll be back," he uttered ferociously. "I'll be back."

I had no doubt. And when he returned, I would be ready. Something about cars, I suspect. Something about cars in BIG BOLD PRINT. Placed carefully at the reference desk with his name on it.

PROGRESS!!!

I always feel self conscious when I am eating out with people when I ask for a substitute for the fresh green salad part of the meal. Even since the cancer, I just haven't been able to digest raw vegetables. I know that lettuce will go straight through me untouched, and will cause a great deal of distress along the way.

I joke about the fact that I can eat any junk food highly processed not good for you thing without trouble, but healthy food and I don't agree. I have a license to refuse tossed salads. I have been working on changing that. I started with cooked veggies and fruits. I found after awhile I could manage limited portions from time to time.

Then I added in fresh uncooked fruit - maybe once a week. Some fruits I can tolerate, others I avoid. Once in a great while, when I know I don't have anything special planned, I try something on my taboo list just to see if I am getting better. Its been less than encouraging.

So I focused on making sure I take a good multiple vitamin, drinking herbal tea, sometimes having some fruit juice (stopped trying to do veggie juices - just too harsh for me).

Well, today I went to a faculty luncheon/discussion. The administration treats you to a free lunch at the dining hall, and you join your colleagues in thinking about some aspect of higher education - be it the value of liberal arts, the problems of grade inflation, the styles of learning, how to reach the struggling student, etc.

I find the discussion engaging and thought provoking, so I try to attend as many as my schedule allows. I have learned what I can eat in the dining hall which will not create problems for me, and I usually find things I enjoy and can handle.

Well, they have this wrap bar, and they make the wraps to order. I can ask for all meat, cheese, seasonings, rice - stuff I can digest easily. So that's where I headed. But today it was a meatless day. Veggie wraps only. Yikes!

I looked at the raw spinach, the cucumbers and tomatoes, the sprouts. I had only a moment to decide - there was a line behind me, and all the stations had lines. I had seen the main entree for the day and I knew better, so I gulped and got the veggie wrap.

Man did that taste good! I had warned myself not to eat the whole wrap, but it tasted so green and alive! At least Fridays are usually slow in the library, so if I spent the afternoon running to the bathroom, it wouldn't be too much of an impact, even though I am on reference desk all afternoon. And tomorrow is Saturday, so I could spend the day in the bathroom if need be.

I fully expected the cramping and diarrhea to start within the hour, as it always did. But the discussion ended, I returned to the desk, helped some students, and still felt fine. What was this? I remained skeptical, sure that at any moment, the torture would begin. Three o'clock, four - still doing fine.

In fact, the deluge never hit. Everything remained normal - NORMAL! How great is that! I do not press my luck too quickly. But I am dancing at the thought of doing that again. Oh, to eat a salad without repercussion. What joy! If all remains well, I will definitely try that next week. Could it be? Is my interior improving? I am almost afraid to hope.

The Privileged Few

I heard it on a newscast the other night, and it was so extreme it stuck in my head. The announcer was in a war torn country talking about medical issues, housing, tough life situations. He casually mentioned that if you owned a change of clothes, then you were part of the cream of humanity, that rare 3% who owned more than one set of clothes.

3%

It seemed way too small a number. Everyone I know personally owns at *least* two sets of clothes. Sometimes I have not been able to afford something I needed - new shoes - right at the point of need. But I always had more than one set of clothes. Surely he either was trying to shock people or had stretched the stats from *not having a roof over your head, not having medical help, not having an education third world poverty* into being *not owning a change of clothes*.

But hey! I'm a librarian. I ought to be able to figure out where to go to get such information. So I looked for that figure. I found things like definitions of poverty, the poverty threshold, what causes poverty, where the poorest people live, lots of charts, per capita incomes, economic giants of the world, tons of information, but nothing that specifically said that 97% of the people living IN the world only have one set of clothes to their name - if that.


I know America is wealthy and blessed and living the good life. But given that I know there are other cities in the world where there are people owning more than one set of clothing, I find it hard to believe that all of us together comprise a mere 3%.

Why does this fact bother me so much? Why am I wanting to know whether its true or not? Because I don't want to end up standing before God in heaven and trying to explain why my life was so easy and full while others around me were destitute.

I do what I know to do. I support children in other countries who need help. I give to the food banks I know of. I help neighbors who are struggling. I anonymously donate stuff to those who have needs. I put toys in the boxes for children who won't have much of a Christmas. I fill those darn shoeboxes. I give an extra few dollars at the cash register in the grocery store to feed the hungry. I drop my change in the Salvation Army red bucket. I donate to certain charities like battered women's homes and give of my time to soup kitchens and homeless shelters. I give to Project Heifer, Samaritan's Purse, Compassion, Holt Adoption Agency and others. I am learning how to reach out to cancer patients. I pick up pennies, for crying out loud!

But if everyone I am helping is part of that well endowed 3% (and I am pretty sure they are), then I am not helping the right people. Not that any good work would ever be enough to get you into heaven. That entrance fee was paid and donated generously based on grace alone. But dear God! How can I help 97% of the world?

I guess this is one I am just going to have to leave in God's hands, even if I manage to get ahold of a more realistic/less mind boggling/more swallowable figure.

The Convertible Ride

The other day, I was sitting on a bench in the warm afternoon sun on a chilly fall day, appreciating the blue skies and the wool coat pulled about me. There is something bracing about fall and the briskness of the wind, the leaves dancing about under barren trees, the mums in full bloom. I love fall.

It reminded me of another fall day several years ago (can it really have been several years ago?). I was desperately ill, needing to go to the doctor's and trying to figure out how to get there. Normally, I just 'bite the bullet' and do whatever is needed. You know, suck it up. Be independent. Don't ask for help. That was before.

Anyway, the time of the appointment was getting close, and it had taken all my strength to get dressed. I finally had to admit that there was no way I could drive, even though the clinic was only a few miles away. On a good day, I could have walked there.

I broke down and called my friend, and explained that I needed to go to the doctor's, but I wasn't able to drive there myself. I was relieved to hear him say, "I'll be right there." What a relief that he was home and not already committed to some other event. And come right over he did - driving his convertible!

He knew how much I admired that convertible though I am not sure he knew *why* I liked it so much. He wasn't there when I was growing up, looking with admiration at people who owned convertibles and girls who got offers to ride in such cars. I was never one of them. I sometimes thought how lovely it would be to drive around with the top down, feeling the wind play with your hair, tossing your head and laughing as if you hadn't a care in the world. But even if I had been asked, I'm real sure my parents would not have let me go.

The first time he came to take my boys for a ride, I was green with envy. Of course, that's not something you let on, but I couldn't help drooling over it. It spoke of an ease of life I have never known, nor am ever likely to know. I was in awe. I had long ago realized the impracticality of such a vehicle for a Mom with five boys, but for a day here and there, what a treat!

And here was my friend, ushering me ushered into the front seat of a wonderful sporty blue convertible. After I was safely belted in, I curled up in a little ball, shivering and miserable. I know my friend immediately wished he had brought a car with a roof. He could see how sick I was. I know he thought I was oblivious of the gorgeous fall day, the blue sky, the warm sun, the gentle breeze as he navigated though town to the clinic.

I was too preoccupied to talk. I was just trying not to fall totally apart. It took a gargantuan effort to breathe and hold the shivering down to a dull roar. But I *did* notice. I took it all in, the day, the wind, what it was like to be in the front seat, the looks of admiring passersby, the smoothness of the ride, the joy.

I spent the whole day at the clinic, shivering and shaking and curled up in a ball when I wasn't running to the bathroom. I withdrew into myself, taking the memory of the long ride with me, taking the blueness of the sky, the warmth of the sun, the brisk fallness of the mid October day into the dark shadows of the unknown, into the chasm of internal warfare, into the long fight to return to the land of the living. I didn't get to ride home in the snazzy convertible. I was sad at the loss, though I couldn't have survived such a trip then. In fact, I didn't go home for quite a few days.

But I do hope my friend knows how very much his gesture meant to me that horrible day, and how much joy it provided. I couldn't express it then. I never had the chance to tell him how much it meant to me to ride in that beautiful convertible. Someday, I will tell him for sure. But today, I will sit back on my bench, close my eyes, and feel the gentle breeze flow through my hair, and remember that convertible ride. I take a deep breath, and smile.

Pennies for Heaven

There was a time when my friends and classmates thought it beneath their dignity to stoop and pick up a penny - or even a quarter - if they happened to see one lying on the ground, despite good old Ben Franklin's adage about seeing a penny, picking it up for luck.

Then they matured a bit, and began defending their unwillingness to pick up change based on the annual salary rate (if I stopped to pick up that penny it would cost me $25 worth of my time based on my current income. . . )

But I never succumbed to such snobbery. I always pick up pennies when I encounter them just lying there on the ground doing nothing. There have been sermons preached on stewardship that argue for picking up loose change and overseeing all within your purview to the best of your ability. But I don't think that's why I do it.

Perhaps I learned it from my father who can't stand to see anything wasted. I used to call his mindset Depressionism - once you have gone without, you save everything. Perhaps it is because I had to work hard to earn a living, starting at an early age. I learned the value of money because it took me hours and hours of hard labor to earn enough money to buy simple things, things that were not prevalent in our family of eight children.

More recently though, I have become a bit more purposeful in picking up loose change. I think of children in this world who are going hungry, and I can't stand the thought that there is money lying around on our streets while they need food. You've heard those commercials - for just pennies a day, you can feed Carmelita and children like her. You can put clothes on her back and provide needed medical care and send them to school.

Really. Well, then it behooves me to grab all the unused money I come across and send it in. If I can feed just one child for a day, then it is worth my time to bend over, pick up a coin, and slip it into my pocket. When I get home, I put it in an empty hot cocoa tin someone gave me a few Christmases ago, and let it accumulate. When the tin is full, I cash it in and send Samaritan's Purse the amount, rounded up. You know, the organization that does the Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes?

I have nothing against shoeboxes, but I just can't send a child junk when I know they need food and medical care. So this is one small way of helping out. I wish it could be more, but I don't often find dollars floating about (although sometimes I do!). Anyway, every few months, I send a few paltry dollars - but its just money that someone dropped and left. No big value to anyone. Except maybe Carmelita and her siblings.

So I encourage you - next time you see pennies on the ground, pick them up and start a penny tin. If more people sent in a few dollars they found lying about, more hungry children could have a decent meal. And I have to say that you're more likely to find money lying about at Christmas time, so its a great time to begin.

Mazel Tov!

Finding Ways to Celebrate

I've been thinking about how to celebrate my good health. Surely there must be a good way to mark this moment in time, to express in a meaningful way my thankfulness. I am thinking the best way to show my gratitude is to do something for someone else - to find people who need to be blessed and bless them.

So I am looking for five people to help, by way of leaving a permanent record of gratitude. I have found the first person. In meeting with a friend who sang in my church choir last time I lived in this area, I learned of a woman with four young children who is battling cancer. She has found it necessary to go to New York City for experimental treatment not available in this area. It means she will have to be in NYC Monday through Friday and come home on the weekends.

I cannot imagine how difficult that will be for her, how tiring physically, how emotionally draining. This is her last chance. If this does not work, she may not live much longer. My friend has agreed to see what can be done for her. I am hoping that I can at least come and sing for her, though I don't know if she believes in Christ or not.

I am preparing music in the hope that I will be able to do that. And of course, she will have many needs more practical, and I know the right one will become apparent all in good time. I suspect these five opportunities will come one at a time, I just hope God will give me the right things to say and the strength to do what is needed with the necessary amount of grace to carry it off!

Meanwhile, I am praying that I will be ready. I just hope I don't end up disappointing people or finding myself unfit for the work. Stay tuned. It will be interesting to see how things develop and who all God brings across my path.

Unexpected Tenderness

We had a guest accompanist at church today. Dr. Landrum is on faculty at Roberts, a professor of Piano, Piano Literature, and Film studies. I have heard him play at a number of campus events, and always found his playing sensitive and perfectly fitting. I was delightedly surprised when in answer to my query for an accompanist, fully expecting him to refer me to one of his students, he responded that he would come.

He had an impeccable sense of the service, asking questions about various aspects so that he would be able to "go with the flow" smoothly. But there was one surprise I had not seen coming. The pastor selected a sung response to communion - something I had not encountered there. Fortunately, Dr. Landrum caught it in time, had a brief conference with the pastor, and handled it with grace and aplomb.

Somehow the service seemed unusually filled with the presence of God. Maybe because I am so overjoyed at the good report about my health and no cancer. Maybe because it was a beautiful fall day and I had spent time being uplifted by nature, re-experiencing the grandeur and glory of God's creation. Or maybe it was just God reaching out as He sometimes does. His Spirit seemed almost palpable.

Throughout the sermon, the Scripture readings, the choir's anthem (A Communion Prayer - based on the hymn Jesus I Adore You) I had such a sense of peace and calmness, such a deep sense that God was present in the service. It is the type of time when you just want to keep staying there, enjoying the peace, enjoying the sense of well being.

Then we were served communion. Since I stay on the platform, I was one of the first ones served. As Dr. Landrum played so many wonderful hymns during the partaking by the congregation (they come forward to the altar), I looked out over the sea of faces, watching as they came forward to receive the elements. Suddenly I was struck by how much God loved each one of these, His children.

Some came with a deep reverence and spent time at the prayer altar. Some stood impatiently, just wanting to get back to their seats. You could tell that some had their minds on other things - maybe dinner or the game upcoming. Some were in obvious pain, others looked exhausted. Some were smiling, some just going through the motions - what a variety of states they were in.

It was as if I could hear God say, "I love this woman - she has been coming here faithfully for half a century. I love this young child - she will grow up and remain true in her belief of Me. I love this elderly gentleman, he has worked hard all his life." I was overwhelmed with the sense of how much God loved each one of them individually. Regardless of where they were in their walk with Him. Regardless of how much they were paying attention to Him at that precise moment. Regardless of whether they were actively pursuing Him or not. He loved them. Deeply and without reservation. It was so sweet and tender that I was afraid I was going to cry.

"This is silly," I thought. "I've only been here a few weeks. I hardly know these people. Why am I feeling all choked up about them? Where is this tender caring coming from?" For a brief moment in time, the veil between heaven and earth had thinned enough for me to hear the heart of Christ. Words cannot describe the emotion, the effect. I wanted to love them as much as God loved them, even though I will never fully know them.

The pastor closed the service with a benediction, and I sat to listen to the postlude, grateful to have a few moments to reflect on what had just transpired. Though I no longer felt the sweetness of the moment, it had made an impression on my heart. I would like to know how to love people like that. I'm not sure I know how. Perhaps its as easy as just seeing others through the eyes of God. Perhaps.

The Celebration Begins

8am on a chilly Saturday morning. The air is clear, the blue sky beckons to me through the lace curtains of my bedroom window. It promises to be a glorious day, one that should not be ignored. What better way to thank God for His goodness than to get out in His world and enjoy His creation?



I rouse Drew. He does not believe I am crazy enough to drive all the way to Letchworth State Park just because. How can he know what it is to be given a reprieve? Despite his protests, we pack some apples, pretzels and bottles of water and take off, stopping to retrieve his camera from my office.



It is c-h-i-l-l-y! The grass is coated with frost, the leaves drop from the trees under the weight of a coat of fuzzy white. We follow the Google map directions, finding ourselves on a four lane divided highway, then a wide newly blacktopped main road, turning off into a narrower country road winding our way far from the big city into the mellow hills of the Alleghenys. In the little town of Perry we begin following the park signs and forget the online directions. People who live nearby are much more likely to know the best ways.



I am surprised to find there is an attendant at the gate, still collecting entrance fees. I thought state parks stopped that on Labor Day. Oh, well, no matter. Its worth it to gad about in 14,000+ acres of wildland, especially with the vistas that have already appeared as we approached the park entrance. The attendant was very helpful, gave us maps and advice about where to start.



Drew read the trail information. He wanted to walk the quarter mile trail and be done. I suggested he look for something about 2 miles, which was the same distance as walking to work and back. We compromised on a one mile trail, and would do a second one if Drew could be persuaded. I had no doubt that he would change his mind.



As we headed toward the place where the trail started, we stopped at several lookout points, and took pictures of the gorgeous fall scenery. It was so cold that I put ALL the layers on - timmie shirt, tee shirt, sweater, leather jacket *and* hoodie, wrapped with a wool scarf and hat and gloves! Drew was awed by the chasm that dropped away beneath us to the thin ribbon of water below. No wonder they call it the Grand Canyon of the East! Here and there you could hear a bird calling. Hunters' trucks were parked everywhere (bow hunting season just began - that's why the attendant directed us to the south end of the park).



We finally agreed not to stop at any more lookouts or we would never get to the trails. After all, it was a good 20 mile drive from one end of the park to the other. We took a brief jaunt through the visitor center and gift shop (mostly to use the bathrooms - the thought of an outhouse was none too appealing).



At last we parked near the Glen Iris Inn and started off towards the Trout Pond. Up stone steps to the cabins, then across a stone bridge to the turn off. We passed the ancient cemetery, here on this land long before the park, and stopped for a minute at the old one room schoolhouse. It was fascinating to realize what school must have been like back then - certainly nothing like today!



All along the hike, we selected pretty fall leaves to send Kelly, my grand daughter. I was amazed at how *many* different types of trees we saw - elm, oak, maple, birch, pine, chestnut, beech, some I didn't know, and several different types of each kind of tree. You don't see that in the big city! Drew started schuffling through the leaves that lay eight inches deep beneath the trees alongside the dirt road. In minutes he had a whole pile collected, and gleefully jumped into them - something I have not done since childhood. We spent a good half hour playing in the leaves, having a ball.



Then we managed to tear ourselves away and wandered another hundred feet to the trout pond. It was a perfect mirror, and Drew took pictures of the reflection of autumn colors in the water. He experimented with throwing a stone into the pond, and taking pictures of the reflection affected by the ripples. He skipped some stones and got multiple ripples going until the pond looked like an exotic checkerboard with brilliant colors waving about.



Finally, we selected a trail and began the real hike. It was shady and quiet underneath the trees. You could hear acorns crash through the branches and plop onto the soft forest floor. We were schuffling leaves and chattering away happily when suddenly, we saw three deer standing stock still in the brush beside the path. We pulled up short and Drew carefully took pictures, walking closer and closer until they raised their white tails and bounded away into the shadows.



We had barely whispered while they were standing there. It was as if they were watching us while we were watching them. We encountered several more small groups of deer - those smart enough to know that the hunters would not come this far south in the park and that the pond was still a safe place to drink (and eat the berries on the nearby bushes - a ripe feast).



We came to a new path and followed that, aware of how life might have been for early settlers in this vast country. We must have walked a good two miles before we turned back and found the yellow 3 path to the trout pond, ambled back through our pile of leaves, climbed down the stone steps to the parking lot where the coy pond was spraying a fountain of water high into the air, letting a rainbow dance on its spray.



Weary and knowing we needed to get back, we couldn't resist the short walk to the upper and middle falls, Drew snapping shots as we climbed the scary metal bridge accompanied by the roar of the water. I had come to this very place in the park when I was a young girl with our youth group. I remember dabbling my feet in the water where the slate tables make the water shallow and slow (and getting a sunburn in the bargain!). Drew is surprised that so little has changed in fifty years!



We are happy, tired, and refreshed all at once as we head back to the Perry exit. "Really, Mom, we have to do this again. Next summer let's spend two weeks here." He happily plans away as I smile. Yes, it is good to give thanks to God for the wonder of His earth. A body needs to reconnect with the grandeur and majesty, the quiet and peace.

Hallelujah - for the most part!

As soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, I was aware of what day it was. Today is the day I see the doctor for the results of the biopsy. I try to put it out of my mind as I shower and urge Drew to hurry. I shiver in the cold of the frosty fall morning, hugging my coat about me and sliding my gloves over cold fingers.

I would have 2 hours at work to prepare for a teaching session on Monday before I had to leave for the appointment. I should have concentrated on putting together the materials for the session, but I just couldn't focus. I did lots of little things that didn't require much more than willing hands.

Time was dragging. At last, the reminder for the appointment popped up on my computer, time to go. But I procrastinated, fussing with one thing and another until I was worried I would be late. How crazy! Get in the car, drive down Westside Drive to Buffalo Road, take 531 to 490 to downtown - no, wait! That's the wrong direction. I should have taken 390. Too late.

I rethink my path and soon I find myself on Mt Hope headed towards the cancer clinic. I can't believe I have butterflies in my stomach. The closer I get to the parking garage, the more active those butterflies get. Its rather like when someone tells you to close your eyes and they steer you to somewhere you don't know where to surprise you. You aren't sure whether you are going to be happy or upset when they tell you to open your eyes. You're not sure you want to know!

Fortunately, they do not keep me in suspense long. The Doctor tells me that they were able to get lymph tissue in the sample and
IT WAS *NOT* CANCER!!! Yeah!!!
Great news. We have settled once and for all - wait - she is still speaking. "Of course, we have to continue to be watchful, so we will run another round of tests. . ."

Can I be hearing that right? But she remembers that I am uncomfortable with the MRI injection stuff, and decides that she can monitor the progress of the lymph system with just the PET scans. So she wants to re-do the PET scan four weeks from the last one - first of December. Then if its 'fairly stable' they can wait 2 and a half months before they will need to do another one, then depending on what they find, 3 months etc until we get to the 6 month time frame. And then, if its not cancer, we need to figure out what it *is*.

But its good news. Really.

I head for the discharge desk. I don't know whether to be relieved or not. But my feet decide for me. Before I realize it, I am dancing. I dance at the receptionists' desk, I dance down the hall to the elevator, I decide I am not going to drive back on the expressway, but celebrate this victory. In the parking lot I see the medivac helicopter land on the roof, and I step to the edge of the concrete structure and wave like crazy. They helicopter is making a ton of noise and I yell "It's not cancer!" into the wind.

I take the back roads, stopping at Dunkin Donuts for a Wildberry Smoothie. I tell the waitress that I am celebrating a good report from a biopsy and she congratulates me. I relax in the car slurping away while I watch the helicopters take off and land at the far end of the airport where the military operations are.

Suddenly I am aware of how blue the sky is, how bright the sunshine, how glorious the colors of the autumn leaves. What a great day! I head back to work, singing. I sing 'Thank you, Jesus!' and make up melodies. I try to tell myself that I knew it all along, even at Yale, but I know how happy I am to hear the truth confirmed. It's not cancer. It's not cancer. You are free and clear.

I hear the "for now" part from the rest of what the doctor said. But I will not stand under that ledge unless I have to. I will leap for joy, I will be grateful for the reprieve, I will be happy and thank God for good results. And tomorrow, I will find a way to walk in God's good earth and tell Him how much I appreciate Him.

Choir Practice

I stopped by the house before choir practice to pick up my choir folder and check on Drew. I climbed out of the car after a long yet strangely productive day at the Library (can you believe I whittled my inbox down from almost 600 messages to 28??!! And I really took proper care of things - organizing to task folders, responding where necessary, reassigning, delegating - wow! Somedays I get an inkling of the 'good ole pre-chemo days and it makes me so happy!)



As I stood in the chill of the early evening air and stretched a bit, I could hear a ruckus from the sky above. A goose was flying about honking in distress. It actually sounded like he was crying. He was the only goose I could see, and he appeared to be making circles over the apartment complex.



I wondered what the deal was, and stood still a few minutes to watch, fascinated. Little birds scattered at the goose's approach. He honked non-stop, that same frantic croak over and over and over. He didn't appear injured or anything. Just alone. Minutes passed. Nearly twenty since I first saw the solitary bird. How could he keep flying for so long without stopping to rest?



Hating to tear myself away, I knew I had limited time before I needed to be at the church, so I carefully mounted the steps, looking backwards and scanning the sky for any sign of other geese. Nothing. With a sigh, I went in the house and took care of stuff. Drew was so tired he was sleeping in a chair with the TV on. I turned it off and left him in peace. Obviously he needed the rest.



Forty minutes later, I headed back to the car. As I stepped onto the stoop, I immediately heard my lone goose honking as he flipped past the edge of the building nearby. He was on the far side of the complex when I settled into the car and pulled out of the parking lot.



Just as I got to the stop sign on Union Street, I hear a change in the pitch of his honk. I lowered the window and craned my neck to see what was going on. From the east, a small black V was approaching. The lone goose headed straight for them. I waited to see him safely back in the fold.



But the geese flock passed him by. No one welcomed him or slowed down to make sure he was OK. They just kept flying, a few of them honking as they changed leaders. The lone goose circled about them for a few minutes, then headed back to continue his vigil over the complex. How sad. I guess it wasn't his family.

Choir practice went well despite a non working furnace. We prepared more than our usual anthem since we are joining with other area choirs to sing an evening concert. It was fun and the time flew by. As we were leaving the building, one of the altos who is fairly new to the group, shyly came up and said how enjoyable choir practice is for her and how much she looks forward to coming all week. It just feels like home.

In the back of my mind, I could see that lone goose honking around, looking for his family, for where he fit and was accepted. I looked at the lovely lady before me, alone in the area, making a bold approach to say what was on her heart. I agreed with her heartily, and gave her a hug. If I could have honked happily to tell her I was glad she was part of our "V" I would have, but I hope she felt welcomed and part of the choir family.

We walked out the door together laughing and singing. It was a good practice.