New Year's Eve

Drew wanted to rush out and spend his Christmas gift cards. We had talked about doing that, but the weather was horrible. I could not be coaxed into visiting the mall or any other place he wanted to go. My idea was to just stay home and ride it out.

He finally did get me to take him to the Toys R Us closest to the house. I drove with great trepidation, slipping and sliding around in the slushy streets, the wipers working double time and still not keeping the windshield clear. We made it there OK, but the store didn't have what he wanted. He debated - should I get something that's OK but not what I really want, or should I wait and try again elsewhere? He begged and pleaded and wheedled to get me to take him to the other store, but I would not budge. It was bad out there. I was going home. Period. He was out of luck.

You could almost smell the rubber burning as he debated with himself about what to do. In the end, he decided to wait and try to get what he wanted online. A much needed lesson in patience. I didn't quote the old adage "Good things come to those who wait." He was much too grumpy for that! The car was filled with silence as we headed home. Not anger because Mom is being mean, but a quiet reflection of events that didn't go as hoped. The wipers squeaked and flopped across the window, manfully trying to clear the big wet sloppy flakes of snow in a timely fashion. I could practically hear Drew's disappointment though he said not a word.

After we got home, there was no talk about planning a special New Year's meal, no mention of watching the ball in Times Square fall, no desire to watch TV celebrations, not even any begging to stay up until midnight. Drew was downright depressed about not getting that one toy he wanted so much (and the reason for the gift certificate in the first place). He just went to his room, put on his headset, and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling, sorting things out. It was, without a doubt, a pivotal time for him as he moves from kid to young adult. It does not come without a price, this growing up. Yet for all the heartache he feels today, he will look back later and realize how minor his disappointment compared with other things he will encounter along life's path.

Still, that doesn't make it any easier. I can say that those who have lived through the hardest things often are the most understanding of what others are enduring, are the most flexible in adjusting, are the least likely to sweat the small stuff. Today Drew added another notch to his belt of tough life experiences. One cannot know what else may come his way, but if he deals with each one as he has dealt with today's, he will do well.

Icicles

How luxuriant to stay abed of a morning! Nowhere to be, no one to appease, no onerous chores calling. It had been frosty and snowy for days - a Narnian winter before Aslan appears, lacking only the Turkish taffy.

I lay quietly reading - for pleasure, mind you! My heart wasn't really into it though. My mind kept drifting here and there, daydreaming about how I might help some poor child with a physical affliction, some poor orphan in desperate need, some mother struggling to battle cancer (sorry, can't help the day dreams).

I realized after awhile that I was focused on a huge icicle hanging from the roof outside my bedroom window. It was thick and rumply transparent, melting and freezing all at once. A drop of water would melt near the top where the sun struck it, begin to roll down the side of the icicle only to freeze halfway down and stick tight making all sorts of lumpy bulgy odd shapes.

When I was a kid, the manses we lived in were all older buildings without a great deal of insulation in the roof. Icicles hanging from the eaves and gutters were commonplace. One year when we were living in Johnstown a huge icicle formed on the corner of the house near my bedroom window. It was as thick around as a small child and extended from the second story roof clear to the ground.

One of the neighbor kids tried to knock it down with a baseball bat, but the icicle was so thick that it barely dented despite all the force he used. It was just as well since the sinewy arms of that ice dagger had entwined about the power lines coming into the house, and had he succeeded in shattering it, no telling what that might have done to our power supply.

Those were days of innocence and ignorance. I clearly remember licking sharp pointy icicles and crunching the skinny ones between my teeth. They had that peculiar taste of wet cardboard and driveway gravel mixed with flat soda - at once refreshing and disgusting. Of course, we ate snow back then too and thought nothing of it. Our only caveat was not to eat yellow snow. Nowadays, no one in their right mind would eat snow. No telling where its been and what it carries.

Well, no point lying here thinking about icicles. Though perhaps it does explain why my room tends to get cold. Old buildings, lacking insulation. Ah, me. I wonder if the state programs for energy efficiency include apartment complexes? Perhaps I should investigate.

Yo-Yo Weather

Who would have thought we could see two degrees temperatures, frozen snow and blizzard conditions one day, and fifty degrees with melting spring sunny blue skies weather the next! But that's what we are getting. One day the campus is peppered with students attired in shorts and tee shirts a la summer, the next they are bundled up with scarves and mittens and winter coats. My poor body is so confused. It doesn't know whether to shed pounds or pack them on. There is nothing predictable about what the day will bring; even the weather forecasters are scrambling to keep up.

Sometimes life is like that. It should be a certain season of your life, but suddenly you find yourself cast without warning into another unexpected timeframe. I have a friend who just retired. She and her husband were looking forward to traveling, doing things together that they had not had time to do when they were both working. Freedom from the tyranny of 9 to 5! But with one short phone call, they find themselves in charge of raising a four year old granddaughter. Who may end up living elsewhere in a few weeks when the dust clears a bit.

Two members of my class have unexpectedly found themselves laid off, out of work, without income often through no fault of their own. Now what? There is no magic 8 ball to show them how far the yo-yo string will go down before it heads back up. They hang on, hoping, waiting for another offer, praying that their circumstances don't go too sour before recovery comes. And it will come. They just don't know when.

It is, like dealing with unexpected weather, less about the hardships and more about the unpredictability. We can be adaptable, can enjoy each season for what it has to offer. Even winter's cold prevents the face from aging! But we prefer seamless and anxiety free transitions from one scenario to the next. Even if we have to settle for something less than optimal, less than we had before. Just get us there in one piece please. Without any sort of breakdown.

Lord, let us know that You control the spinning of the yo-yo. Remind us that our lives will never go careening too far out of control, that you will always return us to the place just right. One way or another.

What's With This Field?!

First the geese, then the turkeys, now the guinea hens! Good Lord, will it ever end? I wonder if the farmer raises these birds? They would make a nice cash crop for gourmet restaurants I suppose. Or at least novelty eggs for some co-op.

Despite the snow, they peck away at the ground as if some treat lay scattered about free for the taking. Funny, I never hear any bird sounds as I recall. Maybe that's because I have my windows closed against the cold, or other traffic sounds drown them out.

I don't know. Its a mystery to me. How do they remember who's day it is to forage there? Do they keep a written schedule? Does some crazy turkey sometimes forget and show up when its guinea hen day? Do they get confused and end up with the wrong flock? Maybe that's why I occasionally see a lone goose flying in circles crying pitifully. Maybe he accidentally spent the night with the guinea hens.

Sounds like a dissertation paper waiting to be written.

Old Gray House on John Street

I was in the vicinity of RIT when I remembered that I needed to get a card for a friend. RIT has a spanking new Barnes & Noble bookstore that I have only been in once. I am sure they will have nice cards. Sometimes I have a hard time finding an appropriate card that expresses just the right sentiment. I prefer the ones with a beautiful picture on the outside and blank on the inside so I can write my own heart there.

I had a great time perusing the cards, pricey though they were. I tell myself sternly that I need to get the printer at home working so I can print the pictures Drew took at the Lilac Festival last year. Those would make great cards without denting my bank account.

It was just beginning to snow lightly when I came out of B&N. I chucked the bag with my select card on the front seat of the car, buckled the seat belt, and backed out of the narrow space. From the position I was facing, I had a clear view of John Street, the side street off Union/Jefferson Avenue that led into the new complex that the store shared with several restaurants and the elegant new student housing units.

Everything on the corner was pleasing to the eye, modern with straight even lines, matching architecture, peaked roofs and archways. Even the colors of the buildings matched with their faux brick and goldenrod/green flashings. Signs were new, huge glass windows gleamed in the early afternoon sun. It was an appealing addition to the sprawling campus, making the creep of academia seem less invasive.

By comparison, the buildings on the other side of John Street are old and worn down. Roof lines dip and buckle, sheds slant, paint is peeling and siding weathered. One lone brick building is advertising availability to lease. Next to that, what used to be a family home, now vacant and boarded up. It reminded me of my Grandmother's clapboard house, gray with decades of weathering because my Grandfather was adamant that if they painted the house, their taxes would go up and he would not be able to afford to live there.

As I sat for a moment, staring at the house, I realized that someone had drilled holes all over the exterior. For what purpose I am at a loss to think. I began to giggle. It looked like a giant woodpecker had drilled nest holes all over the house structure. There was no particular pattern though many of the holes seemed to follow some sort of loose and flexible line.

Then it dawned on me that no one could ever live in the house now. How sad. The passing of an era. Someone had lived in that home, raised their children there, maybe even birthed a few in the cozy rooms beneath the sagging roof. Graduation parties, wedding showers, wakes, a full bouquet of life's precious moments had been lived within the confines of those walls, hopes and dreams wrapping about the daily chores of washing dishes and making beds. What a tale we would learn could those walls speak.

And now the structure was being cast aside to make room for the bigger and better, the newer and stronger. Yet that house had character with its open porches and two stories plus an attic. You don't see houses like that much anymore. Oh, I know that wood rots and plaster falls in and doors creak off their hinges and the time comes to cash it in for something better.

Its just hard to watch and wait for the transition to happen. Someday I will drive past and the house will have been torn down, the lot razed, a basement dug for a new foundation to be laid. In the meantime, I want to pat the old house and thank it for its good life, to let it know how much it has been treasured, that we are in no particular hurry to forget the era of quiet gentility it represents. Nice old house. Enjoy your final days. Make the most of your well deserved rest before you disappear. Remind us of the important things we tend to forget in our scurrying about. Some of us will listen.

Public Drooling

I just wanted to check my email, and since I was in the Monroe Public Library downtown (once in awhile I go there for a treat) I thought I would work at one of their public terminals for a few minutes. Next to me was a young man probably not even in his twenties yet. He was talking non-stop. I could barely think. It wasn't so much that he was talking out loud, but it was what he was saying. Good Lord, such drooling ought not to be allowed in public.

He and a friend were perusing a website composed of pictures of young girls - not in suggestive clothing or anything. It looked like some sort of blog site or webpage collection site. I couldn't tell exactly - maybe a dating service. The two of them were discussing how hot each "babe" was and whether or not they would like to date/kiss/xxx them. They even came up with their own scale.

I have to say that after one look at either of them, any girl in her right mind would run screaming. In fact, I would definitely NOT want such ilk gawking at a picture of me (even the way I look) for any reason. I couldn't believe their chutzpah at thinking they stood half a chance with any of those young ladies.

After the two of them finished drooling, the younger guy borrowed the older guy's cell phone, called a young lady and proceeded to carry on a long and senseless conversation punctuated with 'yups' and 'nopes' - I was so frustrated trying to concentrate on my own business, but constantly drawn into his despite my desire to be left alone.

I debated whether to ask him to please take his conversation elsewhere. Maybe best not to anger him. Perhaps I could ask a librarian to address the issue, but there were no signs posted about being quiet. I watched his time ticking down (you are allowed one hour). Maybe I could suggest he go back to drooling quietly on his own since his friend had exited the area.

I finally gave up and just left. I don't know what bothered me more - his unkempt appearance, his unhealthy obsession with girls, his youth, his lack of education, his arrogance, or his total unawareness (or unconcernedness) of how his behavior was affecting those around him.

It wasn't until afterwards that I realized how hypocritical it was of me to pass judgment on that young man. I had no right. In many ways we were different - our affluence, our education, our upbringing and the hand life had dealt us - but in many, perhaps more than I would like to admit, we were the same. How often am I inconsiderate of those around me? How often do I think of myself more highly than I should? How often do I try to enter a world that I am not equipped to function in? How often am I looking out for number one? Do I drool in public? God forgive me for my insensitivity.

Merry Christmas

Hope you are having a marvelous day with family and friends. Drew and I are enjoying a restful day together, complete with scalloped potato and ham casserole (that's what he wanted) and strawberry rhubarb pie. Yum!

This year I gave many colleagues and friends a poem - a Psalm, really - accompanied by a small reminder of the sentiment so expressed. Here's the Psalm. May you build today memories that will last a lifetime.

A Psalm of Hope
Lord, make me a prisoner of unreasonable hope.
May I eternally expect
in struggle, Your Strength,
in worry, Your Words,
in crisis, Your Courage,
in pain, Your Power,
in misery, Your Mercy,
in lack, Your Love,
in death, Your Deliverance,
until I learn
to abide everyday
in Your undeserved Presence.
Amen.

Praying you enjoy a wonderful and blessed holiday season.

Christmas Eve Service

The decorations have been hung, gifts have been purchased, the toys wrapped, the cookies baked, the carols sung, the parties attended, the programs recited, the concerts played, the cards mailed, the travel plans made. Whew! One last thing before my duties are discharged - the Christmas Eve service at church.

The 7pm service is the family friendly service especially designed with young children in mind, and someone else agreed to play for that one. The 10pm service, the one that's usually a packed house, is the one I will be playing for. It's the service where familiar faces of children away at college or grown and moved to other places appear. The service where others besides myself can finally draw a breath and enjoy the season.

My desire is to contribute to this service in such a way as to help those who are attending feel closer to God. I want the music to allow for quiet reflection while drawing on memories of pleasant Christmases past. I wish for the message of the Christmas story from the Scriptures read to touch hearts and bring peace.

The pastor also understands the need for quiet simplicity on this holy evening. She arranged a wonderful display of candles on the altar that represent the holy family, the shepherds, the angels. As the Scriptures are read, she lights the candles that correspond. We sing the carol about that part of the story.

Each reading and carol brings more light into the sanctuary, building the glow to reach from the wicks on the altar to the hearts in the pews. Simple. Elegant. Meaningful. Yes, the light of Christ for a world wrapped in darkness. May it last all year.

Closing the Library

No real Library work today, no siree. Don't even think about doing anything on your task list. Today you need to undecorate, normalize and safeproof the Library in preparation for being closed for the next ten days. Plants need to be watered well - soaked in the sink, really. Facilities guys came by and took down the huge wreath hanging over the center railing, the one with the white sparkling lights. They tucked it upstairs in the Fireside Reading Room for later removal after we undecorate the Christmas tree and fireplace.

Money from the copiers was removed and counted in preparation for taking to accounting. Same with the back cupboard money boxes, so as not to leave any large amounts of cash about. The Christmas display of books on the Reference Desk counter was reshelved and a new display on Martin Luther King Jr. prepared.

People were returning books and taking care of fines (we had just sent our last email statements around), and all those books needed to be checked in and reshelved. All food trash would have to be taken outside - no sense treating the critters to an unintentional Christmas brunch. A campus wide email invited anyone hearty enough to still be here to stop by and take home a free poinsettia -several dozen were still looking for adoption.

Staff had decided to share lunch together in the Fireside Reading Room, then take down the tree and decorations. We ordered collectively 6 different entrees from a nearby Chinese restaurant, deciding that everyone could take what they wanted. "No mushrooms!" one staff member stated loud and clear. We ordered one dish with mushrooms just to tease.

After everything was taken care of, I sent staff home early - a small gesture of good will. I would stay to close, assisted by the Director of Collection Services. It was like prying clam shells apart getting them to leave. Oh, they wanted to. But they were torn with last minute things to turn off, take care of, settle. One by one the finally exited until there were only three staff and our student worker.

We made the closing announcements manually - please make sure you check things out now, don't leave anything behind, exit by the front doors, thanks for using our facility. A number of them made their way to the 24 hour area to continue working. Lock the doors. Lower the gates. Turn out the lights. Say goodbye to colleagues and students.

At long last, everyone had left. I was alone in the quiet library. I pulled on my boots, wrapped my scarf about my neck, picked up my bag and headed for the front doors, pulling my office door shut tightly behind me, checking to make sure it was securely locked. It felt good to know the building was secure, everything in its place and nothing left dangling.

I stood in the Information Commons by the silent computers in front of the Reference Desk to take one last look around, just making sure we had not forgotten anything. It was so quiet. Snow drifted down silently in the dark night outside. The building pinged and groaned as the heat, now turned down low, dissipated and the ducts cooled.

I stood for the longest moment, breathing deeply, appreciating the silence, the stillness. The generous openness of the building, still very new and well kept, surrounded me, a coat of protection against the coldness visible through every window. Christmas! I finally have time to think about Christmas. It is nearly upon us. Not the "hurry scurry craziness of gift giving and food eating" Christmas. Not the "decorating and partying and attending or conducting concerts and plays" Christmas. The real Christmas. The one where we silently stand in awe as we realize the amazing gift of a Creator God. That Christmas.

I had not yet taken the time to thank God. To tell him how much his gift blesses me everyday, how much His Love sustains me and touches my heart. In the emptiness of the building, in the silence of the moment, I lifted my face to the tippy top window through which I could see the snow sifting down and smiled.

"Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, all is bright . . ." I couldn't help it. The song welled up within me and rolled out of my mouth before I realized what I was doing. I glanced quickly around to see if anyone was observing. But there was no one there. I continued, boldly and gratefully, "Round yon Virgin Mother and Child - - - holy infant so tender and mild - - - Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace."

The sound echoed and reverberated throughout the vast cavern, filling the space with the words, then dying away until just the swish of snow falling against the stonework could be heard. "Lord," my heart prayed, "Let your peace cover the entire world tonight. Please." It was as if God wrapped me in his arms, hugging me lovingly. The moment was pure magic. I could not tear myself away. I wanted to stay, there in the quiet semi lighted library with the snow falling quietly about me, safe, secure, at peace.

At long last I heaved a sigh of relief, feeling the tension and burden of the season roll off my shoulders, and walked out the front door, checking behind me to make sure it locked properly. The sense of peace stayed with me a long time, wrapping me against the cold of the wintry night.

Dress To Impress Day

Classes are winding down. Only one more day of the "last week of class" - books are flooding the return drop as papers are handed in and research is over. There are still a few scheduled tests, but the majority are over. Student numbers are thinning as the exodus for home has begun. Our students are faithful to the end to work their shifts, some because they are desperate for the money, others out of a sense of obligation. Its a bit more relaxed as the traffic through the building lightens up.

She came in for her 10 am shift, our student worker, dressed to the nines. How beautiful she looked in a floor length evening gown, satin maroon on the bottom and velvet deep maroon on the top. Her arms were swathed in elbow length white gloves with quaint round white buttons up the side. The whole ensemble was set off nicely by her long blond hair worn down and free.

"Yes," she explained. "Its 'Dress to Impress' Day. You must be overdressed for every occasion." How interesting! I had no idea there was such a day. Everyone noticed how wonderful she looked. Everyone commented on how refreshing it was to see such elegant attire at work. She explained that she had picked up the dress (which looked like it had been made just for her) at Sal's Boutique (our fond title for the Salvation Army store) for a mere $5, so she wasn't terribly worried if she got a spot on it or got it dirty. I wondered how she could stand in such high heels with such pointy toes, beautiful though they looked.

How odd to see her running up the stairs to check on a missing pair of shears or wheeling a cart of books to the elevator for reshelving. She should have been dancing or dining or at least listening to a stellar concert. Yet here she was checking in returned books and renewing materials that would be kept over the holidays. She did it all with a smile and grace befitting a queen.

Inspiring. Perhaps next year I will observe Dress to Impress Day myself. Let's see, what elegant clothing do I have that still fits????

Lessons and Carols a la Lord's Prayer

I have one more summer's work on my Master of Church Music degree, then my service recital, dissertation, comps and orals. I should be done by end of year 2009. My idea for the service recital is to present a program of music that elaborates and illuminates the theology of the Lord's Prayer. I have been approved for that idea, but I needed to test it out a bit, see how things flow.

This year, the pastor allowed me to do a lessons and carols program instead of a cantata since we are still without an accompanist. What better time to test the concept! I worked to find a way to incorporate music from our files, Christmas hymns and Scriptures in a format that followed the Lord's Prayer. Here is the service. Please let me know what you think!

Lessons and Carols on the Lord’s Prayer

Prelude: Chime Choir – Away in a Manger
Processional Hymn: Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence #626
Greeting & Opening Prayer & Lord’s Prayer – Sherri
Choral Response: Lord, Listen to Your Children Praying

First Consideration ~ the Character, Reputation and Reign of God
I. Our Father in Heaven
Reading – Isaiah 9:6-7, 66:12-13
Congregation #184 Of the Father’s Love Begotten
Choir: Lo How A Rose E’er Blooming
II. Hallowed Be Thy Name
Reading – Psalm 99
Choir: Sanctus (Gounod) alto solo Peggy Whitman
Reading – Luke 1:49 (Song of Zechariah)
Congregation # 239 Silent Night v 1, 3
III. Your Kingdom Come, Your Will Be Done
Reading – Isaiah 11:1-10
Soprano Solo: Magnificat - My Soul Gives Glory to My God Amy Archer

Lighting of the Advent Wreath – verse 4 of Light the Advent Wreath
HOMILY - Sherri

Second Consideration ~ The Providence, Mercy and Protection of God

I. Give Us Today Our Daily Bread
Reading –John 6:30-40
Choir: Jesus, Bread of Life
II. Forgive Us Our Sins
Reading – Isaiah 40:1-5
Choir: Angel’s Carol (Rutter)
Congregation # 219 What Child Is This?
III. Deliver Us From Evil
Reading – Mark 10:35, John 3:16-17
Congregation # 204 Emmanuel
Choir: Gesu Bambino (Yon)

Third Consideration ~ The Praise of God

IV. For the Kingdom, Power and Glory are Yours
Reading – John 1:1-4, 14
Choir: Sing We Now of Christmas
Congregation: Joy to the World #246

Offering

Closing Prayer & Benediction – Sherri
Choral Benediction: Kittery [The Lord's Prayer] (Billings)
Postlude/Recessional Hymn: O Come, All Ye Faithful #234

The Cadillac of Wegmans

I had promised the boys that we would take a field trip to Pittsford for the sole purpose of gawking in what I consider to be the premier store in the Wegmans chain. People told me that some of the newer ones in the Rochester area are amazing, and we did visit one, but its got nothing on the Pittsford store. In fact, there are 18 stores in Rochester alone, but I still find this one the most engaging.

The boys didn't remember visiting this store, and they were young last time we were there. They were not particularly interested in making a trip clear to the other side of the city, but in the spirit of the holidays, they indulged me. Traffic on 490 was heavy - after work homegoers still straggling along at 6:30 pm. 590 south was no better. It took forever to arrive at the Monroe Avenue exit and wedge our way into the stream of red taillights.

You can't see Wegmans from Monroe Avenue, but as we pulled into the parking lots, the boys began to pay more attention. We found a space not too far from the entrance and sallied forth to brave the exotic and quintessential foods I knew awaited us. I watched the boys' eyes widen as we stepped into the store. The fruits and vegetables section spread before us like a vast sea of green and orange. We moved slowly down the aisle, remarking on the various unknown items surrounding us.

Kiel and Drew moved from bored indulgence to animated engagement in 2 seconds flat. It was like exploring a new planet. They picked up odd shaped produce and weirdly colored vegetation, reading the thoughtfully posted signs about the various items. When we had finally worked our way halfway through the vegetables, Drew stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth hanging open. "Hey, look - look!" He almost yelled. "You aren't going to believe this! Where's my phone - I'm going to take a picture." He was pointing to a locked box containing mushrooms with a posted price of $499 a pound. Unbelievable! Where else but at Wegmans!

It was all uphill from there. We wandered slowly as if in a foreign country, examining things one would never expect to find in a grocery store. Here was an entire Godiva chocolate store, there a machine that created puffed rice cakes, exploding them from the heating unit like baseballs from a practice machine. Next to it we found a quaint tea shop with loose leaves of unheard of blends scenting the air with tantalizing fragrances. The blend of the day was a Christmas flavor with ginger, cloves, cinnamon and gingerbread! You could sample a small cup with a piece of the fresh rice cakes - wow!

In the deli aisle, there was a dinner bar. You could sit on one of the stools surrounding a small kitchen kiosk in the middle of the aisle and order whatever your heart desired. They made it fresh on the spot - all healthy and green. Beyond that, the Tastings Restaurant 2 stories high that excelled even the freshly made casseroles and platter items in the cases. The bakery was replete with every kind of bread and dessert your heart could dream up - I had to drag the boys drooling from the cases filled with cheesecakes and carrot cakes and tortes and trifles. Not in the budget, dearies.

I found all those little hard to find items that had been on my list for awhile - furniture scratch repair kits and chip clips at a reasonable price among other things. The markdown aisle held our fascination for awhile as I procured bargain things perfect for those last minute stocking fillers or thank you's for unexpected surprises.

Even the "normal" food items we usually purchase were less expensive here - must be those who can afford $500 a pound truffles turn their noses up at everyday fare. We shopped with glee. It was a delightful field trip. After a full two hours, we finally tore ourselves away. Sighs of contentment punctuated the air as we drove home through the light snow sifting down. What fun!

SNOW DAY!!!

It was hard dragging Drew from bed. Yesterday he had stayed after school for Robotics, then worked long on a paper, ending up staying up late. Even though this was the last day of school for the year, even though he had some sort of Christmas party in 5th period, even though snow was predicted, he just did not want to get up.

I had looked out the window - no precipitation in sight. After calling Drew three times, I finally turned on the weather channel. Commercials. Try channel 9. More commercials. Channel 10? Commercials! I went to the kitchen to putter around and make a cup of green ginger tea. I wandered back to the living room, steaming mug in hand.

What's this? School closings? But its not even snowing! I watched the list of schools scroll down the bottom of the screen. Not only did I discover Rochester City Schools closed (Drew's school Charles Finney is always closed when the city schools close), but they actually listed Charles Finney School. Wow - Drew gets a day off. I watch the weather forecast. It will start snowing at 9am and get progressively worse throughout the day, with the peak of the storm hitting around 3pm, just as schools will get out. No wonder they closed.

I pop back to the bedroom to tell Drew the good news. "Aw, rats." he responds and stomps out to the living room to see for himself. He plops on the floor in front of the TV and watches the scrolling school names. Even after Charles Finney rolls by, he sits for another revolution just to make sure he isn't seeing things. Without a word, he goes back to bed, pulls the covers over his head, and is snoring in seconds.

I am envious. Roberts Wesleyan is not cancelled. I have to brave the big storm and get myself in to work. Ah, well. At least somebody gets a day off.

Scents

I was sitting at the Circulation Desk, minding my own business, when I was assaulted by a cloyingly sweet scent. I couldn't tell who was wearing it, but they must have jumped into the bottle feet first. My eyes were tearing up. Not that it was an unpleasant smell. In a smaller amount, I think I would have really liked it. The floral scent stayed in my face for well over an hour, long after the person who introduced it had left the building.

Later that afternoon, I once again encountered an overpowering scent, this time very musky and applied too too heavily. I began to speculate that the more frightened students become, the more likely they are to douse themselves in their favorite smell - a sort of olfactory comfort food. This time I was at the reference desk, and I simply got up and walked away, the strong scent following me the entire length of the information commons and half way up the stairs.

It must have been my day for les nez, because later that evening, a dear friend greeted me with a hug and once again I found myself engulfed in an overwhelming scent - this time an unusual combination of herbs and eucalyptus and mint and a few other savory things I couldn't name. This scent opened up every tiny space in my head and dripped into my lungs to expand the closed up spots. Whew! What a rush. I wonder if that's what sniffing glue is like?

Long after we separated, her unique perfume lingered. I discovered it on my hands and on my sweater later that evening. I could recall her presence just lifting my hand near my face. It was piquant to say the least, joltingly so.

I wonder what sort of lingering effect my presence might have on others. Do I leave an unpleasant sense, a jolting aliveness, an overpowering sweetness? Or do I have the right blend of pleasant and understated? After I am gone, do I leave behind a gagging stench or a happy memory? Definitely something I plan to pay attention to, now that I have had the object lesson!

Corn Field Mania

I head to work in a snow filled wonderland. Overnight four inches appeared, coating trees and powerlines, lining roads, blanketing fields. It is pure beauty. So December-ish. And not too cold to enjoy either. I turn onto Buffalo Road, pass the Sunoco station, and wait for the car ahead of me to turn.

I glance at the corn fields, amazed that the corn stubble is barely brushed by the snow, that the warm brown earth is still visible. As I pull past the turning car, I see my friends the geese are now in the far field and I smile.

Then I look closer. Wait, these birds are black and huge. And they don't have webbed feet or orange bills! These are not geese. What in the world? Turkeys! I have never seen so many wild turkeys in one place. The ground is literally covered with the huge black bodies. Too bad I don't have a gun.

I am tempted to honk the horn and see if they fly even a bit, but I resist. They are obviously not ruffled by traffic. I wonder if they had to fight the geese for squatters rights. The geese must have left quite a bit of food because these guys are aggressively digging around for grub.

Who knew that empty cornfields were such a hub of activity. I wonder what I will encounter there next week?

Chapel

What a great night for a chapel service. It had been a running day, the kind that stacks end to end meetings, then scatters a few deadlines and numerous unexpected interruptions and patrons in crisis. You just move from one thing to another until you are so tired you want to drop. And then you get to sit through four hours of class and try to focus!

So in between work and class, every once in awhile, they offer a chapel. It's during the time I would usually grab dinner, warm up some microwave thing and gobble it down. Tonight, I am skipping dinner. God will send stuff if I need it. Besides, I had a couple of dizzy spells in the morning, and then a bout of nausea. I am concerned I might be coming down with that stomach thing again, so perhaps food should wait until after class, just in case.

What I really want, more than food or fellowship, is some alone time with God. I just want to sit quietly in the chapel and close my eyes and check in. I climb the stairs to the top floor slowly, my legs heavy and reluctant. The evening's speaker is robing, chatting with staff, preparing. I ask if it would alright for me to enter. They step aside and let me by. I choose a comfortable blue chair near the altar, sink into it, and lean back with my eyes closed.

Lord, its been such a busy day. I'm not at all sure I accomplished what you wanted me to do. I just want to touch base with you, draw on Your strength, be happy in Your presence. Then I am quiet. I let my brain stop and just wait. At first, I hear the chatter of conversation about me, a story of disappointment, a tale of driving on slippery roads, a question about class. I go deeper. I hear the fan blowing warm air into the room, a siren wailing outside, the creak of the window in the wind.

At last, I clear away the immediate distractions. Peace begins to come over me, a quiet calmness, a settledness, a sense that things are righting, coming back to norm. My energy levels begin to rise, the tiredness ebbs away. My breathing slows and becomes regular, almost a sleeping restful speed. It is good to be in the Lord's chapel.

The service is Anglican, a service teaching about their traditions. The words are filled with a sense of the presence of the Lord. It is sweet and encouraging, especially to be together with fellow students who have shared the journey and the hard work. The priest's voice is low and resonant as he reads God's word to us. We speak together the printed words of response to God. There is something holy and reverent about this worship. Something tender and intimate. The love of God flows over me, embracing me just as I am, drawing me, uplifting me.

Too soon, the service ends. We have already slid past the 6 o'clock hour when class begins. I want to stay, but students are moving to the door, our professor heading downstairs, the priest talking with staff members. I must leave. But I take with me the love of God, the peace of Christ, the comfort of the Holy Spirit.

It is a good thing to be in the presence of the Almighty.

Quick Change Artist

I haven't had a haircut since before Thanksgiving, and not only am I getting a bit shaggy, but the gray is making me feel old. I'm not ready to be old, but the place where I get my hair cut isn't the kind of place where I want to experiment with highlights or coloring. I looked around for the type of salon where I thought I could expect a certain level of expertise, and found a private salon not far from the apartment.

It had been a busy and hectic day, but I kept thinking about getting a new "do" and the lift that would give my spirits. The boys hustled to get to soccer early so I could make my appointment. I was on my way when I got the message that the hairdresser had a personal emergency and would not be able to keep our appointment. How deflating!

At first I was so disappointed I thought I would just go home and pout (at my age!). It wasn't until I came to my senses that I realized I should be praying for the woman that whatever the issue was, she would be OK, that it wasn't anything serious. Poor woman!

What to do, what to do? With the boys at soccer, there was no sense going home and sitting around. My paper for tomorrow's class is done, the readings complete, the house in good shape and enough clean laundry to get through to the weekend. Duh! I must be brain dead. Here was a perfect opportunity to get a bit more Christmas shopping done. It was still early, and there were a few specialty stores I needed to get to.

I headed up Elmgrove to Ridge Road, debating whether to turn left or right onto Ridge. It had been awhile since I had visited these little shops. In fact, I wasn't even sure if they were still in existence. In the end I turned left. I drove some distance and was just about to turn around when I spotted the first store. Ah! They were still open.

I love shops where you seem to step back in time the minute you enter the door. A jangling bell mounted on the door jam announces your arrival. The counter is still a glass case, the "cash register" the old fashioned metal kind with the push buttons and the pop up dollar amounts. The gentleman behind the counter was in no particular hurry, taking his time to wait on the young customer ahead of me, a teen aged boy filled with a million questions.

While I waited, I wandered around the tilting wooden floors. The store was a house really, and the various rooms showcased different musical instruments and accoutrements. Some hung cheerily over fireplaces, others sat on window benches, most were mounted on racks all around the rooms. The floors squeaked happily as I walked around. I half expected to find a dog lying somewhere or smell wood shavings from the back work room.

As I selected my purchases, I asked the clerk if he knew of the other store and where it might be located, explaining that I had only recently moved back to the area. In his slow leisurely manner, he speculated that it was about 6 or 7 miles further to the west, after Spencerport but before Brockport. As far as he knew, it was still doing business.

I thanked him and headed out again into the darkness of roads without streetlights winding through intermittent residential and commercial areas. I had nearly given up when I found the place, but it was closed for the evening. I noted the hours and turned back towards Gates.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a fox dashed across the road in front of me, his tail streaming out behind him in so straight a line that the thought occurred to me that he must be running at top speed. For a brief moment, he was caught in my headlights, his eyes neon, his pointy ears flicking, his red coat a blur. Almost too late, he realized the danger he was in and reversed his direction, darting back into the woods where he had come from. That old saying "quick like a fox" is no joke. It was so fast I barely took it in.

I slowed down in case there were any others around, but I only saw the one. We had both encountered a sudden change of plans through no fault of our own. I wondered whether the good Lord had purposely changed mine to keep me from some danger. Perhaps. I am not as quick as a fox at changing directions, but life is too short to be inflexible. The only thing I can't say about tonight is "hair today, gone tomorrow."

Secret Angels

We hadn't planned it that way, but both Drew and I ended up being part of a Secret Angel gift exchange. It's kind of fun, really. Even if you don't know the person you are blessing very well, its such a joy to anonymously brighten someone's day.



Drew decided to go the candy route. He selected gummy worms and sours and odd shaped, weird colored things to send the way of his recipient. I went the candle route. I found all sorts of interestingly shaped tea light sized holiday candles from pinecones to candycanes to Christmas trees and stars.



For each candle I am sending, I find an interesting picture and an uplifting thought or verse to print out and send along. I wrapped (more wrapping!) each candle in blue paper with nativity scenes printed on it in pretty yellows and browns. I really like pulling it all together. Now all I have to do is figure out how to deliver these gifts without tipping my hand.



The only time I nearly gave myself away being a secret angel was a time when I was first married. We knew a family with two young kids who were struggling financially. Even though we weren't flush, we didn't have any kids yet, so we decided to gather together a box of groceries and secretly deliver it to them on Christmas Eve.



We wrapped a big box in Christmas paper and filled it with canned goods and dry goods. Right in the center we placed a huge ham - something way bigger than we would ever have gotten for ourselves. We drove over to their house, and parked down the street, quietly sneaking up to their front door.



Their house had a screened in porch that they had covered with plastic against the cold. We cautiously opened the door and set the box inside by the front door, then ran back to our car, laughing that we hadn't gotten caught in the act. As we slowly drove home, it occurred to me that they might not realize the food was there. It was a bitter cold night, and I was afraid everything would freeze including the bottles of juice and the milk.



How could I get them to find the box without letting on who had put it there? I fussed over it for awhile, then came up with the only solution I could think of. I called their number and put a washcloth over the phone mouthpiece. When they answered, I said in a gruff voice, lowering my voice's pitch as far as I could, "Check your front porch now. Santa left you something."



I said it three times to make sure they understood. They must have thought some lunatic was calling them, but I drove back and checked to make sure they had taken the box inside. They had. We laughed ourselves silly over the pure joy of getting away with it.



There is something exhilarating about this clandestine activity. I highly recommend it. If you are feeling blah and uninspired, find someone who is also in the doldrums. Secretly send them a few little things and watch what happens. Their reaction will warm you up and thaw you out. Try it! Its good for what ails you.

Brunch

Every year at this time, Roberts Wesleyan College and Northeastern Seminary throw a Holiday Brunch for all their faculty and staff. Its a wonderful time to chat with your colleagues and friends, to meet their families, to be together as a family.

As we entered Garlock Dining Commons, we were greeted by one of the Art Faculty and filled out a name tag. Friends and co-workers waved to us to join their tables. First, we filled our plates with good food. The tables down the center of Garlock groaned with a huge selection of foods - quiche, eggs, bacon, sausage, muffins, canoles, danish - just about anything you could want. At the far end of the room is the waffle station - I headed straight for their table. One fluffy waffle swimming in strawberries - oh, yum.

This year they gave all the kids teeshirts designed by one of the art students. Kiel and Drew liked the black color and the scrolly design. I signed for this year's tree ornament, the refurbished old library building now known as the Hastings Center for Academics. A great addition to the other building ornaments I now have.

After good conversation over good food, we went to the east side of the room to have our family portrait taken. Last year it was just Drew and I. This year, Kiel joins the fun. Kiel who is now a Communications major and settling in to a new position as third and fourth grade Sunday School assistant at Pearce.

It was a wonderful and relaxing morning. Now all I have to do is finish my 20 page paper, prepare a ten minute presentation, print everything out, and finish this year's Christmas poem. All in good time.

Seeing Stars

Christmas secrets are fun! I love thinking about how to bring a smile of delight to someone's face. Some people are easy to please - you can think of a million things they would like. Others take a bit more study to select the perfect gift for. Tonight I started wrapping presents I selected for my grandchildren. I took out the Christmas wrapping paper with the penguin motif (seems to be a very popular theme this year), closed the door of my bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed, cutting the paper to just the right size for each toy or book, folding the edges into crisp lines, tacking it in place with Scotch tape.

I tried to imagine how the grandkids would react on Christmas morning, remembering the delight with which my siblings and I attacked the stack of colorfully wrapped presents under our tree. It always looked like such a gigantic mound of gifts, but then, there were ten of us altogether and it did add up to a small mountain.

Wrapping is the part of Christmas I hate the most, maybe right after battling the crowds. When will I ever learn to shop early and get gift bags! There is no help for it, this labor of love. Cut, fold, tape, label. Cut, fold, tape, label. Sigh. I remember one year my grandfather wrapped his gift to gramma in a deer hide tied up with a rope. We all giggled over that unique presentation.

Even after I thought I had wrapped everything, I discovered two more things I had tucked away. I dragged the scissors and tape out once more and went at it again with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish jumping into a frying pan.

At last it was done - at least, the gifts for the grandchildren. Wrapping the presents for my own kids will come next weekend. I stuck the tape and scissors back in the drawer, rolled up the tube of paper and stuck it in the corner for later. Then I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling, relieved to have accomplished the back breaking task, smiling that I was blessed to be able to do my own shopping and wrapping, that I had funds to get presents, that I had grandchildren! I smiled and tucked my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling.

That's when I saw my Christmas star. Stars, really. I had noticed them before when I first moved in. Someone had stuck two small stars on the white textured ceiling. Perhaps children had lived in this bedroom previous to our moving in. I think the stars used to glow in the dark, and there probably were lots of them, all different sizes. I have seen packages like that in stores.

Two stars had been left behind - one right by the west window, the other about two feet away towards the center of the room. They had been painted over when the apartment was prepared for us. No one likely noticed these stray stars. They blended into the rest of the patterned texture until they were all but invisible unless you were looking for them. In fact, I had clean forgotten they were there.

Now as I rested from my labors, I was delighted to see them again, these little reminders of the Christmas season. I glanced out the window at the clear night sky speckled with thousands of stars each glittering brightly in the cold darkness. It was as if two of them had escaped and come in from the cold to warm up a bit.

Worn out by all my hard work, I closed my eyes and took a short nap, dreaming of stars and angels. I have always been partial to stars and angels. Perhaps because my Persian name means star. Perhaps because I have a raffle of angels watching over me. Whatever the reason, I am happy to have a small reminder of God's goodness overhead, inside or out.

Christmas Carols

Our Library isn't the "quiet as a mouse" variety, but we do try to maintain a fairly even noise level, occasionally reminding people to tone it down a bit so others can study. I got a bit nervous when a fairly large group of students burst excitedly through the front doors and congregated in the lobby, chatting nervously and milling about.

Sometimes classes come to our lab for library instruction, so I thought perhaps that's what this was about, though I checked the schedule and nothing was listed. I was just about to ask if I could help them when they took their places on the steps to the second floor and broke into song.

Gasp! Music in the library! Christmas carols! After the initial shock wore off, I was informed by the faculty person that this was the freshman seminar class. How delightful! And short! After only one carol, they sang We Wish You a Merry Christmas as they filed out the front doors amid applause and kudos. Yeah for them. And thanks. It made my day.

And reminded me of another time when I was sung to at Christmas. I was maybe 8 or 9 and I had my appendix removed. This was back in the barbaric days of ether and stitches. Oh, did my stomach hurt! I walked all bent over like a little old woman when they finally let me out of bed. Being in the hospital was no fun and I missed my own snug bed and my sisters and brothers scrapping about. Worst of all, it was at Christmas time and I was missing all the fun.

One evening I heard Christmas carols being sung. The music floated closer and closer to my room. Suddenly familiar faces were at my door - our church group had come to sing to me! People I knew had taken time to make a trip to the hospital and come to my room to sing the familiar songs just for me. Wow! I cried like a baby. It was the only part about having my appendix removed that I remember fondly.

A Day of Rest

When I got home on Tuesday night after class, I already knew I would not be keeping my Wednesday morning appointments. Something about catching up from a long weekend, I suspect. Fortunately, I build my schedule in layers with the core being those things I absolutely must do, like work. Then I add in stuff I prefer to do - PrayerSong and choir and all. Finally, I add the icing on the cake. Activities like meeting friends and playing (as only a mature woman knows how to do). Those are the non-essentials that keep you fresh and invigorated.

Except when you are too tired. Wednesday morning dawned and Kiel had been sick. I was a bit nauseous myself. No sense pushing. Since I work Wednesday nights at the library, I don't have to be there until the afternoon. It makes a nice space in the week for all those things I love doing but normally can't get to and don't have enough energy for in the evening.

For today, I cancelled all my activities - the Gulik Gym (I hate to miss that one), my duet playing with a friend (I wish I could keep that one) and my errand running (not sorry to let that go). I look at the messy apartment, sigh, and go back to bed after Drew gets on the bus. I don't even bat an eye when Kiel leaves for classes.

Whatever it is, the resting helps. The tiredness lifts. My energy returns. Now I can address cleaning up the apartment, hanging the rest of the Christmas ornaments, baking the cookies for our student worker's cookie fest, and still have enough left over to do well at work.

Thank goodness for those built in pressure release valves!

Darn Statistics

We have been collecting data about how many people are in each area of the library since first we opened the doors. Every hour a student walks throughout the entire building making tick marks on a clipboard - counting who is using the Graduate Research Room, the Fireside Reading Room, the Cafe, the Lab, the Information Commons, the Reference Tables, the Leisure Reading area, the Quiet Study space.

They also check to make sure nothing is amiss, that the printers and copiers are working and filled with paper, that there isn't excess noise happening anywhere. When they return to their station in the lab, they transfer the information to an SPSS file. Last year we used an Excel Spreadsheet, but everytime we tried to crunch the data, it was so unwieldy that for the life of me we couldn't get a decent graph or sensible report generated.

We have approached it from every conceivable angle and still I cannot convey anything remotely usable for decision making. Do we stay open on weekends during break? Do we need a student at the desk at opening? Should we staff the lab on weekends? All vital questions especially in an economically tight environment. I want to make the best use of our resources as I can. Should we move to a database model? Is there some way to dig into this raw data better?

Finally, we called in an expert. One of the faculty known for his adeptness with polls and data usage agreed to meet with us. We lay our spreadsheets out and a list of the questions we were needing to address and sat back. He looked over what we were doing and made a few suggestions of carrying what we had already set up a step or two farther.

Then he sat back. "I'm impressed," he said. "I had no idea the Library was doing this. It's a great idea. You are certainly on the right track. I would be happy to work with you until you get what you want." He nodded approvingly.

Good! Maybe, just maybe, we can make some sense out of those darn stats. I'll be the first to admit that I am not gifted in this area. I am grateful that others are and that they are willing to help.

Voice Lesson

How do you make a frog sing like an opera star? That's what my voice teacher must be thinking! I have never had the timbre of a pleasant voice, have always tried to control what comes out of my mouth so that I am at least singing the right pitch. Stems from not being able to match pitch when I was a girl. My music teacher used to give me large posters and props to hold in front of my face to cover up my off pitch singing - and I loved singing so much that I was really LOUD!

If ever I am to be free of such inhibitions, I must let go of the past and of my fears and learn to sing with gusto once again. It is not easy to unlearn a lifetime of habitual control. My teacher is very patient. He designs great exercises to help me free up my voice and connect it to my body.

I spend half my lesson sighing and whooo-ing and nggggg ing and pretending to be on a roller coaster. This week for the first time I was able to get the sound I want. My teacher's jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide and he pointed his finger at me excitedly and kept saying "Wow! Wow! That's it!"

It felt good. I could sense the sound resonating in my head in a way I have never felt before. And it had Power. Strength without being screaming. Solid resonance. As my teacher says, flooded with sound. Its exciting to think that I will be able to learn how to get to that sound right away and sustain it for an entire song.

Of course, as soon as I went to a song and tried to put words on the stream of sound, I lost it. But not to worry. My teacher assures me it will come. Now that we know what my instrument is capable of, we can work on things. Sometimes you CAN teach an old dog a few new things.

Retreat

What an odd word, so packed with connotations. Militarily, it can mean a momentary withdrawing from the battle. Verbally, it refers to a repetition of something pleasant - to be treated again. Every year the Seminary holds its annual retreat as a time for the entire community to gather together in a place aside from life's hurry scurry and engage in an intentional look at how we are doing in life. It encompasses both meanings - a withdrawing and a treat to be enjoyed again.

They follow a three year cycle, focusing on Intimacy with God the first year, Intimacy with Self the second year, Intimacy with Others the third year. This year we explored intimacy (in-to-me-see) with others, learning to be caring and loving even to the uncaring and hateful. Our speaker, Susan Muto, wove into her meditations the words of Scripture, ancient writers, modern writers in a seamless fabric of thoughtful insights. We heard from the hearts of, among others, Therese of Lisieux, Adrian van Kaam, Luke, Matthew, John, Mark, and Dag Hammarskjold.

Built into the program were intentional times of silence. We were not to speak to others, but to find a quiet place to simply be silent, to meditate on what we were hearing, to listen to God. It all sounds very serious and studious. Coupled with the agenda was the location - the Salvation Army Camp is located in a remote and natural setting on the shores of Lake Geneva. The "dorms" are really barracks, and there is a certain element of communal 'roughing it' built in.

What was it really, underneath all the planning and contriving and intention? Did we experience a treat? A respite from life's pressures? For many, adding one more activity into an already overcrowded schedule was no treat. The additional hours of planning and working ahead to stay on top of papers and family responsibilities was daunting. The inconveniences and discomforts of lumpy squeaky beds and cold rooms caused aches and pains and sleep deprivation although we certainly got to know each other better!

Two threads ran through the fabric of the weekend. One was an encouragement to find God in every task of life, no matter how demeaning or disgusting it might be. Those who saw through God's eyes and took the higher road accomplished much worth noting, showing us how to care for others at the deepest level. Such was Therese. Her motto could have been "It's not about me."

The second aspect was about how counter cultural it is to live for Christ. Not being focused on one's self flies in the face of the American lifestyle. How far short of the mark I fall! I spend too much energy drawing lines in the proverbial sand so that I do not get taken advantage of. I had a friend who once told me that no one is able to love perfectly, so we might as well be truthful about what we can tolerate. No one but Jesus can love perfectly and we are not Jesus, so don't even try to love the horrible.

Which is true - except that we can learn to let Jesus love through us, doing what we cannot do on our own as we let him work. And THAT is far from easy. I have come to the conclusion that it is important to step aside on a regular basis and take your spiritual pulse. You have to see if you are still on the right path. The treat was seeing the standard clearly identified, seeing that there have been those who have progressed farther down that road than I, knowing that its still possible to be more like Christ. Much to think about.

In Memoriam Michael Paul

He would have been thirty years old today, my second born, had he lived. These days I don't think about him as often as I used to. But on his birthday and deathday, I am always aware of him, remembering his sunny smile, his thick dark hair, his boisterous voice, his zest for life. And whenever I am in Ballston Spa, my mind automatically gravitates toward Powell-Wiswall Cemetery and the rose granite marker with the little lamb on it, marking his resting place near the statue of the angel.


He should have been born in early November of 1978, before the Thanksgiving rush. In typical stubborn fashion, he refused to enter the world without coercion. I had gone so long past my projected due date that the doctors decided to give a little help, and so it was that on December 6 I found myself in a room at the hospital huffing and puffing into a paper bag trying to make this child be born!

There was no way I could have known what lay ahead for him, the pain and illness he would endure. I only knew that when at long last I held him in my arms, I loved him dearly and completely. From the very beginning, things were bumpy. He weighed a hefty nine pounds and I had undergone a C-section after hours of hard labor, so I couldn't lift him easily. He didn't nurse well and cried agonizingly for long stretches.

Somehow we survived his baby days until the big meltdown when he was two. We almost lost him then. Had I not been gruff with the doctor, we would not have been in the hospital when his little heart gave out the first time. Despite their best efforts it was days before he came out of the coma and weeks before we knew if he would survive. We spent endless hours at Albany Medical Center running test after test trying to discover what was wrong, watching him repeatedly plunge to the brink of death only to improve and seem fine. At last they decided he had Addison's disease, and we struggled to understand the implications of caring for him. There would be no cure. Only a downward spiral to extinction.

Frantic to make it better, we investigated every possible (and quiet a few impossible) treatments, alternative medicines, faith healing, light therapy, herbs, chiropractics, acupuncture - you name it and we look into it, searching for that miracle cure. I left no stone unturned. Some things helped and we continued them. Other stuff was sheer quackery and we let go of it. I was desperate enough to follow every lead.

And we did make some progress. The quality of his life was not as dire as the doctors predicted. He never went blind or evidenced mental retardation. He didn't die at the age of four or five. But he never got better either. In the end, though we had ten delightful years with him, one frozen morning in January of 1987 we lost him. It is a day I will not forget, a haze of freezing rain, ambulances, our pastors being with us at the hospital, the wrenching truth of sitting by the body watching him so still, so unmoving.

The first year I was adrift, unsure of so much, in shock. As I sorted through a maze of emotions, figuring out how to grieve, how to deal with life, I would sometimes hug his favorite stuffed animal, hungry for his scent, missing his sunny smile, his endearing way of looking out of the corner of his eyes. Sometimes for a brief moment, I almost thought I could sense his presence though of course I knew he was not really there. I was surprised by how many people in our apartment complex (many of them retired or living alone) came to tell me how Michael used to help them by taking out their garbage for them or walking their dogs or just checking in with them and chatting. I had no idea he was doing that.

As time flowed forward, the grief softened, the tears flowed less frequently. I stopped imagining that I glimpsed him in the grocery store or at the playground, stopped thinking I had heard his voice calling me, stopped berating myself for not having done enough to save him. I never asked the "why" question - it seemed irrelevant to me. I didn't need to ask the "where are you, God" question because I felt His presence with me continually in very tangible ways.

Looking back, if I had known then what I know now, I would have spent a whole lot less time trying to find a cure and a whole lot more time playing with Michael, reading to him (although I did quite a bit of that), taking him to the park every sunny day instead of from time to time. I would have greedily gobbled up as many moments with him as I could without driving him crazy. But I didn't know then that it's senseless to try so desperately to hang on to life.

I shall see Michael again, all in good time. I am in no hurry. But today, twenty years after his passing, I can celebrate his life with joy, remember his zest for living, learn from his good heartedness. Here's to you, Michael. You accomplished much in your short life. I hope I can do as well at caring for those around me and at just plain enjoying life. I love you much and I miss you. Mom

Black Ice and Grace

I sat at the Reference Desk watching the clock tick down to the magic 5 o'clock hour. Friday night, and I was headed to the all Seminary retreat at the Salvation Army camp in Penn Yan, about an hour away. It was my good fortune to carpool with a classmate - I hate driving, especially at night, especially in snow, and at five it was lightly coming down in big flakes, turning the parking lot into a Currier and Ives scene.

We chatted as we drove east on the Thruway to exit 42, swapping life stories and laughing at our escapades. Once we got off the Thruway, we were supposed to head South towards Lyons. Unfortunately, the sign for Lyons pointed to the left, but 14 south pointed to the right. Confused and in the wrong lane, we took the left turn and drove several miles before we decided we were going the wrong way. At that point, we stopped for dinner since the camp would not offer a meal until Saturday.

The lines were long, and my friend was concerned at how late it was getting. We were definitely not going to make the 7pm registration deadline. There was no help for it. We got our food, scarfed it down, and headed back in the direction we had come. The snow had stopped for the most part, and the roads were pretty much bare. Since we had never been to Penn Yan before, we had to keep slowing down at intersections to read the names of the street, looking for the left turn indicated on the directions.

We had been at it for about twenty minutes when we saw the blinking yellow light ahead. Thinking this might be the turn, my friend touched the brakes. Suddenly we found ourselves sliding out of control. It happened so fast we barely had time to react. Even though the road was covered in salt, it did little good in preventing us from sliding on the black ice beneath. She steered in the direction of the end of the vehicle, fishtailing all over the road. For a brief moment, I thought we were going to end up in the ditch backwards. It was almost as if time were passing in slow motion. I remember thinking that if we hit dry pavement at this speed, we would flip the car altogether. Just as quickly as we began sliding, the car came to a standstill crosswise in the middle of the road.

There were no cars coming, thank God. We would have wiped out for sure. There was one car approaching the intersection, but as soon as he saw us sliding, he stopped and waited to see what would happen. I looked at her, and she looked at me. We were unhurt. The car was not damaged in any way. "Are you OK?" I asked.

"I'm not breathing yet," she answered. But we couldn't stay in the middle of the road, so she slowly righted the vehicle and crept through the intersection, shaken. She held it together though. We found our turn, dismayed to find that we were headed down a winding unlit country lane - I joked that it looked like we were descending into hell. She didn't find it humorous, but then, she was driving.

Later we found out that a half hour before we reached that intersection there had been two bad accidents there - before the salt trucks had covered the black ice. One was so bad the emergency crews had to use the jaws of life to extricate a driver. The other van had overturned and rolled into the ditch. It was just the grace of God we got confused about the direction to go or we might have been one of those accidents they were talking about.

Fowl Afield

The corn fields along Buffalo Road have been harvested, the yellowed stalks with their full unhusked ears of corn intact, safely tucked in a silo somewhere to sustain cows over the long cold winter. All that remains of the bountiful harvest is the short stubble of the stalks and brittle strips of long skinny leaves lying along the rich brown earth. On cold days, even the snow doesn't hide the chopped-off roots poking their snouts out of the soilbed, sniffing the frigid air.

Today while driving home from work, I glanced at the naked field, missing the lush greenery of summer. Somehow the fields looked a bit different. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The hacked off ends of the corn stalks, yellowed and sharp, the strips of long leaves, the clumps of dirt showing through the snow - everything seemed normal.

The wind was driving a light smattering of snow so hard that it looked like mist streaming sideways. I glanced across the road towards the field on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly, a clump of dirt moved! Then another clump seemed to shake itself. Wait, that's not dirt! Those are geese hunkered down among the stalk ends, their bills tucked under their wings, their bodies black against the haze of flying snow.

As I looked closer, I realized fully half the field was filled with geese squatting down, being still. The corn stalk stubble must provide some protection against the driving wind and snow. THAT's why the fields look different! I wondered at the wisdom of finding shelter in an open field. I suppose it provided a place for them to stay together as a group, and if they got hungry, they could conveniently glean dropped kernels of corn and bugs and such. It also provided a clear line of vision should any predators approach, and a quick unencumbered get away.

The field itself was surrounded by stands of trees and buildings that would block the wind somewhat, and the stalk ends are taller than grass, the visible soil likely warmer than snow covered hills. Why these geese had not yet made it to warmer climates was something of a puzzle. Perhaps they were hanging around to oblige those bent on bagging a Christmas goose. Perhaps their internal clocks were not wound tightly enough.

Whatever the reason, the sight of an entire gaggle of geese blanketing the field, tucked adroitly amongst the leftovers, valiantly striving to stay warm in a mini blizzard made me appreciate my warm car with working heater, my cozy apartment with water filled heating ducts that ping merrily as they warm, the cheerful fireplaces at work that quickly thaw my frozen fingers and toes.

How fortunate I am to be comfortably warm on a snowy day! May I be mindful of those who have to be clever about how to stay warm or work hard to maintain an even temperature, and may I lend a hand where I can.

Caught in the Act

What a glorious day. The temperatures were mild, the sky was blue, and I was headed for the Y to work out. I turned on the radio and was pleased to find some Christmas carols. They matched my happy mood entirely. I started singing along as I made my way up Long Pond Road, past the Greece Ridge Mall. The area is mostly residential and the speed limit is 35 nearly all the way.

I guess lots of people were light hearted because of the weather because the traffic was heavy. I kept changing lanes to avoid cars turning or going a poky 20 mph. Joy to the World came on the radio, and I let loose. The orchestra had a jazzy version going, and I was at full volume when I spotted the whirling red lights in my rear view mirror.

Jolted with surprise, I glanced at my speedometer. 50! Yikes. I looked for a good place to pull over and took the next right into a church parking lot about a block from the Y. Phooey. He had me dead to rights. I unhooked my seat belt and dug for my driver's license and car registration, then opened my window.

After a few minutes, an officer approached the car. "Good morning, Ma'am."

"Good morning, Officer."

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

I hung my head. "Yes. I was speeding."

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Well, when I saw your lights, I looked down and was doing 50."

He snorted a bit. Uh-oh. "Well, you were doing 57 when you passed me."

"Oh, dear."

"Where are you headed?"

I pointed down the street. "To the Y."

"Planning to work out a bit?"

"Yes, sir."

"Late for class? That why you were going so fast?"

"No. Its just that they were playing Joy to the World on the radio, and it was kind of zippy. I was singing along and I guess I wasn't paying much attention."

"I see." His eyebrows went straight up and he was trying to suppress a laugh. He made a wry face and handed me back my license and registration. I think he was biting his tongue. "Well, do you think you can slow down now?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK. You can go. Try not to sing and drive."

"Thank you!" I couldn't believe it! He had me dead to rights, and he was letting me off the hook. Man, was I grateful for his mercy. His shoulders were shaking as he walked back to his car. He must have thought I was crazy. I am constantly having problems with mixing music and driving. Good thing the Y is only a block away.

The President's Reception

I first met John at Pearce Memorial Church before he was the President of Roberts and Northeastern. He is a tall, serious man, well disciplined, personable and focused. I know his wife better since I have taken Bible studies with her. She, like me, has lost a child and I connect with her on many levels. She worked at Pearce in the office when I was working with the choirs there.

They had invited the students, staff and faculty of Northeastern Seminary to their home for a holiday reception. I have been to the presidential house on a few occasions, always appreciating the spacious architecture and the historic pictures of the founding fathers and mothers. I strapped on my ergonomic backpack and headed down the hill towards Buffalo Road as soon as work was done. Several of my classmates were knocking at the door as I crossed the busy road and ascended the steep hill of the mansion. John himself greeted us at the door and took our coats.

Catherine helped us with name tags and introductions. They must do a great deal of entertaining, and they are the consummate hosts. We were invited to fill a plate with a sandwich, some raw veggies and a generous piece of delicious pumpkin roll that the dining commons is well known for. Pungent moist pumpkin bread wrapped around a delicate cream cheese filling and decorated with whipped cream and spices. You can gain weight just looking at it. Coffee and tea stations were at the far end of the dining room, soda and water on ice at the table nearest the living room.

We perched on the overstuffed white couch and chairs, balancing a dining hall tray and making polite conversation. John was interested to know from us what we liked best about the program, why we had chosen Northeastern, how it was working. Interesting conversation. But it became riveting when John invited one of the faculty members to share a bit about his early teenage years. We were fascinated as he recounted his parents' decision to purchase a small hotel in Florida and relocate their family from Michigan.

His tale regaled us and suddenly we were more than students behaving ourselves at the big house. We were friends sharing common experiences, laughing at our fears and our reactions, sympathizing with our pain and trials. Time fled as we gathered over bread on a chilly December evening, connecting in ways that will not soon be forgotten. It was an engaging event, so much more than just a reception or a holiday celebration. It was fellowship at its best, all vestiges of class removed, everyone belonging, sharing, offering their own experiences, being accepted. A family moment indeed.

Tai Chi

My friend in Illinois once did some Tai Chi and had encouraged me to try it. I have wanted to for awhile, but the opportunity just never came up. The Y offers a class on Monday evening, the same night the boys play soccer at Pearce. I have been trying to go for weeks, but somehow when Monday night rolls around, there is always something that keeps me from going.

Tonight I was determined to go come hell or high water. I needed to do another round in the Gulik Gym anyway since I will miss Saturday due to the all-seminary retreat, and they have a session from 7 to 9. The beginner Tai Chi was from 8:30 to 9:45. Good. I could drop the boys at soccer at 7 and squeeze both things in.

I was the only one in the Gulik Gym, the first time I have come without there being at least a half room of people. The instructor greeted me and walked around ahead of me disinfecting all the machines. She was playing oldies music which I liked, so the time passed quickly. I have managed to finally work my way up to three, and I could feel the burn (OK, so most of the 70 year olds do 8 or 9, big deal).

Afterwards I had a few minutes to wait, so I pulled out Catherine of Siena's Dialogue:The Bridge, which I am analyzing for my final paper in seminary. People must have thought it strange, but I have always been able to tune out surrounding hubbub and concentrate fairly well in noisy environments.

8:30 finally arrived and I headed upstairs to the Aerobics Center. People were finishing a Yoga class (I am happy not to be in that! They had all the lights off and were lying on the floor moaning. Hum). I hung my coat and perched on the couch waiting for the next class. At last the Yoga class ended. There was general confusion for about ten minutes as people gathered up their mats and belongings, got a drink and chatted before exiting the space.

After everyone had left, there were only five of us and the instructor. He introduced himself and invited me to do as much as I was comfortable doing or even to observe if I didn't want to participate right away. The breathing exercises went well and I had no trouble following the others' movements. Then they did the first portion of the movements. I mirrored as best I could, sometimes getting twisted backwards, sometimes finding myself on the wrong foot, but OK, it wasn't hard.

Then we broke up into small groups (yes, even smaller) and the instructor sent the more advanced students off to work together while he walked us through the movements. I had no idea that Tai Chi was really a martial art. I thought it was just a way to limber up and get yourself moving with some modicum of grace. Especially good for old and sick people. Which is sort of what it has become in America.

The story the instructor told was that in China, the peasant was not allowed to own a weapon or to fight against the soldiers. They were not even to practice fighting techniques like karate. This left him protectionless against the town bully. So while they were working in the fields, they developed moves that would counter attacks while looking like a dance or an exercise.

Every motion we made - the pickle barrel, the cobra, the whip, the dog paws - each was intended to either thwart an aggressive move of an attacker or fake them out so you could catch them off balance. Suddenly all those graceful dance-like motions took on a whole new significance. The instructor was not being picky about the position of your hand or foot, but was telling you that if you put your weight in the right places and move in certain ways, then you can out maneuver an assailant twice your size! Indeed. Interesting. And I could already feel some stiffness in my ribs from twisting and turning.

While I don't see myself becoming a dedicated follower, I would like to do some more of the movements - not to become an expert at fighting, but because I still find the movements beneficial for deep breathing and grace. Ah, well. Another bubble burst.

Bach in the Freezing Rain

One ought to listen to Bach's music in the cozy comfort of your home - an intimate setting with a small chamber ensemble, an overstuffed chair big enough to put your feet up, a warm beverage, tons of friends, and plenty of time to enjoy the delicately embroidered runs, the amazing richness of fugues, the unexpected harmonies.

But I had none of that. I found myself driving to the post office to mail a Christmas card to my darling granddaughters after dropping Drew off at the library so he could work on papers due tomorrow. The roads weren't too bad yet, the driving rain so cold it hit the windshield hard and skittered off leaving frozen ruts at the edge of the window.

The mailbox was coated in a thick layer of ice, and the sidewalks were treacherous. I popped the card in the slot and scooted quickly back to the warmth of the car just as the announcer introduced the Bach cantata "Nun Komm der Heiden Heiland" - a cantata I conducted when I was in Illinois for an Advent event and have become fond of.

Yes, I was fortunate to have worked with excellent musicians for the cantata - many students from the university, a bit of budget to pay them, good scores to work with, and a kind friend to consult when I was stuck about how to do something musically. I'm sure it was no big deal to them, but for me, the joy of conducting Bach - of standing right in front of the small string ensemble, the wash of sound - was pure amazement. I can't wait for another opportunity to do it again.

I briefly realized that to listen to the cantata meant sitting in the car with the motor running for a half hour or so (gas dollars went flying through my head), but I knew if I let the moment pass, I would not have the opportunity again for some time. So I pushed the seat as far back as it went, turned up the radio, and jumped in with both ears.

It was a bit eerie parked in an empty post office lot in the downpouring rain watching everything slowly freeze over, but my awareness of the surroundings lasted a brief moment. Almost as soon as the music began, the score floated before my eyes - yes, the opening so slow and filled with longing that you had to conduct every beat twice. I could nearly see the Gothic architecture of the sanctuary, the vast blue velvet curtains, the rose window. Even that faded as the music wrapped itself around my head, taking me along such intricate and pleasant paths, winding and twisting with yearning for the coming of the savior. Come NOW, savior of the nations! COME.
I lifted my voice with theirs, transcending time and place, praying the prayer of advent we still raise to God. Come with your peace and your joy. End the pain, the suffering, the sadness, the cruelty, the hunger and thirst, the wars. Come, Savior.

As the last strains faded and the announcer reiterated the name of the piece, I turned off the radio and sat a few more minutes, listening to the rain plaster everything, thankful to be warm and rested and blessed. I love Advent. I love Bach's music. I even love the rain.

The Advent Wreath

I didn't grow up with the tradition of the Advent wreath in my house. At church, yes. But not one in my home. We started doing it as a family after Michael died. I'm not sure quite why the boys wanted to bring this tradition to our dining room table, but who am I to discourage a desire to connect with things divine? So we began.

Over the years, we have changed the look of the wreath we use - now we find a fresh pine wreath with natural decorations - pinecones and berries and such - and one ribbon, usually red. I have both a silver circular four-candle holder and four separate glass candle holders and we seem to alternate which set we use. This year, it is the four separate glass holders and two pink and two purple tall tapers which we get from Wegmans. They are thick and a bit on the rustic side, speaking of things ancient and homespun. The tapers are bought every year, but the white pillar candle for the middle is the same candle I have been using practically since we started the tradition.

Sunday after church, we gather by the wreath, read a small devotional reflection about the candle we are lighting, then light however many candles the week calls for. Afterwards, we eat dinner and watch a movie while the candles quietly flicker on the coffee table or entertainment center top. This year, we set the wreath on the kitchen table where it takes up the whole back half of the table. I will have to pull out the drop down leaf to make room for eating there.

The pine smell of the fresh wreath lends a festive atmosphere to our whole apartment. The candles point us to the heavens and direct our thoughts to the One who made the season happen. The readings, while short and read hurriedly (after all, hungry boys are hungry!), seem to be meaningful to the boys, touching something deep inside. The differing lengths of the candles, showing for how many weeks each one had been lighted and waiting, emphasizes the intergenerational aspect of our family.

Its just a small gesture in the overall scheme of Christmas madness. But it marks time in a significant way, reminding us that we are still waiting for the final answer, and it may take some time to happen. I don't know if you do a family Advent wreath, but if not, I would encourage you to start. It might surprise you how deep the tradition runs.

Black Friday

I never shop on Black Friday. I hate crowds, rudeness, short tempers, and long lines. I can't imagine getting up at 4am to catch a bargain, especially the ones advertised on TV (get a $1289 ring for only $499!). I guess my modest $30 per person isn't in vogue this year. I keep asking the boys what they want for Christmas only to hear a list of hundred dollar items spieled off. "Nope," I shake my head. "Too expensive. Try again. I need a list of things I might actually afford."

In spite of my decision, I found myself sucked into the game. Drew had broken his glasses a few weeks back, and I had promised to get him a new pair on Black Friday. I figured there would be no competition, and I was right. The place was completely empty when we arrived. A few people wandered in after us, but we had no real wait time except for while they checked to see what our insurance would cover.

After the eye exam and his conversation to select the frames, we had an hour to kill while they assembled his new glasses. And I had a couple of coupons. So we meandered over to the craft store to see what we could find. Every year I select someone and send them little gifts that I think they will enjoy - do a 12 days of Christmas. I started the year my Mom was sick and having a hard time getting back to square one, the year after her Mother passed away. Mom is easy to shop for - I've known her all my life and her tastes haven't changed much.

She liked it! The next year I found someone who was down in the dumps and tried my hand at finding stuff to please someone I didn't know as well, but with whom I had worked enough to have some sense of what their interests and taste were like. A well received gesture once again. And I have kept it going every year. Its not hard to find someone struggling with life's difficulties. Its harder to decide which person to select.

This year, I decided to lighten up a bit and encourage my daughter-in-law via her girls, my darling granddaughters. This will be the first Christmas since her Mom passed away from cancer and I suspect it will not be easy. I had already done a 12 days for her previously, so I decided that sending cards every day from Dec 1 until Dec 24 would give them all something to look forward to, a small bright spot in otherwise long and tedious days.

In each card, I wanted to tuck some little thing that would bring a smile to their faces - a few stickers, a piece of candy, a magnet etc. So we scoured the craft store for ideas and found quite a few things. It was fun! But then we got the bright idea to go to another store. Big mistake. We entered and exited and beat it back to the glasses place. I KNEW there was a reason I don't shop on Black Friday. Still, at least I got a head start on this year's project. Maybe the day wasn't totally black after all.

Thanksgiving Dinner

Drew was going to cook! Oh, boy. I had visions of leisurely lolling about while great smells emanated from the kitchen. After all, every one of my boys can cook, especially Mark. OK, so a turkey will be a new experience for Drew, but I can look over his shoulder and advise.

Mom always cooked the turkey in our house when I was growing up. She would rise at the crack of pre-dawn to stuff a huge 20+ pounder, and tuck it snugly into the oven while she proceeded to peel potatoes and squash, cut celery stalks, open jars of olives and pickles and cranberry sauce. It seemed so effortless.

Gram and Gramp would arrive around ten and the men and kids would sit in the living room chatting or watching the Macy's Parade on TV while the women bustled about the kitchen fussing over places settings and V-8 juice and oyster casserole. The sideboard was crammed full of nibbling foods - nuts, figs, dates, dried fruit, mints, grapes - enough to keep you going until the meal proper was ready.

That's the vision I had in my head when I awoke at 5:30am and thought about waking Drew to stuff the turkey. He would never go for getting up so early, and we did have a brown-in bag which reduces the cooking time, so I rolled over and shut my eyes, happy with thoughts of Thanksgivings past.

I briefly considered rousing Drew at 6, 6:30 and 7:30 and finally at 8:30am, I could wait no longer. After all, half the day was gone already. I opened his bedroom door and softly called his name. No response. I reached over and touched his shoulder. He grunted and pulled the covers over his head. I finally yelled for him to get up and exited the room, hoping he would actually be motivated enough to come to the kitchen and help. One way or the other, we had to get that bird in the oven!

I had pulled the mostly thawed turkey from the fridge and was cutting the package open when Drew stumbled into the kitchen. I handed him the stuffing package and told him to follow the directions. It took him awhile to figure out how to do it, but when it was done, he looked at me questioningly. "OK," I said, "Now scoop the stuffing into the turkey." Seemed reasonable to me.

His eyes opened wide and he almost dropped the pan of stuffing. "I am NOT putting my hand inside a turkey. No way." He was dead serious. "OK, then use the spoon to scoop it in." "NO!" Good grief, kid. I showed him how to poke the dressing into the hollow between the legs. He adamantly refused to do it, and furthermore announced that he was definitely NOT going to eat anything that had been inside a dead bird.

"Fine. You can make up more stuffing later. Right now I need you to get the potatoes going while I see if the parade has started." I looked around. Drew was gone, nowhere in sight. Drew? Drew? He was safely back in his bedroom with the covers pulled over his head. So much for Drew doing any cooking! I finished making the meal myself, stepping into the living room to catch bits of the parade. Somehow it wasn't quite the same as the Thanksgivings of my childhood. For one brief moment I thought perhaps I should have bought a few tangerines or figs, but the feeling passed since I can't eat tangerines and I don't really care for dried figs all that much.

When at last the meal was ready and the table all set with candles and flowers, it was all I could do to coax Drew out of his bedroom at noon. He pretty much wanted to sleep the day away and he wasn't particularly grateful for being dragged out of bed because his Mom had some silly idea about eating together.

Once we got over the grumpies and started talking, things got better, and by the time we got to the apple pie (compliments of Wegmans - I'm not enough of a pie fan to make them anymore), it was actually a pleasant experience. Drew did manage to choke down a bite of turkey-ized stuffing, though he left the rest on his plate untouched. It was an education, alright. Just not the one I thought we were doing.