9pm. I wearily head into the tunnels for a voice lesson clutching my sheet music, a sharp pencil, a bottle of water. I am too tired to think about singing. Too tired of writing papers, reading, cooped up in a tiny dark room like a monk in a cloister, forcing squiggly black lines to reveal the secrets of the universe, the meaning of life. My brain hurts from trying to connect the dots, to put all the pieces in their proper place. There is no help for it - I got last choice of time slot, and I only get 7 lessons. I dare not miss a single one, tired or no.
I stop at the ladies room under the chapel and sit on the couch a few minutes listening to the organ (is it ever silent these days?). I wander further towards the choral room where some student before me struggles with vowel sounds and vocalise and texts that won't quite behave itself. I still have ten minutes. I do not wish to deprive anyone of their fair share of expertise.
I wander down the hallway towards the administration offices and the front of the building that overlooks the lake. Perhaps I can still catch a glimpse in the fading daylight. I have no particular expectations, just ten minutes to 'kill' and I prefer not to stand looking at a blank wall (OK, so its a peculiar mosaic of odd symbols with no particular significance to me and I prefer not to puzzle over more mystery).
Because of a low hanging ceiling and a few pillars and posts, you can't actually see out the front windows until you are nearly upon them. So it wasn't until I was dead center that I saw the lake. It sat where it always does, stately and peaceful, quietly reflecting the last rosy rays of the sun into a pinkish sky without fanfare. A few birds darted about, swooping after mosquitoes and other unfortunate critters.
I followed one of them as it zoomed past the window, and suddenly I saw it - a bright yellow orb of a full moon glowing boldly in sharp relief against the fading sky just off to the right of the windows. It was breathtaking! Suddenly I felt as if I could breathe again. I pulled a chair up to the window and sat there, taking in the peace of the scene.
Absent mindedly, I dangled my hand over the side of the chair and touched a colorful begonia plant sitting there. I have passed that plant a dozen times before, and I always thought it was plastic - fake - too perfect to be real. To my utter joy and delight I discovered that it is real! In fact the waxy perfection was beginning to drop a few petals. I scooped up a few and slid them between my fingers. They felt smooth and soft. And almost as pink as the sky.
Inhale. Exhale. Yes, this is much better. Ten minutes flew by, well spent. This is more like it! And what a perfect prelude to the song I am working on tonight - DeBussy's Claire de Lune. I bet you didn't know there are words for that dreamy music! I discovered a women's choral setting for it at the music library in Urbana. The text reads:
Shining bright, moonlight -
a picture rare you paint at night,
no one can ever ever know life's real beauty
who has not seen that lovliness is your duty.
Shining, bright moonlight
when the sun sets
you give us light
you show so clearly the road that's dreary.
I feel that life and love have met in fond caress.
I know that only love could this vision express.
only love divine could cast a perfect spell
only God's strong arm could guard his children well.
I gaze in wonder and know that no harm could come from high above.
Trees swaying, winds playing with delight floats the sweet scented air.
woods mystic make music - songs can still the thunder,
soft laughter comes after storms of deep sorrow.
hailing the new day with happy hearts strength returning
facing the rising sun yearning.
Twas only night with its magic moonbeams, softly the world dreams
while mortals sleep God his watch will keep,
Shining bright moonlight, you put to shame the sun so bright
Shimmering silver pouring through space eternal,
lighting earth's darkness with a spirit maternal,
Shining bright moonlight, I saw heaven through the night.
I saw angels bathe in silver, I saw God smile.
Moonlight fades, farewell fading moonlight!!!
My lesson was energized, I learned so much about how to make this song be what it should, how to create light and space vocally. I can't wait to take it back to PrayerSong! I highly recommend you put on a recording of DeBussy's Claire de Lune, settle into a comfortable nook, read through these words, and just lie back and dream. Such a glorious way to fill your mind with comforting thoughts of God's greatness, His protection, His provision. Do enjoy!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The Labyrinth
I first saw the labyrinth near the Carle Clinic was when I was a new conductor for Amasong. We were asked to sing at the dedication, and a group of us stood near the newly constructed circle, sans most plants, and sang Deep Peace. It was exciting to be present at the "unveiling" so to speak.
Later, after I found I had cancer, I was too ill to go there, and anyway most of that happened in the fall and winter months. I often thought how nice it would be to just go and sit in the warm sun and enjoy the newly growing flowers and greenery. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of it from a window.
When I was feeling somewhat better and figuring out how to put my life back to some sort of sense, I went there with a friend or two and actually walked the twisting pathway to the center and back while we talked about stuff serious and silly.
But this weekend was the first time I visited alone. I parked in the employee lot between two huge RVs (some sort of dog show), locked the car, and headed down the sidewalk towards where the labyrinth lay baking in the sun. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but I felt irresistibly drawn there, almost like the inexplicable pull I felt to visit my son's grave for the first few years after he died, even though I knew he was not there in the cemetery. What was drawing me to this place, I wondered. As with the first time I entered the funeral home for my son's wake, I could not bring myself to go directly to the labyrinth itself, but wandered around the flower gardens a bit before I started the task of entering the tan and gray stone circle.
There wasn't much to set this space apart from the rest of the place. Some waist high grass and plants bordered the spot, that's about it. You could see in the distance two guys taking a break from work, sitting on a picnic table smoking and laughing about something. Two kids were throwing a frisbee around, and a golden retriever was barking furiously at them. Several nurses walked past on the sidewalk, headed for their shift. For a sacred space, it sure wasn't quiet. The sounds of normal life intruded thoughtlessly on any reflection you might want to have. I'm sure those people wondered what on earth I was doing wandering back and forth in the same spot over and over!
Despite the distractions, I managed to keep on task, to resist the urge to just walk directly to the center as if that were the point. Get there, get back out, yes? No. It is in the journey, in the connection between the physical movement, at once constrained and structured, and the mental pathway, the tie between the smallness of the space around me and the largeness of my life stretching behind and before me. Yes, before me. A future. Perhaps even a long one, dare we so hope.
This walking, this discipline, this prearranged shuttling back and forth somehow transcends the limitation of time, suspends the immediate for the moment longed for, makes you think thoughts outside of your normal routine. Suddenly, there are no boys playing, no employees talking, no dogs barking. Suddenly there is you and your thoughts and thoughts that are beyond yourself. I found my mind moving in places new, inviting me to move up a realm or two, think bigger.
I walked to the center, but not stopping there as is my wont. I kept moving through the space, around the inner edge and back to the same path I had just traversed, only different. The orientation changed, the view, the perspective. It is not the same journey from the center as to it. It is not the same journey after cancer as before it. Not better. Not worse. Different.
I exited the stone circle and walked directly back to my car and on to other things, very aware of a new space inside to explore. Can you grow up more when you are older? Perhaps.
Later, after I found I had cancer, I was too ill to go there, and anyway most of that happened in the fall and winter months. I often thought how nice it would be to just go and sit in the warm sun and enjoy the newly growing flowers and greenery. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of it from a window.
When I was feeling somewhat better and figuring out how to put my life back to some sort of sense, I went there with a friend or two and actually walked the twisting pathway to the center and back while we talked about stuff serious and silly.
But this weekend was the first time I visited alone. I parked in the employee lot between two huge RVs (some sort of dog show), locked the car, and headed down the sidewalk towards where the labyrinth lay baking in the sun. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but I felt irresistibly drawn there, almost like the inexplicable pull I felt to visit my son's grave for the first few years after he died, even though I knew he was not there in the cemetery. What was drawing me to this place, I wondered. As with the first time I entered the funeral home for my son's wake, I could not bring myself to go directly to the labyrinth itself, but wandered around the flower gardens a bit before I started the task of entering the tan and gray stone circle.
There wasn't much to set this space apart from the rest of the place. Some waist high grass and plants bordered the spot, that's about it. You could see in the distance two guys taking a break from work, sitting on a picnic table smoking and laughing about something. Two kids were throwing a frisbee around, and a golden retriever was barking furiously at them. Several nurses walked past on the sidewalk, headed for their shift. For a sacred space, it sure wasn't quiet. The sounds of normal life intruded thoughtlessly on any reflection you might want to have. I'm sure those people wondered what on earth I was doing wandering back and forth in the same spot over and over!
Despite the distractions, I managed to keep on task, to resist the urge to just walk directly to the center as if that were the point. Get there, get back out, yes? No. It is in the journey, in the connection between the physical movement, at once constrained and structured, and the mental pathway, the tie between the smallness of the space around me and the largeness of my life stretching behind and before me. Yes, before me. A future. Perhaps even a long one, dare we so hope.
This walking, this discipline, this prearranged shuttling back and forth somehow transcends the limitation of time, suspends the immediate for the moment longed for, makes you think thoughts outside of your normal routine. Suddenly, there are no boys playing, no employees talking, no dogs barking. Suddenly there is you and your thoughts and thoughts that are beyond yourself. I found my mind moving in places new, inviting me to move up a realm or two, think bigger.
I walked to the center, but not stopping there as is my wont. I kept moving through the space, around the inner edge and back to the same path I had just traversed, only different. The orientation changed, the view, the perspective. It is not the same journey from the center as to it. It is not the same journey after cancer as before it. Not better. Not worse. Different.
I exited the stone circle and walked directly back to my car and on to other things, very aware of a new space inside to explore. Can you grow up more when you are older? Perhaps.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
A Rose by Any Other Name
Outside the atrium of our dorm is a small patio with an abandoned, seldom used grill and a picnic table. Mostly I don't pay much attention to the place. It is just part of my dash from dorm to classroom as I juggle notebooks and water bottles and keyrings. This morning was different. I stepped out the atrium door, headed for the main building. Immediately on the opening of the door, I was greeted with a heady, sweet scent.
I looked about to see where it was coming from, and there, in a raised bed at the far end of the little patio was a small rosebush completely covered in the frosted pink of a hundred open faces. I have seldom seen roses open as wide as these. I hadn't really noticed the bush before. How sad! Though I only had a few minutes before class, I stopped mid-step and turned toward to little bush. As I neared the flowerbed, the fragrance swirled around me, not in an overwhelming or cloying way, but gently, enticingly. The visual beauty was as profound as the fragrance, branches bending under the weight of so many blossoms, swaying gently in the breeze.
I leaned over the pink sea of petals and inhaled, making a mental picture of the lines, the softness, the variation in hue, the contrast of the greenery. Forget pencils. Carry beauty to class with you. Store summer in your memory for the dark days of winter. How gracious of the Creator to provide so rich a repast. I am filled with delight. I tear myself away, whispering a small prayer of thanksgiving. What a way to start your day!
I looked about to see where it was coming from, and there, in a raised bed at the far end of the little patio was a small rosebush completely covered in the frosted pink of a hundred open faces. I have seldom seen roses open as wide as these. I hadn't really noticed the bush before. How sad! Though I only had a few minutes before class, I stopped mid-step and turned toward to little bush. As I neared the flowerbed, the fragrance swirled around me, not in an overwhelming or cloying way, but gently, enticingly. The visual beauty was as profound as the fragrance, branches bending under the weight of so many blossoms, swaying gently in the breeze.
I leaned over the pink sea of petals and inhaled, making a mental picture of the lines, the softness, the variation in hue, the contrast of the greenery. Forget pencils. Carry beauty to class with you. Store summer in your memory for the dark days of winter. How gracious of the Creator to provide so rich a repast. I am filled with delight. I tear myself away, whispering a small prayer of thanksgiving. What a way to start your day!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Roasted Gnats
At night, when the bluff is lighted by those waist-high black metal posts, I saw only the fairyland the light creates. I did not see those posts as deathtraps. But in fact, in the cold light of early morning, as I was taking my walk along the bluff (and trying to avoid the mosquito hoards of early evening - we are all bit to shreds, and one poor student had to go on antibiotics!), I saw another picture.
Every black post has a grillwork near the top that lets the light out. Woven and plastered all over the grillwork are massive spiderwebs, invisible in the darkness of night. To me. To unsuspecting insects, who, irresistibly attracted by the light, fly into the web and are stuck fast. Worse than that, the heat of the lights fries them to a crispy golden brown - the equivalent of spider fast-food, fries and all.
I was horrified to realize that every single light fixture was covered in the carnage. I still shudder thinking of it. And here I thought it was the plethora of birds swooping and darting overhead that were keeping the insect population under control! Too bad it doesn't work on mosquitoes.
Or maybe the traps are just too full. Yes, that must be it. Those clever spiders have caught so much they needn't set anything more aside for winter. What we need is a good housecleaning. Let them respin their webs for the bloodsucking mosquitoes (can you tell I have been here WAAAAY too long?) Maybe I just better get back to reading and finishing assignments.
Every black post has a grillwork near the top that lets the light out. Woven and plastered all over the grillwork are massive spiderwebs, invisible in the darkness of night. To me. To unsuspecting insects, who, irresistibly attracted by the light, fly into the web and are stuck fast. Worse than that, the heat of the lights fries them to a crispy golden brown - the equivalent of spider fast-food, fries and all.
I was horrified to realize that every single light fixture was covered in the carnage. I still shudder thinking of it. And here I thought it was the plethora of birds swooping and darting overhead that were keeping the insect population under control! Too bad it doesn't work on mosquitoes.
Or maybe the traps are just too full. Yes, that must be it. Those clever spiders have caught so much they needn't set anything more aside for winter. What we need is a good housecleaning. Let them respin their webs for the bloodsucking mosquitoes (can you tell I have been here WAAAAY too long?) Maybe I just better get back to reading and finishing assignments.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
In Two Straight Lines
Handbell ringing can be fun. I have taken workshops on and off for several decades, but since I usually direct, I don't get to play much. Hence my angst at trying to regain competence at weaving and marting and fishhooking and all those techniques I am now so rusty at. Our professor is marvelous - he has a real gift of teaching, and his patience is phenomenal. You can tell he loves what he is doing - AND he just graduated from here last year, so he still remembers what it is to be a student. Of course, all our professors are excellent here. Its one of the reasons I keep coming back (that and I want to finish the degree!). Its so much more wonderful to learn things with the church perspective always at the heart of things instead of learning how-to, then figuring out on your own how to apply it to service.
Today we rang a processional written by the organ professor here, Dr. Behnke. Professor Walters had us ring it, then told us to memorize it (just 4 little measures), and look up when we had it. As soon as everyone was comfortable with it, he instructed us to go to the hall outside the chapel. We clattered out of the classroom, through the tunnel, up the stairs and congregated outside the chapel doors where the wooden and the stained glass Jesus bless the hall. Per instructions, we lined up in two columns and stood in order of ringing entrances. I was towards the end of the line, paired with another person ringing my same part.
I felt like Madleine of storybook fame - you known, Ludwig Bemelman's Madleine -
In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines,
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.
They left the house at half past nine,
The smallest one was Madleine.
There we stood in our straight lines, bells in each hand, marching through the hallways of the building, ringing the processional. What am amazing feeling! It was grand. The sound resonated and reverberated and swirled around us until every molecule of air was filled with the joyous vibration. When we finished, we begged to ring it again. It took some convincing, but we rang it all the way back to the classroom and kept ringing until everyone was in place and the professor finally cut us off.
We laughed and chattered happily and it took some time for us to come to enough order to move on to the next piece. I know there are others on campus - the deaconesses, soccer camps, a nursing program, an education course, some business and esl things. I'm sure they wondered what on earth was going on. Or maybe, just maybe, it made them stop and listen and enjoy life a bit before getting back to work.
Today we rang a processional written by the organ professor here, Dr. Behnke. Professor Walters had us ring it, then told us to memorize it (just 4 little measures), and look up when we had it. As soon as everyone was comfortable with it, he instructed us to go to the hall outside the chapel. We clattered out of the classroom, through the tunnel, up the stairs and congregated outside the chapel doors where the wooden and the stained glass Jesus bless the hall. Per instructions, we lined up in two columns and stood in order of ringing entrances. I was towards the end of the line, paired with another person ringing my same part.
I felt like Madleine of storybook fame - you known, Ludwig Bemelman's Madleine -
In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines,
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.
They left the house at half past nine,
The smallest one was Madleine.
There we stood in our straight lines, bells in each hand, marching through the hallways of the building, ringing the processional. What am amazing feeling! It was grand. The sound resonated and reverberated and swirled around us until every molecule of air was filled with the joyous vibration. When we finished, we begged to ring it again. It took some convincing, but we rang it all the way back to the classroom and kept ringing until everyone was in place and the professor finally cut us off.
We laughed and chattered happily and it took some time for us to come to enough order to move on to the next piece. I know there are others on campus - the deaconesses, soccer camps, a nursing program, an education course, some business and esl things. I'm sure they wondered what on earth was going on. Or maybe, just maybe, it made them stop and listen and enjoy life a bit before getting back to work.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Saved by Grace
I felt fine when I got up, threw my bag in the car and started out. I hadn't been on the road a half hour when my body went beserk. I think it was a reaction to yesterday's bug. First I felt a bit weak in the knees. Then my head hurt, then my side, then my throat, then my armpits. My glands all seemed to be in revolt. I was in a quandry as to whether to turn back or press on. I decided to see how it was once I reached Buffalo. If it was too much, I would just have to turn back and figure out how to deal with it all.
One thing I do know is where all the emergency rooms are located in the major (and a few minor) cities. How strange to be concerned with that, but my system is too unpredictable to guess about how far away the next help might be. Especially since I am alone and I can't just curl up in a ball somewhere and let someone else get me there. I used to just worry about where the next rest stop would be. Ah, well. Everyone has something.
By Buffalo, I was neither better nor worse, so I decided to keep going a bit further - perhaps to Pennslyvania and see what might transpire. I turned the air real cool and got iced drinks, thinking that would help the swelling go down (how silly, I know, but it did seem to help). Perhaps it was as much that I was staying hydrated as anything.
I put on a new CD of hymns that I had gotten for the hymnody class. What a wonderful CD it was! It's called HYMNS TRIUMPHANT - you can see it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Hymns-Triumphant-1-Lee-Holdridge/dp/B000063T4J/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1214451554&sr=1-1
At the bottom you can listen to samples. I highly recommend you get it (not you, Mom, I am sending you one!). At first, I was just too ill to sing along, but oh, how I listened and appreciated the familiar hymns and their great messages. Pretty soon I found myself covering people with prayers. The first CD works through the Lord's Prayer with hymns that portray each phrase. They start with Immortal, Invisible - a wonderful combination of the London Philharmonic and National Philharmonic Orchestras and the 100 voice Amen choir.
When they started "Praise to the Lord the Almighty" the words just reached out and touched my heart so much that I started to cry.
Praise to the Lord who o'er all things so wondrously reigneth
shelters thee under his wings, yea, so gently sustaineth!
Ponder anew what the Almighty can do
if with his love he befriend thee.
Well, now. If ever I needed sheltering, this was a good time. I just let the tears flow down my face and clear down into my lap. I pressed repeat and just kept listening and praying and hearing those words until I felt the storm pass. It was so helpful to feel his presence with me in the car, to know that he was taking care of me, that everything would be fine even if I completely fell apart and had to stop at some ER for help.
By now I had reached a third of the way there (Cleveland), and had pretty much passed the turning back point. In two more hours I would be half way. Those hymns were just what I needed. I plunked cold wet towels under my arms (felt like I had a sack of walnuts stuck under there) and turned up the volume.
The next hymn that set me off was Abide With Me.
Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
the darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Well, those tears started again, and I thought about all the sad things I have had to deal with - the death of my son, a difficult marriage, cancer. I just laid them all at Jesus' feet. Then I started thinking about so many friends who have had a hard year and I began bathing them in prayer as well. I prayed for my sister who had a terrible divorce. I just cried over how much pain she went through. I prayed for my friends Bob and Beth who both lost their Moms this year, and I know how much hurt they had. I prayed for Shannon who's Mom just died of cancer, and my friend who just got diagnosed with cancer and the families of my colleagues (three of them) who died of cancer in the past year.
Well, I must have repeated that hymn a hundred times and just kept listening until I finally felt well enough to sing. The weak, yuckies were subsiding, and the coolness of the air conditioning was helping with the swollen puffies and the crying was helping with the "feeling sorry for me's" and suddenly I was an hour from Chicago. There had been only a few rainstorms and pretty smooth sailing. From Chicago I am just an hour and a half away. The traffic was a bit heavy, but that passed.
I gotta tell ya, if you're having a blue day, if you have hit a bump in the road that threw you, if you are battling something not fun, get the CD. Its a heart lifter for sure. I made that drive in a record 12.5 hours even with all the stops and construction. Tired, yes, swollen, yes, but by the grace of God, not under obligation to change my life due to a little bout of cancer. At least, not today.
One thing I do know is where all the emergency rooms are located in the major (and a few minor) cities. How strange to be concerned with that, but my system is too unpredictable to guess about how far away the next help might be. Especially since I am alone and I can't just curl up in a ball somewhere and let someone else get me there. I used to just worry about where the next rest stop would be. Ah, well. Everyone has something.
By Buffalo, I was neither better nor worse, so I decided to keep going a bit further - perhaps to Pennslyvania and see what might transpire. I turned the air real cool and got iced drinks, thinking that would help the swelling go down (how silly, I know, but it did seem to help). Perhaps it was as much that I was staying hydrated as anything.
I put on a new CD of hymns that I had gotten for the hymnody class. What a wonderful CD it was! It's called HYMNS TRIUMPHANT - you can see it here:
http://www.amazon.com/Hymns-Triumphant-1-Lee-Holdridge/dp/B000063T4J/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1214451554&sr=1-1
At the bottom you can listen to samples. I highly recommend you get it (not you, Mom, I am sending you one!). At first, I was just too ill to sing along, but oh, how I listened and appreciated the familiar hymns and their great messages. Pretty soon I found myself covering people with prayers. The first CD works through the Lord's Prayer with hymns that portray each phrase. They start with Immortal, Invisible - a wonderful combination of the London Philharmonic and National Philharmonic Orchestras and the 100 voice Amen choir.
When they started "Praise to the Lord the Almighty" the words just reached out and touched my heart so much that I started to cry.
Praise to the Lord who o'er all things so wondrously reigneth
shelters thee under his wings, yea, so gently sustaineth!
Ponder anew what the Almighty can do
if with his love he befriend thee.
Well, now. If ever I needed sheltering, this was a good time. I just let the tears flow down my face and clear down into my lap. I pressed repeat and just kept listening and praying and hearing those words until I felt the storm pass. It was so helpful to feel his presence with me in the car, to know that he was taking care of me, that everything would be fine even if I completely fell apart and had to stop at some ER for help.
By now I had reached a third of the way there (Cleveland), and had pretty much passed the turning back point. In two more hours I would be half way. Those hymns were just what I needed. I plunked cold wet towels under my arms (felt like I had a sack of walnuts stuck under there) and turned up the volume.
The next hymn that set me off was Abide With Me.
Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
the darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Well, those tears started again, and I thought about all the sad things I have had to deal with - the death of my son, a difficult marriage, cancer. I just laid them all at Jesus' feet. Then I started thinking about so many friends who have had a hard year and I began bathing them in prayer as well. I prayed for my sister who had a terrible divorce. I just cried over how much pain she went through. I prayed for my friends Bob and Beth who both lost their Moms this year, and I know how much hurt they had. I prayed for Shannon who's Mom just died of cancer, and my friend who just got diagnosed with cancer and the families of my colleagues (three of them) who died of cancer in the past year.
Well, I must have repeated that hymn a hundred times and just kept listening until I finally felt well enough to sing. The weak, yuckies were subsiding, and the coolness of the air conditioning was helping with the swollen puffies and the crying was helping with the "feeling sorry for me's" and suddenly I was an hour from Chicago. There had been only a few rainstorms and pretty smooth sailing. From Chicago I am just an hour and a half away. The traffic was a bit heavy, but that passed.
I gotta tell ya, if you're having a blue day, if you have hit a bump in the road that threw you, if you are battling something not fun, get the CD. Its a heart lifter for sure. I made that drive in a record 12.5 hours even with all the stops and construction. Tired, yes, swollen, yes, but by the grace of God, not under obligation to change my life due to a little bout of cancer. At least, not today.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Who Says You Can't Go Home?
So here I am flying back to Rochester for the final seminary class. I feel like a ping-pong ball. Not that I mind. The two classes fit together so nicely - one the history of the nation of Israel straight through to the Church today, the other the history of music in the Bible straight through to today. I couldn't have planned it better if I tried.
It's just that I woke up not feeling well - some stomach bug with a headache thing. At least I am not driving. I can sleep on the planes (of course the one from Milwaukee to Chicago takes longer on the runway than in the air - I think we might have seen fifteen minutes airborn). A couple times I was worried I might need to make an emergency trip to the "water closet" (what else can you call it on a plane?) but the feeling passed. I managed to get a ginger ale when the cart came 'round to settle my stomach.
We landed right at 2, just as schedule, a straightforward and non-cancelled flight, and I did manage to take care of all the little errands I needed to do before class time. When I walked into the room, I have never heard such excitement and buzz. Everyone was so relieved to be done with that monster paper that they were just flying. Good thing, because I needed the energy to keep going, the day having started a bit early.
Then the boys and I went grocery shopping after which we watched a movie. My tummy was happy and grumpy on and off all day. I sure was glad to flop into bed, hoping everything settles down since tomorrow I *am* driving and I would prefer not to do that feeling ill.
So you can go home and pick up right where you left off, paying bills, running errands, taking classes, cleaning house and hugging kids. You just have to make sure you remember to bring the right set of keys!
It's just that I woke up not feeling well - some stomach bug with a headache thing. At least I am not driving. I can sleep on the planes (of course the one from Milwaukee to Chicago takes longer on the runway than in the air - I think we might have seen fifteen minutes airborn). A couple times I was worried I might need to make an emergency trip to the "water closet" (what else can you call it on a plane?) but the feeling passed. I managed to get a ginger ale when the cart came 'round to settle my stomach.
We landed right at 2, just as schedule, a straightforward and non-cancelled flight, and I did manage to take care of all the little errands I needed to do before class time. When I walked into the room, I have never heard such excitement and buzz. Everyone was so relieved to be done with that monster paper that they were just flying. Good thing, because I needed the energy to keep going, the day having started a bit early.
Then the boys and I went grocery shopping after which we watched a movie. My tummy was happy and grumpy on and off all day. I sure was glad to flop into bed, hoping everything settles down since tomorrow I *am* driving and I would prefer not to do that feeling ill.
So you can go home and pick up right where you left off, paying bills, running errands, taking classes, cleaning house and hugging kids. You just have to make sure you remember to bring the right set of keys!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Lost in the Tunnels
The tunnels are different this year. They have enclosed areas that used to be open, opened areas that used to be closed, added an exit I don't remember, moved and widened the bike racks, painted some walls, added doors in others. They aren't complicated really - just keep walking and eventually you come out somewhere you recognize.
Tonight on my way back from a class I actually got turned around and for one brief moment I was scared. Nothing looked familiar. Doors opened onto corridors I am sure I have never seen before. Yikes! I was not alone though. Another woman was studying the sign, trying to figure out how to get back to the parking lot - opposite where I needed to go. She had been led to the room by someone else and had no idea how to get back to her car.
We figured it out, thank goodness for signs! That's how life is sometimes. You lose your bearings and everything looks unfamiliar. You know if you just keep going, it will come out alright, but for a few minutes, you are afraid. Good thing life comes with signs. Did you know it did? When I get afraid, I turn to Scripture for comfort and direction. Usually it starts with "What time I am afraid, I will trust in God." Like the north star, he is always there, right where you know he will be.
Good thing, too because the landscape keeps changing. They add options where there didn't used to be any and wall in decisions that used to be open. Well, I am safely back in my room, just about to retire. The shuttle comes early in the morning for my flight back to Rochester for another seminary class. I believe I will just hang onto that sign for the next few days.
Tonight on my way back from a class I actually got turned around and for one brief moment I was scared. Nothing looked familiar. Doors opened onto corridors I am sure I have never seen before. Yikes! I was not alone though. Another woman was studying the sign, trying to figure out how to get back to the parking lot - opposite where I needed to go. She had been led to the room by someone else and had no idea how to get back to her car.
We figured it out, thank goodness for signs! That's how life is sometimes. You lose your bearings and everything looks unfamiliar. You know if you just keep going, it will come out alright, but for a few minutes, you are afraid. Good thing life comes with signs. Did you know it did? When I get afraid, I turn to Scripture for comfort and direction. Usually it starts with "What time I am afraid, I will trust in God." Like the north star, he is always there, right where you know he will be.
Good thing, too because the landscape keeps changing. They add options where there didn't used to be any and wall in decisions that used to be open. Well, I am safely back in my room, just about to retire. The shuttle comes early in the morning for my flight back to Rochester for another seminary class. I believe I will just hang onto that sign for the next few days.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Summer Shower
One never means to get caught in a sudden rainstorm. I certainly didn't see it coming. When I left the dorm with my blue falcon hat and my digital camera, it was a sunny day with blue skies and a light breeze. I thought it an ideal time to capture scenes from the bluff for my "beauty ports." I am working on putting together powerpoints of nature scenes coupled with Scripture verses and soothing music to load on digital picture frames and iPods to give to cancer patients who are 'land-locked' and unable to get outdoors.
It was one thing I couldn't get enough of after my severe bouts - the beauty of God's good world. After the devastation of cancer, you find yourself crying at the drop of a hat for no reason - at least no current reason. It is the bottled up tears of pain and sadness not cried while all your energy goes into the physical fight. They have to come out. And your insides are so barren, like a wasteland. So you feed it with beauty and eventually, weeds grow over the scars and the landscape is tolerable again and the embarrassing tears stop.
So I have this theory that if I had fed my soul with beauty and truth while I was fighting, it might not have gotten so dire. Anyway, there I was wandering down the road towards the beach, stopping every few feet to take a picture of a wildflower or a shot of the lake or the greenery or whatnot, and I felt the unmistakable drop of rain on my hand.
I looked down at the beach, and there was a family with two small children hurriedly packing up and dashing up the road to their car before the storm hit in earnest. I glanced at the sky - where had those black clouds come from? Just a moment ago the sky was blue and the breeze warm! I debated whether to turn around right then and there and not descend to the lake.
Another drop hit my arm, another my big toe. Suddenly I remembered when I was a little girl on a hot hot summer day in my Gram's side yard with my sister. It started to rain and we squealed with delight at the relief from the heat. We danced and pranced and cavorted about, lifting our faces to the sky and opening our mouths wide to catch the cool drops, and laughing when they splopped on our faces and splattered in our eyes.
Oh, we whirled and twirled and danced with delight and in a New York minute it was over, leaving us drenched and refreshed. There was always a rainbow after such an event, and the inevitable steaming street and the hollow sound to your voice as you yelled to your neighbor to see if they had taken the same shower you just did.
Yes, its been a long time since I had that much fun. I threw caution to the wind and kept descending, hoping perhaps I could recapture some small slice of my childhood. I tucked the camera in my pocket and lifted my face to the sky, daring the rain to bring it on. But the rain did not want to play. Barely a mist of rain wrung out of the clouds. About all that got wet was my hat and not even a tiny little millimeter of sand.
Ah, well. At least I didn't miss out on my walk. I looked about expectantly for a rainbow, but there was nary a sparkle in sight. Time to get back to gathering wildflower pictures. Perhaps I can recapture my childhood without getting too senile another day.
It was one thing I couldn't get enough of after my severe bouts - the beauty of God's good world. After the devastation of cancer, you find yourself crying at the drop of a hat for no reason - at least no current reason. It is the bottled up tears of pain and sadness not cried while all your energy goes into the physical fight. They have to come out. And your insides are so barren, like a wasteland. So you feed it with beauty and eventually, weeds grow over the scars and the landscape is tolerable again and the embarrassing tears stop.
So I have this theory that if I had fed my soul with beauty and truth while I was fighting, it might not have gotten so dire. Anyway, there I was wandering down the road towards the beach, stopping every few feet to take a picture of a wildflower or a shot of the lake or the greenery or whatnot, and I felt the unmistakable drop of rain on my hand.
I looked down at the beach, and there was a family with two small children hurriedly packing up and dashing up the road to their car before the storm hit in earnest. I glanced at the sky - where had those black clouds come from? Just a moment ago the sky was blue and the breeze warm! I debated whether to turn around right then and there and not descend to the lake.
Another drop hit my arm, another my big toe. Suddenly I remembered when I was a little girl on a hot hot summer day in my Gram's side yard with my sister. It started to rain and we squealed with delight at the relief from the heat. We danced and pranced and cavorted about, lifting our faces to the sky and opening our mouths wide to catch the cool drops, and laughing when they splopped on our faces and splattered in our eyes.
Oh, we whirled and twirled and danced with delight and in a New York minute it was over, leaving us drenched and refreshed. There was always a rainbow after such an event, and the inevitable steaming street and the hollow sound to your voice as you yelled to your neighbor to see if they had taken the same shower you just did.
Yes, its been a long time since I had that much fun. I threw caution to the wind and kept descending, hoping perhaps I could recapture some small slice of my childhood. I tucked the camera in my pocket and lifted my face to the sky, daring the rain to bring it on. But the rain did not want to play. Barely a mist of rain wrung out of the clouds. About all that got wet was my hat and not even a tiny little millimeter of sand.
Ah, well. At least I didn't miss out on my walk. I looked about expectantly for a rainbow, but there was nary a sparkle in sight. Time to get back to gathering wildflower pictures. Perhaps I can recapture my childhood without getting too senile another day.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The Bluff at Night
I had no idea that the waist-high black posts were night lights! I'm not sure I thought about them as anything except marking the edge of the path and pointing out where the stairs are. Who knew that at night those mysterious black posts turned the bluff into a fairyland of joy?
It had been a long and tiring day, and I had not had a chance to walk yet. I knew the moon would be extraordinary, and I really wanted to go, but it was getting so late and I was a bit leary of walking by myself. When I heard another student say he needed to walk because he had put in too many hours on the organ bench, I asked him if I could join.
He had intended only to walk in the tunnels - which I understand because that's where I would have walked if I had been alone. With a little persuasive coaxing and the inclusion of two other students, I managed to convince him to walk the bluffs. They were also concerned about the darkness, but with the full moon and a sure path, I persuaded them that we would be OK.
Imagine our delight when we found the path entirely lighted! There was something mysterious and spinetingling about the place ~ almost as if we were four bored children who had suddenly discovered the secret entrance in our uncle's wardrobe and were embarking on the Narnian adventure of a life time.
We spoke in hushed voices, carefully stepping over and around the jet black crickets and scrambling daddy long legs who had also come to watch the fairies play. The moon was even more amazing than the night before - cast in a creamy light orange and painting an inviting path of light on the gentle waves of the lake. One could almost believe you could walk the shining waves to heaven.
Far out in the water there was a round circle of white light, a spotlight on something we could not see with the naked eye, but enticing none the less. The gulls were unusually absent, and I wondered if they had flown to the light for some midnight rendezvous with the lake trout.
When at last we found ourselves at the bottom of the cliff, we stood blinking, unsure of what to do next. Waves swooshed up on the sand with a cleansing regularity, a sound I had never heard in the daytime what with the wind and the cawing of the gulls. We sighed deeply, inhaling the peace, the tranquility. After what seemed ages, we reluctantly pulled ourselves away and began the steep and winding ascent to the top. With every step, the magic dissipated until there was only the quiet campus at the top of the bluff, waiting for us to turn in at the end of a long day.
My calves were aching as, back in my dorm room, I pulled off my sandals and slipped into my nightgown. I could still smell the water in the breeze that ruffled the blinds on my window. Somewhere in the distance a cricket chirruped. I wearily sank down on the hard mattress and pulled the sheets up to my chin. Sleep was not far behind, the sweet sleep of contentment and peace.
It had been a long and tiring day, and I had not had a chance to walk yet. I knew the moon would be extraordinary, and I really wanted to go, but it was getting so late and I was a bit leary of walking by myself. When I heard another student say he needed to walk because he had put in too many hours on the organ bench, I asked him if I could join.
He had intended only to walk in the tunnels - which I understand because that's where I would have walked if I had been alone. With a little persuasive coaxing and the inclusion of two other students, I managed to convince him to walk the bluffs. They were also concerned about the darkness, but with the full moon and a sure path, I persuaded them that we would be OK.
Imagine our delight when we found the path entirely lighted! There was something mysterious and spinetingling about the place ~ almost as if we were four bored children who had suddenly discovered the secret entrance in our uncle's wardrobe and were embarking on the Narnian adventure of a life time.
We spoke in hushed voices, carefully stepping over and around the jet black crickets and scrambling daddy long legs who had also come to watch the fairies play. The moon was even more amazing than the night before - cast in a creamy light orange and painting an inviting path of light on the gentle waves of the lake. One could almost believe you could walk the shining waves to heaven.
Far out in the water there was a round circle of white light, a spotlight on something we could not see with the naked eye, but enticing none the less. The gulls were unusually absent, and I wondered if they had flown to the light for some midnight rendezvous with the lake trout.
When at last we found ourselves at the bottom of the cliff, we stood blinking, unsure of what to do next. Waves swooshed up on the sand with a cleansing regularity, a sound I had never heard in the daytime what with the wind and the cawing of the gulls. We sighed deeply, inhaling the peace, the tranquility. After what seemed ages, we reluctantly pulled ourselves away and began the steep and winding ascent to the top. With every step, the magic dissipated until there was only the quiet campus at the top of the bluff, waiting for us to turn in at the end of a long day.
My calves were aching as, back in my dorm room, I pulled off my sandals and slipped into my nightgown. I could still smell the water in the breeze that ruffled the blinds on my window. Somewhere in the distance a cricket chirruped. I wearily sank down on the hard mattress and pulled the sheets up to my chin. Sleep was not far behind, the sweet sleep of contentment and peace.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Kopps
not as in ". . . and robbers" but as in frozen custard - the best Milwaukee stuff there is next to Culver's. First time I was taken there I thought I had entered some weird cultic temple what with the dozen pure white cow statues on their elevated pedestals at the back of the parking lot and the pointy white chef hats of the priests who stood behind the alter counter taking your order. The place has a retro feel about it from the flashing neon sixties look sign to the incredible antique cars that always seem to be buzzing about. Its rather like being on a set of Happy Days. I half expect to see Fonzie bopping about. Of course, its always crowded. They must do one roaring business.
You can't be a non-committal observer - o, no. You have to give them their name and when its your turn to worship at the feet of such deities as "Chocolate Thunder" or "Mint Grasshopper" or "Summer Passion" they blare your name over the loudspeaker so everyone will know your particular flavor of religion.
People huddle around tall mini-tables (there are no chairs to be seen), licking or spooning up their particular preference of confection, and moaning their delight while the sacramental music deafens you to all other sound. If you are really committed, you can actually order a meal (if you can call hotdogs and hamburgs a meal) and they come specially wrapped on huge buns - just don't order both custard and food at the same time. you can't possibly lick fast enough.
Tonight it was pleasant enough for us to sit outside on the concrete amphitheater steps and chat while the mosquitoes obligingly nibbled at our sweet ankles. Though we had come here partly just to get away from campus and the intense studying, we couldn't help but "talk shop" - worrying over what the next semester will bring, whether we will have a lot of composition, whether we will do a lot of bell ringing, what will be the demands of the coming dissertation, who will end up being here longer than five years, etc.
Finally, we tore ourselves away from the real world and headed back to the practice rooms, the repertoire challenges, for me, the seminary final. But we took with us a more relaxed view and the wonderful creamy peachy flavor of "Summer Passion." I guess I could do much worse than to have Concordia and sacred music for my summer passion.
You can't be a non-committal observer - o, no. You have to give them their name and when its your turn to worship at the feet of such deities as "Chocolate Thunder" or "Mint Grasshopper" or "Summer Passion" they blare your name over the loudspeaker so everyone will know your particular flavor of religion.
People huddle around tall mini-tables (there are no chairs to be seen), licking or spooning up their particular preference of confection, and moaning their delight while the sacramental music deafens you to all other sound. If you are really committed, you can actually order a meal (if you can call hotdogs and hamburgs a meal) and they come specially wrapped on huge buns - just don't order both custard and food at the same time. you can't possibly lick fast enough.
Tonight it was pleasant enough for us to sit outside on the concrete amphitheater steps and chat while the mosquitoes obligingly nibbled at our sweet ankles. Though we had come here partly just to get away from campus and the intense studying, we couldn't help but "talk shop" - worrying over what the next semester will bring, whether we will have a lot of composition, whether we will do a lot of bell ringing, what will be the demands of the coming dissertation, who will end up being here longer than five years, etc.
Finally, we tore ourselves away from the real world and headed back to the practice rooms, the repertoire challenges, for me, the seminary final. But we took with us a more relaxed view and the wonderful creamy peachy flavor of "Summer Passion." I guess I could do much worse than to have Concordia and sacred music for my summer passion.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Antics
Our professor is a good sport - and recognizes the stress of squishing 14 weeks worth of class into 2. At some point, the pressure will boil over, and better as juvenile pranks than other angst. Although I will say he did ask for it. After all, he's the one who told the stories of his student pranks - the ones that gave us better direction on 'how-to.'
So it was that when he entered the classroom today, all the chairs faced not the front of the room as they should, but the wall facing the door. And all the dry erase markers were just that - dry. Best of all was stuffing the piano with towels so that when he went to play a hymn by way of example, there came from the little upright not the chords expected but total silence. Nada. Nothing. Zippo.
Well, I'm sure he thought that was the end of it, but no, we had taken all the CDs from their cases and mixed them up. When he went to play #10 of Mr. Terfel's wonderful Welsh singing of All Through the Night, we heard instead some cacophony of shaped note stuff.
And finally, we managed to smuggle one of the nurses' dummies into the room and set it on a stool behind the door. Next time he had to shut the door because of cart noise, there she was in her plastic frozenness, perched awkwardly, staring at him. He at least had the decency of covering her up with a sheet.
He took it all in good natured fun, and smiled benignly when we read his "Freese-isms" - those quaint little sayings that are part and parcel of his vocabulary that are a tad amusing to anyone who did not grow up a Milwaukee Lutheran. Little lines like "O for crying out loud in a handkerchief" or "is the Pope Lutheran" and "you bet your lifesavers."
Not a bad way to end the semester!
So it was that when he entered the classroom today, all the chairs faced not the front of the room as they should, but the wall facing the door. And all the dry erase markers were just that - dry. Best of all was stuffing the piano with towels so that when he went to play a hymn by way of example, there came from the little upright not the chords expected but total silence. Nada. Nothing. Zippo.
Well, I'm sure he thought that was the end of it, but no, we had taken all the CDs from their cases and mixed them up. When he went to play #10 of Mr. Terfel's wonderful Welsh singing of All Through the Night, we heard instead some cacophony of shaped note stuff.
And finally, we managed to smuggle one of the nurses' dummies into the room and set it on a stool behind the door. Next time he had to shut the door because of cart noise, there she was in her plastic frozenness, perched awkwardly, staring at him. He at least had the decency of covering her up with a sheet.
He took it all in good natured fun, and smiled benignly when we read his "Freese-isms" - those quaint little sayings that are part and parcel of his vocabulary that are a tad amusing to anyone who did not grow up a Milwaukee Lutheran. Little lines like "O for crying out loud in a handkerchief" or "is the Pope Lutheran" and "you bet your lifesavers."
Not a bad way to end the semester!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Beach at Last
After five hours of diligently working on my final paper, I was weary. I still needed to practice, but I had to take a break. It was early evening, just the right time to see if I could manage a walk on the new beach path. Last summer we were restrained from going more than half way down the cliff by huge orange plastic fencing strung across the entire swath of hillside. We stood as close as we could and watched the giant caterpillars and bulldozers (I wonder why they use animal terminology?) pushing dirt and stone all over in odd patterns and indistinguishable shapes.
This year the fences are down, the sidewalks complete, the water beckoning. Twice I tried to descend the dozen wide loops to the bottom. Twice I didn't even make it half way down before I realized I was in trouble and had to turn back (my body has a mind of its own sometimes). But tonight my tummy was behaving and my head called for cool air. So I headed for the bluff to see how far I might be able to go.
How different everything seemed. Where once there had been decrepit wooden benches there are now smooth marble seats with inscriptions and dedications (not any more comfortable and perhaps a bit more chilly but they look a whole lot nicer). Where last year there was dirt and straw covering the decimated hillside, this year the ground is covered by wild-growing weeds of all varieties from gigantic purple clovers as tall as my waist to delicate daisies and black eyed susans and pigweed and thistles and burdock. The smell of green is as strong as I remember from my childhood when we played freeze tag and hide and seek out in the back forty where no one cared if the weeds reigned. I inhaled deeply. It was heady.
So I began my descent. From the top you cannot see the bottom. From the bottom you cannot see the top (two completely different things). The path is wide and looping with a full dozen crisscrosses (see http://www.cuw.edu/Alumni_Friends/Alumni/pdfs/photos/bluff.pdf for a few pictures). I smiled as I watched a red winged oriole swoop into a clump of thistle, deftly avoiding all the frothy white pockets of bug spit.
Basically you point your body in the right direction and move your feet - gravity takes care of the rest. Just as I reached the half way point, happily clopping along enjoying the weeds and dragonflies and birds and wonderful fragrances and the cool breeze caressing my cheeks, I saw two deer below! I stopped stock still and watched as they cavorted on the beach, chasing each other, nuzzling, darting after sea gulls - they were having a grad time of it, totally oblivious of my presence. No spots on their coats, but they were small and obviously young. I glanced up and down the beach and wondered where they might have come from. There was no tree protection for a good long ways in either direction.
Too quickly for me, they tired of their escapades and and seconds later they wandered off to the right out of sight. I exhaled and continued my walk down into the coolness of the beach front. What a disappointment to reach the bottom and find a huge wall of rock separating me from the water and signs posted that the area was a protected wetlands with no admittance. I guess the seagulls deserve their own amphitheater and they noisily roosted on the twenty rocks just a
few yards offshore, hopscotching from rock to rock and crying to each other about one thing and another.
The path at the bottom of the bluff stretched as far as you could see in either direction. First I followed the deer tracks to the right. They had stopped a few times to drink from the drainage ditch water. The sidewalk went just a short way around the bend to the end of Concordia's property. Then I turned around and headed to the left, following the cliff around to the other end of Concordia's holdings. To my delight and amazement I found a pristine (translate natural) beach with access to the water! I knew it to be a beach only because there were signs posted about no lifeguards etc. I stepped down the tall stone steps to the sandy area where someone had obviously enjoyed a roaring bonfire not long ago and gingerly picked my way over the pebbles and driftwood to the water's edge and dipped my toes in. I expected it to be arctic cold, but it wasn't bad. Not bad at all. Not warm enough to invite me to swim, but OK.
I lingered long moments, listening to the waves lap quietly on shore, to the chatter of the sea gulls, the rustle of the wind against the tall grass behind me. Yes, you can breathe well here, slough off the tedium of hours of lecture and writing, bending your mind around the mysteries of the universe. Here you are simply awed by the universe, by the majesty of things larger than pencils and computers and lessons and rooms and buildings. You grasp the incredible power of the sheer size of the world wrapped up in a sandy beach with vistas to celestial grandeur.
Ah, but it grows dark and my lesson awaits. I tear myself away, plod back UP the dozen looping ramps, back to the reality of a Master's degree program and all its required pieces. Can I sing Copland's Simple Gifts? Yes. I understand God's world is much simpler than we make it out to be. How simple yet how amazing the infinite variety of God's created world.
I am at peace.
This year the fences are down, the sidewalks complete, the water beckoning. Twice I tried to descend the dozen wide loops to the bottom. Twice I didn't even make it half way down before I realized I was in trouble and had to turn back (my body has a mind of its own sometimes). But tonight my tummy was behaving and my head called for cool air. So I headed for the bluff to see how far I might be able to go.
How different everything seemed. Where once there had been decrepit wooden benches there are now smooth marble seats with inscriptions and dedications (not any more comfortable and perhaps a bit more chilly but they look a whole lot nicer). Where last year there was dirt and straw covering the decimated hillside, this year the ground is covered by wild-growing weeds of all varieties from gigantic purple clovers as tall as my waist to delicate daisies and black eyed susans and pigweed and thistles and burdock. The smell of green is as strong as I remember from my childhood when we played freeze tag and hide and seek out in the back forty where no one cared if the weeds reigned. I inhaled deeply. It was heady.
So I began my descent. From the top you cannot see the bottom. From the bottom you cannot see the top (two completely different things). The path is wide and looping with a full dozen crisscrosses (see http://www.cuw.edu/Alumni_Friends/Alumni/pdfs/photos/bluff.pdf for a few pictures). I smiled as I watched a red winged oriole swoop into a clump of thistle, deftly avoiding all the frothy white pockets of bug spit.
Basically you point your body in the right direction and move your feet - gravity takes care of the rest. Just as I reached the half way point, happily clopping along enjoying the weeds and dragonflies and birds and wonderful fragrances and the cool breeze caressing my cheeks, I saw two deer below! I stopped stock still and watched as they cavorted on the beach, chasing each other, nuzzling, darting after sea gulls - they were having a grad time of it, totally oblivious of my presence. No spots on their coats, but they were small and obviously young. I glanced up and down the beach and wondered where they might have come from. There was no tree protection for a good long ways in either direction.
Too quickly for me, they tired of their escapades and and seconds later they wandered off to the right out of sight. I exhaled and continued my walk down into the coolness of the beach front. What a disappointment to reach the bottom and find a huge wall of rock separating me from the water and signs posted that the area was a protected wetlands with no admittance. I guess the seagulls deserve their own amphitheater and they noisily roosted on the twenty rocks just a
few yards offshore, hopscotching from rock to rock and crying to each other about one thing and another.The path at the bottom of the bluff stretched as far as you could see in either direction. First I followed the deer tracks to the right. They had stopped a few times to drink from the drainage ditch water. The sidewalk went just a short way around the bend to the end of Concordia's property. Then I turned around and headed to the left, following the cliff around to the other end of Concordia's holdings. To my delight and amazement I found a pristine (translate natural) beach with access to the water! I knew it to be a beach only because there were signs posted about no lifeguards etc. I stepped down the tall stone steps to the sandy area where someone had obviously enjoyed a roaring bonfire not long ago and gingerly picked my way over the pebbles and driftwood to the water's edge and dipped my toes in. I expected it to be arctic cold, but it wasn't bad. Not bad at all. Not warm enough to invite me to swim, but OK.
I lingered long moments, listening to the waves lap quietly on shore, to the chatter of the sea gulls, the rustle of the wind against the tall grass behind me. Yes, you can breathe well here, slough off the tedium of hours of lecture and writing, bending your mind around the mysteries of the universe. Here you are simply awed by the universe, by the majesty of things larger than pencils and computers and lessons and rooms and buildings. You grasp the incredible power of the sheer size of the world wrapped up in a sandy beach with vistas to celestial grandeur.
Ah, but it grows dark and my lesson awaits. I tear myself away, plod back UP the dozen looping ramps, back to the reality of a Master's degree program and all its required pieces. Can I sing Copland's Simple Gifts? Yes. I understand God's world is much simpler than we make it out to be. How simple yet how amazing the infinite variety of God's created world.
I am at peace.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Carts
I'm convinced that our professor pays staff and studentworkers and maintenance men to rattle past our classroom door with squeaky decrepit carts on some unpredictable schedule, clattering over the mosaic floor tile with a vengeance and enough noise to wake the dead - or at least to keep us awake and focused.
He plays this game of "open the door for air, shut the door for quiet" for the whole three and a half hours of lecture and jokes about wishing he had an organ swell pedal to control the hallway noises.
I have to wonder where all those people are going with all those carts and what on earth is on them anyways. This is a small school on summer term. For the most part the campus is deserted (something that will change quickly when the St Louis Rams arrive for their training camp). I know there is a certain amount of repair and repaint that must happen between semesters, but the volume of cart traffic rivals the nearby expressway for activity.
One of the other students had called ahead to see if she could arrange the use of a cart to help bring stuff from her car to her room. Ironically, they told her there wasn't one available. . .
He plays this game of "open the door for air, shut the door for quiet" for the whole three and a half hours of lecture and jokes about wishing he had an organ swell pedal to control the hallway noises.
I have to wonder where all those people are going with all those carts and what on earth is on them anyways. This is a small school on summer term. For the most part the campus is deserted (something that will change quickly when the St Louis Rams arrive for their training camp). I know there is a certain amount of repair and repaint that must happen between semesters, but the volume of cart traffic rivals the nearby expressway for activity.
One of the other students had called ahead to see if she could arrange the use of a cart to help bring stuff from her car to her room. Ironically, they told her there wasn't one available. . .
Monday, June 16, 2008
Overwhelming Sadness
Though the sky is blue and sunny, I am surrounded by the gray sorrow of having had to cancel the singing engagements at the cancer clinics here. I wrestled with it for as long as I could, but the decision was inevitable. I just couldn't get enough people together at the same time to make it work. Nor could I work out the transportation issues.
Its not that I don't understand. The program here is intense, yes. Others do not see the need that I see, are not affected by cancer they way that I am. I did not plan well, start soon enough, anticipate more. In the general wash of things, no one will even notice or care. It's no big deal.
To anyone else. For me, I lay half the night my heart broken, my soul heavy. I know what it is to be in that long dark tunnel with no light, and suddenly catch a glimpse of relief. To touch a life so with God's gift of music - that is my calling. I wept at the failure.
One thing spurs me on. It is the failures that inform our actions to improve. It is from this that I may learn some way to move forward, some better process to work this out. When things don't work, there are reasons. That is what I will be thinking about.
When the head of the volunteers responded to my email, he was most gracious. And he did not give up. He very kindly left the door open. When I am able to swing it, please come. The people here need what you are offering so desperately. Please find a way to come even if it is informal. Please come. If not this year, then next. Don't give up.
I won't. I shall find a way. I am glad someone else gets it. The sadness is lifting a bit. Tomorrow perhaps I shall have a better perspective.
Its not that I don't understand. The program here is intense, yes. Others do not see the need that I see, are not affected by cancer they way that I am. I did not plan well, start soon enough, anticipate more. In the general wash of things, no one will even notice or care. It's no big deal.
To anyone else. For me, I lay half the night my heart broken, my soul heavy. I know what it is to be in that long dark tunnel with no light, and suddenly catch a glimpse of relief. To touch a life so with God's gift of music - that is my calling. I wept at the failure.
One thing spurs me on. It is the failures that inform our actions to improve. It is from this that I may learn some way to move forward, some better process to work this out. When things don't work, there are reasons. That is what I will be thinking about.
When the head of the volunteers responded to my email, he was most gracious. And he did not give up. He very kindly left the door open. When I am able to swing it, please come. The people here need what you are offering so desperately. Please find a way to come even if it is informal. Please come. If not this year, then next. Don't give up.
I won't. I shall find a way. I am glad someone else gets it. The sadness is lifting a bit. Tomorrow perhaps I shall have a better perspective.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Uninvited
Its not that I haven't encountered this sort of thing before. After all, when I was growing up and many of my classmates and neighbors were Roman Catholic, they described their confirmation classes to me with all that involved. They whispered their fear that they wouldn't be able to swallow the host without breaking it. I knew back then that you couldn't even enter the doors of their churches without at least a hat on your head as a woman, and you sure couldn't take communion without being a member of their church in good standing and fully absolved in confessional.
Somehow I thought that was all a thing of my past - outdated and no longer enforced. Turns out I am wrong. The church we attended Sunday (not Roman Catholic by the way) had a whole page in their bulletin stating that if you are not a member in good standing of that denomination, you are not welcome at the table of the Lord. Not welcomed! Not just unwelcome, not invited. Not allowed.
It was like being slapped in the face. I have attended so many churches where the table is open for anyone who confesses Christ as their Lord, regardless of denominational ties, that this seemed archaic and inappropriate. I am God's daughter as much as they are, their theology notwithstanding. Perhaps more so. How can they be so hard hearted?
Its sort of like going on a family reunion, and when everyone else goes in the dining room, you are locked out. Expected to go hungry. Greeted with puzzlement if you bring it up. I found out later that really you are supposed to talk with the pastor ahead of time if you are not a regular member of that particular congregation - more restrictive than I first thought.
Well, more education. There is no grace in the law. It seems to be a recurring theme of the summer. Even now I am beginning to look over my shoulder for fear this posting will bear recrimination. . .
Somehow I thought that was all a thing of my past - outdated and no longer enforced. Turns out I am wrong. The church we attended Sunday (not Roman Catholic by the way) had a whole page in their bulletin stating that if you are not a member in good standing of that denomination, you are not welcome at the table of the Lord. Not welcomed! Not just unwelcome, not invited. Not allowed.
It was like being slapped in the face. I have attended so many churches where the table is open for anyone who confesses Christ as their Lord, regardless of denominational ties, that this seemed archaic and inappropriate. I am God's daughter as much as they are, their theology notwithstanding. Perhaps more so. How can they be so hard hearted?
Its sort of like going on a family reunion, and when everyone else goes in the dining room, you are locked out. Expected to go hungry. Greeted with puzzlement if you bring it up. I found out later that really you are supposed to talk with the pastor ahead of time if you are not a regular member of that particular congregation - more restrictive than I first thought.
Well, more education. There is no grace in the law. It seems to be a recurring theme of the summer. Even now I am beginning to look over my shoulder for fear this posting will bear recrimination. . .
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Prohibitive
So many people to remember! Being here only part time and skipping a year makes for poor recall. Faces are familiar, but the names elude me. I decide its just easier to ask them to remind me of their names, and for the most part, they smile indulgently and fill me in. Perhaps it is just that I am getting old. Or perhaps it is that I move often enough and in so many circles that I meet more people than those who pretty much stick to the same place and a few limited activities. I have often wondered if there is a limit to the number of names our brains will retain. Does your memory get full? Do you have to purchase additional 'storage space'?
Anyway, I was headed to class and asked a fellow classmate if she would be interested in singing for cancer patients. The look on her face was total fear as she responded, "Oh, I'm not allowed to."
What? Clearly I hadn't understood her or maybe she hadn't understood me, so I patiently explained again about singing popular music in the lobby of a clinic - it's not a church activity.
Still, she was adamant that she was prohibited from participating in such an event. She belonged to xxx denomination, and should they find out. . . (the implication being that she would be excommunicated or sent to the lower regions or some worse fate).
I let the conversation drop, my mind turning this about. I cannot fathom any religious institution having that kind of control over its parishioners. Perhaps she was just using it as an excuse not to sing, and simply didn't feel comfortable telling me no without an ironclad reason.
As I have carefully listened since that conversation, I am convinced that she is really restricted in how she lives - in more areas than just this one. How does this happen? How is this different from some weird cult? How can anyone raised in America and immersed in a culture of freedom and personal rights accept such behavior? How is this in conflict with Scriptures? Or is it?
Well, this is a new part of my education. If you have insights, I'd sure like to hear them. Meanwhile, class is waiting. . .
Anyway, I was headed to class and asked a fellow classmate if she would be interested in singing for cancer patients. The look on her face was total fear as she responded, "Oh, I'm not allowed to."
What? Clearly I hadn't understood her or maybe she hadn't understood me, so I patiently explained again about singing popular music in the lobby of a clinic - it's not a church activity.
Still, she was adamant that she was prohibited from participating in such an event. She belonged to xxx denomination, and should they find out. . . (the implication being that she would be excommunicated or sent to the lower regions or some worse fate).
I let the conversation drop, my mind turning this about. I cannot fathom any religious institution having that kind of control over its parishioners. Perhaps she was just using it as an excuse not to sing, and simply didn't feel comfortable telling me no without an ironclad reason.
As I have carefully listened since that conversation, I am convinced that she is really restricted in how she lives - in more areas than just this one. How does this happen? How is this different from some weird cult? How can anyone raised in America and immersed in a culture of freedom and personal rights accept such behavior? How is this in conflict with Scriptures? Or is it?
Well, this is a new part of my education. If you have insights, I'd sure like to hear them. Meanwhile, class is waiting. . .
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Quarter Done
I'm pretty sure I have been here a whole week already. It doesn't seem possible, but it is Friday and I did take my first exam. What saddens me is that I haven't been anywhere close to the lake as yet. Between the crazy trips home and back, the rainy weather, the huge reading assignments (not for here, for the seminary), I haven't had a half a minute to break away.
As I wander down the hall in the early morning light past the chapel where organ music of the most ethereal sort wafts through the cracks in the massive wooden doors I catch a glimpse of its blueness shrouding the horizon like a wool shawl, never quite the same color and texture. I can't see the walkways or the beach area. I am wanting desperately to go investigate, to breathe deeply of the seaweed air, to remind myself that as massive as this lake is, God is waaaaaay bigger.
But i am not free to go. I am held, not really against my will, forced to look away, make my feet keep moving down the hall past the stairs to the library, turn right and head for the far end of the corridor where the rest of the class is gathering, sleepy seeds still in the eyes, coffee cups clenched by tired hands, worn out from the 5am practice sessions to be ready for noon lessons. Singers, bleary eyed from late night lessons and practicing, whisper quietly waiting for everyone to arrive.
Here and there a laptop boots, a cell phone buzzes, a bit of laughter breaks out. We have read the assignment, but do we remember any of it? Worse yet, does it mean anything to us? The professor opens the window hoping for a breeze to dispel the mugginess, and we begin.
We sit at the feet of Clement of Alexandria, of Louis Osiander, Martin Luther, the inimitable Bach. We listen to hymns in a new light of understanding, place things in context - Greek, Ambrosian, Latin, German. Music coming from one heart and translated to another. The lake will just have to wait. Perhaps if I read all night, I can visit in the morning. We shall see.
As I wander down the hall in the early morning light past the chapel where organ music of the most ethereal sort wafts through the cracks in the massive wooden doors I catch a glimpse of its blueness shrouding the horizon like a wool shawl, never quite the same color and texture. I can't see the walkways or the beach area. I am wanting desperately to go investigate, to breathe deeply of the seaweed air, to remind myself that as massive as this lake is, God is waaaaaay bigger.
But i am not free to go. I am held, not really against my will, forced to look away, make my feet keep moving down the hall past the stairs to the library, turn right and head for the far end of the corridor where the rest of the class is gathering, sleepy seeds still in the eyes, coffee cups clenched by tired hands, worn out from the 5am practice sessions to be ready for noon lessons. Singers, bleary eyed from late night lessons and practicing, whisper quietly waiting for everyone to arrive.
Here and there a laptop boots, a cell phone buzzes, a bit of laughter breaks out. We have read the assignment, but do we remember any of it? Worse yet, does it mean anything to us? The professor opens the window hoping for a breeze to dispel the mugginess, and we begin.
We sit at the feet of Clement of Alexandria, of Louis Osiander, Martin Luther, the inimitable Bach. We listen to hymns in a new light of understanding, place things in context - Greek, Ambrosian, Latin, German. Music coming from one heart and translated to another. The lake will just have to wait. Perhaps if I read all night, I can visit in the morning. We shall see.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Farewell
Tonight Shannon’s Mom died. I got the message in the middle of a voice lesson. Tucked up here in Wisconsin, totally caught up with class and reading and lessons and activities I had forgotten that this event was immanent. It arrived with startling reality. This woman I have never met, with whom I had not even spoken, whose picture I have seen only once and about whom I know almost nothing – her death affects me profoundly.
On one level, I am distraught for my daughter-in-law because of her loss and the grieving that must inevitably come. I will likely face such a loss myself someday. I try to think what it will be like – the finality of it. I remember what it was like when my son died, not the same thing, but touching your life in similar ways. Were it not for the comfort of the Holy Spirit, his provision of peace when least expected, I should not have been able to move forward from that dark place. I am surprised to find the pain of that loss gone now after twenty years. Oh, there’s still an ache and an empty place. But the panic, the fear, the distress has subsided.
On another level, I realize how close I came to walking down the same path as Sandy. It could as easily have been my experience to go from diagnosis to death in a few short weeks. That possibility still hangs over me though less intrusively than before. It is the grace of God that I am still here. I wonder if I will be able to thank God properly, give him my labor of love, be worthy of the second chance.
I toss and turn and cannot sleep. Outside my room the storm is raging. Wind screams past the windowsill tossing trees about, lightning flashes, thunder rolls across the heavens, rain beats against the glass, flailing against the building with a fury unquenchable. It is as if the world is in mourning, angry for the separation of mother and daughter, for the pain of death. I turn back to my prayers, seeking God’s grace for Shannon and her family. Lord, this night of all nights, be near to all those whose hearts are throbbing and reeling from the loss of their mothers. Fill the void with your deep abiding presence and love.
On one level, I am distraught for my daughter-in-law because of her loss and the grieving that must inevitably come. I will likely face such a loss myself someday. I try to think what it will be like – the finality of it. I remember what it was like when my son died, not the same thing, but touching your life in similar ways. Were it not for the comfort of the Holy Spirit, his provision of peace when least expected, I should not have been able to move forward from that dark place. I am surprised to find the pain of that loss gone now after twenty years. Oh, there’s still an ache and an empty place. But the panic, the fear, the distress has subsided.
On another level, I realize how close I came to walking down the same path as Sandy. It could as easily have been my experience to go from diagnosis to death in a few short weeks. That possibility still hangs over me though less intrusively than before. It is the grace of God that I am still here. I wonder if I will be able to thank God properly, give him my labor of love, be worthy of the second chance.
I toss and turn and cannot sleep. Outside my room the storm is raging. Wind screams past the windowsill tossing trees about, lightning flashes, thunder rolls across the heavens, rain beats against the glass, flailing against the building with a fury unquenchable. It is as if the world is in mourning, angry for the separation of mother and daughter, for the pain of death. I turn back to my prayers, seeking God’s grace for Shannon and her family. Lord, this night of all nights, be near to all those whose hearts are throbbing and reeling from the loss of their mothers. Fill the void with your deep abiding presence and love.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Flight Insanity
I know the airlines are being cautious about the price of fuel and not sending planes out half filled these days. But how distressing to rise at 4am only to find a voice mail message that the early flight has been cancelled and I am rebooked on a later flight. It will make the connecting flight in Chicago a tough stretch to catch. I am up. I am dressed, and Kiel will need to get back to drive carpool, so I decide to wait at the airport.
I discover how fortunate I am that I left my cell phone number when I made the reservation. They rebooked me because they could notify me. Others were not so fortunate. There is nothing I can do but try to rest and catch some sleep. I find it easy to sleep on the way to Chicago, but once we land, we sit on the runway. I will not make my flight. I will not make my class. I will not arrive in any timely fashion. It sort of makes the sentence at the end of the voice mail message seem trite - the one where they say they apologize for any inconvenience the cancellation may cause.
Really, they are not the least bit sorry that they have completed messed up my day and caused me to miss the equivalent of three classes because they are trying to make a profit. Really they don't care if I had a good flight or a good experience. They just do what is best for them, consequences be darned. It makes me wonder how often I have treated others that way. Perhaps I should pay a bit more attention.
I discover how fortunate I am that I left my cell phone number when I made the reservation. They rebooked me because they could notify me. Others were not so fortunate. There is nothing I can do but try to rest and catch some sleep. I find it easy to sleep on the way to Chicago, but once we land, we sit on the runway. I will not make my flight. I will not make my class. I will not arrive in any timely fashion. It sort of makes the sentence at the end of the voice mail message seem trite - the one where they say they apologize for any inconvenience the cancellation may cause.
Really, they are not the least bit sorry that they have completed messed up my day and caused me to miss the equivalent of three classes because they are trying to make a profit. Really they don't care if I had a good flight or a good experience. They just do what is best for them, consequences be darned. It makes me wonder how often I have treated others that way. Perhaps I should pay a bit more attention.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tall Agenda
No rest for the weary. Despite the 4am arrival, I have to get moving as soon as the Department of Motor Vehicles is open today. I can't risk my license and registration being cancelled. The woman there is very pleasant, but bottom line is I must go to the insurance company and straighten it out because they did not do their part.
Second stop, AAA. Fortunately, its close by. The gentleman is very persistent with the insurance company, but they will need to go back to the date of payment and *listen to the recorded phone message*! I had no idea that when you hear that little caveat that a conversation might be recorded for quality purposes that they archive those messages for future reference! In this case, I am glad they did because it verified that I was good and they had not done their part.
One down. On to the dentist. The temporary crown on the top right had cracked and fallen off en route to Concordia. I do a walkin emergency call, and Kiel and I settle in to wait. Upshot is that my dentist is back from vacation (first day back) and has had a 3:00 pm cancellation, so she will put the permanent crown on for me. Grace of God!
Next bank - whoops, closed. Well, dinner, then class. I am amazed that I am not falling asleep during the four hours of lecture. It is the first time I have not done the readings in advance. I must be getting old. Yet I know I am not alone. My classmates are all talking about taking time off work to complete the papers and assignments.
Home again - and I need to sleep but I am too wound. I have to rise at 4:00 am to catch the flight back to Concordia in time for morning class at 8:30am. Mostly I am amazed that I have not keeled over! Grace of God.
Second stop, AAA. Fortunately, its close by. The gentleman is very persistent with the insurance company, but they will need to go back to the date of payment and *listen to the recorded phone message*! I had no idea that when you hear that little caveat that a conversation might be recorded for quality purposes that they archive those messages for future reference! In this case, I am glad they did because it verified that I was good and they had not done their part.
One down. On to the dentist. The temporary crown on the top right had cracked and fallen off en route to Concordia. I do a walkin emergency call, and Kiel and I settle in to wait. Upshot is that my dentist is back from vacation (first day back) and has had a 3:00 pm cancellation, so she will put the permanent crown on for me. Grace of God!
Next bank - whoops, closed. Well, dinner, then class. I am amazed that I am not falling asleep during the four hours of lecture. It is the first time I have not done the readings in advance. I must be getting old. Yet I know I am not alone. My classmates are all talking about taking time off work to complete the papers and assignments.
Home again - and I need to sleep but I am too wound. I have to rise at 4:00 am to catch the flight back to Concordia in time for morning class at 8:30am. Mostly I am amazed that I have not keeled over! Grace of God.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Lost
Today I drive back to Rochester as soon as class ends. I don’t know how it happened, but I got off on a wrong road. It didn’t seem like a wrong road because I never turned. The road was the same road I had been on for miles. If I were going to get lost, it would have been in Chicago as I twisted through the maze of on and off ramps, express lanes, local lanes, streets coming and going. I got through all that just fine.
In fact, I was quite relieved to be on 90 and 80 – they run together for a period of time, then 90 splits off near Cleveland. So I blithely drove along, marking the distance to Cleveland with a satisfied sense of accomplishment. Suddenly I didn’t see Cleveland listed on the signs. Instead, Youngstown was listed. “That’s odd,” I thought. “I don’t go anywhere near Youngstown. Something isn’t right.” By the time I was able to get turned around and consult a map (gosh darn AAA who gave me the wrong directions so their map was no help) I had traveled a whole hour south of where I needed to be. Where had I missed a sign for the turn off to 90? Between construction, the big trucks, and decrepit signs with the lettering illegible in the dark, I simply hadn’t seen any instruction for staying on the right road. Rats!
I was beside myself. At 1am in a strange state an older woman traveling alone, the last thing you want is to be lost. I asked a few employees of the rest stop what was the best way to get back on track. They were no help at all. I suspect they had never traveled far from home. I finally decided to take a small road north that seemed to connect to 90 rather than travel all the way back to Cleveland even though I could take the superhighway. I was tired and needed to get out of there and back on track soon.
It was a real gamble. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. I gulped and turned off the expressway. The road was straight on the map but twisty and turny to drive. There were pockets of fog, and I was extremely glad I had filled up with gas because there was NOTHING open. I had forgotten what its like to travel the rural byways of America. They roll up the sidewalks early.
My biggest concern was that the road wouldn’t have an entrance for 90. Several times I almost lost the route as it wound around little towns with one way streets. What on earth am I doing here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night far from home and everyone and everything I know? Surely this can’t be right. I have no idea how this will turn out – no control over anything.
Life is so often like that. You suddenly find yourself in a scary place through no fault of your own, and you just want to get out of there and back on track. The words of a scripture verse memorized long ago came floating back. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and he shall direct your paths. If ever I needed direction, this was it.
I take comfort in knowing that regardless of where I am, God is there. In fact, I can still see the moon He created – the same one I see from my window at home and from the dorm room in Concordia. At long last, there was the sign for the onramp of Route 90. Thank you Lord! Back on track. Now if I can just get my life to do the same thing!
In fact, I was quite relieved to be on 90 and 80 – they run together for a period of time, then 90 splits off near Cleveland. So I blithely drove along, marking the distance to Cleveland with a satisfied sense of accomplishment. Suddenly I didn’t see Cleveland listed on the signs. Instead, Youngstown was listed. “That’s odd,” I thought. “I don’t go anywhere near Youngstown. Something isn’t right.” By the time I was able to get turned around and consult a map (gosh darn AAA who gave me the wrong directions so their map was no help) I had traveled a whole hour south of where I needed to be. Where had I missed a sign for the turn off to 90? Between construction, the big trucks, and decrepit signs with the lettering illegible in the dark, I simply hadn’t seen any instruction for staying on the right road. Rats!
I was beside myself. At 1am in a strange state an older woman traveling alone, the last thing you want is to be lost. I asked a few employees of the rest stop what was the best way to get back on track. They were no help at all. I suspect they had never traveled far from home. I finally decided to take a small road north that seemed to connect to 90 rather than travel all the way back to Cleveland even though I could take the superhighway. I was tired and needed to get out of there and back on track soon.
It was a real gamble. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. I gulped and turned off the expressway. The road was straight on the map but twisty and turny to drive. There were pockets of fog, and I was extremely glad I had filled up with gas because there was NOTHING open. I had forgotten what its like to travel the rural byways of America. They roll up the sidewalks early.
My biggest concern was that the road wouldn’t have an entrance for 90. Several times I almost lost the route as it wound around little towns with one way streets. What on earth am I doing here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night far from home and everyone and everything I know? Surely this can’t be right. I have no idea how this will turn out – no control over anything.
Life is so often like that. You suddenly find yourself in a scary place through no fault of your own, and you just want to get out of there and back on track. The words of a scripture verse memorized long ago came floating back. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and he shall direct your paths. If ever I needed direction, this was it.
I take comfort in knowing that regardless of where I am, God is there. In fact, I can still see the moon He created – the same one I see from my window at home and from the dorm room in Concordia. At long last, there was the sign for the onramp of Route 90. Thank you Lord! Back on track. Now if I can just get my life to do the same thing!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The Adventure Begins
Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I have never encountered more reasons to quit something ~ it was as if all the fury of hell was being hurled at me in giant gobs. Problems cropped up in every conceivable corner. Car insurance paper errors on the part of the insurance company that resulted in my license and registration being called into question; broken teeth needing emergency fixing; car rentals that didn’t get released; monies that didn’t go through when they should and went through when they shouldn’t; sinus infections; medication for the sinus infections that causes tummy troubles; emails that were never received; room reservations that didn’t get reserved; ordered books that didn’t arrive – its enough to make a grown person weep!
After awhile it just got funny. With every new problem that arose, I had to laugh. All it did was confirm that I should go to Wisconsin and work on the projects scheduled – not just the coursework for my Master of Church Music degree, but also (and maybe especially) the singing at the cancer clinics both in Milwaukee and in Champaign Urbana. Why else would there be such resistance except that it is important?
So Sunday afternoon I found myself in Baby, my Malibu that I am now very grateful I had fixed, headed for Milwaukee. The late start due to trouble shooting as well as conducting one final service at church, meant that I would arrive in the wee hours of Monday, not something I was sure I could accomplish. I know full well that when the energy runs out, that’s it for me. My fall back plan was to get a hotel room and arrive late (gulp). Hopefully not too late to catch class since I will already be missing Tuesday’s class in order to return to Rochester and catch a seminary session.
Driving went relatively smoothly until I hit Chicago. In fact, I was surprised at how little traffic was on the road. Sometimes I didn't even see another vehicle for a good half hour. Chicago, though, that's another story. Not only was the traffic heavy, and the construction everywhere, but it started pouring down rain. In the dark of night, confined to one skinny lane surrounded by bright orange cones, tired and achy, it felt as if I was in some twisted unending nightmare.
I stopped to go to the bathroom and stretch my legs, grateful that my little umbrella was within easy reach and not packed in the trunk. One more hour. Already it is well after midnight. Fortunately the construction had ended once I entered Wisconsin - at least until I reached Milwaukee. Signs posted everywhere warned of roads closed and detours needed - could I get through? Would I be able to find my way if the normal route was blocked?
Later one of the other students told me they couldn't get on the expressway in Indiana due to flooding. Everytime they thought they had found a way, there was a police car barricading their way. It added several hours to their already long drive. Tonight I am blessed. My roads are all clear. The familiarity of the place encourages me. Only a few more miles and I pull into the front gates with the new security gate. I am here. I made it. Now all I have to do is get the poor RA out of bed to let me in. 3am. I can still get a bit of shut eye.
After awhile it just got funny. With every new problem that arose, I had to laugh. All it did was confirm that I should go to Wisconsin and work on the projects scheduled – not just the coursework for my Master of Church Music degree, but also (and maybe especially) the singing at the cancer clinics both in Milwaukee and in Champaign Urbana. Why else would there be such resistance except that it is important?
So Sunday afternoon I found myself in Baby, my Malibu that I am now very grateful I had fixed, headed for Milwaukee. The late start due to trouble shooting as well as conducting one final service at church, meant that I would arrive in the wee hours of Monday, not something I was sure I could accomplish. I know full well that when the energy runs out, that’s it for me. My fall back plan was to get a hotel room and arrive late (gulp). Hopefully not too late to catch class since I will already be missing Tuesday’s class in order to return to Rochester and catch a seminary session.
Driving went relatively smoothly until I hit Chicago. In fact, I was surprised at how little traffic was on the road. Sometimes I didn't even see another vehicle for a good half hour. Chicago, though, that's another story. Not only was the traffic heavy, and the construction everywhere, but it started pouring down rain. In the dark of night, confined to one skinny lane surrounded by bright orange cones, tired and achy, it felt as if I was in some twisted unending nightmare.
I stopped to go to the bathroom and stretch my legs, grateful that my little umbrella was within easy reach and not packed in the trunk. One more hour. Already it is well after midnight. Fortunately the construction had ended once I entered Wisconsin - at least until I reached Milwaukee. Signs posted everywhere warned of roads closed and detours needed - could I get through? Would I be able to find my way if the normal route was blocked?
Later one of the other students told me they couldn't get on the expressway in Indiana due to flooding. Everytime they thought they had found a way, there was a police car barricading their way. It added several hours to their already long drive. Tonight I am blessed. My roads are all clear. The familiarity of the place encourages me. Only a few more miles and I pull into the front gates with the new security gate. I am here. I made it. Now all I have to do is get the poor RA out of bed to let me in. 3am. I can still get a bit of shut eye.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Packing
I check the little brochure from Concordia, telling me what to bring. Dorm living isn't too far afield from apartment living. I will get a roommate of their choice (it has always turned out well in the past). But the rooms themselves are EMPTY! We get sheets, tiny towels, and a very thin blanket. Everything else we need to bring with us or go without.
The first year I arrived with what I thought was a lot of stuff. But when I started bringing things into the dorm, I was shocked to find veterans with vans packed to the gills hauling all sorts of stuff into their suite - chairs, tables, pianos, fans, bedding, multiple suitcases, dishes. I could not imagine what they were thinking - it looked like September on campus with students moving in for the year!
I miss having my 'stuff' about me, of course. But its just four weeks. Surely I can leave the kitchen sink home for such a short period of time. This year the added complication is that the airlines only allow you one little suitcase and you get to pay for anything else you bring. I realize I don't want to live on that skimpy of resources. So I will drive there.
I am a bit panicked that my apartment is in disarray. I know that once I start packing, it will come together quickly. And it does. In fact, I can fit everything in the truck with room to spare. It's hard to leave - not only that I will miss the boys and be concerned for their welfare, but that I am putting behind all things familiar and stepping into the strange and unaccustomed. For a good reason, but I am loathe to make myself uncomfortable for a season, even for the greater good. Ah, me. All the more reason to press on and do it. One cannot get stuck in a rut forever.
The first year I arrived with what I thought was a lot of stuff. But when I started bringing things into the dorm, I was shocked to find veterans with vans packed to the gills hauling all sorts of stuff into their suite - chairs, tables, pianos, fans, bedding, multiple suitcases, dishes. I could not imagine what they were thinking - it looked like September on campus with students moving in for the year!
I miss having my 'stuff' about me, of course. But its just four weeks. Surely I can leave the kitchen sink home for such a short period of time. This year the added complication is that the airlines only allow you one little suitcase and you get to pay for anything else you bring. I realize I don't want to live on that skimpy of resources. So I will drive there.
I am a bit panicked that my apartment is in disarray. I know that once I start packing, it will come together quickly. And it does. In fact, I can fit everything in the truck with room to spare. It's hard to leave - not only that I will miss the boys and be concerned for their welfare, but that I am putting behind all things familiar and stepping into the strange and unaccustomed. For a good reason, but I am loathe to make myself uncomfortable for a season, even for the greater good. Ah, me. All the more reason to press on and do it. One cannot get stuck in a rut forever.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Wracking Cough
Ever since the cottonwood trees started shedding their gallons of fuzzy white fluff, I have had one serious postnasal drainage going on. My poor head can't handle it all, and I soon found myself dealing with a sinus infection and wracking cough that just would not go away. Phooey. It is zapping all my energy and I feel like I am slogging through molasses. I can't sleep laying down because I choke on the phlegm, so I sit up in a chair all night to facilitate drainage. I have no voice and sound like a frog with permanent larynx damage.
I have done all the things I know to do - hot lemon and honey tea, lots of vitamin C, drink water (hot and cold) take naps whenever I can squeeze them in. Nothing has helped. My staff finally cornered my in my office and commanded me to go to a doctor. I had taken off time to deal with not feeling well, but they are right. What with leaving soon for Concordia, I need to feel better and not be so tired. I give in and call for an appointment.
I am so used to being told not to come in over a common cold that I am surprised by the receptionist's response. She takes me right in, sounding shocked that I have waited so long. Sure enough, I get an antibiotic prescription. Perhaps that and a month's rest while the cottonwoods quit shedding and I'll be back to normal. NORMAL! Wow - what a great word. It's great to think of myself in a normal state!
I have done all the things I know to do - hot lemon and honey tea, lots of vitamin C, drink water (hot and cold) take naps whenever I can squeeze them in. Nothing has helped. My staff finally cornered my in my office and commanded me to go to a doctor. I had taken off time to deal with not feeling well, but they are right. What with leaving soon for Concordia, I need to feel better and not be so tired. I give in and call for an appointment.
I am so used to being told not to come in over a common cold that I am surprised by the receptionist's response. She takes me right in, sounding shocked that I have waited so long. Sure enough, I get an antibiotic prescription. Perhaps that and a month's rest while the cottonwoods quit shedding and I'll be back to normal. NORMAL! Wow - what a great word. It's great to think of myself in a normal state!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Tying Up Loose Ends
Last week the college sponsored a clean up day, complete with all the supplies and boxes and rags and organizers you might need. In the afternoon they sent judges around to scope out the buildings and make awards for the most organized, the cleanest, the messiest etc. Though I came in to work on the evening shift hours, I did my best to straighten up my office. Despite the fact that I haven't quite been in it for a whole year yet, the stacks of paperwork awaiting my attention had gotten a bit out of control. I still knew where things were, but I desperately needed to file and sort and tuck things out of sight.
In a few short hours, I had done just that. Then I realized I had yet to actually clean! So I dutifully rounded up cloths and wipes and scrubbed down the surfaces, cleared off the bulletin boards, neatened up the books on the book shelf and spiffed the place up. Just as I was putting on the finishing touches, I saw the judges. They appeared to be a bit lost, so I went to see if I could help them find the various offices and areas to look at. I was especially proud of the organization of the Circulation Desk area. I asked them if they might be willing to step behind the desk and take a look. They politely glanced at our hard work of organization, nodded, then headed out the door.
Wait! Where are you going? You haven't even been back to Collection Services or upstairs to the Administration Office. But it was too late. They were gone just like that! I stayed in the library while staff went to the awards and ice cream shindig. Turns out they had already eliminated our building because we are new and they felt it wouldn't be fair to compare us with someone in an old building with years of accumulation to deal with.
Ah, but is that not the point? We had to de-clutter in a big way just to move into the new building. I think the staff deserve gold medals for all that. But we do have a great building, and I guess that is reward enough. Still, its too bad I didn't know that before I went to so much trouble. Then again, it makes tying up the loose ends before leaving for a month of study much easier. [grin]
In a few short hours, I had done just that. Then I realized I had yet to actually clean! So I dutifully rounded up cloths and wipes and scrubbed down the surfaces, cleared off the bulletin boards, neatened up the books on the book shelf and spiffed the place up. Just as I was putting on the finishing touches, I saw the judges. They appeared to be a bit lost, so I went to see if I could help them find the various offices and areas to look at. I was especially proud of the organization of the Circulation Desk area. I asked them if they might be willing to step behind the desk and take a look. They politely glanced at our hard work of organization, nodded, then headed out the door.
Wait! Where are you going? You haven't even been back to Collection Services or upstairs to the Administration Office. But it was too late. They were gone just like that! I stayed in the library while staff went to the awards and ice cream shindig. Turns out they had already eliminated our building because we are new and they felt it wouldn't be fair to compare us with someone in an old building with years of accumulation to deal with.
Ah, but is that not the point? We had to de-clutter in a big way just to move into the new building. I think the staff deserve gold medals for all that. But we do have a great building, and I guess that is reward enough. Still, its too bad I didn't know that before I went to so much trouble. Then again, it makes tying up the loose ends before leaving for a month of study much easier. [grin]
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Oh, deer!
I collected three young men for carpool, tucked them in beside the drowsy Drew, and headed out Buffalo Road towards 531. We had decided to brave construction traffic instead of taking the long way around (which uses a lot more gas even though you get there faster).
Just as I passed Jitters and right before the landscape business, a deer leapt out of the ancient church graveyard on the left hand side of the road, bounded right in front of the black pickup truck ahead of me, and sped down the driveway on the other side of the road disappearing into the woods back by the creek. At first I had thought it was a large dog bounding across the road. Then I realized it was bigger than a dog - a full grown doe.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. Four frowzy heads lifted from the seats, and mutters of "what?" and "where?" clattered about. Too late. The deer was long gone. They blinked and swiveled their heads around, hoping to catch a glimpse. Nothing. It was as if it had never happened. Even I was having trouble believing it wasn't some daydream.
I had to wonder what the deer was doing this close to civilization. I knew my sister, just a mile or so away, had them in her back yard (which runs a good acre in size) eating her garden plants and nibbling her apple trees. But there was nothing here really. Too much traffic, too many people. I hope this is not a sign of a tough summer. Oh, wait, that's what they say about a tough winter. Which it wasn't. At least not too bad.
Well, a startling flash of tawny critter is one interesting way to start a day. Regardless of whether anyone else saw it or not. At least we didn't hit it!
Just as I passed Jitters and right before the landscape business, a deer leapt out of the ancient church graveyard on the left hand side of the road, bounded right in front of the black pickup truck ahead of me, and sped down the driveway on the other side of the road disappearing into the woods back by the creek. At first I had thought it was a large dog bounding across the road. Then I realized it was bigger than a dog - a full grown doe.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. Four frowzy heads lifted from the seats, and mutters of "what?" and "where?" clattered about. Too late. The deer was long gone. They blinked and swiveled their heads around, hoping to catch a glimpse. Nothing. It was as if it had never happened. Even I was having trouble believing it wasn't some daydream.
I had to wonder what the deer was doing this close to civilization. I knew my sister, just a mile or so away, had them in her back yard (which runs a good acre in size) eating her garden plants and nibbling her apple trees. But there was nothing here really. Too much traffic, too many people. I hope this is not a sign of a tough summer. Oh, wait, that's what they say about a tough winter. Which it wasn't. At least not too bad.
Well, a startling flash of tawny critter is one interesting way to start a day. Regardless of whether anyone else saw it or not. At least we didn't hit it!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Puzzling
Drew owns a dozen or so 3-D puzzles - most of them are famous buildings like Notre Dame. I'm not sure why, but for some reason only known to teenage boys, he decided to ditch the boxes they came in and bag them up all together in one big container. All of them mixed up. Perhaps he thought it more of a challenge to figure out how to sort them into their separate entities sans instructional pictures. Perhaps he thought they would take less space to store. Not sure.
But tonight he needed a "visual" for his Bible class, and that 3-D Notre Dame cathedral would be the ideal thing. So there he lay on the floor of his bedroom, thousands of the foamy pieces strewn around him, picking through piles of different colors and textures for the hundreds of bits of the cathedral. What a daunting project. I would have given up long ago. But he patiently combed through stacks for the gray and gold parts, setting them on the bed until he had enough to start putting them together.
At 11 I commanded him to go to bed. He was about 2/3rds of the way completed and several piles shy of sorting through the entire assemblage. I gave up and went to bed. In the morning, I found the nearly completed puzzle on the table. Apparently several pieces still eluded his search, but for the most part he had it done.
Sort of reminds me of life. By the time you get through sorting through the piles of pieces and try your best to construct something without an instruction manual or even a model, its time to retire!
But tonight he needed a "visual" for his Bible class, and that 3-D Notre Dame cathedral would be the ideal thing. So there he lay on the floor of his bedroom, thousands of the foamy pieces strewn around him, picking through piles of different colors and textures for the hundreds of bits of the cathedral. What a daunting project. I would have given up long ago. But he patiently combed through stacks for the gray and gold parts, setting them on the bed until he had enough to start putting them together.
At 11 I commanded him to go to bed. He was about 2/3rds of the way completed and several piles shy of sorting through the entire assemblage. I gave up and went to bed. In the morning, I found the nearly completed puzzle on the table. Apparently several pieces still eluded his search, but for the most part he had it done.
Sort of reminds me of life. By the time you get through sorting through the piles of pieces and try your best to construct something without an instruction manual or even a model, its time to retire!
Monday, June 2, 2008
Love Your Neighbor
One of the reasons I am glad to move is that I won't have to put up with the obnoxious upstairs neighbor. I began praying that our new neighbors will be quiet, thoughtful, decent law-abiding citizens who will basically either leave us alone or become friends.
The absurdity of that prayer smacked me right in the face. I am asking for lovable neighbors who will be easy to tolerate. But we are instructed to love our neighbors as ourselves. Obviously, Jesus was talking to chosen people about getting along with other chosen people. These were all basically good people. Right?
He was not talking about the guy who smokes a pack of cigarettes a day and drops all the butts down on MY porch. He was not talking about the couple that stomp around their apartments until well after midnight, yelling and screaming at each other and at their kids. He was not talking about the beer drinking, foul mouthed woman who props all the doors open because she is too lazy to stay outside and keep tabs on her unruly wildcat children - the ones who insist on climbing the railings of my porch and scaling the bushes to their own deck above, the same bratty insolent kids who trash the hallways, dump garbage on my door mat, and pick the lock to the basement and meddle where they are not supposed to be.
Love your neighbors as yourself.
You got to be kidding! They have the morals of a gnat, the manners of a pig, the. . .
But wait. There are no caveats on that verse. If God loves these people just as they are (after all, he loves me just as I am) then surely I should be more concerned about them, shouldn't I? I'm not even sure I know how to love them. Treat them as I would want to be treated? Well, that probably doesn't include yelling at their kids, slamming the doors shut every time I find them propped open, entertaining thoughts of gathering up all those burned butts and depositing them on their doorstep, pounding the ceiling with a broom when they get to cat fighting in the middle of the night. Hum. Apparently I have a lot to learn.
The absurdity of that prayer smacked me right in the face. I am asking for lovable neighbors who will be easy to tolerate. But we are instructed to love our neighbors as ourselves. Obviously, Jesus was talking to chosen people about getting along with other chosen people. These were all basically good people. Right?
He was not talking about the guy who smokes a pack of cigarettes a day and drops all the butts down on MY porch. He was not talking about the couple that stomp around their apartments until well after midnight, yelling and screaming at each other and at their kids. He was not talking about the beer drinking, foul mouthed woman who props all the doors open because she is too lazy to stay outside and keep tabs on her unruly wildcat children - the ones who insist on climbing the railings of my porch and scaling the bushes to their own deck above, the same bratty insolent kids who trash the hallways, dump garbage on my door mat, and pick the lock to the basement and meddle where they are not supposed to be.
Love your neighbors as yourself.
You got to be kidding! They have the morals of a gnat, the manners of a pig, the. . .
But wait. There are no caveats on that verse. If God loves these people just as they are (after all, he loves me just as I am) then surely I should be more concerned about them, shouldn't I? I'm not even sure I know how to love them. Treat them as I would want to be treated? Well, that probably doesn't include yelling at their kids, slamming the doors shut every time I find them propped open, entertaining thoughts of gathering up all those burned butts and depositing them on their doorstep, pounding the ceiling with a broom when they get to cat fighting in the middle of the night. Hum. Apparently I have a lot to learn.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Playing
Our accompanist was away today, and I found myself at the keyboard, something I have not done in awhile. It felt good to be part of the service in a different way, and especially I was happy to have a reason to make myself practice! How fast the days fly by and before you realize it, you haven't touched a keyboard in weeks. Then when you need to play, your fingers just don't remember how to move.
I was afraid I would stumble around, be nervous, muff things up. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that my hands still recalled chord patterns, that in fact, some preludes I have struggled to play in the past actually flowed better than I have been able to play them before. Its as if aging improved my familiarity even though I have not looked at the music in some time.
One aspect that has straightened out considerably is my ability to portray the emotive meaning of the music. In the past, especially when I was younger, I thought passion was communicated by pounding louder, by playing faster or slower. I played as if my heart were bleeding all over everywhere - wild and uncontrolled and unmeditatively unpredictable. I poured my own angst out through huge gestures and dramatics.
I find now that one can communicate the passion better in smaller, more well thought out, more controlled phrasing. I do not bleed profusely and messily through the proliferation of notes. Rather, the notes reach into the hearts of the listeners and they bleed. Just enough to be touched. Just enough to say it quietly but with significance. The pain of a pinprick leaves a much more pleasant memory than that of a dagger.
I guess its like learning to talk without yelling all the time, yet without speaking in a monotone. It takes years of practice to read aloud in public in ways that are effective. Maybe, just maybe, I am beginning to learn how to play in public effectively.
I was afraid I would stumble around, be nervous, muff things up. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that my hands still recalled chord patterns, that in fact, some preludes I have struggled to play in the past actually flowed better than I have been able to play them before. Its as if aging improved my familiarity even though I have not looked at the music in some time.
One aspect that has straightened out considerably is my ability to portray the emotive meaning of the music. In the past, especially when I was younger, I thought passion was communicated by pounding louder, by playing faster or slower. I played as if my heart were bleeding all over everywhere - wild and uncontrolled and unmeditatively unpredictable. I poured my own angst out through huge gestures and dramatics.
I find now that one can communicate the passion better in smaller, more well thought out, more controlled phrasing. I do not bleed profusely and messily through the proliferation of notes. Rather, the notes reach into the hearts of the listeners and they bleed. Just enough to be touched. Just enough to say it quietly but with significance. The pain of a pinprick leaves a much more pleasant memory than that of a dagger.
I guess its like learning to talk without yelling all the time, yet without speaking in a monotone. It takes years of practice to read aloud in public in ways that are effective. Maybe, just maybe, I am beginning to learn how to play in public effectively.