Foot Care

Today I decide a little pampering is in order. Predictions for Friday include temperatures into the 80's - sandal weather! But my feet are a mess. I haven't paid much attention to them and lately they have been aching and burning a lot at night. I figure its some sort of residual from the treatments, having experienced this sort of thing before.

I have a port draw mid morning - same old same old - and then head for the mall to find that little nail place. It is completely devoid of activity. One skinny Asian gentleman is surfing the web, one obviously pregnant woman is sitting in a chair sipping an iced coffee. No one looks up as I walk in, and I stand there a few minutes until the guy realizes I am there.

I tell him my mission and select a peachy color of polish while he fills the foot basin. He carefully lays out various implements and motions me into the chair. I plunge my feet into the warm swirling water and sigh contentedly. He wanders off, leaving me to enjoy the warmth after providing a bottle of cold water for my hydration.

The pregnant woman saunters over, grabs a little stool and seats herself comfortable in front of the station where I am seated. She speaks fluent Asian of some sort, with a soothing intonation and gentleness that is matched by the movements of her hands. She is careful and deliberate in her motions, thorough in her ministrations. I close my eyes, reveling in the comfort, little shivers running up and down my body.

I wonder how she cuts without drawing blood, how she clips without slipping, how she knows every little spot in my foot to press so the tension is released and drained. She drapes a hot towel across my legs and slathers on minty lotions and creamy potions, massaging them deep into my dry and withered skin. Not just winter dry. Chemo dry. Radiation dry. She has no idea, but I do. My skin drinks it in greedily.

As she paints my nails, I look at her in wonder. How did she come to work in this great salon? When is her baby due? Will she keep working? She seems to get along so well with the other technicians - is she related? Does she like this kind of work? Does she mind caressing the feet of total strangers, people who don't even speak her language, people who's customs seem strange.

I suddenly think about Jesus washing the disciples feet. Such an intimate and loving act. What would I have thought if Jesus washed my feet? Would I have sat back and basked in the wonderful comfort, as I am doing today? Would I have said with Peter, "I am not worthy?" Would I have felt shame? Been totally immersed in his love? Worried about how stinky and dirty my feet were?

Tomorrow at the Maundy Thursday service there will be a foot washing. Last year Sherri said she was going to have us wash each other's feet. Will I be up to the task? Whose feet will I be required to wash? Will I be able to do it in total love? Will I really mean it? I don't know. I will have to ask God for grace.

Meanwhile, I snuggle down beneath the drying lights and wait until it is safe to put my socks back on. It will be a long wait, but I don't mind. It is quiet. The technicians sit in the pedicure chairs and sip cool drinks as if they were at the beach and chat softly, waiting until I am done. It is a peculiar sensation, but I must admit, my legs and feet feel a lot better than they have in a long time.

I smile and take a deep breath. Tomorrow it will be my turn. I make a memory inventory of how she washed my feet. Perhaps it will help me make someone else feel better when I am kneeling at the other end of the towel. I wonder if there is such a thing as a heart washing. Maybe I can sign up for that while I am at it.

Looong Day Hurrah

I didn't plan it. It just evolved on its own. I didn't even realize the magnitude of my calendar commitments until the day before. Suddenly I realized that I am working from 7 am to open the library until 10 pm to assist with a field trip to Sibley Music Library. In between, I get to teach 2 classes, attend another class, work at the circulation desk, and attend a meeting about creating a survey for alumni.

Hey! This sounds like a normal day pre-cancer! Can it be that I am back to some sort of normal schedule? Can I actually handle it? I don't know, but I am going to try. No taking extra caffeine to propel me forward. No, this is by the book. Let's see what condition the old chassis is in! I don't have to be to work tomorrow until after noon, so if I collapse, I have time to recover. Besides, its just one day.

And so it unwinds little by little. I decide to take a bit more time during my 3 pm lunch to hedge my bets for the evening session. Will I make it? I am not flagging and drooping at 5. This might work. I so love helping students find resources at my old stomping grounds. I circulate from student to student answering questions, directing to the floor with that call number. I am having a ball.

A gentleman who has been sitting nearby, not with our group, asks me to help him too. I don't even bother to tell him that I don't work there, I just answer his question - turns out he is from Philadelphia, a faculty on break and absorbing the wonders of Eastman Library. It feels good to connect him with what he needs. Perhaps I haven't lost my touch after all.

By 10 pm as we head for home, I am tired but not weary. It has been a wonderful day filled with joyous, fulfilling work. Yes, I am starting to be able to do more, to tire less, to think clearly, to feel productive. It is good. It is very good. And I am confident that I will sleep well and not be a rag tomorrow. I may not be entirely back to snuff, but I sure am getting there.

Saying Thank You

Two faculty here at Roberts spent much time with library staff to help us work through a time of strategic planning, to think about what sort of library we want to be and to identify how to become that kind of library. It only makes sense for us to grown into our lovely new building and become the library of the administration's dreams!

Our conversations were well guided, keeping us on task and not letting us be sidetracked. Our statements were challenged by people who have little vested interest in political machinations or social agendas. If this, then that? Skip this, then what? Every session brought new ideas, new concerns, new avenues of investigation.

They kept coming back until we had worked through the blue sky thinking and the practical planning and could flesh out in ink the exact measurable goals we needed to accomplish in order to become the library of everyone's dreams. Then they left us with an open invitation of help if we needed them. No one paid them for their consultation, their preparation, their time. They love doing this and have a real heart for the organization.

How do you thank someone like that? It's not easy. We planned a little social event in the Fireside Reading Room to break bread - or rather coffee cake - and sip coffee and let them know how much we appreciate their help. A small gift certificate, and some shared reflection, a moment in time to stop what we are doing (working on those goals!) and appreciate their gift of time and expertise so freely given.

Our conversation was that of close friends who reflect on times past with fondness and await a good future together. It was a knitting of our separate "silos" in ways that will fuse many areas of our interactions into a delightful and strong fabric. This is part of what makes working here so special. What a relief to be on a team that is working for the same good goals, upholding high standards, and encouraging one another to keep up the good work. They fully acknowledge the issues honestly but without losing that positive approach.

It makes me want to work even harder to "get there." And looking at our current efforts and summer projects, I have every faith that we will!

Holy Week Begins

I jump from "Saturday closest to March 24" entry in the Divine Hours to "Holy Week." The readings are lengthier, specific to the events of the last week of Christ's earthly life before resurrection. I find myself wondering about the sequence, about what Jesus was thinking as he faced the inevitable. I have some very small idea how that might have felt - sort of like making yourself walk into the cancer clinic infusion center to get chemo and radiation even though you know it will make you feel terrible for awhile. Very small scale.

But the week begins with joy. Jesus is celebrated as the answer to all life's problems, adorned as a King, worshiped. So we begin our service today, so we begin our cantata. Hosanna! Then we move in twenty short minutes straight to the cross. We miss out on so much by not celebrating Holy Week over a week's time. We have collapsed and condensed the ancient story into an abstract. No wonder we scarcely understand the full impact of this sacrifice.

Bach wrote musical works for Holy Week that were to be performed each day for the entire week in the services the church normally held. I have a vague recollection that when I was in elementary school, Catholic churches were open every day during Holy Week for prayer and meditation, and people took advantage of that. At very least I remember Good Friday services that began at noon and lasted until 3 pm. People sat in the pews reading Scripture, and from time to time, some hymn or picture was presented at the appropriate time, as if we walked through the day beside Jesus, experiencing what he might have experienced.

I never encountered a Saturday vigil until a friend of mine invited me to an Eastern Orthodox Easter vigil. It was fascinating. People stay up all night long, sometimes taking candles and walking en masse out into the night and around the church building, singing and chanting. It sent shivers down my spine. The next day there is a feast!

The choir did a marvelous job singing the cantata. The readers brought us into the action and the pictures helped us comprehend how it must have seemed to the disciples back then. It was an excellent start to this most sacred week of the year. A whole page is devoted to it in my liturgical calendar. Called Gethsemane and picturing Christ in an agony of prayer in the Garden - accepting God's will.

For some reason, this year Holy Week is special to me. Perhaps it is because I made it through such a grueling year of treatment. Or maybe because of my Dad's recent passing. Whatever the reason, I try to absorb every little detail, every nuance, to capture these times for posterity. I am looking forward to what the grace of God will bring each day. May your Holy Week be as special as mine is turning out to be.

Spring Cleaning

Our apartment is not exactly airtight. Dust swirls in around the window ledges and seeps in through cracks in the worn siding. I should have done spring house cleaning last year, but I was too worn out to consider it - and I was about to begin the chemo. So I let it ride.

But I cannot let it go another year. The curtains and drapes are filled with dust and cobwebs lurk in every windowsill and corner. The carpets have survived the puppy adjustments to a new place and the mud and guck of Rochester winters. I must address this before it gets any worse. I warn the boys. Set aside Saturday. We will tackle this together. Right. They are less than enthused until I offer to pay for services rendered.

Still I had a hard time getting Drew up to help take down the curtains. We begin loads in the washing machine at 9am. Drew sprays the windows with my homemade vinegar water solution and wipes everything down, making sure all the black mold in obliterated. I work in the kitchen, sorting cupboard contents and wiping everything with an antiseptic solution.

We even take the ceiling fan blades down and scrub the greasy kitchen dirt, exclaiming over the bright light color we end up with. It feels soooo good to get the cobwebs out. We rent a carpet cleaning machine, and Drew, bless his heart, takes over, attacking spots and spraying the upholstery on our chairs. He is earning every penny.

I tell him stories of how I worked for the women in my neighborhood every spring, learning how to tackle the crusted grime of indoor confinement, how to throw wide the windows and let in the sunshine and fresh air, how to scrub walls and doors and woodwork and light fixtures, how to sort and weed and make glass sparkle, all for the whopping 50 cents an hour that was the going rate back then. He tries to calculate what that would mean in today's economy, trying to leverage up his rate of pay.

I do more supervising than scrubbing, being careful not to overdo. I have been warned by one of the ladies in my choir not to do so much. She doesn't want me having a relapse, and I listen to her. When I am tired, I sit, and when I am at the end of my strength, I stop. Drew is worn out too. He falls asleep in the chair almost as soon as he sits down, and he is asleep for the night.

I survey our handiwork. Like the good Lord, I can truthfully say, "It is good!"

Tapped to Serve

Ring. Ring. I glance at the phone to see who is calling me in my office. The college chaplain. I pick up. We exchange pleasantries, then he asks me if I am an ordained minister. The question surprises me. I am not quite sure where this conversation is going. "No," I answer. "Not yet. I am still in seminary." And silently, I acknowledge that I am not sure I am being called to serve in that capacity though there are definitely aspects of ministry that have great appeal to me.

"Oh," he responds. "Somehow after hearing you speak in chapel last fall I got the idea that you were. I'm asking because this Friday we are planning a special Holy Week experience for the students which will end with communion being served, and I thought of you and wondered if you would be interested in serving?"

Wow! I am deeply honored that he thought of asking me. I have served communion when I was Minister of Music in denominations that have laity serve. First time I did so was on an occasion when the senior pastor was out of town. I had seen him do it every Sunday for over a year. I knew how, knew the words, the actions. But I had never stood on that side of the table.

I went into it willing and without even a thought that perhaps this was inappropriate. I viewed it as obedience to the appointed person in charge. How blessed I was to serve! I didn't realize the incredible intimacy in serving the body of Christ to the body of Christ. Waves of tenderness and gentleness and love flooded my being as I offered, over and over again to people I had come to know and care for, the body of Christ, given for them.

I had a nearly irresistible urge to hug each person for a long moment, to tell them that everything was going to be alright, that they were so deeply loved. I valiantly fought tears that burned for escape from the corners of my eyes. I nearly choked on the lump in my throat at the sheer emotional reaction everytime I looked someone in the eyes to bless them.

At one and the same time, I felt so totally unworthy of doing what I was doing. Who was I to be allowed to serve as a conduit for the grace of God? My cheeks flushed with the shame of how far short my life has fallen of the mark God intended for me. I was torn between wanting to be relieved of the task because I was too decrepit to continue, and wishing that this precious time of bonding would never end.

It was as if time did not exist the whole while we were serving. Just a delicate fragile moment of sharing punctuated by whispered familiar words, words I had heard a million times from the other side of the chalice. The experience was so powerful I was afraid to wish for another chance to serve for fear I would be seeking only the experience and not true service. Yet from time to time God allows me to serve this way, a gracious gift of unbelievable joy.

The chaplain tells me he doesn't think ordination is a requirement for this type of service, but he will check to make sure. He gets back to me to say I am welcome to join him and two others in serving. I look forward to it with great expectation. But what is this? For the first time before serving communion, I am overwhelmed by the need to intercede for these students, to spend devotional time in heavy prayer for students, some faceless, others I recognize. It is serious and agonizing. And non-stop.

I wake in the middle of the night and hear myself praying. I drift off. In the morning, I awake in prayer. All day long until chapel time I am distracted from normal activities by the burden of intercession. I wear it like a coat of mail, a warrior doing battle with unseen foes. Is this how pastors serve? I have never heard anyone mention this.

I enter the auditorium with an air of expectancy. Surely God will be in this place. It seems so common, so ordinary, so unanointed. Yet the intercessory spirit stays with me. We sit in silence meditating on Scripture and artwork depicting the week of Christ's passion. Then it is time. I step forward to take my place beside others and once again I whisper the familiar words. "The body of Christ, given for you."

I do not know these brave students who come forward - without being told by a parent - to partake. Do they do this because it is what they have been taught, because it is familiar? Or do they seek a touch from God, a grace of forgiveness and love? I do not know. I only know once again that searing duality of unworthiness coupled with extreme blessing. I am so honored to be allowed to do this.

I quietly wear the cloak of elevation for the rest of the day and well into the night. The words I read at Vespers and Compline take on new intense meaning - more significance than I thought possible. I am so grateful to have been asked, for it permitted me to be touched by the hand of God. What a privilege and joy.

Dress Rehearsal

I plot and plan rehearsal carefully. We are not as far along with this year's cantata as I would like to be, but between Ash Wednesday and cancellations due to weather and the move back into the sanctuary, practice time was reduced more than I would have liked. I am so glad I selected a familiar cantata for Palm Sunday - no sense adding to our stress by tackling something completely new!

During our Saturday rehearsal last week we only covered the first 6 numbers, and those were the ones we already had read and knew the best. Last time we sang this cantata, we omitted the final piece. We have a lot of ground to cover tonight. Every minute must count. I begin at the end, the only acceptable place to start given our circumstances. We work that least familiar 9th song several times, stopping here and there to fix something that didn't quite work. We achieve an acceptable level of competence, and I move backward to song 8.

Slowly and carefully we work out way back until all the pieces are comfortable and working. Do we have time? Can we do a complete run through and still end at 8:30? Maybe. But first, a devotional. A context. More important than knowing the music well is remembering why we are singing in the first place. Normally we read from our choir devotions book, but tonight, I invite everyone to move into the pews and view the slides that will accompany our cantata.

Each picture was carefully selected to portray the text of the readings and the songs. We settle down and relax a bit, beginning at the beginning for a change. We walk through the events of Holy Week one at a time in proper sequence, remembering, reflecting. Suddenly, the moods and effects of the text we have been working on make sense. Joyous Palm Sunday, somber during the arrest and trial, dark on Friday.

Now, we rise to sing. From the opening Palm Sunday scene to the cross, each song takes us on a journey of intimacy with Christ, knowing that what he endured was for us. We do not yet hear the narratives. Save the complete effect for Sunday. It is enough that we sing the entire work, ending only ten minutes past our usual stopping time. We are in a good place.

I circle a few spots in my score that will need a brush up or reminder run through on Sunday morning. Be there at 9 am please. And bring your hearts.

Echocardiogram Mania

My schedule is tight. I thought about rescheduling the echocardiogram, but decided that as long as everything cooperates, I should be able to have that done and still get to work in time to teach a class at 10am. Sigh. Best laid plans and all that.

Kiel's car wouldn't start, so I was delayed helping him get the thing to turn over. By the time I got on the expressway, traffic was backed up for miles due to a 20 car pile up caused by black ice. I am grateful for my delay. Maybe I would have been part of that mess. I see accident after accident as I crawl along with one eye on the clock.

Any thought of arriving early is down the drain. Now I am hoping for a 'not-too-late' arrival. They receptionist had told me Building G in Clinton Crossing. But the Cardiac Clinic there does not do echocardiograms. They direct me across the street to Building H. Still I am only a few minutes late.

I climb on the table obediently and watch my heart valves flutter and flop about on the screen. I listen when they turn on the sound - sometimes it sounds like somebody is waving a sheet of thin metal - sort of like skinny thunder. I have no idea whether what I am seeing is normal or problematic. We are checking because of all the muscle deterioration elsewhere in my body. Heart damage is one side effect that they have documented before.

I want to ask if everything is OK. The technician who did the echo before chemo and radiation had told me right away that everything was fine. I know the techs are not supposed to tell you anything and I do not wish to put her in a compromised situation, so I do not ask. The doctor will let me know I am sure.

Of all the procedures and tests I have had done, this one is the easiest and more pleasant. A warm dark room, no needles, quietness. Nice. As I head out the door, I glance at my cell phone. I still have time to get to work before the class session barring any more traffic slowdowns or long winded trains.

Now if I can just reschedule the other tests I will be good to go!

The Real Birthday

Drew was in no hurry to get up this morning, but I had no time to take him anywhere should he miss the bus. So I grumped and groused and complained him out the door. Seconds later I realized that today is his birthday! I know we already celebrated it, but somehow it didn't seem quite right for him to start the day being yelled at by Mom.

I must find a way to make this right. I select an e-card of the chipmunks singing happy birthday and send it his way. I decide to get him that special and expensive white cake he loves so much. I call him when he gets home from school even though I am at the clinic for a port draw. He is depressed because none of the movies we ordered from Amazon for his birthday have arrived yet.

They all promised to arrive by the 23rd, but that has not happened. Boo. I decide to pick up a movie on the way home to go with the cake. I get one called Hachiko - a story about a dog in a decade of mourning for his master, featuring Richard Gere. We had both seen the promo and thought it might be worth watching.

After I got home, I made BBQ chicken breasts and baked potatoes with cheddar cheese. We munched happily while watching our movie. I never actually apologized for being a grumpy morning Mom, but I think he understood. The best parts where when he paused the movie for extended conversations about how he is planning to work with the architectural college of his choice to coordinate coursework at RWC, and about getting his permit, and about various stuff.

Just the two of us, chatting. It was wonderful. I hope he had a great birthday day and enjoyed spending time with a penitent no longer grumpy Mom. He seemed happy, and then Aunt Janetta came bearing gifts from her recent trip to Australia. Nice end to a day that started in a less than stellar way.

Book Fair

This is the second year the Library has held a Scholastic Book Fair. Last year we were able to add about $1000 worth of materials to our Curriculum Center and send help to our adopted sister Library at Charles Finney School where Drew attends.

Book Fairs are dangerous things. I know I am going to buy books despite my resolve not to clutter my house with tons of books (hah! I have no more room to house them in my apartment and my office is full to overflowing). Books are friends, patiently waiting for you to rediscover them, to fall in love with their stories, to share them with others. It can become an addiction.

I restrict myself to the purchase of required texts for classes and books to send my darling grandchildren. I hope they do read them even though they are still so young. I asked one of the library staff who has a young daughter to go with me and help select both books for my grandchildren and books for the Finney Library. It was a great choice.

She read me books. We laughed and giggled over the antics of the Pout Pout Fish who's life was changed by a simple kiss. We reveled in the grumpy tantrums of llama llama and pushed the duck quacking button twice just to make noise. We touched all the animal skins in the zoo book from the fuzzy panda to the slimy lizard. We sighed over books we had read when we were young and oohhhed over books we wish had been written when we were young.

We spent a good hour there, dipping into the pleasures displayed copiously about the conference room on tables, shelves and display racks. There were book commercials running on the DVD screen that sucked you right in and made you want to find that book and read it on the spot. The Adventures of a Wimpy Kid are all the rage this year and shared shelf space with classics like Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time.

I walked out with an armload of books and a depleted checkbook and a smile on my face. It has been years since anyone read a book to me and I am still charmed by the experience. Read me another, I wanted to say. Please, please, please! I am a sucker for a good story.

New Digs

We gather excitedly in the Fellowship Hall to begin our trek together down the corridor and into the brand new sanctuary. The level of conversation is heightened with anticipation. The pastor gives us instruction and we begin by singing "We Are Marching in the Light of God" as we move en masse towards the long awaited newness of fresh paint and carpet, roominess, better sound, better lighting, better platform layout, handicapped accessible space.

I am struck by how much easier it is to hear the congregation sing once we have entered the room. The words are now projected onto the front wall with clear and large lettering. Heads are lifted, voices bold now that the piano soars freely all the way to the back pew. Tech people keep pace, changing sound levels and screens, keeping the service moving well.

The choir no longer has to jockey about, moving out to sing, stepping down steps to reach the congregation. Now we can stay put to sing the anthem, just standing in the same place, and later we will walk down a ramp when the service ends, not worrying about stairs. We have monitors and can hear what the congregation hears. Nice.

I know the choir has been praying for this service to go well, and I can tell that their prayers are effective. Everything seems to flow as it should. The pace is comfortable. Now that we don't have to expend so much energy attending to every little detail, perhaps we who serve will be freer to enter into worship as we ought, to connect with God as we want, to sense the presence of the Holy Spirit guiding and directing.

Perhaps with the congregation better able to see and hear, more comfortable in their roomier pews, they too will be free to hear the word of the Lord, to touch the hem of his garment, to partake of the things of God in such a way as to sustain their journey through the upcoming week.

I believe we will encounter God in stronger and more direct ways with fewer distractions. This is good! Let us hear the plans he has for us, plans to prosper us and advance his kingdom. It is a wonderful beginning. I can't wait to see what unfolds next! Hallelujah!

Lunch With Drew

How is it possible that my baby boy, my youngest, is turning 16? Where did the time go? Just yesterday he was in elementary school grinning that toothless grin of all energetic little boys. Now he towers over me, wears a size 12 sneaker, speaks in a deep rumbling voice, has thoughtful opinions on topics I never dreamed entered his consciousness.

We decide to celebrate his birthday quietly together, just the two of us. He picks TGIF's for our Saturday lunch date. I am proud to be there with him. We order, then sit back and relax. Conversation flows easily between us. It has been too long since we connected this way.

He talks about his friends, his college plans, his interest in architecture, his experience in Robotics. The waitress, who speaks with a heavy Russian accent, comes and goes, seamlessly filling our glasses and taking away empty plates. Drew ignores the beeps of friends texting him and orders the peanut butter chocolate cheesecake. He offers me a bite. I succumb. It's yummy.

His real birthday is next Tuesday, the 23rd. I know that on Sunday, his brother Kiel has birthday plans for Drew and some of his friends. I am honored to have this special time, struggling to let him know how proud I am of him, how hopeful for his future. We finish, and Drew quickly calculates the tip on his phone. I smile at his adeptness with all things mathematic.

We saunter out into the mall, still chatting, happy to be together for a few more minutes. How soon he will be gone from my daily existence, going off to college (he is already considering numerous offers of roommates), old enough on Tuesday to get a driving permit (and champing at the bit to do so).

In another year or two I will have that proverbial empty nest. As much as I am looking forward to being independent again, I will miss my boys madly. They will be caught up in the swirl of life's demand and hecticity, forgetting Mom except on certain designated days. Good thing I have Sugar!

But there is time enough to mope later. Today I am enjoying Drew's company, celebrating his birthday, glad to have him all to myself for an hour or two. Happy Birthday, young man. I wish you God's best for this coming year and the rest of your life.

Choral Confection

Downtown Rochester is not exactly a place I want to be wandering about in the evening. Why would the Houghton College Choir book itself in St. Mary's downtown? Wouldn't it have made more sense to align with a Methodist Church in the area instead? Someplace with adequate parking and good lighting?

Nevertheless, I follow my Google map to the intersection of Court and Clinton to see where this Catholic edifice might be located. Sure enough, the few street metered parking spots are taken by the time I arrive. Sigh. I shall have to park in one of the garages and walk - alone - for a block or so. The streets are deserted and the church looks dark. I briefly wonder if I have the wrong night or the wrong St Marys. Advertising for this event was elusive and hard to track down.

I enter at street level and walk up a flight of stairs to the entryway. Though the church windows are dark, I am encouraged by a young man guarding a table of Houghton College materials. "Have they started yet?" I whisper for there is no sound in the vestibule. "Not yet," he whispers back. I tiptoe in and find an empty seat - not hard to do since there are only a handful of attendees.

I glance around to see if I know anyone, but there are no familiar faces. Whispered conversations flutter about me, reunions of students who attended Houghton together. Not my era. It reminds me how close knit Houghtonians can be, sheltered together against the world. I peruse the program. Familiar music surrounded by unfamiliar, I am looking forward to hearing the comfortable music I know and hearing the strains of new music that I hope will soar me to heights unknown.

A rustling begins at the back of the church which grows in intensity until we are surrounded by the tromping feet of the choristers. They swish past us in their maroon velvet gowns and elegant tails, young, eager, intent. I settle in as comfortably as possible on the hard wooden pew, leaning against my raincoat to soften the angular unforgiving seat.

After a "during concert pre concert talk" about the music, we at last begin with a surprising move into the balcony for the singers. More tromping. I understand why this church, this structure. The surrounding balconies allow for spatial differentiation. Ah. The singers take their positions, leaning ever so slightly over the railing. The organist is at the back organ, mirror in place. The conductor raises his baton.

I close my eyes, waiting patiently. The first few low rumbles of organ pedal rise through the floor and caress us, soon joined by singers ooo-ing lightly. And so it begins, this evening of musical sustenance. I relax, inhaling Part, Tavener, Bach. I smile amused when Bach struggles to stay together, not to rush, not to lag. It is hard for the singers and string players to hear each other. The baton becomes demanding and precise. Every verse wanders into dangerous territory, only to be pulled from the fire at the last moment.

Whatever the reason, the director edits the program freely. Pieces I would have liked to have heard are bypassed. But what we are served is rich and delicious. How often do you have opportunity to hear a well disciplined choir perform demanding music well? The sheer magnitude of sound is stunning, persuasive, dramatic, reverberant.

Too soon the concert ends. There are no CD's to purchase. We are the first stop on their spring itinerary. They will improve as they travel, get more comfortable with the idea. I love listening to choirs sing, especially sacred music.

On Sunday, March 28, at 3pm in the Cultural Life Center at Roberts Wesleyan College, our own Chorale will sing under the able baton of Dr. Jeffrey McGhee - my voice teacher. I am truly looking forward to hearing them sing. Its the same day as our Church Easter Cantata. I can never get enough! Mark your calendars and come join me if you are in the area.

Choral Chaos

The sanctuary renovations are complete! This Sunday we will worship in our new space. Tonight I came to choir rehearsal early in order to set up the platform and get the chime tables in place. The pastor was there helping to jockey the piano and digital keyboard into a workable position. So were the people who are learning to run the new technology. The company trainer had strapped on a microphone and his voice boomed and echoed in the room, drowning out all thoughts and making conversation near impossible.

Lights came on and went out, first blinding us, then plunging us into darkness. Monitors were positioned and brought up live. Volumes bounced from a whisper to floor reverberating sonic levels. People huddled over the board and the pc in the new tech space, then walked to different parts of the sanctuary to check things out.

In the midst of this chaos, the pianist and I were trying to set up our duet for Sunday, I on the digital keyboard and she on the grand piano. I had preselected settings, but I needed to know if they were balanced properly with the piano. I could hear nothing! The people in the sound booth said they were controlling the volume and that it was fine, but not so if I couldn't hear anything of what I was playing!

Choir rehearsal didn't go much better. Between the loud instruction at the tech booth and people fluttering about, I couldn't hear myself think much less get the choir to hear any instruction. Even the pianist tried to convince the tech person that we needed quiet so we could work on our music.

Isn't that just like life? Sometimes it feels like everything around you is loud and demanding. Nothing seems to be working together and there is a lot of commotion. You are trying to get things done, but keep getting distracted by other activities.

The good thing is that, just as in life, eventually the other activity wound down and the people left and we found ourselves alone in a sea of quietness. It was wonderful. We worked through both Sunday's anthem and parts of the upcoming cantata, had our devotional, and left feeling accomplished and prepared.

Now if I can just get my life to follow suit!

I Can't Do It

I was supposed to have a mammogram and bone scan today. I scheduled it, I want to be thorough in my follow up, checking carefully to ensure that cancer is not rearing its ugly head somewhere else in my body, a very real concern.

But I just can't do it. I have done so much medical stuff for so long. I have been battling cancer for the last six years. I am supposed to be in remission. Leave me alone. I spend more time running back and forth to appointments with this specialist and that lab, taking this test and that consultation. I am done for a bit. I need some space.

You know what? I have a life and I like it a lot. I just want to live it unhindered for awhile. So I called and cancelled the appointment. I'll reschedule it, perhaps next week or after Easter. But right now, I am dealing with a gastroenterologist, a throat doctor, and a dental specialist. That's enough to make anyone's head spin.

I don't often get overwhelmed or feel like I just can't add one more thing. Perhaps it is because I want room to smell the roses while I am on this journey. I need time with my friends and with my grand children and with my kids. So the medical stuff will have to come into some kind of manageable balance whether it wants to or not. Now that the tidal wave is over, I prefer to stand in the shallows, not ride the curl.

Robotics Not Wrapping Up

What? Another Robotics after school meeting? I thought we were done with that now that the meet is over and we placed so dismally. Drew shut himself in his room for days afterwards, wishing he could have figured out ways to conquer the problems they encountered. The team slid from #2 to #26 out of 45. Boo.

This was both a debriefing and a planning for a fundraiser at Sam's Club. First the planning for the fund raiser. It took an agonizing hour to plow through the "thinking out loud" stage. The chair I am sitting in was built for a skinny teenager, not a work weary adult. My back is aching and not a break in sight.

Then the debriefing. They are warned to be "professionally gracious" - no finger pointing, no accusations, only ideas of how to improve next year. The moderator will only entertain suggestions from the students. When they have finished and their ideas carved in chalk on the board, they are dismissed to go eat pizza while the parents stay.

I feel as if I am about to be punished. The room is serious and ominously silent. I know only what Drew has reflected. He is frustrated and having a hard time even vocalizing what the issues are. It is a complicated and touchy situation. I listen quietly as one parent and then another tries to be positive about how to plan for next year, but the bottom line is that there is not enough adult involvement.

I know I cannot volunteer. I am still trying to get back on my feet. I am also not an engineer, and they need several software engineers, several electrical engineers, and several mechanical engineers. They used to have 14. This year they had 3. That is a huge issue. They also need mentors for publicity, fund raising, accounting and graphics design. And I think they need a project manager - someone to oversee this process. Goodness! I am unprepared for all this.

I have a whole new appreciation for what Drew has been dealing with. There will be no solutions tonight. I suggest we figure out how to let this need be made known. We have not asked for help, so of course, we don't have it. But we have to identify the right pool of candidates. We will work on it.

Right now I am only interested in getting home. I was not prepared for a 2 and a half hour meeting and I have not even had supper! Not to mention that it is now past my bedtime. Once again I must admit that I still have limitations I would rather not have. I collect Drew and we head for home, commiserating together. The one good thing about this whole scene is that he and I are closer to speaking the same language. Something tells me we are far from done with Robotics.

Catching Up

It seems like ages since I had the chance to sit down with my friend and just chat. We have tried to at least eat lunch together for several weeks always with interruptions and reschedules. Today we both finally managed to sneak away and break bread together away from campus, carving out precious time to break away and renew our friendship.

I was determined that our conversation would NOT be about my health, that we would still have so much in common that conversation would flow freely and joyfully. We started with ultrasound pictures of her soon to be first grand daughter! How amazing the clear depiction of arms and feet and face. She is so excited and I don't blame her.

While I have been off fighting the cancer dragon, she completed her degree and got a nice promotion - yeah! Turns out we have even more in common now that she deals with some of the same issues I address. We compare notes while chowing down on BBQ pork sandwiches. Time flies by and before we are ready to stop the clock warns us that we must get back. It has been refreshing.

I have not been able to stay as connected to my friends as I would like to be. Now that I have reconnected with one, I want to contact everyone else who's calls and emails I have not responded to and take an hour with each of them - not to talk about cancer, but to pick up our friendship and move ahead. I will find time and energy. I am beginning to think I can handle more now, not be such a piker with my time.

So be warned! I may actually answer the phone next time you call. And I will surely answer emails. I can't wait to catch up with everyone.

Come, Ye Sinners

Time change. What a misnomer. Time does not change. It steadily marches forward at the same precise inevitable pace whether we perceive it that way or not. In the company of those we love, it seems to slow. In the process of trying to get everything done, doesn't it speed up? Summertime is always more leisurely and school time more agonizingly slow. Friday night fun and games slides by way too quickly while sometimes Sunday sermon minutes drag their feet.

Today we set our clocks ahead by an hour and lose precious sleep time. We hate that. We gain daylight hours at the end of our work shifts and can drive home not in the dark - we love that. It means summer is closing in on us.

Church attendance today betrayed those who had forgotten. Empty seats scattered here and there told the story. Thank goodness the choir was there, and our guest cellist, right on time. I am blessed. Warm up and rehearsal went well. Our young man has studied the score and practiced up. The music is in a better place. We run it three times and each time it matures and mellows, beginning to take shape and become what it is destined to be.

It is a moving rendition. The story of someone sick and desperate, thirsty and weak trying to find living water, overcoming desert treks and mountain hikes to finally finally get that life saving drink of cool water. The music is built to tell the story. The pianist coaxes the singers and the cellist to tell it well. Don't mumble. Speak clearly. I encourage them to tell the story.

In the service, about two thirds of the way through the song, we lose the cellist by a beat, but the momentum already created carries us and he rejoins before the ending. Yes, the story is heard. The pastor is touched by it. The congregation brought up short by its dramatic force.

Come, ye who are weary. Don't let the setting ahead of the clock keep you from a much needed drink at the well of Christ. Come be refreshed. Come be restored. Come be touched by the love of God.

Can You See Me Now?

I have put off the inevitable long enough. Before my diagnosis I was having trouble reading. With the heavy demands of seminary assignments, I would invariably end up with double and sometimes triple vision after wading through chapters and chapters of tiny text. I was just about to schedule an appointment when the diagnosis came.

Then I worried that the double vision might be the result of some swollen gland pressing on my optic nerve. The further I progressed with treatment, the more unstable my vision became. I mentioned it to my doctor who recommended I see an eye specialist, but I was so weary I never followed through. Would I lose my sight? I cannot imagine struggling to adjust to blindness.

Now, on the other side of chemo and radiation, my vision has slowly stabilized. I think all the internal effects are played out and this is how I really am! And I cannot read the fine print. I haven't had a lot of episodes of double vision, but my arms are not long enough to hold books and medicine bottles far enough away for me to comfortably read that teeny print.

What are those manufacturers thinking?? Surely they know that most people who take their medicine are old and visually challenged! Couldn't they adjust their instructions to be at least legible? Well, I have run out of excuses. I determine to take care of it today. Still I procrastinate. Why am I so reticent to have my eyes examined?

I take my time leaving the apartment and run some errands. Then I dawdle at the mall, poking about. Finally I drag myself to the glasses place and inquire about getting an exam. They want me to book a time and come back. I know that I will not do it if I don't do it now, so I ask if they have anything today. The receptionist is surprised to see that there is an opening in ten minutes. She pencils me in and calls my insurance company.

I wander around checking out the styles. Nothing too drastically different. The woman next to me is holding several dozen frames, waving them about, talking a thousand miles a minute and putting on one pair after another. Wow. Too crazy for me. I move to the next rack. My face hasn't changed that much in four years. Surely something similar to what I have will work.

I discover I prefer the men's frames. Much simpler and basic. The women's frames are colorful, unique, styled, twisted, thick, thin, curly, huge, tiny, white, red, purple, blue, silver, gold, bronze - yikes! And designer names, oh my. Vera Bradley to Saks and everywhere in between. Good Lord.

I gravitate to a display in the center of the store and discover a frame that seems to fit me just right. I note their spot just as I hear my name called. The doctor is a quiet Asian man who mostly points to the characters on the wall while switching stuff around. "Do you know you have astigmatism?"

"Yes."

"You need only a strengthening of your reading prescription."

I could have told him that. He places the trial lenses in front of my eyes and voila! The world becomes clear. How like my studies at the seminary. It becomes so clear that all my life I have looked at faith through someone else's lenses! They were not right for me. Things were blurry and out of focus. But the classes at the seminary have presented many different points of view.

I have tried them on one at a time like flipping the lenses at the eye doctors. Is this better, or this? Do you agree with this theology or this? Is the text clearer with this lens or this one? Do you understand Jesus' actions better from this perspective or this one? Enlightening.

Just as it took the eye doctor a few dozen tries to find the perfect fit, so it has taken the reading of a few dozen theologians for me to better understand what I thought I believed and why I have always been uncomfortable with certain aspects of the faith as presented to me in my childhood and adolescent years.

I suspect some of my teachers have been seeing through blurry lenses for years, never knowing the clarity that could be theirs, blinding following what they were taught, wearing their teacher's glasses of faith. I am delighted for the opportunity to find my own prescription both in physical glasses in and beliefs.

My grand daughter once thought that if she closed her eyes and covered them with her hands, no one could see her because she couldn't see them. It was a wonderful way to play peekaboo. Once I get my glasses, maybe I too will see others more clearly and be less likely to think myself inconspicuous when in fact I am in plain view.

Truth is, God has always seen me whether I am closing my eyes, seeing through a fog, or squinting at the truth. I haven't always seen him well. Once my faith is clearer to me, seen through the lens of faith that's right for my vision needs, I will realize that and be able to see God more clearly. I won't need to ask God "Can you see me?" because I will be able to see that He is indeed looking at me.

My glasses will be ready in a week or so. Let's hope my faith will be ready by the time I am crossing Jordan!

Port Withdrawal

Port draw time has shifted from Monday morning to Wednesday morning to Friday afternoon! How did that happen? Between the TPA treatment and my crazy schedule there just isn't a convenient time for me to play Dracula's victim any more.

Today I meet a new nurse who does labs on Fridays. She is wonderfully pleasant. How does she stay so upbeat surrounded by the dying and tragic? I have wandered past the wheelchair bound and barely upright in my short trek to the infusion center. She sees them all.

The only good thing about having a port draw on Friday afternoon is that by the time I am done, there is no sense in going back to work. I would only have about ten minutes left. I have to admit that the weather is enticing me to play hooky and not head back to my office. Instead, I head to the Eastview Mall, one of the malls I seldom go to since it is on the far east side of the city. It's a large mall and there are some unique stores there.

I justify my decision by telling myself that I haven't been able to get to the gym, and I can walk here at a leisurely pace without risking direct contact with the sick and coughing. Isn't it silly how little it takes to persuade us of the right of something? I do enjoy wandering about, checking out the sales racks here and there, discovering a great bargain in cjbanks - a zippered hooded sweater for only $9! American red white and blue with stars. Nice.

Then I discover a new store called Teavana. I have been seeking a tea cup that is both microwave safe and has a lid and can be set on an electric hotpad. They have one! I am delighted to have discovered it. They hand me a brochure about tea and I am interested in their facts and explanations. I circle several flavors I would like to try, just not today thank you.

All this before the evening crowd hits. And no kids tagging along. I have not been able to be on my own shopping in such a long time. This has been delightful! I didn't need to stop every ten feet to rest, or run to the restroom in a panic. I didn't feel faint or woozy. I smiled at the antics of kids with their Moms and took the time I wanted to poke and investigate.

What a marvelous day! There is a greater 'draw' to having a port withdrawal on Friday afternoon than I realized! I shall have to try it again sometime.

Cello a la Sub

Last year I wanted to sing this piece that required a cellist with the church choir. I could not for the life of me find a cellist willing to play with us. I know the honorarium is small, but wouldn't you think a whole college of students might cough up at least one willing to work as much for the experience as for the cash?

This year I put it on the schedule again. How excited I was when I discovered one of the library staff had a husband who was not only a music teacher but who also played cello! Hurrah! I love the piece (Come Ye Sinners) and plan to put it on my degree concert schedule.

Imagine my disappointment when he was sick - though he kindly found me someone who would sub for him. I barely knew the name of the person who would be substituting and had no way to contact him. Despite being encouraged that the player had perfect pitch and would do an excellent job, I was a bit antsy.

The choir and I worked hard to get everything as ready as possible before he arrived. His timing was perfect. Just as we were ready, he quietly appeared, tall and timid, toting his cello on his back. We set up and began. I realized that he was only 17 and had probably not played with a church choir before. I make my gestures for his entrances bigger, more direct. His timing is good.

He has not had the music for more than a day, and struggles with the key - 6 flats is no walk in the park. He assures me that he will work on it before Sunday and things will be in better shape by then. I trust him. The choir encourages him. The pianist teases more vibrato from his fingers than he knew he had. Yes, it will not be the piece I have dreamed about, but it will be good. We know the importance of helping the younger step into new shoes. The fit is good. It will be fine.

Missing Dad

It's been such a whirlwind of life events and I have been so focused on getting back to the regularly scheduled program that I have barely had time to think about Dad being gone. Every once in awhile, the thought creeps into my consciousness, but I push it away. I don't want to think about Dad being gone. Not yet. Let me hold on to my illusion that things are as they have been for some time. Dad is at his office and I live in another city. We will get together when our schedules lighten up.

But I know it is not true. I call home and Mom answers the phone now. A few times I had the fleeting idea of running something past Dad to see what he had to say about a certain topic or a theological conundrum I am chewing on. Usually that entailed a long and thought provoking conversation, but there will be no more running things past Dad to see what he thinks.

I am only just beginning to miss him. Mom is working on collecting his sermons and making them available to us. I look forward to reading them or listening to them, to recapturing some small essence of the man who bought me sneakers at the Salvation Army, who started a used clothing store before they were popular, who stretched a dollar until it begged for mercy.

Will I hear him in the words he spoke from the pulpit? Will I hear his penchant for harvesting food from the wild - everything from strawberries and elderberries to pods of peas that fell from the processing trucks at the Green Giant plants? Will I recall how he muttered to himself when he was working on some construction project, talking himself through to a solution when bolts were stubborn and slots didn't quite fit?

Will his words bear testimony to the preacher who built his own A frame and taught his children to butter bricks and raise rafters and work a come along? Will there be some hint of the man who built a camper trailer from scraps and hauled his family cross country on a great adventure to visit his Dad in California and incidentally stopped at all the national parks, imbuing us with a love of nature and a memory for America that still colors our horizons?

How will I connect with all those pieces of life that somehow fit into my childhood and formed me into a definable and strong character? How can I hold on to him when he is no longer here? Mom asked me if there was anything of Dad's I wanted to remember him by. I thought about it for awhile, and said I would like one of his Bibles - preferably one he wrote notes in. Mom too cherishes that part of Dad and will keep the most marked one and will it to me when she is done with it. Meantime, she sent me others.

I page through them gently now and again when I have the strength left over from daily demands to think about Dad. I can almost smell his flannel shirt and hear the classical music he liked. He, like me, once worked as a recording engineer at college. I had no idea until after I had done that that he had ever taken on the same activity or that he enjoyed it so much. What an eclectic person he was! Surprising that he could roll up his sleeves and work in the dirty grimy shops while still excelling at a hearty theological debate.

Long after he retired (which he never really completely did) I asked him jokingly what project he was working on, thinking that since he was retired, he was just interested in vegging. So he described how he was designing an invariable bicycle gear so that the rider need never shift but the bike would automatically adjust to the terrain. Take that on after you retire! Goodness.

He was a quiet man who never spoke his preferences. He'd eat dirt had it been served him and never complain. Yet he constantly thought "outside the box" long before that was popular. We hugged only once that I can ever remember, and that was when we buried my son. Perhaps because those hugs were so rare I treasure the memory of it, of its unexpectedness, of its depth and solidness.

I cried a lot before he died. How it hurt to see him suffer so. I cried a bit at the funeral in the car waiting to drive to the cemetery. But today finally I allow myself to miss him, and the tears are coursing down my cheeks. Dear Dad. Sometimes your ways felt like sandpaper against the wood of my life. How I loved to be part of your projects and activities, exploring the woods for ground pine or sledding downhill with the kids from church (I treasure that picture of you at 80 sledding down a little hill near your house).

You were one of a kind, a gem half hidden by life's muddiness, solid, dependable, sure. You were right when you told me there are many ways that people show their love. I am just beginning to learn.

Day of Prayer

I won! I took a survey for a vendor and they awarded me a $25 gift certificate. How great is that? They got their money's worth from it for sure. I spent an hour on their website perusing the options. I found several things our library ought to own and didn't and sent a request for purchase. What fun spending that gift certificate! Not to mention finding out about some resources I was unfamiliar with.

I selected Phyllis Tickle's Divine Hours pocket edition. It arrived yesterday, and today I delved in with both feet. I have always wanted to experience praying the hours of the day, but the resources I have looked at have been complicated and hard to follow. She puts things in today's language, with a format that is easy to navigate. Short little five minute capsules. Add instructions on how to sing or chant the selected passages from Psalms and the hymns and voila! Something I can do.

How unprepared I was for the impact of this simple discipline. Reading these familiar words packaged in this way reached deep into the fabric of my being, fulfilling such a vacuum that I did not know existed. How like being served a wholesome gourmet meal after a diet of McDonald's!

There was no temptation to rush through the words or mindlessly blather them without thinking about what I was saying. No. I wanted to savor every drop, to wring significance from every syllable, to roll about in my understanding the whole enchilada until I was satisfied that I had extracted every ounce of meaning.

Yet when the same words surfaced again and again, it was as if I knew them intimately and at the same time did not know them at all. Always there is more to nourish my heart, more to touch my being, chords to vibrate in spaces where no sound has been heard.

I like this. I find it difficult sometimes to be alone so I can sing the exercises five times a day (I forgo the midnight and 3 am readings). I am jealous of my privacy. I will not share this dessert with anyone else. I carry the pocket edition with me so I can steal the time I need. And I order the full edition. I want more. I am hungry with an appetite that will not soon be satisfied. I have many years of famine to make up for.

I encourage you to try it. I would not be surprised if you found it every bit as wonderful as I do.

Raw Fear

He was frightened. He covered it nicely, but ask him how things are going, and the fear surfaces. If you acknowledge it, the tiny glint turns into a gushing river of fear. I ask. He gushes. Cancer. How could it be happening to him? He has been healthy as a horse all his life - never even been in a hospital. Now he has to have surgery. And maybe chemotherapy. He is unsettled.

I hear the "what if's" verbalized. I understand them. I have asked them. It was easier for me. I had babies. That will prepare you for nearly anything. Men are not so lucky. I assure him that his doctors perform these procedures a hundred times a week. They are experienced, skilled, will take good care of him.

"Can I ask the doctors if they will let me pray with them before the surgery?"

Of course! Most doctors are more than willing to be prayed for and with, even if they are not of your faith. They understand that it helps the patient. You should also ask your pastor to meet you there before the procedure.

"Can I do that? But it's at 6am!"

Ask. Most pastors are willing to be there for you or to send someone if they can't be there. This is your hour of need. Let people know you need support. I will be praying. I am up at 6. I will continue praying for you on and off all day. You will be on my heart. God be with you, my friend. God be with you.

I do pray for him and for his wife and pastor and doctor. I think of him on and off all day. And the next day, and the next. He sends me a text. There were complications, but things are OK. I am relieved to know he is past the hard parts. I still pray. And I send a card. I am praying for you. Take heart. Don't be afraid.

We all fight the same battles. Sometimes you just need to know there are people standing there with you, even if they can't go through it for you. I am always willing to stand with someone. Lord knows, dozens of people have stood with me. And thank God, He never leaves us or forsakes us but travels through that valley of shadows with us. God be with you, whatever your valley. God be with you.

Shattered Afternoon

Sunday afternoon. I am tired in a good way, reverting to habits learned long ago, curling up on my bed for a nap. The boys are both away, involved in various activities. Just as I am beginning to doze off, voices rudely interrupt my soundscape. Someone is standing beneath my window talking a bunch of nonsense loudly.

Irritated, I roll over and pull my warm hat down over my ears, hoping the chatty cathies will move on soon. I can still hear their inane conversation. "Did you? Yes. But what if... Don't worry. Are they coming? Call again." What does it mean? The voices go on and on and on. How rude!

I try burying my head under the pillow. My world is nice and dark, but my ears are still assaulted by the loud voices. They are not voices I recognize, and I know most of my neighbors. Why are these people standing underneath my window? Go away! But they do not go away. Finally, I haul myself out from under the quilt and stomp to the window to see who these intruders are.

At least a dozen people huddle on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. I do not know any of them. They are in various states of dress and undress. Some have shoes on, some are barefoot, some have socks only. Two are wrapped in blankets, one has a jacket, two are hugging their bare arms, clad in only a tee shirt and shorts.

What is going on? They chatter excitedly among themselves. Suddenly I hear a siren. Hum. Must be a fire somewhere, or an accident. The wailing trucks sound closer and closer, turning down the drive into our complex. Wait! They are pulling up in front of MY building! What on earth? Alarmed, I hastily don shoes and socks and throw on my jacket.

I am about to go outside when a fireman pounds on my door. "Get out. The building is on fire. Get out now!" What?? On fire? I smell no smoke and my nose is famous for being very sensitive. I start out the door, then realize I cannot leave Sugar inside! I grab her leash and tromp downstairs and out the back where I gather with my neighbors.

Firemen ask if everyone is out of the building. We check who is missing and everyone is accounted for. Firemen walk hurriedly back and forth carting hoses and axes and huge fans. We are told that the fire is already out and has been out since before we were asked to vacate the premises. Someone tried to heat chicken wings in their microwave and things got out of hand.

They investigate several apartments on our side of the building to make sure no fire got into the ceiling and traveled elsewhere in the building. Nothing can be found. We get the all clear to re enter the building, and my neighbor holds the door for me while mumbling about the number of occupants in the offending unit. How can a dozen adults live in a two bedroom apartment? Something is not kosher.

Maybe they are just visiting. After all, there is a new baby in that unit. . . Still. It makes him nervous. The management here is falling down on the job. I am jolted by his quick conclusions, his pointing finger, his assumptions. I am even more jolted that I know only one person from the other side of my building. How is it that I didn't even know there was a new baby over there?

I stumble over hoses and lines and back upstairs. There is no resting now. I am wide awake and in a bit of shock. I cannot go anywhere because my car is blocked in by the fire trucks. I wander about the apartment, gazing out one window and than another until the commotion finally subsides.

That is how the unexpected comes. Without warning and loaded with the unknown. It allows no control and inhibits your freedom in uncomfortable ways. We never get used to it. We are not told that the far side of fight or flight is weak knees, shaky muscles, a sense of disorientation and a long recovery period!

The last engine pulls away from the curb and leaves no sign of the afternoon intrusion. Dusk surrounds the quiet building, no one hovers about, dancing from one bare foot to the other. Normalcy returns. I try to explain the whole scenario to my boys when they come home, but they do not find it interesting. Except the part where I didn't smell the smoke before the fire broke out. Imagine that!

Blue Sky Springy

What a glorious day! The sky is breath-takingly brilliant, washed in sunlight, clean and fresh. Birds sing from every corner of the yard. People are out enjoying life after a long and dreary winter.

It is early March, coming at us so lamb-like, so tame and wonderful. Everyone is filled with energy, bounding about in teenage mode. At lunch I drive to the post office to mail some bills. In the little neighborhood just west of campus through which I must navigate to get quickly to my destination, I find myself steering around young couples holding hands, heads bent towards each other in serious conversation, fully focused on each other and completely oblivious to their surroundings. I could have been a mac truck for all they knew.

Its sweet, all this gentle companionship. Sugar senses it as well. After mailing my letters, I head home to let her out. She meets me at the door with an eager whine. I barely manage to hook the leash before she is out the door, bounding down the steps and pacing impatiently by the front door, waiting for me to open it and release her to the pleasures that await.

She runs frantically back and forth, tangling the leash in search of all the enticing smells available. I cannot keep pace with her scampering little feet as she excitedly explores the new greenery of tulips and daffodils poking their slender stalks bravely through the mud, surrounded by melting banks of ice.

She races ahead to the very tippy end of her leash, turning and glaring at me as if to say, "Hurry up, old woman!" I indulge her by walking three buildings farther than normal, sacrificing my lunch prep and inhale minutes for her enjoyment. Perhaps that is good. I might shed a pound or two and be more able at keeping pace!

Inside, I turn the rocker to face the window and sit fully enveloped in the warmth of the sun pouring in at the window. How delicious. I drink in the beauty, the singing of the birds, the chatter of neighbors out and about. The world is waking up. I love it and will it to last long beyond the lioness last day of March. Perhaps it will!

Lenten Decor

It does seem a bit ridiculous that I still have the nativity tapestry hanging on my wall, not to mention the epiphany wisemen around the creche glass figurine set standing on a mirror on my desk. Really, I need to be more seasonally in sync!

Problem is, I found exactly the wall tapestry I want for the Lenten season, a great Last Supper scene that is NOT the popular DaVinci one. Rather, the disciples are gathered about, sitting on the floor by a low table, deep in conversation. The room is dusky, lighted by oil lamps of the right era. The whole scene evinces fellowship and camaraderie mixed with a bit of confusion and depth. Perfect. Also no longer available.

I try several vendors online, but cannot get it. So I stubbornly refuse to change seasons because I cannot get what I want. And DaVinci isn't it. Too formal, too stiff, too posed. No, I want something closer to what supper looked like at my house when I was growing up, just translated into another era. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

How revealing. I will not move on until I get what I am used to, what is comforting to me. But life is seldom filled with only the comfortable and understandable. We live with mind bending conundrums daily which do not care whether we are able to comprehend them or not. We seldom have the luxury of standing still and refusing to move until we get things sorted out.

It does not matter that your personal life is undergoing some crisis. You must still report for work or risk losing your job, your income, your home. Time does not stand still when your parent dies, or your child. You must keep breathing, keep getting up every day, keep eating. You cannot stop aging even one minute just because you are in pain and are missing the best years of your life.

No, we steadily march forward, like it or not, with grace or with tears. You only get to stop moving when you are dead. If you stop, the consequences are overwhelming and expensive.

I sigh and stare at the tapestry so out of step with Lent. I know I must change it, and not to the scene I want. I browse online for other options. There aren't many; at least, not many I can live with. I don't care for sickeningly sweet sentimentia. The art on my wall must speak to my soul, remind me of something valuable, challenge me to think differently, more broadly, see a horizon far beyond my four walls.

I select a tapestry of Jesus looking out over Jerusalem, longing to be allowed to love its inhabitants, sorrowed that he is not permitted, praying for them, loving them anyway. Normally I do not care too much for depictions of Jesus, but this one is not a full front face view, and the figure is draped in a shawl. Yes. It will encourage me to think of my neighbors, to pray for people who are unresponsive to me and to Christ, to love anyway, to have no agenda other than to treat people as Jesus would have.

This year, I am slowly learning to love people better. It is not easy. I consistently want to take the lazy approach, to do less than I know I should, to justify my lack of action based on my health. It is a sham and I know it. There is no excuse for not picking up the phone and talking with a friend who is undergoing a medical procedure. It is not difficult to remember to mail a card to someone who is having a tough time.

If I really cared, I would do it.

Perhaps more important than what hangs on my office wall is what hangs in my heart. I don't like what I see there. I need a good thorough spring cleaning - an application of God's grace to clear the cobwebs from the dark corners, a swipe of mercy to remove the layers of dust. They are such little gestures, so easy to do but so hard to make into habits. I cannot do it. God will have to hang the tapestry in my soul and make the necessary adjustments. I will cooperate. Let's hope I can at least manage that.

Choir Concentration

We have missed valuable rehearsal time due to bad weather and Ash Wednesday. Tonight we must hunker down and work hard, not waste a single moment, no time for socializing. The upcoming pieces are not easy reads or familiar oldies. This will require sweat and perhaps even tears.

We meet in the small warmup room because the Fellowship Hall where we are still worshiping due to the sanctuary renovations is too vibrant and echoey. We cannot hear ourselves much less the other parts. Even though the piano is not in tune or of good quality, it is still better to be able to hear ourselves.

I know going in that I am going to change Sunday's piece, but I do not know what we will sing. I am leaning toward a hymn that we know. The pastor's series is on forgiveness. It should be easy to find something appropriate. Next week's piece is the one we focus on. I tried this one last year, but could not find a cellist to accompany us.

This year, the husband of our evening building supervisor has offered to play. I am excited because this is a piece I want to do for my master of church music recital. The text is appropriate to the series - Come Ye Sinners Poor and Needy. We go after the parts tooth, hammer and tong as the saying goes. By the time we end, we are in a good place. A bit of polish and we can easily have it ready next week.

But this week's piece (Franck's Father Most Merciful aka Panis Angelicus) cannot be conquered in ten minutes. I suggest we look in the hymnal. They find a title to a favorite anthem listed in the forgiveness section and we pull the piece. They read it in a snap. Yes, they do know it well. How great is that? And the text fits well. Now all I have to do is go home and learn it myself. Better me than the whole choir! Good job.

Port Draw

My calendar is triple booked! I should be having a Public Services meeting, and I want to hear Northeastern Seminary's Vice President and Professor of Pastoral Ministries the Rev. Dr. Jack Connell speak at chapel today. I had also planned to work out at the Gulik Gym earlier now that I am finally getting over this cold.

But I do not work out. And I do not hear the Rev. Dr. or meet with my staff. Today I see Dr. Gerlach and then go for a port draw. Wednesday mornings are supposed to be my time off to do all this medical stuff. Wouldn't you think the library and the college could manage to book interesting stuff around my personal schedule?

The oncology nurse once told me I would grumble about having to come in for port draws, but until today, I was fine with it. Suddenly it begins to interfere with my life, my schedule, my plans. Can it be? Is it possible? Am I finally well enough to have returned to normal activity, the kind of normal where the medical stuff interferes? YES!!! It is true. I am exiting the Bexxar fog and becoming a non-patient, in more ways than one! Hurrah!

The nurse who drew my blood today has a son who attends Roberts. She saw my name tag (the one I forgot to take off) and asked where I work on campus. We compared acquaintances and found out that we intersect in several places. What fun to chat while she lay out the thousand tubes and antiscepticized my port, inserted the required sterile water, pulled out the blood, and cleansed it all nice and tidy.

She is considering Roberts' RN to BS program and I encourage her to do it. It's an excellent program and I know many of the instructors who are all wonderful. Well, perhaps it wasn't such an inconvenience to let go of other activities and come to the center once again. I met a delightful person, helped someone in a wheelchair get to where they needed to be, swore at a poky driver in the parking garage, bought a blueberry scone for a treat and got to be out in gorgeous weather.

Still, it would have been nice to have heard Jack. The call of the norm beckons me from the halls of the med center. I believe soon I will no longer respond to the med stuff, having become once again attuned to the heartbeat of everyday life.

Krista Tippett

Every other year, starting with this year, Roberts holds an Academic Day Conference. This year, our speakers include Krista Tippett, noted radio show host of Speaking of Faith . I had not heard of her or her show before the conference. Her new book, Einstein's God, has just been released and sounds intriguing.

Krista's opening presentation was engaging. Can we talk seriously about religion and its intersection with other areas of study and life without being sidetracked by conflict and the subjectivity that causes eyebrows to be raised? Yes, we can. Krista's speciality is drawing out that conversation from the intellectually gifted and presenting a meaningful dialogue that impacts our lives in significant ways.

The breakout sessions with various faculty apply this technique to the various disciplines on campus - political science, medicine, sociology, etc. Embedding our faith in our chosen professions. Wrestling with the issues that are so new, so complex, so compelling that one must turn to the long standing traditions and truths for guidance. This is important work. How wonderful to have such opportunities when you are in college. I look for the impact as they take these processes into the workplace.

Annual Rectal Cancer Check Up

My first bout of cancer was with rectal cancer starting in 2004. I passed the five year mark last year, but what with the challenge of dealing with lymphoma, the milestone passed with little celebration. During my lymphoma treatments, I encountered the occasional rectal bleeding issue. Nothing serious but nothing to be ignored either.

My rectal oncologist looks at all the tests and labs. Everything looks great from her perspective. She is loathe to pass a clean bill of health until I see a gastro specialist one last time, just to confirm that any bleeding issues are past and not anything to be concerned about. We believe it is just some polyp or minor scratch, but because of everything I have been through, we will follow up.

She will see me again in August, and if, as we suspect, there is no sign of rectal cancer, she will graduate me from the program! Done. Cured! Out of the cycle! YEAH!!! When that happens, I will throw a party and invite all my friends. Won't it be great when I can do the same thing for the lymphoma? Even though at the moment we are not talking cure, anything is possible in the next few years.

I could easily move from celebration to celebration. That would be fantastic. In the meantime, I will take my doctor's offer of freedom and run with it. How cool is that?!