Lugia's

It's open! Already! Drew tells me about how a friend of his just went to the ice cream place near our house. This year they have a super king sized ice cream cone that you can order. I cannot imagine how anyone could eat one. How would you keep it on the cone? There must be over a half gallon of frozen delight. Even the kiddie cones are too much for me to eat at one sitting.

Lugia's is a small restaurant that deals in soft ice cream in the summer months. Its our favorite soft ice cream store in the area. The cones are filled with wonderful smooshy creamy marshmellowy delight in several flavors beyond the basics. Besides the soft ice cream, they offer a bazillion flavors of regular ice cream and all sorts of ice cream concoctions. I've never actually ordered a hamburg or hot dog, but they smell great cooking when you are in line for the ice cream.

The squatty white building is surrounded by spacious lawns dotted with benches and picnic tables and shaded by old oak trees and such. People love to hang out and chat - a sort of neighborhood watering hole. On hot days, the lines are ten abreast all the way to the road. Parking has been expanded to the far side of the corner plaza near the pool store and clear around the back.

I thought it would be nice if both boys and I went together to kick off the season, but our schedules are out of sync. Drew and I go first. I order the smallest size of soft chocolate, he get a small vanilla with multi colored sprinkles. We lick happily together, letting the sweet goodness slide slowly down our throats and into our waiting bellies. Soooo good.

Kiel and I go later, and I get my usual while he gets a small vanilla with blue goo outlining the ridges of the mounds of cream. Ummmm-mmmmm. The cool goodness practically jumps into our mouths. Hey - I may have stumbled across a decent plan for getting ice cream. If I take each boy separately, I get to go twice! Uh-oh. That could be trouble. Still, it is Lugia's . . .

The Results

I keep my regularly scheduled appointment with my primary physician. She checks the results of all the tests I have had done in the last few months since last I saw her. We had agree to meet today before my maintenance chemo begins to make sure that everything else is doing OK. Somehow the clinic that did my mammogram and bone density scan haven't yet posted the results. She will check for me.

She reads the neurology report. Yes, the peripheral nerves show some damage, and she suspects it is residual from the Bexxar. I should definitely talk with my oncologist about it. Meantime, she offers me drugs to help with the pain should I need it. I decline. I have taken enough stuff. But I keep my options open in case this gets worse. I can tough out an hour or two of agonizing night time pain.

She also mentions that my Vitamin B levels are low. She wants to see another lab to make sure its not a fluke, but it might explain some of my tiredness. My idea is that my poor toxic liver is finally able to dump some of the poisons from my body, and this numbness is my system's way of complaining. The nurse laughs at my idea and tells me that if I say it with enough conviction, it might be so.

Meanwhile, the doctor looks at everything else, checks in about my levels of exercise, my diet, my mental health, my kids. She encourages me to get outdoors and walk as much as I can. It will help my tired muscles and maybe alleviate the numbness a bit.

She is upbeat and encouraging. So refreshing! Makes me believe that things will be fine after all. She is on top of my situation, and I know that if I have to call in for help, it will be the right intervention based on me. We agree to meet again in August and check in. By then I will have completed the colonoscopy and had an annual ob/gyn exam. Not to mention the chemo.

I sigh deeply as I leave. It is wonderful to feel as if you have a partner who knows the rules in this crazy game and comes along side you to make sure everything is going well. You can't ask for a better doctor to help you navigate the murky waters of cancer survivorship.

Shock Therapy

Take the silver elevators and follow the sign to Neurology. Wrong. What they should have said is that Neurology is right around the corner from the silver elevators. Never mind. I find it despite the bad directions. The office is small and crowded. People in wheelchairs sit scattered about waiting to be called. The check-in desk is so close to the entrance door that you can't make a proper queue.

I finally manage to fill out the required forms and find a seat seconds before my name is called. I follow a bubbly woman down a maze of hallways to a small room with a table bed and a machine in close quarters. She instructs me how to put on the gown, returning to glue little wires and sprockets to my legs as she warns me about the "little flashes of electricity" that she will be zapping me with.

She taps my leg with the probe and Zing! a bolt of lightning shoots down my leg, making my muscles jump and seize up. This wonderful exercise is repeated numerous times both in the same spot and elsewhere on my leg - front, back, knee, ankle, foot. Brother! I am sure the hair on my wig is standing on end and that anyone I touch for the rest of the day is likely to share in my energetic good fortune.

But that is not the end of this barbaric torture (really, it doesn't hurt - much. Why does the word "rack" keep coming to mind?) No indeed. The real doctor now enters and proceeds to stab my leg with sharp wire probes while telling me to flex my muscles. I get to "hear" my muscles complain - airy whiffly sounds and deep rumblings come floating from the beeping machine next to my head.

I do not have an appointment to hear the results, just the test time that someone else abandoned. But I hear her tell the technician that I have mild neuropathy. She doesn't seem very concerned. And I see that based on the mobility issues of the rest of the patients in the waiting room, a bit of numbness in my legs is no big deal. I take my bleeding legs home, once again fully exhausted, and sit in the comfy blue chair, swilling ice tea and watching mind numbing episodes of Psyche.

My legs, just to be spiteful, have stopped the numbness and burning. Maybe the shock therapy worked after all.

A Good Cry

Why, I ask myself, am I so blah? Little things irritate me. I have no interest in household chores. The dishes lie dirty in the kitchen but I cannot address them. I cry with no provocation. I yell at people who are driving too slow. Or too fast. If I didn't know better, I would think I am having a bad case of pms or menopause. What gives?





I think about it for some time before I begin to understand where my distress lies. My assumption was that once the chemo and radiation treatments were over and I had moved past most of the side effects, I would return to some sort of healthy status. Remission should mean that I could put this cancer stuff behind me and live a normal life. But this leg thing drags me into yet another piece of the struggle. It rises before me huge and relentless, another block to putting the last six years away into storage.





I have summer plans - things I am really looking forward to doing. The mere thought that I might have shingles and have to cancel out again on my semester at Concordia or visiting with friends or attending a worship conference was disappointing. I am weighed down by what really is not a major setback. But its enough to make me weep.





There. Its out in the open. I have named this thing. Now that I see it for what it is, I can put things into perspective. First, a full confession and lament. Lord, I am angry that I am still having health impact from the cancer treatment. I want to be free. He already knows that. Now I instinctively put on a CD of hymns, curl up in his arms, and seek solace. The words wash over my weary soul.



O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come, our shelter from the stormy blast and our eternal home. Under the shadow of thy throne still may we dwell secure. Sufficient is thine arm alone and our defense is sure.



Abide with me, fast falls the even tide. The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide. When other helpers fail and comforts flee, help of the helpless O abide with me.



Eternal Father strong to save whose arm has bound the restless wave, who bids the mighty ocean deep its own appointed limits keep. O hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on land and sea.



The mountain before me shrinks into a more reasonable size. Keep my focus on the hugeness of God and smallness of the problem becomes apparent. I decide to have a good long cry and be done with it. But I will not cry because I feel sorry for myself or because I am having a bit of a bump in the road.



No, if I am sad and want to cry, I will find something worth crying about. I rent the movie "Taking Chance," a heartbreaking story about a young boy who dies heroically in Iraq - based on real life events. A marine colonel escorts the dead soldier's body back to his family in Wyoming, and they are met along the way by people who are moved and touched by his death.





It is worth crying for our soldiers who are giving their lives overseas. It is worth crying about the families who will forever face an empty space around their dinner table. It is worth crying over war and hatred that reigns in our world instead of peace and love. Yes, I can allow a good cry over that. I watch the movie privately, and I cry freely throughout. My mountain shrinks to a molehill. I do not feel sorry for myself or concerned about giving up a few summer events.





The cry is exactly what I needed. Cathartic. Healing. Sensible. Productive. I still don't feel inspired to do the dishes. I recognize that cancer patients have these bad days, often for no apparent reason. The tiredness, the apathy, the pains crop up, wreck havoc, disappear for no discernible cause.



Its OK. I feel better now. Smile. The storm subsides.

Here We Go Again

The numbness in my legs is worsening. My feet feel like they are on fire. It comes and goes. Sometimes my legs hurt like fury, and then in a half hour, I am fine. This is crazy. I realize I cannot wait until the 10th of May to touch base with the oncologist to see what is going on. So I call. I get the nurse and tell her my symptoms. She suggests I might be dealing with something like shingles, but since I am not in active treatment, I should consult my primary physician. OK.

I call, and they work me in today. Nice. I won't see my regular doctor, but at least if this is shingles, I won't miss the window of opportunity to get started on the medication. First I see a gentle young man who is interning with the practice. Like all newbies (first day on the job) he is slow, methodic, thorough. Good. At least he will catch all the symptoms. He does an exam, then exits to report his findings. The doctor comes in and listens to the litany he relays to her while I nod in agreement.

She does an exam, then asks me to walk on my tippy toes, on my heels, to jump up and down. Hum. Definitely NOT shingles. But deserves a closer look. They arrange a neurological test to be run. Someone has cancelled and they get me right in this week. No pussy footing around. Get to the bottom of things and figure it out. Yes. I drive home sort of divided in my feelings. While I certainly want to know what is going on, I am half afraid it will mean more treatments.

Nope. Not going down that road unless I have to. For now, I order a super sized ice tea from the coffee shop and slurp my way home to rest. I am exhausted.

Senior Graduation Dinner

Can you believe the academic year is coming to a close??!! Where has the time gone? It seems like just a week ago that Convocation happened and I was sweating over having to take the Bexxar. Somehow even Christmas this year was non descript as we encountered my Father's illness and passing. Winter melted into an early spring and voila! Here we are heading into May already.

I haven't been able to participate actively in the planning of our senior banquet this year, and I miss the flurry of excitement as we run through the list of all our student workers who will be graduating, making lists of who is bringing their good china, who is bringing the tablecloths, etc. We plan the menu - something nicer than the usual dining hall fare. Such detailed coordination reminds me of planning a wedding reception!

Its just our way of marking the occasion as special, pulling out all the fancy dishes and making a celebration of such an important milestone in the lives of these young students who pass so quickly through our doors and to thank them for their years of service. Our color is pink this year, and I happily take care of the flowers for the tables. I go with 1 deep pink rose, one pink and white lily, a scattering of deep pink asters and lots of baby's breath and greens. We use the same small square vases we got last year.

The tables are gleaming with their white and daintily flowered china and flowing white tablecloths. The silver is polished, the sidetable loaded with great smelling food. After hors d'oevres in the Conference Room, we fill our plates and settle down to the best part of the event - shared conversations about what comes next for them, what they absorbed while they were here, how stressed they are about upcoming exams, how glad they will be to get home to family and friends, what jobs or grad schools are on the horizon.

We set aside our pressures, those things that demand our attention, and enjoy this brief respite from all the craziness around us. After the meal, we present each student with a library mug bearing their name and date of graduation and a certificate of appreciation noting something special we have discovered about each of them. Flashes continually snap as pictures capture each smiling face, each handshake.

One of the staff members has created a special cake for dessert - complete with graduation caps bearing each student's name. It is almost too pretty to cut. Too soon we are pulled back into the reality of the day, and students tear themselves away for study groups and paper writing. We head for the kitchen to wash the dishes and tuck away the leftovers.

Yes, it was good this year. A nice group of students, good conversation, the preparation not too overwhelming. I wish them all well as they graduate and hope the continuation of their lives will be as delicious as the evening has been.

Aching Legs

Where is this tiredness coming from? Perhaps my body has not yet adjusted to being well. I know it will pass, I bow to the need to rest. Normally, it feels good to lie down after a day filled with glorious activity. Tonight I ache everywhere, especially in my legs. I retreat to my bedroom early, hoping the pains will pass. Sugar curls up on the foot of my bed, hanging her head dejectedly over the side. I rarely let her up on my bed, but tonight her presence is comforting.

I read for a bit, ending with the Compline reading in my Divine Hours for Spring book. I love ending the day with words such as these:

"Almighty God, grant us and those we love a peaceful night and a perfect end."

Despite the good thoughts and careful prayer, the pain in my legs escalates. I take some Ibuprofen, tuck a pillow to cushion my legs, then fall fitfully into sleep. An hour later, I waken. The pain is horrible, cramping, aching. What is causing this? I can barely discern just what hurts so much. Joints? Muscles? Not really. It seems to run along the bone. Touch elicits pain. Am I detoxing from all the harsh medicines of the previous months? Has the bone cancer decided to come suddenly into play?

I stumble out of bed and wander about, rubbing my legs carefully, trying some heat for relief. Nothing seems to help. I lie down again. Even pulling the sheet over my legs creates pain. Now I have numbness and tingling, a burning sensation in my feet, especially the soles of my feet. Shingles? There is no rash, no fever. The location seems a bit odd. Flu? Not the normal way for flu to hit.

I watch the time flip by on the clock. 11:50. Midnight. 1:32. 2:50 am. Somewhere after that, I drift off, waking around 5:30. The pain has subsided at last. I decide to sleep in a bit. I roll over on my side, curling up, tucking my legs gently. Let's hope we have seen the last of whatever that was! Good thing I will see my doctor soon.

Vocal Cords

Today I see the throat specialist to follow up on my damaged vocal cords. Last time they scoped my throat and I watched in fascination as my vocal cords, in real time color, wiggled and wobbled on the screen in front of my chair.

As wonderful as that was, I am in no mood today to undergo the necessary numbing and probing. I am still in my "leave me alone" mode. A new doctor examines me, trying to get up to speed about why I am here and just what it is we are checking on. I am less than forthcoming. He peers into my mouth, pressing my tongue with his wooden stick, shining the light about as if spelunking.

Those nasty metal splicers are stuck in my nostrils as he examines my interior as far as possible without climbing down my throat. He gently massages my neck with his fingers, probing for lumps and unusual structures.

Everything is normal. Nothing would make him think there would be anything out of the ordinary here. He sits in front of me and places a hand on my chart. Without looking into my eyes, he tells me that I have the option of refusing to be scoped. Since I myself have observed an improvement in my singing, and if I am content to leave well enough alone, then by all means, I can let the doctor know that I would prefer not to do anything invasive today.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye to see how I am responding. I get the distinct impression that this is not protocol. He is going out on a bit of a limb here. I take the suggestion and say I would prefer not to do the scope. Lunch sounds like a better deal to me. He jumps up and says he will now get the regular doctor.

A familiar face enters, goes through all the same motions as the intern, says everything looks good. He mumbles over the part where he sees no real need to do the scope. It would be interesting, of course, but he doesn't think its fully necessary. We agree to meet again in 6 months for a final assessment. If I get into trouble, I can always come back. If in 6 months I have my full range of voice back, I can cancel the appointment.

I thank them both, my eyes especially thanking the intern. What a relief! A small slice of freedom. Freedom to be a person and not a medical history, not a lab rat. I like it. I sing on the way back to work.

Bone Scan

It's never a good sign when the technician running your test says a long drawn out "hhhhuuuummmmmmm." I tell myself that this new clinic has the latest state of the art dexa scan machine - better than any I have encountered to date. The technician told me it was super duper.

But after the first scan ended, she fiddled with lots of stuff and said, "I'm gonna run this again. Seems the machine and I have a disagreement, and I just want to make sure I got what I need. Here we go." (These are completely painless procedures where you lie still and the arm waffles over you quietly - not even a hum or a buzz).

It only takes a minute for her to reposition my legs and set the arm in motion. But she is still unhappy with the results. One more time just to verify . . .

I refuse to read anything into it other than that the machine was having an off day. After all, its just to see if I have any osteoporosis. Are my bones as hefty as they should be? They are not checking for cancer in my bones as they have done in the past with more intense bone scans. This is purely routine.

Just check the test off your list and head over for the mammogram. No sweat. Today will be so routine it will make you smile. My heart is lifted when I am shown to the waiting room for the mammogram. What an elegant room! So reminiscent of a genteel era nearly gone by. Muted cream stucco walls surround a corner fireplace with (fake) crackling fire. The wallpaper is classic. Mahogany woodwork is burnished to a shining patina. Chairs are overstuffed and comfortable.

There is a complimentary coffee and tea bar - not the sterile half hearted utility kind but the thoughtful perfect hostess kind with real china and baskets of goodies. The view from the full length window is of a grassy area surrounded by pine trees. Sun streams in and caresses the heads of all who await the tissue crunching procedure. Gowns are soft and comfortable. People speak quietly and gently. This is nice!

Here is a place that understands that sometimes the soul just needs a touch of beauty in a world of ugly pain. I settle back to wait my turn, perusing an architecture magazine filled with color pictures of beautiful spaces. Before I realize it, I am beckoned, and must leave this idyllic womb of gentility. Afterwards, I return to my car and the reality of the outside world, but with the touch of kindness imprinted on my heart and mind. I carry it with me throughout the entire day.

Its very nice.

Voicing Joy

A day of meetings, of running from one event to another, of sandwiching doctor appointments and port draws in between. Busy. I feel slightly off balance, unorganized, somehow falling down on the job. I juggle laundry and reading assignments and dishes and walking the dog with worship planning and exploring new systems for the library and assisting myriads of students with connecting to resources. It is a whirlwind of activity. Am I doing OK? Maybe. I am reticent to thinking I am all better just yet.

My final run of the afternoon is to the cancer clinic for my weekly port draw, then a drive to get back to the library before my 5 pm shift at the reference desk. The afternoon is marvelously drenched in sunshine and blue sky syndrome, the birds singing heartily. I do not rush. I put a CD in the player - a wonderful choir singing a setting of Psalm 23 - lots of brass and percussion.

I love this setting. I find myself singing along, despite my voice not being what it should, my vocal cords not entirely healed. I start singing in the bass range, then work my way up to tenor. Hit repeat. I can manage alto now. Hit repeat. Good thing my windows are closed, but I wonder if the people in the other cars stopped at the traffic lights can hear my music. I don't sing when the light is red and I have to stop.

I hit a long stretch of road behind the airport, and I bop along singing - at the top of my lungs! All of a sudden, I hear a solidness in my sound that has not been there for a long time. I can get that chesty contralto volume that has eluded me since way last year. Hey! I like it! I don't care if my voice teacher would be rolling his eyes at the roughness. I belt away.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all of the days of life and
I Shall Dwell In The House Of The Lord For Ever (repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat) SURELY!

Ooooohhhh. It feels so good to say those words, to sing with exuberance and conviction, to be on the far side of a long battle looking back.

I sing myself happy. The trip is so short, the time running out. I have to stop and that is likely for the best considering how long it has been since I have been able to sing like this. My step is lighter, my attitude happier. It is good to be alive.

Scary Adventure

It began as a wonderful, romantic celebration of a wedding anniversary and a 70th birthday. What a great way to renew a lifelong friendship and marriage for this couple, these friends of mine, who constantly amaze me by their solid companionship and support of one another, their continued tenderness and - frankly - their love for each other.

I can just picture them strolling up the Champs Elysees, holding hands, gazing up at the Arc de Triomphe, sharing a pastry at a sidewalk cafe, sipping wine on a dinner cruise up the Seine. After enjoying some night life, they would sleep in, cuddling up - it's all so romantic and dreamy.

Except that the perfect second honeymoon was wrinkled by the eruption of a cloud of volcanic ash and they are now stranded in Shangri La. At first, as Sissie put it, who could complain as long as the pastries and wine held out? A full week later, no let up in the restricted flights. They are still there, now trying to deal with medicine running out and airline tickets that are running $8,000 per! Not to mention ugly crowds and long lines at the ticket window.

Last email, they were planning to contact the American Embassy for assistance. This is not funny, and no longer an enjoyable adventure. It has become a challenging test of their patience and fortitude - both of which they have in abundance. I pray for them almost hourly. God grant them a safe flight home soon, and the ability to get the medicines they need to tide them over (not to mention the finances to continue paying for the extra days!).

This situation goes far beyond even their personal battles of being caught in an unexpected fluke of nature. Many of my friends who are from Europe are very concerned at the havoc this will play on the economy of already struggling countries not to mention scarcity of products in America that will not make it here in a timely way restricting much needed income for over there. It has global implications.

Please join me in prayer not only for my friends but for everyone whose lives are being impacted by this difficulty. May it be resolved soon.

Full House

Every single computer is in use both upstairs, downstairs in the information commons, and in the 24 hour lab. Students are hunkered down, typing furiously, slogging through the required number of pages, stacks of books and printed articles surrounding them. Chatter is non existent.

I hear the constant whirr of the printer and the soft beep-beep of the compact shelving as students search for books, for bound journal volumes, needing to connect with the full text NOW, not able to wait until they can get it through Inter Library Loan. The intensity is palpable. Deadlines loom, but there is still time. We are not yet desperate.

Questions flood the reference desk - how delightful! I love helping people connect with the resources they need, smile at their relief when we do find the necessary 7 articles on the exact topic they have selected. The tables behind reference are flowing over with a wonderful mix of graduate students, adult learners, undergraduate students, faculty!

We seldom come together like this. It does my heart good to realize that we are nearly at capacity. Between bodies moving and bodies sitting and groups clustered, there is not much free space. Despite the fullness, noise is not an issue. We are focused, occupied with separate worlds of interest from history to nursing to business statistics to theology. Each one immersed in their corner of life changing research.

I love a full house. I love the steady pounding of keyboards, the stacks of materials, the concentration. This semester it is occurring more often than I remember from past semesters. May this be the beginning of a delightful trend!

Highland Park Cotillion

Though the morning started out gloomy and threatening to rain, by noon the sun was out, the wind was calm, and the sky brilliant blue. Yes! A great day for a walk in Highland Park with Sugar. I convince Drew to go with us and we pile into the car in good spirits. We park along the edge of the road in front of other cars carefully avoiding the No Parking signs and head for the gate around the reservoir where the fried dough wagons usually circle during the Lilac Festival, mere weeks away.

Sugar strains at the leash, yelping to be allowed to greet all the hundreds of other dogs - BIG dogs - that are wandering about with their owners. He whines to say hello to the children who turn their faces to the sun and blink in disbelief that they are outdoors. The reservoir is drained, flashing us with its gritty stony bottom, refusing us any hope of summer's arrival. We climb the hill and find ourselves surrounded by huge beds of daffodils and deep blue miniature hyacinths.

Here and there a tree has donned pouffy white lace or a delicate shawl of wispy pink blush. A gentle sweetness floats on the air. Hundreds of people took the advice of the radio announcer, coming to greet spring and stretch their legs. Dogs, children, wheelchair ancients, couples cooing, singles jogging, shutterbugs everywhere. We drink in the beauty of color, shape, promise, desperately trying to hang on against the haunting thought of winter returning unbidden after taunting us, dangling a day of joy only to cruelly snatch it back.

Drew and I take our cell phone pictures, posing Sugar under the sweeping loaded boughs of blushing prima dona shrubs. Even lilacs have been coaxed early from their buds, unfurling delicate spirals into the early April air. It is glorious. We wander about, following our eyes, traipsing thither and yon ignoring the blacktopped paths in favor of the meandering grassy lawns that port us directly to the gems we seek.

An hour flies by, two. We begin to consider returning to the car, regretfully bowing to tasks we have conveniently ignored to indulge in this opportunity of inhaling life. Slowly we turn our steps toward the far side of the reservoir. We pass up tantalizing paths leading into verdant forests waiting to be explored and promise ourselves to return often. Sugar pauses repeatedly to taste this leaf and that petal and we do not hurry her along. Drew snaps more pictures.

Suddenly we crest a small hill. There before us, in dazzling splendor, lay a valley filled with bedecked trees, bushes and shrubs, each seeming to pirouette gracefully in the gentle breeze, showing off their prom finery, their elegant dresses, their best jewelry. Here a deep ruby tulip tree, there a sassy yellow one surrounded by pure white and fuzzy pink - so many types of trees the imagination is unequal to the task of believing what it sees.

They huddle in little groups like shy girls waiting to be asked to the dance floor, certain that their dress will be the key to popularity. Their gowns sway, eliciting excitement from everyone who encounters this private cotillion, this coming out of the belles, this rite of passage. We cannot tear ourselves away from the grandeur, and sit fascinated on a bench overlooking the whole as if from a balcony above a grand ballroom.

Such extravagant beauty melts the most frozen of hearts, brings a blush of color to the wannest cheek. Old men bow their heads in reverent awe. Toddlers reach out to touch the velvety softness. Couples hold hands and stare, daring to dream of weddings yet to be. Even the dogs are on their best behavior.

We finally tear ourselves away and slowly make our way back to the car. My soul is overflowing. To think that I almost didn't make the effort to come. To think that I almost thought I should do the dishes first, perhaps with a chaser of laundry. What was I thinking! Miss a once in a lifetime opportunity for the deadening drudgery of the commonplace? Dishes, laundry, papers will wait.
This year's cotillion was early and spectacular. I'm glad I came. I can think of nothing better to wish for my friends than a spring cotillion. I hope yours is as breath taking as mine.

April Showers

I am so spoiled. Summer seems to have arrived early with its balmy high 60's and 70's temperatures. Sugar and I have been park walking in the early evening and loving being outside. Today I have great plans for a long stroll in Highland Park, the virtues of which the WXXI radio announcer has been extolling all week. Go see the tulip trees, the rhododendrons, the early lilacs. Everything is in bloom!

But alas! I awake to gray skies, chilling breezes, sprinkling intermittent rain. No sense venturing clear over to Highland. I wake Drew and insist that he go with me to the Canal Park where Sugar and I have been walking. He acquiesces with no enthusiasm. We drive up and park, setting out walking north, the canal on our right. Rain spatters against our face. The air is cold.

I am surprised that there are joggers out despite the weather conditions, slowly huffing their way past us, remarking how cute little Sugar is. A biker whizzes by on our left without the usual warning. We jump aside. How much farther do we have to go? Drew is already wanting to call it quits. But Sugar is still kinked. She needs more time to unwind her housebound legs. She tugs me along faster and faster until I am sort of running.

Drew sighs. He takes the leash and the car keys. "Take your time. I will meet you at the car," His deep voice rumbles over the sighing wind. They take off like lightning. Sugar is fast. I want to let her off the leash and clock her best speed. She is born to run, to hunt, to tear up the world. Drew cannot keep up. After a few minutes, I see him far down the path, bending over to catch his breath while Sugar prances about excitedly, her tongue hanging out.

After a moment, they take off again, running out of sight around a bend in the canal path. I am alone. I have not done much running lately. Now that no one is looking, I awkwardly set off to see what I can manage. I am surprised. I have not lost my ability to hoist my body along in a slow ponderous half run. The wind slows me down, catching at my breath, the rain stinging my face. It begins to come down a bit more seriously, the drops bigger, pelting against my blue baseball cap.

I catch up to my two companions just before they get in the car. We sit in the shelter of the closed doors watching the rain splash against the windshield, grateful that we finished before the serious rain commenced. I glance around at the greening grass and shrubbery punctuated by brilliant splashes of red and orange tulips, of gold and white daffodils, the deep purples and blues of hyacinths, violets, periwinkle.

Spring is amazing this year. With all the rain, we are in full bloom. I just hope the sun will come so we can take our time enjoying it all.

Out of Alignment

Crunch time. End of semester is approaching and everyone is a bit taut. The Library is filled with students seeking needed resources, laboring on papers, tracking down citations. I love the bustle of academic endeavor. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, the breathing of every semester takes on a life of its own.

Some semesters start out on a dead run and get faster. Other semesters start leisurely, winding tighter and tighter as the weeks fly by. Some semesters are content heavy, the topics serious, the potential for impact on daily life real. Other semesters are exploratory, delving into hidden mysteries, sleuthing for answers. How extraordinary to be invited to participate in whatever facet the current semester reveals.

This semester began with a bang. One day the students are relaxing at home on Christmas break, the next they are spending quality time with our databases and resources. No gradual ramping up, this spring. We are serious from the get go. Given the level of start up and constant uptick in activity, its no wonder that nerves are raw, meltdowns regular. One can only hang on and ride it out, hoping to steer clear of any protruding rocks.

Too late! We hit some bumps. Our G drive goes zonky on us, we have to back track to restore files. A flashdrive with important files goes belly up. Passwords get changed then changed again then again. Some accounts end up locked for security reasons. Work piles up. Backlogs. Boxes of returns. Students come in the middle of the confusion, frustrated because their predictable workflow is suddenly not cooperating.

Wouldn't it be grand if life changes were predictable? We could prepare for them, navigate the consequences with ease and maybe even enjoy the ride instead of careening recklessly down the whitewater rapids nearly out of control. Library jobs are supposed to be havens of quiet, peace and productivity, not dens of distress and change! But here we are, learning to handle these unexpected things with grace and understanding.

We remind ourselves that no one ever died because of an overflowing inbox. Ordering articles is not a life-or-death activity. The uproar will die away, and we will not remember the instigation, only the emotional trauma. Like water slopping over the side of the tank, we will only remember the event if we got soaked in the process. Let us hope we did not intentionally soak anyone, and that we did our best to protect bystanders from an unexpected deluge.

As fast as the trouble arose, it will die away leaving nary a ripple on the placid surface of the pond. The planets will realign. The stars will twinkle, and the semester will peacefully come to a satisfying close. Its all part of the cycle. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Poof! Instant Beauty

Last night when I retired, the view from the kitchen window was mostly the red brink of the building across the parking lot. One lone naked tree stood guard, its gray branches lifted to heaven in prayer.

This morning just as the sun appears, I wander into the kitchen for a drink of water. Something is different. It is brighter in my kitchen, but the lights have not changed. I glance outside not at dull red brink, but at the naked tree gloriously transformed into bridal white from head to toe. Every inch of branch is covered by delicate white flowers nodding gaily in the slight morning breeze.

I hook Sugar to her leash and we investigate. Sugar snuffles excitedly around and around the trunk of the barely middle aged tree, licking petals that have floated down to the grassy ground beneath. On some level I know this change was not instantaneous. There must have been buds that I missed, some portent of internal activity, sap running amuck beneath layers of bark. It seems a miracle. One day bare branches, the next a plethora of white exploding into thin air.

It is something like that with children. One day my boys are surrounded by all the accouterments of childhood - acorn caps and sticks, rocks and pinecones, toy trucks and action figures. The next they are asking for car keys and dating! All along, internal changes. But to a parent reveling in the joy of hugging young children and joining in their play, the instant" poof!" of growing up comes so quickly, so unexpectedly.

Yet it is as glorious as the instant tree shimmering before me. Seeing a boy become a young man fills you with bright hope, lightens your day, draws you into the fervour of their springtime. I have been there with the older boys. Drew is taking me once again on this exciting adventure. He is patient with me - at the moment. I know the whirlwind will come. Bring it on! Let's whoop it up in a spring zephyr of exuberance. I could use this infusion of vitality.

Library of the Year Info

Thank you to everyone who sent congratulations about Golisano Library's award. I have been blessed tremendously hearing testimonies about how our work is affecting our customers. Its so nice to know that all the effort is noticed and appreciated! And that what you are working on is actually what is being perceived!



Here is the link to the RRLC site that features our place;



http://www.rrlc.org/



You can always check under Hot Links for more information. I bask in the glow of being appreciated, and for having had the opportunity to work with a great team of people, struggling together to grow into the building in stellar ways. Danke.

Dinner with the Girls

We didn't plan it this way. Originally we had decided that the three of us would go out to dinner two weeks earlier, but life intervened. So we ended up going out on my birthday! Since neither of the boys had mentioned any plans, I felt this would be a good way to mark the day - being with friends.

I look back at how difficult this past year has been, bravely battling cancer, losing my Father, trying to regain strength. While it certainly hasn't been the best year of my life, I can't help but see that it could have been much much worse. I have found at every turn the love of God through family, friend, neighbor, employer, doctor, and even stranger. I have been abundantly cared for throughout, making today a true milestone to be thoroughly celebrated.

We sat together in a booth at Rohrbach's over potato pancakes, soup, salad, and sandwich and shared the hard spots in our lives. Deaths, discouragements, dilemmas, disasters. We have all known tough times. Then we shared the encouraging places, the turns for the better, the brightness of the future. No intentionality about our conversation. It just went wherever it wished, taking us on a grand tour. I can't believe we haven't done this before. It's great to just chat.

They surprised me with a beautiful card (the cake in the picture must have had over a hundred candles!) and picked up the tab. Happy Birthday! As we departed, each one heading in a different direction, I felt so light hearted and happy. Tough year? Yes. But good too. After all, I have been blessed with a bountiful harvest of wonderful friends.

Overload Snafu

The semester is broken into a combination of 18 week courses and 5 week courses, gently spread out so as to make the workload and absorption rate manageable for working adults juggling families and ministries. Tonight the last of the five week courses was to begin. The professor's course pack lay on the podium in expectation, the student roster clearly visible through the plastic case.



Start time came and went, no professor. Ten more minutes and we assessed the situation. According to the student roster, the class minus one was present and ready. The professor would have no way of reaching anyone to tell us that she had been delayed. We finally decide to call her home and see what we can discover. We reach her spouse who relays the message and within minutes the professor calls the student's cell phone.



Her profuse apologies, she was told the class started next week. She will be there in 20 minutes. That would give us a good hour and a half of work time. But one of the students speaks up loudly. Don't do that to yourself. You are not prepared. We can't ask it of you. Just come next week and we will meet you here. What a ruse!



I mention that if you delay this course by a week, we will need to extend by a week at the other end of the five weeks. The professor tells us not to work ahead because we need the material from the first session in order to write the required paper for the second session. She will modify the syllabus. The student who objected is shouting hallelujah and rejoicing that she is getting a night off.



I can't understand it. She is paying to take this class and to get the information and training it will provide for her. I don't want to miss anything listed on the syllabus - even after absorbing everything there I know it will hardly be enough preparation for what the work will demand. I don't want a night off. I want to get ahold of all I am entitled to! I start to feel a little put out, but I am brought up short by the obvious glee on the poor woman's face.



Well, the good Lord will take care of my training requirements. I empathize with a student who is so overloaded that she jumps desperately at any chance of a break. And she is a stay at home Mom with only one three year old to care for. I can't imagine what a blessing a night off means to the rest of the class. Three of them head for the library to complete papers that are due tonight, and one that was due two weeks ago. I have forgotten how hard it is to catch up when you fall behind. How could I be so selfish?



And the professor was in a meeting at her church, her time committed to her fully loaded schedule as well. I cannot begrudge anyone an opportunity for a bit of slack in a poundingly demanding life. I gather up my backpack and pens and head for the door. Perhaps I too can use this time for good. After all, Drew is not feeling well and could certainly use some pampering if he is awake.



I call to check on him, and we end up heading to Wegman's for more medicine and some fruit and yogurt to help him feel better. Yes, good thing I had some free time. How much better to be doing something loving than still learning how to do something loving. Get it straight! A practicum instead of a lecture. Just as needed.

Lunch With a Chiming Bunch

Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Aaaaalleluuuiiia! What a joy to hear the chimes quietly insert that melody with such gentle perfection into our hearts to begin worship this morning! Yes, Easter has come, but it has not gone. We continue to hold the beautifully decorated eggs and chocolate bunnies in our sight, remembering with joy the new life they signify.

I was surprised at how many children said they had barely begun to eat the candy from their Easter basket. When I was a kid, by a week after Easter, my poor little basket was fortunate to have anything more than a few odd jellybeans left!

Listening to the chime choir pour sweet music over our souls (second verse chords with digital trumpet taking up the melody) made me burst with pride at these dedicated people who persevered with me through ringers coming and going, music too hard to play, space at a minimum until we coalesced into a comfortable little group who breath, count and tap together, culminating in today's stellar performance. It was, if you will forgive the pun, a ringing success.

I could think of no better way to celebrate our groupness, our support of one another, our playing all the right notes at the right times, our success in finding our stride than to break bread together. We found our way to a cozy family diner in the Spencerport area, a lovely spacious warm room with just the right configuration for conversation.

How delightful it was to sit at table with these dear people and chat about life. We are in different places in our lives, but we had so much to share. We covered every conceivable topic from weddings to weight loss and enjoyed a wonderful repast while doing it. We must really do it again and soon. We plan to ring again on Mother's Day, and one last time in June before we break for the summer. Perhaps in June we can find someplace near the lake.

It puts a whole new spin on ringing when you know more about the person standing next to you!

Darn Computer

December last, my laptop wouldn't turn on. I took it to the shop where I thought we were probably going to replace the battery. They sent it out, telling me that the jack where I plug it in had come loose from the case and they would replace it. The factory replaced the processor, the mother board and half a dozen other things, basically rebuilding it and returning an almost new piece of equipment.

Today, I could not turn on the laptop. It has only been four months. I take it in. They tell me the jack where I plug it in is loose and they are sending it back to the factory . . .


I will be interested in knowing the upshot of this return. Shouldn't I be asking for an altogether new laptop on the assumption that this one is simply a lemon? Or is this just a case of you get what you pay for since I didn't put a lot of money into the gear? Or some such version of shoddy American commercialism and planned obsolescence? Or lack of sufficient research on my part to know in advance that this make/model has issues?

In this, as in all things, I end up trusting a higher power to work things out for my best interest, however that may look. On the whole, things tend to work out well despite the occasional bad apple. I have been abundantly blessed in places where something went desperately awry and I wasn't even aware yet of the potential for harm. Other times I get a bit of a sting, but that generally leads to better stuff in the long run, so I try to look beyond the immediate to the overall.

at this point, I am happy to be able to say, "Good thing there is nothing irreplaceable on my laptop!"

Dr Appointments Piling Up

Look where my stubbornness has gotten me! My decision to take a hiatus from medical tests and procedures, doctor appointments and stuff has lasted about three weeks. I now must schedule:

Mammogram
Ob/Gyn Annual
Colonoscopy
CT scan
Oncologist Appointment
Throat Specialist Appointment
Throat Procedure
Primary Care Physician Appointment
Dental Appointment for impressions for partial plates
Something else I have forgotten what

~ all within the next 2 weeks. Has to be completed before the maintenance Rituxan begins in May. On top of the weekly port draw which I have faithfully done in spite of my orneriness. Sigh. It was so nice to have a vacation. I am now telling people how valuable I am - having received well over 2 million dollars worth of medical intervention in the last five years, I am way too valuable to be put out to pasture.

There is no help for it. I pick up the phone and begin. Oh, and while I am at it, I need to schedule Sugar a vet appointment for a heartworm test . . . all that, and Drew is the only one who is sick. He has a cold.

Your Government Hardly at Work

Ah! A letter from the Seminary. Wonder what's new there? What? I have a school loan in default? How can that be? I took care of all the deferment letters way back in the summer. They provide a number to call, and I dial. A lovely woman named Ashley is eager to assist. I explain my dilemma. She looks at my record. No. No default listed. Really? Well, just to be sure, she transfers me to the Default Department where I speak with Bill who also confirms that I have nothing in default.

So, how do I let my institution know that the information is incorrect? He is not sure. He transfers me to the Student Loan Tracing Department where Tina picks up the mantra of nothing is in default. But she cannot answer the question of how to clear my account either. She transfers me back to Ashley who sighs and tells me to speak with the financial aid department here.

Fortunately, my friend works there - recently promoted. She looks at my account, and there in big bold letters on my National Student Loan Data System account are four loans CLEARLY listed as being in default. They are out of Texas, not New York. I get the number and begin again. Imagine my surprise to encounter Ashley! The same Ashley I had already spoken to earlier. New York Ashley who tells me she is the National Center for all the various state numbers. Goodness.

She looks deeper, and, oh, yes. There are the loans from when I attended Christian Brothers University. Huh? I have never even heard of that place. And I suspect I wouldn't qualify for student status, not being a brother. She calls a supervisor. They sort it out for 20 minutes while I listen to soft music and pray up a storm. Turns out, they never deferred my Concordia loans when I applied for all the deferments last summer. They hardly ever encounter a student who is simultaneously finishing a master's degree and working on a doctorate in separate institutions.

Yes, they will be deferred. They will send the seminary a letter clearing my name, but it will take a month to remove the status from the National Student Loan Data System. Yikes! Really? A whole month? I call my friend in Financial Aid to update her. She tells me not to hold my breath until the information is really and truly changed. I mark the date on my calendar. Hum. Hope it doesn't affect this summer's coursework at Concordia!

My friend sighs. This is just the beginning, the tip of the newly created iceberg when it comes to student loan management. I believe her, having read through the new Promissory Note all students are now required to sign. I feel a bit like the maid in Rumpelstiltskin!

Deer by the Dozen

Thin swirls of fog twist about my ankles as I hustle after Sugar, seeking the perfect clump of thick green grass to deposit her morning duty. The dull gray sky seems reticent to start another day, preferring to delay the sun rising as long as possible. Sugar takes her sweet time investigate, snuffling about, tracing back and forth while I pull my collar up against the chill of spring.

Little hints of green buds threaten to appear on the nearby bush while the daffodils beneath its spreading boughs crumple, their magnificent colors now fading into rust, their sturdy horns now papery thin and spent. Hurry Sugar. I am getting a chill. But she does not hurry any more than summer, wandering about and refusing to get down to business. I walk forward, clicking with my tongue in hopes she will get the hint. She resists, tugging at the leash to smell just one more clump of grass.

I am growing irritated. I do not wish to be late for my appointment and I still need to feed Sugar. Come on. I tug her leash, walking forward with resolution, my head turned to look back at where she is dawdling. As I turn my face forward, I gasp and stand stock still in awe. There ahead of me in the side yard of the building across the street, right near a small wooded area, bound a dozen deer, their brown, white and black tails flopping about freely as they stretch their necks to pluck tasty buds from the bushes and succulent grass coated in dew from the ground.

They are young and careless, cavorting about heedless of danger, reckless in their play. I hold my breath for fear they will catch my scent and disappear, but they seem not to care. Sugar has spotted them. She too stands completely motionless, a low growl coming from deep within her small body. She is on point, unwavering, waiting while the unmindful deer carry on fearlessly. We are only yards away. I can almost feel their hot breath which escapes their noses in cloudy steamy vapor rising into the predawn gray.

For a long magical moment we share the space, not interacting, but surely being moved by each others' presence. They leap and prance, filled with energy, reacting to the cold wet grass. I almost expect to see Santa's sleigh appear! Suddenly a car turns down the drive and without a sound, almost without motion, they disappear as one, slipping between the trees into another world where they cannot be seen.

I blink. Did I really see them? Sugar begins to whine and pace about. We head towards home, deeply affected by our gentle neighbors. Ah, deer! I hope we meet again.

Library of the Year!

Today representatives from the Rochester Regional Library Council came to meet with us and take pictures. We have been voted the Rochester Academic Library of the Year! Yeah! It is our third year in this building and we are indeed growing into the space. We are reaching and stretching and striving to become what this stellar architecture encourages us to be, what our vision statement proclaims:

The Premier Research and Information Resource Partner
with RWC and NES Life Long Learners.

They ask us why we think our students and faculty like us so much. Is there something we are doing that other libraries might adopt? We have great staff and a customer service mindset. We function along a business model, using statistics and feedback from our users to inform our service. Lots of libraries do that. We are just blessed. Great faculty, great students, great location, great building, great support - its all good. How lucky can you get?

And now we have a plaque to prove it! Not to mention a generous gift certificate to spend as we see fit. What an honor to be selected - especially considering that this is the first time the award has been offered. Maybe we can start a trend! Wouldn't that be exciting.

Seasonal Confusion

For the last few days as I have driven in to work, there has been a rafter of turkeys waddling about amongst the stubs of dry cornstalks in the barren fields on Buffalo Road. For some reason, their presence seems incongruous to me, having always equated them with harbingers of autumn, not announcers of spring. Where are the robins that ought to be chirruping in this newly greening season?



The turkeys are persistent if anything, daily staking their claim to the grubs, ladybugs and big black ants that are beginning to make appearances here and there, including the inside of my apartment. Before, when I have seen this particular group of gobblers, I have only seen skinny guinea hen shaped bodies strutting about. I thought that if they became riled, they would unfold their tails like a peacock to transform into the Pilgrim's Thanksgiving poster bird.

Today I saw the poster bird himself standing in the midst of the field, rotund and poofey tailed, just like I have always seen them in pictures. I realized for the first time that the toms, the males, are the ones with the big auras. The skinny minnies are the females that make up most of the flock. One kingpin, fifty trotters. Not bad odds for the kingpin I suppose, but I wonder where he has been hiding.

I shake my head at the thought of a turkey becoming the welcome symbol for spring. But I wish them well. May they enjoy not only a buggy spring but a whole summer of sumptuous dining. Perhaps, like the corn that will sprout over summer, they will fatten up in prediction of a bountiful harvest (as well as a bug free environment). I suppose an autumnal symbol has to start somewhere.

Meanwhile, I continue to keep my eyes peeled for those robins. Perhaps they are trying to tell us that this faux summer weather is a ruse to lull us into breaking out our shorts and sunglasses long before we should. With today's rain, even the earthworms, tempting robin fare, are roaming about. Can the red breasts be far behind?

Easter Rush

I barely notice the delicate purple violets blossoming on the side lawn or the gently nodding white daffodils with their touch of bright yellow when I walk Sugar this morning. I am focused on the myriad details to attend to in making Easter worship flow smoothly. I am only vaguely aware that the church bells chime not just 7 am, but ring wild chaotic joy in celebration of the day. I could not have told you whether the sky was blue or gray.



In the apartment, there is a flurry of activity as Kiel and Drew and their friends who stayed overnight rush to get out the door, already late from having worked all Friday and Saturday on Easter services at their place of worship. Sugar doesn't know which way to turn as we zip in and out of the bathroom and toss stuff around trying to dress and be on our ways.



The choir met early to nail down the anthem - I had not left enough practice time for us to feel confident and rehearsal is tense as everyone strains to get it under their belt. Lourdes and I had planned a duet for digital keyboard and piano for some time, but had not practiced it together until this morning. We recognize that it will be what it will be and that will have to do - not exactly the way you want to enter service for the most important Sunday of the year!



As I sit on the platform and look out over the congregation - a good full house - I am struck by their faces. How tired and worn out the adults appear! Some faces are actually pale with bags under their eyes. No one is smiling, not even the young girls in their new Easter dresses. They are busy fluffing out their skirts and nervously brushing a stray lock of hair from their eyes. Mothers are sighing and slumping in relief after rushing to get everyone out the door. I know the feeling.



The service is unfolding. During time for the children, the pastor finishes reading them a book, the story of Easter. She asks them to help her pass out eggs - a symbol like the empty tomb that from something seemingly lifeless, new life unexpectedly appears. They jump to their feet, eager to help, careful to make sure everyone gets a plastic egg filled with chocolate goodies, forgetting to be careful of their Easter finery. The children enter into the spirit of the day. Little rustles of happiness begin to eddy and swirl.



But it is not until communion that I see Easter come upon the adults. Perhaps it is appropriate that these weary people have come to the house of God for rest. What better place to feel safe and comfortable than a sanctuary? Surely being rested is something God would want for his children. And once rested, then the offer of a meal taken together with people who are your family. Yes, a celebration worth looking forward to.

How striking the change in visage as the pastor and communion servers stand at the front, each set of servers standing with a young lady between them holding a basket of freshly baked rolls, joyful young girls with their pretty dresses and shiny hair, proud to be asked to help.



As each row of people stands and approaches the front, smiles splay across every single face. Color comes to once gray cheeks, eyebrows lift from their worn furrows. Why are they all suddenly smiling radiantly? Did they just realize that its Easter? Is it the joy of seeing a young person help with communion? Or is there something deeper, some fulfillment of participating in a meal together, of being part of a family, of remembering your roots?


It is as if the sunshine of life suddenly shone brightly on us all and joy returned to mudville. Gone are the burdens of demanding schedules, the heat of senseless arguments, the weight of responsibilities, the anger at having to scurry off to someplace when you would really rather be home in bed sleeping in. Everyone is in the moment, fully participating happily.

In place of angst, the soft mantle of love - of being enfolded in the arms of Christ, and so filled with his love that you can't help feeling good and thinking loving thoughts towards those around you. The transformation is nothing short of miraculous! No amount of eggs, chocolate or otherwise, could ever cause such an effect. Hallelujah!

Sad Saturday

I had plans for today. Papers to write. Errands to take care of. And sleep to catch up on! I sleep in. For me, an incredibly late 9 am rising. I stretch. It feels good. Sugar is impatiently scratching in her tent. I am in a generous mood, and we take a long walk around the complex, something I have not done in quite some time.

But as soon as I get back to the apartment, the grumpies set in. I have to return a defective modem, but Kiel has moved the paperwork and I search high and low with no success. I finally wake him and endure the attitude while he pulls it out for me. Sorry. Today is the deadline and FedEx closes before noon. It takes forever to finish the task.

Back in the apartment my grumpies worsen. The kitchen is a wreck. The boys blissfully sleep while I tackle the dirty dishes - pots and pans with glued on dried on gook, gobs of garbage left sitting wherever they were when they unwrapped or unpeeled the item. I fuss and fume. I mutter finely crafted speeches about responsibility and how I will throw them out if they don't shape up. I even play the "go live with your father - you are just like him" card. Good thing the boys are NOT awake!

Somewhere inside I begin to feel uncomfortable. OK. I will clean up after them but I don't have to like it. After all, as a parent, its my job to teach them to be responsible. I let them get away with murder and they don't appreciate me at all. I work and slave and hold down two jobs just so they can have a roof over their heads and yadda yadda yadda.

I am angry. I want to shake them. I want to wring their necks - or at very least yank them out of bed and put them to work. I slam dishes about and run steamy water and feel very sorry for myself. How could they be so inconsiderate? They don't love me. If they really loved me, they would treat me better. I'll clean up after them. I'll be their slave, but I don't have to be happy about it.

Suddenly, I stop. What is wrong with me? I am so convicted. I am asking the wrong question. Not "if they love me" but "if I really loved them." What am I thinking? I am blessed to have kids, even when they are sometimes thoughtless and messy. Lots of people wish they had kids. My boys are good kids - they could be real trouble makers, but they aren't. I ought to be glad to show them how much I care about them.

Haven't I been hearing about servant leadership? Have I not just experienced the overwhelming love of God despite my own faults and failures? Did I not just have a fabulous Friday of contemplation and blessing? How could I so soon have slid back into childish pettiness and martyr complex? What is wrong with me? I shamefacedly confess my unloving attitude and ask help to undertake my tasks with joy.

Ah, me. Sometimes I think I will never get it right. Lord have mercy.

Incredible Friday

Why did they call today merely Good Friday? It was in fact awesome. The awesomest. I cannot wait to participate in what this day may offer. Part of the Pastoral Formation course I am taking at the seminary requires a half day retreat once again. This time I am going to the Abbey of the Genesee for my special time with God. They are having a Good Friday celebration with music. I wonder what beautiful choral works I will be privileged to hear. And from a men's choir - this should be spectacular!

The day begins with a few potentially frustrating activities. I have to run some things over to my sister's so she can deliver Easter goodies to my grandchild and a little something for Mom. I mutter as I prepare to leave. The kitchen is a mess and I didn't mess it up. But I refuse to let that spoil this day. I intend to drop off the packages and head south. Unfortunately, I discover I cannot leave my sister the address of my son's new home as I have left my cell phone home. Rats. I will have to go back. I hate delays, especially when I am anxious to enjoy a special event.

I determine not to let this throw me, and soon I am cheerfully heading south on 390, immersed in choral music befitting the occasion. I have never been to the Abbey, but when I mentioned it to the Pastor, she was jealous, having been there herself and wishing she could go with me. Yes, this will be a wonderful day.

After a pleasant hour's drive in summer-like weather, I make the final right hand turn in Piffard onto River Road - an odd name since there is no river to be seen. There are quaint signs strategically placed, keeping me on track. Soon I pull into the winding drive and head toward a long building composed of large stones and dark wood. I am told that Henry Nouwen hauled those stones out of the river himself for the building of this edifice.

I park and head towards what must be the entrance, unsure of exactly where to go. I am struck by the trinity theme - three pine trees shading the parking lot, three rocks in the small garden in the center of the circle, three oriental looking lights placed near the walk. Near the front door is a white marble statue of the Mother Mary cradling a tiny infant in her arms. How strikingly human her gaze, how normal the baby - not like some of the paintings I have seen where Jesus as a new born looks mature already. I tear myself away in anticipation of what lies inside.

The doors are massive and heavy. There appears to be no handle, but closer inspection reveals a slit behind one of the strips of wood that you can slide your hand into. I pull. With a creak and groan, the door gives way and I enter a dark foyer. There are printed instructions - this is a silent order. No cell phones please. Don't talk in the hallway or in the chapel. I turn to the right and enter a room with comfortable couches and chairs, one occupied by a gentleman who glares at me.

Behind the seating area is a small store where you can purchase not only books and devotional materials but various "monk-made" products. The monks at this abbey bake bread and specialty cakes - I have seen them in stores in Rochester. They offer the products of other abbeys - jams and preserves (32 varieties) or candies or flavored honey.

I retrace my steps and find myself standing in front of another set of wooden doors. I push them open and enter a dark octagonal chapel with Anglican style choir stalls about the room. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize there are three or four people in the chapel. About a third of the space is open to visitors, the rest of the area dedicated to desks for the thirty odd monks who worship here on a regular basis, monks who observe the hours every day.

There will be a service in about ten minutes - called sext for the sixth hour. I sit to wait, not sure what to expect, feeling very out of my element. I recognize right away that this space is not intended for physical comfort. The wooden stalls are straight, rigid, hard, very uncomfortable. I would not want to have to sit here too long. My legs are already beginning to ache and my toes are falling asleep.

I flip through the Psalter on the tilted table in front of me. The print is huge and a bit styled though not excessively ornate. Here and there are marks to indicate changing from leader to congregation, to show a pitch up or down motion. A few more people amble in, trying to see in the dark, tiptoeing so as not to disturb anyone, least of all the monks who are no where visible as yet.

Suddenly I hear the most obnoxious noisy clattering. Who in the world is so flagrantly violating the signs posted everywhere? The sound grows louder, but it is not coming from the entrance near us. It is coming from the opposite side of the room, the part chained off from the public. I cannot imagine what could be making such a racket. Maybe someone is pushing racks of bread? But no, on the far side of the room in the dimly lit recess by the farthest table a small, white, bald head appears.

The man is ancient, barely moving. His head, which is all that can be seen of him, seems almost to float along, his lower lip hanging down as he huffs and puffs his way to a set of steps. He pauses a long moment, slowly bows his head toward the cross hanging from the ceiling, the one completely draped in purple cloth. Then the clattering begins again as he moves out of sight, appearing in the middle of the room making his way up a ramp. His gait is a study in slow motion, but at last I realize that the racket is being made by his walker that he pushes along in front of him.

He is barely seated at one of the desks when the clattering begins again, and the process is repeated by another ancient entering, bowing, wending his way up the ramp, settling into a station. He is muttering over and over "54 and 55. 54 and 55." It is all I can do to keep from laughing at the blatant disregard for quiet. I wonder if the poor old gentleman is senile, muttering nonsense to himself.

One by one the monks filter into the chapel. They are all old, some older than others. Most are either bald or have very short hair, and they all wear a white robe covered by a black apron type garment. They don't talk out loud, but you can clearly hear them whisper now and again. It is evident that these men function at a completely different rhythm than the rest of the world. Having observed the Divine Hours for decades, they are in no hurry, under no obligation to time.

When they walk, their steps are completely without tension, without any sense of need. Neither irritation nor boredom appear in their visage and demeanor. This is not what they do. This is who they are. They take us into their cycle of prayer, showing by example when to sing, when to kneel, when to be silent, when to stand, when to pray. As we chant together Psalm 54 followed by Psalm 55, I understand what the second monk meant by 54 and 55. The words are appropriate.

The Divine Hour is thankfully not an hour. I am grateful for the handful of people around me who by rote knew how to fold the seat of the stall up when it was time to kneel and who touched the sheet of laminated instruction at appropriate times so I did not get lost. It is a strange configuration for the familiar words. I feel awkward but not unwilling to participate.

I head out of the chapel and back to the seating area near the store where I take out my readings for this retreat. It is difficult to concentrate because the woman who runs the small store has no compunction about talking and liberally chats with every customer who comes in. I wonder if there are so many because it is Good Friday or if they always get so many faithful to spend money there.

I am joined by five men in their twenties, students at the Catholic seminary in Rochester. They too have brought devotional books. They too try to read, to concentrate on what is before them. They finally give up and decide to take a long quiet walk on the abbey grounds.

I too exchange the indoor comfort for the outdoor quiet, finding only hard wooden benches outdoors and none of those in any shade. Still, I have come aside to meditate on God's word and work. Comfort is of little importance. At least no one talks to me. And the special service is forth coming. I settle down to read and meditate, thankful for that small urging to bring lunch instead of thinking I would find something here!

As I read and contemplate, I begin to understand more of where I am on my walk with God, to know more about myself, more about who God is and how I can get to know him better. As the prescribed activities wind down, I decide to visit the little store, coming away with a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam, a chocolate cake, and a loaf of white bread. Some of the books are familiar, others simply not something I am interested in at this time.

Just as I deliver my purchases to my car, people begin to arrive for the 3:30 service. Lots of people. Where will they all fit? I realize that if I am to get a seat, I better get in there. And none too soon. Minutes after I find a stall a monk comes in to direct traffic and every seat in the house is taken. People line the stone walls and sit along the ramp, one woman hunkering down beside the chain where monks are entering.

Gone are the black stoles, replaced for some monks by a thin strip of vivid red. One monk, referred to as the celebrant, is completely clothed in rich red robes. The instruction sheet overflows with tiny print, both sides, and interspersed with little semi musical lines of chant. I never realized how visceral this service would be. The monks prostrate themselves full prone on the cold hard floor over and over and we sing our way through the first part of the service.

The second part of the service is the entire passion of Jesus as given in the gospel of John completely rendered in chant by three monks, one a narrator, one Jesus, and one representing the crowd. Though they are singing in English, it is sometimes difficult to catch their words. On and on and on they sing, telling the story. Everytime Jesus endures something like the crown of thorns, the whipping, the nailing, we stop while the monks go prone and we kneel and maintain silence.

I have never experienced a reactive reading of the gospel. It grabs you, thrusts you into the action, makes you part of the day. We do not do the stations of the cross, but the third part of the service is a veneration of the cross, beginning with the wood. They bring in a cross with Jesus on it, wrapped in red cloth. Slowly as the virtues of the cross are extolled, they unwrap it.

I have not experienced much in the line of Catholic services other than what I have seen on television. I am not prepared for the kissing of the cross as a sign of devotion and love. The monks line up with great humility. It is an honor to participate. One by one they file past the cross and kiss the feet of Jesus. After each man has bowed, a monk wipes clean the place that was kissed.

It is moving to see thirty men totally devoted to Christ, totally honored to serve him, men who have spent a lifetime worshiping Christ five times a day every day of the week every week of the year, men for whom this has not grown tiresome, but ever more significant. You don't see that kind of devotion every day.

It was not the musical concert I expected. Yet it was music from the hearts of men who are totally sold out to God. What surprised me was the effect on my behavior for the rest of the day. I was different. More caring. Wanting to reach out and do something special for Drew who had been struggling with trig problems for hours, to take Sugar for a long walk in the park, to chat with neighbors and see how things are going. This is an unusual reaction to immersion in Good Friday services.

This is a good thing. In fact, its rather incredible. It doesn't hit you right away, but sneaks up on you quietly. I like feeling happy and content in this way. Perhaps I should celebrate Good Friday more often.

Maundy Thursday

The boys make fun of this strange word and call today "Monday Thursday," telling me how mixed up I am. I try to explain the meaning of the word - from the Latin mandare, to mandate, as in how Jesus told his disciples to serve as he was serving, the example at the time being by washing their feet. To perform acts of kindness and care for the poor, sick, and needy.

The boys are not interested. Its OK. I look forward to the evening service even if they are not going. I do lots of stuff they don't. I enter the sanctuary and the pastor is taking care of last minute details. Choir members are scattered about asking about wearing robes (no) and whether we will sit on the platform (no). It is more informal that our normal Sunday services. The usual pre-service stuff.

There is a handful gathered and we finally settle in to share the Passion of Christ. I sit on the far right, second row back, so unusual not to be "on duty." Tonight I am observer with only one small duty, to direct the anthem "O Sacred Head Now Wounded." The words reach into my heart. Together we reflect on the events of so long ago, of what Jesus must have felt. Did he know this would be his last supper on earth? Was he aware of the events in motion?

Pastor talks about servant leadership, and I hear her, but my mind is on another aspect of Jesus' passion. His physical suffering. How painfully aware I become of the excruciating ordeal he endured. Kiel and Drew tell me that the pain of crucifixion was so horrible that they had to make up the word 'excruciating' to describe it - meaning out of the cross.

The story is familiar, but I never tire of it. I have heard it for years, seen it vividly portrayed in movies, wept over the agony before. But this year it is more poignant. More understandable. I, too, have been through a year of pain and suffering. Nothing as severe as what Jesus endured in a few short days. No, but as I think about it, mine has lingered for six long years, coming and going without announcement, threatening my life, teasing with a hint of going away, then coming back en force.


My suffering has been addressed, defused, tampered with, somewhat ameliorated by drugs and defiance, but the toll has been taken. I have some sense of what it is like to see something unpleasant coming, knowing it is unavoidable. I have experienced the endurance of pain and discomfort, of keeping my eyes riveted on the end, the goal, the plan. I know this plot a bit more intimately than I care to.


We are invited to come forward for either a foot washing or a hand washing if that is more comfortable. I had thought Pastor was going to ask us to wash each others' feet, but she does not ask us to care for each other this year. She has a helper. I intend to go forward. The front bench is full. I wait, but rather than rising for the second round, I find myself overcome by the tender touch of my Lord.

It is almost as if he is looking into my eyes, holding my hand, and acknowledging my suffering. Yes, he knows. He cares. He will wash away my pain. He himself will wash my feet tonight, wash my soul with understanding, with compassion, with relief, with healing, with love. I am surrounded by such a strong sense of his caring that I am undone. Tears flow, but, Lord help me, these are not just tears.

Roiling up within me are great gut wrenching sobs, huge, breath-taking wails of sorrow. Have I been holding that in all this time? Surely I cannot let them out now, not here in front of everyone. They will call the paddy wagon. I close my eyes and fight an overwhelming urge to run to the front, bury my face in the pastor's shoulder and sob until the storm abates. I argue with myself - this is ridiculous.


My shoulders are shaking with the anguish. I fear the person sitting next to me will be rattled. Bad enough the massive amounts of water flowing down my cheeks. I do not even bother to wipe the tears away. I couldn't keep up if I wanted to. I bow my head lower, and stop thinking about what is happening around me. Too bad if someone is offended. I recognize that Christ has come to me for some reason, and now is the time, and I will take his comfort regardless.

I do not know how long I sat there immersed in the love of God. I only know that I let the storm rage and rage and rage, stunned that it was there, astounded by the violence of it all. It will out. God has released it. I let go of it. Outwardly, I recognize that the only sign are the copious tears. Inwardly, it feels as if a huge vacuum is sucking up dirt and hurt that I had not realized was lurking. Six years of battle gone in a blink. Washed away. Wounds soothed with the oil of compassion.

When it was over and I rejoined the service in progress, communion was being offered. Some demanding work has been accomplished. God with his perfect surgeon hands repairing damage, making new; I lying still and accepting his ministrations. Now it is time to be refreshed. Come to His table. Not with the fear and sorrow of Jesus last supper, as I have always experienced it in past years, but with the redemptive power of his victory now in place.

I dry my tears. I walk forward with the others. I hold out my hands. The body and blood of Christ, given for you. Thanks be to God. Amen.