Garage Sale

I sigh. Saturdays are supposed to be the one day I get to sleep in. But today is day 2 of the big garage sale and I didn't even make an appearance yesterday. It will never do not to help. So I roll out of bed and insist that Kiel get up and take me over to my sister's house. She and Mom are already doing a brisk business. Yesterday was a good day and today, though less busy, is still pulling in customers.

My sister never does anything halfway. She has spent hours finding ways to display things so that people can clearly see what is there. She labels everything with printed tags so the prices are marked well. She has a cooler with cold soda for sale in case the customers are too hot in the summer sun and want to buy a can for a quarter.

People who come self identify as regulars. They like garage sales that are well done and have quality merchandise for a reasonable price. Mom greets people and makes sure they know there is more inside the garage, rearranging displays when an item sells, refolding clothing, putting something that isn't attracting attention in a better location.

There is nothing I can do, really. I sit, in the way, in the hot sun, and chat during lulls in activity. My role is supportive only. Just to let them know I care about the success of their venture and while I am of no particular help, I want to be supportive. Besides, I don't get to spend a lot of time talking with Mom and lunch time, as good as that is, is limited. Mom has a lively sense of humor and I appreciate her sense of what's funny.

Right around lunchtime, the boys appear and whisk me off for eats. I will not be missed at the garage sale and the boys have promised to be back to help put the heavy stuff away and fold down the tent and racks. Its going well. I have done absolutely nothing to contribute, but then, most of the time at my place I am the sole contributor. Its nice for a change to just be there.

Shopping!

One of the reasons the boys are happy to have me home is that the cupboards and fridge are bare. Devoid of food. Empty, full of nada. Not that either of them are opposed to spending their hard earned cash on the food they devour. In an emergency, they will part with money for a good cause. But for the most part, they see provision as fully my responsibility.

Oh, good. Mom's home. Let's go to Wegmans and stock up. I am a bit scared. This will cost. Bad enough to have to take one boy along for the shopping trek, but both of them? This can't be good. And no list either. They enter the store drooling, excitedly mapping out who will attack which aisle and how they will both manage to get their preferred munchies in the cart without my fainting.

I have my own list. Chocolate yogurt (the best way to get calcium), bananas (potassium), frozen strawberries (really cuts cravings connected with late night binging), and chocolate pudding (OK, I have to have one downfall - besides, its easy on my tummy when food has been particularly unkind to me). While I am on my quest, the contents of the cart I am pushing grows magically and exponentially.

I can remember needing less when all five boys were living at home. Of course, back then, I made everything from scratch. Now I am big into convenience food because of my 80 hour workweek. I can only hope this doesn't break the bank for too long. I still have to put gas in the car! Despite my fears, the cart of stuff doesn't run too much over $100. I suspect they are trying to be solicitous of my well being. And will expect another trip soon. Oh, well. Its good to be home, even if I get eaten out of it!

Summer Reading

For all the cleverness of mankind's inventions, we have yet to figure out how to get information into someone's head. Oh, sure. Sci Fi movies insinuate that someday we will purchase and swallow pills that have the entire history of the world or an entire language encapsulated in them that will make the swallower a master at whatever the subject is within minutes of ingesting.

Not yet. We still have to get our information the old fashioned way. Either read and evaluate or experience the subject. Even then, mastery takes years often. So we just keep picking away at reading stuff, hoping - well, for what? My kids think reading is a terrible punishment foisted on them by unreasonable teachers who actually think reading is preferable to experiencing life. They would far prefer doing something to reading about it. Even talking about it would be better than reading.

Drew has a summer reading project. He is expected to read The Six Questions of Sophocles and write essays about what he read. He had a hard time with last year's summer reading assignment which was way easier. Every day I ask him, "Have you read more of your book?" Every day he answers, "Sort of." Meaning no.

I see the clock ticking down. He is squirming trying to figure out how to get by. Last year he ended up watching a movie based on the assigned book. Way better as far as he was concerned and I could not convince him that he was missing a lot. He actually asked me to read his book and tell him what it was about! Imagine his despair when I said I was too busy reading things to help me create my Morning and Evening Prayers for Cancer Patients dvd.

Finally, finally, he buckled down and read. He worked steadily through the night even to get the required assignments done and checked off his list. And today, he actually admitted that summer was much more enjoyable now that the weight hanging over his head is gone, turned in, completed. A week before the deadline, just to be sure.

And he wasn't even that upset when the teacher, undoubtedly assailed by parents of other kids, gave an extension and lessened the workload. Hum. I wonder if reading will stick? Maybe he will even end up liking to read. Now, I have to get back to my books.

ILL Heaven

Interlibrary Loan connects you to the world. If you are fortunate enough to be affiliated with an academic institution, you can peruse Worldcat (a catalog of the holdings of thousands of libraries from around the world) and order anything your heart desires. Of course, the main purpose is to support faculty and students as they do research. Maybe its one of the reasons I have always preferred academic librarianship.

All summer long I have been collecting titles of books I want to read. Some my sister recommended, some I uncovered in the line of preparing for my sacred music recital, some put forth by friends and speakers at Lakeside, and many from the bibliographies I received at St Olaf. If I were to purchase all those books, even used, I would go broke!

But thanks to all the various libraries willing to share their resources with the interested, I can request to borrow them all, and then purchase only the ones that I find really really important to my work. Which will be few, I am sure since I have an aversion to collecting anything these days. Once you collect stuff, you not only have to take care of it, but someone has to get rid of it when you die. Not a legacy I wish to leave behind.

So I have been ordering materials, and today I hit the jackpot. I must have a dozen books to read now. Yahoo. I see a weekend of treasure hunting. I am so fortunate to have such rich resources at my fingertips. Yeah.

Mom's Here!

Mom has been working on weeding out. She has spent hours going through closets and attics and basements sorting and culling. My sister picked up Mom and the stuff and brought them here to Rochester for a big garage sale. Mom hasn't visited Rochester in years! Its wonderful to have her around.

I pop over to Jan's to have lunch with Mom. We munch sandwiches and chat, catching up on summer activities and plans for the garage sale and what my siblings are up to here there and everywhere. Community - that theme just keeps coming up!

One of the reasons for Mom to come is that she is having the floors of her A frame sanded and refinished. She and my sister and brother worked like mad hatters trying to get all the furniture out of the rooms and the floors sanded before Mom and Jan left. My brother will put down the three coats of polyurethane, polishing in between. No one wants to have to eat or sleep with that smell around!

No matter how old you get, its always wonderful to connect with your family. People joke about cutting the apron strings and becoming independent, but the truth is most people are tied to their parents for life, and that is mostly a good thing. Even if your family is a bit dysfunctional (and whose isn't these days?) parents remain important people in your life even after they leave this world and move into the next.

I am happy Mom is here and I will get to spend some time with her. I hope she will enjoy her time here with us. And that the garage sale is a success!

Back to Work

Monday always comes round. Have you noticed that? After every vacation, after every celebration of life comes the inevitable demand to return to work. I suppose in other types of cultures, the pace of work wore a different face than 9 to 5. Or 3 to midnight as my kids would prefer. But here it is still necessary for the majority of the masses.

And creeping. So many people I know, especially single people, especially uneducated people, are having to work more than one job. No longer does the Corporation take care to provide a living wage to all. No one can survive on minimum wage. Shoot, its hard to survive even on what used to be a decent salary.

I suppose some would say its because we expect to have so much more, so much that isn't necessary to life. Like cell phones and computers and cars that are not rusted and houses that are bigger. Its hard for people just starting out, graduating from college and getting low paying first jobs. How do they afford housing and transportation and eating while paying off school loans?

I am just grateful that I have a job and that I have the strength to do it. Today, my goal is to make sure I have caught up with my emails (I have been faithful to whittle away at them while on the road) and reconnect with the projects and responsibilities that have been on hold while I recharged. And that will be enough for my first day back. I just hope I don't use up all the gain getting back in the saddle!

Community of the Savior

In the summer, when the choir at the United Methodist Church is on hiatus, I try to attend a gathering of believers called the Community of the Savior. I used to play for their evening service when they were meeting downtown, but they moved the time of the service to mornings and I could no longer participate. Now they meet in the chapel at the Nazareth seminary called St Bernards School of Theology and Ministry.

Many of the attendees I know from the seminary or from Roberts Wesleyan. They began as an independent group but decided to affiliate with the Free Methodist denomination, an outreach of the Edgewood church. This group feels like family to me and their form of worship is intentional and thoughtful. Everything is a careful balance of the expected and the new so that nothing becomes so rote as to be trite or so overwhelmingly new as to be meaningless. It is a balanced meld of worship and action.

I volunteer in the summers to do whatever they need done, and today they teach me to prepare the Braille bulletin for one of the members who is blind. It just means pulling the Braille translated hymns from notebooks and putting them together in the proper order along with a translation of the liturgy so the woman can participate with everyone else. It is as community should be, making sure everyone's needs are taken care of. Treating people with respect and dignity.

The theme of the summer really has been learning about community, and now I have a chance to do something practical about it. I am happy to be able to help, especially when the person I am helping is actually helped. Even if it is such a small thing. I have missed being part of a community where people have your back, as the saying goes. But I am learning about that in so many ways and places. It would be nice to move from the cut throat incivility of the world to the shelter of community.

Home at Last

I stand in the foyer waiting for the shuttle to appear. Fellow travelers stranded by the storm fill me in on the morning news. All the railroad departures have now been cancelled because the tunnels filled with water and the trains couldn't run. Several major highways are closed because of flooding. Transportation is difficult at best and will remain so for hours. It is still raining lightly.

I wonder if I will be stuck here another day, but I am assured that the planes are flying. They are using snow plows to clear the water from the runways. I have seen that already. The shuttle is late. Everything is late. I have left myself lots of time, preferring to sit safely at the airport until my flight leaves. Others are not so fortunate and are worried they will miss their flight. I pray for them.

Water sprays everywhere as the shuttle weaves around police cars and emergency vehicles to get us back to the airport. I check the flight board. My flight says its ontime. I find a quiet place and sit, having eaten breakfast at the hotel. The clock ticks slowly but my hope remains high that I will manage to get out of Chicago and back home.

With only a slight delay of an hour, we are invited to board. We are mostly seated when one of the attendants announces that the pilot has been changed and we are waiting for the paperwork to catch up. More time ticks by. I do not lose faith. Finally we get the good news that we are cleared for takeoff and we butt into the middle of a line of over 40 planes that I could see from the window jockeying for the runway.

I recall how last night Chicago looked like some scene from a King Kong movie with the two airport terminals and all the circling places and flashing lights and darkness. Today it just looks like a normal sprawling city interrupted by a huge body of water over which we soon find ourselves flying.

I will make it back! Today! Yeah! I can't wait to unpack, shake out the wrinkles, take a hot shower, and snuggle down in my own place. I don't want to even think about going anywhere else for months.

Stranded

Well, all good things must come to an end I am told. And so too this conference ended and I head for the airport, holding so much in my heart. Immediately the world encroaches. The shuttle that drove us to the airport ran out of gas (!) and we were stranded for over an hour until another shuttle could come and rescue us.

I just missed the early flight to Midway, the one I was hoping I could bump up into. And the flight I was booked on was, yes delayed due to bad weather. Rain is apparently more difficult for planes to deal with than snow. Hours creep by, and the window of opportunity for making my connecting flight in Chicago dwindles. I try not to be anxious. God is with me. He will take care of my needs. So I rest and refuse to fuss.

At long long last we are airborn, but we do not make good time. We must fly far from the designated path to avoid the storm. It will be close. I will have only minutes to dash to the right gate. People around me assure me that they will hold the plane. I am skeptical. We taxi forever trying to get to the gate, but other planes are in the way. Time for my connecting flight comes and goes. I am still on the plane even if I am on the ground.

I am in the very first row and first off the plane when at last we reach the gate. I run to the gate for the connecting flight. The plane has just left the gate. They call to see if they can still get me on. No. Two minutes would have made the difference. Two minutes. The woman at the counter gets me on the first available flight out tomorrow, but the two morning ones are completely booked and I will not be able to leave until nearly noon.

I glance around the airport. It is crowded and noisy. The woman at the counter pushes a flier into my hand and tells me to call the 800 number and see if there are any rooms left for the night. People's flights have been cancelled all day. I step to one side. My hands shake as I punch the numbers. There are only 2 rooms available. $160 for one night. I cannot believe my voice, I take the room and run for the free shuttle.

It is raining so hard that there are standing pools of water in the streets and police cars block off driveways where the water is too deep to allow safe passage. I finally get to the hotel, and the front desk is turning people away. They rush my reservation along and get me out of the lobby as quickly as they can. In the elevator I check to see if I still have everything. I do.

The room is nice and comfortable, but half the lights are out due to the storm. The TV is also out. I shower, then retire, grateful, grateful, grateful that God got me safely into this room while half the world is sleeping in the uncomfortable Midway airport. I do not care that I didn't get dinner. I have a few things in my carryon (thank God) and that suffices.

I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow and sleep soundly most of the night despite sirens and flashing lights and all kinds of troubles unfolding outside. In the morning, I know God will be with me. I do not worry. All will be well.

Touched by Grace

How wonderful that the planners of this conference recognized the importance of both participating in and experiencing from the pews the various services in the week of learning how to weave theology with music and art in significant ways. The preacher of the week, the Rev. John Buchanan, editor, author and pastor of the Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago Illinois, was a challenging and engaging speaker.

We laugh with him as he pointed out truths we would need to wrestle with. So much swirls through my head. I am changing almost hourly. I can feel myself stretching, questioning, growing. I love singing for the services the mixed choir ministers in. I love sitting in the pews and partaking while other choirs of the week - bell, women's, and youth - minister to us.

I can't recall any other time in my life when I have worshiped formally twice a day with full communion served - and communion with wine, I might add. Its enough to make your head swim. Today, I once again join the line of people going forward to take communion. I feel the presence of God, the sacredness of this privilege. I am in awe. I partake, wondering if those offering the elements know how special this activity is. I think they do not see how un mundane, how amazing, how ethereal this communion is. Do they know they offer a taste of the divine?

God must be wondering how many times he has to touch me before I respond to his love. How many sips of communion before I allow the warmth to flood my soul and heal my hurts? I return to my seat and suddenly I am overwhelmed by his love. I can't really describe it, but it undoes me completely. The tears stream down my face and I don't care if others see it and wonder what is the matter with me.

I am unaware of anything except the tremendous amazing touch of Christ, of his sorrow about the cancer I have been battling, of his sympathy about the difficult treatment and the draining side effects, of his desire that I be whole and well. He loves me despite my shortcomings, despite the hard places in my heart, despite my own lack of love towards his children. He loves me completely without reservation. He loves me right now, before I become something a bit more acceptable to his life style and expectations.

It is as if I have been immersed in a soothing warm liquid of joy where I am cared for to the nth degree, beyond anything I have ever thought possible. I can feel the scars shrinking, the holes being filled in with sound flesh and living tissue. I revel in it. I embrace it. I thank God. I sit there for as long as it lasts, not caring if I am late for rehearsal or anything else for that matter.

I do not want this touch of grace to end. But slowly the walls of Boe Cathedral reappear. Slowly I come up out of the pool of God's grace like a pampered diva from a day at the spa. I sit there for long minutes recovering from the extraordinary, gaining my bearings, not wanting to leave but knowing that I will.

O Lord, touch me again. Touch my heart often. More. More. And please touch all my friends and family too.

Renewing Acquaintences

In the midst of these stellar workshops and services of touching significance, right before I stepped on the plane to travel to Minnesota, I remembered that I had met the woman who served as Music Librarian at St Olaf's when I worked in the Music Library at the University of Illinois. She attended our regional Music Librarian conferences, and had invited me years ago to come and visit her anytime.

Through email we had arranged to meet on an afternoon when the least interesting lecture was scheduled (and that was a touch call since all the lectures and workshops were interesting) and touch base. I was late arriving. It was difficult to tear myself away for sure.

Progressively throughout the week as we moved from Advent to Christmas Eve to Christmas day, the sanctuary decor changed from barrenness to include an open manger building created from dead tree branches, a creche made from a bale of straw, a huge epiphany star created from a burst of branches bound together and sprayed bright white, a star that moved from outside into the sanctuary to the manger over the creche to the altar and back outside.

As my friend and I hugged hello after five years of not seeing each other, I was amazed at how easily we reconnected. She showed me through her library, and we chatted about music librarianship and other librarians we both knew, what was happening in their worlds. We ended up in her kitchen head and toeing green beans from a coop garden she participates in, continuing to build our connection as I got to know a bit about her family (artist husband, 2 charming adopted girls and a friendly dog).

Yes. More community. Reach out. It is the message of Advent. God reaching out to us encouraging us to reach out to others. I was sad to have to say goodnight and head back to the dorm, but the day begins early with a 7am breakfast before an 8am choir rehearsal in preparation for singing in the morning service. It has been wonderful to pick up a small piece of life as it used to be and bring it into the here and now. My kids would be proud.

Christmas in July

The theme of the services for this year's Conference on Worship, Theology and the Arts at St. Olaf's is Advent, Christmas and Epiphany. We will participate in services that focus on how to bring significance to these events that are such a large part of the liturgical calendar for the church. Check out the services we experienced in their online archives.

Our opening service was a Lessons and Carols. The platform was their usual setup, devoid of Christmas decor. But suspended from the ceiling over the center aisle was a boat shaped wire and wooden holder supporting an large advent wreath with pillars as candles surrounded by a full pine wreath. It's difficult to see it except from certain camera shots. The processional singers stood in the aisles and waited while the appropriate candles were lighted by a very tall candle lighting pastor.

The celebration of Advent began with creation, a reading accompanied by organ music that reflected the emotion of the text. I realized immediately how thoughtful and significant these services were going to be. Models really for how to take the faith stories we have heard from infancy and enrich them fully, bringing out many facets of meaning, many connections to our day and age, many ideas to explore and consider. To allow time for personal devotional reflection in the midst of liturgically ordained activity.

Christmas in July usually means somebody wants to get presents in the middle of the year, to experience the joy of the materialistic season to gratify their own need for special happiness. But from the first touch of the organ keyboard, it was clear that what I would experience here was far more than that. It was a celebration and exploration of God's goodness and eternal love in ways that would touch the heart deeply.

I cannot wait to experience more, but for tonight, I head to my first session with a full heart. I know that being here is exactly where I need to be. That God's goodness has prepared for me a table filled to overflowing with good things meant to help heal my wounded and shriveled heart, to restore to me the drought of last summer, to flood my soul with his living waters. All summer has been just that for me from the first trip to my sister's in Tennessee straight through Concordia and visiting friends in Holland and spending a week at Lakeside Chautauqua and now, bless my heart and soul, this extraordinary week forthcoming here at St Olaf.

It will be a week of tears flowing, as they did a moment ago while I am washed and refreshed by the very presence of God in the celebration of Advent I just partook of. I only wish I could bring many many people here with me to experience this refreshing. At best, I can only do what I can to bring cups of water from here to where I will return, to encourage everyone to drink deeply at God's fountain of life. But right now, I am full.

I wonder that I could have ever thought I was taxed beyond my ability to endure. How so not true.

Dorm Life Again

I wrestle the key into the doorknob lock and slowly swing the door open to reveal a living room with an old couch and several overstuffed chairs, a long table and seven doors leading to rooms and a bathroom shared with the next suite over. Glancing about, I select 231, my assigned room, and once again fumble with the lock until I manage to wriggle the door open.

A blast of musty air hits my nose. It smells like a gym locker where dirty socks have been left lying about for way too long. I plop my carry on and suitcase on a stripped down bunk bed and turn on the air conditioning unit beneath the window. More musty air spews into the room and I quickly realize that hot outside air is preferable to smelly cool air, so I open the single window and head back to the living room to let things air out.

All the doors in the suite are closed and I wonder if I am the only occupant. I am sure I am not since they said some people didn't get assigned to the sole dorm with air conditioning. Slowly over the course of the next few days I meet some of my suitemates, catch glimpses of others who choose to remain unintroduced. We are all following our interests, so don't necessarily keep the same hours. I am happy to have requested that I not have any roommate. That way I can crash at 9pm if I so desire and not be wakened by the comings and goings of someone else. Selfish. But also self defense.

I am both grateful for the room and somewhat bereft from its emptiness, its utter lack of aesthetics. The walls are sheetrock with leftover dings from a semester crammed with young vibrance. The floors a dingy blue outdoor carpet with stains and thin spots. The bedframes mostly look like unfinished lumber, the plainness matched by the desk unit. One wall is completely covered by floor to ceiling closet doors hiding drawers and shelf space.

I try to think what it would be like as a freshman away from home for possibly the first time, crowded into a sparse and uninviting suite with twelve unknown women, sharing a 2 stall bathroom with 24 strangers, trying to find myself, my identity, my purpose amongst the clutter and sameness. It's done on campuses everywhere all the time. Concordia was much the same. Forced community.

It's a wonder people don't get strangled with all the "in your space" requirements of living communally. I once thought it would be romantic and mysterious to live in a monastery, spending my time concentrating on things holy and divine. But those brothers (and sisters) also live communally and I am sure its not all that holy. People are, after all, different.

I recently read an article in a photo journal about a young photographer trying to capture the essence of a monastery, and his pictures were of old men who had roomed together for 50 years. Think of it! Being in a dorm for all your life, not just sharing, but caring enough for someone who is in your space to make sure they are alright, they are well, they are happy. Not owning anything personal. Not ever having privacy. Always being with others.

Perhaps I am just spoiled, but I need my privacy. I'm not sure how to fit that together with community. Growing up I shared a room with at least one sister, sometimes more. And the one sister I shared a room with most often ended up hating me. No community there. I get riled even with the boys living at home with whom I share not a bedroom, but common living space including a bathroom. Sometimes I want to wring their necks because they make MY space messy or full of stuff I don't appreciate.

I am less good at sharing than I used to be. Our culture is withdrawing into itself more and away from communal activity. We think we can survive just fine all on our own with little to no interaction with others. Boomer generation mentality? Possibly. My children are all about togetherness, spending time with friends. They think nothing of spending three weeks sleeping on someone's floor just to do stuff together. On the other hand, Kiel is a collector who never throws anything away but hangs on to it all. (Would you believe hundreds of tee shirts, some of them from first grade?).

Not me. There are a few things worth keeping, but I could easily fit my belongings in a shared dorm room. Still, I want togetherness on my terms. Most of the time I prefer solitude. Obviously I need to rethink and restructure this instinct, since I keep finding myself in dorm situations that require community. I have much to work on. And much to overcome. I wonder if I will ever get to the place where I truly don't see anything as exclusively "mine" but available to anyone who needs it. I'm sure not there yet. But before I end up in some sort of nursing home, I better get a bit farther down the road.

What Was I Thinking?

I should have known. Flying these days is an exercise in frustration, even without the threat of snow. Chicago waved us off, and we deflected to Detroit to refuel and sit grounded for an hour while the storms passed and the airways cleared. Fortunately, the good Lord and Southwest airlines were watching over me and in Detroit they replaned me on a direct flight to St Paul. I might still make my shuttle to the college. It will be close though.

Other passengers are reciting their litany of woes, of circling endlessly, of missing connections. I am tense, but relieved that I don't have to worry about the connection part. I call the shuttle service to fill them in. They assure me there is a later shuttle if I miss the 7 pm one. OK. Relax. We end up taking the long way around to avoid turbulence, and at long long last we land where I was supposed to, and only a few hours late. Amazingly, still in time for the original shuttle!

We cram into the half bus, our luggage squeezed in by our feet, squished like sardines, clutching our little bottles of water that the shuttle service offered and for which I am most grateful. The trip to the college is bumpy and I am at the rear of the bus, tossed about like a rag doll. My stomach is queasy, I have had no supper and little lunch, I am tired beyond endurance. It takes nearly an hour to get to the campus.

Everyone else is chattering excitedly, those who have attended this conference before filling in those of us who have not been. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. I do not want to get to know these people, as nice as they may be. What is the point of making friends with someone you will never see again? It takes so much energy and investment of self. I am tired of telling my story to strangers. The sky is storm cloud dark, the bumping intolerable.

What am I doing here? What was I thinking? I am too old for this. I should be home in my safe little bed, petting Sugar and learning to be content with the education I have. I must have been crazy to think that I should travel halfway across the continent to some place I don't know to spend time with people whose lives are so different from mine. God, what in the world am I doing??

Checking in at the dorm brought no comfort either. It is, after all, a dormitory. There are no comforts of home here. The sheets are stiff and worn, the towels skinny and harsh, the room barren and humid. I turn on the air conditioner unit and a musty smell hits my face. I open the window and the mosquitoes buzz loudly. There will be no dinner tonight. Nothing on campus is open and we are in the middle of no place.

I sigh, glad for the breakfast biscuits I thought to pack. It is all I can do to locate a vending machine and wrestle a bottle of cold clear water from its mechanical arms. I want to retire, but on my way back to my empty room, another attendee strikes a conversation with me, and I ask where we register in the morning. She kindly takes me on a whirlwind tour of the campus in the dark, pointing in various directions and going on about the different buildings. I regret asking. I just want to collapse.

Not a judicious start to what looms before me as a long and daunting week. One small crack of light seeps into my brain just before I sink into the welcome oblivion of sleep. God did open the doors for me to be here. I am sure He would not send my on a whim. There is a reason for all of this, and if I will just patiently trust, it will become clear at some point.

And I am not alone. His presence is with me as it always is. I have read my Divine Hours meditation - Vespers and Compline. The Psalms bring me comfort and remind me that I have many blessings to count. A safe flight, even if longer than planned. A roof over my head and occupancy in the one dorm that has air conditioning. A meal plan for the rest of the week. Engagement with others who love sacred music. An opportunity to meet a conductor who does sacred music well.

I snuggle down into my pillow, remind myself of the full week of R&R I have just enjoyed, and tell myself that things will look better in the morning. After all, I am still a bit worn from last summer's journey through chemo land. But just look how far I have come. And with that, I smile, and turn out the light humming the Doxology. All will be well.

Restocking

A whirlwind of activity. I fear I may use up all my well gained rest getting ready for the upcoming conference at St. Olaf - the Conference on Worship and Theology. Dr. Armstrong conducts what has long been one of my favorite choirs, both by their excellence in sound and in the good repertoire they sing. If I could study under any particular conductor, it would be Dr. Armstrong.

And now, I have the opportunity! How timely since I will be organizing my Master's degree recital for this spring, and sitting under his tutelage might be just the thing to help me find the right sound, the right movement to gain the best rendition of the music I am so excited to be pulling together in a worship service. A Musical Exploration of the Lord's Prayer.

Well, I am grateful that Lakeside offered me the opportunity to wash my clothes before leaving. All I really need to do is repack, make sure I have my travel information, and the car is gassed up and ready to drop me off at the Buffalo airport. It should be a simple trip - a jump to Midway, then a jump to St Paul.

I finish loading my single small suitcase and my carry on bag, then spend time catching up with the boys and playing with Sugarbear, who, poor thing, thinks I have abandoned her for no good reason. I try to rest a bit, but my mind is already flying ahead to the promise of good things to come. What an amazing summer this is turning out to be!

No Way

I can hardly believe it! Friday already? Do I really have to leave, to go home to piles of dirty dishes and loads of laundry? Back to work and reality? Far from the cooling lake breezes and the gentle conversations and interesting lectures? Back to cooking and fixing broken stuff and boys? Goodness, where has the time gone?

I think back over the days of leisure, recalling a talk about the first ten President's wives and their various challenges and contributions, a fascinating lecture I hope to follow up on by reading more of their biographies. I remember the sand sculptures people carved on the beach and others wiped away with scarcely a second thought - a lion and an octopus come and gone in a blink. I recall the evening marble and card game and the friendly competitions, the afternoon naps with the fan brushing tepid air against my tired cheek. I remember two flavors of amazing Gelato so taste bud tingling you could hardly believe it. I remember time to think, to organize my upcoming DVD, reading through three entire books that were exactly the resources needed to take the next step in planning. I remember dinners at the little restaurant, gathered around a table sharing stories and appreciating the home cooked comfort foods that were gentle on my constitution. I remember walking out on the pier and examining the islands and watching the brightly painted ferries make their rounds, bikers and strollers passing us on the path by the miniature golf course, dawdling in the fascinating shops oohhing over unique items and daydreaming about getting such things for my grand daughters. I remember chatting with the museum curator as I learned the history of Lakeside and laughing at some of the old time sundries in their displays. I remember hitting the fudge shop and being amazed by all the delicious flavors and trying to decide what to sample now, what to take home and what the boys would like. I remember no hurry. I remember feeling as if I had been coming to this summer resort all my life.

Can I really have packed so much into a couple of days? I barely scratched the surface of what was offered, never left the grounds to explore anything beyond the gate, didn't even dip my toe in the water! Yet the days were full, the nights restful. Much like spending summers at Grandma's when I was a little girl. So much to explore, no hurry about any of it.

I cannot tell my kind hosts how much the week has meant, for I don't know how to say what great medicine this has been to a soul weary and worn. It was just what the doctor would have ordered if she had known about this place, I am sure. I have made new discoveries, forged good connections, actually been renewed in mind body and spirit - and all without trying to. I guess there is something to the value of the environment being conducive to wholeness.

I can only hope that the rest of the year will be as wholesome and satisfying as this week has been.

Cantus

9 men. In dark suits on a hot summer's night. Walk on stage in a half occupied auditorium, sans pomp, sans fanfare. One starts singing. Others join. No trumpet, no piano, no conductor. The music swells. It grabs you, takes you along. They pour their hearts out. They love singing. They love music. They forget the heat. Forget the crying babies. Forget the long day they have spent. This is what they do.

I have heard recordings of Cantus, of this eminent men's a cappella group and always admired their sound. Now I get to hear them up close and personal! Yeah! They come from many different states, various ethnic backgrounds. They travel the world, encouraging people to sing - especially men! What I wouldn't give to have such a troup in one of my choirs!

What is there about the male voice that soothes? Isn't it supposed to be a mother's soothing voice singing lullabies? Yet these gentlemen sing music that soothes the weary head. After so much rock pounding head banging street noisy clutter that passes for music these days, the simple unaccompanied voice is a pleasant relief and welcome change.

Too quickly the hours fly by. They peruse all sorts of musical styles from the Beatles to chant and back again. Their imaginative exploration of a children's musical toy brings smiles, their toy piano song laughter. Its rather like sharing an intimate evening in someone's living room in front of a cozy fireplace engaged in quiet conversation.

Perhaps music of this sort is an art form that remains lost on younger generations. I hope not. If Cantus has anything to say about it, it will remain viable for a good long while.

Vespers

I always thought vespers were conducted in lofty cathedrals with swirling acoustics, the music of long gone eras of gentility unfolded, harking back to a time when kings ruled and popes ordained life and cathedrals were ornate, carved in rich dark wood and gleaming gilded scrollwork, when large open leather bound Bibles lay chained to tables with robed priests anointing the pages regularly with incense. The music was ethereal, calling one from the drudgery of everyday life to glimpse the pearly gates in the great beyond. Irresistible.

Not here though. Vespers is much more important than that. Here Vespers is part of a community that embraces the here and now, the whole family. It is intergenerationality at its best. Grandparents lodge great grandbabies in cottages passed down as scepters are passed down, proud of heritage and tradition. Here one belongs, one does not visit. Here one has ties, one is accepted. Here time is spent engaging in important activities, activities that renew your body, mind, and spirit.

Vespers is part of that heritage. Each year they take on a different form. One year the music of Taize is explored, another year the great hymns of the past partaken of, as we sang this year. Words of encouragement and challenge are given by speakers from every denomination and background. One evening we shared more contemporary worship with the youth outdoors by the gazebo. Families stood together, all singing, arms wrapped around each other. Touching. Sharing.

Way more than just an early evening religious service, a public ceremony, the sixth canonical hour. Here Vespers are the celebration of life, of all stages come together to remember God, to sing and pray together. Yes, some days sparsely attended, but the effect spills out into all generations, into attitudes, into actions. Not an era goneby, but the hard work of keeping the next era on track and blessed.

I stand. I sing. I remember God's goodness to me. I cannot help but bring the blessing with me to my own children and siblings. A small dab of light for a world filled with darkness. Vespers. A recharging.

Carting About

How thoughtful of my friends to rent a golf cart so I wouldn't have to walk long stretches and tire out! At first it was a lark, sitting like a lady of leisure in the open air buggy and whizzing about freely, no concerns about going so far that I wouldn't have the energy to get back.

We took a tour of the community the first day there, driving the perimeter so I could get a sense of direction (which I never did quite grasp), and a bit of the history as we drove through original sections and newer sections. My hosts pointed out the auditorium, the movie theater, the hotel where lectures might be held, the museum, the shuffleboard and tennis courts, the beach, and of course, Main Street where the Farmer's Market is and all the quaint shops and restaurants.

After a day of riding about, I felt silly to realize that we were driving only three blocks or so from cottage to movie theater or auditorium. Given the heat though, I was most grateful not to be walking, but sitting under the shade of the golf cart awning with a little breeze blowing past my face instead of sweating along walking in the sun.

Gradually, the impact of golf cart mentality hit home. Carting enriches the pace of life. One does not speed along a mile a minute, oblivious of all that passes your window. Neither does one crawl along at a snail's pace, tiring with every step. Rather, one glides smoothly along fully exposed to the open air, noticing all the details of the passing landscape, cordially greeting people you pass and inhaling the delightful scents of roses and lilies and grilling foods nearby.

Carting is a gracious way to slow the hectic hurry-scurry of the workaday world. It bespeaks leisure activity, summer relaxedness, a pampered lifestyle. There is a shared amicability about a community that indulges in cart transportation. I could get used to this being carted about like some queen whose feet ought not to touch the ground. Mostly though, I appreciate and fully embrace a week of not thinking about how I will get places, just relaxing and relying on others to oversee that part of the activities. All of life should be like that.

Spiritual Advisor to the President

Every morning in the movie theater members of the Lakeside community gather to hear a chaplain speak. It is a small, intimate theater with old fashioned wooden seats and down front, an organ and a piano. I had never heard of our Chaplain of the week, but he is an interesting speaker with good experience and in depth knowledge of many issues. Dr. Hunter pastors a church in Florida that seeks to help diverse populations come together in unity.

Turns out he is an advisor to our President, along with a number of other eminent religious leaders including Rev. T. D. Jakes. Recently I read a book sent me by my friend Sissie called Prayers of Our Presidents. Fascinating to read a brief sketch of the various president's terms of office, their background and family, their concerns.

Many of them turned to ordained religious leaders for prayer, for their own spiritual concerns, for spiritual support during this country's demanding times. Our Presidents have subscribed to many different faiths and denominations. Few other countries' leaders have such a track record I suspect, though I have not looked into it. Regardless of personal preference, they all recognized that the job of leading this nation was beyond their limited abilities, no matter how gifted they were.

I will say that Dr. Hunter took a bit of heat during the Question and Answer sessions after his morning talks. He was genuinely compassionate even towards those who belligerently wished to pound home their own opinions as gospel truth. So often they began their diatribes with "You tell the President that . . ." and just as often, Dr. Hunter replied that he does not tell the President anything.

He prays for the President as the President asks for prayers. He answers questions when asked not with his own thoughts, but with questions that draw the President from where he is in his spiritual walk and that encourage him to grow as the Holy Spirit gives wisdom. And the President prays for Dr. Hunter, whose young grand daughter is facing brain cancer.

All pettiness and personal agendas must fall aside when dealing with weighty issues such as our century and culture presents anyone in positions of leadership these days. I have great respect for the spiritual advisers who are granted audience in the White House. They realize they are held accountable to a higher court than ours. It is sobering and requires much stretching to embrace the responsibility so bestowed.

As for me, I am grateful I am not in such a position, but I will commit to pray for our country, our President, and his spiritual advisers in the days ahead as they deal with the issues of our times.

Elvis is in the House

Lakeside offers lectures in religion, history, and other interesting topics, art exhibits, and concerts every day of the week. The week's offerings are plentiful, and its difficult to select a reasonable schedule without leaving out something interesting. Fortunately, my hosts know the ropes and outline what they usually attend. It sounds doable, and afternoons are open for swimming and shuffleboard and shopping, or naps!

Tonight we wander from our comfy cottage over to Hoover Auditorium to catch the act of an Elvis impersonator. I'm not an Elvis groupie, but I certainly grew up with his music and his movies and I know a bit about his life. Besides, the music should be fun and entertaining. Who can beat a live concert in a huge domed space filled with cushy chairs and big screens for close up action shots?

We settle in. The concert begins with spotlights fanning the audience and the orchestra playing a vamp. Where is he? Where is Elvis? We cran our necks to catch the first glimpse. Suddenly, there is he coming down the center aisle, cape flying, rhinestones sparkling, dark glasses in place. What a hoot! You could almost believe its Elvis himself.

He certainly knew how to work an audience, and in no time at all we were practically dancing in the aisles, crying with hearts touched at his sentimentality as he brought an Elvis fan onstage who was celebrating a wedding anniversary, introduced us to his mother who sang a song with him, engaging kids to help him sing a number - all embroidered by the famous scarves that he would twist about his neck and then hand to a cooperative fan.

What fun! He was decent as a singer and full of life and energy. Finally he began to wind down a bit and just as I expected him to say good night, he announced that he would take a short break and be back with more fun. Yikes! I looked at my friend and she looked at me and we agreed we were Elvised out. You can only take just so much Blue Suede Shoes and Hounddogs and Jail House Rocks.

Together we made our way through the few streets to our cottage where we collapsed on the couch, full of happiness and music. None of us were up to pulling a late night, so we retired. Elvis can stay up and greet the dawn. We will let the music bathe our sleep and rise refreshed!

Road Trip

My friends collect me promptly at 9am in their brand new car. I tuck my luggage in with theirs and we head out for a week of R&R at Lakeside, Ohio where they often spend a summer week of renewal at a Chataqua where Sandy enjoyed summers during her childhood.

The day is perfect for travel. Not too hot, not rainy, traffic is reasonable. The new car has OnStar and we play with it to see how it works even though they know the way. I sit back and relax, enjoying the fact that I do not have to drive, that car breakdowns are highly unlikely, that the chance of undergoing any sort of stress is low.

We stop for lunch along the way, but the first rest area is covered with ground bees and we decide that the better part of valor is to leave them the space and explore the next rest area which proves to be lovely.

We munch sandwiches and enjoy the summer greenery and stretch our legs for a bit, then climb back in the car and continue until we can smell the lake and see the inlets and bays and at last find ourselves at the gatehouse entering the Lakeside community where we will spend the week "nurturing our mind, body and spirit" as the PR goes.

I have sung with the Rochester Oratorio Society at the Chataqua Institute in New York as part of the arts offerings, so I have a bit of knowledge about the idea of such places. This week in Ohio will be the first time I will have a Chataqua experience. I can't wait to see what unfolds.

My friends generously include me because they are concerned for my health and thought a week of relaxation a good prescription for recovery. I am under orders to only do what I want to do, and not to feel bad if I don't participate in all the possible activities. What wonderful and thoughtful hosts! I am really looking forward to exploring and experiencing. Now to unpack!

Shot Again

How appropriate. I am getting a Vitamin B12 shot during my lunch hour. Yeah! I know I will not experience any sort of power rush, but I do expect that over the course of the next few weeks I will have the strength to do what I need to do.

It hasn't been quite a month since my first shot, but because I will be out of town, we bumped the date up a bit. I am happy to "refuel" before expending extra energy. I am surprised and a bit distressed to hear the nurse mention that my first shot was augmented to give me a big jump start. Does that mean this shot will be less effective? I hope not. I have lots to do.

Swab, stab, hold, band aid, done. I make my next appointment and head back to work, wishing for the renewal to hit as soon as possible. Thanksgiving and concern flood my mind as I navigate traffic on 390. One shot at a time. Take it as it comes. Should this tack lose effectiveness, they will find another. Not to worry.

Early to Bed

So many things to take care of, so much to prepare for the next few weeks as I once again take to the road (or air) for interesting activities elsewhere. But I am unable to do even the simplest of tasks tonight. Perhaps it is the heat, or the need for another Vitamin B 12 shot. Regardless, I am grateful that Kiel made dinner (BBQ chicken, summer squash with the seeds and skin removed (!), salt potatoes, and one daring slice of cucumber - yum!).

I do not even want to veg in the recliner and watch a movie. My body has one thought alone: climb into bed and sleep. I do not fight the urge. Right after dinner, somewhere around 7pm, I shuck my day duds, slip into sleeping gear, and slide between the cool sheets. The fan is running, my door barely ajar. In moments I am oblivious to the world around me. I do not wake until morning.

Won't it be wonderful when I am able to stay up like a normal adult? Perhaps I might get something done - dishes comes to mind. I am not complaining. I can do more now than I have been able to for a long time. The once in awhile day of exhaustion is manageable. Time will come for strength and energy to abound. But for now, I close my eyes gratefully and let the rest begin.





Though I did watch part of a movie, vegging out in the recliner, I gave up at 7:30 and headed for bed, thinking that I would read for a bit. Even that was more than I could muster. By 8 I closed my book, took a final bathroom break, and sprawled out on the cool sheets with the oscillating fan blowing lightly over my head.





I barely had time to mutter a quick "God bless me and those I love and grant us a blessed night of peace and rest" before I conked out. Ah, me. I guess the driving and activities of the past few weeks is still catching up. Either that or tomorrow's shot will fix my slump!

Poster Sessions

The Education graduate program has arranged to showcase their latest projects and procedures with a library wide poster session. Students create demos and visibles about their research and classroom innovations so others can get ideas and explore new methods. This is the first year they have organized the event, and we weren't quite sure what to expect. They divided the evening into two time slots so that every student would have a chance to present their material.

I was delighted to have reference desk duty during the event, and was pleasantly surprised at the high attendance and buzz of excited participation. How wonderful that teachers are teachable! I saw the president, the academic dean and a number of other administrators come through not to mention other faculty (not just from the Education division) and lots of community members (many of whom are teachers).

Questions and answers abounded in the interchange between presenters and attendees. It was a great evening, one I am sure will be repeated often. Kudos to the Education department for a job well done.

Heat Wave

Mid to Upper 90's all week. Add in enough humidity to drown the planet, and you have this week's Rochester weather conditions. Phew! It's enough to make you sweat. I broke down and bought another fan - one for the kitchen, one for the living room, one for the bathroom, two for the boys' room, and now, one for my room as well. Bit of overkill for a less than 800 sq ft little place, don't you think?

Our air conditioning consists of one small window unit in the living room. Normally that is plenty to keep everyone happy. The boys tend to open windows often, and since our unit is shaded by lots of gracious trees, we don't get fried to a sizzle in the blazing heat of afternoon intense sun even though we are on the second (top) floor. But these days, even the pool water is tepid and more like a soggy bath than a refreshing dunk.

I can't really complain though. DJ and Shannon and the girls are undergoing temperatures in the upper 100's! They say even with central air, the interior of the house is a roasting 80 something. The horses are wilting not to mention anything that once was green and growing. Its even worse in places like Arizona where the temperatures are hitting 108 and higher.

What did people do before air conditioning? Could explain the good die young thing. My grandmother used to run a conveyor belt for an ice house when she was young. Seems they cut blocks of ice out of the frozen lakes in the winter and stored them in underground vaults packed in sawdust to keep them from melting. In the summer they would haul them up to ground level, load them on wagons (and later trucks) and deliver blocks to businesses who sold them to people. Messy.

People nowadays are full of ideas about how to stay cool. Check out this site:

http://www.wikihow.com/Cool-Yourself-Without-Air-Conditioning

Just for future reference. Last summer was one of the mildest I remember in a long time. I remember being thankful that I didn't have to go through chemo in a hot summer. This year seems more typical. I wonder if that means we will have a snowy winter??!!

Bye Bye Birdie

Time to head home. How can two weeks have flown by so quickly? Despite my unrest about breaking away from home, I have had a wonderful time everywhere I have visited - Tennessee, Wisconsin and Michigan. Its been great connecting with my sister, my classmates, my professors, my friends. But I am looking forward to hugging Sugarbear and kissing the boys hello. Not to mention the quiet comfort of my own bed.

Today I head out. I bought a GPS system before I left Rochester, a Tomtom. I have a love-hate relationship with the darn thing. I tried it out before I left home to get the feel of how it works. It was an adjustment figuring out that while my Blackberry requires the touch of human skin to move things about on the screen, Tom hates that. He prefers my fingernail or a stylus.

I punched in directions to my own house from different places about town only to find that Tom has definite ideas about how to navigate. I have to admit that I am a stubborn woman and prefer my own way. I kept turning places where Tom didn't think I ought to go. He patiently informed me to "take the next right" "take the next right" "take the next right" until he gave up and just told me to "turn around as soon as possible" - I could almost hear his frustration!

On the way to Deb's, Tom insisted on booking me straight through the heart of every major city while my printed AAA Trip Tix consistently took the bypass route. I went with AAA every time, and Tom patiently attempted to turn me around, finally giving in and rerouting me so I could go my own way. It was difficult to trust the unknown.

Eventually though, I decided I ought to cut him some slack and see how his way worked out. I was totally surprised to discover that he really did know what he was talking about, and every time he discovered a traffic slow down, he would beep at me and ask if I wanted to avoid the delay and take another route. Real time traffic info compliments of your friendly neighborhood satellite link.

I thought about it, and found an interesting parallel in life. Tom is like the Holy Spirit with direct links to someone with a great overall perspective. His direction does not always make sense or seem to be the best way, but in truth, it is. My ideas, from my limited perspective and those of my culture, my church, my friends, will still usually get me where I need to go, but often takes longer or misses out on something beneficial.

Its often hard to trust that something which seems impersonal has my best interests at heart and if I will just bend my stubbornness a bit, I will be better off in the long run. Of course, as with any analogy, there are limits.

For example, as I was driving south on Route 94, an oriole swooped in front of my car. Like some slow-mo movie, I was horrified that the bird miscalculated his flight path, and before either of us could react, he flew directly into my front right bumper. Tom never made a peep, but I cried for a dozen miles at the senseless waste. I would have tried to swerve had I known we were on a collision course.

Perhaps I do have an edge over Tom.

Church Outdoors

As my friends settle into their new second home area, they begin a search for a good church. Just down the road from them is a place that offers outdoors worship in the summer, especially suited for the RV camp site nearby. Sissie suggests we try it out together, and I am delighted to experiment with her.

Sunday dawns warm but with a bit of breeze. We don sun screen and broad brimmed hats, grab lawn chairs and head out. Certainly not the way most Sunday preparations begin! Shorts and a tee shirt? Stellar.

When we arrive, it is clear to see that this church has done this event before. They have lots of parking attendants directing us and a designated space for the handicapped to be able to see from the comfort of their vehicles. Paths are clearly marked, dollies with folding chairs are convenient for anyone who didn't know to bring a lawn chair.

The ground is painted with white chalk lines to indicate where to leave aisles. We pass a barn set up with low tables covered with games and activities for children, a playground, a first aid station in a building with bathrooms. Ushers greet us with friendly conversation, handing out bulletins. Bob selects a shady space and we unfold our chairs.

The music is engaging without being too loud, we have plenty of time to greet those worshipping around us. They include some patriotic songs and the preaching is thought provoking. I learn that the name Jonah means dove, something I had never heard. And they read a prayer written by a young George Washington that is surprisingly relevant to this day and age.

Afterwards, we are treated to coffee and home made doughnuts - someone rose at 6 am to make hundreds of them! Truly yummy with just the right amount of crunch to the crust. I receive a welcome bag and kind conversation from the women at the visitor table while Sissie and Bob connect to a few new faces too.

I like this experience. Bob tells me the entire town is friendly and welcoming. Based on today, I believe him! What a joy to share this new experience with friends.

Fireworks!

Despite a slight angst about being on the road again, today I set out for my friends' new place in Holland, Michigan. I debated whether to take the ferry across Lake Michigan. The cost is pricey - $200 for car and driver. It takes 2 and a half hours to cross, and during the ride one can eat lunch and watch a movie. Driving? $25 gas and 5 hours time. Through Chicago. On a holiday weekend.

Still I kibbutz. Bottom line? After all I have been through, the thought of placing myself in danger over a huge body of water on a tiny boat is daunting. I finally call my fear for what it is, deal with it, and go online to book the ferry. Too late! They are full. Rats. Well, live and learn. I have no option now.

A classmate of mine is heading home to Michigan, and she is leaving at 4 in the morning to avoid traffic. I know full well I cannot ask my body to do that, but I am hoping for an early start. The best I can manage is 8am. Surprisingly, there isn't any heavy traffic in Chicago. I don't encounter slowdowns until Indiana, just before the Michigan border. People headed for a holiday outing on some beach.

At last I locate my friends' new place, delighted to have arrived without incident. The directions are perfect and soon I am sipping a cool drink on their patio which overlooks Lake Macatawa. Their front yard sports a strip of sandy beach and a small boat dock area. Across the lake is the Heinz pickle factory and a hangout called Kollen Park.

I love their wonderful new place, so cozy and splendidly decorated - no surprise since Sissie has a terrific gift of creating inviting spaces. I settle right in and am so pampered I feel almost guilty. We catch up. Its been way too long since we have seen each other and both of us have lived great adventures. I am delighted to travel vicariously through pictures to all the places in the world where Sissie has visited great cathedrals.

We lunch on fresh blueberries and cherries and smacking good grilled cheese sandwiches while the cool breeze off the lake keeps us happy. After dark, a long barge positions itself plunk in the middle of the lake right in front of the balcony and we watch expectantly for the fireworks to begin. There are bursts of color coming from all directions as Holland State Park, Kollen Park, and a handful of other destinations unknown throw their unbridled patriotic spirit sky high in red, blue, and green.

Suddenly, the barge begins its barrage. Poor little Zoe, their dog, has her hands full figuring out what all the hoo-hah is about. I haven't seen such a wonderful display in person in years, preferring to let the boys attend while I sit in the comfort of the living room celebrating with the Boston Pops or NYC or DC.

This is w-a-y better! The reverberating booms echo about the lake to cheers from neighbors and friends surrounding us, both on our side of the lake and across the water. When they set of the little crackly spitfires, we all laugh with glee. I especially appreciate the yellow stardust ones that paint delicate weeping willows in the dark night sky.

At one point, someone sent up a red upside down heart at which we all giggled. A few of the rockets didn't quite seem to get far enough airborn and we feared they would plunge into the lake before going off. Lots of detritus landed in the water - good thing the fish can hover on the bottom! Wonder what they made of all the excitement?

It was a great show and lasted a good long while. Kids on the beach in front of the house waved sparklers and screamed with joy. Families lined up lawn chairs and gazed together at the brilliance, chatting comfortably with no thought of office or responsibilities, just a great time to relax and enjoy life and each other.

Toward the amazing finale where they shoot off everything but the kitchen sink, Sissie brought us apple pie a la mode - a fitting Fourth of July dessert if every there was one. Yum, yum. As all wonderful things do, the show finally came to an end and we were left with the occasional pop and flare from some distant location.

Reluctantly, we tore ourselves from the balcony and headed inside, filled with joy and good will. What a great tradition. One I am sure Sissie will want to repeat often. Me too.

Organ Delight

Jason and I started the Master of Church Music program the same year. We have sweated through classes and exams and papers at various times, shared concerns, compared notes. Jason is an organ major, but I have never really heard him play.

Tonight is his concert. I am happy to be able to hear him play. Having taken organ literature, I feel as if I know some small bit of information about the skill required to understand the complicated registrations, the necessity of being knowledgeable about the various eras and composers, the complexity of operating both hands and both feet in coordination.

We gather at 7:30 in eager anticipation. Its challenging to attend an organ recital since the pews face forward, but the console is at the back of the chapel. We cannot watch him play. We can only hear him. And hear him I do. I am amazed that I have known this gentleman for 7 years and had no idea how amazing of a musician he is!

There is nothing better to me than Bach bathed in the brilliance of stained glass or Cesar swimming and swirling in the silver silence of semi-dusk. What a confection of delight the music exuded. I was enraptured, gazing up at the ceiling of the convent chapel with the marble columns bathed in the reds and blues of sun streaming through the stained glass windows.

In the pew in front of me sat a family. There was a Mom, a young girl of about ten, and a boy about four or five. The girl had a coloring book and was respectfully engaged in her chosen activity, sitting silently, so well behaved. The young boy was fidgeting and wriggling, laying down, swinging his feet, whispering loudly.

One half expected the Mother to reach out and shush the boy, forcing him to endure the concert with little consideration for his feelings and preferences. But that is not what she did. She reached for him (my mind said, 'he's gonna get it now') and instead of reprimanding, she enfolded him in her arms and kissed him warmly on the head, cuddling and rocking him gently.

Instead of making a scene, the boy responded by wrapping his arms about his Mother's neck, his face grinning. He had just become the focus of her attention and he was eating it up. She whispered in his ear and soon, the young man had settled down, quieted, safe in knowing his Mom was not expecting him to sit like a stone for hours enduring something not his choice.

No tears. No having to get up and cart the kid out. No arguing. No disruptions. Just a simple acknowledgement that a young boy is not suited to an hour of organ recital and should not be expected to take it like a man. Here is a Mom who truly understands her children and is reasonable and trustworthy in what she asks of them.

Mom got to enjoy the concert, and so did the rest of us. I closed my eyes and continued to be blessed by the fabulous music Jason spun into the air. So worth staying for. Or coming for! Many classmates from years before drove up for the recital, supporting their friend and comrade, enjoying his music, cheering him on. Family at its best.

One Last Paper

Ah, the bane of every student's existence - paper writing. Seems like I have been at this discipline forever. Between my 2 degree programs, papers are a constant reality of life. Not that the research isn't interesting - I am learning so much about subjects that I relish. But there are days when I just don't want to make myself sit down and write for someone else's requirements.

Still, this last assignment for my choral conducting class is somewhat different. Write a conductor's analysis for a specific piece I am conducting. Not only should I include bio information about the composer, and perhaps something about the era in which it was written, but a comprehensive theoretical look at the music - you know, tempo, meter, voicing, text etc.

Once that is covered, then I must discuss from the conductor's point of view what issues will need to be addressed with the choir, how to anticipate and defuse any problematic passages, and some ideas about presenting the piece to the choir (rehearsal plans). Lots of work, this getting to know the score business.

Informally, I do this kind of prep with every piece I conduct. Sometimes I make charts and other times, as I read through each part and then each part in conjunction with the other parts, I just jot notes in my score. Oh, I also need to include a marked score to help clarify anything we may be discussing in our paper.

I selected a piece I will be doing in my concert/service - Tavener's setting of the Lord's Prayer, a beautiful inspiring quietness of meditative peace. But once I complete my paper and turn it in, my work will have just begun. Then I need to do the same for all the 20 odd pieces of my concert. Yeah! Sometimes for me.