Shirt Day

Today is a preview day. Prospective students will be on campus to explore who we are and see if we offer what they are looking for in a college. We track visitor days so we can wear our designated cranberry colored Roberts logo shirts in order for visitors to know who works here and who they could ask questions of.

Except that I forgot. I have a reminder on my calendar that pops up on my phone. I always look ahead at the coming week on Fridays, and I saw it then. But I do not remember and I come to work in a black and rose sweater instead. Fortunately, I know this about myself, and I had learned to leave my shirt in my office for just such an occasion.

We now have 2 styles of shirt to choose from. One is a knit short sleeved polo style shirt, the other a long sleeved cotton dress shirt style. I realize my best bet is to layer the long sleeved dress shirt over my sweater so that I can stay warm even though it is less than flattering to my rotund figure.

Our building does not do well in single digit temperatures despite our LEED certification and geothermal wells. I suspect we are running afoul of the institution's moratorium on temperatures over 68, but some of our spaces barely register in the 50's.

So shirt or no shirt, I plan to stay as warm as I can in these tundric conditions. Visitors might as well know what they are getting into if they are not from Rochester. Better to know before you sign on the dotted line.

Resting Up

I didn't think I was still tired, but I must have been. I came home from church thinking that I would work on my dissertation, but after I had lunch, and realized that the boys were off doing stuff, I just sat in the chair a bit doing nothing. Not reading, not watching a movie, not playing with Sugar, not sleeping. Just sitting there.

My brain had no desire to jump into the throes of composer bios or song information or score research. I just wanted to sit. My mind did not engage in deep pithy thinking. My head was not absorbed in figuring anything out. I just sat still. It reminded me of the lazy summer evenings at Grams when the whole family just sat outdoors doing nothing in particular, not even conversing. Just sitting, enjoying life, being content.

We are so locked in to that concept of being productive, of the constant need to DO something. It is foreign, almost a sin, to be idle. We feel guilty about it. Except I didn't today. I enjoyed sitting and being alone and not doing anything. I took a break. It was nice. And quiet. Space to breathe. Permission to be at peace. To fully allow the rest to work in me the needed uplifting of soul.

True, after awhile, I lay down on my bed and snoozed, but I could not have done that until after I completed the resting part. And the sleep was sweet. I woke refreshed and ready for conversation with the boys when they got home. We had a good chat. Easy and full of camaraderie. Sometimes I remember that God did call us to observe Sabbath, to rest. He had his reasons. And they are all good.

Quartet Rehearsal

There are four pieces on my recital that are more challenging than I wish to ask my choir to sing, especially in light of the many pieces we are already singing. I decided to hire a quartet to sing them, people who read music and will not feel so overwhelmed by the tight harmonies and changing meters. These pieces are:

Notre Pere by Maurice Durufle
Sanctus by Charles Gounod
Pater Noster by Igor Stravinsky
Daemon Irrepit Callidus by Gygor Orban

Today the quartet came together for the first time, after the PrayerSong rehearsal and took a look at the music. Two musicians Lourdes recently met, one from Cuba who speaks no English, and one from Peru who speaks enough English to get by, are joining in. And I finally asked one of the basses in the choir to sing along since I was having no luck finding anyone willing to sing for the small amount of money I could offer.

How bizarre to discover that those who do not do English were familiar with the Latin and the French! Music IS a universal language. I had the honor of working with the Concordia students on the Stravinsky piece, and already had time to figure out better ways of introducing it to new singers to prevent some of the avoidable pitfalls.

I begin to realize that we are not all that far away from the recital date. I need to make sure we do some solid and beneficial work towards getting this music down pat. As for me, I know that what is in my head will eventually get communicated, so I am patient while I work around language barriers and find ways to make this work.

Catching Back Up

While I was visiting Mom, my colleague's mom passed away. She too had to fly out, a sadder occasion for her. The poor people left behind were stuck with double, nay, triple duty. Not only their own shifts, but mine and more. A big thank you to everyone for their gracious support.

Now that I am back, I take as many extra desk hours as I can to give them a break. I can catch up with the hundreds of emails and duties from the desk almost as well as from the comfort of my office thanks to the miracles of remote desktop.

It is rather an avalanche not just at work, but at home getting back on an even keel. The complicating factor is that 70 page dissertation due 3 weeks before my recital. The due date is creeping up on me. I had hoped that while I was with Mom, I could work on it in the evening and whenever she napped. That didn't happen as Mom rarely dozes for more than a minute or two, and wakes every hour throughout the night.

Even though I was just sitting with her, by the day's end I was too tired to think straight. So I did nothing on the dissertation while I was away. But God knows what I have to do, and it will not be the end of the world if I don't meet the deadline. Even not a big deal if I have to repeat stuff or don't graduate. The important thing is being there for Mom.

How amazed I am that somehow everything gets taken care of, almost without effort, and I do find time to work on my dissertation. God makes my schedule fit the needs if I take care of what I know is needed. I am almost back to normal already. And very grateful for His guidance and provision.

Now if I can just tackle the mountain of laundry, it will all be good.

Flying Home

I am worn to the bone. No one tells you how to deal with your parents' old age issues ahead of time, nor, it seems, at the time. My friends have been dealing with these things during various seasons. It was devastating for them, and I can see why. I pray that I will go quickly and not linger problematically for my children to have to wrestle with. How sobering to hear the medical profession tell you they have no solutions for what your parent is experiencing.

I am concerned with many things as I head out for my return trip. My sister and I hash through all sorts of scenarios as she drives me back to the airport. There are a number of things that we are going to try that we hope may help Mom turn a corner and begin to put the pieces of her life back together. Most of all, getting all 8 children involved in the burden of care is a small step in alleviating the weight my sister has been under.

Despite all the weather warnings and threats of more snow, my flight is on time. I arrive in Chicago in plenty of time, but am delayed there due to lateness of incoming craft. No matter. The extra time gives me a chance to pour my heart out to God on behalf of my mother, a woman who has loved the Lord almost her entire life. I am sure that Dad is also advocating for her from his eternal vantage point.

I can only pray that the solutions will be forthcoming quickly. I want to see her happy again. God knows, she deserves it.

Where Did Mom Go

I'm sorry, but this is not my Mom. This person does not look me in the eye, does not want to talk, and when she does talk, goes on and on about her anxieties, none of which are grounded in reality. Who is this person and what have you done with my Mother?

Where is the woman who always listened to me when I needed to vent? Or sent me little care packages when I was far from home? Where is the woman who read copiously and teased me about the little things? Where is the strong woman who chopped firewood and hauled armloads inside several times a day to feed the woodstove?

This woman cannot even figure out how to stand up by herself, or remember how to brush her teeth. This woman watches (of all things) game shows non stop all day long. This woman will not eat anything. Mom. Where are you? You are all bent over and barely shuffle your feet. You hate to sit but don't like going to bed. You refuse to take a car trip even when you have a doctor's appointment. Your hand shakes. You pout.

Yet you get amazingly excellent care packed with love and gentleness. Why are you convinced that you will be abandoned? Why do you think you are not liked?

How my heart aches for Mom and for my sister who is working so hard to be there for Mom in her hour of need. This is extreme devastation due to a broken heart. I am worn thin at the end of only a few days. How do Mom's caregivers manage? The women who stay with Mom during the day are kind and thoughtful people who do their level best to encourage and support this person named Lillian, this relative stranger.

Lord God, please touch Mom and make her well. Please restore quickly her spirit and give her your peace that passes understanding. Help my sister find the right solutions so that normalcy returns. Bring us back our Mom.

Flying to Tennessee

As always, air travel is risky. There is a huge storm predicted for the east coast, and the weather in Tennessee is supposed to be cold. They just got hit with a snowfall, unusual for them, and more is apparently on the way. I have been stranded in Chicago many times, but am hoping not to repeat the experience.

Wouldn't it be grand if you could get a direct flight to anyplace you need to go? The risk of being stranded anywhere would be greatly reduced. Far be it from me to redesign the current state of air travel, but it does seem that there should be an overhaul and upgrade to the mess we endure now.


I turn it over to the good Lord and determine to enjoy the trip as much as possible. My sister has booked my trip well. I am seated on the one seat side of the aisle of the tiny aircraft and do not have to fight over arm rests or leg room. Since I have opted to travel very light (basically one change of clothes and only my necessary toiletries), I can put my pink bag neatly under the seat in front of me, sit back and relax.

For once, the flights go as planned, and before lunch (thanks to the 6 am first flight), I am greeting my brother at the airport and heading out to my sister's to spend the day with Mom. Not bad. I can only pray the flight home will be as uneventful and smooth.

Clearing the Calendar

In order to go and see Mom, I need to make sure all my obligations are covered, including desk hours and opening the building and supervisory responsibilities. I picked being gone Tuesday through Thursday so that I don't interfere with choir responsibilities, especially this close to recital.

Then of course, making sure the boys will be OK and provided for while I am gone. Not that they haven't functioned on their own before, but I want to know there is food in the house and extra cash in the drawer for emergencies, and that transportation and dog walking issues have been addressed. It is difficult to extricate yourself from life not to mention remembering all the various little details!

People I work with are very gracious about coverage, no easy task given how short handed we are. We barely have enough hours to cover the regular schedule, not to even think about doing extra duty. One of the other librarian's mother is also ill and may pass away any time. She is waiting for the word to come.

After working on the replacement schedule most of the day, I think I have covered everything and can in good conscience take a few days to be with Mom. I dearly hope this is not the end, and that by the time I get there, she will be improving and recovering from her first Christmas without Dad, and her one year anniversary of widowhood. Whatever state I find her in, I will seek the grace of God to deal with.

One way or the other, I will be glad to see her. We have been separated way too long.

Worried About Mom

I am officially a member of the sandwich group - torn between caring for my grown children and grandchildren, and caring for my parents. Or parent, in this case. It seems like a century ago when I said goodbye to Mom as she was packed up and taken down to my sister's to recover from a pulled back muscle.

I spent as much time with her as I could while she rested at my sister's here in Rochester, and was glad for our short time together. But since she has arrived in Tennessee, I feel as if we have been cut off. She doesn't feel able to chat on the phone. She no longer monitors her email. She prefers me not to send her cards and magazines. She has shut down.

My sister just spent the holidays with her, probably the most difficult time of the year for her, since Dad passed away just before Christmas last year. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to adjust to life without the one person around whom your entire existence revolved for 60 years. Of course she is grieving, and struggling to figure out how to go on alone. Of course she has lost interest in the day to day business of life.

She didn't want anyone coming at Christmas, and I understand that. But I think the time has come for me to see her again. I am planning on flying down because I am afraid that if she doesn't move beyond her grief, she may well die of a broken heart. My sister thinks that a very real possibility.

I have no idea how to help her other than to pray for and with her, and to quote Bible verses of encouragement. But the will to live is not something I can magically instill. And who am I to say that she must go on in the face of her sorrow. God knows what she needs and how to help her, and I must trust that He will do just that.

As for me, I go because I love Mom and I hurt to see her so wounded. She has always been there for me. The least I can do is be there for her even if she does not want me to be. Prayers are much appreciated.

PrayerSong

We are growing, bit by bit. It is exciting to add a new face, another voice. The music becomes more engaging as we grow in number. At some point, I hope to have more than one voice per part, and I know that will come all in good time. I pray that the courageous women who have first joined will hang in there while we grow.

There is nothing quite like the mellow sound of women's voices singing. Of course, any voice can be comforting, but for singing lullabys and songs of peace and harmony, women are experienced and well suited. Particularly for those who need comforting, a low resonant voice singing unaccompanied lullabys can be quite soothing.

We are singing a mix of Romantic music (Liszt's Pater Noster), classical (Flor Peeter's Our Father), folk (Let There Be Peace On Earth) and gospel (All My Trials). But the singers take it all in stride and rise to the challenges each piece presents. I am hopeful of getting some good recordings of them singing for the Prayers for Cancer Patients recording upcoming.

Helping others is high on most women's lists of things they participate in, so it may well be that by concert time, and perhaps afterwards, more wonderful women will come and sing with us as we work to soothe the brows of those going through chemo and radiation. I am encouraged.

Dinner and a Play

Sharon IM'ed Beth and me to ask if we wanted to go see 42nd Street, the musical production at the CLC (Cultural Life Center). The boyfriend of the student that rents a room from her has a starring role. I haven't been to see any musicals in a long time, so I was delighted to have a night out with the girls and take in a play.

We decided to meet for dinner at 5:30, then head over for the production. We tried out a new family restaurant in Chili, and the food was delicious. The place was packed (of course, on a Friday night), but we were seated right away. We laughed and chatted over our entrees, then braved the extreme cold to head back for our evening entertainment.

What fun and energetic song and dance. The songs were familiar (We're in the Money, Shuffle Off to Buffalo, Lullaby of Broadway, etc.) and the choreography clever and well executed. All I could think was - I would never be able to do all that singing and dancing, even when I was younger. But the 40 or so community actors and actresses did a bang up job. It was very upbeat and fun. And who better to enjoy it with than good friends with whom you have just broken bread?

We will definitely have to do that again!

Emily Dickinson

I was honored to be asked to talk with a class about finding book reviews and evaluating resources on the topic of Emily Dickinson and her poetry. I have always appreciated Emily's poems, especially in light of her lifestyle and hangups. What a joy to redelve into her work.

It took me some investigation into the resources since this is not an area of expertise that I just know in my head. But the information was readily available, and I had the joy of working with the professor to see what was out there and of value. I loved the assignment and the collaboration. How thrilling to continue working with the students after the class as they investigated the suggested books and articles.

So many of Emily's poems are still pertinent to today. Many of them have been set to music. When I directed Amasong, we sang settings of some of her poems: If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking, and If You Were Coming in the Fall. Good poems, to be sure. But consider this one:

THE MOON is distant from the sea,
And yet with amber hands
She leads him, docile as a boy,
Along appointed sands.

He never misses a degree;
Obedient to her eye,
He comes just so far toward the town,
Just so far goes away.

Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,
And mine the distant sea,
Obedient to the least command
Thine eyes impose on me.

One of my favorite ones! If you have not read Dickinson - or Rossetti - in awhile, I encourage you to dust off a volume and peruse. It may just stir your soul.

Brunch at Panera's

I haven't seen my friend in awhile. She used to sing in PrayerSong, but has been unable to participate in this round of singing. When she emailed me asking some questions about my Master's degree program at Concordia, it made sense for us to get together and do lunch and chat about that. So we agreed to meet at Panera's. Then Drew's schedule interfered, and I had to move lunch to brunch.

I arrived a few minutes before she did, and spent some time perusing the menu to see what I could in good conscience eat and still maintain my Weight Watchers commitment (ie, keep working on losing weight). Turns out they have fruit smoothies that are lo-cal, and quiches that are high protein low fat. I was happy to discover a freedom of selection that appealed and was something of a treat.

We ordered our food, then headed to a table out of the way where we could chat uninterrupted. First we caught up on how life is going, then we discussed music and careers in music and options for moving forward. Her concern is that given her age, she does not really want to waste a lot of time, energy, and money getting a degree that will not be all that helpful and for which she will see little or no return. I understand that.

I guess I have just always been a curious person and a life long learner. In fact, I have often pursued readings in medical research, scientific discoveries, how our world works, who is the latest guru of mental gymnastics, how to do/make something or another. For me, the degree is less about utility and more about information and learning. I am by far better at understanding music and conducting than I was before I began the program, and that matters to me.

In fact, since I battle cancer, the likelihood of this degree making an impact on any career change is minimal to nonexistent. But it is important to develop who you are and continue to understand to the best of your ability the amazing world God created for us, in all its many aspects and facets. I can't imagine ever thinking that I know enough, or that there is nothing I am interested in or want to know more about.

While I know you can't learn everything from a book, and that relationships are vital, I hope my friend will come to see that there is much to learn even though she is already good at music and has taken years of lessons in piano and flute and voice.

Soup No Corn

Once a month our church staff comes together for lunch. Sometimes one of the guys makes a big pot of soup - it always smells good, but often I can only have a taste because there are ingredients that I can't handle. Once I just picked out the stuff I can't eat - corn is one of the biggest offenders for me.

Last Sunday, I was chatting with the Soup Chef, and he mentioned what he was planning to make. I looked less than enthusiastic and fessed up that I have dietary restrictions that often prevent me from eating his wonderful concoctions. He immediately offered to set aside a bowl of soup before he added in the offending ingredients so I could have some. What a kind gesture.

True to his word, he had kept a batch free of harmful ingredients, and when I arrived, he heated up my bowlful in the microwave. It was wonderful! I am sure it put me over my Weight Watcher points, but never mind. I indulged with a clear conscience. I just felt bad that our Pastor, who is usually at these events, was sick and unable to be with us. Hope she is better soon. She will be sad to miss out on such rib hearty soul warming soup.

Opening Monday

Don't you just love Mondays? I do. A fresh start to a brand new week! My eyes fly open long before anyone's alarm goes off. Sugar has learned to get up when I do. Together we snuggle under the blankets while I read my devotionals and sing a few Psalms and pray. Then she stays put while I shower and dress, watching me impatiently, anxious to be outside and about her business.

Together we greet the new day, inhaling the chilly air, thankful for the cold that keeps our face muscles from sagging and wrinkling. Youthful looks can be frozen into you! We make our way down the sidewalk, snow crunching underfoot. The garbage truck beeps loudly, clanging the huge dumpster back to the pavement with no regard for the sleeping.

Sugar sniffs everything, straining at her leash when she senses another dog or squirrel or critter. At last we head back inside, she to her breakfast and me to my yogurt and hot tea. I have always just been wide awake at first light, ready to begin. I say my goodbyes to Sugar and head off to work. I love rambling about in the library before anyone else appears, savoring the quiet peace, appreciating the sunlight dancing on the table tops, turning on the fireplace and unlocking the gates.

I am ready, world. Come meet me. Spend a joyous time here learning and fellowshipping. I know full well that students will not appear until they have to. A few stragglers print off papers before their 8am class, and the student worker will wobble in and plop down at the desk weary and worn. (It seems there are fewer and fewer morning people these days). By 11am, there will be a handful of stalwart warriors working at pc's. But the place doesn't really come alive until well into the evening hours.

Still. I wouldn't miss the morning for anything. Bright. Energetic. Productive. All the cycles firing. Its a wonderful time. That's why I volunteer to open on Monday. I know I will love it, and most people will just be groaning. Better me than to oppress someone who is not a morning person. I just wish there were others to share it with.

Half Cent Maple Sugaring

Most of the manses where we lived had huge maple trees in the yard or nearby. They sport such colorful red and yellow leaves in the fall. Every year, Dad would mark the trees he thought would provide abundant sap. He would wander about muttering (Dad always muttered to himself no matter what he was doing, a sort of running conversation of what was going through his head), making measurement of tree girth, thumping on the trunk.

Then we would wait for January thaw. Sometime in January, the temperatures always rose above freezing for a few days, and Dad would go out and put his spigots and buckets in place. He used a nail and pounded it into the trunk of the maple tree, the inserted a metal spout in the hole, wriggling it about until it was solidly in place. From this spigot, he hung a pail, then generally covered it with something to keep the rain and bugs out.

Watery sap would run out of the spigot and into the pail, and Dad would check the pail from time to time to see how full it was getting. He dumped all the sap he collected through a piece of cheesecloth to strain out the impurities and into a big container in the garage. He kept this up until the sap had run its course and he had collected gallons and gallons and gallons of what looked like water.

Then he would boil the watery sap (which was sweet to the taste but not sticky or gooey) for hours and hours and hours over a very low heat, sometimes out of doors over a wood fire, sometimes if the weather was unfriendly, in the kitchen over the cook stove. The steam was suffocating and the smell of sweetness overwhelming. I hated this part of the process, but I knew what was coming, so I just kept my distance until it was over.

Days (yes, it took days) later, we would have a couple of quarts of thin maple syrup that tasted wonderful on pancakes. If we were really lucky and there was a clean snowfall, Dad would make jack wax. He would pack fresh soft snow into a cake pan, then pour hot boiling syrup over it. It hardened into a thick sticky sweet taffy like candy that we kids loved.

What a welcomed reprieve from the rigors of winter, a small break in the dreary snow and cold and ice, a ray of sweetness in a gray winter world.

Saturday Rehearsal

I warned everyone that I planned to videotape this rehearsal. I had it all planned out. For the first hour, I would rehearse the five songs that the church choir is singing separate from the other ensembles. We have sung all of them before, so it should just be a matter of brushing up. Then Kiel would come at 5 and record each song. We might do several takes. After all, I will be sending this to my advisor for critiquing and teaching. I want it to be the best we are able to do.

But somewhere along the line, I lost sight of the schedule. One of the pieces which we had just sung last fall simply wasn't coming together well. So I took the time to really work on it. And then it reached a place where we were comfortable enough with it for it to come to life. I didn't want to interfere with that! So we kept working on it.

And then Kiel was there and we hadn't even taken a break yet. Much less worked on all the songs! Yikes! But there was no help for it. We took a quick break while he set up, then ran the piece we had just been working on. After three false starts, we finally got a take. I looked at the clock and hurried on the the other piece we had practiced. Two takes to get that one down. Time was flying away. Who would believe that in 2 hours we didn't get through 5 short songs, none of which are longer than a few minutes!

We recorded the rest, and whatever happened, happened. One was OK, another not bad, and the last one, well, we were tired. Everyone was ready to go home. So we just left it as is. I know we have a ways to go. Its just a bit farther than I thought!

Half Cent Bedtimes

Sometimes I shared a room with one sister, sometimes with more. Sometimes we lived in a spacious house and I got a room all to myself. No matter what, I counted myself fortunate that I never had to live like the Henry family lived. They were in one of my father's parishes, a large family with 13 children who lived in a small house. The girls were friends of ours and one time they invited me to their house.

Their Mom was ironing clothes in the living room, so we decided to go to their bedroom to play. Up the narrow stairs and down a short hall to the bedroom at the front of the house we clattered. They swung the door open and I could scarcely believe my eyes. The room was one big wall to wall bed. Well, actually several beds crunched so tightly together that there was no room in between them. All the girls slept in this one room. The dressers resided in the hallway, and each girl had 2 drawers for their things. The small closet had the door removed and everyone crammed their few dresses into the tiny opening.

Their father scared me. He was military and ran his household like a barracks. If anyone stepped out of line, they found themselves scrubbing the kitchen floor with a toothbrush for hours. It made my situation seem like a slice of heaven.

In our house, we always got a snack before bedtime. Often Mom would read us a bedtime story. We curled up on the couch in the living room, all snuggled together, huddling around Mom to see the pictures. It was probably the only time during the day we were all quiet. Mom would read to us as long as someone would comb her hair or scratch her back. She read all our favorite books - Mr Moggs Dogs, Baby Bunny, The Ten Little Firemen - all the golden book series.

When we were older, she read us the Sugar Creek Gang books. She always stopped at a cliff hanger part of the book (turns out every chapter was a cliff hanger) and we would beg and plead for just one more chapter. She always gave in the first time. Having read this set to my own children, I am amazed she was able to do that!

Then she would skedaddle us upstairs to brush our teeth and get our last drinks. We jumped into our beds, and Mom would come round and say prayers with each of us. Usually it was the typical "Now I lay me down to sleep" prayer, but this moment in our day was sometimes a chance to ask her some question that was pestering us or talk over some event we had witnessed. I can't say as Mom had answers for our concerns, but somehow knowing we could ask the questions meant as much as getting the answer.

Problem with kids is, we never stayed put. After Mom prayed, chatted, tucked the blankets in around our chins, turned out the light and went back downstairs, we kids would creep out of bed and play around. It would start innocently enough. Jan would tiptoe in my room to ask me something, and we would sit on the bed whispering. The whispers grew louder until we were talking and laughing and horsing around and before you knew it, Peter and Jimmy joined us and we sure didn't stay on the bed.

Pretty soon we were playing tag or hide and seek or something, and suddenly the sound of Dad stomping up the stairs would send us all scurrying to our rooms and diving under the covers to pretend to be sleeping. Dad was never fooled by our trickery. He had the voice of authority, and we were told in no uncertain terms that getting out of bed again meant a spanking, and we knew his spankings hurt.

We would be quiet and stay put until long minutes after Dad descended to the living room. Before long though, someone would tiptoe to someone else's room, and the whole thing began again. I can't recall how long it must have taken us to finally fall asleep, but there were plenty of nights that we felt the sting of disobedience on our backsides. That always ended it.

I am sure this sort of cavorting never went on at the Henry's home. Besides the fact that everyone was so tightly packed in that no one would be able to tiptoe anywhere, they lived with the toothbrush threat. Much worse than our quick justice. Besides, we had the stories Mom had read to drift off to sleep with. We were lucky.

And I still read myself to sleep on nights when the wind howls and there is no one to tiptoe into my bedroom but Sugar.

Weight Watchers

My dear friend Bob and his wife are taking a cruise. He sends me detailed accounts of the wonderful things they are doing and seeing and experiencing. Best of all are the descriptions of the food feasts they are indulging in. I am gaining weight just reading his delectable accounts!

Seriously, I have been gaining weight. Now that the chemo is done and I am no longer impacted by feeling rotten, the careless eating is catching up. It's not careless, really. It's misguided. I had adopted an attitude of "I might die of this dread disease, so I might as well enjoy myself now because I may not have many days left." A bona fide attitude, at least for a short time.

But now comes the reckoning. I cannot continue gobbling down everything that sounds good to me. Really. I have to eat what is healthy and will get me strong and rebuilt. Of course, that is a bit problematic since my diet tolerance is so touchy. Fiber is a big no-no, so no whole grains, and no raw veggies. I can do cooked fruit and a small amount of cooked veggies, but my body tells me right away if I have overdone it.

So I have focused on junk food carbs. Not wise but they don't upset my system. Last time I was at the doctor's, she said I had gained 3 pounds and I should be judicious about that. And so I knew the time had come to work on it. Sigh. Last time I lost a lot of weight without the help of chemo, I followed Weight Watchers and lost 20 pounds in 10 weeks.

How fortunate that there is a Weight Watchers Group starting up right here at work! And my friend Beth will join if I do. We are going for it. I have every confidence that just becoming more aware of how much I consume will help me stop. Even if I only shed the three pounds, and maintain my overweight, it will be a start. So here goes. Wish me success.

Half Cent Exploring

When we lived in Fort Covington, up on the Canadian border, we lived in a manse (preacher's provided house) with a huge back yard. In the summer, we planted a vegetable garden that covered most of it, but in the spring and fall when the ground was fallow, we kids loved to explore. In fact, we probably spent more time outside than in (this was before the era of video games and movies - even television wasn't all that big a deal).

Back behind the plowed ground where the garden grew as a strip of land that was "wild." We had to wade through a section of weeds to get to it. We went there so often that we wore a path through the burdocks and milkweed, but sometimes as we passed through, we got burrs in our hair or stuck to our clothes.

No one weeded or plowed or cleared the wild strip. Half the property was on our land, the other half belonged to the trailer park behind our house. A broken down wire fence ran through the strip, marking where our property ended and theirs began. There were huge trees that had fallen over in some past storm, and the branches still had leaves clinging to them. We would climb up the long heavy trunk of one of them and pretend to be pirates or conquerors or mountain climbers or whatever we wanted to be.

Sometimes kids from the trailer park would come and play with us - I especially remember Leslie and Curtis. She and I would be the damsels in distress and my brothers and her brother would come rescue us, brandishing stick "swords" and gazing through fake looking glasses pointing off the port bow. We dragged odd sheets and old buckets and anything else we could scrounge as props for our various scenarios. It was grand fun.

Sometimes we would play back there for hours and no one worried about where we were or what we were doing. Our neighborhood was safe and kidnapping only happened in our imaginations. Our faces tanned under the gentle sun and our bodies grew strong and healthy from all the climbing about.

It was way more fun than the play gym sets that we all had in our back yards. In the spring our hideout would flood and we waded about with yellow rubber boots and slickers. Sometimes the frigid water would seep into our boots and soak our socks and squish loudly when we walked. In the fall the leaves mounded up and we loved to jump from the tree trunk into a strategic pile of leaves. Everyone from the neighborhood joined in. We knew everybody's name and where they lived and who their parents were.

As we grew and school activities took up more time, we played less often in our wild strip. Birds and rabbits and squirrels retook their territory and eventually, the dead trees rotted. It was grand while it lasted and every once in awhile I call almost hear Curtis cry "Avast, me hearties!"

Great Date 111111111

So many people are tuned in to the unique dates we are encountering. Today, January 11, at 11:11 am (or pm), the string of numbers looks like 1/11/11 11:11 - 9 1's in a row! And Drew adds in the seconds (11) and makes it 11 1's in a row. Pretty unusual.

Of course, numerology has drifted in and out of popularity for centuries. It was a science back in Babylon and during Pythagoras' era. Augustine believed numbers to be the language of the God and the purveyor of universal truth. There are those who have done massive studies of Bach cantatas showing the importance of numbers to the music and others who have shown that every word and book in the Bible is a complicated numeric code of perfection.

Me? I like to believe there is something to it, and that God certainly can speak and think mathematically. There may be more to the perfection of the number 7 than we realize and if we just understood numbers better we might solve a lot of problems.

For now, I am content to be aware of the uniqueness of this date, and expect good things to follow.

Midday Prayer Second Semester

Last semester, the campus initiative to encourage prayer began. I oversaw the Monday prayer sessions at the Library, and we typically had 4 or 5 students come, sometimes a staff person, and sometimes a graduate student. I emailed Phyllis Tickle for permission to use her Divine Hours meditations and adapted them to work in our short time frame of 15 minutes. Each week I selected a division or department on campus to pray for and some student group or concern to lift up.

This semester I wasn't sure what response to expect, but didn't anticipate much change. Was I surprised! The first week 20 people showed up. We had moved the prayer time from the conference room to the fireside reading room. We gathered the tables and chairs together and quickly entered into prayer. After the designated 15 minutes was up, I brought the time to a close and invited those who wished to continue praying to stay and do so.

About half of the students decided to take the prayertime to the dorm chapel and continue on there. Wow! I am amazed at the response and the intensity and the dedication. This is wonderful. I am hopeful that it will continue.

Half Cent Sunday

Sundays were designated days of rest when I was growing up. Stores were closed - Blue Laws enforced that along with restricting the sale of alcoholic beverages and other activities deemed unacceptable for the holy day. Some of these restrictions still appear in various states, though not here in New York.

Church, of course, was mandatory. Sometimes we went to the church early with Dad who often was the one to unlock the door and stoke the heat, set the bulletins out and make sure everything was in readiness for the service. This was especially important on communion Sundays, which were not particularly regular in our denomination, but important nonetheless.

First there was Sunday School. We attended the class for our age group. Usually there were a half dozen to a dozen of us crammed into a small room with the teacher. We had Sunday School books that we read from and answered questions in and memorized verses out of. I liked Sunday School because we got to know one of the adults in the church better. You learned something about their likes and dislikes, their home life, their interests. And they paid attention to you!

Then we went to church proper. We kids all sat in the same pew as Mom, and believe me when I say that we were expected to be models of perfect behavior. No swinging your feet, no whispering, no crawling around on the floor, no tearing paper, no playing with toys, no reading a book, no telling jokes and especially - no laughing! God forbid you start because we were never successful at squelching the shoulder shaking tear producing belly laughs that sometimes just erupted.

Our pew was towards the front of the sanctuary where Dad could see everything that went on. One particularly horrible Sunday he had to come down out of the pulpit to reprimand us. That was a black day in our book. I rarely understood his sermons. This was a time of having to sit perfectly still on hard benches and be quiet. For a little girl who was a tomboy, it was agony.

If we so much as looked like we were about to step out of line, Mom would administer her infamous pinch. She would reach over and grab a handful of an arm or leg, pinch, then twist until it hurt like the dickens. And if we cried, we were taken outside - right in front of Father's eyes - and spanked hard. We knew better than to make a peep if we got the pinch!

Fortunately, the Presbyterians were not given to long drawn out services. Our service was always just an hour. Afterwards, people didn't linger for long and soon we were on our way home to a delicious Sunday dinner. Mom prepared everything before we left for church and put the oven on a timer. By the time we appeared the roast was done to perfection, the potatoes were waiting to be mashed and the vegetables were steaming.

Sunday dinner was always the best meal of the week. Sometimes visiting missionaries or speakers would join us and the conversation would be engaging, even for a kid. Best of all, there was plenty for everyone to eat their fill!

With contented tummies and sleepy heads, we would clear the table then head to our rooms where we would nap or read quietly until 5pm. I must have read my way through the local library one Sunday at a time. I could read 2 Nancy Drew or Little House or Black Stallion books of a Sunday afternoon with time to spare. Such wonderful adventures and enticing worlds I encountered as I lay quietly resting.

Once in awhile I would accidentally drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by the tantalizing smell of pancakes and maple syrup, our often Sunday evening meal, after which we would head back to church for the long and trying evening service. It was less stiff and formal than the morning worship, but still challenging for a kid. The only good thing about it was that the building was warm and beautiful and I was with people I knew and liked.

After service, we trundled back home and into jammies. We would watch the Wonderful World of Disney and enjoy a small dish of ice cream (make mine strawberry), and then, under protest, be sent to bed. After all, Monday was a school day and we had already stayed up later than usual.

Sundays were a completely different pace than any other day of the week. We did different activities, ate different food, wore different (Sunday best dressy) clothes and spent time with different people. We read more Bible, sang hymns, and talked about God all day long. I miss the change in pace and even now make every effort to somehow set Sunday apart - at least by taking a nap when I can! And believe me, now I really do sleep!

Recital Announcement

The big day approaches! I have been muddling around with this Master of Church Music degree since 2004! Seven years is a long time for just a master's degree. If life hadn't interfered, I would have completed this a long time ago. But here I am anyways. And in fact, the idea for my concert service has had time to mature and develop in ways it would not have had I done it on time.

I was most excited to send out my flier to friends and family announcing the big event. Here are the specifics. If you are in the area, I hope you will come and partake with us.

OUR FATHER: a musical exploration of The Lord’s Prayer

~ featuring settings by
Billings, Peeters, Kedrov, Durufle, Liszt, Stravinsky, Tavener and more

3 pm Sunday, March 6, 2011

United Methodist Church of North Chili
2200 Westside Drive, Rochester, NY (east side of Roberts Wesleyan campus)
585-594-9111

* sung by choirs under the direction of Esther Gillie *

in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the
Master of Church Music Degree, Concordia University Wisconsin

Port Flush

At last! As I head down the hall toward the infusion center, I realize that this is no longer routine for me, no longer a norm in my life. I don't belong here in the cancer center. I have graduated (at least, for the time being). What a terrific feeling!

I still know the way all too well, know the names of the receptionists and nurses, recall the process, know the ropes. But it has been awhile and so much life has been lived, life back to an active and joyful level. It's wonderful - a light hearted release from the bondage of constant medical intervention.

I smile as I wait to be called back and glance out the window. The sun is shining and the skies are summer blue. I can almost hear the birds singing. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. How good to be alive and feeling well.

They call me back and I joke with the nurse. She is quick about laying out the tray of paraphernalia needed to flush out my port and make sure it stays open and viable. We get that blessed tinge of red on the first try, then the quick zip zip of flush and heparin. She pops the needle from my chest and glues a bandaid over the port prongs. Good to go.

I almost dance down the hallway as I realize that the horrible hold this place has had over me in the past is now just a friendly tug. Yes, I will be back, but my life is going on and improving daily. Sigh. How delicious.

Staff Retreat

Ah, our semi-annual trek to the Meridian Center to take stock and see where we are and where we are going. I always look forward to these "get your head out of the sand" sessions even though I know I will come back with more work and more projects. But this is what helps keep us moving forward in a world of inertia and daily routine.

This year Beth brings a devotional about the wise men and how they each brought a gift that they had. We think about what gifts we bring to our work, gifts that God has given us to contribute to the whole. We think about the gifts in each other that we recognize, and some that perhaps we have not allowed to blossom, gifts that should be encouraged to flower.

We draw mind maps of how we perceive of the Library, and each person's gifts and perspectives become clearer. Now that we have a better sense of how we work together, we revisit our strategic plan. We have had personnel changes, and we plug in the new people where one exists. We reset the time frame since it is apparent that some things will take longer than we anticipated or are awaiting a new hire to enable it.

A good, productive day. We write on little stars one word that we feel typifies where we are now. We are at peace, confident that all will be well, that our work is significant and going in the right direction. Nice. Very nice.

The Throat Thing

In the back of my throat I can see some rather large bumps, and my tongue is coated with a white substance back there. It's not painful, but hard to swallow, and sometimes it feels like I have something stuck back there. It's not red and I am not running a temperature, but I am concerned that there might be something awry, so I make a doctor's appointment. After all, everyone around me has strep throat. I sure don't want anything to get a foot hold if I can prevent it.

I see the physician's assistant. She peers at the back of my throat with a flashlight and asks me lots of questions. She does a swab even though she does not think I have strep or any big issue. But she agrees that with my medical history, better safe than sorry. And as long as I drink cold liquids, the impact is minimal. I go home relieved. Two days later, I get a call from the physician's assistant. Turns out I have a mild yeast infection in my throat. Although I normally treat yeast infections by eating more yogurt, we decide that to be on the safe side, I should gargle with a prescription medication that will clear it right up.

Whew! Simple, and tasty stuff. So three times a day, I brush my teeth, then gargle with pink bubblegum juice, swish it around my mouth, then swallow. The big bumps are shrinking, the sensation that something is stuck in my throat fades. Thank God for modern medicine.

One Good Deed

Normally, Peter tried to ignore or avoid these kinds of "too good to be true" hoaxes. But this one made him curious. Oh, sure, it was typical of these sorts of sucker-born-every-minute schemes, but there was just something about the way this one unfolded.

Despite his better judgment, Peter found himself milling around outside Food Towne with a crowd of other spectators, waiting the arrival of the mayor of Rochester, his honor, Robert Duffy. He wiggled his way through the press of people to see if he could glimpse the now famous poster mounted in the front window of the humble little grocery store.

If he stood on tiptoe, he could just manage to see the white sheet of unlined paper with the careful black crayon lettering. "Contest. Win $100,000. Do the best good deed of anyone in North Chili on March 1, 2010. Prize will be awarded to winner(s) in ten days."

That was it. No indication of who was sponsoring the contest, whether it was a bona fide offer, what the rules were, how it was to be judged. Or who would do the judging. Gotta be a fake. Some kid joking around. Who would believe such nonsense? Peter looked around. Obviously a lot of people did believe it. Or at least hoped there was some truth to it.

A sudden flurry of activity interrupted Peter's reverie. The mayor had arrived. All this over a prank. Peter shook his head. Bad enough the local newspaper, the Gates-Chili Post, had run a small article on the sudden inexplicable appearance of the sign in their "Your Life" section. Peter had read the short paragraph. Basically, when the owners had opened the store last Tuesday, the sign was there, but no one remembered given anyone permission to post it on Monday. A puzzlement.

The mayor stepped to the impromptu platform and tapped the microphone, then cleared his throat. TV cameras swung into position and reporters quietly set up the scenario. Rolling. Peter used the opportunity to examine the sign more closely. Nothing extraordinary about it. Just a sheet of paper with hand lettering in black crayon. Nice enough looking, but a far cry from professional.

Surprisingly, the mayor came out in favor of going along with the idea. What could it hurt for people to do a few good deeds? And if nothing came of it, well, nothing would be lost. And maybe some good would come of it. Peter smirked. Right. The mayor had just thrown open the door to mass hysteria and one-upsmanship. He, for one, would not be participating in this silliness. Though certainly he was in a position to help the less fortunate.

After the mayor left, people stood around in little groups, speculating. Some outlined ideas of what might constitute a good deed - most of them involving substantial amounts of money. Others shook their heads, convinced that it was all a lie. Slowly they drifted off, some to work, others to Jitters for a cup of coffee and more speculation.

And so it began. Over the next few weeks, the Post was inundated with reports of good deeds to be done on the designated day. They would be hard pressed to cover even a tenth of the suggested benevolences. One elderly woman announced that she would donate $10,000 to Aurora House, the new hospice on Union Avenue. Remarkable since she had always lived in a rather run down home in Churchville. Who knew she had that kind of money?

Another man sent pictures of his warehouse stocked full of blankets and shoes, his intended donation to the homeless in the Rochester area. The local family restaurant announced that on the designated day, all meals would be free. They were encouraging the less fortunate and down on their luck to come and feast. A young housewife reported that she would be donating her kidney to a total stranger, out of the goodness of her heart.

And so it went, each report more amazing than the last, and fully covered in detail. The national wire picked up the story, and TV crews appeared a few days before the big day. The hunt was on for the perpetrator of this remarkable contest, some clue as to the validity of the offer. But no matter how hard reporters worked, they could uncover no hint as to the creator of the sign. No one had seen it go up, or knew of anyone who might concoct the idea.

At last, the big day arrived. At the stroke of midnight, the good Samaritans were unleashed and frantically performed their good deeds. Everyone got caught up in the fervor of the event. Children wandered about, eager to assist old women across the street. Teenagers scoured the ditches and byways for trash to collect and dispose of properly. People hugged everyone they met, anxious to prove their good will.

The poor and downtrodden were overwhelmed with generosity, receiving more help in one short day than they normally got all year. They cried at their good fortune. The sick and lonely were embraced. People visited, brought home made soups, sat and chatted as if it were the most important thing in life. Those with extra clothes weeded their closets and gave away anything they did not need. Hordes of citizens visited people in prison, listening to their stories, wanting to help in some way.

Rainy day funds were ravaged as people rushed to help each other. People cancelled their cruises in the balmy Caribbean to donate the funds to charities like the Red Cross and FoodLink, waving their receipts over their heads like some grand prize. Some stood outside in their yards, sporting the proof of their altruism clearly, in hopes that the circling satellites were picking it up. Others rushed to adopt children, to join the Big Brothers, Big Sisters program.

Peter watched it all in amazement, shocked at the total involvement of the small community. It was just a hand made sign. No one ever paid attention to signs. The world had gone berserk. By midnight, the hoopla had reached an incredible frenzy. Somewhere along the line, the contest had been forgotten. No one seemed to remember what caused all this energy and - yes - caring.

Bands appeared and began playing free of charge. People danced in the streets, hugging, laughing, crying, happy. Free food and medical care flowed like wine in the parking lot of the plaza where it all began. The place was packed.

No one was paying any attention to the time. The contest was over, but no one seemed to care, they were so caught up in the moment. No one wanted to go home. Those who had done the most impressive good deeds never bothered to ask who won. They felt good about what they had done, all thought of reward gone. People chatted long into the night, meeting their neighbors for the first time, catching up with friends, celebrating life. It was terrific.

Finally, in the wee hours of dawn, the crowds began to thin. Happy, contented people wandered home to drift off to deep, satisfying sleep, even those who had not had a decent night's sleep in decades. Stomachs were full, hearts were warmed, people were cared for. Perhaps the mayor had been right. No one had been hurt, really. And lots of good had come of it.

Still, would anyone be tapped as having done the best good deed? Would anyone get a check? Time would tell. The next day, the Post began a count down, asking anyone who got the award to step forward and let people know. Every day for the next ten days, the paper featured stories of deeds done, lives changed, relationships mended, people cured from disease, families created, love abounding.

Though there was never an outpouring like on that day, the after effects of the contest lingered on. People smiled at each other and took time to talk with others. Visits to the sick and lonely continued, programs to help those in prison were developed. The man with the warehouse of supplies for the homeless announced that he would continue to receive donations to distribute to those in need. Aurora House built a whole new wing and hired 6 new staff. The streets stayed clean and the desire to help others continued.

Peter had to admit that as hoaxes go, this one was a doozie. And in a good way. Yet, he waited. It was as if he were watching a very slow moving New Year's Eve ball descend. What would happen if someone really did get a check for $100,000? The town waited with bated breath. 8 days, 9 days, 10 days. No announcement came forth. Maybe the check was delayed in the mail.

People continued to watch the paper. A week went by, then two. Good deeds and good will began to fade a bit, but the community remained in a better place than before the contest. A month, and still no announcement of anyone being blessed with a grand amount of money. Peter felt his skepticism was justified. No one would get anything out of this ridiculous contest. Bah!

One quiet accountant in a small firm in the city had taken an interest in the contest. He had carefully tracked and calculated the monetary donations and deeds as the Post recorded them, including all the reports for the ten day waiting period. He tallied up his columns, checking his figures. Some of the amounts were the best guesstimate based on current market value. Some things he had had a difficult time assigning a monetary value.

But when all was said and done, by his best efforts, he calculated the total amount of the charities performed to be somewhere in the vicinity of $107, 518. He was floored. And he wasn't sure what to do with the information. He called his friend Peter to report what he had discovered.

And somewhere in the upper levels of celestial abode, Gabriel nodded to a feisty young cherub wielding a black crayon. Not bad, for a first attempt. Not bad at all.

Done In

It was a double whammy. I had been fighting a cold for weeks. Everyone around me was getting sick with the flu, but I had had the shot, and so far, other than mild symptoms like a slight sore throat and tiredness, I managed to keep going.

I have to admit though, the long car ride, the girls' play and the constant activity of DJ's little farm wore me out and I had to take naps. I couldn't seem to warm up either. You would think that North Carolina would offer some weather amenities, but they had gotten 4 inches of snow and the air, though mild, was chill.

Now I am paying for the privilege of seeing my girls. I lie in bed fully dressed with a warm fuzzy blanket over me. Sugar lies beside me, glancing at me from the corner of her eyes and sighing. Thank God the Library is on break hours and closes at 5. For a change, I come right home, slurp a bit of soup, then head to bed to read. Or so I thought. No reading tonight, despite the 4 volume set of new books I got for Christmas.

My eyes refuse to stay open. I feel old. Perhaps this is what "twilight years" means. Too tired to move. I don't even bother to undress. I close my eyes and drift off, not caring about anything. Sometime after I fall asleep, I know the boys will walk the dog and turn off my light. And I will not even know it. A small price to pay for sweet hugs and kisses.

Bethlehem Buried

Years ago I stumbled across a huge "village of Bethlehem" set at a SAM's Club - in the middle of July no less. The price was phenomenal - as I recall, something obscene like $20. I debated about whether to get it since I was on such a tight budget at the time and this was far from a necessity. I wandered about the store deliberating, and finally decided not to get it.

We paid for our food and I got clear to the car before my insides demanded that I go back in and buy the set. I realized that such a bargain would never come my way again, and there was only one set there. I grabbed it up, telling myself that it was a once in a lifetime deal. And indeed it was. I have never seen such a set in SAM's or Walmart's since. I have seen sets like it elsewhere in specialty shops that cost hundreds of dollars though.

It is a huge set with buildings and walls, wells and bridges, lots of people and animals. Not to mention the palm trees. Five of the buildings are lighted. There is a rug weaver's shop, a pottery shop, a synagogue, the stable (of course), complete with inn, and a carpenter's shop. There are also an oasis, a humble home, a footbridge, a well, and a broken down wall with gate to the city, all populated by people in the midst of taking care of life's business - herding cattle, driving ducks and geese, collecting eggs from chickens, carting a rug, caring for sheep, drawing water from the well, carrying straw, sawing a board - all the activities that must have kept Bethlehem humming.

Every year we set the village up on the coffee table/blanket chest. It consumes the whole top surface. I spread out a Christmas quilt Mom made me to keep the clunky nearly foot high plaster houses from scratching the wood, and move the table to within easy reach of a plug so we can light the village.

The effect is stunning, and different every year since we can alter the order of the houses and place the people in different locations. Especially at night, the soft glow of the light is quite romantic, and I wonder if Mary was as touched by what she encountered as I am. Probably not since she would have been smelling the smells, hearing the clatter and noise, scared by the unfamiliar surroundings, not to mention in labor and possibly alone and maybe very young, a girl without her Mommie!

This year, Drew set up the village. He had fun deciding where each piece ought to go. When he finished he stepped back to admire his handiwork. I agreed - it was wonderful. But as the season wore on and people got busy with activities and gift giving and end of semester crunches, the poor little village got ignored. Not only ignored, but buried in the aftermath of all the hubbub. I survey the wreckage.

Plunk in the middle of the idyllic scene stands a huge white poinsettia rescued from oblivion after the library closed. On one corner of the coffee table is a booklet of gift stickers splayed open revealing gold and silver To: and From: tags. Several half empty rolls of tape impede the progress of the wise men. A Popsicle stick with remnants of an ice cream bar has knocked a shepherd flat on his back, his hands raised as if in surrender. Crumpled receipts lay scattered about near the empty ice cream bar wrapper. A plastic grocery bag completely obscures the creche. Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus cannot see out any more than I can see in. A half open booklet of Advent devotions lies sandwiched between the manger and the rug shop.

I am shocked and saddened by the scene. Worse, I am alone. The boys are out with friends, enjoying post holiday doings. I look at Sugar and she whines and gazes at me with sad eyes. I sigh. I don't have much energy, and if I take care of this, the dishes will just have to sit. But I cannot leave Bethlehem buried. Gently I pick out the trash and junk, righting the poor shepherd and moving the plant. I brush the crumbs off the quilt and straighten the houses. Yes, that's better.


I sit for a few long moments, thinking about the story of Jesus' birth, about the events of that time that have filtered down to us. I have often wondered what Mary must have felt, what she thought and experienced. Tonight I wonder what it must have been like for Jesus. How awful and confining it must have seemed to squish eternity into the confines of flesh and blood. How painful it must have been to be unable to speak when you are in fact THE WORD. How terrible to be unable to even control you own body much less anyone else's.

I never realized that the birth experience for Jesus was as traumatic as his death experience. In fact, the birth experience, the uniting himself with humanity - that was permanent. There was no resurrection from his choice to become fully human. I have always cried about the crucifixion. Now I see that I ought to weep at the birth as well. For what he went through. Not just for the hardship on Mary and Joseph and their families. But for the incredible wrenching pain of choosing to become permanently handicapped by becoming human.

This is not romantic. I wonder if all generations since the birth of Christ have painted such a tender scene when they considered the nativity. Did the early church fathers make little manger sets and put them up every year? Was there soft romantic lighting? I suppose not. Maybe now that I have cleared the trash from my manger scene, I can think more clearly about what happened that night so long ago. I wander off to bed dreaming of the Father watching his Son who is crammed into a womb be expelled into the cold night air, hearing his screaming cries but knowing he can do nothing about them - yet.

Half Cent New Year's Day

Even though we put our Christmas tree up on Christmas Eve, it always came down on New Year's Day. Perhaps because the trees dried out so quickly in the hot air heat system we had, perhaps because Mom was ready to move on with life. Whatever the reason, we undecorated the tree in the morning while the parades played on the television (and I mean the black and white little square box of a thing that was often fuzzy and out of focus).

Strands of tinsel floated everywhere, and Mom did her best to vacuum up all the dead needles and tinsel and broken branches without sucking any ornaments into the canister. All the while we were cleaning up the living room and parlor, the ham was cooking in the oven. Mom always basted the outside of the bone ham shank with brown sugar, cloves, pineapple and maraschino cherries in a checkerboard pattern. The tantalizing sugary smell made your mouth water.

I loved watching the parades, hearing the marching bands, seeing the floats and balloons, watching the TV personalities explain all the work that went into the floats, all the various flowers, how long it took to put together, what drove the floats. It was fascinating. I didn't even touch my Barbie dolls while the parades were on.

By the time dinner was ready - complete with sweet potatoes and veggies and rolls and pickles and olives (black and green) and all the fixin's, Gramma and Grampa would show up in the red truck, toting more goodies including nuts and dried fruits and pies and other tempting treats.

We gathered around the huge dining room table with all the leaves and extensions added, the good turkey pattern china with the special salt and pepper shakers, the milk and creamer bowls, the real silverware, the candles, the cloth tablecloth, the folded napkins and the hand decorated place namecards.

We stood behind the chairs, held hands, and said grace - and not the mindless "God is great, God is good and we thank Him for this food." but one of my Dad's special official preacher-type prayers chock full of "thee's" and "thou's."

I always tried to sit near either Gram or Gramp. Sometimes Grampa would measure hands with me to see how much I'd grown. He would hold his hand up, the one with the short finger (he had lost the top part in a work accident), and I would hold my hand up, and he would grin and whistle and exclaim at how much I had grown. I ate it up. He would pile the food on my plate and then egg me on to eat more and more, yakking about strong bones and healthy muscles.

After we ate, the men adjourned to the living room to digest their meal while we women (and of course, as the eldest daughter, I was included) would make our way to the kitchen to address the carnage. Mom usually washed and Gram dried and we girls fed the dishpan - and in a particular order, thank you.

Glasses first, then silverware, then tea cups and saucers, then salad plates followed by dinner plates and dessert dishes and serving dishes. Last would be the pans. Always wash the least dirty items first so your dish water lasts longer. This would be at least a three sink draw. Maybe four. Sometimes we had two dish dryers whipping through towels at lightning speed, staying just a half step behind the dish washer.

At last, the counters and stove would be wiped down, the floor swept, the food tucked away in the fridge, and order regained in command central. Then and only then would we wander exhausted into the living room and join the men who were engaged in napping or light conversation. What peace reigned as we sat together, saying nothing in particular, just being together. No one felt much like doing anything.

There we stayed until darkness blotted out the windows and we had to consider maybe a bit of Jello or a small sandwich of leftovers before Gram and Gramp headed home and we made our way up to our rooms and into our flannel jammies. It was a great way to begin a year.

I miss them, my family who are no longer here to sit around the table with me. - Gram Appleby who patted her husband and affectionately called him "Hub," and Grampa Appleby who was a mechanic and worked once at the Watervliet arsenal making canons. And more recently, Dad who no longer carves the meat and relishes the dates and figs.

Now, I am the Gramma who drives over to spend the day with my sweethearts. It is just the way of life.