A doozy of a day, from serious to silly

I awoke shortly before 3:30 a.m. to sound of sirens outside. They were close. I got up to investigate. Will could not be stirred. (Which one of us is the journalist here, huh?) I donned my sneaks (as is my habit preceding adventures), shrugged on Will’s trench coat, and tiptoed outside. What a ruckus! So much for stealth. There were at least a half-dozen fire companies up the street, aiming their hoses at a house on the corner, billowing smoke so thick I had to raise Will’s coat collar to cover my mouth so I could breathe comfortably.

It was a sad scene, though not fraught with fatalities. The most recent occupants had moved out several months ago because the house was deemed unsafe by local authorities. I am sure neither the owners, nor the code enforcement officials, had any idea how unsafe (assuming the fire started spontaneously). I feel for those folks. Even though their house had “issues”—and, well, they themselves also seemed to have issues (but who of us doesn’t?)—it was their home, I know they were making efforts to move back in, and now they can’t. After 3-4 hours of steady dousing, the fire finally gave way, leaving a charred shell of their former dwelling place.

May God be with them, comfort them, and give them hope, especially as the season of “cheer” commences…..

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Amazingly, the kids slept through the commotion. They didn’t wake up until around 7:30, when they went about their routine preparations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened so nearby. They showered, they dressed, and they poured themselves bowls of General Mills cereal before plopping in front of the TV to watch PBS Kids. A Curious George promo aired, a rollicking “Fun, Fun, Fun” campy tune that left my young peanut gallery arguing between munches:

Vi, age 10: “Man, that was corny!”

Ben, age 5 ½: “No, it wasn’t—it was cheesy.”

Vi: “No, it was corny.”

Ben: “It was cheesy!”

Vi: “Ben, you don’t even know what cheesy means.”

Ben: “Yes, I do!”

Vi: “Believe me, there’s a difference between ‘corny’ and ‘cheesy.’ You’re just too young to understand.”

(‘Fun, fun, fun!’ My children can fight about anything.)

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In addition to the constant whir of firetrucks and other emergency vehicles managing the situation outside on our block, the day was punctuated by Buzz Lightyear laser blasts, emitting intermittently from the Patriotic Buzz (sporting a red-white-and-blue-striped space suit) recently rediscovered in the attic. Buzz, who currently occupies a spot on our dining room window seat, obviously needs new batteries, but I had a few other things going on, so I told him to “Buzz off.”

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Among the many demands of this Monday (my day off from work, although it’s debatable which place I feel more relaxed): Reading to Pearl, who has developed a voracious appetite for books. I am glad for this fact, except when she insists on instant reading sessions, regardless of my current activity. (I shall refrain from going into details, but there are just some times when I can’t conveniently drop everything and read Little Bear.) Today, however, I read several books to Pearl, including Little Bear, Amelia Bedelia, and Green Eggs and Ham. Tell me this: Have you ever noticed the furry antagonist’s “butt crack,” as plainly portrayed on page 17 of Dr. Seuss’ classic children’s tale? Pearl astutely observed it aloud to me.

“…something new every day.”

Evening Comeback

Tonight my sliver of A-Town could be called “Black Saturday.” The early darkness of late fall is seriously hampering my holiday spirits. In previous years, I can’t recall feeling quite so time-confused as I have lately. On at least half of the last dozen days, I have thought it must be close to 9 pm. Then, to my bewilderment, the clock reads 6:12. It’s not that I feel more physically fatigued than usual. It’s more psychological, like an internal timer that says, “Go to bed,” but then gets hoodwinked by reality. I posted my sentiments recently on Facebook:

Nov. 21, 5:00 pm: “I shall refrain from whining about the 5 o’clock darkness.”

Nov. 21, 7:04pm: “OK, not whining but 7 feels like 11. I’m just saying.”

To which my wise-acre brother-in-law replied: “Did you just move to the area?”

He’s right to tease me. I should be accustomed to the gloomy autumn eves by now, having lived in these parts nearly 35 years.

And as I wrote, the light broke through. A knock at the door. My dear dad, out for his second constitutional of the day. Out walking in weather—chilly, drizzly, did I mention dark?—which makes most folks recoil. Four weeks and four days after having his heart rewired. I’m gonna quit complaining now.

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“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”—2 Peter 2:9 (NIV)

Image: A walk in Sydney

Do you think I would lose FB friends if I posted this?

Grace battles gluttony year-round and therefore feels awkwardly ambivalent about Thanksgiving, a day focused on a feast…oh, and football. Grace also admits an aversion to American gridiron for a variety of reasons, namely the sexism, commercialism and violence embodied in the sport. True confessions.

Basement Utterances

I feel the inclination to blog but also a definite reticence to share what’s really going on in my life. It’s the reason I put off starting a blog in the first place. I knew these questions would plague me: How much should I divulge? What is safe to reveal? What is better left unsaid? It’s aggravating. In many ways I’d rather “let it all hang out” and “let the chips fall where they may.” But it’s not just self-protection that motivates me to withhold information and insights into my life. It’s my family, my employer, my colleagues, my friends and my fellow parishioners I’m also shielding from my boisterous tendencies. Caution is a virtue.

Having said all that, let me tell you something seriously personal: I talk to myself. Oh, we all do, all the time, I know. But I say things out loud, and I tend to get into patterns of issuing the same self-admonishments over periods of several weeks or months. (Amateur psychiatrists: Kindly refrain from diagnoses.) A few years ago, whenever I found myself alone with my thoughts (a scenario too typically reserved for the basement and the two piles of laundry in our household—the dirty pile and the clean pile), I found myself muttering the question, “Are you sure?”

Now, if self analysis is akin to dream interpretation, this was an easy one. I was in my 20s, a new mother, working full-time and going to grad school, frequently overwhelmed and generally underwhelmed with wisdom, knowledge and experience. I felt downright insecure, and my self-talk reflected that fact. At the height of my “Are you sure?” phase, I was also spiraling toward clinical depression. When a good friend prompted me to seek treatment (God bless her), my doubts about myself diminished. My confidence returned…at least to a reasonable level. I could function, and fairly well. Praise Be.

Lately—for maybe the past month—I’ve been saying “I’m sorry” to thin air. What does it mean? Have I sinned some terrible sin? I don’t think so. I mean, maybe. But nothing really jumps out at me. There are my usual Whack-a-Mole temptations of gluttony, laziness and pride. I try to avoid those jerks. I wrestle against the “powers and principalities.” God knows I want to land in the lot of the righteous. No, I think I’m saying “sorry,” not for anything I’ve done wrong but for everything I haven’t done right…or simply haven’t done. I’m expressing regret for my absolute inadequacy to be a superhuman being. There’s so much good I want to do in my little world—my family, my church, my town, my “sphere.” And I know that all of my efforts, while well-intended and multitudinous, are enormously insufficient. It’s never enough. I am not enough.

Before you go feeling sorry for me, or chastising me, or—worst—cajoling me, I think you should know that I think my “sorry” problem is OK. I believe in a God who is bigger than me and my problems, plus bigger everybody else and their problems. By “bigger,” I mean more powerful, more loving, more magnanimous, and more magnificent even than we can possibly imagine. The God of my salvation proffers hope, healing and miraculous provisions for this life and the next. I believe.

So this unnecessary apologizing is just another phase—something I need to work out of my spirit’s system, perhaps. Something that will lead me to realize, more profoundly and completely than ever before, how much I need the grace of the Lord in my life. Don’t we all?

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I don’t think you can ever be too detailed in your prayers, too specific, too minute…We are not dealing on the front line with grand general truths and cosmic metaphysics, but with daily bread and ingrown toenails and forgiving the rude behavior of an old friend.—Eugene Peterson, The Wisdom of Each Other

Image from www.educationforthesoul.com.

Tuesday Tidbits (Tues. seems to be my day for ‘tidbits’)

A Facebook status update I’m not brave enough to post: “Grace is blown away by how blatantly sweets bloat her belly!” I have not gained any weight in the past month of cookie consumption. However, I caught a glimpse of my profile at the gym yesterday and I swear I looked pregnant! I came home and investigated by exposing my mirror to my gut. It’s positively protruding in a way it wasn’t before this recent bout of baking, and I am absolutely not “in the family way.” Let this be a lesson to me (please, please, please).

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A few weeks ago I bought a new coffeemaker—a “spare”—from the bargain bin at Walmart. Enter Murphy’s Law: Our regular coffee pot shattered into smithereens about 3 days later. So it worked out. However, I noticed right away that the new machine made the coffee considerably hotter than the previous one. Now, I like my coffee hot—I’m not like Will, who typically waits ’til the coffee is lukewarm before consuming it. But this brew about torched my tonsils! Then I read, recently, that really hot drinks help kills germs that like to lurk in our oral cavities—you know, cold germs, flu germs, whatever might ail you in this germ factory called Planet Earth. So I’m drinking more coffee, and feeling quite justified.

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Ben’s new boots arrived yesterday, and they are fantastic! Everything we’d hoped and dreamed. Only bummer is: Ben has gym today and tomorrow, so he has to wear his sneaks. But Thursday, watch out! This kid’ll be stylin’.

Thai Yum!

A yummy new recipe from Wendy, an A-Town High classmate from the time before the Internet (good thing I hadn't hidden her or else I wouldn't have heard about this one).....

Slow-Cooker Thai Peanut Chicken

2 lbs chicken
¾ cup hot chunky-style salsa (I use mild and 1 cup)
¼ cup peanut butter (I do ½ cup)
2 Tbsp lime juice
1 Tbsp soy sauce
1 Tsp grated gingerroot (I use ¼ Tsp ground ginger if I don’t have fresh)
¼ cup chopped peanuts
2 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro (I omit if I don’t have it)

Place chicken in slow cooker. In a small bowl, combine all remaining ingredients except peanuts and cilantro; mix well. Pour over chicken.
Cover; cook on low setting for 8-9 hours or high 4-4 ½ hours.
Remove chicken and pull chicken. Put back in and stir in with sauce. Sprinkle with peanuts and cilantro. Serve over brown rice.

Photo from the University of Washington website

How FAT is too FAT? Every Facebooker’s Dilemma

I started to crack at around 700. I knew this day would come: The day I could no longer bear the virtual weight of keeping up with all the people I have come to know and “befriend” on the social networking site known as “Facebook.” Also sometimes called “Crackbook.” I used to think that nickname was an attempt to joke about how addictive the online community can be. But now I realize that “Crack” refers to the level at which a person can no longer manage her many contacts. I reached my saturation point sometime in the last month. I say “sometime,” because I’m not one of those FB participants who closely monitors her FAT (Friend Accumulation Tally). My husband is a numbers person. He knows his FAT, and he periodically informs me of mine—and not without a fair amount of teasing. He says things like, “Getting a little out of control, don’t ’cha think?” Pretty mean husband, right? But it’s true. Up until this week, my FAT had gotten away from me, and it was starting to affect my psyche. So I’m taking action and trimming down.

Now, one of my dilemmas about Facebook FAT is that I don’t want to offend anyone or burn any bridges to perfectly nice people with whom I don’t mind being associated, but whose day-to-day musings about life (which may or may not be interesting or funny or even true) I don’t really care to know. Some fellow Facebookers negate Friend-ships with zero qualms. If they couldn’t give two hoots about what Fred or Freda Q. is doing on a daily basis, they simply click “Remove from Friends.” Dilemma dissolved.

This week, I began opting for the Friendlier “process of elimination”: The Hide button. It’s not elimination, exactly—not entirely. It’s just elimination from constant line-of-sight. Kind of like de-cluttering at home. In the same spirit as putting infrequently used items on the highest shelves in the darkest cupboards. Yes, you can still access them when you want to, but you won’t want to more than once or twice a year.

It seems terrible to talk of people like this! It’s not that I don’t care about the people themselves, really! It’s just that I possess limited space in my psyche to track other people’s goings-on. And the crux of the Facebook FAT problem is: If I don’t Hide some people, I end up missing the stuff my “peeps” have to say. You know—my “peeps”: the people I’m closest to, emotionally and geographically. It’s a matter of mathematical probability. Of my 700+ FB Friends, I’d guess about one-third (233.3) post status updates at steady-but-unpredictable intervals throughout the day. Some post multiple times daily, some only once or twice a week. Say my 233.3 post-ers offer an average of 3 updates per week, totaling 700, which works out to 100 per day. How frequently would I have to check FB Status Updates in order to read all of them—or even a majority? All these numbers are making my head spin—and so do the number of updates!!!

You can see why I simply had to start Hiding some of them. So I have begun a new game: Hide or Keep? Close friends and family—obviously, Keep. People I see face-to-face on a weekly basis…or at least monthly: Keep. People I have not seen in 18 years or more, who I may not see ever again? Well, that depends. How often do they update, and what are their updates like? Dull, wordy, frequent? Hide. Witty, insightful, twice a week? Keep.

Lest I become too wordy myself, I will end with my best example of a “Keeper,” Andy M. Andy is an acquaintance from college, whom I have not seen in several years. I also knew his wife during college. I genuinely liked them both, but we were not close pals, nor have we stayed in touch, except through Facebook. Andy posts status updates 3-4 times a week. The truth is, I barely know the guy. But Andy keeps things interesting, and thus qualifies as a “Keeper.” I close this post with several recent examples, culminating with his Chai recipe, posted on Wednesday of this week.

Andy M. is grilling in the dark.

(posted on an unusually warm November day, after the time change—thus dark by dinnertime)

Andy M. just threw out a Windows 95 3.5' floppy boot disk.

(hahaha—I’m sure I still have ones even older than that in my attic—good for you, Andy)

Andy M. Good idea: peanut M&M's. Bad idea: brazil nut M&M's.

(hmmm…I’m not sure about this one, but it made me ponder the possibility—a brain teaser, if you will)

Andy M. just figured out why Jay Leno stands on that weird “10.”

(do tell, Andy, do tell)

Andy M. is backing away from the screen. The internet will still be here tomorrow...

(So, so true, and I need to follow suit—Andy M. is a keeper!)

Andy M.’s Chai

(with Andy M.’s attribution to a Julie P. I don’t know at all…or do I? 6 degrees, you know)

2 tea bags, 1 t. cinnamon, 1/2 t. ginger, 1/4 t. allspice: Place stuff in filter and brew with 1 c. water in coffeemaker.

Combine 1 c. milk, 2 T. packed brown sugar, 2 T. French vanilla (or other flavor) liquid coffee creamer and warm in saucepan over medium heat.

Remove from heat and add brewed Chai to saucepan. Serves 2.

Das Boots

Here we go again with the boots! In late August, I bought Ben a set of his fave footwear to start the school year, replacing the last ones that fell apart after about 5 months of near-constant wear. The new pair, sporting black faux leather with fancy stitching in the form of an eagle on the front of each, was snazzy, but chintzy. They looked very, very worn after only about a week. A mere 2 months later, these kicks are shot! We had to duct-tape them liberally so Ben wouldn’t be trip-or-treating over floppy-soled shoes in his Halloween cowboy get-up.

Now that life has somewhat settled down since Dad’s surgery, I went about the business of buying Ben his 5^th pair of preferred Western wear. Enter: eBay! Even though the last 2 pairs came from the online auction with less-than-long-lasting results, I felt savvier this time around. Genuine Leather Only. Preferably New. Reasonable Shipping. Those were my main criteria, which were met. I had to “hover” for a few days to find the right pair, in the right size, at the right price. But because I believed, I achieved!

Now comes the hard part: Waiting for the little buggers to march through the mail. Truly, it’s the little things.

Eureka!

Here's that photo I mentioned several weeks ago (or was it months? my sense of time is somewhat warped these days)--the one with my grandmother and her gray hair. It's not quite so silver as I recalled, though gray is definitely evident. My dad's siblings are decidedly recognizable, and (LOL) so is Dad's scowl--and who can blame him, having to wear that ridiculous white shorts-suit on a perfectly perfect, sunny summer's day?

Run, pray, bake, buy books—it’s how I cope. (Here—have a heart-healthy cookie.)

When crisis hits, how do you cope? During the past two weeks, I have discovered: Some people pop pills, some people sleep in...I bake, and I buy books. In the 10 days since my father’s unexpected heart surgery, I can’t seem to get enough of cookies and Amazon. Cookies for anybody who might need them (this should exclude me, but it doesn’t) and books for Dad. Memoirs, cookbooks, physiological textbooks—written words of various kinds that might help make sense of this mystery: How did my dad, Mr. Runner Man of A-Town for almost the past 3 decades, end up in this spot? Sitting in his mocha brown La-Z-Boy recliner, in his black-and-red checkered fleece robe, recovering from bypass surgery. It’s incredible.

The actual morning of Dad’s operation, I ran and I prayed. I wasn’t authorized to run. My $#@%! pelvis is still misaligned 8 ½ months after I slipped on the ice and wounded my stubborn psoas muscle. But I couldn’t help but run that day. In my family, running is a form of prayer, so I ran. And after I ran, I prayed some more. I climbed the sandstone steps on the side of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church and entered through the ornate door that an angel opens every morning at 6. I knelt, I cried, I implored and I waited—waited for that sense that the Spirit of God had heard me, was with me, was with my dad, and was “on the job.” Then I went home and waited some more. Around 11:15, I got the call: Dad was out, Dad was stable, Dad was gonna be OK.

But “gonna be OK” takes time, I’m realizing. I’m learning that recovery from heart surgery is as much about the head as the heart—if not moreso. And it’s not just the patient’s heart, but also the hearts of the people whose hearts beat with the patient’s, loving the patient, encouraging the patient, being patient with the patient…sometimes being patient for the patient.

Of the hundreds of races you’ve run, Dad, I am rooting for you in this one far more than ever. And I’m not alone. A crowd has gathered. This may be a marathon with hills, but you’re no fool. You’ve done your hill-work homework, and hill-work is speed-work in disguise. Speedy recovery…or however long it takes. You are indescribably worthwhile.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:1-3, NIV)

Writer's Block

Is my writing a form of self-indulgence, or is it my purpose in life—my so-called “calling”?

If it is my calling, is it something I supposed to focus on doing, to the exclusion of other things (if so, which things)? Or is it something I am supposed to cram in the nooks and crannies of my “regular” life?

If it is not my calling, why do I enjoy it so much? Yes, enjoy—therein, find joy?

If it is my calling, then how am I supposed to feed myself and my family while I pursue it? Or am I simply supposed to eat less?

And/Or Both?

http://www.calvin.edu/academic/engl/festival/