In defense of unreasonable behavior

My aunts, Margie and Velma, with their daddy, late 1930s

Sometimes, I do unreasonable things. When traveling, I choose out-of-the-way bed & breakfasts over handier hotels. When home, I secure Craigslist "deals" requiring Herculean retrieval efforts. Am I driven by the chase? Or am I, by nature, enchanted by convolution? (I recently reflected on Facebook that I "habitually complicate matters by exploring multiple options." My best friend suggested this would be a suitable epitaph for me.)

Whatever my issue, it often yields eternal blessings in the form of unforgettable experiences. Case in point: My insistence on visiting my aunts last June, with an overpacked truck, plus a tween and tot in tow. Let me unpack...

Last fall, my oldest daughter joined our church's Bible Quizzing team. Like many milestones in my firstborn's life, this precipitated a heap of nostalgia, since Bible Quizzing was a meaningful part of my own youth. I enthusiastically volunteered to help coach the team, another instance of  unreasonableness. As a working mother of four, the youngest of whom was a wee 6-week-old when the quizzing season started, I was hardly in a position to volunteer for anything "extra." Pish-posh -- I signed on anyway ... and "helped" to a greater or mostly lesser degree throughout the first 9 months of the quizzing year, September to May.

Come June, Nationals. Each summer one of the Free Methodist colleges, on a rotational basis, invites Bible Quizzing teams from throughout the denomination to gather for a grand tournament, testing teens' knowledge of the designated Scriptures (last year, the Gospel of John). It's really rather intense. Elite quizzers have memorized the text, word for word, from the New International Version of the Bible. Even rookie quizzers, like my Viv, have developed an impressive familiarity with the material, having been exposed to the questions and answers all school year at monthly, regional quiz meets.

That I fathomed it feasible to stroll my Delia-Doll into super-quiet quizzing rounds in stealthful support of our 2 teams was, well ... unreasonable. But I went anyway, and I did a lot of strolling -- outside the quizzing rooms, zig-zagging across the campus of Spring Arbor University, very thankful for the mild weather. (Summer in southern Michigan is not always so.)

When the long week of walking finally ended, I wanted to go home -- we all did. But, instead, I did something unreasonable: I packed up my stuff, Viv's stuff, Delia's stuff, plus some stuff the other quizzers couldn't quite cram into their car, and I went to visit my father's older sisters. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Several nights away from home had tired me out -- the girls, too -- and I knew there would be logistical challenges. By Saturday, seasonal temperatures had returned. Packing, unpacking and repacking the vehicle ... escorting both elderly aunts in and out of the truck ... guiding them safely to their lunchtime destination of choice, good ol' A&W -- frankly, it was a hassle. In the heat. But, I figured, how could I not? Aunt Marge and Uncle Dave lived a stone's throw from the route back to Albion; Aunt Velma lives a half hour beyond that. Note the verb tenses. When I went to see my aunt and uncle in Ypsi, I had no notion it would be the last time this side of heaven. Both -- yes, both! -- passed away last week.

I'm still shaking my head in disbelief, but it's true. I just returned from their double funeral less than 24 hours ago. Uncle Dave died on Monday, and Aunt Margie went to be with him on Wednesday, the physiological circumstances of which are unclear to me, as a non-medical professional. Dave had been ill for a while, but Marge seemed likely to follow in her mother's footsteps and reach her 90s. Other than her failing eyesight, she seemed reasonably healthy for her 76 years. But life is not always reasonable. And neither am I. The former truth leads to all sorts of pain and confusion. My own unreasonable act, in this case, leaves me with a precious memory.

Did we visit Aunt Velma one more time before we ended our surreal trip to Michigan? We'd have been crazy not to!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My condolences, especially, to my cousins Mark and Michelle and their children. (Imagine losing both parents and two grandparents at the same time!)

Major life lessons learned -- from Uncle Dave: Enjoy life, and for goodness' sake, keep your sense of humor! ... from Aunt Margie: Treasure your family and friends, and always send birthday cards (preferably with a few bucks tucked inside).

The Tercel Saga Continues

Marsha & Cordelia on "Farewell, Tercel" day...6 weeks ago!

The Tercel loves us and does not want to leave. Evidence:

On the advice of our mechanic, after a 246k+ mile relationship, we announced in early September that we would part ways with our “Trusty Tercel.” We decided to donate the vehicle to our local Care Net pregnancy center.

We had trouble tracking down the title (spent far too long looking), but then ordered a replacement through the Department of Motor Vehicles—20 bucks, no big deal.

Then we waited…and waited…and waited.

I was about to call the DMV when our former landlord showed up on our doorstep with the coveted piece of paper. The title had been mailed to our original address (our first apartment—only about a block from where we live now), and she hadn’t got around to delivering it for about a week after it arrived. (I don’t begrudge her busy life. I’ve “been there, done that”…am there, doing that, actually!)

Once I had the title, I went to the Vehicles for Charity website, registered our car for their program, then played phone tag with the administrator, until yesterday.

Yesterday, I discovered that there’s an outstanding lien on the vehicle, even though we paid off the car 13 years ago. So, whose lien it is, ours or the previous owners’? This mystery sent me into the labyrinth of Key Bank’s customer service phone system. Lacking an account number with which to slay the touch-tone dragon, I lingered in limbo-land, intermittently pressing “pound” and “zero” until the robot voice bade me: “Goodbye.”

Eventually, I spoke with a pleasant and competent-sounding woman (for real), who helped me apply for a lien release letter, which is supposed to reach my house in 3 to 5 business days.

I have my doubts. This car loves us.

My own little 'faltering preface'

I am SO on my C-Minus Game that I couldn't even manage to post this on the right day. So it starts out, "It's Sunday evening..." and it's NOT. It's Monday morning. (sigh) However, I read the most encouraging thing today, posted by a Facebook friend: "A person does not need to be anything other or greater than his own little faltering preface — in the confidence that at some point in eternity God will surely bring order out of the individual's divided and piecemeal tale and write an emphatic postscript." — Joakim Garth

It’s Sunday evening. I should be sorting socks. When I’m really playing my “A Game,” that’s what I do between supper and bed on Sundays. But I am not on my “A Game.” I’m not even sure I’m on my “B Game.” My psyche is a little threadbare these days — more like a C Minus.

But blogging might help. I hope blogging helps. I miss blogging. And I’m genuinely touched that my brother-in-law Scott, a faithful A-Town reader, kindly complained about my dearth of posts of late. I’m sorry. And inspired. So here goes: A stream-of-consciousness explanation of my extreme busyness these days, and a moment’s thought to how I might regain control of my schedule and my assorted socks.

My organization’s final fundraising event of the year occurred over the weekend. (Whew!) Plus, we’re about 80 percent settled into our new place. My memory’s foggy. Did I mention our move before my latest hiatus? Yes, the pregnancy center recently relocated — landed a sweet lease: Five times the space for less rent. Pretty amazing, huh? There are “strings attached” — we have to pay our own utilities, shovel our own sidewalks, and manage security of the premises in ways we never had to worry about before. But for the elbow room and exposure the new site affords, it’s worth every extra ounce of toil.

Speaking of toil, I just had one of those “Where’d s/he learn that?!” moments with the children. Reuben and Lucy were sharing chips and salsa in the dining room. The spicy snack somehow inspired my son to bust out with the Albion Alma Mater: “Albion, may thy sons ne’er forget thee and to thy name we ever will be loyal / And through all our days, we will sing thy praise — in times of vict’ry and in times of toil / We’ll cheer for Albion and our song will re-echo, as high above the sea our colors fly / One-two-three great big cheers for thee, dear old Albion!” (Yes, I typed out those lyrics from memory, but no, I don’t recall teaching them to the kids, who typically shush me when I croon corny tunes such as that one.)

Tom is kicking me off the computer, so I am abbreviating my insights this go-’round. It’s a start. Some wise person once said that the hard part’s to begin, but for me, it’s persistence that’s problematic. Perhaps if I perceive it as starting over repeatedly, I won’t feel so discouraged about my various unfinished projects or inconsistent track records. They’re in stages of completion — that’s it! As am I, as am I.

Fewer fish, less stress

Fortuitously, the fish died. The second day of school. Which also happened to be the day our mortgage refinance went through, and our home equity loan, both of which I welcomed as answers to prayers for relief from debt and overall middle-class money malaise.

I didn’t mean to finish off the fish—really. In fact, last Wednesday evening I spent a half hour or more carefully combining the “old” water from their tank with the “new” water, some of which I had allowed to distill for a day ahead of time. I say only “some of which” because when I poured the new water into about a quarter of the old, it left the tank looking pitifully low. (Why I bought a 10-gallon tank off Craigslist for two measly Koi now escapes my recollection. Like so many of my How-did-I-get-myself-into-this? situations, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”)

Actually, “at the time,” you might say I purchased the pucker-faced pets as penance for having forgotten Lucy’s Pre-Kindergarten carnival. It was a late June morning when I received a friendly phone call from the school secretary, informing me that Lucy was sitting sadly on the side of the playground while the rest of her classmates merrily escorted their parents through two-legged races, bean-bag tosses and face-painting stations. Doh!! My stomach lurched with self-loathing. The carnival had completely slipped my mind, and apparently I was alone in this heinous oversight. My little Lu was the sole soul left looking for her mother to join the celebration of early childhood education.

I quickly packed up the baby and dashed out the door, drove to the school and galloped to the rescue, hefting a 27-pound carseat like it weighed nothing. Lucy saw us coming (as did the entire playground-full of people). She ran to meet us, arms outstretched, and jumped into my one free arm. “Mommy!” she heartily exclaimed. “You didn’t forget me!” But of course, I had. So after we indulged in our fair share of popcorn and sticker-winning fun and games, we went to Walmart. To buy fish. The fish I had promised Lucy we could buy “some day.” (“Some day” when Mother needs a little retail therapy to assuage the chaos that is our family schedule.)

Fast-forward two-and-a-half months. I was the only one tending to the fishes’ survival. And I resented it. Tom had not so much as glanced at the creatures. Lucy tried feeding them a few times, dumping far too many flakes into the oversized tank. She and Reuben would watch the fish in short spurts, but get bored after a couple of minutes. Last Thursday morning, Lucy went to bid the fish farewell before boarding the bus. She gasped and shouted, “The fish are dead!!” Indeed they were. 

Whether it was the chlorine or the cold that killed “Shiny” and “Goldy,” I’ll never be sure. All I know is: The same day I wrote off a bunch of bad debt, I also flushed the “guilt fish” goodbye. Coincidence?

Candy Land--and so much more!

from new3.missbimbo.com

Speculative discussions about heaven continue in the Rivers household. Earlier this week, I posted a Facebook status sharing Reuben’s opinion that in heaven you can eat all the candy you want without having to brush your teeth (to which I added: and without gaining weight).

This morning I made two batches of brownies for a funeral reception this afternoon. Reuben and I, the resident “sweet tooths,” sat licking the bowls while the brownies baked.

“Do you think you get magical powers when you’re in heaven?” Reuben inquired.

“I hope so,” I replied. “Personally, I’d like to be able to fly.”

“Yeah!” he enthused, his front teeth smudged with chocolate goop.

“Do you think you get to see real, live dinosaurs in heaven – that are safe?” Mr. Brownie-batter-for-breakfast inquired.

“I think God could arrange that,” I declared with theological confidence, swirling my spatula around the top edge of the mixing bowl. (Precious stuff—the batter and the conversation.)

Returning to his earlier fantasy, Reuben conjectured: “It would be cool if we could visit the Easter Bunny’s area, because then we could eat all the candy along the street.”

“Or the North Pole!” I suggested excitedly. “Maybe we get to visit the North Pole when we’re in heaven.”

“I think so…” Reuben said tentatively, then added, “…if you’re rich you do.”

Imagine my delight—and his—when I informed my sweet son that there would be no money necessary to enjoy all the wonders of the afterlife!

A fitting exchange for a funeral day. God bless the Bannisters.

Well of water, ever springing,
Bread of life, so rich and free,
Untold wealth that never faileth,
My Redeemer is to me.

Hallelujah! I have found Him
Whom my soul so long has craved!
Jesus satisfies my longings;
Through His life I now am saved.

Source: http://www.hymnal.net/hymn.php/h/325#ixzz1WtY1e0qu

Inspired by new backpack

Reuben decided to sketch his new "friend," who frightens his little sis. (Bonus?)

'And a little child will lead them' (okay, not-so-little anymore)

Supposedly it’s best to marry someone who complements your weaknesses. A non-cook should marry a cook. A shy person ought to marry someone more outgoing. A spouse with a mind for numbers might do well with an artistic, ethereal thinker. In theory.

After 15 years of marriage (happy anniversary to us), I’ve concluded that Tom and I are more alike than not, and that it’s our firstborn child who is destined to save our household from utter chaos. Throughout most of her childhood, I’d have said the opposite. I confess to telling Tom in late-night whispers of desperation: “It’s like living with a terrorist!” But now that Viv has reached adolescence, I’ve realized something: She’s simply cut from different cloth than her parents. 

Case in point: School supplies. As of this morning—nearly 2 weeks before the term begins—we have bought, sorted and organized the contents of all 3 school kids’ backpacks, all thanks to Vivian. (Well, and with a little help from her parents’ purse.) What we have living with us is not a terrorist in the making but rather a Future Administrator of America. I am grateful for her organizational inclinations and happy to let her take the lead…at least, in this.

Next up: Menu planning. With Viv in charge, maybe we’d find out what we’re eating more than 30 minutes in advance. Radical.

P.S. Yes, I called Tom "Tom" and Viv "Viv." I've decided to ditch the pseudonyms and say who we really are. I'm also renewing my commitment to once-a-week blog posts, however boring they might be. They're just slices of life, not inspirations for posterity (although I'm fully aware they could turn out to be both...especially with a kid like Lucy spouting her sassy, witty, wise words).

Tribute to A-Town by a young friend off to college today

Photo from http://robinhobb.com/2010/09/off-to-college/

"I arrived here 9 years ago, skinny, pale, naive, just a kid. You put me through some of the best times, and some of the worst times in my childhood. You've been an extremely important part of growing up, for me. I met some of the most amazing people here, and I've met some horrible people, but all of them shaped my life and turned me into the college kid I am today. I've loved and been loved, hated and been hated, ignored and been ignored. If it wasn't for you, Albion, I don't think I would have ever become a musician, or tried my hand at acting, or any of the other things I love in my life. So now, in a few short hours, I will walk out my kitchen door as a kid for the last time and begin my life as an adult, a little less skinny, a little less pale, a touch wiser, and ultimately changed for the better, because of you, Albion. Thank you, for everything."

Godspeed, SE, EB and all the other young Albionites beginning a new leg of their journey today

Summ-Summer Favorites

1) Chicory -- I love how that spindly, scraggly-looking weed defies the worst circumstances and blooms its perfect periwinkle all over tarnation this time of year.

2) Raspberries -- These under-sung fruits are more precious than rubies to me. They grew wild in my parents' back yard, and they taste like carefree childhood.

3) Bird songs -- Early morning and early evening are the loveliest parts of day in this season of heat and humidity: The temperature relents, and "all nature rings and 'round me sings, the music of the spheres."

4) Sweet corn -- It's better than candy (and I like candy a lot).

5) Clothesline -- I'm pretty positive that Heaven smells like sun-dried sheets.

Amen to this:

O God of such truth as sweeps away all lies,
of such grace as shrivels all excuses,
come now to find us
for we have lost ourselves
in a shuffle of disguises
and in the rattle of empty words.

Let your Spirit move mercifully
To recreate us from
The chaos of our lives.

We have been careless of our days
our loves our gifts
our chances…

Our prayer is to change, O God,
not out of despair of self
but for love of you,
and the selves we long to become
before we simply waste away.

Let your mercy move in and through us now…

Amen.

Ted Loder, My Heart in My Mouth (Philadelphia, PA: Innisfree Press, 2000), pp. 50-51.

Worth exposing A-Town ID: Fly, Jackie, Fly!!!!!!!

Albion's own Jackie Madejski (who played the part of Peter Pan in the outstanding A-Town spring production of that show) has been selected by the Rochester Broadway Theatre League to compete for the opportunity to represent Albion and the Rochester area in a State competition in NYC. 1st prize is an annual $25,000 scholarship to NYU.  Below is a web address where you can vote for her once daily. Let's see if we can get her to the top of the vote count. The last day to vote is May 25th.  The address is below.

http://www.rochesterhp.com/StarsOfTomorrow/.

And this endorsement/request came from Charlie Nesbitt this morning -- I wholeheartedly agree: 

This young lady gave a wonderful performance as Peter Pan, among the very best I have ever seen by a non-professional. Please vote for her and encourage your contacts to do the same. She certainly deserves the support! (Remember, you can vote once each day) Thanks for your help!

 

Charlie

A slice...no, a sliver...no, a ladle-ful of life

I'm warming up a can of "meatball soup," Ben's favorite. Ben and Pearl wait together at the dining room table, eager to be served.

Their banter:

Ben: Dinner is the best invention ever!

Pearl: Uh...nohhh!! (all, like, Valley Girl in tone) Mommy!! Isn't God's plan the best invention everrrr?! Like, He made the worrrrrld!!

Bathroom or basement? Let's step into my office...

(Been awhile. Hi!) I don't really have time to post a full-fledged entry. Won't happen until after the major fund-raising banquet for my workplace/ministry next week. But as I've been "working the phones" in the past few days in anticipation of the big event, I've come to reflect on one of the realities of working from home -- this is true for both Will and me: When there's an important phone call to make or receive, whether from prominent politicians, minor celebrities, or friends from the other side of the globe, we're most likely to end up talking to them from our basement or bathroom. Those seem to be the only places in our house somewhat safe from squalling babies, inquisitive preschoolers, or demanding tweens. I'd be willing to bet that if Will had the opportunity to talk to the Leader of the Free World himself, he'd end up interviewing him from beside a 3-foot pile of dirty laundry, using the lint-covered top of the washing machine for a clipboard, possibly even scribbling down his notes with a broken crayon.

A Banner Wednesday (with 3 pesky exceptions)

Today is a banner day! I finally figured out that I could adjust my Google settings to maneuver multiple Gmail accounts simultaneously. For nearly 2 years now, I’ve been manually switching back and forth between my 2 accounts, all the while wishing there was a way to keep both open at the same time. Luckily, some smart Google employee also thought of my brilliant idea and—much more brilliantly—figured out how to make it work. It’s a little silly how happy this makes me feel.

Speaking of smart people, did you see the genius kid on Yahoo! News yesterday? Dizzyingly perceptive: http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_thelookout/20110329/ts_yblog_thelookout/for-12-year-old-astrophysics-prodigy-the-skys-the-limit.

On a not-so-banner note, Wednesdays I’ve been doing my weekly weigh-ins (violating my New Year’s Resolution to stay off the scale for the first 6 months of 2011). On this particular Wednesday, I am 3 pounds heavier than I was last week. (Sigh!) How does this happen? Sugar and salt are my strongest suspects. Mostly sugar. Sugar is my mortal enemy. OK, that can’t be true—it’s inanimate, it’s neutral. But sugar—or, rather, the over-consumption of sugar—brings out the villain in me, as Pearl so perfectly put it! Moderation is not my strong suit. And so, for today (er, um, for the rest of today), I shall abstain from the ingestion of my mortal enemy!

Speaking of enemies, I meant to mention the other day that Pearl’s use of the term “villains” rather than “bad guys” might have struck some readers as odd. I’m not sure why my kids say “villain” (instead of, say, “scoundrel,” “rascal,” or “thug”), but they do.

And another thing about that post: When Pearl says “what in the hills,” she’s not merely repeating some Southern expression of disbelief (such as “what in the Sam hill…”). No, I’m pretty sure it’s her misinterpretation of the plain-old expletive now known for its abbreviation, WTH. Since Will and I don’t talk that way, she must have heard it on TV, but not quite right—and by-gum, I’m glad!