becoming

becoming a mother

2008-06-19T12:20:00.002-06:00

I remember someone once wrote a Christmas letter that he never sent; in that letter he explained that he didn't know what to say. Christmas letters contain updates about little Johnny growing up, promotions at work, family vacations, and, as a bachelor, he had nothing to say about anything like that. Yet, here I am, well over a year later (from my last post), a wife, a mother, a teacher. There are more kids and family news to write about than I can keep up with. I've been so busy that I have not written. It is a lot like the current country song, "You're Gonna' Miss This." There is something to be said and enjoyed about every season in life. I do miss selling olive oil, dreaming of great food, of walking Ann Arbor streets in the summer time, of wine tasting every weekend in Fruita, indulging in the simplest of American deserts, the Rice Krispy Treat, in Barnes and Noble every Thursday evening and despairing over the people of Grand Junction, of my quaint, downtown apartment with the ancient plumbing and strange floor plan. Those were simpler days. But I love laughing with my husband and the squeals of delight from my daughter. I love how she will collapse with exhaustion and trust on my shoulder--it is the most peaceful time of the day.
I will try to write more often and keep in touch.

thoughts from february

2007-08-07T12:40:00.001-06:00

At night I dream about my wedding day. It makes me feel like a little girl—isn’t that what little girls dream of while my imagination went in wildly different directions at that age? I remember how I felt at 8^th grade graduation when everyone turned to look at Scott and me with all their cameras. How bashful I became! Surely it won’t be as bad holding on to Dad’s supportive arm, the arms I could always turn to for strength and security and comfort, and knowing that another strong, tender arm awaits me at the end.

When I took Stephanie to show her the church this weekend, I sat in one of the chairs as she looked around. Sitting there I could hear Aunty Barbie’s voice when I called with my announcement. I felt very young, she sounded so loving, proud, happy, and aunty. I guess she always does, but it took me back to the years when we lived nearby.

I’m going to walk down that aisle, I thought to myself, and everyone will rise and turn around and see a bride. These days I’ve been looking at the world from more of a parental perspective than from a child’s, so I tried to imagine what it would be like for those who have loved me from the day you brought me home. It must be hard. For several who will be there, it will be awfully symbolic of how they feel. Before they knew it, before they had time to turn around, Catie Did had become a woman, no longer swinging her feet in the back seat singing “Home, home on the range…” My feet touch the floor now, I live where the skies are mostly blue and very close to the range Lorna and I used to sing about.

Some day that will be me in your shoes, turning around, wondering where the time went, and seeing my little girl grown into a woman. The anticipation of it, and we’re talking a good twenty-some years before I have to worry about it, grabs my heart hard. I wonder if I can bear the upcoming joys, concerns, and sorrows that marriage and children will bring? Did you ever wonder about that, or did you want a child too much to wonder? Did you ever imagine this day for me?

testimony 1

2007-08-07T12:38:00.000-06:00

I joke that I learned how to be a Christian from a renegade Jew and a practicing Buddhist. For years I had hidden, distorted, masked, and repressed my emotions, and these characteristics were never given a chance to mature. So I was truly a toddler in Christ. As the Holy Spirit worked in my heart, I was still trapped within.

My first job was unusual in its training. The customer service training I received was based on biblical principles—but the owners and trainers would never admit it, if they knew. We were trained to think and go the extra mile with every customer. I was so excited to receive the tools to express my heart that I started talking to strangers on the street, and applying the same tools with my friends around the country. It became a lifestyle.

The company was also the first to impress the idea of giving to me. As I considered owning my own business, the 10% giving was always a guiding principle in the business plans, long before I was convicted of this biblically.

Not long after I wondered how I needed to share the gospel with those around me—I knew maybe five Christians in the small city of Ann Arbor—it was time for me to return West. I was tempted to doubt my faith because I had pretty much never evangelized, though everyone seemed well aware of my faith. (I used to laugh at this because sometimes they would mistake my nervous, reserved habits for upholding Christian values). So I was worrying that I had not upheld my obligation to share what I had learned, and packing to leave, when my co-workers started taking me aside to thank me for my faith, and recognizing that it must give me peace during the trials of my life.

It was a sad time because I knew that those who did not believe did not think them any closer to Christ, but I remembered the way God planted seeds in my life, long before I was ready to receive Him, and I smiled as I drove away. I couldn’t rely on Him using me this quietly for the rest of my Christian life, but He had answered a prayer that I be used in ways that others were used in my life. I always thought of that prayer in terms of the amazing hospitality friends and the family of my friends had heaped on me over the years, but God reminded me of other means to share His heart.

The next few months were empty months. I went some broken place in my heart from where I refused to beckon God. I walked a lot on the Colorado National Monument behind my parents’ home in Grand Junction. I was sitting on a small boulder one afternoon when I started meditating on the rock. I was impressed with the solidity of it, and started praying for God to convict and teach me about His foundation so I might have courage, faith, and the experience of Him and never look back. It took time, but the relationship He cultivated with me after that was….sweet.

I moved to Colorado Springs, was led to a church within a month, started making friends, and at the encouragement of my close friends started to dream again. What do you want to do? They asked me relentlessly. And I gave them several answers, but more than anything I wanted a family. I couldn’t make that my goal—it could lead to poor decisions or misery. That was out of my control, so I prayed with God for a month about the kind of man I hoped for, and if it wasn’t too much trouble I would appreciate it if his family were close (geographically and relationally) but in this broken world I knew that was a tough order to fill. Many, many people over the course of my life predicted that I would find my special someone. I can show you letters, Valentine cards, my autograph books where mere acquaintances pronounced my destiny, and each time I would scoff—there is no guarantee, no way to count on finding someone you would want to marry. So, having laid out my heart; asking that God not distract me with anyone except the man He wanted me to marry, I then asked Him to prepare me for His plans, fully expecting to be single for several more years. That’s when Mark started to talking to me, three months after we had been in the same church community

It was known among Bible study that I was not in the market for a boyfriend, so it surprised everyone when I responded in kind to someone’s interest, and then was smitten. And a year later God answered the desires of my heart to work in ministry and in planning to have a family.

presents

2007-08-07T12:35:00.000-06:00

I used to laugh when you brought home “presents” for me during the summer months, presents in the shapes of push brooms, shiny rakes, sharp shovels, the weird-looking gravel rake, and more hose to snake across our property. I laughed because I couldn’t appreciate the gift as a gift. Without those tools my work would have been harder. What we accomplished in those years might not have been possible.

When Mark came back from another trip to Lowes, and said, “I have a present for you,” I laughed with appreciation and a heart full of memories. There was a pair of new leather gloves. Giving up on the idea of sharing all those memories, for the moment, I reveled in the feeling that this is what I’ve been missing.

Home is not just the place we come to rest. In the leisurely drives I used to take in the country-side of Ann Arbor, Grand Junction, and the Black Forest, I would admire the large homes. One home stands out among all others because there was a black dog prancing the edge of his property, a man trimming his hedges, and his wife rolling a wheel barrow down to him in the evening sun. To me, that looked like home.

Sometimes the extent of our project, and the un-ending problems of under-taking those projects, are plain laughable. Sometimes, for the sake of satisfaction, I will clean a window before calling it a day. When the last glow of the evening fades from Pikes Peak, and I am tired in a way I haven’t felt tired in years.

cousins

2007-08-07T12:31:00.000-06:00

My favorite times growing up were with my aunts and cousins. They would take turns watching us four Amy, the oldest, Jeremy, her brother and the only boy, Lorna, and myself. I remember expressing my sense of the age difference between Amy and I by saying I hated her. It must have hurt to hear that, but she laughed it off.

We spent Halloween at my house. The only house I remember visiting was my next door neighbor’s. To reach the door you had to walk through a big blue tent. Teenagers, friends of their kids, hid in sleeping bags and grabbed at your ankles as you walked by. After a couple years of this, the suspense was more than I could bear. When the first person grabbed my ankles I turned around screaming and didn’t get any candy from them that year.

My cousins laughed. They laughed when I wanted to learn how to chew gum. I remember there were leaves on the garage floor, and I would spit the gum out as hard as I could to make a bubble. No luck, I would plop the pink blob in my mouth and try again. No matter how much they tried to explain how to expand the gum with my tongue and work it around my lips to create a bubble, I didn’t understand.

They laughed again when one grasped my hands, another my feet, and they swung me into the hedge at Gido’s house.

They laughed at my fear of deep water and alligators. Every time we visited the old San Francisco Zoo Lorna would threaten to throw me in with the alligators. This explains why I was scared to death the time I fell into the Lafayette Reservoir. It was an annual Summer School field trip to visit the Reservoir. The only thing I remember about those trips is feeding the ducks, which is what were doing when two older girls brushed past and I fell with a loud splash into the water. Some say they saw the girls push me, but I also remember moving out of politeness. Between the two of them I ended up going head first into the water. My first thought was, “Oh no! If my feet touch the ground I will be alligator lunch.” Somehow my 3 foot body managed to pull away from the 4 foot shallow floor without touching, burst from the water and yell for help. Scared me to death when the teachers decided that one had to jump in after me. That meant someone would step on the alligator’s nose. To my relief we all ended up alive and wet. No one could ever understand my wild behavior and words, so no one ever explained alligators don’t hide in the mud of California alligators.

Another time we were going across the Bay Bridge I worked my imagination into a tizzy. The school used a short bus to transport us on field trips. On this occasion I found myself beside the bugger-nosed reject of an upper-grade. Behind me, my friends were talking about sharks. The boy noticed that I was cowering further and further into the wall of the bus and boldly asked what was the matter. By that time I was so frightened about the thought of a shark jumping into the bus window, I was no longer afraid of him told him. He kindly told my friends to stop talking about sharks and offered to sit by the window for me. I admired him after that.

My cousins laughed yet again when I pulled a knob off the Buick and made it buzz. Mom and my aunts were beginning to catch on by that time, that I was not entirely responsible for all my actions. If my cousins were laughing while I stood looking on dumbly they would ask, “What did you guys do?” It was too fun to exploit my naiveté and youth to bother teaching me how to survive the world. How I ever has, is anyone’s guess, or the hand of God.

I doted on my cousins. In a picture you see me imitating Lorna. A picture taken a little later shows that pose was significant to me for a few months after that.

insomnia

2007-07-24T12:37:00.000-06:00

Each week I have one night that I can not quiet my thoughts enough to sleep. Last night was that night.

To cure myself of these endless hours I have been reading Louis L'amour--much against my sensibilities. Honoring my husband's prayers for me, however, I put all the mindless books aside and again started reading books on theology. Problem is, they don't put me all the way to sleep, they just make me sleepy enough my brain no longer engages. I remain awake.

Following the guidelines to cope with insomnia, I got up to do something. Earlier in the afternoon I had picked up an old, but free, changing table that coordinated almost to the point of matching the crib. The nursery went through one more rearrangement.

The changing table made the room feel almost complete. One addition to the closet, and all that remains to complete the room are decorations, a layette, diaper supplies and linens. These things add character to a room, but the furniture make it take shape.

With the nursery nearly complete, my house is truly beginning to feel like home. Lying in bed I began to fill in the details. Finally, I got up. I heard Mark get out of the shower and prepare for an emergency before looking for me. He found me in the nursery admiring my handiwork. Tucked conveniently and cozily between the bed and tiny dresser was a box of childrens books. On the other side was the home made green nursery rhyme box on which I had placed Anna Bear Lee to hide the mess of cords behind the dresser. "Before putting Baby to bed, we can snuggle on the bed and read a book. Afterward, we walk two steps and tuck Baby into the crib. Two more steps, put the book away, and everyone is happy." He just smiled, assured me I wasn't crazy to be nesting at that late hour, and led me back to bed. Since Baby won't be sleeping in the crib at night until he is six months old, I was planning a year ahead of myself.

Back in bed, Mark was reading his own thoughtful book and tried to engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he started to put me to sleep--not intentionally. He let me drift off after I shared, "I wish I had believed in nothing before I became a Christian."

"It would have been easier," he agreed. Grace, depravity of man, God's sovereignty--I believe all of it. Even now, four years later, something in me wants to fight that belief that we are so separate from our God. So I wish I had no idea, no concept of relationship with God before becoming a Christian. Until now, I have joyfully ignored the problem, but now, I must let transformation occur so I can weep next Easter.

Four hours after going to bed, I went to sleep.

smile, you have a bear

2007-07-20T16:01:00.000-06:00

I like to encourage people, but today it is I who have been encouraged.

This has, in ways I can not write of, been a dark month. It is also the month that marks my first anniversary at work. First Emily wrote the nicest announcement about me; then I had an unexpected e-card to celebrate the day; and now, a co-worker stopped by with Mr. Smiley Bear.

She is task-oriented. Most of the time she walks at a dead run. You know she accomplishes in one day what the rest of us accomplish in a week. So she came rushing toward my cubicle and handed me something with the words, "Here, you can have this for awhile." Have what?

In my hands was a purple bear stuffed inside a bag with smiley faces. "Hello," reads the paper paper-clipped to the side, "I'm the 'make your day' bear! Enjoy me for a while, then pass me along to someone who you'd like to make their day! Mr. Smiley Bear". Like I was supposed to do, I smiled.

I didn't know if the giving of the bear was thought-out or if she just needed it off her desk. Either way, the bear came at the right time.

What a creative idea to quietly share encouragement in the office. I hope you can use it.

monotonous?

2007-07-11T09:08:00.000-06:00

Paint me a picture, she said. Tell me what a day in the life of our marriage would look like. So he told her.

I imagine he spoke of beginning the work mornings together. They would plan their showers around each other, grab a breakfast, and drive their separate ways. If the day allowed, they could meet for lunch when they could share a success story or how the copier broke at his office before a critical meeting, and how she spilled coffee on her new white suit minutes before meeting with an important donor. It would all be over too soon to enjoy each other or the expensive salad she hardly noticed. Part way through the afternoon, they would remind each other that she had to go here, and he had to there before they would see each other that night. And don't forget to get your cocktail dress cleaned for the banquet tomorrow.

Monotonous. That was the word she used to describe the marriage lifestyle. I laughed outright at the thought of her life ever being monotonous--maybe for a week. With your interests, I asked? What with the hiking excursions, a new book every week, trips to Europe, monthly visits with family, and dozens of friends? But I could see what she was saying.

My life could be described as monotonous, with my weekly, almost daily, schedule of housework. The work week seems unending and sometimes futile as I repeat the actions of yesterday--sweep, make dinner, wash dishes, make the bed, throw in a load of laundry, tug-of-war with the persistent dog in between chores. I do it this way so I have time to play or work with Mark on the weekends. That's what keeps it interesting.

"Play or work" doesn't sound exciting either, but every weekend is so different. We have put on a roof, loaded the two tons of shingles into a dumpster, camped, visited my parents, terraced the hill in our yard, planted, grown a lawn, repaired the sprinkler system, watched movies, hosted several guests, and a number of other activities. Simple. We have a simple life, but it is not monotonous. The interesting, significant parts are in the details.

god is in the details

2007-07-05T09:40:00.000-06:00

The voice mail said I had to reschedule my doctor's appointment. Since I expected Mark would miss this one, and I was eager to talk to the doc, I rescheduled for a day earlier. The incident, without there being anything out of the ordinary, niggled at me.

The next morning we were given the time and location of Kesha's memorial service. If the doctor's office hadn't called and rescheduled, I would have missed the service. It brought a huge smile to my face. Despite my doubts, God declared He truly is in the details.

A couple months ago a panel was asked to share about prayer. One lady said to pray for the details.

I shy from praying for details. Rather, I should say, I avoid praying for particular outcomes. If you are praying for details, the easier it is to pray for a particular outcome. God has shown, too many times, that His outcomes are better, so I don't like to tell Him what to do. I don't like praying for details.

Then something like this happens. It is important to me to attend Kesha's memorial service. I was concerned it would take place over the weekend while I was out of town. God knew that, even though I did not address Him with my concern. I had decided to wait and not be anxious about the time and date of the service. Before I could get anxious about my conflict of interests--important doctor's visit v. memorial service--He resolved the conflict. That was huge, and causes me to trust Him with all the details.

it could have been me

2007-06-29T11:49:00.000-06:00

My first thought was: "I am so insensitive; I am not going to cry. How awful of me." Next thing I knew, I was crying.

The fear and shock kept me rooted to the chair before tip-toeing upstairs for a supply of kleenex. Once there, I knew I needed to hear Mark's voice before he went to work. Risking the chance he could be in the shower, yet he answered the phone, and I couldn't speak.

Relief flooded through my eyes at having him at the other end of the phone. "Sorry..." was all I could say for a few minutes as he waited quietly, and perhaps a little upset at the other end. Finally I muttered through my weeping, "My co-worker was stabbed to death. I am so scared: IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME." Finally, he pulled enough of the details out of me to understand.

I have had trouble sleeping past six o'clock in the morning. That morning, I chose to respond to my natural clock, which meant I had time to spare before going to work. Instead of settling down to tea and a book in the sunroom that morning, I decided to treat myself to a small latte and lemon loaf from Starbuck's. I really wanted steamed milk with something sweet. Heading to the car, I felt I forgot something. Maybe it was just because I threw my routine off by twenty minutes, but then I remembered my book. Still, something was not right.

I drove by my office about the time the murder would have taken place. I thought about just grabbing a cup of coffee from the coffee pot and adding cold milk to it. But I continued a block further to Starbuck's.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I retraced my drive twenty minutes later and saw the two cop cars blocking our back entrance, the sheriff doing a u-turn past me to join them, and then seeing all the yellow tape at the far end of our parking lot. Surely, this was just a burglary? There are other businesses that line that part of the parking lot...

Susan greeted me at the door. "Go to the chapel. It's not good news." I knew I wanted my hands free, so I dropped my purse at my desk on the way. Bad news could mean a lot of things. No one is dead, I told myself, because I didn't want it to be so.

"Did you hear what happened?"

I shook my head.

"Kesha was stabbed to death."

After talking to Mark, I had enough sense about me to realize this was probably personal and nothing to be afraid of. A stabbing, a single woman, outside of her work building--it suggested someone familiar with her footsteps, hers alone. This turned out to be true.

So, that morning, it probably would not have been me. At some point, though, I could have become someone's target. It could have been me. In an instant, I was my mother receiving the news that I was gruesomely killed; I was me, at college, with my dad telling me Mom had been the victim of a murder, not the victim of her health; I was Kesha, in terror, confronting the man with one last hope he was a good man. I never, ever, want to be in the shoes of any one of those women; I never, ever, want the women in my family to be in those shoes either. So I tried to pray against that between my choking fear.

I almost felt hopeless as I imagined her daughters and mother taking the news. They know Christ though. They have hope, and rejoice beyond their own grief.

you are the branches

2007-06-29T10:13:00.000-06:00

"I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." JESUS

Last week, the president of our mission shared that grape vines require significant pruning to produce good fruit. Vines produce branches in three stages. The final stage is worthless, so the branch must be cut back to nothing that it might begin the fruit-producing cycle again.

I understood how I could apply this gardening technique to my own spiritual growth. If nothing else, it could give me patience the next time God is improving upon my character. But this…

I knew the Bible said somewhere that all things are worked for His good; I had been working on resting God’s sovereignty in all things; and I wanted to see this immediately following Kesha’s murder. What good could possibly come from this?

The analogy of the vines returned to my mind. Did He mean to prune this branch to the point of death that others might produce good fruit for His glory? How? She was such a solid, private, behind-the-curtain character of our show. How could we respond, or what are we waiting for, that would glorify Him?

becoming big

2007-06-25T11:51:00.000-06:00

I’ve reached that dreaded stage of the pregnancy. You raised the concern that there would be a point where I looked fat, not pregnant. You were right. That’s what I look like now.

Because of this, I hesitated to put on the outfit that I did. It was mixed feelings that I grinned and winced interchangeably at my co-worker’s enthusiasm. She is genuine as she exclaims, “You’re cute. You’re so cute!”

Her attitude is such a contrast from mine, and she reminds me that I should change my attitude. My internal monologue should echo hers. Instead, I tell myself, “Resist the urge to diet. Resist the urge to diet.” All the books say I should steadily gain wait, a pound a week, for the next three months.

Tomorrow morning I’ll try her approach! “How cute. How exciting. Mark, bring your stethoscope and let’s see what we can hear. Isn’t it beautiful?” It seems awkward to me, but it will be better than what I am doing now.

locks of love

2007-06-20T10:49:00.001-06:00

To tell you the truth, it was a Beyond The Call story that did this to me. I inherited the script about a little girl who joyfully gives away her hair to Locks of Love. Her courage and selflessness touched me.

Several weeks later into the editing process it came again to my attention. I wanted to know more and visited the Locks of Love website. One page was filled with pictures from donors and recipients. Pictures, worth a thousand words, persuaded me to part with my dear possession.

I am one of those people who questions my uniqueness and contribution to the world. It is a question that has plagued me near twenty-two years. People have always commented that my hair is a gift. True, if I ever dwelt positively upon my looks it would start with my hair. That and my eyes are the only things I could be vain about. I needed to prevent that from happening.

My hair was exactly the length I dreamed it would be for my wedding and wedding night. Then it decided to grow like a weed. Just as it was nearly long enough to part with, it decided to get scraggly. Now or never. I called my hair dresser.

Apparently when she changed her name after the divorce, she also changed jobs. So I went to Super Cuts to get my hair off my head before it was no longer suitable to donate. When I walked in, I knew I should walk out.

The two girls were as immature and unprofessional as they come. When it came to cutting hair they had no pride in their work. One, the one cutting my hair, joked about how she would have to be God to remember her customers, and if she did get fired that week, she'd be happy. Fired! What did she do to deserve that?

In the end, my hair was cute. The experience was so traumatic that I was nervous when
Mark came home. He loves it. Once all the attention dies down at work--it is a startling change--I'll be able to enjoy it too.

san isabel lake

2007-06-18T09:43:00.000-06:00

Soft, lush grass piled beneath shimmering aspens. How could you not relax in a place like this?

Highway 36 was busy. At least half the traffic were rumbling Harleys. Because they, their passengers, and everyone around us spelled vacation, there was nothing disrupting about them.

We had a rough start to our camping expedition when we couldn't find a camping spot in the park I selected. A few miles down the road we found a lovely hodge-podge of a recreation park. This idyllic hill boasted everything from full hook-ups to a honeymoon cabin. They gave us a sloped spot away from the road beneath the aspens. We made it work even though I rolled into Mark every two hours all night long.

With every giggle, shriek, and howl at the moon from the kids camping below us came a pang of anticipation. We talked about how much more fun it will be when our kids are old enough to run. Then I visited the bathroom in the morning. One mother complained how she had been awake since 5:30 that morning mentally packing the trailer to go home that morning. We talked again about how much more work it will be when we have kids. I'll have to be organized so I can still enjoy camping!

The Nintendo chairs I have scoffed at for months finally proved their worth. We were able to snuggle comfortably close to our fire. Then, in the morning, I propped mine up in the shade and read from Valley of Vision. It was a perfect time of prayer until it got way too hot.

After a lovely breakfast we headed to San Isabel Lake. It had been two years since I saw it last, just a couple months before meeting Mark. I was in pursuit of Bishop's Castle, enjoying my drive through a new mountain range, when I came around the bend astonished. The sunlight was pure so the little lake nestled beneath the mountain tops glistened bright blue. There were few boats lazy on its surface. A few families fished from the shores. Other families and couples meandered on the path that encircled one side of the lake. I remember being dazzled by the bright colors and the calm that touched every living thing. Could it be real? It would cost me to drive around and look, so I moved on until some day that I could return.

As we drove near, I wondered how it would appear to me a second time. It was the same, but not a surprise. Eagerly, I helped clear camp so we could take the raft into the midst of this blue magic. I had never been on a raft, and was pleasantly surprised with how comfortable it was. I was nearly lulled to sleep. We drifted along for nearly three hours. Despite a hat and sunscreen I got my first real burn in years.

Wish you had been there.

what pregnant women do

2007-06-07T14:17:00.000-06:00

We have too much going on all at once right now. It is probably time to take inventory of all the projects and decide what is important and what can wait.

All it took was a discouraging week at work, and I was fighting the blues. Usually, I cure this with good company or an early night to bed. But this is not PMS, this is pregnancy. This calls for a new strategy.

What I needed was a project. My first attempt at a project was a needlepoint for baby’s room. Two flowers later I was crying. Even though my stitches were accurate, they came loose and looked awful. Mark pulled it out of the trashcan and gently suggested I start over another time.

The next thing to do was start hauling rocks off the hill so we can start to reshape our hill and build retaining walls. The sun happened to feel good on my back when I got home one evening, so I changed into work clothes and tore up a section of the hill. Not exactly effective or conclusive, but it gives me a little workout for my arms on nice evenings. Lately, as it did the first night, the sky clouded over with rain.

Then I needed something to do indoors,after dark and after my house chores were done. Happening across an idea web-page hosted by Lowes I decided to refinish a table. For suggestions and to build confidence, I discussed the project with a co-worker in our communications department. At Hobby Lobby, I selected stencils, paint, brushes, paper, and decoupage.

Back home I pulled out the sander and all the sand paper I could find. I made a mess, a real mess. At some point, I knew, I would have to call upon Mark's expertise. I called upon it too late.

He didn’t laugh when I showed him because I had just created hard work for him. "It's going to take a lot of elbow grease to reshape the legs." Ooops! Later he said, "If you are going to paint wood, you only need to rough up the finish." Double ooops.

Instead of being done by now, I walk into the table every morning on my way to work. While I wait for the time Mark can pay attention to the table legs, I continue to leave a wake of projects around the house. Now there is a huge planter that is waiting for soil and herbs, the one sunny patch in our garden waiting for tomatoes and peppers, one guest bed is covered with pictures waiting to be hung or framed, and the table in the sun room is covered in thank you notes.

So that, and dragging your husband down to McDonalds for an extra large serving of fries just before bed time, that is what a pregnant woman does.

big boy's toys

2007-05-22T15:37:00.000-06:00

Initiating marital diplomacy, I struck out on a war path with determination. I was looking for a lawnmower. If I heard, "I need a lawnmower," one more time...

Instead of listening to the lament and unfulfilled intention of weeding through garage sales on a precious Saturday morning; instead of feeling the burn of frustration; instead of letting that frustration escalate; instead of letting this plight linger, I took it into my own hands.

No ad posted in the newspapers or on-line went unread for most of three weeks until I found the lawnmower with a mostly honest seller.

It runs fantastic, she said, when it runs. She failed to mention that it was bright green, that a few loose screws make it rattle like mad, and the spark plug was stuck.

When I showed up at our house with the lawnmower in back we didn't have much time except to eat dinner and drive to Home Depot. We had a loan to apply for and nearly one ton of materials to load into the truck for our new roof. Before we could get into the truck, Mark had removed at least one piece of the mower and was working hard at taking apart another. I hovered, with purse on my shoulder until he could finally drag himself away from his new project.

We returned about an hour later with sweat still dripping off him from loading nineteen sixty pound bags of shingles, twice. Then he fixated on the mower. He wanted to tinker. Even when he started to realize that it was ridiculous to continue, he wanted to tinker. Finally, something to do in his garage! It must have been fresh air to the man.

As I quietly left the garage after saying good-night, I smiled. It was not a $20 mower I had purchased, it was a $20 toy. In that case it was a much better purchase than I had imagined.

daisy maisy

2007-05-15T09:22:00.000-06:00

All afternoon my head hammered with disputes over this and that indication of selfishness on his part. I did not want to feel this way. Every fifth sentence or so, I would turn to the Lord and tell Him He had to deal with me before I got home. I believe the Bible: that I must respect my husband in deed even when my feelings are out of line. But I wear my heart on my sleeve and he usually knows that I am struggling with something.

Spirits down, I drove quietly into the garage. He was hunched over his workbench. Opening my car door for me he said, "I have a present for you."

"You do? What is it?" I peered over his shoulder to see if this was some kind of a joke or something he had created. The echoes of my disputes laughed at me.

"I got you a BB gun."

And he had. He had picked up enough brass on the range to buy me my toy. So happy was I that I immediately helped him find a target and site in the gun. Purse, papers, and any news were forgotten in our spontaneous competition. Feet planted in my low heels and stretching my suit shoulders to their max, I shot at the bullseye with determination and concentration. The ultimate relaxation for me.

"I haven't eaten anything all day," he commented.

With a pang came the wifely guilt. "I guess this isn't getting dinner made--is it?" So we agreed that I while I assembled dinner he would set up the target in the hallway. After dinner we would compete. Before we dispersed to our tasks I planted a kiss on his lips that raised his eyebrows.

"You're happy then?"

"Ummhmm." So happy that all morning I have told anyone who will listen how thoughtful my husband is.

carrying

2007-04-27T12:45:00.000-06:00

I'm carrying a secret. Hush--don't tell.

I am carrying more than that, and where all the world will see. We have not shared this with many people until confirming it with a doctor. This is hard everytime I talk to a friend, my in-laws, or when they ask for announcements at chapel.

It is harder when it feels that everyone I talk to glances at my belly more than once during our conversation. An expert could probably tell that my pelvis has adjusted already. But my co-workers, I hope, only notice that I have a little padding where I used to be flat. If they suspect anything, they are polite, and will be pleasantly surprised in a week or two.

Per my nature, I have checked out a pile of books from the library with more on reserve. Who knew that I should have read the preparatory material before my wedding night? It seemed that "Intended for Pleasure" was all we needed to have a healthy start. No one mentioned what you should do if you were prepared to get pregnant.

So then I panicked that I had already compromised the baby's health. My patient husband stood by as I, with big nutritional book in hand, poured over the prenatal vitamin labels; even more patiently, he served himself a helping of the grains I am experimenting with; more patiently still, he let me nervously plan the next nine months, which will inevitably NOT go as planned.

Then I step back, take a breath, and comment on the miracle taking place. "Our baby is still smaller than a dime," I tell him. Finally, I understand the excitement that surrounds the ultra-sound. When will we get to see?

Married Life

2007-04-25T08:32:00.000-06:00

How is married life? They like to ask that question. I am puzzled, then my face melts into a faraway expresion, and I reply that it is wonderful. It is the only soundbite that I have. Afterall, they understand--don't they?

I am no poet, so help me here: How do you encapsulate the thrill and quiet of your first few months of marriage?

It is the building of projects together, of eating dinner together on the back porch, of the time-consuming house work, of enjoying the sunsets from the sunroom, of waltzing in the living room with meaningful looks to the song "Small Home", of cooking together, and at the end of the evening, neither one of us has to drive anywhere. There is someone to thwart the orderliness of the house, force me to put my feet up when I am gung-ho, to laugh at my clumsiness, frighten me further after watching a scary movie--before holding me tightly in his arms. Married life is a rose--it has its thorns. But he is also there in the middle of the night when I wake from a nightmare or get too cold.

It is the absolute delight of coming home to him. My heart sings and twitters the whole twenty minutes of my commute. I can't wait.

If he is working, then I have about an hour to tidy the house and start dinner to welcome him home. He can't smell, but coming home to dinner on the stove is always a welcoming sight. Greeted by a cheerful wife, the gleeful dog, Roxanne, a clean home, and cold Guiness, a smile beams from his face. I always get a lovely hug.

Winter came back this April, but before that, when the days were long and seventy degrees mid-day, we worked a lot outside. My upbringing convinced me that home, among other things, meant home improvement projects. Since I was four-years-old, my parents and I were always working on something. If we weren't, it meant it was to move. Mark and I bought a house with lots of improvement projects. Each one brings us closer together and makes the house feel more and more like home.

Mondays were difficult. He has the day off, and I would have to go to work. All day I would want to be at home, throwing the ball for Roxanne, tending to my roses, and loving my husband.

If you have soundbite for all of this, it would be appreciated.

Dingle, home of really, really good food

2007-04-20T10:50:00.000-06:00

To D.,

When you think of Ireland, you might think of sheep, green fields, cliffs diving into the sea, and Guinness. Guinness and Whiskey are the only notable culinary items the island has contributed to the rest of the world. This is a shame since they pride themselves in scrumptiously, fresh produce, local lamb, fresh dairy, and excellent seafood. Sheep sheparding is hard, dirty work, so maybe they never took the time to create something special of all their delicious food sources. Everything tastes good enough on its own--why change a good thing?

But there is a little town, a slow town, nestled between the coastal mountain ranges that did take the time to marry one taste with another into sumptuous courses. Dingle Town. Much to the townsfolk’s dismay, this little harbor has officially been renamed to something pronounced An-dang-un. Whatever it is called, their chefs know how to cook and their bands know how to play.

This is where I had the most delicious chowder in my life (which is saying something since I lived most of my life on the coast). I didn’t know anyone could make seafood taste that good. The chef would not give me his recipe. Not that it matters to a Coloradan. The ingredient list probably includes Dingle Bay shrimp, boiling the clams with a dash of Dingle Bay sea water, grilling the white fish over Irish peat, or some equally local particularity--all of which is unavailable here.

A quick search for recipes from Dingle landed me here: http://icecreamireland.com/. You are much better than I at watching sugar intake, but these recipes do look delicious. You’ll have to visit him when you go, as well as Dingle Crystal (http://www.dinglecrystal.ie/). The owner/artist of this shop rides a Harley. He had several pictures of himself seated on the Harley and toasting the camera with a wine glass of his own creation. Beautiful stuff.

Being A Woman

2006-06-23T14:05:00.001-06:00

Having been sick these past three days I fell behind in preparations for this weekend. Perhaps it was by staying up late last night that I brought on my regression even though I had followed my doctor's orders, i.e. M.'s recommendations, and swallowed the medicine he brought the other night.

Anyway, it was dark out, the breakfast bread was baking in the oven, the bacon was cooling, non-perishable food, clothes, and weather protection were tightly packed in my car, and I was cleaning my rifles. If you could have seen me--I was thinking of you--you would have laughed at your Caiti being in her element: cooking for her man and cleaning her guns. I was completely satisfied with my contributions to the trip, feeling very feminine of all things, even though I knew there was plenty I haven't thought of. As our trip reveals my thoughtlessness, I know he will still appreciate me, and we will laugh.

It reminded me of my mom. I used to think she did so much that was unnecessary for our road trips. Surely she could have made things simpler and enjoyed an hour or two more of sleep before we left at the crack of dawn. At times, my dad would voice my own concerns at her investment into our trips, but she was wiser and determined. We always ate well, saved a few dollars, and at least forty minutes when we dove into her sandwhiches and devoured our apples in the cab of the truck. We didn't always thank her for it, and must have made her feel bad when we said she didn't have to, but she knew she had taken the best possible care of us.

I could not always distinguish her motivations from responses to my dad's overpowering will, so I had graduated from college by the time I understood this insistence of hers to stay up late and get up early the day we would depart on a trip was purely her idea. This was part of her being a woman, a wife, and a mother. I get that now.

The Barnacle

2006-05-10T21:12:00.000-06:00

She always said he was like a snail. If you touch him, ever so slightly, the wrong way, he would retreat into his shell. She said this because she never played with barnacles.

Barnacles have this amazing hand that waves in the water like a long eye-lash. They eat this way, and test for danger. When I brushed the lash with my finger it would vanish into the recess of the crusty white barnacle. All the beauty and gracefullness about the barnacle went with it. At this time, when the lash is hidden, one can only see the hard, uninviting shell. I understand, however, that the barnacle, the large ones, are an edible delicacy behind their ugly shell.

The snail is beautiful, perhaps more so, when he is tucked inside his shell. Then, you can always crush it. But the barnacle--no one smashes a barnacle.

I would wait, in those days, until the lash would creep out, one little tentacle, and then another, and then they would all come, and then they would come boldly out as far as they could come.

So it was with him. The door would slam, and maybe a lock put in place. I don’t remember how it was done, but she would be allowed inside the room. Finally, he would believe no ill was intended. If it were early enough, he’d come back out of the room with impressive silence. By noontime the next day he might be normal, having tested the waters every hour to make sure he was not under the perceived attack.

the worst wish ever that could come true

2006-04-18T20:14:00.000-06:00

"I wish you were here and we could blast 80's, disco, and indy music really loud and dance in bright dresses and drink cocktails. What a wish! I think I will go to bed." That is what I wrote her. I think she will understand -- life has been just distressing enough that I think this could be fun.

Applying for Jobs

2006-03-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

The funny thing was, was that I got wasted, totally drunk, for the first time, three weeks before I graduated from college. A swarm of alumni visited campus that week, for no particular reason, and assembled at a house. Because I was not talking, I was drinking, or maybe because I was talking (to Ben Coutney), I was drinking, and after I had drunk I would not be quiet. Maybe that was why I never got drunk before--I never talked.

When I got back to the dorm room, unable to walk for myself like any respectable, upstanding RA I plopped myself in front of the computer. Theresa squinted at me from her bed, “What are you doing?”

“I have to e-mail the manager at Zingerman’s. I promised him I would before tomorrow morning.”

“Caitie, go to bed. Do that tomorrow,” she advised before going to sleep.

But I wrote. I do not know what I wrote, but it got me the job anyway. I wonder, as I sit here applying for a new job, if I should not try that again and order a beer.

Train Journey

2006-03-12T16:06:00.000-07:00

I.

I was four-years-old the first time I thought outside of myself. Our pre-school had an interesting playground, in the era before playgrounds came in primary colored plastic and sat close to the ground. We had a metal train sitting off to the side in the tanbark, and we would sit there for a few minutes at a time, pretending we were on a journey, before our energy transformed the peaceful trip into a train robbery. One fine morning we sat a little longer, I remember because I had time to think.

The other kids, I think, were talking, which was what kept us there. As usual, I had little or nothing to contribute, so was feeling the outsider again. Why? Why me? I did not know who I was asking, but I knew there was someone to ask this one question, and only one who could answer. Surely there were others you could have brought to this life who would have done a better job with what was alotted to them, who would have been happier and made others happier than I am doing now. So why did you chose me? Could you not have left me alone where I was before this? I almost cried. I could have gotten away with crying because I cried once every morning between five minutes to an hour after my parents drove away. At least that cry was explainable. This question and feeling of deep loss and loneliness, I knew, was not shared by the giggling group around me.

“You’re It!” one screamed as he hit me and everyone scrambled in different directions. The question was forgotten for the rest of the day, but would never leave me as I walked through my school years lonely, frightened, and hyper-analytical. I was It, alright, I was chosen to live a life I did not choose, and I lived it running around trying to pass my curse to someone else so I could be like everyone else. But I was a slow runner, lacked strategy, and lived life in defense, so I was stuck in the position to which I was born.

II.

“But indeed, O man, who are you to reply against God? Will the thing formed say to him who formed it, “Why have you made me like this?” Does not the potter have power over the clay, from the same lump to make one vessel for honor and another for dishonor?” [Romans 9:20-1]

A few years later I secretly began to assimilate the ideas I heard in my parents’ conversations. I believed that we had some choice in who we belonged to, which meant that I had some choice in being a part of the family I feared. It also meant that I had been given an opportunity to reconcile with these two people whom I might have offended in a previous life. I clung to this idea to bear the unbearable wounds I collected each year.

Hope wore thin, and the conclusion that eventually life would become worth living after the reconciliation (which I thought would come about through constant service and compliance) was not enough. I started asking why I, or anyone, would chose to put our family together, to put three people together through an unusual chain of facts and events to produce so much hurt? I started to think I had nothing to do with the decision.

Now I am told that I am not supposed to ask questions like this, at all. The fact that I never arrived at satisfactory conclusions to the questions that started on the train were probably part of the journey that led me to Christ. I had hoped, of course, to find some answers in Christ to my questions. I find not answers, but redemption and grace and hope--let this be sufficient.

Three Books

2006-03-01T23:29:00.000-07:00

The three books I would bring to the speed-dating table would be:
1. The Little Prince -- which summarizes my idea of love and friendship.
2. The Lost Pictures of ---- by Van Allsburg -- to laugh over, to speak of wonder, imagination, dreams, and childhood.
3. The Scarlet Pimpernel -- because I want a man with the honor and courage of Sir Percy. I have met no better man in literature and only one with such character in life.

The three books I would bring to the island would be
1. Bible -- to live by
2. Frankenstein -- to cry by
3. Alice In Wonderland -- to laugh by

The three most obscure books on my bookshelf
1. Peter Ibetsen
2. The Broad Highway by Jeffrey Farnol
3. Old grammar books

Because of Christ

2006-03-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

She was late because she got lost. She said that she was too independent to call me sooner. Because it was getting late I changed the plans from going out to staying in. I put the water on to boil, turned on the oven, pulled out a couple baking pans, and made fresh muffins. I made it look effortless and casual. For the first time in my life I was a super woman.

Then we talked as only two women can talk over a pot of tea, even though we hardly know each other. This does not matter, we have both agonized over careers and love and friendship, so we talk like old friends and about old friends. This one and that one, she tells me, are getting married. I add a couple more to the list. She inquires after the possibility of my own marriage and I answer frankly. So I show her a picture of us taken at Thanksgiving, and she gets to see his humor in the picture he placed on my screensaver. He is dressed from riding his motorcycle to our Sunday evening social hour, and before playing with Grace, our friends' child, he jokingly sits on her tricycle. Her mother thinks this is funny too, and takes the photo which now scowls from my computer screen.

My guest looks thoughtfully at me as we move toward the door. "You certainly can not be taken at face-value.... I would never have guessed... all this..." her gesture means to include the insights she gleaned from our conversation. She said this before, last time she was visiting, that something about me had changed. She tried to describe me as she had known me in college, and she imagines, for some reason that all this was beneath that surface, when I laugh. I was the way you thought I was then, I assure her, because I did not know myself that I could be a competent, intelligent, and interesting woman. I regret to think of the people who did believe this, and never got to know me the way they wanted to.

She wants to know if it was work that brought me out of my shell, which I agree to, then quickly disagree. Work, I explained, was more likely to stuff me back into that shell. In the describing why I forgot to tell her how Christ had changed me. When I finally sought His intimacy is when I started getting comments like those above.

I should have told her about the time I sat on a rock and really thought about that rock--it's texture, shape, temperature, size, smell, and the way it felt to sit upon it. I knew, with my feet dangling off the ground, what God wanted for me, He wanted to be my rock and my salvation. So I asked to know Him so well I could rest on Him as I rested upon the rock.

I also had a theory behind my shyness: I had no self-confidence. As a Christian, this meant I had no confidence in Christ, so I started praying from Timothy to know no shame over my belief, but to have confidence. My belief, faith, and knowledge grew. My confidence in Christ grew, and I can not remember the last time I was scared shy like I used to be. I have moods where I prefer not to socialize, and people believe I am not feeling well, but the fear is forgotten.

Since I did not tell her, I wanted you to know.

There is Nothing Sexier than Character

2006-02-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

Your question got me to thinking, and then to remembering, and the result was a story letter that was too personal and too obscure to send. Although it might be the answer for some others, my collection of stories was not the answer you are looking for, except this one.

We were sitting on the stairs talking. He was telling me, without saying so, that he had chosen to love me. Coming from a man of his twenty-eight-years’ experience it was enough to send my heart and my mind reeling. My mind was popping with objections and hopes, but mostly objections.

If he could feel this way in a few, short weeks, I wanted to be careful and I wanted to be quick. That was before I knew what he intended to endure while I sorted myself out. Instead of relishing a new relationship, I jumped straight to the practical, hard questions, because if there were good reasons to terminate the relationship I wanted to know about them immediately to spare our hearts.

Despite my previous research in the subject of Christ-centered relationships I no longer had all the questions at my finger-tips. I had not expected to need them at my disposal so soon. So I tried to explain, without sharing too much of myself--I was not ready for that yet--that I had no models of the relationship I yearned to experience. I did not know what it took to build the foundation of a healthy relationship, or if I possessed the tools to build one, or if I had the discernment to know the difference between a healthy relationship or a bad one. He told me that the foundation was already in place in the strength of our characters. And yes, I possessed a good character, including characteristics he particularly admired.

It was a message, in a way, I had heard before, that one good person deserves another. One good person desires another. In the past being an interesting person took precedence over character, and it often felt that my developing character was being overlooked. For the first time in my life I had affirmation, honor, and grace bestowed upon me, and honestly I did not know how to respond.

So when you find her, the woman you love for who she is, surround her with this, continually, as long as it takes. Until then, abide with Christ. Abiding with Christ prepared me to be a good woman for Him and also for M. The same grace will be allotted to you, the fruits of which, I told you before, I look forward to celebrating.

Inspired by "Child in Aspens"

2006-02-19T20:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a child I crawled like a child, very cautiosly at first. Then I crawled faster than my mother could walk, but she always had a way of reaching me.

When I was a child I walked like a child, with abandon. With newfound power and freedom I burst forth across the wide open field, until I reached the fence and I came running back home. Or I fell; I was closer to the ground back then.

When I was a child I danced like a child. I danced as a princess in her golden ballroom twirling and twirling and twirling around. When I was done twirling, I would start running, and I would run far, far away.

When I was a child there was no end and the horizon was a mystery I wanted to discover. The golden forest had no end, for I could not walk to the other edge. The ocean met a sky as elusive as the moon. As far as our boat could go the ocean stretched and stretched without end.

My steps grew longer until one day I saw that the trees, the golden trees, stopped growing at certain elevations. My motorboat was stronger and took me to another coast. On the other side I found strange customs and new forests which led to other oceans. There was a pattern, but no answer, and no longer any mystery.

My weary steps grow shorter so to carry me back home to those endless days in the golden aspen and the shining sea. When my hair is sterling I will go on twirling, twirling, twirling endlessly.

Old Letters Do Not Lie Like Memories

2006-02-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

If anyone has a copy of your “fingerpaintings for God” it would be me, and I am positive I overlooked it in the pile of letters and printed blogs I just sorted through. It is a shame that I can not locate it because it proved, beautifully, if I remember it correctly, a point that was made in Sunday school today. Although I was disappointed by the loss of that illustration I was also a little disappointed in the words I encountered during the search, words written long ago to and from a good many people during my search for God.

Lately I have been asked to retell that story, and I have told it more or less vaguely because that has been the right thing to do. But I was miffed by my assignment to write a testimony being reminded that I always wanted a more definate story than the one I got. When I told my friend that I wished mine had been more tragic and therefore more black and white he scoffed me, which made a point: that God wrote His own story and who am I to despise it? So I told it, as clearly as I could, with what thematic details I could remember. And it worked.

I did not save a soul, but my audience loved what took place in my life. They saw what I saw, that God had pursued me all my life. He also waited until I was in a safe place to bear the gospel before He gave me the opportunity to know Him. It is a good testimony for me, fast becoming a reformed Christian, and with a very sensual sense of the supernatural.

Embracing my story for the first time, I eagerly wrote the outline for a book, and the following day unearthed reminders of that difficult journey. It was a spiritual war too huge for our imagination, one friend wrote, and it was probably well for everyone that we could not comprehend its vastness. It amazes me to think it was so much bigger than anyone of us witnessed; there were nights, feeling suffocated by a vortex, I thought I would never wake up. Those days I did not much care if I did. As a result of this, however, I developed a sense of God’s love that perhaps I would have missed if I had murdered someone or been left for dead after a rape or over-dosing on drugs--the types of things that too many people can relate to.

Like my the story surrounding my physical birth, my spiritual birth is a story that once I wrapped my head around it, convinced me how special I am to God. It also convinced me that I was never in control of my choice to receive him, though I proved to be as difficult a child for Him as I was a good child to my human parents. I know that I was also difficult for my friends. (As my Sunday School group debates over the definition of a community of grace I want to stand up and tell them about you, for you all were the model of God's grace. I do not do this because I do not know how to recreate such a community, which is the point of our discussions at church.) The letters I carefully preserved from that time are as a smell: I am transported back to those horrible, dark, lost days. My letters demonstrate my confusion, and yours show how delicately you handled that fact. I am pleased to see that the problems that once seemed unsurmountable have grown small. Some people hardly recognize me.

Thank you again to those who bore with me, for trials produce patience and God will complete that good work which He began in you. You will be hearing more about this shortly.

Philadelphia

2006-01-30T22:42:00.000-07:00

If we were to talk about Philadelphia I would tell you two things. The first would be of walking down South Street as an intimidated, introverted stranger to the city when my eyes opened wide. There, sauntering down the street were two overweight people, a man and a woman, a couple I suppose, who looked almost identical. It was not the people my eyes bugged out of my head for and turned my blood cold, it was their apparel: two colorful, thick snakes curled around their necks. Yellow. I think one of the snakes was yellow. At the time I guessed these snakes were boa constrictors, they were that thick. Beneath them, assuming I had the courage to wear a snake like a necklace, I would have bent my back from the weight. The people with me were momentarily amazed, but not shaken like me, so I had to regain composure quickly. By then the street was filling with all sorts of the early night freaks which did nothing to improve my opinion of cities in general.

In an antique shop where we took rest, I cleared my way to the back corner of the second floor and looked out the window. A narrow alley, hardly wide enough for the alley cat, filtered gray air. The tree, the pale, persevering tree brought a smile to my face. I was not alone, grasping for a little clean nature in the midst of a dark city.

The second thing I would mention is to skip the Philadelphia Cheese Steak, but walk to the end, almost the very end of South Street, before you reach the dock, for a gourmet pizza. We were looking forward to eating at a Thai restaurant I remembered from my first trip to the city, but it was closed. We settled for pizza. The pizza turned out to be the best I had ever eaten. Thin crust, my favorite, white sauce, fresh mozzarella, green peppers, and proscuitto. It was simple, fresh, and delicious. We had one of our most pleasant meals together because it was all about the food.

I have no desire to see Philadelphia ever again. I am one of two people I know who does not like the city. That would be the third, and final, thing I would have to say about it.

2005-12-08T21:01:00.000-07:00

These are the nights where every book, a food memoir, a reformed theologist’s view of God’s sovereignty, the Bible--three marked translations, a classic on personal development, and a biography of Benedict Arnold are equally tempting. So I play a game wit h myself and sit down to the food memoir when I am too tired to eat.

My face tightens as I can not help subcosciously mulling over the letters to write, the test to study for, that I need to visit the gym, write a resume, cook dinner for next week, call home, write a story, go to work for the fifty-fifth hour this week, strategize my next career move, worry that I am not faithful over my finances, MBA? MFA? Seminary? all three?, that my kitchen is a mess, I have no vacuum cleaner bags, my desk is a disaster, Christmas shopping!, I don’t want to move again, Christmas parties!, and something here about Mastering the French Art of Cooking--o, yes, I am reading a food memoir and my brow is taut.

2005-12-08T20:50:00.000-07:00

Ninety minutes before closing time the customer walked in, looked at me helping another customer, and grumped around the office. This was the customer who would not look me in the eye, or listen to me, or leave, or take the rental, and we eventually argued until it took everything out of me. Then there were other customers, the regulars with the regular complaints and Chris stuck in traffic, and one red-eyed customer who could not locate her driver’s license. And then it was over.

I wanted a hug, I wanted to cry, I wanted to go home, I had things to accomplish, and they were all in different directions. On this drive I nearly T-boned a car that zoomed in front of me, but stopped in time for the car behind me to crack my tow hitch receptor. Again I wanted a hug, I wanted to cry, I wanted to home, I had things to accomplish, and they were still in opposite directions of each other.

2005-12-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

The picture of my dad and I has sat on my dresser almost since the day it was taken; and it has always been a sad favorite of mine. My countenance, just my eyes, makes this picture memorable.

I owned two dresses at the time that were almost identical. One was borwn; one was greeen. In my Kindergarten class picture I appear in the brown one, but at home I appear in the green one with the white colar and red trim. Beside me, my dad is dressed in an old University of Nebraska shirt he got on a business trip. These two facts, that I had re-dressed and my dad was in house clothes, indicate the rare spontaneity of the moment. Parental enthusiasm must have bubbled forth at the sight of their proud kindergarten princess drawing a camera from the dark recess of a desk drawer.

My bangs were long, hovering over my expressive eyebrows, and I must have spent much time blowing them out of my eyes all week. From the length of my hair, I know that I had convinced my dad that summer of the feminine virtues of long hair. (Today he is disappointed that I have shortened it to my shoulder blades.) Behind us is the old green boat.

The old green boat! We would take that boat fishing in the San Francisco Bay. Not a paitent fishmerman, I would curn up in the space by the passenger’s feet to dog-nap. Usually I would wake a couple hours later to find we had pulled into the harbor. Occaisionally Dad would already have trailered the boat. Considering the hours I spent sleeping on fishing trips it is a small miracle that I remember fishing in the bay at all. When we bought our new boat, Laureen, I lost my cubby hole and had to spend more time watching the poles dip and rise, dip and rise, dip and rise until I could yell, “Fish on the line.”

But the picture. I was not thinking about boats or fishing when Dad and I posed for the picture. I was focused on mydad who was tickling me. Mom was frustrated because she had a difficult, almost impossible, time of focusing the camera. Dad and I were no help. As soon as I had settled down with a big pearly grin tucked by my dad’s elbow he would lean over and tickle me, or pretend to, which was worse. We are only a family of three, but we acted like a family of six who could never coordinate for a family picture. Finally, Mom took the picture; but after ten minutes of this I was not a trusting daughter, so she caught a genuine smile, but I am glancing out of the corner of my eyes for Dad’s next move. His grin that usually filled the crinkles of his eyes, extends to his mouth, pleased with the joke.

You can not see, since my mom is on the other side of the camera, but we are a happy family for once. I wish the moment endured. I wish I had been too young, or less introspective, or in some way unaware how precious the snap shot had been. Dinner that night probably rang with laughter and I would delight in being five-years-old, but the next would be somber and I would grow a little older. When I was older I carried this picture across the country with me, tacking it firmly to the wall or tucking it carefully from view, with the ebb and flow of my frustration. If we could have fun like that one day, why could we not have had fun like that most days?

2005-12-08T20:41:00.000-07:00

When you tell me how your family lived off a sack of beans and home-grown vegetables I think, "Ugh, I don't like vegetables." You might have noticed. There is something romantic, from a writer's perspective, about the family of four eating together what their toil and God provided, not in that order, not in a minister’s house. You all, Mom, Dad, Sis, and Brother eat your share gratefully and heartily because you have worked all day. It is a satisfying scene, like mashed potatoes. At the same time, from the culinary perspective, twenty years of this food fare is dull. One dish of a home-grown vegetable, however, discounts my reaction--there is nothing dull about freshness.

short of time and butter

2005-08-25T17:35:00.000-06:00

"You had the day off yesterday! What did you bake?"

They laughed at his eagerness; I laughed at his assumption.

"I baked nothing. I was short of time and butter."