carrying

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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"

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.