GRAMMY WAS RIGHT

Generations. We are indelibly tied together. I cannot think about Christmas without missing Grammy in her red dress crooning a slightly “dutchified” tune about Jesus in his manger. And I cannot rise from my bed on Christmas morning without remembering my grandfather’s grin beneath the blinding light of his 1960s moving picture camera. I’d never considered how early they had extracted themselves from their warm quilted beds in order to be at our house before the sun came up. They have been gone for over twenty years.  And as I remember them now, I love them all the more in retrospect.

Adoring tradition, I now find GREAT delight in tormenting my own family with maddening rituals.  Any good mother does. And despite moans of mistreatment when my children (who are now considerably taller than me) are compelled to sit upon the stairs for their annual Christmas morning picture, I am gleeful with the near certainty that they will someday force their own children to do the same. 

I begin playing Christmas carols as soon as I can get away with it. Living with a man who pretends to be Scrooge makes this a dicey proposition. I’ve loved these traditional songs since my childhood. I’ve belted them out with my family of origin gathered around my mother’s piano. I’ve sat transfixed as they were sung in the church of my childhood by an impossibly high soprano with fabulous blonde hair. I can recall caroling with gusto as frostbite threatened my fingertips and toes. The words of these carols are ingrained. So how is it that I have failed on many occasions to grasp the significance of the lyrics? Tradition has had an unexpected side effect. Immunity. 

I realized this irony when I was alone in my kitchen baking my tenth batch of Christmas cookies last December. I had reached the point when the cookies had passed from ooey-gooey and fabulously delicious to rows and rows of completely unappealing baked toil. Trying to lift the elation of the season above the looming nausea of ingesting too many carbohydrates, I was singing loudly with Josh Groban. We were managing a magnificent duet, if I do say so myself...  Our musical selection was “O Holy Night” and the previously unappreciated phrase hit me square in my over-cookied gut.

Read it as though you’d never heard it before.“He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”  This sorely overlooked and wondrous truth puts this amazing gift into just a little bit of perspective. Before the arrival of that sweet and miraculous baby in the manger, the soul had been as completely oblivious as I.

Had I been listening more closely as my grandmother crooned, I may have felt the impact 45 years sooner. 

So to my faithful blog readers (and the dedicated if not coerced friends and family who read just because they know I will ask if they have…), I wish you a joyful and blessed Christmas season.  And I pray that you too will be stopped in your busy December tracks by a new and delightful awareness of God made flesh among us.  His very breath, the promise of the greatest gift we could ever choose to receive. 

THE WORST THINGS IN THE WORLD

I've talked with a lot of grumpy people this week.  And as Thanksgiving approaches, I am considering again how important it is that we take time to be thankful for the countless and amazing blessings in life.  Like the grouches with whom I've interacted today, I'm not always good at remembering to be thankful.  But I'm working on it.  I've got a reminder on the cabinet in my office.  "If you can't find the bright side of life, polish the dull side."  

I want to tell a story, but before I do, I want you understand something important.  I'm the mother of the two most amazing people in the world.  If you are a parent, you will want to argue with me.  Don't bother, I'm tenacious.  

My son is living in another state and I miss his laughter and his fun-loving personality every single day.  He has grown into a wonderful, generous, and appreciative young man.  But this was not always the case. 

My husband Jim and I can distinctly remember the times we had to channel some pretty negative thinking into something less pessimistic. Please understand, we are a family of redheads. We tend to feel things with conviction and our son was holding true to well-established family patterns.  (It’s probably wrong to blame hair color, but so helpful to have a target for culpability…)  When little Isaac would tell us about his woes, we would attempt to redirect. “Okay Ike, now tell us five happy things.”  It didn't take long for our son to realize that voicing one miserable thought would most likely result in being forced to wrack his 6 year old brain thinking of five blessings for which he was grateful.  I remember well his adorable little face straining for answers....“Ninja turtles….Satchmo the cat….my new Nerf football….Swedish Fish…”

As our now sweet Isaac aged, his phraseology changed too.  And in time, he fine-tuned his complaints to a category we liked to call “the worst things in the world.”  He began referring to the things he disliked in this way and it soon became ridiculous how many items made the list.  (Yes, much to the dismay of my children, I am one of those annoying mothers who maintains exhaustive lists of just this type of thing…) My personal favorites included:  “Home-cooked meals three days in a row is the worst thing in the world,” and “My Mom telling people about the worst things in the world list is the worst thing in the world.” 

Gratitude is definitely a learned behavior, and one that comes with a degree of difficulty for some.  Even non-redheads can struggle to find the positive and be grateful for blessings rather than grumpy about inconveniences.  It is always easier to identify blessings in retrospect, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t work at being thankful in the moment.  Because very few people relish having to endure grouchy and ungrateful persons.  Some consider it one of the worst things in the world. 

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

I just returned from a wonderful 24 hours.


These are some thoughts from my time away.

SPIRIT OF PEACE, QUIET OUR HEARTS

Bundling myself against the cold, I set out.  The hike begins without expectations. I discover this sign on the first tree along the trail.  

Under my feet, the satisfying crunch of dropped leaves

littering the path with a vibrant stew of color

Under my feet, the crisp surrender of shimmering icy blades of grass

The morning light playing on the glistening dew like fingers on guitar strings

Under my feet, the sacred ground of the convent

A place dedicated to the Creator of it all

My silent retreat feels different this time.  Having been here before, it is easier to be still and wait.  When there is no agenda, there is no room for any kind of disappointment.  It is a safe place to just be.

As I am walking, glorious bells from the chapel peal an unexpected delight through the waking forest.  

The birds and I stop to listen.  

The grounds are not exactly as I remembered. Mighty trees and their young descendants have crashed equally to the ground.  There was no regard for seniority during last weekend's surprising October storm.  Almost all of the snow is gone now; the burden of its weight upon the brilliant hues of autumn now melted to nourish the trees so abruptly pruned.

It is a challenge to navigate these trails in light of nature's recent timber rearrangement.   But unreservedly worthwhile for those with gloves, a decent pair of boots, and ears listening for the one who imagined it all.  

I am reminded when my mouth cannot form the words my heart needs to speak.  Just be still.  When born in a place of willing dependence, every breath- a prayer. 

And so, I breathe...

And I realize once again, He has never gone away.  Ever patient, love-pursuing, He waits for me to be quiet.  

His breath is on the morning breeze, calling gently through the rustle of the trees.  He grows louder in the gathering of the massive "V" above the trees, heading south.  His fingerprints are on the sunlit moss, the craggy rocks, and the intricate veins of every leaf upon which I step.  He speaks of His living water through the soothing song of the trickling stream.  The attentive deer I pass; they know His voice.  They are constantly listening.  The sound of His words for them is not drowned out by schedules, cell phones, televisions, or meaningless chatter.  

I breathe...

Come and fill my heart with your peace.  

You alone are holy. 

These are the ones who met the silence with me. Friends:

Dorine Rosenberger, Tamara Denlinger, Donna Wilkins

Complicated Simplification

Sometimes it can be dangerous to share a fabulous idea.  Case in point…  Sitting innocently on the church pew one morning, I heard reference to an article in our denominational magazine.  The article was about a guy who rid himself of 100 things in 100 days.  To someone who feels somewhat paralyzed when surrounded by too much clutter, this sounded like a wonderful idea. 

I went home and revamped the idea, molding it into a doable project for my life.  I created a chart upon which to record each item I would release. Making my own rules, I decided that letting go of things like bitterness and negativity count as well as the tacky flowerpot I’d been saving since my teens. The first day in January seemed a good time to start. I would give myself and my surroundings a clean sweep so I could start fresh with a simpler feel to my environment.  I was energized by the notion. 

I’m not much of a loner, so in predictable pattern, I invited my friends and family to embark on this cleansing experience along with me.  Ten friends in my women’s group were the first enlistees.  And via email I’d soon invited another 50 or so of my favorite people to join me in the great purge.

It didn’t take long for me to discover that shedding one item per day was not at all sacrificial.  In my nearly half-century, I’d managed to accumulate more junk than was reasonable.  So to keep the integrity of the process intact, I changed my own rules.  Along with each daily unwanted object, I made myself choose a second item that was harder to relinquish. These items were much more complicated.  Things to which I had formed a schmaltzy attachment were the worst.  But I had to ask myself, how much dusty sentimentality boxed in the attic is really necessary?  It was a little painful, but as time went on and my pile for the local MCC thrift shop started to bulge, I began to feel lighter.  Releasing 200 things in 100 days was having the desired effect.

All was well and good.  I was hearing from others who were feeling the same freedom.  Closets were flushed out and drawers were emptied.  Country décor and maternity clothes were flying into cardboard boxes for donation at record speed.  Attics were organized and the local thrift shops were experiencing a windfall. It was awesome… 

But then the call came. A woman I’d never met wanted to do an article on my experience.  Like that old shampoo commercial about “friends telling friends” my email had leapfrogged to someone who decided this story needed to be included in a newsletter published by the company for which she works.

I tried to tell her it wasn’t an original idea.  Though I’d made it fit my own wishes, the basic premise had already been shared.  But she didn’t think that mattered and pressed on with what was described as a simple blurb.  I’ve never been good at saying no, so I allowed her to ask me a few harmless questions. 

Hearing nothing more for a little while, I was hopeful the idea had passed.  But then I received a draft of her writing and was asked for permission to go to print.  Feeling she had spent her time writing and I would be unnecessarily inflexible if I declined, I agreed.  However, she then mentioned that a photographer would be calling.  I asked if this was necessary and was assured it would be “quick and easy.” 

I can not, even under a set of perfectly arranged circumstances, be considered photogenic.  There is a reason I’m the family photographer, keeping my face safely behind the camera instead of in front of it.  But I consoled myself because I was confident in my talents of persuasion.  I figured that if and when the photographer called, I could just convince him to copy the headshot used for my monthly column in Purpose. I put my angst on the back burner and managed to forget about it. 

My naïve disregard was lovely until I received a call from a well-known local photographer telling me he needed to take my picture.  It had been over a month since the draft approval, so I’d assumed the bullet had been dodged and I was off the hook.  No such luck.   Lowell (the photographer) sounded quite pleased with his assignment and wanted to know my schedule for the following week.

It should be said that I had met and actually LIKED Lowell before he called me.  He took my son’s high school senior pictures and was quite personable.  His amusement at my distress upon discovery that they didn’t just want a headshot, but “something very specific” made me feel a bit less enthusiastic about our camera-toting friend.  I wasn’t a happy camper. “Don’t tell me I need to come to your studio for this picture!”  His delight was ill-concealed as he answered, “No, but I have to come to YOUR HOUSE for the photo.”  Apparently, the marketing person at the company for which the article author worked had other more ridiculous ideas about how this photo should happen. Lowell explained.  “They want the photo taken in your NEW AND UNCLUTTERED ENVIRONMENT.”  HA!  The notion that ridding myself of 200 items would leave me with clear walls and nothing to dust was laughable and I told him so.  Lowell wanted to know if I was a “pack rat” and I assured him I am not.  Adding insult to injury and with not a little glee, he offered to read the rest of the assignment he’d been given.  It went something like this…. they wanted him to capture Brenda Shelly “celebrating in her new clutter-free environment…preferably DANCING or TWIRLING in the photo.”  Clearly these people were insane.    

I assured Lowell there would be absolutely NO dancing or twirling and that we would be hard-pressed to find a space in my house that was free from debris.  He was undaunted and scheduled an appointment for the following week.  He had pathetically little regard for my distress.

In hindsight I realize there were several points at which I could and should have utilized the word NO.  But owning lips that do not form that word effortlessly, I arrived home from work just minutes before the dreaded photo was to take place.  I left the inside door ajar and when Lowell knocked, I stupidly invited him in.  I told him I had been sorely tempted to lock my door against his entrance and that in all truthfulness (and despite my aversion to dentists) I’d rather have a root canal.  He thanked me for bolstering his self esteem and told me that my remarks were not as piercing as the woman who preferred her gynecologist to his camera.

I wondered aloud why they needed a full shot photo for a simple “blurb.”  Lowell imparted a bit of information I could have done without. “It isn’t a simple blurb, from what I understand, you are the BACK COVER.”  He said I should smile nicely because even the mail carriers would be seeing this picture.  I found his revelation rather heartless. 

He set about rearranging my home décor.  Things were taken down from the wall and placemats were removed from my kitchen table.  Shades were opened and camera flashes were bounced from the stand containing my daughter’s guitar music.  His camera was clicking away at such a rapid pace, I soon became numb to the sound of the photo shoot and resigned that with his wild snapping, he was sure to capture the most outlandish pose and expression in the history of photography. He would sometimes pause and ask me to look a particular direction or gesture in a certain way. I reminded him that inviting me to gesture at that exact junction in my life might prove to be a mistake. He told me to be nice.  (I contend that his very presence in my house as he assailed my eyes with flashing bulbs spoke VOLUMES about my niceness…)  During all of this uncomfortable attention, I was attempting to quiet my pounding heart by yearning for time-travel back to the day I pressed SEND on my email invitation to purge.  It was like a bad dream. And the longest 40 minutes of my life.

There was no dancing or twirling, just a sea of anxiety.  I can’t be sure how it all turned out because I zoned out at some point and became oblivious to his barely disguised attempts to make me gesture and change expression.  He managed this by asking questions and then clicking away as I attempted to answer with my mouth hanging open like a cod fish and my arms gesturing riotously to accompany my response.  I should have thought to sit on my hands. 

All in all, I think Lowell made the best of a bad situation and for the sake of his reputation as a professional, I hope he managed to come up with at least one decent shot in the seemingly hundreds he snapped.  Even if a myriad of mail carriers end up seeing the picture while folding it into people’s mailboxes, my sincere wish is to NEVER see the end result.  I hope my “helpful” friends can spare me from donating their extra copies to my church mailbox.

Lowell saw a coworker of mine after our time together and sent me a ruthless message.  “I spoke with the company and they said they were disappointed with no dancing in the shoot. They say we need to schedule another one.”  A very funny man….

So you see, sometimes an attempt to simplify your life can make things much more complicated than you imagined.  I’ve yet to discern what I am supposed to be learning through this experience.  But I can tell you one sorry result.  Soon after the photo shoot, it was annual school picture day.  Having had recent ample time in front of a camera lens, I stubbornly refused to smile.  As a result, this school nurse looks like a serial killer in the shot. That should look FABULOUS in the yearbook. 

The Tongue is a Fire

This is a story I wrote several years ago. I was reminded of it yesterday when I was sitting in the dentist chair hoping history would not repeat itself.

Three years ago, I was systematically having the amalgam fillings in my teeth replaced with something less ancient. I said systematically, not expediently.  For of all the things I despise, sitting in the dentist’s chair is pretty high on the list.  And so I was scheduling these replacement fillings with as much space between appointments as humanly possible. I was nearing the end of the process when I returned to see my dentist.

The appointment was made for morning as I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.  I can not, even with the most overstated and exaggerated adjective, ever describe myself as a brave sort.  Despite being a nurse and having no problem probing other people with needles, the notion of having a person insert a needle into my gum is something else altogether. But in this case it was necessary, so I persevered.

It was quick, and truth be told- relatively painless.  And I was out of there in record time with some newer sleeker fillings.

It was around bedtime I began to notice something odd.  Though my gums and lips had returned to normal, my lazy tongue was still resting.  And when I woke in the morning for work, the slumber persisted and continued through the weekend.   The entire right side of my tongue was acting perfectly normal.  But the left side was dead as a doornail.  It was a challenge not to inadvertently bite it in half.  And it made some words very tricky to say without spitting or drooling.  Most unattractive.

By Monday morning there were some tiny signs of life.  Not pleasant signs, but life nonetheless.  You know the pins and needles feeling of a limb which has been deprived of blood supply as it wakens?  Imagine that same piercing feeling all over the side and tip of one’s tongue and you can appreciate the point at which I found myself as I phoned the dentist’s office and relayed my story to the receptionist.  In her most comforting voice she suggested I call back if the problem persisted.

A week later, strange sensations were persisting. My tongue was nearly awake by this point. Awake in the way a tongue being grazed by an electric sander would be awake.  I found that in a pitiful uninformed way I began missing the ‘dead as a doornail’ feel.  And the discomfort was getting old.  Internet blogs about persons to whom this rare side effect also occurred were most distressing to read.  They suggested that the impairment could last weeks to months. I suspected those bloggers were just trying to slay me with their words. 

But as everything seems to happen in my life, the timing was practically perfect.  Because my friends and I had recently embarked on a journey to stop the gossip in our lives. 

Gossip is sticky.  Sometimes when you hear it- it sounds remarkably like a prayer request. I’m not saying we should stop praying for one another, but I need to remind myself to be sure my intentions when sharing a concern are for purposes of widening the circle of prayer - rather than passing along a tidbit that isn’t mine to pass.  Sometimes tidbit intention is hard to discern…

And sometimes well-meaning people can make themselves believe that if they sandwich their blows between compliments, it somehow doesn’t count as gossip.  But it does. 

An example for those who don’t recognize the difference between blatant gossip and sugar-coated gossip:  I share this from a book I recently read (but have changed the name to protect the innocent.)….. “Brenda has the loveliest hair.  She’s a little too fond of the bacon bits, but goodness, that hair is shiny!”

So back to my friends and I.  We tackled this topic, studying the undeniable warnings in scripture and talking endlessly about our struggles and our goals.  The ten of us had all lived through the guilt and misery of being the gossiper. And we had all endured the agony of being the one about whom the gossip was spread.  We began striving to keep one another accountable while endeavoring to show kindness with our tongues.  We found tools to help us along our way and were optimistic as we realized we were more than capable of using our mouths for encouragement.  You CAN actually control your tongue if you constantly remember your God-given purpose.

And so: In nearly flawless timing, my own crazy tongue had become a CONTINUAL prompt to me.  That fiery muscle.  Just sitting idle in my mouth and waiting to wreak havoc.  But half of it had become almost comically incapacitated.  And BOY was that an ever-present cue. 

So while I hoped my tongue would return to normal, I trusted my strange and timely discomfort would forever etch in my mind the glaring reminder that my tongue is indeed a fire.

It took about 6 months to absorb the lesson and to thankfully realize my tongue had returned to normal. 

I still have to stop myself occasionally when my mouth has ambitions that my heart finds objectionable. I guess we all do. 

Despite local anesthesia, yesterday’s dental visit was without a repeat performance of the dead tongue show.  In fact my tongue is probably more awake than the rest of me this morning.  I’m going to find a lollipop to celebrate.

THE FROZEN ABYSS

Wastefulness and plenty are thorny subjects for most Americans. We are embarrassed by our bounty. We want to be generous, but often live double lives in our attempts to share what we have with those who most need. Having enough without stockpiling is a struggle for many. I have a wholesale warehouse membership where I can purchase a container of baking powder large enough to double as a child’s bench. We daily take for granted that there will always be more of everything available to us. Paradoxically, we act like a great famine is upon us as we purchase in bulk without considering the implications of overabundance. 

So what about food? Living in a middle-class cocoon of plenty, it is hard to imagine being hungry to the point of starvation. It isn’t that our mothers didn’t try to instill this understanding in our pea-sized brains. How many times were you reminded of the famished children in Africa as you sat before your half-eaten plate of some despised casserole?  I venture to guess that most of us heard her entreaty enough so that we wanted our mothers to affix stamps to our uneaten supper remnants and send them off to the Dark Continent First Class.

Flash forward thirty years to my chest freezer (otherwise known as the cavern of horrors) in my basement. Things go in, but very little comes out. Oversized bags of easy to prepare suppers get dropped into the frozen abyss.  They seem like such a great idea when you are in the grocery store imagining you will need a ready supply of quick suppers.  But those “presto-chango” bagged suppers aren’t seen again for months (or dare I say, even years.) Finally they are retrieved from the depths with a steady gloved hand while a solid bridge of freezer frost finds them adhering determinedly to a clumped bag of ice balls from last summer’s overzealous blueberry picker.  Or maybe the last snowball of the season, also jammed into the freezer after having been carefully preserved by some nameless member of my family...

Enough is enough. I wonder what change we could cumulatively affect if we all ate the foods already available on our pantry shelves and in our icy freezers; directing that week’s grocery money to our local food banks or MCC for truly feeding the hungry. I challenge you to go home and eat anything still viable in your freezer. It’s time to defrost the abyss.  

ANIMAL ENCOUNTERS

Driving my daughter to school is on most days a pleasure I wouldn’t trade for the extra 20 minutes of sleep I could be collecting.  Most mornings are great.  The conversation is lively and encouraging.  It’s time I appreciate as I realize our hours together are short now that she is in her second year of high school.  Of course sometimes we’re both too grumpy to speak, and that is fine too.  But this morning’s commute was something else.

For approximately the last 6 months, my daughter’s sensitivity to the life around her has caused a change in my cooking and grocery-retrieval patterns.  Aching for the environment and simpatico to all living creatures, Aubrey made the decision to become a vegetarian.  Not an easy transition for me as I am married to a meat and potatoes lover and now have to feed them both.  This has been an occasional struggle for her too, as nobody appreciated a cheeseburger more than Aubrey.  But she has maintained firm in her position and done quite well.  She’s even somehow convinced herself that tofu is edible.

The drive.  Coming to an intersection this morning, Aubrey noted a bird.  It was your garden-variety, seed-eating type of bird, nondescript but for its chubby breast.  It was wandering around with tiny little steps, right in the middle of all the turning traffic.  “A bird!”  Aubrey’s concern was palpable.  Hoping the ill-advised bird would turn to its wings for solution, I turned left and tried to think of the reassuring words with which I would console my 16 year old daughter’s bird-inspired distress. 

But there was no time to ponder those words because the first vehicle waiting in line at the stoplight was a truck.  And the truck was filled with cows.  I’m afraid the cows were not on their way to a picnic.  “Cows Mom!  Oh my gosh, they’re so cute! Oh, it’s so

sad….I’m glad I’m a vegetarian.”  And before we could recover from our bovine sighting, lo and behold, a truck filled with pigs was immediately following.  We were at that point five minutes away from Hatfield Meats and there was little doubt where the pig truck was headed.  Aubrey’s anguish was written all over her as she worried for the wellbeing of her pink skinned little friends.  In a disastrous turn of events, the traffic had slowed enough for Aubrey to get a glimpse of one particular pig.  The pig was resting his chin on the back of another pig and looking wistfully in Aubrey’s direction.  Very Charlotte’s Web-like.  Eye contact was made and any remaining serenity in our car went out the window.  “Oh no!  The pigs!  Mom, I can’t stand it, did you see his face?”  The tears began.  These were not tiny eye-moistening tears, but great drops of rain now falling down her cheeks and threatening to ruin her painstakingly applied make up .  While trying to catch the moisture with Kleenex and maintain some kind of decorum for being deposited at school in only minutes, her anxious monologue persisted.  “I am NEVER eating meat again!  That pig was so adorable. Oh my WORD, I was thinking about eating pork roll yesterday and I’m so glad I didn’t!” 

Her worry was heartfelt and pathetic, yet I burst out laughing.  I couldn’t help it.  Please understand, if I allow myself to think about it, I would never eat meat again either, but it was so hard to maintain my sympathetic murmurings when she started talking pork roll…

She thought we should follow the truck and give the people at the other end a piece of our minds.  I suggested this might be a really bad idea since being arrested for trespassing at the company for which her father works might reflect poorly.

Have I mentioned I adore my daughter?  I’d choose her any morning before a slice of crispy bacon, and that’s saying something.

Getting Off the Wheel

I have trouble reaching a place of solitude. I’m guessing I’m not alone. 

Mental to-do lists and my tendency to constantly rearrange the furniture in my mind cause quite a needless ruckus. The persistent commotion makes it hard to hear subtle messages from on high. Gentle nudges from the Holy Spirit can be unfortunately squelched by an evening of pathetically unnecessary tasks. I’m all about perpetual activity. Even when I’m not showing signs of physical bustle, my mind is on a hamster wheel. I mean, is it really necessary for me to spend cerebral energy second-guessing the true intent of a  friend’s unusual and obscure comment?  If I haven't planned out the next two days in my head, is it still okay to close my eyes at the end of a long day?  And for the sake of all that is worthwhile, do I REALLY have to organize my spices in alphabetical order? 

Occasionally and mercifully I am reminded that the world will not stop spinning if I close my mouth, turn off the music, and find a place of less distraction to stop the madness. In fact, I have discovered that when I just cease moving and thinking for a moment, I am infinitely more accessible to my Creator. 

Some time ago, I spent an amazing two days at a spiritual retreat center doing something completely out of character. My time was spent in silent personal retreat. I actually was forced to be quiet! It was one of the most powerfully enlightening experiences of my life.

But pressing the pause button on busyness does not come naturally. It takes serious reminders for those of us intent on making lists for every aspect of our lives. I put things on my lists just for the pleasure of crossing them off when complete.  It’s pathological.

So if you’re like me, try this on for size: Put time alone with God on your list. Better yet, make an appointment with Jesus in your datebook!  Include the time you plan to "meet." Don’t let anything get in the way. God is standing by and anticipating your attention. Getting off that hamster wheel to spend some quiet time with God will likely be the one item on your agenda providing the encouragement and connection required for every other aspect of your day. And I’m telling you from experience, your paprika can wait.

The Nurse Goes Back to School

I hate those Back-to-School advertisements.  I know they’re just trying to sell their overstocked 3-ring binders and Hello Kitty lunchboxes, but the mid-summer media jingles are like pins in my ears.  It happens every July, don’t know why I should be surprised.  And just as I have delightfully forgotten how my alarm clock functions, August has rolled around and impending doom (AKA the new school year) is an inescapable reality.   

  

It sneaks upon me just as I get used to the calm rhythm of sun-soaked living.  The evil calendar page turns and I am facing a mailbox stuffed with health forms and new medical records.  Tiny paperwork tasks join larger jobs of restocking and writing care plans, and before I know it, my to-do list is decidedly longer than my grit.

Wasn’t it just yesterday I defrosted the ice pack freezer?  I’m relatively certain I just waved good-bye to last year’s batch of frequent flyers. Guess not because in less than two weeks, I will once again experience the return dozens of anxiety-ridden children (impossibly 2 inches taller than last time I saw them.)  They’ll be sporting tanned faces, new haircuts, and have eyes wide with anticipatory fear.  Some will be ecstatic, but most will arrive with stomachs tied in knots as their new sneakers squeak down the shiny buffed halls of Penn View.       

                                                                                                        First day bellyaches are inevitable. Many of the known cherubs will check in with me before the first bell.  They need a little fix of nurture from the nurse they’ve known since kindergarten (not to mention some of my magical saltines to remind them that my office is still a safe haven.)  They’ve yet to meet their new teacher and it will be at least four school days before they are comfortable enough to ask said teacher if they can visit me again.  Some teachers will send them willingly- hangnails, broken shoelaces, or half-baked descriptions of pseudo-illness, it doesn’t matter- they’ll send them.  Other teachers are more judicious about wasting class time and won’t allow students to come to my office unless they are bleeding from the eye.  (Those kids see me at recess and during specials, when the homeroom teacher is a safe distance from the request.)  I saw a first grader once who claimed he had sustained a cardiac arrest in math class but was not given permission to see me for evaluation until recess…..

After a decade of this August to September pattern, the tempo is predictable.  You’d think with an entire summer to walk and be otherwise active, I’d be physically fit for my return to the workplace.  But factor in the annual consumption of sweet tea and it will become clear that once again, none of my work clothing is a comfortable fit.  But an easier snapping of trousers is soon to follow because I will start burning off my summer accumulation of bliss with the constant motion that is my job.  One days-worth of hand-washing alone is good for at least a zillion calories.  Throw in the hundred sore throats I check, the thousand times I duck when a snotty child coughs directly in my face, the myriad of Bandaids I apply, the ice packs I wrap, the tiny hearts and lungs I listen to, the countless walks to the farthest end of the building for the kid who repeatedly forgets to come by for medication, the numerous pokes to sweet little diabetic fingers for constant glucose checking, the jogs to the playground when someone is injured and “can’t move” and the constant lunch interruptions, and I’ll be back in shape in no time.        

So my life should calm down to a reasonable cadence by late November.  I’ll have a handle on the 100+ new students I am suddenly responsible for, I will have organized the mountain of new medications which will be dumped upon my desk the first day of school (some without names.)  I will have finally received the final emergency information card which was due prior to the first day of school but I find myself pleading for despite weeks of classes.  I will have tracked down the 20^th EPIPEN for one of the children with a life-threatening allergy (which was also due the first day and finally arrives after the ninth note to home and the third pleading phone call…) 

Notwithstanding the sudden and jolting shock to my relaxing summer, I am thankful for my job.  For there are things this job gives me that make it worth the stress of reorganizing my life every September.  This job gives me 550 little people to love.  It gives me a window into their lives and a chance to share a little joy with someone who might need me. It gives me two months every summer to recharge and remember I am something besides a nurse to children.  And it gives me a fresh start on a new page every new school year.  Who gets to start fresh in their job every year?  I can try to make things better.  And for that I am grateful.  I just have to remind myself of that when my morning alarm goes off next week and scares the daylights out of me.

WEST COAST ADVENTURE - DAY 9 of 9

FERAL PARROT FAREWELL

The awesomeness of sleeping in a redwood forest cannot be overstated. Looking out our front and rear windows we saw enormous trees that ought to inspire red-barked embarrassment in their stubby Pennsylvania cousins.

Ever optimistic, Jim attempted to tackle the waffle iron this morning. But he forgot to spray it with Pam. (To his credit, he managed baking it with only slight beeping from the iron.) 

Climbing into the car....again....., we began heading through the tiny village of Boulder Creek.  We saw lots of homemade signs advertising firewood for sale.  There is certainly no shortage of wood in this town.  If one tree falls, the entire village of Boulder Creek is set for the season. Selling firewood in Boulder Creek is like people in Souderton trying to sell zucchini to their neighbors in August.

We began climbing the snaking curvy antiemetic-requiring roads toward Big Basin Redwood Forest.  This kind of thing should be undertaken to the strains of something akin to Mozart.  But instead, the Equinox was vibrating with the thumping chords of Billy Squier’s “Lonely is the Night.” (I somehow neglected to consider the musical tastes of the rest of my family while packing for this trip thereby foolishly leaving my IPod at home..)

The trees along the sides of the road were growing more and more massive the closer we came to Big Basin. Arriving in the lot, we all began looking straight up, our necks bent at a severe angle.  We would remain pretty much in that awkward position for our entire visit with the giant timbers.

Jim was paying our fee and patiently receiving a parking tag and trail map from the kind forest ranger when I jumped in with my pathetic lack of decorum and cut to the chase. “Where’s the shortest trail with the biggest trees?”  He looked down his nose at me and answered derisively, “The Redwood Trail…it only takes 30 minutes…” To his credit, he tried (but without success) to respond without allowing a strange combination of amusement and loathing to creep across his countenance. I thanked him for his expertise and Jim went back to the car to prominently display our parking pass.

Ike, Abby and I perused the information center and returned to find Jim standing very still and listening to something with great intensity.  He shushed us as we approached and bade us listen too.  After a short pause we heard knocking resonating from a nearby tree.  Jim (in his usual manner of saying a lot with very few words) elucidated, “That may be the most determined woodpecker in the world.” 

The Redwood Trail is ½ mile of astounding beauty.  We hiked through majestic sequoias that just take your breath away.  The rays of sun peeking down through the colossal trees were another reminder to me that the minutia of my days amounts to only dust. 

The lower portions of the trees managing the most impressive girth were marked with telltale blackened rashes; charred bark from forest fires earlier endured.

Jim and Isaac were inside the trunk of a tree which was still towering, plush with green leaves, yet completely hollow inside.  This coastal redwood is theorized to have overcome several fires, eventually forming its own perfect chimney effect. 

The literature told us that another of the trees in that part of the forest is recorded to have smoldered and burned for 14 months before the fire actually extinguished.

See “chimney tree” below.

The “Father of the Forest” is estimated to be about 2,000 years old.  The “Mother” is the tallest in Big Basin at 329 feet tall and over 70 feet around. Truly astonishing.

Our little “tree -hugger” below:

It is nearly impossible to list which parts of this trip have been my favorite, but the redwoods are definitely up there pretty high. No pun intended.

There is not enough Dramamine in the universe for the 13 miles of zig-zagging torture that was Bear Creek Road.  My mint gum was my only hope, and it was agonizingly insufficient. Where the serpentine road on Coastal route 1 provided pullovers for scenic vistas, Bear Creek Road had shoulders for adventures of a more gastronomic kind.   The steering wheel was in constant severe motion. And when we turned onto CA 35 and saw a sign reporting that the next 5 miles was going to be winding, I had to cry.  Literally. It was like riding the Tilt-A-Whirl after just disembarking from the Spinning Tea Cups. 

By the bottom of the hill, Jim was directing the car to creep along like a geriatric patient after hip surgery, yet it was still somehow too swift.  It felt like Christmas morning when we pulled out of the forest and onto the nearly straight road below.  Thank heaven for Highway 17.

We did some shopping and had lunch in the adorable little shopping district of Los Gatos. Since Jim and shopping aren’t really compatible, we didn’t stay too long before we were back on the road to San Francisco.

SHOPPING IN LOS GATOS LINK

It has been an awesome nine days, but I am beat.  Waking at 6:30 each morning and getting to bed after my usual early bedtime is catching up to me.  I can barely contain my enthusiasm when I consider waking at 4:00 tomorrow morning to catch our 6:30 am flight.  And it won’t be our last flight of the day….that one will arrive in time to get us back to Hatfield sometime after midnight.  And I have to say goodbye to Isaac early tomorrow morning for at least several months. Brutal.

I had forgotten how vertical the streets of San Francisco tend to be. I suspect the Irish visited San Francisco at some point, inspiring them to pen the blessing about the “road rising up to meet you.” 

While waiting near the Coit Tower for a spot to park, Jim attempted to summon the feral parrots of Telegraph Hill from his car window.  He was unable to lure one, but he did catch the interest of several feral pigeons nearby…

The elevator to the top of the Coit Tower was overpriced but provided an effective way to see the whole city at once.  That is, the whole city except for the Golden Gate Bridge (which remained shrouded in fog the entire time we visited.) 

The Bay Bridge was much easier to spot.  We traveled the length of the Bay Bridge later that night on our way to our last hotel.

Drove to the pier area and walked from Pier 39 to Ghirardelli Square.

Ate some much-anticipated sourdough, saw the sea lions, and tasted chocolate samples. 

We did have 4 sightings of the famous wild parrots, the first of which was when Jim, Isaac and Aubrey exercised their leg muscles on the meandering elevation that is Lombard Street.  Having experienced enough S-turns today, I sensibly waited in chocolate square. 

I did not take this photo (OBVIOUSLY....since I was still hanging out with the Ghirardelli chocolate-
photo credits for this image of Lombard Street to the land of internet images via Mase's Weblog) 

About the parrots, it is helpful that those green feathered city-dwellers announce themselves so well.   They are such a raucous band of rabble-rousers, you can hear them coming before you spot them.  (I actually had hoped to add a noisy little sound track of annoying parrots squawking to make the experience more REAL for you, but no sound bite I found online could do the original feathered band of hooligans proper justice.) Had the birds not been screaming wildly as they passed us several times in a streak of green, we might have missed them altogether. Once sighted, they are so speedy, I was scarcely able to snap a picture. If you look closely, you can spot one near the brown growth protruding from the bark. I concede it is challenging to distinguish the riotous bird from the palm leaves. If he had cooperatively directed his bright blue or red face toward the camera, he would have been more obvious. Okay, I realize as I'm typing, I was a bit obsessed with the whole wild bird thing. Maybe because for a month or two we've endured the heart-rending posters of a lost yellow cockatoo on telephone poles in Hatfield and I'm imagining some strange new breed of backyard bird with fancy yellow plumes protruding from their heads taking up residence in MY town. Enough about the wild parrots already. 

Someone recommended a restaurant known for garlic dishes (Aubrey’s favorite food) called The Stinking Rose.  But we ate too much sourdough to have an appetite for dinner.

Once we hit the hotel in Oakland that evening, we officially came to the end of my tediously premeditated itinerary. The marathon day of flying tomorrow makes me want to pout. But I am riding too high to be anything but grateful.  It was a wonderful trip with some much appreciated family time.  I’m a little sad that the adventure is at an end but a rather large slice of me is thrilled that our exhausting agenda is finally completed. Barring any airport calamities, tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, which sounds pretty heavenly at the moment. 

Just imagine the the helpful dent we might have made in our debt had we chosen to stay at home.  But as Jim says, we shouldn’t count the cost this time, just count our adventures.  He’s a wise guy in every sense of the word.  My road-weary soul is ever so thankful we opted to spend our pennies on some family memories. Seriously. California dreamin’ and nine days with my husband and kids.  You just can’t put a price tag on that.