The Acrobat

My Little Green Car - The 1976 Datsun B210 - Best. Car. Ever. 

I let the clutch out very slowly and pushed on the accelerator.  I listened for the pitch of the car’s engine to tell me when I had enough power to make the turn and get up and over the hill.  I thought I had it right, so I let out the clutch all the way and the car lurched forward and died. I’d let the clutch out too fast.  As it began drifting backward toward the car behind me, I stomped on the brake and the honking commenced.

Crap! I could feel the tears of frustration begin to sting my eyes as I started the car again.   I was going to be stuck on that little hill forever.

Mom took a deep breath and said, “They’ll wait.  If they get antsy, they’ll go around.  Third time’s the charm.  Just take it easy and give her a little more gas.  It’s all about balance.”  My mother had the patience of Job.

I’d bought the car for $200 two weeks before my 19^th birthday, even though I had absolutely no idea how to drive a standard shift car.  It was a little, dark green, ’76 Datsun B-210.   I couldn’t drive it, but, oh, I loved it.  It was sporty, gas-efficient, and, best of all, it had an after-market Pioneer digital cassette deck stereo system in it that kicked butt. 

I missed the independence that a car gave me after selling my first car.  It had been a 1969 Plymouth Belvedere with a bored-out 6 cylinder engine.  It could pass anything but a gas station.  I missed long rides with my music and the thrum of the big engine.  I missed being able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to go, (as long as I had the gas money).  I longed to pop in my U2 cassettes and listen to the stereo system of my new car at top volume, with all the windows down, blazing down the freeway like I used to in the Mighty Thunder Wagon.  The only way I was going to reclaim my independence was taking the leap and learning to drive a stick. 

Mom had been raised on a ranch in Arizona and had learned to drive when she was about 12.  Because they lived 50 miles across the Arizona-Sonora Desert from the nearest town, it had been essential that my mom and her sister know how to drive in case something happened and they had to go for help.  So, as soon as Mom could reach the pedals in the International Harvester pickup with “three on the tree”, her Daddy had taught her to drive.

Once, my dad had bought a VW van.  Mom drove like the car was an extension of her body: smoothly and confidently.  Dad could not master the VW clutch.  Every time he drove, we’d hold on to the panic handles for dear life.  Eventually, he killed the van.  We’d been on the freeway on our way to Pataskala.  He was so mad that he walked all the way home.  As he ranted, he vowed he was never going to own another standard shift car, much less a foreign car.  So, though most of my friends learned to drive from their fathers, Mom taught me the ropes.  She was unflappable.

As I sat on that hill with all the traffic behind me waiting, ever so patiently, I thought about equilibrium.  Mom watched the traffic on Karl Road for an opening so I could make the turn.

“Okay, kid, here comes your break.  Now, push down on the accelerator and ease off your clutch until the gears pull at the car, just a little bit.  Try not to let it grind.”

I began to let out the clutch and push on the accelerator and the pitch of the engine dropped until the gear engaged.  It caught with a sound like an enormous zipper would make and I grimaced.  That sounded expensive.  The car moved forward slightly.  I eased back a little on the accelerator and found the balance point between the clutch and accelerator to keep it steady on the hill until I was ready to move.  The car I was waiting for made a right turn without signaling.

Nice, I thought.  I could’ve made that turn anytime.  Now I have to hurry.

“All right now,” Mom was saying, “push down that accelerator and let go of the clutch.  One motion, honey.  Go. Go. Go.”

I hit the pedal on the right a little too hard and let my foot off the clutch a little too quickly.  The car shot forward and shuddered like a bowl of Jello in an earthquake as I turned to the left.  With a final lurch, a squeal of tire tread and a clank of the flywheel, I was off!  Finally!

“Good job, kid.”  Mom smiled, “That’s the toughest thing to learn: turning left at the top of a hill at a busy intersection.  Good job.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“You hungry, Mom?”  I pulled up to another stop light just as it was turning red.  I engaged the clutch, let off the accelerator and shifted the car back into first gear as I began to brake and waited for the light.

Mom sighed, “I guess it’s time for lunch, isn’t it?”  I nodded.  She continued, “Well, let’s stop and get something and then we’ll lurch on home.”  She chuckled.  I made a face at her. The light changed and I let out the clutch and pushed the accelerator.  I took off smoothly, as if I’d driven the car for years.

“There you go!  You got it!”  Mom was pleased.  She settled back into her seat.  I hadn’t noticed how tense she’d gotten.  “See. It’s all about balance, kid.  Once you learn how to balance, everything else is easy.”

Conversion is a funny thing: Age 16

I've been thinking a lot about my conversion lately. I was raised Catholic, and apart from a very short period of time when I was 18, I was always Catholic. But not exactly the best Catholic. There were a lot of things I simply did not understand about the Faith. 

I'm not sure why, but my conversion has just really been on my mind a lot recently. I don't really think of it in terms of a knocked-to-the-ground conversion moment. It's really very much a knocked-to-the-ground-repeatedly series of events. Maybe that's why I haven't ever written about it.

It's a really complex story. It takes a lot of twists and turns. It's not a straight line and it's not a moment in time when I knew the Truth. As a matter of fact, God and I have sparred with each other for about 30 years now and he's still not finished with me yet.

Conversion is a funny thing. It's completely individual for each person. Placing a formula on conversion is like trying to buy a wedding dress off the rack at Filene's Basement - and not have any alterations done. It's impossible. Well, at least close to it.

My conversion, for example, has been a case of learning that without God, I am nothing. I am not in control of the world around me, only God is. And furthermore, God can bring great good out of the most tragic evils that we can throw at Him.

I can't really tell my whole story in all it's gory detail.  There's passion, betrayal, joy, suffering, death, despair, triumph and even a few encounters with the voice of God.  But I can share one of the most important things I have learned: Without an encounter, a personal encounter, with Jesus Christ, there is no real conversion.

This series will be kind of catch-as-catch-can. We'll see where this takes us. Today, though, we'll begin at 16.

The "Mother Ship" - Immaculate Conception Church
My native parish.

 - Age 16 - 

I can remember going to spend time in the church in the middle of the night when I was a teenager. Things would get tough at home and I'd go for a walk to clear my head or get some space. Almost every time I would end up sitting in front of the tabernacle at Immaculate Conception. I wasn't sure why, but I knew that it was the right place to be.

The homeless men who took shelter against the elements in the church pews never bothered me. Maybe I was too certain of my invincibility or just too dumb to be afraid (I was a teenager, after all,) or maybe I really had nothing to fear. I remember there being a great deal of dissention within the parish about the dangers of leaving the church unlocked. Regardless of what my pastor's motivation was for keeping the doors of our urban church unlocked day and night, I will always be eternally grateful for the spiritual shelter of the always-open church.

Even at that young age, I would sing to the Lord in the silence of the Church or just sit quietly and contemplate the tabernacle. I had no real understanding of the reality of the Eucharist at the time, mind you. Despite my very expensive Catholic school education, I truly believed that the Eucharist was just a symbol. It was just a piece of bread that represented something that I could never attain.

I knew about the Bible. I read the entire Bible my Third and Fourth grade year. I read a chapter a night until I was finished. Of course, I didn't understand it, but it was a start. And the actual words went to work on my heart - whether or not I knew or understood them. I can see that now. But, I couldn't see it at 16.

Church was just a quiet place to be and the altar of reservation was just so lovely, I couldn't help but be drawn to it. I had no idea that Jesus was actually calling to me. He was wooing me and courting me, just as my husband would a few years later. Jesus wanted so very much to be with me and be my strength and my comfort in my tumultuous life. I wasn't so sure. I was so caught up in finding out who I was, that I neglected to find out who he was. I had no idea that when I took the time to find out who Jesus really was, I would find myself, too.

To me, Jesus was just a nice idea. A nice guy, who never got angry or threw things (I kinda skipped that whole "expelling the money changers from the temple" thing, I guess). Jesus was a perfect person. I would never be a perfect person. Even more remote was the idea of his mother, Mary. How could someone be that perfect? Not me. I was as far from perfect as I could get.

The divine life was a concept for me. It was a construct of harps and angels, and clouds and blue skies that was so far removed from my experience that I could not even conceive of such a place or of such persons. God was just an idea. There was nothing personal about him for me.

It is very hard to have an encounter with an idea. Ideas have no real substance and carry no weight. Part of the beauty of the Incarnation is the fact that through God's revelation of the person of Jesus, we are able to put a face with a name. We are able to touch the face of God. And, in fact, through the sacraments, we do just exactly that. In the Eucharist we touch God and he becomes one with us.

There is a sensual experience of receiving and adoring the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus in the Eucharist. There is something tangible in spending time with the Blessed Sacrament. It's not just an idea or a magic trick. It is a reality. It brings us, not just close to God, but we become subsumed into the Body of Christ by receiving Him into our bodies in a real and tangible way.

I am no Theology of the Body expert. Heck, I'm not an expert on anything but liturgical music. I just know what my experience has been.

If you want to get close to the Lord, if you want to have a personal relationship with Jesus, you have to start with the Sacraments. Each one becomes a conduit through which we receive and build Grace and Charity. But there are three, in particular, that specifically speak to my journey.

Through Confession, he speaks to me, personally.
Through the Eucharist, he actively storms the borders of my comfortable little life.
Through Confirmation, he called me to take the light of Grace to the world.

Is Jesus calling to you? Will you let him win your heart?

#7QT: Miracles of these 7 Days

I think this is my first time joining Quick Takes in more than a year. But this week, it fits. 

You can see why this is so fun if you head over to Conversion Diary and follow some of the links.

It's crazy - There are a hundred bloggers who take part in this!  

Add your voice to the crowd, if you'd like.

1. Surgery Day
I was nervous, but not overly nervous. I'd been through surgery before, but nothing prepared me for how bad I'd feel. My daughter took a picture, just a couple of hours after the surgery (I'm not sharing it because the incision is really gross and I am absolutely gray from tip to toe.)
My pastor came to anoint me and I began to start to feel better shortly afterward. In fact, it was remarkable how much better I felt from hour to hour. The body is an amazing creation and prayer is powerful!

2. Struggling to Pray
Overnight and into the next morning, I still felt pretty miserable. my oxygen level would drop and I would lose track of where I was. I thought that maybe I could pray for everyone who was praying for me, but no dice. I got a few words into the Our Father and started having a dream about being on my way to get ice cream. But I was still wide awake.

When I snapped out of it, I felt bad because I couldn't even use my time to pray. I had to just lay there and dream about ice cream that I couldn't eat. While I was busy feeling sorry for myself (here it comes:) I thought of "Footprints in the Sand" and the fact of the matter was, that God was carrying me. My friends had brought me to him and placed me in His lap. I had to surrender control and I wasn't prepared to do that. That's why MY Footprints dream looks like this:

3. Learning to Suffer
I remember getting my wisdom teeth pulled on Good Friday when I was 18. I was in so much pain by Easter Sunday that I had to leave the church and sit on the porch in the front. That's where Sr. Marie found me sitting. I was crying,and she sat with me for a few minutes. We talked about suffering and she told me that everyone has their Good Friday just not at the same time, but Easter Sunday was coming, even if I didn't feel it today. It wasn't until this past Sunday, that I understood what she meant.

When we suffer, God does not abandon us. He tries to help us. But like a willful toddler, I was wiggling out of His grasp to try to walk for myself - only I was too weak. It was only when I surrendered that God showed me how many people were praying for me and that they could handle the prayer part. All I had to do was give Him the suffering and He'd know what to do with it.

4. Resting in the Lord
By Monday, I had discovered that I was becoming anxious about the second biopsy. I hadn't heard anything, and wouldn't until Thursday. I couldn't do anything useful, really, but rest.

Late Monday night, after everyone else was in bed and I was up for pain meds, again, I realized that God could use my sufferings. I had wondered about this "redemptive suffering" thing for my entire life and in a flash, I felt like I had a better grasp of what it meant to "offer it up". I offered my suffering for someone else who needed a hand with theirs.

Almost instantly, it was like the floodgates opened, and I couldn't shut it off! The ideas just kept coming. And they were good!

5. Searching for God's Fingerprints
As I worked on my new ideas, I began to research the science behind our reactions to liturgical music. What makes music so powerful? I actually came up with answers. I began to write. After about 2,000 words, I realized I had a series.

"What Is It with Music? The Physical Reasons that Music is Good for Your Spiritual Life" was born. The response has been very positive and the next in the series will be about the effect of tempo and mode on our bodies.

I could see God's fingerprints all over our physical responses to music and how they serve us when we attend Mass and sing together. We are so wonderfully made. All the beautiful things that we create are a reflection of His Goodness.

I began to sift through websites of friends who are visual artists and make note of how these individual pieces of art are as unique as the flowers that God creates. We assist Him in manifesting His goodness and beauty when we use our talents to create.

6. Finding God in Creation, Expressing His Beauty through the Arts
I found the blog of a young artist who I had watched grow up in my parish. She had five lovely works of art that I shared as part of Moxie Wife's Five Favorites link party. The reaction was tremendous. People loved it!

I asked the ladies at Catholic Mom if we had anyone who did spotlight interviews of artists (like we do with Techies and Bloggers) and they said no, but we should! So in the space of a few hours we had a plan: The goal is to discuss how our Faith informs our work as artists, even if the artwork is not specifically religious in nature. That lens throws new light and life on an artist's work and I was suddenly excited to share that with people.

I was energized. I hadn't forgotten about my biopsy results, which were still looming, but I decided that whatever God wanted from me was what I would lay before Him.

7. A Miracle
Yesterday morning, I couldn't sleep. I woke up at 3 AM and began to write. I had sent out 11 requests for interviews and some of them were already coming back saying they would love to participate. This new idea was going to become a reality!
There was so much to do! What if I had cancer and would need treatment?

By 10 AM I was sitting in the Doctor's office waiting.

My thyroid had been a huge mess. There had been nodules all over it and it was huge - one side had been 6.5 cm and the other had been 7 cm. The doctor had been very surprised that the first biopsy was negative. The second one was mostly negative, too. There had been cancer, but it had been very small and self contained and they had gotten it all.

No chemo.
No radiation.
My incision looks good and my vocal cords look like they are mending, too.
I'm telling you, folks. It's a miracle.

I came home rejuvenated and refreshed and...

took a nap.

Thank you for your prayers.
I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful Michael and I are to all of you. Please know that you will be in our prayers always. May God bless your kindness to us in this time of uncertainty.

#FiveFavorites: Yes, More Music

Head on over to Moxie Wife and link up and see other people's five favorites,
or share five of your favorites (ANY favorites) here!

So last week I did a post about all my favorite things to do for Advent. And I shamelessly suggested you read my other blog to learn more Advent and Christmas Carols. (...and you DID! Thank you!)

For the #10Hymns project I've been sifting through hundreds of YouTube Videos, sorting the good and the bad, and ultimately picking out the ones I need. But what I need for teaching other people these pieces of music isn't always what strikes me as beautiful.

So for today's Five Favorites, I'm sharing my five favorite Advent YouTube Videos. Some are professionals, and some are just adorable.

1. Alma Redemptoris Mater - Palestrina

Performed by Quire Cleveland, conducted by Jameson Marvin

Instead of the Salve Regina at the end of Compline, during Advent, we sing this beautiful hymn to the Blessed Mother:

Loving Mother of the Redeemer,
gate of heaven, star of the sea,
assist your people who have fallen
yet strive to rise again.
To the wonderment of nature
 you bore your Creator,
yet remained a virgin after as before.
You who received Gabriel's joyful greeting,
have pity on us poor sinners.

2. The Rose of Sharon - Billings

Performed by Dordt College Choir, conducted by David McWilliams

This lovely little piece is taken right from the Song of Songs and prefigures the coming of the Savior. Billings was a tanner in Boston at around the time of the American Revolution who wrote music as a hobby. His pieces are vibrant and full of moving parts and traded voices. There's not a lot of subtlety to it. It's either loud or soft. But note the vivid tone painting of the music in consort with the words at the "skipping" part. It's a real blast to sing Billings. 

I am the Rose of Sharon
and the lily of the valley.
As the Appletree,
among the trees of the wood,
so is my Beloved among the Sons.
As the Lily among the thorns,
so is my Love among the Daughters.
I sat down under his shadow with great delight,
And his fruit was sweet to my taste, taste.
He brought me to the Banqueting House,
His Banner over me was Love.
Stay me with Flagons,
Comfort me with Apples,
for I am sick, sick of Love.
I charge you, O ye Daughters of Jerusalem,
by the Roes and by the Hinds of the Field,
that you stir not up nor Awake,
Awake my Love till he please.
The voice of my Beloved,
Behold, he cometh,
Leaping upon the mountains,
skipping upon the Hills.
My Beloved spake and said unto me: rise up,
my Love, my fair one, and come away,
for Lo, the Winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.

3. Maria durch ein Dornwald ging
Performed by the Thomanerchor, Leipzig Germany, 1989

I had the pleasure of standing in this very church in 2006. The Thomaskirche is the Lutheran Church in Leipzig that put J.S. Bach on the map. A couple of hundred years later Felix Mendelssohn converted to Christianity while rehearsing Bach's St. Matthew Passion with the Thomanerchor which is the choir in the video.

"Maria durch ein Dornwald ging" is an Advent carol in honor of the sacrifice that Mary made to carry our Savior.  The repeated corruption of the Greek "Kyrie Eleison" (Lord have mercy) is a reminder of our need for mercy and the humility of both Mary and Jesus, in their suffering.
In the end, as Mary and Jesus pass together through the thorns, roses suddenly appear on the branches, signifying the coming of new life. 

Maria walks amid the thorn,
Kyrieleison!
Which for seven years no leaf hath born
She walks amid the wood of thorn
Jesus and Maria.

What ‘neath her heart does Mary bear?
Kyrieleison!
A little child doth Mary bear
Beneath her heart he nestles there.
Jesus and Maria.

And as the two are passing near
Kyrieleison!
Lo! Roses on the thorns appear!
Jesus and Maria.

4. The King Shall Come When Morning Dawns

Performed by The Christ Lutheran Academy Choir, conducted by Kathryn Peperkorn

Sweet kids! And they can sing, folks.

5. Lasst uns Froh und Munter Sein

Performed by the Columbus Kinderchor

Well, this is just a cute little song for Sankt Nikolaus Tag (St. Nicholas Day) which is coming up on Friday, December 6th.

In this song the kids are talking all about how excited they are that it's St. Nicholas Day. 

 The littlest one was three in this video. He was told to hold the note until I cut it off, but I forgot to cut him off with a big enough motion so he just kept singing. At one point you can hear the choir (and the conductor) start to giggle.

I became the Director Emerita this year but I still...nothing says Holiday like cute little kids singing in German. (Or maybe that's just me...) 

(A Literal Translation)
Let us be happy and cheerful
And rejoice in the Lord! (Chorus) 

Chorus:
Jolly, jolly, tralera-lera,
Soon Nicholas Eve is here!
Soon Nicholas Eve is here!

Then I put the plate out
Nick'll surely put somethin' on it. (Chorus)

When I sleep then I dream:
Now Nicholas brings me something. (Chorus)

When I rise (in the morning)
I dash quickly to the plate. (Chorus)

Nicholas is a good man
Whom we can't thank enough. (Chorus)

15 miles a day.

15 miles a day.

That's how far you have to walk each day to make the entire pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella on el Camino de Santiago. I can handle a couple of miles a day right now. At one time I could walk for 10 miles a day. But I was 14 and I was in terrific physical shape. Hmmmm...



No one said it would be easy. Better start moving, huh?

Dancing Cardbord to Cardboard

My cardboard cutout dances across the floor with yours, smiling.
It is always good to dance with you,
but tonight feels different.

I can feel the touch of your hands,
but it doesn't feel like your hands.
Imperfection

I can feel their weight through my dress,
but it doesn't feel like my dress touching my skin.
Implication

I can hear the words coming from your lips,
but I am certain that they are not yours.
Impossibility

I can see your eyes,
but they are only relentless reflections of your lively eyes.
Impenetrable

We bow, and part, and promise to dance again.
We return to our places to wait our turn.
Impassively

Epiphany and epiphanies

Every year we go to a party at one of my friend's houses for The Feast of the Epiphany (the 12th and last day of Christmas). She is a musician, like I am, and her husband is an artist. Though I only see him a couple of times a year, this particular gentleman is a man that I respect, not only as an artist, but as a person. He's unbelievably intelligent and insightful. He is charitable and prayerful, but in a quiet way. When I speak to him I get the sense that he is drawing from the springs of the greatest silences in the world. A place where things that have been unspoken dwell waiting to be given words to express what they are. He seems to have the gift to see right into your soul and say to you exactly what needs to be said at exactly the right moment. You find that you must listen carefully and completely to get the full impact of what he has to say because it is as rich as a really good cheesecake: you want to savor every morsel of it and get every crumb of meaning out of what he says.

Several years ago, I had quit singing. There were many reasons for the decision, some valid, some not so valid; some my own reasons and some were reasons that were foisted on me. My soul was just withering up and I was becoming a very bitter, angry and sad person.

I was at this Epiphany party and our host made the point to seek me out and talk to me. He told me that the music was as much a part of who I am as my body was. He told me that my particular gift was the ability to sing from"inside the song". He told me, "It's a gift that not all singers possess. There is something that moves me every time you sing at church. It moves me like no other singer."

As he spoke to me, I began to cry. I couldn't stop myself. I just stood there holding my wine glass and my plate of desserts with silent tears streaming down my face. My husband came to try to "rescue me", but I didn't really want to be rescued. I wanted to be told the truth. Not singing was eating away at me. I was dying inside.

My friend never broke eye contact with me, "I know this might be painful for you, but I really feel like I need to say this to you. I couldn't let you leave without telling you: You need to sing. You have to find a way to sing."

I nodded. I don't think I could even speak. I knew he was right. I did take his advice and found a way to sing. It truly has made all the difference. I couldn't pray without my music. Sure, there are times when it's nice to just go to Mass and not be "on". But, week after week, the music is where I find my prayer. It's where I find encouragement, a kick in the rear and comfort. With out it, I am diminished.

This year, I was chatting with him about this blog and about how I haven't posted much on this blog in the past year. He kind of smiled and said, "You know, I find that I have to wait a few years for things to become a story. If I try to write about things that are going on right now, they become to big and overwhelming to me. They have no perspective. It's better to let them sit for a while until they can be encapsulated into an 'episode' and then they can be dealt with as a story."

And, you know, again, he's so right. This past year was overwhelming. Between the four people in our family we had 10 hospitalizations, a car accident, a death in the family and all the attendant drama of being a modern family with special needs children. How on earth could I hope to give some perspective to that mess while I am still going through it?

I don't think it is an accident that both of these revelations happened on The Feast of the Epiphany. God puts people in your life at the most unexpected times and places. He provides guidance from the most unlikely sources. I never expected to have the direction of my life changed by idle cocktail chatter. But, that's how it is sometimes. Sometimes, Epiphany is quite literal.

In the meantime, I am so grateful to have friends in my life to help me get through the rough times. For all of you who have said prayers for us, sent us cyber hugs or just thought fondly of us in this past year, I thank you. My thoughts and prayers are with you all this morning.

Hopefully, 2010 will provide some perspective so that I can start writing again. I know it's not great stuff. It's not the height of political prowess. It's not the grandeur of life-changing prose or poetry. It may not be anything important or moving or consequential that I am writing about. But, I appreciate you reading it all the same.

We will miss you, Grandpa D

Missing Man Formation

I am re-posting a blog from many months ago. Today we lost my husband's grandfather. This post was written with him in mind. We will miss him, but I am sure in the knowledge that he has gone to be with his beautiful wife and is no longer in pain or confused.


I'm going to put in a plug here for "The Writer's Almanac", published by Garrison Keillor. The Writer's Almanac comes to my mailbox daily with a poem and then tidbits and biographies about authors who had significant events on this day in history.

Today's poem was written by a man who, to my knowledge had only one poem to his name: John Gillespie Magee, Jr. He was a pilot in WWII and flew with the Royal Canadian Air Force, before the US entered the war. Today is his birthday. Like me, you have probably heard this poem before, but today, it really moved me. I'll tell you why after you read it.

High Flight (an Airman's Ecstasy) by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

My grandfather-in-law is an aviator. He flew at around the same time as Magee, fighting in WWII and then again in Korea. After he retired from the Army Air Corps, he continued to teach in his flight school in Texas. One of his students was my brother who tells me that Grandpa has nerves of steel. Yep, I'll bet he does.

This brave man has more decorations than you could shake a stick at, including several Purple Hearts and at least one Bronze Star. In WWII, he was shot down in enemy territory and crawled out on his belly with a broken jaw, after watching his friend be killed. And yet, he is good hearted, humble and kind. His love for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren so very great. It even extends to me, outsider that I am, and I am doted upon.

But now, he suffers from Alzheimer's and we are watching this fantastic man slip away. But he is not slipping away into nothing. He is still the kind hearted, humble, loving grandfather I have always known him to be. True, he no longer teaches flight. True, he needs a little more help, but would I give back even one second of this time we still have with him? No. Do my children benefit for having him in their lives even in a diminished capacity? Yes. I do not believe that any time that we have left with this great man is a waste in any way. I am so honored to know him one of our great American Heroes and to be loved as one of his children.

And when he does finally pass on from us, though right now he cannot take flight, I know that he will be going to touch the face of God once again.


As we sat with Grandpa last night for the last time, holding his hands and reading to him from the bible, I realized that, though he was unresponsive, every time one of my children spoke, he would twitch his hands and his face would relax. I am grateful for the time we had with Grandpa. My kids are so lucky to have been able to get to know and love him, and he to get to know and love them.

Anniversary

As I sat at lunch today, eating a sandwich with my husband in honor of our 18th anniversary, I had a memory that I shared with him. I remembered being a child and deciding that what I wanted to get for my parents for their anniversary was "dinner out". So, my brother and I talked to Dad and convinced him (somehow, who knows how) that he should take us all out to dinner for his anniversary.

Michael laughed and said, "And it was your present to him, right?"

I laughed too, "Yeah, 'Hey Dad, we want to take you out to dinner for your anniversary, but we don't have any money, so you have to pay.' Yep. Just like that."

And then Michael said, "Wow! That's a great analogy for the Gift of God's Grace."

"Huh?" I looked up at him a little startled.

"Yeah, think about it. Most people use the analogy of God drawing a picture with you, but really that means you're still doing something. This is much better. You did nothing. Your father gave you the gift of the money to give back to him in the form of a present. Dinner. Grace."

You know, I have been with Michael as his fiancee and then his wife for more than 20 years and he still amazes me. I did nothing that would ever have merited such a wonderful man as I have, but here he is. God has richly blessed me.

Grace.

AGO Convention - Detroit, MI

This past week I went on a trip to Detroit for the Region V Convention of the American Guild of Organists. It was technically a business trip, but I really love business trips, so it was kind of a joy for me. Everyone at the office was too busy with the Skinner restoration that we're working on to go, so they sent me. I traveled with a friend, a real organist, and while I am but a lowly choir director, I still got a lot out of the trip. (And, yes, I still did my job!)



We stayed at the Marriott Renaissance Center right on the Detroit River. We were on the 52nd floor overlooking the city, the river, Lake St. Claire and Windsor, ON. The view was amazing, day or night.

I really enjoyed all the concerts on organ and carillon. I can't even describe the feeling that you get when someone who knows what they're doing plays pieces that you've heard many times before. The energy is amazing! It is electrifying! It left me feeling uplifted and very inferior at the same time. The churches and the organs themselves were breathtaking, too.


It was great to meet new people and enjoy their company. My thanks to Dr. Joseph D. Daniel and his committee for such an amazing week. I think that they were putting in 18-20 hour days to make sure that everything ran smoothly.

In two years it will be in Lexington, KY. I really hope that everyone is too busy to go in 2011, so they have to send me again.

Scraps of Paper and Old Pictures

Yesterday, we worked on organizing my mother and father in their new house. We were having my brother's graduation party and my son's birthday party there today, so, I offered to come up to help get things in order.

In the course of arranging the furniture in the living room, we had to decide what to do with my grandmother's trunk. It's an ugly thing. At some point, some fashion conscious soul painted it hospital green. I never thought much about the trunk when Grandma left it for me 30 years ago. It was just a place to store stuff. I never really went digging through the papers on the bottom, and really, I think Mom asked me not to.

As time passed, I discovered that the trunk no longer fit my room decor (I was now sharing with my baby sister and didn't have room for it), so I gave it to my Mom. Mom stored afghans in it until they moved out to the country and then she stored board games in it. Over time, it became more battered. The hammered tin was peeled away from the top of the lid by bored, busy kid fingers, the paint peeled away in some places revealing some of the bare tin. The wood lid was cracked by someone trying to use it for extra seating. But, Mom never pitched it. I could never figure out why, except that it belonged to her mother. So, when we had to find a spot for it in the new living room, my sister suggested that we use it to store records in. We all agreed that'd be a good use for it and we opened it up to empty it out.

The first thing to come out were the board games. One was a first edition Trivial Pursuit game that I can remember playing with my mom and brother. I can still remember the rule of thumb about Literature questions: If all else fails, guess William Faulkner. It's usually right. I remember Mom nursing the babies while we'd play the game and Dad would play the piano. It was good family time. That brought a smile to my face. Then we started to find the pieces of my grandmother's life.

There was so much there: Pictures, placemats with pictures of the Arizona desert that she loved so well, homework that my brother and I had done well on that she kept, receipts for the house that she and her 4th husband had been in the process of purchasing when she left him. The receipts were titled Mrs. Katherine Garl. My sister said, "Who's that?"

"That's Grandma," I said.
Mom chimed in, "Frank Garl was her fourth husband."
"Wow," said my sister, "I had no idea she'd been married more than once!"
"Yes," said my mother, "she kept looking for the piece that was missing. I don't know if she ever found it."

We continued to dig through the chest. Mom told us that the chest had been a stagecoach chest (not a steamer trunk, as I had always assumed) and that it had been given to Grandma by another ancestor. Mom estimates that it's about 150 years old. We found a lot of pictures of my great-uncle Jim. He had been a bus driver for Continental Bus Lines. We found not only pictures, but his tie bar and name plate from his bus. I think Grandma told me one time that he had always been her favorite brother.

We also found a 10 peso note marked "Japanese Government" signed by several American servicemen. We're still trying to figure out what it is? Is it Occupation Money or perhaps from the Phillipines? With so much of Great Uncle Jim's things in it, I wondered if the chest had not been his gift to Grandma.

As I cleared out the last of the paper, the old bank statements, the greeting cards that were never sent and the Christmas gift tags that littered the very bottom of the chest, I began to think of the sum of these scraps of paper and old pictures. They tell part of the story, but only part. They don't capture the life and spark of my grandmother. They don't tell us about her heart and soul. But they are strong reminders of a person who, for better or worse, I loved very dearly and they brought her presence to the surface of my memory to share with my sister and my daughter, who never knew her.

I am so grateful that she left that piece of herself with us because it brought her close to me again.

Atlantic City: Part 2

The other thing about this trip to Atlantic City was the fact that this is the first time I have seen the ocean. I think I may have been more excited about the ocean than I was about the pipe organ we went to see.

And it was even better than I had imagined. I could see the ocean from my window and spent 20 solid minutes watching the waves when we got to our room while I waited (patiently) for my roommate to be ready to go to the beach. My roommate thought this was hilarious. Finally, it was time to go and we headed out to the Boardwalk and the beach.

The ocean is an awesome thing. It is more huge than I could have imagined. The sound of the surf blocks or blunts all other sounds. It makes everything sound muted or sotto voce. I stood and watched the waves for about 20 minutes and probably would have stayed longer if the group hadn't wanted to move on.

I swear the ocean called to me. I wanted to get into the path of the waves just once, to jump in and feel it. But, my mother's voice kept shouting from the back of my head, "It's freezing out there! Don't you dare!" and, "While you're at it, button up that coat, young lady." The last instruction I disregarded, but I heeded the first and did not jump into the ocean.

The second day, I woke up at 4:00 in the morning. I lay there for an hour thinking I would go back to sleep for an hour or even two, but I did not. So, relenting, I got up and got ready for the day. I left a note for my roommate to call me when he was up and slipped out to the beach. I stopped along the way for some White Chocolate Mocha to take the chill off (which was a good investment) and headed out to the sand dunes and the rising sun.

As I was standing there listening to the wind blow through the sea grass, and the waves crashing on the shore, watching the sunrise over the ocean and the beach, I realized that I was really here. I felt a sigh well up inside me like I have only felt when I come home and lay down in my bed after a long day. God's creation is so marvelous!

I went hunting for some shells to bring home to the kids, after that. The tide was receding, but you could still find pools of water on the beach where the water had been just a few hours before. They kept refilling when ever a wave would creep up to the edge and spill in. It was in watching this routine that I came into contact with the ocean. I was standing watching and suddenly, I realized that the wave was going to come all the way up to me. I moved, but not fast enough and the wave soaked my right shoe. It was freezing. When the wave began to recede, I reached down and put my hand in the water. It really does feel different to the touch. I wouldn't have believed that, but it's true.

So that was my big date with the ocean. I am so glad I went. The drive was long, but worth every minute and I can't wait to go back with my family.

Atlantic City: Part 1

It's been a while since I posted anything, but this one had to be posted.

I just returned from Atlantic City where I took a field trip with my company. As pipe organ builders, what could be more intriguing than the World's Largest Pipe Organ? And that's what we went to see. The organ is 7 manuals and 449 ranks. To put this into perspective for you, the largest pipe organ I have ever worked on is 4 manuals and 57 ranks. This thing is enormous.

On the tour we were allowed access to the chambers of the organ (at least on the bottom levels) where we could see the inner-workings for the pipe organ. Being "organ nerds" we all embraced the opportunity.

At one point we went on to the stage to see the console (which is pictured above) and I got to stand right where Miss America was crowned for 85 years. The scope of the building is awe inspiring.

After we had satisfied ourselves with the console, we went on up to the chamber where the 64' Diapason is. That's right, the lowest note is 64' tall. We took pictures of ourselves with the pipes, but unless you know what you're looking at, it makes not sense. So, I will use this historical photograph to show you how big they are. Those are full-grown men, not munchkins!


This was taken before any of the rest of the pipes and chest had been installed. I imagine it's the only way they could get these monsters in!

I have so much more to tell about my trip, but for now it will have to wait. Suffice to say: WOW!

The Surprise Party

Well, I turned 40 on Thursday. People keep asking me how it feels and I tell them, "40 feels a lot like 39, only slower".

My husband and mother threw a surprise party for me on Thursday evening and it was lovely, but not a surprise. Mom wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, but my husband decided that they couldn't really surprise me with the party (I always find out), so he would surprise me with the guest list. I wasn't allowed to ask who was invited or who was coming or "Did you invite...?" I just had to take what rolled out. And what rolled out was lovely Old friends, new friends, long-lost friends, friends I see everyday...

As I sat looking at the crowd of assembled people trying to delicately eat some hot wings and barbecue meatballs, I was reminded of some past surprise parties. This was not the first time Mom had tried to surprise me.

When I turned 16, she threw a surprise party for me and only three people came. I wasn't particularly sad, but I knew that Mom was. I had a lot of fun making custom pizzas with my three friends, one of whom had moved to another school earlier in the year. Later, I found out that she had invited a ton of people and that some of them had even said they would come, but didn't show up. Now, of course, I know that life happens and the best-laid plans sometimes go awry. I can remember, though, at 16, feeling a little sorry for myself that more of my friends didn't come.

When I turned 21, my husband helped my mother with the party. This is truly one of my favorite stories. My husband and his sister, Julie, were supposed to keep me out of the house while it was being cleaned up (with 3 little brothers and sisters still at home this was no small task). I guess Mom announced to everyone, after we left, what they would be doing today, whereupon my Dad went to the basement and began to sort old computers. As if anyone was going to be in the basement! Oh well...

Anyway, because Julie and Michael couldn't keep me interested in shopping for long enough, I came home early. Mom was in a state and couldn't figure out how to get me upstairs so that people could arrive. And even if she got me upstairs, she couldn't get people in the house without me knowing. Finally, when the first guest arrived (my mother-in-law-to-be) Mom lost her cool and told me about the surprise. I had had no idea. I was so shocked and thrilled. Michael sent me upstairs to get changed into something a little more party-like and as I was curling my hair, my friends, Missy and Kristen came running up the stairs shouting "Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!" I remember laughing and smiling so much that evening.

But, nothing beats the 40th. They had to get a room at a local parish in order to get all the people in. I don't know how many people came, but it was a lot. And, as my mother-in-law always says, all the right people came. They always do. Everyone had a good time. Everyone had plenty to eat (and it was so good, Mom)! And, I am humbled, truly humbled, by all of these people's good wishes and kindnesses and those of the people who called me to let me know that they could not attend but were thinking of me.

As I was sitting there, surveying all the people in the room through misty eyes, one of my close friends leaned over my shoulder and said to me, "Now, when you feel like no one cares, just look around this room in your memory and remember how many lives you have touched and how many people care."

I can't believe I have so many friends. I wonder, sometimes, what they see. But, I am grateful, all the same.

Photo: St. Pixel's Blog - Sharona

Playing for Keeps

When I was a child I took 4 years of piano lessons. My talent with music was evident at a young age. I could sing almost anything and was already beginning to learn to sing in harmony by the time I was 6. I could match pitches that my dad would sing, finding them first with my voice and then finding them on the piano. My parents decided that they needed to feed this talent. So, Mom and Dad took the initiative to find one of the best teachers in the area, Mrs. Lucy Chu. I sat in the basement studio of her house with about 9 other kids, every Saturday morning, and we were taught, using the Suzuki method, to play our scales and simple little tunes that every parent hoped would turn their child into the next virtuoso.

Mrs. Chu had a strict policy for practice: One hour per day, to be broken up in to three sessions of 20 minutes each, (20 minutes before school, 20 minutes right after school (even before homework!), and 20 minutes after dinner). Parents were to be as engaged in this activity as the child was. They had to sit with us during lessons and then during each of our 20 minute practice sessions. I can only imagine, looking back now, as a parent, that my Mom must've said, "You've got to be kidding me. I have things to do!" In fact, I know she did. I certainly would!

Needless to say, though I excelled in my vocal music progress, there was something about piano that I could never grasp. It never really became part of me. I could never make the keyboard "one" with me. I can still to this day remember my teacher coming around to critique our wrist placement with her thick Chinese accent, it came out something like "rike dead fiss". Really she was trying to tell me not to tighten my wrists, to relax and to hold them "like dead fish". My husband taunts me with this image to this very day. Somehow, my 7-year-old self found nothing musical or exciting about "dead fish". Looking back, I now understand that she wanted me to relax so that the music would flow from my hands effortlessly. I still question whether "dead fish" was the right metaphor for a bunch of 7-year-olds.

I learned a lot about theory from Mrs. Chu. I still remember all of my scales and all of my I, IV and V7 chords for every key. I could even transpose things. But, after about 3 years, Mrs. Chu despaired of me ever amounting to anything. You see, I wouldn't practice for an hour a day. I was very lucky to get in 20 minutes a day. So, Mrs. Chu passed me along to Mrs. Livingston. She was the nicest lady. It was she who introduced me to Bach. I began to learn that there was more to piano than the Bastiens had ever dreamed up.

I began to learn a piece from Anna Magdelena's Notebook. It was a minuet and I loved it, but I couldn't play it. I couldn't make my left hand do what I told it to do. I could play the right hand. I could play the left hand by itself, but I'll be darned if I could ever put the two of them together.
I began to think that perhaps Mrs. Chu was right and I would never be able to play piano, so when my mother threatened me with "practice or quit", I knew I couldn't ever do it perfectly, so I quit.

When I was a Senior in High School, I was at a performing arts school and keyboard was required. I dragged my old piano books out and began to play with them. I started to make some progress. I could play two hands at once, but not two notes in each hand at once. I finally conquered that minuet. I was so proud of myself! It was Progress, but not nearly enough.

By the time I reached college and was required to pass a keyboard proficiency test, which included playing a four-part hymn, all my dreams of ever being proficient evaporated. I had learned, along the way, from my Dad, how to use the chords on a lead sheet to play and that was good enough (or it would have to be). My mind simply couldn't take in four notes and play them all together. It was unthinkable. I froze.

Fast forward 20 years...

About a year ago, I began practicing my piano again. I don't know why, but somehow I thought, maybe this time it will be different. I picked up a book of simplified hymn accompaniments (most of them are in 3 parts) and I can (sort of) play them. I drill them until I get them right. Then I thought, why not something a little more daring?

I work for a pipe organ company and for a church so I thought that maybe I ought to learn how to play a pipe organ. So I picked up a setting of "In Dulci Jubilo" by Bach. It's still mostly one note in each hand, but the parts move independently and it is for organ (so it is actually on two different manuals) so it is a little more of a challenge.

I have a friend who is a brilliant organist (at least I think he is) who caught me practicing at church one day. I froze immediately and couldn't play anymore. I don't know if maybe my inability to play goes back to being afraid to fail or if I simply can't stand the thought of being embarrassed. But I have come to an important determination: I must conquer it.

But this time, it's all on my own time. It doesn't really matter how long it takes me to learn the piece. I can take a whole year to perfect it. I can work on conquering that fear of messing it up and learn how to recover and keep going, just as I have with choral singing. Maybe in a few months (or a couple of years) I will summon the courage to call one of the organ teachers in town to actually take lessons. But, honestly, right now, this is just a battle with myself. How much can I accomplish on my own? Am I really a hopeless case or just a nervous Nellie? I guess we'll find out...

Am I crazy? Picking up a new instrument (organ, no less) at 40! Probably.
What else is new?

Music is the food of life

I went to a very special concert this weekend. I recently re-connected with a very dear friend of mine from high school (in fact, the very friend that introduced me to my husband). In the process of re-kindling our friendship, I found out that she was singing for the Columbus Symphony Orchestra's Pops concert this weekend. When she asked if we wanted to come, the answer was a resounding "Are you kidding?!?"

Kristen Eubanks has a big, rich jazz/blues/gospel voice. She has one of the most consistent voices I have ever heard. Of course, when we were kids, I thought she was wonderful. But now, I know that this is true.

Kristen sings from inside the song. She makes it her own and communicates the lyrics effectively, making it into everyone's song. Her rendition of the Etta James classic, "At Last" brought tears to my eyes.

The concert, under the direction of Matt Catingub (Honolulu Symphony Pops Conductor a.k.a. The Big Kahuna), was "An Evening of Big Band". Catingub was the conductor and arranger for the final concert that Rosemary Clooney gave. His arrangement of "You Go To My Head" is still stuck solidly in my head. It is breathtaking. You can find it on "Rosemary Clooney: The Last Concert" (2002).

As I was sitting in the theater, listening to the music that was the soundtrack of my childhood and teenage years, I was struck by the fact that I missed going to concerts very, very much. There is nothing like live music. Music performed by real musicians, face-to-face, is a communion of sorts. Even though (due to the acoustics in the room where we were) everything had to amplified, there is a feel that I get when I am sitting listening to a group of live musicians. I can feel their presence. I can feel the music in the core of my being. I don't get that feeling from any other music source.

When I experience live music, it is like being fed. I am inspired by other people's performances, by other people's experiences of music and lyrics and by the reactions of the people around me. There were moments when the orchestra was playing, or Matt or Kristen sang when it felt like no one was breathing, or maybe we were all breathing as one person. Certainly, you could have heard the proverbial "pin drop". It was beautiful. That would not have happened if we had been sitting in a room with a recording playing.

In the past year, we almost lost our Symphony Orchestra to financial concerns. Losing one of our Orchestras (we have a Jazz Orchestra and a Symphony Orchestra) would be a tragedy. I have heard more than one person say, "Well, if I want to listen to (fill-in-the-blank-with-a-composer-or-musician) then I'll just put on my CD. It's cheaper and sounds better." But, I think that they miss the point of music, specifically LIVE music. Music is not just about the sound and silence or about the money you make doing it (though musicians need to make a living, too, folks!). It is about the personal connection. Not hearing music live, and in person, has degraded it as a form of communication.

I have said before that music is an expression of body, mind and soul in a way that no other form of communication can be. But as much as we hear recorded music, can it really be classified as communication, or has it just become so much background noise?

If you haven't been to a live musical performance recently, I encourage you to go and experience one. Place yourself in the moment and let the music speak to you.

What are you doing New Year's?

For the past 20 years there has only been on New Year's Eve party I have ever attended. If your last name is O'Keefe and part of your family tree includes Gini (my mother-in-law) there is only one party: her party. It isn't that she's selfish and doesn't want us to have fun that she's not included in, but more to the point, she wants to know that we are all safe. And, besides, why would you want to go anywhere else? Read on, and you'll see what I mean.

When Gini was young, her father was in the diplomatic corps in Occupied Japan. I believe they lived there for about 5 years before returning to the U.S. It became a tradition in their family to eat Chinese food on New Year's Eve. After all, it has all the elements of a good "lucky" New Year's feast: you know, pork and cabbage. So, these days, Gini puts on the Chinese Buffet to end all others every New Year's Eve.

The family begins to gather at about 5 or 6 in the evening and we all help to assemble the Egg Roll filling. Then we roll them. Throughout the night, Mike will fry up several at a time so they are always fresh and hot. Gini makes her absolutely-not-to-be-believed Sweet and Sour Pork and Fried Rice. And, of course, there are the usual drinks, served from the Art Deco bar that she and I found at an Antique Shop 5 years ago.

The nice thing about having Chinese Food on New Year's is that you can eat a lot of it. Every 20 minutes or so, you're hungry again, so the joy lasts all night.

My other favorite tradition of New Year's Eve at the O'Keefe's: Peanut Brittle. My father-in-law's family used to run a confectionery in town back in the 30's, 40's and 50's, and into the 60's. Mike still makes the BEST peanut brittle ever. The peanuts are always delicious and the brittle part (that sugary stuff that sticks it all together) is so clear that you can see light through it. It absolutely melts in your mouth. Then, there is the fudge and all the cookies and dips and cheese balls. Yes...it IS all about the food.

People that we see once or twice a year as well as family and friends of all the siblings (there are 6 kids in my husband's family) circulate through the kitchen (where all good parties happen). They have a bite to eat and talk about their families and what they are up to. We all talk and laugh about the passing year, hitting all the taboo subjects like politics and religion. We express our hopes for the coming year and talk a good game about our newest resolutions. We marinate in the cigarette smoke (Gini and her friends are big smokers , as are most of Michael's siblings) and pray that we don't have sinus infections in the morning. But, we wouldn't want to miss out on the conversation by going to the not-smoke-filled room... And we would never just not show up: The rule is "If you don't show up, you get talked about."

At about 11:59, we turn on the Times Square celebration and watch the ball drop, giving each other kisses and hugs to ring in the New Year and drinking toasts with Champagne, or Gran Spumante, or sparkling grape juice, or 7up - if you had too much Chinese Food.

By about 12:30, it's all over and we head for home to sleep off that 15th Egg Roll we had at 12:10 and remember why we make that New Year's Resolution to lose weight each year.

Happy New Year!!!

The Unexpected Christmas

I hope that my pastor will forgive me for talking very specifically about his Christmas Homily. It was the only thing that kept me sane yesterday.

Father's homily was a study in the unexpected gift of the Christ Child. He first spoke about the experience of wanting something specific at Christmas only to discover that you got another set of pajamas from your Aunt Ruth, instead of the BB gun that you wanted. Then, he likened it to the shepherds, who were expecting a King and who instead got a little baby lying in a manger. But, instead of pouting about the change in plans, they were joyful (this is highly condensed and was SO much better at Mass). Father went on to say that when God takes our plans and turns them upside down, that's the time to be most thankful, because it is a gift from God.

Yesterday was an exercise in putting those thoughts into practice.

Christmas is not my favorite day. Christmas is a day full of unspoken and spoken expectations that sometimes are not met.

OK...almost never met.

It isn't so much the present that you didn't get, but the reactions of people to the presents that you risked life and limb to get, or the discord within the tired adult siblings in your life, or illness, or the fight that your parents had on Christmas Morning, or a that flat tire you had on the way to church, or the fight that you had with the older relative, or the battle of wits that your smart relative decided to have with an un-armed person...I could go on and on.

At Christmas, more so than at any other time of year, I am stretched to the breaking point. Work is busy, home is busy, church is busy and all of these projects depend on other people doing what you expect them to do; what you HOPE they will do. Human beings make mistakes. They are imperfect and sometimes, they let you down. It's a sad fact of humanity that we don't always get everything done exactly perfectly. It has plagued me for many, many Christmases. No matter how hard I try for "the perfect Christmas", something always gets in my way and makes it fall short.

The real challenge of Christmas is to recognize the gifts that God gives you and to receive them joyfully. I didn't do such a good job yesterday morning, but I got better as the day progressed and I began to see that all of these things were plans turned inside out and upside down. I realized with a shock at about 5 pm (for too late in the day), that God had been showering us with gifts all day long.

In all the things that happened yesterday to me and to my family, I could see the hand of God shaping and offering His gifts to me and my family:

To the flat tire: an opportunity to take stock of the friends God put in our lives and the knowledge that they want to get to church more often because they are really hungry for God.
To the fighting couple: an opportunity to clear the air and realize that neither one of them was selfish or lazy, just sad for the lost time in raising their kids and the imperfections that marred their day. Oh yes, and the knowledge that they love one another in spite of the imperfections and they would be lost without one another.
To the discordant siblings: an opportunity to offer up the sharp criticisms and realize that you need to mindful of other's struggles in life.
To the one who was ill: a chance to slow down, for once, put your feet up and rest.
To the one didn't get the reaction they were hoping for from the present they worked so hard to get: a realization the Christmas is not about the things you get, but the love that is given to us from God (in sending His Son to us), and from your heart to that of the recipient. It truly IS the thought that counts.
To the one who was disappointed in the gift they got: A realization that someone cared enough to try to please them.
To the one who got in a fight with an older relative (and the older relative, too): an opportunity to take stock of your life and where it's headed. And the chance to change the course before it ends badly.
To the one who got mad about the philosophical discussion: The gift of patience and an appreciation of the gift God gave you of intelligence and a good education (and a really smart Dad).

It was a hectic day, filled with trials and troubles and wonderfully blessed by God. You just have to look for the blessings.

I am reminded of a story about Mother Teresa. Mother Teresa took all inconveniences as blessings. Once, she was stranded in an airport due to inclement weather and was going to miss her speaking engagement. But, instead of trying to move heaven and earth to get there anyway, she simply said, "What a blessing! God has given us time to pray!"

Even the most imperfect Christmas is full of blessings. You just have to see them as blessings.

Merry Christmas! God bless us, every one!

Old, old friends

After High School I lost track of absolutely everyone who was important to me as a teenager. Fortunately, there's Facebook.

I just linked up with some of my favorite people from High School on Facebook. It's so nice to see their smiling faces and hear their ordinary lives are a lot like mine: ordinary, but kind of cool. It's amazing to see how many places they've landed, too. One of them is in New York, one is in Germany and others are scattered throughout the Midwest. There's a runner, a holistic medicine practitioner and a choreographer among them. The whole lot of them are incredibly talented lovely people. People worth knowing, that I took for granted.

These are the Band Geeks and Choir Nerds and Drama Fanatics that I spent my days and evenings with when I was growing into the person I have become. I didn't realize how much I missed them. I wonder if they missed me...

Voting

I arrived at the polls at about 6 am this morning. I was second in line (or so I thought). The guy ahead of me was my next-door neighbor and shortly after I arrived, the rest of my neighbors arrived. It was like a big party in front of the school. At about 6:32 we decided that we'd check to see if the door was open so we could go in to vote. It was at that point that we discovered that we had all been waiting at the wrong entrance! There were a couple of hundred people already in line. I listened to people talking amongst themselves. Some of the people had never voted in an election before!

I was amazed. I cannot remember a time when I didn't have some sense of the political process. As a child, I can remember forming political opinions (childish though they were). I can remember deciding that I liked Jimmy Carter because he promised never to have a Press Conference during "Little House on the Prairie" on Mondays at 8 pm. OK...I was six. It sounded like a good political promise at the time.

This year, the debates and the topics are more grown-up and more important than ever before. It only took me about 45 minutes to get through the line at my poll this morning and was well worth the time. I urge you, if you haven't done so already, to go vote. Vote your conscience. Everyone has a voice and everyone's voice should be heard.