Chocolate, Cheese, and Lessons from Little People

Defenestration--as in "Mom, I saw a great picture of the Defenestration of Prague today"--is a great word. It doesn't slither off the tongue quite as deliciously as "plethora" or "thither," but it's still very nice. I should mention that the child describing defenestration (the act of throwing someone out of the window, by the way, in this case in political protest) is my 15-year old son. The same son apparently counts "extirpate" as one of his favorite words. I am ashamed to say I had to look that one up. I should, perhaps, worry that my teenager has his head filled with destruction, intellectually phrased or not. Given his ready wit and kind heart, however, I have decided in favor of amusement rather than horror.

I love that my sons have begun to embrace their inner nerdiness. My oldest son called from college this week,excited about his work in behavior analysis and describing the psychoanalytical theories of Anna Freud (Sigmund's daughter) with the same alacrity he used to display when describing a great snowboarding run in the powder of the Utah Rockies. These impromptu lessons in European history and child development are just the most recent of lessons I have learned from my children. I have learned a plethora (see, doesn't that slither nicely?) of lessons over the years at the feet of my offspring. The following are some of the highlights.

* The world has not created a food that cannot be improved by adding either chocolate or cheese. If chocolate won't fit the bill, cheese will. Trust me on this one. I have tried in vain to prove the theory wrong.

* Napoleon was not the last little person to rule an empire. Our 3 pound, 10 ounce daughter took the throne from her very first breath, and the age of the semi-benevolent dictator continues, four years later.

* A person who speaks with confidence can sound believable, even profound, even when he makes no sense whatsoever.

* Pajamas are world's most versatile fashion, acceptable for nearly any occasion, particularly school and particularly when worn with slippers in the middle of winter.

* Chill out. Relax through teenage driving adventures, surprise schedule changes, broken appliances, unexpected bills, bad hair days, and other calamities large and small. Listen to Bob Marley and remember that "every little thing is gonna be all right."

* A little computer time goes a long way. Alternatively, play games, cuddle, throw a frisbee, read silly stories, or dance. Your children, your husband, your dog, and your eyes will thank you.

* Wrinkled clothes and messy hair do not necessarily signify a flawed character.

* And finally, loving until your heart hurts may be more terrifying than bungee jumping, but it is also more wonderful than a million Lake Champlain chocolate truffles or even a lifetime pass to Disneyland.

Lost and Finding

I began to lose sight of myself on an early summer evening five years ago when God dropped a boulder in my path. I had one foot on the threshold of the next phase of my life, just waiting for autumn when my youngest son would step on the school bus for the first time. I had plans, vague to be sure, but plans nonetheless. God had plans, too. They involved one last child and turning my clock back six years. I could have refused, but I know better than to invite the consequences of resisting divine will. So I reluctantly, angrily even, opened a door I had locked tightly behind me some years earlier.

Born eight weeks early, our daughter captured all of our hearts immediately. I fell in love with her, as I did with all of my children. But still I struggled with God’s timing, fought against the direction my life had taken, and longed for the self I had intended to become. Before I regained my footing, troubled adolescence and ghosts from the past ripped the fabric of our family life. I found myself caught in a crossfire of struggling souls. Hurting for my son, my husband, and myself, one dark night I lashed out in desperation, dragging my fingernails across my face.

Before the wounds healed, when my bangs half-hid a red cross, my daughter stroked my forehead, trying to soothe the hurt. She never questioned, just comforted, and the heavens I once thought cold began gently to instruct. In my mind’s eye, I replayed an oft-repeated scene.

In the midst of the crossfire, oblivious to the bullets, a little girl cries out in the pre-dawn hours. That early in the morning, her crib no longer satisfies her, but neither is she ready to tumble open-eyed into her day. Still weary myself, both from the early hour and the household tension, I lift her out of her crib and snuggle with her in the nursery bed. At first she lays her head on my shoulder and nuzzles deeply into my neck, melting into me. I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling her heartbeat slow as she settles back into sleep. I let the fuzzy top of her head caress my chin and cheek as I relax into the pillows, breathing in the faint scent of lavender left over from the previous night’s bath.

After a time, my daughter begins to reach for wiggle room. I shift her out of my arms and place her cheek on the pillow next to mine. We lie there, foreheads touching and arms intertwined. I shift my head slightly to breathe in the air she exhales. Her breath smells sweet, innocent. I drift with my daughter into simple morning dreams, drops of healing elixir.

The elixir of innocent childhood healed all of us at times. The tension eased and changed form, but continued, exacerbated by Brad's new, out-of-state job and a house that refused to sell. I read somewhere that God tests us by asking us to surrender the very things we are most loath to hand over. I suspect my performance on that test failed to impress any casually watching angels. God asked for my time, my patience, and my willingness to stumble along in the dark, unable to direct my own course. I fumed, pleaded, despaired, gloried in epiphanies, occasionally wept in gratitude for tiny miracles, fumed again, and found hope in chance conversations and the wisdom of a patient husband.

Finally, the house sold, and we headed West to new adventures and space for deep, cleansing breaths. Caught up in the relief of calm vistas and peaceful nights, it took a few months for me to realize I had lost myself along the way. I began to feel the absence of identity and a need for goals to anchor me and provide me purpose. This time, I look upward and outward for cues, waiting a little more patiently and trusting a little more completely. Gradually, a new self begins to emerge, still slightly blurry around the edges but gathering clarity and strength.

Autumn Snapshots

My friend Judy Gile always said that foliage season in Vermont peaked on October 9, and Vermont generally complied with her wishes. Judy had that effect on the world around her. From our home in Sherwood Forest, not far from Burlington and Lake Champlain, we claimed a view of Camel's Hump and the hills and valleys of hardwood forests leading up to it. I particularly loved to gaze down over the town to see the mist rising above the river and the Round Church gleaming stark white against a backdrop of orange, wine, and the occasional splash of red. Closer to home, the trees along our road formed a yellow canopy over our frosty morning jaunt to the bus stop.

On Saturday mornings, we walked through the covered bridge to the football field. Mt. Mansfield presided in the distance, brilliant foliage lined the river, and the clang of the cowbell signalled each Wolverine touchdown. Later in the season, we kicked the snow at our feet and huddled under blankets while we cheered. The anticipation of hot chocolate by the wood stove kept us warm on the inside, at least.

In addition to football, we are also a Macintosh family. Every year I had to remind myself to wait past first frost for the Macs to grow red and sweet. Then, on a sunny Saturday morning, we rambled through the orchard with our wagon, brown bags full of drops for applesauce and half bushel bags for smooth pie apples. The scent of fresh cider donuts eventually pulled us out of the trees. Then we piled in the car, apples at our feet and crumbs on our smiling lips, anticipating the first pie of the season.

I miss New England autumns, bursting as they are with homebaked coziness and the tingle of promise. However, though I love first snows, I do not miss the long winter that follows. Those Vermont winters made the move to the belly of the country a little easier. Few people travel to central Illinois for the lush scenery. Still, a misty autumn morning holds promise with or without hills rolling with color. The huge harvesters lumber down the farm road outside my kitchen window, reminding me that my horizon now filled with fields of brown corn will transform overnight.

That right there is what I love about autumn. No New Year's resolutions for me. In the dead of winter, I would rather curl up next to the fire and read. But autumn...now that is the time for change. I send the kids back to school, dizzy with the possibilities before me. Then I open my journal, watch out the window as my horizon expands before my eyes, and plan my dreams into focus.

Of Blasphemy and Breathing

(This is a piece from a year or so ago, actually, but I'm posting it at the request of a friend.)

I’m pretty much a straight arrow when it comes to the Commandments. Never been one to flirt with hellfire and damnation. Don’t care to dodge lightning bolts, either. And yet, as the silence lengthened, and it became clear that he had breathed his last, ragged breath, I held Brady's hand and sighed, “God, I loved him.” I wish I could say I was praying, but that would add another to the list of Top Ten Commandments broken for the afternoon. I swear more than I care to admit. But that “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” Commandment? I’m scrupulous about that one. I remember three slip-ups in my entire life—remember them vividly, in fact, because I felt guilty about each and every one. This time, however, my blasphemy took me by surprise, profaning an otherwise incredibly spiritual synapse between life and death.

6:02 p.m. August 7, 1992. We gathered in the bedroom of my apartment. Brady's parents, his best friends, and I surrounded the hospital bed that Hospice had delivered a few days earlier. The head of the bed lay against the window as lazy-summer sunlight washed over the scene. After a couple of days of wrestling my incoherent and writhing husband, I had been almost relieved when the onset of coma brought rest to both of our weary bodies. The labored breathing and the ritual of the family keeping a death watch, however, sustained the tension all day.

Now, with Brady's breath stilled, the group of us around the bed gradually eased our own breathing, relaxing tentatively into the emerging peace. An expectant silence filled the apartment complex. Word must have spread that Brady's death was imminent, because our neighbors seemed to respectfully keep their distance. The mortician was a family friend. A day or two later we joked morbidly with him while we planned the funeral, but on that evening he remained subdued as he and his assistant took the body carefully down the stairs.

Our son, Devin, came home from the babysitter’s after the mortician left, and my mother-in-law and I spent the evening alternating between toddler routine and shedding the trappings of illness and death. We sent the hospital bed away, poured bottles of medicine down the sink, washed bedding, removed the wheelchair, made phone calls, and hugged each other.

Years later and 2000 miles away, my young neighbor, Doug, wasted away with cancer. I remember glancing out my window one afternoon and noticing his wife riding her bike past our house—no helmet, wind blowing her hair back from her face. I knew immediately that Doug had died because I recognized that familiar, intangible sense of release surrounding his wife.

I had my own moments of release in those months after Brady's death, times when I’m sure my need for freedom jarred the sensibilities of family and friends who needed me to fit their own comfortable definition of “widow.” My parents worried as I headed cross-country, pulling all my possessions in a rented trailer behind my red pickup truck. Colleagues at work back-pedaled, embarrassed, when their questions about my marital status finally elicited an explanation they had not expected. As a 25-year old professional, smiling and independent, I was not exactly a poster child for grieving widowhood.

As a matter of fact, I failed to fit my own definition of widowhood. Brady should not have died just three years into marriage, after I discovered his faults but before I gained the maturity to discard the illusion I married and admire his true strengths. He should not have died muddled by brain cancer, forgetting how to tie his tie, impatient with the toddler who had become his playground rival rather than his son. He should not have died before I learned how to forgive him for youthful bad decisions that had left me feeling betrayed.

One night, in the midst of those long months of illness, I knelt with my son to help him say his prayers. At my prompting, he asked God to make his daddy better. I watched his blond curls as he prayed, wishing I didn’t have to cheat like this, wishing I could say the prayer myself with the same fervor and faith. Didn’t I owe it to my husband to feel desperate for a miracle? Even in the disillusionment of early marriage, I know I never wished for his death. But, being the realist that I am sometimes, I did recognize stage-four glioblastoma as his death sentence. As a mother of a young child, I had to prepare for the future. So I let Devin pray for the miracle, knowing he was too young to comprehend the burden I placed on him. I also knew that he was too young to lose his faith when no ram bleated in the thicket at the last moment to save his father as the Old Testament ram saved Isaac.

Brady had a birthday last week, his 42nd. Devin, now off at college in Brady's hometown, called for directions to his father’s gravesite. I can picture Devin standing in that quiet corner of the cemetery, poised in an awkward phase between youth and maturity. On that August evening, years ago, Brady wasn’t so many years older than Devin, a far cry from the middle-aged man he would have been today.


With the perspective of decades, I think perhaps a sigh, once seemingly blasphemous, has become a grateful prayer. “God, I really did love him.” And once again I breathe, no longer tentative about the peace.

Thinking About Eve

I have been thinking about Mother Eve today, not fully understanding her complex character or the complicated role she played. In some settings, we revere her. More often, we think of a rather foolish (or at least innocent and gullible) Eve giving in to a silver-tongued serpent. She effectively introduced transgression into the world and dragged poor Adam down a path that led them from idyllic garden to weed patch.

I like to think of Eve as forward-thinking rather than foolish. Even with limited, pre-apple vision, she seemed to realize the apparent contradiction between the warning not to partake of the fruit and the commandment to bear children. God had, after all, given Adam and Eve the fruit that he told them not to eat, and the garden state made the bearing of children impossible

Eve transgressed, to be sure. She heard something in the serpent's arguments that sounded logical enough to convince her to put aside God's warning. Adam, wise in recognizing either the inevitability of the situation or the foresight of his wife, followed suit. They shared an "oops, we messed up" moment, hid, confessed, learned a critical lesson, took their consequence without complaint, and made life possible for all of us.

I have had some experiences lately that bring me, in a small way, a greater understanding of Eve. I tend to prefer action to lengthy contemplation, forward movement to stasis. While a host of miss-steps have taught me to pause and ponder a bit before acting, I still find myself all too often leaping out into the abyss without a clear notion of my landing spot. I open my mouth when wise women keep silent.

Most recently, last week I made yet another error in judgment. I offended at least one person deeply, caused a dear friend a great deal of stress, and generally created a mess. I made the error thoughtfully, though, with a pretty good knowledge of the risks. In the end, a number of us learned valuable lessons that will benefit us down the road, lessons not so easily learned without the aforementioned mess.

This minor experience comes after a period of contemplating huge breakthroughs in my personal life gained only after several years of pain and messiness initiated in good part by my calculated disregard of some wise advice. I have concluded that the gain far outweighs the rather significant cost exacted. Life is like that.

Please understand. I do not presume myself or my experiences equal to Eve. However, I have come to realize that some of the important lessons and growth in life involved some either brave or foolish soul making a mess and seeing it through. Hopefully, as I think likely with Eve, the mess is perfectly suited to the divine end. Often, at least in my own life, God helps us spin gold out of the straw we spilled all over the floor. In any case, I owe my existence to Eve's willingness to risk her own life (not to mention garden bliss) for me.

Football Weather

In the early years of our marriage, autumn began each year with my husband's wistful pronouncement, "This is football weather." Brad played high school and semi-pro football and kept warm memories of those days. While I never played football, I love the unique energy that comes with early autumn, the combination of ripeness and new beginnings that follows the delicious sluggishness of August.

Today was, indeed, a football day in all its Midwestern glory. Bright sunshine in a virtually cloudless sky teased the sweatshirt off my daughter's shoulders by the second quarter of this morning's high school game. The wind set the cornfields whispering along our drive home. This phenomenon of brown corn standing in the field for weeks puzzled me at first after years among the sweet corn fields in New England. By now, I have begun to tell the passing seasons by the height and color of the corn.

On my husband's insistence, I donned helmet and jacket this afternoon with the promise to take the motorcycle for a long ride while he cleaned the house. (How could I not acquiesce to such a demand?) For two hours I rode past fields and silos, sleepy towns and peaceful cemeteries. With the roar of the bike to keep the world at bay, I let my thoughts wander and relaxed into the rhythm of the back roads. Chilled by the wind, I returned home to my first hot chocolate of the season, a hot bath, and a book. Hooray for football weather!

A Janus Moment

I have learned not to ignore my premonitions. I have also learned that they often play out in unexpected ways. A feeling of impending doom continued for months a decade ago, culminating finally with the end of my corporate life. Later, during a period of family stress, I experienced several sudden bouts of inexplicable sadness, only to discover days later that the hours of sorrow corresponded with significant events in the life of my teenage son.

This past winter, I began to sense my approaching death. Sounds morbid, I know. And in the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that morbidity certainly runs in the family a bit. Still, this felt different than the impending doom of a decade earlier, more a peaceful anticipation of homecoming than a sense of fear or even of escape. While the premonition eventually subsided without any "now I get it" event, it gave me plenty of leisure and motivation to ponder my own "what I want to do before I kick the bucket" list.

I started a bucket list once, years ago, when the movie of the same name came out. The notepad has since wandered away, but you can fill in the blanks with the usual: ride in a hot air balloon, travel to Scotland, become fluent in Spanish (not so helpful in Scotland, of course, but still on the list), and so forth. All good things. And yet, oddly enough, when actually faced with the concept of my own early demise, I felt no regret for travels not taken or words left unspoken. Instead, I drank in quiet moments with my husband and children. I exercised, read, pondered my relationship with God, tried to listen more attentively to those promptings to love and serve. Mostly, I simply lived my life. I worried some about leaving family behind, hoped we had built enough good memories to last. I wondered vaguely if I would prove strong enough to handle the actual dying part with grace.

Obviously, I remain among the living, and I expect to revise my "bucket list" multiple times in the coming decades. The onset of middle age simply set me feeling mortal, I suppose. At the same time, it also gave me an opportunity to stand on the hilltop with a glorious view, both of the wonders behind and around me and the possibilities ahead. Life is good.