Beautiful Monotony

  

Kneeling on the cool floor and gripping the chilly porcelain counteracted the heat and strain of my sweating face and lurching stomach. When my head wasn’t spinning this week from pain medicines gone awry I was gripping my jaw in a futile effort to rid it of the infection-induced stabs of agony. Contemplating my predicament from a fetal position gave me a renewed respect for others who suffer from much worse fates than dental problems and made me appreciate the ordinariness of middle ground.

   

A loose crown allowed one of my teeth with a partial root canal to become re-infected, requiring a complete job done on its other canals. Although not life threatening, it certainly demolished my pompous complacency. The added complication of resorting to prescription meds that my weak stomach couldn’t tolerate was my own fault, but the experience served as a reminder of how much others with life-threatening or chronic diseases have to face day in and day out. Even children are not immune. When the cure seems as bad as the condition, how do they work through it? With faith and hope, I guess. It certainly puts my complaints into better perspective.

   

A week ago I was ready to whine out a blog about how there is nothing to write about because life is so mundane from one day to the next. Ho hum and shame on me. Barring these last few days, my family is safe, healthy, untormented, comfortable, cared for, loved, and connected. Mundane is good. Mundane should be celebrated. A boring day is victorious! Who cares if my biggest bit of news is that we sat on the porch and read books on a sunny afternoon? There was no pain, no loss, no horror; just warmth, companionship, and gentle entertainment. I wish everyone a lifetime of such peaceful, boring, lovely days.

Touching

 

I watched a glassblower on OPB this afternoon. It is such a beautiful, dynamic art to behold in its creation. I have a fear of explosions so, when I once sat in the same room as a glassblower, the roar and heat of the ovens unnerved me a bit, but the dance and movements of the artists and molten lumps of glass were mesmerizing. One small puff of air into a rod, or one tiny clip of needle-nosed pliers made indelible changes to each creation. Although the final products were all glass, the momentary influential touch of many things (heat, movement, chemistry, tools, and layers and twists of color) made each unique.

I almost didn’t notice him. There was certainly nothing noteworthy in the little gentleman, stooped with age, who shuffled past us in tiny half-steps like the comical character created by the hilarious Tim Conway. Or, rather, we passed him, since we were moving with much greater speed and efficiency. It was, after all, a vacation we had dubbed “Lorenzo’s Fitness Tour” because of all the walking and climbing that we did to squeeze in as much art, architecture, and breathtaking views as possible. On this day, we were entering one renaissance church in a succession of several that spanned the city so that we might continue our quest to flood our senses with frescos and marble statues, columns and mosaics.

He was dressed in what looked to be his Sunday best, albeit a little worn and humble, but what caught my attention was his bent stature and struggling pace. I was smug enough to pity him and think how impossible the cobbled streets would be for many people like him and my mom. I imagined him a local who had been to morning Mass and wondered that he did not have relatives to help him. Could he not afford a taxi or bus? But then my thoughts were intercepted by the carved font and tall ceilings as we stepped through the church door into another century.

I don’t remember where we went or in what order that day, but I’ll never forget coming out of the next church we visited in another part of town. As the bright light of the clear October day assaulted us, my eyes came to rest on a familiar figure coming toward us. Here was the same gentleman; there was no mistaking his painfully slow shuffle across the geometric cobbles. With his return came a new perspective. Was this another pilgrim on a journey like our own?

Suddenly, my need to “fix” things for him, was challenged. He was teaching me something. I was the hare, he was the tortoise, but speed and ease of gait didn’t matter on a pilgrimage. As he had just proven, he would see everything we would see or at least everything that was important to him; maybe at different times and in different slants of light, but with the same level of determination.

Helping people is a good thing, a great and selfless thing, but sometimes it is the effort, the doing, that is as important as the goal and we must be careful not to take that away from each other in our haste to help. He was on his journey and I was on mine, but, in that one shared moment, like a bit of molten glass on a blower’s spinning rod, I was forever changed.

Laugh a Little, Laugh a Lot

When did life get so complicated? Somewhere along the line, spontaneous laughter became a scarce commodity in life. Was it the bills, the decisions, the stress, the boredom? Didn't we do that much more when we were kids? Is it because, as we get older, we become so cerebral that it takes more to make us laugh? Is it the sophistication of the new millenium? After all, what's healthier than a good, rolling-on-the-floor, tears-streaming-down-your-face belly laugh? Especially over nothing. I don't think we should be able to count on the fingers of only one hand how many of those we've had in the last year. Let's back life up a bit and see if we can't find our gleeful abandon...(I'll bet you've already cracked a smile just looking at the still picture below)...press play and really enjoy yourself.

What Matters

In our neck of the woods the new year dawned at a clear, crisp eight degrees and was up to a whopping twelve above zero by lunchtime. The sun shone on the ice-covered branches that sparkled against the blue sky and, in between popping in and out of Mom’s room to help her now and then, I leisurely snapped some pictures on this lovely, lazy day. Little did I know that the day would soon change.

Earlier in the week we had learned of the sudden death of my cousin, Shari, on Christmas Eve morning. We spent the ensuing days trying to grasp this unexpected news as memories flooded us. I tried to focus on the thought of her spending Christmas with the very One whose birth we were celebrating. We spent New Years Eve, the day of her funeral service, in prayer so that we might join the family in spirit.

Because of our loss, the first day of 2011 seemed even more like a beginning. We had had a reminder of the sanctity of life and the choice to live it whole heartedly and with humor and love, the way Shari had, and the radiant day seemed to invite us to do just that. Then we heard a double thump on the monitor that links us to Mom when she is in her room followed by her voice calling me. Sure enough, she had fallen. Hanging on to her walker while she reached sideways to pick up a Kleenex off her bed, she lost her delicate balance and tipped over. Somehow, in that narrow, carpeted space between the closet and her bed she scraped her head against something that left an inch-long gouge. A quick trip to the emergency room resulted in a CAT scan to make sure hidden blood vessels were not disturbed and then four staples closed the gap in her scalp. Of course, that took most of the afternoon and we trudged home with much less verve than we had started the day. Although Mom was muttering that she had gone without any makeup on and was appalled at the look of her matted hair when she got home, we were thankful that things were not worse and reassured her that she was not bound for a nursing home. I went to bed hoping for a New Years Day do-over; that this little mishap was not a premonition of things to come. Sure enough, today was better.

Every summer, when we go back to take care of Mom’s house and yard, we visit two of her best friends that are still alive and living in a retirement complex. I have spoken before of their humorous visits in which I am called upon to repeat everyone’s sentences so they can hear better. Last year, we did not get everyone together because Mom was not up to it in June, and her pacemaker surgery kept us from going back. Over Christmas Jen devised a plan for them to have a long distance visit over Skype and recruited a family friend who works at the retirement complex to help us. Today that visit took place and was every bit as hysterical and heart warming as ever. They laughed over age and mixed up memories, they talked over one another and relied on me for repetition and interpretation, they told our friend he was cute, and they waved and told each other good bye and that they loved and missed each other until I finally closed the connection. Their sounds of earnest sincerity will always be with me; a lesson in treasured friendship that I will never forget.

The end of 2010 and the beginning of 2011 has certainly been a time of transition for us. We are different. Things around us are different. We will sorely miss the good things of before, the people and lives that were so familiar and safe, but we have been reminded not to be afraid of what’s ahead. There will be moments of stumbling, but we still have each other to reach for and the light of friendship and love to guide us. Happy New Year to us all. May we live it with as much joy as possible.

Ho, Ho, Ho

Last weekend I joined my shopping buddies in Portland for round the clock fun. We wear out sooner than we did when we started this tradition thirty years ago, but I'm pleased to announce that I can still do a mean mall walk. Jennifer, Sarah, and Danielle joined us at different times. It was really nice to connect with them, but it meant that they had to track us down by cell phone and try to pin us down to a meeting place. It's probably a little like trying to herd cats. As always, they were patient with us and good sports about wearing Betty's "Christmas Crowns" that she says spread cheer and help her find us in the stores when she's lost. We took a moment to let Sarah and Danielle entertain us with their wall climbing and bouldering. They had it worked out with management to give us turns, but we settled instead for taking pictures of them in action. Maybe next year.

I apologize to the family members that I neglected to call. Time always zooms by and I had more trouble than usual keeping my phone charged. We kept ourselves pretty busy hopping between shopping centers and individual stores scattered around the area, trying to at least find the things we could only get in the city. I still have some online ordering to do and some local shopping, but I can breath a little easier. The place where we stayed set up a wrapping room complete with Christmas paper, bows, labels, ribbon, scissors, and tape so we spent our last evening wrapping about half of our packages.

Here Danielle is tutoring Betty in a shirt folding trick that takes a certain flick of the wrist. After giving everyone individual lessons, they practiced on their own clothes the rest of the evening and the next morning when we packed up to leave. I guess we're pretty easily entertained.

Now it's time for the hot tub! What a group. We have so much fun every year, we have come to realize that it is less about the shopping and more about the personal connections. Each of us has had our share of difficult moments, but no matter where life takes us, we always have this time set aside for each other; a time for wise cracks, silliness, commiserating, and fun with a little shopping, eating, and margaritas on the side. Get ready! Only 364 days until we're back!

Blackboards, Whiteboards, and Smart Boards

Technology is amazing. Mom has lived from Model T days when trains were the most common way to cover long distances through today’s computerized age where she can Skype her grandkids. Even I have watched much progression from people walking on the moon to living in an orbiting space station, from black party-line wall phones with rotary dials to iPhones with touch screens and GPS applications. But the real eye-opener is in the school systems where even my children might be surprised at the changes.

Mom first learned to write on a chalkboard slate, but I had the modern convenience of pencil and paper from the start. Both of us learned touch typing in high school on standard punch-key typewriters. Soon, however, I graduated to an IBM electric typewriter that was smooth and fast. My kids learned touch typing in junior high, however, on Apple’s first computers. Now, fourth graders are learning touch typing on internet applications because they access computers too often to wait until seventh grade.

Besides several computers in each classroom, the 21st century also sports some other interesting equipment. Overhead projectors and transparencies have largely been replaced by document cameras that display onto the wall images laid beneath them, such as book pages, worksheets, and small objects. Movie projectors and dry erase boards have been replaced with computers and Smart Boards where websites and digital videos can be displayed and interactively manipulated. Instead of markers, digital pens control the computerized display and write on the Smart Board in digital colors that disappear with the touch of a button. Even our small rural schools have managed these resources with grants, but some schools go one step further with iPods, Kindles, and laptops for each student. As communication technology becomes more affordable, it equalizes and greatly expands the academic playing field. It’s definitely a different world; an excitingly fast-paced one.

In my latest literacy class, this subject of technology brought up some interesting questions. Technological literacy is necessary for children to function adequately in modern society, but what are the trade-offs and challenges? For instance, it goes without saying that thirty students wandering aimlessly on internet is not a good thing, yet safe sites and strict protocol rules, consequences, and monitoring can make it a rich source of information and a positive experience. Likewise, we must teach ways to discern the validity and reliability of sites and information as well as direct its use to a specific purpose.

Carefully done, it’s great stuff. Third grade students in EO can email penpals in Australia or Japan, and fifth graders can access the Smithsonian Institute website for their reports on Lewis and Clark and then create a podcast to share with parents and other students. But how far should we go? Does the advent of more economical Kindles and iPads completely replace textbooks and libraries? Should it? Will there still be a place for the word printed on rich, creamy paper sewn between hard bound covers to hold in our hands and leaf through the pages or will these be left on museum shelves to be protected like ancient Dead Sea scrolls? Should we bother to teach handwriting any more? D’Nealian printing perhaps, but not script? We don’t miss the old Underwoods, will we miss the pen? I don’t know. I guess we just have to stay tuned to find out, but in the meantime, let’s think about it.

Blessed are the Care Givers and Givees

Here's a woman who really knows how to deliver an entertaining invocation! Don't stop it until you hear her whole delivery. Very sweet and very funny.

We're All Here

And so the halls of education are once again open and echoing with the familiar sounds of scuffling footsteps, clanking locker doors, slamming books, and not-so-quiet voices. Isn’t it great how well humankind is represented in each classroom?

The studious get right to work, unable to stop themselves, the restless constantly fidget within their seats as trapped energy surges up and down their spines looking for an outlet. The fashion-conscious adjust their hair, or shoes, or latest gadget, and the socialites press their heads together to incessantly whisper about nothing and everything because it’s all too important to wait for break. The prim roll their eyes at me for being too lenient with their counterparts while the slackers in the back corner roll theirs because I am a stick-in-the-mud. The gentle just gaze at all of us with a smile of silent sympathy.

The permanently bored, the never serious, the sarcastic, the sullen, and the irritatingly cheerful; they are all there, present and accounted for. The sweet, the snide, the shy, and the devious peer up through lowered lashes to make sure I am not watching them while the beady stares of the self-assured, the insatiably curious, the tattle-tales, and the desperate attention-seekers hope that I am.

As I waded through my first day of substitute teaching, instead of focusing on differences, I couldn’t help but think how these predictable groups of learners represented other congregations, as well. Age, in fact, really doesn’t seem to matter much for, although I was with adolescents today, I have met these same personalities in kindergarten, in church, in college, in staff meetings, and in jury rooms. America is all about individualism, but sometimes, collectively, we don’t really seem all that different.

Night Sky

I burst outside through the front door like a pent up cat. Even at eleven p.m. the air was still warm but stirring gently like cool fingers against my face and bare arms and legs. Don had just reminded me that it was the last night of the meteor showers and I also wanted to see if I could find Mars, which was supposed to be closer to Earth and easier to see than it had been in something like 600 years.

Normally, I either forget opportunities like this or procrastinate breaking my normal, lazy routine until it is too late, but this time I didn’t hesitate. I have felt a little like a hibernating slug lately, letting most of life pass me by, so not stopping to rationalize as the words came out of Don’s mouth, my reaction was similar to pouring vinegar into a box of baking soda.

Although I was rewarded with both Mars and the long streak of a meteor crashing through the atmosphere, it was something much more mundane that took my breath away and made me wonder why I had waited so long to come out of my cave. My headlong rush into the summer night instantly enveloped me in a stillness that made me feel alone, but not lonely. The dark sky was huge and clear and lured me into the street for a better look. Wrapped in the inky silence, I strolled around with my head cocked back, one hand raised to block out the glare of the only nearby streetlight, noticing how much more three-dimensional the sky looked at night. Constellations and the Milky Way greeted me like old friends wondering where I had been. The vastness, which was freeing, was filled with stars and I wondered, myself, how I ever came to take simple, private moments like this with the universe for granted. Twenty minutes later I went inside a different person.

I'M A FREAKING IDIOT!!!

What on Earth was I thinking? I have seven feet of canvas to paint by Monday! And PLAID! Lots of it has to be painted to look like plaid! Who drew the plaid on there? ME! The idiot who volunteered for this project in the first place. It took two days just to DRAW the freakin’ picture. How could I possibly conceive of getting it painted in only three days more? I guess that’s what idiots like me DO; completely underestimate the reality and abundantly overestimate their patience!

Don’t ever…EVER…let me get into a project like this ever again! NEVER!

Amber Waves of Grain

Many of the towns in my area are islands in the midst of wheat fields. Right now, that which is not hopelessly bent by severe wind or rain stands tall around us like pale toupees covering the wild blue pates of the hilltops. It is a sign of man’s dominion over the earth as well as his dependence upon it; his dreams and hard work and faith that if he plants a seed and nurtures it, it will grow and multiply to feed the hungry…or at least the highest bidder. At best, it is a gamble because the destructive forces of drought, hail, fire and more are whimsical and devastating.

As the bobbing heads in the field remind me, it is time for harvest once again. Like huge grasshoppers, harvesters will dot the fields, cutting stalks and spitting out grain and chaff. Wheat trucks will be clogging up the roads at 45 miles per hour and in the end, the fields will be left with bad crew cuts that darken and rot in the autumn damp and chill soon to follow. Unlike the farmers whose livelihoods depend upon this crop, I tend to take it for granted as a part of the scenery and a source for summer jobs; but this year I am determined to take a minute to appreciate the beauty and promise that it adds to my life.

A wheat field’s showy, golden, wind-rippled beauty brings a reminder that another cycle is being completed. Fallowed fields were tilled to receive seeds of promise that were nurtured into birth and prayed into maturity. Death gives way to new life as harvested grain feeds the world and then comes back to the soil for rebirth. Such is the nature of life; sometimes ungainly and awkward, usually at the mercy of uncontrollable forces, often taken for granted, yet, upon closer notice, absolutely precious at every stage.

Taking a Break with Friends

I spent some time at one of my favorite parks recently. Although I didn’t take anyone with me, I managed to make some friends when I got there.

I like this park because it is large enough to give everyone some private space, open enough to feel safe, and sculpted enough to be beautiful and interesting. The ornamental varieties of flora create a soothing background and canopy of green, an accommodating combination of shade and sun, and bursts of color. Picnic tables are provided for picnickers, a gazebo for weddings, play equipment for the young at heart, an outdoor aviary for the curious, and a scenic pond and benches for the loiterers. My children have all had senior pictures taken here and I think Dad even came here as a kid. (Said children may now breathe a sigh of relief with this confirmation that I am refraining with great self-constraint from inserting said senior photos here.) I am drawn into this park by the aesthetics of the place, but I am rewarded by the calm quiet that pervades my visits.

This time, after eating my #2 Value Meal at a table in the shade, unharrassed by the very polite squirrels that watched me from a distance, I wandered, library book in hand, toward the pond. Coming to a 12-inch rock ledge, behind a Do Not Feed the Birds sign, I sat on the edge with my feet on the narrow, paved path determined to take a few pictures before retreating to a shady bench with my book. Immediately, however, the picturesque ducks and geese that I had my eye on swam smoothly over to me and, much to my surprise, unhesitatingly stepped right out of the water and came across the path to my feet. Knowing how testy and territorial geese can be, it was a little unnerving to see how close they were coming as they looked me directly in the eye and honked their intentions. I gently spoke back and kept the camera to my face, however, and they politely stayed within two feet of me while I clicked away. When I put the camera down and they decided I had nothing to share, they continued to waddle beside me to the grass. Eventually, I moved over a few feet into the shade and read my book while another lone duck came over, got out of the water, nestled at my feet, and dozed, his beak resting against his chest and one eye watching me for awhile to make sure I didn’t wield any surprises.

It was a peaceful way to spend a couple hours and I feel rejuvenated with every visit. I am learning to surrender more willingly to opportunities that offer moments of diversion from my well-worn routine and to spend time in places that build my energy instead of depleting it. Besides, time spent with good friends, even new feathered ones, is always a joy.

25 Things That Inspire Me

Yesterday we were blessed with a whole day of blue sky and, although the rain-soaked clouds are back today, I can bear the dreariness much better after the opportunity to soak up some cheerful sunshine. The reprieve, brief though it was, helped me to appreciate once again the life-giving force of water rather than let myself drown in my frustration of its temporary over-abundance. This made me realize once again how important it is for us to be aware of what inspires and sustains us so that we may open ourselves up to the positive in our lives whenever possible. I have decided that acknowledging the negative in my life is necessary for realistic assessment and learning, but dwelling on it is draining. Therefore, I challenged myself to discern 25 things that fill me with life and inspire me so that I can more consciously direct myself toward life-building hope, appreciation, and joy. It is an interesting and somewhat surprising process. What's your top 25?

God’s Grace
Family
Nature
Shopping Buddies
Music
My Computer
Architecture
Sunshine
Uncut Fabric
A Smile
Art
Joy
Color
Photos
Gentleness
New Paper
Camera
Creative Supplies
Thoughtful Words
Feeling Loved
An Interesting Challenge
Reading
Shared Trust
Someone’s Faith in Me

Hole in the Clouds

It is so nice to see the blue sky and sunshine break through the clouds these days. We’ve had more cold days of rain than usual this spring. Although that’s great for the land, it can be dismal for my spirits. However, even just the occasional glimpse of a brighter day is cheerful enough to sustain me.

Today Mom had a front tooth break off and she cried in frustration over her two recent bouts of falling and now this. In her misery, she wonders if she is being punished. I hope she is able to see through the clouds of disillusion soon and glimpse a different perspective. She has been blessed with good health all her life and may have forgotten that others have had to deal with these misfortunes and worse much earlier in life.

I know it’s easy for me to sit here and espouse a brighter attitude, but I hope she can see some hope shimmering through the hole in these recent rain clouds. Her psyche has become as fragile as her body, but she’s not alone, she’s with family who love her, she’s still a dynamite 96 year old, and I’m pretty sure the dentist can fix up her smile if she will just give him time.

Well Said

 

Rollercoaster Ride

I have decided that this caregiving gig is an unpredictable rollercoaster ride. My days range from being so tame that I am bored to tears, to being a nightmarish, life-changing dilemma about whether to call an ambulance or not. I alternate between feeling sorry for Mom and, God forgive me, being irritated. One minute she is telling me how nice it is to be able to watch a movie together during our lunches and the next she is chiding me for not cleaning my toaster often enough. I think she is also fairly convinced that I don’t ever feed the fish or the cat and that, roughly once a month, my marriage is on the rocks because Don and I aren’t smiling when she happens to look over. *Sigh.* This morning she was concerned that maybe the doctor might have to remove her big toe because it is so sore. “It’s an ingrown toenail, Mom, not gangrene!” “Really?” she asks. *Oi.*

And yet, how can I really be mad at these mere aggravations when Mom so clearly has more than her share of frustrations? Although I didn’t think it was possible, she is slower and has become even more fragile over the last three months. Sometimes I hold my breath as she moves, watching with sadness how much effort it takes her to pick up a foot and shuffle it a few inches. It takes her a minimum of 3 ½ hours to get dressed on the mornings that she doesn’t shower. Of course, that includes makeup and at least three types of moisturizer because one must always be presentable. My feelings of guilt at these moments, for ever having been impatient, drive away the irritation and open the door to appreciation again.

Mom’s vulnerability reminds me how precious life is and, as I stare at her sleeping form in the chair or under her covers, holding my breath until I detect hers, I am thrown around the curve of that ever-moving rollercoaster into thankfulness that we have another day together.

Note: Last night, as I typed the last word of the last sentence above, Mom’s frantic voice barely reached my ears and sent me running into her bedroom. She had fallen and was shook up and in need of assistance in getting up. Thank goodness she was on the carpeted floor and not in the bathroom, so a scrape, some bruises and sore muscles should be the worst of it. Buckle up; we're headed for another go-round!

In the Mood

Was I imagining things or did my ears catch the faintest strains of music? Nope, it was my imagination. Wait! There it was again. As I turned my head to search around me in the living and dining room areas, the sound disappeared. I glanced at the tv, even though I already knew it wasn’t on, and then held the discarded computer headphones to my ear to no avail. Staring at the telephone accusingly, as if the elusive sound was somehow humming through the wiring and occasionally escaping from the receiver or wall outlets, I finally decided I was mildly delusional, which didn’t seem too implausible. Giving up, I grabbed my coat and headed toward Mom’s bedroom in the attached apartment to let her know I was going to get the mail. Nearing her closed door I discovered the source of the phantom strains of music and paused for a moment to let a chuckle escape my throat and to rearrange my face into a “nothing is unusual” expression. Preparing myself for a blast of sound, I opened the door and stuck my head in to announce my intentions. Bracing myself against the force of the Big Band music that was dancing away, I had to repeat myself twice just to get Mom’s attention since she was sans hearing aide.

Once she detected my voice and made eye contact, she laughed a little sheepishly and told me she had turned on the cd to divert her mind from its “black thoughts.” Indeed, I had noticed before she was aware of me that, even though it was her shower day and already 10:00 a.m., she was still in her nightgown, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head down. I had thought for an instant that maybe she was dozing, but after she spoke I realized she must have been deep in thought instead.

The term “black thoughts” always makes me first think of evil thoughts, which is completely incongruous with my Mom, but she has used the term several times lately in reference to depressing thoughts. So I laughed with her and said that music always helps me feel more cheerful, too.

It saddens me that she has these moments and I know that they increase in occurrence as each birthday brings her closer to 100. She is so amazing for her 96 years, with a good mind and clear health, that those of us around her are sometimes lulled into the feeling that she might live forever. But time and arthritis are taking their toll and her mortality peeks through her tough exterior more and more often, distressing us both. Mom mourns the things she can no longer do and I mourn the eventuality of her not always being around to try.

I think it is okay to think about these things; to think about death, rue our mistakes and inabilities, and begrudge the weight of our crosses. Acknowledging our difficulties is necessary, but when we start to let them overshadow the positive, then enough is enough. Mom is right. Turn up the heat, turn up the volume, and start dancing to whatever toe-tapping beat lifts your spirits! Quit dwelling on what can’t be done and savor the joy of what can. Life may be different now, but it is certainly not over.

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Champagne and Cheesecake Celebrations

I went to a wedding recently that launched me into a reverie about the variety of such blissful occasions that I have attended. Some were lacy affairs that served a dainty fare of shrimp and petite fours while others, like mine, were down home celebrations with a barbecue and homemade ice cream. Some took place in parks, some in churches, and one in a pig barn (free of pigs, of course). Smiling brides wore veils, or flowers, or floppy hats, three-inch heels, Nikes, or flip-flops; but no matter what their wardrobe, the grooms always appeared white and solemn, as if holding their breath until it was over.

Although, some of the ceremonies might have been more a reflection of the bride or her parents than of the happy couple, each matrimonial pair found a way to reflect their own joy. One of my friends jumped off her wheat harvester and into her wedding gown just minutes before walking down the aisle, then flew off to a new life in New Zealand. Another couple interrupted their procession out in order to greet and hug friends and family on their respective sides of the aisle as they went.

One thing that makes these events fun are the innocent little foibles that don’t hurt anything, but make the day memorable. For instance, at a rather elegant wedding in a state park, the bride wound her way around a small lake before coming down the aisle while a small string quartet played airy music. The perfect visual touch of meandering geese, however, soon went out of control as the long-necked residents took umbrage at the parade of maids going through their midst and began squawking, scolding, and chasing them out of their territory.

Most recently, a barn full of onlookers were unexpectedly charmed by four very small attendants. The oldest boy, not quite four, pulled his baby sister and girl cousin up the aisle in a wagon, the latter flipping wads of flower petals behind her. After depositing them with Grandma, in the front row, he turned the wagon around and went back to fetch his toddler cousin. The sweetness of this quiet moment was suddenly shattered when he pulled up in front of the exit and called out, “Next” - disintegrating the spellbound audience into fits of giggles.

My own wedding was no exception. The ceremony went perfectly: the flower girl went down the aisle on cue, I didn’t trip or step on my dress when getting up from the kneeler, and neither of us fainted or threw up. Since we were skipping a reception in favor of a family barbecue, we greeted everyone as they came out of the church and breathed a sigh of relief as we waved goodbye to the last of the cars pulling out. That is, until we realized that we were being left stranded across town at the church in our wedding clothes without transportation! “Wait!” we shouted to Don’s parents, running for their car as it started to drive away. Ah, yes. Memories.

It just goes to show that “perfect” is in the eye of the beholder. As in the rest of life, we must follow our hearts in making it meaningful and allow laughter to soften the harsh edges. However we choose to celebrate it, real joy should not be contained, but allowed to spill over and infect everyone. At least no one used black electrical tape to spell “Help Me!” on the soles of the groom’s shoes so it would show up when he knelt at the altar. Oh, wait. Um. I guess that did happen…

SSMO Power

I recently spent a few hours with the Sisters of St. Mary of Oregon. It was the annual Covenant Day where lay associates, like me, recommit ourselves to praying with the sisters and carrying out a common charism of service in our daily lives. The nuns realized about twenty years ago that, with the number of new vocations declining, they should consider reaching out to lay men and women who shared the same ideals and practiced the same values so that they could connect with the world in a broader way. The journey has been an education for all of us.

Two friends and I were among the first of seven people who answered the invitation those many years ago; now there are over fifty lay associates, not counting about fifteen who have died, including one of my two friends. The three of us were originally the only ones from Eastern Oregon. Although more from our neck of the woods eventually joined us, most of the associates always came from the Portland-Vancouver area, closer to the SSMOs. Because we traveled four hours to get there, we were invited to stay the weekend at the convent. It was enlightening for both the nuns and us.

I think it was hard at first for the sisters to adjust to being invaded by strangers, albeit only a few. We were fascinated with everything and wanted to check out each corner of the convent: the dome, the balconies, the bells, the beautiful grounds, the various sitting rooms, the communal bathrooms with two dozen sinks lined up in a row, the phone closet, the craft room, the dormitories where high school girls and novices had once stayed. We laughed too loud, stayed up too late, and got lost too often, not always staying where we were supposed to be. Poor Sr. Catherine, our contact, was always walking a fine line between upholding the proper decorum and having fun with us.

In turn, we found out that nuns were as individual as the rest of us. One sister, with whom we shared a living room, was an avid Blazers fan and became quite animated during the game. Another loved crafts and had quite a few projects going. A third was athletic and went running every morning, another liked to fly kites, and another took care of the flowerbed outside the kitchen, admonishing anyone who dared to pick even one of the beautiful buds that resulted. As regulations relaxed, some of the women had gladly thrown off wimples and veils and exchanged habits for regular clothes in the traditional navy and white of their order, while others stubbornly clung to the familiar. One nun in her 80s still wore her habit daily, but occasionally pulled on top of it a bright red pullover sweater that she loved. What a rebel. Another sister donned worn street clothes several times a week and visited the homeless along Burnside. Some taught at the school that they ran, some worked at the nearby nursing home that was managed by a different order, and a few worked in parishes. Whatever earnings they made were pooled to provide for the entire convent and big decisions were made by consensus. In their spare time, they took care of their cooking and laundry, the grounds, the school, their extended families, the retreat center, and the retired nuns in their infirmary. They disagreed, they were quirky, they laughed, they prayed, they communed, and they moved mountains. And, boy, could they sing. They were educated, and smart, and determined, and daring, and who wouldn’t want to be connected with them in some way?

Although it has been a strange association to try to explain to people, (no, I’m not becoming a nun; I’m just going off to play with them periodically), it became quite important to me. Hearing from the sisters throughout the year about what they are doing and knowing that they are watching my back with prayer, as I do for them, fortifies a bond between us. When I make a student feel valuable and cared for in my work as a teacher, or when I take Mom for a day of shopping or help someone with memory loss wash their hands, I am joining forces with some very strong-willed, compassionate, radical women who are also using their various gifts to make a corner of the world a better place.

For me, going back to the SSMO convent is like making a pilgrimage to a second home. I know the secrets of the physical place, the faces of its heart, and the pulse of its longing. I plug into the spiritual flow of these women who are so different and yet so akin to myself and return renewed and re-grounded.

SSMO Power: I need it in my life.

Spring Has Sprung

Or so the calendar says. Since today is supposed to be the first day of spring, I walked around to gather evidence. Sure enough, the signs are definitely here.

Grapefruit are now gracing my breakfast menu.

The eternal shadow of overcast skies have given way to the bright contrasts of the sun’s rays.

Temperatures are soaring between frosty nights and light jacket days.

Ankles can now be lost in the unshorn grass that is flushed green from rain.

Branches trimmed by hard winter winds are stacked and ready for mulching.

Our slumbering neighbors are alert and coming over to visit again and…

…friends who winter in the warmer South are back and singing in the trees.

The pond is bubbling freely and the goldfish are no longer sluggish.

Trees are budding…

…bulbs are blooming

…and the Oregon Grape bushes are awakening.

The world seems new again as we shake off the cold and grim winter greys and don spring shades of green. As surely as the Earth follows its track around the sun, life in eastern Oregon orbits the seasons. Students are reveling in Spring Break, farmers are preparing for spring tilling and planting, homeowners are reconditioning their lawnmowers. It is predictable and comforting; assuring us that the pain and loneliness of even the most brutal winter will not last forever. Life does renew itself and hearts do lighten. What seemed impossible in the dismal light of our season of waiting will reveal new avenues of hope in the dawn of spring. Be happy, be hopeful, and find joy. Spring has indeed sprung.