Lyrical Friday: Influence

I can taste the fruit of Eve.

I'm aware of sickness, death, and disease.

The results of her choices were vast.

Eve was the first but she wasn't the last.

If I were honest with myself,

Had I been standing at that tree,

My mouth and my hands would be covered with fruit.

Things I shouldn't know and things I shouldn't see.

Remind me of this with every decision.

Generations will reap what I sow.

I can pass on a curse or a blessing to those I will never know. ...

To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace.

To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace.

--Generations, by Sara Groves

I could write about more than one song on this CD. I listened to it over and over when I first got it, in 2001. Some other time, I'll tell you about "Painting Pictures of Egypt," which practically became my theme song that year.

But in the midst of the hardest time in my life, "Generations" inexplicably gave me hope. I was mourning my miscarriage and our preceding years of infertility. I was losing hope that I would ever bear a child.

And then this song would play, and I would sing along to the repeated bridge: "To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace. To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace." And a spark of hope ignited.

I listened to this album almost at random yesterday, and some of the other songs threw me right back to 2001. I am not in that emotional place anymore, and I'm glad of it. But "Generations," well. Here I am in the midst of it. Every decision I make...every knee-jerk reaction to criticize, every complaint, every spontaneous hug, every silly face...they are all imprinted in my little daughter's memory. And, God willing, someday she will have children, and my mothering will most certainly influence hers.

Parenting also gives you more insight about your family of origin. Both Jon and I grew up in (more-or-less) intact families with parents who did their level best to love us well. So many others did not. The two of us started out with this advantage, and that influences so much about who we are and how we parent, what we expect from family life and from each other.

I hope that we can give Katrina the very best of our families' legacies, and the very best of ourselves. I hope that Katrina will give any children she mothers the best of us, and the best of herself. And I always want to remember...despite the routine, the bad days, the sometime-sense that I am not accomplishing anything, that generations could reap what I sow. What do I want that harvest to be?

To my great-great-great grandchildren...live in peace.

Fear of Falling

We’re going somewhere, but I don’t know where. Katrina and I were just on a train, and then we weren’t. We’re running along the tracks, and Katrina isn’t paying attention. I scoop her off and away from the tracks just before the train catches up with us. Then I scold her. You need to watch where you’re going!

Suddenly, we come to a drop off. The train tracks head down a steep slope. A gray slate slab runs along the edge. I sit down. Katrina stands on the slate. Wait! I say. I’m annoyed. I start to tell her to move back, and lean towards her. Then she is gone.

Time slows as I watch her fall from an incredible height. My thoughts slow, too. I suddenly understand all those times when Katrina threw a temper tantrum because she couldn’t turn back time and fix her mistakes. Why didn’t I just reach out and catch hold, instead of wasting time with words? She’s still falling, almost out of sight, and I think, It looks like she’s floating. Maybe a gust of wind caught her and she’ll be all right. Almost immediately I realize how stupid that is.

I wake with the picture of her falling, so far down, her blond hair swirling around her head, and the terrible knowledge that she is gone and it is my fault. I restrain myself from running to her room and making sure she’s there.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, I pick Katrina up from school. The kids usually run around near the school’s entrance while the parents chat. There are a few steps, a low wall, and a bed of shrubs across from the brick driveway. The kids love to walk on the wall.

It rained earlier, so the top of the wall is more slippery than usual. A mini-van is parked in the driveway. I see Katrina through the van’s windows. And then I don’t.

It takes a moment for the screaming to begin, about the time I get to her. She’s lying flat on her back, her head lifted up, hands to head, and oh, the screaming. I scoop her up and carry her to a bench, sit her in my lap. One of the teachers brings out ice. One of Katrina’s playmates had seen the fall and said she had indeed landed on her head.

We sit there for at least twenty minutes, with her volume waxing and waning. I see no blood, no goose-egg, on the side of her head, above her ear, where she’s holding on. Eventually we head home. She’s supposed to go to swim lessons in two hours, but I don’t think she’ll be up for it.

She calms down once we get home, but she refuses lunch. She just wants to hold her BeBe (blanket) and watch TV. I get her more ice and then sit beside her. I open my laptop and look up “concussion” on WebMD.

Mama, I can’t see the TV very well, she says. I’m dizzy.

I look at my watch. The doctor’s office won’t be open for another hour.

A few minutes later, she’s asleep. I try to wake her. She opens her eyes long enough to enunciate I want to sleep! I carry her downstairs to her bed and quietly panic. I call Jon, and he looks up “concussion” on the Internet. The question is, do I rush her to the emergency room, or do I wait until I can call the doctor? We decide to wait.

At 2:30 I call the doctor’s office. The nurse says to let her sleep another half-hour, then wake her up and call if she doesn’t seem right. I make myself some tea, go in to check on Katrina a half-dozen times, and get on the computer.

About 3:05, I start to close out of the computer so I can go wake her. Suddenly, I hear, Mama! MAMA! I’m HUNGWY!

Katrina bounces out of bed like nothing happened. She eats a late lunch and has a near-tantrum because she missed her swim lessons. The dream—the dread, the hollow feeling in my chest—still hovers near, but I’m too busy making macaroni and cheese to pay attention.

Lyrical Friday: Growing Up Together

I have fallen for another she can make her own way home And even if she asked me now I'd let her go alone
I useta see her up the chapel when she went to Sunday Mass
And when she'd go to receive, I'd kneel down there
And watch her pass
The glory of her ass

I useta to love her, I useta love her once
A long, long time ago ...

D'you remember her collecting for concern on Christmas Eve
She was on a forty-eight hour fast just water and black tea
I walked right up and made an ostentatious contribution
And I winked at her to tell her I'd seduce her in the future
When she's feelin looser

--I Useta Lover , by P. Cunniffe, D. Carton, L. Moran, P. Stevens




Christmas day, sitting around
Full with food we washed it down
Your thirteenth year my only boy
So grown up and so short a time
Just a simple nylon string
To strum along and get the swing
To wish you luck beneath the stars
I wrote this song with your guitar....

Seems like only yesterday
It was Power Rangers all the way
Then Lego stuff and dinosaurs
This year for you your own guitar
I hope it makes you many friends
Brings you fun for hours on end
Takes you places you'd never be
That's what my one did for me

--Your Guitar, by L. Moran, D. Carton, J. Moran


I wasn't yet 21 when I left for Ireland. Never been on a plane before. Never been out of the country before, except to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. I was newly engaged.

In 1991, you didn't have to be in Ireland too long before hearing The Saw Doctors. They had at least two singles at the top of the Irish charts, and a best-selling album. As I recall, the U.S. music scene was still pretty deep in the cynical, depressing grunge period. Nirvana and all that. The Saw Doctors' music was fun. Often funny, irreverent, always clever, and it made you want to dance. My friends and I went to a Saw Doctors concert not far from Galway. No reserved seats...no seats at all, if I remember correctly. The venue was a big room with a little stage up front, reminiscent of a cafeteria/auditorium in a high school. I was surprised at how accessible the band was. The difference between being number one in a small country and in a large one, I suppose.

Recently, I saw the movie Music and Lyrics, in which Hugh Grant plays a has-been 80s pop star who needs Drew Barrymore's lyrics to make a comeback. It was a sweet movie, though perhaps best appreciated by those of us who remember when Wham! and a-ha were the hottest things going. One of the aspects I liked was that Grant's character was relatively happy being a has-been, performing at high school reunions and smallish theme parks. He told Barrymore that he was depressed, bitter, etc., when his star first started falling. But after some years, when "retro" became cool again, he and his fans rediscovered each other. His fans, now in their thirties and forties, were glad to see him again. And he was glad to see them, too. I can't remember if the character said it or if I thought it, but it was like the singer and his fans had grown up together and were both looking back fondly on their youth.

The Saw Doctors weren't quite as young as I was 16 years ago, but both they and I have gotten older. They are still making music. (At least, the two original frontmen are.) It's still fun. It's still good-hearted and sometimes irreverant. But they've moved from chronicling teen-age crushes to describing a teen-age son.

I still smile when I listen to "I Useta Lover," and as Katrina approaches her fifth birthday, I've been thinking how fast the years fly. And that light-hearted band I heard when I was at the cusp of adulthood had more staying power than I would have predicted in 1991. It's almost like we grew up together.

Happy Mother's Day

I woke up this morning with a pretty bad headache, the first in a long time. Katrina and I both slept late and then snuggled up on the couch watching "Lady and the Tramp II" on the Disney channel, while Jon went to church. Then Jon took Katrina to the Chuck E. Cheese-like place on base this afternoon. Tonight if I feel better we'll go out to eat, probably at the little Italian place here in Kindsbach.

I got flowers from Jon on Friday, and Katrina made a little vase with a rose at school. And it is enough. That little vase with its handwritten tag is pure joy.

For what seemed like such a long time, Mother's Day brought sadness and a sense of failure to me. Now it brings a profound gratefulness, and a wish to do better, to be more grateful for my beautiful, bright, kind, curious, imaginative, but sometimes difficult, little girl. And also? It brings wishes that time would just slow down a little, that I could replay moments in our lives together and keep them in vivid memory forever.

At lunch today, Katrina said she wanted a sister, and that we should ask God for one. And tears came to my eyes, and I thought of a blog post I read yesterday, and how well it captured the thoughts and emotions of those of us who have experienced infertility and motherhood:

"I look at his face and know that he is enough. He is more than enough. And yet because he is enough, more than enough, to fill my heart and life with such mind-boggling amounts of joy, I cannot help but wonder what it must be like to have that joy times two.

I cannot help but to take his face in my hands and cover it with kisses, while silently praying gimme baby. Please."

Yes, Katrina is enough. More than I dared hope for. But, oh, I wonder. I wonder.

Lyrical Friday: Thoughts on Faith

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
Yeah, the news of my impending death
Any other day might have been ok

I was starting to track with my inner guide
I was getting in touch with my feminine side
But when the doctor starts whistling "happy trails"
Tends to take a bit of wind out of the old sails . . .

I'd built iron man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played cabbage patch dolls with my inner child
Now i'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And i'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

--The Lament of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Frederick IV by Steve Taylor




When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
When nothing satisfies you
Hold my hand

--When Nothing Satisfies by Jennifer Knapp


I like to read O Magazine because it has longer, more thoughtful articles than most women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, there are still plenty of pages devoted to such world-changing topics as "stuff Oprah wants you to buy" and "fashion trends that you can follow if you have a spare thousand dollars for this hot new designer dress."

But the real articles tend toward the narrative, personal experiences, and sometimes even a feature article about someone doing some good in the world, rather than the "10 Ways To Improve Your Pathetic Life" that you get in other women's magazines.

The most recent issue of the magazine, though, did its readers a disservice, I think. The issue's theme was "faith." As is the standard format for the magazine, there were a number of articles, most relatively short, written by a variety of contributers. Some of the stories were quite lovely, all were well-written, and at least one brought up some interesting insights. But the magazine had already lost me by that time.

"YOU GOTTA HAVE FAITH" the introductory section said. "It doesn't have to be a God thing. You don't have to be religious. But when you're all alone on troubled waters, you need something to hold on to..."

Seriously? It doesn't matter what you believe in, only that you believe in something?

This sentiment is standard Oprah/O Magazine stuff, and, perhaps the sentiment of a good many people in American society. It goes even beyond the idea that all religions have truth. Because O Magazine says faith doesn't "have to be religious."

No. I just can't agree. The object of faith is important. What you believe (or, as Christians say, who you believe in) in shapes you. The mere fact that you believe distinguishes you from the athiest or the nihilist, perhaps, but even they believe in their non-belief.

And (although "the terrorists" are getting to be like "Hitler" in over-the-top comparisons) I venture to say that Muslim extremists are pretty high up on the "strong faith" scale.

Think about what a person's life would look like who had faith in:

• a vengeful, demanding god


• a merciful god


• his/her own abilities


• his/her own feelings (another Oprah gospel)


• the power of money


• other people


• Mother Earth


• aliens


• nothing

Faith matters, yes. But faith is only the act of holding on. Our lives sometimes depend on what--on who--we're holding on to.

This One's for Wendy

Yesterday, we did some spring cleaning, including going through Katrina's clothes and getting rid of what didn't fit. In one of the drawers, Katrina found a dress that I had put away, oh, about a year ago, when spring turned into summer.

"Look, Mama!! I love this dress! It's my favorite!!"

"But, sweetie, it's a size 5. You're a size 6 now. I don't think it will fit."

"It fits, Mama, see? Can I wear it today? Can I?"

"If you really want to, but it's hot today. I think you'll get hot in it."

"No, Mama, I'm cold. I want to wear it."

"Okay."

(By the way, Katrina pulled this dress off the clearance rack at the BX last year, so I think it is her first non-parent-guided clothing choice.)






Jon says he doesn't understand why I don't like this outfit. He thinks it's cute. I suppose it would have been cute in 1985 at the Deb Shop. And of course, for 4-year-old girls who love both pink and sequins.

Just Call Me Barnabas

8:00 am, Thursday morning

Me: OK, sweetie, time to get up.

Katrina: I'm tiiiiiiired.

Me: I know, darling, it's hard to get up. But we need to get ready for school. Time to go potty and get dressed.

K: I don't need to go potty!!

Me: You need to try when you get up in the morning. Come on...

K: (much mumbling and complaining and dragging of feet)

Me: All right, sweetie, time to get dressed. Let's chose your clothes. How about this?

K: I don't want that.

Me: OK, then what do you want?

K: I don't know. I'm tiiiiired.

(after a few minutes of high-level negotiation, we come to a solution that satisfies both parties, but not without my patience running thin)

Me: All right, time to put on your panties. Can you do it yourself?

K: (whining) I need heeeeelp.

Me: Oh, you can put them on yourself. You did it yesterday!

K: No, I can't! I need heeeeelp!

Me: (steaming) All right, come here. (helps her get dressed)

8:00 am, Friday morning

Me: Time to wake up, sweetie, and get ready for school.

K:I'm tiiiiiiired.
Me: I know, darling, it's hard to get up. But we need to get ready for school. Time to go potty and get dressed.

K: I don't need to go potty!!!

Me: Oh, that's right, you're too little. You don't know how to go potty by yourself. Wait just a minute. I have to finish making my coffee and then I'll help you, 'cause you can't go by yourself.

K: (sits up immediately and smiles)

Me: (leaves room)

(I putter in the kitchen, listening to K running to the bathroom, washing hands, running back to her bedroom. I walk back to her bedroom.)

Me: What?! You went potty all by yourself?! I can't believe it!

K: (grins like she put one over on me)

Me: But I bet you can't get dressed by yourself. No, you're too little. Hold on, I need to go do something in the other room, and then I'll help you, because I know you can't get dressed all by yourself. (leave room)

K: (closes bedroom door, gets dressed by herself, runs into the kitchen grinning)

Yes, that's right. My child is best motivated by trash talk. I wonder why I never read about this method in a parenting book?

Lyrical Friday

what am i supposed to do about it now?

past regrets and long laments they find me somehow

o, what am i supposed to do about it now?

what have i to do but fall down?


--Fall Down, by Jennifer Knapp

I Am From

I've been thinking about my childhood lately, and I remembered a meme that went around a while back on some of the blogs I read. It's a simple formula, really, but every one I read was evocative and many were just beautiful. So I thought I'd try my hand at it. Better late than never!


I Am From

I am from weathered mountains and woods of pine and oaks. I am from up the hill, just off Janesville Pike, up near the park. I am from Raggedy Ann with red-marker boo-boos, Little House on the Prairie, yellow stenography notebooks full of ballpoint scribbles, and a long white bookcase crammed with books.

I am from the brick-and-white house on the corner, just as you reach the top of the hill. From the white birch tree encircled with pachysandra in the front yard, and the tulip tree in the side yard, and the maple climbing tree in the back. From the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases around the fireplace and the television relegated to the basement.

I am from mountain pies cooked over the campfire, from waiting till Christmas Eve to eat any cookies, from harmonizing to “In the Garden” in the car, from Penn State football, and from sitting on Gram and Pap’s front porch. I am from one father who walked away, and from another one who stepped up. I am from Bob and Linda, Ruth and George, Harold and Leona. I am from a colorful mosaic created from the pieces of two broken families, with love and commitment as its mortar.

I am from storytellers and readers and gardeners and uproarious laughter. I am from bad tempers, stubborn pride, and even more stubborn loyalty. I am from steel-toed shoes and grading papers and working hard to support your family.

I am from “You’re being antisocial” and “Jenny, will you play with me?!” From “My, it’s quiet—everyone must be hungry” at Thanksgiving dinner and “Let’s go up to the Bellwood intersection” for ice cream in the summer.

I am from Church of the Good Shepherd, over by the football field. From primary choir, junior choir, youth choir. From singing “My Hands Belong to You” two weeks after heart surgery and wondering why the adults were teary. From seeing hypocrisy up close. From seeing faith up close. From Wednesday morning youth Lenten breakfasts, and from singing in old country churches clad in light blue polo shirts and white skirts. From "Ring the Bells" at Advent and "Were You There" at Lent. From Betty and John, Karen, Ron, Edie and Joe, Norman, Craig.

I am from Bethesda Naval Hospital, where a cutting-edge surgeon saved my life almost as soon as it began. I am from the Pennsylvania Dutch, stalwart Germans all. And from mysterious Italian and Swedish forebears swirling unrecognized through my genes.

I am from pork and sauerkraut at New Year’s, homegrown lettuce and spring onions, pickled beets and eggs, patty-pan squash, chives plucked straight from the garden, Way’s orchard apples in the fall, and Grammy’s special Christmas punch.

I am from Pop-pop hearing his mother’s favorite hymn on the radio after asking God for a sign that baby Jenny would be all right. I am from a blind date set up by my great-aunt, with my mother expecting a short, bald man and being relieved when my tall father (with a full head of hair) showed up.

I am from big brown photo albums under the coffee table, from yearbooks stacked somewhere upstairs, from a line of smaller black albums on the shelf, from the framed pictures on walls and tables. I am from the black-framed pictures that now march up and around my stairwell, of grandparents now gone and children now almost grown, and of the new generation, my daughter and nieces and nephews, who will be from somewhere new and yet still familiar.

Spring Break

Diagnosis

It was about a month after my first miscarriage, after hope was extended and then destroyed. My heart still ached, and tears came quick and too often, and I felt hollowed out and old. I went to a women’s church retreat, perhaps hoping that a weekend away would give me some perspective, or maybe even some answers.

I remember that the theme was something like “A Time to Be,” and in the back of my mind I guess I wanted God to come to me and explain why it was not time for me to have a child. But that didn’t happen. Instead, that weekend started a whole different time in my life.

The second morning, I woke in my dorm-like room in the lodge with the worst cramps I had ever had. I spent some quality time in a bathroom stall, which kind of helped, but I still felt pretty bad. I went to breakfast, where I had just a piece of toast (the irony of which you probably can guess). I participated in the rest of the retreat, when I could.

Back at my in-laws’ house (where we were staying for the time between our townhouse selling and our new house being completed), I surmised that I had caught some sort of intestinal virus. I felt terrible for a few days, and somewhat better for a few days, and then waited to get wholly better.

I didn’t get better.

The painful intestinal cramps and diarrhea came and went. About the time I thought that I should really get to the doctor, it seemed to improve. And so I put off the doctor’s visit. It didn’t help that I had no primary care physician at the time, and it just seemed a bit embarrassing to spring these symptoms on a stranger.

And then, of course, it would get worse again.

I started to wake in the middle of the night and rush to the bathroom. Mornings, it was difficult to get anywhere on time. But by afternoon, I felt like myself again.

That summer, we went on a trip to Poland for a friend’s wedding. And I love(d) the heavier, crusty bread that is the norm in Europe. I ate a lot of bread, especially in the mornings when I wasn’t feeling too well, and the European breakfast of meat and cheese looked unappetizing. But the bread? That I ate.

What with the sightseeing and all, and never knowing where a bathroom would be, I also took Imodium frequently. It kind of worked. For a day or so at a time. But I still remember being in the middle of a small Polish city, practically doubled over with pain, and trying not to let my traveling companions know. Jon knew, though, and he was quite upset with me. Not for the sickness itself, but because I hadn’t seen a doctor sooner. And, of course, he was right.

I finally made an appointment to see a doctor in early September. He listened carefully, did a cursory exam, and gave me an initial diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I got some blood tests and some IBS medicine.

Not only didn’t the medicine work, it had a side effect of dry mouth. Which, when the doctor mentioned the possibility, didn’t sound so bad. Believe me, dry mouth can be bad. It felt like not only my mouth but my throat would just stick together and I would never talk or breathe again if I didn’t drink about a gallon of water right now.

So, back to the doctor. He said, “I want to give you one more blood test. You probably won’t have this, because it is pretty rare, but some of my IBS patients have been diagnosed with celiac disease.”

About the time he said rare, I figured I had it. My medical history has a peculiar pattern to it. Born with rare heart defect, diagnosed with a rare reproductive system defect (when my ob/gyn told me over the phone what the problem was, he asked if I was sitting down first), I didn’t seem to get common medical disorders.

A week later, the doc called. My blood was sort of positive for celiac disease. One of the blood tests was positive, that is, and the other two were negative. There was another test to make sure, said the doc (an endoscopy), but that seems kind of invasive. Why don’t you just stop eating gluten for awhile and see if it helps? (Later I learned that I should have had the endoscopy. And that celiac is not nearly as rare as doctors thought it was.)

Hm. Never had the words “Easier said than done,” seemed more true. When I started downstairs to eat lunch, I stared into the fridge for a looong time. My usual lunch was a sandwich. OK, couldn’t have that. But what about…no. Oh, here’s this…no. I finally settled on leftover pork fried rice. I didn’t know then that most soy sauce has wheat. That was the last pork fried rice I ever had that wasn’t made by my own hands.

Going gluten-free was an education. Sometimes it still is. I read books and books and books, and subscribed to an e-mail list, and read pages and pages online. I figured out what to look for in ingredient lists. I wandered the aisles of the local Giant, reading labels and getting more and more frustrated and nearly crying in the frozen food section. I darkened the door of a health-food store for the first time in my life, and nearly cried again to see a whole section with those beautiful words gluten-free.


About the time my celiac symptoms cleared up, another new time in my life began. Three months after that rare diagnosis, I finally received a common one: I was pregnant. And this time, hope grew and was delivered. Katrina was born. And the next morning, I met with the hospital dietician to discuss my need for gluten-free food during my stay.



Reading: Magic Hour by Kristin Hannah; and
Rumors of Another World: What on Earth Are We Missing? by Philip Yancey

Welcome, Spring

Plans Called on Account of the Plague

We're dealing with illness here, so I haven't had much time to write. Katrina missed out on the horrible rotavirus that decimated her preschool class about a month ago (thank goodness! one stomach virus a year is enough).

Instead, our girl had her first-ever bout with strep throat last week. She came home from a birthday party last Sunday and within an hour became lethargic. Katrina asking to go to bed at 6 p.m. means only one thing--fever. And so it was, 102 degrees. Next day, she complained of a sore throat and a sore ear. To the doctor we went. The very kind receptionist noted that the "infectious disease" waiting room was already taken (the doc's office was more crowded than I'd ever seen it), so maybe we should just go have a coffee and come back in half an hour. There's a bakery/cafe downstairs. Much better than a doctor's waiting room.

Anyway, we waited another 20 minutes when we got back. (This is entirely unusual for this doctor. On occasion we have been in and out in under 20 minutes.) The nurse walked in and immediately swabbed Katrina's mouth for strep. No gag-inducing tonsil swab! Just the inside of the cheek, and results in a few minutes. The miracles of modern medicine!

So, yes, strep. Over to the apotheke for penicillin. No school until Wednesday, as the doc said she'd still be contagious Tuesday. Let's see, about 60 euro for the doctor's visit (which included 10 or 15 euros for the cool strep test) and 30 or so euro for the medicine.

Fast forward a week. She was fine Sunday. Yesterday morning, "Owwie! My ear hurts!" while clutching the offending appendage. We talked about it a bit, as I couldn't believe she could get an ear infection or have one get worse while still on antibiotics. "Are you sure, honey? Because we'll have to go to the doctor if you stay home from school." (This is not much of an disincentive. She loves the doctor's office.) Plus, she also said her toe hurt. So it started to sound like a random, "last time my ear hurt I got to stay home and watch TV" kind of thing. Until I tried to take her temperature with the ear thermometer and she clutched her ear again and refused to let me take it on that side. She's never done that.

So back to the doctor. A bit of a wait again. Doc confirmed that she had an ear infection. Actually, he walked in, looked at her record on the computer, said "Oh, nein!" loudly, and kind of laughed with the nurse. Apparently, the antibiotic he prescribed was only for strep. It was not strong enough for an ear infection. And apparently, Katrina was not the first child to come back with another infection.

So, back to the apotheke. 75 euros for TWO bottles of Augmentin (the nastiest stuff she's ever had to take), a small bottle of probiotics, and a bottle of stool softener, because these antibiotics are wreaking havoc with her little tummy. The doc only charged 25 euros because it was a "follow-up visit."

Another two days at home. And poor Katrina trying to get down a teaspoon and a half of Augmentin twice a day. After only a day of her second round of this stuff in as many months, she started to gag involuntarily this morning as soon as she got a whiff. She managed to get it down, though, with me using a medicine syringe and her holding her nose. There's not enough candy in the world to reward her for that.

Longing for Spring

My skin craves the sun.

In Northern Virginia, the sun is an enemy, heating the heavy air and clearing shadeless playgrounds by eleven a.m. Here in Germany, the sun is an old friend or long-lost lover, seldom seen and greatly cherished when it appears for even a few hours. Although winter temperatures were unusually mild this year, day after day brought gray skies and rain. From drizzling to pouring and back again, with hail here and there for good measure. The only snowfall merely coated the ground in the morning and dissipated by midday. No gleaming white reflecting the sun into squinting eyes. Just fast-moving dark clouds, wind, and rain.

After a while, the wet and the damp and the sameness tighten into a drab cloak. The world contracts: inside the house, inside the school, inside the car, your boundaries the circumference of a small umbrella. Your spirit draws in, and your breath, too, until you hardly notice how small they’ve become. Darkness seeps in, and slowly takes up residence. A gloomy Eeyore roommate, unmoved by reason, convincing you that light is a distant memory. The sun is in hiding, and it's never coming back.

And then, you notice that the mornings seem a little lighter. You’re no longer eating dinner in the dark. But the differences penetrate slowly, and the grayness lingers. You wake at midnight to a roaring wind driving the rain against the windows. And another day dawns, and a speck of blue sky appears, until clouds rush in to blot it out.

But the day does come when the skies clear. It’s still chilly, the wind still chaps your face, but that doesn’t matter. Because that long-lost lover, your old flame, has returned. And you turn your face up to the sky. Oh, this is what it’s like to breathe deeply and freely. Your vision lengthens, and earth and sky and arms open up. Time slows. The afternoon lengthens as you watch children on the playground, running and screaming with joy. Other families come and go, but you stay, relishing even the slight warmth, the light, the charged air. Why should we go home? Who knows when such a day will come again? You soak it in, and take one more deep breath, putting off the moment when you must open the door and step back inside. You suddenly understand why the ancients worshipped the sun.

It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.



Reading: Raising Your Spirited Child (again)
Listening to: Redemption Songs by Jars of Clay and Baby Beluga (Raffi)
Watched Last Night: "Torchwood"

Conversations (or, Exercises in Humility)

Talking with Katrina is an exercise in humility. I hear about children who talk about what happened at school or what their friends are doing, but nearly all attempts to elicit information from my daughter are met with resistance. Apparently, school is her domain, and she only occasionally drops little pearls of information for us to hoard and speculate about later.


But that's not the humbling part. Because as much as Katrina dislikes talking about her own experiences, she adores asking questions. About everything. Pretty much any conversation with her that lasts more than a minute or two exposes at least one hole in my knowledge base. A vast, dark ignorance. And here I am, a college graduate.



Here are the topics that we covered in the time it took to eat breakfast yesterday.



"How is bread made from wheat?" A good start! I can answer that one! Although, no, I don't really know how the grains of wheat are separated from the rest of the plant. And the closest I can come to explaining how they are ground into flour is to say they use a machine like our coffee grinder. I mention the other ingredients quickly, hoping that she won't want an explanation of what yeast is and how it works (good, she doesn't ask that one).



Next question: "How do they get the milk from the cows into the milk container?" OK, I can answer that, too. "And then they sprinkle sugar into it?" Um, no...hmm. Oh yeah, I explained some time back that she could no longer drink milk at bedtime because it had sugar that could hurt her teeth if it sat in her mouth all night. "No, honey, the cows put the sugar in when they make the milk." And then she launches into a rambling musing about what if a baby cow had no mama or papa. I have no response to this, being a bit confused as to how we got there.


Next question: "How did they make that door out of wood and cut it and fit it into that hole?" Buzzzz. I answer vaguely with something about cutting the wood and measuring the doorway. I'm sure there is more to it than that, but I just don't know.



Then, breakfast is over and it's time for the Ride to School Philosophy Hour (actually only about 15 minutes, but it can seem longer). You see, there are two times when Katrina's mind turns to the questions of the universe: when we're in the car, and when she is on the toilet. No, I don't know why.



For the past few days, she's wanted me to play her "God songs" in the car. That's a children's CD with worship songs. These are not kiddie songs like "Jesus Loves Me," but worship songs you'd hear in a contemporary church service or on Christian radio. And, boy, do they bring on the questions.



"Mama, why do they call God a rock?" (This said in a faintly indignant tone, like she thinks someone is calling God names.) I've explained a number of times that the song is really saying that Jesus is like a rock, being strong and always there, but I'm not sure she really gets it. Because she keeps asking the question. Every time the song plays.



"What is a Judah?" This from a song that repeats "Hail, hail, Lion of Judah" approximately 264 times. It is a catchy tune, so she's been singing it. And really, how much meaning does "Lion of Judah" have to present-day adults, either?


"Why do they say the lion and the lamb?" I say something about God being as fierce as a lion but as gentle as a lamb. She says it must be that God is fierce to "bad guys" and gentle to "good guys." I kinda go "umm-hmm" and let it stand. I've got nothin'.



And then there is the whole Trinity deal. Oh, yes. I'm driving her to school at 8:50 in the morning and trying to explain the Holy Trinity to a four-year-old. Because she gets that Jesus is God, and that God is God. So, naturally, that means that there are two gods. I, of course, try to correct her by talking about the "mystery" that is the Trinity, but I think all she gets is that there's a Spirit, too. Yay! I can't wait until she tells our pastor that there are only three gods.



She's four years old, people. And I end up trying to explain parts of theology that wise people with seminary degrees have trouble with. I thought we'd still be in the "God loves you" territory at this age, but she's on to why the bad guys killed Jesus, and exactly when is Jesus coming back, anyway? Maybe tomorrow?



And I haven't even mentioned our conversations about plumbing and water treatment and how did Pap used to make paper (which she finds fascinating...maybe Pap needs to explain to her how it's done) and how do they make books and get the pictures on the page and what are those white things by the side of the road and why are bad guys bad and why do we live longer than lions and why did God make people after dinosaurs and why are the dinosaurs all dead and what would happen if there were one dinosaur left--would he eat our house and why are they digging there and what does the yellow light mean and does the traffic light know we are not going straight and when are we going to Raina's birthday party? Wait...that one I can answer.

Reading: Happiness Sold Separately by Lolly Winston
Listening to: Eleventh Hour by Jars of Clay
Watched on DVR last night: "Torchwood"; "Medium"

True Confessions

A while back, another blogger sponsored a writing contest about what raising children has taught you about God. But when I started thinking about it, the biggest lessons I've learned have been about me. How self-centered that sounds! Of course, yes, I've gained some insights on the love of God; being on the parenting side makes the "God as Father" metaphor more meaningful to me. But the daily challenges of parenting have also uncovered aspects of myself that I wasn't aware of (or perhaps, wanted to remain blind to). And the picture is not pretty.

I'm terribly impatient. All day, every day. I always thought I was just easily bored. But nothing will show up adult impatience like a preschooler. A preschooler has no concept of what it means to hurry. She lives in the moment, every moment. And the speed at which she selects her outfit for the day or puts on her shoes does not change, no matter how many times you tell her that she'll be late for school. The decision of which of several pink dresses to wear is vital. She must choose the right one, no matter how long it takes. Late? What's the point of being on time if you're wearing the wrong ensemble?

Of course, in the "getting ready for school" scenario, I have a valid reason for hurrying her. But I find myself clenching my fists and trying to bite my tongue even when there is no hurry. Will you just do it (whatever "it" is) and be done! Do we have to stop five times on the walk to the playground to look at random stuff on the ground and ask fifteen questions about it! Can't we just get there and start having fun already!

So, we must hurryto the playground, or, what? All the swings will be gone?

I also tend towards laziness. I always thought I was just physically lazy. I've never liked to exercise, especially if it involves actually breaking a sweat. (I'm working on that one, by the way. Been going to the gym at least three times a week. Sweating, even.)

But, here's the thing. When your daughter gets obsessed with, say, a video game, it is soooo easy to just let her have at it. For way longer than is really, uh, good for her. Why? Because turning it off brings with it a few consequences for me that my inner sloth doesn't like: first, the protests of the child, which can go on for, yes, the rest of the day (it is an obsession, after all); and second, I'll have to figure out an alternative activity for her. And sometimes? Not really inspired to play Cinderella or Littlest Pet Shop or several games of Candyland. (Candyland at least has a beginning and an end, even though you're in big trouble if you accidentally pick up the Princess Frostine card, because that is Katrina's favorite card and woe to anyone who would evilly keep the card from her with the lame excuse of following the rules of the game!)

Now, that's not to say that I don't value time with my daughter. Snuggling up to read a book to her? Anytime. Hanging out on the playground? Not bad at all, especially after what seems like months of rain. Dressing up teensy-tiny plastic dolls while re-enacting the Cinderella story? Not my favorite.

Sometimes when I ask Katrina to do or not do something, she says emphatically "I want to do what I want to do!" And I think, "Me, too!" Usually, what I want to do doesn't involve wiping a little one's bottom, playing repetitive games, or answering a series of twenty questions on the same topic. (This morning, it was on where the Pharoah's bad guys went when they were drowned in the Red Sea. And why did Pharoah chase God's people? But why was Pharoah mad? Why didn' t he want Moses to go? Why was Pharoah mean? Why did God put the water on the bad guys? Did they die? Is their skin peeling off in the water? Did the bad guys go to heaven? This series of questions brought to you by "Prairie Home Companion" on AFN radio, where they sang a spiritual about Pharoah being "drownded" in the sea. Thanks, Lake Woebegon!)

ANYWAY, when my (natural?) impatience and/or sloth (and don't forget plain old selfishness!) comes to the fore, my mothering suffers. When my impatience builds up, I say things I regret later...or, even if I manage to control my words, my tone of voice gives it away every time. And it's not like my sharp words help the situation or motivate her to get moving, already! Similarly, when I give in to my desire to relax just a few more minutes while Katrina stares at a big screen, she and I both get grumpy later. We lose time when we could be doing something more positive, healthier, more nuturing to our relationship and to her development.

What have I learned from mothering? I've grown in understanding my own sinful nature--and how it can affect my attitude, my habitual reaction to frustration, and my parenting. And from the time we brought Katrina home from the hospital, I gained a new and terrifying understanding of how powerful a parent is in the life of a child.

And that's the kicker. Most days, I am powerless to make my daughter really hurry up. But the words I say and the tone I use are powerful enough for her to remember forever--good or bad. They shape her. Will I use my parental power to build her up or, in my impatience and frustration, will I tear her down?

In the midst of this inward struggle, the cycle of sin and regret, the Lord's Prayer comes to mind. "Deliver us from evil," it says. And me, I always prayed that evil would not harm me or my family. But some time in the past few years, that has changed.

Now, I pray "Deliver us from evil," and what I really mean is, "deliver me from doing evil." Because I see now, the damage that can be done to children. The damage that I am capable of inflicting through thoughtless words and actions, when I operate out of sin. The power of parenting is the power to choose life or death, to nourish a little soul or to stifle it, to give in to our sin nature or to struggle against it. And these grand dichotomies are presented every day, every minute, in the most ordinary circumstances. Do I speak sharply out of my impatience, or do I take a breath and admire the fragment of rock Katrina picks up? Do I stand firm and require more out of both of us than an afternoon in front of the TV or computer screen? Do I kindly answer the twenty-fifth question about the same topic, or do I shut down her curiosity in favor of a few seconds of silence?

Deliver me from evil. Deliver my daughter from my evil. Cleanse my heart, not for me alone, but for my family. And most of all, cover my mistakes, my sin, with Your grace.

Little Church in K-Town

I’m unexpectedly proud of the little church we attend, Kaiserslautern Evangelical Lutheran Church. It’s a Lutheran church for English-speakers, mostly Americans with some connection to the military here. It’s been here in some form or another since the late eighties. When we first started attending, nearly two years ago, it had been without a pastor for several months. Because of its small size, KELC can’t really afford to pay a full-time pastor. So it has hired a succession of retired pastors from the States, giving them the use of a small apartment, with a half-time salary and the hours to go with it. Despite the small salary, the position is fairly attractive for adventurous retirees who would like to live in and travel in Europe for a few years.

But last year, the church decided instead to hire the pastor who was filling in for us, who just happened to be the full-time pastor of the German Lutheran church where we meet. He is an American who married a German and has lived here for about 15 years. With the permission of the German congregation, he took on our congregation, too.

It’s a good match, I think. And hopefully a bit more permanent than the few years that an American retiree could reasonably be expected to stay. With this decision, however, came another question: what should the church do with the apartment and office space it’s been renting for at least 10 years?

The current pastor doesn’t need it. He already has the parsonage connected to the German church, as well as his own office. KELC uses the apartment perhaps once every few months as a meeting space. Other than that, it is glorified storage, and for not very many things, at that.

We’re progressing rather slowly in deciding for sure what should be done, but it looks like we’ll let some or all of the space go. We could keep it if we wanted—the money is there.

In fact, the only problem concerning money for this church (other than that it’s woefully disorganized) is figuring out what to do with it. Yes, it is a small congregation. But the expenses are small, too. We meet in the sanctuary of the German church, and for what is really a nominal fee plus sharing a few expenses, like altar candles. We have a part-time pastor, but because of German tax regulation concerning second jobs, we can’t pay him what we would have paid someone from the States. The biggest budget decision to be made at the last members’ meeting was which charities the church should contribute to.

That in itself is refreshing. A church that isn’t short of money. But here’s the other thing—even though we have the money to keep the church office and apartment, many of the members would rather give up the space. Why spend thousands of dollars a year to keep a barely-used office? We could be giving it to Orphan Grain Train (through which we support a Russian orphanage) or Lutheran World Relief. Or to the German church to help fix their aging roof or paint their sanctuary.

By contrast, a number of years back we attended a church that met in a high school auditorium. It was small, too. It was also short of money, given that rent and a pastor’s salary were both much higher there. But still, for a good number of members, the burning question was, “When are we going to get a building?”
Granted, the situation was a bit different. The ushers for each week did more than collect the offering. They arrived a half-hour early so they could unpack “church” from the storage closet and set it up: a rolling wooden altar, a sound system (which was stored inside the altar), banners to lighten up the dark space. And after the service, it took another half-hour to put it all away again. A bit of hard work that never went away.

So we don’t have that here. We meet in a lovely church already, and everything is already set up. But still. There does not seem to be the yearning for “space of our own.” Even though we fit our service times around those of the German church. Even though everyone here is a transplant.

I’m not sure why the attitude is different. Perhaps because most members are not here for the long term, it is easier to hold things with a lighter grasp, and even let them go. But I like what members are saying, and what their priorities seem to be: not “growing the church,” but being here for those who need us, and using our money to make a difference to those who need it.

Taking My Medicine

I was sick. My throat hurt, or I had a fever, or a stuffed-up nose. Or all three. That’s not what I remember. Mom must have taken me to the doctor, a pale woman with cold, limp hands and a whispery voice.

When we got home, there were pills. Those I remember clearly. Capsules, maroon on one end and speckled maroon and ivory on the other end. They were huge. As soon as I saw them, coldness washed over me. Deep in my gut, I knew: I could not swallow them. I didn’t decide not to. I just knew I couldn’t. They would choke me, and I would throw up. Or they would choke me, and would stay lodged somewhere in my throat. My stomach clenched. Dread seeped from my gut to my limbs, my lungs, my tear-filled eyes. I couldn’t figure out how anyone swallowed pills without chewing. I had to chew them, or they wouldn’t go down. I knew it.

My mother didn’t seem to understand. She told me I had to take them. It would be easy. All I had to do was put one in my mouth and swallow some water.

Maybe other people could do this thing, but I could not. It was impossible. I wished I could do it easily, nonchalantly, like other people could. Didn’t she see, it was impossible?

I cried, sobs of panic and bleak inadequacy. The capsules grew larger. My throat grew smaller. I pictured it, a small thread, constricted and tight.

I think my mom yelled. I may have yelled back, trying to make her understand. I know I cried some more. Then, shaking, I stuck that maroon capsule in my mouth. It felt smooth and slippery and alien in my mouth. I was afraid it would slip down too soon, or I would accidentally bite it, and a foul taste would fill my mouth. I was afraid of losing control.

I tried, really I did. I took a gulp of water, and the thing moved, and I panicked. And I choked, and tears blinded me, and I couldn’t swallow, and water and the pill came out into the sink. And my tears were tears of fear and panic and a hollow certainty that I had failed. And I knew trying again wouldn’t matter. This thing was impossible for me.

Finally my mother gave up, and I got to walk out of the kitchen, drained and shaking. The rest of the day, I waited with awful anticipation for the next round. I knew the prescription was for twice a day.

When the time came, with no further comment, my mother handed me liquid medicine. I almost cried with relief.

Last Tuesday, Katrina said her ear hurt again. I took her to the doctor, a fast-speaking, business-like German man with exam rooms that look like a children’s wonderland. He prescribed Augmentin, a powder that you mix with water to produce a thick white liquid that smells like rotten oranges.

Bribed with candy and praise, Katrina took it faithfully for nearly a week, holding her nose and nearly gagging a time or two. But by Monday morning, she had had enough. She refused to take it. She wrinkled her nose and pulled away at a mere whiff. I could hardly blame her. But she had to take it. I had to persuade her. And quick. We needed to leave for school in 10 minutes.

I calmly told her she couldn’t go to school until she drank it. She said, “I don’t want to go to school.”

I told her if she didn’t go to school, she’d have to stay in her room all day. No TV, no computer, no games.“I know it’s yucky, but if you don’t take it your ear will start hurting again. You can do it. You are brave!”

“OK, OK, OK,” she said. She took the medicine cup in her hand. She took several deep breaths. I tensed in anticipation. She put the cup back on the table. “I just can’t do it!” she whined emphatically (you may have never heard anyone whine emphatically, but believe me, Katrina does).

After about 20 minutes of this, I lost patience. I yelled, she cried. I walked away to try to keep from yelling, and she cried. “MAMA! Don’t go! I need HELP!”

I tried to calm us both down. I made her laugh. I tried to make it a game. I tried, and she did too. She still couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Finally, I just sat in my chair at the kitchen table, with my arms crossed and my head down, mentally replanning my day if I had to follow through with keeping her home from school. I didn’t know what else to do.

She slowly picked up the medicine cup and drained it. I almost cried with relief.

She was a half-hour late to school, but I took her anyway. And as I was driving away, I thought of that giant maroon capsule.

Sorry, Mom.

Why There's a Plastic Cup, a Paper Towel, and a Piece of Cardboard in my Backyard

Ah, the peace and quiet after the girl child is fast asleep. Lovely. Calm.

I walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Something high up on the wall catches my eye.





What is that? I look again.

Now, here's what usually happens when I see a bug in the house: I call "Jon!" in a very sweet voice and then beseech him to take care of it. He looks at me in disgust for my disgust and giant-bug-induced paralysis, and then he gets the vacuum and poof! no more bug.

Jon left on a business trip this morning.

And, I really don't want to wake my sleeping child with the sound of the vacuum.

I confess to you that I seriously thought about just turning off the light, closing the door, and going upstairs, trusting that the GIANT SPIDER in my kitchen could NOT go under three doors and up onto my daughter's bed to crawl across her while she's sleeping. Or, not climb up a flight of stairs, go through two doors, and get up on MY bed. Did I mention that the notion of bugs crawling on me while I'm asleep gives me the heebie-jeebies? Well, actually, bugs crawling on me at all. But in bed while asleep is the stuff of nightmares. [To get totally off the subject, I believe there was a scene in The Poisenwood Biblethat pushed all of these buttons. Wave after wave of bugs, and the family had to flee its home in the dead of night. At least, I think it was bugs. Great book, nasty, scary chapter.]

Anyway, so I realized I would have to deal with the GIANT SPIDER by myself, with no vacuum. Oh, and did I tell you about the extreme ookiness of squishing an insect? When you can feel the exoskeleton crunch between your fingers, even if said insect is deep within some sort of tissue? EW. And? If I hit that thing with something? HUGE nasty stain on the wall.

Hence, the plastic cup. Of course, I had to drag a chair over to stand on because the GIANT SPIDER was too high up for me to reach. Then, I tried to catch it under the cup. But it DROPS onto my KITCHEN COUNTER and scuttles back beside the coffee grinder.

Again, I contemplate just walking away, quietly.

But no. So I move the coffee grinder and gingerly look behind it. With a piece of cardboard torn from a pizza box, I block the GIANT SPIDER's only avenue of escape into the wires coiled in the corner of the counter, and it moves fast as lightning toward me. I must admit I uh, backed away. And maybe made a slightly terrified sound. And shuddered. But it stopped under the shade of a paper towel. So, me with the cup. I got it. It made the ooky rattling noise as it tried to get out. I slid the cardboard under the cup, taking the paper towel with it, and deposited everything in the backyard. Then I came inside and shut the door, tight. Never to enter the yard again.

Well, ok, I'll probably go out tomorrow and knock the cup over from a distance and then throw out the cup and the cardboard. But it's dark out now! How would I know if the GIANT KILLER SPIDER came at me if I lifted the cup now?

P.S. This post brought to you by Jen's irrational fears and vivid imagination. But really, did you SEE that thing?

P.P.S. Hi, dear! Hope you had a nice flight. Everything's fine here, other than the big giant bug. Can you get home before the angry one in the backyard sneaks its way back in and brings its friends? Love you!

Why My Daughter Might Become a Funeral Director

Upon seeing a dead cat in the road: "How did it die? Why did a car hit it? What are those birds doing? Will the cat's spirit go to heaven? Somebody needs to clean up the road!"

Upon hearing me read the section of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe where Aslan kills the White Witch: "How did he make the witch get dead? Did he bite her? I think he bit her like this [makes growling sounds and pretends to bite my neck.] Did she taste good? [Rubs her tummy and makes eating sounds.] Yum, yum!"

Upon seeing bits of the Gerald Ford funeral on television, and us explaining what it was: "How did he get dead? Is his skin peeling off now?"

You know, I'm not really prepared to explain decomposition to a four-year-old. Where babies come from? I'm good with that. The cause of death and current state of a former president? I don't think that one's covered in the parenting books.

To Eat or Not to Eat

When I got back here after our long holiday in the States, I got right back to exercising. I felt pretty good about myself, going to the gym after dropping Katrina off at school. After all, this is the person who has rarely exercised with any kind of consistency. Here I am, starting a new year by being an old pro at this working out thing.

However, I didn’t quite get right back to dieting. And by dieting, I mean exercising any self-control over what and how much I eat. Exercise is all well and good, but if I end a workout by eating everything in sight because I feel (1) so hungry or (2) like I deserve a treat for sweating on the stationary bike, the pounds are not exactly going to melt off. In fact, they might even start clinging to me again, especially if the weather is rainy and dark and depressing and popcorn or hot chocolate or brownies sound pretty good right now.

Aye, there’s the rub. If ever I learned to eat when I’m hungry and stop eating when I’m full, I’d have this weight thing licked. But for me, like many of us, food comes wrapped untidily in emotions. They don’t call certain things “comfort foods” for nothing. Mashed potatoes, ice cream, anything creamy, soothes and anesthetizes. Chips, nuts, crunch and salt, is an outlet for frustration, anger, or simple fatigue. Good homemade buttered popcorn is a celebration in itself. And the food we want—heck, sometimes feel that we need—to fill emotional hunger is almost never healthy food. No, those darker emotions come fried in fat and coated in sugar. Whoever heard of a woman craving broccoli when she has PMS?

That’s when I come to the notion of food as an addiction and myself as an addict. If not eating chocolate or sweetened tea or fried potatoes makes life seem dark and joyless, there’s something wrong with my relationship to food. There is an unhealthy pull toward overeating, and eating non-nutritious foods, that I recognize every time I eat “just one more bite.”

Bundled up with that is my gluten-free status. The conversation goes like this:

Healthy Jen: I should eat an apple, not chocolate or ice cream.
Bratty Jen: But I don’t get to eat SO MANY things. I want to eat what I want to eat! I am deprived of crusty bread, so I should get to eat ice cream! Nyah, nyah, nyah! (Bratty Jen sounds a lot like Katrina having a tantrum. I’m sure there are all sorts of psychological interpretations to that one.)

Which "voice" wins depends on the time of day and, really, how my day is going.

Over at The Amazing Shrinking Mom, Mel blogs about her low-glycemic-index diet. The purist in me likes the idea of just cutting out sugar and starch and refined flours. It’s certainly an easier way of eating than writing down and tracking everything that goes into your mouth, like when I was on Weight Watchers (on and off—who can do that for a lifetime? People more organized than me.). But, but, no bratkartoffeln? No brownies? No ICE CREAM?!

The start of the Lutheran liturgy says, “We confess that we are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves.” Sometimes I feel like I am in bondage to sugar. Can I free myself? Do I really want to?

Some Temptations Transcend Culture

We followed a city bus through Landstuhl on the way home from Katrina's dance lesson. On the back of the bus, someone had written with their finger in the grime: "Wasch mich".

Nearer to Thee

I do life on my own. I have never figured out how to do it any other way. In hard times, I turn to God. In good times, I thank God. I make plans to pray. Sometimes I actually follow through. But the moment-to-moment awareness of God eludes me.

At moments in my life, God has been my breath. I have felt the Spirit right here, thickening the air around me, making each breath a sacrament. The Presence presses in, borne on music or worship or silent tears. And the longing, aching heart, answering the call of the Spirit. Here I am. I am Yours. Whatever my complaints, my questions in ordinary time, they recede in urgency. In the moment, there are only whispered intimacies. You are My beloved. I’m here. Here I am, your daughter. Wash me, make me whole. I AM with you. I missed you. I’m sorry. I love you.

Of course, the emotions fade, the sense of Presence recedes. As I’ve heard in many a sermon on the Transfiguration, even Jesus didn’t live on the mountaintop, but in the grime and complexity of the lowlands. The ordinariness of life always resumes, must resume. And I start to forget. I forget that God is right here. Instead, he feels more and more distant. Little anxieties crowd him out so, so easily. My thoughts are taken up by what we should have for dinner, when I need to pick up Katrina, should we go to the playground today or will it rain? And the transcendent moments fade. And God becomes something else on the to-do list that didn’t get done today.

Days, weeks, months pass as I immerse myself in the everyday, forgetting that God is in the everyday, too. I feel that presence fleetingly, once in a while, when I enter a church, when I listen to beautiful music, when I look up at the sky on a spring-like January day.

I begin to miss him. Even as God seems most distant, most irrelevant to daily life, I remember when the air was alive.

The words come one day, as I write in my journal for the first time in months. Draw near to God, and God will draw near to you.

And I make a resolution—again—to pray, to read, to write, to listen, to focus. Even as I feel most resolved, I remember countless times when I failed to follow through. I imagine God as Divine Critic…yeah, sure, I’ll believe it when I see it. But, no, that is me. Those are my words of self-doubt, of a misplaced desire for perfection. God is even now running toward me. Welcome home. I’ve been waiting, my beloved. Draw near to me. Let me hug you. Let the feast begin.


Listening to: Redemption Songs (Jars of Clay)
Read recently: Murder, Mayhem, and a Fine Man (Claudia Mair Burney)

Love Is... (holiday edition)

Love is...

• your husband saying "Go back to bed, I'll get up with her," at 4 am the morning after a transatlantic flight.
• visiting with a friend you haven't seen in a long time and picking up exactly where you left off.
• two little girls shrieking and hugging each other. And then picking up exactly where they left off.
• leaving the house by 7:30 am on your day off and taking the car to the tire-repair shop so your son and daughter-in-law can drive it for a few weeks.
• buying a bunk bed in order to fit the maximum number of children and grandchildren into your house at one time.
• 14 kinds of Christmas cookies.
• saying "You two go to the movies. We'll make cookies with Katrina while you're gone."
• no, wait, 15 kinds of Christmas cookies.
• an 11-year-old girl spending over an hour crawling around on her hands and knees because her 4-year-old cousin wants to play "secret agent."
• listening to your sister sing "I Will Survive" on her niece's karaoke machine and only pointing and laughing a wee little bit.
• watching two blonde heads and one redhead huddled together around one microphone.
• seeing pure wonder on your daughter's face as she carefully holds a candle at the end of the Christmas Eve service.
• witnessing a couple quietly renewing their wedding vows after 40 years together, in the presence of the family their union created.
• watching your daughter twirl and whirl in the sunshine after seeing "The Nutcracker."

and finally, love is...

• gluten-free Chex Mix. Oh, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving? (or, the pros and cons of being sick in a hotel room)

Warning: This post contains strong (smelling) content. Proceed with caution. Wendy, this means you!

Pro: When your four-year-old daughter wakes up puking at midnight Thanksgiving night, there are only 3 steps from her bed to the bathroom.
Con: You are highly likely to bruise yourself (or her) on some wooden corner along the way. Every. Single. Time. (Oh, number of times? I stopped counting at five, but I think there was more. That's between midnight and about 6:30 am.)

Pro: You won't have to wash her soiled linen in the middle of the night.
Con: You won't have readily available clean linen in the middle of the night, so she will sleep with you. And by "sleep," I mean she falls asleep immediately after each, um, episode and you sit bolt upright every time she moves, in anticipation of another episode.

Pro: You can leave the soiled towels from cleaning up on the floor of the bathroom. And you don't have to wash those, either.
Con: You will worry about running out of toilet paper before the maids appear with more in the morning. (But you will make it.)

Pro: You don't have to clean the toilet or the bathroom floor.
Con: You will be washing out pajamas (yours and hers) with hotel shampoo in the sink in an attempt to cut down on the smell. You will fail and deposit said pajamas on the balcony. Plus, no clean pajamas.

Pro: You don't have to cook breakfast for self or others.
Con: The hotel doesn't serve lunch, so you will go out foraging late in the afternoon and end up with peanut butter and jelly on the GF bread you packed. Husband will make do with a soft pretzel. Daughter, now alternating between wonderfully chipper and pathetically whiny, will refuse to eat anything but bagged popcorn. Which you will dole out in handfuls of approximately 10 kernels every 10 minutes, no matter how pathetically she whines "I'm hungweeeee."

Pro: You return to your room after breakfast to find clean linens on daughter's bed, a sparkling bathroom, clean towels, and freshly made beds.
Con: With no good way to get cross-ventilation, a miasma of ...well, you can imagine the smell well enough yourself.

Pro: Since you're on vacation, you have nowhere you need to be.
Con: Three exhausted people sitting in a hotel room that's approximately the size of our bathroom at home. All day. Jon did take Katrina out for a few hours when it was clear she was feeling better enough to ransack the room. They even found a playground. I tried to sleep off a splitting headache that had begun around 2 am. And failed. Tylenol helped, though.

What I'm Thankful For This Thanksgiving
That we left Austria a day early, making the 6-hour drive yesterday and getting in about 7 pm. Katrina started eating again at lunchtime yesterday (half a McDonald's cheeseburger and a strawberry shake). At 3 am this morning, I was awakened by the most wretched sounds I had heard since...well, since Thanksgiving night. Jon had succumbed.

Two down, one to go. What does one do when it seems certain the dreaded Stomach Bug has you in its sights? Laundry. Lots of laundry. Oh, and a blog update.

More Katrina-isms ('cause she's more entertaining anyway)

On the way to swim lessons
K: "Mama, every time Miss Angie makes us go to the deep part. I don't like the deep part."
Me: "Why don't you like the deep part?"
K (in a disgusted tone): "Because it's TOO DEEP."
Me (suitably chastened, asks no more questions)

After "Dinosaur Week" at school
K: "Mama, what comes after all the people die?"
Me: "Huh??"
K: "What happens when all the people die?"
Me: "Well, when you die you go to heaven to be with God."
K: "NO! After dinosaurs all died, people came. What comes after all the people die?"
Me: "Uh, I don't know, honey."
K (louder): "But what comes after the people die?"
Me: "Sweetie, I don't know!"
K (getting upset): "TELL ME!"
Me: "Honey, if I knew, I would tell you, but I don't know."
Me: (try to change the subject as quickly as possible)

Katrina's current favorite word
"Evenly" instead of "even"
She uses it so often, I evenly don't notice it anymore.

Her imaginary friend(s)
She has a recurring imaginary friend. It's a little monster who is pink and furry. But she used to have feathers when she was a baby. She fits in Katrina's pocket or in the palm of her hand. Her name? Little Monster, of course!

Last week we were eating dinner with friends in a restaurant, and Katrina told us that "BoBo" was sitting with us, too. Bobo is a girl. At various times since then she has mentioned scenarios with Bobo and also a boy named Bobo something else (the second name changes). One either doesn't like the other or doesn't want to play what the other one wants to play.

Her "friends" are not around all the time. I think they come out when she wants to liven things up.

And speaking of livening things up...the Tattooed Lady
Jon left on Saturday for a business trip. Sunday morning, getting ready for church. Katrina is in the family room supposedly watching cartoons while I take a shower. The bathroom door opens.

K: "Mama, loooook!" She holds up her fingers to the shower door. The tips of them are bright (!) pink. She has a pink spot on her face, too. Then she turns to reveal several pink spots on her legs and feet. She's very pleased with herself.

While I was peacefully showering, Katrina was stamping herself with a pink butterfly stamp she "won" from the Chucky Cheese-like establishment on base. I didn't realize the thing was in the family room, much less that she could have worked off the shrink-wrapped packaging.

It was 10:30 am. She was in her nightgown, I was in my, er, altogether. We needed to leave for church by 11 am. I made her wash her hands (which dimmed the color just a bit), got the spot (mostly) off her face, and gave a few half-hearted scrubs to the large pink spot on her leg, which did no good. So, got dressed, went to church.

Home from church a few hours later, had lunch, etc. Katrina had to go potty. She still asks for help wiping when she poops. So I prepare to clean her up. And staring up at me from her little bottom is a perfect pink butterfly.

Did I mention that the ink apparently isn't the washable type? It's Wednesday. The butterflies are still fluttering.


And finally, a story in pictures: Sisyphus Cleans the Family Room
A few weeks ago, I was tidying up the way-cluttered family room in preparation for dinner guests. Meanwhile, Katrina was pretending to be a cat.

The lovely, clutter-free coffee table.



The rest of the room, aka Katrina's "cat place."





At least she waited until everything else was picked up off the floor. Hey, it was a rainy day. What else was the poor girl, er, kitty-cat, to do?

Shiny Happy People

I have a thing about shiny, happy Christians. Now, I'm a Christian. Even a Lutheran, the denomination that emphasizes grace--God did it all for us--over works--we have to earn it. ("It" being salvation, heaven, all that good stuff. I'm such the theologian, aren't I?)

But.

An innate suspiciousness overtakes me when people in general and Christians in particular want to wrap everything up in a neat little package. Because life isn't a neat little package. Christianity is not a neat little package, no matter what the "4 Spiritual Laws" or earnest young evangelicals tell you.

This little rant comes to you courtesy of a comment that one person made in a Bible Study over the weekend. What we were talking about reminded me of a Rich Mullins song, "Hard to Get." Unfortunately, when I tried to quote the lyrics, I couldn't remember the key ones, only the bridge, which is "I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears./Words of shame and doubt, blame and regret./I can't see where you're leading me/Unless you've led me here"

And I tried to make the point that I thought the song (in its entirety) makes, which is that you can have faith and knowledge, but when you're going through bad times, what you really want is some assurance that God cares. Not just that God exists, but that God is "engaged and active" (terms mentioned in the study). I don't think I said it that well, actually, so perhaps the next comment was somewhat justified.

"But in the song, it turns out that it's okay, right?" I kind of said, yeah, it turns out okay. But something felt wrong about saying that. When I got home and checked the lyrics, I knew why. Because the song does not turn out okay, in the sense that the singer is shiny and happy at the end. A lot of Christian music does end that way. But not this one. The lyrics come through to an understanding, but you know that the pain is still there, the voices, the hurt.

So anyway, here is the whole lyric. Tell me what you think. Does everything turn out okay?

Hard to Get
(by Rich Mullins)

You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt

Do you remember when you lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread
Did you forget about us after you had flown away
Well I memorized every word you said
Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While you're up there just playing hard to get

You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as yours was
Still we do love now and then

Did you ever know loneliness?
Did you ever know need?
Do you remember just how long a night can get
When you are barely holding on
And your friends fall asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in your sweat?
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While you're up there just playing hard to get?

And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the one who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow
All I really need to know

Is if you who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can't see how you're leading me unless you've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led
And so you've been here all along I guess
It's just your ways and you are just plain hard to get.


I want to say a little more about this, but I have to go pick up Katrina.