Blue Books

Just writing those two words gives me heart palpitations. It has been nearly 5 years since I opened a blue book, madly wrote in it for the hour or hours allotted, then slammed it shut, turned it in and felt relief like a storm cloud moving east and leaving behind the remnants of a sunset. I don't miss them. But they happened, and we did what we needed to do, and then our work was done. Or should I say, our own work? Of course it is important to do our individual work in the blue books. In college we even signed a pledge at the end of the book that we did our own work without the assistance of notes or other students.

Tonight Dietrich picked out a book about trains -- not the one called Railways (it has too many old trains in it) and not the one called Freight Trains (it was right here with the book Elliott picked, and that would be too easy), but the one "that is just like this but not exactly like it about freight trains with the symbol of the little blue engine that could on the cover" -- that book about trains. Once we found it and started reading, it sounded familiar. A quick cross reference with the other book on the bed showed that the words were the same, nearly exactly, as those in Freight Train. Granted, there may be only so much that can be said about trains using simple language. But the same phrases? Nearly the same images (though one had pictures and the other illustrations)? I wasn't thinking so much about plagiarism as I was thinking, couldn't we come up with something more? Where are the kids in these books? What about different perspectives (images of trains from the clouds, from space!)? The life of a grain from stalk to hopper car? I've read a children's book featuring dust bunnies and the vacuum cleaner -- surely we can do more with the fascination of kids and trains? Until then, just know that the hopper car carries loose items and is filled from above and emptied from below.

A Faint Scent

The smoke from a wood burning stove crept into my jacket and filled my fleece with its reminder of warmth and light. I never saw the fire, never felt its warmth or saw its light, but its inviting scent was enough for me to know it was somewhere, warming someone, showing someone its light. Now a part of it is still with me, not letting me forget its message of warmth and light, a message so contrary to the season of Lent, a dark, damp season when the music finds minor chords, the banners on the lectern and alter are deep blue or purple. But even in this season, when the church journeys to a the days of deepest darkness, there are always glimpses of light, of resurrection.

A few years ago a friend died during Lent. It felt more like she was taken from us. Too young, too much joy yet to be had, too much pain to endure. When we gathered together to do what must be done when one of us dies -- to mourn, to remember, to pray, to be part of the bridge between life and death and resurrection -- it was still Lent. And the gravity of letting her go felt dark and damp unlike any other Lent I had lived. I knew at the end of the service we would sing the Moravian Easter hymn, a hymn that gives me chills because it demands to be heard. I've sang it, I've accompanied it on flute and bells, and once in snow pellets that pinged off the metal bells. I've played it at a cemetary, I've sang it on a church lawn, in a sanctuary, and on a street with thousands of others. The Bechler Easter hymn rises to a fevered pitch at the end as we sing, "for us, for us, the Lamb was slain!" and makes a dramatic pause before singing diliberately, "Praise ye -- the Lord! -- A-men."

We sang it at Susan's memorial service, right there in the middle of Lent. Its 18th century notes and words helped us say something that seemed as far off as the faint scent of a wood burning stove on a cold night.

But What For?

It's a common abuse of grammar, but one that is so well steeped in my speech that trying to overturn it is like trying to call a bubbler a drinking fountain. I was first informed of my dangling "for's and with's" (I'm going to lunch, want to come with?") at the end of my sentences not by a teacher or a professor but by a college roommate. She thought maybe it was a Midwestern thing, like the bubbler, but I think it is far more common. A far more embarrassing but also helpful grammar lesson came from a woman in North Carolina who was seated next to me at a local Council of Churches meeting. "I'm telling you this not because it bothers me so much, but because you are young and will have many chances to speak. When you refer to someone using a pronoun as the subject, use 'he' or 'she', not 'him' or 'her'". I sat through the second part of the meeting working it through in my head -- did I really say, "Her and her cousin went to..."? All this is to say that I am not surprised to hear dangling "for's" from the boys (are they really that bad?) but I am happy that, so far, they always ask, "I want you to come with me!".

But the "what for" questions are hard, no matter what grammar is used. When my youngest cousin was the boys' age, she would follow up everything said by an adult with, "but what kind of car/person/etc?" A conversation would take twice as long, or more, because each statement needed more explanation than the statement itself. An answer was never complete. As she is now nearly a teenager, I hope she keeps asking those questions.

Dietrich's questions are often about the existence of things. "But why do we have the Olympics? Why are there trees?" Elliott's are about purpose. "But what are trees for? What are these stickers all over our library books for?" My answers are usually woefully inadequate by their standards. They ask again, I repeat myself, we both lose patience. Sometimes they are quiet after my answer and I think I really nailed it that time only to be asked a follow up that shows how off the track I have led them with my answer. But I love to hear them ask and to see where they press on my assumptions. Even the question about the Olympics -- I first said something about competition between countries. Competition he gets -- oh, does he ever -- but what does a country mean to him? So then I said something about how people happen to be arranged, how they live near each other, and practice their sports together. And it is fun to compete with each other without violence. It's an alternative to war that we can dream will one day be true, I thought, but did not add.

Our Day in Print

From the rising of the sun to its setting...we read words in print all day long. After finding all the books that were due, brushing teeth and scurrying into winter clothes (not enough, as it turns out, given a surprisingly cold day after a week of 30), we headed out to catch a bus to the library. Here's a picture of a day of words in print:

If Trees Could Talk, R. Bruce Allison (stories and history of famous trees in Wisconsin). While making breakfast I read about the Civil War tree in Delevan under which soldiers registered for the army.

My First Things That Go, a DK board book that has resurfaced after a year of being stuffed in a box of baby toys. Its binding is secured with packing tape and it is featured in about 90% of pictures of Dietrich when he was 2. It returned today because of a space shuttle on the last page.

Jim Gill, Sneezing All Over the Place. Ok, this isn't in print. But Elliott made a paper CD with case this morning inspired by his dad's re-titling of a Jim Gill CD to include "sneeze" in every song. Elliott cackles when hearing the track names.

Harry and the Lady Next Door, Gene Zion. "Elliott, we just had that one, can you pick another one?" Then a guilty reminder of how repetition is loved above all made me regret saying it. And it is pretty entertaining how Harry thinks up new ways to discourage the lady from singing (loudly).

Ruby's Perfect Day, Susan Hill. Elliott picked it out despite the barcode sticker being placed exactly over the "Level 1" he adores seeing on books. The Racoon has a propensity for optimism that would do Norman Vincent Peal proud.

Moon Landing, Carole Stott. From the DK discovery series. I learned more about space travel to the moon today than in my previous 35 years.

The Moon Book, Gail Gibbons. She is a hero in our house, and her interests seem to follow along with Dietrich's -- we had her Penguins book for several 3-week cycles.

Cane River, Lalita Tademy. I've had this book on my list since seminary. I saw it on a friend's recommend list yesterday and found it on the display shelf (after shuttling the boys through the fiction aisles and not finding it).

Snow, Elliott Mattison. Again, not in print. Inspired by an easy reader by the same title, this book covers all the Wisconsin basics of snow play from appropriate gear to hot chocolate (and water -- something I had not considered).

Moon Landing, again. This was the theme all afternoon for Dietrich. We made a lunar module by the end of the day. I knew there would be a good use for the roll of silver duct tape we bought for Halloween!

Follow the Line through the House, Laura Ljungkvist. Elliott loves rooms and house objects though he cares little for actually following the black line through the illustrations. Its simple rooms and trendy colors would sell well at Ikea.

George and Martha, The Scary Movie, James Marshall. We were introduced to this hippo set from our friends in North Carolina. This one is a must read for anyone about to embark on a first date.

Thomas Goes Fishing, A.W. Auden. Another odd story about the little blue tank. This time? He has a fish pond in his boiler tank.

Tomorrow will be another day in print, though one I won't laundry list here. And once the skiers and skaters and sledders head home from Canada, I'll reclaim some print time for myself.

Time Travel

The New York Times Travel section from last Sunday features the Boundary Waters Canoe Area during the time of the year nearly all the water has turned to ice. The front page shows a man on snowshoes walking across a wide swath in the Kawishiwi River. A shore line of still trees frames the picture. The story tells of two couples who made their way to Ely, then to a rustic but comfortable cabin, then to the lakes and waterways of the BWCA. They slept cozily, though without running water or electricity, and took a 4 hour day hike which included wildlife viewing and a mild navigation mishap while they worked up a terrific appetite which they satisfied heartily in the cabin.

It was the grown up version of a weekend adventure from nearly a decade ago. Unfortunately the weekend was followed by the influenza virus which landed me at home, in bed, for a week. Three of the four campers contracted said virus. But when I can suspend that part of my memory, the weekend made a part of me live that I did not know resided in me. I nearly backed out. The planning meeting was after I'd been standing at a swim meet for two days and I was achingly tired. Was spending two nights in the wilderness really a good idea? But I drove to the meeting where I met (for the first time) two of the other campers, dusted off my backpack a few days later, and showed up at 5 am that Friday when we left for Ely.

When we arrived at the entry point and unloaded the car, my boots were missing. I had a pair of mukluks along, but they were my camp shoes -- to be worn after a day of hiking. I was panicked. If they got wet, I would have nothing dry to put on. Staying warm indoors is not my strong suit, how would I handle two nights out here with cold feet? Soon my boots were rigged up in waterproofing garbage bags after which I had to immediately put on snowshoes and not take them off until bedtime. It took two other adults to get me into my snowshoes without falling. Have you ever tried to walk on snow in garbage bags? But by the time we were on Lake One, walking, not paddling, my friend and I were laughing at the absurdity of what we were doing.

The next morning the silence was startling. There was nothing but our voices and the rustling of camping gear. The tent was darker around the bottom edges than I remembered seeing and it was hot in there. When we peeked out to see the day, a heavy but gentle snowfall washed out the lake in front of our site. Our tent was insulated by a half foot of snow, and still falling. We were out there in it.

Wanting to get some elevation so that we could see over the lake, we followed the terrain on the map to a corner of the lake that had a ridge along the shore line. It is a practice common during summer trips to the BWCA. Take a day to hike and find a path to a high spot. Find that high spot is covered with low brush, hike anyway, find surprising view in unexpected low terrain. But with the snow, much of the brush was gone and with our snowshoes, we lopped up the hills and jumped and plopped our way down. By that point, finding a view point was long forgotten. We were playing. The stunning beauty and thrill of being the only human beings within a few lakes of us was secondary to the abandon I felt at jumping in the snow.

By the next day the reality of hiking out, with our packs, in 14 inches of fresh powder, set in. The lakes that we crossed with ease the first day we were now high stepping. My quads were burning. But despite that, and the flu the following week, for one day of me young adult life, I played in the snow unleashed from the world and sent into the wild.

Counting and Cooking by Two's

Numbers are popular around our house these days. Elliott is experimenting with counting by groups -- usually 10's, but he's tried 5's and 2's, too. They make it faster to get to 100, he says. Dietrich is the precision counter. He needs to touch each object he is counting and starts over if he misses one he thinks should have been counted first. He likes to ask, "What pluses make 7?" (or 11 or whatever). I get to think about the many combinations that can make up a given number.

And so we cook. Actually, we bake because most things that are actually cooked (vegetables, meat, sauces) are disdained once they have been mixed into a pot -- unless they are in a burrito shell and purchased at Chipotle. Is there something in Chipotle left over from its ownership by McD's that makes it addictive to kids? So we bake. Cookies, bread, pizza crust, pie crust, pancakes, and more cookies.

Today's recipe was "power bars", an adaptation from the oatmeal cookie recipe on the top of a round box of Quaker oats. We add peanut butter and oat bran, double the chocolate chips and cut the sugar. I would add craisins, but someone, who would count them if they were found in his cookie, does not like them when they are in things. So they are fruitless, but I still call them breakfast bars. Something didn't work as well today -- too much time in the oven? The mixture of end-of-the-jar peanut butter? I know we had enough eggs; Dietrich was counting. Should I have skipped the oatbran? Elliott swooped in about half way through the 3 cups of flour to update me on his design for the cookie packaging so that he can make up nutrition facts for them. Did I add an extra cup? I suggested he make up silly nutrients. Trans Fun? Carbochocolates? Calorsmiles? But he wanted the facts. I told him we don't know what is in them because the best foods don't have a chart showing us what is in them and their supposed nutrition content. He made them up. Our cookies have 27 g's of sodium and 13 g's of protein. Better than most breakfast cereals! But who's counting?

Traveler

A young woman with straight, wedged hair dyed black with white streaks lumped into the seat next to the door connecting the cars of the train. Her seat mate facing her shifted in his seat towards the window. The woman slouched into the stiff gray cushion and leaned her elbow on the arm rest. People filed past her into the next car, ours being empty of double seats. Her glasses made sharp angles and had fresh white trim that drew a stark line across her forehead. Tired eyes looked blankly forward. She had no luggage other than a small hand bag, slung into the empty spot next to her. She was layered in t-shirts and sweatshirts and a coat that would make for a long winter in Chicago, the city we just left. Once the train started out of the station, she dialed. Without as much as a hello her weekend unraveled into the receiver, and to the passengers around her. "They must have partied in there or something, the back room," she sighed, "there is some kind of plaster over all the walls. They left the heat at 78 the whole time I was gone, so I have to pay for that for the two months, it's not as if I turned it off. It was set at 55, I don't know why the pipes froze. And so I'm just going to go home and the next time I go back I'll get my plants and that will be it, I guess." She sighed again, the finality sinking in. When she spoke next, it was with resolve, even if it was exhausted resolve. "I picked up the mail and I'm going to open it now, on the train, and just try to relax." She'd be at her mom's house by 9:30, she thought. She ended her call, shifted to her side and fell asleep.

The Sun is Back!

I still hope for another snow fall that mounds snow on the fences and makes the low sidewalks disappear. I hope to awake to another morning where there are no cars on the streets and the sounds outside are hushed by a down comforter of snow. But I welcome the sun's strength back with open arms. Today we walked up the hill down the hill and over the pedestrian bridge towards campus. As we made our way over, the sun was hot on my coat and we could smell the campus barn. There was enough warmth in the air to smell the barn! For months the frozen air has masked any scents outside, except for car and truck exhaust. But today we remembered the cows living out campus life their own way. I was practically dancing down the street in the sun especially when I remembered that just two weeks ago on the same street walking the same direction (though from the parking lot, not from home!) my eyeballs were cold. It was sunny that day, too, but something has changed. I'm sure we'll have another cheek chilling day, but they are numbered. The sun has returned, or have we returned to the sun? Either way, we are happy to be in it.

Remembering

How can the reminder smell so good? All day, since the imposition of ashes at the noon service, I've been caught by the surprise of a musty yet sweet smell coming from above. It reminded me of walking down State Street past the many stores toting incense. Maybe I've never noticed before; or maybe there wasn't oil in the ashes last year; or maybe I went to bed shortly after the evening service and so washed it away before I could notice.

The past three years we shared Ash Wednesday with a church in our community that had a special service for children. We sat on rolled out Ikea mats. The priests talked about the vestments they wear, how the ashes came from last year's Palm Sunday palms, and what we do and say and pray at the Eucharist. There were hymns and a solo. The boys' music teacher was there. Dietrich was always hesitant to receive the ashes. I imagined he sensed the enormity of what was going on. Or maybe he sensed the enormity I felt at walking with my babies to remember we are, all, but dust.

But today they were the only children. And one of them was not entirely in the Ash Wednesday mood. He would have much rather been home with paper and crayons and his pew supply quickly ran out. But then we read Joel. It spoke of bringing the whole congregation together in a "solemn assembly" to "sanctify a fast...gather the children, even infants at the breast breast". We were all there to remember we are dust, in whatever way we can.

The scent kept coming back to me: when I waited with Elliott in the back of the nave as he found some calm within him to last him through the rest of the service; while I was driving; when I was warming up soup and grilled cheese for dinner. Even now, watching the Olympians being very much alive, the scent is with me. The ashes are to remind me of my dust-like nature, that I came from dust and to dust I will return. We said it together, we accepted the reminder together, children, college kids, and long life witnesses of faith in Jesus. But as we went our separate directions -- back to school for the students, back to the office for others, back home to a light lunch for some, to the ski hill for us -- the scent came with us to carry us into a new season.

Pancakes and Confession

At first I wrote, "Pancakes and Forgiveness," and that would be right, too. Because in confession, there is forgiveness. This day of indulgence, pancakes and whipped cream out of a can, is also the day of Confession. Today in a weekly email from our pastor in Chicago, he invites the congregation to step into his office on the day before Ash Wednesday to confess. It is a practice often overlooked in Protestant churches because of its strong associations with indulgences -- or wait, does anyone really associate those two things? Do most Protestants even remember what the protest was all about anyway? Even if indulgences were just a mere piece of the long standing (long before Luther, there were protests) division of the church, the confessional booth in which they were thought to have arose has all but disappeared from Protestant and other non-Catholic churches. And there may be nothing wrong with that at all. But getting away from the booths and getting away from confession are two different things.

Pastor Gorder's email reminded me that I am baptized, and I so I am called to confess. I've been given this new life; and confession renews that life. Not only when I am in weekly worship, seated a comfortable distance from my brothers and sisters in this life in Christ. And not only when I am restless on my pillow with words that would have better been unsaid. I am free to, and even called to, confess with the ones we call pastor or priest.

Confession is the one part of their job description, or office, that they cannot do unless we step forward. A pastor can lead us in worship, or bless the sacraments, or pour water over a young child in baptism, but without us, without our practice of confession, a priest cannot stand with us and say, "You are forgiven."

It is an uncomfortable one. I know I have rarely done it outside of worship or prayer. There have been few knocks on the door over the years Pastor Gorder has offered individual confession. An adult Sunday school class I was in read Bonhoeffer's chapter on confession, but was not excited about confessing to each other. I was among them. At the same time, to confess to a pastor or a brother or sister in Christ puts our lives in the balance of what God has done. It is no longer us holding on to whatever it is that in our humanness we have done, but putting ourselves in our rightful, uncomfortable, place as God's child. But on the other side is forgiveness, just as Easter is on the other side of Lent.

Prints

Today as we walked back from art class in newly fallen snow, I watched the many tracks we passed. Wheels weaving to miss icy patches, boots in rhythm, rabbits here and there in the banks, and pellets of salt shunning the snow away from them. I love seeing our prints, whether it is in wet sand that is washed away by the next wave or in a field of snow that keeps our marks until the next storm. I also thought of the poem, Footprints.

The laminated picture mounted on wood of a sandy beach with vague footprints growing larger as it nears the foreground hangs in countless bedrooms and nursing homes, church basements and funeral parlors. The poem that accompanies it gives witness to how humans survive unbelievable grief. When the pain is so great, it is no longer Jesus walking beside his child, but Jesus picks him up and cradles him through the trial, whatever his age may be.

In the Moravian liturgy that I grew up singing and speaking week after week there was a refrain something to the effect of "Jesus carried the lambs in his bosom." It was not something I said outside of church, "Mommy, will you carry me in your bosom?", but somewhere in my cells, I knew what the liturgy was saying. I knew the comfort of being held in that place. When I was older, the word drew giggles as my friends and I glanced across the pews at each other thinking only of how bosom means breasts. The irony was that as I became uncomfortable saying it, the world began to tell me new ways to be comforted. I became overly aware of what I thought I looked like. I played the vicious girl games of gaining and losing friends, daily. I struggled to know when I could be comforted in that favorite place of children, and when I could be a brashly independent baby adult.

But in that uncomfortable word, bosom, there lurked the history of human compassion. The bosom is where life is sustained after birth. Where Moses was reunited with his mother, if only for his time as a nursling. Where Mary nursed Jesus as they stopped on their route home from Bethlehem. It is where kids want to curl up into beyond the breastfeeding years. It's the part we clutch when we are grieved, and the place we tremble when we find our selves in love.

The emotions that dwell in the bosom speak of comfort. It is the bowels, those entangled creatures to the south of the bosom, that give life to the moment before the starting gun is fired; that jar us out of the normalcy of paying the bill when a child can't been seen from the check out counter; that tempt us to stay home, sleep in, and keep quiet. Together, the bosom and the bowels, these embarrassingly real centers of life, are where our emotional footprints are put down. So often we don't see each other's, but once in a while we get a glimpse. Someone lets us in, whether they know it or not. And in that moment we are back in our parents' arms, where we first learned that we are not islands of individuals, but people, near and far, caught up together.

Be here

At least three times today I was invited, boldly, to leave the room, the yard, the sidewalk so as to allow Elliott to play with his grandma or grandpa. "I don't want you to be here in this room!" he said. Maybe someday he'll be able to articulate how much fun he is having at this special place with the people who adore his quirky interests and could you please not interrupt that mom? But for now, the best he can come up with is to keep the ordinary out of the extraordinary, whatever it takes.

But after a sleepy last hour in the car ride home and crawling into fleece pajamas (by himself!), Elliott and I sat in his bed and looked at a Chicago transit map. He didn't mind my short version of a favorite made-up story, and he didn't argue when I suggested folding the map back into its deeply worn accordion creases. I was welcomed to be here. After one of Elliott's terse invitations to leave today, my sister in law asked, "Doesn't that just break your heart?" and I wasn't sure how to answer. Somehow it doesn't, but why is that? What is it that keeps us going? But now I remember. The being here keeps me going. Because whatever the outburts, harsh words, and sibling mishaps, there is at least a moment to just be here with him.

I rubbed his fleecy back as we prayed. When we came to the part where we give God thanks, Elliott's eyes lit up for the 5-disc CD player he commanded at his grandparents' house. Dietrich poked his head out of the covers, but was too tired to say anything. His limp body resting in bed was his way of giving thanks for the endless stories read to him the past 5 days.

Cozied

Snug under layers of covers, from fleece throws to a navy blanket, smooshing into a family room couch, we watch. Skier after skier (or are they jumpers more than skiers?) push off from their seated position on a bar and fling themselves down a "normal hill." The speeds are not as fast as the "big hill" (who comes up with these ever so descriptive titles?) and the heights and distances a modest mark -- to a non-skier-jumper, that is. But still. To willingly jump off a cliff. Most are in their teens. The further they extend into the air, the flatter the ground is where they land and the harder the finish. It doesn't seem like a just reward. Most of them do a telemark finish, basically putting all weight on one leg. I can barely do that in my basement. But even though appropriately impressed, about an hour into it and we were ready for a new sport. And now we are getting our due -- speed skating, short track. They are practically on their shoulder on the turns!

Snow mound

"At least it is good for something!" called the neighbor in friendly jest after I told her how much Dietrich likes the mound of snow in her parking lot created by the snow plow. It reminded me of a parenting book I read once where the author remembered how much fun swimming had been as a kid. Just the feel of the water was enough. As a young adult she swam laps and enjoyed the feeling afterwards. As an older adult, she swam for exercise with even less enjoyment. And at the time of her writing, "swimming is just cold." Snow is like that, too. But maybe by seeing him out there, imagining he was on Neptune uncovering treasures, sparked some buried delight in the snow that we keep with us, even after it had become mostly a nuisance to be removed.

151

The highway between Madison and Iowa used to be a naseau inducing series of twists and hills, small town slow downs, and break aways in the passing lane around farm machinery. Today we sailed smoothly over the rolling hills. The highway now floats between massive rock that has been sawed through with dynamite and diggers like a notch in a piece of yellow cake, snow drifts of cream cheese frosting dripping over the edges. Dietrich wanted to "climb those mountains". I don't miss the twists and hills, and it is a much faster trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Iowa. In fact, we couldn't get there fast enough. "No, I do not need to stop to go to the bathroom," as Elliott squitched around in his seat. "No, I don't need to stop to take off my jacket," said Dietrich, beat red under his coat and snow pants.

My aunt lived in Platteville, one of the towns highly 151 used to roll right through. Visiting Platteville was my earliest urban memory, not so much for the size of the college town (it is maybe 20,000) but because she lived in an apartment. On the top floor (there were three). We parked in the lot behind the building and took the fire escape to her back door. To say I would have prefered another entrance puts it mildly. The metal grates were perfectly safe, but as we climbed higher, and I watched through the steps the ground grow further away, my feet were less sure. My legs gained weight and I slapped down each foot as I made another step closer to the back door. My older brother limbered ahead of me, my mom held my hand and prodded me along. But the reward was awaiting: the apartment was entirely covered in pine panneling, a decor that spoke of city and woods at the same time. There were nooks to sit in, books lining the walls, and cupboards to look into. But what I remember the most was the view over the neighboring houses and trees and the whole town. We had no tall buildings in our village, and no reason to visit the taller buildings in Madison. The only other place I could look out over anything was from the clinic building, if looking out of the tall, narrow pockets of 70's window architecture counts. From my aunt's apartment I glimpsed another world, not just over the tree tops, but seeing someone living on her own, teaching band, playing tennis, marching in Fourth of July parades. She always had food that was new to us, and even if we weren't fans (tofu burgers?) it was exciting, it was new. If only I could have rapelled down the building after our visits.

We sailed right into Iowa, and there did stop for a traffic light. We will have to keep wondering what all those small towns are up to, if the diners are still running, if the gas stations are still in business. Maybe some summer day we can find an older route, drive through Platteville, and take a look at the three story walk ups. I'm sure they have shrunk, just like the hills over which 151 used to crawl.

Rosie

There is something about seeing your child learn to swim that turns the world right-side up. This weekend at the hotel pool Dietrich started doing spin moves under water, the precursor to doing somersaults, the necessary skill to learn a flip turn. The spin moves were his own idea. He ducked his head, swirled his slender arms around and kicked wildly until he came around 360. Big, wet smile.

The water was his first home, along with his brother, but somewhere between his popped out surprise birth and our awareness of water as danger -- especially the tub, and wading pools, even puddles! -- the water became foreign, cold, and threatening. Both boys hated hair washing (still do from time to time) but grew quite happy in the bathtub. They loved washing dishes, playing a fill and pour game they named, "Hotsboiled", and warm, deep baths. Our few visits to the pool as babies and toddlers were fun, though usually cold, outings for all of us. They took lessons this summer and jumped in up to their ankles and played more getting-comfortable-games.

But the past few weeks we've watched a butterfly unfold its wings. Elliott began swimming lessons with a litany of why he didn't want to do the skills. He talked on and on to his teacher and the lifeguard sitting nearby about not jumping in, not putting his head under and not floating and why he wouldn't be doing any of it. But his tears and talk turned to challenge somewhere along the way. The unwillingness of his teacher to accept fear as a good reason not to try clearly helped. But at some point, he had to make the decision. "I am going to come off the stairs, swim out to the platform, and then swim right back." And eventually, he did, he does! Dietrich jumped right in and gathered up skills and ribbons in just weeks. There was the breathing bit, but once he remembered to breath, he has grabbed rings from the bottom, kicked himself on his front and back to the other side (about 10 feet) and rolled right over -- where the idea for the spin moves probably came from.

I remember the youngest swimmer I ever coached. I thought of her today as I beamed watching Dietrich make it to the other side on his back, on his own. Rosie was just 5 when she started swim team. She was built strong but had a sweet demeanor more her age. I would forget she had not yet finished Kindergarten because she swam with grace, and as fast as kids twice her age. What I remembered about her today was her mom. She always brought her daughter over to the lane with a mysterious smile as if to say, "how is it that my baby is swimming, swimming in races! right before my eyes?" How does that happen? But what joy it brings.

Happy Early Valentine's Day

Why all the fuss? Granted, I am relying on information from a board book (we didn't cover Valentine in my Christian History courses at Duke -- gasp -- and I try not to e-search while writing) that summarizes the story in about 10 cardboard pages and culminates in the general tone of most Christian children's literature: We are God's children and we are to love one another. The final picture: kids at a soccer game. Though I've never been to a kids' soccer game, I imagine loving one another is not top on the list of coaches' objectives. Anyway, how did a medieval monk who was gracious to people living under a tyrant king become the inspiration for a romance and chocolate soaked holiday in the middle of the winter? Apparently Valentine helped people get to the alter when there was in place a prohibition on marriage (to gird up the king's army). But how did that become license to shroud the marketplace in pink hearts? You can't beat it for its convenience. We are sick of winter, Christmas and New Year's are a year ago it seems, and looming ahead is Lent. But it still feels like a pretty big jump. Don't get me wrong: I love the chocolate and the excuse to make frosting in colors I would never wear. I even like making things to send to family and friends. But this morning we cut out 18 hearts per child for each of their friends at New Morning and this afternoon they painted in shades of purple and pink and cut out more hearts at Art class. Would we go through this trouble for, say, St. Francis?

Isaiah 6, revisited

"But I don't want to go to church!" protested Dietrich after asking what we were doing today. "I want to build a train track!" Not a bad idea after riding on the train to Chicago and watching the trains from the 94th story of the Hancock tower. It would bring his experience to his level, let him have control over how it turns, where the hills and stations could be. On an experiential level, train building would win out. But I told him that Sunday is the day we gather together with all the other people who follow Jesus. On Sunday we remember that we are God's. I spoke so matter of fact, as if all I needed was the Sunday gathering to keep me from being my own king, or queen or household manager.

I knew the Isaiah text was coming because we had listened to Sing for Joy while making pancakes. It's a St Olaf radio show that pairs the Sunday scripture readings with choral pieces sung by choirs around the world (though usually at least one is the Olaf choir). But every time I hear the beginning of Isaiah 6, "The year King Uzziah died..." I get a chilling memory of working through this text my first semester of seminary. Literally, the semester finished cold. The worst ice storm in 100 years blanketed Durham, North Carolina in ice and knocked out power on the days leading up to final exams. My Isaiah paper was due and two tests loomed large. I studied wrapped in blankets and huddled near a friend's fire place. I don't even remember turning in the paper, but I cannot forget the weight I still felt even when it was finished. I had studied the passage for months, written and rewritten each part of the paper and still was not sure I had anything to say about it. It wasn't the fiery seraphs and strong apocalyptic imagery that shook me, it was the incomprehension that the prophet is to put on the people. "Stop their ears so they cannot hear!"

But today the sermon took this passage and cracked it open for me. Why don't Lutheran's say "Amen?" I couldn't help but think of how a sermon like this in another setting would be a back and forth of revelation and affirmation. If the prophet lives up to the charge, the people will have nothing, will be nothing. Their ears are stopped (so they cannot hear themselves); their eyes cannot see (so they cannot trust their own visions); their minds cannot get their heads around it (so they do not rely on their own understanding). Even the land is made desolate so there is no false sense of security. There is nothing left but God. Then the pastor turned toward our neat confines we make for God -- confines that are dashed by a passage like this. It was a chilling sermon that took personal independence and threw it aside. You are God's, not your own! But you are not made desolate -- from this burned off stump, there is seed. God will accomplish it.

Telling my four-year-old that he is God's is more for me than for him, at least for today. The place I was in when I turned in that paper was a good place for this passage. It's not about understanding as much as it is about remembering -- literally putting the pieces of our body back where they belong -- in God's working out of the strange world before us.

30 Hours in Chicago

I realized my first lapse in writing-something-every-day while dripping wet. We'd been to the hotel pool for the second time. I was disappointed, mildly, at the forgetting, not at the swimming, but also I was surprised that I’d made it well into the second month without a day I forgot or convinced myself I could do without it. Traveling to Chicago, spending the day at the Children’s Museum, swimming, eating Thai food, and falling asleep while watching a movie may have something to do with the forgetting. But Ryan reminded me that when magazines skip a month, they call it a “combined issue”. So here is the first, of probably at least a few, combined issues.

“Look, there is the Hancock where we went today! (Pointing to his Metra Kids’ ticket) I’d never been in the Hancock!” Dietrich announces to whoever can hear him on the train. He’s already asked his neighboring passengers which stop they will be getting out on and telling them we were in Chicago today. An hour and a cheese sandwich ago, he was barely holding it together. It started with a horse on Michigan Avenue whom he was invited to pet. That was welcomed, but the monologue about Madison (I’m a ’68 alum! Are those monkeys still in the zoo? Who was the psychologist doing experiments on them?) was not. Dietrich turned his boredom to scientific inquiry and pulled back on the metal reflector on the hydrant next to us, only to nearly take out the carriage driver’s eye glasses. He felt ashamed to have nearly hurt him, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. We were embarrassed, of course, but why could not the driver pick up on the very obvious social cues of two boys who were ready to move on already? Why is it the kids’ behavior that gets the blame? He recovered for the most part, but was playing defense the rest of the afternoon. There is nothing quite like visiting the 94th story of the Hancock building with a kid who is on edge.

Elliott’s composure crumbled much later in the afternoon as we were leaving the family center at the Art Institute (Free February!). “There is nothing more we can do today!” Only a train ride back to Harvard, stations to look at and music to listen to (Justin Roberts, who he would like to be). But somehow he walked out to our friends’ car, made it to the train, and a cheese sandwich later, is in the alternative world created by Justin Roberts and his guitar. I write from the Union Pacific North West line today.

Yesterday, we checked in early and the boys romped around our two-room suite while Ryan walked to his conference. I tried to convince them that the diner on the corner, The West Egg, was the perfect place for lunch – French fries! Waffles! – but right next door was their favorite in any city, Chipotle. At least they were well fueled after splitting their usual -- black beans and rice, cheese, sour cream, guac on the side. While I was gathering up our tray, wrappers, and finding coats, two women sitting at a table near us listened to Dietrich tell about our train ride while Elliott talked about his CD player. They seemed pleased to have a kid diversion in their business day.

Maybe my combined issue is that traveling with twin four-year-olds is both more fun than I ever expected, but incredibly hard to predict. So hard that it we won’t get on the train and do it again (maybe in just 3 weeks)? Definitely not. Hard enough that next time we’ll at least plan enough to have dry pants and an extra waterbottle along? Definitely.

Enrolled

I am still subscribing to a yahoo group email called "unpreschool". I still consider the community the boys' (and my) classroom. And I am still weighing if I am one of those parents who just keeps on doing what has worked from birth -- and not being in school when the magical age approaches. But today I enrolled the boys in a nursery school for 3 hours, twice a week. This is one of those decisions that a year from now will pale in comparison to something else, but in the moment, it was momentous. There have been many tears shed, words garbled, and words clearly spoken as I worked out with Ryan whether to keep on with our life as is, or to find a way to have some space between the boys and me. But today I signed a contract to bring them back each Tue and Thur the school is open (and we are in town), or at least pay for their spots. Another girl, Gracie, also started today.

It was with grace that I filled out the enrollment forms and left the boys (with just a tousle of the hair -- they fit right into the circle and the discussion on whether or not they wanted to go to space) but I cried part of the way home. Perhaps it was the visit to the elementary school this morning, one of the options for the magical age. Or maybe it is realizing I had to change courses from what I thought would be a preschool-free childhood, something different, something home grown.

When I arrived home, the house was empty for just a minute. My mom had been shopping at Trader Joe's after watching the boys while Ryan and I toured the school. We put on ski clothes and headed to the closest trail, driving right past the the nursery school. We hadn't skied together in 7 years. Mom's face flushed with joy as she eased into the trail on her vintage (aka, garage sale) wooden skis. The snow was tacky at spots as the sun warmed it from behind a cloud. I passed the tracks the boys and I made yesterday -- the h's and a's and an r we tracked out in the empty field. The spot Elliott first learned to get up on his own two feet. As I made the last curve I remembered the spot where Rob's beard had frozen a month ago. A month from now, that spot may be a mucky trail of recovering grass; hopefully, though, it will be a place I will ski past on a Tue or Thur afternoon as I'm looping around the course and the boys are discussing space, or dinosaurs, or sea creatures with their new friends and teachers.

Pile up instruction

The skis aren't called KBoom for nothing. One boy trails his brother so closely that when the inevitable later afternoon fall happens, he is almost sat upon. But there are no pushes or cries, just giggles. Even when the mound of boys leads to some snow on the face I only hear laughter. The first one tries to get up, but with someone underneath him, he spills over again. Finally they both get up, their cheeks are pink with snow and warmth at the same time. Just minutes ago Elliott had been struggling to get up while I instructed him, "Parallel ski's, try being on your side, keep your feet under you, no not in front! Try again..." He wiggled his back into the snow and smiled at me. I jokingly went on ahead, "You're on your own!" and then the pile up happened. I thought I would be turning around, unstacking them, and pulling Elliott up. But instead a yellow jacket popped up, as if he had been doing it all day -- all his life. Where did this skill come from? How did he figure that out? Did he know it all along? It wasn't like I hadn't gone ahead before. But something about this time -- maybe the laughter? -- he put his feet under him and pulled himself to standing. Way to go, kid. Learning while laughing.

Three Cups of Coffee

Unlike the social weight of drinking tea that Greg Mortenson described in his book, Three Cups of Tea, having three cups of coffee will likely just send you to the restroom, again. I've been cutting down on the amount and type of caffeine I take in -- basically forgoing some coffee during the week in exchange for green or black tea. Today I really missed it. Earl Grey just isn't French Roast. By 8:04 nobody was dressed, only I had eaten anything, I wasn't sure of the potty status, the van was covered in a mild overnight snowfall, and the swim bag was not packed. I used the same words -- good cooperation, dressed first or brush teeth?, boots and jackets! -- but I felt like I was in a cloud in the next room instead of right with Elliott and Dietrich. We made it there at the start of the lesson, but my head remained in a fog. I couldn't even come up with chatter to share with the other parents watching their swimmers. By the time we got home and shoveled the sidewalks (while one child cried over his fate at having to be outside and "helping") it was too late for more caffeine. Any after noon finds me greeting the 3am moon. And so the fog went on.

But it isn't just for the fog clearing that I adore my morning java. From the warming of the milk to the first smooth sip, there are pieces of other days -- other lives -- gathered up. The smell of roasted beans reminds me of studying in coffee shops. When Ryan and I first met I was preparing to take the LSAT, the law school entrance exam. For a good part of a Saturday, we would hole up in Dunn Brothers' and sit at the table nearest the coffee roaster. It made an exhausting sound, a mix between a vacuum cleaner and an espresso machine, but the noise covered the voices and chatter of people in the shop. I suffered through questions about people in canoes who were wearing red and blue shirts and who could ride together if only red shirts could be with people who had names beginning with T and why was I taking this test again? Ryan read medical journals, papers, and took practice board tests. Just the weekend before the boys were born we sought refuge in the air conditioned comfort of a coffee shop. Ryan again studying for boards, and I getting together an email list for our upcoming big news.

Tasting roasted beans lights a fire for me. From morning campfires of comfort in the Boundary Waters to the necessary fires for cooking and warmth in Musikee (the same spot where the moon showed me the rabbit for the first time), a fire in the morning welcomes the day and does the work of the sun while it is still creeping over us.

Then there is the milk. Rarely had I spotted milk in some one's coffee before I lived in Slovakia. My family was a take-it-as-it-is kind of coffee drinking family. But in Slovakia I learned not only that American coffee cups are huge, but that milk, especially steamed milk, is quite delicious in a new-to-me kind of coffee -- espresso. My European classmates took me to cafes to show me the coffee menus. Who would have thought coffee could be had so many ways (this was before the seeping of Starbucks across the planet)? We used tiny teaspoons of raw sugar and took up table space for an hour over a cup that held three tablespoons of coffee. I brought back tiny cups and saucers and vowed I would sip a cappuccino, not gulp a mug of coffee. But there was little audience for slow sipping, and the cups grew smaller the longer I was back.

Now I drink nearly equal portions of milk and coffee, saving my stomach and keeping just a little of the European coffee experience alive. Or I drink tea, with milk, or green, just plain.

Numbers

Elliott likes to count as fast as he can. He picks out a number and then goes after it, sometimes beginning from zero, other times from somewhere in between. When he reaches a nine, he draws it out and the pitch goes up, just like every other kid I've ever heard count. Are we hard wired to factors of 10? He's asked Ryan or I a few times in the last two days, "What comes after the last number?" Our basic answer, "the numbers keep going on, Elliott, they just keep going and going," seems to satisfy him, but I can see his head exploding around the idea that some things really do go on forever, unlike walking home from the sledding hill which just feels like it is. My analogy to numbers being like space didn't help much, either, as space is about as vague as infinity. But he keeps asking us, which is encouraging. It's when we stop being amazed by numbers and space and questions that we get discouraged. I remember trying to fall asleep as a child and imagining the stars and then trying to see a picture of what would be beyond the stars. Another world? More stars? A white expanse? There was no getting my head around it, and that was what made it fun. It was baffling, playful. And it always put me to sleep.

Joining Elliott in the wonderment of numbers that go on forever is a comfort compared to a more painful unanswerable question: how the life of a loved one can slip out of our reach -- whether that life was after decades of fruitful living, or just as career and grown children are thriving, or after only weeks of nutrition in the womb. And yet I think the easy, even fun, unanswerable questions prepare us for the painful ones. We will never get our head around them, as many times as we ask. The questions come to us without prompting, without reason and the pain startles us long after our good byes. But the presence of an unanswerable question also means that in the midst of loss there is also mystery. And there God dwells, despite our faithful creeds and achingly beautiful hymns. Despite our careful sermons and quiet resolve to live as we confess. When we allow God this place to reign -- in the unanswered places of our human lives -- then we are part of the mystery, caught up in what God is doing.

Our pastor in Chicago had a picture of Earth taken from the moon on his wall next to his desk. Whenever he was discouraged by the tedious and messy work of leading a congregation, the picture reminded him to take a breath and be amazed. "Whoa," he would say, his eyes big and jaw dropped for effect, as if he'd been stopped in his tracks. It was an expression that was part shudder, part gratitude, but always a moment that returned him to God. It was the same expression he used to describe what happens at baptism. There are words in the liturgy and drums and singing and a big Amen! at the end but really it is all mystery and we its ever questioning, ever grateful, witnesses.