quick on the draw

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have used my power for evil, potentially scarring an impressionable youngster for life . . .
So remember when I was ranting about my students the other day? Well it seems I have crossed the threshold, discovering a new side to my mild-mannered self . . .
"My name is Anna, and I am sarcastic."

As happens more often than I'd like to admit, I was exasperated again yesterday. How difficult can it be, I thought, to convince the 4 students not away for the college tour to quietly write an in-class essay? Tremendously difficult, apparently.
The first 15 minutes was wasted on queries as to the wording of the assignment, complaints about the loudly lecturing teacher down the hall, comments about Ms. Mabel’s latest fashion statement . . . and the like.
Managing finally to get so far as handing out papers and explaining assignments, I was then faced with a flurry of questions as to the particulars of the story’s plot, characters, theme, conflict, and various other questions rightly belonging in the private lines of each student’s essay. So I told them as much. Several times. Finally the room quieted down.
Until Courtney forgot she was not supposed to be asking such questions anymore. She raised her head to reveal her perpetually furrowed brows and innocently wide-eyed expression and shot into the silence: “Was Jerry the one who ended up stealing the money at the end?”
Before anyone could venture a reply, I just-as-innocently said that No, that was Wally.
“Wally??” Courtney then began frantically shuffling pages until one of her classmates kindly explained that there was no Wally.
“Oh . . . ok,” And she began writing again.
Until she forgot that she was not to ask such questions. “So why did Jerry give the money back to Sally?”
Because Sally wanted to buy a bicycle for Billy.
“She did??” With a grimace of utter dismay, Courtney again began rifling through her text. A classmate kindly interjected again, and then turned to me:
Miss J—do we need to send you out into the hall?At that point laughter won out over wit, and I relinquished to my quick-tongued young student’s chiding. I was an utterly nice teacher for the rest of the class period. Promise.

baby steps

As a beginner yogi, with about 2 months now of as-close-to-daily practice as I can manage, I have so far been relying on different videos and dvd's that I found at the library. Realizing I was ready to stretch myself further, I browsed the book shelves at the main branch yesterday and came away with 2 intermediate/advanced books. Playing this afternoon, I have just made a delightful discovery: a pose I had seen and been amazed by is, in fact possible. And I am able to contort my own limbs into the joyous position of Urdhva Padmasana in Sarvangasana. Simple pleasures? Perhaps. But oh, how gratifying simple pleasures can be!

as i was saying

“So that marvelously executed interior paint job,” you were wondering, “how, pray tell, did that miracle-working occur?” I shall happily tell you the story. It happened one Friday . . .
As soon as the bell released the students and, yes, the teachers, I was on a mission. To my beloved Lowes to peruse the paint, consult with the store experts, and definitively place my paint-mixing shade order. To my car laden with “Lighthouse”-hued Matte Interior paint. And to my apartment for project preparation.
In between, however, was a phone call to my Grandpa: “PaCharley? Hi . . . so remember when I mentioned to you the possibility of helping when, sometime in the future, I would repaint my place—you remember? We were planning for, say, close to the summer when things calmed down at work? Well I kind of couldn’t wait that long. I know I’m being impulsive, so please don’t feel like you have to help now but—yeah—I decided to start tonight . . .”
Of course, it being PaCharley, by the time I made it home he was in full painting gear, laden with rollers, brushes, drop cloths, step ladder, paint sticks, bucket, paint can opener, etc. etc. . . In other words, anything you could possibly need, he was prepared for. And he was waiting at my door.
Several hours later, he bid me goodnight. I happily hugged him, thanked him profusely, and returned to the project, which I was finished with by the end of the next day. As I worked, I thought.
And I realized that I needed that project. I was desperate to be instantly, obviously productive. I was also in need of the wise counsel and sweet companionship of my Pa Charley. He listened to my ramblings and to my fuming. And he offered in return his gently challenging feedback as well as the simple, sweet gift of his quiet company.
You see, I was angry. I was frustrated with the effort of pouring my energies into lesson planning and passionate lecturing, to be greeted by teenage apathy and carelessness. I had pleaded with them to listen, if only for 5 minutes. I explained that I was prepared to spoon-feed them with the basic literary knowledge that would carry them into college prepared. I begged them to understand how vital of a role this poet had played in the civil rights movement, in the empowerment of African Americans, and of women. But they did not care—or at least gave no indication of caring. They giggled over bodily functions and gossiped about comments made by peers, and by teachers. And in the end, I gave up. I spent the end of the day changing the subject until I stumbled upon a topic that caught their interest. Then I joked around with them.
I do love these students, and have enjoyed the year of getting to know them slowly through subbing stints and library consultations. And I know better than to cling too dearly to my own plan for what they will take away from any given lesson. But I do cling, all the same, in spite of knowing better.
So this past weekend, I recognized my frustration and—gulp—yes, my anger—and I did something about it. I reclaimed my own space, my own home, my own life. And I dare say, my Lighthouse-hued walls look da** fine :-)

visual aid #2

today

So my intent this afternoon was to write about the photo "visual aid" below: my completed painting project and the odd manner in which my inspiration for it came about. But instead, I must interrupt myself with today's tale . . .
My 7-year-old neighbor Chloe accompanied me to Church, providing the particular treat of getting to pass the time drawing and playing hang man with her. Afterwards, I took home with me both of our artwork scratch paper--an act which afforded an unexpected delight.
Copied below is what I discovered on Chloe's paper, and what was the obvious outcome of her periodic queries as to the spelling of particular words, the day's date, etc. Further words from me are not necessary, I am sure . . .

Today
is April 9th Sunday
I am at church
I am lisning
to God.
I am with
Anna.

let the sun shine in . . .

the journey's end

It was no walk in the park. It was not even a “challenging” trip. It was a grit-your-teeth-and-survive sort of excursion. More so than any other outdoor trip in my memory, this one was so much more difficult than any of us expected. Part of this was due to the cold front that blasted us with biting winds sideways blasts of sleet. Part of it was due to the downpours that left numb fingers to fumble with cookware and tent-stakes when all we saw to look forward to after a day of sodden-shoed trudging was a wet sleeping back and another day of the same. And part of it was due to the patience-trying nature of differing levels of fitness and fortitude and impeding injuries.
But it was not all bad. We had moments when the sun burst its way through, making us squint through rain-darkened lashes. And not every night was a cold one: one evening I crawled into a sleeping bag that shocked me with its welcoming warmth. That was a long night of deep slumber and rambling, fit-less dreams.
The best part of it all, however, was getting to watch the troops rally: I felt proud and parental when I saw how these teenagers—none of whom had even been on this long of a backpacking trip—stepped beyond their own levels of comfort and fatigue in order to cheer each other on. I was both humbled by my own weakness of body and spirit, and buoyed by their youthful optimism. And every once in a while, God even saw fit to grant me the precious gift of internal strength—when I knew that none of my own strength remained—that allowed me to encourage another traveler along the way.
Perhaps I chose to step out into the unknown of this voyage, at a time when my life was a swirling mass of unknowns, in order to reclaim my life—to choose my own terrifying “unknown.” And that it was. It was terrifying, in that [as with many of life’s experiences], had I known what I was stepping into I would probably have never accepted the challenge. But I did it. We did it. We did it. The future, in all its unknowns, can hold nothing that our Maker cannot more than adequately equip us for. And experiences such as this one, though extremely short in the grand scheme of it all, are intensely significant in their life-changing capacity. We all need such times, I suspect, to shake us out of our complacency and ease, and to remind us that strength comes when we need it, not a moment earlier and never too late.

gaiters and gorp

I have recently discovered that the internet world is not terribly friendly towards a librarian who is planning to lead an outdoor excursion. Somehow, my library science training has not adequately prepared me for navigating the online presence of outdoor enthusiasts. Or perhaps it has been helpful, and I am just impatient . . .
Either way, it took me longer than I expected to compile and create detailed “plans” for my upcoming week-long excursion on the Appalachian Trail. But I persisted, neglecting my library this week while I tracked down caloric expenditure charts, teen backpacking tips, packing lists and checklists, sample menus, backpackers recipes, carrying-weight charts, per person guidelines, and shopping lists.
Finally yesterday, satisfied with my work, I collected my final versions of a packing checklist for the students, menu planning chart for the week, corresponding recipes divided into Breakfasts, Lunches, and Dinners, “cheat sheet” tips for cooking all manner of trail foods [dehydrated eggs, rice, milk powder, etc], and a shopping list in chart format, to be completed with per person/per meal amounts.
Hunting down my co-leader for the trip, I found him as he enjoyed a leisurely lunch in the teacher’s lounge. Probably interrupting his bantering conversation with another teacher, I presented him with each document, explaining my thoughts concerning each one. Then I waited. He humored me, thanked me for all my work, and kindly looked over it all.
Reading between the lines, though, I came away pretty sure that he, with years more leading experience than I have had, surely [and rightly] must think I am overdoing it. When it comes to outdoor trips of this length, I do have enough past experience to know that the planning I do is more for my own peace of mind than anything else. There is something comforting about “preparing,” even though once out on the trail it is difficult to really be “prepared.” Prepared for the nitty gritty realities of being out there, at any rate . . .
Well, who knows: I guess we’ll find out next week how much help my extensive, librarian-ish preparations have been “ :-)

shattered

What is one supposed to make of two intense and markedly near-death experiences within the span of the same number of weeks? Who knows what one is supposed to make of it . . . but I can tell you what I make of it. I think I can, at least.
Perhaps before I do so, however, I should tell you the second of the experiences [the first having been relayed quite recently already on this blog]:
This week I had the privilege of representing my school, and county, for the Annual Library Legislative Day, held in the state capitol. It was a wonderful whirlwind of a couple of days, filled with inspirational moments, inspired brainstorming, and spirited conversations. While driving back home, contentedly peaceful in my Barbara Kingsolver book-on-tape reverie, my world was suddenly shattered. Or at least, my windshield was.
I watched the scene unfold in slow motion before me, as the 18-wheeler met with the 2 x 4, which cracked in half. One half of the wooden beam careened in, hitting my windshield squarely in the center and shattering it in what I later discovered to be a lovely pattern of ripples-in-water-like concentric circles.
As I do when instantly terrified, I began to hyperventilate. And my heart quickened till my ears rang with the clanging of my internal beat. But I stayed squarely on the road, made it the rest of the way home with only the delay of a state trooper report, and the only casualty was one windshield.
I still have to catch my breath when I replay the scene in my mind. But moving past the fear, I realize what I know to be true . . .
I know that I am loved by a silver-haired and golden-hearted couple. When my grandmother offered to bring me dinner upon my arrival, I accepted, knowing I would not have time to cook before class started that night. This rapidly-moving woman who is always quick to declare herself “unsentimental,” delivered my meal in a carefully packaged box of individual containers enough for a week of dinners. On the top she had placed 2 brilliant Camelia blooms, clipped from her bush and carefully tied together. She did this not out of any aesthetic inclinations of her own, I know—it was simply a gesture of love. She knows me well enough to know the great pleasure that simple blooms can bring.
I also know that, for whatever reason, my time here on earth is not yet done. It was of course the sort of freak accident that happens every day. And we all could die, at any given moment. But I cannot let slide the tangible closeness of death that this, and last week’s incident, have given me a taste of. I cannot not be more mindful of this precarious life that only I can claim as my own. I do choose to own it. Whatever it is that I am meant to do yet on this earth, I choose to do it well. I choose to live intentionally.

a beauty's day

“She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies . . .”
Thus spoke Lord Byron of his delight,
And I am sure he spoke no lies.

But dare I say . . .
If I may . . .

That I’ve a sister [her name means “light”],
Who outshines the Light of Byron’s eyes.
His Beauty, sure, was quite a sight,
But Helen needs no nightly guise

For every day
Bows, Helen to obey . . .

Yes, Helen Kay’s a true Grand Dame,
Whom one cannot but address as “Ma’am,”
But have no fear: she never frightens,
She needn’t, for others’ lives she brightens

So on this 22nd day of Fevrièr
I wish for my Helen a love-filled Birthday!

But at my back I always hear . . .

So I may never know for sure what happened to me on that hellish night. It seems to have worked its way through my system—for the most part. My muscles feel today as if I recently ran a marathon, with a tight and aching soreness. And I am rather frightened still, hyper-vigilant and on-guard. Not having my Potassium levels tested in the midst of it all, blood work at this point would probably show nothing, even if I were ready to shell out the cash required for it. Mind you, I am not silly enough to completely blow it off: the slightest recurrence would have me dashing to the hospital with no financial qualms. I simply suspect that I would feel silly about spending the income I have had to stress so much over lately if there is no foreseeable benefit for doing so. So like I said, I may never know for sure what happened . . .
But this I do know:
I am thankful. I am thankful for a body that, up to this point, has served me faithfully. Too much of my life has been spent taking my health for granted. I rush along, blithely assuming that whatever I set my mind to, I can do. It is humbling to realize that if my body is off-kilter, no matter what I may want to do, this corporal cloak could prevent it.
I am also thankful to be blessed with people I can count on. I have a friend. A friend who, when I called to start to tell her what was going on—in the middle of a work day—she interrupted me to come see me, to hear the story in person, and to check on me. A friend who came back, after work, to take me out to dinner in celebration of wellness, and to spend the evening with me. A friend who I know I can count on to be there—so that when I called my mother to relay the past few days’ events to her, I cried when I tried to explain how thankful I was for count-on-able friendship. So my hope, my prayer, is that I can be such a count-on-able friend.

time's winged chariot

It is a strange thing to be close to death. I almost died last night and did not know it. And I am not yet over the hump. I was miserable all night, for sure. But not until this morning did I figure out the cause: it seems a Potassium overdose cramped up all my muscles, overloading my entire body. A salt substitute was the cause: in my attempt to choose a “healthy” alternative to salt the other day, I discovered a product that just about killed me. Literally. I spent last night alternating between sweats and chills. Periodically I would get up to, painfully, use the bathroom. I tried to drink water, but it was difficult to force into my throat. Now I know that even my swallowing muscles were hindered, making it difficult for me to swallow, speak and, dangerously, breathe. By the time it was late enough for me to gratefully give up my vain attempts at sleep, my muscles were so constricted that I stumbled around in an attempt to walk. My body was just refusing to function. A few anxious phone calls later, I reached a doctor-friend who “diagnosed” me and coached me through the next few steps. So I wait. I watch for signs of further danger, and I wait for my kidney, liver, and intestines to flush out of my system this necessary for life—and deadly—mineral . . .

one boy and his world

While writing an email this evening, I realized that part of my day needed to get out, in a sense . . . that I’ve been saddened by a discovery. I should have realized this earlier, I suppose, when I thought about it during the last class of the day and found myself fighting tears. It could have helped that we were watching a DVD about Tsunami’s at the time, mind you—tears are of course odd things sometimes, cropping up when you least expect them, but telling more by doing so than any “expected” tears could ever tell . . .
So anyhow, as I began to say, school involved a rather rough realization . . . the kids I was subbing for started talking about the latest news:
A large chunk of the students are on the ski trip right now, along with several of the teachers. It seems that last night a teacher found drugs on one of the kids—a discovery that his classmates were not at all surprised by. They all knew that when he was roaming yesterday afternoon [and he popped in to the library as well, leaving with a disconcerted shake of his head when I asked if he needed me], he was nervously looking for his dealer to arrive.
How disheartening--I really liked the kid, for all his oddities. He is a sweet boy, and eager to please, eager to be helpful when asked. And it's so sad that I suppose that as a school we'll have to lose him now, to a world that is, I fear, not so kind to teenage boys . . .

mission statement

When my headmaster asked us all for a new year's goal, I found I had trouble narrowing my thoughts down to an average sort of goal. What I ended up sending to him, as a result, is the following "Mission Statement":

As a librarian, my goal is to challenge assumptions. I would like to surround the students of this school with reminders, via the vast and limitless world of learning, that they do not [regardless of what they may think] know it all. There are mysteries and unknowns abounding, and just waiting for the occasion to astound students with the thrill of new knowledge. So I will stock this library with the best of what the world has to offer, in the way of cool facts [Reference materials], worlds unknown [Fantasy], strangers to get to know [Biography], and situations to experience [Fiction] . . .
As those in my profession are still stereotyped as relatively inaccessible or quiet or shy, my goal is to be a presence that students are happy to come to. I want to cheerfully be open to questions, to welcome “interruptions,” and to not let busyness with work to be done prevent me from always keeping one eye watching for questioning kids and one ear cocked for a whispered wondering.
Finally, how can I dare to promote a library if I do not devote myself to a lifetime of learning? I must pursue my own educational development. I cannot pretend to know it all already, and I cannot sit complacently in any semblance of “been there,” “done that,” or “know that.” I must get excited about new subjects to study and new skills to learn. And I will be transparent in my giddiness upon new discoveries. By doing so, I hope to impart to others the sense that it is a good thing, and a right thing, to be excited about learning.

petit prince

just another wedding day

It was not your average wedding. Drizzles turned to torrents as the mother of the bride read, causing the Petit Prince’s wonderings to be nearly shouted not merely mused. Guests periodically turned to neighbors to relight hand held candles after gusts of wind had extinguished them. We performed mini leg lifts as we stood, in an attempt to revive numb toes. As the priest painstakingly broke the bread with his frozen fingers, raindrops dribbled down the back of my neck from one hole in the leaky tent.
But we were actually all quite relieved at the recent improvement in our circumstances. One hour earlier, as I was putting the finishing touches on the bride’s makeup, the lights had flickered. Moments later, astonished cries erupted when the house was suddenly abuzz with lights, whirs, and hums—“astonished” because, after four days without power, we had grown quite resigned to the certainty of a candle-lit, fire-warmed, stove-less-catered, and “charming”ly rustic wedding and reception. Indeed, we were such creatures of the dark that, suddenly illuminated by intense light, I flipped the switch off, preferring to resume the makeup process lit only by rain-darkened rays filtering in through the window.
And frankly, as far as makeup was concerned, it really didn’t matter all that much; makeup and hair completed, Glenna [being who she is] had promptly re-donned her mud boots, shot out the door [with neither hood nor umbrella], and commenced with dragging benches across the marsh of a yard. Rain pouring down her face, she then grabbed the backhoe from the shed and began digging trenches to allow the deepening pond under to wedding tent to drain. Thankfully, by this point I was on one of my delivery runs to the tent, and I caught the bride in her soggy glory. I shook my head with a groan and quickened my trudge to a soldier-worthy march. I knew better, however, after three years as roommates, to put too much faith in my scolding pleas when head to head with Glenna’s dogged persistence. So I breathed a sigh of relief when she simply rattled off a string of preparation instructions and returned to the house for more bride-ish activities like, say . . . donning her wedding dress?
Half an hour later our motley crew of a wedding party assembled for the processional—if one could call it that—through the rain. As we took a quick head count the bride’s brother rushed out to join us, apologizing for his inability to locate a pair of matching shoes. I easily reassured him, pointing out my own: having drenched my feet during preparations, I abandoned my shoes for the sake of borrowed wool socks and green & pink plaid rubber rain boots. Not once did I regret that decision.
So out the door we went. Arm in arm, the two of us bridesmaids “dum dum da dum”ed a multi-pitched rendition of the Wedding March, while the groom adjusted his bride’s wayward dress strap for her. The goats looked up from their grazing as if noting our nuttiness, while the bride tugged her heel out of a sunken mound of mud. And all was oddly perfect. I could not, for the life of me, conceive of any place I’d rather be than in the mud on this day—January 3, 2006—in flood-ravaged Northern California.
No, it was not your average wedding. But God in His heaven smiled down.

a silly ode to my mama

My mama’s like a red red rose
With stem-green eyes . . . and a Cherokee nose?

Or maybe she’s more like a lily white,
With her statuesque height . . .and gait so light?

But perhaps this game is all fruitless play,
With no end in sight. And why’s that, you say?

Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you the reason;
I mean, after all, this "‘tis the season":

Mother, you see, is no flower at all!
Rather, she’s more like a tree standing tall.

With long limbs outstretched, to shelter her young,
And roots tunneling deep, to render her strong.

Yes Mama, you’re matchless—so brave, wise, and true,
That a lifetime could be spent saying how I love you!

the magnificat

Holy. Holy. Holy is the Lord. The familiar catch of breath. The sting in the eyes. And the tears begin to flow with the falling rain. Or do the tears fall with the flowing rain. What is it in these words that I whisper that wrenches at my heart so? Why does Mary’s prayer touch the core of my being, so many centuries after it was spoken?
I think it must be because I know that she was just a girl, just a human being, with a woman’s heart like my own. And so, when I hear her wondering words, I can feel with her the emotion she must have felt. To bear the son of God—what wondrous mystery, what glorious honour! And she was, like me, just a young woman—much younger, in fact, than I am now. And so, no matter how often I hear the story and read her words, it still has the power to bring abrupt and unsought tears.
What a gracious God, to work wonders with such frail and faulty creatures as us!

on this day

[a letter sent today]
To you all, my Friends, Family, Mentors, Coworkers, and Teachers--
As people whom I have known in the past and/or know now, I would like to invite you all to share the importance of this day with me, and with my Mother, siblings, and family members. Some of you I know have seen this before, and some have not. For those of you who have not, I wrote this one year ago, as a sort of a tribute to my father.
So, if you are inclined to do so, I welcome you to read this as a way to honour the memory of my Father, loved and admired by so many. I, for one, still mourn his passing, many years since.

_for the memories_

I remember, thank God, this day--November 30--in 1988. On this day, I awoke excited--no, more than that--I was ecstatic. I was running through lines of the Christmas program in my head, eagerly rehearsing for the program that night. You see, tonight we were performing for our families, for my family. They were on their way by this time, I knew, beginning the drive early that morning that would bring them along many lonely dirt roads, winding through villages and across open plains, to arrive here.
It had been 3 months now since I last saw them, when I boarded the little Cessna on the grass strip of our village, clutching my stuffed bear in one arm and holding my sister's hand with the other. We stood there waving goodbye one last time on the boarding stairs, and then waved again out the window as we sped along the airstrip and lifted off into the air. I loved that moment of lifting off in the airplane--and have ever since--the exciting rush of becoming airborne and soaring faster and faster through the air.
That day, though, my excitement of the beginning was tinged with the sadness of knowing I would be away from my family for many nights now. The days were always full of learning, fun adventures in the bush with friends and with various creatures to be discovered and trees to be climbed. The nights were the hard part, though, when I fought the tears that often came in spite of my fierce will, silently dampening my pillow while I stifled the shortened breaths that may give away my tears to the classmates sleeping near me in rows of bunk beds.
But the 3 months since that last flight had passed quickly--3 months of good books read, math problems solved, geography discovered, play weddings acted out in free time, and all manner of grade 4 activities. I had also turned 9 the previous month, and knew my family would now celebrate my birthday and my brother's 4th birthday 3 days earlier, as soon as we made it back home. While on a shopping trip in South Africa, my Dad had acquired our first car, so the decided to make the road trip instead of Helen and I flying home as we had always done before. So I knew they were loaded up in the Isuzu, along with 2 village friends--a teenage student of my Dad's and the Zambian pastor he worked with in our Church.
That afternoon, after various activities designed to keep all us boarding students preoccupied so we wouldn't be bouncing off the walls with the excitement of our families' arrivals, we all filed out the the drive-up area to await the first arrivals. I had in my mind the perfect picture of what to expect, so as each vehicle arrived, I craned my neck to see my mom's long arm waving out the window and Alex's goofy grin peering out from her lap. But the cars came, parents claimed their clamoring kids, and my picture-perfect arrival still had not appeared.
Finally a lady I recognized as the mom of some friends who lived fairly near us went over to our Dorm Mother and said something to her, gesturing in our direction. She then came and told us to go ahead and get ready for the program--not to keep waiting for our parents there.I was disappointed, but assumed they would arrive at any moment, so just kept waiting as we practiced our songs. My mental image just altered itself to adjust to a late clamor of hugs and kisses rushed in before the program started . . . but the program came, began, and ended, and they had not arrived. The next morning we were taken to the Cessna, and told we were going to go back to the village by flight after all.
This time I imagined the whole family standing there on the airstrip, coming into focus as the plane landed, with eager smiles and waves--still, no. The parents of a classmate took us in their car instead--so of course I changed my expectation once more, this time thinking they were taking us to our house where the family would be, picture-perfect, waiting in front of our little home. Instead we arrived at their house. Auntie Elaine (according to British habit, all family friends were "Auntie" and "Uncle" to us kids) finished up dinner preparations while we helped set the table. And then, instead of sitting down to dinner, she asked Helen and I to come and sit with her on the couch--"Anna, Helen--I have some really sad news . . . your Daddy went to heaven . . . " Before the sentence was finished, I had burst into loud sobs, Helen looked at me and started crying, and Auntie Elaine and her daughter were both crying and hugging us.I don't remember any mention of the rest of the family at that point--nor did I wonder, as far as I can remember.
The rest of the day, of the week, of the month, passed in a sort of a fog, in which my memories are clear but displaced, as if each memory was plucked from its proper place in the continuum of time and placed instead in some never never land of homeless moments. I remember falling asleep with fitful dreams, waking up convinced I had dreamed reality, and that Daddy would walk in and comfort me any moment. I remember being reunited with my brothers, staring at Alex's discolored and misshapen head, and carting Ian around carefully in his body cast, propping him up against walls . . . supporting him and holding his modesty blanket over his midsection as he pinned the tail on the donkey at his belated birthday party. I remember visiting Mom there in the Zambian hospital, horrified at the sight of my strong, active, beautiful mother lying there on the stretcher bed unable to move herself. At one point during a visit, the nurse had to turn her over so that she wouldn't get a bed sore. As she did so, she let go of the sheet and mom was briefly exposed to us all in the room. I didn't know whether to blush, sob, or scream--I wanted to just run away, to disappear forever into the endless, dreadfully beautiful African wilderness. I hated seeing mom like that, and dreaded the visits . . . and I hated myself for feeling that way, thinking there must be something wrong with me if I didn't want to see my mother . . .
Somehow, time passed. My Daddy's funeral passed in a blur of friends, strangers, languages I didn't know, and wails I knew only too well. As soon as mom was strong enough to be transported, we were shipped to the U.S., where hospitalization and then physical rehab came for her. I hid in my books--in beautiful worlds of fantasy--to the extent that my grandmother still teases me for always having my "nose stuck in a book" as a child.And eventually Mom was well enough to take over the care of the 4 of us again. I still don't know for the life of me how she did it--a paraplegic supporting and caring for a home of her own and 4 not-always-angelic children. She did it well . . . she loved us well.
On this day, as a child, Mom beautifully commemorated the anniversary. She would buy what looked to me like hundreds of helium-filled balloons, bringing them home so that the house was bursting with balloons. Then she tied notecards to the string of each one, and told us to write notes on them--as many as we wanted, and whatever we wanted to say to a stranger. I remember writing things like "Jesus loves me this I know . . ." and "My Daddy died on this day, and he is now in heaven with God, because he loved God. I do too." I wrote silly notes, but meaningful ones, longing, in all my childhood intensity, to somehow tell the world that I had a great Daddy, and that some day I would see him again. I still catch myself, when I am still enough to listen to the deeper desires of my heart, craving moments of remembrance of my Daddy, and eagerly clasping to memory any tidbits about him that people from his past may be able to share with me. But it is past my bedtime now, and my desire to continue rambling must be tempered by a knowledge of a morning alarm clock and routine schedule awaiting . . .
For now, I guess it must be enough to simply say that I am infinitely thankful for the memories that I have of this day 16 years ago. The pain of it is sweet--a good and healing pain, and a healthy one. Thanks be to God for a heart that can still hurt . . .

she's a gem

She’s a gem!, PaCharley gushed, as he looked in amazement at the results of my emissions test today. A ’91 with zero CO emissions detected—who would have thought . . . yeah, my new car gets a perfect score in my book, too!
So it was decidedly unpleasant, to say the least, to have unexpected sudden engine death this month. My bank account was already squealing at me, after months of scraping by on random part-time jobs picked up as I found them. And now, when I was happily, if somewhat anxiously, focusing all my energies on work again, I suddenly had to be distracted by the hunt for a new car, and by the questioning of What could I have done to prevent this . . . What if I had checked the levels again after the coolant light went off? . . . Did I kill my car in my ignorance? . . .
I did not think I’d be in the market for another car for years yet, and spent a week on the verge of tears—and yes, occasionally in tears—after it happened.
But today I was ever so thankful that it had. Today PaCharley accompanied me on lunch-break car errands, as we transferred the tags to my new car. I too often rush through life duties, frantically trying to get everything taken care of. But when I am mindful enough, I see the beauty of moments like this.
Because of my car “incident,” I was forced to accept help. I had to humbly admit to myself, and to others, that I needed help finding a new car. And PaCharley got to make use of his great car-sleuthing skills, finding not just a car that I can afford, but the car that is, for all practical purposes, my dream car. It is a treat to once more drive a Toyota—a car that feels like it was made for me, a car that is efficient, that I feel good about driving, and that I know the engine of well enough to maintain on my own. I love the feeling of self-sufficiency that such an efficient, simple, and economical vehicle offers. I love driving a straight shift again. And I really love “car talk” with my PaCharley.
“Yes, of course she’s a gem, Pa Charley—you found her for me! . . . You know, I haven’t named her yet. My old Toyota had a name—remember? Hubcaps Noirs. But he was a boy, with his stylish dark red coat of paint. This is most definitely a girl . . . just look at her!”
Pa Charley chuckled, and then commented again on how proud the woman who sold her to me had been of her “baby”—“Icy blue pearl,” was the color, she had told him, when describing over the phone this car she had bought new when she was in college and had driven loyally ever since.
“That’s it, PaCharley—Pearl! That’s her name!!” . . . of course she was Pearl. How could I not have seen that already? I grinned and patted the steering wheel fondly, already talking out loud to my car in my usual nutty fashion.
Yes indeed, Pearl is a gem :-)