little swimmer

You have been my constant companion these five months. I imagine you, as unimaginable as you are, as my friend, my entertainment, my pet, my daughter. At this moment I am completely unprepared to welcome you into the world, as I’m sure I’ll still be in another four months, for my world is a place where you’ve never been, and probably won’t like too much.  But I’m determined to make it as good a place as possible for you, my little swimmer, but that is only possible through the grace of God.

Through His grace I have been given you, to hold, protect, nurture and grow, at least until you’re taken from me.  You are a true gift, and I am undeserving.  Should you decide to bless us with your presence earlier than your peers, I will be eternally grateful for the short time I’ve been given with you, and I will, as I already do, lift you up to Him who can hold you best, Him who’s been holding you this entire time.  

My prayer is to feel you grow, to watch my stomach move with your movements, to imagine your calisthenics and gymnastics as you figure out how to control your tiny limbs.  I pray that when you take your first breath, it will be with lungs developed as a witness to the power of your Creator.  I pray that every ounce of water, every morsel of food I’ve ever taken will have gone directly to nourish you and prepare you for your grand entrance.  And I pray that your grand entrance will not be for quite some time.

You, my little swimmer, are a joy to me already.  I can only hope and pray that when you arrive, I will be able to teach you to love the One who has known you the longest, and to understand that it is only through His grace and mercy that either you or I are here, and that we have a hope that is beyond anything we can possibly imagine.  You, in your tiny state, have already been blessed by forgiveness, should you choose to accept it.  For now, I will accept that gift on your behalf. 

Keep growing, little one.  Keep doing your somersaults and soccer practice. The best place for you right now is the place in which you are resting. So stay put.  I’ll do my part if you do yours, and in a few months we’ll meet face to face. Until then, know that I love you.

Mud

The excitement of winter had turned to cabin fever, and we eagerly anticipated spring.  The lake started to turn liquid again, as did the six foot high snow banks in our driveway.  The first technical day of spring came, a misleading event; a few minutes outside would quickly make me realize my short sleeved shirt was not quite enough and that the word ’spring’ did not have a universal meaning.

My siblings and I made our way outside, determined to play on the grass, soggy though it was.  It had been 5 months since we’d seen it and we welcomed it as a dear friend.  We explored the property, seeing what damage had been done during the blizzards and winds, amazed that everything survived, and even looked alive and wanting to grow.

The dirt driveway became a color we had never seen before; a dark, rich velvety brown, almost a black.  We quickly discovered that not only was it a different color, it had taken on a life of its own.  It seemed hungry to eat anything that stepped on it, and it particularly liked to swallow shoes.  After having learned the hard way, my father kept a pair of rubber slip ons near the door, and the rest of us wore our boots to the car and carried our shoes.

Easter Sunday came, and my family and I donned our best Sunday clothes.  My father wore his usual suit and tie, and my mother, through the use of ribbons and new tights, made Cath and me somehow feel that we were dressed better than normal, despite the fact that our dresses were second and third generation ‘gently used’ hand-me downs. 

We went out to the car, my brother wearing his boots as shoes, and my sister and I pulling our galoshes over our white-tights clad feet, carrying our Sunday shoes in our hands. 

The mud was at a prime that day, there having been several days of constant above-freezing weather: a deep thaw.  We slowly made it to the car, cautiously aware that to lose a boot to the black monster was to ruin your Easter dress.  We piled into the large brown station wagon, my sister and I sitting in the middle while Andrew climbed into the wayback.  And we were on our way.

My father managed to back the car out, but as he turned the wheel to start the drive down the driveway, we could feel something was wrong. The car was humming, but wasn’t moving.  My sister and I looked at each other as my father put the car back in reverse, and tried again.  We were stuck in the mud.  On Easter Sunday, when the regular attendees were supposed to arrive early to get good seats.

“Alright,” my father said, as we waited with dread, “Everybody is going have to help push the car out.” We all groaned, but we knew we had no choice. The air had taken on the tense, electric feeling that happened when my father meant business.

We stepped out of the car, and saw the damage.  The car was sunken into ruts about 8 inches deep, the black sludge relentlessly getting deeper with each spin of the tire.  We knew it was going to be messy, and our battle with the slop would be a long one. 

My mother got into the driver’s seat, and the four of us trudged to the back of the car.  “One, two… three!” my father counted.  I pushed as hard as my six year old arms could push, as my mother pressed on the gas.  The tires spun, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be to walk into church with mud on my dress. The car didn’t budge.  We tried again, watching the tires create new piles of mud around us as they tried to escape the suffocating darkness.

By that point my white tights were splattered in mud, but my dress wasn’t too bad. My sister’s was about the same. My brother was loving every second of it; he was convinced that somehow, in his four-year-old strength, he and his dad were going to move that car.

And we did. After about ten minutes of rocking, pushing, rocking, and pushing, we managed to get the station wagon out of its original ruts.  As the tires finally gripped, my mother pressed on the gas and drove to harder soil.  Fearing a repeat performance, she drove to higher, dryer ground as the rest of us walked behind, carefully avoiding getting our boots stuck.

We made it to Easter Sunday, albeit a bit late, and none of us told anyone about our experience fighting the black beast. I was  slightly embarrassed about the whole situation; how a big, heavy station wagon could be defeated so easily by something as innocent as wet dirt.  But from that point on, my mother always referred to spring as ‘mud season’… by the time the mud finally hardened again, it was already summer.

Dash 8

A few days ago I turned on the news as I ate my breakfast, and the first thing I heard was that a Dash 8 had gone down in New York and everyone on board was killed.  Then, “More on this terrible accident, after these messages.”

My stomach instantly revolted against the cereal flakes I was swallowing.  “Did she just say a Dash 8?” I thought. I knew she had. The plane I had never heard of until two years ago was now on the news. And everyone on board was killed.  Too impatient to wait through the commercials about vitamins and ads for the Wall Street Journal, I immediately went online and looked up the story at msnbc.com.

I couldn’t find what I was looking for, but logic started working… “OK, I thought, I’m two hours behind them. I would’ve gotten a phone call by now. Right? I would’ve gotten a phone call by now.” I heard the news come back on, so I moved back into the living room.   I stood there, holding my uneaten cereal, and listened to the blonde news anchor describing the events that had taken place in Buffalo earlier that morning.  And then I saw it; the headline written below the video footage said the word I’d been looking for: “Continental Flight Crashed Into Home.”  Continental. Continental. Continental.  I heard her talk about the 50 people who had been killed, the two pilots and three attendants, and I let out the sob I had been controlling for the last 4 minutes. Contintental.

It wasn’t US Airways.  It wasn’t my brother. It was 50 other poor souls, but it wasn’t Andrew.  It took all of 4 minutes for my heart to stop, my stomach to turn, my hands to start shaking, and my eyes to cry a few tears of relief as I reassured myself that it wasn’t my brother.  Boy, what a way to wake up.

to see the lights from the lake

As the nights became darker and more snow fell, we quickly realized Christmas was coming.  What would it be like, we wondered, having Christmas in our new house? We weren’t even sure where we’d put the tree because our living room was so overcrowded with the furniture we’d brought from our old house.  We tried not to bother my mother about the upcoming holiday, but in our youth we couldn’t contain our excitement. 

“Where are we going to hang the outside lights? Where should we put our stockings? What if Santa really does come down our chimney and falls into the furnace?”  Our “chimney,” although made with real brick, led directly into a closet that contained our furnace and water heater.  This became a great concern of ours, and we pondered the ways we might be able to warn him.  “Can’t we leave the closet door open, Daddy? Please? Just for Christmas eve? He’s going to get stuck!” 

Eventually we dismissed it from our small minds and focused on a much more important issue: the Christmas tree.  We discussed it amongst ourselves, knowing that asking too many questions to my parents would get us nowhere.  Besides, we’d already asked them and they just said, “I don’t know yet.”  So in a rare moment of ceasefire, the three of us spent time downstairs in the bedroom we all shared and held meetings of great importance to converse about the concern. “When are we going to get it? We only have two weeks left! Where are we getting it from? Will it look best in the corner of the living room, or right in front of the big picture window?” After much discussion we agreed that the tree would look best in front of the window, because that way we could see the lights from the lake when we went ice-skating.   As days went by and still no tree, we became increasingly concerned.  How could we have Christmas with no tree?

The Saturday before Christmas arrived, and we decided we needed to perform an intervention.  The three of us approached my father as he sat at the kitchen table, eating his lunch of grilled cheese and potato chips. 

“Daddy,” my sister started, “Christmas is in 6 days.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” he replied, taking a big bite of his sandwich.

“Well, you see,” she continued, “we don’t have a tree yet, and well, we were wondering when we are going to get one…”

“Well,” my father said.  He paused for a minute, thinking, and took a drink of milk. ”Well, why don’t we get one this afternoon? We can go cut one down from right here in our own yard! Let me take a nap first, and then we’ll go out together and pick out the best one.”

So that was the answer to the weeks of anxiety.  We were going to get one from our very own yard!  Boy, were we excited.  Someone before us had planted a very small Christmas tree “farm” along the border of our property.  Really it was just a bunch of toddler pine trees planted, I’m sure, to create a natural barrier between us and the small strip mall next to us.  But we didn’t care – all we could think about was that tree. 

We gathered our snow gear; our most recent expedition to that part of the property told us that the snow drifts amounted to at least several feet.  Plastic bagged feet slid into boots, snowpants were donned, and our mitten clad hands were stuffed into our jacket arms.  We added our hats and scarves and were ready to go when my father woke from his nap.

We tredged into the whiteness, excited to be outdoors.  We each secretly inhaled the cold, fresh New England air, a personal moment for each of us as we associated the crisp scent of pine and snow with freedom from all other worries.  The sun was shining, a not-so-usual event, which meant we were nearly blinded by the glare off the snow and the clear, pale blue sky.  We ran ahead into the miniature forest while my father went into the garage to find his hand saw and the snow shovels. 

This was the moment.  Our first Christmas tree in our new house.  Which one should we pick???  We walked around, somberly considering each tree from all angles.  The first one looked good, but then we noticed the interior needles were all dry.  We raced to a tree that my brother had pointed which looked PERFECT from a distance, but an up close and winded inspection revealed an unfortunate asymmetry.  Then my sister and father located THE tree.  The shape was in true Christmas tree fashion – wide at the base and teeny at the top.  The branches were full and well distributed, and it wasn’t completely buried in snow.

My dad cut it down, and we dragged it to the house.  After shaking off the excess snow, we let it to dry a little outside while we set up the tree stand and gathered the lights and ornaments.  Then, after testing our patience to the extreme, we finally carried the tree into the house, dropping needles through the kitchen and into the living room. 

It was then that we started to notice something was amiss.  The tree, which seemed so perfect, so ideal in the great outdoors, suddenly seemed very small.  Too small.  In fact, the tree wasn’t much taller than I was, and I was only six years old. 

This was not good. Not good at all.  My brother and sister and I looked at each other, each of us thinking the same thing.  We have a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

“Mom!” my brother cried, visibly upset. “We won’t even be able to see the lights from the lake!”

“We’ll make it work,” my mother said.  Having played the role of problem solver for years, she knew the importance of keeping a good attitude.

“I know,” she said. “Let’s put it up onto something… How about the hassock?”

We gave it a try.  We hoisted the tree, lights, stand and all, onto the hassock and placed it in front of the picture window. 

“Yes, see? We’ll still put the skirt around it, and there! Our first Christmas tree, from our very own back yard!” How she did it, I don’t know.  But my mother somehow managed to soothe our distraught souls and make us content with a four foot tree propped up with a footstool.  We decorated the tree, hanging miniature disco balls, wreaths, tinsel, and macaroni ornaments while listening to Roger Whittaker sing “Mighty Like a Rose.”  Evening came, and we went outside.

And sure enough, we could still see the lights from the lake.

celebrex

I’ve been given “something stronger” by my new doctor, but so far I haven’t noticed a stitch of difference in my pain. I have, however, been having trouble falling asleep.  Prior to coming to the computer tonight, I had been lying in bed for an hour, my mind racing with completely random things.  I find that the longer I lie in bed, the more superficial my thoughts become, so please take all of this in mind as you continue reading; I am putting a general disclaimer on this post due to the combination lack of sleep and new painkillers.  I even have to warn you of potential typos, heaven forbid.

That being said, I’d like to take you on a tour of where my thoughts have rambled in the past hour.  Tomorrow morning I am getting my blood drawn and having some x-rays done, so naturally this is what I was first thinking of.  Thus started my train of random thought: 

“What time do I need to wake up? Maybe I should wear a sundress that has no metal in it so I don’t have to get undressed. Nah, that’s just being lazy – how hard is it to get undressed?  Get over it. I wonder if I’ll have time to stop at a starbucks on my way to work.  Will I be late for work? Maybe. I guess it’s ok, I think I can get everything done even if I’m a little late.  I can always stay late, too, because we aren’t hosting Bible study, so I don’t have to vacuum. Maybe I should get the tests done on Friday morning, since I have it off anyway.  Nah, why ruin a day off by going to the doctors? And I’m getting my hair done on Friday, which I don’t want to miss.  I can’t believe it’s been over 2 months since I’ve gotten it cut. But I really need it cut, especially before I go home on Thursday.  I need to find a new pair of jeans; maybe I can find one Friday after my haircut. Then I can wear them in Boston, because lord knows I can’t wear my sundresses there – friggin cold weather.  gee, should I bring a jacket?”

And so on. It came to a point where I literally laughed out loud when I realized how worthless my thoughts had become. I feel that I could’ve been in some sort of drug-induced-Clueless-haze.  I never have to worry about waking AJ up, though.  I could do a dance on the bed and then go out for a drink at the local mexican joint and he would sleep right through it.

Anyway, all that to say when I’d had enough of my shallow and irrelevant thoughts and got up and went online, I realized I hadn’t written in a while. Now I’m realizing I just wrote about nothing. But hey, it’s my blog, right? Right.

lullaby

Every night, about 3 minutes after AJ and I turn off the lights to go to sleep, Orrie jumps onto the bed.  Normally fairly stealth, his entrance onto the bed is anything but.  In fact, I would compare it to Kramer’s famous entrances on Seinfeld.  Quiet, quiet, quiet, then whumppppthudoosh!There really should be some sort of big-voiced announcer to say “And heeeerre’s Orrie! Back into the arena of Sue and AJ’s bed!” 

After his rather awkward entrance, this adorbale cat then proceeds to walk to the head of the bed, usually accompanied by one or two very demanding meows (in case we didn’t hear him jump up).  There have been many times when I will open my eyes to find his black and white face about two inches away from mine, staring intently at me, his raspy purr serenading me like a well-loved lullaby, waiting for me to pet him.  He meows again, right into my face, as if he can’t believe I had the nerve to fall asleep so quickly, and I’d better get my pet on if I know what’s good for me.

So I always oblige; he and I have an agreement from way back when he was a kitten that if he ever jumps up to see me, I will always reward him with some love.  So I smooth his fur, and rub his belly, and play with his tail.  When I get tired, I put my arm down.  But he’s not satisfied, no, he always buries his face into my hand, or arm, or hip, or whatever is closest to him, demanding again that I give him attention one last time. 

He then proceeds to find a place to rest, usually in the curve of my knees, and continues to purr, singing to me his contentment and giving his last effort to keep me awake.

pilgrims

The months had gone by, and winter came.  The hours became darker; the sun rose at seven thirty and set at four o’clock, and high noon cast a shadow that felt like sunset.  I didn’t understand that this was why my parents always seemed to be in a gloom during these winter months, that this was why the energy of the entire family seemed to lull. 

We’d get home from school, and it was time for dinner then time for bed.  It was earlier than usual, but we didn’t care; the darkness seemed to creep into our minds and bodies, causing us all to realize that there was nothing better than sleep.

But then the weekend came.  My father, my sister and I slept late every Saturday, recovering from the week of alarm clocks and my mother’s call of “Cathy!  Susan!  Time to get up!”  My mother and brother were up at the crack of dawn as usual, something the rest of could not comprehend.  Even at the young age we were, our sleeping patterns were already established.

Once the rest of us got up, our mornings usually consisted of making our own breakfasts and watching cartoons.  At about eleven o’clock, when the cartoons ended, we had to decide what to do with the day. 

This weekend was different.  This weekend it had snowed.  We had had a deep, long snow earlier in the week, the absolute worst type of snow to come on a school day.  We had spent the last four days staring out at the snow during class, unable to go out and play.  By the time we got home it was too dark to go outside, so we’d had to wait.

But then it was Saturday.  And Saturday meant we could play.  There were no cartoons that Saturday.  By the time my sister and I woke up, my brother was wearing his snowpants, with his bright red mittens, attached by a knitted string, draped around his neck.

He impatiently waited as we ate our breakfast and changed out of our flannel nightgowns and into jeans, thick socks, and baggy turtleneck sweaters. 

We came downstairs and by that time he’d put his purple hat on, and was zipping up his jacket.  Cathy and I got into our bright pink and lobster red snowpants, and all three of us put on our boots.  Putting on our boots was never an easy task, our mobility being hindered by the bulky layers previously donned.  My mother gave us all plastic bags, with which we lined our boots in case of the most likely event we got snow down our shoes.

And then we were ready.  We opened the door and walked down the three icy cement steps into the white winter wonderland.  The crisp air hit our scarf covered faces like a splash of cold water, our noses immediately tensing and inhaling the fresh winter scent.

This was our first time playing in the snow at our new house, and we didn’t know where to go first.  Do we go onto the ice? Do we walk through the woods? Do we play on the swing?  We decided to walk around and scope out the prospects.  We were delighted to learn that the hill down to the lake which was awkward during the summer made an excellent sledding hill, and the frozen ice made a perfectly flat landing ground. 

This snow was deep.  To our short legs the drifts were impossible to walk through.  Wandering around this uncharted territory we felt like explorers of a new land, discovering new and exciting facets of the world.  How deep was the snow by the fallen log? What did the big maple tree look like, covered in a white blanket?  Exactly how high were the piles made by the snowplow?  Could we find the ball we’d left in the front yard? We were sure we’d left it right by the shed, but decided someone must have stolen it. 

After an hour of exploring we were exhausted, tredging through the two foot snow having made our short legs work more than they were used to.  We fell onto the ground, sinking into the whiteness in a way that, to us, defied gravity.  We could fall and not get hurt! 

We spread our arms and legs and desperately tried to make snow angels, but realized the snow had melted too much for our tired and jello limbs.  So we just lay there, looking up into the gray sky, feeling strangly warm and cold at the same time. 

“Don’t fall asleep!” my sister warned. “People who fall asleep in the snow sometimes don’t ever wake up!”

We made sure to keep our eyes wide open.

pop goes your spine

I had never been to a chiropractor until last week, when I visited one in attempt to determine what is causing my hip/pelvic pain.  I’ll be honest – I am what you might call a major skeptic.  My experience with chiropractors has been limited to what I’ve heard from other people, usually sounding something like this: “Oh my gosh, it’s great.  Any time my back is hurting I go in, get an adjustment, and I leave feeling really good.”  When asked what an “adjustment” is, I get the following reply: “Well, it’s basically, like, you lie on a table and he cracks your back.” And you wonder why I’m a skeptic.

I hate cracking anything.  I’ve never cracked my knuckles, in fact my brother used to crack my knuckles as a form of true brotherly annoyance.  I’ve never been one of those people who ask someone to “walk on my back, will you?  I just need it popped.”  To be honest, it grosses me out.

So then why would I go to a chiropractor, you ask? My answer is simple: I’m hurting, and my primary care physician either a, doesn’t believe me or b, doesn’t know why and has given up.  So I’ve taken it upon myself to start eliminating possibilities, starting with a possible pinched nerve in my spine.  Ultrasounds, physical exams, CT scans and diet control have all led to zero explanations, so I’m trying alternative methods.

Overall my experience with chiropracty (I’ve been “adjusted” twice) has been fine.  I haven’t felt any significant pain through the exercise, but I have not walked away from the office “as if I was floating on air”, as my friend described her own experience.  In fact both times I left with a headache, which is not really incentive to keep going back.  I had x-rays taken to determine the extent of my scoliosis, or, as I like to say, “’s’ is for Sue”.  Given my curvature, I should look more crooked than I do, hooray! I guess.  Unfortunately, my pain has not lessened, which is frustrating.  At the same time, though, I don’t think I could afford many treatments, as each session is over $75, and with the frequency being 2-3 times a week, it is just plain old too expensive.

As to what I’ll do next, I’m really not sure.  I have yet to have x-rays done of my actual pelvic bones, and I haven’t had anyone rule out theories such as arthritis or bursitis.  All I know is that I’m getting tired of it, and my body is tired of it, too.

domesticity

I’m going to be domestic today.  It’s 9:30 and I’ve already done one load of laundry and washed the dishes.  The question is, what else should I do?  There are never ending piles of things to be done, not to mention the fun ‘projects’ I’d like to accomplish.  Should I wash our couch slipcovers, an all day task?  Should I forget the slipcovers and organize our desk?  Should I forget the desk and start sewing the fabric I bought for the living room?  Should I do a deep clean of all the floor trim and corners? I wonder if it’s possible to have your house truly clean.  I mean every nook and cranny dust bunny free and rid of cat fur.

I don’t really think it’s possible unless you hire a cleaning crew, which I am not about to do.  I can do it, right? Right.  Yeah, right.  Well, I guess I’ll start by paying the bills.  Or cleaning our closet.  Or washing the windows.

freedom

My world has been swirling around me lately.  I’ve been encountering questions and thoughts, and realizations have been coming at me like an Amtrak engine.  I’ve had the opportunities to hear stories, stories that send chills down my spine just to think of them.  But in a good way.  The chills are from grasping a fuller understanding at the greatness of God, from acknowledging that He is more vast, more powerful, and more in control than I can ever comprehend.  It gives me an overwhelming sense of peace and joy, to an extent I’ve never felt before. 

I have reached a place where I want to sing to the mountains that Christ is my King, my Savior, and that the freedom He gives me can be matched by no one and nothing on this earth.  It’s a freedom that gives me a sense of clarity about everything around me; a sense of true discernment and an ultimate desire to love anyone I encounter, because they are a child of God.  I know that my worldly ambitions and nature will at times distract me from this freedom, but that is what’s so perfect about freedom in Christ – it is forgiving, even for someone as unworthy as me.

The fact that we have the freedom in this country to post about issues like this also overwhelms me.  I thank God that I’ve been placed in the United States, where I can worship publicly, and there are no governmental repercussions for it.  Having been to countries where you work because you’ve been told to, you practice a religion because it is the state religion, and you are forced to give everything you make to the government, it makes me very frustrated to hear people complaining about our freedom, and encouraging our government to take away the freedom of the individual citizen and business.   I’ve seen what this does to a nation, to a people.  I’ve felt the bondage and seen the oppression, and I would never wish that on my country.

How blessed I am to have so much freedom in my life, and while the freedom of our country and rights may be at stake, I’m grateful to know that my freedom in Christ is eternal.