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.

i’m losing my tan

How can that be, you ask?  I live in the hottest state in the country, where we have 360 days of sunshine a year.  And I’m losing my tan.  Well, don’t judge me yet, my sun-deprived friends of the Northeast;don’t judge me.  The thing is, there’s no water here.  There’s the occasional inground pool, but by this time of year it is just a puddle of tepid water, hovering near boiling point and full of who-knows-what kind of fungi and algae.  Our rivers are bone dry; the closest “lake” is almost 2 hours from here and even then you can’t swim in it.

So.  That is why I’m losing my tan.  Who wants to sit out and tan when there is no place to go swimming and cool off?  Given the strength of the sun, it would probably only take 15 minutes of “sitting out” a day to build up a lovely, toasty color, but it’s still 95+ degrees, so it really is quite miserable.

It’s amazing how addicted we can become to air conditioning.

rolling along

There was an almost full bottle of Poland Springs water on my car floor this morning.  I took a left turn, the bottle rolled right.  I took a right turn, the bottle rolled left and hit the console with a thud. I took another left, the bottle rolled right.  It continued as such, and I got frustrated when I had to make 3 consecutive left turns.  The bottle doesn’t roll when you make 3 consecutive left turns.  Not to make a political analogy or anything.

When I got back into my car after work, the heat hit me like a wool blanket.  I’ve felt thick air before; growing up in New England, the summer days of hot, hazy sun and 90 percent humidity made you feel that if you jumped off a roof, the air would catch you.   The desert air is different.  This air smothers you, forces you to slow down, commands you to consider the heat.  Your skin starts to prickle and tingle, and when you breathe your chest feels like a balloon.  “How hot is it?” I wondered. “It must be 101 at least.  Or 102.”

Then my AC kicked in and I again entered the easy, artificially comfortable world.

babe, i’m gonna leave you

I ain’t jokin’ woman…  One of my favorite songs.  I don’t know how Zeppelin managed to create this masterpiece out of such simple lyrics; perhaps because it’s caught in a moment, or perhaps it’s because they rocked harder than any other band. 

I never knew I liked Zeppelin; in fact, during my teen years I had a strong distaste for anything labeled ‘classic rock.’ I blame it on ignorance.  I distinctly recall driving with a friend in college and him playing a tape of the stuff, forcing me to listen to it, turning the bass up just slightly, and coercing me to hear the genius riffs.  “Listen to it,” he said, ”Listen to it and you’ll like it.”  Like my father told me about eating spinach.

But my friend was right; my father wasn’t.  I owe a lot to that friend.  So Jake Morley, if you’re out there, thank you.