Canning

Tomorrow I am going to introduce my dear, life-long friend to the mystery and alchemy of canning. Just like the 'scientists' of yore who labored over bubbling pots and boiling beakers, I like to think of canning as a mystical art form. The perfect beauty and bounty of summertime being distilled and preserved forever (or at least a year or two) - making it possible to taste June in January, sunshine in snowstorms, green growth in grey skies.

I am (don't tell!) actually pretty new to canning. I put my first pears and peaches into jars just a few years ago - busily humming away late into the night, paring knife flashing, canner steaming on the stovetop. I was hooked from the first 'pop' of a sealed jar. My mom canned some when I was a kid, as did her mother before her.  I have vague but comfortable memories of it. I like to think that this, like so many other things I do, is a return to something important from my heritage - something I have grown up enough to now be proud of.

Last summer my daughter would sneak upstairs and sit on the counter next to me as I worked. It was late, and she should have been in bed, but I couldn't help but feel, deep in my bones, that it was more important for her to be putting in the memories of canning as I put the peaches in the jars than it was for her to get enough sleep - at least for that night. So, we canned together. I washed the fruit, blanched it, and squished the skins off, the sink turning a murky pink color. I let her halve the peaches and remove the pits. We both had juice dribbling down our chins and off our elbows, nightgowns smudged and damp. It was well past midnight before the last jar sealed and we went to bed. I don't remember what we said, but I know it was good. Surrounded by fresh fruit and jars and history and heritage as we were - how could it not have been wonderful?

I know we're staring off small - just a few pints of homemade salsa - but I hope my friend gets hooked on canning, just like I did. Not only because I want someone I can share recipes with and trade produce with and ask to borrow a jar lifer or a canning funnel from once in a while, but because I want the people I love to get the very best from life. And, I can't imagine anything better than that late night with my daughter, the satisfaction of a cupboard full of gleaming jars, and knowing that you have been a part of something important from the past, and are making it possible for that something important to continue in the future.

Besides - it means I'll get to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen with my dear, life-long friend and six children, watching our progress wide-eyed and eagerly, and grinning in delight when they hear the jars seal. What could be better than that?

Home is Where the Scraper Is

I come from a pretty small family. My mother and father each only had one sibling. My maternal grandmother was an only child. My paternal grandfather was one of just two in the family. My dad's mom came from the biggest bunch, and there were only 5 of them in all. You know what this means, don't you? It means that I cannot expect a big inheritance check from some long-lost great aunt. That is why I have been outside scraping my house today rather than just hiring someone to do it for me. Well, that, and because I really do love this old place, and I know you would too.

I live in an old one-room schoolhouse smack dab in the middle of old-order Amish territory. There is a field that surrounds my house on two sides. The other two sides are flanked by dusty gravel roads, each of which is bordered by lovely pastures  with grazing, wide-eyed cows. The sky above is always big, whether it's filled with fluffy clouds or surging storms, and the breezes are never cooler or the stars ever more abundant than they are in my side yard. We have a swingset there, complete with a two-seater that I like to lay back in and watch the world go by. It's right next to our hen house (former outhouse) and the chickens will gather and cluck conversationally in my general direction when I sit there. It's a great place to pass an hour or two, or even a whole afternoon. Our yard has hideouts around the LP tank and in the overgrown bushes. It has sunny expanses to play ball in, a patch of cement to draw on with sidewalk chalk, shady corners to lie in, and a pasture complete with tall grass, Maples to climb, and a mulberry tree you can stand at for hours and get increasingly purple, full, and happy with every passing minute.

And, that's just the yard. The house itself is, basically,  a 30' by 30' square, except that it has a 12' by 8' bell tower tacked on to the south side. When you come in through the blue door in the bell tower, you are taking a step back in time. This is where almost 50 years' of school children started and ended their industrious days, and eagerly went out and came in from recess. You can go downstairs (to your left, and past a large, sunny window), or upstairs (to your right, and also past a large, sunny window.) When this house was a school, the basement was mostly just a place to house the boiler, coal hopper, and other mechanical equipment. There was a ping pong table for the kids to play on if it was too wet to go outside, but not much else. Today the basement has a family room, two bedrooms, and a combination bathroom/laundry room. Despite the many windows, it is cool and shady, and pleasant down there. It has a sense of stillness that I think comes from it having been largely forgotten by the kids all those school years ago.

Upstairs, however, is where the magic happens. The steps from the entryway still creak and groan in a satisfying and familiar fashion, just as I am told they did from the beginning of this old school. Up the stairs and through the doorway you find yourself in a great room, and I mean that in both senses of the word. Three-fourths of the 900 square feet on that floor are all open, including our dining room, our kitchen, and our living room. The ceilings, which are sixteen feet tall, are paneled in pine. There are three big skylights and eight enormous windows - enough to let in that giant sky and all the lovely breezes and stars. The old wood floors and plaster walls may be a different color than they were back then, but they still echo the whispers and recitations from years gone by. It's hard to explain, exactly, but I know that this old schoolhouse is happy. It was loved and a part of something sacred and important for almost a half a century. I guess you could say it still is. What we are doing here - raising our children and living out, the the fullest, the act of being a family - is also sacred and important work, and we couldn't ask for a better backdrop for it.

See - I told you you'd love it. Everyone who comes here falls in love with this happy schoolhouse. Maybe it's the architectural uniqueness - the fact that it's not like every other house these days. Maybe it's because of its historical importance. After all, there has been a schoolhouse on this site continuously since 1864 (though this is the second building), and this was the last public one-room schoolhouse in Iowa to close, maybe even one of the last in the nation. Maybe you, like me, love this place because it is a chance to slow the rhythm of life and fall in pace with a simpler time and era. Maybe it is the memories, or the promises of what's yet to come in this home that make it so lovable. I can't quite pinpoint my favorite thing about this house because there is so very much to love about it. Enough, in fact, that I'm willing to dangle precariously off ladders, wear the ends of my fingers off with sandpaper and scrapers, get bumped and bruised and banged up, and even battle the occasional nest of yellow jackets just to ensure that it will be around for another generation to enjoy as well. Now that you've fallen in love with it, feel free to join me. I'll be the one clinging to the south side, scraper in hand. :)

Laundry

Well, here I am, in the middle of laundry. Again. Or, maybe more accurately, still. It seems to be a never-ending process at my house. I realize, of course, that the odds are stacked against me, since there are 5 people living here, three of whom still regularly spill any liquid or semi-solid they are responsible for conveying any distance farther than one micron. (I will not divulge the names of these people in the interest of protecting my fifth amendment rights.) So, our baskets overfloweth. Of course, not all dirty clothes are created equal. Last week I had to wash the same shirt four times because it was so filthy. In the end, I went ahead and threw it in the dryer anyway, despite the fact that the stains were still there. At that point it's easier to try to convince the smallish person who owns it that it always was that shade of grey than to waste any more laundry detergent, stain remover, energy, or time - especially time. Plus, grey goes with everything, so it really was a win-win situation.

I have the same problem with laundry that I do with dishes and our annual tax return - there are just so very many steps involved! Isn't it enough to gather the clothes, carry them to the laundry room, sort them, check for stains, and pop them into the machine? Apparently not. There's also the transferring, the drying, the folding, the putting into the baskets, the carrying into the rooms, and - the piece d'resistance - the putting away! It's enough to drive a person crazy. I mean, I often skip several of those steps (and not always the ones you might expect) in an effort to save time and preserve my sanity, but the process is still way too long, and nudist colonies have been looking more and more attractive to me in the last several years. That is not to say, however, that the feelings are necessarily mutual. I can only guess that my appeal to a nudist colony has waned in the last decade or so, even as my interest in them has grown. Because of this inverse relationship, I will continue to be a slave to my washer and dryer.

Perhaps the real problem at our house is not the amount of laundry, but the amount of clothing. That may sound paradoxical, but follow me on this for a minute. My middle daughter has 23 t-shirts in her drawer. Her three-year-old sister, I believe, owns even more than that, but it's hard to tell. (One time saving measure I have taken up to lighten my laundry load is to have the girls put away their own clothes. I only know that the basket comes back empty, but still haven't quite figured out where she is stashing all of her things.) Anyway, this overabundance of clothing means that we can, quite literally, go two weeks or more without having to switch on the ol' Maytag. And, often we do. Ergo, the next time we have laundry day, it's a real whopper. I suppose that, when you average out all the time I spend doing laundry over the course of a year, it might be about the same as everyone else spends. I guess when it takes a week and half of sorting, washing, drying, and folding to catch up on two week's worth of laundry, I'm not really saving myself much time after all.

It would seem logical, then, that the answer to my little problem, would be to get rid of some clothes. I should just figure out how often I want to do laundry, and then make sure we have exactly the right amount of clothing for that time period. Therefore, if I want a five day break between washes, I think we should pare down to 5 outfits, 2 pajamas, and 2.876 towels each. (That includes a bath towel, a hand towel, two wash rags, and the appropriate number of kitchen towels we would need for five days, divided among all five family members.) But, let's be honest - I don't really want to do laundry every five days. Maybe once a week? Once every ten days? I've got it - how about once every two weeks? Of course, that would require everyone to have 23 t-shirts and... wait... now we're back to square one.

No, I don't want to do laundry for a week and a half straight every two weeks, but I also don't want to have to do laundry every day. Just between you and me, I'd prefer to never have to do laundry again. Of course, that means that we can't have any clothes, which takes us back to the whole nudist colony dilemma. Perhaps if I could find one where everyone was terribly nearsighted. Or, better yet, we could just start out own. Unfortunately, that would require a lot of research into state and local laws, zoning regulations in this county, which SPF is most effective for which areas of the body, etc... And, of course, I don't have time to do any of that research because the dryer just buzzed, and I've still got 42 loads of laundry to do before I'm off the hook. If you'll excuse me, the laundry cycle is calling my name...

In the Good Old Summertime...

My dear, adoring public - I must apologize. I have used this blog for many purposes. It has been my sounding board. My confessional. My soapbox. My diary. It has housed my deepest thoughts, and the wildest wanderings of my cerebral frontiers. And now, I must admit to you that I have allowed a terrible a injustice to occur right here in these hallowed pages. (Well, characters, more accurately.) I can stand it no longer. Justice must be served.

You see, I have complained bitterly about winter in this blog - whined about it, some might say- and, alternately, have been in ecstatic raptures about spring in previous posts. Through all of the weather writing, I have neglected the blissful bounty of summer, and I think it's time for summer to get its due. After all - living during these fleeting three months in Iowa is like no other experience in the world. This year we had a very wet latter part of spring, and it has blossomed now in these past few weeks into a glorious, sticky, sun-drenched July. It's hot, it's humid, and it's glorious - everything summer should be.

This morning I picked green beans - ice cream bucket after ice cream bucket of them from my friend's garden. She shared her bounty with me, just as a neighbor did when they dropped of a bag of summer squash on my doorstep. I will return the favor to someone else with something from my garden, because it is summer. In Iowa. That's what we do. The soil here is so rich and alive that anyone can grow anything, but there is something mystical and satisfying about being a part of 'the club.' Whether it's a backyard container with a single tomato plant, or a half-acre survival garden, we are all part of that group, whose membership is made possible by our beloved state's benevolent weather and good, clean dirt. And, it's a good club to be a part of it. There is something inherently wholesome about sun-warmed, dirt-fresh, dimple-fleshed produce from the garden, and the grubby fingernails and toes that go along with them. They makes you want to do the right things - like eat better, read a bedtime story to your children,  go to church more often, and make homemade ice cream.

Of course, it's not just the produce and gardens that inspire goodness. It's in the air. Yes... We do have more than just humidity in the air, though sometimes it can be hard to detect. Listen... listen.... can you hear it? That sound - just now? It is the frogs in the neighbor's pond. The crickets in your basement. The cicadas thrumming away in the top of your maple trees. It is the crack of a bat, the whir of a child's bike tire, the distant rumble-grumble of thunder. It is summer, singing its endless and humble song. From the percussive rattle of metal wheels and horses' hooves on my gravel road, to the woodwind's mellow refrain as the wind blows through the pasture grass - it is summer. If you're not paying attention you will miss this concert, and it's playing its heart out just for you.

This week I made it a point to take a break from the beans and the weeding and the work. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, slipped into my worn sandals, and stepped outside of my air conditioning and busy life. I chose to spend an hour or so sitting on the swing with my friend during the hottest day we've had in years. The sun and humidity were intense, but the joy even more so.We heard laughter in the forefront and lawnmowers in the distance. It was nice. Tonight I found myself returning to that swing because of the delight of an enraptured three-year-old, who proudly pointed out that she had found the moon. Indeed she had - a more important and astute discovery than most people make their whole lives. We lingered for a while as the yellow, new moon skimmed across the sky, listening to the breeze in the corn. When the lightning bugs showed up and the whole sky was lit with star upon star upon star, I knew they were simply the flashbulbs and marquee that come with any headlining act, for I was in the presence of greatness.

They are dedicated and capable, practiced and finely-tuned, but don't be fooled - this band has been booked for a limited engagement. I'm ever so blessed to have been given - free of charge! - a front row seat (and a swinging one at that) for this multi-sensory, life changing, outdoor musical extravaganza. They have the biggest stage, best acoustics, most talented musicians, and most outstanding special effects you'll see anywhere. When the kitchen is empty and the clothes have been left half-folded, you'll know where to go looking for me. After all, it's the social event of the season. I surely do hope to see you there.

What's in a Name?

Shakespeare waxed poetic about the beauty of Juliet. In the story, of course, Juliet was in love with the handsome Romeo, who also dearly loved her, even though their families were bitter rivals. Juliet pined about the fact that her only love (Romeo) was sprung from her only hate (the family Montague). It is her famous "What's in a Name..." soliloquy that many eager young thespians memorize and recite. Yesterday I, too, was thinking of Juliet (well, at least a Juliet) and, like her, pondering the nature and meaning of names.

See, we have three kinds of chickens in our little flock. Our old hens (which are a breed known as Production Reds) were purchased from a neighboring hen house after their peak function was past. They had been housed with 1200 other Production Reds and lived only to eat, poop, and (of course) lay eggs. These kinds of ladies are known, without any effort at romance or honor, as 'spent hens' after they are around 18 months old. Remember, there is no glass ceiling or social security program for poultry. They were lucky to have been brought to our green yard and cozy hen house, where they have been allowed to live out their days eating bugs, being given swing and sled rides (sometimes against their wills), and laying the occasional egg as they chose to do so. Since arriving here, my girls have called this batch of chickens Henny Pennies.

Why Henny Pennies? I don't know. Though some of them did have their own names (including Le Morte and Mr. Chicken - I am not making this up), it is rather difficult to tell one spent hen from another, so it made the most sense to my girls to name them as a group. Plus, it distinguishes them from the two other types of chickens we have. Besides the Production Reds, we also have two white hens. One is a Leghorn, and the other a Californian. We came by both of these gals separately and in a somewhat strange fashion. Tracy came first. She had been purchased along with 29 other tiny, day-old white chicks by a friend of ours. The others in her group quickly grew fat and sassy, since they were Cornish Rock Cross - a breed that grows 6 pound birds in 8 weeks. Alas, there was one lone, mis-sorted Leghorn chick in the bunch. It soon became apparent to my friend that 'Mini-Hen' (as she had been dubbed by the resident namer at their house) was better suited for a hen house than a freezer. So, she came to live with us, and was promptly renamed Tracy.

The other white hen was part of group that we chicken-sat for over the Christmas holidays. (Hey - don't laugh. You would do the same for your dog or cat, right?) When the owner of this bunch came to pick his ladies up, he couldn't tell the difference between our Tracy and his white hen. (I find it incredibly insensitive of him to not be able to tell one white girl from another, and am infinitely glad that we got to keep this hen so she didn't have to go back to her obviously racist owner.) Anyway, her new name is Not Tracy. So, we find ourselves having conversations like this:

Me: Did you put the chickens in tonight?
Child: Yes, all the Henny Pennies are in, but not Tracy.
Me: Do you mean not Tracy, or not Not Tracy?
Child: Yes.
Me: But which one did you...
Child: [re-donning shoes] I'll just go out and put her in so I don't have to explain, ok Mom?

Our last group, which started out as a batch of 15 half-grown, mixed-sex (11 hens and 4 roosters) Rhode Island Red chickens purchased from Craigslist, have been affectionately known as Juliets. (I told you I'd eventually be talking about Juliet...)  Their numbers have since dwindled to six. We lost four hens to predators and cold this winter. One rooster was hit by a car. The other three had to be 're-homed' after they got a bit aggressive with the girls. And, alas, we lost one Juliet hen to a hawk yesterday. So, we're down to just six Juliets now. Our Henny Pennies have suffered some serious losses this past year as well, and now number only two. With those eight, along with our pair of white hens (who, of course, each already have their own names) it is looking more and more like we could move from group identity on to individual monikers for my lovely laying ladies.

Since it is my children who come up with the names (and spend the most time with the chickens) I'll have to check with them and see what they think. I'm inclined to keep things simple. And, since I'm able to both distinguish between and remember the names for Henny Pennies, Juliets, Tracy, and Not Tracy, I'm content to keep to keep things the way they are. Plus, as amusing as it can be, the process of getting the girls to agree on a name is rather like giving birth. There is much yelling, fist clenching, and the occasional Lamaze-style breathing through pursed lips. Just yesterday we travailed to bring forth names for our two new goats, which had to be agreed upon by three young girls. The process is harder than you might imagine. But, at the end of the labors, we were presented with our bouncing, brand new names - Marshmallow and Kid. The girls are happy, and the goats are indifferent, so I think it was a success. But, I'm not sure that our insurance will cover another naming for at least a year, so perhaps the hens will keep their current classifications after all.

Playing Grown Up

Well, here I am attempting a second time to write a post with more of myself included. I am no longer pontificating... have stepped down off the soap box. Is it more human and approachable this way? Perhaps I'll consider this a group therapy session. After all, you must be reading this blog for a reason. If it's to search to answers, I can only tell you, in all honesty, that I do not have them. But, perhaps we can discover some together. I'll go first.

Hi. My name is Andrea, and I feel under-equipped to deal with life. I suppose there are so very many more things I could admit to - over eating, over sleeping, over doing. But, I think I've come a long way by being able to really distill what's going on down to such a pithy and provocative statement. You see, I've always been the one able to handle it all. Keep all the balls in the air. Keep all the plates spinning. Now I've come to realize that those things are what the analogy implies : games - just part of an act. It looks good (and feels good) on stage, but when the makeup comes off and the costumes are put away at the end of the night, there are still children to raise, souls to save, bills to pay. Life is not the circus act.

My best friend and I (both of us turned 30 this year) were wondering together on the phone the other day why no one warned us of what it means to be a grown up. Why did no one tell us how serious and earnest this thing called life can be? Why did no one think to warn us that we would endure indescribable difficulties even as we enjoyed unparalleled joys? Why didn't anyone let us know that this is what it would be like? I've been trying to abdicate my adult responsibilities for years, but they keep coming back. All this time I've had the sneaking suspicion that this thing called life is perhaps a bit more serious and taxing than I wanted to let on.

For my friend, it all started with her first vacuum. You see - it wasn't her mother's vacuum. It wasn't borrowed. It wasn't temporary. It was hers. Forever. You don't buy a vacuum unless you need it. You don't need a vacuum unless you have a home. You don't have your own home unless you're a grown up. See the connection? To this day I think that vacuum causes her pause on good days, panic on bad ones. It's a sign that she - all of us, really - is inextricably engaged in the forward march of life, and that can be a sobering thought.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the sense to pause and consider the implications of my first vacuum. I was very young and idealistic when I plunged headlong into life. It wasn't until sometime after a college degree, two home purchases, a brand new car, three children, and a dying loved one later that I started to have the sneaking sort of panic that my friend's small appliances stirred up in her. Now I find myself very much entrenched in this thing called life, and feel ill equipped to handle it. Who am I to hold the hand of the dying? What do I know about helping those left behind in their grief? What words can I offer to bolster my brave husband, who faces the world with the weight of his family on his shoulders each day? Where will I go for the wisdom to bring forth these children that I feel so fiercely proud of and responsible for? How did I end up here?

Some days I think I'll wake to discover that it's all been a game of house. We (the good children, intently engaged in our play) will be called back to reality by our parents. We will put aside our drama and aprons and vacuums and go have a snack under the watchful eye of a capable and caring adult. Our vain striving over who is in charge, which person says what, where things will go, what we will do... it will all be forgotten. After all - if we are honest with ourselves in the deepest and darkest places in our hearts, we somehow sensed all along that it is foolishness to pretend we are really adults, don't we? Ahhh.... but what can be done about it? Therein lies the trouble.

And so, I will continue to be a little girl her mother's high heels. I will pray for wisdom in bringing forth and carefully preserving the treasures in my husband. I will shore him up on the days when I can see that he is a little boy in his father's tie and suit jacket. At least there is much comfort to be found in knowing that I am not playing this game alone. I will trust the promise God gave me that when I open my mouth, it is in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness will be on my tongue. When that promise is stretched thin and looks like it will run out, I will go to Him for a fresh slice of truth and a cold glass of grace. (Perhaps there is a kind parent who watches over this game of house after all...) I will guide and guard, praise and raise, teach and treasure my children each and every day. And, I will never, ever tell them what it's like to be a grownup - how earnest and serious life can be, and what indescribable difficulties and unparalleled joys you discover along the way -  because they deserve to discover it on their own.

Catching My Breath

So, I guess I haven't written in a while. Sorry 'bout that. I started this blog for  myself - a place to drop all the random little thoughts and tangents that rattle around in my brain all of the time. (It's very busy up there.) It surprised me that since the first entry it has emerged as a platform for cohesive messages and thoughts (at least most of the time)... a collection of essays more than a log of my daily comings and goings. Funny how that happens.

Now that my blog has started out thus, is it too late to change? Would my adoring fans (all 26 - and God bless each and every one of you) revolt? Stop reading? Complain to headquarters? Have me booted off the internet? Guess I'm going to have to take the leap of faith and hope I can make a giant U turn and redefine what this thing is all about, at least for a while. Apparently when I started this blog I needed a soapbox. Now I need a journal. Or a diary. Or a confessional. Maybe I don't know what I need, but that's never stopped me before. I guess what I think I need is just to be able to share everyday life in its simplicity, without having to have a point. After all, often life doesn't have a profound point, at least not one that can be immediately figured out. Sometimes the scattered events must be noted - jotted down and preserved for posterity - so that they can be examined later with more perspective. So - here goes.

It's been a long, hard 13 weeks. My beloved mother in law went into the hospital with end stage ovarian cancer in the end of February. She was there for 5 weeks, and in Hospice for another 2. That was 6 weeks ago, and it is still hard to think about it. It was a long haul, full of so many profound and difficult moments.  She taught me so much about myself during these past many years (we celebrated the 14th anniversary of our meeting a few days after she was admitted). She taught me about my husband. My children. My home. My God. It was not always easy, but it was good. She never lied to me, and we always loved each other.

Watching her slip away from us for the past 3 years since her diagnosis was awful. Watching her transition from this side of the veil to the other during her last 7 weeks was likewise awful, but also... well... life changing. Living without her for the past 6 weeks has been lonely. I am angry at God for what I thought He would do and didn't (I know - it's not logical or fair, but still feels pretty real nonetheless), but I am also so eternally grateful for the little graces and big lessons he granted during that time. He and I are still a bit on the outs, so to speak, but I can never again doubt that He is there, and He is listening, and His promises of life on the other side are real. She got to see it. Got to tell me about it. Got to pass on reassurances about beloved friends long gone. I was so caught up in caring for her, helping the rest of our family, participating in this enormous thing that was happening, that I am at a loss now that it's over.

I've never been a terribly 'slow and steady wins the race' type person. I move from one emergency to the next, expending every bit of energy I have with each and every one. If there's nothing particularly 'exciting' going on, I'll go and seek out someone who needs saving, a situation than needs to be fixed, a fire that needs to be put out. I breathe in (take a few days, sleep a lot, bum around in sweat pants, veg out), and then I breathe out (run! rescue! move! do! fix!).

I'm afraid, however, that I've broken myself this time. This event syncopated my life to the point of breaking my natural rhythm. In a very real way, I guess you could say that I haven't been able to catch my breath. I am quite literally 'exhausted' - consumed entirely, emptied, drawn off, a vacuum, void of previous content and value. I'm not even equipped to deal with the drama of dishes and laundry these days. Am I ever going to be able to go back to slaying dragons? Is there enough rest to be found to fix this worn out body and spirit? Will I ever draw that healing, deep breath again? I'm hoping that, just like the bigger picture - the "point" of life - that is often only found in the magical, mathematical formula of everyday life + some perspective, my healing will come one smile, one nap, one afternoon, one hug at a time. Guess I'll have to keep you posted.

Electron Annie!

Time and all my best laid plans
Cease to exist with shovel in hand...

 I garden the same way I clean house - randomly, and with reckless abandon. I often find myself out for a leisurely stroll around the yard or to pick up a bit of litter after church, and end up hours later with grass stains on the hem of my Sunday skirt and good, clean dirt under my fingernails. Oh, and a smile on my face. The same is true for cleaning (though it's less poetic to write about). I don't know how many times I've started in just to tidy up a little pile of papers and ended up mopping floors in good clothes. I'm not much of a planner, you see. Plus, life is so much more interesting that way, isn't it?

Do you remember looking at drawings of atoms in your high school chemistry book? They were so neat and ordered - the plump, happy protons with their cozy little neutron spouses, surrounded by a passel of electron babies whizzing around them in an orderly (albeit breakneck) manner. The diagram always implied that electrons followed a set pattern - much like the planets around the sun - always predictably in line and never bumping into one another or flying off into another 'nuclear' family's territory. In fact, scientists actually believe that electrons aren't quite the chubby little atomic cherubs we thought them to be. There is a theory called the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle that describes electrons more in terms of being a wave than a particle. Bill Bryson (one of my favorite authors) summed it up thus in his excellent book A Short History of Nearly Everything:

What this means in practice is that you can never predict where an electron will be at any given moment. You can only list its probability of being there.... until it is observed, an electron must be regarded as being "at once everywhere and nowhere."

Well, there you have it. I must be an electron. At least, that's surely what my family must think of me. My children certainly believe me to be either everywhere or nowhere at once, apparently. Sometimes they can't hear me when I'm standing right next to them, and other times they marvel that I have seen or heard their devious little schemes. I guess you can say that this is one example of how well home schooling works. These three kids already have an innate and deep understanding of the complexities of  Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and they're only 10, 6, and 3. For example, while they're not sure that it's totally possible for me to be in two places at once (or to disappear completely), they understand it, at least, as a theoretical possibility. They've also done some practical research on the topic, and have mapped out the most probable locations in which to find me. Apparently, according to them, I'm most likely to be in the bathroom or on the phone. Go figure. But, I digress...

I woke up today planning on cleaning, doing laundry, and catching up on bookwork. I'm not willing to concede that I'm still not going to do those things at some point today. Actually, I'm kind of already doing them, since I've got laundry in the machines, the dishwasher is open and half full, and my table is sprinkled with financial documents just waiting to be entered into the computer. There is still some probability that you might find me at one of those locations at some point today, albeit a low one. If I were a betting gal, though,  I'd say that it is much more likely that you'll find me outside today. After all, I've already felt the lure of the sunshine and gotten a bit of dirt under my nails while putting in some orphan plants given to me by a friend. (Of course, along the way I also started digging out an old tree stump, began weeding a flower bed, transferred a few strawberry plants, and got the yen to mow.) Whatever I end up doing, you can bet it will be seemingly random, but that's only to those uninitiated in the finer points of physics. After all, even those electric robot vacuums clean all the spots on the carpet eventually in their endless 'Roomba Rumba' dance through life.

I'm sure there are elements of the atom that scientists will continue to unfold as the years go by. God's handiwork is not well or easily understood by mere human minds, much as some scientists like to think otherwise. However, until they come up with a better theory, I'm in agreement with ol' Heisenberg. After all, just because no one can actually predict with any certainty where an electron (or I)  will be or what it (or I) will be doing in any given moment, I am content to know that God makes His own perfect order and purpose in what appears to be a confounding, seemingly haphazard series of events. At least, that's the story I tell my husband and children, and I'm sticking to it!

(I'm throwing in a bonus picture with this blog entry. Just in case I didn't really express myself well in words, or if you're more of a picture type person, below is an excellent illustration of exactly what I was talking about.)

Loss

I am bereft, adrift without a tether. It was one loss, and there are so many still here who ground me solidly. Yet, there is still a part of me floating through space, free-falling through the atmosphere, sinking beneath the waves. The loss itself has been nibbling away at her for months, but dealt its final blow in but a moment - a beat, a beat, silence. Now comes the agony of having to re-enter the atmosphere, the coming back to earth, the grounding. What a difficult landing it is proving to be.

I am finding myself first grieving over my loss of the past. There is no one else who can share with me that history, her history. No matter what facts were fuzzy, what details were disconnected in her stories, they were none the less the truth. They were the truth in a way that no one else can recreate, not only because they were hers and only hers, but because no one else walked the miles, saw the sights, felt the feelings, loved the people, lived each moment like she did. And these are just the stories that only she knew. What about the stories that only she and I together knew, only she and I together lived? With no one left to share them, they become a burden too big to carry. What was once a word or phrase that brought knowing smiles, shared laughter, a twin twinkle in our eyes, now brings heaviness and hurt. I don't want to rid myself of them, but I don't want to be the only one to remember them either.

Next, I find myself grieving over my loss of the future. As much as it makes my heart ache to carry our shared stories alone, the hurt is tenfold to think that there will never again be any more of them.What adventures are left unexperienced? What places left unvisited? What people left unmet? What words left unspoken? What love left unshared? I feel stunted, limited, orphaned, cheated. Where will I go when I need only what she has been able to give me? Who will I call when I need to hear only what she has to say? How will I solve the problems to which she has been the only answer? I know there will always be another place, another voice, another answer, but I resent the searching I've now been burdened with since she is gone. Will I become all that I am to be since I do not have her anymore? The future will suffer because of this event at this moment in time.

And now I think of it - this moment. Forget yesterday. Forget tomorrow. My grief is focused now on now. If she were here, I would consult her. If she weren't gone, I would have her read this over, get her advice, reminisce, straighten my thoughts, laugh a little, get perspective. I know that our shared past isn't really gone, no matter how much it hurts to think of it. I will tuck it away and unfurl it bit by bit again as time goes by. I know that the loss of our shared future is, at this point, but a vague and intangible potential. It will become more real, but only gradually, and in keeping with the healing that I know will come to my heart.

I know all of these things. But, I also know, because every nerve in my body is screaming it at me, that the loss I feel now is real and immediate. It is not a paper dragon. It is not a threat of pain. It is pain right now. Right here. In this moment. It is tearing and aching. It is raw and hot and paralyzing, and it is mine. Much as I know she would have been willing to share it with me, I guess I'm going to have to field this one on my own. It will be my first hurt unshared with her - a new beginning born out of a new loss.

Pregnancy - Nature's Hostile Body Takeover

Warning: This blog contains mature content that is not suitable for children. Or men. Sorry, guys... This one is for the ladies only. Don't say you haven't been warned!


I am now just over three years out from my last pregnancy. It is a bit off putting to be in public, surrounded by pregnant women and nursing moms, and to realize that I have aged out (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'experienced out') of that club. I really thought that babies and bellies would be my reality for eternity. After all, I have spent 2 1/2 years pregnant, 5 years breastfeeding, 3 days in labor, and exactly 38,465,342.8 hours worrying about parenting decisions I've either made, am making, or have yet to make. Being a mom isn't for the fainthearted.

No one tells you what it's going to be like, do they? I mean, I know part of that is our fault, as new mothers, because we are so convinced we know what we're doing that when a well-meaning friend tries to give us advice, we roll our eyes and snicker behind our hands at them. "Well, sure you had to use a pacifier with YOUR baby, but MINE won't have any anxiety issues, and therefore won't need external comforting." Spoken like a true preggo or newbie. Just wait until the middle the night about 3 days in - you know, right after you've gone home from the hospital and it's just you and Angel Baby staring at each other by the glow of the nightlight. You'll be desperately digging in the bottom of the diaper bag to find that pacifier too, momma. Trust me on this one.

No, new moms aren't known for their willingness to take advice, but maybe that's because they feel ever so slightly lied to. Let me give you an example. When a pregnant mom asks me what pregnancy was like, I tell the truth - it was wonderful. I loved every minute of it. Couldn't believe what a magical experience it was. Would do it again in a heartbeat. Etc... This, of course, is the perspective I have about it now. You know, now that I'm on the other side of it. Now that it is becoming a memory. Now that I've reaped the rewards. I'm not lying when I say that pregnancy is awesome, but perhaps I'm also not telling the truth, the WHOLE truth, and nothing but the truth as I might have been experiencing it at the time.

The whole truth, of course, involves a bit of unpleasantness. It involves aches in body parts I didn't even know I had. Before I got pregnant I was only vaguely aware of being in possession of a cervix.  I had never seen said cervix. I didn't have an owner's manual on it, had never changed its oil or had it tuned, and I certainly didn't know it could hurt. Further, I never guessed that it would become fair game for discussions with colleagues after visits to the doctor. Let's face it - it's fair game for discussion with everyone near the end, when even great-aunt Lucy will ask how far dilated you are. (This is the same woman, by the way, who always chastised you for not acting like more of a lady when you were young, and now she's hollering into the phone to see how stretched and skewed your most private of parts has become.) By the end of it all, 3 doctors, 10 medical students, 18 nurses, and a cleaning lady who doesn't know how to knock before entering will all have seen the very same cervix you've still not been properly introduced to.

The whole truth also involves, shall we say... anatomical reorganization. These are similar to the theories discussed in college geology classes - poles shifting and causing wobbles and a loss of balance, new hilly eruptions and subsequent foliage cover, bulges in the equator, and the heartbreaking, gradual sinking of northern mountain ranges. Stuff just doesn't stay put when you're pregnant. Your belly button thrusts forward, as if trying to escape the disruptions to its previously-peaceful domain. Your feet widen. Your organs squish and slosh (sometimes even leaking). Fact of the matter is, you even get new body parts. It's true. Look it up. (Or, if you're pregnant, just look down.) Let me explain...


The human body is full of strange sounding parts. You have to wonder if the only reason some people go into medicine is because no other area of science or technology would hire them because of their funny names. They only backed into stellar careers in gastroenterology or otoloaryngology because their initial interviews at, say, NASA or the National Parks Service went something like this: 


"I'm terribly sorry, Mr... uh....Kiesselbach, is it? Though your credentials are excellent, we can't run the risk of you discovering something truly remarkable and then wanting to name it after yourself. It's just a PR nightmare. Have you ever considered medicine, though?" 

So, that's why we now have parts inside each and every one of us that sound like they're more likely to be out of a Star Wars movie than a medical text. I kid you not - if you looked hard enough (and knew where to look) you could find your very own Hydatid of Morgangi (didn't he rule the Mongols in the mid 1500's?), Islets of Langerhans (makes you want to vacation there some time, doesn't it?), Space of Moll (right next to the Black Hole of Moll), and White Line of Tolt (every bit as spectacular as the White Cliffs of Dover, but not nearly as crowded). 

Anyway, these funny little innards are silently working away inside you all the time. But, when you're pregnant and breastfeeding is the only time that your Montgomery's Tubercles kick into gear. They're actually little bumps around your nipples that secrete a special oil to keep things properly lubed for breastfeeding. Montgomery originally described these glands as "a constellation of miniature nipples scattered over a milky way." Very poetic. Most women, however, describe them as just another part of the hostile body takeover that is pregnancy. Oily bumps. On your breasts, no less. Great. Unfortunately, they go perfectly with those dark hairs you sprout on your upper lip and the unexpected gift that is urinary incontinence. You see why pregnant women don't exactly fall for my 'everything is beautiful' explanation of motherhood?

No, one cannot deny that there are some parts of pregnancy that aren't all glowing beauty. Here's the thing, though - that doesn't all magically go away when you give birth. That first post-baby look in the mirror is quite a shock. Your breasts sag. Your belly is floppy. Your stretch marks shine. Your leg hair is thicker. You see things you haven't seen in 9 months, and they're not pretty. Worst of all, you're convinced you're never going to be the same again. And, I've got to level with you here - you won't. Sure, things will get better. Heck, you might even get back into your old clothes and look just as smokin' as you did before, but you will still be forever changed. You will regard your body with new respect. You will cherish the memories, and honor the sacrifices it has made. Those aren't stretch marks - they're battle scars, and you've earned 'em, momma -  just like you've earned a special membership into the exclusive Mommy club, and the right to tell expectant mothers the same truth about pregnancy you heard all along- it's absolutely wonderful!

Friendship Happens

I am amazed at the process of friendship. It happens when you least expect it, often when you don't even want it to, and most of the time it is completely beyond your control. I mean, there I was one day going about my own business, when I happened to meet a boy. He was nice. I liked him. We talked on the phone, went out to dinner a few times. Next thing you know, we've been married 10 years and have 3 small children living with us. (I'm told they're our children. But, of course, we're far too young to have kids of our own. I think they just popped in from the neighbors' house and liked our food so they stuck around.)

Anyway, somewhere between that Friday night in September almost 15 years ago and now I've gained a best friend -  my husband, and three amazing young ladies with whom I am privileged to spend most of my waking hours. Let's be honest here, I spend much of my sleeping hours with the younger two as well, as they still tend to migrate to our room at night. There you go again - a perfect example of friendship occurring in the strangest of ways. Who else would I allow to cry at me, poop at me, vomit at me, and kick me all night and still love as much I do these children? And, don't forget - they're also eating all my food. Friendship is a funny, funny thing.

But, of course, it doesn't stop there. Attached to my husband (at least figuratively, if not sometimes literally) are relatives. He's got parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents. These people slowly started encroaching on my circle of acquaintances from the very first day I met Mark - initially as only as faceless characters in the stories my future-husband told me over dinner.  Of course, that soon changed. With each passing holiday or social gathering they gained standing in my friendship lineup - moving up from batboy into cleanup position. Now, these people are among my heavy hitters - often my go to batters. How did that happen? I'll tell you how...

Since I wasn't exactly out husband shopping that night in September almost 15 years ago (I know I've said that already, but 15 years... seriously!?), I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences of that boy calling me up the next day. I know we need to educate young people about the effects that their youthful indiscretions and energetic actions can have on the rest of their lives. But, I'd say I was far better informed about sex, drugs, and rock and roll as a teenager than I was about the cold, hard facts about acquaintances, friendship, and love. Oh, you think you'll be able to play around and stop whenever you want to, but before you know it you'll wake up a dozen years later with an in-law habit that won't quit, craving time with your husband's friends, and (as long as we're being frank, here) hanging out with a totally different crowd than you used to when you were young and innocent.

Often, they'll expose you to bad habits - like baseball and seafood. You'll start inviting them over more and more often, spend your money on vacations and gifts. At some point in the process you will have to look at yourself in the mirror and admit that you are addicted. Not only that - but you've gone and spread the addiction to your own friends and family as well. There will be times when you'll look around you and see your family, his family, and families you never even dreamed of knowing all hopped up on sugar and good times together, and you'll have to admit that you're the one who brought this about. You're the one who created this chain of people addicted to each other. You're the one - you and that night 15 years ago. How did it all spiral out of your control so quickly?

Next time you're surrounded by these family and friends, brought together only by your actions, I hope you're pleased with yourself and the situation you've created. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize that the term 'in-law' has become obsolete and unnecessary. I hope you're pleased with yourself at night when you can't sleep because you're worried about people you didn't even know when you were a kid. I hope you're pleased with yourself when no one can remember who was on the groom's side or the bride's side at the wedding, since they're all piled in together at one table during the holidays now. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize the imperceptible process of friendship that has taken place in your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself and the people you're surrounded by. I do sincerely hope so, because I know I am....

Spring

It is time! The captives are returning home, the ravages of war are receding, and I'm beginning to believe that we just might live to see another day. It's a cyclical battle that rages around us - the combatants scheming in their lairs when not engaged in active warfare. When the forces collide they leave destruction on their wake, and it's come to the point where the locals barely notice a change in power. Invaders from the north? Terrorists from without? Factions within political parties? Nope - just Old Man Winter and Spring in their eternal tug of war.

Our snow is almost all melted now. I'm a combat veteran, so I know better than to think there won't be a few last barrages of snow before an official ceasefire is called, but the tide has turned and I think that Spring is most certainly going to be victorious. Trust me - there were times when I wasn't so sure. There's typically at least a temporary shift in power in mid-January, which didn't happen this year. Winter has apparently been improving its training techniques. No, one thaw does not a summer make, but just as surely as the first killing frost has power, so too does the pull of Spring.

When winter comes, it often appears to do so suddenly, but only because we are not paying attention. We disregard the threats -  pretend we don't see the subtle shifting of the landscape, the invading army camouflaged in reds and oranges. We fool ourselves into thinking that early frosts are just heavy dews, that cold rains are a relief after the heat of summer. But, try as we might, there comes a point when we can no longer ignore the fact that the enemy has surrounded us, and has set up camp to stay. By the time we are pulling on the armor of sweaters and jackets, we've already lost the fight. The first heavy frost of the season kills the vegetative resistance. The geese and songbirds take flight. The squirrels and rabbits go underground. We often don't realize that the battle is lost until the snow slides in to claim the land for its own.

But, of course, even if winter won the battle, it never fully wins the war. All through the dreary months when we suffer under Winter's tyranny, Spring is gathering strength, calling for reinforcements, and planning for its victorious return. Sometimes it engages the enemy in an exhausting and drawn-out campaign. Some years it sneaks in, planting its forces until is has winter surrounded and calls for an immediate surrender. This year, though, it rode in strong and hit hard, striking a decisive blow. The tyrant, snow, has been unseated. Freezing temperatures are afraid to even make night-time attacks, and the first blush of green has returned to the landscape. Come back, you refugees. Come out from hiding, you prisoners of war. Spring has returned and is victorious once more!

Tonight I will fall asleep to the artillery of a beautiful Spring lightning storm. There will be more battles in the weeks to come - with winter throwing all the cold and snow and ice it has left at us, and Spring fighting back with glorious sunshine, sudden explosions of color and life, and the subtle strength of a warm, southern wind. At some point we will all cheer the final seasonal departure of Winter to his retreat. I know he will be plotting his revenge while I am reveling in the heat of summer, but that's ok. The eternal seasonal war may be never ending, but at least winter is not!

Dumb

Apparently people are dumb. At least, that's what I'm beginning to infer from the evidence around me. Speaking as a member of this elite group (currently a smidgen over 6.8 billion strong worldwide) I am reluctant to believe it, though apparently it must be so based on the warnings, advisories, threats, and even pleas found on products in our daily lives which urge us to exercise caution when interacting with the world around us. Case in point : toilet paper.

I was a captive audience in a public restroom yesterday, so to speak, and I noticed writing in the most unusual place. No, it was not etched into the wall, it did not list a phone number, and it wasn't even in regard to how to meet new people or have a good time. It was about toilet paper. Specifically, how to tear it off. Now, it's insulting enough to have the makers of a toilet paper dispenser presume that I cannot see the second roll of TP inside the unit ("this until contains 2 rolls"), and a bit more troubling that someone would be left to handle personal hygiene on their own if they couldn't figure out how to slide the door to get to that second roll ("slide door to access second roll"). But, the real stumper for me was the three words of wisdom written in raised letters at the bottom of the unit - "tear paper here." Really?

Let's say for just a moment that you've never seen a toilet paper dispenser before. Perhaps you've been living in a shanty somewhere and only had access to plain ol' TP with no holder. Or, for the sake of argument, let's even pretend that you've never seen toilet paper before in your life. There you are, suddenly transported to this dazzling public restroom with only your rugged, backwoods experience to guide you through the potty process. Will you be thinking, "Wow... thank goodness for these clear and insightful instructions? I might have really messed this up without the careful guidance and assistance that the toilet paper dispenser company so thoughtfully provided?" Probably not. Probably, you'd yank on the TP like everyone else - it's pretty intuitive, isn't it?  In the process, the paper would tear (it is only thin paper, after all... it's not like they're providing duct tape for the task at hand) and you'd finish your business and move on.

At least, that's what I would expect would happen. Apparently, however, I have overestimated the intelligence of the human race. These types of warnings are everywhere. My Sharpie marker tells me to re-cap when not in use - in case I hadn't yet figured out to keep it from drying out as it marked all over my couch and/or the inside of my purse. A little box of raisins tells me, in essence, that even though they've made my eating experience as sanitized as possible, bits of seed or stem might occasionally make their way into the product. Go figure. My computer charger tells me I should not stick electrical plugs where they do not belong - especially outside. This is sage advice, and might just help me avoid disaster next time I considered jump starting my car by plugging the charger into my cigarette lighter.  Heck - even my lotion advises that it's not for use in eyes. Pity, because a glop of lotion right in the eyeball sounds so appealing, too.

The worst part is, these are all just everyday items within easy reach of my chair. Heaven knows what kinds of warnings you find in more exciting areas, like the laundry room, kitchen, or even... the garage! The latter, I might add, is full of items with graphic drawings of stick people in various stages of injury. I guess these are for folks who don't take time to read instructions, but might take a quick glance at the packaging. Apparently artists who don't have sufficient skills to make it big drawing macabre comic books eventually give up and settle into a steady career in the 'product safety warning' industry. At least there's job security there!

I know, I know... these warnings are necessary to help make daily life go a little more smoothly and to protect companies from ridiculous lawsuits. I'd heard the rumors for years about outrageous legal action, but decided to check it out for myself. Here are a few examples from the past few years:

A woman sued the Mars candy company for $250,000 in "permanent personal injury", claiming that she knew the candies were chewy, but they were "so chewy they should come with a warning." You have to wonder what kinds of injuries she incurred from chewing a Starburst.

Then, of course, there was the case of the woman who sued a furniture store for tripping over a toddler in front of their store. She was awarded $80,000, despite the fact that the toddler her child. Who knew - you can actually get paid for being a negligent parent. All that extra time I'll have once I start ignoring my children can be spent hanging out by the mail box, waiting for my first check. 

The granddaddy of them all (or perhaps, more accurately, the grandmother of them all) was the case of 79 year old Stella Liebeck who sued McDonalds in 1992 and was awarded a whopping $640,000 for having burned herself on hot coffee. Next time you see the "caution - contents might be hot" warning on a lid, you can thank Stella.Of course, you can also thank her that products are significantly more expensive now than they used to be since companies have to cover their 'bottom lines" from every potential crazy person with access to a lawyer...

Ok - maybe people are deserving of patronizing labels and intelligence-insulting instructions if we are so stupid that we would sue over our own ineptitude. I'm beginning to think that there needs to some sort of entrance exam into this club called humanity. Better yet, in keeping with the pace of modern society, perhaps we could start putting a label on each new baby -  something like, "warning - this unit might grow into a litigious adult. Parent with extreme caution."

Cancer

I hate to re-state the obvious, but cancer sucks. Even as I write I am painfully aware of just how inadequate words are at expressing all that cancer entails - even more so since I am not the one with the disease, but merely along for the ride as my beloved friend struggles with it.

Along for the ride, or perhaps more accurately, hijacked by it. Our family was on a lovely trip together, when cancer climbed into the car with us and began making demands. At first we tried to ignore him, pretending he wasn't there. When he finally became unavoidable, we started planning for how nice the trip would be once he left. Then we started scheming ways to get rid of him. We prayed. We bargained. We plead. Now we just ride in silence.

At some point very recently it became apparent that he was not going to leave. More than that, he was also not going to be joining us on our planned ride, but was commandeering the vehicle, and would choose when and where my friend got off. We politely asked if he would at least allow us to slow down a bit, that we might enjoy the scenery along the way, but he seems to be in an awful hurry. The best we know to do now is to sit and hold her hand as we draw close.

At least this is true - we find comfort in the fact that cancer may have driven her, but all roads lead to home. This was not the trip we planned, but there was a plan all along. We are to the point now where the car is starting to slow, and all that is left to do is to help her gather her things and await the destination. Though we are all sad for her end here, we are also looking forward to her new beginning, free from the seatmate that has made things so unpleasant.

It's true - this is not the trip we had hoped for, but I think we're all glad to have been along for the ride, nonetheless. How else would we have learned to say so much with so few words? More importantly, what else could teach us that sometimes we don't need words at all to say what we really mean? We have come to find peace even when we are not in control, patience when we want to scream, strength when we want to cry. Perhaps these are better souvenirs than the ten-cent trinkets we would have picked ourselves on this trip called life.

I guess it's clear now that this was not just a temporary detour. Our plans did not work out like we had hoped, though I can hardly even remember what those plans were now. To be sure, they might have been more fun or more exciting, but they could not have been more important, and certainly would never have taught us about grace and love so thoroughly.

When she departs, she will be loosed from the grip of our cruel co-passenger and will run into the open arms of a loving father. In that moment He will smile and motion us onward, for our journey is not done, though we must make the next leg without her. And, whatever sights we see, places we go, or passengers may yet climb, unbidden, into the car with us in years to come, I know that we will never regret the trip and can trust that our common destination will be worth every mile. And, when we all arrive there together, oh - what stories we will have to tell each other, and what plans we will once again make!

Success By Any Other Name...

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...