Water Cycles

 

I used to like to take showers.

When I would wake up in the morning, the water would tap me alive again. When I would finish a run, the water would massage my tired muscles. When I would come in from the garden, the water just washed and rinsed and carried away the dirt I was wearing, taking it back to where it belonged.

Since I got Tilly, though, I haven't enjoyed showers so much.

Enduring Enchantment: Secret Hand Signals and Leather Pants

On Sunday, as I was driving home after a Memorial Day picnic, I found myself behind two motorcycles each with two riders. They looked like two Harley couples out for a weekend ride; though to be honest, I couldn't tell a Harley from a  . . . actually I don't even know another brand of motorcycle.

Every few miles or so, the two drivers would stick their left hands out low, like they were pointing at 8 o'clock, and I slowed down, expecting them to turn. The only hand signals I know are the ones I use when I ride by bicycle. Motorcycles don't have turn signals? I thought to myself. But each time, the bikes continued on at their same rate of speed and didn't turn. I was confused.

Eventually, I realized that each time they stuck out their arm, another motorcycle was passing us in the opposite lane. Apparently, I had stumbled onto some sacred ritual of Harley riders: the subtle wave.

There and Back Again: Land

I planted my garden on Sunday. In two 8x4 raised beds, I planted tomatoes, banana peppers, carrots, zucchini, and green beans. I also planted shelling peas and lettuce at the back of the house. It was fun to get my hands in the dirt, to bury the seeds that will die to bring life to me and my friends.

The lure of land and the opportunity to grow my own food was part of the early longing, back five years ago, that led me to purchase my own place. At the time, I was living in an apartment where I was in charge of about six square feet in which to plant whatever I wanted. It had been an improvement over the balcony in my apartment before that, but it still left me wanting.

Surely it was some romanticized, American view of land that made me want a little piece of it. But somehow, I imagined my life would be remarkably better if I just had a place to scratch in the dirt a little, a place to live off of if times got tough. And when I bought my house and its .44 acre parcel, I even wondered what it would be like to hand down a home to another generation.

Becoming a Woman

The sun was shining brightly through the boughs of my neighbors' trees as it sunk down toward the west, down over Wisconsin where my brother and his family are packing up to move to Montana, down over Joplin, Missouri, where rescuers are still searching for survivors in the midst of the rubble of the Home Depot, leveled by a tornado, down over Texas where my friend Shelly was preparing to see her dying grandmother. Hoping she would make it in time.

With my puppy, Tilly, on one end of her leash, and me on the other, we walked outside under that setting sun, the cotton wood pollen falling down on her black coat. The white fluff dancing around in the air didn't bother her like it normally would have, the effects of the anesthesia and pain medicine still lingering, making her calm. Tilly was spayed yesterday.

She woke up on the day of her surgery like any other day, with no indication that anything was different except that she wasn't allowed to eat or drink. She wanted to. She walked to the spot in the laundry room where her bowls always sit, crying and looking up at me. I tried to tell her what was different, tried to explain to her what was about to happen. I wanted to comfort her over the loss she was about to experience, over the babies she would never have.

But that wasn't her grief. That was mine. For me.

One Enchanted Evening

Friday evening I saw animals from every continent, Greek philosophers in togas, and medieval monks wearing brown hooded robes. Earlier, walking fruit and nursery characters had made an appearance, and to wrap up the evening up, there was ball room and swing-style dancing.

It wasn't a rerun of the Lawrence Welk show. I attended The Oaks Academy's Spring Fling parade.

Last year when I went to the annual event for the first time, I giggled the entire time out of sheer delight, as hundreds of children paraded around the inner-city school on the barricaded streets. My young friend Alex was Old King Kole that year, and I cheered him on along with his mom and grandma and brother. After the parade, Alex and his classmates had recited poetry and showed us their art work.

Slow Down for a Winner

Thanks so much to everyone who has commented on my blog in the past week. As promised on Monday, each person who commented on my blog this week was entered into a drawing for a free copy of Ann Kroeker's book, Not So Fast: Slow-down Solutions for Frenzied Families. Ann is a friend and fellow editor at theHighCalling.org, so I am giving away a copy of her book in support of The High Calling's Matching Gift Campaign.

The winner of the Not So Fast is Lyla Lindquist of A Different Story. I'll be arranging with Lyla to have the book shipped to her in the coming week.

Thanks again for reading Wide Open Spaces! See you back here in the days to come!

There and Back Again: Expectations

A couple of weeks ago, my brother and nephew were visiting from out of state, so I took the day off work. The weather was beautiful, and with a three-year-old to entertain, we decided to take advantage of the many parks near my home.

So, we set out that morning after tea and scones (in honor of the royal wedding that was taking place across the pond) in search of adventure.

Along the way to our first destination, I told Kole that we were going to a really great park that he would just love. He was excited. I was excited. It was going to be a perfect day.

When we got there and parked, my brother and I began walking toward the playground, but Kole sort of drifted off in the wrong direction.

"Kole, this way," my brother called to him.

"See, we're at the park," I told him, pointing to the artsy playground. It was a unique play area, not your typical swings and slides, but lots of things to climb on and trails to run around.

Kole turned our direction, looking just beyond us.

"That's not the park," he said, apparently expecting the one next to his own house in another state.

Two Homes

The tough real estate market is more than just a news story to me. I've had my house on the market for five weeks and had no showings. Over the weekend, I had my second open house since putting my home up for sale. No one came.

I cleaned this place as if the Queen Mother herself was stopping by, though. I shampooed carpets, mopped floors, put away stacks of books. I even dusted. It's a funny thing about putting a house up for sale; I almost feel like a guest in someone else's house.

That's what I think every time I mow the lawn. I make lap after lap around the yard, passing the "For Sale" sign with each rotation, and I am reminded that this is a temporary arrangement now. I look longingly at the perennials that have sprung up along the back fence, at the blueberry bushes out front, at my raised bed gardens that I built myself a year ago, and I imagine someone else there hoeing and pruning and harvesting.

Sometimes, it makes me want to stay.

Another Minor Adjustment

I had to go back to the dentist yesterday.

I could have just not told you. After all, I don't write about everything I do. But after my post last Wednesday about how much better my mouth felt -- and it did feel a little better for a couple of days -- I just couldn't leave you there, thinking that every minor adjustment you make might solve your problems.

Sometimes, another minor adjustment is needed.

Changing Hearts about Tithing

It was a message most people are turned off to. My pastor preached on tithing on Sunday, and he knew that money is never an easy topic. There are a lot of things he likes to talk about, Pastor Mark said, and money is not one of them.

But because he wanted us to listen and learn, he did something important right from the beginning. He told us his motivation.

"We don't need your money," he told us. "we are not talking about this because the budget or the new facility fund is struggling. . . . in fact, if you are here and you think I am just talking about money because I want you to give, let me tell you something. You can keep your money; I don't want it."

We were intrigued.

But when he gave us the numbers, told us how we were over budget so far for the year, how the new building fund had exceeded expectations, how more families in the church were giving, we knew we could trust him.

He had enchanted us.

The Giving Mood

A big congratulations to Hazel, of A Joyful Noise, for winning a copy of High Calling editor, LL Barkat's book, God in the Yard, in my first ever give away. The book is on it's way to Hazel as we speak. The drawing was part of my post on theHighCalling.org's Give Campaign. If you are a High Calling reader or part of the High Calling blogging network, be part of the matching gift campaign today!

If you give, you can also have a poem dedicated to you by one of my favorite poets, Glynn Young. He is dedicating a poem to each person who makes a donation to the High Calling and then leaves a comment on his blog. Here's the poem he dedicated to me today: "They Might Be Poppies." Neat stuff!

But wait, there's more!

I'm in a giving mood, so whether you click over to theHighCalling.org, or not, everyone who leaves a comment on any Wide Open Spaces post this week through Thursday will be entered in my SECOND EVER DRAWING! This week's drawing is for a copy of my friend and fellow High Calling Editor, Ann Kroeker's book, Not So Fast: Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Familes. I have written several posts about that book over the past few months, and it would be a great addition to anyone's library.

The winner of Not So Fast will be announced Friday, so be sure to stop back by to see if you're the winner!

Photo by Ken's Oven from Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

There and Back Again: Persevering

 

Saturday, I went downtown Indianapolis to cheer for the runners in the Indy 500 Mini Marathon. Ann Kroeker and her family had trained for the 13.1-mile event, so I decided to meet them at mile five.

If you have ever cheered someone on in a long running event, especially a family whose various members will be running at different paces, you will know it's part art/part science trying to figure out what time they will make it to a specific spot on the course. I knew Ann's husband would be running about a 10-minute mile, while Ann and her daughters might be at a pace anywhere between 12-minute to 14-minute miles. Add to that the fact that 35,000 people were participating, and it was anyone's guess when they would even cross the starting line, much less the five-mile mark.

With the race starting at 7:38 a.m. (or some equally random, unrounded time), I decided if I got to mile 5 by 8:30 a.m., I should be able to see them all.

But it also meant I would have some time to kill.

Small Adjustments

Three weeks ago, I went to the dentist for a check up. I had waited longer than usual for a number of reasons that I won't elaborate on. Let's just say, for the first time in a long time, I was dreading the appointment.

And rightly so. I was seeing a new dentist, and he took a whole battery of xrays, revealing all the nooks and crannies of my teeth. For the record, nooks and crannies are not things you want in your teeth because in the dentistry world they have a different name for those. Cavities.

I had four cavities, and since it worked out in the schedule, I had all four of them filled at the same time two days later.

It was horrible. Dentists always have a hard time getting me numb, so when I could still feel the drilling after seven, yes SEVEN, shots, in the mouth, I told him just to keep going. I ended up with my jaw unhinged for more than an hour, and when the anesthetic wore off, my mouth was sore. But I took some ibuprofen and didn't think much of it.

Until the medicine wore off.

Cut Off and a Way to Reconnect

A friend at work carried in a beautiful magenta orchid the morning after Easter, a gift to herself over the holidy weekend. Though it's official name is Phaleaneopsis, it was marketed as a "Just Add Ice Orchid" because the only care required was dropping three ice cubes a week onto the soil at the base of the stem.

On the way in, however, she accidentally knocked off one of the blooms. It was sitting on her desk when I came in that morning. When I asked about it, she said she was going to throw it away, but since I was just a wee bit jealous of her fancy new plant, I said I would take it.

"That way I'll have an orchid at my desk, too!" We laughed.

There and Back Again: Free to a Good Home

After nearly ruining Easter by chasing my toddling niece and nephew around the yard during the Egg hunt, Tilly came home to a week of being on her best behavior yet.

She sat when asked, kept her jumping to a minimum, and only occasionally snuck up on the couch for a nap. For more than a week there's been very little yelling and begging in my house, with just a few exceptions. (I HATE it when she jumps up on the counter while I'm cooking.)

Being the Good News

This past Saturday, my mom and I walked for the seventh time in one of many of the American Cancer Society's Relays for Life. The first few years, I walked because I wanted to support my mom's effort to help raise money to defeat cancer and because I had friends who were living with and dying of the disease.

For the past three years, I have walked because I know personally what it means to fight cancer. 

Saturday, I walked to give others hope.

When I was living with cancer and undergoing treatments, and even in the first several months after the cancer was declared gone, news of someone dying of cancer could put me into an emotional tailspin for days. Back in July 2008, just days before I began my second round of radiation, I wrote about how helpful it would be if I could hear the news about people who were diagnosed with cancer and hadn't died, people who were living with cancer.

At nearly three years cancer free, I still need that kind of good news now and then. But I recently realized, I AM that good news to others who are battling this disease. Especially as a survivor of late stage cancer, my very life can bring the courage others need to see that they are not a statistic and that God's plan for each of us is more complex and creative than any case study.

That's why recently I've been spending lots of time just "being alive" around a very close family member who was recently diagnosed with lung cancer. It's why I continue to write about cancer even though I am finally not thinking about it every single day. And that's why on Saturday, I came early and stayed late and proudly wore my purple survivor t-shirt all day long at the Relay.

I don't know the future. Though my doctor's prognosis is optimistic for remaining cancer-free, there are no guarantees. However, whether you are fighting cancer yourself or caring for someone who is, I can tell you again today: I had cancer, the treatments were hard, some days life seemed grim, but I am alive and well.

There is hope.

Ding Dong, Osama's Dead!

When I was a child, every year around Easter one of the broadcast television networks would air The Wizard of Oz. In a time before VCRs and DVD players, movies were something special, and we looked forward to the annual showing.

Even though I watched it year after year, I never stopped celebrating with all of Oz when the Wicked Witch died at the end. She was so mean and brought such terror to everyone. No one was sorry to see her die. "Ding dong, the witch is dead, the Wicked Witch, the Wicked Witch. Ding dong the Wicked Witch is dead."

Last December, however, I saw the Broadway musical Wicked, based on the novel, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire, in which he reimagines the Frank L Baum's story from the land of oz.

{SPOILER ALERT} As the musical was drawing to a close, and Elphaba (the name given to the Wicked Witch) apparently dies, there was still the celebrating, still the singing, and yet as an audience member, I didn't feel the same song in my heart as when I had watched the movie as a child.

Even as Elphaba seemed to disintegrate upon contact with the bucket of water, I was thinking about the shallowness of Glenda, the treachery of the Wizard, the ambivalence of the Munchkins, the loyalty of the winged monkeys. I was almost glad the witch didn't really die. It was all turned around. This wasn't how I was supposed to feel.

Yesterday, it felt a little bit like watching The Wizard of Oz as the world celebrated the news that internationally-most-wanted Osama bin Laden went down in his own compound under American fire power. He was an enemy we all hated; no one could mourn his death. In New York, in Washington, in Boston, impromptu rallies broke out as Americans cheered the death of their greatest nemesis. Apparently, even the US dollar rallied at the news.

"Ding dong, Osama's dead!"

As the details unfolded throughout the day of Osama bin Laden's five-year bunkering and the fire fight that brought him down, I felt relief - I still cower every time I hear an airplane flying too low. I thought about the victims of the embassy bombings, the Cole naval ship bombing, the 911 airplane crashes, and felt vindication for them. 

But I also thought about the hubris and missteps of America in our war against terror over the past 10 years. I remembered the Muslim man I saw last December at the airport receiving an overly thorough pat-down. I considered my own heart that is just God's grace away from being a terrorist in it's own right. And though I wasn't sad to see him go, I was sad.

This wasn't how I was supposed to feel upon hearing of the death of Osama bin Laden.

::

We're all processing what it means for an enemy to die. Click on the links below for some other responses:

• My best friend, Kelly's Justice
• Fellow High Calling Editor David's bin Laden's Death--How Should We Respond
• Long time blogging friend, Ted Gossards's a Christian response to Osama bin Laden's Death (I first heard the news from Ted)
• High Calling Blogger Duane Scott's I'm a Killer Too
• High Calling Blogger Jonathan Dodson's A Response to Responses to Bin Laden's Death

Photo by AMagill, used by permission from the Flickr collection under the Creative Commons License.

Don't Do It Yourself

Friday, I attended a children's program at my church, and afterward, there were cupcakes in the fellowship hall. There aren't very many opportunities to eat cupcakes as an adult, so I made my way back to the table of treats.

The friend who had invited me to the program was carrying out a baking pan, so I knew that the parents of the children performing had provided the cupcakes. I was surprised, then, to realize that many, if not most of them, were purchased from a bakery or supermarket. On a few were homemade.

"Hrrmmmphh," I thought to myself, very curmudgeonly, "Doesn't anybody even bake for church fellowships anymore?"

"If I had children in the program," I went on to myself, as I am apt to do, "I would have made cupcakes from scratch."

So, I grabbed a store-bought cupcake with tall, fluffy white frosting and candy sprinkles and enjoyed it in the car on my way home.