Do We Dare Disturb the Universe?

What is the role of children’s literature? Should it be uplifting: a shining example of how we wish life could be like? Or should it reflect reality? How much reality? Who’s reality?

For the past several months I have been reading The Invisible Child by Katherine Paterson (author of Bridge to Terabithia and Jacob Have I Loved). I have been savoring it slowly, one chapter at a time. She writes about the role of a writer, the role of children’s literature, and how adults think too much. Well, that last one is really just my summation.

The latest chapter I read was titled “Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?”. Paterson chronicles her process in writing Rebels of the Heavenly Kingdom, a book she describes as a “disturbing tale of war and betrayal” (174). She has also written about the death of a child, a sister who hates her twin, and children in general who are searching for love and acceptance because their reality is lacking.

Many times I have heard it said that children’s literature should be an escape, that it shouldn’t deal with the harsh reality of the world. Some would say that children should be protected from the world, kept safe from the burdens of adulthood. To some extent I agree. My five year old does not hear or see the news. When I do talk about world events, it is with a filter. I have that luxury. There is not war in my backyard.

But we do talk about war. We do talk about death. Hard topics do come up and I do not believe we should gloss them over. I do not believe children’s literature should either. There are many children who do not have the privilege of childhood innocence; who’s reality is far from the paradise we hope our children grow up in. They need books that gently handle the hard topics of family in prison, death, and war.

Maybe I don’t tell my 5 year old about the black father that was shot by police, but there is a school full of children who don’t have that luxury because they are classmates with his daughter. They are facing that reality. Do we leave them to process for themselves, isolated and alone? Please read what a teacher in that school posted on Facebook: Rebecca Lee's Post

Literature has the power to come in and speak to a child when they won’t listen to anyone else. Paterson writes, “It is my hope, of course, that children will find these characters to be real children like themselves - that they will be able to see themselves in them and then as they come to love and forgive these people on the page to be able to forgive and love their own deepest selves” (48).

While reading this chapter my mind kept returning to a book I read recently, The Seventh Wish by Kate Messner. It chronicles a 12 year old’s journey through middle school life and the realization that her sister is addicted to heroin. There is a point in the book when Charlie is coming to terms with her sister’s addiction and mentions that she doesn’t look like a drug addict. She was a soccer player, part of school clubs and got good grades. She wasn’t greasy or unwashed, like the D.A.R.E. videos showed.

The Seventh Wish has been removed from school and library shelves and Messner has been uninvited for school visits. There are those who think it is too much for a young child to read. That the subject is too heavy. That they should be protected from this reality. But my state of New Hampshire is fighting a heroin epidemic, as many states are, and there must be children who fit this character’s description. There are children who need to read this book to know they are not alone. That they are seen and heard and their stories have value.

These types of books bite through the perceived childhood ideal. There are so many children starved of characters to relate to; characters who do not live the ideal, who’s reality is so far from paradise. To feed them only children’s literature that is tied up neatly with a bow is to disregard these children’s life stories. Paterson also writes that “[her] task is to see through the disturbance to the unity so marvelously built into the Creation - to somehow find my way through the cacophony of reality to the harmony of truth” (176). Books that handle harsh reality don’t leave the children there, they bring them through - not to a neat little package, but hopefully to a place of peace despite reality.

So, thank you Katherine Paterson and Kate Messner. Thank you for writing the hard stuff in such beautiful ways.

Why Do I Bother?

I’ve barely started and I just want to run. This is ridiculously hard. Not the writing part, the getting published part. The finding someone who is actually taking unsolicited submissions. The getting someone to not just toss your submission in the recycling.

Why do I bother?

There are so many other writers out there trying to be published. Striving to be the next great author, the next big name. 

There are so many hoops to jump through. The publisher I was looking into isn’t taking unsolicited submissions unless it’s academic or ministry related.

Um, nope. 

Toddler board books. Though they are for our church nursery, doesn’t that count as a ministry?

Ok, so no unsolicited submissions, that means I need an agent. The ‘helpful’ list of Christian literary agents all say they are not taking picture books unless you are an author/illustrator.

Um, nope again.

Why am I even trying?

Because I see a need. 

I’m sick of ridiculous cartoon Jesus. I’m sick of Jesus being illustrated as a white man. Wake up American church! Jesus wasn’t white! 

I’m sick of good books being made into board book form with no thought to how age appropriate the text is (news flash, 18 month olds can’t sit through a paragraph of text on each page, even if it is a ‘board book’). 

I’m sick of not finding age appropriate, developmentally appropriate books about Jesus, faith, and the church.

So...I guess I become an illustrator.

Writing My Own Fairy Tale

I’m trying to kick off this writing thing, but man it is hard. On June 27 I started an online writing workshop through author Kate Messner’s website. My challenge to myself was to write everyday for 30 days. It didn’t matter how much, just something every day. Maybe a list of things to include in the story, a character sketch, a map of the town, anything, every day. Well, today is day 10 of 36. (For every day I’ve missed, I’ve tacked it onto the end.)

A few months ago I was chatting with my friend and writing mentor. We were talking about books we love. I had started reading some of my favorites to get my creative juices flowing and had just finished Robin McKinley’s Beauty and Rose Daughter back to back. This woman wrote the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale twice! The same story twice! We were both raving about how Beauty and the Beast is our favorite story when she challenged me to write one myself.
Write my own Beauty and the Beast? But hasn’t it been over done? Wouldn’t it just sound the same? Who would want to read it?

I would, she said. Write it just for me to read.

I accepted the challenge.

During my first quick write, I was writing down aspects of the story that need to be in the fairy tale:
roses - definitely, it’s not Beauty and the Beast without the presence of roses
family - maybe sisters, I certainly like the versions of the story where there are siblings, father’s occupation?
magic - obviously the enchantment, but how much of a role does magic play in Beauty’s life before the Beast?
servants - there have been animated objects, animals, sprites and vapors, talking wind, etc.

Then came the thought: what if I switched the genders? What if the Beauty character was a male and the Beast a female? Would I have to come up with different names? As a wrote a scene where Beauty was under an enchantment and the male lead came to rescue her I realized an important plot point in Beauty and the Beast. The woman saves the day. It is one of the few fairy tales where the guy is the one locked in the castle and the woman comes in to save him. In switching the genders I was changing the only feminist fairy tale into the same-old, same-old of the guy rescuing the woman.

I wasn’t really sure how it was going to work out, but I kept writing. The Beauty character I named Jonathan, his sister is Anne and there is a village boy who helps them named Silas. I haven’t written a father character, it seems they are on their own. I like these characters so far, but they don’t seem to fit into the Beauty and the Beast story I was going for.

So, I am at a cross-roads. Put aside Jonathan, Anne and Silas for another story and write a more classic Beauty and the Beast. Or, forge ahead with the mixed up, switched up tale.

Here is a snippit to whet your appetite:

Beauty reached out her hand to touch the smooth bark and felt the vibrations before her fingers touched. It felt alive.
“Well of course it’s alive” Beauty said out loud, annoyed at herself for the fear that knotted her stomach. But this was different, it felt alive like the flank of a horse feels alive under your hand, pulsing, breathing, moving.
She took a step towards the grey trunk, then another cautious step, ready to walk past it. With the third step it was as if a switch had been flipped, the earth seemed to leap and buck beneath her feet, her head spun, her stomach dropped; she stumbled back, all was still. She stared at the grey tree rising tall into a dark, green canopy above her head. The trunk was thin for being so tall, she could almost encircle it with her hands. There were identical trees three paces to each side of the one that stood in front of her. She knew they continued, three paces apart, all around the great estate; encircling her, caging her in.
Beauty turned away from the line of trees, back towards the heart of the circle they made, back towards the great house. The grey stone of the house gleamed weakly in the dusk. In this light it looked the exact same shade as the bark of the trees. Beauty could see candles winking on as she entered the courtyard. Her dinner would be laid out soon. She climbed the stairs slowly, trying to make sense of what had happened.

100 Steps

Thunder rumbling,
Clouds rolling in,
Breeze picking up;
Storm’s coming.

I can smell the rain, but the birds are still singing.

I am on day two of Teacher’s Write!, a 6 week online writing workshop. Today’s prompt was a quick write: walk 100 steps in the direction of your choice, stop and write about where you are, what you see, hear, smell and feel. Unfortunately, a storm is rolling in. The kind you can hear a long way off as it rumbles towards you, the breeze bringing the smell of rain. Sitting on the porch, I have the best vantage point. Weather maps say it will come from the west, straight across the lake. I hope the rain comes like a wall across the water; when you can see exactly where it is raining and where it isn’t.

If I could walk from here, I would direct my 100 steps towards Sherman’s. The once busy arcade, carousel, and Ferris wheel from fifteen years ago; go back further and there were other rides too, kiddie roller coasters, bumper cars. Now? I would see rusted metal, peeling paint, broken glass, evidence of a bygone era, a time when business thrived, though never really boomed; the summer months at least were good. I would hear geese squawking, traffic buzzing down 29A - but no one stopping. Maybe a loon would make a haunting call to its mate.

Sometimes I wonder how much I actually see of this place and how much is just memory. Are the carousel horses still there? Gathering dust, wood rotting, growing mold in the dampness. If I could take the 100 steps, I could peer in the stain glass windows and see for my self. Or would I just see it as I remember? The creaking wood, squeaking gears, deranged music playing over and over, $1 per ride, the smell of popcorn and ice cream from the concession.

I remember riding the Ferris wheel. Rising high, higher above the pavement, looking out over the lake, stopping, reversing directions, moving backwards, faster and faster.

I remember the lights, on the Ferris wheel and the carousel, old, bare bulbs blinking on and off.

I remember feeling the wind off the water. Canoeing from our beach to the dock at Sherman’s instead of walking, just because we could.

I remember saving my dollars in the months leading up to vacation just so I could ride the carousel and Ferris wheel as many times as I wanted.

I remember which horse was my favorite. A white one with flowing mane and tale, teal saddle.

I remember the year I saved my money, but it was closed.

Now it is empty. Boarded up against thieves and weather. It didn’t make enough money. But now there are no memories to make either.

The thunder is a constant rumble now. It hasn’t stopped for several minutes. This storm is going to be a doozy.

'Empty-Calorie' Reading

    Every now and then as I am reading Young Adult Fiction, I come across a book I wish I had read when I was younger. When I finally read The Giver, I felt cheated that I hadn’t read it during my formative years. Yesterday I finished The Fog Diver by Joel Ross, and if it hadn’t been written in 2015, I would have felt the same way. 
 
    The Fog Diver describes a post-apocalyptic world where everyone travels by airships above the deadly Fog that covers the planet. Airships that are straight from a steam-punker’s dream; half blimp, half machine, with engines, valves and a pipe organ to steer it. All the markers of a perfect YA novel are there: danger, friends that stick closer than family, an evil villain and room for a sequel.
   I checked it out of the library, but forgot about it until got the reminder email that my books were due, today. I figured I’d be able to renew it, so didn’t take it with me. The librarian informed me someone has it on hold (good for them!). I bit my lip, trying to remember how long the book was, and said, ‘I think I can read it tonight’. She was sweet and reminded me I had a day of grace and that the library was closed on Sunday, so I could really have the weekend, as long as I returned it by Monday. Or, I could keep it till I’d finished and pay the .25 cents a day fine. “I’ll read it tonight,” I said with a smile. And I did. Well, almost. At 11pm I finally closed it, tantalizingly close to the finish. I was able to get the last few chapters read in the morning.
    It was fantastic, except...except that I’m not twelve anymore and I notice things. I notice what is there and what isn’t there. There was a lot of dialogue. The book is mostly dialogue, with no paragraphs of description. When there is non-dialogue description it is actually the thoughts of Chess, from whose point of view we see the world. When the author needs to give backstory he has a character ask a question and one or two other characters interrupt each other to give the story of why or where or how. It ends up feeling choppy, especially after the flowing, lyrical sentence I have been reading by E.B. White, L’engle, and Elizabeth George Speare. Do kids even know what good reading reads like anymore?
    I also ended up liking one of the supporting characters more than the main character. The book is written from Chess’ point of view, but Bea, the spunky ‘gearslinger’ who talks to the airship’s engines and treats her machines like people, ends up being the one my heart goes towards. The plot takes precedence over full-bodied characters. The characters are not fully fleshed out, but rather stereotypical (the mutineers who suddenly turn into our hero’s best friends).
    This novel has been nominated and shortlisted for a couple of awards including the Great Stone Face Award List, and I do feel that it is a good book. Perhaps it lands in the category of “empty-calorie” books. As Katherine Paterson writes in The Invisible Child,

            “We can’t snatch these empty-calorie books from our children’s hands, indeed, that would make them all the more desirable, but somehow we must make sure early on that they have books that will truly nourish them, that will enlarge their minds, that will prepare them to make wise and compassionate decisions when they are grown” (p. 94).


So don’t snatch this book away, snatch it for you child (or you!) and read it, in a sitting, in a day, in a week. It is good, like cake and ice-cream good. Just make sure you also read the 'meat and potatoes', something more substantial, something that will stretch your mind and fill you up with good writing.

Picture from www.amazon.com, cover art is copyrighted.

Making A Start

By chance I picked up Katherine Paterson’s book The Invisible Child: On Reading and Writing Books for Children at the library. Isn’t that how all great book recommendations start? The best books are the ones you aren’t looking for, that you don’t know you even need to read. This is definitely on of them. The Invisible Child is a collection of speeches and talks that Paterson has given ranging from 1974 into the 2000s. It contains her Newbury and National Book Award speeches as well as a number of other talks from conferences. 

This book has been stirring me to read the books I was inspired by as an adolescent. What books captured my attention, my mind, my heart when I was nine or ten years old? So I have returned to the books I have kept since childhood. Faithfully packing and unpacking through several moves. Books I can not get rid of, no matter how many yard sales I have. It’s not that I have good memories of these books, no, these books are my memories. So I have been gobbling up the Newbury Award winners of my youth: Katherine Paterson, Margeurite Henry, Elizabeth Enright, Elizabeth George Speare. I am trying to learn from them. Study their style, rhythm, what makes their characters so relatable and memorable. What is the rhythm of their sentences? How does the story unfold? I want to learn from these masters, mentors, but without copying. Of course, I’m also enjoying just reading them.
 
As I re-read these cherished books, Katherine Paterson’s words ring true, “There is something so comforting about the beloved books of childhood. When the uncertainties of life assail us, they stand as healing verities, and we can return to them again and again. But only, of course, if someone helped us to find those books when we were very young” (95).

That’s what I want to write. A book that captures that young imagination and tells that shy, introverted child there is adventure out there, or at least in here, between the pages. Life may be a bit boring and monotonous, but you can escape into a book filled with adventure and new worlds.
So I have made a start. First by filling my head with rich words from amazing authors, then by actually writing down the stories that are running through my head. We shall see what adventure awaits...

This Fight Isn't Over

Dressember is officially over. At least on my end. Wearing a dress for 31 days ended up being a bigger challenge than I thought it would be; I was definitely sick of wearing the same 5 dresses that ended up being my best options. Personally I learned that I should wear my dresses more often because I really like wearing dresses, and I learned which ones I should put in the Goodwill bag (not this purple one).

I also learned a lot about the work of organizations like International Justice Mission and A21. It is heartbreaking work, very young children sexually exploited by those who should be their biggest protectors or women who follow what seems to be an opportunity to better themselves but were lied to and now caught in dangerous situations.

Over the month of December, with the help of amazing family and friends, I raised $786. I was short of my $1000 goal, which at first feels like failure (thank you perfectionism) but that money will help IJM and A21 to rescue and rehabilitate men, women and children who have had their freedom and dignity stripped away. These organizations will try to restore what was taken and help them live their lives dignity. Dressember is over, but this battle is still ongoing.

Today is Human Trafficking Awareness Day. I have become much more aware of this over the past month. The statistics are heartbreaking, but these organizations are working to change that. "It is estimated that every 30 seconds someone becomes a victim of human trafficking. Only 1-2% of victims are ever rescued, and the average age of a victim is 12 years old." (Dressember Facebook page) If you want to be more aware, and hear wonderful, uplifting rescue stories, 'like' International Justice Mission on Facebook. They post stories of rescues and updates on their work around the world.

I am also happy to say my donation page is still live and will be till the end of the month! There is still time to donate and help me reach my $1000 goal!

support.dressemberfoundation.org/rachelengelman

Day 18: I don't want to wear a dress

I really didn’t want to wear a dress yesterday. I took the dog for the run early in the morning and didn’t have a chance to shower before the kids got up. We didn’t have plans to go anywhere, so I really just wanted to stay in my running clothes (it was a colder morning, so no sweat). I kept telling myself that I just wouldn't today. Justifying it with excuses of not showering, not leaving the house, no one will see it any way, etc. But I kept thinking about the men, women and children caught in slavery, no choices, no dignity, no freedom.

I put on a dress, because I believe it is bigger than a dress. The dress represents my freedom and dignity. It represents everything these men, women and children deserve in life.

I really didn't want to wear a dress yesterday. She really doesn't want to have sex. I have a choice. She doesn't, for now. My choice can help change that. Will you help me? Please go to support.dressemberfoundation.org/rachelengelman

Dressy Dresses and the first 6 Days

Day 3 - this one has pockets :)

Day 2 - cold day means
sweater dress

Day 1 - wearing red for #bebrave

It's day 7 and I miss pockets. It’s helpful to be able to whip out a tissue before the booger hits the couch. Or have my phone handy to capture the fleeting moment when Cora is gently guiding Toby instead of pulling a toy from him. I do have a few dresses with pockets and so far have gravitated to those, but I’ve been trying to figure out a solution. Sweaters with pockets? Cargo vest? Maybe that’s why fanny packs were so huge during the spandex-clad 80’s. 

Day 6 - dress repeat, because this
one has pockets, and it's a sweater!

Day 5 - same dress, today we
got our Christmas tree

Day 4 - this dress has no pockets,
but I feel it should. Sewing project?

 






I’ve also found that a dress is, well, dressy. Even though I may try to “dress it down” by wearing boots instead of heels or funky jewelry, it’s still dressy. A dress stands out in my day-to-day life of dropping Cora off at school, grocery shopping and walking the dog. Just wearing a dress has given me the opportunity to share about Dressember’s goal of bringing dignity to all women and the courageous work of International Justice Mission. I have read on Dressember’s Facebook page about women who wear semiformal dresses, just to get that reaction. I’m not sure I’ll go to the back of my closet and pull out my pale purple prom dress quite yet, but you never know, I have 24 days left.

Missing pockets is better than missing a childhood. Go to support.dressemberfoundation.org/rachelengelman to join me in giving children back their childhood.

Freedom. Dignity. Creativity.

“Because we believe we can’t be super advocates, we stop advocating at all.”

I am about to embark on a journey. To wear a dress every day for the month of December. It is a challenge that at first seems frivolous and unimportant, but on closer look, perhaps it is just the thing to get people's attention.

What: Dressember is a campaign started by Blythe Hill (watch her TED talk here). Originally she wore a dress every day of December because she was bored and needed a creative outlet. When friends of friends and women she didn’t know started doing it with her, she knew she had a movement, and a way of changing the world through wearing a dress. This is Dressember’s third year partnering with International Justice Mission, an organization “that protects the poor from violence in the developing world” (www.ijm.org). The statistics are heartbreaking: it is estimated that over 35 million people are currently trapped in slavery in our world, 50% of them are children, 70% are female. IJM actively rescues those caught in slavery and the sex trade, works with victims and courts to bring justice, and helps with rehabilitation for the victims.

What caught my attention: I’ve read stories of human trafficking. All are heartbreaking, but the stories of children break my heart the most. Children as young as my own sweet girl, and younger. I’ve wanted to do something, but what? That is always the question. What can I do? How can I make a difference? I’m a stay-at-home mom. My interests are reading and writing and cups of tea. My life is consumed with diapers, getting dressed in the morning and pjs at night, driving to and fro. As Blythe says in her talk, my interests seem shallow compared to the overwhelming evil. So what can I do?
Thanks to Facebook, I found out about Dressember where I commit to wearing a dress every day of the month of December, and you sponsor me.
I like wearing dresses. I counted how many I have in my closet and (including fancy dresses) there are thirteen. Thirteen dresses. And that doesn’t include my summer ones I’ve packed away for the winter. So, yes, I like wearing dresses, but I am also a jeans girl and this will be all month long. In December. In New Hampshire. Whatever discomfort I will have will be nothing compared to what those caught in slavery and human trafficking endure. I will be posting pictures of my dress journey here throughout the month.

So, will you join me? I am not a super advocate, but I will be a voice. Will you speak up with me? My fundraising page can be found here.

The Cost of a Family Photo

I planned a family outing to the New England Aquarium for Father’s Day. It ended up being a rather stressful trip, at least during the traveling to and from the Aquarium. Originally, we were going to take public transportation, but it was raining hard all day and walking from the T station in the rain as well as lugging a stroller on and off a train wasn’t sounding like a good idea, so we parked in a nearby garage and walked a short way.  This ended up being a very wet walk anyway - pruny toes all day wet. The ticket booths for the Aquarium were outside (i.e. in the rain) and as soon as we got in the building they beckon you to the side and take a picture in front of a green screen. A picture they will charge you an exorbitant price to buy. Welcome to the Aquarium.

Once we walked in to the Aquarium itself it was great. Cora loved the large central tank that rose 3 or more stories up the center of the Aquarium. It house three huge sea turtles, rays, a shark or two, and lots of fish. She was mesmerized. So were Pete and I.

However, at the smaller side tanks a stroller made crowd navigation very difficult. It was like chariot racing with strollers, we should have added wheel spikes.

We thought it was busy before lunch, but everyone was just waiting till the afternoon. It got much busier. Cora was getting tired so Toby went on my back in the carrier and Cora rode in the stroller. We saw a few more things, the top of the giant tank was very cool, but we were on borrowed time with the kids. We rushed (as much as you can in pressing crowds with a stroller; wheel spikes, I’m telling you) past the octopus and jellyfish then paused at the stingray touch tank. Cora and I got to be right at the edge and touch a sting ray. Most of them were smaller, 12-18 inch wing-span, but there was one huge leopard spotted ray that was nearly four feet wide!

By the time we left the ray tank Cora was melting and Toby was asleep on my back...and we had forgotten to take a family photo. This is a chronic problem with us, we just always forget until it’s too late. So Pete hands me the card that has our photo number on it and takes Cora to the gift shop to buy a postcard.

I stepped up to the counter.
Me: Can I preview my photo please?
Him: I’ll print them out, then discuss pricing.
Me: No, I just want to preview it, to see if it is any good.
Him: I’ll print them out so you can see.
Me: Fine. (I hear numbers thrown around by the guy next to me, $20, $30, yikes!)
He lays out an 8x10 in a cardboard frame, two smaller loose photos and one smaller one in a plastic magnetic frame.
Him: $21 for the large one, $27 for the three smaller ones, $35 for all of it.
Me: How much for just this one? I hold up the 4x6.
Him: I’m sorry, it comes as a set.
Me: You’re kidding me?
He repeats the pricing.
The guy buying all of his photos next to me leans in and points to Toby: Is that your little guy?
Me: Oh my gosh! Someone pushed their kid into our picture!
Really?! say photo-guy and guy-buying-photos
Me: Ba-dum-ching. Naw, that’s my son. I get funny looks.
Me: So I really can’t just buy this one photo? Come on, after a punch line like that?
Him: Well...
Me: What do you do with them if I say no?
Him: We throw them away.
Me: In the trash?
Him: Yes.
Me: Can I say no, wait a few minutes then throw away this kleenex?
Small smile as he shakes his head.
Me: Five bucks for the 4x6.
He sighs, looks up and does a quick nod. I fish out cash and take my one photo.

At least, that’s what I wish I had said. Instead, my response was a quiet yup, that’s my son, a half-hearted attempt to haggle with the photo-guy and then I handed over my credit card to pay $27 for the pictures of our family - bedraggled from walking in the rain, Pete holding Cora, me leaning in next to them and one lonely hand on the stroller with poor Toby sitting sullen-faced.
Happy Father’s Day.

Fistful of Dandelions

Last Friday was ‘one of those days’. A day I wanted to run away, even if just to the tree fort at the bottom of the yard, by 8am. And it continued, all day. I questioned my ability to be patient enough, kind enough, sane enough. Thoughts of failure ran through my head. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Why exactly did we choose to have another? I nearly lost it while trying to give her a bath; my nearly seven month pregnant belly getting in the way while trying to wrangle a slippery toddler without hurting either of us. “I’m done”, I yelled. And told my husband to take over.

But then...
She comes running in from playing outside with her daddy and proudly presents her fistful of dandelions. “Let’s put them in a vase Mommy”.
She throws her arms around me after finally peeing on the potty (but before she wipes of course) and says, from her heart, “I love you Mommy”.
I overhear from the kitchen when she asks her daddy “Why is there Mother’s Day?” and then, after I hear whispering, she comes running in to give me a hug and kiss.

I know I’m getting back what I gave to my mom. The hyper-emotional, crying loudly to make sure I’m heard from the bedroom tantrums are familiar ground; it’s just not me doing it this time.  In those moments I remember the first few weeks with Cora, the overflow of love as I held her, and realizing that is how my mom felt about me. My mom loves me with that breath-catching, tear-producing ache that I feel towards my daughter. It was, and is, an overwhelming realization to know that I am loved like that.

But it goes further. Not only does my mom, and dad, love me like that, but my Jesus loves me like that. My heavenly Father looks at me with a breath-catching, tear-producing ache of love that will never fade. Despite my adult tantrums (which honestly aren’t too different), despite my lack of patience or forgiveness towards others, God still loves me. He loves me enough to put it all on the line and endure hell so that I don’t have too.

And what do I have to give back to Him? Just me. Which seems trite, like my own fistful of dandelions. And yet, how precious to me are those dandelions wilting in a bud vase? As precious as my life surrendered is to the One who gave me life.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

He got through that broken wooden fence again. Why won't the neighbors fix it? Who lets their fence get in such a state of disrepair? Not just missing pieces in a few places, but whole sections on the ground. The entire fence surrounding their yard is falling apart. She ran for public office last election, but she can't repair her fence? Good fences make good neighbors. The fences surrounding our yard that are in the best shape are the ones we stand at and chat with neighbors. The broken ones, we don't.

This time when Ronon got out, the vet called. I was so afraid the police were going to pick him up again, but on the other end of the line a familiar voice told me a neighbor had him. Just around the corner. Great. Just one problem. Cora is down for a nap. I risked the tears and woke her up. (She is not a happy kid when woken from a sound sleep.) It is cold out, but not too far to walk, so we bundle up, grab the leash and head out.

We get to number 12 and I can see Ronon in their breezeway. He is being his usual rambunctious self. I hope he didn't break anything. I hope they are used to dogs. My apologies start flowing as soon as the door opens. The man is doing his best to keep Ronon from bolting out the door to me. Ronon is beside himself; practically delirious from the freedom.

- I'm so sorry.
- We need to patch the fence, again.
- He's only gotten out a few times.

Words tumble out while I fumble with the special collar that Cora must have clipped together when I wasn't paying attention.

- You should have your info on his collar, he says.
- That collar will never hold. He'll slip it right off in two seconds, he says.
I haven't gotten it on all the way, I retort in my head. Gimme a break.

Cora coughs. It is a hacking, thick cough. She is still getting over a really bad cold.

- You should have called us, the woman says. We could have brought him to you.
- Yea, he says. Sounds like you have a sick kid. It's cold out.
- It's not far, I say blithely as I finally get Ronon's collar clipped.

I hope they see how he instantly calms down. He knows the collar means business.

- We're just around the corner, I say. And it's not as cold as yesterday. I continue in my head. And, how could I contact you exactly? I don't even know your name.

Thankfully, Ronon walks quietly by my side down their driveway and into the street. Dog in one hand, toddler holding the other, I leave the house of judgement.

Reading Again

    My sister invited me to hear Lois Lowry speak. I had never heard of her; which apparently is shocking to most people I’ve said that to. She is a prolific author who has written award-winning books that are read by high-schoolers across the country; just not me apparently. So in preparation for hearing her speak, I did what any right-minded English major would do, I got The Giver out of the library to read.
     With only two weeks left in my final grad class, I told myself I wouldn’t start it till after my last class. That resolution lasted almost six days. It was a Thursday. I was watching a friend’s eight-month-old; not really a good day to start a new book. Recently I’ve been reading short stories because I can finish them during nap time and not have the next chapter looming in my head until the next moment I can snatch away. Starting a book while caring for one very active toddler and a nearly crawling infant was not a good idea. But it worked. The girls were playing and I was sitting on the floor reading. A book-worm, mom’s nirvana.
     I snatched moments throughout the day and read the last pages well before bedtime (mine, not the toddler’s). My appetite for novels had become voracious after only reading short stories. I am hungry for more.
     I enjoyed reading a novel, but did I enjoy the novel. A story like The Giver is supposed to be unnerving. As Jonas learns the truth of his society, the reader is uncomfortable along with him. The themes reminded me of Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and the film Cloud Atlas (well, one of the multiple plot lines at least). They are uncomfortable themes: cloning, genetic manipulation, and controlled society.
     The society in The Giver has eradicated pain, sorrow, and unexpected death. They also eradicated the positive emotions like pleasure, joy and love. Without feeling pain, we cannot know true pleasure. Without knowing sadness, we cannot know true joy. Without the depth of loss, we cannot feel the depth of love.
     These themes cause me to wonder what sort of future my children will live in. What will the world be like for them? I have heard people say they will not have children because of this worry. The future is too uncertain, too fraught with potential atrocities. But I don’t agree. Because I remember a part of the past that these stories left out; the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I am birthing children into a world He died for. My children will inherit a world that has been bought with the blood of Jesus. A world where death has been defeated and the Prince of Peace will reign forever. I do not see the fulfillment of that now. They may not see it in their lifetime. But it will happen. There is hope.


In this world you will have trouble, but take heart; I have overcome the world. John 16:33

Addressing the Elephant in the Room

Hello elephant. It’s time you left.

I moved out when I got married, but maybe I am only now truly growing up, moving out on my own without the familiar presence of my parents’ lives happening alongside mine. Their lives are obviously still happening, but time-zones apart from mine. A flip-flop of days and nights that means Skyping must be planned; emails must stand in for the thought forgotten until just after you say goodbye. Sitting at computers on opposite sides of the world is not the same as perching on a stool next to my mom with a cup of tea. Does it ever feel comforting and personal? Am I just not used to it yet?

Some may not understand why my parents pulled up their lives, sold the family home and moved to the other side of the world; from a place with four distinct seasons to the desert in a city surrounded by countries constantly in the news - not for good reasons. It sounds crazy. It sounds insane. It sounds exciting. It sounds adventurous. It sounds daring. I understand why my parents went - because God told them to go. They don’t need another reason. I don’t need another reason. I am incredibly proud of my parents. I am also incredibly jealous of their adventure. When will it be my turn?

Their move has taught me that God is never finished with you. My parents raised four kids who are each successful in their chosen paths. Empty-nesters with eyes on retirement, they could have sat back and been ready to grow old in my childhood home. Instead they sought God for the next step, willing and ready for it to be a big one, and it was. God is looking to use willing hearts.

Their move has taught me to hold material possessions lightly. As my parents got rid of furniture I felt the urge to take all their cast-offs, holding on to things just because they had been my parents not because I particularly liked them. I’m glad I didn’t, we don’t have the room. It was hard to say goodbye to the house I grew up in. It is still hard to drive by knowing someone else sleeps in my old bedroom, someone else perches on stools at the counter, someone else is shaking their head at pink carpet in the bedroom. (Or maybe there is a little girl who is in love with it, at least for now.)

Saying goodbye was hard, really hard. Trying to explain to my 2 1/2 year old that we won't see Grandma and Grandpa until July is hard; especially when she asks if they will buy their car and house back. Yes, there are times I wish they were still here, physically closer, often when I need a babysitter. But I am glad they are not, because to stay would have been the wrong thing. Staying when you should go, staying because of fear, because of sentimentality, clinging to memories rather than going out and making new ones, that is not living the life that Jesus came to save. My parents are living their lives following God and I am proud of them.

Goodbye elephant.

Winter Wonderland

My grad class this semester (and my last one ever!) is about teaching writing. What a wonderful subject. As I learn techniques of how to teach writing, I am falling in love with writing all over again. So far each class period has started with a free-write (the best fodder for new posts). Last night's was a free-write about Winter, January or a favorite hobby/activity.  Here is what I wrote on Winter: 

Winter. My favorite. Everyone hates winter. They complain about snow but want a white Christmas. They grumble about storms coming but love their fireplaces and wood-stoves. Come on people! Move to Florida already. New England is winter. From October to March or even April sometimes. Every year. Get over it. Polar Vortex? Um, yea, just called winter around here. It’s cold. It’s snowy. It’s dark. Don’t like it? Move.

Why do I love winter so much? Why does the thought of snowflakes piled feet deep make me smile? Perhaps because my birthday is in January. I always had a sledding party growing up. Hours in the snow followed by hot chocolate by the fire then presents and cake. 

Perhaps this love is past down from my dad. Watching snow fall brings back memories of his voice reciting Stopping By Woods when we were children. For the first snowfall of the year we’d turn off all the lights in the house and just leave an outside flood on.  Standing at the door or window, watching snow fall and hearing my dad recite ‘miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go before I sleep’.

Yes, I do get sick of it being cold. Especially with a toddler. She walks very slowly and is often resistant to being picked up so that we can go faster. Yes, it’s cold. But it’s winter. This is what happens in winter. If you want 40’s and rainy move to Seattle. If you want 70’s and sunny move to southern Cali. It’s a big country. Stop complaining about the most beautiful time of year. Just sit back and watch it ‘sift from leaden sieves’.

Passing on my love of snow and winter: 

Dunking her shortbread in hot cocoa

Sand toys, snow toys - same thing right?

Redeeming the Situation

I had a miscarriage.  It became important to me to write about it publicly because I realized how many women are affected by pregnancy loss.  It is an isolating secret that is hard to get out.  I posted about it here: "The 'm' word".  Since posting, I have read a few articles and blogs about women who have written their stories of miscarriage.  They are sad to read, but remind me of the importance of telling the story.  Tragedy affects us.  We cannot pretend it doesn’t.  For someone not to know my story is to not fully know me.
When I wrote my story, I had a good reason to finally be able to publicly share it, a reason some have guessed at, I am pregnant!  But here is the second half of the story.
 
Early in November I was feeling discouraged.  I was waiting for my period and feeling like getting pregnant would never happen.  (I realize for women who struggle with infertility that this may sound naive and arrogant; we had only been trying for two months.  My extremely brief time of waiting and hoping to get pregnant gave me a glimpse of the heartache that infertility can bring.  Hope deferred truly does make the heart sick, even if only for 2 months.)  The weight of the upcoming anniversaries was heavy on me.  I dreaded March 6th, my due date.  And July 16th, the date my baby died.  The what if’s of not being pregnant before those dates drowned out more sane thoughts.
 
It was a Sunday morning during worship that I broke down.  I don’t remember the songs, but I was not able to sing them.  During the break a woman I have known a long time came up to me.  She put her arm around my shoulders and said she didn’t know what was wrong but that she saw I was having a hard time in worship.  She had prayed for God to give her something for me and felt God say that the situation would be redeemed soon.  I broke into tears and let her know why I was crying, that I had miscarried in July and was having a hard day.  She prayed again specifically and the day went on.

I thought about what she said.  My hope rose, the situation would be redeemed soon.  My common sense piped up, God’s soon and my soon are not the same thing.  What does ‘redeemed’ mean anyway?  Why the fancy word?  Being the English major I am, I looked it up. 
    
      redeem (verb): to convert into something of value
                              to make good (or fulfill) a promise or pledge
 
Again, being the English major, I was looking for deeper meanings.  Not always the wisest thing when hearing from God.  Did it just mean to share my story and help another woman through a hard time?  That would be bringing value and good to a hard thing.  Did it really mean I would get pregnant soon or was I ‘reading into it’ too much?  I had to just give it up to God.  Which is what I should have done in the first place.

Ten days later I had a positive pregnancy test.

I wasn’t excited.  I wanted to be, really badly.  But I realized that just getting pregnant wasn’t the end of the story, I had to stay pregnant.  I googled ‘due date calculator’ and punched in the information.  That’s when I got goosebumps.  And started crying.  And realized just how much God loves me.  Loves me enough to do little things in my life that really, are huge.  I’ve always known He loved me.  Loved me enough to die on the cross.  But often in daily life I get so caught up I don’t see Him in the little things.  I miss His demonstrations of love.  This one I couldn’t miss. 
 
You know how I was dreading the anniversaries, the due date and miscarriage date?  Well, the due date will still be there, though now that I am pregnant I hope it will be a little easier.  And July 16th - the date my baby’s heart stopped beating, a date I was dreading (dreading the whole month really).  Except now, I can’t.  Now I have a reason to rejoice in mid-July.  I am due within 5 days of the year anniversary.  An early ultrasound put the possible due date even earlier. 

God has redeemed the situation!  He has converted something I dreaded into something of value.  He has made good on a promise.  Every time I think of the due date now I am in awe.  It didn’t have to be then, it could have been earlier, it could have been later.  But it’s not.  He loves me.  He cares about the little things in life.


A couple of those articles on miscarriage I mentioned are here as a resource for those who have gone through it and those who need to understand a friend's grief. 
The Miscarriage Secret by Caitlin Seccombe Lubinski
How a Man Handles a Miscarriage by Marcus Brotherton
And there are so many more beyond these. 

What I'm thinking about when I'm not thinking

  My parents moved to Dubai this week.  Every time I sat down to write a blog post it was all I could think of, the proverbial 'elephant in the room'.  But I can't write that post now.  I will eventually, when I can write thoughtful reflection instead of emotional vomit.  So I asked for writing prompts and one suggestion was to write about what I'm thinking about when I'm not thinking.  Um, I don't think my mind ever turns off, but what about when I'm not consciously thinking?  I have many weird dreams and sometimes when they happen right before I wake up and I remember them vividly and I actually get my butt out of bed to write them down and no one bothers me, I have fodder for stories.  This is a story born from a dream I had in March of 2008.

 The Key-Hole
 The first memory I have of this place is of the trees descending from the sky and planting themselves in two long rows on the ground.  My family and I stopped our wandering to watch.  The ground was dry and parched.  I remember thinking the trees would not grow without water, their roots would not be deep enough yet to sustain them.
    Edward went up to the closest tree, the long line stretching away into the distance.  Whether it was because he touched the tree or it just happened at that exact moment I do not know, but water began rising out of the ground.  It quickly rose to our ankles as we moved in between the rows of trees.  There was a feeling of safety under the green branches that had been absent with only the vast sky above.  As the water climbed towards our knees and showed no signs of slowing the boys began to talk of climbing the trees.  We were wading and half swimming as the water crept past our knees.  Mother silenced the boys, there were no low branches, the trees rose in tall straight columns of blue-grey bark before branching out into a green canopy high above our heads.  Besides, Chloe would never be able to climb.  She was already on Mother’s back, the water would have been above her head now.  We waded as fast as we could through the waist-high water with no destination except further between the comforting trees.
    We began swimming when the water rose to our chests; at least for us older ones, the younger ones were already swimming.  We were concentrating so hard on swimming that no one knows when the house first appeared.  Natalia spotted it first.  At the same time her shout went up we noticed driftwood in the water.  Each of us grabbed a piece or two, clinging to it to keep our heads above water.  Mother was leading so she was the first reach the pebbled beach in front of the house.  The pebbles went all around the mansion, it was an island in the midst of water.  The line of trees stopped at the beach.  The white clapboards were covered in a film of green moss.  The house looked as if it had stood for a hundred years, even though I knew it had not been there when we started swimming.
    The door was open.  All the doors in the house were open.  I could see straight from the front to the back and out onto the stretch of water beyond the house.  Once inside the house we claimed it and spread out.  It was ours and it was huge.  My brothers and sisters invaded every crevice, exploring and making a racket.  The boys were using their driftwood as drumsticks on every surface they found.  Then they found the pianos.  There must have been one in every room upstairs.  The sound was deafening on the second floor.  I continued upstairs, past more open doors on the third floor.  I turned right down a passage with no windows.  At the end was a door, open of course, with stairs leading up.  I was confused.  I only remembered three levels of windows from the outside.  Was there a fourth floor?  I peered up the dark staircase.  There was a door at the top.  It was closed.
    The steps creaked under my feet, as many of the floorboards must have, but this time I heard it.  The passage and staircase muffled the din created by my brothers.  The air felt stuffy and stale.  I lifted my hand to knock.  But why?  Would there be an answer?  I put my hand on the knob instead.  Locked. 
    No other door in the house had even been closed.  I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.  Why was it locked and where was the key?  I realized there was a key hole so I bent down to look through.  There was an eye looking back at me! 
    After I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle my scream I realized a scream had come from the other side of the door as well.  I bent down again.  Light was coming through the key hole now.  The owner of the eye must have moved away.  I cautiously took another look.  There was a girl moving away from the door.  Perhaps a little older than me, but unkept and wild looking.  It was hard to understand her.  She was talking to someone.  I shifted positions and saw a woman sitting in a chair; a sort of maid or nanny.  She called the girl Deirdre and told her not to talk through the key hole. 
“There’s nothing there Deirdre” she said.  “What a story.  You must be imagining again.” 
Deirdre looked wistfully at the door.  “But I saw someone Greta.  There’s someone there.”
“No child.  There is nothing beyond that door.  It’s just a locked closet.”

Evidence of Things Unseen

The last post I did about not ‘doing’ Santa with my daughter (read it here) got a lot of comments (mostly on Facebook).  They were interesting comments from both sides of the subject.  Several comments talked of the kindness and generosity that Santa can embody rather than just being the creepy guy watching everyone and one doling out pressies, especially when looking at the life of the real St. Nicholas.  Another said “The difference between Santa and Jesus (religious faith in general) is that hopefully you’re seeing evidence of your beliefs every day.”  I liked this the best.  It’s so true.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

Faith in Jesus is different because there is evidence; true evidence, not planted Elves on shelves.  And it is something I didn’t account for in my last post.  Here is an account of evidence in my life:

When I was 10 years old my family drove halfway across the country for a church conference called Warrensburg in Missouri.  It was a gathering of New Frontiers churches, a family of churches we were a part of.  I remember having lots of fun (okay, the road trip was mostly fun) and meeting with God in a very personal way.  I also experienced my first tornado warning and the cafeteria had soft-serve ice cream that you could do yourself.

A few years later I wanted to attend again, mostly because I was now a teen and could go to the way-cool teen meetings.  But my family wasn’t going.  Dilemma.  I started saving my money in the hopes that my parents would let me go without them, chaperoned by someone from our church who would be going.  It was a tall order: saving for a plane ticket, conference fee and spending money.  I probably needed about $300.  I saved Christmas money, birthday money, babysitting money, and I baked cookies to sell at my dad’s work.  (The entrepreneur spirit started early.)  All the money I collected was saved in a small tin bank, tucked in my underwear drawer.  I never counted it.  I just hoped and saved and begged my parents to let me go.

Then one day they called me over.  There were several people from our church going and one couple agreed to be my chaperones.  Dad had looked at plane tickets and found one for $210.50.  If I could come up with that money, my parents would pitch in and pay for the conference registration fee.
 
Nervously I went upstairs to count my bank.  Would I have that much?  What if I wasn’t even close?  Cookie baking only grossed $5 a day.  After you subtract money for supplies it didn’t leave me with much.
I slowly counted the money.
$210.58
What?  I better count that again.
$210.58
I had exactly enough.

The conference itself did not disappoint.  The fun of being somewhere alone, without the rest of my family was a perk; but the encounter with God was the highlight.  Growing up I was an introverted bookworm.  Still am if left to myself.  I didn’t like talking to people, mostly because I thought I would say dumb things, and I walked around looking at the ground most of the time.

After one of the evening meetings I was kneeling, face to the ground when I heard an audible voice: Look up.  So I did, and I saw lots of feet.  I put my face back down.  Look up.
Oh my daughter, look up;
You are the King’s child.
You need not be ashamed.
You were naked and I clothed you.
You are the King’s daughter.  A princess.
Look up! Lift up your face!
God spoke to me.  God spoke to me?  Me?  Personally?  You mean that thing about God knowing each of us intimately and caring for us deeply is true?  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
It took time for me to come out of my shell.  To be a bookworm who can look strangers in the eye talk to them.  To learn the art of initiating conversation with questions.  To feel that what I had to say was important because I had thought of it.  Sometimes I’m still learning.

I am a daughter of the King of kings.  I don’t always act like it.  At times I struggle to believe it.  But that doesn’t make it any less true.

Lift up your heads, O gates!
And be lifted up, O ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
The Lord, strong and mighty,
the Lord, mighty in battle!
Lift up your heads, O gates!
And lift them up, O ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
The Lord of hosts,
he is the King of glory!
Psalm 24:7-10

The Year I Got A Letter From Santa

I’ve never believed in Santa.  Not even for a moment.  Growing up we knew the stories, watched The Santa Clause in the theater with my Grandpa, read The Night Before Christmas, but I never believed there was a Santa.  It was just a story. 

The Christmas I was 7, we were at my grandparents house with aunts and uncles and cousins.  My cousins are younger than my siblings and I and on Christmas Eve we set out cookies, milk and carrots for the reindeer (for the first time in my life).  We read The Night Before Christmas and went to bed.  The next morning, before the chaos of 15 people opening presents all at once, there was the pause to see if Santa had eaten the cookies.  He had, and written a note back to the cousins which was suspiciously in my mom’s handwriting.  I loudly proclaimed this only to be shushed by my mom; your cousins still believe in Santa Claus she whispered in my ear.  Still believe in Santa?  You mean people actually believe in Santa?  Like, that he’s real?  Why?

Then there was the year I got a letter from Santa.  I didn’t mean to get a letter from Santa.  I meant to give my sister my Christmas list in a funny, creative way.  So I wrote it out as a letter to Santa, addressed the envelope to “The First Door On The Left Up The Stairs”, put it in the mailbox and told mom to have my sister get the mail.  My one mistake was not realizing the mail hadn’t come yet.  The mailman took my letter.  What did they think of the address?    Well, at one point the United States Postal Services didn’t throw out all those letters to Santa.  (All the ones collected since taking them to the courthouse in New York at least.)  In Dover, NH the letters to Santa were read and replied to, at least mine was.  About a week later I received a letter from Santa, telling me Mrs. Claus was doing fine and that he was getting the reindeer ready for the big night.  Also that he would try to get the things on my list and to be good.

I’ve been thinking about this letter recently, seeing as it is Christmas time.  This year my husband and I had to decide: are we doing Santa?  Cora is two and is getting so excited about Christmas.  I told someone we probably weren't going to do Santa.  Her response?  How will she have faith in anything?  I was shocked.  I pray daily that she will put her faith in Jesus Christ.  If I tell her Santa is real and the tooth fairy is real and Jesus is real, then someday she realizes Santa isn’t real and the tooth fairy isn’t real - how will that affect her faith in Jesus?

Needless to say, we have decided to not do Santa.  I point him out in books, she will learn the stories.  Someday we will watch Miracle on 34th Street.  But I don’t need her to believe Santa is the one bringing her the presents.  I want her to know the gifts are from her aunts and uncles, her grandparents, her great grandparents, her cousins, people who love her.  I read somewhere that telling children to be good so that Santa will bring you presents makes the presents conditional, they have to earn them, they have to deserve them.  But that is contrary to the very essence of gift giving.  We don’t deserve gifts.  We don’t earn them.  They wouldn’t be gifts then.  They would be reimbursement.
I give to my daughter because I love her.  I love her because she is my daughter.  Her actions don’t change that.  Giving gifts at Christmas is a symbol of the ultimate Gift Giver.  He gave us His Son not because we deserved it or earned it but because He loves us.  He loves us because we are His children.  We can never deserve what God has given to us.