nothing to complain about

Every morning from train to office I pass four or five homeless men, most holding cardboard signs summarizing their plight. For a few months I randomly handed out dollar bills when I could. Sometimes now I think ahead and offer a bottle of water or the fruit I bring for my breakfast. But mostly I just walk by and feel kind of sad and useless that there’s nothing significant I can do.

Yesterday as I turned from Wacker onto the Franklin Street bridge, I caught the face of a man I hadn’t seen on previous commutes. Clearly wilting from the unexpected September heat and in need of a shave, he stood against the scaffolding with a warm, friendly gaze and a piece of cardboard on which he had simply penned, “Smile,” in bold black letters.  

It was so surprising to see this sign and the man who held it, I couldn’t help but meet his gaze and give him a huge smile.

Near the end of the train ride that brought me into the city that morning, a woman ran through the cars calling urgently for a doctor or a nurse. Moments earlier the conductor had made a similar announcement over the intercom. Two women sitting across the aisle from me commented loudly how the woman running through the car should get the conductor to make an announcement.

“He did make an announcement,” many of the passengers noted to them.

They hadn’t noticed because they had spent the entire train ride complaining to each other. About a co-worker who slacks off and doesn’t get reprimanded. About a teenage son who always leaves the car tank empty. About something shoddy one of them bought and had trouble returning. About all the work they do that no one notices. About the train schedule. About the heat.

The ladies were dressed nicely and clearly had good jobs. But whatever their lot in life, they appeared to be utterly miserable. It seemed like their only enjoyment was feeding off the other’s greatest woe of the moment. A conductor’s call for help didn’t even move them.

Don’t get me wrong. I know how easy it is to complain, to get bogged down by the small injustices of life, but the contrast yesterday morning between two middle class women and a homeless man gave me pause.

Although not widely recognized, September is devoted to childhood cancer awareness. The only reason I know this is because we have friends whose son died of cancer just shy of his second birthday. Every day this month my friend has been posting links on Facebook to stories of families whose kids have or had cancer. Some of these kids are right in the thick of their treatment, some are in remission, and some, like my friends' son Gabe, lost their fight with this wicked disease.

Every night on my train ride home I read the story of the day. The stories hurt and sometimes I end up in tears. But I am compelled to read. Even with the hell the parents and kids, many of them babies or toddlers, have been through, not one complaint makes it onto the page. Instead, in every story, there is, amazingly, an element of thankfulness. The stories help me gain the things those women seemed to be lacking yesterday morning: perspective, empathy, awareness and incredible gratitude.

Last night when I got off the train I so easily could have gotten into the car and complained about how long the commute was, how it's getting dark earlier, how hot it still is, how tired I was. But all of those thoughts faded away when I saw two boys hanging out of the car windows shouting, “Hi mom!”

I have a vehicle, a house, a job, a beautiful, healthy family. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

So, for the second time that day, I gratefully accepted the homeless man’s gift. I got into the car and gave my husband and my kids a huge smile.

***

I encourage you to read the story about my friends' son Gabe and their experience with childhood cancer. The story is beautiful and heartbreaking. I believe knowing stories like Gabe's make us all better people.

blessing boy in the quiet service

"How often we are embarrassed to do and say the things that really affect us. Perhaps this is because we cannot defend ourselves while they are happening. Or perhaps we have a corporate agreement that we will not embarrass each other, even if that means never going very deeply into the things that matter most to us." —Barbara Brown Taylor

I struggle with church. For years I didn't go at all. And for years I felt guilty about it. I grew up in a family for which churchgoing was paramount. But I felt closer to God talking a walk in the park, teaching English to Polish immigrants, lying prone on my mat in shavasana. I felt that anything anyone said about God was inadequate and that too many spoke for God when it was clear they had their own agenda. I got the message that God is chiefly interested in religion and good behavior and that he could only be found within the four walls of a particular church. This bothered me. It still does.

But I still go. Because even though I know now that the whole world is God's house, I still often find him in church.

In the summer, though, we spend more time in the church outside. On the riverbank and under the stars. One reason is that the whole world feels so much more open to us in the summer. There is hardly time to drink it all in. Another reason is that there is no Sunday school in the summer and Elliott has no interest in sitting in the house we built for God when God's whole wide world is waiting. 

After missing for two weeks, however, I felt compelled to return for a Sunday. I decided that rather than go through the exercise of filing everyone into a pew only to have Elliott start talking loudly and crawling into the aisle so Andrew could take him on a walk around Geneva just minutes into the service, I'd go alone. 

I hadn't been to the early, quiet, contemplative service in a long time and felt that would be the right kind of worship for me. But when I got dressed Elliott became clingy. I knew when I told him I was going to church he'd be happy to stay behind. But he insisted on going. 

"But honey," I said with a concerned face. "I'm going to church."

He brought me his shoes. I sighed, knowing that I'd surely have to take him out and miss the sermon. What was the point of even going?

"Okay," I said. "If you really want to go. But you will have to be very quiet and sit until it's over. Okay?"

"Okay," he grinned.

I wasn't convinced. But I took some gum and his blankie and buckled him into the car.

Incredibly, he sat through the service, and other than a small string of self-induced burps, biting off the pew pencil eraser and several "I done soon?" rounds of questioning, he remained quiet and semi-angelic. He even put his head in my lap and cuddled his blankie for most of the sermon. It was the music, however, that won his attention. 

Our friend Jen sang a solo mid-way through the service and Elliott sat still beside me. When she was done a few people quietly said "Amen." Elliott, however, spontaneously applauded her. He repeated his glad, clapping approval after the piano solo during the offertory as well. No one joined him. It's not appropriate to clap in the quiet service. He couldn't have cared less. 

My son is never embarrassed to do the things that affect him and he certainly doesn't mind a bit about embarrassing others by doing them either. Whether it's walking repeatedly past a row of baseball spectators with his hand out for a high five (when most just look at him cock-eyed), yelling "hi geese" at the top of his lungs to every waterfowl he passes in his bike trailer or applauding in a silent room after a beautiful piece of music, Elliott bestows his blessings without a second thought. He doesn't take advice on what to care about, he just seems to know. He makes some people uncomfortable, but most catch a glimpse, I hope, of God's own audacity. Something that is rarely found within the four walls of the houses we build for God. Something that, sadly, we all knew when we were young, and then forgot.

Thankfully I have a blessing boy—who I took to the quiet service against my better, grown-up judgement—to help me remember.

rolling up our sleeves and saying yes

On Sunday Liam wanted a job to do. I suggested he and Elliott wash the car. And they did, with gusto.

When they were nearly finished, Liam asked me for the keys.

“Why do you need the keys?” I asked.

“To open the roof,” he said matter of factly.

“No, honey,” I said. “Not while you’re washing the car.”

“But, mom,” he pleaded. “I can’t get the roof clean!”

I wasn’t following him and my impulse was to just shut him down. I’m the mother after all. Water is being sprayed with a hose. Soapy rags are being tossed about. The car interior will surely get wet. Not a good plan.

I held my breath and resisted the urge to blurt out my mantra, “No. Not today.”

But we were having a good day and I say that far too often.

“Explain to me what you want to do.”

So we made an agreement. Hose off, shoes off. I opened the sunroof and Liam rose up through the open space and proudly went to work scrubbing the roof.

I say no a lot. It's practically become a reflex. But lately I've been seeing it for what it often really is —the easy way out.

I don’t want to clean up your messes, so “no.” I don’t want to risk the possibility of injury or accident, so “no.” I don’t want you (or me) to look silly, so “no.” I don’t want to spend the time, so “no.” I don’t want to think about this anymore, so “no.”

I have written about the importance of saying yes a couple of times—how much good it does for a child’s creativity and how much joy and pride it can elicit in a child who has been given a privilege or a responsibility. The problem for me is that saying yes doesn’t get any easier.

I still don’t want to clean up the messes or look silly or spend the time. I’m prone to laziness in this department. Plus, saying no makes me feels like I’m in charge.

But on May 11, 2004, I was blessed with a son who is not easily controlled, and not because he’s defiant or rebellious, but because he’s smart and compelling and a very skilled negotiator. He’s a risk taker and an inventor and very much his own person. He doesn’t happily take no for an answer.

I could squash him, and let me tell you, I have and I do. But this weekend he turned eight and as he stood with a sopping rag in hand asking to take his job to the next level, I saw that it may be time to try yes.

In her excellent new parenting memoir MOMumental: Adventures in the Messy Art of Raising a Family, Jennifer Grant devotes a chapter to saying “yes.” Through story and anecdote she reinforces the importance of letting out the lead and allowing a child to make his own decisions, especially as he gets older. She ends the chapter with this quote from playwright Jean Anouilh in his drama Antigone, “To say yes, you have to roll up your sleeves and plunge both hands into life up to the elbows.”

Not the flippant, thoughtless, "you finally wore me down," "get out of my hair" kind of yes, but the kind that's risky and messy. The kind that requires surrender. The kind that opens the door to really living.

My son reminds me daily that we have many chances to roll up our sleeves and plunge both hands into life. All it requires is a yes.

safe people

Over the three days I was in Grand Rapids last week for the Festival of Faith and Writing, I stayed with cousins of my mom. For most of the time I was there, they weren’t. But they graciously gave me the code to their garage, the best guest room in the house, an invitation to help myself in the kitchen and the keys to their car. I saw them late Friday night, and on Saturday was treated to breakfast before I ran off to attend the last sessions of the conference. I had arranged to use their car until early afternoon on Saturday and was planning to fill it up with gas before I returned. When I got into the car that morning, however, the tank was full. My cousin had gone out early to fill up the car so I wouldn’t feel obliged to.

Over the past few months, I have been keenly aware of small, unexpected gifts—of people doing unreasonably kind things for me with no gain for themselves.

:: A new friend gave me a beautiful long sweater—easily the nicest, most attractive piece of clothing I own—the day before I started my job. She had bought it for herself but had never worn it and thought it would look great on me.

:: Another friend left a small arsenal of goodies outside my door the day I started work and a sweet, encouraging note, as she, also a mom of small children, knew how difficult the transition might be.

:: Another friend, who I rarely see anymore, contacted me to see if I would be going to the Bruce Cockburn concert at the festival last week. Although Bruce is one of my favorite performers, and my friend knows it, I didn’t think it would be wise to hand over the $25 for the ticket when we couldn’t even pay our taxes. When I responded no, my friend sent me a message that a ticket was waiting for me at the box office.

:: Yet another friend stopped me after church on Sunday to say that she and a fellow gardener had loads of perennials to split and she wondered not only if I’d like to have them but if I’d allow her to plant them for me. Just the day before I had told someone that one of my dreams would be to have someone help me figure out what to do with my completely unlandscaped front yard and plant it, which explains, I suspect, why I busted out crying on the spot.

I imagine I’m not alone when I say that I find it incredibly easy to identify the injustices in my life, the negative and the challenging. But lately I have been so overwhelmed by the good, the irrationally generous, that the things that plague me are slowly fading into the background.

On Saturday morning before leaving the festival, I sat in on interview with poet Li-Young Lee. After trying to explain some of the struggles he encountered when writing poetry—specifically how he found too much of himself in his poems when what he really wanted was to find God’s voice speaking through him—he got to talking about a community gardening project he had been part of and how, although it should have been otherwise, it wasn’t the uplifting experience he imagined it would be.

“We were trying to build community,” he said. “But the people who were part of it were not safe people to be around.”

He went on to explain that ego problems messed up something that should have been inherently good. It not only happens in writing that ego can get in the way of something that could be beautiful, it happens all the time in life.

And yet my recent experiences show that there are also things that happen in life that are so completely opposite, so purely lovely and life giving and selfless. Most often they are small and because we are so bogged down by the unsafe people and voices, we don’t even recognize them. But just like we know good writing when we read it—a narrator who can be trusted, an author who speaks truth—we should know good living when we encounter it. I have my eyes open now, even if they’re occasionally filled with tears, because I don’t want to miss the safe people, the people who show me that life, for all its troubles, is really something beautiful.

::

If you haven't seen it, I wrote about something else I encountered at the Festival in Friday's TribLocal.

until I get my groove back

Aside from sitting in the same chair eight hours a day, the most difficult adjustment to having a full-time job is feeling weary and unmotivated and needing more sleep. My midnight to 5 a.m. routine doesn't cut it anymore. I can hardly bear to look at my to-do list. I feel pretty uninspired.

I am waiting to get my groove back. To do the things I wish I had the motivation to do. To purge the closets and make the yard pretty. To write a book and build a platform. To sew skirts and make curtains. To organize a million little things.

In the meantime, when I'm home, I'm soaking in the little people who are full of energy and wonder and joy. I'm not getting much done, but that's okay. I'm discovering that sometimes when we accomplish the least, we do the most. It's the stuff no one else can see. It doesn't improve my house, my wardrobe, my bank account or my mind. But, in the end, it matters. Maybe more than anything else. At least, when I'm laying on the couch watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with my favorite four year old or heading to the park for the third time on a Sunday, that's what I'm telling myself.

four dollars a day

I stood waiting for the light to change. Only 50 yards and I'd be in the train station. I'd already passed the four regulars I see every evening, holding their cardboard signs, shaking coins in their plastic cups. I didn't have any change or singles so I'd passed them all by, head down like the other commuters, not daring to make eye contact. In a minute I'd be safe in the terminal, boarding my train home.

Now, two feet away from me sat a woman, also with a sign but not even making an effort to shake her cup. "This has been the worst year of my life," the sign said. "My daughter was killed in an accident and I am homeless. Please help."

I thought about the ten dollar bill in my wallet. The light was taking forever to change.

I looked at the woman. Her clothes were filthy. She clearly hadn't showered in ages. Her eyes looked vacant, like she was strung out, and probably not on grief. But who's to say. Even though we are behind in most every way financially, she clearly had much less than I did.

As the light changed, I reached into my wallet and pulled out the ten, folded it up, bend down and put it in her cup.

"I'm sorry for your situation," I said. She smiled and showed me her black front tooth.

"Thank you," she whispered.

In the first week of my new job I had the opportunity to take a personality test. I've taken these kinds of tests before but not this particular profile. Part of the results included a one-page writeup about how I most likely behave and operate and how others probably see me. It was interesting and surprisingly accurate.

As I thought about my encounter with the homeless woman on the train that night, I remembered the profile. Specifically these lines, "Because your positive outlook may lead to unrealistic expectations, more skeptical people may see you as naïve." "At times you might get yourself into trouble accepting people who don’t deserve it."

I guess this could explain why I gave the woman on the corner the $10. She was probably high on drugs and would just use the money to buy more and everyone standing around me probably thought I was the world's biggest idiot for giving her money in the first place.

But after more thought, I realized that there was a louder voice speaking to me on that corner than just my own idealistic and optimistic personality.

In church, two days prior, the prayer of confession included these words: "We have heard the cry of the needy. When we have, we have refused to respond."

Truthfully, I didn't really think these words applied to me. For years I have faithfully helped out at Third Tuesday Suppers. We've made lunches for Lazarus House. We support kids in Africa and South America every month. Even though we don't have much to offer, we are helping the needy.

But every day I pass the same four people with their cups out and I always walk on by. I don't have small bills. I don't want to look naive. We need every penny I'm earning right now. Anyway, how is a dollar going to make any difference?

Growing up, I never saw my dad refuse to help anyone. It's quite likely his personality profile would reveal the same trusting, naive, optimistic personality as mine did. But it was more than this.

When I was in college studying in France, I met my dad in Switzerland for the weekend. We traveled to Northern Italy and everywhere we went, whenever we were confronted with a person in need who asked us for money, my dad always kindly gave them something.

"Do you really think that makes a difference?" I asked after he gave the equivalent of about $20 to a very poor woman in a cathedral we were visiting.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "But I think God wants us to give to anyone who asks us for help."

Anyone? Everyone? Maybe that's possible for someone who makes a lot of money and has a lot extra. But me? I don't think so.

So I walk by quickly, pressed along by the rush of commuters hurrying to make the train, and appease myself with the thought that if all the wealthier people around me aren't stopping to put money in anyone's cup, I shouldn't feel badly.

But the day after I dropped the ten, I decided to keep four singles in my pocket for the commute home. As I approached the Canal Street bridge I got nervous, afraid of looking like the fool. But I stuck with my plan and dropped a dollar into each plastic cup, not daring to make eye contact yet touched by the warm "thank yous" and "God bless yous" I received.

The next day I did the same thing, only this time I looked at each person as I gave them the money.

"Have a good night," I smiled.

By the fourth night, the looks of surprise had changed to recognition. At least they knew one dollar would probably be coming their way that evening.

I am not telling this story to say that I am great. I am most definitely not. And to most, especially those pressed along with me in the mass of commuters hustling over the bridge, I probably look pretty naive. As if a dollar could make any difference. As if these people deserve it.

But in a season of politicking, when the nation is focused on improving the economy and determining if births should be controlled and who should be allowed to marry, I wonder how we've gotten so far away from the God this country originally put its trust in. The God who is this: "For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the stranger residing among you, giving them food and clothing." (Deut. 10:17-18)

The God who wants this: "And you are to love those who are strangers." (Deut. 10:19)

Four dollars a day is a small price to pay to follow the God who defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow. A small amount to give to love the stranger. But every day I know that I am part of a much bigger story, that in a small way I get to show someone who is broke and alone that God is defending their cause, loving them and residing among them.

No, I am not great, but when I get over myself and all my excuses and live like I am called, I know I'm part of something that is.

everybody hurts sometimes

On the el platform last week, a woman was crying. She stood about 10 feet away from me, a short, heavy-set, middle-aged African American woman. Her face was serene, expressionless, but tears flowed down her cheeks and she made no effort to wipe them.

I wondered what could be wrong. Was one of her children in trouble? Did she have an argument with someone she loved? Or was she just feeling heaped with all the pressures of life?

We boarded the el and I sat facing her and contemplated what, if anything, I could do. The woman stared at nothing in particular. Her face never revealed her emotions, but her tears gave her away. I thought about getting up and sitting next to her. I thought about hugging her. Instead I said a silent prayer that she would know she's not alone. Because as R.E.M. sings so well, everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes.

In all of our differences, our finger pointing, our high horses, our self-imposed isolation, we are all just human. We all know sadness and grief and heartbreak. It's just not very common that our tears so grandly betray us in public.

Thinking about it now, I feel honored to have witnessed my fellow traveler's tears. If I see that beautiful woman waiting for the Brown line again, I will not think about our differences. I will be reminded that our hurts make us so much alike.

The next time my heart runs down my face in public, I hope I can stand like my friend on the platform: not hiding, just letting the tears fall. Hoping that my pain reminds someone else that everybody hurts and no, no, no, no, you are not alone.

the raindrop prelude

Every weekday now I am away from my boys and every weeknight I could swear my youngest looks older. In the 12 hours I am gone, Elliott ages, noticeably. I feel the small ache that comes from missing out. I miss out on the silly faces, the nonsensical comments, the lunch menu, the potty successes, the belly laughs, the enthusiastic greeting off the bus and the begging to watch "train show" or go to the park. But I almost never miss out on bedtime.

When I was home most of the day, bedtime was more of an after thought. I'd whiz through a couple books, say a short prayer, put on the music and turn out the light, anxious to head downstairs and have a break.

These days bedtime has a different flavor. I savor the ritual. I look forward to reading and snuggling in bed, to asking Elliott about his day and asking God to fill us with his love. I relish hearing the storybook rhymes, the gentle breathing of a boy drifting off to sleep and the music of the classical lullabies CD we never seem to replace. I especially love the music.

Almost always Elliott falls asleep right before Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.15, fondly known as the raindrop prelude. And because I am laying with him now until he drifts off, I almost always, instead of heading downstairs to get my break, stay snuggled next to my sleeping boy for at least the next 6 1/2 minutes until this piece is over.

Although spending full days away from Elliott reminds me so poignantly how time marches on and how I have no control to stop it, this Chopin Prelude allows me to go backwards in time and hold it still, precious and unchanging.

About fifteen years ago I took piano lessons. I progressed slowly because I've never really had a musical gift and because I never really practiced much. I did, however, dedicate myself to one particular piece - Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15. It was the one and only piece of classical music that I could play (nearly) flawlessly. I was crazy about it. A few weeks before I was to play in a piano recital, my maternal grandmother died. She was one of the most important, loving, creative and stable influences in my life as a child. I adored her.

I don't remember how it happened but somehow, since I missed the piano recital, I ended up playing the Chopin piece at my grandma's memorial service. The memory is vivid: from how I dressed to the intense emotion that made my hands shake and my tears fall on the keys. I have never delivered anything with as much passion or confidence as I played that piece. And every time I hear that Prelude I remember exactly how I felt: full of life and full of grief, full of passion and completely broken, loved and lost.

I am truly surprised I didn't spontaneously combust.

Often now I have a twinge of this same emotion. My baby is growing up and I'm missing it. I am both thrilled and devastated. Loving the changes and mourning the loss. Soon he will be a boy that today's me can barely recognize. My hands shake and my tears fall on the keys at the very thought of it.

But if Chopin has taught me anything, it's that I wouldn't want it any other way. To hold back, to temper our sorrow and our passion, our grief and our love is not living. We're just going through the motions, counting down the hours until we get a break.

I cannot stop my child from aging anymore than I can prevent any of the great losses I am sure I will suffer in my lifetime, whether I am home when they happen or not. I could worry and I could fear. I could just cut my losses and quit. Instead I come home every night and read and pray, snuggle and listen to Chopin, remembering that letting go and playing with everything I've got won't stop time but it will make the time I have rich and beautiful and worth remembering.

deliberate acts of kindness

This Advent season, more than any other, I have been awed by the stories I've heard of people giving gifts to strangers.

A friend from church mobilized her co-workers at a local restaurant to adopt a family of illegal immigrants (a mom and five kids) for Christmas. She collected $460. The money came from people who are struggling to make ends meet, making the generosity all the more amazing.

And then there's this incredible story I read last night of people paying off strangers' Kmart layaways and a family who lost a young daughter to cancer asking for kindnesses to be done in her honor this week. Not only are people giving in beautiful ways this season, they are motivating others to follow suit.

Last night I was able to participate in one of these breathtaking acts of generosity. I will never forget it.

A woman who practices Tae Kwon Do with my husband gave Andrew two sealed envelopes a couple weeks ago. She told him that she likes to practice random acts of kindness over the holidays. She didn't know a lot of people in need but she thought we might be able to give the envelopes to people at our church's next free community supper. Andrew mentioned to me that the envelopes each had a gift card inside.

So last night I took the envelopes with me to the Third Tuesday Supper. I had the envelopes in my apron pocket and forgot about them until halfway through the dinner when I saw a young couple with five little kids under the age of six who come to the supper every month. Although they don't look destitute, I know from brief conversations that they live on the edge and greatly appreciate the free monthly meal. I immediately thought to give them one of the gifts in my pocket.

I gave the envelope to the dad and explained that it came from a friend and I didn't know what was in it exactly, probably not much, but I'm sure with five little ones every bit counts. He was very appreciative.

About 30 minutes later I saw the mom packing up to leave and I told her the same thing.

"It could just be a $5 Starbucks card," I said apologetically.

She looked at me, her eyes awash in tears and whispered, "It had a $100 bill in it."

I sat down next to her, stunned and teary.

"You have no idea how much we needed that," she said. "It could not have come on a better day."

I told her I was so happy but I really didn't have anything to do with it. The gift was from my husband's incredibly generous friend.

She looked at me wide-eyed and said with a crack in her voice, "But you chose us."

This Christmas season when we have so little material wealth to share, we have had a couple of opportunities to pass on monetary gifts that have come to us through other sources. Both times we could have kept the gifts for ourselves (oh, yes, I was momentarily tempted to open the envelopes myself) and, really, no one would blame us. (A fellow Redbud writer has had a similar experience this holiday.)

Instead, we chose to be the vessel. And simply passed on the gift.

Because the less we have, the more we're seeing what really matters: to be an instrument of God's love and be able to witness the awesome impact a gift has on someone who is desperate for a miracle.

As a result, we are not only celebrating the incarnation of love this Christmas, we are sharing in the incarnation of love this Christmas. Nothing beats it. Nothing.

already and not yet

“That’ll be $28.62.”

The Aldi cashier looked expectantly at the woman in line ahead of me. He had efficiently rung up and tossed her 20 or so items into the waiting basket—coffee cake, chips, ice cream, caramel apples.

The young woman, sporting a tight glittery t-shirt over her swelling belly, handed her debit card to the cashier.

He swiped it.

“Denied,” he said, holding out the card.

The woman pursed her lips.

“Try it again.”

“Sorry,” he said swiping it a second time.

The woman pulled six dollars out of her wallet, then stuffed the bills back in.

“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll put the things back.”

During the 90 seconds of this exchange, I felt my heart speed up as I contemplated what I could do. I considered the $30 cash I had in my wallet. For a second or two I thought of handing it to her. Or just telling her not to worry, I had it covered.

But I wondered how strange that would look or how I would respond if she refused my offer. I considered the fact that we don’t really have extra money to be throwing around these days. And, truth be told, I didn’t like what she was buying.

Even though I knew the awful embarrassment of having a card rejected at the point of purchase, I did nothing more than attempt to smile at the woman as she steered her cart back into the store.

Now, two months later, I can’t get this encounter out of my mind.

::

A couple years before I met my husband, he had moved to Scotland from a small town in Italy, with barely a penny in his pocket. His first day in Edinburgh, Andrew found a job washing dishes at a pub. After a week, Alice, the pub manager called him into her office and asked him how it was going and where he was living. He told her (proudly, I imagine, and without any sense that it should have been otherwise) that he had a tent and was camping at a nearby campground. Alice looked surprised and then shook her head "no," reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. Before Andrew could protest, she wrote out a check for 800 pounds and told him to go find an apartment and he could pay her back later.

Although Alice knew Andrew for another two years and saw not only her loan paid back but also his promotion to cook and assistant bar manager and his courtship and engagement to this nice-enough American girl, I don't think she could ever know the tremendous impact her split-second decision had on my husband. Andrew was a stranger and yet she risked losing a large sum of money, not to mention trust in another person's ability and desire to do the right thing, by helping him.

What Alice did was risky and extravagant. As a result, my husband views her as one of the few people in his life who has ever truly loved him.

This story humbles me. In general, I think I’m pretty great at showering people with love. But I’m no Alice. My split-second decisions are usually peppered with worry and judgment.

This Christmas season, I have been thinking about what Alice did for my husband, and what I failed to do for the woman in Aldi. And I am being reminded that the One we wait for at Advent, the Christ child, was also a risky and extravagant gift given to strangers.

If I could go back to my Aldi encounter, I’d pay for the pregnant woman’s groceries. And I’d give her a hug, if she’d let me. And talk with her. About her impending birth experience, where she was living and what kind of support she had for a growing family. If I was really being risky I’d ask her if her hunger was being satisfied. I’d engage her on a level that an awkward smile wouldn’t allow for but a generous gift might.

More than 2000 years ago, God gave us the most generous of gifts when He brought His kingdom to earth. And every time we love each other—family, friend and, yes, stranger—with his risky, extravagant love, we bring it back again.

But it’s not easy. Although Jesus has already come—we’re reminded of it every Christmas—we still need him to show up again. It’s a crazy, messed up world. Full of hurts and worries. Distrust and dishonesty. Rejection and loneliness. And that’s why I love remembering Alice.

Alice shined God's love in a dark corner where it had not yet been. And for one person, that made all the difference.

May we all be like Alice, brave and bold, filled by the awesome, gracious presence of the God who is already here and the joyful anticipation of the God we wait for, and take a few generous risks for those who have not yet seen Him.

::

I had the privilege of sharing this reflection at the Women's Advent Service at our church yesterday. A couple days after I wrote it, I ran across a story on NPR about a man who was mugged in New York City and responded in a risky and extravagant way. I am sure that I would never have the presence of mind to respond as he did but the story is inspiring and is evidence (in my mind) that even in a messed up, crazy world desperately in need of the peace and reconciliation we sing about this Advent, God continues to work through us to bring his kingdom to earth.

grace that comes before

One thing I love about Methodism is the belief in prevenient grace. The beautiful idea that divine love precedes any and all of our conscious decisions. The steadfast hope that God always goes before us, making a way before we even know that we need one.

Two weekends ago my dearest friend from college flew me out to Durham. We try to see each other once a year if possible and my birthday was as good excuse as any to get a visit in. Lauren and I ate great meals, chaperoned a 12-year-old boy's sleepover, hiked along the Eno, cheered as the underdog Duke women's volleyball game upset the undefeated conference champs, threw a little party and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.

The week before I left, Andrew and I both had ended up in bed with Elliott on two separate nights and both accidentally fell asleep after soothing his bad dream or whatever wakened him. And we both were awoken around 4 a.m. to Elliott having a seizure.

We know that Elliott has had seizures in his sleep in the past. This summer we saw a neurologist who took him through a whole battery of awful tests to try to determine the specifics of these episodes. But the results were inconclusive. Although he had a 20-minute seizure while enduring an EEG, nothing abnormal showed up. The best the neurologist could offer was a drug trial. For many reasons, we decided to wait. My gut said that testing anticonvulsants on our son was not the answer.

For months, after upping his B6 intake and making some other small changes to his diet, we thought perhaps the four seizures we had seen in a 3-month period over the summer were a fluke. The week we slept with our son, however, alerted us that the episodes were probably happening a lot more often than we imagined. But we had no idea how to find a neurologist who would be able to look at Elliott's condition any differently, and who wouldn't subject him to the same barbaric EEG testing regimen, only to come up empty-handed again.

So, I went to Durham, looking forward to the break and some quiet time to both think and forget.

During my visit, Lauren had invited a bunch of women from work and church to come over for a party on Saturday night. Although I knew a few of her friends, most were new to me. One woman was very quiet. It seemed clear that she didn't know many people either. So I started talking to her. She told me her friend had invited her to come along and she didn't know anyone there, including Lauren. Somehow we got onto the topic of work and she told me that she was a clinical dietician for an epilepsy center. That she worked for one of the top pediatric neurologists at Duke.

As we talked, I shared about Elliott, his condition and his seizures, and our uncertainty about what to do next. She told me to give me her email address and she would ask the neurologist who we should see in Chicago. And I knew that this moment—where I fly halfway across the country to meet a woman at a party who wasn't even known by the hostess—was a moment divinely arranged long before I could have ever known I needed it.

The party woman emailed me a couple days after I returned home with the name of a neurologist at the University of Chicago who specializes in both cerebellum issues and seizure disorder. After looking him up online, I discovered that the U of C Children's Hospital is one of the few in the world with non-invasive EEG technology that pinpoints even the peskiest seizure disorders. And, miraculously, I connected to the department in one ring and was able to get an appointment the first week of January with a specialist who normally schedules new patient appointments 6-8 months out. Even the scheduler was surprised.

Some may call it coincidence, serendipity or simply good luck. But more and more I am seeing that God goes before us, making a way before we even know we need it. Prevenient grace. Divine love. Whatever it's called, I just see one more amazing gift to be thankful for.

standing in the gap

I am a natural-born giver. If I see a need, I long to fulfill it. If someone is in trouble, I want to help. Some might say that this desire isn't so much innate as it is the result of coming from a broken home and falling into the role of caretaker at a very young age. However I've come to it, I love to serve.

On the flip side, I am not a good receiver. I feel funny when people give me gifts. I don't ask for help. I'm not needy. This could be the way I protected myself as a child so I wouldn't be disappointed when the things I longed for most weren't fulfilled. I just decided not to want anything.

When I wrote the post last week that highlighted our financial situation, I knew I was taking a risk by being so transparent, but I didn't think about the fact that I was opening myself up to being a receiver. Many people reached out with encouragement, sympathy and difficult stories of their own. A couple people gave us gifts. One was monetary.

When money was offered my immediate impulse was to refuse. But the offer was presented so winsomely. This couple, who we haven't known particularly long but who we deeply admire and love, told us that they needed us to help them live out their baptismal covenant, that they made vows that involved our family. That they had agreed to surround our family with a community of love and forgiveness, that we might grow in our trust of God, and be found faithful in our service to others. That they had accepted the freedom and power God gives to resist evil, injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. And this was all reason enough, even as a family with little extra to share, to offer to help us pay our bills.

"It is not right for you to face this alone," they wrote to us, "and it would be even more wrong for us to turn away from you as if we were not your family."

It was hard to say no to the offer. So, overwhelmed, we humbly, appreciatively, and somewhat awkwardly, accepted, and unknowingly gave God a foothold to do something unexpected in our lives.

Several weeks ago, I went to my grandparents' alma mater to participate in a homecoming celebration that honored their legacy. During the weekend, my uncle Dan spoke at the college chapel service. He shared a passage in the gospel of Mark about some people who brought a deaf and mute friend to Jesus for healing. Dan talked about the unnamed "they" who brought the man as being the hero of the story. "They" were advocates. "They" were the voice for a man who had none. "They" pleaded on his behalf. "They" stood in the gap.

I loved the message. As a giver, it excited and inspired me. Yes, I thought, I do this. I make meals for people in need. I hang out with lonely people at our church's Third Tuesday Suppers. As a family, we have long-term plans to foster and possibly adopt. And I want to do more advocating, more giving, on a global scale. A friend to the friendless. A voice for the voiceless. Never once did it occur to me that I could be the mute man.

And, yet, here we are. In trouble. In need. Receiving from others who are standing in the gap for our sake. It's strange and humbling and beautiful. It takes my breath away. It's not at all what I expected being a receiver would be like.

Two days after I put up my post I learned that a new friend was going to be evicted from his apartment. Interestingly, or perhaps ironically, this man truly is deaf and mute. I sit with him every month at Third Tuesday Suppers using what very little sign language I know, and speaking the universal language of smiles and hugs. No one lights up a room like Keith. And the fact that this lovely, hard-working, college-educated man would be put out on the street because he lost his overtime at a job he's held for 20 years and can't make enough regular wage to make his very modest ends meet made my heart ache. I felt furious at the injustice and humbled that his immediate situation was so much worse than ours.

Within 24 hours, a family had formed to stand in the gap for Keith and help him stay in his apartment. And, because of the gift we were given, we could give some of the money back and be part of this family. But this time, I wasn't giving because I was born to or because my past was dictating my behavior. I wasn't patting myself on the back for being the hero of the story.

We gave simply because we had an idea of what desperate feels like, and what grace could do. We knew that our friends weren't standing in the gap for us so we could see how awesome they were or so that they could rescue us from all our troubles. They were doing it so we could be touched by Jesus. So that we could get a glimpse of something holy. And, no matter what, we had to help give Keith a glimpse, too.

I am finally learning that giving isn't about us doing good. At its best, giving is an uncontrollable pouring out simply because we've been poured on. It's about being a family, about living in holy community. It's about being the mute man and getting a glimpse of true forgiveness, sacrifice and love.

Because, in the end, we are all the mute man. We all have soul-crushing needs and awful truths about our lives, and when we stand in the gap for each other we are setting off a chain reaction, breaking through the veil to give each other a beautiful glimpse of God's kingdom that truly is among us.

grumble hallelujah

We are in a financial mess. Creditors call us daily. I don’t even open the medical bills anymore. Our mortgage is late again, and I don't know how we're going to pay it. And I can’t believe I’m writing this for anyone to see. But if I’ve learned anything from reading Caryn Dahlstrand Rivadeneira’s book Grumble Hallelujah: Learning to Love Your Life Even When It Lets You Down, it’s that my honesty just might help someone else feel less alone.

Now knowing firsthand how it feels to be released from the terrible prison of embarrassed isolation (which involved, I’m not embarrassed to say, a lot of tears), I’m willing to accept the ridicule and pity for telling you this awful news about our life. But somehow I doubt it’s coming. Because I bet you have awful news about your life, too.

Your situation may not look like mine, but it’s probably equally distressing and painful, or maybe even worse. It might be something that keeps you up at night or causes you to cry yourself to sleep. Or maybe you’re just working really, really hard to ignore it. As Caryn’s book so poignantly points out, none of us get the lives we thought we were supposed to have.

While reading, it occurred to me that every person I know has something in their past, present or (sorry to say) future that they never asked for, something that leads (or will lead) them to say, “This isn’t the life I signed up for.” An unhappy marriage, a spouse with depression or addiction, infertility or miscarriage, the death of a child or a husband, divorce, a disabled or mentally ill child, a career in the tank, bankruptcy, broken relationships, abuse, cancer. I don’t know one single person who has a perfect life. Do you?

And, yet, how hard we work to make it appear otherwise.

Most people who know me would probably say that I’m a pretty happy person. I find the positive in most any situation. I care for people. I love my family dearly. I follow Jesus. But what most people don’t know is that I live with this big pile of ick.

I try to keep all the yucky stuff—the debt, the bills, the worry, the fear—stuffed in a can, but it keeps sloshing over, seeping into the beautiful parts of my life. And it makes me angry and scared and really embarrassed.

I once told a close friend who knows the ugly truth about my life that one of my greatest fears is dying and knowing that people I love will discover the depth of our financial mess. How sad is that? But something in me wants to hide at all costs. Somehow we’ll come out of this and regain the life I’ve always wanted, I think. No one needs to know.

And yet, as I sat blurry-eyed, reading Caryn’s book, I realized this approach benefits no one, especially the one trying to hold the lid on the can.

In the pages of her book, Caryn shares the bitter truth—this brokenness is your life. But, thankfully, that’s just Chapter One. The other fourteen chapters are helping me learn what to do with my struggle and see how my life was meant to be lived, and loved. I am discovering that I need to grieve the fact that this was not the way my life was supposed to be, to release my expectations about how my life should look, to spit out my envy and anger at the ease with which others seem to live, to stop worrying that my shameful-feeling secret is going to influence others’ opinion of me, to die to this “should be” life I’ve imagined and, instead, to allow God’s light to shine through my imperfections and struggle.

If I could, I would give this book to all of my friends and family members who need to grieve over the fact that their lives aren’t turning out as planned. Loved ones who are experiencing distressing circumstances or painful losses. People who need to know they are not alone and that God wants their hallelujahs, even if they’re grumbled. Because when we’re courageous enough to cry out and give thanks even in our lowest times, God’s in the business of turning our lives into something beautiful. And that is reason enough to find our voice and stop pretending.

what if we knew we were beloved in every fiber of our being?

Recently I was approached about contributing an artwork to an exhibit at church. The exhibit was focusing on persecution and artists were being asked to respond. My first thought was that I am not an artist. In the traditional sense, it's true. I don't draw or paint or sculpt. But the woman coordinating the exhibit warmly suggested I use my sewing machine to create something. I told her I'd think about it.

I sat on it for weeks. I am not well acquainted with persecution. Although we have our struggles, we live a pretty cushy life. Occasionally the awful realities of life outside will pop up on my computer screen and I'll be moved to sign a petition, engage others or say a quick prayer. But in order to maintain the freedom and safety of my family, I don't have to do much. I can exercise my beliefs, use my voice and show my face everywhere I go. Living in the western suburbs of Chicago has its perks.

I figured I would not be participating in this exhibit.

A couple of days before the contributions were due, I remembered a conversation I had had years ago with the director of Youth for Christ in Lebanon. He shared about the difficult situations he and his family had experienced over the past months: death threats, bomb scares, etc.

“It must be really hard to be a Christian in Lebanon right now,” I said to him.

He gave me a funny look and shook his head.

“Not really,” he responded. “I imagine the most difficult place in the world to be a Christian would be in America.”

I'm not sure I said anything after that. I was stunned, but I knew he was right. We are self-sufficient in America. We really don't know anything about persecution. Most of us don’t have an urgent daily need to cling to God or his Word.

Thinking about my friend in Lebanon reminded me of the story of Corrie Ten Boom surviving the Nazi concentration camps. The efforts she went through to hide her little Bible on her person so she wouldn’t have to give it up impressed me greatly as a child.

A few seasons of life have led me to open my Bible on a daily basis. But never with the urgency of a desperate person clinging to every word.

What would it look like if the Bible were that important to us? If it were—worn and tattered—all that we clung to? If we gave up our debates and arguments about the finer points of theology and inerrancy? If we stopped looking at the Bible as a book of rules and judgment, or a weapon of persecution in itself?

What if, instead, we simply clung to its promises? What if we wore the truth of who we are—beloved children of God—like our lives depended on it?

And, so, I cut out pages of those promises from a little Bible and made something for the exhibit after all.

No matter what happens to us in this life, I am certain that there is a greater purpose and a God of love we can cling to. A God who doesn't demand retribution but who encourages forgiveness. A God who doesn't promise prosperity but who asks for sacrifice. A God who doesn't leave anyone out but who loves lavishly and unconditionally.

Persecuted believers know it with every fiber of their being. May we as well.


For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

the bliss of innocence

My son is in love with the girl across the street. And, for the most part, she returns his undivided attention and devotion. We parents laugh at how cute and silly they are, screaming repeated hellos from the windows, giggling with glee whenever they are in each other's company. But this mom also worries.

At 4 1/2, my son does not play with any neighborhood peers his age. He prefers to spend time with kids who are 12 to 24 months his junior, kids who are still learning to speak in complete sentences and who ride their bikes with training wheels. Yet as the months go by, I see the gap widening.

My son mixes up his pronouns, commanding me to "Carry you!" or asking "I tired?" when I stifle a yawn. He has not yet mastered any wheeled ride-on. He struggles to answer unfamiliar questions. He still resists the potty. Even his youngest friends seem to be passing him by.

One sunny afternoon last week, Elliott and I went walking. We ended up at the neighborhood schoolyard where his girlfriend Mia happened to be playing with friends. Elliott screamed her name from the sidewalk and then rushed onto the blacktop to greet her. Mia was riding her scooter and paid no attention to her suitor. My stomach lurched. It's beginning, I thought. The months of mutual affection are coming to an end.

I watched as Elliott followed scootering Mia around the basketball court. His persistence never wavered. Neither did his joy. He kept laughing and calling her name. She kept riding and ignoring him.

Eventually Elliott left Mia for the slide. Then, he happily trudged home.

Our neurologist cannot give us any prediction about how Elliott will progress or where he'll end up intellectually. His condition is rare, complex and completely individual. So as a mom, I provide as many opportunities for him to develop as possible. I watch and pray. And, although I try not to, I worry.

I've always known that Mia would tire of Elliott's advances long before he'd be ready to step back. That she would begin to surpass him in conversation and intellect and activities. That she would eventually move on.

What I didn't know is that my son doesn't seem to mind. He is an "all in" kind of guy. At the schoolyard he seemed blissfully unaware that the object of his affection had stopped participating. He just continued to love her.

I am discovering that what my son lacks in development he makes up for in contentment. He never compares. He just is. And although I worry that he could experience many disappointments and rejections in his lifetime, I'm not sure he'll view them as such. If his first 4 1/2 years are any indication, he'll see opportunities and, strangely, happiness. He'll love without condition or demand. And he'll keep teaching us a better way to live.

When it comes to love, St. Paul said that we see through a glass darkly. Some days I am convinced that my boy already sees the other side.

the haves and the have nots

If you are trying to preserve a happy-go-lucky, life-is-good mentality, I have a little advice for you. Don't hang out with people who are suffering.

Last night I caught up with some of the regulars at our church's Third Tuesday Supper and I can't get them out of my head, or my heart. A few weeks ago I wrote a column for the TribLocal about these free monthly dinners and why they have become my favorite night of the month.

I stated that "No one knows if you drove up in a Lexus or a rusted-out Bonneville. And no one cares." And while this is true on one level, it's not the whole story.

A lot of neighbors come to these dinners. People you'd expect. Church members. Local families. Elderly couples. And even though some of them may be in a tight spot financially (I would even put us in that category), they are still the "haves." They have options and resources. Or at least they have access to friends and family with options and resources if things get really tough.

The supper also attracts people who truly need the meal. For the sustenance, the company and the reminder that they are not walking this earth alone. Perhaps this sounds exaggerated. I used to think so. This is Geneva afterall.

These people don't look like the disheveled homeless man panhandling at the train station. They look like the single mom with five kids who can't get out of bed in the morning, or come up with the money to buy milk and gas. Like the anxious middle-aged woman without any connections being pushed out of her home for complaining to her landlord. Like the single man who eats all of his meals alone except on this one night every month.

One ten-year-old girl that I seek out at each supper has kept me on the edge of tears today. She looked skinnier than ever and her usual luster was gone. Her mom, mired in grief over the death of her husband nine months ago, confessed that she was struggling to put food on the table. Then she shared about recent health struggles and her unfruitful visits to the emergency room. The family has no primary care physician because when you can't afford to put food in the mouths of your five children, you certainly can't afford health insurance.

I stood, holding a load of dirty plates, wanting to hand her a wad of cash. I wanted to say, my husband/best friend/sister is the finest doctor in the world and he/she will see you for free. I wanted to fly to Washington DC and slap some sense into the people who are buying $10,000 hammers. I wanted to scream. The best I could do was to find our pastor and and get a grocery store gift card to hand her instead.

Several weeks ago Andrew and I attended a World Relief dinner. The main speaker that night, professor Soong-Chan Rah from North Park University, talked a lot about suffering, and how American Christians are, for the most part, out of touch. We are positive thinking, upwardly mobile go-getters feeling pretty darn blessed by how much we've got. Most of us are generous and giving but we would not choose to invest our lives in a suffering population. And, yet, he argued, to choose not to is to miss out on the heart of God.

Listening to Professor Rah speak, one might easily respond, "We can't all be Mother Theresa." Most of us can't even afford to travel to a place where people are really suffering. Last night, however, I realized I can drive less than two miles to find this population.

Before my ten-year-old friend left the supper, I told her mother that I'd bring her family a meal this week. I love to cook for people, so while it sounds nice of me, it's not difficult. It is, however, a step out of my comfort zone to deliver it. I've stepped into this girl's home before and the memory gives me a heartache. Imagine an episode of Hoarders. Imagine teenage boys "cooking" the meals. Imagine dogs who should be let out more often.

If I really had God's heart, I would show up with a bucket and some Lysol. I would not only prepare the meal, but also stay to eat. I would leave extra time to take my young friend out for ice cream and invite her brothers, too.

Instead, I'll make the nicest meal I can, throw in some frozen pizzas and try not to cry. I'll crack the door to suffering and let a little more of God's heart seep into mine. And then, when that fuller heart prompts me again, I pray I'll be ready to do the next thing.

right outside our backdoor

Every year or so my college roommate Lauren and her husband come to visit. They run along the Fox River. They ride our bikes. They walk to town. And Lauren never fails to shake her head and say, "Girl, you live in a little paradise here."

I wish I lived like this was true. But too often the dishes pile up, I'm stressing about a work deadline, or it's deep into February and my home turf feels anything but magical. I think how nice it would be to live in the mountains or on the beach or somewhere in Europe. But that's just me trying to escape the ugly parts of me. Laziness. Boredom. Discontent. Not the best reasons to move.

Over the last few months, thanks to my husband's newfound passion for fitness, we have been riding bikes a lot. Nearly every day either me or my husband straps our four year old into the bike trailer and takes off along the Fox River. This breathtaking trail is, quite literally, right outside our backdoor. We ride by the Japanese gardens and the old windmill. We spot ducks and heron and cranes. We stop at parks with an exquisite view of the river. All this for the price of, well, nothing.


We've also been visiting the ballpark. Less than three miles away from our backdoor a Class A minor league baseball team entertains fans for the cost of a movie ticket. Our favorite Cougars game was one we attended with our neighbors Jae and Denton and my boys' beloved little friend Kyle. We ate hot dogs, drank beer and cheered like crazy as our team almost pulled it out in the ninth inning. And we watched our kids watch the fireworks. This is another reason why we live in paradise. So many people we love live here, too.


Speaking of people we love, another neighbor has been leaving big bags of apples right outside our backdoor all season. She is getting older and can't keep up with them anymore. As a result, I've processed more than 20 quarts of free, organic applesauce. I have enough of my mennonite grandma in me to know this: a generous neighbor with an apple tree is reason enough to call my home town paradise.

No matter where you live, be it a city, a suburb or a small town in the middle of nowhere, there is a marvelous world right outside your backdoor. Rivers and trees. Parks and baseball fields. People to love. So, rather than sit around longing to escape somewhere better, go out and look around. I'm betting you find a little paradise just waiting to be discovered.

hope is the thing smooth and round

On Monday, Elliott set off for preschool. Not the quaint neighborhood elementary school we're districted for, but the sprawling building with special ed teachers and therapists and aides a couple miles away. This year he'll even be taking the bus home. Starting today.

Every day this week I've dropped him off with a lump in my throat, watching him enter door 35 next to the girl with down syndrome and the boy in leg braces. It doesn't help that he cries.

During the summer, Elliott didn't seem much different from the two and three year olds he played with. But he's four, and when it comes to age-appropriate skills and school readiness, he lags pretty far behind.

Still, we have seen so much progress this year: spontaneous speech, alphabet singing, color matching. He can scale play structures with the best of them. And we're sure he'll be potty trained eventually.

Thanks to a skilled OT and an excellent book on sensory issues, we've been giving him a daily diet of wrestling, tickling, joint compressions and deep pressure massage. And sugar almost never passes his lips. We feel like we're getting somewhere.

But on Monday afternoon as I sat watching Elliott float and kick in his Ortho Kids Aquatics class, with a handful of other kids struggling with neurological conditions, I pushed back the tears realizing that this might always be his tribe.

In a pocket of my mind, I keep the thought that if we hold Elliott back a year, he'll catch up and enter kindergarten as a normal kid with his neighborhood friends at our neighborhood school. Frequently, I sneak this thought out of that pocket, like a little stone, and hold it, smooth and round, close to my heart.

On our daily walk to door 35, however, I accept that this may not be. Elliott may always ride the bus home from the big sprawling school, with wonderful teachers and therapists who see both his limitations and his potential. He may always be lagging behind.

Someone once said that parenting is just "a long goodbye." I'm guessing they meant that from the moment your child is born, he begins the process of leaving you. But I also think it refers to the heart-wrenching ordeal of unclenching your fist and letting go of how you wish things could be. Then eventually skipping that stone across the river and finding a new one to pocket.

sheer determination

Before Elliott's nap today we took a walk down Papa and Gigi's long dirt driveway, looking for toads and acorns and butterflies. I watched him run ahead, crazy hair flying, still matted with glue from the 48-hour EEG he completed 20 hours earlier. Other than the crusty remnants in his hair and little red welts on his scalp, there is no evidence of the painful experience this four year old endured. Kicking up the gravel, he was happy, jubilant even, and determined to get his mama to continue the walk.

"This way," he said forcefully, pointing at the dirt road that leads to the county road.

The sun was bearing down but I smiled and said yes. Elliott trotted on.

When we reached the end of the private dirt road, I tried to steer him back to the house.

"No," he said stubbornly. "This way." He pointed down the paved county road.

"No, Elliott, this road is dangerous," I told him. "Cars go fast. And we need to go back to Papa and Gigi's."

"No," he shouted. "This way." Then he sat down in the gravel.

I offered a treat. No. A boat ride. No. Tubing. No. To look for deer. No. Elliott stood his ground.

"Hmm," I said and gave him a sly grin. "How about we take some of these rocks and go throw them in the lake at the fish? Do you think you could hit one of the fish?"

"Okay," he bounced up, grabbed two handfuls of gravel and started running back down the road toward the house. "Rocks at fish," he called.

This is my son: stubbornly determined, but if you come up with a pleasing option, he will happily change course. He is exceedingly adventurous, never bored and rarely sad.

Sometimes I think he could endure almost anything and still emerge resilient and happy.

On Friday night, over 24 hours into the at-home EEG test, Elliott was growing weary of being wired and hooked up to a video monitor and he absolutely didn't want to go to bed. At 8 pm we tried to lay down. At 9 pm we came back downstairs and tried to watch a movie with Andrew and Liam. At 10 pm we went back up to bed. He was restless and whimpering. He sobbed himself to sleep. I very nearly called it quits and took the EEG off.

This test is ridiculous, I thought. It's never going to capture what the neurologist needs to see. In 6 months we have only witnessed a seizure-like episode twice. The chances of seeing it now were slim to say the least. There was no way we were going to subject our four year old to this anguish again. No way I would watch the happiest boy in town cry his heart out and be able to do nothing to help him.

We had promised Elliott we would go to Papa and Gigi's lake house on Saturday and when we arrived we would take the wires off his head. We thought this would help him understand there would be an end to the misery. Elliott was mildly consoled by the promise of a boat ride and deer sightings and a candle to blow out on his Sunday morning cinnamon bun.

I considered taking the EEG stuff off before we left, allowing him to enjoy the four hour drive, but we had made it this far. 48 hours was in reach.

An hour and a half from the lake, in the midst of a nap, Elliott opened his eyes. It was soon clear that he wasn't awake. He began the strange repetitive behaviors - head lolling, lip smacking, eye rolling, muscle twitching - we had seen only twice before. The worrisome episodes that brought us back to the neurologist and led to the awful EEG in the first place.

If you have ever seen a child endure seizure-like behavior, you know how it quickens your pulse and makes your blood run cold. There is no way to rouse him. Nothing to do. Elliott's went on for more than 20 minutes. And it was all recorded on an EEG. It was a miracle. An impossible miracle.

There are moments, like yesterday in the car, when I think we should be much more worried about Elliott. About the fact that his nystagmus (eye shaking) is becoming more frequent. That his seizure-like episodes are increasing in duration. That he still can't carry on a conversation in more than two- and three-word sound bites.

But there are also moments, like yesterday in the car, when I am reminded that there are small miracles. That we will get some answers. That our tough and determined little boy can endure.

And that, even when Elliott stubbornly wants to go "this way," we can still find happy ways to turn him around.

some thoughts on marriage

This weekend my cousin Noel got married. The ceremony and reception, held at our favorite local farm, were near perfect. In my view, few weddings come close to the awesomeness of ours. Noel and Robyn's was one of them.

Several weeks ago my family held a bridal shower for Robyn and I was asked to prepare a reflection on marriage, some words of wisdom to share with this bride-to-be as she embarks on her new journey with Noel. Although 2011 marks ten years of marriage to Andrew, I feel about as far away from expert or even experienced as someone who is just beginning. Even so, I have definitely learned a few things. (Not that I always follow my own advice, of course, but I try to/want to/hope to.) After reading the first third ("the beginning") of the wonderful Billy Collins poem Aristotle (the other two thirds—"the middle" and "the end"—seemed a bit too overwhelming for a nearly newlywed), I offered my insights. More or less, this is what I said:

:: Be appreciative. When Andrew and I took a pre-marriage class, one long-married couple urged the group, upon waking every morning, to gaze into our spouse's eyes and say, "I appreciate you." I thought they were goofballs. But it's one of the few things I remember from that class. Because as silly as it sounded, it's key. Overall, there is a 99% chance that you—as the wife—will end up doing most of the work in the home. And after a while, this can be frustrating. But when your husband helps out, thank him. It will mean a lot to him to be acknowledged. It will encourage him to do more. It will make him more appreciative of you. And, best of all, it will change you from feeling sorry for yourself to feeling grateful.

:: Be available. There are a million good things you can be doing outside of your home and your relationship. And a million things people will ask you to do. Don't be gone all the time. Don't be too busy. Don't always say yes. This is a constant struggle for me. I am a natural-born helper. But sometimes doing good comes at the expense of the people I love the most. Figure out when it's most important for you to be around and available. Evening is primarily the time when Andrew and I connect and regroup. If I'm gone too many nights in a row, it quickly becomes clear that I need to readjust my priorities.

:: Be affectionate. Early on, I didn't have any trouble with this. Holding hands, hugging, it all came so naturally. But, touch is not my love language, and as life became busier and more complicated, affection fell by the wayside. Chances are very good that your husband will respond positively to physical touch. Most men do. Grabbing a hand, rubbing a back, sneaking a hug, these gestures are instant relaxers and diffusers. Literally reaching out will bring you back to the moment and make you a nicer person when you're in a not-so-nice mood.

:: Be awed. Regularly celebrate the amazing things about your spouse—his musical or athletic talent, the way he fixes a sink or writes a limerick. Husbands love to be told how excellent and gifted they are. Cheer yours on. You are his number one fan. Never forget it.

:: Be atonement. Be sacrificial love. Be forgiving. Be Jesus to each other. Be at-one-ment, but be yourself. I love how Madeline L'Engle puts it in her book Two-Part Invention:

What I must learn is to love with all of me, giving all of me, and yet remain whole in myself. Any other kind of love is too demanding of the other; it takes, rather than gives. To love so completely that you lose yourself in another person is not good. You are giving a weight, not the sense of lightness and light that loving someone should give. To love wholly, generously, and yet retain the core that makes you you.

Remain the beautiful, unique woman you are, but be "at one" with your spouse, living in a constant state of grace and awesomeness together.

:: Be amusing and adventurous. This is easy. You are this. It is a natural part of the beginning. But in the middle and the end, not so much. Being fun and spontaneous is more difficult later. But it's when your relationship needs it most. Take risks. Do silly things. Start fun traditions. You don't believe it now, but there will be mundane and difficult times ahead. Find the joy. Let go. Play games. Explore together. Laugh. Let these things buoy your relationship and fill your memories.

Now that I'm writing this advice, it occurs to me that every point in my little reflection requires intention. In other words, none of these things just happen. Sure, at the beginning of a marriage, we may do them all with very little effort, floating on the excitement of new love. But in time, all good things demand hard work. As the pastor at this very wedding said so poignantly, we don't create oneness, but it's our job to nurture it and protect it and work so very hard to keep it.

Amid the embrace of family and friends and a loving God, a beaming Noel and Robyn transformed from single to hitched. And like every couple that's gone before, they have absolutely no idea what they will find when the doors lurch apart. What hard and beautiful things lie ahead. But like all of us, they can choose how to be. And that can make a world of difference.

{photo by Liam}