Some excerpts from the past week:
Gemma and Joshua wrapped up their swim lessons for November. Gemma now knows the 4 major strokes, though they are far from perfected. She seems not to know that swimming lengths of the pool is "work." It's all one giant, fun time for her.
Josh, too. Though he has not been told to swim lengths yet. Because of his age, he "should" have been placed in the pre-levels. But because of his progress this summer, I signed him up for the Big Kid league. They didn't ask for his birthday, and I didn't tell. I was walking by him at one point and tried to catch his eye just so I could wave. He, instead, was fascinating by something in the water (perhaps on the pool floor?) and after a few seconds of staring, just stuck his whole face in to get a better look, as though the water were no barrier at all.
So fun to see. I'm still not as comfortable as that. But my technique must be improving because I can swim longer now.
***
Gemma was the Special Student at her program at school (where she goes for one full day a week--it is called the Home School Academy and she loves being part of her K-1 class of 10 students).
Being the Special Student required that she make a poster about herself and present it to the class. The temptation to intervene and "improve" her poster was great. But I held off. I really did. My only contribution was getting her the photographs and supplies she wanted and making sure she had spelled everything correctly.
Her teacher told me she did a great job, and that she now knew "everything" there was to know about Sparks. (This is Gemma's AWANA club.) This I found heartening. Her scripture-memory club was the one thing she was most excited about sharing!
She also included a pink ribbon and told, so she told me, the class that her mom is a "breast cancer champion." Interesting. Of all things to say about me. . .
***
Joshua does not know his ABC's. He can't identify most of the letters. He has no interest in learning.
This does not worry me. You don't need to write in words of comfort and assurance about how he is a boy and how boys develop verbal skills later et al. Truly: I am not worried. If he ends up being one of these kids who does not read until he is 12 years old, that's fine. That's one of the advantages of home schooling. He (and Gemma, for that matter) are not on any institution's time table.
But I still try. I surround him with all the same tools of literacy I surrounded Gemma with. When his letter-switch flips on, there will be letters available to him.
So, the other day, when he finished up his table work during our "school" time, and asked to play a game out of my home school cabinet, I pulled out one he had not yet seen. The Leap Frog Fridge Phonics game.
It was inside a non-descript box, waiting for him. This game is clever. It includes one big piece that plays the ABC song and 26 additional letter pieces. You put one into the big piece, and a song plays that is specific to each letter and the sound(s) it makes. Genius!
I told Josh, "This is a special game you haven't seen yet. But it's noisy." He grinned. "So you can't play it down here while we are still working. You can wait until we go upstairs together, or you can go upstairs to discover by yourself right now."
He took the box and was off.
Clump clunk, up the stairs. Rustle bang. Music plays. Rustle bang. A little more music. Rustle clunk. Then clum clunk, back down the stairs.
He appeared with a scowl. A piercing scowl, that is, aimed straight at me as though I were guilty of a trick that was very much unappreciated. "This," he announced, plunking the box on the table, "Is the ABC's!"
Can't blame a Mom for trying.
***
We spent Thanksgiving in Hastings, Nebraska, with my brother and his family. Bryan baked pumpkin pies the few days before. He makes his own crusts, and culls his own pumpkin mush from his own garden pumpkins. So this pie-making evolution is one that spans a few months.
He finished late Tuesday night and gave me some directions as he came to bed, for what he needed me to do the next morning with the pies.
The conversation that night went something like this:
(I was already reading my book. Bryan enters.)
B: Can you do something for me tomorrow?
A!: Uh huh.
B: Can you ________(insert white noise here because, come on, after 11 years of marriage, doesn't he kind of know that once I'm reading in bed, I am no longer listening to anyone else? I'm done. Done with the day. Done being nice to other people. Done practicing good manners. I am now in the "going to sleep" process, which, for me, includes at least a solid 45 minutes of reading before the light goes out. I'm not going to apologize for that. Bryan has his own "going to sleep" process, too. His only lasts about 16 seconds from the time he gets into bed to the moment he is asleep, but it's still a process. And I don't interrupt it with lengthy instructions for the next day's details.)______ for me?
A!: Yeah.
The next morning, I came downstairs to find pies scattered all over the counter tops, island, and inside the fridge.
I called him at work. "Good morning, Baby Duck," I began. "Uh. . .what am I supposed to do with these pies, again?"
Wrap them, now that they've cooled. Freeze several in the outside deep freeze. Prepare some to be brought to Hastings. "And those little ones," he said -- oh yes, the little ones, because he has several individual, personal-size pie tins -- "I thought we could bring with us on the road."
"On the road?" I asked.
"Yeah," he clarified, "As little pie snacks."
Pie snack. This phrase tickles me. Pie snack. I couldn't get over it. I still can't.
Later that afternoon, as we loaded into our sedan for the 7 hour drive, Joshua saw the pie snacks going into the cooler. "Is that a snack for us?" he asked, with great optimism.
"Yes," his father replied. "It is an exquisitely delicious pie snack for us."
And this was funny, too. That word exquisite. Have you ever heard it used naturally in a real-life context that does NOT include a reference to fine jewelry or art?
Exquisite.
Go ahead. Try to use that word today in normal conversation and see if the person you speak it to doesn't trip over it.
***
Thanksgiving was a delight. John had cooked the turkey the day before, and he and Bryan prepared all the side dishes the day of, so it was a logistically relaxed kitchen. The kids played together all day. Adults chatted and caught up with each other around tasty appetizers and wine and, frankly, too many cups of iced coffee rounded off by Caribbean Cinnamon creamer. I may be brunette, by I like my coffee blond. . .
Are there certain people in your life you like to make laugh? In some crowds, I don't try for too much humor. Maybe these are crowds that have already demonstrated an unwillingness to laugh (at me, anyway) or they are crowds that already have a very funny person in them and I like to be among those laughing. I realize that I really like to laugh with my brother and sister-in-law and to make them laugh, too.
If you are this type of personality, you'll know that it's not anything you try for. Trying is the surest way to be not funny. There is just a certain chemistry in the air that encourages you to say stuff. Stuff you might not say if you were to think it through first.
Like, when we were sitting around at dessert time having a lively discussion with family and a few others guests who had dropped by and, suddenly, the door was opened to another guest: Fr. Walsh. And I said to my brother, with a fake scowl, "Hey! Who ordered the priest?"
Not that the priest heard me.
Later that night, after the guests had gone, 6 of us remained around the kitchen table to play a family favorite: The Questions Game. I won't describe it for you. . . but it requires only pen, paper, and people and I have never not had a great time playing it.
Part of the fun is that people can either go for the laugh or go for the win (sometimes they can do both. . .) and that night, John went for the humor. I laughed so hard, again and again--the put your head on the table, shoulder-shaking, tear-streaming, gut-busting laughter that can never be foreseen. It just shows up. When we're lucky.
The next day, the upper part of my abs ached. It was an exquisite pain.
***
One guest there was an old lady. (Am I supposed to say "older"? Of course she was "older." 50 is "older" to me. This lady was old. In anybody's book.)
She was a former student of John's, from his memoir writing class. Over a year ago, through a tragic yet petty set of mis-steps, a stack of her writing at least 6 inches thick got thrown away. She had no copies of it.
Somehow, this got mentioned to someone who mentioned it to Susan who told John and though he had thrown away the final projects of all his others students (as all teachers do--what? are we supposed to hang on to everyone else's work???) he had saved this woman's.
This Thanksgiving, she and her husband came by to say "hello" and to collect an inch of her work back from what she had lost.
Her husband explained that she liked to write, that she specialized in capturing all her family and personal stories for posterity, but that without a class that demanded homework, she would never sit down and actually do it.
I could relate. (Though I'll tell you: What does this woman have going on in her life that she can't "make time" to write? Geez. I implore all of you to remind me once my nest is empty: Amy! Get to work!) So I shared with them how I keep this blog, how there are a few people who e-mail me to tell me I'm a lazy slacker if and when I miss my Sunday deadline, how this keeps me honest. More honest than I'd be otherwise, that is.
They both looked at me blankly. "We don't do computers," the husband said. I'd gathered this. The woman's final project was all hand-written.
Still. Blogspot is very easy technology. . .
He also commented that at my young age, I'm "just at the beginning," and "what do you even have to write about?"
Ah, I smiled. You have a point there, sir. . .
***
Gemma turned 7 last Tuesday. We gave her a birthday present and we ate at IHOP and her friend next door gave her a book titled Gemma the Gymnastics Fairy, which of course shocked us all because Gemma is not a popular name in America. But other than this, we delayed our celebration so we could spend it with her cousins in Hastings.
For the occasion, Gemma, Josh and I made a pinata. In the shape of a turkey. Long time readers know already that I love pinatas. Love to make 'em. Love to watch kids beat them. Love the sense of occasion they bring to any celebration.
Instead of loading it with candy, Gemma prepared a goody bag for each person who would be there. She did this all on her own, using the cards she had made in her Home School Academy art class, and some of her own stickers, and some of her own Halloween candy.
We used a big balloon for the turkey's body, a small one for the head with a cone of paper for the beak and a loose, pink balloon for the waddle. I attached the head to the body by means of a toilet paper roll and then cut two wings out of a cereal box. It was brilliant, really.
We paper mached that sucker periodically over two days. On Wednesday morning, hours before we were due to leave, we painted it.
Then, in an inexplicable moment of exquisite stupidity, I lifted that bird up by the head and cracked the neck clean off.
DOH!!!!
What to do what to do what to do what to do????? The kids looked at me with great concern. Gemma's suggestion, "We can duct tape it."
While I applauded her willingness to find a solution and her faith in the when-all-else-fails duct tape strategy, I announced, "Turkey triage!!!"
I mixed the paint into the bit of paper mache paste I had left and used paper towels to re-paste the neck into place. Joshua stood watch with the space heater, moving it in stages around the wound to dry it faster. And it worked. Disaster averted.
Gemma beamed at me as I worked quickly. She beamed when she saw that the neck was fixed. She beamed when I packed it, our bottles of wine and their puffy winter coats into a laundry basket for safe transport.
Her celebration on Friday was perfect. John and Susan got their chocolate fountain going and we stuck Gemma's candles into a piece of the pound cake that would later be used for dipping.
Joshua thought this fountain was a wonder. He dipped some stuff, took his plate to his seat, climbed onto the chair and surveyed his goodies. He spied a strawberry that, somehow, had no chocolate on it and said, "What's that for?"
Then we whacked open the pinata outside. By the time we got back in, it was already 3:00. We'd planned to come back to the Springs after the party. But, eh, 3:00 is late in winter time. And we were having such a nice day, we stayed one more night and shoved off first thing Saturday morning.
I asked Gemma if she'd had a good time. She had a great time. Did she like her little party? Did she like the pinata? Did she like spending 2 whole days with her cousins? Yes, yes, and yes again. She liked it all very much.
We listened to the remainder of The Railway Children on the way home. (An audio book we'd been enjoying since last week.) And we listened to all of Charlotte's Web, too. She loves audio books.
This is a 7th birthday she will remember fondly. There is no colored ribbon for a mother and father who would champion it for her as we have done. Just thanksgiving. One day.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
An Argument for Memory
Let's take the StoryTime Machine back to a year I do not like to revisit: my freshman year of high school. It will be instructive. This was the Fall of 1989.
I'm telling you now: my recollection of these details might stun you.
What's more: I've never told this story before. I've hardly even thought of it until just recently. But before recent history comes ancient history.
Hence: the Fall of 1989.
This year, my high school had hired a new Theology teacher names Cameron Cehola. This was Czek name, he told us on the first day. There we were, 23 or so students on our first day of high school, staring agape at a teacher who had just told us his first name.
Forget "Cehola" and its ethnic origins. Who in the heck is named "Cameron"?
He had earned his Masters degree in Theology. This was shocking, too. You mean to say that people actually studied theology?
Mr. Cehola was a young man. He would sit on his desk, gripping the front edge with both hands as he leaned forward and swung his legs. To demonstrate what, exactly? I think it was to show us how very engaging he found our young minds. To show us he was interesting enough to dispense with standard teacher formalities and get serious, instead, about opening the world of theology to us.
If this was his strategy, he had miscalculated. We were not the class of kids in Dead Poet's Society who rejoiced to find an inspiring voice singing in an institution of academic oppression. We were just in Theology because that's where the guidance councilor scheduled us in Immaculate Conception High School because that's where our parents had sent us.
Most of us, anyway, saw things this way.
A few held Mr. Cehola in utter disdain. I recall Lauren Guidice's older sister, who was a Junior, bragging to those of us near her in study hall (which was all ages) that she called him "Cam" to his face, repeatedly. I remember feeling so scandalized by this older girls' boldness. Had she gotten away with that?
Maybe there were a few others who were like me: I didn't know what to make of a guy who sat on his desk as he taught us, or who wasn't actually Catholic (we discovered early on), or who used words like "exam" instead of "test," and "hypothesis" even though this wasn't a science class.
Part of me was Dead Poet's Society-ish. I did find it thrilling to have a teacher who wanted to make a challenge out of his class. Even though it was Theology. Do you know that for our first "exam," we were to memorize the Beatitudes as found in the Gospel of Matthew??? This was an extraordinary assignment! Memorize part of the Bible? No way! (I experienced 11 years of formal, Catholic school education--grade 6 through 16--and this is the only time I was required to memorize scripture!)
I responded to the challenge gladly. I remember sitting on the Sorce's couch, where I was babysitting one afternoon, memorizing those Beatitudes, thinking that I was going to blow Cameron Cehola away by getting a perfect score on his exam.
There were other things to know for this exam, and I studied them, too. I went to class the day of and wrote out my answers and left confident that I had aced that thing. Do you remember that feeling of knowing you've done well on a test after you've prepared to do well on it? It's been a long, long time since I've taken one. . . I miss that feeling. . .
We came back to class the next day and Mr. Cehola had already graded our exams. He handed them back. There was a red mark on mine. Points taken off. It was surprising. My grade was a 98%, and yet there could be no rejoicing until I looked into something.
I consulted my notes that I had transcribed from the chalkboard. I looked back at my test. I was not wrong.
The question had stated, "Define 'theology.'"
My answer (and I promise that I am going from memory here, sick though that is):
"Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another in light of revelation."
(Today, I would quibble with that definition. But back then, all I knew is that this is what Mr. Cehola had written on the board and told us to know for the "exam.")
I asked, basically, what I had lost points on.
"Ah," he said smugly. "Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another by light of revelation."
This drew scoffs and some guffaws and a bit of outrage from several others who had also prepared for the test.
To which Mr. Cehola took up his perch on the desk and launched into how the two words were different and their uses created a world of difference between his definition and ours. My peers tried to argue that he was being too picky. He easily defeated their argument because, well, he was right. There is a difference between "by" and "in."
Finally, I had the chance to weigh in. "The point is not that we got the definition wrong. The point is that we all wrote down the definition you put up on the board."
This shut everyone up. They liked what they were now hearing.
Mr. Cehola, not so much. "I would not have put up the wrong definition," he said.
"Let's check every one's notebooks," I said. "If we all wrote down 'in' instead of 'by,' we'll know what was written on the board."
He refused to check. He hopped off the desk, made another comment from the previous argument--the one he could win--about the differences between the two prepositions. And he tried to go on with the lesson.
I couldn't let him. I couldn't. The injustice of it consumed me. It was so logical for him simply to fix the problem. Recollect the texts. Award 2 pts to each student who deserved it. Move on.
But he couldn't admit that he'd made this mistake. And that's when I decided he was a fraud, and my disappointment crashed on top of the injustice. I was incensed. I would not let it rest. There was nothing he could say that would make me stop arguing the point, which the rest of the room found very entertaining. They cast their lot with me. This teacher now had a full-blown uprising on his hands.
He announced that we were all to write out answers to some BS chapter questions. It was seat work. Silent work. Nothing was resolved about the test. I was crying. Seriously. It was that important to me to hear him admit that he was wrong and I was right. But it wasn't a pride thing. Everyone in the room knew I was right. In this way, I had "won."
I just needed to hear him say it out loud. I never did.
Something clicked over for him, though. Something about that day, plus all the days of upperclassmen calling him "Cam," plus, most likely the biggest dynamic of all, something about seeing this high school for a couple of week and realizing that there were a lot of average kids inside of it--something made him quit. His job. I mean, he left the school.
A replacement came soon after, Mrs. Diesing. We loved her. And she either stood at the podium or sat behind her desk. And though she was one of several people who taught, as the text book did, that the wondrous stories we read in the Bible are "biblical myth," she also confided to us one day that she, "Reads the Bible while take a bubble bath--it's corny, I know, but I do it because it relaxes me," thus making her my first teacher ever to say that she read scripture.
So much for ancient history. Flashing forward now:
The other day, Joshua was still in his pajamas. We were ready to start our school work, for which we all must be dressed. I asked him to go upstairs and change.
"But Mommy," he said, calmly, "Sometimes you stay in pajamas all day."
"No," I said, calmly, "I get dressed every morning before we start school work."
He insisted, "There are times when you stayed in your jammies for a long, long time."
"No there aren't," I told him. Then, sternly, "Please go upstairs now."
He headed upstairs, but was now perturbed. Seriously. "I know it's true," he pleaded. "You stay in your jammies sometimes!"
"When, Josh? Like when I was sick??? Like when I was doing chemotherapy? Is that when I stayed in jammies????"
"No," he said with certainty, now at the top of the stairs. Talking down below to me through the railings. "When we came home from Betsy's and Daddy brought us but you were here and it was all day, that's when."
I had no idea what he was talking about. Still don't.
But he said it with conviction. There is something he knew that I didn't and he wasn't stalling to avoid getting dressed. He just needed to hear me validate his point. I remember that feeling. I remember that it wasn't about getting a different result out of the other person--100% or 98%? who cares?--it was about the argument itself. It was about what I knew and needing the other person to acknowledge that what I was saying was important.
I could hear his frustration. What others would take (understandably) and have taken (understandably) to be an argumentative spirit or bratty-ness, I understood this was just what God built into him. He loves words. They are important to him. It is impossible for him to move on from the place of being misunderstood. I know that feeling. . .
"OK, Josh," I told him, "I don't remember the time you are talking about, but I agree that there have been some days when I have stayed in my jammies for a long time. Today is not one of them. We both need to be dressed."
He nodded at this. Clearly, I had scratched his itch. He stood and the galloped like a horse to his room where he got dressed in just a few minutes.
I kind of feel like I passed this exam. Blessed are they who remember the past well enough to apply it to the present.
I'm telling you now: my recollection of these details might stun you.
What's more: I've never told this story before. I've hardly even thought of it until just recently. But before recent history comes ancient history.
Hence: the Fall of 1989.
This year, my high school had hired a new Theology teacher names Cameron Cehola. This was Czek name, he told us on the first day. There we were, 23 or so students on our first day of high school, staring agape at a teacher who had just told us his first name.
Forget "Cehola" and its ethnic origins. Who in the heck is named "Cameron"?
He had earned his Masters degree in Theology. This was shocking, too. You mean to say that people actually studied theology?
Mr. Cehola was a young man. He would sit on his desk, gripping the front edge with both hands as he leaned forward and swung his legs. To demonstrate what, exactly? I think it was to show us how very engaging he found our young minds. To show us he was interesting enough to dispense with standard teacher formalities and get serious, instead, about opening the world of theology to us.
If this was his strategy, he had miscalculated. We were not the class of kids in Dead Poet's Society who rejoiced to find an inspiring voice singing in an institution of academic oppression. We were just in Theology because that's where the guidance councilor scheduled us in Immaculate Conception High School because that's where our parents had sent us.
Most of us, anyway, saw things this way.
A few held Mr. Cehola in utter disdain. I recall Lauren Guidice's older sister, who was a Junior, bragging to those of us near her in study hall (which was all ages) that she called him "Cam" to his face, repeatedly. I remember feeling so scandalized by this older girls' boldness. Had she gotten away with that?
Maybe there were a few others who were like me: I didn't know what to make of a guy who sat on his desk as he taught us, or who wasn't actually Catholic (we discovered early on), or who used words like "exam" instead of "test," and "hypothesis" even though this wasn't a science class.
Part of me was Dead Poet's Society-ish. I did find it thrilling to have a teacher who wanted to make a challenge out of his class. Even though it was Theology. Do you know that for our first "exam," we were to memorize the Beatitudes as found in the Gospel of Matthew??? This was an extraordinary assignment! Memorize part of the Bible? No way! (I experienced 11 years of formal, Catholic school education--grade 6 through 16--and this is the only time I was required to memorize scripture!)
I responded to the challenge gladly. I remember sitting on the Sorce's couch, where I was babysitting one afternoon, memorizing those Beatitudes, thinking that I was going to blow Cameron Cehola away by getting a perfect score on his exam.
There were other things to know for this exam, and I studied them, too. I went to class the day of and wrote out my answers and left confident that I had aced that thing. Do you remember that feeling of knowing you've done well on a test after you've prepared to do well on it? It's been a long, long time since I've taken one. . . I miss that feeling. . .
We came back to class the next day and Mr. Cehola had already graded our exams. He handed them back. There was a red mark on mine. Points taken off. It was surprising. My grade was a 98%, and yet there could be no rejoicing until I looked into something.
I consulted my notes that I had transcribed from the chalkboard. I looked back at my test. I was not wrong.
The question had stated, "Define 'theology.'"
My answer (and I promise that I am going from memory here, sick though that is):
"Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another in light of revelation."
(Today, I would quibble with that definition. But back then, all I knew is that this is what Mr. Cehola had written on the board and told us to know for the "exam.")
I asked, basically, what I had lost points on.
"Ah," he said smugly. "Theology is the study of all things in relation to one another by light of revelation."
This drew scoffs and some guffaws and a bit of outrage from several others who had also prepared for the test.
To which Mr. Cehola took up his perch on the desk and launched into how the two words were different and their uses created a world of difference between his definition and ours. My peers tried to argue that he was being too picky. He easily defeated their argument because, well, he was right. There is a difference between "by" and "in."
Finally, I had the chance to weigh in. "The point is not that we got the definition wrong. The point is that we all wrote down the definition you put up on the board."
This shut everyone up. They liked what they were now hearing.
Mr. Cehola, not so much. "I would not have put up the wrong definition," he said.
"Let's check every one's notebooks," I said. "If we all wrote down 'in' instead of 'by,' we'll know what was written on the board."
He refused to check. He hopped off the desk, made another comment from the previous argument--the one he could win--about the differences between the two prepositions. And he tried to go on with the lesson.
I couldn't let him. I couldn't. The injustice of it consumed me. It was so logical for him simply to fix the problem. Recollect the texts. Award 2 pts to each student who deserved it. Move on.
But he couldn't admit that he'd made this mistake. And that's when I decided he was a fraud, and my disappointment crashed on top of the injustice. I was incensed. I would not let it rest. There was nothing he could say that would make me stop arguing the point, which the rest of the room found very entertaining. They cast their lot with me. This teacher now had a full-blown uprising on his hands.
He announced that we were all to write out answers to some BS chapter questions. It was seat work. Silent work. Nothing was resolved about the test. I was crying. Seriously. It was that important to me to hear him admit that he was wrong and I was right. But it wasn't a pride thing. Everyone in the room knew I was right. In this way, I had "won."
I just needed to hear him say it out loud. I never did.
Something clicked over for him, though. Something about that day, plus all the days of upperclassmen calling him "Cam," plus, most likely the biggest dynamic of all, something about seeing this high school for a couple of week and realizing that there were a lot of average kids inside of it--something made him quit. His job. I mean, he left the school.
A replacement came soon after, Mrs. Diesing. We loved her. And she either stood at the podium or sat behind her desk. And though she was one of several people who taught, as the text book did, that the wondrous stories we read in the Bible are "biblical myth," she also confided to us one day that she, "Reads the Bible while take a bubble bath--it's corny, I know, but I do it because it relaxes me," thus making her my first teacher ever to say that she read scripture.
So much for ancient history. Flashing forward now:
The other day, Joshua was still in his pajamas. We were ready to start our school work, for which we all must be dressed. I asked him to go upstairs and change.
"But Mommy," he said, calmly, "Sometimes you stay in pajamas all day."
"No," I said, calmly, "I get dressed every morning before we start school work."
He insisted, "There are times when you stayed in your jammies for a long, long time."
"No there aren't," I told him. Then, sternly, "Please go upstairs now."
He headed upstairs, but was now perturbed. Seriously. "I know it's true," he pleaded. "You stay in your jammies sometimes!"
"When, Josh? Like when I was sick??? Like when I was doing chemotherapy? Is that when I stayed in jammies????"
"No," he said with certainty, now at the top of the stairs. Talking down below to me through the railings. "When we came home from Betsy's and Daddy brought us but you were here and it was all day, that's when."
I had no idea what he was talking about. Still don't.
But he said it with conviction. There is something he knew that I didn't and he wasn't stalling to avoid getting dressed. He just needed to hear me validate his point. I remember that feeling. I remember that it wasn't about getting a different result out of the other person--100% or 98%? who cares?--it was about the argument itself. It was about what I knew and needing the other person to acknowledge that what I was saying was important.
I could hear his frustration. What others would take (understandably) and have taken (understandably) to be an argumentative spirit or bratty-ness, I understood this was just what God built into him. He loves words. They are important to him. It is impossible for him to move on from the place of being misunderstood. I know that feeling. . .
"OK, Josh," I told him, "I don't remember the time you are talking about, but I agree that there have been some days when I have stayed in my jammies for a long time. Today is not one of them. We both need to be dressed."
He nodded at this. Clearly, I had scratched his itch. He stood and the galloped like a horse to his room where he got dressed in just a few minutes.
I kind of feel like I passed this exam. Blessed are they who remember the past well enough to apply it to the present.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Veteran's Weekend
Yes, yes, I know Bryan is the veteran in this family. Thank you, Bryan. And thank you to all serve.
Now, let's talk about me.
I am a veteran of something, too. Pre-school motherhood. The days of caring for little ones are behind me. I don't think I had realized it until this weekend.
We left on Wednesday afternoon for Weston, MO, where we have some land and a big tobacco barn that was full of. . .shtuff that Bryan needed to get rid of. We also have dear friends in the area, Helen and David, and, from our time in Korea, Parin and her family who are now stationed at Leavenworth.
Bryan spent both days selling stuff out of the barn. The kids and I spent Thursday with Helen and David and then Friday with Parin and Jason, and their two girls, who are the same ages as our two kids. A delightful time all around.
A note on our drive out: The kids travel so well now, it is painless to drive long distances with them. We were not commited to making it all the way out and with two hours to go, Bryan considered stopping in Topeka for the night. But then we caught a talk radio program that covered something outrageous. It really got his dander up and with this mighty shot of adrenaline, he felt great for the tail end of the journey. We checked in at 1:45 AM.
This is also where I noticed the first difference. Gemma and Josh can both do everything for themselves in the back seat now. And they're both thrilled to watch DVD's on their little players. There was a time when I could not sit for 20 minutes without having to turn around for some reason or another. This time, Bryan and I had the chance to talk for a couple hours without interruption.
Aunt Helen and Uncle David are the kids' Godparents. Helen has a giant service dog. I would tell you the breed--it's something French--but I don't remember it and you've never heard of it anyway. His name is BroJean and he's wonderful. The kids love him, too.
We discovered on the weekend of our ParTAY, whence BroJean sat outside with Helen, several of our neighbors and a yard full of neighborhood kids, that this breed shepherds. At least, BroJean does. He just couldn't lie still. He could not stand watching a bunch of children scatter and run around. So he got up, loped over on his long legs, and proceeded to herd them into a group, either by circling them, or nudging them, or--yes indeed--nipping them.
Well. Just one. And it happened to be Mr. Colorado's daughter. Mr. Colorado loves dogs more than Colorado, I think, and was very understanding. Instinct. What can you do? Besides, Kate was fine. . .
Helen, David, BroJean, their doberman who is called Tootsie, the kids and I drove over to our land. The dogs love to run there and I was glad the kids would have a chance to poke around, too.
The went for it. Almost immediately. It was cold out, but something about the fields and thickets beckoned. Later, Helen remarked to me, "Um. . .We have 2 kids and 2 dogs wandering around out there that we can't see."
I shrugged and said, "BroJean is with them. I am completely confident he's watching over them."
This is why shepherding dogs are so great. Why we had planned to get one if we had moved to that piece of land. Why we would still get one if we end up moving to the country at some future point.
Would I have let them go off if they had been much younger? No. But this is what it means that Joshua is now older. I know how he thinks and he has the maturity and good sense to stick with his sister and not do anything stupid. (Like what, even? It's not like we have cliffs to jump off of. . .)
They eventually returned. After nearly an hour. BroJean was right by their sides. Joshua's wool coat was stuck full of thistles, which gave us some clues as to their adventure. I asked Gemma what BroJean had been doing. "He was just by us the whole time," she said.
What a dog!
Bryan made a wad of cash from the sale. I had Gemma count it. In our conversations throughout the day, certain turns of phrase would come up, like, "barn-burner," or. . .a few others that now escape me. One of the kids would ask us to explain, and we would. Helen said, towards the end of the afternoon, "I'm seeing that homeschool is really just an all-the-time thing." Yes. On days like that, I am reminded of it.
By the way, the name Weston, Missouri might seem familiar to you now due to recent news. Those maniacs from that cult in Topeka scheduled a protest at a fallen soldier's funeral the weekend before last. They have to obtain a permit to protest, and they have the constitutional right to one.
The townspeople of Weston knew their rights, too. They organized in about 24 hours. Over half the town turned out to do the following:
Take up all the parking spaces along the funeral route and surrounded the protest area;
Wire up a sound system from one of the bars and blast "Amazing Grace" and other songs whenever the protesters started singing;
assemble the Patriot Guard (a biker group that will show up whenever requested for this purpose) to gun their engines whenever the protesters tried to speak;
stand right in front of the protesting group with a giant flag held up so that none of their hateful signs could be read;
and, of course, stand on the flag line approaching the funeral home to specifically honor the fallen.
This didn't just hit CNN and other national news, it actually got international coverage as well. Letters poured into the Weston Chronicle from all over the country.
The hope, I would think, is that other towns will use this as a model for handling future attempts by these hideous cult members and after a year of getting shut down systematically, they'll find some other way to garner attention and money.
It was a glorious day for Weston.
Helen says they'd like to see "Pull a Weston" enter the vernacular.
I entertained visions of what this would look like 50 years from now. My best hypothesis: it will come to mean, "to take up space or opportunity another party thought it had privy to." So, when you pull into a parking space someone else is waiting for, you would be "pulling a Weston."
No part of that carries the sheen of honor. But that's how language is. At least, that's my prediction for how this language will go.
Finally, David, Helen and the Ponces had dinner out at the best BBQ place I've ever enjoyed, and it was a joy to revisit it Thursday night. The kids were a delight to have with us and once again I found myself really liking that we can all like having them around.
Quick Josh story here: I brought their scooters with us and they zoomed around David and Helen's cul-de-sac for a while to burn off their pent up car energy earlier in the day. Josh's scooter needed a quick inspection, and when I gave it back to him, he jumped on and yelled, "Ride on!!!" and zoomed away.
What a boy.
On Friday, the kids and I got to Parin's on-post house at 9:15. We did not leave until 9:00 PM, and this following a leisurely day of the kids playing somewhere else and Parin and I chatting and chatting and. . .you know, there are just some friends you can re-connect with without labor. It was awesome.
In all that kid-playing, there was not one single squabble. The four of them just got along really well, and had a hard time saying good-bye when it was time.
Parin remembered, "Amy, we used to sit on the floor with them in Korea and say, 'OK, Sarah, now we share the toy with Gemma, and Gemma says, 'Thank you'" and on and on. . . I had forgotten! But she was right! We used to pour a lot of energy into teaching those girls basic kindness and manners. All the Mommies in our little group did, actually, and I know now what an unusual blessing that was.
Well. There we were. Reaping what we'd sown. Polite, sociable children who loved to just play, play, play with each other!
Saturday morning, we took the time to swim in the pool before loading up for the long ride home. Instead of movies all the way, we listened to some audio books. That's a simple pleasure, too. We had finished up Paddington before the trip, a book that made all three of us laugh out loud as we tootled around town. This time, we listened to Clementine and it was short and sweet. Then we started The Railway Children, published in 1906 or so. Normally, books that old are not written in language that I or the kids want to listen to. But this one. . .we are all enchanted.
So. I sign off as a happy Veteran. Those early years were not easy for me. I am thankful for them, of course. For some mothers, those baby days are the highlight of parenthood. For me, they were the woods that I knew I'd get through one day. That day is here! God was so good to have helped me persevere to a season of sweet harvest.
Now, let's talk about me.
I am a veteran of something, too. Pre-school motherhood. The days of caring for little ones are behind me. I don't think I had realized it until this weekend.
We left on Wednesday afternoon for Weston, MO, where we have some land and a big tobacco barn that was full of. . .shtuff that Bryan needed to get rid of. We also have dear friends in the area, Helen and David, and, from our time in Korea, Parin and her family who are now stationed at Leavenworth.
Bryan spent both days selling stuff out of the barn. The kids and I spent Thursday with Helen and David and then Friday with Parin and Jason, and their two girls, who are the same ages as our two kids. A delightful time all around.
A note on our drive out: The kids travel so well now, it is painless to drive long distances with them. We were not commited to making it all the way out and with two hours to go, Bryan considered stopping in Topeka for the night. But then we caught a talk radio program that covered something outrageous. It really got his dander up and with this mighty shot of adrenaline, he felt great for the tail end of the journey. We checked in at 1:45 AM.
This is also where I noticed the first difference. Gemma and Josh can both do everything for themselves in the back seat now. And they're both thrilled to watch DVD's on their little players. There was a time when I could not sit for 20 minutes without having to turn around for some reason or another. This time, Bryan and I had the chance to talk for a couple hours without interruption.
Aunt Helen and Uncle David are the kids' Godparents. Helen has a giant service dog. I would tell you the breed--it's something French--but I don't remember it and you've never heard of it anyway. His name is BroJean and he's wonderful. The kids love him, too.
We discovered on the weekend of our ParTAY, whence BroJean sat outside with Helen, several of our neighbors and a yard full of neighborhood kids, that this breed shepherds. At least, BroJean does. He just couldn't lie still. He could not stand watching a bunch of children scatter and run around. So he got up, loped over on his long legs, and proceeded to herd them into a group, either by circling them, or nudging them, or--yes indeed--nipping them.
Well. Just one. And it happened to be Mr. Colorado's daughter. Mr. Colorado loves dogs more than Colorado, I think, and was very understanding. Instinct. What can you do? Besides, Kate was fine. . .
Helen, David, BroJean, their doberman who is called Tootsie, the kids and I drove over to our land. The dogs love to run there and I was glad the kids would have a chance to poke around, too.
The went for it. Almost immediately. It was cold out, but something about the fields and thickets beckoned. Later, Helen remarked to me, "Um. . .We have 2 kids and 2 dogs wandering around out there that we can't see."
I shrugged and said, "BroJean is with them. I am completely confident he's watching over them."
This is why shepherding dogs are so great. Why we had planned to get one if we had moved to that piece of land. Why we would still get one if we end up moving to the country at some future point.
Would I have let them go off if they had been much younger? No. But this is what it means that Joshua is now older. I know how he thinks and he has the maturity and good sense to stick with his sister and not do anything stupid. (Like what, even? It's not like we have cliffs to jump off of. . .)
They eventually returned. After nearly an hour. BroJean was right by their sides. Joshua's wool coat was stuck full of thistles, which gave us some clues as to their adventure. I asked Gemma what BroJean had been doing. "He was just by us the whole time," she said.
What a dog!
Bryan made a wad of cash from the sale. I had Gemma count it. In our conversations throughout the day, certain turns of phrase would come up, like, "barn-burner," or. . .a few others that now escape me. One of the kids would ask us to explain, and we would. Helen said, towards the end of the afternoon, "I'm seeing that homeschool is really just an all-the-time thing." Yes. On days like that, I am reminded of it.
By the way, the name Weston, Missouri might seem familiar to you now due to recent news. Those maniacs from that cult in Topeka scheduled a protest at a fallen soldier's funeral the weekend before last. They have to obtain a permit to protest, and they have the constitutional right to one.
The townspeople of Weston knew their rights, too. They organized in about 24 hours. Over half the town turned out to do the following:
Take up all the parking spaces along the funeral route and surrounded the protest area;
Wire up a sound system from one of the bars and blast "Amazing Grace" and other songs whenever the protesters started singing;
assemble the Patriot Guard (a biker group that will show up whenever requested for this purpose) to gun their engines whenever the protesters tried to speak;
stand right in front of the protesting group with a giant flag held up so that none of their hateful signs could be read;
and, of course, stand on the flag line approaching the funeral home to specifically honor the fallen.
This didn't just hit CNN and other national news, it actually got international coverage as well. Letters poured into the Weston Chronicle from all over the country.
The hope, I would think, is that other towns will use this as a model for handling future attempts by these hideous cult members and after a year of getting shut down systematically, they'll find some other way to garner attention and money.
It was a glorious day for Weston.
Helen says they'd like to see "Pull a Weston" enter the vernacular.
I entertained visions of what this would look like 50 years from now. My best hypothesis: it will come to mean, "to take up space or opportunity another party thought it had privy to." So, when you pull into a parking space someone else is waiting for, you would be "pulling a Weston."
No part of that carries the sheen of honor. But that's how language is. At least, that's my prediction for how this language will go.
Finally, David, Helen and the Ponces had dinner out at the best BBQ place I've ever enjoyed, and it was a joy to revisit it Thursday night. The kids were a delight to have with us and once again I found myself really liking that we can all like having them around.
Quick Josh story here: I brought their scooters with us and they zoomed around David and Helen's cul-de-sac for a while to burn off their pent up car energy earlier in the day. Josh's scooter needed a quick inspection, and when I gave it back to him, he jumped on and yelled, "Ride on!!!" and zoomed away.
What a boy.
On Friday, the kids and I got to Parin's on-post house at 9:15. We did not leave until 9:00 PM, and this following a leisurely day of the kids playing somewhere else and Parin and I chatting and chatting and. . .you know, there are just some friends you can re-connect with without labor. It was awesome.
In all that kid-playing, there was not one single squabble. The four of them just got along really well, and had a hard time saying good-bye when it was time.
Parin remembered, "Amy, we used to sit on the floor with them in Korea and say, 'OK, Sarah, now we share the toy with Gemma, and Gemma says, 'Thank you'" and on and on. . . I had forgotten! But she was right! We used to pour a lot of energy into teaching those girls basic kindness and manners. All the Mommies in our little group did, actually, and I know now what an unusual blessing that was.
Well. There we were. Reaping what we'd sown. Polite, sociable children who loved to just play, play, play with each other!
Saturday morning, we took the time to swim in the pool before loading up for the long ride home. Instead of movies all the way, we listened to some audio books. That's a simple pleasure, too. We had finished up Paddington before the trip, a book that made all three of us laugh out loud as we tootled around town. This time, we listened to Clementine and it was short and sweet. Then we started The Railway Children, published in 1906 or so. Normally, books that old are not written in language that I or the kids want to listen to. But this one. . .we are all enchanted.
So. I sign off as a happy Veteran. Those early years were not easy for me. I am thankful for them, of course. For some mothers, those baby days are the highlight of parenthood. For me, they were the woods that I knew I'd get through one day. That day is here! God was so good to have helped me persevere to a season of sweet harvest.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Derby
Our AWANA club hosts a Grand Prix pinewood boxcar derby each year. Gemma (and Bryan) started participating in AWANA 3 years ago, yet this is the first year we did the Grand Prix.
That's because Gemma seemed not to know what it was and we were just as glad not to put it onto her radar.
That's because each year so far, we have figured we would want to be doing something else on a Saturday morning. Plus, we knew that we would get into it eventually. Later seemed better than sooner.
This year, someone told Gemma about it. And so it began. . .
In each club level, there are prizes for the 3 fastest cars. The club levels include the pre-schoolers, K-2, 3-5, 6-8 and high school. Each car in each level races 3 times and the highest average scores win.
That is a lot of racing, which is why this event lasts Friday night and most of Saturday.
There are also three trophies for best car design (which is determined aside from its speed) and, for the 3 youngest levels, three trophies for best "Dress Like Your Car" entries.
Bryan has never raced these cars before. He knows that there are tricks to it, that many of those tricks are on the internet, and that several different power tools could be used to great effect. (A few different couples host "pit parties" on the weekends leading up to the race and all are welcome to stop by and use the woodshops.)
But we weren't going for speed this year. I think we figured we'd test the waters and come up with a good plan for next year.
This left the design categories open. Joshua dressed in Bryan's fatigues and painted his car with camo-colors. It looked great. But in this town, the military thing is not unique. He didn't win any design trophies.
Gemma dressed as Little Bo Peep (using a costume from 2 Halloween's ago) and made her car look like a sheep. She did the whole project by herself and the finished product was impressive! It took a great exertion on my part not to do some of it for her, not to correct her as she worked, not to improve on it. But when it comes to these creative endeavors, we must shut up and keep our hands to ourselves.
She was very pleased with her own work. I told her to hope for a design aware because there is no way she would win by speed. (The "fleece" was made of cotton balls, of course.)
Friday night, check-in and registration for all cars was from 5-7. We all went together and decided to stay for the older clubs' racing. The track was a marvel. It included electronic sensors hooked up to a computer that calculated the speeds and put them up on the big screen in about 2 seconds.
Gemma and Josh loved watching each race.
I loved seeing the older kids participate. AWANA is a Bible-memorization club. By these older grades, the work is very intense and demanding and it culminates in a national tournament held in St. Charles, IL each year. (AWANA started in inner-city Chicago! Just learned that. . .)
One would expect to find a big crowd of pretty geeky kids populating the older levels. While there's room for maneuver in defining "geeky," it seemed to me like most of them were really great kids: well-adjusted, very social, with so much camaraderie and love among each other. I've never seen anything like it.
The next morning, my kids sprang out of bed, ready for Game Day and, having seen the spectacular trophies the night before, they were now pretty interested in winning. Something.
Joshua's car placed 13th overall.
Gemma's at least got across the finish line each time without needing a push.
And there was a 3rd place design award in it after all.
(That thing behind her is Sparky, the mascot for her level. "Who are we?" "Sparks!" "Who for?" "Jesus!" "What do we do???" "LIGHT THE WORLD!!!!!")
(Speaking of mascots: Bryan put on the Cubbie Bear suit last weekend just to give our clubbers a special treat. The 85 children were either DELIGHTED to see Cubbie in person, or FREAKED OUT, in which case, Bryan popped his top and showed them his real face, which seemed to help in most cases...)
The speeds of the winning Cubbies and Sparks cars beat the champion cars of the older kids the night before by at least 4 points. (The numbers weren't posted in seconds or mph. . .they were just numbers.) Obviously, this was a competition among parents.
And some of the Dads were into it.
One family there had two biological children and two foster children, all in the Cubbies club level. And this Dad grew up racing cars with his Dad and so built the 4 cars that took the top 4 speeds.
I walked up to the fastest car owner, Blake, age 3, and said, "Great job, Blake! Can I see that championship car?" And I inspected it carefully. I learned some things. . .
His older brother came along and I said, "Hey Hudson! Pretty great cars you guys build. Do you do the trick with only putting 3 wheels down?"
He said, "Yeah, but that's not the secret."
"Oh really? What's the secret?" I have no shame about asking, by the way. I figured it was worth the shot. But the kid wouldn't tell me. . .
His Dad told someone, though. He told one of his best friends, Rick, and the two of them have sons in the Sparks club level. Sure enough, Rick's son's car was fast. So fast, the two boys had to have a race-off because their average times were identical. And Rick's son won! Guess he shouldn't have shared that secret. . .
Speaking of which: If you know a super secret squirrel secret that's not even on the internet, please pass it along. We've got less than a year to figure this out.
I knew as soon as I reported all this to Bryan, who is working this weekend and so missed the Saturday morning races, he would be thinking, "There's the gauntlet. Game on." And I was right.
I'm just hoping that rising to the challenge won't include the acquisition of any new power tools.
That's because Gemma seemed not to know what it was and we were just as glad not to put it onto her radar.
That's because each year so far, we have figured we would want to be doing something else on a Saturday morning. Plus, we knew that we would get into it eventually. Later seemed better than sooner.
This year, someone told Gemma about it. And so it began. . .
In each club level, there are prizes for the 3 fastest cars. The club levels include the pre-schoolers, K-2, 3-5, 6-8 and high school. Each car in each level races 3 times and the highest average scores win.
That is a lot of racing, which is why this event lasts Friday night and most of Saturday.
There are also three trophies for best car design (which is determined aside from its speed) and, for the 3 youngest levels, three trophies for best "Dress Like Your Car" entries.
Bryan has never raced these cars before. He knows that there are tricks to it, that many of those tricks are on the internet, and that several different power tools could be used to great effect. (A few different couples host "pit parties" on the weekends leading up to the race and all are welcome to stop by and use the woodshops.)
But we weren't going for speed this year. I think we figured we'd test the waters and come up with a good plan for next year.
This left the design categories open. Joshua dressed in Bryan's fatigues and painted his car with camo-colors. It looked great. But in this town, the military thing is not unique. He didn't win any design trophies.
Gemma dressed as Little Bo Peep (using a costume from 2 Halloween's ago) and made her car look like a sheep. She did the whole project by herself and the finished product was impressive! It took a great exertion on my part not to do some of it for her, not to correct her as she worked, not to improve on it. But when it comes to these creative endeavors, we must shut up and keep our hands to ourselves.
She was very pleased with her own work. I told her to hope for a design aware because there is no way she would win by speed. (The "fleece" was made of cotton balls, of course.)
Josh did all the painting himself, too! I picked out the colors and told him to make blobs, and he did all the rest.
***Friday night, check-in and registration for all cars was from 5-7. We all went together and decided to stay for the older clubs' racing. The track was a marvel. It included electronic sensors hooked up to a computer that calculated the speeds and put them up on the big screen in about 2 seconds.
Gemma and Josh loved watching each race.
I loved seeing the older kids participate. AWANA is a Bible-memorization club. By these older grades, the work is very intense and demanding and it culminates in a national tournament held in St. Charles, IL each year. (AWANA started in inner-city Chicago! Just learned that. . .)
One would expect to find a big crowd of pretty geeky kids populating the older levels. While there's room for maneuver in defining "geeky," it seemed to me like most of them were really great kids: well-adjusted, very social, with so much camaraderie and love among each other. I've never seen anything like it.
The next morning, my kids sprang out of bed, ready for Game Day and, having seen the spectacular trophies the night before, they were now pretty interested in winning. Something.
Joshua's car placed 13th overall.
Gemma's at least got across the finish line each time without needing a push.
And there was a 3rd place design award in it after all.
(That thing behind her is Sparky, the mascot for her level. "Who are we?" "Sparks!" "Who for?" "Jesus!" "What do we do???" "LIGHT THE WORLD!!!!!")
(Speaking of mascots: Bryan put on the Cubbie Bear suit last weekend just to give our clubbers a special treat. The 85 children were either DELIGHTED to see Cubbie in person, or FREAKED OUT, in which case, Bryan popped his top and showed them his real face, which seemed to help in most cases...)
The speeds of the winning Cubbies and Sparks cars beat the champion cars of the older kids the night before by at least 4 points. (The numbers weren't posted in seconds or mph. . .they were just numbers.) Obviously, this was a competition among parents.
And some of the Dads were into it.
One family there had two biological children and two foster children, all in the Cubbies club level. And this Dad grew up racing cars with his Dad and so built the 4 cars that took the top 4 speeds.
I walked up to the fastest car owner, Blake, age 3, and said, "Great job, Blake! Can I see that championship car?" And I inspected it carefully. I learned some things. . .
His older brother came along and I said, "Hey Hudson! Pretty great cars you guys build. Do you do the trick with only putting 3 wheels down?"
He said, "Yeah, but that's not the secret."
"Oh really? What's the secret?" I have no shame about asking, by the way. I figured it was worth the shot. But the kid wouldn't tell me. . .
His Dad told someone, though. He told one of his best friends, Rick, and the two of them have sons in the Sparks club level. Sure enough, Rick's son's car was fast. So fast, the two boys had to have a race-off because their average times were identical. And Rick's son won! Guess he shouldn't have shared that secret. . .
Speaking of which: If you know a super secret squirrel secret that's not even on the internet, please pass it along. We've got less than a year to figure this out.
I knew as soon as I reported all this to Bryan, who is working this weekend and so missed the Saturday morning races, he would be thinking, "There's the gauntlet. Game on." And I was right.
I'm just hoping that rising to the challenge won't include the acquisition of any new power tools.
Monday, November 1, 2010
No Cancer!
YAY! and Ahhh. . . and Phew!
Why the "Phew!"? I'll tell you: by the 3rd week of September, I had become reactive to sugar again. I tested it a little: sugar out of my system, better. Sugar back in, bad. Sugar still in, increasingly worse. Sugar out all together, completely better.
None of which necessarily has anything to do with cancer. It's just that after the chemo, when I could suddenly eat sugar again to no ill effect, I said, "Hmm! Well, if I ever become reactive again, I'll know to look for cancer."
Dr. Science was puzzled, too. And he said it was a good enough reason for him to order a PET scan, just to check and be sure. He likes for his breast cancer patients to have a scan some point during this second year anyway. But, as of today, there are no markers in the blood work to indicate a problem.
Hoorah!
But I'd like to tell you a little about the last two weeks, after I was certain there was a sugar problem, but before I could learn the results of the test.
These weeks were tense. I did not tell many people about my concern because, well. . . I just didn't want to give the flame of concern more oxygen than it had already. On the other hand, an immense pressure came along with them, and telling one person here, one person there was like unhooking the lid of a pressure cooker.
It wasn't anxiety. I guess you have to take my word on that. I was not consumed by worry or thinking the worst of all thoughts. It was more like, "Amy, there's a good chance that you have stage IV cancer now, what does that mean to you?"
I tried to avoid the sad thoughts. I came up with some exceedingly practical ones:
I still have my wigs and hats.
Chemo won't be dreadful this time because I know what to expect.
Speaking of which, I now know that an eye doctor can prescribe a salve that will help with styes.
Though I need to get my hair trimmed up, I won't until I know that I won't be going bald a month from now.
Speaking of which: I bought clippers for Joshua's hair and so won't have to borrow them from my friend this time.
Two weeks of this, people. It's crazy, now that I can look at it and afford to call it crazy.
I'll tell you what else came of it, though. And this other thing answers my chief question all along, which was, "God, if this isn't cancer again, why are you letting me think that it might be?"
Because God's guidance to me as I prayed and worshipped over the last 2 weeks was not a rebuke as in, "Amy, we've been through this before, right before your port removal and I answered you then and now you are choosing not to believe Me."
His guidance was not a simple, "You're fine. No cancer."
His guidance, instead, was this:
"I am sovereign over all the world and I'm sovereign over you. If this is a sacrifice I'm asking you to make, won't you make it?"
and
"There is no circumstance I would permit in your life that I will not use for My glory. Do you want the chief purpose of your life to be My glory?"
and
"So what if it is stage IV cancer, Amy. Do you believe I am working out a purpose in your life? Then stage IV cancer is part of that purpose. Part of My glory. Part of the best version of yourself that only I can bring you to. Which version of yourself do you want? Yours or Mine?"
Given all this guidance, can I be blamed for expecting Dr. Science to tell me he was very concerned about my blood work?
But, as I've said, the cancer is not back.
So why did God permit this two weeks of concern and give this two weeks worth of guidance? I believe it was to have that conversation with me about where my committments lie, about why I am alive in this body at this time, in this place. I believe that in this conversation, God declared an end to our season of celebration and rest and the beginning of the next season of growing to become more and more like His Son.
The details of this are hard to share. I just tried to write about them and had to delete the paragraphs because they just don't belong on this blog at this moment. Suffice it to say that God is showing both me and Bryan what we need to do next and it's dramatic enough that we're a little scared about it. Not cancer-scared. But: this-is-going-to-change-everything-scared.
To sum up, then. . . No cancer ahead. There's something far more exciting instead.
Why the "Phew!"? I'll tell you: by the 3rd week of September, I had become reactive to sugar again. I tested it a little: sugar out of my system, better. Sugar back in, bad. Sugar still in, increasingly worse. Sugar out all together, completely better.
None of which necessarily has anything to do with cancer. It's just that after the chemo, when I could suddenly eat sugar again to no ill effect, I said, "Hmm! Well, if I ever become reactive again, I'll know to look for cancer."
Dr. Science was puzzled, too. And he said it was a good enough reason for him to order a PET scan, just to check and be sure. He likes for his breast cancer patients to have a scan some point during this second year anyway. But, as of today, there are no markers in the blood work to indicate a problem.
Hoorah!
But I'd like to tell you a little about the last two weeks, after I was certain there was a sugar problem, but before I could learn the results of the test.
These weeks were tense. I did not tell many people about my concern because, well. . . I just didn't want to give the flame of concern more oxygen than it had already. On the other hand, an immense pressure came along with them, and telling one person here, one person there was like unhooking the lid of a pressure cooker.
It wasn't anxiety. I guess you have to take my word on that. I was not consumed by worry or thinking the worst of all thoughts. It was more like, "Amy, there's a good chance that you have stage IV cancer now, what does that mean to you?"
I tried to avoid the sad thoughts. I came up with some exceedingly practical ones:
I still have my wigs and hats.
Chemo won't be dreadful this time because I know what to expect.
Speaking of which, I now know that an eye doctor can prescribe a salve that will help with styes.
Though I need to get my hair trimmed up, I won't until I know that I won't be going bald a month from now.
Speaking of which: I bought clippers for Joshua's hair and so won't have to borrow them from my friend this time.
Two weeks of this, people. It's crazy, now that I can look at it and afford to call it crazy.
I'll tell you what else came of it, though. And this other thing answers my chief question all along, which was, "God, if this isn't cancer again, why are you letting me think that it might be?"
Because God's guidance to me as I prayed and worshipped over the last 2 weeks was not a rebuke as in, "Amy, we've been through this before, right before your port removal and I answered you then and now you are choosing not to believe Me."
His guidance was not a simple, "You're fine. No cancer."
His guidance, instead, was this:
"I am sovereign over all the world and I'm sovereign over you. If this is a sacrifice I'm asking you to make, won't you make it?"
and
"There is no circumstance I would permit in your life that I will not use for My glory. Do you want the chief purpose of your life to be My glory?"
and
"So what if it is stage IV cancer, Amy. Do you believe I am working out a purpose in your life? Then stage IV cancer is part of that purpose. Part of My glory. Part of the best version of yourself that only I can bring you to. Which version of yourself do you want? Yours or Mine?"
Given all this guidance, can I be blamed for expecting Dr. Science to tell me he was very concerned about my blood work?
But, as I've said, the cancer is not back.
So why did God permit this two weeks of concern and give this two weeks worth of guidance? I believe it was to have that conversation with me about where my committments lie, about why I am alive in this body at this time, in this place. I believe that in this conversation, God declared an end to our season of celebration and rest and the beginning of the next season of growing to become more and more like His Son.
The details of this are hard to share. I just tried to write about them and had to delete the paragraphs because they just don't belong on this blog at this moment. Suffice it to say that God is showing both me and Bryan what we need to do next and it's dramatic enough that we're a little scared about it. Not cancer-scared. But: this-is-going-to-change-everything-scared.
To sum up, then. . . No cancer ahead. There's something far more exciting instead.
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