Merry Christmas!

Yes, there is a Christmas tree in my living room today.
Yes, I know it is June.  

Need an explanation?

We had a photo shoot at my house for a story that will be published around Christmastime.  Publishers work months ahead, in order to have the material ready by December.   So we set up Christmas a bit early, and took the pictures.  This is the first time that I have ever decorated for Christmas when it is NOT December.  And you know what?  It has been a fantastic experience!   

The kids are beside themselves with Joy.  Not kidding.  I never realized how magical this could be.   

I mean, it’s not like June is a dark and sad month or anything.  We don’t NEED Christmas tree lights in June like we need a sparkly tree up north in December.  By the third week of December, we Minnesotans are desperate for anything that twinkles like the sun.  The world is such a dark and cold place that even tiny Christmas lights and Advent candles make us happy.  Christmas gives us HOPE!  

But in June, we have sunshine and sparkling water and boats and loons crying.  And mosquitoes.  Those too.  And kids out of school, and broken arms, and trips to the orthodontist and dentist and doctor and gophers digging up the yard that I just mowed in 80% humidity with a herd of mosquitoes trailing me like flying piranhas through the woods…I don’t worry about wolves in the woods, because the mosquitoes leave so little flesh that no wolf would be interested.  Wolf spiders are more scary, anyway.  June in Minnesota is special that way.

I guess what I am trying to say, is that even though it is summer, and the kites are flying, the sparrows are hatching, and the roses are blooming, I still need Hope.  I still need a little help finding Love, Joy, and Peace.  And you know what?  It is really easy to find those things with a Christmas tree in the living room and a creche on the mantel.  

The kids’ excitement and anticipation of great Joy were contagious.  So I rummaged around the nooks and crannies of my house, and found many odds and ends for presents.  Mostly books.  And silly things like a Bonne Belle lipgloss giftpack (90% off in January!) and some Jolly Rancher shower gel.  How is that even a thing?  Who wants tasty shower gel?  These things are in my house because I can’t pass up a 90% off sale, no matter how ridiculous the items.  I also grabbed all of the individual-sized snacks out of the cupboards, like Cheetos and Sour Cream and Onion Chips.  I wrapped everything up in Christmas paper, and tucked it all under the sparkling tree.  

Then we invited friends over.   

I think they were surprised! 

And you know what?  We had a lovely, unexpected, and Joyous afternoon.   We ate popcorn, we talked, we laughed.  We played a White Elephant gift game with all the wrapped presents, and the mystery gift that everyone wanted the most turned out to be the Jolly Rancher Shower Gel.  Imagine that.  It was wrapped in the shiniest paper.  

If you are looking for Hope or Joy, I highly recommend celebrating Christmas in June!   The sparkly Christmas tree brought us excitement and Joy.  But there was more to it than that.  

Amid the decorations and presents and laughter, something else was there.  

The most amazing part of this week has been the quiet parade of plastic animals and shepherds, making their way across my mantel, looking for the small Christ Child in the manger.  Despite the rickety barn, despite the darkness of the night and the chaos in the world, the baby sleeps peacefully in the manger.  Silent night, holy night.  That is what gives us Hope.  That’s the source of our Joy.   And that is worth celebrating, any time of the year.  

Merry Christmas!

A while ago, I was driving down the highway in my truck.  One of my kids was home from college for the weekend.  She’s a compassionate one…  She doesn’t kill bugs, won’t attend zoos, can hardly bring herself to consume meat…She is a future Cat Lady of the world.  She is Altruistic with a capital A. 

So you know what happened?  

I was driving about 55, a semi truck was coming toward me from the other way.  Another car was right behind me.  That’s when it happened.  A small, grey cat darted out of the brush, and in front of my truck.  I had one second to choose.  One.  I could veer to the center, avoid the cat and hit a semi head on.  I could hit the brakes and get rear-ended by the car behind me, which would also possibly involve the semi.  

Or I could hit the cat.  

My one-second choice became no choice at all, because just at that instant, the poor cat changed direction and ran right towards me.  Right into me.

I calmly pulled my truck off the road and started to cry.  I had just killed someone’s beloved pet.  I didn’t want to be the one to break anyone’s heart.   With dread, I knocked on the nearest door, and asked the homeowner if he had a grey cat.  

He shook his head no, and walked with me back down to the road.  Just then the sheriff pulled up.  

“Another one, eh?” the sheriff asked the man, seeing my distress and the small kitty on the side of the road.  

“Seems to be,” the homeowner said.  “I know my neighbors and I know their pets.  This one here must be another one that got dumped.”

The sheriff and the man explained to me that this was a regular occurrence.  Pet owners who no longer wanted their pets frequently left their unfortunate animals on the property of country folks, thinking that the animal would be cared for out “on the farm”.   In reality, the abandoned animals are left with coyotes, foxes, hunger, highways, and big trucks.  Poor things.  

“They don’t have a chance,” the sheriff assured me. “No way to find out who they belong to, either.”

The rest of that day I was stressed out and on high alert.   I was sad for the cat, sad that I traumatized my cat-loving daughter.  I am a very conservative driver anyway, but that day I was over cautious, anticipating accidents at every corner.   By the time I finally got home for the night, I was frazzled and worn.  

My daughter greeted me at the door with a look of serious awe.  “Guess what happened to me today?” she said.  “After the cat accident this morning, I was so stressed out.  I drove more cautiously than normal, anticipating the worst all day.  And it happened.  Just as I drove around a blind corner with a lot of trees close to the road, there they were;  two kids weaving around on bikes, coming towards me on the wrong side of the road.   They weren’t paying attention and they didn’t see me until it was too late.  I slammed on my brakes, and one kid just glided past me, mouth open, with horror on his face.  He never even stopped.  If I hadn’t been so freaked out about that cat, expecting the worst, maybe I wouldn’t have been able to avoid hitting them.  Those two kids are alive because that poor stray cat dove in front of us today.”

Coincidence?  I don’t think so.  I think the small things in each day can sometimes be the most significant.  Small things change everything…like a little, grey, abandoned cat who made all the difference for a couple of kids.

Even if they never knew it.

I met him two years ago, in Washington DC.  

Within the shadow of our nation’s capitol, the citizens of the First World bustled past, unnoticing.  I was among them.  We moved across the sidewalks and crosswalks as fish swimming in a school, fluid and fast.  He sat against the side of a brick building, alone, clutching a worn backpack.

Our eyes met.  

I stopped.

“Please,” he reached up his hand with a whisper, “I’m so hungry.”

I stopped because he whispered, gently.

“Have you had lunch today?” I asked, reaching into my pocket.

“No, Ma’am. God bless you, Ma’am.”

My own lunch money weighed on me heavily.  I had restaurant plans.  The five dollar bill I handed to him seemed, suddenly, grossly deficient.  I switched pockets, knowing that 5 bucks wouldn’t buy him much lunch at Burger King across the street.

“Where are you from?” I asked.  I was not accustomed to being called Ma’am.  “What’s your name?”

“James. I’m from Mississippi,” he began.  Then came Vietnam.  Then just drifting… I did some coal mining.”  he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing two large, mirrored scars on his dark chest.   “I just got too many problems at once, so I come up here… I got kids, too.  I don’t see them anymore.  I figure life’s gotta be better in the city.”

We talked for a few more minutes.  He told me my daughters were beautiful, just like their Momma.  

I gave him my lunch money.  

And that was that.

It was time to move on.  But before I left, he asked me for something more.

“You pray for me, Ma’am.  And I’ll pray for you.”

“I will, James.  I will.”

Then I walked away.

I walked away, but something about my conversation with James had changed me.  

He was a vagrant.  A miner.  A veteran.  A father.  Somewhere, someone loved him. 

He told me that Someone was Jesus.  “He’s with me, right out here on the street,” James had said.   “He’s the one that sent you to give me lunch today.  He brings me joy, every day.  And he loves you, too.”

Oh, James.  

You; the Forgotten, the Hungry, the Abandoned, the Alone…

You have Joy?

You have Love?

You told me that you also have Peace.

You, James, Unknown Soldier, have the three elusive riches that the Wealthy World strives to find, and cannot.  You have nothing, and yet you have everything.



Well, James.  Today I am back in Washington DC, and I went looking for you.  I wanted you to know that you changed how I see people, James.  You helped me to find Love, Joy, and Peace in my own little world.  I wanted to remember you in a real way, and say thank you, James.

So I went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.  

I didn’t find you.  But you know what I did find, James?  

I found hundreds and thousands of you…

Your fellow veterans were there for you, James.  They came in massive caravans of motorcycles, swarming the National Mall, slowly making their pilgrimage to Arlington National Cemetery across the bridge.  They rode, they walked, they held each other up as they climbed the hill.  They brought their families.  They brought flowers.  They came with children.  And burdens.  And tears.  

They wore leather, and white ponytails, and grizzled beards.  They wore crisp military uniforms and brass buttons and crew cuts.  They wore baby packs and held on to strollers, walkers, and canes.   

Though they came to the cemetery, they also came to give respect and honor to the Other Unknown Soldiers…to the veterans whose lives are still a living sacrifice.  They honor the veterans who are still fighting the battles of disability, woundedness, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

Like you, James.  

This day is for you.  

Thank you.

Inspiration backfired on me this week.  

I’m a Mother.  Moms always try to inspire.  It’s human nature.  We want to show our kids the world, see how high they can fly.  Give them the best of times…

Because of this, I limit screen time, take them to the library, pay many fines for late and lost books… The library often backfires on me like that.  

But this week, Inspiration really backfired.  

Here’s the story:

Doug and I have had a two-decades long “discussion” about T.V.s and screen time.  

I grew up without T.V., and prefer life like that.  

He grew up with T.V., and prefers life like that.   


Simple.   


End of story;  who cares, right?  Well, when we became parents, we both suddenly cared.  A lot.

The first decade of parenting, I limited technology (ha! like there even was any technology back then!  We had dial-up internet, one tube T.V. and no cell phones.  That old VCR sure was a threat to creativity and intelligence, eh?  Who am I kidding? - I limited technology because there was none!  We read books, went to the orchestra and theater…they learned to paint and to dance.  They spoke Italian.  We read poetry and ate popcorn together.  It was inspiring!

However, the second decade of our parenting, Doug has made the call.  Technology for one and all.   We packed up Charles Dickens;  put away the clay and the dance shoes.  Instead, now it’s Blender (a 3-D modeling program) digital music, digital photography.  Good grief.  This could be the worst of times… So much of work and school are technology dependent, and now we are, too.   We munch microwaved popcorn while watching Netflix.  

But the battle still wages on between Doug and I.  Which kind of life is more inspiring?  What habits foster creativity more?  Is it watercolors with brushes and paper, or Sketch Up on the computer that will best inspire a kid to do great things? 

Just when we both think our own ways are best, something backfires.

Small One tugged on my sleeve, a questioning look on her face. 

“Mom, can I talk to you in private?”

Uh-Oh. Here we go.   My Mom-Alarm always goes off when I hear these words.  Is it something bad?  Are you hurt?  Or is this a tattling moment?  She pulls me into a room and shuts the door, looking a bit urgent. Then she whispers in my ear.

“I think its very important.  I want to become a scientist.  Is that okay with you?”

I stare ahead, feeling that she is right.  This is important. Maybe all those years of inspiration have really done something!  Maybe she will be the next Marie Curie!  Or she will find a cure for cancer!  I could start teaching her Latin this summer…  

She continues talking.

“It’s very important.  I want to invent things.  
Can I have a hammmer?  And a vaccuume cleaner?  
Then I can become a scientist.”

Whew.  Breathe out.  Let her finish, Mom… Listen to her, Inspire her!

“You’ll see a real scientist tomorrow, Dear.  When you go to the doctor, you can ask her about science.  Doctors are a kind of scientist.”

She shakes her head, messy curls falling into her face.

“Uh-uhn.. That’s not what I was thinking about.  I want to be the kind of scientist that makes something.  Invents something  important.  I am going to need blueprints.  Blueprints and a backstory.  Because Dr. Dufenschmirtz has blueprints and a backstory, every time.”  

Oh. 

Dr. Dufenschmirtz.  

He is a cartoon character.  

Apparently, a very inspiring cartoon character.  A mad scientist of Disney's Phineas and Ferb fame.

Did I mention he is a villain?

Technology wins. 

I think I’ll go pull out my dusty copy of A Tale of Two Cities, and have a cry in my tea.   

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

Happy Mother's Day!  
 
I present to you the Ideal Mother:   She is gentle, kind, generous...

Selfless.

At the opposite end of the Mother Spectrum, this is my reality:  

Selfie.  

With kids. 

Good thing I have a sense of humor.  It's one of the best things I have.  Well, besides all those kids.   A bunch of us are in there, somewhere.  Piled up, in each others' faces, laughing and choking together.  Heaven knows we don't have any peace and quiet.  

"Click."  

Say a prayer for all the mothers today, will ya?  Motherhood is a wild ride!

Everything is brand new today.

The world is awakening...

The birds are singing their hallelujah chorus...

Today is a gift of possibilities for you.   What will you do with it? 

Once upon a time, there was a woman.  She stayed home a lot, and the neighbors all thought she did nothing but eat bon bons, because she was quite soft and round.  She didn't have much to say.  Quiet type.  A little on the cranky side.

Once, when she wasn't home, a nosy neighbor peeked in the window, and this is what she found!  So that was her secret!  What a bunch of ugly children!

The nosy neighbor was chased away by an indignant and overprotective father.  Hmph.  He scolded and squawked.  

The parents fed their children a great deal, so they started to grow.  One child sported a mohawk.  He was judged by the neighbors to be spunky and rebellious.  Plus, he cried a lot.  

But soon, those babies grew, as all children do.  They always wanted more to eat.  The poor parents were kept running here and running there, always filling the bottomless pits of their children's appetites.  The parents began to appear a bit old and frazzled.  The mother worried a lot, her feathers grew thin.  The father continued to dive-bomb all birds who glanced anywhere in the direction of his daughters.  He chased all intruders away.  What a guy.  He was no longer considered a sharp-dressed man, now the neighbors rather considered him a grumpy old codger.

I think perhaps his daughters thought the same, though they never said so.   They loved him anyway.  He brought them the best of everything.

Not long after, the Mother found a new home further out in the sticks.  She fancied a bigger place.  More private and luxurious.

The parents worked for days, moving their children.  One after another, the little ones hopped out of the nest, and followed Mom and Dad to the new home. 

Little Mr. Mohawk was far more awkward than his siblings, and he flopped about a great deal.  It took Mom and Dad much cajoling and scolding to get him to move it.

In the end, that family did move away.  

The neighbors had grown rather fond of spying on them, and they miss them very much.  
I do hope they live happily ever after.

Dear Newbie, 

Today you became a mother.

I know you have waited a very long time to become a Mom.  No matter how many months or years you have longed for this, no matter how many tears have been shed, no matter if this is a natural birth, a c-section, an adoption, or foster care, today, everything changes. 

You have become a Mother.

I know that you are nervous.  Even scared.

You should be.

Advice is usually given by those with no experience, but I’ve been around the parenting block a time or two…or seven.   I shouldn’t say anything.  I have made enough mistakes that I have learned to keep my mouth shut.  But today, I just can’t be quiet.  I have something to say to you, New Mom.  It’s important.  

You don’t have much time. 

From the very first moment you look into the face of that little helpless child, you and I, and all mothers throughout the time continuum, are on the same path.  We are mothers.

I am getting a little choked up here, because I know what is in store for you.

Becoming Mom is going to hurt you.  
It’s going to turn your heart inside out and tenderize it.
Today, when you become Mom, you will never be the same.

You’ll look into her eyes, and instantly, every fiber of your being is going to go haywire.  All synapses will fire at once, flooding your brain in chemical Mama Love, and you will feel the primeval maternal instinct that swells from the depths of your soul, erupting into a force that wants to nurture and caress that baby, while at the same time, you’d fight a rabid saber tooth tiger just to defend her.

I don’t know if you have ever felt this way before, but today you will.

In your world yesterday, you may have been an attorney, a pharmacist, a highly skilled professional, a construction worker, a student.  It doesn’t matter.

Today, you will talk baby talk.
You will.
And she will open her eyes, and look up at you, and she will smile.
So you’ll do it some more.  

Today, you will begin to clean up messes that you never knew could exist.  You will be aghast.  You will be drooled on, cried on, sneezed on, puked on, leaked on, 
perhaps simultaneously.  She will look up at you, crying, needing you so much.  You’ll bathe her, and she will smile.   Or she might scream because she is afraid of water.

But when it is over, she will smell just right, and she will curl up in a towel and breathe softly on your neck.  She’ll hold on to you and her small hands will be warm and sweet as she clings to you.  
She will feel safe with you.

You’re her mom.

As she grows, she will begin to crawl, and she will start to discover the world.
And she will break your stuff.

All of it.

And you won’t even mind, because those tiny little hands 
reaching up to find a place to grab onto in this world
Are also reaching for your hand.  Wanting your help and your guidance 
And your love. 
Your love is going to mean more to this little person than to anyone else in the world.

You’re the one.

Love her with all you’ve got.
Tell her every day, show her every day.
Love her whether she is graceful or awkward, special needs or typical, healthy or frail. None of that matters as much as the very important fact that love heals everything.  If you are broken, her love will heal you.  If she is broken, your love will heal her.  She is just what you need, and you are just what she needs.  

You are perfect for each other.

Put down the phone, and play blocks.
Close the laptop, and have a tea party.  Eat cookies together.
Cancel the meeting, and instead, sit on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like a tent, and read Go Dog Go for the 373rd time.

Look her right in the eyes and tell her she is worth it.

She is.

Let her style your hair till it’s tangled up in knots and barrettes, and she tells you that you’re the Most Beautiful Mommy in the World.  
You will be.
Sing her to sleep at night.  Try to be patient.
Be her model for compassion and kindness and forgiveness.  

Forgive her.  

Forgive yourself.  Because you will both make mistakes.

You will not get paid anything for this.  You will get no raise, no promotion, no street cred.  You will spend your money on her.  All of it.  She will need diapers and formula and snacks and braces and school uniforms and sports physicals and auto insurance and oh dear, college tuition.  

You will be the one she needs when she scrapes her knee, drops her sucker, loses her laptop, gets her heart broken,  and crashes her car.  You will also be the one she wants when she needs a hug, loses her first tooth, wants to serve tea, makes a friend, learns to read, starts to drive, graduates.

If you do your job right, then someday, 

She will leave you.  

She will walk away, or drive away, or be carried away.  

No matter when that happens, it will be too soon.  When that day comes, your heart will stretch and break again, erupting and overflowing with Mama Love and 

You will cry.

If you get the precious gift of being her mother for just one month, or just one year, or five years…or even eighteen years…don’t let it pass you by.  

Those tears that I shed for you today, New Mom…They were tears of joy.

Congratulations, My Dear.  

Today, your life is going to change.
And that is a beautiful thing.

It’s April.  Spring has arrived, at last!  I picture a scene of pastoral promise:  The ground is being tilled…furrows dug, seeds sown.  Gentle rains fall, quenching the thirst of bright green sprouts… I may as well imagine a rainbow up there somewhere.  

Reality check…  

This is Minnesota.   It’s 35 degrees and windy.  

Our gardens are inside where it’s warm.

My friends and neighbors plant their seeds inside, in trays of tidy, parallel lines in April.  They light them up with hanging fluorescent “grow” lights.  They water them each morning, so by May, the little sprouts will poke their noses out of the soil.  In June they will be transplanted into real, outside gardens, to grow during our two good months of summer.  By August, everything is so hot and dry that the plants get baked into the parched and crusted earth, just before the Autumn freeze.  That’s right about when Winter shows up for another 9 month stay.  

If you blink, you’ll miss the whole growing season.

This year, I outsmarted the whole system.  The kids and I planted our garden in January.

Okay, maybe it had nothing to do with smart.  We just were bored with a bad case of cabin fever, so we got out the seeds and dirt and had ourselves some fun.  Watching seeds sprout up and grow was much more exciting than watching snowflakes fall and accumulate into mountains.  And we didn’t have to shovel it.  So anyway, now it is April, and our garden has grown.  

And guess what? 
 Just like nearly everything else in Minnesota, it grew up to be Norwegian.  

Tall, thin and pale.  


If the little kids’ feather pollination works, we should have spaghetti squash and tomatoes and corn on the cob by Mother’s Day.  Maybe we’ll get to carve pumpkins on the Fourth of July, before snow comes again.  

In the meantime, Happy Spring!

So, it happened again yesterday.  

I’m quite used to it now.
Ever since my child was born with Down Syndrome, I became Conspicuous.

We are no longer passed by on the street, unnoticed.  We stand out.  We are smiled at, hugged, patted on the arm, greeted warmly as if we are long lost friends, and welcomed.  We have also been frowned at, turned away from, and even cried to.  

People notice us.

Once, when Stella was only about three months old, she slept in her carseat next to me while we ate at a restaurant.  One of the employees began to wipe down tables near us, looking inquisitively in our direction.  She cleaned closer and closer, until at last, she walked right over to me, staring at my baby.

“What a beautiful baby you have there,” she began.

“Thank you.  She’s pretty new.”

“She is adorable.” The lady cooed at Stella, then her misty eyes began to drip.

“Is she very hard?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Is she very difficult?  To take care of, I mean?”

“She’s quite easy going, actually.  She likes to be cuddled. She has been to doctors quite a lot, but she is pretty calm there, too.  She’s a content baby.”

The stranger then started to cry.  She explained to me how 50 years ago, when she was a very young mother, she had given birth to a child with Down Syndrome, also.  The people in her life and the doctor convinced her that the child would be too much work for her.  “Too many needs,” they said.  “They told me she was a big problem and that she would never function in the world and she would be a burden on me the rest of my life.  But you know what?”  The woman continued, “Not a day has gone by that my heart doesn’t break over her.  I wonder what she is doing, and what she would look like.  I wonder if she was ever happy.  She will be fifty years old this month.  They never even let me hold her before they took her away…”

I held this woman’s work-worn, wrinkled hand while she cried in the restaurant.  Then I placed Stella’s tiny hand in hers.  She held on, and my daughter’s hand became the link that somehow connected her to her own long-lost, beloved daughter.

When her tears had run dry, we hugged and parted ways.

“I wanted her.”  She said. “I always wanted her.  And I love her to this day.”

My own heart ached with this woman’s fifty years of hidden pain and regret.  I wish I could have said something to her, to support her way back when she was a young mother, afraid.  I wish I could have put her baby’s hand in hers, and helped her give and receive the Love that her child brought.  The Love that they both needed to be happy.  My heart aches with compassion for her and all Mothers like her, those who hold on to pain and heartbreak instead of small hands.

I am a very Conspicuous Mother, noticed and confided in where ever I go, holding my child’s hand.  And I promise you that Mothers love their children forever, no matter what.

I am so grateful to have this small hand to hold.  

Look what I found.  

Safely hidden away from the world of hawks and eagles, tucked into a little thicket, a Cardinal is nesting.  She seems to be alone here, sitting on her eggs.  But she’s not.  

Cardinals mate for life.  And he’s here, all right.  He watches over her every minute.  He’s higher up in the tall trees, singing to her much of the day.  His clear songs ring out to keep her company, as well as to distract any predators from finding his beloved.  He is bright and showy and loud, she is plain and muted and quieter, and they are utterly devoted to each other.  Did you know that male Cardinals will feed their mates, beak to beak, while the eggs are being incubated by the female?  After the little ones hatch, Dad takes a turn on the nest.  They work together.

They give me great hope.  

We are not alone.  Though often hidden, there are self-sacrificing, hard working, devoted ones, doing what is best for their families day after day, year after year.  They don’t make the news.  But these tiny guys are busy living their entire lives, about 15 years, in the same place, with the same mate.  

They are tenacious.  

Devoted.

Inspiring.

And they are everywhere…

Happy Easter from the real Easter Bunny!   Her name is Philomena.

She worked very hard last night, delivering all those baskets.  As your kids search around for candy and eggs,  Phil would like you to know that it is always possible to find joy, no matter what your circumstances.  You just have to know where to search: 

Look Up!  Philomena says to Cheer Up, Keep your Hopes Up, Look Up, Rise Up, the Sun is Coming Up... The answer to what you are looking for is Up.  
Always Up. 

Happy Easter!

For you.  Because He loves you.

“Good night, I love you.  God Bless You.”

A kiss on the forehead, a caress on the cheek.  Tuck the covers up over her shoulder and around down, under her chin.

She has her flashlight, the closet door is closed.  

One last look around the room…  “I love you.”   Then I shut the door.

But not all the way, of course.

How many times did I go through this routine?  

I was always too tired to appreciate it.  Exhausted and weary…
I didn’t really comprehend that one night was going to be the last night.

But it was.

One night, I tucked her in, she smiled up at me with dreamy eyes, half mast.

Then I watched the glowing sun, sinking so slowly on the horizon, the colors were spectacular and vivid and I thought it just couldn’t get any more beautiful and precious.   

It seemed only a few moments.

The stars appeared in the darkness, and I felt an ache in my heart and a lump in my throat as a premonition, warning me of change.

“They grow up fast,” the old ladies warned, when they had arrived with baby presents.  “Cherish every moment,” they had chided when she was noisy at church.  “It can’t last forever,” they had smiled through gritted teeth, waiting to pick up their own kid from driver’s ed.

They were right.  

When the sun rose the next morning, the birds sand a joyful song and the world awoke to a brand new day.

And she was all grown up.

I haven't posted any flowers in a long while.  Here is one of my favorites.
This was my dad's Crown of Thorns plant.  It covered his desk, sprawling over his workspace,  soaking up the sunlight on the south side of his office, where the sun shone most brightly.  

Under this plant's ferocious gaze, Dad chatted on the phone, buying used hospital equipment like X-ray machines, Geiger meters and pancake probes and ultrasound machines.   He would load the heavy machinery up from metro hospitals, clean, repair, refurbish, and resell.   He loved that job.   It somehow gave him so much joy to take what someone considered "junk" machinery, and to work with it and recondition it and make it something valuable.   He frequently sold to hospitals in impoverished areas, or to countries that otherwise would never be able to afford something as expensive as an ultrasound machine.  He followed up with service plans, because he knew each machine so well, and kept them in good working order.  He took "junk" and helped save lives with it. 

When Dad passed away, I took his thorny plant home.  
It's in my studio now, and still sprawling, covering the desktop, producing thousands of thorns and occasional tiny red drops of flowers.

I like this plant's daily reminder that somehow, God does the same kind of job that my dad did so well.  God takes the thorns and the garbage and "junk" of my life, and with his tender care, he makes it into something worthwhile.  He knows my faults, he can correct them.  He knows my brokenness, and somehow, he can find a place for me anyway.  He knows that someone, somewhere needs me...
And so he turns me into something valuable.  
Thorns and all. 

  

More signs of spring!  Hope you enjoyed the sunrise, too.

What do you see when you look out at the world?  Do you see a big mess of darkness? Tangles of trouble, insurmountable pain and fear? Hatred and despair?  

All those things are there, I know.  
The world can be a tough place.   

Just reading the news headlines is enough to scare me.  Add my own personal troubles, and I could be overwhelmed, buried in negativity.

I could be jaded.
I was jaded.

But I have found a secret weapon that melts away all my fears.  
I have discovered that even in the forest of fear and doom, beautiful things grow.  

Little things.

You have to search for them.  

Once you learn how to find the little things, you will find hope and joy everywhere.
Because hope and joy are everywhere. 

Here is what I found in the middle of that dismal looking forest this morning…
I hope you can find some wonderful small things today, too.  
The small things make all the difference.

Years ago, the Irish dance group Riverdance made an appearance in our city.  Their thunderous shoe stomping, jumping, frenetic tapping and leaping lit up imaginations, made a generation of Americans fall in love with the Irish, and changed my kids’ childhoods forever.  It was a crazed phase, really.  Irish dance schools popped up all over the U.S. in response to clamoring parents, willing to plunk down hundreds of dollars for imported hard shoes and curly wigs.  The universal story of oppression and rebellion and heartache and finally, freedom, told by glamorous athletes in tap shoes was powerful enough to make most hearts pump green blood.  It made us all feel Irish, deep down.  I ordered three pairs of little hard shoes for my daughters within a week of the show.

But no one wanted to open an Irish Dance school way out in the sticks.  So down to the city I went, and I found myself a teacher who would travel to the edge of civilization once a week.

God gave us the luck of the Irish when he sent that teacher to us.  This dancing Irishwoman took my impetuous ideas and impulse purchases and gently turned our  country kids into Irish Step Dancers.  

“Riverdance is great,” she used to say.  “But there are centuries of Irish dance and rich cultural traditions that your kids would appreciate more.”  For the next nine years, she patiently taught our growing group of kids dances from Irish history, set dances from the Irish countryside, dance steps normally done at parties on propped-sideways doors and kitchen tables, and even one that she learned from an Irish garbage man. 

She was brilliant.

“They can share joy through dance,” she explained.  “It is not just about performance and competition.  With music and dance, they can bring happiness to so many.”  With that aim in mind, she led them from nursing home to nursing home, across our metro area.  Instead of competing for trophies, they danced for the elderly.  

And the elderly responded, loud and clear.

They sang along.  They clapped their hands, tapped their velcro geriatric shoes, and pounded their canes to the beat of the kids’ shoes.  They smiled at the children, cheering them on with each jig and reel.  Inevitably, the strains of “Oh Danny Boy” drew tears from the nursing home residents.  Wispy voices joined in, crackling on the high notes.

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
'Tis you, 'Tis you must go and I must bide.

Once, some of the moms found a treasure trove of cast-off dance costumes at a thrift store. The day we tried them out for the first time, a white haired man from the fifth row raised his cane, shaking it.

“Does your Mammy know you’re out dancing in that red dress?”  He scolded the girls.

We put the kids back in pleated plaid skirts.  Good to know your audience.

One performance, something happened that I will never forget.  It was around St. Patrick’s Day.  The kids put on a show in a Memory Care Facility.  This wasn’t the first time they’d danced for people with Alzheimer’s.  They didn’t expect much of a response here.  They were veteran dancers, after all, who showed up with gifts of cookies.  Just a bit of joy for the elderly, who seemed to need it.  

It happened to be a Sunday, and many residents had families visiting.  We wheeled residents out to the sunroom, set out the platters of cookies, musical instruments, and plugged in our speakers.  Silence fell in the room, and the first dancer took the floor.  The ten year old girl began her traditional Irish jig, hard shoes banging and rapping away at the floor.  That’s when it happened.

A frail man, who had been quietly sitting to one side staring vacantly into space, suddenly pushed away his walker and stood up.  His flaccid, sad face broke out in a huge grin.  

“That’s my song!”  He yelled.  “I know this one!”

He gleefully bounced to the front of the room, took the girl by her small hands, and proceeded to dance all about the room, jigging his heart out.  He leaped and turned, kicked and twirled with the girl, as well as any ninety year old man could.  The lilt of the music kept him aloft, and it was as if eighty decades of age melted away and the two dancers became one with the music, dancing their jig.  

As the song ended, the girl guided him back to his chair, and he eased down, still smiling.  His family was shocked, his daughter openly sobbing.  

“That’s my song!” He said again, before falling silent, back into the shadows of Alzheimer’s.  “That’s my song...”

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,--
Oh, Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I love you so!

I have been too preoccupied and excited to write much lately.  The ice is finally melting!  

The caverns of ice and the dark places of the earth are disappearing, washing away downstream.  What began as a single trickle now melts even the thickest ice, the coldest corners.  Nothing can stop the sun and the light and the warm breath of spring.  May your heart feel the hope of Spring today...  

It is here!

"The secret to everything is good compost," my grandfather used to say, as he crushed up old eggshells into the soil around his roses.  

Good Compost. 

Sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Who likes compost?  Isn't that just all the garbage and refuse that nobody else wants?
Banana peels, used coffee grounds, potato peelings and grass clippings?
Good for nothing, if you ask me.

And I don't want any of that compost stuff in my life, either, thank you very much.  Emotional garbage and hurts and sorrows...uh, uh.  That's garbage on a real-life level. Leave me out of it, I say. 

But what if I am wrong?

This Lenten Rose pushed itself up out of the thick leaves several years ago.  It seemed to come out of nowhere.  No one remembered planting it.  And yet, there it was, in the middle of all the rotten leaves... it was delicate and beautiful.  I read that it will only grow in soil that is rich in composty-garbage.  Like the almost forgotten edge of the leaf pile.

What if life is like this Lenten Rose?  What if the aches and garbage of this world are actually gifts, given to us to make us gentle and delicate and truly beautiful?  What if the very best and sweetest parts of us are born from pain and sorrow and broken hearts?    That would make our suffering the compost of this world.

My grandfather could be right...

Maybe the secret to everything really is good compost. 

“I’m giving up ice cream!” (says the one who gets ice cream only once a week, on Sundays.)

“I’m giving up video games.”  (Maybe just the new one.)

“Well I’m giving up all technology.”  (And that’s harder, so I win.)

“Why do we have to give something up during Lent, Mom?”

“Well…” I begin.  “Look at this pencil.  It’s nice and new, but it can’t do what it is designed to do.  
It hasn’t been sharpened yet.  And this older pencil… It’s getting a bit dull, so it doesn’t work very well.  We have to take something away so it works better.  

It needs to be sharpened.

Lent is like sharpening pencils, except for your soul.  We need to take something away so that we can do what we were designed to do.  See?  The blade is strong, it won’t be easy.  But if you sharpen your soul, you will be better able to do your job.  The one you were designed to do.

So what are you going to take away from yourself during Lent?”

They looked at me seriously for a minute, thinking.  I wonder.  Did they understand?  Do they know how important this is?  Was my Mommy Sermon good enough?  

“Mom?  Can I have my pencils back now?”  

Oh, dear.  Clearly, I am the one who needs sharpening.

I found this flower out in the shadows of the woods.   He faithfully turns up every summer.  He stays in the filtered and dark places, the forgotten and lonely places, raising his leaves like flags to the world.  

Jack in the Pulpit, they call him.  Three leaves clustered together for the Trinity.  He holds those Trinity leaves up all summer, in rain or in wind, even until the frost comes and changes the flower to a heart of bright, blood red seeds.

After that, he fades away in the snow. 

But I know he'll be back around the time that Easter returns.  
Just watch.  

He's faithful.

Sometimes, you may not feel it.  Sometimes, you might even doubt it.
But you are loved.  
If you can't see the truth in this, then perhaps you are looking in the wrong spot.

Because everywhere I look, I see how much He loves you, and how much he wants you to know that he does.   It is written in the leaves, in the flowers, in the stars.

And if today, no one else tells you this, I want to be the one to give you the message.  To deliver your beautiful valentines.  To show you how much he cares.  
You are loved.  

He's whispering his love into the wind.  He's writing it into the woods.  Can you hear it? Can you see?

I had help today.  

Good thing, because it took six coats of paint (six!) to cover a brown wall in my kitchen.  
Please don’t ever paint walls brown.  You will live to regret it, six times over.  
Brown tree trunks are nice.  Brown dirt is nice.  Brown chocolate is the nicest of all.
But brown on a kitchen wall is not nice.
Dark and cozy, but not nice.
Buttercups and Daisies are cheery and nice.  Sunshine is the best cheery of all.  
But we don’t have any of those…everything outside here is dead and brown.  It’s that kind of winter. 

I’d like to paint every room in my house a cheerful yellow.  But the six coats of paint required to cover the brown frightens me off.  And also, the family is rebelling.  

“Claude Monet did that,” I tell my kids for the hundredth time, showing them internet photos of Monet’s happy yellow kitchen and cheery farmhouse. “You could grow up to be a famous impressionist painter if you ate your oatmeal in a cheerful yellow room.”

“Please no, Mom.”  they groan. 
I won’t tell you what else they said. 

But it wasn’t cheerful.

I did have help though, as I said.  Somehow, between coats 5 and 6, Dog took a leisurely stroll through the paint tray that I left on the floor.  He then ambled all through the living room.  Thank God it's not carpeted.

So, here we come to the point of my ramblings.  It took me all day to cover up my small brown wall with a clean, joyful color.  It’s a little wall.  An accent wall.  Maybe only 12 feet by 9 feet.  

ALL DAY.  And it was hard work.  I was so tired that while making spaghetti for the crowd, I burned myself three times, the pasta welded together like a brick, and I cried.
So much work and exhaustion.  During all this, in the dead, brown world of Minnesota winter, 

God made it snow.  

In ten minutes, the entire neighborhood, and most of Minnesota, was whitewashed a perfect, pure and glittering white.  Ten minutes.  What irony. 

I try and I try to do my bit…make my corner a little bit brighter and better.  To find the love, joy and peace that I know is hiding there, among the cobwebs and brown paint.  In my own way.  With old paintbrushes and leftover paint which I have to check for lumps because it is really old paint.  My way stinks.

I need to step back, let go of my own ideas, and just let God whitewash my world.   It appears to be outta my league.

Snow.  He covered the dead and brown world with crystal clean purity today… made it all a beautiful place.  

And he didn’t even need my help. 

Cute little bunny!  Watch out!  The big hungry dog is coming!  
That’s what you think.  

But the truth is not always what it seems.  
And you’ll never understand what’s going on in this picture unless I explain it.  

Really.

This is my kids’ cute little bunny, Philomena.  She should have a hutch in the great wild yonder somewhere, but instead, she lives in my living room.  She is a two pound tyrant who likes to be the center of attention, and I’m an eejit..  So she wins.  She lives in a play yard in my living room.

We also live with a yellow lab named Jack.  Ninety pounds of muscle and strength… a big boy with a big bark.
Philomena is mischief.  She sits around like a queen,  shredding whatever she gets her teeth on.  Here she has stolen my daughter’s paper doll, and is giving it a 
toe amputation, er - pedicure. 

My daughter is on her way to take it back.  And here comes Jack. Is he a threat?  Is little tiny Philomena safe?  One might wonder.

But as soon as Jack, the lumbering oaf, sets one yellow foot into Philomena’s perceived territory (this day, it’s the pillow)  Philomena strikes out in growls and foot thumps, charging at the impudent dog who dares offend.  

Jack could eat her in one gulp.

But he is afraid. 

Little Phil has biting incisors of death and destruction, and she ain’t afraid to use ‘em.

So Jack, the ninety pounder, is scared off by the two pound bunny.  He retreats in haste, to lay his big head down in shame and submission.  

Philomena wins again.  

It’s hard for me to admit which of these animals I identify with more…  

I am like Jack.  My problems may be small, but I cannot overcome them at all.  I’m so beaten that I don’t even try.  One Perky little Problem sasses off to me, and I slink away with my tail between my legs, and lie down on the floor.  Beaten.  I don’t even have the gumption to try, to bark, or to lift up my head.  I could be so much more than I am!  I have power!  But I’m down for the count.  Poor me.  I lost the fight before it began.  

Some days, every once in a rare while, and only for a moment, I get to feel like Philomena. Sass and bravado in spades.  I am a two pound fury that frightens away the bad guy.  Problems flee like water down a cliffside.  Who needs strength?  I am Attitude with a capital A, and that’s all I need.  

Watch out, world.  

If only I could be more like Philomena, more often.  Small, but brave.  Petite but powerful.  

Oh, my gosh.  She’s looking at me.  Oh dear.  
Excuse me, but I’m leaving now.  Phil says it’s time to sit on the floor.  So I’m going.  Goodbye.  I'll be brave some other day.