“Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore.’” ~ Edgar Allen Poe

Today was one to dread, and I pouted my way through last night’s bedtime routine and fell into bed feeling sorry for myself.

How were we to survive a three-hour appointment with a psychologist to evaluate Sadie to re-up our insurance? Could my special needs nine-year-old, whose trigger word is “doctor,” endure endless tests and questions—in the same small room—for three hours? Could I?

I don’t like answering all the crazy queries, like “Can Sadie open a can?” and “Does Sadie apologize if she says something rude?” and “Does Sadie invite friends over to play?” No, no—and no. Not applicable.

Ten minutes after we leave home, Sadie’s sick of her car seat.  She sheds her shoes and chucks them at me. I stop at a light and glance at the clock. Blast rush hour. Blast the clock. Eyes up to glare and wait for green, I see not just red but a towering pine, dripping with cones, against the grey sky. God.

Even in the traffic-choked suburbs, there’s always trees plus sky. Look up, above the dry cleaner and the car wash and the dumpster behind Burger King.

I let go of the wheel and open my hand (I was raised Episcopalian, so only in the car, my friends, only in the car) and wordlessly ask Him to bring what He will, and for me to grab it.

I know He has something good in mind.

We’re twenty minutes late. There are two docs, and they escort us to The Little Room. Sadie nervously shakes her leg as one of them asks her to pick up a square piece of plastic. She does it. My heart leaps. Brilliant! But next time, Sadie picks up the square again, even though she’s being asked for the circle. No success on the third try. It was beginner’s luck. Sadie starts to fuss in earnest. I start to shake my leg.

“I’m stressing Sadie out, so let’s switch gears and I’ll ask you some questions, Mom.”

(Health care pros always say “Mom,” I think, so they don’t have to remember actual names. Or are they trying to be folksy? Someday I will be edgy enough to say, “I’m not your mom. It’s Mrs. Boggs or Laura, please.”)

I’m given three choices for all the “can she’s”: usually, sometimes or never. I find myself saying never a lot.

Sadie is settling down, so she’s asked to solve more puzzles, manipulate more blocks, identify more pictures.

“Can you tell me what’s going on in this picture, Sadie?”

Sadie is swinging her feet, considering. She turns her head in mock disgust and replies,

“Never!”

The three of us look at each other and bite our lips to suppress laughter.

For the next ninety minutes, “never” is Sadie’s cheerful answer to everything. I think of the raven quoth-ing, Nevermore. I can’t believe I get to share space with this extraordinary bird, Sadie-Bird, as her sisters call her.

She may not have all the skills in the world, but she has style.

I smile and take the gift. Sadie is charming and clever in her own way and makes me laugh.

I leave the scene unscathed, wondering about the whereabouts of the pit in my stomach. I’ve shed many a tear in the parking lot of doctor’s offices. Not today. Today has a theme, and it is me being tickled at “never.”

I’ve developed a distaste for tests designed to prove how dense someone is, and apparently so has Sadie. In a way, she’s outwitted us all. Good girl.

I sit at stop lights and watch trees and sky and wink at Him, my way of saying thanks.

After they’ve spinned through the warm cycle and danced in the dryer, I’m pleased to boast the cleanest rocks in town.

Though I’ve been after the twins since they mastered the pincer grasp to empty their pockets before throwing clothes in the laundry, I get crayons, wads of gum, lip gloss. Sometimes I earn a dollar or two. But mostly I find rocks. Now 14, the girls are still foraging outside, pocketing twigs, acorns, flowers—and rocks.

There are worse things I could find in my teenagers’ pockets.

Someone I’d just met remarked today that I really must have my hands full, with a special needs nine-year-old running around and having to “constantly keep track of where two teenagers are and what they’re up to.”

Is that what some folks are resigned to?

“No, it’s not like that,” I said. “They’re sweet girls. In fact, they help me a lot.”

“You’re a very lucky lady,” she said.

Luck?

Now, I can’t—and won’t—take credit for the rocks in their pockets. (Though I can rejoice in them.) I’m as deeply flawed a mom as I am a human being.

But this child-rearing business involves some small degree of intentionality, some measure of expectation. And I wonder, why offer up a self-fulfilling scenario of dreadful, rebellious hellions or nasty, sullen adolescents? (I was the latter.) Why make that an option?

It is grace, no doubt, that has grown such lovely but (also) flawed young ladies. And I’m not talking about mama grace, though I try. I’m talking lavish, never-ending God grace.

But if pressed about our parenting, I would point my finger to one thing I can say with certainty we don’t regret. We turned off the television.

Well, not off, exactly. Our youngest enjoys TV like I enjoy oxygen. Sadie watches Barney while I cook dinner, Sesame Street on summer mornings when I need a shower, Curious George while we linger over a meal after she is long done. If you’re a mom, you’ve probably hired the electronic babysitter more than you care to admit. I’ll say it: I sort of love that loud, obnoxious box in the den, which from time to time captivates my mischevious bundle of joy—all for the bargain price of basic cable.

So the older sisters get shorted. While their peers are watching kids sass their parents and teachers or obsess over dating dilemmas, or worse, Maggie and Emma are stuck with Teletubbies. Someone half their size monopolizes the remote.

So you see? Our one surefire parenting victory isn’t even deliberate. More grace.

When I was pregnant and then when the twins were tiny, I read every book I could get my hands on about What to Expect and Growing Kids God’s Way and the like. I soaked up any snippet of conversation about the right and proper things so to do. What if I messed up my children? What if—gasp—they turned out like me?

But somewhere along the way (was it the challenge of twins and two-against-one or was it when our disabled daughter came along?), reality entered. I don’t let go of much, but part of me abandoned the notion of The Perfect Childhood.

I can’t shield my three from every hurt or disappointment. I can’t expose them to every activity out there. I can’t even get on the floor and play, not for long. You see, I get bored. And who really wants to see an exhausted 40-something-year-old sprawled out on the carpet, drooling? So I get up and mess in the kitchen or wipe down a bathroom sink. Sans guilt.

I’m here, loving these children, all the time. They know it—I hope that goes a long way. Because I take baths at night when I could be hovering over homework. The Spouse and I get dressed up and go out or over to friends’ houses. And I have a comfy chair in my room where I write. When I’m in that chair, watch out. I’ve been known to stick scribbled signs on the door that read something like:

Do not enter. Unless you’re bleeding and you’ve already gotten a Band-Aid but it looks like you quite actually need stitches.

So to review: the secrets to our so-far, so-called success: No TV. And a liberal dose of benign neglect. And immeasurable grace.

(Not the mama kind.)

M y friends snickered a little over breakfast when I ordered, with a semi-straight face, gluten-free pancakes. But they got an even bigger kick out of the next morning’s announcement: my fling with the latest dietary trend had ended.

After two days.

I’m not going to delve into the dull details about my sluggish thyroid or the thing (my stomach) between me and The Spouse when I spoon him to sleep. Let’s just say, for the first time, I have a decision to make: buy a new wardrobe or lose weight. Even my shirt sleeves are tight.

Apparently I’m not the only one obsessed with a little bit of arm fat. It’s in the air, the latest on cleanses and cayenne pepper and carbs, or the banishing of them.

I ran into a friend at Publix dumping kale and apples and cucumbers into her cart. She was beaming.

“I’m juicing!” she proclaimed.

“Add a little o.j. to that,” the produce guy suggested. “It’ll help mask the flavor.”

“Thanks!”

Here was another club I didn’t belong to. Despite my friend’s juicing evangelism, I can’t imagine drinking something that—green. No. Just, no.

But until recently, I said the same thing about the idea of going gluten-free. No way, no sir, no how.

So how did I end up in Whole Foods one Monday wondering which would taste better, spaghetti made with corn or Jerusalem artichokes?

My head is spinning along with everyone else’s to keep up with the “science” of the holy grail of health. Should we eat like cavemen or nibble on six small meals a day? What about mimicking the Mediterraneans or savoring like French women, who, by the way, Don’t Get Fat? Calories in, calories out? That’s so yesterday.

Is it the all-American addiction to innovation and new discovery that appeals? Or is it laziness—searching for a shortcut to a scale reading we can live with? I think it’s a bit of both.

Part of me says embrace thy curves. All hail Joan on Mad Men, Marilyn Monroe, or those reclining pear-shaped nudes hanging in the High Museum. But curves don’t always manifest themselves so magnificently: consider cellulite. Or ballet flats with cankles. Or the muffin top.

Are we victims of fashion? If our jeans weren’t so low or so tight, couldn’t we just live our lives, eating without angst? Isn’t there something better to talk about with our girlfriends than how to puree twenty pounds of vegetables each day? Would anyone really notice if we were ten pounds lighter? Anyone?

During the gluten-free pancake outing, I dug a packet of stevia out of my wallet and poured it into my coffee. The friend sitting to my right watched this ritual, horrified.

“Okay, now I’m depressed.”

Me, too.

Shortly after I had my third child, I marched into a local Weight Watchers, eager to lose that stubborn baby belly. The lady behind the desk had me step onto a scale. She frowned and led me to a chart, explaining I was actually under-weight for my height.

“I just want to fit into my pants,” I pleaded.

“It’s time to buy some new pants.”

I left, humiliated. I’d been kicked out of an organization to which I was willing and ready to hand over money. I went to Old Navy and bought a pair of pants, a khaki cargo number, if I recall. When I got home, I put them on and looked in the mirror.

And for some reason, I thought I looked like a million bucks.

You know what? I probably did.

I haven’t posted in a long while—bless you if you’re among the two or three who’ve noticed.

The website has been down, but it was fixed three weeks ago. (Thanks, Gary.) It has been… waiting. Waiting for me to feel online journal-y. Waiting for me to feel—fixed?

Not Writing is bad. The more Not Writing there is, the harder the coming back. Is it laziness, or F-E-A-R, or just being supremely distracted?

Spring makes me manic. There’s an irresistible urge to clean flower beds and closets, to organize and purge and start fresh. I think I saw the Good Will guy roll his eyes today when I showed up with a trunk-full of stuff—again. (More shoes, really?) I need to drive to the donation center across town.

All the while my fingers itch, but I don’t sit still and thoughts are scattered (scattered— I’ve got to plant morning glory and zinnia seeds in the morning!) and I’ll do anything, even sweep pollen off the front porch every afternoon, to avoid my laptop. Except to check emails. And what’s new at shopruche or oliveandjane—or the weather.

I’m even dragging my feet (a little) on other work. I normally like to work fast, but I’ve been turning in revised chapters to my literary agency two and three at a time, per week. (I could do more if I weren’t sweeping the porch.) There’s a long way to go. (Yes, I did say literary agency. And I enjoyed saying it. More on that another time.)

Isn’t it funny how you can catch yourself in the middle of a whirlwind of activity, but still be in a funk? The over-busyness might be a way of running from quiet, of facing the funk. Which comes first, the frenzy or the funk? I’m not sure. One is feeding the other, at this point.

But it’s at this point the cycle ends, I think. Why? Because I wrote it. I put mush-headed, half-formed thoughts into words on a page.

And that, my friends, is what’s brilliant about keeping a journal. Go get yourself one.

I guess the funk is over. See you tomorrow.

I stopped the spring  madness long enough to get myself cleaned up pretty for Wednesday morning Bible study at a friend’s house. I parked well up the long drive, facing out, ready to hit the road—and errands and chores—once it was over.

We had read and studied 1 Corinthians, with an emphasis in our workbook on the  “love chapter.” It was time to discuss. But I met our normally perky hostess outside. She looked tired and anxious, and her phone was glued to her ear. Cristell talked hurriedly about “up all night at the E.R. with Grandma… finally got her insurance on the phone to see if she can get a shot for her pain …could I make some coffee and cut the cake…” Could I make coffee and cut cake? I was born for such.

The kettle was boiling and the treat served when Cristell came in, crying. Her 90-year-old grandmother had fallen the day before, and the E.R. could only give her morphine, which makes her sick and offers little relief. Grandma Ortell needed a cortisone shot in her spine—it was the one thing that ever worked—but her HMO was not on board. They were sorry, but she’d have to hang in there until her next appointment at the end of May. Here was a gaping hole between emergency and wait a few months—and Ortell, who couldn’t even walk to get to the bathroom and winced with each move, was stuck.

“Well, we just have to get her in front of the doctor, appointment or no,” a spunky lady, Marie, from church declared. “We can’t rest until they give her that shot.”

Cristell gulped down her herbal tea (I’d decided against coffee), and we all prayed. Missy and I went to wake Ortell. Usually feisty and quick-witted, Ortell looked frail and old as she slept. It startled me. But I laid down next to her and told her the plan. She was game.

The next thirty minutes saw a perfect storm of activity. Carol knew a neighbor who had a wheelchair we could use—she hopped in her car to fetch it. Julie had been a geriatric nurse: she lovingly and expertly lifted and dressed and brushed. I (finally) made coffee, Ortell’s drink of choice. Marie directed the entire scene.

I was going along with the “-tells” (Ortell and Cristell), and Marie sidled up to me as I fiddled with the French press. She was worried we wouldn’t be able to budge the great HMO Goliath. “Now, underneath that polite exterior, you can argue, right?” I assured her I could. Oh, if she only knew how I could.

Julie knew the right way to get Ortell into the car, but even the right way elicited  involuntary groans of pain from our patient. Julie the pro was letting tears run down her face.

We were finally set to go, and I was trying to get some coffee in Ortell from the back seat.

“We were supposed to be discussing love today,” Cristell said. “Instead, we’re living it.”

All those attributes—patience and kindness and selflessness and protecting, hoping, trusting and persevering—they shone, one in one person, one in another. And we discovered new things about each other. Who knew Marie could be so strong-willed and such an effective administrator? Who knew Julie had this skill set from her career days, or that Carol could drive so fast?

I’d like to label what I brought to the table perseverance, but it felt more akin to restlessness—and (can we at least call it righteous?) anger. Ortell and I were sitting in the car by the HMO entrance while Cristell argued the case, until Ortell kicked me out. “It’s not a good sign she’s been gone so long—go up there and see what’s happening.”

“But Ortell, I can’t leave you…”

“Go!”

I showed up on the pain management floor just as the second nurse Cristell had pleaded with was shutting the door in her face and telling her to go home. I got in a zinger or two, something about this-is-ridiculous-and-cruel-and-Grandma-can’t-even-walk-to-the-toilet-and-she’s-out-there-waiting.

“We’re completely booked, and now it’s lunchtime, and I’ve already explained all this to her,” the nurse said, indicating Cristell and shooting me a who-are-you-and-where-did-you-come-from look. But she added relunctantly, “I’ll be right back.”

She reappeared, cracking open The Door. “The doctor will try to squeeze you in if he has a cancellation.”

A few hours and lots of prayers later, Ortell got her shots—four of them in her badly bruised and fractured back. Was there a cancellation? I don’t think so. Who would cancel a pain management appointment when they’d have to wait three months for another?

“It was God,” Ortell said. “I know it was.”

I didn’t get home from Operation Ortell until after four. I hadn’t marinated the pork chops as planned, so I started scrambling eggs for dinner. The wet laundry I’d run at seven sat getting musty in the washer, and the dogs—and daughter Sadie— ran around wild from too much neglect. I’d not crossed off one item on my to-do list, but I felt a big sense of accomplishment. I was simply along for the ride, but I’d seen things happen.

The shots had done the trick for Grandma’s back, but better still, the events of the last twelve hours spoke to Ortell’s heart. She told me so when I popped over later that night to bring her a present, wrapped with girly paper and a satin ribbon. It was one of those inflatable butt cushions from the drug store.

“Cute,” she said. “Real cute.”

Ortell was up and smiling and testing out her new (borrowed again from Carol’s neighbor) walker. And she’d enjoyed the spaghetti Julie had brought over for supper.

“I’m not going dancing or anything,” Ortell said. “But I’m so much better.”

Then her face fell serious. “I’ve fallen away from—church,” she said. “But today was God. What I saw in those Bible study ladies was love like I’ve never experienced. There were so many people coming at me, I didn’t know who was who or what was what. It was the real deal.”

It was the real deal, and even in the middle of it, I was blessed. We all were. Marie might have directed, but Christ composed and conducted the symphony of our day. Our beautiful day.

Thoughts about story hummed all through yesterday, story not as diversion or means of making sense but as lifeline.

It had been a black morning I couldn’t shake, with blue bite marks on my arm from special-needs Sadie and my stirred-up spirit not letting go of the violent storm. I shook my fists at the thief, the unnamed neurological thing that robs smiling, delighted child and brings a shadow of angst and impulse and then confused regret. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I rock her in my arms, I know, I know.

My insides felt raw, burned and scarred, not unlike after a bad high school breakup. (Note to self: Let me not belittle my teenage girls’ heartaches when they come. The feelings are dire, even if the circumstances are not.)

I knew the day needed a good story. The ugly and the unsettled stayed until I got lost in one. It was family movie night and I forced myself to sit and stare at the TV screen. After about 30 minutes, I was a French girl living on a farm in the war-torn countryside, a soldier flying for the first time, a boy finding out just how brave I could be. After a couple of hours, I was me again, the me who could pick up a Bible and pour over more Story, cry out to the Story-maker, and drift asleep calm.

With the holidays over, it’s time to get back to my story, and I wonder how this one will differ from the first two. It may fall flat on its face, but I sense it will be more sweeping, less small. The stakes will be higher, if I get it right.

I want to get lost in it, not just in my girl, this one named Adele, but in her crazy, other-worldly world. There is method acting. Maybe I will method-write, going around with a Cornwall accent and an (as of yet) undefined mission—in my head only, of course. The fireside and our two dogs and walks with them in my Wellies will help set the atmosphere. All this will translate to a faraway, glazed-over look and unexplained mood swings and more general flakiness than usual.

What if I had to live in reality’s realm all the time? What if while I was driving around town all I had to think about were facts? Do people do that? I don’t know how. Is that bad?

Side note: I’ve developed a movie-watching addiction that greatly annoys The Spouse. I like subtitles with my films, and not just the French ones. It’s hard to hear every word sometimes, especially with British accents (my movies) or fast-talking cop lingo (his). I want to catch every word. “You’re supposed to watch movies, not read them,” Luke groans. (But doesn’t he get tired of “What did he just say?”)

It was like ripping off a Band-Aid. After church it had to go—the tree. Tonight I can’t stand to look at that corner of the room, so dark and sad.

Have I betrayed my beloved Christmas? Should I have nursed that dry old fir through Twelfth Night?

No, it was time. I’m the one who feels betrayed—by the calendar.

With every last pine needle vacuumed (ha! I’ll be finding them for weeks), I went straight to my Milk and Cookies cookbook and started frantically pulling out butter and eggs and chocolate. These cookies weren’t for a party or a church function or a gift—they were for me. Oh, and my family.

Two days ago I was singing along to “The Cherry Tree” carol and fixing and making and baking for a tea for my young nieces and nephews. We’d given them teacups, rescued from antique markets, each one with a glittery invitation (made by my twins) tied with red yarn onto the handle.

Drink out of me
At a Christmas Tea… etc. 

One of my favorite Christmas moments was watching two-year-old Kitty tremble with excitement as she unwrapped her big girl cup. She beamed as she held up the Depression glass, struggling to get her tiny hands around it. Her older sister, Evelyn, now five, was much more adept with her treasure. Evie was that toddling age a few minutes ago. Why does time feel like an enemy?

How can all the reveling be over? What’s left are a few vases of holly and a hallway full of boxes waiting to be put in the attic. And a lot of memories, I suppose.

 I can’t think about those today. It still hurts, the Band-Aid ripping.

 I need another cookie, or three.

The phone rings the day after Christmas, Boxing Day, in between setting the teakettle to whistling and dealing another game of rummy. Mom comes out of her bedroom with a box of Kleenex—a dear friend has died at 48 years old. Her mother has waited to call until after the holiday, even though it happened a week ago.

What is one to think about a quick-witted girl with a crown of strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of freckles who could stay up all hours talking books and ideas but who was troubled always and ultimately drank herself to death? What sense is to be made? God’s on His throne, but this doesn’t feel like His plan. (My feelings on the subject are worthless, I know.) God gives us free will—can we miss the plan He has for us? Is that what happened here?

There are more questions than answers.  This uneasy place is breeding ground for the familiar feeling of wanting to grip tight and take charge. What if she’d been my sister, my best friend? She was sick, so sick. Couldn’t someone have made her get help? I recognize the fallacy of this thinking as fast as the thoughts come. I’m such a fixer. Is this a good thing or a control thing?

Where does one draw the line between faith moving mountains, doing for the least of these, pouring out mercy—and just plain meddling, trying to butt heads with Management?

And what about Management? Does The Boss preordain? Is He a puppeteer of sorts? Or does He let go, shedding tears all along, allowing things to play out in this fallen world but promising to be there, always with us? I used to favor the former, now I lean toward the latter.

But how do I reconcile such so-called allowances with this trust, this believing in my bones God is sovereign? What’s His management style, micro or macro? I know about the sparrow and the hairs on our head. But I don’t understand this lovely girl with a master’s degree from an Ivy League school who never really held down a job but stayed inside an apartment for years and years and didn’t get better but self-destructed. Where’s the redemption, the crosses-to-crowns in that?

We don’t have to figure out why—I’ve long since given up on that game. Or have I? Are these questions simply a big whiny why in disguise?

Was she a Christian? my girls ask. No, their grandmother answers quietly. They look horrified and then hang their heads. Well, we don’t know, I fumble. And we certainly don’t know what she thought as she lay in a hospital bed slipping away. More questions.

As I get older the distance grows between me and the land of black and white, oh comfortable planet but built by fear!

I’m floating around outside that world of dogma, probably swimming in soft theology, but somehow my heart finally camps out here: God is good—all the time.

I think maybe it’s a place to start.

We were getting ready to take Christmas on the road. I confessed to the family after an hour or so of huffing about that it’s hard to shut down the house, topping off vases overflowing with holly and packing cookies into tins, saying good-bye to the dear sights of home until after December 25. Once I’m on the other side (at my parents’ house in the mountains), I’m more than okay with being away for Christmas. In fact, I’m delighted.

There are tins full of cookies I didn’t make, a Christmas beast waiting in the fridge, gifts under the tree, and all the homey touches and traditions I was raised on. Best of all are the faces greeting us at the door.

We got in the car this morning and sighed relief. Everything somehow fit. A lot of care (and work) was put into all the stuff blocking my husband’s view of the road behind. Presents picked out and wrapped, treats baked, dresses pressed, dogs bathed. Mom called as we pulled out, asking me to bring the chest of my grandmother’s old silver I’d absconded, so back we went. Sadie fell apart when Daddy went back inside. Maggie’s hair got pulled. Where to put said silver?

We left. Again. The Spouse said sarcastically,

“Merry Christmas.”

Simplicity indeed. Emma asked as we accelerated,

“Is it hard for the car to move when it’s this loaded down?”

I had to laugh. What a glorious mess.

And so we’ll make a mess at Mom’s meticulously kept place. Sippy cups leaking juice on the floor, crumbs in every chair, shoes and errant socks scattered. Dad will fuss about too many people crowding into the kitchen, and a total of four dogs will vacillate between vying for space on the sofa and barking madly at whatever catches their fancy out the window. Silent Night, indeed!

Would I have it any other way? At this point, anything goes. And tomorrow night after church, with the lights down low, we’ll raise a glass to the king, lord of all this mirth.

I was thinking January-ish thoughts the other day, like gee this bathmat is tattered and I should replace it. White sale!

My jeans sure are feeling tight—I’ll have to either give up sweets or buy new jeans—in January. The dentist called to confirm an appointment for next month. The expiration date on the three cartons of heavy cream in the fridge is for 2012.

How can this be? It’s not even here, but Christmas feels almost over.

This is when I really need to hunker down and focus on Jesus. The parties are behind me, the decorating, the wonderful whirlwind of it all. It’s time for family and family and more family. (The kids are out of school for weeks, and I’m glad. Mostly.) It’s not my birthday, it’s not my birthday…

How was your Christmas? People ask this well into the new year. My Christmas? At some level, Christmas just is.

In my efforts to have the best, holiest, most wonderful time of the year, I lose sight of the unchangeable. Love came down and put on humility and lived and died for us. For me.

The Spouse will do what he does every year after Christmas. I’ll cry while I pack away ornaments and talk about how flat and dull and sparse the house feels, and he’ll look at me and say, “Jesus still came.”

Jesus in January. Yes, of course. The crutch of Christmas will have been yanked away, but I’ll still be walking with the One I love, and, better yet, who loves me. Even when I’m pouting, or, in this case, pre-pouting.