December Is for Crafting

Warning: I'm going to get all Pinterest-y up in here, so beware, this place just turned into Hobby Lobby.

Which happens to be where I bought all of my fun supplies.

A little known side effect to consuming turkey is that it triggers the release of craft-y-mone (a recently discovered hormone), which is why Hobby Lobby can afford to list all of their Christmas products at 50% off the day after Thanksgiving... they know we'll be out looking for scrapbook paper and glitter glue.

After the success of last year's magical advent season, I decided, in spite of the holiday doldrums, to continue the advent activities tradition this year.

Here's what I did (and here comes the Pinterest-ready photos... har har har):

Corkboard
After I managed to pry my fingerprints off with the double-sided foam tape that came with the 12x12 corkboard squares, I stuck 'em up on the wall in a mostly square square.  For the more anal retentive among us, I suggest a thingy with the bubble in it that makes sure things are level -- oh! there it is, the device we professionals call a "level."

Pretty Paper
There once was a time when I used scrapbook paper to scrapbook, but those days are gone like a freight train, gone like yesterday.  Now, I will be purchasing seasonal squares of scrapbook paper as background material for my boards o' cork and using them for kids' pictures and other super-fun Mommy kind of things.  If I didn't have this turkey triggered craft-y-mone, I might have just stopped here because I think this is just about the cleverest little display I've ever conjured.  But wait, there's more!

Advent Activity Tags
Using some multi-brown colored cardstock to match the kitchen decor, I cut out some Christmas-y shapes, like stars, bells, trees, bulb ornaments, and a boot that looks more like a train engine if I turn it sideways.  After I got the cutting done, I laid them out on the table to make sure I didn't put all of the poop brown ones in one corner.  This seemed important.  Then, I labeled 'em in order from 1 to 24 and wrote down someone else's really handy Pinterest idea, which is to read a passage from the nativity story in Scripture each evening.  The verses for that are here.

Once all of that was done, I handed the tags over to my kiddos, equipped with stickers, glitter glue, and little sticky gemstones.  I did my best to resist rearranging stickers in order to make each ornament either symmetrical or balanced and avoided a lecture on proper glitter glue technique ("Don't squeeze so hard! Squeeze from the top! Egads, don't smear it like that!"), but I did supervise a few strategic sticker placement attempts, thus averting the very serious top-heavy sticker crisis of 2013.

The Most Important Part
After feeding the children and watching 2/3 of Elf because the children are losing interest and ricocheting off furniture with their Star Wars Lego battleships and gymnast maneuvers cleverly propelled from the seat cushion of the couch to the ottoman, escort them off to their rooms where they will whisper, "Good night, Mom.  I love you, Mom," after you've sung "Take you for a ride on my big green tractor" to them even though it's about taking a girl out for a ride on a tractor and you've modified it for your starry-eyed farmer sons, then sit down with the advent cards and start plotting out the possibilities for December leading up to Christmas.

Here's what we're doing (don't tell the kids!):

December 1 - Make hot cocoa
December 2 - Make cinnamon ornaments
December 3 - Play Christmas music
December 4 - Read a Christmas book
December 5 - Look at family photo albums
December 6 - Polar Express movie night
December 7 - Tuba Christmas @ Ashland
December 8 - Make Christmas cookies
December 9 - Read the story of the Nutcracker and open "special gift" (nutcrackers)
December 10 - Take a winter walk
December 11 - Buckeye Express Diner night
December 12 - Package Christmas cookies
December 13 - Popcorn and pajamas movie night
December 14 - Christmas shopping
December 15 - Lingro Family Christmas
December 16 - Deliver Christmas cookies
December 17 - Wrap Christmas gifts
December 18 - Eat Christmas cookies
December 19 - Fancy dress-up dinner night
December 20 - Look at Christmas lights
December 21 - Go ice skating
December 22 - Mystery event
December 23 - Color Christmas pictures and cards
December 24 - Davis Family Christmas
December 25 - Christmas Day

I feel a little less panicky and depressed about the holidays than my last post, partly because this project is done and I've outlined the holiday season, but also because I really do love the holidays-- the whirlwind of family gathering and laughing, the late night car rides looking for early Christmas lights on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner, the ever-available Christmas cookies, the quiet glow of the Christmas tree... ah.  There it is.  My Christmas spirit.

The Cloak of Obligation

It's nearly December, and in spite of putting up my Christmas tree two weeks ago, hanging stockings, listening to Christmas Jazz on Pandora Radio at work all day, and ordering a few Christmas presents online, I'm just not feeling it yet.  Four days from now, I'm supposed to begin our countdown to Christmas and I haven't even made the advent calendar yet, and reading how excited I was for the holiday season last year only increases the dread.  I can't risk recycling last year's because I don't really want to go Christmas shopping with the kids on a random Thursday or have to bake cookies on a night when I don't get out of work until 5:30.

Where is my holiday spirit? 

I think it is wedged underneath this feeling of obligation to make December magical in the face of all of the other obligations I've set up for myself as the year comes to a close.  Traditions like I always create our family photo album on Shutterfly at this time of the year along with a photocard if I'm feeling like mailing cards to people.  And I always write in a "Christmas book" to report on what has happened in the Wells home this past year.  And decorating outside; the kids want to put up lights.  And baking Christmas cookies.  And shopping and wrapping.  And making homemade Christmas gifts - probably revisiting the cinnamon ornament of Christmases past.  And this Advent project I did last year, which was so much fun, and the kids are asking about it, looking forward to it, but I just feel tired.

These should be fun things, but because we also have to continue washing clothes and making meals and doing homework and paying bills, I feel Christmas tradition pressing down on me like a heavy cloak.  I have to do them.  I have to also keep reading and keep writing and I want to learn how to play the bass clef on the piano and I want to read with Lydia from Harry Potter each night and I need to also listen to Elvis read and encourage that fragile spirit of his towards confidence and I need to nurse Henry back to health from his bout of pneumonia last weekend and I need to someday speak to my husband as my husband instead of co-parent.

No.

I say, no.  If the holiday season becomes a burden of "have to's" and "musts" and loses its spontaniety, its mystery, its silent nights, our spirits will become enslaved, and the very freedom of grace and love and peace that is promised by the coming of Christ we celebrate December 25 will lose its power as we dissolve into the madness of Target at 3 a.m. on Black Friday (or 9 p.m. Thanksgiving Day), the daily weight of activity jammed into each minute leading up to a supposed day of rest and gratitude.

Here on Thanksgiving Eve, I think I will do what I find myself needing every day to do lately, open my clenched fist and let go.  I will let go of the cloak of obligation and necessity that is choking my delight, and let it fall to the floor, let it get buried by the falling snow, and watch from my back window with a steaming cup of hot tea, Nat King Cole crooning, "Although it's been said, many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you."  I will hold in my hand warmth and peace, give thanks for all there is to be thankful for, and ready myself for rest.  I do not have to do anything that will drive me out into the cold to fetch that cloak of obligation. 

I will stop on my way into the house and feel the flakes of winter fall on my face, listen to the muted world, and try to find a silent night.

Damaged Goods

Let's talk about sex. Ba-by.

Last night I spent about three hours reading and revising an essay that just won't stop growing, called "The Valley of Achor."  I keep trying to trim it down and it keeps rebelling, begging for more, more, more words when I want to make it shorter.  The darn thing just needs to say what it needs to say, and it keeps thinking of more things it needs to say.

It is an essay about obsession, infatuation, and love.  It is about sex and faith and God and mercy and redemption.  I have thought so much about these things for the last thirteen years, ever since I prayed at 18 that whatever was causing my period to be two weeks late would go away.  It did.  I don't know if I was pregnant.  I suspect that I was and that I miscarried, based on the number of times I've miscarried since that personal crisis in college.

Now, I am happily married, to a different man than the one I dated in college.  That man's shadow has followed me like a ghost these thirteen years, sometimes more often than other times.  We dated on and off for a year and a half, and I gave myself to him in many ways.  I would have married him, if he had asked.  Needless to say, he left a major imprint on my life.

This morning, Matt Walsh, a popular blogger with many, many good things to say, posted a blog on abstinence.  I agree with much of what he has to say, but I take issue with two things: his tone, and this sentiment:

"...Are you satisfied that what you give to your spouse is now secondhand?  If they tell you they feel happy or neutral about the fact that they gave themselves to someone other than their spouse, you’re dealing with someone in a very dysfunctional marriage. Any honest person in a healthy relationship would tell you they’d erase those moments from their lives if they could. ...That means millions have had to look at their spouse and say — probably silently in their own heads, deep in their subconscious — 'I have nothing new to give to you.'  It’s a tragedy, really. It’s a shame. You deal with it and you move on, but 'casual sex' has taken its chunk and you’ll never get it back." - Matt Walsh blog

When Brandon and I met, I was worried about revealing my past to him.  He was a Christian, the first believer I had seriously dated since becoming a Christian myself, and I worried that he might condemn me or reject me because I was "secondhand," no longer a virgin, impure.  When the time came to discuss these things (and honestly, we pushed the topic to the front of the line way faster than we should have), there was no condemnation, because he had failed in this area, too.  

Did these pre-marital relationships affect our relationship?  Absolutely.  Probably they still do, to some degree, the ripple effect of loving someone deeply and then losing them lasts for a long time.  However, Matt is missing a vital element of the message of the Cross. From Romans, "Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus" and slightly later in the same chapter, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

In all things.  The power of the Cross is not that we might strive for perfection and receive our reward based on how good we've been.  The power of the Cross is that we are free from the burden of perfection and made holy and pure through the redemptive love, grace, and mercy of Christ.  Not because of anything we've done, but only because of Christ.  Only because of the Father's love.  Only because of the power of the Holy Spirit.

I don't think I can regret for myself anymore the decisions I made to have sex before I married Brandon.  Maybe I regret how long I spent seeking after a person who no longer loved me back.  But that crisis in my life drove me to my knees, it woke me up to the realities of my imperfection and my lack of control, it released me from the grip of "do good things" and delivered me into the garden of "I have loved you with an everlasting love, I have drawn you with unfailing kindness."  Not condemnation.  How can I live in regret when God has delivered me into that garden?

Teach your children abstinence. Not because they will carry regret and shame with them the rest of their lives if they don't.  Not because they will be "damaged goods" otherwise, "secondhand" to the spouse they marry.  Not because they might have a baby out of wedlock or get a sexually transmitted disease.  Those are not good reasons.  They are not true reasons.  They are symptoms of a deeper emptiness or injury and they ignore redemption.

Teach your children abstinence because purity is a worthy pursuit, and abstinence is one facet of purity.  But it isn't the only one: purity manifests itself in our thoughts, our words, and our deeds.  It might please God that you are seeking purity, but that isn't why he loves you.

Attacking sex as the only manifestation of purity or impurity does what we Christians have done for centuries - identified one sin to place under a spotlight as worthy of condemnation.  Teach your children all of the worthy pursuits - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control (that's where abstinence fits in this list).  And when they fall -- because they will, in some way, fall -- be prepared to extend the same grace and mercy Jesus Christ extends to you, every single day of your broken and imperfect life.

"Jesus straightened up and asked her, 'Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?' 'No one, sir,' she said. 'Then neither do I condemn you,' Jesus declared. 'Go now and leave your life of sin.'" - John 8:10-11

Bad People Go to Hell and Other Parental Panic Moments

My lovely blue-eyed seven-year-old daughter giggled. "Bad people go to the devil when they die," and my charming bow-tie and button-down-shirt wearing son giggled, too, "Yeah, but we're going to heaven because of JESUS."

I stuttered and stammered, "Well, it's true that Jesus saves us," I said, "but I'm not sure about the devil. It'd be a bad place to go, that far away from God.  I don't know about the devil." Or something like that. Yammer. Stammer. Pause. Continue eating pizza. End of theological discussion.

Oh, Lord.  Lord, Lord, Lord.  It's moments like this that cause my adult brain to short circuit. What do I say?  What do I believe?  How do I say what I believe without oversimplifying to the point of error?  Can I even communicate a non-deistic, grace over deeds, mercy over judgment concept to my children?  

Can I just hand them some Popsicle sticks and glue?  Here, stick these together. They make a cross! Wee!

I've thought about and pondered the existence of God for twenty years, ever since my best friend scribbled, "At least I know where I'm going when I die," in a folded and creased sheet of notebook paper, ever since I asked my mom, "Do you believe in God?" and I thought to myself, Of course she does, everyone believes in God, but she sat on the beach blanket next to me and said, I don't know.

I don't know.

It's possible that the greatest gift my mom ever gave me was this uncertainty.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  Maybe if she had said, "Of course I do," I would have nodded and thought, "well then, there you have it. There is a god."  

But wrapped in that single, simple, honest answer was this: permission. Permission to doubt. Permission to seek. Permission to question. Permission to believe.

Freedom.

She could have said, "Of course I do," her heart racing, ready to deliver the sinner's prayer to me right there on the shore of Lake Erie, right there, perform the accept-Jesus-into-your-heart prayer, and maybe it would have meant something to me.  She could have said, "No, I don't. I think it's ridiculous to believe in god," and I might have nodded, okay, that takes care of that, Lisa can eat her perfect cursive handwritten note.

But no, with one sentence a door opened, because paired with faith is always doubt, and what is the good news of Christ if not freedom?  Freedom to question?  Freedom to wonder?  Freedom to demand answers and freedom to rest in mystery?  

And then there was that note.  I think about that note often, how it's hot poker burned and I flinched.  Where will I go when I die?  Is there an afterlife?  Oh, the many ways I've answered this question, heaven, hell, dust, earth, eternity, purgatory, asleep in the ground, awake in the clouds... and yet even today Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknow.  

Oh, I believe in an afterlife.  I believe in heaven, the love of Christ, ever-presence in a place as good as and better than this world, a place of wholeness and healing.  But also there is (or can be) heaven on earth, healing and redemption here, now.  That is a message I can hear and understand with more clarity and immediacy than any eternal heavenly location - that which is unfathomable, mysterious, but no less real... or possible.

But the question of the devil, well, maybe?  Why not?  I don't know anything about hell, its physical location, whether a loving God would condemn a mortal being to burn for all eternity, but I know there is (or can be) hell on earth, a life spent in bitterness and ruin, destruction and vanity and greed, a life spent entirely separate from God, serving one master, serving one's own interests, or maybe even serving the burning desires of Satan who wants to kill and destroy, to drive people away from God.  Maybe?  

"At least I know where I'm going when I die."  My best friend's note was a catalyst.  What do I know?  What do I believe?  That note was followed not by condemnation but by invitations, to Bible studies, dinners with her parents praying, the Billy Graham revival in Cleveland, our shared college dorm room, worship services we attended together, prayers we uttered together, and Bible verses we exchanged. All of the merciful, miraculous, and mysterious ways our paths have intersected these twenty years are an entirely other kind of testimony to the grace and power of Christ.

Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.  Grace.  Permission.  Freedom.

So what do you give your children?  I want to give them an open hand.  I want to invite them into "Here's what I believe, but."  Yes, I believe in a huge, loving, powerful, merciful, just, faithful, mysterious God of the universe.  Let me show him to you as best I can.  I hope that you will see him and feel that presence in your life, that faith will surpass doubt.  I hope that the love of Christ will be real to you, that it will ever change you, ever humble you, ever shape you into a fuller version of yourself, the very best version of yourself, and that the same love of Christ will compel you to love others deeply and fully, so they too may experience the love of Christ.

And when you ask me a question I don't yet know the answer to, please dear God let me have the humility to simply say, "I don't know," and may the mystery be enough to keep both of us searching.

Right Where I Need To Be

A few weeks ago, after Brandon and I returned from celebrating our tenth anniversary, I looked ahead at our calendar for October.  There were a lot of commitments that required a lot of babysitters, which translated to many nights and weekends away from the kids (and several hundred dollars in childcare and travel expenses).  I of course love to get away, especially when it is for good things, like time with my husband, writing conferences, and poetry retreats, but with Brandon gone every weekend and me working full time, it just didn't seem fair to the kids to escape leave so much.  I emailed my friend in Kentucky and reluctantly pulled out of the poetry retreat that was to take place this weekend.  I let my cousin (awesome babysitter) know that I decided not to go, and promptly willed myself to forget about the retreat.

This Thursday, my poet friends posted photos of their road trip south, and from my office desk I pouted.  I was supposed to be getting ready to head out for Louisville.  I sighed.  It would have been such a good time to hang out with these friends.  I reminded myself of the much-needed downtime with the kids, the bushel of apples ready to be sauced, and the cash that was staying obediently and responsibly in my bank account because of this decision.  But that doesn't mean I didn't throw a small tantrum on their Facebook comment section.

After work, the kids and I were off to a great start to the weekend.  Everyone ate dinner without whining.  The paved path through the woods and field behind our house beckoned.

"Do we have to wear a helmet?" Lydia asked, and I considered for a moment saying no. We had ridden the path in the field without helmets lately.  Elvis was nearby, getting ready to ride his bike, listening for my decision.

"Yes, you should still wear your helmet, since we're planning to ride through the woods."  She strapped it on.  Elvis did, too, and we set out for a leisurely ride through the woods.

The new path is only paved for about fifty feet into the woods before it transitions to gravel and dirt.  Since the weather began to turn a few weeks ago, pine needles and leaves have begun to fall across the trail.  I love the pine needle floor of the forest, the canopy high above our heads, the scratch and rustle of the squirrels through the fallen leaves.  We rode along, Henry in the tow-behind trailer and Elvis and Lydia speeding ahead.

Just over the peak of a small hill, I heard Elvis scream.  I rolled my eyes and smiled and sighed.  He is always falling, and every little bump and bruise causes him to erupt into tears.  I pedaled my way over the hill, Henry sitting in the tow-behind trailer.  There he was, splayed out on the trail, still on top of his bike.  Lydia was slowly making her way back to Elvis.

"Oh, buddy, are you okay?" I asked him, helping him to get untangled from the red Lightning McQueen bike and stand up.  He looked up at me with tears streaming and blood dripping from his lip and chin.  "Oh my goodness, Elvis, come here." I gave him a hug and worked his fingers and wrists, asked him to move his arms and legs to make sure nothing was broken.  It was clear he split his lip.  There was a small cut on his nose and a small bruise forming on his forehead where his helmet likely jammed into his skin, a couple small cuts under his chin and on his neck.  I stood for a minute, balancing my bike and Henry and holding Elvis.  A man with a dog came down the hill and held my bike for me while I inspected Elvis some more, considering what to do next.  It wouldn't make sense to take Henry out of the bike trailer and walk all three of us back, and the handlebars of Elvis's bike were bent out of shape.

"Elvis, can you walk back beside me?  I'll go real slow with Henry, and we'll leave your bike here," I said.  He nodded while wailing and hiccuping, still shaking from his fall.

"I'll ride back to the house and then come back for his bike," Lydia offered, and I said that was a good idea.

"Be careful!" I yelled.

We walked/rode back out of the woods, Elvis rubbing his neck and crying, me rotating between "Oh, buddy," and "It's okay, you're okay, you'll be fine," and "I love you, little man," until we were out of the woods.  It was still early, and we passed others running and walking along the trail.  He kept touching his fingers to his bloody lip.  Each time he did this and saw the blood, he cried harder.  Almost back to the house, Elvis spoke for the first time since his fall.

"My tooth," he muffled.  I stopped.

"Your what?"  I asked, bending over to look closer at his face.  When he fell and looked up at me, I could have sworn he was missing a tooth, but maybe he had recently lost one and I just mis-remembered?

"I lost my tooth," he cried again.

"Let me see, open up a little so I can get a good look."  His mouth was bloody; there was a dark gap where one of his front teeth had been.  "Oh no, Elvis, do you remember if you had already lost a baby tooth, or was that one of your adult teeth?"

"It was one of my adult teeth," he said, his big brown eyes watery.  I couldn't remember -- had he lost his top teeth already, or was it the bottom that were permanent?

"It's okay, buddy, it'll be okay.  We'll figure out what to do."

So began our weekend.

His other front tooth was loose, too, and I urged him not to play with it.  The next morning, I woke up congested -- tell-tale symptoms of a sinus infection brewing -- and Henry seemed a little congested himself.  Elvis threw up twice.  Concussion?  Probably.  I took him to the dentist.  She confirmed that they were, in fact, his baby teeth (thank God), and his permanent teeth had not suffered any damage from his fall.  Whew.  Crisis averted.

The boys and I enjoyed some time with my mom Friday morning, and after I put Henry down for his nap, I fell asleep on the couch.  For almost three hours.  Henry slept just as long, and Elvis put together four puzzles, colored two pages of a coloring book and some posters, and played with his Legos.  Other than a fat lip and a couple of scrapes, Elvis seemed back to normal.

I had some girlfriends over Friday evening, and after they left, Henry proceeded to wake up every 90 minutes until 6 a.m. the next morning, thoroughly congested and struggling to breathe.  My sinus symptoms worsened throughout the night.  When it comes to sicknesses, my tendency is to head to the doctor's office at the first sign of symptoms rather than let it hang on for days and days, but I've been trying to break myself of this.  Most things need to run their course, and I've paid enough co-pays to know this now.  I spent Saturday hunting on Pinterest for home remedies to treat my sinus issues and Hank's chest congestion.

Me and Henry at the football game a couple weeks ago

By Saturday night, Henry's breathing was frighteningly forced.  I called my friend Julie who came over with some essential oils, and even though I had tried steaming up the bathroom, a humidifier, chamomile oil and peppermint oil, honey, and hot tea, we gave her treatment one last shot.  Still no major improvement.  So, it was off to the emergency room.

You know, of course, that my husband was out of town this weekend, as he is every weekend in the fall.  This is how it goes, tragically funny how these things happen.  The last major incident was Elvis's kidney stone back in March, which set me further down the spiral of an unconfirmed mental breakdown.

As soon as I scooped Elvis up off of the bike path, I knew why I had to call off my weekend poetry retreat.  And when the sinus congestion clogged up my nasal cavities, and when Henry's chest heaved and wheezed on Saturday night, I knew why I was home this weekend.  It felt like God providentially said, "Nope, not this time," two weeks ago.  "Nope, you need to be with your kids.  You need to be Mom.  The poetry can wait."

I don't always feel this way, of course.  I leap at opportunities to get away, and I think that's healthy for me and for my kids.  But other than a smidgen of envy at the laughing, eating faces of my poet friends, I felt no regret about being home this weekend.  Disappointment, yes.  Disappointed that we had to spend it sick, nursing fat lips and receiving breathing treatments at 11 p.m., cancelling plans to watch the Browns with my husband at the stadium.

But I was here.  I was present.  I was available to snuggle my loved ones on the couch, to watch Despicable Me and Cars 2 and several dozen episodes of Looney Tunes, and to rest.  Sometimes that is exactly what we need.  Exactly where we're supposed to be.

The Florist's Daughter by Patricia Hampl

The Florist’s Daughter by Patricia Hampl is a deep exploration of two extremely influential individuals on the author’s life: her mother and her father, though much more emphasis seems to me to be on the mother. There's an intended irony, I think, in the author's title, the florist's daughter. Hampl has always considered herself "his girl," and throughout the book, Hampl shows us the benign relationship she has with her mom... at least until later in the book. The memoir could be considered a comparative analysis of Leo the Lion and Stan the Gentleman, interwoven with a final reconciliation of perception versus a broader reality that the narrator, as daughter, missed, and naturally - we aren't often granted a more objective stance from which to view our parents. The narrator’s position is, notably, bedside next to her dying mother, and throughout the book we are returned here, in the final days of this era; though we might go away from the bed for pages and pages to explore the past, we always return to the bedside.

Throughout the text, Hampl establishes parallels between her parents and the landscape. Her mother is the downtown store; her father is the greenhouse. Her mother is urban, her father is rural. Her mother is sophisticated/from up the hill; her father is wild/from down the hill. There’s uptown and there’s the greenhouse. There’s local and there’s travel. The landscape and geography of St. Paul and its surroundings serves as the perfect vehicle for Hampl to navigate the ways in which she finds herself relating—or not relating—to her parents. As Hampl explores the world of her childhood and her parents’ upbringing, the florist’s daughter gradually realizes that she is not just the florist’s daughter. With distance and experience, the depth of her mother within her surfaces along with an understanding of Leo the Lion. This revelation to the reader and the narrator, too, comes late in the memoir, when Hampl writes this single sentence paragraph: “And I’d thought I was his girl” (page 201).

There’s much to praise in Hampl’s rendering of her parents. Using key phrases and descriptions of her parents, she is able to establish and carry their personae throughout the memoir, reminding the reader who these people are. I am impressed by Hampl’s exhaustive descriptions and explanations of her parents. A perfect example is on page 52, when describing her father’s relationship to St. Paul:

“But the attention my father demanded was a world away from the note-taking watchfulness of my mother in the corners of charity balls. She was tracking. He was filled with wonder. St. Paul provided all the beauty a person needed—St. Paul and an occasional trip into the glory of the Minnesota lake country. Leo the Lion plotted guided trips to Ireland that he argued were a waste of time and money. The Thoreau of St. Paul, he said Europe could wait, he hadn’t seen all of Minnesota yet.”

This beautifully rendered sentence out the mouth of a lesser writer might have read: “My father loved St. Paul and didn’t care to go anywhere else, even though my mother tried to arrange trips to Europe.”

Lately I have been picking up on a writer’s use of key repetitions and their effectiveness. Even in this paragraph, I can grab “note-taking,” “charity balls,” and “Leo the Lion,” three prominent characteristics that Hampl has affiliated with her mother. This seems extremely useful to me in building a character across many pages of a book. They are unique details about a person that help us to understand who she is, and repeating them reminds us of these qualities.

Hampl is also a master of sequence and timing. The reader discovers truths about the narrator as they happen—we experience her naïveté in the florist’s shop with the navy man and the epiphany of the “almost rape” late in the book, not to mention her awakening to the relationship she has with her mother. It seems that as the scenes unfold, the narrator gradually comes to a clearer understanding of her mother, as if by sitting bedside in the hospital with her, she has turned on a slow defrost against a severely frozen windshield. By the end of the book, the windshield has been made clear so as to navigate the way from here forward.

Most Memorable Moment: Ten Years Later

Last night, we went to Bull and Bones Brewhaus and Grill in Blackburg, Virginia (look at that nice alliteration... it's even a poetic location) for karaoke and drinks.  Brandon asked me what moment is most memorable for me from the last ten years together, not counting our wedding day and the births of our children, and I was stumped.  Most memorable?  God.

Maybe singing "Love Shack" with Brandon on the stage of our honeymoon cruise, or the long walk back from nearly drowning my new husband off a Key West beach, sandy flippers and snorkles in hand.

Maybe the day we came home to the house on Leland to find that our dog, Tex, had eaten everything in the kitchen.  The loaf of bread.  The plastic around the loaf of bread.  A candle.  A coffeepot.  A chocolate Easter bunny.  We were stunned.  We were certain he would die, but he didn't!

Maybe the night I brought both pregnancy tests downstairs grinning to Brandon sitting on the couch watching the Indians with Tex stretched out next to him, and he said, "Wow.  Wow."  And I said, "I know!"

Maybe driving all over Akron and Hartville looking at houses under $50,000 feeling downtrodden, rolling over the tip of a hill and seeing a for sale sign on a burned down house, or walking through the house that was sinking at such an angle into the earth that we could barrel roll down the living room floor, until finally we found the house on Ardella, olive green siding and a fenced-in backyard for Tex, enough bedrooms for a bunch of babies.

Maybe the day we expected to find out that we were twelve weeks along only to find out that we had miscarried our first baby, and we stood alone in the parking lot, summer sun bright and hot above us.  "I guess I should go back to work," I sniffled, head low and tears a slow leak, and Brandon put his hands on my face and whispered, "Be strong and courageous, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go," and we held each other, facing the first intimate grief of marriage together.

Maybe six months later, standing in a restaurant after the boys basketball team won a tournament game in East Liverpool (right? was that where we were?), getting the call that our nephew was born but that he was struggling in the NICU and feeling so helpless there, states away from our brother and sister-in-law, how the parents and basketball team all bowed their heads and prayed for Braden, for Ben and Kelly, for health and miracles and life.

Maybe when we brought Lydia home to that house on Ardella, our two crazy redbone coonhounds ready to meet the new addition.

Maybe "I see a firetruck, a bright red SHINY firetruck!" for Thanksgiving, celebrating Braden's second birthday (was it his second? do you remember? time goes so quickly and it all runs together, and now I don't know, was Lydia there for the firetruck or was that the next year?).

Maybe our trip to Butler, PA, when we felt the push to start looking at seminary, the need to move on to the next big thing.

Maybe the day we realized if I took the job at Ashland, he could quit his job, and we'd still be fine, actually better than fine, and maybe even start seminary.

Maybe walking on the towpath in the valley with Lydia right after Elvis came home from the NICU himself, and Brandon wore our strong, fragile, healthy but so sick before little boy in the Baby Bjorn, and the light danced through the leaves, and we prepared to go house hunting again, and then how every house was like something from Flip This House - the Bacon House, the Flea House, the Power Line House, the Putt Putt House - until we found the house on Morgan, a clean slate of white with so many walls to paint, so many ways to make it ours.

Maybe the day we decided to step out on faith and start to tithe regularly.  Maybe the call later that afternoon asking Brandon to work for ESPN.

Maybe every trip we've taken tagged on to work where we've eaten good meals and drank good drinks and slept in large beds, work as the brackets around relaxation.

Maybe every time I've worshiped next to Brandon in church, our fingers intertwined, or the time at Hudson during the sermon when we watched the bump of Lydia's elbow or knee move across my abdomen, or every time we have held a baby during a praise song, or every time we've walked with Lydia and Elvis to the communion table, the kids eager for bread to fill the empty spaces.

Maybe every time Brandon and the kids have walked over to my office on campus just to stop by.

Maybe every time we have sung, "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash.

Maybe every time we've quoted Dumb and Dumber or When Harry Met Sally or The Anchorman or Forget Paris.

Maybe every time we have walked nine holes in the fading fall light.

Maybe every time Henry says, "Juice, Dad, Mom?"

Maybe every family picnic or backyard barbecue with friends.  Maybe every fourth of July picnic.  Every Christmas morning.

Maybe every time we have danced slow or fast, in our kitchen, in our living room, after a Christmas party with Lisa and Zack, at the Boot, at the Dusty Armadillo, at Thirsty Cowboy, at weddings, singing "and we'll remember them!", singing "He stopped loving her today..." and always, always laughing, always smiling, always his rough cheek against mine.

Maybe every time we have forgiven each other.  Maybe every time I have been forgiven.

These, yes, these, and so many, so many other memorable moments that have comprised ten years of laughter, ten years of learning, ten years of growth, ten years of grace, ten years of choosing each other, and yes of course ten years of love, ten years, ten years, ten years.

Favorite memorable moment?  If a moment can stretch across a decade, then, this last one.  This last decade, with my husband.  Every happy second, every difficult season, every grief, every mercy.  Everything.