Day 22 - November 7

Home again, home again, jiggety jig. An overnight flight from Seattle to Grand Rapids, and then work the full day at the hospital.

Occasionally God opens our eyes to see special blessings, and this overnight flight and morning arrival was one of them.  Driving with Andrew to the Seattle airport last night, I commented that I enjoy getting bumped, and we both commiserated that a Tuesday night red-eye was probably not one of the top candidates for getting bumped from.

However, the flight to Detroit was overbooked, and I was the final passenger to be accepted for a bump to an alternate flight through Minneapolis, leaving two hours later but arriving in GR only one hour later than originally planned.  I accepted a $200 voucher and a $10 food coupon, and settled into one of those leather recliners that charge $1 for a massage.  There's no sign that says you can't sit in them without paying, and they sure beat lounge seating.

The flight to Minneapolis was uneventful.  In MSP, I used my coupon to buy a soy steamer, fresh fruit, and nuts from Starbucks--with 5 cents left over!  I arrived in GRR, expecting to take a taxi to pick up my car, but instead had a message from Phil that he could pick me up (lovely, lovely).  Inquiring about my luggage, I discovered that the Detroit flight had been delayed two hours, and I had arrived before my suitcase!  Which they would deliver for free that afternoon.

Small details, each one--but put altogether they reminded me of the unlimited, particular, and detail-oriented grace of God in my life, particularly during times of stress or fatigue.

Day 22 - November 6

This WAS a busy day--cleaning out an old refrigerator, cooking a big pot of chili, shredding veggies for the magnificent beet quesadilla filling, running the dog, shopping, gardening, potting bulbs, assembling the crib and a dresser, taking everyone out for dinner--but still, I regret falling asleep after dinner for the last hour I had with Rachel and Andrew.

I thought later, at the airport departure gate, that I would have liked to pray with her, to pray a blessing over the baby, over the coming delivery, over the last month of her pregnancy.  But instead I slept.  Like the disciples in the garden.

Day 21 - November 5

I rise early here in Seattle--usually by 5 a.m.--to keep my sleep schedule in sync with Eastern Standard Time, which I must return to in two days.

A cup of tea, my Kindle for daily Scripture readings, and Bug sitting on my lap, nibbling at my chin.  Then Rachel gets up, and Rambo races out to greet me and the day.

I've taken on the discipline of running for 30-40 minutes with Rambo when the world gets light.  We run up the hill and into the forested land that surrounds Phantom Lake.  In the cool, moist air, the scent of forest and damp earth and dying leaves is strong.  

I will miss these runs.  I will miss Rambo.  I will miss Bug nibbling at my chin.  And I will miss my daughter, great with child.  I do wish we lived closer.

Day 20 - November 4

Baby showers have evolved through the years into sophisticated events, with e-vites, online gift registries, high-technology gifts (including ingenuous used diaper disposers and complicated bottle-warming devices), and catered food that includes vegetarian, vegan, and allergen-free options.  

One thing that will always remain the same, though, is the stories.  Every mother present--young or old--feels obligated to recount her own birthing experience, to advise on the pros and cons of delivery methods and medications, and to highlight her struggles with pregnancy and with the amazing, squalling infant that found its way into her world.  Older mothers speak with knowing tones about the trials of adolescence.  When all the stories are told and all advice given, the shower is over.

Rachel's shower was true to form.  She has lovely, sophisticated and passionate friends who showered her with generous and creative and useful gifts.  They also showered her with their stories, and I can't help but feel that these were the most valuable gifts--these stories that help prepare a young and inexperienced mother for the unknown, stories that link them all together, that connect them with women from generations back to generations forward.

I probably shouldn't have told Rachel, however, that when I went into labor with her, my husband was thousands of miles away, that the back labor was so intense that I would bang my head against the bed railings to take my mind off the pain, and that when I told the delivery room nurse that I didn't want an epidural, she said, "Well, you're on your own then!"

But reward follows pain. The round, red little face with dark and empty eyes and sleek black hair was finally placed into my arms, and pain and discomfort receded.  It's just difficult to realize that time has fast-forwarded so quickly, and that the infant I held in my arms is now getting ready to go through that same process.  As did my mother before me.  And her mother before her....

There is a long line of us, stretching back in unbroken succession to Eve.  Who didn't have electric bottle warmers or disposable nappies, but who must have had her own stories to pass down to her daughters.

Day 19 - November 3

Well, what sticks in my mind most about this day is not the flawless flight to Seattle (I was bumped up to first class), nor the pleasure of seeing my daughters and the camaraderie of family around the table and the fun of playing Canadian Salad.

What sticks in my mind most about this day is that I forgot the dang shower gift.

All those little garments, stretchy and comfy and boyish, made in Holland, wrapped in tissue, still sitting on my bedroom floor, near the closet door.

Behind the irritation and embarrassment, behind the apologies made and the self-deprecating remarks, lies the thought of Alzheimer's.  Ten years ago it wouldn't have occurred to me.  But now that I'm 60....

Day 18 - November 2

Why are days before trips fraught with interruptions and unforeseen time-takers?  After the long Friday workday, I had promised to meet my husband at a nearby restaurant by 6:30.  Breaking several speed laws, I arrived on time.  We ate a leisurely meal and also visited with four long-ago friends who chanced to be seated two tables away.  Finally coming home, I was greeted by three hungry students who were still waiting for me to fix them dinner at 8:00 p.m.  So, along with laundry and cleaning and packing, there was dinner and dishes.

But by 11:30 p.m. all was packed (including a lovely baby shower gift for my daughter, purchased in the Netherlands, wrapped in a separate gift bag to be carried onto the plane).  I fell into bed and into the arms of my waiting husband, and by midnight was in the arms of sleep.

But what lingers about this day is not the busyness, nor the small rise of irritation at unexpected interruptions.  Not even the restaurant meal (oh, the luxury of having someone else cook for me).  What lingers is the pleasure of seeing friends whom I had not spoken to in ten years.  Of an unhurried, meandering conversation with Phil.  Of the pleasure on the students' faces at the sight a custom-made pizza, savory and piping hot.  Of the warmth of my husband's body.

Day 17 - November 1

A busy day coming up--I will be alone at work today, after the gym workout and then dinner at night, packing, cleaning, getting ready for flying out to Seattle on Saturday morning.

But first:  the daily discipline of reading and prayer.  I am in Genesis and Matthew and the early Psalms, working my way through slowly, without a schedule (I hate those schedules).  I find Genesis fascinating all over again.  And invigorating.  Slowly the light of God filters into my mind, illuminating my interior life and the way I see this world.

Much like the morning light in the dining room, my view every morning as I sit with open Bible and read and think and pray.  I am fed, strengthened, ready for whatever may come in this day.

Day 16 - October 31

I woke early this morning at the cabin, the knowledge pressing down on me that this was my last day, that I would be leaving after lunch, back to the rush of life at home.

So to work on the story!  As I've been wrestling with new chapters and with a fuller outline, I begin to see more solid shape, direction, and form.  Surrounded as I am by the Michigan woods, I find the imagery of the forest very apt right now:

The first stages of writing feel to me like I've wandered off the beaten path and gotten lost in a trackless patch of woods with no clear direction, only some vistas afar off, through the branches and brambles.  But how to get there?  What a mess.

Later, after living with and pummeling the story (and being pummeled by the characters), digging up some delightful scenes and pruning away extraneous details, the direction becomes clearer, the way more orderly, and eventually may even feel like this:

I am somewhere inbetween the two right now.  But thanks to the tranquility and quiet spaces of the past two days, I am closer to the clear path than I was.

An hour's cleaning leaves the Mother Lodge as immaculate as I found it.  I drive back home, sucked into the vortex of refugee needs, a chaotic dinner hour (punctuated by dozens of neighborhood toddlers crying "Trick or treat!" at our door, this being Halloween), piles of unwashed dishes, and long and cheerful conversations with the students.  Yes, I am home again.

Day 15 - October 30

Today I have my heart's desire:  a whole, complete day without structure.  Without time.  Ah, luxury.  I rise as dawn filters through the windows.  I have an apple and tea, read the Bible, go for the usual walk around the labyrinth.  I eat an enormous breakfast of egg and sauteed vegetables.

And now I can write.  I dip my toe into the story I'm writing, then paddle around a bit, then plunge in headfirst.  Hard work, but invigorating.

Another walk at midday, and then six more hours of writing, punctuated by the making of corn bread and roasted vegetables.  There is no one to tell me not to read or write while I'm eating supper, no one to frown at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink.  Only the story taking shape, chiseled out word by word, scene by scene.

I want this story to be a lantern, the way that the stories of my youth were lights to my imagination.  I want it to ring like a bell, sounding in the wilderness.  Well, I really just want it to be a really good story.

Night falls quickly in the north in late October.  The wind rubs trees together, and they creak and complain.  There are strange sounds in the darkness, like someone running across the roof or knocking at the door.  I recall the verse of the Psalm I read in the morning's clear light:

In peace will I both lay me down and sleep,
   for God alone makes me dwell in safety.

Day 14 - October 29

Zoom, zoom.  Clean the kitchen, shop at Costco, make cat food, make phone calls, pack, sort, organize.  Out the door and into the car by 1:30.  An hour and 15 minutes' drive, time to settle, to let the brain fluff blow away, to listen to the hum of the car engine and look at the bare, virtuous trees lifting their arms to the sky along Highway 131.  Till finally exit 159 comes into view, and I take my foot off the gas and coast off the highway.

To a place of uninterrupted solitude, quiet, and grace.  I drive the long, winding track through the pines, and park.  I step into the Mother Lodge, and it is clean and orderly.

The wood stove is already filled with fresh-cut logs and radiates warmth.  I stand and soak in the heat--the backside of my legs, my rear end, my spine.  Oh, the bliss.

Oh my Lord, I am fervently thankful for a place like this, where my ragged edges can fall away in the silence, where there is no voice, no need, no stir and movement.  Only the stillness.  Only solitude.  Pure and simple and healing.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Day 13 - October 28

Life can be too full of good things.  I skipped the James Bible study this morning before church.  I canceled small group this evening.  Life has been piling up, and I need a true day of rest.  Maybe this is what it's like to be 60--to be frazzled around the edges much of the time.  I will go to Morningstar tomorrow and spend two nights in a cabin, alone, silent, with my writing.  I can think of no greater pleasure right now.