Boys are like hurricanes

Of course, if you have a boy--or (gulp) multiple boys--you know this. But as a non-mom, I am repeatedly surprised by this fact, by the whirling energy they spin off, by the way my brain spins when they leave the house.

My church runs a Kids Club on Wednesday nights for mostly neighborhood kids, mostly kids of immigrant families. I'm one of the leaders. Because I live in the neighborhood also, kids have often want to come over to my house to hang out.

I don't have a Wii or anything; I think the kids are just incredibly bored. Practically every day as I walk my dog around the block, I hear at least 2 or 3 times, "Can we go to your house?" As a never-married person who loves kids but never had any, I appreciate having these kids around, and enjoy having them over.

And then of course there is the hermit crab in me who doesn't want anyone ringing the doorbell (and ringing and ringing), doesn't want to be bothered, doesn't want to make pudding or rent a movie or color. In Blue Like Jazz, Don Miller talked about how some people are like an electric razor that you can get about 2 hours use out of, before needing to recharge for another 22 hours. The description seems about right. But I'm working on it.

Because I have one group of sisters over quite often, the boys often get jealous. As I drop the Avila sisters off at their apartment building, my car is sometimes surrounded by furious little boys telling me that I never have them over even though Maria and her sisters always get to come over. And it's true that I find boys harder to handle.

Four boys came over Sunday afternoon and we put in a movie, and then made pudding, and then "What is this for? Where did you get it? Can I have it?" and "Look, it's a stamp! Get the paper!" and "What else is in the fridge?" and "Can I go upstairs and ride your exercise bike?" and "Where's Chloe? Why is she hiding under the table? I want to pet her!" and...practically all at once.

I know this is what parents manage every day, all day, God bless 'em, but I'm not very skilled at it. So, when they took off I did take a deep breath and revel in the silence for awhile. But if I had the choice between "peace and quiet" and not having these children in my life, of course I would choose the pudding/questions/crayons/chaos. In two hour spurts, of course.

Dad

The airwaves (This American Life, The Story, etc.) have been full of father-related content this weekend, it being Father's Day today. But oddly, almost all of it has been about estrangement--not knowing one's father, not being able to communicate, being wounded by dad. Perhaps that isn't so strange after all...dads can be more mysterious in their love than moms can, more difficult to reach.

That was true with me and my dad. He was a pastor, and because I often felt estranged from God--wracked by doubts even as a 10-year-old--I also felt estranged on some levels from him. Of course, he didn't know about the doubts most of the time. But there was an inner desperation I felt to "make things right" somehow with both dads: father and Father.

Now I don't feel that estrangement. And both dads are together now--my father died about 15 years ago. I was with him at the moment of his passing, after years of illness and months of pain, weakness, and the desperation to breathe that heart failure brings.

What I remember of my dad is the moments of gentleness, the quirky oddities. He had a "silly walk" that he liked to do, and his favorite joke was: "What's the difference between a duck?" (what?) "One leg is both the same." I still don't get it...and it makes me smile to think that my dad was such a fan of absurdist humor.

Every Sunday morning, he would sit in his old blue bathrobe in the living room, going over his sermon notes, practicing his sermon in a whisper. After he died, I got some of those sermon notes--main ideas jotted in his rushed, small-capital writing, what remains of his weekly spiritual and intellectual work. I always intended to try to fill some of them in, turn them into essays that would turn into a book that I could give my sibs. But it never happened--I just like to look at the notes sometimes and remember him in his blue bathrobe, whispering in the living room. Before he entered the ministry, dad was a brilliant engineer--he could have been extremely successful, lots of money, etc. I admired his sacrifice.

I used to play the oboe as a kid, and in high school I was in a woodwind quintet. One day we were "booked" to play for the state music educators convention, and as I frequently was when I had to play in front of crowds, I was terrified. So anxious that I was sick to my stomach, could barely breathe. My dad had given me a ride to the high school where we were playing, and I said that maybe I was coming down with the flu. Of course, dad knew what was going on. But instead of trying to convince me to go in there and play, instead of giving me a lecture or even advice, he just sat silently in the car and held my hand. We sat there for a long time, long enough that I would be late to go in for the performance. And then he started the car and drove me home. One could argue that dad should have urged me on at that moment, that he was merely enabling my anxiety. But what I remember about that is his silence and the warmth of his hand.

Shopping

I bought a lot of things today, even after reading an article about the cost of owning things (http://almostfearless.com/2008/06/02/the-10-unexpected-costs-of-owning-things/). First I picked up "Pray for Anna" business cards at Kinko's, then magnets to stick them to--we'll pass out fridge magnets tomorrow. The Kinko's/Office Max was close to my favorite thrift store in the Poverty Mall (with a Thrift Town, Family Dollar, Dollar Tree, and Big Lots). Oddly, the only other stores in the mall are a homeschooling supply store and a smokes/hookah shop. At Thrift Town I bought a jacket, a scarf, some dress pants--and here's the sign of a miser: socks. If a person buys socks and towels at a thrift store, you know they rarely buy retail. (I draw the line at underwear.) However, my thrifty ways were about to crack this day.

Next stop, Midas to get my muffler/tail pipe fixed...the tail pipe was almost touching the ground and my car sounded like a Harley. It would be several hours, so I stuck the magnets to the cards and then followed a fatal attraction to Fashion Place Mall across the street. ALL the stores were having big sales. After typically buying only used clothes, it's a surprise how gracious the employees are at an Eddie Bauer outlet. Even buying $9.99 t-shirts, they treat you like a VIP. Continuing through the mall, I suddenly felt a woman rubbing some moisturizer on the back of my hand and as I looked at her, she gazed on me with pity and said "Oh, you have DRY skin." She was right, of course. She was petite, long black hair, Israeli accent, selling "dead sea" cosmetic products from a kiosk. She asked if she could buff one of my nails. She talked to me about my face. I tried to tell her, confess really, that I don't take care of my body--she smiled and was talking a mile a minute. I think she hypnotized me. Suffice it to say I bought some beauty products. After a furtive conversation with her boss she agreed to sell me a facial mask at "her cost"...which was, now I realize, higher than I could have ordered it online. I shouldn't be allowed around such people.

Then back to the Midas where I paid $260 for a muffler, tail pipe, and oil change. I think I've done more than my share helping this economy out today.

Yes, I have a dog

Ten things I like about my dog Chloe:

1. When I come home at the end of the day, she’s so excited to see me she leaps as high as my chest.
2. Her fur is incredibly soft—it’s like an angora comforter.
3. She loves to lick my hand, and her tongue is dainty so it’s a nice sensation.
4. When she’s out on a walk, she prances.
5. She cuddles up on top of my bed, at my hip, when I sleep at night.
6. She hardly ever has accidents.
7. She has an intense Maltese cuteness, but she’s not hyper like many Maltese are. If I’m busy with something, she curls up in the corner and takes a nap.
8. She’s an ambassador to the kids in the neighborhood. They love her.
9. She’s not a yappy dog…generally, she’s pretty silent.
10. When she squats to pee, she lifts one foot up just enough to look like Thumper.

Home again, Home again, Jiggity Jig

Back at work, and glad to see my friend Kirstin, She Who Makes Me Laugh. That could be her Indian name--Makes Big Laughs. It's hard to be without my mom, but my friends here at work make it easier, and it is a joy to see Shirley and fam, and Scott and Tracy and fam. (Shirley gets top billing in her family--I know it isn't fair, but there you are.)

One way I am dealing with not having mom around is by wearing something of hers every day. Yesterday it was some pearly beads, today a vest that isn't very fashionable. It's actually a Pykettes garment...I used to hate that my mom bought those, and was embarrassed about them. But wearing this vest of hers makes her seem close to me.

I don't know what the theology is about whether the dead can see us, but the passage about the "great cloud of witnesses" always seems to be about those who are watching us, and the people described right before that passage are all dead...so it seems that perhaps we are being witnessed by a great cloud of people who have gone before us. And that can be comforting, and also a bit uncomfortable; it's like the old childhood adage that Santa "sees when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows if you've been bad or good..." And of course that equates Santa with God, who is the real watcher of everything we do, but in an infinitely more intimate and loving way than any imaginary Santa. God is present, alive, intimate, watching, listening, aiding. It freaks me out sometimes. And since God is watching, I'd better start working.

Mom is gone

Writing from my sister's house, listening to music that my dear mother loved. She passed away on December 22, about two weeks ago now. It doesn't seem real yet. She was born on the longest day of the year, died during the longest night. Born in a log cabin in Burnt Fork, Wyoming in 1923, survived through a difficult childhood, married my father in 1946, had four children (three of whom are still living), was a pastor's wife through and through, creative to the core, gentle and yet extremely strong, and I miss her.