I learned I can write more than I thought I could this month, despite the craziness of everyday life. Thanks to Kimberly for hosting this!
Time for sleep. :)
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Monday, September 30, 2013
Ending another blogathon...
Today I flew home from a wonderful couple of days with my sisters-in-law. My girls ran to meet me at the airport, hair a bit wild, dressed in not quite matched outfits.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
9/11/01: Gaming, Austria
On September 11th, I was newly married, attending graduate school in Austria. (Say it three times quickly: "The International Theological Institute for Studies on Marriage and the Family.") Across an ocean, in a different time zone, surrounded by people who were not from the United States.
For us, 9/11 didn't happen till three in the afternoon.
And then the news spread by word of mouth, from weeping Americans and confused Estonians who were eating at the "Johannes Stuberl," the restaurant where the grad students had their meals. We heard what had happened while walking back from the "Spar," the only grocery store in the village, where we bought the small cartons of milk and tried to find spaghetti sauce without diced carrots in it.
I remember someone saying in halting English, "But Bin Laden... he looked like a holy man..."
Embarrassing as it is to admit, I had to ask my husband what the World Trade Center was again? Not that I hadn't actually been there. I just remembered them as "the Twin Towers," the easy way for me to identify Manhattan. Dan had taken me to NYC a couple of times, and I remembered standing at the foot of the North Tower, a massive structure that shot into the sky. He promised to take me up there one day to see the awesome restaurant on the top: the Windows on the World.
It was a strange mix of reactions. Those from the US were dumbstruck, and gathered around the one TV in the monastery we could access at the smoky little restaurant. Distractedly, I sipped frittatten suppe, beef broth with sliced crepes in it; I couldn't handle the fried pork at the time. We watched the planes slam into the towers on TV, over and over again, while the German we didn't have a grasp on yet rattled on in the background. One of the native students was translating as best and as fast he could, but news was coming so slowly... mostly, the reporters were repeating themselves.
We had no newspapers, no cell phones, no nearby or reliable internet: you had to walk several blocks to wait in line for computer access. Just one crackly television in a foreign tongue. Not being familiar with the beauty of the German language, it all sounded vaguely Nazi-ish, making reality even more surreal.
I was concerned for my cousin, who was flying to her honeymoon. But we didn't know anyone who would be at the WTC. My father-in-law used to work at the Pentagon, and now worked two miles away... later we found out he walked home when he heard what he thought was a bombing. While we all worried, we had reason to believe our families were safe; and when our calls finally went through, we were proven right.
But we knew our country was under some sort of attack. Here we were, safe in the mountains of Gaming, in a monastery whose laundry room had actually been converted into a bunker. We weren't due to be in a plane for months.
Despite our safety, a strong part of us wanted to be "home," going through it with "our people." To this day, I'm sorry not to have witnessed what people tell me of the country pulling together, the random acts of kindness, mobs of people returning to church, and American flags flying from the antenna of every car.
I went to bed that night, convinced hundreds must simply be trapped. There was no way thousands could have died like that. Praying they would be rescued quickly, I retired to the nightmares we all probably had, that night.
But the reality was worse. As the news dripped to us, painfully slowly, we heard the extent of the carnage, not just in the Towers, but at the Pentagon, and in the planes. That only a handful of people were rescued from the massive rubble.
In a melting pot of cultures, the reactions to the news were varied. Some professors canceled classes on the 12th, while others conducted business as usual. Prayers were said, Masses were offered, services were held. While most everyone had sympathy, there were a couple who thought that--while what happened to innocent life was wrong--America deserved some comeuppance for always meddling in world affairs.
That was odd to hear at such a time.
We quickly found out who the Americans were among us; we had only been on campus for a couple of weeks, after all. Mostly they were recognizable from the vague stares and copious tissues near their desks.
Within the week, hubby and I were sought out by the village newspaper reporters. They interviewed us through an interpreter.
"Ah so... Sympathies to you. How do you feel on this?"
Not having had a personal loss, we felt odd speaking on behalf of the country to this little Austrian county. But my tears were real. Naturally, we expressed our dismay at the loss of life, our fears for our country, our prayers for the bereaved.
12 years later, our sentiments remain. Honoring the memory of those lost, praying for those left behind: for our nation, and those nations--like Syria--experiencing their own traumas now.
For us, 9/11 didn't happen till three in the afternoon.
And then the news spread by word of mouth, from weeping Americans and confused Estonians who were eating at the "Johannes Stuberl," the restaurant where the grad students had their meals. We heard what had happened while walking back from the "Spar," the only grocery store in the village, where we bought the small cartons of milk and tried to find spaghetti sauce without diced carrots in it.
I remember someone saying in halting English, "But Bin Laden... he looked like a holy man..."
Embarrassing as it is to admit, I had to ask my husband what the World Trade Center was again? Not that I hadn't actually been there. I just remembered them as "the Twin Towers," the easy way for me to identify Manhattan. Dan had taken me to NYC a couple of times, and I remembered standing at the foot of the North Tower, a massive structure that shot into the sky. He promised to take me up there one day to see the awesome restaurant on the top: the Windows on the World.
It was a strange mix of reactions. Those from the US were dumbstruck, and gathered around the one TV in the monastery we could access at the smoky little restaurant. Distractedly, I sipped frittatten suppe, beef broth with sliced crepes in it; I couldn't handle the fried pork at the time. We watched the planes slam into the towers on TV, over and over again, while the German we didn't have a grasp on yet rattled on in the background. One of the native students was translating as best and as fast he could, but news was coming so slowly... mostly, the reporters were repeating themselves.
We had no newspapers, no cell phones, no nearby or reliable internet: you had to walk several blocks to wait in line for computer access. Just one crackly television in a foreign tongue. Not being familiar with the beauty of the German language, it all sounded vaguely Nazi-ish, making reality even more surreal.
I was concerned for my cousin, who was flying to her honeymoon. But we didn't know anyone who would be at the WTC. My father-in-law used to work at the Pentagon, and now worked two miles away... later we found out he walked home when he heard what he thought was a bombing. While we all worried, we had reason to believe our families were safe; and when our calls finally went through, we were proven right.
But we knew our country was under some sort of attack. Here we were, safe in the mountains of Gaming, in a monastery whose laundry room had actually been converted into a bunker. We weren't due to be in a plane for months.
Despite our safety, a strong part of us wanted to be "home," going through it with "our people." To this day, I'm sorry not to have witnessed what people tell me of the country pulling together, the random acts of kindness, mobs of people returning to church, and American flags flying from the antenna of every car.
I went to bed that night, convinced hundreds must simply be trapped. There was no way thousands could have died like that. Praying they would be rescued quickly, I retired to the nightmares we all probably had, that night.
But the reality was worse. As the news dripped to us, painfully slowly, we heard the extent of the carnage, not just in the Towers, but at the Pentagon, and in the planes. That only a handful of people were rescued from the massive rubble.
In a melting pot of cultures, the reactions to the news were varied. Some professors canceled classes on the 12th, while others conducted business as usual. Prayers were said, Masses were offered, services were held. While most everyone had sympathy, there were a couple who thought that--while what happened to innocent life was wrong--America deserved some comeuppance for always meddling in world affairs.
That was odd to hear at such a time.
We quickly found out who the Americans were among us; we had only been on campus for a couple of weeks, after all. Mostly they were recognizable from the vague stares and copious tissues near their desks.
Within the week, hubby and I were sought out by the village newspaper reporters. They interviewed us through an interpreter.
"Ah so... Sympathies to you. How do you feel on this?"
Not having had a personal loss, we felt odd speaking on behalf of the country to this little Austrian county. But my tears were real. Naturally, we expressed our dismay at the loss of life, our fears for our country, our prayers for the bereaved.
12 years later, our sentiments remain. Honoring the memory of those lost, praying for those left behind: for our nation, and those nations--like Syria--experiencing their own traumas now.
"He will proclaim peace to the nations." Zechariah 9:10
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Edge of the comfort zone
Prelude: I'm writing surrounded by five yelling children (picked up a cute extra), who occasionally lean over me to drip a messy snack onto my keyboard or call for assistance with finding a toy. Yo Gabba Gabba is blaring as a useless decoy in the background. This is about my least favorite way to try to accomplish anything. But the post must go on, for no reason other than writing helps me think, though getting paid to do this at some point would be swell. Feel free to send me leads anytime. :)
So back to my return trip: had a smashing time in DC with the coolest sisters-in-law there are, and then was taken to Union Station for my non-eventful bus ride to Port Authority Terminal NYC. Non-eventful, that is, until it became clear to the ladies of Long Island that their bus driver had taken the wrong turn, and was hopelessly circling Manhattan.
(Me, bored and taking self-portraits in hopelessly circling bus):
"Are you KIDDIN' ME??!!" was the most printable of the comments made from this stalwart band of females who knew their city thoroughly and realized, beyond a doubt, that the hapless driver was dead wrong in his GPS programming decisions. I should have taken a video of the crowd around the poor man, who looked penitent and terrified as women alternately shouted new directions at him and offered profanities and hand gestures to the traffic on his behalf.
In the end, we were an hour late. I had missed my connecting bus at 10 PM. The next bus I was informed, without apology, was at 7:30. AM. The one accomodation I was given for the complete lack of the second leg of a full trip I'd pre-purchased was a $10 meal voucher which was useful from 6:30 AM on.
I was unhappy. I was scared. Port Authority boasts the most aggressive panhandlers I've ever seen, who seem to outnumber security by at least half. As I walked with a lady and her four children who were in the same predicament I was, we were accompanied by people alternately asking for change and swearing at us for no apparent reason. One gentlemen had told us (rather firmly) to ask for information at a certain kiosk, and when we decided to go a different route we were followed by him, insisting he did not like how we were "disrespectin'" him.
With 18% charge left on my cell, I called my husband. (The "Greyhound" bus had turned out to be an "Eire" bus from the early 90's, with no cup-holders or seat pockets, shades instead of tinted windows, and most assuredly no outlets to charge devices.) When you're panicky and lost, Dan's about the best person on the planet for a solution: he can find a way to get from point A to point B from just about any start point. In more than one continent too. There's got to be a way to market this ability... :)
"Okay Katie, go out to the subway. Take it to Grand Central Station. The last train to New Haven is leaving in about 10 minutes." It was almost midnight.
Growing up, my dad wasn't keen on my mom driving around the block solo after dark. I have some such residual hesitance in my blood. And growing up, "Grand Central Station" was an expression meaning "insanity." Such as, "Kids, you coming in and out the door like that makes me feel like I'm in Grand Central Station."
I had never actually seen "Grand Central Station." But I was about to. Alone, and after midnight.
Deciding whatever awaited me on New York's subways was preferable to finding a corner of filthy carpet to sleep on in the current zoo, I bid farewell and blessings to the family I had been with, gave them my voucher, and ran like mad to catch the next subway, dodging a couple guys muttering to themselves, luggage bumping behind me.
It's hot, muggy, and dirty in the subways. Like a lot. Using what I taught my own girls about approaching strangers (i.e. the only time I shamelessly stereotype), I just kept looking for safe-looking people to ask for advice. Where do you get a ticket? Like this? Which train? Oh thank you... I found an aspiring filmmaker who talked to me about her fictional film about a drug addict until she abruptly said, "Oh! Here's your stop! Jump off and go left!" And then she and the subway was gone in a rush, and I was left on an empty, dimly lit platform, far underground, alone with my luggage.
Lord, I know you are helping me find the edge of my comfort zone these days, but golly gee. Really? But hey, I made it. Found the right escalator, found a young couple to follow, found Grand Central Station to be immense and beautiful (not at all what I expected, I had imagined it more as Port Authority) and anything but busy, an abandoned marbled hall.
I made the last train by four minutes. It was an old one, and jogged and shook aggressively down the tracks. I knew I wouldn't sleep with all the racket, so I just sat there numbly, purse on the seat beside me. Until I woke up to "Newww Haven." And no purse.
Dan and four sleepy kids were ready for me with our mini van at 3:30 AM. I canceled the cards in the morning, chalking up the cash I lost to almsgiving, since I hadn't had time or courage to do any while lost in New York.
Traveling alone. Writing a blog. Losing a baby. This has definitely been the year of going to my edge, and trying to become a better person in the process...
Thank you Lord for Your guidance and protection, Your presence with us every step of the way as we encounter our depths and heights. Without You, there is nothing. With You, we have everything: every strength we need, every grace we require.
So back to my return trip: had a smashing time in DC with the coolest sisters-in-law there are, and then was taken to Union Station for my non-eventful bus ride to Port Authority Terminal NYC. Non-eventful, that is, until it became clear to the ladies of Long Island that their bus driver had taken the wrong turn, and was hopelessly circling Manhattan.
(Me, bored and taking self-portraits in hopelessly circling bus):
"Are you KIDDIN' ME??!!" was the most printable of the comments made from this stalwart band of females who knew their city thoroughly and realized, beyond a doubt, that the hapless driver was dead wrong in his GPS programming decisions. I should have taken a video of the crowd around the poor man, who looked penitent and terrified as women alternately shouted new directions at him and offered profanities and hand gestures to the traffic on his behalf.
In the end, we were an hour late. I had missed my connecting bus at 10 PM. The next bus I was informed, without apology, was at 7:30. AM. The one accomodation I was given for the complete lack of the second leg of a full trip I'd pre-purchased was a $10 meal voucher which was useful from 6:30 AM on.
I was unhappy. I was scared. Port Authority boasts the most aggressive panhandlers I've ever seen, who seem to outnumber security by at least half. As I walked with a lady and her four children who were in the same predicament I was, we were accompanied by people alternately asking for change and swearing at us for no apparent reason. One gentlemen had told us (rather firmly) to ask for information at a certain kiosk, and when we decided to go a different route we were followed by him, insisting he did not like how we were "disrespectin'" him.
With 18% charge left on my cell, I called my husband. (The "Greyhound" bus had turned out to be an "Eire" bus from the early 90's, with no cup-holders or seat pockets, shades instead of tinted windows, and most assuredly no outlets to charge devices.) When you're panicky and lost, Dan's about the best person on the planet for a solution: he can find a way to get from point A to point B from just about any start point. In more than one continent too. There's got to be a way to market this ability... :)
"Okay Katie, go out to the subway. Take it to Grand Central Station. The last train to New Haven is leaving in about 10 minutes." It was almost midnight.
Growing up, my dad wasn't keen on my mom driving around the block solo after dark. I have some such residual hesitance in my blood. And growing up, "Grand Central Station" was an expression meaning "insanity." Such as, "Kids, you coming in and out the door like that makes me feel like I'm in Grand Central Station."
I had never actually seen "Grand Central Station." But I was about to. Alone, and after midnight.
Deciding whatever awaited me on New York's subways was preferable to finding a corner of filthy carpet to sleep on in the current zoo, I bid farewell and blessings to the family I had been with, gave them my voucher, and ran like mad to catch the next subway, dodging a couple guys muttering to themselves, luggage bumping behind me.
It's hot, muggy, and dirty in the subways. Like a lot. Using what I taught my own girls about approaching strangers (i.e. the only time I shamelessly stereotype), I just kept looking for safe-looking people to ask for advice. Where do you get a ticket? Like this? Which train? Oh thank you... I found an aspiring filmmaker who talked to me about her fictional film about a drug addict until she abruptly said, "Oh! Here's your stop! Jump off and go left!" And then she and the subway was gone in a rush, and I was left on an empty, dimly lit platform, far underground, alone with my luggage.
Lord, I know you are helping me find the edge of my comfort zone these days, but golly gee. Really? But hey, I made it. Found the right escalator, found a young couple to follow, found Grand Central Station to be immense and beautiful (not at all what I expected, I had imagined it more as Port Authority) and anything but busy, an abandoned marbled hall.
I made the last train by four minutes. It was an old one, and jogged and shook aggressively down the tracks. I knew I wouldn't sleep with all the racket, so I just sat there numbly, purse on the seat beside me. Until I woke up to "Newww Haven." And no purse.
Dan and four sleepy kids were ready for me with our mini van at 3:30 AM. I canceled the cards in the morning, chalking up the cash I lost to almsgiving, since I hadn't had time or courage to do any while lost in New York.
Traveling alone. Writing a blog. Losing a baby. This has definitely been the year of going to my edge, and trying to become a better person in the process...
Thank you Lord for Your guidance and protection, Your presence with us every step of the way as we encounter our depths and heights. Without You, there is nothing. With You, we have everything: every strength we need, every grace we require.
"Let all who take refuge in You rejoice." Psalm 5:11
Monday, August 5, 2013
What's better: top or bottom?
This was the entirely innocent question I asked before boarding my first Megabus, a double-decker vehicle bound for DC and my unsuspecting, beloved sister-in-law. Surrounded by college students, this statement was greeted with much, in their dialect: lol, rofl, and lmao. Very embarrassed, I weakly thanked the winking responder--who assured me a little too enthusiastically that the top was definitely best--and dragged my luggage up the narrow, steep stairs to the upper floor of the bus.
The place was a sardine can. Complete with yelling babies, as my luck would have it. Having been at the back of the line, my choices were limited to the following: sit beside a younger guy or an older guy. But definitely a guy.
Looking over my options, I went for the older guy playing solitaire on his phone. Eager for a nice, quiet overnight ride, I slid my luggage on the top shelf, awkwardly waited while the gentleman struggled up to let me to the window seat, and tried to make myself and my pillow as small as possible. I pinched my earplugs in place, and settled to ignore the guy, who had apparently finished his game and was producing a tall thermos.
"Woo yoo lie um?"
I removed my earplugs. "Pardon me?"
"Would you like some?" He grinned, brandishing a plastic mug. "Unfortunately, I only have this one cup, but I'd love to share."
It wasn't coffee. It was chardonnay.
Figuring I really might as well find out a little more about the person I was about to sleep with on this journey, I asked his name, and where he was from. I was delighted to hear he had a wife, and a daughter my age, who also had four children. Whew.
Turns out, drinking made him quite gregarious. A truly captive audience, I resigned myself to hear whatever stories he wished to tell me for the next six hours till his stop in Philly. At least the noisy engine had finally started, and the a/c was very slowly dispelling the muggy atmosphere.
"Ed" was a evangelical Christian. His story was the Gospel. A story which got louder and more enthusiastic the emptier his thermos got. A story which continued while the rest of the bus fell asleep.
Don't get me wrong: I'd really wanted to sleep. I'm a mom. I'm always low on sleep. This was a long-awaited adventure for me, one I wanted to share with my own thoughts and enjoy with my own slumber.
But somehow, I didn't mind. I thought of how my youngest delights in the continual re-reading of "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?" She will sit in rapt attention while you read it to her, then slide off your lap to go book in hand to all the literate members of the household, each of them having a turn to read about what these absurdly colored animals see.
I'm a theology major. I know about creation, and the fall, and redemption. I know how the Old Testament foreshadowed the new.
I loved hearing it again anyway. Too tired to trot out what I knew myself, I just let Ed tell me again. How Jesus loved us, and laid His life down to save us. How we would live with Him forever. The comfort of the eternal story, forever old, forever new.
And suddenly, the conversation turned very personal.
"You know, I lost a child years ago. She was seven. Born with a brain tumor, went into remission, but then it just came back, you know? We did everything we could. Practically lived with her in the hospital those final months..."
I was wide awake now. He told me how he and his wife, both musicians, would play music for the terminally ill children of the ward to fall asleep to. She on a dulcimer, he on a muted violin. He explained how he was angry with God, but later came to terms with the Love that is stronger than death. He told me his conversion story.
"What about you? You're a young mom... did you ever have a moment when you knew God was working in you, even though things outwardly were awful?"
I told him how sorry I was for his loss, and how I hadn't had that type of sorrow. But I'd had Pepper.
We talked of Heaven long into the night. Right up till the rest stop at McDonald's, when the lights clicked on and the passengers stretched and yawned and the babies cried and we got 2 AM smoothies that we totally didn't need or really want.
Quite tiring and inspiring. Neat to think how God had saved me the right seat. Much better than my bus ride home, where I had a seat to myself but was left stranded at midnight in Port Authority, NYC. But I promised short posts, so maybe I'll write on that later. For now, a scripture with the month's theme :)
The place was a sardine can. Complete with yelling babies, as my luck would have it. Having been at the back of the line, my choices were limited to the following: sit beside a younger guy or an older guy. But definitely a guy.
Looking over my options, I went for the older guy playing solitaire on his phone. Eager for a nice, quiet overnight ride, I slid my luggage on the top shelf, awkwardly waited while the gentleman struggled up to let me to the window seat, and tried to make myself and my pillow as small as possible. I pinched my earplugs in place, and settled to ignore the guy, who had apparently finished his game and was producing a tall thermos.
"Woo yoo lie um?"
I removed my earplugs. "Pardon me?"
"Would you like some?" He grinned, brandishing a plastic mug. "Unfortunately, I only have this one cup, but I'd love to share."
It wasn't coffee. It was chardonnay.
Figuring I really might as well find out a little more about the person I was about to sleep with on this journey, I asked his name, and where he was from. I was delighted to hear he had a wife, and a daughter my age, who also had four children. Whew.
Turns out, drinking made him quite gregarious. A truly captive audience, I resigned myself to hear whatever stories he wished to tell me for the next six hours till his stop in Philly. At least the noisy engine had finally started, and the a/c was very slowly dispelling the muggy atmosphere.
"Ed" was a evangelical Christian. His story was the Gospel. A story which got louder and more enthusiastic the emptier his thermos got. A story which continued while the rest of the bus fell asleep.
Don't get me wrong: I'd really wanted to sleep. I'm a mom. I'm always low on sleep. This was a long-awaited adventure for me, one I wanted to share with my own thoughts and enjoy with my own slumber.
But somehow, I didn't mind. I thought of how my youngest delights in the continual re-reading of "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?" She will sit in rapt attention while you read it to her, then slide off your lap to go book in hand to all the literate members of the household, each of them having a turn to read about what these absurdly colored animals see.
I'm a theology major. I know about creation, and the fall, and redemption. I know how the Old Testament foreshadowed the new.
I loved hearing it again anyway. Too tired to trot out what I knew myself, I just let Ed tell me again. How Jesus loved us, and laid His life down to save us. How we would live with Him forever. The comfort of the eternal story, forever old, forever new.
And suddenly, the conversation turned very personal.
"You know, I lost a child years ago. She was seven. Born with a brain tumor, went into remission, but then it just came back, you know? We did everything we could. Practically lived with her in the hospital those final months..."
I was wide awake now. He told me how he and his wife, both musicians, would play music for the terminally ill children of the ward to fall asleep to. She on a dulcimer, he on a muted violin. He explained how he was angry with God, but later came to terms with the Love that is stronger than death. He told me his conversion story.
"What about you? You're a young mom... did you ever have a moment when you knew God was working in you, even though things outwardly were awful?"
I told him how sorry I was for his loss, and how I hadn't had that type of sorrow. But I'd had Pepper.
We talked of Heaven long into the night. Right up till the rest stop at McDonald's, when the lights clicked on and the passengers stretched and yawned and the babies cried and we got 2 AM smoothies that we totally didn't need or really want.
Quite tiring and inspiring. Neat to think how God had saved me the right seat. Much better than my bus ride home, where I had a seat to myself but was left stranded at midnight in Port Authority, NYC. But I promised short posts, so maybe I'll write on that later. For now, a scripture with the month's theme :)
"'Were not our hearts burning within us,
while He spoke with us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us?'"
Luke 24:32
Sunday, February 24, 2013
View from Mt. Tabor
Yes, I meant that literally. These are views from Mt. Tabor. I was overwhelmingly honored, blessed, and unspeakably delighted to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the year 2000 (i.e. before it became overwhelmingly and unspeakably dangerous to go there.) And I have this professor to thank for the opportunity, the man who founded my college and changed so many lives: Dr. Warren H. Carroll.
That's him on Mt. Tabor too... he came with the college group of us. Unless you are familiar with the traditional Catholic schools in this country, you may not have heard of him... but have you heard of "As the World Turns"? His mom wrote the book that series was loosely based on. :) As for Dr. Carroll, who passed away two years ago, he was a historian whose classes I got to take, and he liked my writing and wanted to encourage me to keep at it. So Dr. Carroll, here I am trying! :) A blog is only two letters away from a book, right?
But I'm losing my focus on the view... Since today's Gospel was about the Transfiguration, I figured it made sense to share my non-digital, roll of film camera pictures of this transforming place with you.
The view was amazing. And deathly frightening to get to. Maniac drivers speed-raced panicked tourists in Mercedes E-class taxis to the summit, spinning around dirt roads and hairpin turns. So the feeling of "I'm still alive" and "I never want to go back down" definitely added to the mountain top experience of Tabor. I was certainly ready to pitch a tent and never leave... at least not until a trustworthy helicopter could be acquired.
But once I stopped shaking and feelings of nausea passed, I remember praying to the Lord who once stood there in glory to transform me to the person He created me to be. I'm still praying that prayer today.
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence, and take not your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit." Psalm 51:10-12
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Turkey Withdrawal
Woo
hoo! I have signed school papers, fed a
toddler, and fixed my daughter’s hair for school all before getting out of
bed. Hyperproductive day ahead no
doubt, so I’m posting:
Hahaha! I wrote that yesterday. No wait, two days ago. Left it in to have a good chuckle at
myself. Ah the hubris! Oh well.
Almost a week later, I am still recovering from the twenty-hour
round-trip Thanksgiving family van voyage down south and back again. Honestly though, I have greatly missed you,
my dear invisible—possibly imaginary—audience.
J Thanks for checking in. Do let me know if you have any Thanksgiving
stories to share yourself; I don’t want to always do all the talking here. Or
you could post a really nasty comment so I can make fun of you. J That would be diverting. Meanwhile, I really need to redo this blog
format; all I’ve learned how to do so far is change the background really,
which I need to do soon for the advent of Advent… Hmm.
I
want you to know that I certainly planned on posting before this, but I ran
into various obstacles the past few days, above and beyond the usual unpacking
and catching up. Often literal
obstacles. Like my three year old standing
in front of me with the dreaded CandyLand game; her version is played by leaping
from one treat to another, while her baby sister chews the color cards. Ironically, this sugar-obsessed game was
produced to me right after I told her she could not have her sister’s leftover
birthday cake for breakfast. Seriously
Veggietales… Veggieland maybe?
Anyway. I was a bit delayed as
well by the realization that a hard-boiled egg (mercifully still shelled) was
lost in my king-sized bed, a sensorial attempt to teach my toddler about
ovoids. Oh yes, and my eight year old
turned… nine, completely without my permission. This required the yearly pilgrimage to the penitence of Chuck E
Cheese, where I greet the migraine with a determined smile, thinking I really
REALLY need to enjoy this because they are only young once. I almost convince myself to do this…
Other
obstacles included me tangling with a cord and slamming into my beloved Shark
steam mop, which I somehow managed to step on in the debacle and snap in half.
I now know what my husband will be getting me for Christmas. And while I’m on a requiem for appliances, I
must have a moment of silence for my GPS, which faded away into silence before
our trip south for the holiday, naturally.
I miss it greatly, and await the Cyber Monday-ordered replacement with
mixed feelings. Will this new tech
relationship be as good as the first?
Remains to be seen. I will keep
an open mind, though my former GPS just knew me better, my contacts and
frequent destinations, the place I call home… sniff!
One
last excuse I will mention is the health issues we’ve been having over here: my
baby is entertaining some stomach issue that causes the need for diaper changes
on the hour. That and my RA—an old
friend of mine—made itself known in an unique way this week by causing both of
my hands to swell painfully; usually it goes for my left, but this time it
showed no favoritism. This current
condition is not particularly conducive to typing. I’m waiting for doctors to call back as I pound away here with
about 65% accuracy…. Loving the backspace right now folks…
But
back to our trip. I used to love to
travel. Really. Car, plane, boat, train. My husband and I drove cross-country for our
honeymoon for crying out loud. (No, I
don’t recommend this, but we did it. If
we got a do-over, we’d choose an all-inclusive resort at a tropical
destination, which would greatly reduce the anxiety produced for a new couple
driving in the dark around canyons in national parks, seeking a place to spend
the night. Fun stories though.)
I
think my latest Thanksgiving trip has finally cured me of all wanderlust. We hadn’t even made it out of the state when
we found ourselves in the emergency room.
My poor coughing husband managed to badly pull/tear a muscle while
driving, and during his x-ray they found out—oh, by the way—he had
pneumonia. Did that stop us? Not us.
Armed with new prescriptions three hours later, I was driving at a nice
clip between concrete barriers in a construction zone with my stiff, sore,
sedated, and snoozing spouse by my side.
Screams from the back then alerted me to the fact that my three year old
had successfully let herself out of her car seat and had minimal desires to
return, despite the highly persuasive shouts of her older siblings, “Get back
in there!!! Aw man….Mommmm!!”
The
nearest Walmart produced a new [Pink!
It’s pink! Your FAVORITE color!] car seat for her. And sometime around 3 AM, we made it to our
destination: a cabin located—somewhat oddly—right beside the site of the Battle
of Chancellorsville. It did help me
keep my complaints to a minimum recalling how much sacrifice once occurred in
the area. We spent some time in DC,
which I’ve always loved… very grateful I was able to share that experience with my kids!
Though on further inspection, the Museum of Natural
History is essentially a dead zoo. Just
saying. Still, the city inspired
patriotism even in my youngest it seems.
This
was followed by Thanksgiving with extended family, which went okay… despite the
fact that one of the family took suddenly ill, while another demonstrated more
concern for the well-being of the deceased poultry than for anyone else
present. But it was Thanksgiving
anyway, we said a heartfelt grace, and I got to hang out with my
sisters-in-law, which for me is always a positive. If I didn’t like them as people (which I do exceedingly) I could
not help but like them for their penchant of playing mommy makeover with
me. They initiated me into Black
Friday—both the late owl and early bird versions—and I have immerged, through
their stunning generosity, with more clothes than I have bought in my lifetime
to this point. I buy about one article
of clothing a year usually, and yes, I still wear stuff from college, but hey,
I thought I was doing okay. They did
not agree.
So
I’m back here, still tripping dazedly around piles of laundry to be
folded. I’m so very, very tired. I hope you all had a good thanksgiving. Will post again soon, but diaper duty is
calling again. Ttys, TLC
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