Spinal Tap

It's Tuesday morning when I first sit down to write this post, and the sunshine is blazing through the massive eastern windows of the waiting room in the children's hospital oncology clinic. Brilliant light glares through the ten-foot-high wall of glass with an intensity that seems overzealous for so early in the season. It flashes off of glossy magazine covers and sparkles cheerily through the saline fluid in Jonah's IV bollus. It warms the back of my shoulders to the point of discomfort and renders the feeble, electronic glow of my laptop screen almost useless. 

It's hard to believe that only one week earlier, I was snapping photos of snow falling on my flower garden. This sudden explosion of summery heat has set me—and my spring tulips—into a kind of squinty-eyed shock. Pale, winterized north Idaho inhabitants like me generally require a more gradual change of season. I'm used to waiting through drizzly May days for the occasional break in the clouds when a patch of promising sunlight will rest on the rug just long enough to lend it a hint of lingering warmth. I am used to keeping the winter coats ready on their hooks, just in case, until sometime in July. I am used to sending my kids to their first morning swimming lessons of the summer when the outdoor thermometer still reads 48°. But this? I am not used to this. This is true water park weather, and it's only the first week of May. 

Jonah is sprawled out horizontally across one of the small armless waiting room couches. It's safe to say that he is basking, soaking his skinny limbs in the warm tide of sunshine that washes over him. All he needs is a beach towel and a pair of trunks. And yet, here he is, several floors above the street, on a hill overlooking Spokane, waiting not for a for trip down the waterslide into the pool but for a trip down the hallway into a windowless procedure room lit by fluorescent tubes, for an early-morning spinal tap and a dose of toxic drugs. 

Hardly a summer holiday. 

I glance up from my over-bright screen and make brief eye contact with another mom who is sipping hospital coffee from a white styrofoam cup. The sunlight sets curlicues of steam aglow between her face and mine. I very nearly say hello, but she quickly turns her puffy, sleep-starved eyes away toward the window. I follow her gaze to where the tops of the pine trees are lost in the brightness of the sunrise.

Next to her, a dark-haired boy, about Jonah's age, is also waiting, slouched low in his chair. His eyes are closed, and his crossed arms rest across his belly. They are by far the hairiest arms I have ever seen on a child. I try not to stare, wondering if this kid is getting the same chemo as my son. Jonah's own hair held out against the drugs for a long time—much longer than for most cancer patients—but now he hardly even has hair on his head, let alone on his extremities. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes have thinned.

I turn my attention toward him. His feet are propped on a lime-green ottoman, and he is reading—or pretending to read—his paperback. "You want anything?" I ask. Then I remember. "Oh, nevermind. I forgot you can't have anything until after your LP." 

He looks at me from over the top of his book and slowly shakes his head. "Nope." He punctuates the word with a soft pop of his lips on the 'P'. The other mom glances back toward me for just an instant, and then again back to the window, half-closing her eyes against the brightness.

I wonder about trying to meet these people, about asking this other boy his story, maybe make a new hospital friend for Jonah. But asking those sooo-what-brings-you-here conversation starters can be painful and distressing when they are asked in a children's oncology ward. ("Oh, brain radiation. And you?") Sometimes small talk seems, well, too small in the shadow of the enormous, cancerous elephant in the room. So I decide to keep quiet and return to my typing. Besides, I think to myself, it's early, and we are all so sleepy and ridiculously warm in here anyway. 

• • • • • •

The day before, Jonah and I had driven to Riverfront Park to eat a late lunch following a checkup, and we came unprepared for the weather. The afternoon heat slowly baked into Jonah's black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, while the May sunlight threatened to burn his bald head. My dark hair absorbed the heat like a cast iron skillet. We moved to some semi-shade and ate our sandwiches on a dusty, metal-grid picnic table. Nearby, a half-dozen flip-flopped moms with squealing children splashed—some of them fully dressed—in the park fountain. No men among them, and not a wedding ring to be seen reflecting the sparkle of afternoon light. At least two of the moms displayed tattooed cleavage above the squeeze of their strapless sundresses as they bent low to lift their dripping toddlers. Every mom is wearing shades. This, I noted, appears to be the year of the gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. 

Jonah eyes, fortunately, were transfixed by the colorful rise and fall of merry-go-round horses on their gilded poles. He was listening intently to the carousel music and asked if the tunes were played live on a real organ—an instrument he hopes to learn to someday. Maybe he was considering future summer jobs—organ gigs at carousels and baseball parks.

"No, I don't think so. Just a recording. But I bet there used to be an organ in there at one time," I said. 

"Oh," he said, disappointed. He slowly dragged a limp french fry back and forth through a puddle of ketchup and then set it back down. "Ugh. I am roasting."

This is the kind of unseasonable heat that makes politicians climb onto their climate-change soapboxes and panicked consumers trade in their Hummers for pocket-sized electric cars. It is also the kind of weather that sends flabby humans of northern European descent out in herds to overwhelm the city streets and public parks with vast displays of blindingly pale flesh. Human dignity, it seems, cannot compete with the promise of a spring sunburn. Too-tight shorts and too-short tube tops parade unabashedly across the lush lawns while well-fed seagulls hop and flap eagerly after them, hoping a few bits of that muffin-top whiteness will drop in Wonder Bread crumbs to the ground. 

• • • • • •

The cool air of early morning is sweet when we walk to the car the next day, but as we pull onto the interstate to return to the hospital for Jonah's spinal tap, the sun is already poised to dominate the day—not so much as a hint of a cloud to interrupt the faintly blue expanse above us. Watching the drivers in the east-bound lane flipping down their visors and shielding their eyes with their hands against the rising glare, I am glad to be driving west.

Jonah tilts his seat back and snoozes on the way. I enjoy his company, but when he sleeps, I savor the silence—or rather, the steady hum and whoosh of the highway—instead. The rare luxury of uninterrupted thought makes me feel all glowingly poetic inside. I have a habit of trying to compose witty similes or apt metaphors while I'm driving in a quiet car. I imagine catchy first lines for short stories that I will never attempt to write. Often, I use the time to pray. This morning, however, I am thinking of styles of sunglasses, and how they seem to forge the way for styles of regular glasses, and how they serve better than carbon-14 for calculating the dates of old photos. (Ah, yes, 1982. The year of the saucer-sized frames with the graduated pink-tinted lenses.) This is deep stuff. 

The brilliance of my thoughts is interrupted by the sudden dimness of the hospital parking garage. Jonah sits up and looks around. He sighs, and his shoulders slump when he remembers where he is. 

• • • • • •

At last, the nurse steps into the waiting room and says Jonah's name. He sighs audibly again. He does have his favorite hospital activities that he looks forward to—especially when the music therapist is there. But on spinal tap days, he dreads the hospital because he knows how he will feel afterward. "You ready, buddy?" the nurse asks in that too-chipper, slightly condescending sing-song tone that he hates. He shakes his head firmly but stands up anyway, shoving his book into his backpack with unnecessary force. "O.K! Let's go!" she says, flashing coffee-stained teeth between freshly glossed lips. She takes brisk steps, but Jonah shuffles, and she has to turn and wait for him to catch up. The IV pole squeaks and rattles along the linoleum tiles, and I hold the IV line up to keep it from getting tangled in the wheels or caught underfoot.

In the procedure room, several nurses are waiting, and one of them attaches Jonah to several monitors—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels. Then the anesthesiologist arrives to ask the usual list of questions. He's young and blond and wearing jeans and a massive silver ring and a silver bracelet below his rolled-up shirt sleeves. Very hip. He cracks a few jokes, makes small talk about sports, and manages to get a smile or two out of Jonah while filling syringes with milky-white propofol. "Milk of amnesia" he calls it.

At last the doctor arrives, all five-foot-aught of her, with her mass of brown corkscrew curls. Probably the world's cutest oncologist. The oxygen starts, then the proposal, and then Jonah's eyelids flutter closed. He's out. The doctor preps his back with iodine, and moments later Jonah's spinal fluid begins to drip slowly into a clear vial. A nurse walks quickly by us to prepare for the next patient's procedure, and her elbow knocks a vial of propofol onto the floor. It shatters, leaving a spray of glass shards and white liquid on the floor. The nurse gasps with dismay. "Oh, no need to cry over spilled propofol," I say dryly, and the whole room of doctors and nurses erupts into laughter. 

We're all still smiling as the oncologist injects a syringe full of acid-green methotrexate into Jonah's spinal fluid. And with that, the procedure's done. All that's left is to wait for him to sleep off the anesthesia. For most kids, this takes a matter of minutes. For Jonah, it can take hours for him to come around, and more often than not, he wakes up sick. This time, they wheel him into an infusion room where they let him recover by himself in a more comfortable bed. I turn down the lights and sit with him in the darkness for a few minutes, just to make sure he's resting quietly. Someone down the hall is carrying on a one-sided conversation in hurried Spanish. 

When I open the door to the hallway, my eyes take a moment to adjust. I return to the playroom to chat with the music therapist who has taught Jonah to play a few simple chords on the ukulele during previous visits. The room is hot and summer-bright. As she asks how Jonah's doing, I see the same mother and son from the waiting walk past the doorway and down the hall. 

A little girl walks in and immediately sits down to play with a large plastic dollhouse. Her mother has buzzed her own salt-and-pepper hair close to the scalp in order to, I assume, show her solidarity with her balding child. I've seen a few other parents who have done the same. Above her head is a computer printout on the wall depicting the complete pantheon of Disney princesses with egg-bald heads. Snow White on chemo. Sweet, I guess. 

When Jonah finally wakes up, it's well past noon, and he is woozy and nauseated, but I manage to help him to sit up and drink a sip of orange soda—the only thing that sounds palatable to him—before we head out the clinic doors. He carries a pink emesis bucket with him, just in case. Minutes later, we are back on the highway, driving home through miles and miles of velvety-green hills under a brilliant blue, cloudless sky. I am wearing last year's sunglasses. Soon we will be home. And Jonah is already talking of playing baseball.

Magic Beans

Two summers ago, I let my boys dig a huge, Holes-inspired pit in a grass-free corner of the yard. There, after several days of shoveling, they unearthed, to everyone's general disgust, a damp, reddish wad of moldy, foul-smelling cotton that had once been a pair of men's briefs. Fruit of the Loom does not, apparently, produce fruit of any sort when planted. As a matter of fact, if you take almost anything you own, bury it in the dirt, dump water on it day after day, and expose it to summer heat, all you will get for your trouble is rust, decay, and stink.

But apply the same brutal treatment to a handful of seeds, and the results are quite the opposite; those seeds rise, glorified, from their soggy graves to become all things pleasant to the eye and good for food. How is that possible? Who would have believed it? And having believed it, how could we ever grow tired of seeing it happen?

Our fourth season of gardening is nearing its peak, which means my sense of wonder at the garden's transformation is also nearing its peak. Every time I return to survey the bounty that has sprung from the ground behind our house I marvel: Where did all this come from? Granted, we have a few bare patches where slugs or birds or beetles have done their worst, and a few other empty squares where some much-anticipated herbs never so much as raised a tiny green flag before they surrendered to sad mortality.

But for all the unforeseen failures, we have also discovered unforeseen blessings; there are places where tomatoes and squash and even a cherry tree volunteered to grow where we did not plant them—surprise gifts whose flavors and colors will remain a mystery until we see the fruit ripen. We also have brilliant red, ruffled poppies and hollyhocks that popped up unbidden in the middle of the lettuce, and I could not bear to remove them. Their cheery flashes of color have certainly been worth the loss of a salad or two.

So while the results of our work in the garden have been inconsistent they have always been rewarding. Just discovering the newly emerged seedlings in the spring is a kind of reward. But harvest time is, doubtless, one of the most unsullied delights of the year.

What other time would it be possible to eat outside without bringing anything with you from the kitchen? Red-purple raspberries literally fall into my hand before I can pluck them. Sweet strawberries peek out shyly from under their leafy tents. Fat green snap peas dangle from their curling vines, quiet and camouflaged, waiting to be discovered by the careful eyes of hungry boys. And what sensation, I ask you, can rival the seedy-sweet explosion in the mouth from a sun-warmed yellow cherry tomato that has traveled less than two feet from the vine to the lips? Then afterward, the bright, greeny smell of tomato vine on my hands is as close to eau d’été as I have ever found. This is the season that raises distant memories of Eden.

Once the back yard harvest begins, it is easy to forget the work that went into forming these fruits. We may have spent hours digging and composting and weeding and watering and slug-smashing, but when those ripening tomatoes first appear, they still seem miraculous. And in many ways, I suppose, they are miraculous.

What logical connection can there be between those tiny, pale, dried up seeds that we started with and the exuberant, branching, fruit-heavy greenery that is taking over our garden today? In May I could carry them all in the palm of my hand. But in August I am hardly able to tame the tomato jungle they have become, even with the aid of ropes and cages and sharpened steel.

And the sunflowers! Those humble little seeds that litter the ground at every baseball field in America are capable of rocketing into the sky and bursting into massive solar blooms over our heads. It almost defies the imagination. Wherefore these horticultural fireworks? I have two of these green and yellow giants standing sentinel over my back garden at this moment, and although I planted them there, I cannot explain their regal existence. How could anyone deserve this? What a transformation! Beauty for ashes! Edible sunlight! Water in excelsis! O brave new world that has such produce in't!

Knowing what we know, how is it that we are able to casually stroll through the farmer's market without our awe-struck jaws dragging on the pavement? How can we shuffle half-heartedly around the grocery store, cringing at the price of melons and failing to recognize them for the hefty spheroids of botanical wonder that they are? How can we bear to pass by an August garden without stopping to sing loud alleluias at the sight of every unaccountable tomato?

The truth is, dear Jack, that every bean is a magic bean. A splash of water can turn one of those dry, unassuming legumes into a fairy tale stalk that will ascend, spiraling and twisting toward the heavens—and almost overnight. What person in his right mind wouldn't trade his only moo cow for a marvel such as this?

Yes, yes, I realize that we did a lot of work to make this garden happen. Yes, we scraped a few shins and pinched a few fingers as we built the beds and worked the soil. Yes, we did battle with weeds and slugs and birds and heavy clay and cold nights. But even with all our hard work in mind, we hardly seem honest to claim the harvest as our rightful reward. What did we do—really—to deserve this bounty? The answer, ultimately, is nothing.

The very strength to carry a garden spade is grace. Fertile soil? Grace. Sunlight? Grace. Rain? Grace. That magical transformation of seed into seedling? Grace. From seedling to vine? Grace. From vine to flower? Grace. From flower to fruit? Grace. The hands to pluck and the mouth to taste? Grace. And that transformation again from fruit in the mouth into the strength to carry a garden hoe? Again, grace. What do you have that you did not receive as a gift?

This evening, after we say grace, I plan to eat it. I plan to fill my glass with water that has been turned into wine and to fill our plates with piles of fresh-picked magic; with resurrected seeds; with fairy-tale fruit; with crisp, green, sweet piles of amazing grace.

The Birds and the Bees and the Flowers and the Trees

I have done some writing in the last month. Honest. As a matter of fact, I've written more than usual during the past five weeks. But unfortunately, all those words weren't coming together into any proper shape, which is why editing was taking far too long. I felt like I was sculpting jell-o. So rather than publish the formless, strawberry flavored blob I've been chiseling away at, I thought I'd be better off sharing something a bit more concrete to ponder instead.

Here, therefore, are 2,000 "words" from my photos this week:

School Breeze

July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember...
—Simon & Garfunkel

August nearly managed to live up to its venerable name this year, filled as it was with bold heat waves and solemn convocations. But August has also, in typical fashion, come and gone with undignified speed, bringing with it the abrupt transition from lighthearted leisure to respectable routine. The school year always arrives sooner than I expect.

Every summer, those July days seem to stretch themselves out in lazy rows across the calendar, a succession of blank squares, open to whatever we choose to fit inside them. And then the page flips to August, and I discover with a start that we are left with a brief two weeks into which we must cram every "sometime this summer" activity that has yet to be realized before the khaki-trousered school schedule begins: one last trip to the pool, one last picnic in the park, one last bicycle ride around the neighborhood, one last hurrah. As July gives way to August, I am reluctant to see the empty grid fill up with hastily scribbled registration deadlines and carpool commitments, uniform fittings and snack duties. I look at all those full days ahead and wonder, once again, how summer could be coming to such an untimely demise.

But sometime during that first week of August, a breeze will rise, winding through the dry lawns and harvested fields and overgrown vacant lots, carrying with it a scent that tells me that the time has indeed come for the slow and easy days of summer to end.

The roses may still be in full bloom, the sun may still be blazing, and the brown-shouldered high school girls may continue to parade down my sidewalk in their halter tops and flip-flops, but that distinct scent in the wind announces, even before the school supply list arrives in the mail, that it's time to begin stocking up on crayons and non-marking tennis shoes.

I can smell back-to-school.

Some researchers have noted that smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers known to man. And I believe them. A quick browse of the Web reveals that medical and psychiatric journals are constantly publishing new data on this topic, mapping out "hippocampal brain activity" and the way neurons connect to the olfactory bulb. Neuroscientists can minutely describe the neural pathways where smell and memory collide.

But no PhD is required to experience that sensation that has struck us all at one time or another—when a place long forgotten or a person long dead is momentarily restored to life through an agency no more miraculous than the human nose. 

I know next to nothing of the neurological events taking place inside my brain when this happens. What I do know is that I have been casually walking along behind my orange stroller, thinking of meal plans or shopping lists, when an unexpected change of wind will lift me entirely out of the present and blow me to some distinct moment in the past. A rare perfume of wet leaves, cheap cigarettes, and car exhaust will send me sailing back in time to a Warsaw tram platform beside a chilly November marketplace where thick-ankled Russian women sell sauerkraut and pickles from plastic-lined barrels. A momentary whiff of shoe polish and gravied pot roast and Old Spice drifting from an open window will float me into my grandmother's Sunday afternoon kitchen, where I sit at the table shelling freshly picked peas into a white glass bowl. I step through the doors of a nursing home, and as the overpowering, antiseptic odors of Lysol and Pine Sol and menthol (and other substances ending in "ol") reach my nose, I am six years old again and terrified—terrified of meeting, just around the corner, the hollow-eyed, toothless man in the plaid shirt and overalls who once followed me down the fluorescent-lit hallway with loud, low grunting noises and drool pooling on his protruding chin. I do not need to see him. I smell him, and that is enough.

And it is enough, too, for me to catch that unmistakable, peppery-rhubarby smell in the August wind. By that alone, I know that school is coming just when it should. I smell that yellow-flowered weed whose name I do not know, and I am transported back into my navy nubuck Mary Janes and white cableknit tights, back to my first day of school in the basement of the Paradise Hills Church of God, perched on a hill above a freshly harvested wheat field where the wind would blow the spicy fragrance through the open windows and across the playground. It's the unmistakable smell of school.

That smell is in the air at this moment. July may have flown without warning, and August may be about to die what had seemed a premature death, but through some strange working of scent and memory, I know that school ought to be underway. I am about to turn that page to September once again, and all I have to do is inhale to know that this is just as it should be.

Reunion

Way back in the distant past, when I worked as a full-time designer, our magazine staff would hold a weekly meeting to discuss projects and coordinate our schedules. At one of these meetings, I mentioned that I would be taking some time off for a family reunion, to which my coworker responded by offering me her condolences. "I'm so sorry!" she said, "Family reunions can be such an annoying waste of vacation time."

I remember being taken aback by that comment. It had honestly never occurred to me that family reunions are, for many people, a real drag—an endless week of sidestepping touchy subjects, of reviving ancient grudges, of navigating through a web of gossipy whispers and hurt feelings and bitter misunderstandings. Blood may be thicker than water, but after a week like that, I can understand why water would sound a lot more refreshing—and why condolences would be the proper response.

"No, no! It's not like that," I answered, "I actually like these people!"

We recently returned from our annual Kvale family reunion in western Washington, and I would like to take this opportunity to amend my response; I don't just like these people. I love them. This reunion is not an obligation. It's a privilege.

For twenty-five years now, my mom and her eight brothers and sisters and their families have spent three days vacationing together, a tradition begun by my grandparents when I was young and continued for these many years since they've been gone. And now that I have kids of my own, it makes me happy just to see how my boys can hardly contain their excitement as they anticipate the days spent with aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins by the lake—and how they can hardly contain their disappointment as we drive back home, leaving all of that fun and camaraderie behind.

Like most families, we're a quirky, varied bunch of people, and the memories I have are quirky and varied, too. I remember the time my uncle fell asleep on the lawn, and the brothers-in-law surrounded him with empty beer bottles pulled from the recycling bin. I remember the time my cousin organized all of us kids into a grand performance of a Belinda Carlisle pop ballad, using ping-pong paddles as "guitars." I remember the time my grandmother woke up early (as usual) and decided that 5:30 a.m. would be a great time to empty the dishwasher—with all the clinking and clanging and banging echoing throughout the lodge. I remember singing cheesy Sunday School songs by the campfire—in full, four-part harmony heavily weighted toward the alto section. I remember knock-down, drag-out games of Scrabble in the wee hours of the morning.


We've done hiking, and swimming, and line dancing, and foosball, and softball, and golf. And I'm sure that for every memory I have, there are hundreds more that stand out in the minds of my relatives.  But one activity has remained constant despite the changing venues and the growing numbers; each of the three days of our reunion is brought to a close by a time of singing and prayer. There are 70 of us (give or take) in one room, thanking God together for His faithfulness to our family, and asking Him to meet one another's needs. The older I get, the more I see how remarkable it is to have these opportunities every evening. And if my coworker's comment is any indication, we enjoy a peace between us that, it seems, is extremely rare.

I'm not saying that our family relationships are never painful—even heartbreaking—at times. Like every extended family, we're part of Adam's fallen race. But unlike many extended families, we are also part of the Second Adam's race. A spirit of patience and forgiveness pervades our interactions, and in spite of our differences we share a unity that cannot be explained by family ties alone. Blood may be thicker than water. But what flows between us is thicker still.

Who could ask for a better inheritance? My grandparents didn't leave us all with yachts and Caribbean condos and stacks of cash. Sure, none of us would mind boating around the Bahamas with an unlimited budget. But we'd never take it in exchange for the kind of family we have been given. Each summer, we have a living, breathing reminder of what kind of long-term equity we are working to build. Raising nine children on the kind of money my grandfather made by milking cows, felling trees, and pumping gas might, by many, have been deemed fiscally irresponsible, but who, looking around at one of our reunions, could argue with his rate of return or the generational worth of his assets? We are rich beyond all calculation, regardless of what our mutual funds say.

From my grandparents, I inherited a red cast iron gum ball machine. In terms of material possessions, that's all I got. But the true inheritance that they passed on to me—and to my children—is a crowd of cousins, countless happy memories, a delightful summer tradition, and a confident hope in the reunion that will include not only my grandmother and grandfather, but all the faithful who have gone before them. No condolences necessary.

Staying Afloat

On Monday morning at 9:00, we began our second session of swimming lessons for the summer. I've been pleased to see how the boys have cheerfully braved the cold mornings (48° and drizzle on the first day) and pushed themselves to do what, just two weeks ago, seemed impossible. Watching them, I can feel butterflies in my own stomach as I remember what it was like to take that first frightening plunge into the deep end, and to make that first nerve-wracking trip down the big slide through blind curves and slippery darkness. We all know what it's like to be pushed in over heads.

As the instructors carry the Pre-Tadpole students, who cling fiercely to their necks, to the "deep" end of the kiddie pool, one child's panicked shrieks suddenly fly across the bright surface of the water: "Don't let go! Don't let go! It's too deep! I! Caaan't! Swiiiiim!" From our deck chairs we parents watch these frequent displays of childish terror with mild amusement. We know they'll be safe, but they, out there where their feet dangle uselessly above the bottom of the pool, are far from convinced.

The swim teacher repeats what has become a mantra during the last ten days: "I've got you. You'll be all right. You're not gonna sink."  But the wildly kicking legs, the rapid gasps for air and the expression of wide-eyed dread prove that this kid is momentarily deaf to all attempts at persuasion. Until his feet can touch the bottom, he will trust no one and nothing but his gut instincts—which are clearly telling him that he is going to die out here in this 4-foot-deep chlorinated abyss. And while I may chuckle at his frantic behavior, this terrified child is certainly not the only one overcome at times by panic and a sensation of drowning.

Water is a scary substance. It's no wonder that so many of the great stories of deliverance involve escape through and from water: Noah waiting to rise above the deluge; Jonah plunging to certain death and being saved in the nick of time; Moses holding out his staff to allow the children of Israel to pass through the water to safety; the disciples frantically waking Jesus to rescue them from drowning at sea; and, of course, Peter growing afraid and beginning to sink, calling out, "Lord, save me!" (Who of us, if called, would have stepped out of that boat in the first place?)

Water is a blessing that can kill. Is it any wonder that being "in over your head" and being "overwhelmed" are now clichés for that feeling of bewilderment—of being required to do the impossible?

These last several months, my husband and I have both felt ourselves drifting away from the shallow end, nearing the deep water where it looks like we're certain to drown. Each time I feel the water rising, I catch my breath and wonder if I can do this. Can we really stay afloat with so much to weigh us down? Can we keep our heads above water while balancing four kids, a marriage, friendships, work, heaps of little projects, church responsibilities, community responsibilities, a pregnancy, a sick grandmother, and a dissertation? Can't we just stay in the shallow end for a while and let the water splash around our ankles? Half the time I feel like flailing and hyperventilating like that kid in the swim class. Well intentioned people may be telling me, "You'll be all right. You're not gonna sink," but all I know is that the bottom is a long way down, and I am anything but buoyant.

Keeping our heads above water. That's what we're trying to do this summer. And, as my boys and I can attest, it doesn't always seem possible. When all the evidence appears to point to the contrary, it's hard to believe that we all won't go under. After all, our feet can't touch the bottom.

I've heard that youth group leaders and marriage counselors use "trust games" as a method for strengthening relationships between individuals. One person must fall backwards, arms folded, into the waiting arms of another, trusting that those arms will be there to break the fall—strong enough to save and protect from harm. I admit that I've always found the idea of these games pretty ridiculous. I mean, isn't there a less childish and contrived way to build trust?

Well, maybe there is. But watching my kids floundering helplessly in water over their heads has given me a new appreciation for these "trust games." It's easy to laugh at my boys' nervousness—and even at their terror. We know that they have nothing to fear, but they know nothing of the kind. All that stands between them and death is that pair of waiting arms, ready to catch them when they fall, to pull them up when they're sinking.

I know exactly how they feel. While I may, like them, be tempted to doubt and to start pleading, "Don't let go! Don't let go!" there are others—many others—who have already been out here before me and survived. Through the years, they've successfully maintained their marriages, finished their projects, raised their families, completed their dissertations. They are expert swimmers, and I'm sure that they are watching me amusedly from their deck chairs as I learn to swim. They are perfectly certain that I am not going to drown. I, while I was back in the shallows of the kiddie pool, found it easy to believe that, too. It's only now, when I'm being called to venture out into these unfamiliar depths, that I grow afraid and begin to sink.

I'm not walking on water. I'm not even treading water. I'm with Peter, about to go under and crying, "Lord, save me!"

Last week, even with his life jacket firmly secured around his chest and his teacher's arms waiting just below to catch him, Paul was terrified to jump. "Thirteen feet deep. This water is thirteen feet deep," he was thinking. The measurements may have had only vague meaning to his four-year-old mind, but even a four-year-old can see that the water below is a darker, deeper shade of blue than the kiddie pool will allow. All our cheery assurances could not convince him of safe passage through that cobalt expanse, and simply seeing others survive the leap was not proof enough that survival was possible for him. My little Paul could no more save himself from thirteen feet of water than fly, and yet his teacher was calling to him to jump.

Shivering with both fear and chill, Paul could not bring himself to step off the end of the diving board. So with a nod from his dad, the instructor dropped him in. And, wonder of wonders, Paul survived. But even his own escape from a watery grave will not convince him to take that fateful step a second time. This, for him, was a true trust game—and not one that, at this point in the season, he was willing to play again.

We all know that it's more comfortable back in the shallows. It's easier to believe that we're going to survive when we're sitting on the solid planks of the boat. But if we're called to step away from the edge, to walk out where the blue below us is darker, out where the wind is rising, trust becomes a more difficult matter. We may grow fearful. We may begin to sink. But if we have been called to do the impossible, to jump into the deep end, to step out of the boat in the midst of the sea, go we must.


He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, “Lord, save me.” Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?”  

—Matthew 14:29-31

Jackson Pollock, Eat Your Heart Out

Update: We found something to do on a rainy day!

My parents were cleaning out the garage this afternoon, and they sent me home with a big box of cans of tempera paint. But this was not just any tempera paint. This paint belonged to my father when he was a child. I guess that makes it sort of antique. Now, maybe that means I should have doled it out in minute amounts to keep it around for another 50 years. But, as you can see, I didn't.

I have no idea whether powdered Crayola paint from the 1950s is washable, but here's hoping. My boys discovered very quickly that they didn't need to mix the paint with water if they poured it onto pre-moistened sidewalks (courtesy of a week of rain). Ingenious, wouldn't you say? Surely there must be NEA grant money available for projects such as this. All I have to do now if figure out a way to transport these colorful children from the sidewalk to the bathtub without ruining the floors or my own clothes in the process!

School's out for...

"Summer" has officially begun at our house. We ended the school year well, with a sweet kindergarten graduation ceremony and the celebration of terrific report cards for both my big boys. We had a fantastic 9 months, and now summer lies before us—vast, uncharted, and as inviting as a mile of blank sidewalk to a kid with a bucket of colorful chalk. Or at least it seemed that inviting a couple of days ago. School was dismissed on Wednesday morning, and the boys are now spending their time at home. With me. All. Day. Long.

I really do love having all my kids together again, and their brotherly interaction is something I really miss during the rest of the year. But yesterday, on the first glorious day of our summer vacation, unbroken gray skies drained chilly rain onto our muddy yard. All. Day. Long. That's right. Summer's here! Pull out the sweaters and raincoats! As one of our local store's jingles puts it, "We live in North Idaho...and it shows." School's out for summer. Which, if this weather lasts long, just might make it seem like school's out forever.

So what's a mom to do with four busy-busy, high-energy boys who are stuck indoors with nowhere to go and nothing planned? Well, let me tell you about all my great ideas for how we're going to spend those rainy days during the next three months:


And there you have it. I'm at a loss.

O.K. I may not be quite that helpless, but I confess that I am utterly terrible at coming up with rainy day activities. I've checked out a number of books with imaginative titles like Rainy Day Activities, and they are almost entirely filled with girly crafts. I'm sorry, but my kids do not want to make paper beads to string into colorful necklaces. They're not interested in assembling sweet little clothespin dolls. Tissue paper flowers stuck on green, sparkly pipe cleaner "stems" are not their cup of tea. And speaking of tea, tea parties—and all the lacy whatnots that they entail—are out. What we want around here is warcraft. And loud sound effects. And full contact sports. Sitting quietly around the table with markers and glue sticks does keep everyone occupied for a short while, but it often backfires by simply getting my children to hold in their excess energy for just that much longer. They build up pressure like a pack of agitated soda cans, and then when they are released, they explode.

So, I'm trying to get creative here in order to prevent Cat-In-The-Hat-style disaster. Thankfully, my kids are far more inventive than I am, and in the last three days, they have used up nearly an entire ream of scratch paper in the construction of all sorts of paper airplanes (some more air-worthy than others). They have made super hero masks. They have cut out paper money. They have hosted NBA-inspired bedroom-door-basketball games. I have even, in a moment of weakness, resorted to getting out the play dough for them. They have, of course, colored and colored and colored and colored until our crayons are mere shadows of their former selves.  They've built forts. They've played piano. They've read stories. They've sung songs. And yes, they have already watched more than the FDA's, the FBI's, the CIA's, the NSA's, and the Surgeon General's recommended daily allowance of DVD minutes for children ages 2-8. (I seem to remember that I was never going to allow that day to come.) And today's only the second day of vacation. Oh boy. Times four.

I'd be thrilled if Little Orphan Annie showed up on tonight's forecast, singing cheery reassurances that  "the sun'll come out tomorrow...".  But in case she doesn't, I'd be equally thrilled to collect some rainy-day ideas from all y'all. If you have thoughts on fun and profitable ways for my boys (keeping in mind that they are, in fact, boys) to spend their time indoors—as long as the activities are only mildly destructive to body and belongings—I'd love to hear them!

Oh, and since this is my blog, I reserve the right to end this post with a couple of proud mama photos:

Jonah receiving a medal for getting all A's all year

Jude with his Kindergarten diploma. Yea!