Home for Christmas

I tend to wax a little nostalgic at Christmas. Music, more than anything, softens my heart and sends me into reverie. Tchaikovsky takes me to Nutcracker performances of my childhood. Simple carols on the recorder remind me of my mother's recorder quartet and a Renaissance Christmas long ago in South Dakota. This year, "I'll Be Home for Christmas" stops me in my tracks every single time I hear it.

We are down to just four of us in the house these days, with Devin
and Mattea living in Utah and Alec serving a mission in France. But for a few magical days over the holidays, all seven of us will be home. In Alec's case, it will be "home for New Year's Eve," as he arrives home from Europe just after Christmas, but I am happy to extend Noel a bit to accommodate.

Life has carried us quite a distance this year. In July, Brad started a new job as Director of IT at the local hospital in our little corner of Washington. We bid farewell to the cornfields and a host of dear friends and set off for a new adventure in the Pacific Northwest. Trails and lakes beckoned, and we happily complied. We have hiked mountains and rain forests, kayaked lakes and rivers, played in the ocean and marveled at the beauty around us (yes, even in the pouring rain).

Jared and Kristina have settled into Montesano life nicely. Both continue to keep busy with music and sports, carving out just enough time for schoolwork and enjoying the chance to build new friendships. Brad took up fishing, which he thoroughly enjoys, and someday soon he will catch his first fish. Juliana has discovered the joys of trail running and a wonderful community of runners in the area. We love our church congregation and small town life.

Just a month ago, we purchased a home here in Monte. A friend told me yesterday that the house seems made just for me, and I have to agree. I love the windows and the angles, the seven stockings over the fireplace and the magnolia trees lining the driveway. After a rather nomadic life, I feel like I have finally arrived "home." I am blessed beyond measure and happy to simply breathe in the moment, with its background of evergreens and carols and rain pattering on the window.

May your Christmas find you at home in your own lives, surrounded by love and light and peace.

In the Hand of the Lord

Alec (middle) near Liege, Belgium

About three thousand years ago, a woman named Hannah prayed for a son. In due time, she celebrated the birth of her baby boy, Samuel. And when Samuel was still a young boy, Hannah turned him over to the care of the high priest in the tabernacle. "For this child I prayed," she said, "and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him. Therefore also I have lent him to the Lord."

I have thought often of how difficult it must have been for Hannah to walk away from the tabernacle that day, knowing that she would only see her boy once a year when she came to the tabernacle to offer her yearly sacrifice. According to the record, she made him a little coat every year, and I can envision the love she put into each stitch on that coat and the warmth in her arms as she embraced her son, breathing in his scent and marveling at his growth. The Lord blessed Hannah greatly for her sacrifice, and she rejoiced.

A couple of years ago, I, too, loaned a son to the Lord, sending him off on an airplane early one January morning to serve a two-year mission in France. To be sure, the sacrifice was more Alec's than mine. It was his decision, his preparation. And after all, as a young adult, he hardly needed me to make a little coat each year for him. But still, like Hannah, I rejoice that I have a son to loan. And like Hannah and her husband, we have felt an outpouring of blessings in our family, just as we did when Alec's older brother served.

Even so, there are times when my arms ache to hug my boy, or I long to hear his voice more than twice a year. There are also times, like this week, when I remind myself that I have handed my son to God's care, and that God truly does hold him in the palm of His hand. For the past few months, Alec has served not far from Brussels, leading a zone that includes all of the French-speaking LDS missionaries in Belgium. Just days ago, the Belgian government placed Brussels on the highest terror alert, effectively locking down the city, and the United States issued a global travel alert. Alec assured us in his weekly email that the missionaries are safe and taking all necessary precautions. I believe him, and I know without a doubt that these missionaries enjoy the protection of God now more than at any other point in their lives.

And yet...Alec is due to return to the States in just over a month. I can almost hear the music he will play on the piano, and already I can imagine the laughter spreading across his face as he regales us with stories from his mission. For the first time in two years, my arms and my heart will be full to bursting with all of my children together. I remind myself to focus on the joy and not let my head muddle about in worries about delayed travel and terrorist fear tactics.

A week or two ago, I sat through a nail-biter of a football playoff game, cheering myself hoarse when our team won with a Hail Mary pass in the final two seconds. After so many football games and moments in my life when the Hail Mary passes failed to connect, I marveled a bit at the outcome of this particular game. It served as a wonderful reminder to me that, for all of the trials and learning experiences that the Lord grants us, He also sometimes allows those passes to connect, sometimes opens those windows of heaven and overwhelms us with joy and bounty. 

I have felt, these past few months, that this is one of those times in my life. I truly do feel overwhelmed with blessings and with the responsibility to use those blessings to serve and benefit others. Occasionally, I find myself tempted to listen to that whisper that warns, "It's only temporary. You don't deserve this. It won't last." It is then that I ponder the faith of Hannah, not only in loaning her son to the Lord but also in rejoicing. Over and over in my head runs the question, "Do I have faith enough to be joyful?" Pierre Teilhard de Chardin said once, "Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God." I believe I open the door to God when I allow myself to rejoice, that living joyfully--not just enduring--must become an evidence of my faith.

As a consequence, I will cheer for Hail Mary passes, for missionary sons, for days both rainy and sunny. I will open my eyes to miracles and my heart to love. I will close the door to worry, and I will rejoice.

The Point of Solitude

Today was a beach day at Damon Point State Park and Protection Island. My day hike guidebook promised a trail, which I somehow never found. That phantom trail could possibly be related to the paved road that abruptly drops off into the bay. Instead, I wandered along the beach to the end of the spit, drawn from one driftwood sculpture to the next and occasionally wondering if high tide would erase my path back to the car.

I ran into a grey-haired couple or two along the way (because I apparently inhabit the realm of the retired now), but mostly I enjoyed a solitary beach. From time to time I pulled out my phone to snap a photo, partly because an angle of wood or an unexpected ocean castoff intrigued me and partly because when an active woman inhabits the realms of the retired and navigates her rambles alone, she needs to document her existence. I do ponder sometimes whether, were it not for the evidence of a photograph or a blog post to verify my wanderings, I would simply cease to exist in those hours between my appearances in society. (If I have nothing to show for my day, did I, in fact, actually live the day at all?)


A flag fluttering above the beach grass beckoned me to the end of the spit, where I found the consummate beach house. More elaborate than most man-made beach sculptures, this haven offered four walls and a roof, with a wide doorway open to the bay and room for a crowd. "Love your mother," proclaimed the welcome sign inside (Mother Earth, I suppose). In the fire pit, a teepee of tinder waited for a match. I resisted the temptation to pull a chair to the door and read the afternoon away, opting instead to leave the beach behind and explore a bit of the grassland.

It has been some time since I simply ambled aimlessly about, with no clear path and only a vague notion that by a certain time I should find my way back to my car to shake the sand off my feet and re-emerge into the world. With the Pacific on one hand and Grays Harbor on the other, I set off across what looked like a meadow. Ah, but beach grass can be deceiving, hiding hills and valleys of sand, a multitude of logs and odd bits of leftovers washed up past the beach from boat wrecks half a world away.

I stumbled about, listening to waves crash on the sand and relaxing into the solitude. For a rare hour, I managed to live in the present, no thoughts of anything outside the waves and the wind and the sand beneath my feet. Somehow, sea air accomplished what I often seek and almost never achieve with intentional meditation. I left the world behind, forgot about my "to do" list, my pocket of worries and all of those vitally important items that typically clutter my mind.


Eventually, I found myself back at the car, and the world slowly returned. It felt less important now, somehow, balanced against driftwood and broken shells and water that ebbs and flows and erases my footprints before sunset. Someday, I may return to the beach house and accept the silent invitation to stay awhile. Or perhaps another refuge will beckon me past the boundary of the everyday and into the holy place of solitude.

October Snapshot

October Sunset at Lake Sylvia

As every good writer should, I belong to a writing group. I also stumbled on a poetry writing class recently. This week, the assignments for the two groups complemented each other...which was handy, because I found myself intimidated by both tasks. The result is a still life painted in stanzas.

Autumn in the Oven

Light, mottled brown of whole wheat flour

Gives way to richer companions:

Reddish-brown cinnamon,

Nutmeg the color of wet sand,

Ground cloves that look like ant hills and hint of Christmas cider.

Lumps of pumpkin blend with sunny eggs, pale applesauce, sugar and golden oil.

Plops of orangey-brown batter

Bake into golden mounds,

Dotted with walnuts.

Spicy scents waft through a house spotted with sunlight.

The dog soaks up warmth on the deck just outside,

And flames dance in the fireplace

(Not quite necessary, but welcome),

Smoke rising lazily through the chimney

To meet bright autumn sunshine.

Rhythms of Change

We recently purchased kayaks. New to the sport, I am thus still in discovery mode. Among other things, I am learning about the rhythms of directional change. With some practice, I have begun to master the admittedly simple art of moving in a relatively straight line. Negotiating turns with precision is still a work in progress. As I turn counter to the forward motion of the boat, I find there is a delay as the boat and the current find each other again and as I re-establish the rhythm of paddling in a new direction. With practice, I imagine I will find some speed. At the moment, however, I have to remind myself about the delay and not overcompensate with my strokes, thus sending the boat sharply in the opposite direction from where I had intended to travel.

I give myself similar reminders about life these days. My life has turned a significant corner in the past few months, with a cross-country move shuffling us from the prairie to the Olympic Peninsula. I love Washington, with endless possibilities for hiking and kayaking, brilliant sunsets on the ocean, misty mornings (and afternoons and evenings), moss-covered forests and a town full of people who have welcomed us with open arms. I feel happy. At the same time, I have yet to find my rhythm. With the kids in school and no job to schedule my time, I decide each morning how to spend my day. Should I write? hike? explore? chip away at the "to do" list? The prospects offer a guilty sense of freedom and also leave me feeling a tad discombobulated.

Fortunately, I have a few cross-country moves under my belt, and I can hearken back to those experiences. Six years ago, for instance, we moved from New England to Illinois. I loved Vermont, but I am a nomad by nature, and 18 years in the same locale found me aching for change. The move proceeded smoothly. We loved our new home and the abundant sunshine. Even the cornfields across the street (and around the corner and over the way...) offered a certain amount of charm as they changed with the seasons, and it would be several years before I began to long for beauty again.

Despite the warm welcome and our happy circumstances, after just a few months, I found myself in the midst of a bit of a mid-life crisis. I wriggled uncomfortably in my skin, wallowed in a funk for the better part of a year, and searched diligently for depth and meaning in my life. I thought I had descended into a depression. Looking back from my current vantage point, I realize that I probably mis-read the effects of a disruption in my life rhythm. Instead of riding out the change in direction, I fought against it, sending my little boat this way and that as I flailed.

I suppose I could have saved myself a fair amount of angst back on the prairie by learning to flow with the current. As it was, I channeled my angst into writing, and the flailing eventually evened into a productive pattern. This time, I intend to keep paddling gently--listening for the rhythms of small-town life and Olympic forest breezes and allowing myself time to match my stroke to the cadence of life around me.

In Between

I have an old family photo on my computer, taken in August of 2013 in one of those rare times when we scored a few days with all of the family together. I remember the photo shoot. Fortunately, the photographer was a family friend, familiar with our antics and thus delightfully patient with the children (some of them quite adult in size and years, if not in maturity) who could not seem to manage a few seconds in the same position.

Looking back, I realize that the family photos captured a pivotal time for us. Devin had completed an LDS mission to San Antonio, Texas earlier that week. Within days, he and Alec (newly graduated from high school) would drive the old green Honda Civic to Utah State University, where Devin would continue his interrupted degree program and Alec would snatch a quick taste of college life before his own mission.

In the weeks following the photo shoot, the older boys and I took an unforgettable hiking trip to Wyoming, Alec received his mission call to France, and Brad achieved a personal milestone over two decades in the making. As the year continued, we began to feel an increasing tug drawing us away from Illinois. It took over a year for the pieces to fall into place, but a restlessness descended, and we entered an occasionally uncomfortable period of limbo.

Lake Sylvia

Meanwhile, Devin entered a new phase of his life, bringing us a wonderful daughter-in-law in 2014 and graduating from college a year later. Jared assumed oldest child at home status, literally growing into his role and towering over the rest of us. Kristina waltzed happily (or at least dramatically) into her teenager-in-training stage. Across the Atlantic, Alec leapt out of his comfort zone, learning lessons in humility, the healing power of Belgian chocolate, and the miracles of the grace of God.

In just three months, we will gather again for a family photo, with Alec fresh off a plane from Europe and Devin and Mattea bringing us a hint of Wasatch mountain air. The four of us left at home have traded the prairies of the Midwest for the rain forests of Washington, and all of us feel the tingle of adventure as our lives evolve.

More Lake Sylvia

I spent an hour kayaking this morning on Lake Sylvia, wondering at the turn my life has taken and feeling a bit guilty at the joy I feel and the beauty that surrounds me. I paddled in solitude, accompanied only by a family of deer, my own thoughts, and the quiet depth of trees reflected on the mirror surface of the water. Struck by a particularly lovely reflection, I paddled over to take a photo, quickly discovering that the ripples of my forward movement disturbed the image in the water. Perfect moments are difficult to capture, I suppose, with cameras inadequate and life moving forward so quickly. But even woefully inadequate photos remind us of the perfection we lived for a bit and the promise of astounding moments around the next bend.

Wishkah Wanderings

Aberdeen Bus Station

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I became aware of a steady rain outside my window. After weeks of splendid sunshine and brown grass, I actually looked forward to a true Washington welcome. Now, a low rumble of thunder harmonizes with the swish of wind in the trees and the patter of rain on the pavement. The ground soaks in the moisture greedily. Remind me in a few months that I found the wind and the rain cozy today.

Wishkah Winker

Next week, we move up river a few miles, but while we squat in our temporary apartment in Aberdeen and before the rain descended, the kids and I decided to see the sights. Mind you, most tourists who come to Southwestern Washington simply pass through Aberdeen on their way to the beaches. With high unemployment and infamous drug use, the town hardly boasts a sterling reputation. Beggars stand on the street corners underneath signs that warn citizens to "Keep the change--don't support panhandling." At night, many of those same panhandlers presumably sleep in the tent city around the corner from our apartment. Office buildings in the town center stand empty.

Brad at Sucher and Sons Star Wars Shop

And yet...sculptures grace nearly every street corner, from 13 whimsical "Critters on the Map" to the
"Breaker" sculpture, made of 309 sandstone blocks salvaged when the city's historic high school burnt to the ground in 2002. Several large murals cover the sides of downtown buildings, and even the alleyways display an impressive collection of street art.

For those who need a quick getaway to another

Alley art

time, the public library houses a Tardis. Alternatively, Sucher and Sons Star Wars shop offers thousands of Star Wars items, from tiny figurines to vintage Millenium Falcons, Lego sets and every imaginable collectible.

Kurt Cobain memorial under the Young Street bridge

My morning runs take me through the hills overlooking Grays Harbor, with winding roads and lovely views. Off the hill and under the Young Street bridge, the perspective shifts. In a small park next to the bridge, a lone picnic table sits quietly next to the guitar sculpture memorial to Nirvana front man Kurt Cobain. A plaque gives the words to Cobain's song "Something in the Way," written about the musician's time underneath the bridge. But the real memorial, the tribute that strikes a chord, is the graffiti mural underneath the bridge, above the mud that slides down to the banks of the Wishkah River.

I doubt my ashes will ever scatter across the Wishkah, as Kurt Cobain's ashes did 20 years ago, but I am glad life tossed me on its banks for short time and gave me a chance to appreciate art, music, the nostalgia of childhood movies and the reminder that my life has given me blessings far beyond what I deserve.

Reinventing Myself

Two weeks ago, we celebrated our first night in a new home by watching the sun set over the Pacific. After six years in the heartland, we found the beach wild and mystical, a fitting place to begin a new life here in the Pacific Northwest.

With the move from the prairie to the coast, it seems appropriate to reinvent my blog as well. After all, "Skipping Past Cornfields" fails to resonate quite so well in this land of pine forests and misty mornings.

So I return to the moonrises that always seem to accompany new beginnings for me. And dark chocolate? Ah, that is simply food for my soul. One should always begin a new life with chocolate.