During the week before last, I read a book entitled Gilead in which an aging father wrote a long letter, a journal of sorts to his very young son. Fearful that his life would end long before his parenting responsibilities, the reverend set out to tell his son the story of his life, his pastorate, his own father and grandfather, and how the legacy of all those pastors, all that Biblical outrage, and all their most well-guarded secrets would very likely influence his son’s life. Into the multigenerational story, the main character adeptly wove enchanting descriptions of the world in which he lived. He marveled at the beauty of the sky, the fields, the townspeople that surrounded him, as well as the dainty details of his son’s skin tone, the curve of his neck, and the subtle beauty of his beloved wife. While my description here is scant in details, the novel most certainly is not. It is a both worthy of a luxurious, slow read, accompanied by sweet tea and home-baked cookies. Most days, that's exactly how I read it. Aaaahhh!
As I worked my way through that lyrical novel, I found myself reflecting both on what I write and why I write. Do I expect that my children will read all my journals and blogs, take all my sage advice to heart (is it sage?), and avoid the many pitfalls that have felled me in this life of mine? Do I expect that someday my personal writings will be the stuff of Anais Nin legend? Do I take the time include my observations of my children’s antics, my husband’s humorous foibles, and my own frequent bouts with “foot in mouth” syndrome? If they read my journals thirty or forty years from now when I’m long gone, will they have any idea how much I have enjoyed them, cried with them and for them, and prayed for great joy and peace to reign in their lives? Will they know how much I’ve dreamed for them and their futures? Will they realize how incredulous I still am that they even exist – that my body (with some willing assistance from my husband) created two human beings with hearts and souls and minds of their own? Will they know how much I love them?
When I think back on our month in Spain, when I read the postcards I sent to myself along the way, and the many pages of journaling I did while we were there, I cannot help but be grateful for the wonderful time we shared there. To awake each morning with excitement as to what we would see, who we would encounter, and what new food we would try – it was a gift beyond any we’d ever shared before. We walked for hours at a time, took the subway all over Madrid, and sometimes I followed their lead as we made our way home from local shops and cafes. That was an adventure; we never got lost, but there were a few uncertain turns made along the way. Most nights, I couldn’t wait to put them to bed so I could rush downstairs to my journal and write about the day. They both left for Spain with a certain amount of skepticism as to what awaited us there, but they both begged and pleaded for us to stay there longer when the day of our departure from Spain arrived.
As they read, will they hear my laughter as I describe how we sat on “our bench” on la calle Eloy Gonzalo and watched the Spaniards promenade with their children and dogs in tow? Will they see my smile when I recount our walks, talks, and meals with Antonio up in the north of Spain? Will they remember the wrinkled little old woman who sat across from us on the train to Toledo and then donned her beggar’s attire and asked us for a donation half an hour later outside of the magnificent cathedral there? Will they remember where we sat in the back row of that same church to eat our licorice after a long morning of exploring and hill climbing? Will they appreciate the fear and uncertainty I felt when Daniel fell and hit his head on the marble slab sidewalk of la Castellana and nearly knocked himself unconscious? The thought of going to a hospital in Madrid and being told that my son had a concussion was more than I could process at the moment. If they read my journal, I think they will know all that and more.
If they read my journals and my blogs, they will know that in the midst of a busy life, an active family and church life, I had moments when I wanted to run away from it all. They will know that even though I loved them and their father without measure, at times I wanted to be single and childless. They will know that despite my numerous professions of faith sometimes I was nearly drowned by overwhelming waves of doubt. They will know that I am a deeply flawed, skittish, easily unnerved woman who tried desperately to protect them from all my flaws, skittishness, and nervousness. They will know that my bravado, my strength, my courage, and my determination to give them the very best life I could imagine for them were nothing more than a premeditated attempt to keep them from ever knowing the despair, the hunger, the sorrow, and the fear that most children their age experience on a daily, an hourly basis all around the world and even in this very nation.
Many people who don’t journal tell me that they don’t write because they are worried that people will find out their secrets and think less of them. Others say that their lives are too mundane to be worthy of recording. Some think that journaling is difficult, demanding, and downright dangerous. I agree with all of those reasons; every one of them makes perfect sense. But I go beyond those reasons and ask myself these questions: what if more people knew that their secrets were the same as everybody else’s and that if we tell the truth about our fears and doubts and mistakes, we can help many others make better decisions in their lives? If it’s true that my DNA is unique, that no one else in the world is like me, that there has never been anyone else like me, then everyone of us is living a unique life, and who wouldn’t want to read about my unique walk through this world or yours? When I think of all the questions I never asked my dearly departed Dad, I am all the more sorrowful that he didn’t keep a journal, and leave behind his great wisdom in written form. Journaling is difficult, demanding, and dangerous sometimes, but so is life. Why not tell the tale for others to enjoy?
Someone wrote that the unexamined life is not worth living. Journaling and blogging have provided a platform for examining my life, for putting my reflections on paper, and then later on, for leaving an account of my life for my children to examine and reflect upon. Just as I followed their lead down the streets of Madrid, I hope that someday they will follow mine, watching from a distance as I recount my uncertain turns along the way. May my poorly drawn map of my own life serve as both a caution and as a tribute to the wonder that this life can be. Write on!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
What if there's more than one version?
What if ten buildings were bombed in New York, Charlotte, Chicago, Los Angeles, Des Moines, Boston, and Ponte Vedra Beach every night at 10:30 PM? What if police officers invaded random houses across the nation on random nights, arrested all the men in the house, patted down all the women, and asked the children where the guns were hidden? What if we had electricity for fewer than eight hours per day, running water for three hours, and no idea when the outages would take place? What if foreign soldiers had control of every public building in our government centers and only a handful of Americans had access to those buildings?
What if resistance to their presence was punishable by arrest and indeterminate imprisonment? What if our citizens were tortured and abused by foreign soldiers? What if churches were bombed and Bibles were torn to bits? What if it were illegal to speak against the newly elected government? What if there were no forum for protesting against the elections themselves? How is it possible to tell the truth or hear the truth under those circumstances?
What if no one believed my version of the story? What if my description of life before the war, of life since the war began, and of the horror of trying to make a life under deplorable daily conditions were dismissed as fake, exaggerated, and as propaganda? What would my blog look like if those were the conditions under which I was writing?
A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog written by a 24 year old woman in Iraq. Reading it, I was horrified. Saddened. Outraged. Suspicious. Then I stopped myself and asked: why do I doubt the veracity of this blog any more than any other I've read? Are her accounts any less believeable than any others? What if she is telling the truth, a side of the story that CNN and ABC and Fox News cannot tell because none of their reporters is a 24 year old Iraqi womea? What if what we have heard here is only half of the story or only one third of the story?
Was Saddam Hussein a horrific leader? Absolutely. Should he have been removed from power? Absolutely. Did it have to cost Iraq the lives of more than 100,000 of its citizens? Did it have to cost America over 2,000 of its citizens? Will it cost tens of thousands more lives and tens of billions more dollars before it's over? Has it all been worth it? Are we safer now, is the world safer now --> because Saddam is no longer in control of Iraq?
I guess the answers to all these questions depend on who you ask. On whose version you believe. I am grateful to Moneesha for pointing me to a different version of the war stories. Check it out at http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com. Be mad. Be outraged. Be suspicious. I went through all of those emotions and more. But then take a moment and consider: what if all that she describes is true? What if everything she describes happened here in the United States? How then would we live?
To that courageous young woman in Baghdad, I wish all God's blessings. I wish you safety. I wish you peace.
I will continue to pray for peace, not only in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Not only in London, Madrid and New York.
Not only in Congo, Sudan, South Africa, and Rwanda.
Not only in Pakistan, India, and Thailand.
Not only in Canada, Bolivia, and the United States.
I will pray for peace in every nation,
in every city,
in every home,
and in every heart
all over our weary, fearful, desperately needy world.
Grace and peace, Gail
What if resistance to their presence was punishable by arrest and indeterminate imprisonment? What if our citizens were tortured and abused by foreign soldiers? What if churches were bombed and Bibles were torn to bits? What if it were illegal to speak against the newly elected government? What if there were no forum for protesting against the elections themselves? How is it possible to tell the truth or hear the truth under those circumstances?
What if no one believed my version of the story? What if my description of life before the war, of life since the war began, and of the horror of trying to make a life under deplorable daily conditions were dismissed as fake, exaggerated, and as propaganda? What would my blog look like if those were the conditions under which I was writing?
A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog written by a 24 year old woman in Iraq. Reading it, I was horrified. Saddened. Outraged. Suspicious. Then I stopped myself and asked: why do I doubt the veracity of this blog any more than any other I've read? Are her accounts any less believeable than any others? What if she is telling the truth, a side of the story that CNN and ABC and Fox News cannot tell because none of their reporters is a 24 year old Iraqi womea? What if what we have heard here is only half of the story or only one third of the story?
Was Saddam Hussein a horrific leader? Absolutely. Should he have been removed from power? Absolutely. Did it have to cost Iraq the lives of more than 100,000 of its citizens? Did it have to cost America over 2,000 of its citizens? Will it cost tens of thousands more lives and tens of billions more dollars before it's over? Has it all been worth it? Are we safer now, is the world safer now --> because Saddam is no longer in control of Iraq?
I guess the answers to all these questions depend on who you ask. On whose version you believe. I am grateful to Moneesha for pointing me to a different version of the war stories. Check it out at http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com. Be mad. Be outraged. Be suspicious. I went through all of those emotions and more. But then take a moment and consider: what if all that she describes is true? What if everything she describes happened here in the United States? How then would we live?
To that courageous young woman in Baghdad, I wish all God's blessings. I wish you safety. I wish you peace.
I will continue to pray for peace, not only in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Not only in London, Madrid and New York.
Not only in Congo, Sudan, South Africa, and Rwanda.
Not only in Pakistan, India, and Thailand.
Not only in Canada, Bolivia, and the United States.
I will pray for peace in every nation,
in every city,
in every home,
and in every heart
all over our weary, fearful, desperately needy world.
Grace and peace, Gail
Friday, July 08, 2005
The Prodigal Hamster
Yesterday during my weekly date with myself, my cell phone rang. Kristiana was calling with bad news: “Buddy’s not in his cage.” Buddy is our hamster. Chubby little thing with long whiskers, round belly, and a short tail, he has become a much beloved member of our household. Our neighbors aren’t so crazy about him because when we were in England back in March and they were hamster-sitting, he escaped from his cage and, in what I believe was a courageous break for freedom, gnawed a hole in the carpet under the door of their game room. I was enormously apologetic for the damage he had done, but part of me was proud of his determination. After all, there is no place like home. This time was different, though. He was already at home. What on earth did he think he was going to find on the floor and in the corners of our house? I quickly came up with a plan for finding him. I gave Kristiana precise instructions: “Grab your brother and the babysitter and begin a room by room search for Buddy. Get down on your knees and look under every piece of furniture. Look in all the closets because, as we have learned, he can get under doors. Call me with an update in 15 minutes.”
After ten anxious minutes of waiting for my phone to vibrate, I called home. Kristiana answered and with triumph in her voice announced, “We found him. He was in the laundry room. He was covered in dust, but now he’s back in his cage.” Ignoring her blatant criticism of my housekeeping skills, I told her how glad I was that they had found him so quickly and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that he had survived his ordeal and that they had successfully completed a rescue operation and not a recovery.
What was he thinking, that crazy little rodent? First he had to scale his little wooden hut and leap up onto the cover of the clear Rubbermaid container that he calls home. His mansion is no shoebox; this is one of Rubbermaid’s 60 quart LatchTopper boxes. According to the dimensions on the label, the box is 16.4 inches from top to bottom, so he had to jump down 16.4 inches to the counter in the homeschool room on which his home is perched. From the counter top to the floor is another thirty-six inches. After going down fifteen stairs to the first floor, he had to wind his way around and under the kitchen table and turn left into the laundry room. I’m no daily sweeper, but this I know for sure: there is no food on the floor nor are there water puddles anywhere downstairs for Buddy to fill his pecan-sized belly while he was on the run. He must have been hungry and thirsty when they found him and put him back in his now tightly secured Latch Topper.
Where was my prodigal hamster going? Did he have a plan? In the middle of the night, did his little mind wander back to the comforts of his cage? Did he begin to think, like his Biblical counterpart, that if only he could return to his father (or in this case, his mother, Kristiana) he would be willing to eat the leftover nuts and seeds that were on the bottom of the bag? Did he feel lonely and scared down there in the dark? Did he wish he could lick himself clean in the cozy comfort of his bed – which had been fashioned from a Pringles tube? And when he saw Kristiana’s face peering down at him in the corner, was he glad to have been discovered? Will he now be contented to be a homebody, or will he attempt another run for freedom as soon as we all forget yesterday’s excitement and leave the cover off the box again?
Like Buddy, I know the thrill of escape. As a high school senior, I couldn’t wait to get to college. I would finally have freedom from television and radio rules, freedom from curfews, freedom from wondering what the neighbors thought of me, what the church people thought, and especially what my parents thought. For the next six years (four as a student and two as an employee of Williams College), I ran through the streets of Williamstown like a rebel without a clue. I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it. I went to every party that I could get into and danced until the wee hours. I had several boyfriends. I tried several intoxicating substances, some legal and some illegal. I even became a leader of the campus Christian fellowship group. I wanted to be sure to try every possible escape route.
Like Buddy, I also know the agony of hunger and thirst and being coated with dust in dark corners in the middle of the night. With freedom came consequences. My soul’s hunger for love and attention and companionship wasn’t satisfied by the charms or in the arms of my boyfriends. With each guy I chose, I realized within minutes that they were as insatiably ravenous as I was, but none of us knew how to fill each other’s empty places. My soul’s thirst for laughter and joy and fun wasn’t quenched by White Russians or beer taps. A few dizzying walks back to my dorm room and one particularly gin-soaked birthday party in Madrid were all I needed to give up any hope that alcohol could solve any of my problems. And no bar of soap, bottle of body wash, or fresh scented shampoo could wash off the filth that always seemed caked on long after the boyfriends left.
I wish I could say that there came a time when I saw the error of my ways, when I stopped my senseless Houdini-esque escape attempts, and settled down. I wish I could say that I have stopped trying to drown my sorrows in alcohol on occasion and overfeed my hungry soul on junk food on a regular basis. But I cannot. The only difference is that now my escape routes are no longer clandestine; in fact, they are quite respectable. I travel internationally when I am looking for a break from my life, and not just under the East River on the subway. I drink one or two mojitos now and no longer stand near the drink table with cups in both hands. And I’ve upped the ante a little. Now I shop in better stores nowadays, but the desire is the same as when I frequented the flea markets of Greenwich Village in Manhattan: to cover the wounded places with fine clothing and funky jewelry. I eat fried calamari now not street-sold hotdogs, but the craving for fulfillment is still there. I watch foreign films and reality television in order to avoid the reality of my life. I read better books, thereby entering the mind of the author and the life of the characters, but eventually I must close the cover and follow the plot line of my own tale. I live in a better house with better windows and better locks than I could ever have dreamed for myself, but sometimes I think I set the alarm at night to keep myself in rather than to keep others out.
Nowadays we have to check on Buddy morning and night to make sure he doesn’t escape again. Nowadays I have to check on my own heart and mind morning and night, making sure I’m feeding myself well on The Bread of Life, drinking the Living Water, and enjoying the toys that have accumulated in my cage. But don’t let these lofty thoughts be misunderstood; I am no hamster, but my heart, mind, and body still want to escape every time the cover to the LatchTopper is left off.
After ten anxious minutes of waiting for my phone to vibrate, I called home. Kristiana answered and with triumph in her voice announced, “We found him. He was in the laundry room. He was covered in dust, but now he’s back in his cage.” Ignoring her blatant criticism of my housekeeping skills, I told her how glad I was that they had found him so quickly and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that he had survived his ordeal and that they had successfully completed a rescue operation and not a recovery.
What was he thinking, that crazy little rodent? First he had to scale his little wooden hut and leap up onto the cover of the clear Rubbermaid container that he calls home. His mansion is no shoebox; this is one of Rubbermaid’s 60 quart LatchTopper boxes. According to the dimensions on the label, the box is 16.4 inches from top to bottom, so he had to jump down 16.4 inches to the counter in the homeschool room on which his home is perched. From the counter top to the floor is another thirty-six inches. After going down fifteen stairs to the first floor, he had to wind his way around and under the kitchen table and turn left into the laundry room. I’m no daily sweeper, but this I know for sure: there is no food on the floor nor are there water puddles anywhere downstairs for Buddy to fill his pecan-sized belly while he was on the run. He must have been hungry and thirsty when they found him and put him back in his now tightly secured Latch Topper.
Where was my prodigal hamster going? Did he have a plan? In the middle of the night, did his little mind wander back to the comforts of his cage? Did he begin to think, like his Biblical counterpart, that if only he could return to his father (or in this case, his mother, Kristiana) he would be willing to eat the leftover nuts and seeds that were on the bottom of the bag? Did he feel lonely and scared down there in the dark? Did he wish he could lick himself clean in the cozy comfort of his bed – which had been fashioned from a Pringles tube? And when he saw Kristiana’s face peering down at him in the corner, was he glad to have been discovered? Will he now be contented to be a homebody, or will he attempt another run for freedom as soon as we all forget yesterday’s excitement and leave the cover off the box again?
Like Buddy, I know the thrill of escape. As a high school senior, I couldn’t wait to get to college. I would finally have freedom from television and radio rules, freedom from curfews, freedom from wondering what the neighbors thought of me, what the church people thought, and especially what my parents thought. For the next six years (four as a student and two as an employee of Williams College), I ran through the streets of Williamstown like a rebel without a clue. I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it. I went to every party that I could get into and danced until the wee hours. I had several boyfriends. I tried several intoxicating substances, some legal and some illegal. I even became a leader of the campus Christian fellowship group. I wanted to be sure to try every possible escape route.
Like Buddy, I also know the agony of hunger and thirst and being coated with dust in dark corners in the middle of the night. With freedom came consequences. My soul’s hunger for love and attention and companionship wasn’t satisfied by the charms or in the arms of my boyfriends. With each guy I chose, I realized within minutes that they were as insatiably ravenous as I was, but none of us knew how to fill each other’s empty places. My soul’s thirst for laughter and joy and fun wasn’t quenched by White Russians or beer taps. A few dizzying walks back to my dorm room and one particularly gin-soaked birthday party in Madrid were all I needed to give up any hope that alcohol could solve any of my problems. And no bar of soap, bottle of body wash, or fresh scented shampoo could wash off the filth that always seemed caked on long after the boyfriends left.
I wish I could say that there came a time when I saw the error of my ways, when I stopped my senseless Houdini-esque escape attempts, and settled down. I wish I could say that I have stopped trying to drown my sorrows in alcohol on occasion and overfeed my hungry soul on junk food on a regular basis. But I cannot. The only difference is that now my escape routes are no longer clandestine; in fact, they are quite respectable. I travel internationally when I am looking for a break from my life, and not just under the East River on the subway. I drink one or two mojitos now and no longer stand near the drink table with cups in both hands. And I’ve upped the ante a little. Now I shop in better stores nowadays, but the desire is the same as when I frequented the flea markets of Greenwich Village in Manhattan: to cover the wounded places with fine clothing and funky jewelry. I eat fried calamari now not street-sold hotdogs, but the craving for fulfillment is still there. I watch foreign films and reality television in order to avoid the reality of my life. I read better books, thereby entering the mind of the author and the life of the characters, but eventually I must close the cover and follow the plot line of my own tale. I live in a better house with better windows and better locks than I could ever have dreamed for myself, but sometimes I think I set the alarm at night to keep myself in rather than to keep others out.
Nowadays we have to check on Buddy morning and night to make sure he doesn’t escape again. Nowadays I have to check on my own heart and mind morning and night, making sure I’m feeding myself well on The Bread of Life, drinking the Living Water, and enjoying the toys that have accumulated in my cage. But don’t let these lofty thoughts be misunderstood; I am no hamster, but my heart, mind, and body still want to escape every time the cover to the LatchTopper is left off.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
I'm Your Venus...
Saturday was one of the best days of the summer so far - at least it was for me. Why? Because the #14 seed, Venus Williams defeated the #1 seed, Lindsay Davenport at Wimbledon. I was thrilled that it was an all-American final match. I was thrilled that Lindsay was able to come back after her back injury and play very well despite her pain. But I was beyond thrilled, bouncing up and down in my bed, cheering, yelling and screaming for quite a while when the match ended and Venus had won. I was sad that Serena wasn’t there to cheer on her big sister and to celebrate with her that night. Even though they are divorced now, Venus’ parents were there in her box, both cheering her on, both groaning whenever she missed shots or double-faulted. But they were all vindicated; all of us, her loyal fans, were vindicated when the match ended and she was crowned victorious. It was as though the Venus had arisen from the ashes, defeated the enemies of doubt, criticism, and cynicism, and proved that there is still fire in those 25 year old bones. Although she is profoundly and embarrassingly inarticulate at times when she is interviewed, Venus didn’t need words to express her joy this time. As the tournament officials prepared for the awards ceremony, she stood up. She sat down. She laughed. She covered her face. She looked up at her family. She looked down at the grass beneath her happy and hopping feet. Her joy was inexpressible and uncontainable. Congrats to Venus, the three-time Wimbledon Champion. May you have many more!
Later I took a few minutes to try to figure out why it meant so much to me that she won. It didn’t take long to find the reasons why.
Like Venus, I often find myself in the position of underdog, written off, dismissed. When we moved to Charlotte, some skeptical friends thought we were making a foolish decision to leave Connecticut for North Carolina. Several of them posited that it was downright dangerous to move to a segregated South with our integrated family. Long before that, many had advised against our marriage; after all, they said, interracial marriages don’t usually work out. With the divorce rate in this country hovering just above 50%, I wondered which types of couples had any greater or lesser advantage over any other. Proudly and happily, I can report that last week we celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary. Several years before that, there were friends and neighbors who said that leaving New York City for a tiny college in a tiny town called Williamstown Massachusetts was nothing short of idiotic. Those ended up being four of the best years of my life thus far. Millions, it seemed, have been sitting on the sidelines shouting advice and jeers and taunting me for nearly four decades.
The good news is that there have always been a handful of dear friends in my box who have cheered me on. Like Venus’ parents, some of my loved ones won’t speak to each other for unknown reasons, but they watch out for me. They call out words of encouragement. They travel with me from tournament to tournament. Usually when one cannot attend, someone else will take their place. There are photographers in the crowd, writers, artists who have rendered images and words about me that have shown me just how much they love me. Those are the people who have never doubted that I could come back after injuries, downfalls, and even when I have inexplicably quit in the middle of the game. There are the trainers who follow me into the locker room, rub balm into my aching spirit, put ice on my rage, and help me stretch out the tension in my heart. With my eyes and ears and heart open for all the love that never stopped spilling over from that corner of my life where my friends gather, I have been able to stay in the match even when I am down two sets and two breaks. For every one of them, for all of you, I am profoundly and inarticulately grateful.
There was another reason why Venus’ victory touched me so deeply: even with all our supporters in the crown, this game of life is a singles’ match. In the dark moments when no one else knows what I’m thinking and worrying about, in those quiet times when I am afraid and overwhelmed, and even in the midst of the busyness of life, family reunions, extended vacations, getting together with friends for dinner and holiday celebrations, and soul-jolting conversations, I am alone. There is simply no way to avoid the fact that I single-handedly must do the work of soul building, face the fear factor, fight for every point against the onslaught of despair, and eventually receive the prize that awaits me when this match called life is over. During the toughest times, when churches I attend explode and fall to pieces, when friends and family fall ill and die, when job loss happens, when loneliness forms a thick curtain around me and no one is able to rend the veil, that’s when I am forced to tune out the noise of the madding crowd, focus on the single task at hand, the single ball that is hurtling towards me with impossible spin and unstoppable force. When my father died in March of 2001 and then September 11th happened six months later and my brother got sick at the end of the same year and my husband lost his job six months after that, I had one simple goal every day: get out of bed. After that, the rest was easy. Getting dressed, making breakfast, teaching the kids, keeping the house clean, boosting Steve’s spirits during the job search, teaching a Bible study, keeping up with my writing group assignments, maintaining friendships by phone, email, and in person – all of that was much easier once I got out of bed. One shot at a time.
Maybe the tennis analogy has gone too far now, but the truth never goes too far. Venus came back and won last Saturday because she never gave up on herself. She never allowed her many injuries and defeats to prevent her from playing on. Her critics never got closer to her than her loyal supporters. She never allowed the reputation or ranking of her opponents intimidate her. She played as hard as she could every game of every match. She learned from her faults and gained the determination to reduce their frequency and their import. The cheers and groans of the crowd had no bearing on the outcome of the tournament. In the end, she alone had to play. She had to serve when it was her turn, and she had to return serve when it wasn’t her turn. The court, as large as it is, is a solitary place. No one else can play the match in her place. But the good news is that no one else’s name was written on the check she received either.
It’s uncanny sometimes how closely sports imitate life.
Later I took a few minutes to try to figure out why it meant so much to me that she won. It didn’t take long to find the reasons why.
Like Venus, I often find myself in the position of underdog, written off, dismissed. When we moved to Charlotte, some skeptical friends thought we were making a foolish decision to leave Connecticut for North Carolina. Several of them posited that it was downright dangerous to move to a segregated South with our integrated family. Long before that, many had advised against our marriage; after all, they said, interracial marriages don’t usually work out. With the divorce rate in this country hovering just above 50%, I wondered which types of couples had any greater or lesser advantage over any other. Proudly and happily, I can report that last week we celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary. Several years before that, there were friends and neighbors who said that leaving New York City for a tiny college in a tiny town called Williamstown Massachusetts was nothing short of idiotic. Those ended up being four of the best years of my life thus far. Millions, it seemed, have been sitting on the sidelines shouting advice and jeers and taunting me for nearly four decades.
The good news is that there have always been a handful of dear friends in my box who have cheered me on. Like Venus’ parents, some of my loved ones won’t speak to each other for unknown reasons, but they watch out for me. They call out words of encouragement. They travel with me from tournament to tournament. Usually when one cannot attend, someone else will take their place. There are photographers in the crowd, writers, artists who have rendered images and words about me that have shown me just how much they love me. Those are the people who have never doubted that I could come back after injuries, downfalls, and even when I have inexplicably quit in the middle of the game. There are the trainers who follow me into the locker room, rub balm into my aching spirit, put ice on my rage, and help me stretch out the tension in my heart. With my eyes and ears and heart open for all the love that never stopped spilling over from that corner of my life where my friends gather, I have been able to stay in the match even when I am down two sets and two breaks. For every one of them, for all of you, I am profoundly and inarticulately grateful.
There was another reason why Venus’ victory touched me so deeply: even with all our supporters in the crown, this game of life is a singles’ match. In the dark moments when no one else knows what I’m thinking and worrying about, in those quiet times when I am afraid and overwhelmed, and even in the midst of the busyness of life, family reunions, extended vacations, getting together with friends for dinner and holiday celebrations, and soul-jolting conversations, I am alone. There is simply no way to avoid the fact that I single-handedly must do the work of soul building, face the fear factor, fight for every point against the onslaught of despair, and eventually receive the prize that awaits me when this match called life is over. During the toughest times, when churches I attend explode and fall to pieces, when friends and family fall ill and die, when job loss happens, when loneliness forms a thick curtain around me and no one is able to rend the veil, that’s when I am forced to tune out the noise of the madding crowd, focus on the single task at hand, the single ball that is hurtling towards me with impossible spin and unstoppable force. When my father died in March of 2001 and then September 11th happened six months later and my brother got sick at the end of the same year and my husband lost his job six months after that, I had one simple goal every day: get out of bed. After that, the rest was easy. Getting dressed, making breakfast, teaching the kids, keeping the house clean, boosting Steve’s spirits during the job search, teaching a Bible study, keeping up with my writing group assignments, maintaining friendships by phone, email, and in person – all of that was much easier once I got out of bed. One shot at a time.
Maybe the tennis analogy has gone too far now, but the truth never goes too far. Venus came back and won last Saturday because she never gave up on herself. She never allowed her many injuries and defeats to prevent her from playing on. Her critics never got closer to her than her loyal supporters. She never allowed the reputation or ranking of her opponents intimidate her. She played as hard as she could every game of every match. She learned from her faults and gained the determination to reduce their frequency and their import. The cheers and groans of the crowd had no bearing on the outcome of the tournament. In the end, she alone had to play. She had to serve when it was her turn, and she had to return serve when it wasn’t her turn. The court, as large as it is, is a solitary place. No one else can play the match in her place. But the good news is that no one else’s name was written on the check she received either.
It’s uncanny sometimes how closely sports imitate life.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Pregnant and Paralyzed...
I know I have used the "pregnancy" metaphor before. But this time, I really mean it. Not that I'm physically pregnant, but that I am emotionally and spiritually pregnant. There is something brewing in me that is struggling to be born. There are many things in me that I am patiently awaiting.
I am thinking about writing a personal commentary on the Ten Commandments. No, I'm not concerned about taking a knife and killing anyone at the moment, but is murder happening in my name? Am I neglecting to curb my tendency towards covetousness by calling it something more benign?
I am thinking about writing a more indepth analysis of our time in Spain. Why do I like life away from my home and life and country so much? What is it about anonymity and solitude and carlessness (as in, being without a car!) that I like so much?
I am thinking about writing an analogy a new friend has given me on how our lives, our hearts are like luggage - some of us pack heavy and some pack light. Some use ziploc bags to keep things separate and some just throw the bottles in with the shoes. I love my jewelry and when I travel, I keep it stored in a little box with a rubber band around it and carry it in my handbag. And I'm thinking that we all have our luggage, our baggage, and our secret compartments. What's in mine? How do I unpack it? Do I dare unpack in the company of others or only in the privacy of my personal space?
Plus there is a line of thought about the church, the big pink building I go to every Sunday morning and the church as people. Aren't we the church, folks? And if we are, why do we flock to tbe big buildings? Why do we hide inside and hope that the outsiders come to us? Why aren't we being salt and light in the world? Making a difference outside the four walls? Forget for a minute that we want people to join our club, to come to our building. What is it about my personal faith that would be appealing to someone outside of my faith? What does it mean when so many people who think of the Christian church in this country - and around the world - think of judgmental, mean-spirited, boring, un-fun people? Shouldn't I care about that image? Shouldn't I be doing something different, something that attracts others to want to be a part of this group that I have given my life over to? Isn't it time that I forgot about the group and talked about the Person that gives my life meaning? If no one new enters the building, isn't it possible that the church can still grow - if it's really and solely about relationship? Is it a reasonable goal to expect that unpacking my luggage can or should happen within the context of the church? If AA can do it, why can't we?
I'm in the middle of one of the most spirited and pointed email exchanges of my life with the same woman who gave me the luggage analogy. She too is battling with these "church/Christian/what do these terms mean" queries. I met her two weekends ago when I went with my mother to lead a women's retreat on the topic of "grace." As I prepared for the retreat, reading, writing, thinking, reflecting on times in life when I have been the recipient of grace - and when I haven't - times when I have extended grace to others - and times I haven't, I was temporarily paralyzed by the horrible line of thought and question that Philip Yancey ponders in his book, What's So Amazing about Grace. He reminds us that the Christian faith is the only one that is founded and established on grace. We as Christians ought to be overflowing fountains of grace, but unfortunately we have developed the nasty reputation of being really critical and intolerant and unmoveable in many of our stances. "WWJD" is a bracelet we wear, but a question we rarely ask or answer with Jesus' example in the forefront of our minds when the questions have anything to do with grace and forgiveness and unconditional acceptance of others. Didn't He dine with prostitutes and party-goers and diseased and poor people? Didn't He say something about turning the other cheek when we get slapped? What about me forgiving seven times seventy times? Am I doing that? What's so amazing about grace for me right now is that I am not living it out or pouring it into the lives of those I know and love nearly as much as I ought.
I'm also thinking about writing about bathroom sinks. Another thoughtful and excellent friend shared that image with me yesterday, and my mind has run with it almost non-stop ever since. (I'm up at 4:30 AM writing this. That's how busy my mind is at the moment!) What's on my sink and why? Is it that I believe the cleansing products and the makeup and the deodorant and the perfume are simply conveniences? Or do I share the world-wide belief that those things will really make or break who I am, and make the people around me notice and therefore love me more?
Plus there is always my relationship to water. I think about water all the time: wasting it while we brush our teeth and water our lawns, boiling it for tea and rice, using it for doing laundry and the dishes and washing the car. Some days we pray for rain, but most days we pray that it won't rain. How are we all in need of water for washing our bodies, our hearts, and our souls? Why is water so crucially important but so blatantly taken for granted?
Plus there is the new Anne Lamott book (Plan B: More Thoughts on Faith) that has blown the doors off my neat definitions of faith and politics and peace and motherhood and whether or not I should force my children to go to church and aging and how I feel about my body and my hair. Plus all the complications of being a daughter come up. Plus she's no more in love with W. than I am. And there's a Jesuit priest thrown into the mix. And that's just the first three or four chapters.
So there you have it. I am pregnant with thousands of questions, but also paralyzed. I have so many questions and dreams and things I want to develop that I don't know where to begin. I realize that I need to take the questions one at a time and answer each one. Or maybe I don't answer any of them. Maybe I just pose more questions. Maybe I need to learn to live with the questions and wait for the answers to come in their own time. Maybe it's time for me to stop pretending that I have the answers. I'm a seeker. I'm still on the journey. I'm just finding my wings and taking flight on this journey.
I am saying all that to say this: I haven't abandoned the blog. In fact, the opposite is true. I cannot stop thinking about the blog. What I have to do, and what I expect to do more and more of in the coming weeks, is stop thinking and get back to writing. One day at a time. One topic at a time. Not trying to imagine what the responses will be. Maybe I need to decide once and for all that individual responses don't matter. What matters is that people think. That people ask their own sets of questions. That people are stirred up. My heart and mind are certainly being stirred and shaken in truly profound ways right now by all of the above and so much more, so why shouldn't I share that?
I hope somebody is sleeping right now. I'm not.
But I'd better go try and get some sleep...
Grace and peace, Gail
I am thinking about writing a personal commentary on the Ten Commandments. No, I'm not concerned about taking a knife and killing anyone at the moment, but is murder happening in my name? Am I neglecting to curb my tendency towards covetousness by calling it something more benign?
I am thinking about writing a more indepth analysis of our time in Spain. Why do I like life away from my home and life and country so much? What is it about anonymity and solitude and carlessness (as in, being without a car!) that I like so much?
I am thinking about writing an analogy a new friend has given me on how our lives, our hearts are like luggage - some of us pack heavy and some pack light. Some use ziploc bags to keep things separate and some just throw the bottles in with the shoes. I love my jewelry and when I travel, I keep it stored in a little box with a rubber band around it and carry it in my handbag. And I'm thinking that we all have our luggage, our baggage, and our secret compartments. What's in mine? How do I unpack it? Do I dare unpack in the company of others or only in the privacy of my personal space?
Plus there is a line of thought about the church, the big pink building I go to every Sunday morning and the church as people. Aren't we the church, folks? And if we are, why do we flock to tbe big buildings? Why do we hide inside and hope that the outsiders come to us? Why aren't we being salt and light in the world? Making a difference outside the four walls? Forget for a minute that we want people to join our club, to come to our building. What is it about my personal faith that would be appealing to someone outside of my faith? What does it mean when so many people who think of the Christian church in this country - and around the world - think of judgmental, mean-spirited, boring, un-fun people? Shouldn't I care about that image? Shouldn't I be doing something different, something that attracts others to want to be a part of this group that I have given my life over to? Isn't it time that I forgot about the group and talked about the Person that gives my life meaning? If no one new enters the building, isn't it possible that the church can still grow - if it's really and solely about relationship? Is it a reasonable goal to expect that unpacking my luggage can or should happen within the context of the church? If AA can do it, why can't we?
I'm in the middle of one of the most spirited and pointed email exchanges of my life with the same woman who gave me the luggage analogy. She too is battling with these "church/Christian/what do these terms mean" queries. I met her two weekends ago when I went with my mother to lead a women's retreat on the topic of "grace." As I prepared for the retreat, reading, writing, thinking, reflecting on times in life when I have been the recipient of grace - and when I haven't - times when I have extended grace to others - and times I haven't, I was temporarily paralyzed by the horrible line of thought and question that Philip Yancey ponders in his book, What's So Amazing about Grace. He reminds us that the Christian faith is the only one that is founded and established on grace. We as Christians ought to be overflowing fountains of grace, but unfortunately we have developed the nasty reputation of being really critical and intolerant and unmoveable in many of our stances. "WWJD" is a bracelet we wear, but a question we rarely ask or answer with Jesus' example in the forefront of our minds when the questions have anything to do with grace and forgiveness and unconditional acceptance of others. Didn't He dine with prostitutes and party-goers and diseased and poor people? Didn't He say something about turning the other cheek when we get slapped? What about me forgiving seven times seventy times? Am I doing that? What's so amazing about grace for me right now is that I am not living it out or pouring it into the lives of those I know and love nearly as much as I ought.
I'm also thinking about writing about bathroom sinks. Another thoughtful and excellent friend shared that image with me yesterday, and my mind has run with it almost non-stop ever since. (I'm up at 4:30 AM writing this. That's how busy my mind is at the moment!) What's on my sink and why? Is it that I believe the cleansing products and the makeup and the deodorant and the perfume are simply conveniences? Or do I share the world-wide belief that those things will really make or break who I am, and make the people around me notice and therefore love me more?
Plus there is always my relationship to water. I think about water all the time: wasting it while we brush our teeth and water our lawns, boiling it for tea and rice, using it for doing laundry and the dishes and washing the car. Some days we pray for rain, but most days we pray that it won't rain. How are we all in need of water for washing our bodies, our hearts, and our souls? Why is water so crucially important but so blatantly taken for granted?
Plus there is the new Anne Lamott book (Plan B: More Thoughts on Faith) that has blown the doors off my neat definitions of faith and politics and peace and motherhood and whether or not I should force my children to go to church and aging and how I feel about my body and my hair. Plus all the complications of being a daughter come up. Plus she's no more in love with W. than I am. And there's a Jesuit priest thrown into the mix. And that's just the first three or four chapters.
So there you have it. I am pregnant with thousands of questions, but also paralyzed. I have so many questions and dreams and things I want to develop that I don't know where to begin. I realize that I need to take the questions one at a time and answer each one. Or maybe I don't answer any of them. Maybe I just pose more questions. Maybe I need to learn to live with the questions and wait for the answers to come in their own time. Maybe it's time for me to stop pretending that I have the answers. I'm a seeker. I'm still on the journey. I'm just finding my wings and taking flight on this journey.
I am saying all that to say this: I haven't abandoned the blog. In fact, the opposite is true. I cannot stop thinking about the blog. What I have to do, and what I expect to do more and more of in the coming weeks, is stop thinking and get back to writing. One day at a time. One topic at a time. Not trying to imagine what the responses will be. Maybe I need to decide once and for all that individual responses don't matter. What matters is that people think. That people ask their own sets of questions. That people are stirred up. My heart and mind are certainly being stirred and shaken in truly profound ways right now by all of the above and so much more, so why shouldn't I share that?
I hope somebody is sleeping right now. I'm not.
But I'd better go try and get some sleep...
Grace and peace, Gail
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Home Sweet Home
Yes, I've been back a little over a week. No, I haven't been blgging. But I have an excuse: our internet service was down until early Monday morning when a fine Southern geek (his word, not mine) came, replaced our modem, wished us well, and went on his merry way. Did I mention that he removed his shoes as he entered the house so as not to track any dirt inside? Many of the repairmen do that here in Charlotte. And you northerners wonder why I love it down here so much?
What's new with me? Currently, I am the mother of only one child. Kristiana is away at camp this week. My brave, organized, and independent eleven-year-old daughter left for camp on Sunday afternoon while I was up in Pennsylvania leading a women's retreat with my mother. We spoke about grace. We all want to receive it by the bushelful, but most of us distribute it by the fistful. But that's a topic for another blog. While Kristiana has been away, Daniel and I have played tennis everyday, gone out to eat (he treated me to breakfast at a local bagel place yesterday morning, kind soul that he is), stayed up late watching sports together, and generally made the best of a lonelier household. In the past three days, Steve has taken him to the movies and to a local minor league baseball game. Tonight we are leaving him with a babysitter and going out to dinner at a restaurant called Zebra. Yum!
What about our trip? Let me summarize it this way: Daniel, the same boy who told me countless times that he didn't want to go to Spain, in the end, didn't want to come home. He spent the entirety of our last three days in Madrid moping and moaning about how much he was going to miss the Internet cafe we became regulars at, the candy store on the corner, the popular Spanish television gameshow called "Alla Tu," and the sweet young woman who served our breakfast at our favorite local coffee shop. Kristiana enjoyed all the museums we had visited, all the walking we had done, and, like her mother, had developed a special fondness for Folder, the little pen and notebook shop where she got a new pencil case and shoulder bag and where I stocked up on so many pens that the two women who worked there giggled every time I walked in. I told them that at least I was leaving a lot of money behind in Spain, helping to build their economy. They laughed and told me to come in as much as I wanted to; they would not complain as long as I kept on spending.
As our trip came to its inevitable conclusion, we went back to all the shops we had frequented most often and said our good-byes to the shop owners. Each was gracious and visibly touched by our gesture.I will never forget one particular gentleman I met at an old-fashioned book and stationery store on la calle Santa Engracia (Holy Grace). After three or four years of floundering around looking for a journal that could replace the one I had loved most, the Miquelrius cloth covered hardbound volume with numbered pages I had found in New York City in the year 2000, I found it at a papeleria just three blocks away from our apartment. I ordered a case of 24 of them! When the proprietor told me it would cost nearly $100 just to ship them, I decided to buy an extra suitcase and haul them home on my own. When he met Steve the day before we returned to Charlotte, he said that Steve hadn't come to Spain on vacation but as a delivery man to carry my newfound books. That kind and helpful gentlemen gave each of the children a set of markers as a parting gift. The beautiful young waitress at Orio, who had on occasion slipped the children chocolate coins and free orange juice during breakfast, hugged me and scolded me at the same time for not coming into the shop more often.
As I closed the door to that apartment for the last time last Tuesday, I wept. If home is where the heart is, then we were leaving home - and we were coming home. None of us wants to wait too long before repeating the month-long field trip. Will we return to Spain or try someplace entirely new? While we were gone, Steve took a trip of his own: down to Costa Rica - and he loved it. He can't wait to take us there sometime next year.
Six weeks ago, I wondered about the wisdom of taking my children across an ocean, moving us into a previously unseen apartment, wandering around the country of Spain and the city of Madrid for a month. I wondered what I would do and to whom I would turn if any one of us were seriously hurt or even killed. Daniel managed to bang his head pretty hard on the granite sidewalk of la Castellana one afternoon. I thought for sure that he had given himself a concussion. His eyes rolled around in his head and he complained of a severe headache for about an hour. Several Motrin tablets, desperate prayers, and glasses of cold juice later, he had recovered from that blow only to crush his left kneecap on a sharp marble corner in our building's lobby a few hours later. I don't think he has ever suffered from such severe pain in all his young life. I came seriously close to taking him to the hospital that evening, but he had other plans. We had made arrangements for him to spend that night with a friend, go into their pool the next day, and watch EuroSports on television all day. Kristiana, Kim, and I were heading to museums and palaces and shops the next day, and he wanted to have no part in any of our activities. He would rather endure the knee pain on Leticia's couch than continue his detox from ESPN as well as the knee pain in a stuffy Madrid hospital room. Who could blame him? Two or three days later, he was running and jumping and kicking the soccer ball as though nothing had happened. But in between feeding him painkillers and watching for signs of imminent coma, I wondered what the heck I was doing there.
In the end, though, I realized that being in Spain alone with the children was one of the best things I've ever done with and for them. They learned to traverse the subway system, how to order food in restaurants, what NOT to order in restaurants, how to open and close the door of both the building and the apartment on their own, how to cross busy city streets, and even made their way home alone from the aforementioned coffee shop by themselves. They are so much more independent now than they ever would have been had we stayed here in Charlotte all spring. I realized that there is a bond between the three of us that was strengthened by having to take buses, trains, planes, taxis, and private cars all over a country that we had never before explored together. We laughed at the ducks and turtles in the Retiro park together, cried together about how much we missed Steve, ate all kinds of foods together that we couldn't even find here in the States, and played "I Spy" together at an ancient synagogue in Toledo, Spain long after all the other tourists had left for lunch. Taking them to Spain was an adventure, a joy, a challenge, and an unforgettable opportunity to see the goodness, humor, protection, and provision of the Lord as never before in our lives. Plus we had lots and lots of fun.
But I'd better stop here. The babysitter is due to arrive in two minutes, and I'm not dressed yet. More later.
Hasta luego, Gail
What's new with me? Currently, I am the mother of only one child. Kristiana is away at camp this week. My brave, organized, and independent eleven-year-old daughter left for camp on Sunday afternoon while I was up in Pennsylvania leading a women's retreat with my mother. We spoke about grace. We all want to receive it by the bushelful, but most of us distribute it by the fistful. But that's a topic for another blog. While Kristiana has been away, Daniel and I have played tennis everyday, gone out to eat (he treated me to breakfast at a local bagel place yesterday morning, kind soul that he is), stayed up late watching sports together, and generally made the best of a lonelier household. In the past three days, Steve has taken him to the movies and to a local minor league baseball game. Tonight we are leaving him with a babysitter and going out to dinner at a restaurant called Zebra. Yum!
What about our trip? Let me summarize it this way: Daniel, the same boy who told me countless times that he didn't want to go to Spain, in the end, didn't want to come home. He spent the entirety of our last three days in Madrid moping and moaning about how much he was going to miss the Internet cafe we became regulars at, the candy store on the corner, the popular Spanish television gameshow called "Alla Tu," and the sweet young woman who served our breakfast at our favorite local coffee shop. Kristiana enjoyed all the museums we had visited, all the walking we had done, and, like her mother, had developed a special fondness for Folder, the little pen and notebook shop where she got a new pencil case and shoulder bag and where I stocked up on so many pens that the two women who worked there giggled every time I walked in. I told them that at least I was leaving a lot of money behind in Spain, helping to build their economy. They laughed and told me to come in as much as I wanted to; they would not complain as long as I kept on spending.
As our trip came to its inevitable conclusion, we went back to all the shops we had frequented most often and said our good-byes to the shop owners. Each was gracious and visibly touched by our gesture.I will never forget one particular gentleman I met at an old-fashioned book and stationery store on la calle Santa Engracia (Holy Grace). After three or four years of floundering around looking for a journal that could replace the one I had loved most, the Miquelrius cloth covered hardbound volume with numbered pages I had found in New York City in the year 2000, I found it at a papeleria just three blocks away from our apartment. I ordered a case of 24 of them! When the proprietor told me it would cost nearly $100 just to ship them, I decided to buy an extra suitcase and haul them home on my own. When he met Steve the day before we returned to Charlotte, he said that Steve hadn't come to Spain on vacation but as a delivery man to carry my newfound books. That kind and helpful gentlemen gave each of the children a set of markers as a parting gift. The beautiful young waitress at Orio, who had on occasion slipped the children chocolate coins and free orange juice during breakfast, hugged me and scolded me at the same time for not coming into the shop more often.
As I closed the door to that apartment for the last time last Tuesday, I wept. If home is where the heart is, then we were leaving home - and we were coming home. None of us wants to wait too long before repeating the month-long field trip. Will we return to Spain or try someplace entirely new? While we were gone, Steve took a trip of his own: down to Costa Rica - and he loved it. He can't wait to take us there sometime next year.
Six weeks ago, I wondered about the wisdom of taking my children across an ocean, moving us into a previously unseen apartment, wandering around the country of Spain and the city of Madrid for a month. I wondered what I would do and to whom I would turn if any one of us were seriously hurt or even killed. Daniel managed to bang his head pretty hard on the granite sidewalk of la Castellana one afternoon. I thought for sure that he had given himself a concussion. His eyes rolled around in his head and he complained of a severe headache for about an hour. Several Motrin tablets, desperate prayers, and glasses of cold juice later, he had recovered from that blow only to crush his left kneecap on a sharp marble corner in our building's lobby a few hours later. I don't think he has ever suffered from such severe pain in all his young life. I came seriously close to taking him to the hospital that evening, but he had other plans. We had made arrangements for him to spend that night with a friend, go into their pool the next day, and watch EuroSports on television all day. Kristiana, Kim, and I were heading to museums and palaces and shops the next day, and he wanted to have no part in any of our activities. He would rather endure the knee pain on Leticia's couch than continue his detox from ESPN as well as the knee pain in a stuffy Madrid hospital room. Who could blame him? Two or three days later, he was running and jumping and kicking the soccer ball as though nothing had happened. But in between feeding him painkillers and watching for signs of imminent coma, I wondered what the heck I was doing there.
In the end, though, I realized that being in Spain alone with the children was one of the best things I've ever done with and for them. They learned to traverse the subway system, how to order food in restaurants, what NOT to order in restaurants, how to open and close the door of both the building and the apartment on their own, how to cross busy city streets, and even made their way home alone from the aforementioned coffee shop by themselves. They are so much more independent now than they ever would have been had we stayed here in Charlotte all spring. I realized that there is a bond between the three of us that was strengthened by having to take buses, trains, planes, taxis, and private cars all over a country that we had never before explored together. We laughed at the ducks and turtles in the Retiro park together, cried together about how much we missed Steve, ate all kinds of foods together that we couldn't even find here in the States, and played "I Spy" together at an ancient synagogue in Toledo, Spain long after all the other tourists had left for lunch. Taking them to Spain was an adventure, a joy, a challenge, and an unforgettable opportunity to see the goodness, humor, protection, and provision of the Lord as never before in our lives. Plus we had lots and lots of fun.
But I'd better stop here. The babysitter is due to arrive in two minutes, and I'm not dressed yet. More later.
Hasta luego, Gail
Saturday, June 11, 2005
It´s Been a While...
but we´ve been away from our home away from home.
Steve joined us here in Madrid last Monday morning. We took our friend Kim to the airport after her long weekend visit here (thanks for being such an excellent houseguest and buddy, Kim! I miss you a lot.) and met Steve at the same time. It was great to see him and catch up after three weeks of single motherhood and adventures with the children.
On Wednesday we took a flight to Menorca, a small Spanish island off the coast of Spain in the blue Meditteranean. Fantastic. Bloody fantastic. I use the strong adjective "bloody" because we had to learn a few Englishisms on our journey. We were the only Americans we came across on the entire island. We were the only non-Brits in our hotel (The Lord Collingwood House)and ours were the only children in the hotel. There were guests there who have vacationed there (taken their holidays, to be more precise) for as many as 40 consecutive years. One couple, Peter and Pat, took us under their wings and proceeded to recommend restaurants, beaches, shops, and even which Renault car would run best for us. She is suffering from cancer (I must remember to pray for her) and he is as chipper and polite and attentive and loving as ever even after 46 years of marriage. They have gone there 12 years running, and another couple there was up to 24 years. While I liked it very much, I cannot imagine returning so many times. No one there could believe we were staying for only four days.
Apparently the "eat and run" method of vacationing is quite typically American. The man who runs the place said that at the end of the summer they get 8 to 10 bookings of Americans, and none stay long. Oh, well. There´s so much to see and so little time to see it all. In any case, we enjoyed our short stay quite a lot. No complaints from anyone in our group - well, except for the children who said that they hadn´t had enough ice cream.
And now the day of our departure is fast approaching: four days to go, then it´s time for us to go. I cannot believe that we have been here over four weeks. It has been a fantastic trip, far exceeding my expectations in so many ways, in practically every way. So many stories to tell. So much to write about. My heart overflows with gratitude and joy and wonder at all that we have seen, tasted, heard, experienced, and all the kindnesses that have been shown to us by so many people here and at home. Thanks to all of you who have written and called and prayed and even visited !!! We will be eternally grateful to all of you.
I am not sure if I´ll be online again before we leave next Tuesday, but I will try to get back here to my favorite Madrileño internet cafe once more - for old time´s sake, to bid farewell to the ladies who run the place. Next week will be crazy because I turn around and fly up to PA to do a women´s retreat with my mother over the weekend. And since Steve says that our internet service is down at the house, I will have to try to get that taken care of as soon as we land. To make this long story short, it may be a while before I´m back up and blogging. Please continue to bear with me. In the words our California´s unexpected governor, "I´ll be back." But I won´t have guns or grenades as he always seems to have on hand...
As I approach the end of a most remarkable journey - and the beginning of another (isn´t all of life a journey?) - this traveling correspondent is submitting her final column. Reporting live from Rodilla - Fuencarral, this is Gail Nadine Henderson-Belsito signing out. Farewell from Madrid.
Back to you in the studio...
Steve joined us here in Madrid last Monday morning. We took our friend Kim to the airport after her long weekend visit here (thanks for being such an excellent houseguest and buddy, Kim! I miss you a lot.) and met Steve at the same time. It was great to see him and catch up after three weeks of single motherhood and adventures with the children.
On Wednesday we took a flight to Menorca, a small Spanish island off the coast of Spain in the blue Meditteranean. Fantastic. Bloody fantastic. I use the strong adjective "bloody" because we had to learn a few Englishisms on our journey. We were the only Americans we came across on the entire island. We were the only non-Brits in our hotel (The Lord Collingwood House)and ours were the only children in the hotel. There were guests there who have vacationed there (taken their holidays, to be more precise) for as many as 40 consecutive years. One couple, Peter and Pat, took us under their wings and proceeded to recommend restaurants, beaches, shops, and even which Renault car would run best for us. She is suffering from cancer (I must remember to pray for her) and he is as chipper and polite and attentive and loving as ever even after 46 years of marriage. They have gone there 12 years running, and another couple there was up to 24 years. While I liked it very much, I cannot imagine returning so many times. No one there could believe we were staying for only four days.
Apparently the "eat and run" method of vacationing is quite typically American. The man who runs the place said that at the end of the summer they get 8 to 10 bookings of Americans, and none stay long. Oh, well. There´s so much to see and so little time to see it all. In any case, we enjoyed our short stay quite a lot. No complaints from anyone in our group - well, except for the children who said that they hadn´t had enough ice cream.
And now the day of our departure is fast approaching: four days to go, then it´s time for us to go. I cannot believe that we have been here over four weeks. It has been a fantastic trip, far exceeding my expectations in so many ways, in practically every way. So many stories to tell. So much to write about. My heart overflows with gratitude and joy and wonder at all that we have seen, tasted, heard, experienced, and all the kindnesses that have been shown to us by so many people here and at home. Thanks to all of you who have written and called and prayed and even visited !!! We will be eternally grateful to all of you.
I am not sure if I´ll be online again before we leave next Tuesday, but I will try to get back here to my favorite Madrileño internet cafe once more - for old time´s sake, to bid farewell to the ladies who run the place. Next week will be crazy because I turn around and fly up to PA to do a women´s retreat with my mother over the weekend. And since Steve says that our internet service is down at the house, I will have to try to get that taken care of as soon as we land. To make this long story short, it may be a while before I´m back up and blogging. Please continue to bear with me. In the words our California´s unexpected governor, "I´ll be back." But I won´t have guns or grenades as he always seems to have on hand...
As I approach the end of a most remarkable journey - and the beginning of another (isn´t all of life a journey?) - this traveling correspondent is submitting her final column. Reporting live from Rodilla - Fuencarral, this is Gail Nadine Henderson-Belsito signing out. Farewell from Madrid.
Back to you in the studio...
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
This is a test...
this is only a test. Here´s how it works. Go to Spain with the promise of internet access in your rented apartment. Oops, no access there. Find a place where you and the kids can sit next to each other and have access at the same time. Oops, that place goes down for a few days.
New idea: just stay connected to Me, says the Lord God on High.
Well, that´s a little high-minded, I know. But such has been our predicament. Finally the Rodilla computers came back up after days of being out of service. We injected ourselves with this Internet-crystal-cocaine thing. And now we are off to the park, to an early lunch, to meet a friend at the airport train station in two days, to go back to the airport on Monday and meet Steve! Then eight more days. And then we return to Charlotte.
It´s all going too fast. And it´s been amazing - most of the time. I´ll do a lot more writing upon my return. Well, after we restore DSL service to the house. Apparently, there´s a problem there as well. Things that make me say, "Hmmmm..."
Well, I´d better go before these few moments run out and I am left once again without connection to you all - my dear and loyal friends and fans.
Grace and peace to you all, Gail
New idea: just stay connected to Me, says the Lord God on High.
Well, that´s a little high-minded, I know. But such has been our predicament. Finally the Rodilla computers came back up after days of being out of service. We injected ourselves with this Internet-crystal-cocaine thing. And now we are off to the park, to an early lunch, to meet a friend at the airport train station in two days, to go back to the airport on Monday and meet Steve! Then eight more days. And then we return to Charlotte.
It´s all going too fast. And it´s been amazing - most of the time. I´ll do a lot more writing upon my return. Well, after we restore DSL service to the house. Apparently, there´s a problem there as well. Things that make me say, "Hmmmm..."
Well, I´d better go before these few moments run out and I am left once again without connection to you all - my dear and loyal friends and fans.
Grace and peace to you all, Gail
Thursday, May 26, 2005
There was a bombing in Madrid yesterday...
I don´t know how many of you heard anything about it on the news. Over 50 people injured, but fortunately no one was killed. ETA, the Basque group seeking independence from Spain, planted a car bomb near an office building in the northeast section of Madrid. They are kind and gentle terrorists who call ahead and give people time to evacuate the building. But the glass, the percussion of the explosion, and the ignorance of innocent passersby still caused many injuries. Only five people were taken to the hospital, so that´s a relief.
Interestingly enough, we didn´t find out about the bomb ourselves until we were watching the news at a friend´s house while eating Pizza Hut pizza last night. It was a brief news broadcast during halftime of a soccer game. We all oohed and aahed while savoring the ham, mushroom, and garlic-laden pie. Plus there was the ponche segoviana for dessert, a creamy cake soaked in rum. The news about the bomb was sad, but the food eased our pain a little.
If I sound flip, it´s only because I would hate for anyone to worry about our safety here in Madrid. We were no where near where ETA has planted bombs in the past few years. And even if we were, we are no farther from the protective custody of God here in Madrid than we would be in Charlotte.
I think back to the fall of 2001, just a couple of weeks after September 11th when I was taking my first solo trip to Italy. Friends and family pleaded with me not to go to Europe so soon after our nation´s more horrific and fierce attack. Steve and I talked it over and decided that I would go ahead with my plans. Off I went. On one of the best adventures of my life to date.
The verse that flowed through my mind at least a dozen times per day was a common one, an often quoted one: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou (My Lord, God, Savior, Provider, and Protector) art with me." I was not alone for a minute. I was not unprotected for a moment. Plus there was the collective chuckle of all the passengers waiting for that AlItalian flight that October evening. As all the Rome-bound travelers sat quietly and tensely at our gate at JFK Airport following what I imagine was the most intense search any of us had ever undergone, a group of 20 to 25 nuns filed into our waiting area and found their seats. I was certain that our flight had been prayed for several hundred times in the past few days and would continue to be rosaried and incensed for many hours yet to come. On the way home ten days later, I sat beside a woman who prayed, thumbed her rosary, organized and reorganized her saint cards for the entire flight. I think the only time she wasn´t fiddling with her religious paraphrenalia was when she was eating. I was "prayed up" and in good hands.
Anyway, I was safe then. I am safe now. Bombs will drop. Perhaps not here in Madrid again, but certainly in Iraq and in other places around the world. Muggings will take place. I will do more bonehead things like letting this morning´s teapot full of water boil out completely. Thank God that Kristiana found it before a fire started. But no matter what, no matter how deeply into the valley of the shadow of death I wander, I will not fear for I am not alone. Actually, as Ian Cron said so well just days before that Italian sojourn back in 2001, I am alone; but I am alone with The Alone. The Solitary One. The Only One who can walk through the valley with me and bring me safely to the light on the other side.
Change of topic: For anybody keeping score, we still don´t have Internet access at the apartment. However, we have become friends with the lady who gives out change for the computers in the second floor of Rodilla, the one on calle Fuencarral in the Bilbao area of Madrid. You can find the three of us here nearly daily.
Yes, we are well. Life is good. The kids are learning more Spanish, enjoying their rides on the Metro (Madrid´s subway system), and have even left me alone in a local coffee shop so they could ¨go home¨ on their own with the keys to our apartment building and apartment. They are getting comfortable with city life. I am thrilled.
It seems impossible, but we have been away from home for two weeks already. Time is flying. Just over two weeks to go.
Hasta pronto, Gail
Interestingly enough, we didn´t find out about the bomb ourselves until we were watching the news at a friend´s house while eating Pizza Hut pizza last night. It was a brief news broadcast during halftime of a soccer game. We all oohed and aahed while savoring the ham, mushroom, and garlic-laden pie. Plus there was the ponche segoviana for dessert, a creamy cake soaked in rum. The news about the bomb was sad, but the food eased our pain a little.
If I sound flip, it´s only because I would hate for anyone to worry about our safety here in Madrid. We were no where near where ETA has planted bombs in the past few years. And even if we were, we are no farther from the protective custody of God here in Madrid than we would be in Charlotte.
I think back to the fall of 2001, just a couple of weeks after September 11th when I was taking my first solo trip to Italy. Friends and family pleaded with me not to go to Europe so soon after our nation´s more horrific and fierce attack. Steve and I talked it over and decided that I would go ahead with my plans. Off I went. On one of the best adventures of my life to date.
The verse that flowed through my mind at least a dozen times per day was a common one, an often quoted one: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou (My Lord, God, Savior, Provider, and Protector) art with me." I was not alone for a minute. I was not unprotected for a moment. Plus there was the collective chuckle of all the passengers waiting for that AlItalian flight that October evening. As all the Rome-bound travelers sat quietly and tensely at our gate at JFK Airport following what I imagine was the most intense search any of us had ever undergone, a group of 20 to 25 nuns filed into our waiting area and found their seats. I was certain that our flight had been prayed for several hundred times in the past few days and would continue to be rosaried and incensed for many hours yet to come. On the way home ten days later, I sat beside a woman who prayed, thumbed her rosary, organized and reorganized her saint cards for the entire flight. I think the only time she wasn´t fiddling with her religious paraphrenalia was when she was eating. I was "prayed up" and in good hands.
Anyway, I was safe then. I am safe now. Bombs will drop. Perhaps not here in Madrid again, but certainly in Iraq and in other places around the world. Muggings will take place. I will do more bonehead things like letting this morning´s teapot full of water boil out completely. Thank God that Kristiana found it before a fire started. But no matter what, no matter how deeply into the valley of the shadow of death I wander, I will not fear for I am not alone. Actually, as Ian Cron said so well just days before that Italian sojourn back in 2001, I am alone; but I am alone with The Alone. The Solitary One. The Only One who can walk through the valley with me and bring me safely to the light on the other side.
Change of topic: For anybody keeping score, we still don´t have Internet access at the apartment. However, we have become friends with the lady who gives out change for the computers in the second floor of Rodilla, the one on calle Fuencarral in the Bilbao area of Madrid. You can find the three of us here nearly daily.
Yes, we are well. Life is good. The kids are learning more Spanish, enjoying their rides on the Metro (Madrid´s subway system), and have even left me alone in a local coffee shop so they could ¨go home¨ on their own with the keys to our apartment building and apartment. They are getting comfortable with city life. I am thrilled.
It seems impossible, but we have been away from home for two weeks already. Time is flying. Just over two weeks to go.
Hasta pronto, Gail
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I ask myself many questions these days...
Do I complain a lot when God gives me good things?
Do I forget to say thanks to my friends when they love and support me?
What would it take for me to trust that someone else, Someone Else knows better than I do what is best for me?
Do I accept that even the things I think are boring or inexplicable or not my "cup of sangria" are worth my attention and effort?
I love my kids. But they are doing far more complaining than I would have expected on this trip. Sure they are out of their element, but so am I. Sure, it´s not our house or our way of life, but so what? Try something new. Taste something new. Take a nap. Spain has lasted for many more centuries than the USA with its siesta habit. Take a load off. Rest. Relax. And stop questioning me all the time.
The good thing about our time here (well, one of many good things) is that I have lots of time to listen to them, to watch them. No big house to clean. No cars to drive. No classes to prepare for and teach. Just me and them. In a tiny apartment, cooking over a tiny stove, sleeping in one room. And with everything they say, every question they ask (the good ones and the sarcastic ones), with every discovery they make, I try to hear myself in their words. I try to see this amazing country through their young eyes. I try to imagine what this place would have looked like for me as a young child.
And I wonder how much better I could be in how I accept what my Heavenly Father gives to me. Do I give thanks? Do I expect more? Do I look over His shoulder for the next great thing around the corner, the next ice cream cone, the next trip to the amusement park?
If so, sorry, Lord. And thanks.
And thanks to all of you for reading this, for supporting me.
For encouraging me.
Thanks a lot.
Hasta pronto from Madrid, Gail
Do I forget to say thanks to my friends when they love and support me?
What would it take for me to trust that someone else, Someone Else knows better than I do what is best for me?
Do I accept that even the things I think are boring or inexplicable or not my "cup of sangria" are worth my attention and effort?
I love my kids. But they are doing far more complaining than I would have expected on this trip. Sure they are out of their element, but so am I. Sure, it´s not our house or our way of life, but so what? Try something new. Taste something new. Take a nap. Spain has lasted for many more centuries than the USA with its siesta habit. Take a load off. Rest. Relax. And stop questioning me all the time.
The good thing about our time here (well, one of many good things) is that I have lots of time to listen to them, to watch them. No big house to clean. No cars to drive. No classes to prepare for and teach. Just me and them. In a tiny apartment, cooking over a tiny stove, sleeping in one room. And with everything they say, every question they ask (the good ones and the sarcastic ones), with every discovery they make, I try to hear myself in their words. I try to see this amazing country through their young eyes. I try to imagine what this place would have looked like for me as a young child.
And I wonder how much better I could be in how I accept what my Heavenly Father gives to me. Do I give thanks? Do I expect more? Do I look over His shoulder for the next great thing around the corner, the next ice cream cone, the next trip to the amusement park?
If so, sorry, Lord. And thanks.
And thanks to all of you for reading this, for supporting me.
For encouraging me.
Thanks a lot.
Hasta pronto from Madrid, Gail
Sunday, May 22, 2005
What can I say?
It´s so strange to be sitting at an Internet cafe in Madrid with less than ten minutes to write. But I guess I have to keep my thoughts concise. I am well. The children are well. I was told there would be an Internet connection in our apartment. I was not told the truth. So we roam the streets like three drug addicts looking for a fix. I asked several people where I could find a computer. Several recoiled with disgust. Several more sent us to the wrong place; the internet-crack house had been shut down. Finally we found this place.
We are learning to enjoy life in Spain. Our apartment. Our friends. Making new friends. Eating new foods. Doing lots of word search puzzles. I´ll explain that in a future blog. Reading the 6th book in the Chronicles of Narnia series: The Magician´s Nephew. Doing a lot of walking and talking and kicking the soccer ball. Last night we went to the Real Madrid soccer game. Over 75,000 fans watching the equivalent of the Yankees v. the Mets. Bedlam. Noise. Screaming. Cigarette and marijuana smoke billowing. But we had a blast. At least the parts of it that I can remember...
Seriously, life is good. God is good. And next time I´m gonna buy more time on this computer. In the meantime, write to me. Think of me. Pray for us. I´ll be back as soon as I can rustle up a few more euro coins. I will be back for a fix within 48 hours.
Hasta pronto, Gail
We are learning to enjoy life in Spain. Our apartment. Our friends. Making new friends. Eating new foods. Doing lots of word search puzzles. I´ll explain that in a future blog. Reading the 6th book in the Chronicles of Narnia series: The Magician´s Nephew. Doing a lot of walking and talking and kicking the soccer ball. Last night we went to the Real Madrid soccer game. Over 75,000 fans watching the equivalent of the Yankees v. the Mets. Bedlam. Noise. Screaming. Cigarette and marijuana smoke billowing. But we had a blast. At least the parts of it that I can remember...
Seriously, life is good. God is good. And next time I´m gonna buy more time on this computer. In the meantime, write to me. Think of me. Pray for us. I´ll be back as soon as I can rustle up a few more euro coins. I will be back for a fix within 48 hours.
Hasta pronto, Gail
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
I´m still alive...
It´s been a far greater challenge than I ever expected to get access to the Internet. But here I am - with only about 15 minutes to write. We are well. I am well. Spain is fantastic.
However being a single mother in Spain is a lot more more challenging than I expected. There is the issue of food; the food in Spain is wonderful and flavorful - but it is not what we are used to eating. Finding meals that meet everyone´s needs and desires is time and energy-consuming. Travel by bus, subway, taxi, car, airplane - we are trying them all. And we are only in the first week. What was I thinking by bringing a boy who spends 3 or 4 hours playing outside everyday to a place where there are no kids his size within blocks? And where I haven´t had a moment alone - except for in the powder room - for nearly a week? But we will figure it all out. We shall overcome.
The night before we left Charlotte - which is less than a week ago, but feels like a month already - our hamster got out of its cage, crawled down the hallway, and rolled itself into a neat little ball just outside my bedroom door. As I walked past the ball (or what I thought was a ball) it began to run. I began to scream. And everybody came running. I told a friend of mine that story on the morning of our departure, and she made a fantastic observation. My kind of observation. She reminded me that I too escape from my cage every time somebody leaves the cover off. I seem to be ignorant of the danger, or rather I ignore the danger and venture out into the big bad world of giants, of steep staircases, and of complete lack of concern about where the next meal would come from. She described me perfectly.
And here I am: a mother hamster far from home with her two baby hamsters. Missing the comforts of our nest, wishing for the familiarity of the wheel we are experts at running around in, but also off on an adventure from which we don´t yet know how we will return. Keep an eye out for us. Don´t let anybody step on us if you see us running in your direction, and leave a few seeds out for us to find. Okay, so maybe I took the analogy too far, but you know what I mean.
Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. For safety. For good food that we all like. For a good internet connection in our apartment. For fun together. And for more great stories to share. That last one is a done deal, I´m sure.
Hasta luego, amigos.
However being a single mother in Spain is a lot more more challenging than I expected. There is the issue of food; the food in Spain is wonderful and flavorful - but it is not what we are used to eating. Finding meals that meet everyone´s needs and desires is time and energy-consuming. Travel by bus, subway, taxi, car, airplane - we are trying them all. And we are only in the first week. What was I thinking by bringing a boy who spends 3 or 4 hours playing outside everyday to a place where there are no kids his size within blocks? And where I haven´t had a moment alone - except for in the powder room - for nearly a week? But we will figure it all out. We shall overcome.
The night before we left Charlotte - which is less than a week ago, but feels like a month already - our hamster got out of its cage, crawled down the hallway, and rolled itself into a neat little ball just outside my bedroom door. As I walked past the ball (or what I thought was a ball) it began to run. I began to scream. And everybody came running. I told a friend of mine that story on the morning of our departure, and she made a fantastic observation. My kind of observation. She reminded me that I too escape from my cage every time somebody leaves the cover off. I seem to be ignorant of the danger, or rather I ignore the danger and venture out into the big bad world of giants, of steep staircases, and of complete lack of concern about where the next meal would come from. She described me perfectly.
And here I am: a mother hamster far from home with her two baby hamsters. Missing the comforts of our nest, wishing for the familiarity of the wheel we are experts at running around in, but also off on an adventure from which we don´t yet know how we will return. Keep an eye out for us. Don´t let anybody step on us if you see us running in your direction, and leave a few seeds out for us to find. Okay, so maybe I took the analogy too far, but you know what I mean.
Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. For safety. For good food that we all like. For a good internet connection in our apartment. For fun together. And for more great stories to share. That last one is a done deal, I´m sure.
Hasta luego, amigos.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
The day of our departure...
is tomorrow. Sorry to be so quiet this week, but it's been quite busy as you can well imagine. Packing. Unpacking. Repacking. We travel only with carry-on bags, so we've gotta keep things to a bare minimum. The children are finally in bed. I'm going to be up for a while still. Tomorrow we leave here around noon and fly to Miami. Then at 6 in the evening, we take off for Madrid. After months of planning, the day of our departure is upon us.
Fortunately, I will have access to a computer in the apartment where we will be staying, so I hope to post blogs on a regular basis. More regularly than I have in the past two or three weeks. At least, that's the plan. Actually, let me revise that. We will arrive on Friday. We will then leave Madrid for five days from Sunday until Thursday. After that, I should be able to regulate my posting a little more.
Please bear with me. Please feel free to write to me at gailnhb@yahoo.com. Please ask questions. I will try to answer them. Please give sage and timely advice on travel with children. Tell me of your favorite haunts in Madrid, little towns you loved in Spain, shops you returned to again and again. In return, I will describe our apartment, our neighborhood, our new food selections - all that kind of stuff. What an adventure this promises to be for all of us!
I am so looking forward to this trip. So much to see, taste, learn, and experience with the children. I am going to try not to teach them a whole lot; my goal is to let them learn a lot on their own. If they have questions, I will do my best to answer. Otherwise, I want to keep as quiet as possible and watch them figure a lot out on their own. This is going to be tough for me. I'm a talker. I'm a teacher. I want to tell all that I know - hence, the blog. So I'm using this trip as a test of my ability to take off the teaching uniform and just be a Mom. Be a loving and generous travel companion for my two youngest and most dear friends on this Iberian journey. Be a fellow explorer. Be a listener. I hope and pray that I will be able to bring those newly learning skills back home.
Well, I'm off to clean the toilets one last time, find our money belts, straighten up and clean off the homeschool table (our school year is officially over!), and do some serious journaling before bedtime. So much to write. So much to wonder about. So many questions to pose - then upon my return I will see how many of them have been answered. Perhaps I will return with only more questions - and no answers at all. If that happens, the trip will have been a success. Living the questions... That's the true story of my life.
On the road again, Gail
Fortunately, I will have access to a computer in the apartment where we will be staying, so I hope to post blogs on a regular basis. More regularly than I have in the past two or three weeks. At least, that's the plan. Actually, let me revise that. We will arrive on Friday. We will then leave Madrid for five days from Sunday until Thursday. After that, I should be able to regulate my posting a little more.
Please bear with me. Please feel free to write to me at gailnhb@yahoo.com. Please ask questions. I will try to answer them. Please give sage and timely advice on travel with children. Tell me of your favorite haunts in Madrid, little towns you loved in Spain, shops you returned to again and again. In return, I will describe our apartment, our neighborhood, our new food selections - all that kind of stuff. What an adventure this promises to be for all of us!
I am so looking forward to this trip. So much to see, taste, learn, and experience with the children. I am going to try not to teach them a whole lot; my goal is to let them learn a lot on their own. If they have questions, I will do my best to answer. Otherwise, I want to keep as quiet as possible and watch them figure a lot out on their own. This is going to be tough for me. I'm a talker. I'm a teacher. I want to tell all that I know - hence, the blog. So I'm using this trip as a test of my ability to take off the teaching uniform and just be a Mom. Be a loving and generous travel companion for my two youngest and most dear friends on this Iberian journey. Be a fellow explorer. Be a listener. I hope and pray that I will be able to bring those newly learning skills back home.
Well, I'm off to clean the toilets one last time, find our money belts, straighten up and clean off the homeschool table (our school year is officially over!), and do some serious journaling before bedtime. So much to write. So much to wonder about. So many questions to pose - then upon my return I will see how many of them have been answered. Perhaps I will return with only more questions - and no answers at all. If that happens, the trip will have been a success. Living the questions... That's the true story of my life.
On the road again, Gail
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
The Dreaded "D" word...
Today on Oprah, Brooke Shields bravely told the story of her severe post-partum depression following the birth of her daughter. As she lay on the operating table after her emergency c-section, as her doctors tried to put her uterus back into place, as she watched her husband bond with their newborn daughter, Brooke was overwhelmed with rage and fear, and went on to harbor feelings of self-loathing for months. Eventually she was able to find a doctor who helped her, advised her to take medication, and she has emerged from those dark months of dark moments willing to tell her tale and encourage other women to seek help, to not try to manage their anguish alone. Oprah and the studio audience applauded her courage to tell her story not only on television but also in a new book called Down Came the Rain. There she sat, the Hollywood beauty, the tall, thin one, the model, the actress, the one I have come to admire over the years – there she was on international television admitting to having visions of the death of her child, her own suicide, and eventually wishing her daughter lived somewhere else. Anywhere else, just not in her house. The audience was quiet. Oprah was quiet. I was quiet. And from the midst of the quietness, the truth rang out loud and clear.
We all have times of severe depression. We all have times when we can envision the deaths of those around us, even the people we love most dearly. We all have times when it seems like the best answer to the biggest questions in our lives is: escape. We all wonder about our career choices, parenting choices, our choices of spouses or significant life partners. We look back on childhood and wonder if we were adopted. We look at ourselves in the mirror and wonder who it is that is gazing out at us. What brought us to this position in life? What mistakes have we made that landed us in this place, with this job, in this house, with this spouse, and with the future that seems to loom ahead?
Okay, Gail, enough with the “royal we” thing. I will tell the truth. I too have suffered from depression. Way back when I was a sophomore in college, I broke up with my first “real boyfriend.” Well, he wasn’t so much a boyfriend as he was a college professor I had gotten involved with. Anyway, it was over. He moved on, and I moved into the gloomiest basement suite of Hotel Depression that was ever rented out. I spent countless hours weeping in my dorm; I’m glad I had a single room. I stayed awake many nights in a row with an aspirin bottle in one hand and a pillow in the other. I screamed curses at him at the top of my lungs into my pillow and kept the aspirin close at hand in case the need arose to take 20 or 25 at a moment’s notice. I was in a bad way for weeks. I lost weight. I missed classes. I spent several nights at the college infirmary talking to a nurse who assured me that if I allowed myself to cry freely eventually the tears would stop and I would be better. At first, I didn’t believe her. Then I gave in to the sorrow, and a few weeks later, I emerged from my period of mourning as a new woman, brought back from the very brink of death.
While I have never felt that type of despair again since then, I admit to many bouts of post-marital, post-motherhood, real life depression. There are mornings when I wake up that I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to cook or clean or do laundry or homeschool. The only thing I want to do on those days is run away. I want to pack a bag, grab a few books, my journal, some pens, and hit the road. No turning back, no turning back. There are times when I look at my husband and wonder why I married him. Or more accurately, I wonder why he married me. I look at my children and wonder what I was thinking when I begged Steve for children. I look in the mirror and wonder what on earth I’m here for. Perhaps I have kept Steve from marrying the woman he was really supposed to be with. Perhaps these children would do better with a different mother, a more loving, kind, more interested mother. I sit with my Bible on my desk some mornings and wonder exactly what would happen if I stopped pretending that I love the Lord and that I believe all that is written in the Bible. What if this really is a colossal waste of time and energy? What if I reneged on my life and walked away from all of it? I could find an apartment in a small city overseas, find a job, buy a few new skirts, a great pair of boots, a good hat, and get on with what my life was really meant to be.
On those days when the dark clouds roll in, I make a big mug of tea, eat a lot of chocolate, cry a lot, watch television, write in my journal, and wait for night to fall so I can try again another day. I write in my journal a lot about the life I would live if I ran away from this life. I write about the man I’d be shacking up with somewhere in Europe, the fantastic life we’d lead, the motorcycle we’d buy and zip around on, and the trips we’d take around the world. Because of course he’d be filthy rich, I’d be free of the stretch marks that make me look a lot more like a zebra than a human being around my midsection, I’d have bigger breasts, a smaller waistline, and he’d adore me relentlessly. When I finish describing my fantasy in all its sordid details, I close my journal, finish my tea, cry a little bit more, and then I get on with my life. This life. This wonderful life. I remember that my depression doesn’t change the fact that mine is a glorious life.
Fortunately, the bouts of depression don’t last long. Most of the people who know me have no idea how deeply I go during those tough times. But if Brooke Shields can tell the truth publicly, so can I. Life doesn’t always look like what we think it will look like. It doesn’t always work out as we expect and plan that it will. Perfect pregnancies end in emergency c-sections. Good marriages end in divorce. Nice Christian girls contemplate suicide. Hard working students cheat at school, get caught, and lose college scholarships. Kids get cancer. Friends disappoint. Churches fall apart. Yet we try desperately to keep our secret moments of despair to ourselves because we are convinced that no one else feels as we do. And since we are convinced that they don’t, we know that they will be really disappointed to find out that we do.
Let me rephrase that: there are many moments when I am convinced that no one else feels like I do. No one else looks at their children and wonders what would happen if I left them asleep in their beds and headed for the airport. No one else loves God as much as I do but still struggles with repetitive crises of doubt and fear of completely wasting my time with this “religion” thing. No one knows the trouble I’ve seen. Today Brooke reminded me that many people have known the trouble I’ve seen. Many have suffered the same sorrow. All of this is the stuff of life. Some write books about it. Some write blogs about it. We all need to come out of the closet about it. I just did. Who’s next?
We all have times of severe depression. We all have times when we can envision the deaths of those around us, even the people we love most dearly. We all have times when it seems like the best answer to the biggest questions in our lives is: escape. We all wonder about our career choices, parenting choices, our choices of spouses or significant life partners. We look back on childhood and wonder if we were adopted. We look at ourselves in the mirror and wonder who it is that is gazing out at us. What brought us to this position in life? What mistakes have we made that landed us in this place, with this job, in this house, with this spouse, and with the future that seems to loom ahead?
Okay, Gail, enough with the “royal we” thing. I will tell the truth. I too have suffered from depression. Way back when I was a sophomore in college, I broke up with my first “real boyfriend.” Well, he wasn’t so much a boyfriend as he was a college professor I had gotten involved with. Anyway, it was over. He moved on, and I moved into the gloomiest basement suite of Hotel Depression that was ever rented out. I spent countless hours weeping in my dorm; I’m glad I had a single room. I stayed awake many nights in a row with an aspirin bottle in one hand and a pillow in the other. I screamed curses at him at the top of my lungs into my pillow and kept the aspirin close at hand in case the need arose to take 20 or 25 at a moment’s notice. I was in a bad way for weeks. I lost weight. I missed classes. I spent several nights at the college infirmary talking to a nurse who assured me that if I allowed myself to cry freely eventually the tears would stop and I would be better. At first, I didn’t believe her. Then I gave in to the sorrow, and a few weeks later, I emerged from my period of mourning as a new woman, brought back from the very brink of death.
While I have never felt that type of despair again since then, I admit to many bouts of post-marital, post-motherhood, real life depression. There are mornings when I wake up that I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to cook or clean or do laundry or homeschool. The only thing I want to do on those days is run away. I want to pack a bag, grab a few books, my journal, some pens, and hit the road. No turning back, no turning back. There are times when I look at my husband and wonder why I married him. Or more accurately, I wonder why he married me. I look at my children and wonder what I was thinking when I begged Steve for children. I look in the mirror and wonder what on earth I’m here for. Perhaps I have kept Steve from marrying the woman he was really supposed to be with. Perhaps these children would do better with a different mother, a more loving, kind, more interested mother. I sit with my Bible on my desk some mornings and wonder exactly what would happen if I stopped pretending that I love the Lord and that I believe all that is written in the Bible. What if this really is a colossal waste of time and energy? What if I reneged on my life and walked away from all of it? I could find an apartment in a small city overseas, find a job, buy a few new skirts, a great pair of boots, a good hat, and get on with what my life was really meant to be.
On those days when the dark clouds roll in, I make a big mug of tea, eat a lot of chocolate, cry a lot, watch television, write in my journal, and wait for night to fall so I can try again another day. I write in my journal a lot about the life I would live if I ran away from this life. I write about the man I’d be shacking up with somewhere in Europe, the fantastic life we’d lead, the motorcycle we’d buy and zip around on, and the trips we’d take around the world. Because of course he’d be filthy rich, I’d be free of the stretch marks that make me look a lot more like a zebra than a human being around my midsection, I’d have bigger breasts, a smaller waistline, and he’d adore me relentlessly. When I finish describing my fantasy in all its sordid details, I close my journal, finish my tea, cry a little bit more, and then I get on with my life. This life. This wonderful life. I remember that my depression doesn’t change the fact that mine is a glorious life.
Fortunately, the bouts of depression don’t last long. Most of the people who know me have no idea how deeply I go during those tough times. But if Brooke Shields can tell the truth publicly, so can I. Life doesn’t always look like what we think it will look like. It doesn’t always work out as we expect and plan that it will. Perfect pregnancies end in emergency c-sections. Good marriages end in divorce. Nice Christian girls contemplate suicide. Hard working students cheat at school, get caught, and lose college scholarships. Kids get cancer. Friends disappoint. Churches fall apart. Yet we try desperately to keep our secret moments of despair to ourselves because we are convinced that no one else feels as we do. And since we are convinced that they don’t, we know that they will be really disappointed to find out that we do.
Let me rephrase that: there are many moments when I am convinced that no one else feels like I do. No one else looks at their children and wonders what would happen if I left them asleep in their beds and headed for the airport. No one else loves God as much as I do but still struggles with repetitive crises of doubt and fear of completely wasting my time with this “religion” thing. No one knows the trouble I’ve seen. Today Brooke reminded me that many people have known the trouble I’ve seen. Many have suffered the same sorrow. All of this is the stuff of life. Some write books about it. Some write blogs about it. We all need to come out of the closet about it. I just did. Who’s next?
Monday, May 02, 2005
It's a Wonder-Full Life
I cannot believe it has been over a week since my last blog. These days have flown by, and they show no signs of slowing down. If today really is the 2nd day of May, then we have only ten days before we are off to Madrid for 33 days. The kids are concerned that a month is too long to be away, that they will miss their friends, and that life will cease as they now know it. I reminded them that it’s been over a month since we returned from England, but it doesn’t feel like very long, does it? Silence. They nodded. I assured them that the month will absolutely fly by; in the end, it won’t feel like long enough.
Let’s see. What has happened to me in the past week? What has happened that is worthy of comment, worthy of the time of my faithful few readers? The grandfather of my dear friend Karen passed away. Yup, that’s right; her grandfather! How awesome for her and her two sisters to have moved fully into adulthood with Grandpa still alive. Even my children, who have already lost both grandfathers to death, were incredulous at the news. I certainly mourn her loss, but I envy her many years with him.
Three friends sent me reading materials in the past week. An article about self-publication (Thanks for the hint, Virginia), someone’s beautiful, but slightly exaggerated Christmas letter, and that kind person who patiently packed my order at Amazon.com sent me two books I will take along on our Iberian adventure. And the week before last, another friend sent a book with recommended sights for our next trip to England. It’s such an honor to be remembered by my friends, to be thought of on a trip to the post office, to be fondly recalled as stamps are posted on envelopes. To receive mail is a miracle unto itself, but to have mail sent with my face and my spirits in mind, that is sublime. As is the heartfelt email. I receive many forwarded stories, poems, jokes, and accounts of political foibles that are usually quickly forgotten. But several recently received tales of forays into Italy, Cuba, Norwalk, Sandy Hook, Wilton, Atlanta, and even my beloved Charlotte – those are the most cherished of all. Thanks again to all who write to me and encourage me to write.
Earlier on this gloriously sunny and warm day, the children and I walked to the home of a neighbor and pried open the door to the tiny little home of six tiny baby bluebirds erected in her backyard. Mama Bird was in the nest with all her babies tucked beneath her, protecting them from the intrusive and noisy Belsito investigative team. We peeked in, wished them well, and then closed the door behind us. On our way past the house, we decided to check on the gecko that lives on her front stoop. Green where his body intersected with the tree and black where its tail crossed the wrought iron handrail, that little crawly critter moved us to giggles as he withdrew haughtily into his leafy loft when we bent in close to stare at him. Just across the street from our house, another neighbor is harboring baby birds in the bush outside her kitchen window. We checked on those slightly older bird-babies on our way home. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Three women were trying to figure out the best way to aim wayward sprinkler heads so as not to water the street, and Rocky, the immovable Husky, basked in the sun, expending only enough energy to wag his tail and invite the kids over for a quick back scratch. What a way to begin our homeschooling morning!
After lunch and a trip to Sonic for strawberry limeade, we drove to Kristiana’s horseback riding class. Rolling hills, horses nibbling on grass in the field, cats curling around the feet of watching and waiting parents, and Kristiana trotting around the dirt track atop Gray Master – there was a quiet majesty in that meadow as I stood there smelling the heavy, horsey air, watching planes streak across the clear blue sky, and wondering what could possibly make that moment more wonder-full.
On the way into the house, I grabbed a bag of shrimp out of the garage freezer, sautéed them with butter, olive oil, and garlic salt, and served them with brown rice and spinach salad. The meal was cooked and on the table in less than half an hour. It was a rare culinary moment: no one complained. With the last grains of rice still on his lips, Daniel sprinted outside to join his friends for one last game of basketball before everyone headed in for the evening. Kristiana picked up her pen to continue writing her latest novella: a story of intrigue, defiance, and family ties in a slave cabin back in the 1800’s. I cleaned up the kitchen, took out some garbage, dusted the hardwood floors a little, and then I remembered.
I remembered that in the midst of the most mundane, the washing of dishes, the filling of empty water bottles, the sorting of laundry, the vacuuming of beige carpet, and the drinking of sweet white wine – in the midst of the ordinary, life is extraordinary. Nope, there aren’t always deep lessons to absorb and impart. There aren’t always life-altering conclusions to draw.
Sometimes just being alive is the lesson. To stand there in that field, to watch Kristiana ride her horse, to listen to Daniel’s basketball bouncing on the driveway, to smell the residual shrimpy smell even as I sit her at the computer, to feel the hard plastic of the keys beneath my fingertips, to thank my husband for bringing me this glass of wine, and even to join a friend in weeping over the loss of a loved one, to be aware of all five of my senses – every last bit of it is miraculous.
One of Kristiana’s basketball coaches had a great response every time I used to say, “It’s good to see you.” He’d always say, “It’s good to be seen.” You are absolutely right, John. To be seen, to be above ground, to be breathing and typing and cooking and cleaning and loving my children, even yelling at them for giving me a hard time this morning because hot chocolate and banana bread for a midmorning snack weren’t enough – they wanted the morning off from school – even then, angry and resentful that they weren’t more thankful, I knew that there is great value in the unimportant. Every simple, recurring, monotonous moment of life is to be celebrated. As one of my favorite cinematic characters wrote to her children in her final journal entry: “There is great beauty in the world. Go well, my children.”
That is my daily dream: to see the great beauty that there is in this world, to go well in it and through it, and to celebrate even the most commonplace occurrences. This last blog-less week gone by, I have done just that.
Let’s see. What has happened to me in the past week? What has happened that is worthy of comment, worthy of the time of my faithful few readers? The grandfather of my dear friend Karen passed away. Yup, that’s right; her grandfather! How awesome for her and her two sisters to have moved fully into adulthood with Grandpa still alive. Even my children, who have already lost both grandfathers to death, were incredulous at the news. I certainly mourn her loss, but I envy her many years with him.
Three friends sent me reading materials in the past week. An article about self-publication (Thanks for the hint, Virginia), someone’s beautiful, but slightly exaggerated Christmas letter, and that kind person who patiently packed my order at Amazon.com sent me two books I will take along on our Iberian adventure. And the week before last, another friend sent a book with recommended sights for our next trip to England. It’s such an honor to be remembered by my friends, to be thought of on a trip to the post office, to be fondly recalled as stamps are posted on envelopes. To receive mail is a miracle unto itself, but to have mail sent with my face and my spirits in mind, that is sublime. As is the heartfelt email. I receive many forwarded stories, poems, jokes, and accounts of political foibles that are usually quickly forgotten. But several recently received tales of forays into Italy, Cuba, Norwalk, Sandy Hook, Wilton, Atlanta, and even my beloved Charlotte – those are the most cherished of all. Thanks again to all who write to me and encourage me to write.
Earlier on this gloriously sunny and warm day, the children and I walked to the home of a neighbor and pried open the door to the tiny little home of six tiny baby bluebirds erected in her backyard. Mama Bird was in the nest with all her babies tucked beneath her, protecting them from the intrusive and noisy Belsito investigative team. We peeked in, wished them well, and then closed the door behind us. On our way past the house, we decided to check on the gecko that lives on her front stoop. Green where his body intersected with the tree and black where its tail crossed the wrought iron handrail, that little crawly critter moved us to giggles as he withdrew haughtily into his leafy loft when we bent in close to stare at him. Just across the street from our house, another neighbor is harboring baby birds in the bush outside her kitchen window. We checked on those slightly older bird-babies on our way home. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Three women were trying to figure out the best way to aim wayward sprinkler heads so as not to water the street, and Rocky, the immovable Husky, basked in the sun, expending only enough energy to wag his tail and invite the kids over for a quick back scratch. What a way to begin our homeschooling morning!
After lunch and a trip to Sonic for strawberry limeade, we drove to Kristiana’s horseback riding class. Rolling hills, horses nibbling on grass in the field, cats curling around the feet of watching and waiting parents, and Kristiana trotting around the dirt track atop Gray Master – there was a quiet majesty in that meadow as I stood there smelling the heavy, horsey air, watching planes streak across the clear blue sky, and wondering what could possibly make that moment more wonder-full.
On the way into the house, I grabbed a bag of shrimp out of the garage freezer, sautéed them with butter, olive oil, and garlic salt, and served them with brown rice and spinach salad. The meal was cooked and on the table in less than half an hour. It was a rare culinary moment: no one complained. With the last grains of rice still on his lips, Daniel sprinted outside to join his friends for one last game of basketball before everyone headed in for the evening. Kristiana picked up her pen to continue writing her latest novella: a story of intrigue, defiance, and family ties in a slave cabin back in the 1800’s. I cleaned up the kitchen, took out some garbage, dusted the hardwood floors a little, and then I remembered.
I remembered that in the midst of the most mundane, the washing of dishes, the filling of empty water bottles, the sorting of laundry, the vacuuming of beige carpet, and the drinking of sweet white wine – in the midst of the ordinary, life is extraordinary. Nope, there aren’t always deep lessons to absorb and impart. There aren’t always life-altering conclusions to draw.
Sometimes just being alive is the lesson. To stand there in that field, to watch Kristiana ride her horse, to listen to Daniel’s basketball bouncing on the driveway, to smell the residual shrimpy smell even as I sit her at the computer, to feel the hard plastic of the keys beneath my fingertips, to thank my husband for bringing me this glass of wine, and even to join a friend in weeping over the loss of a loved one, to be aware of all five of my senses – every last bit of it is miraculous.
One of Kristiana’s basketball coaches had a great response every time I used to say, “It’s good to see you.” He’d always say, “It’s good to be seen.” You are absolutely right, John. To be seen, to be above ground, to be breathing and typing and cooking and cleaning and loving my children, even yelling at them for giving me a hard time this morning because hot chocolate and banana bread for a midmorning snack weren’t enough – they wanted the morning off from school – even then, angry and resentful that they weren’t more thankful, I knew that there is great value in the unimportant. Every simple, recurring, monotonous moment of life is to be celebrated. As one of my favorite cinematic characters wrote to her children in her final journal entry: “There is great beauty in the world. Go well, my children.”
That is my daily dream: to see the great beauty that there is in this world, to go well in it and through it, and to celebrate even the most commonplace occurrences. This last blog-less week gone by, I have done just that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)