by jphilo | May 26, 2008 | Current Events
On Sunday, the swiftness of death and the uncertainty of life touched me twice. Mom called after lunch with the news of her brother’s death. His son had called Saturday and said Ralph was failing. “Within a week,” he said. We thought we had a few days.
But Ralph didn’t mess around. He died like he lived – fast and full-steam ahead. The swiftness of his passing surprised but didn’t shock us. After all, he was in his late eighties and had lived a good life. Once we received funeral details, we crowded a trip to Minnesota into the upcoming week’s plans and moved on.
In the evening, my husband and I helped at a graduation party for our friends’ daughter. During the festivities, word came that a tornado had destroyed a high school in Parkersburg, where the uncle and aunt of the graduate teach. Next we heard seven people had died in the storm. Then word spread that some of the deaths occurred at graduation parties. No one said the words, but we read them in one another’s eyes. It could have been here. It could have been us.
This morning I walked down our road. The grass glittered, washed clean by gentle rain in the night. The birds sang. The trees swayed gently in the breeze. The first iris bloomed in the ditch. The lilac branches drooped under the weight of blossoms at the height of beauty. Tomorrow, they’ll begin to fade. If the wind comes up, they’ll be gone.
I did the only thing I could in the face of the fading beauty of this life and the swiftness of death to come. Today, I smelled the lilacs.
by jphilo | Apr 15, 2008 | Current Events
Two weeks ago, on April 1, a carpenter friend called to tell me he was sending me an end table made of salvaged doors. Yesterday, the table arrived I can no longer accuse the carpenter, Scott Newport, of perpetrating a bad April Fool’s Day joke.
Scott’s one of the people I’ve met on the way to writing my book for parents of critically and chronically ill children. We met through Shelly Beach, author of Precious Lord, Take My Hand, a devotional book for caregivers. I met her at an Iowa writing conference she conducts in Iowa each year. Since she heard about my book idea, she’s been my biggest cheerleader in the publishing world. Scott met her at a conference she conducts in Michigan. When Shelly heard about their son Evan, she encouraged me to contact Scott. Since he heard about my book, he’s been my second biggest cheerleader in the publishing world.
This summer, I’m attending a conference near where Shelly lives and not far from where Scott lives. When Shelly heard I was coming she insisted on hosting me. When Scott heard I was coming, he suggested I meet his family. I suggested I interview him and his wife for my book. I can hardly believe this is all happening.
Two and a half years ago, my book was a germ of an idea. Next year it will be a reality. Already, I’ve made two great new friends and been given an end table. If that’s any indication of what comes from obeying God’s command to share the hard bits of life and the hope in Christ with strangers, I’m in for the count. I may need to invest in a bigger address book to keep track of my new friends. Maybe I should talk to Hiram about adding some rooms to the house for all the new furniture.
But for now, all I can say is thank you, Scott, and thank you, Shelly, for cheering me on. Your kindness has blessed my life.
by jphilo | Mar 25, 2008 | Current Events
Our son, the monk, called on the Saturday before Easter. (That’s not him in the picture, but one of the other monks at the Hermitage.) I asked Allen when they would celebrate Easter, or as the Orthodox call it, Pascha. April twenty-seventh, he told me. And then there was a pause. “I wish you could be here and see how we do it. I tell you, Mom, you Protestants are missing out, not paying attention to Lent and Holy Week.”
He’s probably right. We descendants of northern European Protestants approach Easter in the buttoned up traditions of our ancestors. No need to get carried away, don’t ya know? Somebody might be watchin’ you go a little crazy about God bein’ raised from the dead, and then where would ya be?
On the other hand, the northern European buttoned up blood was pretty thin by the time it got to our son. He’s always been, to put it mildly, a flamboyant dresser. In fourth grade, he had me make him a tunic and robe for Halloween. He was King David, a perennial costume favorite for ten-year-old, Christian white boys in Iowa. When he left for the monastery his assurance to his grandmother was, “I’ll wear a robe every day, Grandma. You know how much I like to dress up.” So I’m not surprised that our son loves the pageantry and processions, the robes and the rhinestones that are part of the faith tradition he has chosen.
Still, I’ve been thinking about what he said. We Protestants don’t pay much attention to Lent and Holy Week. Perhaps that’s why our holiday is more about the Easter bunny than the celebration of the empty tomb. I’ll be mulling that over a while. And if I think it’s true, I may volunteer to spearhead Lenten and Holy Week observances at our church next year.
If you go to my church and you’re reading this, don’t start hyperventilating yet. I’ll try not to get too crazy, don’t ya know? Though come to think of it, the King David costume is in a box in the attic somewhere. Let me know if you’re interested.
by jphilo | Mar 4, 2008 | Current Events
For a little while Sunday afternoon I was almost giddy. The temperature rose to 60 degrees. The snow melted before my eyes. In fact it melted so fast the gravel road at the end of the lane started to wash out. The edge of the drainage ditch east of our property turned into a waterfall.
But by late afternoon clouds moved in and it began to rain. By evening, the temperature dropped below freezing, the rain turned to sleet and eventually to snow.. The temperature drop created a natural freeze frame in the drainage ditch waterfall. In other places, water which had melted so fast it flowed by in sheets, flash froze. Every low spot along our road, including the end of our lane, is a skating rink. If I was Hans Brinker, the world would be my oyster.
But I’m not a skater. I’m a winter-weary Iowan bound by a silly promise to not complain. So I won’t. I’ll give you a warning instead. If you send mail, don’t count on me getting it until the weather gets above freezing again, which isn’t supposed to happen this week. Our mail box, surrounded by skating ponds, is inaccessible.
On the other hand, if you know anything about ice fishing send me an email or phone. I’m thinking of building a fishing shack over the washed out section of road. Sure beats complaining.
by jphilo | Feb 25, 2008 | Current Events
It doesn’t take long for some authors, when their books are accepted for publication, to develop artistic temperaments. For me, it only took five days.
It started an hour ago. I was settling in to work on my magnum opus, or at least to reply to some weekend emails, when an incessant beeping began outside. You know the sound. The heavy equipment warning beep, which was a little odd since our gravel road isn’t a hotbed of heavy equipment traffic.
At first I kept writing, but after fifteen minutes I could no longer ignore the noise shattering the quiet so necessary for us artist types. I looked outside. All I saw was the dripping rain which has turned our gravel road into a treacherous slippery mess. The beeping continued, so I got up and looked out our big corner window. A full gravel truck was backing along the road in front of our house, followed by a white city pick up truck. Just east of the gravel truck, past our neighbor’s driveway was a semi stuck in the mud, blocking the road.
I grabbed my camera and documented the high-tech maneuvers used to get traffic moving again. First, the gravel truck dumped a bit of its load in front of the semi. Then two city workers hopped out of the pick up and rustled around in the truck bed. Eventually they hauled out two shovels. Now this was the tricky, high-tech part. The city workers handed the shovels to the men who had been in the semi. Those men shoveled dirt under the semi’s tires and in two minutes, they were able to get the thing moving again.
The entire incident ended with a little parade as the gravel truck drove past our house, followed by the semi, followed by the white pick up. Very festive, though a marching band would have added a nice touch. But by then, the rain had turned to snow, and we all know that below freezing temperatures are hard on musical instruments.
Not that I’m complaining about the cold or the six to eight inches of snow predicted for tonight. I don’t complain about the weather, even though it did cause the road conditions which caused the ruckus which disturbed the quiet I need to write my book.
But since I can’t control the weather and refuse to complain about it, I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll get rid of all distractions – shut the curtains, put in my ear plugs – you name it, I’ll do it.
After all, people are waiting for my magnum opus. I refuse to disappoint them.
by jphilo | Feb 12, 2008 | Current Events
Let me be perfectly clear about today’s picture, which is not a picture of last night’s snowfall. It is a picture of my asparagus patch. If you can’t locate the patch, look at the spruce tree on the left. Move your eyes to the low-hanging branch to the right of that tree. Are you there? Good. Now walk past the branch about three feet and dig through the snow (which I am not going to mention because I promised not to complain about winter any more) until you hit frozen ground. That’s my asparagus patch.
I’m in the horns of an asparagus dilemma today. You see, I write the Food Bites column for Facets an area women’s magazine. This year, each column features ingredients produced locally. Because of printer deadlines, I am now working on the April recipe, which includes asparagus. And that’s the dilemma. I can not cook and photograph fresh, local asparagus in February. Though I am a basically honest person, to meet the deadline I am forced to perpetrate a hoax upon the readers of the magazine. I have to use asparagus that comes from distant lands that don’t have long Iowa winters like the ones I don’t complain about.
But wait, there’s more. The truth of the matter is that I hate asparagus. Hate really isn’t a strong enough word but it’s impolite, even on my own blog, to say that the smell of the stuff is enough to make me hurl. So I won’t mention that, just like I’m not mentioning the fact that we have too much snow and winter has gone on far too long, in my opinion. Anyway, hating asparagus makes it hard to rave about its delicious flavor. In fact, it makes me lie.
So there you have it. What seems like a perfectly innocent recipe column has turned me into a culinary hoaxer and a liar. In one fell swoop, I’ve gone from green vegetables to yellow journalism.
I’ve fallen pretty low, and in an attempt to regain a shred of dignity I’ve decided to make this solemn vow. Though I may occasionally lie about vegetables, I will not complain about winter. No matter how cold it gets, no matter how much more snow falls, no matter how long it takes for spring to come, this blog will never become a forum for my personal anti-winter rants.
I promise.
