by jphilo | Nov 9, 2009 | Out and About
I’m home this morning after spending Wednesday until Saturday night on the road for several speaking engagements and book signings in northwest Iowa. I met so many new people in Alta and Storm Lake who were enthusiastic about A Different Dream for My Child.
The highlight of the trip was a book signing held at the Art Center in my hometown on Friday afternoon. The Le Mars Art Center is housed in the former Carnegie Library where a good portion of my childhood was spent. Being back in the place where I first read books by Lois Lenski, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Madeleine L’Engle, along with the Cherry Ames, Student Nurse and the entire Young American biographies series, was a real kick.
Old classmates, high school teachers, college professors, neighbors, friends, and relatives stopped to chat. Some stayed for the program when I read from Different Dream and talked about writing it. I mentioned one family featured in the book whose first child was born in Le Mars in the 1960s. The little girl, an anencephalic, was delivered by the town’s beloved “baby doctor.” I shared how his compassion and common sense had touched the family deeply and helped the mother recover from a deep depression.
Afterwards two women, both mothers of my former classmates, told me they had delivered anencephalic babies, too. One child lived a few hours, the other eleven days. Contemporaries of my mother, their eyes filled with tears fifty years after the fact, their voices went quiet, and our hearts connected in shared grief.
Both women were part of my childhood church congregation. Both of them supported and encouraged our family when Dad was sick. Both of them bought copies of Different Dream, and I’m praying it will minister to them as they ministered to me.
Fifty years late, perhaps. But a mother’s heart responds to God’s perfect timing, not clocks and calendars. And I’m praying Friday afternoon was part of God’s schedule, more than an appointment of my making.
Fifty years late, perhaps. And right on time.
by jphilo | Oct 26, 2009 | Out and About
On Thursday I spoke at our town’s local chapter of Delta Kappa Gamma, an organization for professional women. Several of the women were former teaching colleagues of mine an during the question and answer time, one of them asked me if I missed teaching.
I didn’t want to offend anyone by saying “No!” with too much enthusiasm and conviction. So I paused to think before speaking, a practice I should use more often, and something came to mind. “I miss my teaching friends and the relationships we forged together.”
Several women nodded in agreement and smiled. As they did, my thoughts raced back to San Diego and my stay in the guest house on the mountain top. One morning as I did laps around the exterior of the mansion and back and forth on the section of driveway which was not more than a 5% grade, a little girl popped out the back door and asked, “Why do you keep walking by here?”
I stopped to explain. “I like to walk, and there aren’t many places to walk on top of a mountain. So I have to go in circles.”
“Oh.” She thought for a minute. “I’ll come with you.” And she did, though her feet were bare, her wavy brown hair was a beehive bed head, and her pajamas were an old t-shirt of her grandpa’s that nearly dragged on the ground.
“How old are you?” I asked.
The words tumbled out and her soft brown eyes sparkled. “I’m just passed four. I’ve only been five for a few weeks. My birthday was September 22. That’s two twos.”
“Did you have a party?”
Abruptly, she stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Yes, I did. And I invited you, but you didn’t come.”
I defended myself. “But I didn’t know you then.”
She shook her head. “I invited you. I know I did.”
No matter how many different ways I phrased it, she wouldn’t buy it. Finally, I had to promise to come next year if she invited me, even though it would take a drive in the car and two plane rides to get from my house to hers.
And I realized, as I spoke at Delta Kappa Gamma on Thursday night, that is what I miss about teaching: life at kid’s level where for a brief moment, I could make a difference and become different by bending down and seeing things with the eyes of a child.
“There’s one other thing I miss,” I told them. “Life at kid level.”
They knew exactly what I meant.
by jphilo | Oct 19, 2009 | Out and About
In an effort to take advantage of the San Diego airport’s excellent Wi-Fi and upload this post before my plane leaves, I’ll be brief.
Yesterday morning my kind hosts, Bob and Gloria, (both raised on the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin so we had lots of midwestern stuff to discuss every day) took me to church at Shadow Mountain Community Church.
“Shall we take the van or the white car?” Gloria asked as we walked to the garage.
“Let’s take the car.” Bob pressed the garage door button.
The door opened and revealed the white car, a gleaming Rolls Royce (Don’t ask me what year. I was so astonished I forgot to ask.) Bob climbed into the drivers’ seat on the right side, Gloria climbed in on the left and I sat in the back.
Our ride down the mountain was the smoothest of my lifetime. Cars slowed down as we drove down the road, and the covetousness in the drivers’ eyes was easy to read. Bob parked in the church lot and walked off nonchalantly. But I lingered behind and took a picture. “No way anyone will believe this if I don’t,” I thought.
So here’s the proof, at the end of my weekend living the high life in San Diego. Tonight will be a shock, between the weather and my white Toyota and the mice who frequent it. Oh, well. I enjoyed it while it lasted!
by jphilo | Oct 17, 2009 | Out and About
Paradise is back again – the books arrived, the water’s on, and the scorpion’s been replaced with a hummingbird on the bouganvilla vine not far from my guest cottage. But a brief talk with my husband this morning reminded me of the paradise I left behind in Iowa.
My son and his fiance came down Thursday night to spend a long weekend. Hiram told of their plans to hike and visit old friends, and longing washed over me. Doubt rose, and my brain swirled with questions: What am I doing in California when I could be with my kids? Why did the timing work out like this? And what business do I have speaking to special needs moms whose children may never be made whole as Allen is?
I was feeling very inadequate when I checked my email and found a note from a mother who shared her story in Different Dream. The entire email was moving, but these words spoke to my dark and doubting heart.
“Thank you for sharing your gift and calling in completing this book. When I thought of you writing this book, I thought of the sacrifice you made in doing it, entering the dark places in the hearts of the people you were writing about over and over again. I pray that now that it is done, your heart will be light, knowing all the people it will minister too.”
Her words were exactly what I needed, and her prayers were effective. My heart felt light again, not because I feel adequate, but because she reminded me that God is more than adequate. He was at work, meeting my needs through her, and would work through me to meet the needs of the moms I would soon encounter.
Confidence in Someone who has resources beyond those I possess is, I am learning, paradise found.
by jphilo | Oct 16, 2009 | Out and About
Greetings from paradise, or at least the nearest thing to paradise an Iowa girl can enjoy when the October she left behind is colder, wetter and windier than any in recent memory. At this writing, this Iowa girl is sitting on the front patio of an absolutely stunning mountaintop home, looking past palm trees to the mountains on the far side of a the sunny valley.
I know, I know. All this gushing is making you want to strangle me. So let me assure you that all is not perfect in paradise. The two cases of books the publisher shipped last week so they’d be here in plenty of time for tomorrow’s book signing have yet to arrive. I’m not biting my nails over it, but please send up your prayers that they will arrive in time. About 60 parents of special needs kids will attend tomorrow’s tea, and it would be lovely to have the book available to them.
Also, when I woke in the lovely guest cottage this morning, the one I’m not going to gush about since I’m a really sensitive person and know an accurate description would renew your henchman’s mentality, the water didn’t work. So Gloria, my hostess, drove me to her daughter’s house at the bottom of the mountain, where I showered and got ready for the day.
All was well in this bathroom, which I would describe as my dream bathroom except that I don’t want you to haul out the rope again, until the scorpion appeared. Having watched plenty of cowboy movies as a kid, I knew better than to tangle with scorpions, and moved to the other sink.
So you see, paradise is nice, but not perfect. In fact the lack of perfection is making me appreciate Iowa – where I have books on hand for when the orders start pouring in, running water, and mice instead of scorpions. In fact, if you would leave me here long enough – say until April when Iowa warms up again – I’ll be closing my eyes clicking my heels together like Dorothy, and murmuring, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Unless, of course, I trade my ruby slippers for sandals and my gingham dress for a swimming suit and become a beach bum.
Just kidding. Just kidding! And would you put away the rope? You’re making me nervous!
by jphilo | Oct 15, 2009 | Out and About
Boy, was I glad to find this internet hotspot at Denver International Airport. Between flights, I had enough time to eat a late breakfast and catch up on email, Facebook and my blogs. Feeling quite satisfied with myself, I headed for Gate B32 a few minutes before we were to board.
You probably know what’s coming. Yep, the flight was delayed for 45 minutes and moved to Gate B45. I’m not sure if that was symbolic or coincidence, not that it really mattered. What mattered was that I had time to kill, today’s blog entry to write and post, and access to the internet so I could make it happen.
So here I am, back at the internet hotspot. My early lunch was tasty, though the woman picking me up in San Diego might not appreciate the after effects of my Greek salad liberally sprinkled with red onions.
Before and after I touch the keyboard, I use antibacterial gel with abandon, not to mention after the little boy throwing up in the women’s bathroom in the Omaha airport. But I’m not the only hand gel fanatic. People all around me are warding off H1N1 with exceptional attention to hygiene. All this cleanliness is drying out my hands, but my lotion is checked through to San Diego so I’m suffering in silence.
Despite my dry hands, I’m having a great travel day. Now if the mudslides in California don’t migrate south, I’ll consider myself mightily blessed.
