Sunshine!

Photo credit: Rob Thomas

The temperature outside is 48 degrees, which, after living in Rexburg for so long, seems incredible for early March. Beyond that, the sun is out, and there's not a vicious, spiteful wind to make me rue the misleading sunshine.

To take advantage of this fantastic weather, I went outside in capris and a t-shirt and lay spread-eagle on the concrete walk that runs along the side of my in-laws' house. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the yellow-green of my eyelids. You may question that, and say that it ought to be orange, at least.

But see, I had a flowerbed next to me from which the snow has melted, and so I could smell dirt. Dirt and sunshine with a bit of a chill speaks spring to me, and spring is that soft, yellow-green of my childhood on the Virginia/Tennessee border. The trees will all still be brown and spiky, and the brush will poke up beneath them, some of it curled from the weight of snow. But beneath that, everything is turning green, blending with the tans to make that peculiar yellow-green that I see behind my eyelids when I turn my face toward the sun and smell the dirt.

I stole this picture from a website pulled up by Google images. It looks just like several chimneys I saw growing up. And it looks like spring. Right down to the daffodils.

Funny Farm Memories of Cold and Warmth

As I shivered today and tucked my toes underneath me on the couch, I suddenly remembered a winter day years ago at the Funny Farm (my family's farm on the border of Virginia and Tennessee). The propane tank which normally heated our house had run out, I think, and so we were left with just a wood stove on one end of the house. It was warm enough to heat the family room, my parents' bedroom, and one bathroom. Everywhere else was very, very cold.

I must have been in my early teens, because my older brother was at school but James, Nate and I were still homeschooled. Because it was too cold in by the computer (long before we had a laptop) or the schooltable, Mom called a snow-day. We all grabbed novels and climbed into Mom and Dad's bed, pulling extra blankets in with us. Curled up at different angles (I think James was lying across the foot of the bed, but the memory's fuzzy), we read all day. Dad brought food home--our stove was propane-powered as well, and thus out of commission--and we ate it on the unfinished wood floor in the family room.

It struck me today how miserable that day could have been. Had my mom not been willing to just laugh at one more mishap (it was called the Funny Farm for a reason--anything that could go wrong generally did), we would all have grumbled about the cold and felt put-upon. Instead, we got to spend some close time together doing something we all loved, and I now have a memory of cold that fills me with warmth.

That memory is a good reminder today about how much attitude counts. Was that day a trial or a blessing? Rarely do I experience something that feels like both at the same time, but thanks to my mom's courage and smiles, that day was both.

Late-Winter Resolution

I have finally decided what I want my New Year's Resolution to be. Unfortunately, it's no longer January, so I've missed a couple months, but I figure it's like Christmas cards: better late than never. (Okay, so I have no plans to send out Christmas cards, but it's a nice thought.)

Actually, it's less of a resolution than a theme for the year, but I'm resolving to put it into effect and make it part of my life.

I, Shannon, hereby commit to living life as an adventure. I want to wake up in the morning excited for the day. I'm going to start a journal where I write something every day that was an adventure. It might be drawing a smiley face in the snow. It might be fitting back into a pre-pregnancy outfit. (I found another pair of my old pants that I can fit into, hooray!) But for quite awhile now I've been ignoring all the adventures, and that makes me less eager to wake up in the morning or think about the future.

No more. From now on, this year is about the adventures.

Singing to My Daughter

I've sung a lot of lullabyes. I used to sing to the Richard twins when they'd go down for their nap, and then to all the Richard kids at night. When I went on vacation with them, I'd sing to the whole family, in the car, or at night. I sang to Zoe in a tent during thunderstorms at girl's camp in Tennessee (Zoe has Down Syndrome and is a great camper--unless there's thunderstorms), and to a cabin full of 12-13 yr old girls at girl's camp in New Hampshire. I sang to my girls when I was a youth camp leader in Tennessee and Pennsylvania. And now I sing to my first daughter.

I varied the selection, singing different songs for 12-year-old Delaney than for 5-year-olds Gage and Wyatt, but I always stuck to religious songs when it came to bed-time songs. During the day I'd sing folk songs, or pop songs, or put on some dance music; but at night I sang the most comforting songs I could think of, which were always those that spoke about Christ and hope for eternal things.

I realized the other night, as I was on the third verse of "I Am a Child of God" for the fourth or fifth time that day, that I have sung that song more than any other. It's not because it's my favorite--I've actually gotten quite sick of it at times. But when the twins were little, it was the song I always sang before their naps. Zoe and Camden (siblings, both have Down Syndrome) always requested the same song. And Cimorene calms down faster with that song than with any other.

Having sung it so much, I tend to not notice the words I'm actually saying, but lately I've been paying more attention.

I am a child of God, and He has sent me here

Has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear.

I am a child of God, and so my needs are great.

Help me to understand His words before it grows too late.

I am a child of God; rich blessings are in store.

If I but learn to do his will, I'll live with Him once more.

(And the generally unknown 4th verse from the primary songbook)

I am a child of God; His promises are sure

Celestial glory shall be mine, if I can but endure.

Some of my earliest memories with this song include confusion. "Parents deer?" I pictured my parents with antlers and hoofs. "And so my knees are great?" Well, they were generally scraped, but they weren't bad, I guess.

I learned what the words meant pretty quickly, but I never thought much about just how comforting they were. How many people in this world know that they're a child of God, and that their needs are important just because He loves them? How many would be happier if they knew and really understood that? Do I even really understand? How many times do I forget that doing His will is the important thing? And I won't tell you how often I need reminders that His promises are sure. God will come through. Everything he's promised--peace, forgiveness, eternal life, that my family can be together forever, that we'll live in our bodies again, and so many personal promises--these things are sure. I have to do my part, of course, but He will not fail in His.

What more do I need to be happy and hopeful in this life? No wonder so many children, whose hearts are pure, love this song. It speaks of hope, and love, and our divine nature and eternal destiny. I'm grateful for the chance to sing it ten times a day to my daughter. I only hope I can teach her someday what it means.

Bubble-wrap Reading

I hereby confess: I like reading romance novels.

Before you freak out, let me clarify. I like reading Regency period romance novels--and only some of those. I stick to Regency for two reasons. First, they're generally clean. I've had to put down a couple, but the code of conduct expected of young ladies of society at the time lends itself to a safer read. Secondly, they're funny. The emphasis is usually on wit and an appreciation for the ridiculous.

These novels are what my father-in-law once described as "bubble-wrap literature" (he put Louis L'Amour under the same blanket). No one knows why popping bubble-wrap is so satisfying, but it draws us nonetheless. The same goes for reading these books. We know how it's going to end, usually from the first chapter on. The characters aren't people we're going to befriend and think about for weeks afterward. In fact, if we feel we know them at all, it's only because we've seen the same stock characters in other novels of the same genre. Chances are, reading one of these books will not change your life, and you probably won't have much desire to re-read it or recommend it to a friend (some of Georgette Heyer's books may be an exception).

Who cares? This is sheer escapism.

When I say that my father-in-law calls it bubble-wrap, don't think he's being derogatory. He has 3 shelves full of Regency books himself (his wife's are in the other room). And he's one of the most learned men I know (I count 14 bookcases in the house, most of them floor-to-ceiling, and he's read almost everything on them, from Dickens to Hugh B. Brown to Robin McKinley).

So why do I get embarrassed to admit that I read them?

I've recently created an account on goodreads.com. I want to keep track of all the books I read so I can look back at the end of the year and have a great sense of numerical achievement. Despite this, I've left off probably eight or nine books in the last two months. Why? Because they're fluff. Or, to stick with my metaphor, bubbles.

I'm too embarrassed to post that I read a Regency romance novel, even if it was handed to me by my PhD father-in-law? Yes. But not anymore.

I'm writing this post as a confession, because letting the secret into cyberspace here will allow me to defiantly add those books to my list. (It doesn't have to make sense, just accept that that's how my brain works.)

And you know what? I like happy endings, and reading about balls and earls, tete-a-tetes and repartees (forgive my inability to place the proper accent marks), and all sorts of other ridiculousness. Also, the books are generally small, easy to hold, and easy to focus on when I'm feeding my daughter or when I'm too tired to actually think.

But just in case my literary friends are starting to worry about me--especially after my previous posts about wanting to stretch my brain--I have another announcement. I finished Steinbeck's Cannery Row. And loved it. So there.

Valentine's Memories

I've been thinking back this week about different Valentine's Days. I have some years in particular that stand out to me.

Age 15 -- I received my first real valentines ("real" meaning from a boy and not just because he's handing them out to the entire 3rd grade class). Brett and Nathan, two of my best friends in my mid-teens, both gave me valentines. Brett gave me one of those little boxes of chocolates. Nathan left an anonymous (the secret came out later) candy heart that said "Pretty Eyes," which started a series of inside jokes culminating in "Pretty Eyes" being painted on some bleachers at a combined-stake service project (don't worry, he was supposed to be painting them). Those two boys did more for my self-confidence that whole year than I could ever thank them for.

Age 19 -- Freshman year of college. My first boyfriend had broken up with me a month and a half earlier, and I figured Valentine's Day would just be depressing. Then Mandi informed me that Valentine's Day was amazing and that she would be my Valentine, because it was one of her favorite holidays. We swapped Valentine's goodies, and I learned that the Dollar Tree sells roses in February. Thank goodness for friends!

Age 20 -- Sophomore year. My roommate's boyfriend had left town to prepare for his mission, but he sent me a letter with money and asked me to buy her some roses and chocolate and set them up in a pretty way. I did an awesome job, if I do say so myself... This was also the year I was secretly wishing that Cooley would surprise me by deciding he liked me and sending me a Valentine. That was stupid, though; I knew he only saw me as a friend. I didn't get the Valentine, but 15 days later we were engaged.

This list, of course, leaves out the years where I wished the Grinch would switch from Christmas and steal Valentine's Day. But hey, it's my blog, and I can be selective with my memories if I want.

Learning to Think

The other day my father-in-law was talking about how this couple-month period in our lives is like Eden, because Ryan's not working (hasn't found a job yet), we don't have to worry about rent, we only cook once a week or so, and we can just do what we want.

If this is Eden, why am I not enjoying it more?

Ryan says I'm tired. Not sleeping for 6 months will do that. And it's true; I've never functioned well without my proper 8 hours of sleep. But it's more than that.

Where is the excitement for a new day, a new adventure? In her book Walking on Water Madeleine L'Engle talks about how young children always wake up excited, and she says that an artist must do the same or they will find no inspiration, because they won't notice the little curiosities of life.

I haven't felt much like an artist lately. I decided to resurrect this blog to help me find an incentive to write. But most days when I think about blogging, I think, "I don't have anything to write about. No one wants to hear about another diaper blow-out."

Then I ask myself, do I not have any thoughts? Do I not reflect on anything, or ponder, or wonder about anything? Wonder is the most inspiring thing for a writer. Where is my wonder?

I realize it's not that I don't have thoughts, it's that I generally don't pursue any of them far enough to create anything sensible from them. I have a lot of under-developed thoughts, which I dismiss before they have time to ruminate.

Well, why do I dismiss them?

I think it has something to do with the way that I always worry. I used to look forward to things, but our plans have changed so many times in the last year alone that I don't dare look forward anymore. I try not to look at the future, because it scares me. I just know there are big, nasty trials waiting for me around the next corner.

Well, duh. That's the purpose of life, isn't it?

But it's one thing to know trials are necessary, and another to not be afraid of them. I'm realizing, however, that my fear of future trials is crippling my ability to function in the present. I have a beautiful daughter and an amazing husband. I am healthy (despite the lack of sleep), and I have good friends and family who love me. I am a daughter of God, the ruler of the universe. Not just the God of this world, or country, or my church, or the God of my parents. The god of the universe. And he's on my side. Could I ask for better odds?

I'm setting a goal to blog at least 3 times every week. I'm going to find things that make me wonder or ponder, and I'm going to let those thoughts spin in my head, then spill them out as words and arrange and rearrange themselves until they teach me something.

Maybe the posts will be profound. Maybe they'll be humorous. Maybe they won't make sense to anyone but me. But as long as they show that I'm thinking, they'll be worth it.

Trusting Friendliness

Going to China did some interesting things for Ryan and me. Where I came back with 6 months of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Ryan developed a heightened awareness of his surroundings and a distrust of strangers. (If you haven't heard our China story, don't go looking for it in the posts below. They scratch the bare bones of what happened, but skip all the stuff that caused the above-mentioned reactions.)

Yesterday as we walked through Walmart, we were struck by that feeling that something was different... turned out it was the layout of the store. We had no idea where the baby section was, and we were wandering around discussing the fact out loud when a man about 20 ft. away asked us what we were looking for. We told him, and he said, "Oh, it's over here," and walked us there.

He looked to be in his twenties and had two little girls with him, probably 2.5 and 4 years old. He had a bit of a beard, and a slightly airy voice. He took us to the appropriate section, and saw that we were looking at baby monitors.

"Oh, do you need a monitor? I have one I'd sell you. We paid $60 for it, but we never used it because our apartment was small enough to hear them crying. I'd give it to you for $30. It's one of those that has two receivers." He indicated the $60 monitors on the shelf.

Ryan and I looked at each other, but we weren't sure what to say. Meanwhile the older girl came running around the corner holding a Disney princess umbrella. "Daddy, Daddy, we need this for the rain outside!" Her sister came running up as well, holding an umbrella almost bigger than she was. She grinned up at me and said, "Sponge Bob."

Turns out his name was Frank. We found that after we had exchanged phone numbers and gotten his address. He called his wife, and she said to only charge us $20 for the monitor. That was cheaper than the single-receiver short-range set at the store. He said he'd go home and find it, then give us a call.

Ryan and I discussed afterward that our first instinct was to distrust even the fact that Frank offered to show us where the baby things were. We could tell he was just being nice, but part of us wanted to know why. Why would he be nice? What motive could he have for offering to sell us his monitor instead of the one at the store? Did he just want to sell it? Could it really be that he wanted to save us money and clear up some space in his house at the same time?

We went that night to pick up the monitor. It was dark out, which meant our guards were up even more. I sat in the car with Cimorene and locked the doors quickly behind Ryan. I kept wondering why I was sending my husband to knock on the door of someone we knew nothing about.

But Frank was not sitting there with a gun, ready to steal Ryan's wallet; he was in the living room where his younger daughter had fallen asleep curled up with blankets on the floor. He gave Ryan the monitor, and Ryan gave him the $20. They discussed how they'd both worked at the cheese factory in town. And Ryan came back to the car.

It's sad that we were both so hesitant to accept friendliness for what it was. We looked for hidden motives, instead of believing that Frank was actually just a nice guy. Neither of us felt genuinely uncomfortable about the situation, or we wouldn't have gone to his house, but both of us had that little cynical voice that said people aren't really just friendly like that. I'm grateful Frank showed us otherwise.

Resurrecting Old Talents

One of the best things so far about living at my in-laws’ house is that they own a real piano. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.

I’ve played every day this week, and instead of just playing the easy things, I’ve pulled out my old classical books. I feel like the old man in a cd by our friend Marvin Payne called “The Planemaker.” The old man, when he tries to pick up his tools after years of disuse, exclaims, “I don’t understand! It used to be so easy.”

Playing classical music used to be much easier for me, but I’m getting better, and by the time I leave here I might even be able to play my old competition songs again.

One of my favorite piano books, which has quickly become a favorite of Ryan’s dad and brother as well, is the book I bought in China. It wasn’t a random purchase; I went to the music store looking for a book with certain songs, songs my mom played when I was growing up, from a book she’d bought in Taiwan.

Funnily enough, the composer (actually, I’m not sure if he writes them or is just a pianist) isn’t Chinese. He’s French. But the Asians love him.

I played my first Richard Clayderman song when I was eleven. I remember mom coming in several times to tell me to play the notes evenly first, and then I could play them quickly. I protested that I was playing “with feeling.”

Those songs were my older brother’s favorites, and he’d ask me to play them when he did his math homework. I also got to play one at a recital when I was twelve—the only performance piece I ever chose myself.

My life has changed a lot since those days, but playing those songs makes me feel like a pianist again, and for just a few minutes I remember what it felt like to have my biggest concern be whether or not I had practiced my two hours that day. These days I’m lucky to get ten minutes, but I appreciate them much more.

I'm still working on playing the notes evenly. But there's definitely feeling.

Sitting at His Feet

Last night we sat at the feet of my father-in-law. I mean that quite literally—Ryan and I sat beside each other on the floor with our backs against the uneven spines on the bookcase while his dad read to us.

It was past midnight. Cimorene was asleep downstairs, and Ryan and I were enjoying the freedom of just wandering around the house (those who are parents will understand the reluctance to go to bed and end those quiet moments after the child is asleep; even though you’re exhausted, you feel like your own person for awhile).

We followed Dad into the study, talking, and I started glancing through the books on his shelf. A casual mention of a title was all it took.

“Have you ever read Thurber? No? Well, you’ll have to read this one. Here, let me find a really good one.”

Thus it began. We sat at his feet as he read to us from “Fables for Our Time.” We learned about a moth who wants to fly to a star, and so he doesn’t get burned flying around lamps like the rest of his family. Another was about a man who sees a unicorn, and his wife plots to have him committed, but when the police and psychiatrist come, they end up taking her instead, because the man denies having seen it, and so he lives happily ever after.

After one of the stories, I glanced up at the books behind me and said, “Word Studies? What’s that one?”

That’s when the real teaching started.

My father-in-law is a teacher. He has a Doctorate of Education degree, and he has taught college-level religion courses for the last 30 years.

Word Studies turned out to be a study on the New Testament, with the original Greek next to the King James text. Dad flipped to a favorite section and showed us how the book worked, flipping to the back to show us the longer translation for a passage which made much more sense in Greek than in the King James translation. He started talking about how that related to this passage, and that related to this…

The result was that I felt alive, in a way I hadn’t since I left school a month ago. I’ve gotten bogged down in the last few weeks with diapers, the fact that I haven’t slept, and my daughter’s newly developed separation anxiety. I’ve been feeling grey and lost; I wasn’t accomplishing anything, I wasn’t moving forward in any way, I was simply existing—and in my in-law’s basement, no less.

But sitting at the feet of my father-in-law made me realize what a great chance I have these couple months while we’re in limbo. Ryan’s dad, as well as having a wealth of knowledge in his mind, has an enormous library, both of which he’s eager to share. I’ve now started reading At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald, as well as that collection of James Thurber’s stories. I should probably pick up some Dickens along the way (I’ve never actually read any), and I’m determined to finally read a Steinbeck (probably Travels With Charley; I’ve heard it’s not too depressing. My father-in-law also recommended Sweet Thursday).

I’m plotting ways to get Dad talking—I need to come up with some thought-provoking questions—and I’m feeling much less worried about the next couple months. Even if I still haven’t slept.