I Just Want My Guitar

This morning, while I folded a mountain of laundry, I watched the memorial service of Wes Phillips.  And I cried, because it was perfect.  Thanks to Jon Edwards for getting that on YouTube, and special thanks for getting a snippet of "It Is Well" on the video.  Lyn Howerzyl and I had a long Facebook conversation at midnight on the Thursday prior, with her in Pella and me in Wisconsin, about playing that song.  In the end, we decided that playing from the heart is what matters, and probably mattered more at the funerals of Beethoven and Mozart, more than the music chosen.

Last night, we invited several people to Eat and Play.  We shared a meal, dissected the problems of the day, and got our instruments out to play.  I had invited Wes the day before he died, but obviously he couldn't be with us in body.  A minute or so into out first song, I discovered three year old Graeme banging his head against our van.  He wanted to get his guitar.  His tiny guitar, which has been loved to a point where it has only three strings, the bridge is barely hanging on, his sheets have been ripped from sleeping with it, was at home. Eventually I distracted him with food.  We had a fabulous time playing and singing together.  Our kids drifted in out, grabbing whatever instrument caught their eye.  We ended with "We Shall Overcome," a favorite of mine.

When we got home, Graeme immediately found his guitar, and it went to bed with him.  As I watched the service, and listened to Pastor Kirsten talk about the Psalms, about people sitting around trying to fix the world's problems, and settling it by playing their instruments together and singing songs, I understood why Graeme needed his guitar, and why we all left Eat and Play feeling better about the world again.   Music always fixes it.

As I put the laundry away this morning, Graeme's older sister brought his guitar to me to tighten a loose string.  She asked what I was watching, so I tried to explain that all the people were remembering Mr. Wes.  And I hope, as my little boy grows into a musician (because he will) he also shows the kindness and innate understanding that only a musical genius could, the kindness that Mr. Wes shared with us.

1/3 of the sleep

The last week or so has been very long.  First, Hanna with her ear hurting (fluid), then Graeme with his ear hurting (ear infection), then both just getting sicker and sicker until we had to go back to the doctor on Saturday morning to get stronger antibiotics and steroids.  Everyone was feeling better yesterday and then coughed all night, so another phone call to the doctor for more steroids.  Poor babies.

But poor mom and dad too.  Yes, I'm asking for sympathy here, because when your babies are sick it takes twice as much energy, and on a third of the sleep.  Which means arguments and yelling at 2 a.m. because you just finally fell asleep for the third time when one of the children woke up from the incessant coughing, and its the other person's turn, or because you don't get up fast enough and the crying turns to screaming.  Or the sippy cup is downstairs or the tylenol is gone or the child just threw the tylenol at you or the child just dumped the albuterol, or .....

And 99% of it comes from this place of deep exhaustion, both physically and emotionally.  We all just want to feel better and get some sleep.  We have work tomorrow.  I don't think we want to be mean, but we can be.

And there it is.  Part of me wishes I didn't have work so I could stay home and love on my babies.  And even as I sit at work and try to wake up, I'm wondering if I should have taken another sick day.  But then my students come in, and I feel alive again.  I dug out a lesson I haven't done in years, creating music using objects to represent sounds.  And watching the kids work together and creating their masterpieces makes it all better for a while.  This is why I teach, this is why we welcomed our fabulous child care provider into our family to love on our babies like they are her own, this is why it is good to step away from the children sometimes.  In a few weeks, this will be a memory, and it won't seem as bad as it feels right now.  I feel ready to go home and take care of my babies.

F*** Cancer

I've had "The Long and Winding Road" by the Beatles in my head for a few days.  I feel like our road has taken another twist with my mom's breast cancer diagnosis.  I know so many people who have been on a similar road with their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, daughters, aunts, etc.  I think you'd have to live in a cave to not know someone who has been affected in some way.

The way ahead is so uncertain.   Maybe this will take care of it, maybe not.  I had a feeling when mom told me she found a lump.  And tried to assure me that it was just a cyst.  And yet, here we are.  Sitting in a waiting room outside of an operating room watching "Bonanza," while we digest our hospital cafeteria food.

As I was talking to mom in pre-op I noticed how much older she suddenly seems.  She has had quite the winding road, between her Crohn's Disease, broken bones, complications and side effects from medications.  And she is still 95 pounds of strength and tough, generosity and caring.  But, how much more of all of that can her body take?   Hasn't she had enough?

And so we continue down the long and winding road, that at least is certain.  Where will this twist take us?   What will be around this bend?  Will it lead us home, like in the song?  What is home?  It seems that this episode of "Bonanza" is fixing itself.  Will our road straighten?  We'll stay tuned.

Two years!

Slane raised her hand during Prayers of the People on Sunday and prayed for Graeme's upcoming birthday.  I could feel the collective thoughts of those in the sanctuary.  "Has is been that long?" and "That's impossible," and "Time flies."  I can't believe it either.  Two years since we welcomed our son into the world, and we can't imagine life without him.

Actually, I've been reflecting on Graeme's birth for a couple of weeks now.  I imagine that it will always be the one that can bring me to tears and humble me in a way the births of the girls won't.  It isn't that their births aren't important or special or that I don't remember them, it's just that his birth equals near death for me, and I'm guessing one never forgets an experience like that.

I truly cannot imagine what our lives would be like without Mr. G.  Over the last year, I have cherished the relationships he is forming with his sisters, the cuddles (and broken glasses) he has given Dan and I, the love of trains, cars, planes, balls, and wrestling, and his musical development (this guy is destined to be a performer of some kind).  I even cherish the collective sighs from everyone when he destroys yet another of Slane's stories or tips over Hanna's milk again.

Graeme was our surprise.  We were still on the fence about having a third child, and finding out about him was a shock.  I cried for a while, and was too embarrassed to tell anyone for a long time.  We panicked, because we have a tiny two bedroom house, and cars that only fit two car seats.  We kept adding to the list why he could not come when he did, but of course nature rules and he came anyway.  Now, in hindsight, I wouldn't have had it any other way.  I cannot imagine being pregnant and having another child at this point in our lives, and I'm glad he came when he did.

That isn't to say that it isn't hard.  Every day is hard.  But every day is a little easier too.  And every night, after we check in on our (hopefully) sleeping children to make sure they have enough blankets, and to take the drum out of the crib, we talk about these amazing little creatures.  The laundry is so behind that no one has matched socks, there are toys strewn about the house, we forgot to practice Slane's spelling words, and that one library book is still missing, but all is right with our world, at least in that moment.

These days are gifts that Dan almost got to experience by himself, without me.  But, I survived.  For us, for me, the miracle happened.  It is amazing how my body, with the help of prayers and modern medicine, recovered.  It still comes up sometimes.  Recently a coworker asked if I saw an aura when I almost died.  I didn't.  Last winter Hanna was wearing her "My Mommy Wouldn't Be Here If It Wasn't For a Blood Donor" shirt at the science center and someone stopped me and told me that her shirt sent a powerful statement.  The story came up when we got to do a photo shoot for Life Serve blood center too.  In September we got to see a life flight helicopter, and show the kids how it worked, plus talk to the pilot about it.  It was humbling to see how it was equipped to potentially save any patient.

It's been two years.  The details are starting to fade, but the memories of being cared for and loved, and the feelings of survivorship stick around.  Thank you again for all you did for us.  We continue to be grateful and humbled by the outpouring of care that came our way.  We continue to pay it forward in any way we can.  And we continue to love on our sweet, curious, active little two year old boy.


  

end of summer

A few weeks ago, I was asked by our pastor to give the sermon on the Sunday following Synod School.  I agreed, not sure what I was really getting myself into.  I spent a lot of time on this, and several people have asked to read it.  So here it is, including a link to a partial recording of the song.  I think I have a video of one of my own choirs performing it, but I'm not going to take time to find that today.  I will keep looking.  Please keep in mind that I am not a theologian.

My scripture is Psalm 17 from The Message.

It seems to me that most of you would be better qualified to be standing here, yet here I am. I think this may have come about because I mentioned once that I had written sermons during my time working with A Christian Ministry in the National Parks in Yellowstone. Though I spent more time making salads than writing sermons, Yellowstone is the first time I truly understood ministry.

When I was deciding what to talk about, I considered digging out my journal from Yellowstone and using that, but it would have required a few hours of digging in the basement, and its doubtful that Old Faithful will go off during this service, so I don't need to plan for the interruption. I considered talking about the poetry of Metallica or the chord structure of a Green Day song, or even the form of a Motown song, but I’ll have to do that at least 14 times at school in just a few weeks. I considered talking about community and taking care of each other, but you don’t need me to tell you how awesome you are. I even thought about a racing analogy, since I’ve just spent my last two days selling tickets at the Speedway, but I saw more people than race cars.

One day while I was thinking through all of these topics, a song popped into my head. Usually when a song pops into my head, there is a reason, so I dug out the music and played through it and this is what you are getting. I came across this song during the summer of 2002 at a choral reading session. I brought it back to the choirs I was teaching, and it was their favorite song. They insisted on rehearsing it every day. The music for To Be Strong was written by Audrey Snyder, but the poetry was written by Ingrid Wendt, who teaches the process of writing poetry to teachers. I’ve broken the song up line by line.

There’s a strength in the moon, that silent pulls the tide, there’s a strength in the sun, gently pushing night aside.

Have you ever wondered about why things happen? How things work out the way they do? Was it a coincidence or meant to happen to show you something? This song is about finding strength in nature and pulling from that for your own strength. I’d like to think that maybe God lets us see these strengths both to give us examples of ways to get through things, but to also show us that we already have strength put in us on purpose. I don’t think nature thinks about what it does, and I don’t think the strongest people among us think about being strong. They just are.

I don’t think the moon thinks about how it needs to be strong enough to control the tides here on earth. The sun doesn’t really push night aside, it is just doing its job. But the image makes you think a bit. Neither of those things happens suddenly, but more gradually.

The smallest feathers of a bird will gravity defy.

Keep your eye on me; hide me under the cool wing feathers from the wicked who are out to get me, from mortal enemies closing in, David says in the Psalm. Have you ever thought about those feathers? I know when feathers make their way out of my down winter coat, I don’t stop to think about the bird from whom they came. They seem so light and fluffy, how can they be strong? And defying gravity? I definitely don’t think about that, unless I’m listening to Idina Menzel sing Defying Gravity from the musical Wicked. But I have seen a turkey protect her babies under her wing, and this is much the way that God protects us. Maybe those feathers are stronger than we thought.

There’s a strength in listening and a strength in being heard.

When Slane started to talk, I had to learn a new skill. Not only interpretation, but listening carefully to what she is saying. Now you all have heard her and know that sometimes this takes a great deal of patience. But she deserves for me to keep myself from interrupting her sometimes long explanations and descriptions. This hit home at her preschool parent teacher conference when she talked for 95% of our conference time. When I asked her why, she simply told me that she finally got her teacher to herself. It is hard to focus and acknowledge another person’s thoughts. Asking someone about their day and then actually listening to the answer or engaging with their answer is not easy, but so important. David starts this Psalm with the word listen. Listen while I build my case, O God. He’s praying to be heard.

There’s a strength in knowing when to use important words.

Something about this image got me thinking about hip-hop. Paint grace-graffiti on the fences, take in your frightened children who are running from the neighborhood bullies straight to you. I teach hip-hop history. I start with disco, then move into the four pillars of hip-hop with examples and activities to go with each. For the MC or rapper, we play a basic rhyming game to illustrate how difficult it can be. We watch a demonstration of scratching and turntables to learn about the DJ. We watch a video of old school breakdancers vs. current breakdancers from around the world. And we make our own graffiti. We talk about how it is illegal, and the different kinds (tagging vs. art), and then each student makes their name graffiti style and we hang it up around the school. Initially, the graf writers, as they are called, just wanted a voice. They kept it short and simple, but they got to express themselves in a way that they never could before. Many of them grew up in poverty in the South Bronx, and writing their name or phrase on a train car was their way out. But they had to know what to write. We have to think through what we say and how we say it, something I am terrible at doing. But God takes me, and all of us, in anyway, and helps us find the words we need, if we ask. And sometimes it is obvious, like the messages in early graffiti.

It takes courage to admit that there are still some things to learn.

The song shifts here from strength to courage and power. It steps back from strength that occurs naturally to the power found in nature or strength that takes some effort. It takes effort to admit that you just might not know all of the answers. You might need to take a step back and look at a situation from a different perspective. You might need to ask someone about their experience in a similar situation. You might be humbled by their answers. Even David does this, when he calls to God for an answer after realizing he doesn’t have his own.

There is power in a mountain whose voice can shake our home.

For two years I lived in Hawthorne, Nevada. Hawthorne is the county seat of Mineral County, which borders California. The whole town sits in about a square mile of high desert in the shadow of Mount Grant, near the shores of Walker Lake. It is 40 miles from the Walker River Paiute Reservation, 75 miles from Yosemite, 70 miles from Top Gun (yes, like the movie), and 5 hours from Las Vegas. It is surrounded by miles of bunkers full of ammunition, which has been stored there since the end of WW2. During the war it was a major manufacturer of the ammo used overseas. The bunkers belong to the army, also the town’s main employer. Most of my students’ parents worked on “the base” working with all of that ammo. It was not unusual for me to hear thunder and then hear a student say, “oh, mom didn’t tell me they were blowing things up today.” Powerful thunder indeed.

Being near Top Gun meant that sometimes while driving to nearby towns I would get through a mountain pass only to be buzzed by jets flying over. And the sounds of jets echoing off of mountains, again, powerful. You wouldn’t think that a mountain would have a voice, or that a ginormous, thousands of feet high mountain would be powerful, but it certainly can be. I’m sure my experience was just a taste of what Moses felt when he was on the mountain listening to God speak.

There is power in a seed whose roots can split a stone.

Earlier this week, we planted some carrots and peas. The carrot seeds especially are very tiny. Now, how can that be powerful? Perhaps in the food it provides, what our kids are learning about gardening, or even just in the miracle that is a seed growing into a plant? Now, what about that pine cone. How is that powerful? In Yellowstone, the lodgepole pine is the most prevalent tree. The lodgepoles suffered the worst during the big fire of 1988. But they were also one of the first trees to return after the fires. How? The pine cones are fire ready. In fact, they only release their seeds after a fire. It takes the heat to open the cones up. So the seed is powerful. But think about the stone or boulder that might split. To clock in at the Iowa Speedway I have to walk past a huge rock out front. If you’ve been to the administration building, you can’t miss the rock with a carving of Rusty Wallace in it. In the last couple of years, I’ve noticed that it has split. I have no idea how or what did it, but there is a definite crack where there wasn’t one before. And imagine if it was more than extreme weather changes, but a seed growing through it.

So, putting all of that together, I have seen trees growing out of stones. And a seed started it. That is powerful.

A tree can bend and shiver yet stand firm against the storm.

I’m going to go back to Yellowstone for this one. The other kind of tree that is seen the most there is the aspen. But they don’t grow alone. An aspen grove is not really a grove, it is one tree with one root system. If one part becomes weak, it has all of the rest to support it. The same is true for us. If one of us is sick or weak or experiencing trouble in some way, we are all there to support. I’ve experienced this first hand. When Graeme was born, you were supporting me, and us, before I even work up in ICU listening to James Brown. You were our root system. In fact, when checking the analytics on our blog, it seems our root system spread to many countries and a few hundred people. You each are part of someone else’s root system. Isn’t that one of the main reasons we become part of a church? Psalm 18 starts out by stating this in another way. David says, I love you God, you make me strong. God is bedrock under my feet, the castle in which I live, my rescuing knight. I think this could be replaced with God is my root system, the aspen tree of which I am a part, my rescuer.

There is power in numbers and a power in being one.

I witnessed a protest during my second year of teaching. Our principal had been placed on administrative leave, and his son happened to be in 8th grade in our building. While many of the teachers were in a training and substitutes were covering our classes, the son had schemed with his friends and most of our students got up and walked out of class at the same time and began to run around the campus. The chaos that resulted was scary for us as we watched students running crazily away from the superintendent and even the police chief for an hour. Eventually it was a coworker who suggested we corral the students into the gym and the same teacher who explained to the students what was happening and why their response was not appropriate. She almost single handedly calmed down our students and sent them back to class. Power in numbers: to scare or use for good, to be armies or angels. Power in being one: to stand against the status quo or calm down the masses, to write Psalms in solitude that so often are exactly how we are feeling, or to hang on a cross for us.

There is power in a smile and in a pair of open arms. When a heart’s about to shatter there is power in a song.

Have you ever waited for your luggage to return at an airport? You can always tell the people who have been separated for a while. The hugs and smiles rejuvenate everyone around them. I often feel that way just walking into church. And isn’t it often music that rejuvenates our souls? When I’m at my lowest, I look for a song to change my outlook. I’m not as cool as David, I don’t write my own songs to express my feelings, but I might just sing along with someone else’s song.

And if my life should suddenly go wrong, when the worst I could imagine come to pass. I’ll look around, remembering what I’ve found in nature’s many ways of being strong.

The Incredibles may be one of my favorite movies. I love the analogies it presents in each family member and their role in the family. I love how the Strong Mr. Incredible comes to realize that he is not as strong as he thought, and that ultimately his strength is not in his muscles, impressive as they are. He figures out that the worst thing that could happen to him is being separated from his family, who in his case, complement his super power abilities in every way. Mrs. Incredible is flexible and can bend and stretch in a way that only moms can. The eldest child, Violet, is a teen learning how to be herself, and her power is creating invisible force fields. Dash can run so fast that he can move over water, and Jack Jack, the baby, doesn’t know his super power yet, but really it is the ability to change powers, from laser eyes to being a dead weight or a monster in a matter of seconds. I don’t know anyone like that. When they work together, they are able to overcome their enemy, Syndrome, who is trying to be a super hero with invented powers and they become one.

We each have a super power that make us naturally strong, like the moon pulling the tide or the feather defying gravity. God gave them to us, not to keep them to ourselves, but to use them. And I believe that our strengths are something that we do without thinking because they are so much a part of us. When we put these together, we are the aspen tree, held together by our roots though we stand individually. We have the strength to stay on the trail, to not give up. We are strong, and when we forget, we just have to look around us at all of the examples that nature provides. We do have the power.

Moments of solitude, worst-case scenarios, and gratitude.

All three of our children were delivered by Caesarean Section. Before Sara gave birth each time, as surgical staff prepared Sara for surgery and delivery, nurses gave me a set of hospital scrubs and left me alone in a long moment of solitude. It may have only been a few minutes, but the wait felt like an hour. 

During the moment of solitude before Graeme was born, I journaled. I reflected on Slane and Hanna and their personalities. I also posed, perhaps presciently, the question of the worst-case senario...which we almost experienced. Now, on the other side, our life has returned to unremarkable routine, full of laundry, meals, and foul diapers. 

In the year since Graeme's birth the question I get most often is, "How do you do it?" "I don't know," I answer. This is half true. We do it because we have help and we have changed our focus.

If you are reading this, you most likely helped us. Sara and I will spend the rest of our lives gladly paying forward the kindness and support you gave us in that worst-case senario. There is a composition book that documents many of the ways that you supported us. In her blog post, Sara attempted to catalog all the ways you supported us, but I don't know that all the blogs in the world could document all the prayers spoken, meals made, and other acts of kindness we have received in the past year.

Lamentations on the decline of community seem to be popular right now, but I no longer believe them to be true. Our family and many ways we have been cared for is a testament to the reality and power of the community that exists in our midst.

We have also changed our focus. We shop less. We watch less television. We spend less time documenting our lives for posterity or the ephemeral thrills of blogs, Facebook, and Twitter. Instead, we take bike rides, we read, we wrestle, we cuddle, we dance, we create art, we cook, we take daylong adventures. We spend time with family, friends, and each other.

"It takes a village to raise a child," the old saying goes. Thank you for joining us in the village.

Reality

Twelve months ago our worst case scenario almost became reality.  We welcomed our baby boy and then I hemorrhaged while in recovery from the c-section.  I woke up in a different hospital with a ventilator tube down my throat and James Brown playing in my ear.  I spent 2 1/2 days in the ICU before I was moved up to the Mother and Babies floor, but without a baby since Graeme stayed in Grinnell.  I first held him when he was five days old.

The week before all of that happened, we had talked about the possibility of a hysterectomy.  We talked about taking care of our kids alone if something awful happened to either of us.  We had acquaintances who didn't survive the birth of their children and wanted to be ready if that happened to me.  We both decided we would stay in Grinnell and not move closer to our parents because we had a good community of support in Grinnell.  We had no idea that community would be tested when Graeme was born.

We've had quite a year, and you (if you are reading this) helped take care of us.  Even if it was only to send positive thoughts and prayers, you helped more than you know.  You also sent flowers, took pictures, held a baby, provided food, mowed our lawn, raked our leaves, washed countless loads of laundry, scrubbed our floors and bathroom, did dishes, brought blood in your trooper car, drove straight through from Ohio to take care of your nephew, took the older kids to basketball games and gymnastics, sent a card, sent cash, sent gift cards, "Sara-sat," spent the night, stopped by the hospital or our house, posted positive messages, asked your friends to pray, spent an extra week taking care of our kids, canned our vegetables, donated blood,  took a collection and brought us the diapers and clothes you bought with the money, painted our bathroom (and donated a light fixture for it), created an amazing diaper tricycle, brought gifts for Slane and Hanna, visited my mom who was in a different ICU at the same time (my poor sister and dad), sat in the waiting room, coordinated all of that care, and loved on all of the McCues.  We can never thank you enough.  Seriously.

We also owe so much thanks to the medical staff who kept me alive:  the anesthesiologist who stayed by my side, the nurse who was handed a clipboard and told to chart, the flight crew on the helicopter (though I learned about that the next day), the surgeons, my amazing OB/GYN (who took the time to talk us through everything that happened), the ICU nurses, the Mothers and Babies nurses,  the nurses back in Grinnell who were feeding and changing a "motherless" baby (and who also took pictures and kept a list of who visited), the doctors at Mercy, the OT and even the PT.
   
My recovery was actually quite rapid, though I don't remember a lot of it.  There are things I know I missed. We don't have a family picture from when Graeme was born.  We didn't get newborn pictures taken, in fact, the only newborn pictures we have are the ones the nurses took.  My milk didn't come in, and I missed nursing Graeme. I was at risk of rejecting the 30 units of blood product that I had been given (thankfully nobody told me that, and I didn't reject it). I did get sick a few days after I got home (C. Diff), but antibiotics helped with that.  I still have dizzy spells, but all in all, I bounced back.  I think we both have had some Post Traumatic Stress these last few weeks leading up to the anniversary, but we're okay.

When Slane was baptized, her Godmother gave me an essay written by Anna Quindlen.  Anna writes about the moments with her children that she doesn't remember because she was so busy trying to get to the next thing.  If anything, everything that has happened in the last year has taught us to slow down and be a part of every moment.  It isn't easy and we aren't always successful.  But we do focus on experiences.  We get out and do stuff.  Initially it was to show the community that we are okay.  But now, it is to spend those moments as a family.

Life with three kids under the age of four, while working full time, is crazy.  But, we're all relatively healthy. We're all here.  This is reality.

                                                                                August 2013