Looking to the Future

Getting one child alone with you in the car can result in some rare and wonderful conversations that just don't otherwise happen in the middle of bustling family life. Eight-year-old Alexander and I had one of those conversations the other day as we made the short drive to MSU. The topic was global warming and the future of humanity. We covered a lot of ground in 15 minutes! It should have been 10 minutes, but I got so engrossed in our dialog that I turned the wrong way a couple of times out of habit, thus lengthening our journey a little. :o)

Alexander started things off by casually observing that all our efforts to reduce pollution only seem to result in more pollution. We explored that a bit. He had a couple of mis-conceptions, but over all, his feeling that not enough change is happening is certainly valid. He very candidly said that he doesn't think we are going to stop global warming. He doesn't think we are doing enough, and he doesn't see people and businesses willing to do more. With all the happy talk directed at kids about "going green" and "saving the planet", this surprised me a little. It also impressed me as an astute observation for an 8 year old.

"So what do you think will happen?" I asked. He didn't know. We talked about pessimistic predictions, optimistic predictions, best- and worst-case scenarios, winners and losers, and points in between. I told him a little about peak oil theory and confessed my reluctant suspicion that maybe we should be listening more to the folks warning us to get ready for a very different way of life. He worried about being hot, but thought that the weather changes could be a boon to farmers in places that are colder now. While he expressed pessimism about our ability to curb global warming at this time, he is somewhat optimistic that humankind will adapt to the major changes that are coming, both through our behavior and with new technology. He is not very worried.

The situation may, perhaps, warrant more worry, but his outlook warms my heart. We need our young people to retain their optimism, even as they try to grasp the enormity of the problems. Whatever adaptations and technology come to our aid, it will be my son's generation (and those that follow) that will implement them and most benefit from them. They will begin -- whether out of intelligent foresight or desperate necessity -- to deal with the problems that their great-great grandparents started, and that their grandparents and parents refused to do much about.

Patterns of My People

So I haven't blogged all summer! In large part, it's because I've been spending most of my discretionary computer time (as well as some time I should have been doing other things) researching my family history. A couple of readers have expressed interest in reading about what I found. I've found a lot, and believe me, you don't want to hear it all! Even to my own family the details can be overwhelming, so I won't go there much, in spite of the fascination some of those details hold for me.

Instead, I want pull the focus back and show you the entire tapestry, because, rather wondrously, I've discovered that there are clear patterns and trends, even across disparate family branches and several centuries. Detailed information about individuals has been amazing to discover, but these patterns feel more significant to my sense of self. I don't feel like a different person or anything, but I do have a stronger sense of belonging to a larger story. I could go on about that, but I won't for now -- maybe another day. Perhaps also another day, I'll share how I got started on this journey, if people are interested. I've only been doing it for a few months now and I'm still a little in awe of how much I've learned about my heritage in that short span of time.

For now however, here's a bird's eye view of the landscape and the people who gave me birth:

1) America's story is my story. Before I began this project, I thought that my family in America would trace back no further than the early - mid 1800's. Most of the immigration stories I knew about came from this period. Indeed, most of the branches of my family did immigrate during the 19th century. However, one of the earliest discoveries I made was that I had many ancestors who came to Pennsylvania on ships commissioned by William Penn to bring Quaker settlers to his new charter colony in the 1680's.* One even came as an indentured servant, which no doubt seems more romantic and adventurous to me than it did to him! He was the bastard son of an English nobleman who couldn't inherit a dime, poor guy. That was on my father's side. Later, I discovered that some of my mother's ancestors were in colonial New England as early as the1630's! Can't get much more "founding father" than that unless your people came on the Mayflower. So I'm all in, right from the start -- the good, the bad and the ugly of our country's history is my history as well. That's something I didn't know until just a few months ago.

* I did not have even the faintest inkling of my Quaker ancestors when I became a Quaker a few years ago. The last practicing Quakers in the family, Eli and Ann Packer, died in Gratiot County, Michigan 1867 and 1871. The faith did not survive in the second generation in central Michigan, probably because there were no Friends Meetings there at that time. Although Eli and Ann both had Quaker ancestry reaching all the way back to the time of George Fox, the memory of our Quaker roots was lost in my father's family until I uncovered it this spring. I got to share this information at the family reunion this summer, so now it is remembered again. :o)

2) I come from rural and village people. My ancestors were farmers (many, many farmers), blacksmiths, millers, small-town day laborers, wool packers, weavers, etc. These were the professions of the men, of course, but my female ancestors were of the same stock -- they were the daughters, and then wives of the men who plied these trades. The women's lives are, if anything, even easier to imagine, as they likely varied less according to the trade of their men. They were gardeners, food preparers, livestock tenders, dress-makers, healers, neighbors, friends, pioneers, and perhaps most predominantly, mothers. They were the mothers of 5, 8, 10, 14 children. Most of them, until more recent generations, buried at least one child and sometimes several. A number of them gave their own lives for posterity, dying in childbirth or from complications thereof. These women married later than I'd been led to believe by popular history. Certainly, there were a few 17 and 18 year old brides, but not all that many. 19 was a more common age, with many entering their first marriage in their early 20's, and marrying men who were, on average, just a few years older. (There were some exceptions of course, especially where a man who was a widower wed a never-before-married young woman.)

My nearly complete lack of urban roots did surprise me a bit, given the broad scope of time and places and people involved. Yet even those who disembarked on American shores in New York City seemed to have set out for the country nearly immediately. My few wealthy and well-connected ancestors (remember the bastard son?) were landed gentry -- rich country folk, but still country. With nearly 500 individuals in my family tree so far (not all of those are direct descendants -- some are siblings, etc.) I can think of only one branch of the family that seemed to stay in a city for several generations, and that was colonial Springfield, Massachusetts. I'm not sure if Springfield counted as a "big city" back then or not! It was certainly not rural much beyond the founding years, however.

3) I don't have a single ancestor who came through Ellis Island. So many people ask about this! It's one of the first questions I got at family reunions this summer: "Do we have any family who came through Ellis Island?" Nope. Many people don't realize that Ellis Island didn't open as an immigration point until 1892. (I didn't know this either, until I looked it up.) All the branches of my family were in the New World by that time, save one: my Norwegian great-great grandfather was a stow away on a cargo ship in 1898. I believe he simply slipped off the boat and into the crowds on the dock. An undocumented immigrant...

4) I am a Northerner. So far, I've found not a single direct connection to the American South or West. Michigan, Ohio, New York, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Ontario account for probably 90% of my North-American born family members. The remaining 10% would be from a few other New England states, Quebec, and Indiana. I think that about covers it. Certainly some of my ancestors' descendants or siblings migrated south and west, but no one that led to me, as far as I know. I may have a Native American g-g-g grandmother, but I have only the say-so of my great-grandmother and her sister regarding this, and they are no longer around to interrogate. I know how often this kind of family lore is untrue, so I'd very much like to prove it or disprove it somehow. But even if it's true, she was said to be Ojibway, so still a Northerner!

5) My European ancestors were northerners as well, from England, Scotland, the pre-German states, Ireland, Eastern France, Norway, Finland. No Spaniards, no Italians, no Austrians, no eastern Europeans. One long-ago ancestor, who was quite the adventurer, had a Persian wife and children to whom he left his entire estate when he died. Nice for them, but I'm sure it didn't go down well with his English wife and family, from whom I am descended! So no Persians either, darn it! ;o)

6) No Catholics. I have not been able to confirm a single Catholic ancestor thus far. I do have some Irish potato-famine immigrants (on my father's side) whose religion I don't know, but my earlier Irish immigrant ancestors were protestants. I do know that by the second generation in American, my potato-famine Irish folks were not practicing Catholics, so I don't feel I can assume that Irish = Catholic in their case. Of course going back before the Reformation (which I have not done) most of my European ancestors would have been Catholic, but clearly we've been Protestant (or non-religious in some cases) for a very long time.

7) And the Protestants were often outliers! With Quakers and Restorationists on my father's side, and Puritans and Seventh Day Adventists on my mothers side, I seem to come by my contrary religious tendencies naturally!* One Puritan ancestor converted to Baptist very early on in the Massachusetts Bay Colony and was involved in Baptist "church planting" north of Boston. Baptists might seem pretty mainstream today, but his erstwhile fellow Puritans didn't think so in the 16oo's! One of this Baptist's descendants became a prominent leader in the early Seventh Day Adventist Church in Michigan. Another (the sister of the Adventist) became a follower of Joseph Smith and married an early Mormon elder. (It's thanks to her descendants that this branch of the family is so well researched!)

8) I don't know as much as I would like to know. A sad, but predictable truth: Most of my ancestors remain anonymous to me. I might know when and where they were born or died, how many children they had and perhaps what they did for a living, but that is all. Some left tantalizing clues, such as the obituary of a 4th great grandmother which contains this phrase: "Though surrounded my many depressing conditions, she won and held the respect of all..." I long to know what the "depressing conditions" were, but I probably never will.

9) I know more about some ancestors than I ever dreamed possible. I literally put my face in my hands and gave a little sob when I read this about my 10th great grandmother: "Marjorie was moderately active in the Women's Meeting at Middletown (PA). She served on five marriage clearness committees and one committee to labor with a friend who had failed to uphold Friends' principles." Reading about her serving on clearness committees for marriage over 300 years ago -- something I might do today in the very same tradition -- made her suddenly seem very real and dear to me. Here are some other things I know about Marjorie: Her first husband (my 10th great grandfather) died very shortly after their arrival in Pennsylvania, leaving 30-something Marjorie with 6 children, ages 16, 15, 14, 9, 6, and 3. She remarried (quickly!) in 1684 to a man whose wife had died on the voyage to Pennsylvania. Theirs was the first marriage under the care of Middletown Friends Meeting, which still exists today. Later in life she and her husband became involved in a painful schism among Friends, but Marjorie was later reconciled and was buried in Middletown Friends Cemetery. Her husband never came back into unity with Friends, but his step-son -- the one who had been 6 when his biological father died -- requested that he be buried next to Marjorie. The request was granted. Perhaps only other Friends will appreciate how easy and satisfying it is for me to imagine this request being brought before the Men's Meeting by a loving son, the ensuing Spirit-led deliberation among those in attendance, and the gracious outcome. I think about Marjorie sometimes as I'm going about my daily life and wonder what she would think of me and my world.

10) The tapestry grows exponentially. I'm struck by this: My mother's ancestry -- all of it -- is only half of mine. Same for my father, of course. My grandparents each share only a quarter. My two sisters and I are the only people on Earth who share this specific history as our full heritage, yet we share many of our more recent ancestors with hundreds of others, and each of our distant ancestors with thousands or even millions of people alive today. Our children share our lineage as well, but they have double the number of ancestors we do! My own children's ancestry stitches on the Caribbean Islands and the continent of Africa, making their lineage stretch across nearly half the globe. My youngest sister's new baby will someday trace his father's roots through Mexico and on to wherever else that leads him -- probably Spain, other places in southern Europe, and Indigenous Mezo-America.

The richness of all of this astounds me. I may have traced only a couple of family branches back to the 16th century, but of course they all go back that far, and farther: to the beginning of civilization, to the beginning of humanity itself. We are also growing forward. Someday, about 300 years from now, my 10th great granddaughters will walk this earth, perhaps here in Michigan, perhaps in a far-off land. Probably both, as I'm likely to have quite a few 10th great grandchildren! I will be a tiny part of their tapestries, woven in with all those who came before me, and all those yet to come, gathered and joined to another whole cloth with every generation in an ever-growing family.

Sorry for such a long silence

I apologize for such a long time between posts right now. This blog has been on my mind, and a few ideas for posts have been percolating, but for some reason they don't want to come out on the page/screen right now. Please stay tuned and I'll keep trying. In the mean time, happy Spring! Tomorrow is equinox and I couldn't be happier about that. Day. Light.

Dogsleds, Stereotypes and Stories

Yesterday, I pulled into the parking lot of a 7-11 to buy a newspaper. I parked next to a police cruiser and a mid-size SUV with what I'm pretty sure was a dog sled lashed to the roof. (I don't think I'd ever before seen a dogsled except in photographs. They're big -- especially lashed to the roof of a vehicle!) These were the only vehicles in the parking lot besides my van.

The cop was easy to spot. He was hanging out by the counter. He didn't seem to be buying anything, which made me wonder if something was up, but whatever it was, it apparently wasn't an emergency. He was leaning on the counter, thumbing through a magazine. I went looking for my paper.

Since Ethan was with me, I didn't bolt right out of the store after paying for the paper, as I normally would have done. He decided to take a meandering walk around the store before leaving. That was when I noticed that there was no one in the store who might own the dog sled. Hmm. Maybe they left the SUV here temporarily, I thought. Odd place to leave it, as there isn't much else within a convenient walk, but who knows?

As we exited the store, we passed the police officer again, who was now chatting with a middle aged black woman whom I hadn't noticed earlier. She looked like someone's young-ish grandma: hair salon-set with highlights, stylish but not new black swing coat, leopard print scarf, black leather boots suitable for Michigan winters, but with a dash of flair. Middle class, middle age, average black woman. Period. When I went outside and saw no new vehicles in the lot, I idly wondered where her car was.

Ethan was still being pokey, so I had just finished buckling him into his car seat and was heading around to my door when the woman exited the store. By now, you've surely guessed that she got into the dog sled SUV, right? Right. I was so taken aback that when the thought entered my head to ask her about the dog sled, I shushed it. I think I even stared a little. Huh.

Don't worry, this isn't a post about "white guilt" over the fact that it didn't even remotely cross my mind that she might be Dog Sled Woman. Frankly, I suspect even black folks would have been surprised, and for the same (or substantially similar) reasons I was. Rather, I fascinating to notice how a mix of factors played together to thoroughly exclude from my mind the possibility that this middle-aged Black-woman-next-door might drive an SUV with a dog sled on top. So thoroughly was the possibility excluded, that I speculated on unlikely reasons why there was an owner-less SUV in the parking lot *and* a woman apparently without a vehicle! Why did I not at least entertain the more obvious conclusion that they belonged together? Curious.

It wasn't just her race, though that was a factor. When I think "musher", white people and people native to the Arctic come most readily to mind. That said, if she had been still black, but 25 and dressed in Patagonia pants and an anorak, I'm pretty sure I would have put her with the SUV right away. I would have been mildly surprised, given my pre-conceptions regarding the races of dog sled mushers, but not shocked, and certainly not oblivious to the possibilities.

Gender was another factor in so far as it inter-played with her manner of dress and her age. A man in his 50's, no matter how he was dressed, would have seemed a more likely candidate for dog sledding, I have to admit. A white woman in her 50's would probably have to be dressed in Patagonia pants and an anorak for me to catch on. You see how the permutations of race/age/dress/class could go on.

I took away a greater awareness of how we weave together subtle information to create meaning, context and story, even about people we are hardly noticing. (My friend Su writes eloquently about this subject as it relates to perceptions of her mixed-race family.) Sometimes this can be pernicious -- we have all slighted, marginalized, misunderstood, or discriminated against someone based on a set of characteristics we probably didn't even notice we were noticing. The tendency to create story and meaning from the barest threads is so ingrained in us, how could we not? Often, however, no harm is done. And every once in a while, we get a glimpse of the real story beyond our assumptions. If we are lucky, we find it is much more interesting than we could have imagined.

Too Much Pressure

"Mommy," Alexander approached me with the plaintive voice that means something is bothering him. "I need to decide what I want to be when I grow up." The enormity of this task was clearly weighing on him.
If you had asked Alexander at age 4 what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would
have rattled off a list of about 5 things, mostly consisting of the
usual little-boy fantasy careers: dump truck driver, fire fighter, rock
star. But now that he's seven, he knows that his options are wide open
and he has plenty of time in the future to explore what jobs he might be right for him. If you ask him now, his answer is a very age-appropriate "I don't know."

I knew right away where this was coming from. This weekend, Alexander broke his pinky finger. The break was close enough to his knuckle that the urgent care doctor wanted him to see a hand specialist to make sure it didn't require any extraordinary measures. (It didn't.) Firmin took him to the hand doctor on Monday. When they came back, Firmin told me about how the doctor seemed to have a bit of a fixation on Alexander's future career choice. Asking a kid what he wants to be when he grows up is standard doctor small-talk, but this guy seemed to have a hard time taking "I don't know" for an answer. "He kept coming back to it", Firmin observed. We found this strange and mildly annoying, but didn't give it much more thought.

Alexander, on the other hand, apparently took it much more seriously. He told me the doctor said he had "two weeks to think about it" and he's going to ask again when we go back for the 2 week check. (why???) Xan is all stressed about this. Sigh. All my good mom advice about ignoring such rude behavior from the doctor, and how much time he has, blah, blah blah, is falling on deaf ears. He wants to have an answer, but he doesn't want to just make something up. "I don't want to tell him a lie!" Ah, my sweet, sweet, child! How can I argue with that? So we did a little brainstorming this evening. He was surprised to realize that there are real jobs with the Lego company. He found that intriguing. (We even looked up some vacancies -- many in Denmark!) "Video game designer" was another possibility. He laughed at my suggestion of saying he was going to be a bum and never leave home, but he won't really say that, of course. I secretly wish he would. I'd love to see the look on the doctor's face when I backed that statement up with a proud, beaming smile.

The larger issue here is why do some adults think it's cute to put kids on the spot like this? A *7* year old must have a specific career ambition? Does he really think that or is he simply unable to see when he's making his patients uncomfortable with his clueless banter? Does he badger his adult patients about stuff they'd rather not talk about? (I doubt it, though I've met one or two doctors who are socially inept enough to come close.) Why do adults do this? This doctor is not the only example we've experienced of otherwise nice grown-ups treating children like this. They repeatedly ask questions the child is clearly uncomfortable answering, or they insist that the child try or do something they clearly don't care to try or do. I'm not talking about things that the child should or must do for a good reason, such as saying "ah" so that the doctor can look at an infected throat. I'm talking about nagging a shy child to show off for a group, or quizzing a child (not their own) on something they are studying in school, even after it becomes clear they don't enjoy the quiz. I'm talking about insisting that a 7 year old decide on a future career in only 2 weeks and expecting him to realize it's a joke, except it's not really a joke because he knows you won't lay off until he gives a convincing answer.

Beautiful Living

Tonya at Plain and Joyful Living has a post up today entitled Vision.  She relates how her family's decision to live simply in rural Vermont has meant coming to terms with the fact that not everything on the homestead is beautiful.  Money to landscape nicely, haul away rubble from building projects, or repair the barn is not usually available, so they live with visions of future beauty among the not-so-beautiful parts, relying on the work of their hands and Providence.  This passage exemplifies her can-do spirit, I think:

I didn't want to look at those big ugly concrete blocks, however, so I am in the process of building a branch fence to put right in front of them. I will plant sweet peas in front of the fence and I can envision the beautiful flowers and green vines climbing over the fence this summer. I piled up rocks around the well head as a worked in the garden. There was trash to remove. I found some flat rocks to add to our entryway walkway. (The chickens enjoyed finding insects and worms while we were cleaning up!)

After reading (and admiring) her post, I found my thoughts taking a tangent on the role of consumerism in our conception of beauty and ugliness.  Beauty -- that is, the orderly, manufactured beauty that requires purchasing things -- is lifted up in our culture as a key to a happy, meaningful life.  This is a marketing ploy, of course, but it's wielded not only by mainstream corporate interests (which I am fairly successful at ignoring), but also by interests which are much more alluring to me. I'm invited to furnish my home with beautiful organic products, to purchase aesthetically-pleasing, artisan-made toys, tools and clothing that support local, independent manufacturers and merchants. (I almost feel guilty NOT buying them.)  I could landscape my yard with native vegetation and pave my ugly mud driveway with permeable concrete -- as beautiful as it is environmentally friendly!  My home really should have bamboo or cork floors (gorgeous!) instead of the dirty, undoubtedly toxic carpet we live with, shouldn't it?  Even at my co-operatively owned grocery, special products for beautiful sustainable living abound, strangly tempting even when I don't really need them. Hand-thrown pottery with eco-friendly glaze, or my grandmother's hand-me-down 1970's Corelle? Hmmm... (Actually, that one's a no-brainer with kids, and we could never afford the pottery anyway, but you get the idea.)

Frankly, waging this constant internal battle to resist these messages can be exhausting.  Marketers -- even ones who pay their office cleaning crew a living wage -- are clever, clever, clever.  They can make me forget what is truly beautiful in my life, and that's a shame on me, as much as them. 

On my best days, I feel good about how we are resisting consumerism in favor of other, more meaningful life experiences.  I can catch Tonya's vision and see that we are working toward a different kind of beauty in our lives, a kind of unkempt, wild beauty of gardens and fruit trees, of family togetherness and honey bees.  On my worst days, I feel like I'm not even doing a good job with the meaningful life experiences part, and I really just want some matching furniture.

Pencil Peril

Quaker blogger and writer Eileen Flanigan has a blog post up that is mostly about finding time to write amid the back-to-school hustle and bustle. But tucked in there is a thought or two about using up old school supplies rather than buying all new ones each and every year. As homeschoolers, there is less pressure on us to get all new things in the fall (and we don't need many folders, etc. as there is no daily transport from one place to another required for most of their paperwork.) Pencils, on the other hand, have become an issue. Ethan (almost 2) has for some time now been fond of biting the erasers off pencils. He doesn't eat them, just bites them off, sucks on them for a few minutes, then spits them onto the carpet. Pink block erasers are strewn about the house but never seem to be handy when we need them, and end-cap erasers are a choking hazard for Ethan, so I've bought more new pencils in the last 9 months than in the previous 9 years! Environmentally unfriendly as it may be, it's actually kind of amusing when we step back and observe ourselves:

"Mommy!! Ethan's got a pencil with an eraser!"

"Quick, trade him for a bitten one!"

"He doesn't want it! I can't get it away from him!"

"Be careful yanking it away; if he lets go, you'll stab yourself in the face."

"But he won't let go! Arrgh! He bit it! Now I can't do my math!"

"Nice try. Just get a new pencil. I sharpened a bunch of them the other day."

Someday when Ethan gets older, he's going to wonder why we have 100 pencils in the house but NONE with an eraser. We can't wait to tell him...

Two Year Old Conversation

Scene: Ethan (nearly 2) jumps from the sofa and partly lands on his big brother, Alexander (7).

Ethan (bending over Alexander and looking him right in the face): Okay?

Alexander: I'm fine.

E: Okay?

A: I'm fine.

E: Okay?

A: I'm fine!

E: Okay?

A: I'm fine!

E: Okay?

A: I'm Okay.

E: Okay?

A: Yes.

E: Okay. (He climbs back up for another jump...)

Spiritual Liberation and the "O" Word

I spent some time this weekend on a solo Mother's Day Retreat. My family graciously excused me for 24 hours to rejuvenate and relax. Yesterday, I spent some time with Philadelphia Yearly Meeting's Faith and Practice, a sort of "handbook" for Quakers. In the "Advices" section (page 82 of the 2002 edition or here, in section I) I read this:

As death comes to our willfulness, a new life is formed in us, so that we are liberated from distractions and frustrations, from fears, angers and guilts. Thus we are enabled to sense the Inward Light and to follow it's leadings.

I am struck by how I usually get this backwards. I've operated on the assumption that if I could just listen carefully enough to the Inward Light, it would lead me to actions that would rid me of distraction, frustration, fear, etc. In my experience that this does not work very well! I've blamed my own spiritual weakness, or a lack of time to devote to worship. Both of these might indeed be factors, but this passage leads me to consider the possibility that there might be steps I can take even when the Light burns dim within. (Perhaps especially then.)

I suspect this is where the word "obedience" rears it's ugly head. How do I hasten the death of my willfulness? I'm still mulling this over, but I'm pretty sure it will involve obedience of some sort. This could be my fundementalist upbringing showing, but I don't think so.

Like most modern Americans, the word "obedience" has negative connotations for me. In modern usage, it suggests that the benefit of the obedience accrues primarily to the one being obeyed and implies a threat if obedience is not forth-coming. Obedience is what slaves render to masters, children to parents (especially cruel ones), employees to bosses. But in spiritual matters, it must have a more nuanced meaning. What has God to gain from my obedience? Another piece of the "body" (I Corinthians 12) I suppose, but it would seem I myself, and those around me, have much to gain as well. And why would Spirit punish me? Any "punishment" is of my own making -- I miss out on something or end up in an unpleasant situation. So obedience to (with?) the Divine must be of a different character than obedience to masters, parents and bosses.

Obedience with. I like that -- it seems mature and wise. Come to think of it, I obey countless "rules" every day simply because they are wise. I follow many rules in gardening so as to ensure a good harvest; I try to make sure the dishes are done before I go to bed so as not to start the next day two steps behind; I look both ways for cars before I cross the street so as to avoid injury or death. I didn't always know these rules, or understand why they are important. I've killed many a seedling out of ignorance or carelessness. I've learned the law of the dishes the hard way on more than one occasion. Ignorance of it did not excuse me from the consequences! Obedience with Spirit must be like this. No arbitrary laws or lightning bolts. Just putting God at the center of life instead of myself, deciding on faith to trust the rules that decision brings into focus and obeying them. What have I to loose but my distraction, frustration, fear, anger and guilt? If I only loose one off that list, I'll take it! As for a greater ability to sense the Light and follow it's leadings... One thing at a time, I think.

Snatches

Sorry for the long hiatus between posts. Seems I seldom have more than 5 or 10 minutes to spend on the computer at one sitting, though I have those minutes several times a day. A good blog post -- any blog post other than a "Wordless Wednesday" -- takes much more concentrated time than that. (Even this one is taking longer than I intended!)

The good news is that I'm ready to begin a re-ordering phase. Perhaps it's the season, or just that I'm tired of always feeling behind. I feel like I do so much in "snatches" these days -- the computer, the kids, household tasks, gardening, errands. It all feels dis-jointed and inadequate. I hope to be able to organize my days such that I spend less of my life in snatches and more of it in full experience. Knowing myself as I do, it's a tall order. But now and then I manage it for a while, and life is so much better when I do. If I succeed, you'll likely see more blog posts and fewer Facebook updates. I like Facebook, but it's like living on snack crackers when you really want to cook and eat a good meal.

Computer time is over now -- gotta put the kids to bed. Wish me luck... and Light.

Girls Will Be Girls

Yesterday, we went to an indoor play facility on a day they offer a good deal for homeschoolers. I guess lots of kids have reached to that end-of-winter craziness. It was packed and the children were even more rambunctious than usual.

Alexander (age 6) always has a blast -- doesn't matter if his buddies are there or not. He plays with friends, acquaintances and strangers alike. Give most boys a room full of bounce houses, a few beach balls, and space to run and they're set for hours. Ethan (17 mo.) also likes to run and play on the toddler toys that are available.

Brianna (age 8) has not always enjoyed herself so much at this facility. The bouncing and running are fun for about a half-hour, but after that, much depends on who else is there. Yesterday, I'm pleased to say, was a good day for her. Her best friend was there, but that was just the beginning. There was a fairly large cohort of upper-elementary age girls who spent the afternoon in a herd -- sometimes talking, sometimes bouncing, sometimes wandering here and there looking older than they had any right to. (When did Brianna start sauntering?) She's not always comfortable in groups like that, but yesterday she was clearly one of the gang.

On the way home, I observed aloud that she seemed to have had a good time with all those girls. "Yeah" she said in her usual understated way. Then after a beat, she continued: "At about 2:00 we formed a club. It was called the 'Girls Rule, No Boys Allowed Club'." The mature adult mother of two sons in me cringed just a little. But the former third grade girl in me gave a fist pump in the air, and I felt myself smile.

The Inward Ringtone

Tonight we are having a mini-blizzard. Not much accumulation, but a couple of hours of heavy, slippery snow that makes driving difficult. I have a piece of mail that really needs to go out tonight, and if I get it to the (nearby) post office before 8 P.M., it will. I go out, brush snow off the van, and start it so that it will be warm for Ethan. The other kids are with Firmin, so the booster seat in the back remains unoccupied. I bundle Ethan into his deluxe carseat and start out. It is about 6:00 but darkness has fallen. I miss the longer days of summer.

A couple of blocks out, I see a woman pushing a stroller. There is no sidewalk on our busy road, and concern for safety has forced her well off the shoulder, onto the increasingly snow-covered grass. A single blanket covers the child in the stroller from her upper thighs to the top of her head. Only her floral cotton leggings, thin socks and slip-on shoes show. I notice that the legs are longish. The girl must be about four years old. Three if she's tall. The woman holds a cell phone against her ear with one hand as she clumsily maneuvers the stroller along the bumpy ground with the other. I imagine she is calling someone to give her a ride. I hope she is successful; it's a terrible night to be out at all, let alone with a child. I drive on for another block. I wonder how far she has to go. I wonder whom she is calling to help her, and if they will come.

The realization is slow but certain: My warm van with space for the stroller, my non-urgent errand, and my extra booster seat make me the one who is being called to help.

I turn around.