over the river and through the woods

i'm packing for my escape. through the sweet generosity of some dear friends, a husband just barely hanging onto the last bit of summer vacation, and a brother-in-law in town at just the right moment to play with luke when sam is working, i'll spend the next two and a half days away...away in the woods in a quiet mountain cabin, away from responsibilities and expectations, away from schedules and to-do lists...with wireless internet. perfect! what am i packing? books (the brothers karamazov and a grief observed so far), sneakers, scrapbooking supplies, hundreds of pictures of eliza, my journal, my bible, and my netbook (you can bet i'll be blogging). what am i not packing? cell phone (okay, i'll bring it...but i'm turning it off), calendar, makeup, earrings, recipes, grocery lists, children's ministry schedules, laundry detergent, editing work...no expectations, no work, no pretense.

as i was just packing up my shampoo and conditioner--even in the woods, pretense-free, i've got to have clean hair, after all--i found a scrap of paper in my travel case. it's a photocopy of a page from a daily devotional--i don't even know which one--that a friend gave me months ago, and i have no idea how it ended up folded up next to my travel-sized toothpaste. but this will be my prayer for my days away:

O eternal God, though Thou art not such as I can see with my eyes or touch with my hands, yet grant me this day a clear conviction of Thy reality and power. Let me not go forth to my work believing only in the world of sense and time, but give me grace to understand that the world I cannot see or touch is the most real world of all. My life to-day will be lived in time, but eternal issues will be concerned in it. The needs of my body will be clamant, but it is for the needs of my soul that I must care most. My business will be with things material, but behind them let me be aware of things spiritual. Let me keep steadily in mind that the things that matter are not money or possessions, not houses or lands, not bodily comfort or bodily pleasure; but truth and honour and meekness and helpfulness and a pure love of Thyself.

For the power Thou hast given me to lay hold of things unseen:
For the strong sense I have that this is not my home:
For my restless heart which nothing finite can satisfy:
I give Thee thanks, O God.
For the invasion of my soul by Thy Holy Spirit:
For all human love and goodness that speak to me of Thee:
For the fullness of Thy glory outpoured in Jesus Christ:
I give Thee thanks, O God.

I, a pilgrim of eternity, stand before Thee, O eternal One. Let me not seek to deaden or destroy the desire for Thee that disturbs my heart. Let me rather yield myself to its constraint and go where it leads me. Make me wise to see all things to-day under the form of eternity, and make me brave to face all the changes in my life which
such a vision may entail: through the grace of Christ my Savior. Amen.

left behind

it is the nail file on the windowsill near my seat at the kitchen table that gets me thinking about it. this is the only evidence that remains of my once-upon-a-time-successful attempt to stop biting my nails. but it's proof, solid and real, of something that once was, and not too long ago, too. one look at my hands tells the rest of the story, of the eventual demise of this attempt. but the evidence remains: i once needed to file my nails.

sunscreen-greasy fingerprints on the glass door. a leaky water bottle on the couch. a wet bathing suit on the carpet. several books, overturned on open pages to mark his spot, strewn on the floor, the couch, the coffee table. yellow crocs by the front door. a wet bathtub motor boat. this is the evidence of a summer day in his world. were he not here now to tell the story of his day, one could gather the evidence: the pool, the library, a bath. evidence of a summer day.

but the evidence that she was here grows thinner with passing time. her photos still grace the walls, yes, and the bookcases and shelves, too. but the little-girl-sized hair tie i toss when i clean the bathroom, the stray sock i stash away when i clean under the bed, the lip balm--her scent, cherry mingled with menthol--i sniff and then ferret away in a trunk full of memories: these things, the evidence she left behind, dwindle and diminish daily. i no longer find white-blonde hairs tangled with my black ones in the comb i once shared with her. long-gone is the dish drainer that once held measuring devices and formula containers and syringes. the smells that were hers--that cherry-menthol lip balm, her aveeno baby soap, that indescribable scent that was her cheek; even the unpleasant smells of spit-up and stale formula and diapers and white vinegar for cleaning--are all evidence that she was here, evidence that has been slipping away.

when i put away that nail file, it doesn’t erase the fact that one day not too long ago i managed to stop biting my nails. nor does the nail file’s presence there do anything in the way of bringing those nails back, except to me, perhaps. i don’t like filing my nails, really, which is how one snag leads to one nibble which, inevitably, leads to the end of the whole experiment. nor did i like cleaning up her spit-up, changing her diapers, or tending to her mercilessly chapped lips. were those chores, those smells still here, it would not bring her back. were those hair ties no longer useless, those mate-less socks once again a reminder of laundry to be done and done and done, those syringes and vinegar waiting for one more round of sanitizing, it would not bring her any closer.

except to me, perhaps, a little bit.

between a rock and a hard place

as i see it, the two mutually exclusive options when it comes to matters of belief are certainty and doubt. these days, i'm choosing to cling to doubt.

the former assumes an absence of questions. according to the merriam webster online dictionary (oh, for the days when people turned the pages of an actual dictionary!), certainty is "a state of being free from doubt," and certitude tops a list of synonyms (more on that later). doubt, on the other hand, leaves open possibility. in a state of doubt, there are options: this or that may be. among other things, m.w. defines doubt as "a deliberate suspension of judgment." and a suspension of judgment further implies the possibility of un-suspension; that is, it is a temporary state. judgment is possible but is being withheld for the time being.

of course, in most any circumstances, certainty is preferable. i'd certainly rather be certain about my plans for next week or about what i'm making for dinner or about what time my upcoming meeting will end. unless, of course, those things about which i'm certain are not the certainties i'd prefer. if my plans for next week certainly include spending several days sick in bed, i'd prefer to live with some doubt in the interim. if the dinner i'm making will certainly turn out badly, i'd rather not know for sure before i start cooking. and if my meeting will certainly last several hours, well, i'll choose to remain in the dark until then.

but to go to said meeting, to perpetuate the example for a moment, uncertain of the length (as i might say to sam: "i doubt it will last too long") leaves room for possibilities: it is possible that this meeting will last several hours, but it is also possible that it will move quickly and efficiently. though i might have little hope of the latter and even perhaps expect the former, i can retain some hope for a brief meeting as long as i'm not certain of the outcome. so, although i'd rather not live with doubt, in this case, i'll choose to cling to doubt as a window into possibility.

such is the case with questions of belief, i think. certainty--or perhaps certitude, which, as m.w. suggests, connotes "a faith in something not needing or not capable of proof"--is preferable for sure, as long as the fact of which you are certain is the result you would prefer. to return to my simple example, if i can be certain that my meeting will last only half an hour, then i'll take certainty over doubt for sure. but if, on the other hand, the only certainty i can imagine is that it will last three hours, then i'll choose to retain my doubt--and thus my hope--as to how long it will or will not last. as for more important questions of belief, then, if the only certainty i can imagine at a specific point in time, for whatever reason, is not a pleasant choice or the result that i would prefer, better then to choose doubt and its accompanying hope that the unpleasant certainty i can envision is in fact not the only possibility.

thus i find myself, between the rough, jagged-edged rock of doubt and the hard place of a certainty that is not what i'd choose. i'll cling to that rock and its hopeful possibilities though the hard place may tempt by its deceptively smooth firmness. though i curse the rock, i will suspend judgment as i remind myself of the challenges of the hard place, and, with the psalmist, i will continue to cry out: oh Lord, lead me to the rock that is higher than i.

more backseat tidbits

included in today's trip-to-the-libary commentary:

"mama, if half of seven is three and a half, what's half of seven and a half?"

and

"mama, if you tried to feed a dead person, would they just spit the food back out or something since their digestive system doesn't work anymore?"

and

"mama, the man in that car next to us is smoking a cigarette or something! keep the windows rolled up!"

and

"mama, why is there a security guard at the library? look, he has a gun! what is that for? in case someone tries to steal a book?"

i swear i'm not driving this kid around anymore.

ingredients

i have a friend who makes salads from recipes.

most women i know will admit to doing something as they do for no other reason than that it's the way their mothers always did it. for most of us, i think, there is more than one thing like that. and at the risk of sounding old-fashioned (which maybe, just maybe, i am sometimes), there's no better place than the kitchen to learn a woman's because-mom-does-it quirks.

my mom is a fabulous cook. and baker? whew! she can bake. even made my wedding cake (and my sister's, too):


(see it there on our fingers? cheesecake. three layers, decorated with fondant and roses. looked even better than it tasted, i'm told...but i wouldn't know, as this was all we got to eat of it. it was gone too fast.)

so of course, most of what i know about cooking comes from mom. i'm not necessarily talking about traditional family recipes, though we do have plenty of those: krepke and truffles and phyllo chicken and chocolate bags and macaroni salad are some of the favorites around here. but no; i'm talking more about why i store peanut butter and bread in the refrigerator (okay, i'll admit that i quit with the peanut butter when i realized how much easier it was to spread from the pantry). why do i freeze and then boil hot dogs? (unless sam is going to grill them, of course). why do i always tear--and never, never cut--lettuce? (well, because it doesn't turn brown at the edges that way). why do i never bother to sift powdered sugar, even when the recipe says to? use regular spoons instead of measuring spoons? never use anything but hellmann's real mayonnaise? and on and on. most of the reasons i cook what i do the way i do are simple: because that's how mom does it.

and as for my mom, well, she loves a salad. if you ask her which four foods she would choose if she could have nothing else to eat for her whole life (yes, we have had this conversation, and i'd take chocolate, potatoes, milk, and coke, if you must know), she'll answer watermelon (which i remember because it was a surprise to me), two other things i can't remember (but one of which may be chocolate or coffee), and salad (which i remember because it was not surprising at all).

so dinner simply does not happen at my parents' house without a salad. i recall eating dinner there once as an adult--once--when there was no salad. the dinner included several vegetables in addition to the usual main dish and bread or something, and as she prepared the dinner, mom asked, "do you think we need a salad, too?" i assured her that we didn't. so she didn't make one. when dad sat down to dinner, he was shocked. no salad? who has ever heard of a dinner without salad? my taking the blame just barely put off an uprising. (i don't think it has happened again.)

but mom doesn't make salads from recipes, at least none that i can remember. she makes great salads: all sorts of lettuces--even those bitter, spiky ones that i have to pick around--and whatever else she has on hand, plus homemade dressings (from a mix, but still, so much better than bottled). always, always ranch, especially if i'm home. but these are not recipe salads. who knew there were such things as recipe salads?

as i mentioned, my friend does.

any time we get together for dinner, this friend seems to be making a salad from a recipe. and a dressing recipe, too. i'm always in awe of these salads, with their strange ingredients like brown rice or nuts or fruits. sure, mom might chop up an apple or some grapes in a salad when they're in season, but that's not the same as a measured quantity of "tart apples, cut and cubed" or some such detail. my friend and i joke about it because i'm always so amazed that she makes salads from recipes. if i had to guess, i'd think her mom must make salads from recipes. or maybe she learned to cook from someone else...or maybe she got a salad cookbook (do those exist?) as a wedding gift and never looked back...anyhow, it's funny that i have a bookcase full of cookbooks, most well worn and dog-eared, but had never before met anyone who makes salads from recipes. i'll have to ask her where she got hers.

tonight, i made one of her recipe salads. brown rice, toasted pecans, tart apples, red bell pepper, red onion, celery, and chicken, with a dressing of cider vinegar, canola oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. (did i leave something out? i'd have to check the recipe.) our neighbors came over for dinner, neighbors who are dear friends on whom i can experiment with something life-altering and potentially disastrous like a recipe salad. so we had said recipe salad, which was really quite good, just like when my salad-recipe friend made it. and we had bread, which my neighbor brought.

but we also had another salad. a tossed salad, just like mom makes. with ranch dressing and balsamic vinaigrette from a mix. because you can't have dinner without a salad.

[a couple of postscripts: 1) yes, my friend--who is one of the few who make their way here to my blog with some regularity, i think--will be amused to be identified as my "salad-recipe friend", writer friend and walker friend and mom friend and potato-chip-eater friend and school friend and nearly-neighbor friend and all as she actually is, and 2) yes, i do look like i'm twelve years old in my wedding photo, though no, despite being just a baby, i was not quite that young.]

in case you were wondering

it was raining really hard. and he was really thirsty after church. so despite the fact that we were ready to trudge out there in the rain, luke decided we should delay the cemetery visit.

it's not so much a sigh of relief: this means that feeling in my stomach remains until another day.

back seat chatter

ask any mom: it's always in the car.

today, as we drove home from a birthday party, luke was discussing his snack options for when he got home. since he had, in the last two hours, consumed pizza, chips, candy, popsicles, cake, and ice cream (what a party!), the options were limited: carrot sticks, cereal, sandwich, etc. it was a reasonable enough discussion, and then it was over.

then a moment of silence.

then, "mama, since tomorrow's sunday, can we go to the grave where eliza is buried?"

it's always in the car.

i'm not sure what makes him think of her in the car--is it the empty seat next to him? the fact that he's no longer in charge of reporting vomiting incidents?--but on the rare occasion when eliza comes up, it's almost always in the car. and out of the blue, too.

i can't remember the last time we talked about eliza's grave. the last time luke was there was her birthday in january. honestly, neither sam nor i feel particularly compelled to go very often, either; i think we've each gone once in the months since january, and neither of us returned from the visit feeling much like we'd like to go back. so i have no clue where luke got the idea to go tomorrow, "because it's sunday."

but go we will, tomorrow. with flowers, because luke thought that was a good idea. in fact, he suggested we plant some seeds today so they would sprout in time, and if not by tomorrow, then by monday, he was sure. which would be an okay day for a visit, he thought, since eliza was buried on a monday.

i think we'll go tomorrow.