Saturday, August 23, 2014

Late-Breaking Baking



Our next-door neighbor observed her 86th birthday yesterday.  (In my opinion, she belongs in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the oldest senior citizen to singlehandedly mow her lawn with a push mower in the summer, and hand-shovel snow in the winter.) I baked her a small, dark chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and decorated it with edible pastel pink and lavender roses.

My husband and I knocked on her door without warning, and sang Happy Birthday to yoooou, Happy Birthday to yoooou, Happy Birthday dear Maaaaaargaret, Happy Birthday to YOU at the top of our lungs.  On the other side of the storm door, the birthday girl’s jaw dropped in surprise.  I felt a special kind of joy in delivering this musical, edible birthday greeting, especially since she was celebrating her big day alone.



While in the process of baking and decorating Margaret’s perky little beauty of a cake, I also made a larger one peppered with tiny neon fish sprinkles in honor of our weekend lake visitors: The Three Amigos.  This is the name our 13-year-old grandson and two buddies have given themselves. They hope to catch fish for tomorrow’s lunch, but if the fish don’t do their part and take the bait, I figure at least they will have a fishy cake.





Earlier this morning I mixed up a batch of yeast dough. At 11:00 The Three Amigos took a break from aggressive tubing (think body-slamming) to inhale soft, squishy, gooey, fresh-out-of-the-oven cinnamon rolls. I had to laugh as they affirmed their piggish delight with lusty grunts that I think translated into ecstasy. I told them bravo for the feedback - that such animated verbal affirmation is good motivation for the cook, and if they wanted more food, they should keep the compliments coming.  A rousing chorus of blissful groans followed.











Friday, August 22, 2014

Revisiting Camp



I sniffed the air, inhaling the past.  I smelled Girl Scout camp. 

Not literally the camp I attended when a child.  It no longer exists, having become a nature preserve open to the general public. Rather, as I walked half a mile from our house and passed our neighbors’ shed housing three mini horses, I caught musty, sun-dried scents that sent me back fifty-some years. 

I was transported back to the euphoria of running with a pack of friends through pungent fields and perfumed pine forests - to the magical smell of dusty horses as they munched aromatic hay from a rusty rack - to the refreshment of lush green things flourishing in the wild, despite shade from trees.  Back to camp.

The moment was fleeting, but intense.  I closed my eyes and savored this connection with another time.  How can memories remain sealed away in some forgotten closet for years, then burst out of hiding when called forth by sensory triggers?  I don’t know.  They're most certainly gifts, links that tie life together.






Thursday, August 21, 2014

Play Date



Yesterday I was the boat driver as thirteen-year-old Molly crouched in the water with the towrope in hand.  Her parents and sister sat next to me to witness her first attempt at wakeboarding. 

Grampa stood in the water next to Molly, helping her maintain a good start-up position.  He yelled, “Hit it!” and I pushed the throttle.

Molly popped up and rode the board halfway around the lake, a first-time success unrealized by any other lake guest in our past!  Usually it takes multiple times for someone just to get up, and beginner runs are often short-lived. Back at the pier, we celebrated with accolades and congratulatory cheers – a memory-making event she will probably remember the rest of her life.

When you factor in multiple tube and kneeboard rides, and dinner on the deck with peanut-studded ice cream drumsticks for the girls' dessert, it was a storybook day at the lake with our friends and their twin daughters. 




Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Launching the Day




I woke up this morning fuzzy-headed, aware only that dawn must be breaking. My man was stirring about, getting ready for a marathon day of fishing.  Our squishy pillow-top mattress cover soon convinced me to burrow in, to stay put. 

A couple of hours later I rose from the soft squirrel nest to a quiet house, still lake, and gray cloud-covered sky.  I lit my prayer candle, but rogue thoughts seemed hyperactive, tramping off in all directions like insistent scouts intent on exposing and developing the wild outposts of untamed inner space. I knew calling them back would take more than coaxing, more than sweet talk.  These were seriously aggressive thoughts, the clamoring kind that wear warlike face paint. The conquering kind that like to stake claim and hold their ground.

The candle blazed.  I studied its flicker, its shadow dancing on the wall.



Minutes waltzed by.  Reprobate thoughts splintered again and again, preventing focus and a clean slate for the new day. I needed a reset button. 

The beeswax candle patiently dripped its melted wax, gradually summoning me into the present moment one slow dribble at a time.  Its flame seemed animated and inviting: let go, become like a child.  Accept.  Expect.  Give thanks for the gift of life. Refuse to limit the scope of things.  Be overcome with awe, wonder, fascination, and hope. BE GRATEFUL.

Slowly, mental fog seemed to melt away.  Gratitude would parent whatever other goodness, whatever virtue, might come forth in this day.  I prayed that gratitude might become prominent, that everything else might take a back seat. I prayed for our friends' son who lay on the brain surgeon's table at that very moment, and I prayed for mercy. As the sun momentarily peeked out from behind the sky’s cloudy cloak and bathed the world in light, wayward thoughts and emotions retreated into the dark corner from whence they’d come.

I blew out the candle and said goodbye to those sabotaging vagrants. Now the day could begin in earnest.









Monday, August 18, 2014

Diamonds on Water



Another lifetime ago I was a child wandering through idyllic, endless summer days.  I was given very few responsibilities at the lake, and there were no young playmates nearby.  As a result, I enjoyed plenty of precious time – hours upon hours for discovery and contemplation. 

The lake had many moods, many personalities.  I loved them all: lazy, busy, angry, sleepy, friendly.  But most of all, the lake was always accessible. Constant. Honest. Loyal.  Steadfast.  Faithful.  I needed a best friend, and the lake agreed to be just that.

We played together for hours every day.  Sometimes I jumped into sun-struck waves, tumbling and rolling in unison with them.  Other days I submerged myself in silky calmness and stirred mirrored clouds with my finger, surrounded by serenity. 

The lake introduced me to countless friends, our neighbors in the shallows: live clams and snails, beautiful rocks and curious fossils. It taught me to rely on misty sunrises over the swamp, and vibrant sunsets that splattered over the water like spilled paint.

I relished the power of the wind in my face as storms rolled across the lake from the northwest, pushing white caps until they smacked our seawall and exploded into millions of flying droplets.  Then as lightning and thunder receded, absolute peace fell heavy in the stillness of the aftermath.  Surely this place was hope personified, a taste of heaven.

In those days, I used to think the sun poured diamonds on the water – that it spilled the contents of a huge treasure chest at noon to fill the lake with light, and dripped a trail of leftovers to create a sparkly royal carpet come evening.  Sometimes, like today, I still do.







Sunday, August 17, 2014

Akathist of Thanksgiving



(Note: This post is a companion to one written on 8-14-14 entitled Perspective, and is an attempt to record my focus in response to brain cancer surgery scheduled for our friends' adult son on 8-19-14.)

* * *

I am introspective this evening, pensive in an absorbed sort of way that leans toward brooding. Friends are sitting in their own living room in this same exact moment, perhaps sipping a cup of decaf and chatting quietly, or preparing for bed. Honestly, I wonder if they feel like they are dangling - killing time while suspended in it - as they wait until tomorrow to travel several hours to the brain surgeon who will perform surgery.

We cannot know the outcome in advance, and yet I need to grasp something truly solid. I open the drawer of my desk, and a copy of the Akathist of Thanksgiving stares back at me.

The Akathist of Thanksgiving was initially written in Russia in 1934, a poetic hymn of praise that came to public attention through a prisoner who died in a Soviet prison camp in the 1940s. In 1986 an English text was added, as well as congregational singing.

The following are lightly paraphrased excerpts from the Akathist of Thanksgiving that lend perspective to any and every day, but especially a day like today.  The antidote to fear is faith - trust in, and worship of, Almighty God for his providential hand in every moment on planet earth, even (or especially) stomach-churning experiences like this. The Akathist reminds me to praise and thank Him not so much for this bewildering, frightening circumstance, but for His overwhelming love for mankind, His involvement with His own in every situation, and His promise to redeem sorrow and suffering. 

Redemption is present tense, I tell myself. It is happening NOW. My part is to simply ask for mercy and leave the rest to Him.

Lord, have mercy.

* * *

Glory to You for every sigh of my sadness, every moment of joy.  Glory to You for the fragrant lilies of the valley and the roses, and the morning dew shining like diamonds. I kiss reverently the footprints of Your invisible tread.

Glory to You for providential encounters with people, the love of relatives, the devotion of friends.  Glory to You for the genius of the human mind.  Glory to You for the last rays of sunlight, for rest and the gift of sleep. 

Glory to You Who have broken the spirits of darkness. Glory to You for our tireless thirst for You.

Glory to You Who grant our wishes when they are good, and glory to You Who destroy our plans when they are useless.  Glory to You for Whom there is no such thing as a hopeless loss. Glory to You Who send failures and sorrows to us as teachers. Glory to You Who have raised love higher than anything on earth or heaven.

Glory to You for providential coincidences.  Glory to You for guidance from a secret inner voice, for revelations when both dreaming and awake. Glory to You Who humble our proudness of heart and save us.

Glory to You for raising up Your Church as a refuge of peace for an exhausted world. Glory to You for restoring purity like that of immaculate lilies to those who repent. Glory to You, inexhaustible abyss of forgiveness, for leading us to heaven, for loving us with immeasurable, deep, divine love. Glory to You for the unfathomable, life-giving power of grace.

Glory to You Who have surrounded us with light, and with hosts of angels and saints. Glory to You, all Holy Father, all Holy Son, all Holy Spirit. Glory to You for everything, O Divine Trinity, all bountiful, unto ages of ages. 

-excerpts from The Akathist of Thanksgiving



Saturday, August 16, 2014

The Spark



A new book arrived yesterday in the mail: The Spark, by Kristine Barnett. I already felt some kinship -  Kristine’s younger sister Stephanie, a gifted artist studying art at our local university, worked for me as an amazingly creative cake decorator in my bakery in the 90’s.  Stephanie was incredibly proficient and always dependable.  She consistently motivated her co-workers, respectfully served our patrons, and made a special effort to encourage me.  She also seemed to understand and celebrate something I needed: hope.  From what I'd heard, it seemed Kristine shared her sister’s hard-working, optimistic approach to life.  Naturally I was drawn to explore The Spark.

I began reading with a casual but interested mindset, knowing I was going to learn about Kristine’s journey with Jacob, her autistic son.  However, before long I was swept into deep waters by the compelling nature of her story, and her honest and artful telling of it.  Simply put, I couldn’t put the book down.  I finished it today, all 257 pages. 

The Spark is the story of a busy mother who operates a daycare center and after-hour program for special needs children in her home, a mother who searches beyond trained professionals, even into the depths of her own intuition, in order to rescue her young autistic son before it is too late.  This is the story of a mother who embraces overwhelming struggle to fight her way through complicated parenting issues, crippling financial loss, and a crisis with her own health: a stroke.  This is a story of a mother whose stubborn love and relish for life – the kind of sacrificial, other-centered, hard-working, creative life she and Stephanie learned at the hand of Amish grandparents when they were children – lifts her above many obstacles that might daunt others.  In reality, she forges ahead to shine like a beacon in the community, founding a center for autistic children and their families.  It is an inspirational, captivating story.

Kristine invites readers to accompany her during the first fifteen years of her son Jake’s life. First Jake is issued an early autistic prognosis: “he will never speak.”  His life is controlled by a rigorous schedule of special ed classes and additional therapies.  Then in a rash but carefully calculated moment of clarity, Kristing ditches the schedule, enabling Jake to emerge and develop an identity as a brilliant child prodigy.  Because of Kristine’s persistent belief in him, and her insistence in helping him find and develop his own unique spark (which also means leaving behind trained professionals and following an uncharted course), he is unleashed from his autistic cage.  He enrolls in college courses as a 10-year-old, and soon tutors students twice his age.  At the writing of the book, Jake is 15 and considered among the world’s most prominent physicists.  A Nobel Prize potentially awaits him.

But there is so much more to Kristine’s tale than the story of Jake’s miraculous overcoming.  It is a story to inspire parents of young children everywhere, in all walks of life – parents raising typical children, and those who are not-so-typical.  Kristine’s principle, one now recognized by admiring therapists and teachers sprinkled across the globe, applies in every case: trust a young child to show you his passions (before he learns he’s supposed to please you and cram himself into a mold), and he will show you his own unique path in life.  The parent’s job becomes advocacy – enabling and supporting him to go for it.   

In her postscript to The Spark, Kristine says this:  “If you fuel a child’s innate spark, it will always point the way to far greater heights than you could ever have imagined.  It’s hard to trust your child to find his or her own path, especially when we’re told every day by professionals that children must fit into rigid boxes. We all want to give our kids the best opportunities we can, which is why it feels like such a disservice if we don’t push them in the “right” direction.  Celebrating your children’s passions rather than redirecting them, especially when those passions don’t line up neatly with a checklist for future success, can feel like jumping off a cliff.  It certainly did for me.  But that leap of faith is necessary if your kids are going to fly.”

Reading The Spark has inspired me, as a grandmother, to study my ten (soon to be eleven) grandchildren more closely – to respect them as individuals with gifts and passions that need to be recognized and nurtured.  A special needs grandson with a chromosomal deletion runs with our herd, and I have to wonder if his early interest in lines, and more recent interest in shadows, could actually be a port to another realm.  Perhaps this is where we can come alongside and share the reality that is uniquely his.  Perhaps in the process we might also foster his potential and set him free to be himself.