For George Gableman 1919-2010
My ninety-four year old maternal grandfather died on January 1, 2010, Mary's Day. We drove through two giant snow storms on curvy Appalachian roads to bury him. I got to the funeral home after an eight hour drive with three children under the age of seven.
Grandfather's casket was closed. A giant batch of red roses lay on top. He and I were all alone in the room.
I laid my exhausted head on his coffin.
"My friend, you have gone and left me here all alone."
I'd never called Grandpa my "friend" before. The new name felt strange and odd. Instantly, I realized that the new title fit. We were sixty years apart in age, but we were still dear friends in Christ.
Grandpa was the one who was always happy to hear about the conception of a new great-grandchild. Grandpa had endless appreciation for my husband and endless respect for my work as a stay-at-home mother. Grandpa answered every phone call with "Hi Ab, What can I do for you?"
Grandpa sent us money for a car seat for our first child. He lent a Cosco card for diaper runs for baby number two. But the past four years, I only need happy chats with a cheerful Christian grandfather. His intangible gifts of faith and hope and unconditional love were beautiful as I moved father from the path of worldly success and acknowledgment.
Now, my friend was dead.
I am left here all alone.
I laid my head on the casket, and the sense of loneliness welled up from my soul.
I'm alone. I'm the last Christian in my family.
When I was a little girl, my Grandpa and my Grandma were the two people who made sure that I was baptized as a three month old infant. My parents were in graduate school and had stopped attending church. My grandparents made sure that I got an infant baptism in the Methodist Church where they faithfully attended Sunday Service for the past 55 years. My parents were married in that church. I wore my paternal grandmother's silk baptismal gown, and got baptized on March 30, 1973.
How do you thank someone for insuring that you became a Child of God?
As a child, I had many strong Christians in my family. Everyone was Methodist. My Grandfather, both my Grandmothers, and three of my Great-Aunts. These people wore Christ deep in their bones. It was faith deepened with struggle, the Great Depression, World War II, Infertility and the threat of Nuclear War in the 1950s. You went to Church. You prayed to God. You helped others. You tried to live a Good Life. These were the similar rules that colored each of their individual lives.
I grow up, a girl with a Carmelite soul, under the steady presence of these gentle prayer giants, like a sapling under a grove of oak trees. One by one each of these family members of have died, peaceful, happy deaths.
Grandpa was the last Christian to die.
Beside his coffin, I suddenly looked around and realized I'm only one who still believes in God. Each one of my siblings, each one of my cousins, each of my parents, each of my many uncles and aunts, each one got that precious light of Christ at baptism. Yet, all of their candles have all burned out. Everyone's faith is gone.
It's unexpected. It's unexplainable.
Why am I left?
Why did I get the added gift of the Holy Eucharist, and Confession and deep understanding of the mysterious of the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony? Rather than a frail, flickering candle in the wind, as a new Catholic, my faith is fed daily with an amount of Divine Power that I'm only beginning to understand.
I put my tired head on Grandpa's coffin and cried.
Suddenly and automatically, like some deep reflex, I started to pray both for Grandpa and to him. We had an easy conversation through Christ, as simple as chatting over the phone.
I gave thanks that my Grandpa finished his race. Over Christmas I visited him in the hospital. Grandpa had lost his wife, he'd lost his teeth, he'd lost his ability to go to the bathroom by himself. Yet this formerly fiercely independent man had no complaints. He was as docile and happy as a child.
In that bare hospital room, I pulled out a Methodist Hymnal. Jon and I and Grandpa sang Christmas Carol after Christmas Carol. In the days that he was in the hospital, the stress of not sleeping made him lose most of his memory. He forgot who I was. But it didn't matter. All the choruses of those beloved hymns were still in his heart.
My grandfather spent 70 years singing as a baritone in the United Methodist Men's Choir. For the last two years of his life, he appeared half an hour early in his living nursing home, wearing a shirt and tie, ready for my father to take him to Adult Sunday School. All of those songs, all of that faith, it was all in his heart. He welcomed the Christ Child with great joy at age 94.
Back in the funeral home, chatting over the Jesus prayer hotline, I told my Grandpa to pray for me. I wasn't sure I was going make it to the end of my life, the way he did.
Then after praying, I helped carry his coffin outside. We had an outside grave site service in January. I played the clarinet Grandpa bought me in 5th grade. Then I sang "How Can I Keep From Singing."
I didn't realize how much my family had become fallen away Christians, until I attended my Grandpa's funeral. There faces were so hardened against any talk of the resurrection. It's a fairy tale to them. I felt a little uneasy. Things felt flipped around. It felt like the dead people were the ones who were walking on top of the graveyard, while the vibrant, living souls were resting comfortably underneath.
It's not the easiest time to remember your clarinet fingers when you mind is constantly struck by how much your family members resemble spiritual zombies.
Then my kids got up and sang "this little light of mine." Well, Hannah my future nun sang happily and loudly. My son Alex walked off mid song and the baby Maria buried her freezing face into her coat hood.
I don't know why I got the only gift of living faith. Yet I'm grateful that I now live in a vibrant community of Catholics. I'm a wife of a strong Catholic man and the mother of strong Catholic children.
My job is to keep passing on my faith and pray valiantly for all of my dear family.
For Grandpa George: Thank you for the gift of a good singing voice and also teaching me to know who I'm singing the hymns to each Sunday
How Can I Keep From Singing?
My life flows on in endless song,
Above earth's lamentation
I hear the real though far off hymn
That hails a new creation
No Storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Prayer TIme: Giving God a Worthless Metal Band
It's a divine joke that God has called me to be a Carmelite.
I'm horrible at prayer.
I can't sit still. I fidget. I fret. I daydream. I think about stain removal strategies in my laundry. I hate doing the laundry, so that fact that I would rather clean clothes than sit completely still in one place cleansing my soul with the Creator of the Universe says something.
If I were handing out assignments for Miss Abigail, I would have given myself something epic and noble and flashy, such as feeding Haitian refugees, being a CCD teacher to non-native English speakers, or heck, even embroidering Alter cloths.
Instead, I got something else.
Something hidden. Something humble. Something hard.
My job is to go to Daily Mass when I can, pray the Divine Office, and then sit perfectly still for half and hour each day praying the "prayer of the quiet." Of course, my marriage and children come first. Yet the pattern for most days, as a Secular Carmelite, is to set apart a quiet time to recollect myself and get in touch with the Divine.
My husband has a quiet, introspective and calm temperament. Recollection of the faculties comes easily to him. (His first name matches the most contemplative Evangelist and the prayer giant, "St. John of the Cross" for a reason.)
Every night we pray side by side like two badly matched bookends.
My husband pulls down his Divine Office with joy. His feet are motionless. He calmly flips a practiced finger through the multiple pages of prayer. He looks likes someone made to pray each and every day.
I, meanwhile, become restless and agitated. My feet fall asleep and twitch. My knees hurt. I review a long "to do list." I imagine that I hear a sleeping baby calling "Mama!" During our time for prayer of the quiet, I frequently get up to check the kitchen timer "how much longer???"
Every day, it's still a hard battle to pray.
Thankfully, Saint Teresa of Avila, the founder of the Discalced Carmelite order, had a chatty, restless, sanguine personality like me. She left very explicit instructions on how to pray, precisely because she found it so difficult.
One of her metaphors has given me fortitude in my prayer life.
Saint Teresa writes think of God as a bridegroom who gives his bride many gifts. She has land and clothes and fancy bracelets on her wrists. And in return, the bride gives her groom a small metal band as a wedding ring. The gift isn't valuable in itself, and certainly a pales in comparison to the wealth of riches she's received as wedding gifts from her bridegroom. Yet a wedding ring is still treasured all the same, it serves as a symbol of the bride's faithfulness.
That image of a worthless metal band has helped me fortitude in my prayer life.
My thirty minutes of distracted, restless prayer time can certainly seem worthless from the outside. My prayers, however, are a sign of my faithfulness to God. Good or bad, rich or poor, my daily prayer time is more than a collection individual insights gained. My daily prayer time is an outward sign that I'm "God's girl for life."
It's a teeny, almost worthless act. Yet I know that my daily fight to pray is a gift that is received with great joy.
I'm horrible at prayer.
I can't sit still. I fidget. I fret. I daydream. I think about stain removal strategies in my laundry. I hate doing the laundry, so that fact that I would rather clean clothes than sit completely still in one place cleansing my soul with the Creator of the Universe says something.
If I were handing out assignments for Miss Abigail, I would have given myself something epic and noble and flashy, such as feeding Haitian refugees, being a CCD teacher to non-native English speakers, or heck, even embroidering Alter cloths.
Instead, I got something else.
Something hidden. Something humble. Something hard.
My job is to go to Daily Mass when I can, pray the Divine Office, and then sit perfectly still for half and hour each day praying the "prayer of the quiet." Of course, my marriage and children come first. Yet the pattern for most days, as a Secular Carmelite, is to set apart a quiet time to recollect myself and get in touch with the Divine.
My husband has a quiet, introspective and calm temperament. Recollection of the faculties comes easily to him. (His first name matches the most contemplative Evangelist and the prayer giant, "St. John of the Cross" for a reason.)
Every night we pray side by side like two badly matched bookends.
My husband pulls down his Divine Office with joy. His feet are motionless. He calmly flips a practiced finger through the multiple pages of prayer. He looks likes someone made to pray each and every day.
I, meanwhile, become restless and agitated. My feet fall asleep and twitch. My knees hurt. I review a long "to do list." I imagine that I hear a sleeping baby calling "Mama!" During our time for prayer of the quiet, I frequently get up to check the kitchen timer "how much longer???"
Every day, it's still a hard battle to pray.
Thankfully, Saint Teresa of Avila, the founder of the Discalced Carmelite order, had a chatty, restless, sanguine personality like me. She left very explicit instructions on how to pray, precisely because she found it so difficult.
One of her metaphors has given me fortitude in my prayer life.
Saint Teresa writes think of God as a bridegroom who gives his bride many gifts. She has land and clothes and fancy bracelets on her wrists. And in return, the bride gives her groom a small metal band as a wedding ring. The gift isn't valuable in itself, and certainly a pales in comparison to the wealth of riches she's received as wedding gifts from her bridegroom. Yet a wedding ring is still treasured all the same, it serves as a symbol of the bride's faithfulness.
That image of a worthless metal band has helped me fortitude in my prayer life.
My thirty minutes of distracted, restless prayer time can certainly seem worthless from the outside. My prayers, however, are a sign of my faithfulness to God. Good or bad, rich or poor, my daily prayer time is more than a collection individual insights gained. My daily prayer time is an outward sign that I'm "God's girl for life."
It's a teeny, almost worthless act. Yet I know that my daily fight to pray is a gift that is received with great joy.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Joy of Being A Non-Medal of Honor Winner
Currently, I'm in the incredibly sexy place of Catholic formation called "tumor removal treatment". Actually, the phase is called "the removal of deeply rooted venial sins," however, that is much too gentle and polite a term to describe my daily life.
As a former Protestant deprived of the grace of the Sacrament of Confession from ages 7 to 27, those pesky sins of vanity and pride have calcified into these giant, three foot wide tumors on the side of my neck. That's a spiritual metaphor, of course. In real life, my neck looks fine. But those hardened bad habits are still there interfering with every interaction I have with God and with Man.
My treatment for vanity has been these painful, humiliating interactions with others that leave me feeling like my beloved physician Jesus has scraped off a few layers of living tumor cells with a cheese grater. I've come home from embarrassing encounters with neighbors to tell my beloved husband, Jon, through tears "at least I had an opportunity to chop off a little more of my vanity."
The process of losing my vanity- sucks!
The benefit, however, is that sometimes I get to see how much I have progressed on this journey of faith.
Last week I had a normal Mom moment of refolding clean little boy clothes (Alex has graduated to dressing himself for outside snow adventures but somehow always manages to leave the entire content of his dresser drawer on my bedroom floor) when I realized "I will never get a Smith Medal of Honor for this!"
And for the first time, rather than get depressed, or rail on the current state of my Alma Mater, that thought made me laugh!
My "elite" women's college hands out five Medals of Honor to alumna in February. Smith being Smith, the net is cast pretty wide. We've honored have female economic advisers to Presidents, and brilliant play writes, newspaper reporters, scientists, community organizers. You could win a Medal of Honor by becoming a Justice on the Federal Court of Appeals, or saving historic buildings in NYC or even carving decorative masks from African hardwoods. You can pretty much do anything your heart desired and as long as you made a "substantial difference in the world" there was a chance Smith College would call you back as a "Golden Daughter" and crown you with mass approval and thanksgiving.
(Oh, the hours I wasted in college scheming about how to receive a Smith Medal of Honor.)
With such a diverse and open-hearted view of the contributions of talented females, the ONLY achievement that is certain to NEVER receive notice from Smith College, happens to be my daily goal, being a good wife and mother.
This irony strikes my funny bone, because the one thing in my life that I know makes a cosmic difference in the world for now and eternity, is the my vocation as a wife and mother.
It feels good to be slightly weaned off the "I want my old college to approve of me" trap. I get so many "That a girl!" and "Thank Yous" and "YOU ARE SO IMPORTANT" from the Holy Spirit each and every day, that I'm happy to remain a Non-Medal of Honor Winner my whole life.
As a former Protestant deprived of the grace of the Sacrament of Confession from ages 7 to 27, those pesky sins of vanity and pride have calcified into these giant, three foot wide tumors on the side of my neck. That's a spiritual metaphor, of course. In real life, my neck looks fine. But those hardened bad habits are still there interfering with every interaction I have with God and with Man.
My treatment for vanity has been these painful, humiliating interactions with others that leave me feeling like my beloved physician Jesus has scraped off a few layers of living tumor cells with a cheese grater. I've come home from embarrassing encounters with neighbors to tell my beloved husband, Jon, through tears "at least I had an opportunity to chop off a little more of my vanity."
The process of losing my vanity- sucks!
The benefit, however, is that sometimes I get to see how much I have progressed on this journey of faith.
Last week I had a normal Mom moment of refolding clean little boy clothes (Alex has graduated to dressing himself for outside snow adventures but somehow always manages to leave the entire content of his dresser drawer on my bedroom floor) when I realized "I will never get a Smith Medal of Honor for this!"
And for the first time, rather than get depressed, or rail on the current state of my Alma Mater, that thought made me laugh!
My "elite" women's college hands out five Medals of Honor to alumna in February. Smith being Smith, the net is cast pretty wide. We've honored have female economic advisers to Presidents, and brilliant play writes, newspaper reporters, scientists, community organizers. You could win a Medal of Honor by becoming a Justice on the Federal Court of Appeals, or saving historic buildings in NYC or even carving decorative masks from African hardwoods. You can pretty much do anything your heart desired and as long as you made a "substantial difference in the world" there was a chance Smith College would call you back as a "Golden Daughter" and crown you with mass approval and thanksgiving.
(Oh, the hours I wasted in college scheming about how to receive a Smith Medal of Honor.)
With such a diverse and open-hearted view of the contributions of talented females, the ONLY achievement that is certain to NEVER receive notice from Smith College, happens to be my daily goal, being a good wife and mother.
This irony strikes my funny bone, because the one thing in my life that I know makes a cosmic difference in the world for now and eternity, is the my vocation as a wife and mother.
It feels good to be slightly weaned off the "I want my old college to approve of me" trap. I get so many "That a girl!" and "Thank Yous" and "YOU ARE SO IMPORTANT" from the Holy Spirit each and every day, that I'm happy to remain a Non-Medal of Honor Winner my whole life.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Praying Through the Human Condition
Welcome back!
Many exciting things have happened since my blog fast.
In November, my husband and I received our Brown Scapular. We are now official members of the Third Order Carmelites. I'll have to post a picture of the happy day, because it ranks right up there with marriage and child birth as a life changing event. One of my dear seminarian friends got to be there for my Profession Mass. He and I were jumping with joy during the Mass. The love between Carmelites and priests, even future priests, is so deep and so dear.
The priest who did our investitures was so sweet. He told me "don't give up praying now" as he put on my scapular. I held my toddler Mimi during my whole Profession, since she was not about sit quietly in the pew without Mom or Dad. Rather than being a distraction, her presence was a joy. Father joked "where's her scapular?" after he had invested both Jon and I. I had tears of happiness when we were announced as the "Catholic Church's newest people" of prayer after our final vows. I can't think of a more honorable way to serve this Church that I love so much.
We sailed through a smooth Advent. I got my prayers routine down pat. Didn't overspend on Christmas presents. Whipped up a seven course seafood dinner without notice when Christmas Eve handed my mother a family emergency.
I turned a happy 35 on December 31st.
On Mary's Day, January 1st, I found out that I'm pregnant. Our dearest prayer for two years has come true. I told my Carmel group that this was a Carmel baby. We'd had no luck conceiving for two years. Yet as soon as I got my Brown Scapular, everything came together again.
So pray for me and the newest Benjamin baby.
HA HA about my great prayer routine. Morning sickness has struck me hard over the last three weeks. Instead of deep mystical prayer experiences, I now spend my daily half and hour, moaning on my bed uniting myself with every time Jesus experienced the stomach flu during his 33 years on earth.
My prayer time is seriously pathetic. Sometimes I just sprawl out on the carpet in the morning and let Jon pray the beautiful words of Divine Office over me. We're one flesh so that still counts, right?
I asked advice from one of my Carmelite friends who is the mother of TEN. "How do you prayer with morning sickness?" She just laughed at me. "You just muddle through", Stephanie said sympathetically. "Jesus understands. It's part of praying through the human condition."
I wish all of you a happy time in our preparation before Lent. Keep praying through whatever is happening in your life. We weren't made to be angels. Our muddled and pathetic attempts at prayer are a part of our human condition.
Many exciting things have happened since my blog fast.
In November, my husband and I received our Brown Scapular. We are now official members of the Third Order Carmelites. I'll have to post a picture of the happy day, because it ranks right up there with marriage and child birth as a life changing event. One of my dear seminarian friends got to be there for my Profession Mass. He and I were jumping with joy during the Mass. The love between Carmelites and priests, even future priests, is so deep and so dear.
The priest who did our investitures was so sweet. He told me "don't give up praying now" as he put on my scapular. I held my toddler Mimi during my whole Profession, since she was not about sit quietly in the pew without Mom or Dad. Rather than being a distraction, her presence was a joy. Father joked "where's her scapular?" after he had invested both Jon and I. I had tears of happiness when we were announced as the "Catholic Church's newest people" of prayer after our final vows. I can't think of a more honorable way to serve this Church that I love so much.
We sailed through a smooth Advent. I got my prayers routine down pat. Didn't overspend on Christmas presents. Whipped up a seven course seafood dinner without notice when Christmas Eve handed my mother a family emergency.
I turned a happy 35 on December 31st.
On Mary's Day, January 1st, I found out that I'm pregnant. Our dearest prayer for two years has come true. I told my Carmel group that this was a Carmel baby. We'd had no luck conceiving for two years. Yet as soon as I got my Brown Scapular, everything came together again.
So pray for me and the newest Benjamin baby.
HA HA about my great prayer routine. Morning sickness has struck me hard over the last three weeks. Instead of deep mystical prayer experiences, I now spend my daily half and hour, moaning on my bed uniting myself with every time Jesus experienced the stomach flu during his 33 years on earth.
My prayer time is seriously pathetic. Sometimes I just sprawl out on the carpet in the morning and let Jon pray the beautiful words of Divine Office over me. We're one flesh so that still counts, right?
I asked advice from one of my Carmelite friends who is the mother of TEN. "How do you prayer with morning sickness?" She just laughed at me. "You just muddle through", Stephanie said sympathetically. "Jesus understands. It's part of praying through the human condition."
I wish all of you a happy time in our preparation before Lent. Keep praying through whatever is happening in your life. We weren't made to be angels. Our muddled and pathetic attempts at prayer are a part of our human condition.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Signing Off
I'm celebrating Pentecost Sunday by actually following one of my directives from the Holy Spirit. I'm stopping my blog.
It's so beautiful, actually. When I started this blog I felt like stay-at-home mothers were as rare as unicorns. I eagerly searched out fellow Catholic moms on remote corners of the Internet. Reading people's blogs and writing my own was an important part of staying sane in dramatically unfamiliar territory.
Two years later, I've finally have a Catholic home. I've got a home church and Carmel. My family chats regularly with priests and religious. There are Catholic home-schooling friends and neighborhood pals. So there are so many new friends and wonderful prayer thoughts to fill my day.
I don't know how long a "break" this will be. I'm no longer directing my own ship. I just know that I don't feel right blogging until I get more steady at my prayer life. (As a chatterbox, I find writing much easier and more enjoyable than doing my daily 1/2 hour of the prayer of the quiet. Until that passion gets flipped around, I'm going to radically detach from blogging.)
Lots of peace to everyone!
A special thank you to everyone who has read my thoughts over the past two years!
Remember, I'm working on becoming a true Carmelite. So if you have any prayer requests, please send me an email: abby_rupp@yahoo.com.
It's so beautiful, actually. When I started this blog I felt like stay-at-home mothers were as rare as unicorns. I eagerly searched out fellow Catholic moms on remote corners of the Internet. Reading people's blogs and writing my own was an important part of staying sane in dramatically unfamiliar territory.
Two years later, I've finally have a Catholic home. I've got a home church and Carmel. My family chats regularly with priests and religious. There are Catholic home-schooling friends and neighborhood pals. So there are so many new friends and wonderful prayer thoughts to fill my day.
I don't know how long a "break" this will be. I'm no longer directing my own ship. I just know that I don't feel right blogging until I get more steady at my prayer life. (As a chatterbox, I find writing much easier and more enjoyable than doing my daily 1/2 hour of the prayer of the quiet. Until that passion gets flipped around, I'm going to radically detach from blogging.)
Lots of peace to everyone!
A special thank you to everyone who has read my thoughts over the past two years!
Remember, I'm working on becoming a true Carmelite. So if you have any prayer requests, please send me an email: abby_rupp@yahoo.com.
Acquiring A Taste for Heavenly Bread
This morning I had one of those lovely "life comes full circle moments." My kids clamoured for leftover chocolate birthday cake for Breakfast this morning. After boring oatmeal, I portioned out the last slices from the cake with homemade frosting made by one of Jon's co-workers for his birthday yesterday. Soon we had three messy, chocolate covered faces bopping along to the Aussie band My Friend the Chocolate Cake.
"We're eating chocolate cake for breakfast while listening to My Friend the Chocolate Cake," I shouted happily.
That CD has languished in the back of non-played CD collection since Hannah's birth.It got freed during a massive Spring cleaning spurt recently.
I first heard this Melbourne band from my Aussie friend I met in Europe. We took an overnight ferry to Crete. (I did my study at the University of London on Modern Greek History and convinced my friend Christine that I NEEDED to see Kazantzakis homeland in person before I could write an inspired literary critique of his novels. She agreed to spend her Spring Break running around Greece with me. Writer friends are good like that.)
Even though we were in the beautiful setting, the ferry ride was awful. I had my heart smashed up by an American. Christine felt badly that she'd never been kissed. We were both in a sorry state without the sickening smell from the cigarette smoke from the Russians next to us. I borrowed her CD player and went up alone on the deck. I listened to the unfamiliar band, My Friend the Chocolate Cake, while feeling so lost and empty under the moon.
In 2000, I visited Christine in her homeland on the eve of her wedding. She married a lovely "lad", a music teacher. On the last night I spent in Australia, Christine ran out and bought me a CD of my favorite Aussie band.
That trip to Australia was the last trip I took without a certain new boyfriend. I missed him when I went to snorkeling at the Great Reef. I missed him as I contemplated Aboriginal Art in the Aussie National Gallery. Everything thing of beauty that I saw, felt a little diminished because I couldn't talk to him about it. "I'm never taking a trip without Jon again," I declared on the flight home. Three weeks later, Jon proposed!
So anyways, all these feelings came full circle this morning.
There I was listening to old, old music from a time in my life when I thought I was useless in love. This morning, I had a newly minted 37 year old husband at my side and three funny kids.
This the mark of my days now. There are no more trips to Australia or Greece. I don't have time email pictures to my foreign friends. Yet everyone sits together happily in my heart. Christ's peace felt a little "anti-climactic" at first. Now, however, I'm so joyful to be home.
God is good!
"We're eating chocolate cake for breakfast while listening to My Friend the Chocolate Cake," I shouted happily.
That CD has languished in the back of non-played CD collection since Hannah's birth.It got freed during a massive Spring cleaning spurt recently.
I first heard this Melbourne band from my Aussie friend I met in Europe. We took an overnight ferry to Crete. (I did my study at the University of London on Modern Greek History and convinced my friend Christine that I NEEDED to see Kazantzakis homeland in person before I could write an inspired literary critique of his novels. She agreed to spend her Spring Break running around Greece with me. Writer friends are good like that.)
Even though we were in the beautiful setting, the ferry ride was awful. I had my heart smashed up by an American. Christine felt badly that she'd never been kissed. We were both in a sorry state without the sickening smell from the cigarette smoke from the Russians next to us. I borrowed her CD player and went up alone on the deck. I listened to the unfamiliar band, My Friend the Chocolate Cake, while feeling so lost and empty under the moon.
In 2000, I visited Christine in her homeland on the eve of her wedding. She married a lovely "lad", a music teacher. On the last night I spent in Australia, Christine ran out and bought me a CD of my favorite Aussie band.
That trip to Australia was the last trip I took without a certain new boyfriend. I missed him when I went to snorkeling at the Great Reef. I missed him as I contemplated Aboriginal Art in the Aussie National Gallery. Everything thing of beauty that I saw, felt a little diminished because I couldn't talk to him about it. "I'm never taking a trip without Jon again," I declared on the flight home. Three weeks later, Jon proposed!
So anyways, all these feelings came full circle this morning.
There I was listening to old, old music from a time in my life when I thought I was useless in love. This morning, I had a newly minted 37 year old husband at my side and three funny kids.
This the mark of my days now. There are no more trips to Australia or Greece. I don't have time email pictures to my foreign friends. Yet everyone sits together happily in my heart. Christ's peace felt a little "anti-climactic" at first. Now, however, I'm so joyful to be home.
God is good!
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