Live and in Technicolor

I got up early this morning. It's my first day back to work after the summer, and I had planned to go in extra early to get a jump start on all that needs to be done to prepare for a new class full of second graders. We teachers have this week to get ready before students arrive and, of course, it's not really enough. So I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled my lead feet to the shower. It had already begun to rain hard outside, and while I was waking up under the warm water, the power went out, and I was instantly annoyed by the thought of having to finish bathing in the dark. I was relieved when the outage was only about a minute, but as I listened to the thunder and saw flashes of lightning, I sighed at the thought of a soggy, sloshy work day.

I went about the rest of my routine. Clothes, a little make-up, food, teeth, kisses for my just-waking husband. Grab purse and computer bag, don't forget to-go cup of morning fuel (a.k.a. coffee) search for keys, find keys, swing open front door . . .

I stopped in my tracks, right there on my front doorstep. Had both my hands not been full I might have rubbed my eyes. The rain had stopped, the thunder and lightning subsided, and the clouds had broken apart into big clumps allowing the early morning sun to penetrate. The result was astonishing to me. The grass in my front yard was so green it seemed electric. I wondered if it was possible that it had changed colors while I slept. The sky beyond was a shade of blue that must be reserved for very special cosmic occasions. The lingering clouds had a faint purple hue. Even the air seemed lit with color or brightness or something there's no word for, at least not in my vocabulary. There was just something. Something shining and tingly about the whole scene - the yard, the shrubs, the sky, the air, the blossoms on the trees - like something divine was breathed on the earth the moment before I opened the door.

I know right now I'm not describing the scene in a way that will truly translate into the right picture in my readers' minds. The closest thing I can think of is Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when she emerges from her farmhouse, filmed in a dingy black and white, after having been blown about the skies and dropped back down to the earth and then all is strangely quiet. Remember that moment when she pushes open the door and steps out into a world so full of color and wonder?

That's how I felt this morning. It seemed that everything I could see from my front door was more alive than ever, humming with the energy of creation, and bathed in super-technicolor.

I drove to work in a daze, winding through the roads of my neighborhood on the short trip to school. More electric green grass, more insanely blue sky, more sparkling air. I kept thinking, If I were working on some kind of magazine spread involving a photo of the grass and the sky, and it were up to me to adjust the tints and tones of all the colors, I would never choose these shades. I would say to myself, "This just isn't realistic. Grass isn't this green. The sky isn't this blue." But here they are.
I pulled into the parking lot already thanking God for the beauty of this world, determined that I would write this blog post sometime this evening. But as if all that wasn't enough, my God put the cherry on top, as He so often does, because when I gathered up my stuff and swung my legs around to get out of my van, I froze. Again. And this time I even gasped, out loud, all by myself, because right there in the sky before me was a fat rainbow. In technicolor. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. I could see them all. So I just sat back in the driver's seat with the door open, my eyes brimming with tears, praying, giving thanks, in awe of God's tremendous gifts and grace for me. I think I heard him whispering, See how much I love you? After all, wasn't it all just for me?

Okay, maybe not. But it was a gift, that's for certain, and I can't think of a better way to start this new school year, all glittery and bright and filled with color and wonder and love.

For Grandmother

Last weekend, my mother's side of our family gathered to remember my sweet grandmother, Estella Merle Reesor McLuhan, who passed away in June at the age of 90. She slipped away peacefully after languishing for a few days, during which my mother, her two brothers, and all their spouses gathered at her bedside and laughed, cried, and spent hours lovingly remembering their mother and the wonderful life she had lived. At the memorial service, several of her grandchildren shared comments and memories of our grandmother, using the well-known passage of Scripture that tells of the "woman of noble character". It's found in Proverbs 31, and it could have been written with Grandmother in mind. We divided the verses and took turns telling about how we saw them reflected in her life.

My sister and I shared following this portion of the passage: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness." (v.25-27)

This is what I wrote, and I'm still mulling it over in my mind as I return to the routine of my very full and busy life . . .

That last part of the scripture says, "She watches over the affairs of her household. She does not eat the bread of idleness." When I think about the way these words apply to our grandmother, I picture a circus tightrope walker, crossing with well-placed footsteps from one platform to the next on a tiny thread of a wire, deftly balancing all manner of props, and smiling in a way that makes it all look so completely effortless. But when I was a kid, Grandmother was just Grandmother, so the true awe-inspiring nature of the way she lived her life was sort of lost on me. It's only now, when I have the affairs of my own household to watch over, and when I'm faced with the oh-so-tempting aroma of freshly baked "bread of idleness" that I truly appreciate the way she embodied this scripture.

Don't get me wrong; I was no less enchanted by Grandmother than any of the rest of her grandchildren were. She was all these wonderful things they've already spoken about, and I, too, have memories of delicious meals and blueberry picking and card games and bedtime stories. I, too, was deeply impacted by her dedication to Granddaddy and their pure, genuine love for one another and their clear devotion to God and to the work and the life to which He had called them. But now, as the wife of a pastor and mother of three, I more fully understand the context for all those things. Looking back I realize that watching over the affairs of her household and not eating the bread of idleness didn't simply mean that Grandmother was perpetually busy. It meant that she was walking a tightrope, and each step was deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful. So when she was playing card games with her grandchildren, it wasn't because she had some spare time to sit down at the table. It was because she made time to sit down at the table. When she told us fascinating bedtime stories (like the one about the time she took out a crocodile with one shot while hunting in Africa) it was because she wanted to share her experiences with us. So even in the midst of her very full life as the wife of a minister and as the keeper of her home, she took us places and told us things and showed us stuff and gave us experiences . . . on purpose.

So now, when I close my eyes and picture Grandmother moving about her kitchen or playing the piano in Granddaddy's Sunday School class, or sitting across the fold-up card table laying down a red canasta, I'm a little bit like a kid at that circus, watching wide-eyed as this beautiful, sparkling, smiling woman joyfully performs her amazing feat . . . and I am genuinely dazzled by her.

And I'm paying close attention to the things I remember, because now . . . I'm right behind her on the tightrope.


I love you, Grandmother. I will see you again.

Members Only . . . I got the jacket.

This morning I was initiated into a very important club for real grown-up women. No little girls in this group. This is for those of us who have reached a certain age when, it seems, youth ends and something else begins, which I did back in March, but I'm not talking about the "Forty and Fabulous" club. That sounds goofy, anyway, and conjures images of mom jeans and fanny packs.

I'm talking about the millions of women worldwide who have had a mammogram. I don't have a catchy name for this very special club, but the wheels are turning in my mind, and hopefully I'll have a few working ideas by the end of this post.

So, yes, I'm official, and although I had braced myself for a largely negative experience, it really wasn't so bad at all. I left there thinking, "What's the big deal?" Of course, I have no frame of reference, so perhaps others' experiences are much more traumatic, in which case I am thankful I got it right the first time. Here are a few things I observed and reasons why I don't dread having to do it again in a year:

1.) The Technician - Simply put, she was fabulous. She greeted me warmly (and by that I mean she smiled sweetly. Had nothing to do with her hands.), and she looked me in the eye when she explained that I should change into scrubs and leave my stuff in a locker. She laughed good-naturedly and apologized when I had to step out into the hallway and let her know she had given me the wrong thing to change into. She patiently told me about the procedure she would follow for the actual mammogram, knowing I was a mammography neophyte. During the test itself, she was gentle but didn't let any grass grow under her feet. This is a true blessing, because no matter how positive the experience was, I was very interested in getting it over with. She was so good that I didn't feel the slightest bit awkward about the fact that she was literally handling two of my most private womanly parts, pulling and positioning them on the machine much like a butcher might arrange cuts of meat on a shiny silver scale. She encouraged me along the way, clearly understanding that it doesn't feel good at all, and she seemed genuinely concerned for my comfort. If every technician was like her, mammograms might not have such a bad rap.

2.) The Atmosphere - Yes, you read that correctly. The little room where I went to have this uncomfortable medical test performed had atmosphere. There were things done deliberately to inspire a sense of calm and a feeling of relaxation. Don't get me wrong, it is near impossible to relax when one's breast is being stretched and pressed like a Cuban sandwich, and I'm usually very relaxed around Cuban sandwiches. But I appreciated their effort to make things seem a lot less medical and a lot more peaceful and, well, female. The lights were dim, soothing spa-like music was playing, and I could hear the gentle sound of babbling water coming from an electric fountain on one side of the room. There was even a little dish of chocolates on the counter. If I had been able to smell eucalyptus and had been wearing less clothing, I'd have sworn I was there for a massage. I thought it was brilliant. I don't know if that's the norm for mammograms, but it should be.

3.) The Science - We got everything into place, and a small circle of light appeared. The technician said, "Hold right there," and I heard a quiet buzzing sound. And that was it. Three more of those and we were done. I know x-ray technology is old, and I've had plenty of dental x-rays and have taken my kids to have various x-rays over the years, but I'm still sort of amazed by it all. Honestly, to this day, even regular cameras are a marvel to me. I guess I'm just a little primitive in my thinking when it comes to technological advances. I don't understand how there are some kind of "rays" that travel through the air and through flesh and bone and take pictures of the inside of my body, and then those pictures can be captured on film or something digital and can be viewed like a painting. I know, I'm a nerd, but I'm fascinated by this stuff. Not fascinated in a way that makes me want to learn more about it and understand how it all works and what the scientific explanations are. To the contrary, I feel that it's somehow far beyond my ability to truly comprehend, so I'm perfectly happy not to. It's just really cool, that's all, and I'm thankful that there have been far more inquisitive minds than mine when it comes to science and technology. Now the rest of us can benefit from their accomplishments while hopefully coming up with something meaningful of our own to contribute to the human race. We can't all be genius inventors.

So I can honestly say that I'm happy to be a part of the club. Perhaps we could call it the Slap-n-Squash Society, or maybe the Boobie Brigade. In any case, the initiation was no sweat, and paying my yearly dues will only be a mildly annoying and inconvenient necessity. Not nearly as unpleasant as maintaining membership in the "Pap Club", I can assure you.

Don't even get me started.

The Rest of the Time

I just read a great quote on writing by Leonard Bernstein on Quotationspage.com. I won't go into all the details of how I ended up on that page, except to say that it involved a friend's status on Facebook. It's a little embarrassing, really, because I was spending valuable time that I otherwise could have been using to do almost anything else (like writing, for example). The thought of that wasted time had already crossed my mind, and I privately chastised myself as I continued to click around online . . . still not writing. And not working on household projects or cleaning or doing anything meaningful with my kids. But especially not writing. (This is not the fault of my Facebook friend, and in an odd little irony, it turns out that my "wasted" time has led to my writing this post. Funny.)

I've recently rediscovered just how easy it is to not write. I've been telling myself that I would have so much time to do some meaningful writing during the summer, but it just hasn't happened. Oh, I have a lot of very promising ideas about what to write, but so far the ideas themselves, no matter how compelling they may be, have not proved to be enough motivation to keep me at it. A deadline would certainly be motivating, but I don't have one. No writing gig means no deadline. Incidentally, no writing means no writing gig. Ah, the proverbial "vicious cycle".

And this brings me back to the quote. So here it is:
"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but a writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time . . . The wait is simply too long."

Truer words were never spoken. Of course, Mr. Bernstein was no doubt referring to writing music, but I don't think there's a difference, really. Whether writing music or stories, sometimes there's a spontaneous burst of creative inspiration, but without that sprinkling of musical or literary fairy dust, the thing that comes naturally is definitely not writing. Believe me, I would know.

So I can't sit around hoping for inspiration, because "the wait is simply too long," and "the rest of the time" actually means most of the time. I've already learned that just deciding to write for the sake of writing isn't enough, either. I'm going to have to "develop an approach" that will keep me writing. In this scenario the word approach is synonymous with the word plan, which denotes action, which requires discipline. I am reminded of a term I've heard, one that describes just the kind of discipline to which I refer.

Butt-in-chair writing.

I don't think that one requires any explanation. I believe I see a sticky note on my bathroom mirror sometime in the very near future.

Sweet Love

Sometimes love aches.

Not in the way that sore muscles ache two days after some overachieving workout, and not in the way my head aches when it's 2:00 in the afternoon and I somehow missed my morning coffee. Those are such unpleasant, even painful kinds of aches. I'm talking about an aching that is good and sweet and makes love feel so completely tangible.

I felt this just now as I tucked my children into their beds.

It felt like something swelling in my belly, twisting and surging, looking for a way out. It pressed hard against my chest, working its way up to form that lump in my throat. And then I could taste it in my mouth, like some changing mixture, at once all smooth and sweet and velvety, and then salty or sour or something else. It tasted like winged hope and wishes on stars and on-my-knees gratitude and wonder, mixed with die-for-you protectiveness and what-if worry and just plain fear. And I knew it would push its way to the surface, one way or another, sweet or salty.

But if I had let that bitter part of this aching mother's love lead the way out of me, past my lips, it would have turned itself into a sob, a wail, something sad or afraid. So instead I swirled it around and around until it was like honey again, and I breathed it out into kisses on cheeks and foreheads, and sent it from my fingertips onto gently rising chests and through silky strands of hair, and whispered it in murmers to sleepy, small ears.

And that deep, sweet love ache pulled itself back down into me where it always settles, anchoring me, until the next time it churns up from its big, cream-and-sugary vat, catching me offguard, and I'm once again completely undone by it.

Here goes . . . something.

I'm a lot of things.

I am a Christ-follower, wife and mother, and those are most important. I am a daughter, sister, friend, American, teacher by profession (which means I'm an employee and co-worker, too), leader in some circles, follower in others, listener, talker, reader, coffee drinker, singer, thinker, Facebook stalker (really hate to admit that one), sometime worrier, frequent encourager, multi-tasker whenever necessary, late sleeper whenever possible . . . you get the picture.

But there's this other thing I've always wanted to be, since I was in fifth grade, and in my mind I think of myself as this. I think of this as one of the many things I am. But if I'm to be completely honest, I simply cannot put this on that list.

Until today. Because starting today. . . I am a writer.

There. I said it. Out loud, in a manner of speaking. And the funny thing is I'm not sure I even really know what I mean by that. Am I a novelist? No, because I have never written a novel, let alone published one. Am I a children's book author, freelance magazine writer, newspaper columnist? No, for the same reason I'm not a novelist. Oh, I've written plenty of things. Blog posts, newsletters, drama scripts, short stories, poems, term papers, journal entries, emails, training manuals, sermons, ideas for more short stories and novels and children's books and screenplays for the movie of my life story (that last part has mainly been written in my imagination). But even the fact that I've written these things really well doesn't make me a real writer. Do you know what would make me a "real" writer? Writing. Yes, painfully simple, I know. But I've always heard, "Writers write." Not just when they have to for some very practical purpose, but whenever they can and just because. And this is why I am NOT a writer.

Until today. Because starting today . . . I am a writer.

So I'll be writing. Whenever I can. Just because. For starters, I'll write here, on this blog, because if I don't write now, I may never do it at all. And perhaps, by doing so, I'll become what I've always thought I was but have never really been.

Here goes . . . something.