Guest Post: Miss Conolly et Dolley Madison

   Miss Conolly has my head spinning with her take on Dolley Madison. Maybe being the life of the party was not so pleasant after all! Her fictional letter from Dolley to her mother was an assignment for her IEW class; she surely prefers fiction to non-fiction writing.

Dolley Madison, 1804, by Gilbert Stuart

Dolley Madison

First Lady

Executive Mansion 

1817

 Dear Mother,

    I am exhausted, completely exhausted. All this partying, which has gotten to my nerves, is very tiring. I am constantly entertaining all the diplomats that come to see James, and need a break. Of course, Lady Elwin was visiting from England with her husband, so a huge ball was held in their honor. As usual, I was expected to attend. I must admit something about the Elwin's to you, Mother. It is so annoying to be a president's wife, with all the nagging responsibilities that come with being a “leader of society”. Sometimes, as I sit in the huge parlor waiting for callers to arrive, I wonder what my life would be like if James had stayed a simple small town lawyer. (And, Mother, do not think I am calling James a simpleton. He is one of the smartest people I know.) Mother, this town life, which is absolutely horrible for me, is never anything but parties! Only an extroverted person could call this city home. It as grown as distasteful to me as that hateful liquid that is considered “coffee” by the people that live here!

    Mother, I must admit something. Sometimes I wish there was no such person as Lady Elwin. Ever since she arrived in Washington, there have been no parties at all, except those that were balls. It has become as dull as possible to hold parties, even though every girl in town has sore feet from all that dancing. I believe some of my acquaintances have become hypochondriacs for the duration of Lady Elwin's visit. You would think she was a Comtessa, or at least a duchess. All the lakes have frozen over, but you barely ever see those of the better class who used to come out and skate. They are all busy dancing at one ball or another. Apparently Lady Elwin likes only balls, and I assume they are treating that obvious fact the way all the ladies who pride themselves on being fashionable treat the latest fashions from France. I don't mind being well dressed, Mother, but there is a time when you have been to and held so many revels that you can't stand them. I am afraid I am at that point. I have had Lady and Lord Elwin over for dinner only once, I am afraid. We ate in the state dining room, but nothing festive was done. As it appears Lord Elwin does not like parties very much, it really is too bad for him that he decided to marry Elinda. That is Lady Elwin's name, I am afraid to say. Anyway, I suppose what I wanted to tell you was this: The senators and representatives actually did something together for once! Or rather, their wives did, as all of the Mrs. Senators and Mrs. Representatives got together to transform the Capitol building into a festive ballroom, with the room used for the House of Representatives as a banquet hall. Do you know that they did all that work just for Lady Elwin? Apparently one of the lowest forms of English aristocracy is highly celebrated here in America. Some of the ladies in my sewing circle even want to turn American democracy into American monarchy. I am afraid, Mother, that I must admit to not liking Lady Elinda Elwin very much, mostly because of the negative influence I feel she has worked over the city of Washington.

    Lately, Mother, I have been thinking about my life as a president's wife, which I sometimes find extremely tedious. However, living in the Executive Mansion certainly keeps me on my unspeakably sore toes. (Did I tell you that I was made to attend yet another ball?) Living here, while it is quite nice to have someone doing the cooking, means constant work. My morning is spent confirming the menu for dinner, making sure the public spaces are clean for the many visitors who tour the downstairs every afternoon, and leading the sewing circle that I established. In the afternoon I sit in my parlor embroidering and waiting for callers or paying calls. Then I retire to dress for tea, always a complete wonder full of croissants and cucumber sandwiches, and pay any formal calls or occasionally go to a friend's house for ice cream and cookies. Of course, after tea I generally spend my time helping James or reading a book. I wish less diplomats came to dinner, as I always have extra work to do, mainly supervising the domestic staff, when James and I are obliged to entertain foreign ambassadors. Though many of my friends believe that it is a wonderful thing to have the life of a first lady, I have no idea where they formulate their opinions, as I have decided I have no use at all for having this social obligation that has been thrust upon me.

    On nights where I am having a frightfully hard time trying to go to sleep, I sometimes get to thinking about what life would be like if James had chosen to remain a nobody with only a small law practice. Life, which is now horribly busy, would still be peaceful and calm, and James would come home early each day instead of sitting up all night puzzling out a country-sized bucket of problems. Mother, sometimes I want to be back living in that small log cabin that was and will be our home. I yearn for the simplicity of the simple country life we led, James in his office and I in my kitchen. I think even James was not prepared for all this important “cityness” that Washington spreads. He may have thought big, but James never reckoned on something this big. After his term is up, I think James will be perfectly happy to go back to our small little country village. He isn't and won't be a nobody anymore, and James likes that. While we may be well-known, when we return to our cabin, I will be so awfully glad. Actually, I would be quite happy if James had never ran for president, a very tiring job, and we had lived all this time in our cabin and had not been compelled to lead so public a life.

    Mother, do not ever come to this city. Washington is dreadfully busy, which I believe you would find annoying, and the coffee brewed here is as weak as a child's watered-down tea! I wish James had never ran for president, as I detest this whole experience of living in Washington, a very dirty place. For some reason people seem to think that Washington is a wonderful and idealistic place, Mother, even though most of this place is swampland. There are many things I must confess to you, Mother, chiefly my complaints of the people and the culture. Being a first lady in this crazy city is so very trying, I sometimes feel like screaming, so seethingly swampy and surely scatterbrained is this place. Mother, this place, as nice as it sounds, completely exhausts me!

Love from your exhausted daughter,

Dolley

The Children's Crusade by Ann Packer

   In A Children's Crusade, we have not entered the Holy Land. We have simply embarked upon a disastrous journey. We have misjudged and been misguided.

   I fear I lack the heart needed to endure the Blair family drama, especially one that doesn't redeem itself in the end, at least in any gratifying way. 

   I'm missing the purpose of an ending that says, "sell the house, do your own thing, and do what most preserves your personal interests." Yes, we are nation of adolescent novelists, forever seeking novelty.

   Or maybe, I missed the arrival of modern day man, who so neatly arranges for his own redemption. So far, I've not yet met anyone who can redeem himself. 

   Packer dismisses faith from the fabric of the Blair family life. Faith is nothing to the Blair family, yet most of our planet claims a faith. How can the reviews claim Packer's spoken to us? 

 

   No matter the scores of positive reviews, A Children's Crusade is neither gratifying, nor edifying, nor eloquent. Packer kept me up to read something that only filled me with angst: not peace, not wisdom, not joy, not sorrow, just angst and aggravation. I rarely get worked up about books I dislike; I simply set them down. I rarely engage in negative reviews, and I don't write Amazon reviews, but I will not be conned into believing that trashy talk is necessary to develop Packer's characters, nor indeed, that she's developed them, at least into people of any depth. They are simply good actors.

   In some novels, the trash and trash talk may be necessary, and possibly impress upon us the pain, but A Children's Crusade lacks the shimmer of a mosaic that makes broken beautiful.

   The great artists keeps us from frozenness, from smugness, from thinking the truth is in us, rather than in Christ our Lord. ~ Madeleine L'Engle

Noticing Spring

Spring Soccer

Her soccer status quo.

Before

During

After @ Rogue Ales

New chicks

When no one is watching, she gives it a go.

Yep, spring is here.

The Book Stacks

    Beauty is not a luxury, but a strategy for survival. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

   Spring is verifiably here. Yard work calls in spades. I'm wrapping up some winter book readings, and thought I'd share what is sitting on the stacks and what has been blessing.

   Life behind the brownstone front, two flights up and beyond, was delightfully higgledy-piggledy as to System; and Duty and Discipline had become pale, thin creatures that no longer cast shadows except on Saturdays - from four o'clock on. Saturday was dedicated to Aunt Emily and sewing. Lucinda buttoned up her fortitude and her best manners....She believed the devil must have invented the needle.

    There were her books, too, to put on their shelf; and there was the new diary that her mother had bought her and that she had promised to write in often. The books she handled and put in their places with loving care. They filled a large portion of her inner world - a sanctuary built securely to keep out Aunt Emily's and French governesses.

   I absolutely adored "orphaned" Lucinda in Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer. As a result, I picked up The Way of the Storyteller; I'm really looking forward to Ruth's tutelage. She has left a wide and generous path for storytellers to follow. 

   

   She wrote The Way of the Storyteller in 1942 wishing, "there might be a guild for storytellers today where master and apprentices might work together for the upholding of their art." She clearly felt the hunger of blazing trails in a word wilderness. Had she lived today she would have found some excellent guilds. Our hope is to be utilizing the aforementioned guild in the fall.

Also perusing, reading, tackling, pondering...

A Traveller's History of London (research)

London by AN Wilson (research)

The Children's Crusade

This is the Story of a Happy Marriage (audio)

Book of Ages, The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin (kind of research)

Unglued

Going Away Shoes 

The History of the Book in 100 Books

    Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams 

   We can no longer say, "Let nature take care of itself." Our press on the planet is heavy and relentless. A species in peril will most likely survive now only if we allow it to, if our imaginations can enter into the soul of the animal and we pull back on our own needs and desires to accommodate theirs. What other species now require of us is our attention. Otherwise, we are entering a narrative of disappearing intelligences.

    If you do violence to me, you do violence to yourself because we are all human beings.

    This morning at breakfast, I ask Lily when compromise is appropriate. After a moment of silence, she says, "Compromise is fine on anything that is not essential, but you cannot compromise your principles. You cannot compromise the dream or the dream dies, and you suffer spiritually."

   Terry Tempest Williams pulls us together in our brokenness. She makes beauty out of ashes, pain, and dust, reminding us, we too must create beauty out of brokenness. She weaves a beautiful mosaic.

Exploring the world, albeit slowly.

Farmer Boy (audio)

The Endless Steppe

Homeless Bird

Listening for Lions

The Broken Blade

Ms. Rapscott's Girls 

The US Space Camp Book of Astronauts

Rats, Bulls, and Flying Machines

The Magna Carta: Cornerstone of US Constitution 

Because this year is the 800th anniversary of the, The Magna Charta

Bard of Avon

Martin Luther, A Man Who Changed the World

Calico Captive

The Captain's Dog

    As we listen to Farmer Boy, I'm suffering serious guilt over our lack of children chores around here. Yet, the arrival of spring is helping rectify the situation! 

   Life is rapidly becoming school, yard chores, and writing, the latter as there is time. Yet, we've upped the ante on writing projects round here. 

   Sister is busy finishing out her IEW year; I'll post another of her papers soon. I'm beginning to wonder if I should quit writing and simply focus on becoming her agent. She recently wrote a letter from Dolly Madison to her mother that takes the cake. Thankfully, she's constraining the drama to her writing!

   Brother has been very busy writing at school and this week he'll also write a bill to prepare for his one day class at Teen Pact. The chosen topic of his proposed bill? Reading in bathrooms should not be allowed. (This is a bit of a personal agenda for him round our house. We won't say who frequently attempts to disappear with a book in the bathroom.) 

  And I've committed myself to a more aggressive pace of writing this year with a few members of my monthly critique group. We have agreed to turn in writing on the 1st and 3rd weeks of the month for perusal and feedback vs. only once a month.

 If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write. ~ Martin Luther

Easter Weekend Birthday Boy

  Very thankful for an auntie and uncle who hosted a gaggle of us over Easter weekend,  letting us crash their place for birthday celebrations, hiking, food, fishing, and a lot of fun.

Story by Guest: Miss Conolly et Abagail McMuffilin

   For children who dream while they write, and write while they dream. Follow your heart and your pen. Seek, and find far off lands. 

The Pet Goldfinch by Henriette Browne

   Being enterprising and interesting, Abagail McMuffilin, who is a marine biologist and symbiosis expert, has always held extremely interesting jobs. Scottish born, Abagail's parents and siblings live in the hills of Scotland. When she was working on her schooling there, Abagail's future was undecided, but she now has a plan for the rest of her life, and it does not involve retiring from her constant projects and activities. Obviously energetic, Abagail McMuffilin still has her moments of quiet, and it was during one of these moments that her mind drifted back to the time when she was a child in Scotland...

    “Science competition today,” the teacher had briskly announced. Groans came from every corner of the classroom except one. Abagail sat in her desk chair and stared out the window, daydreaming about her science fair project. Unsurprisingly, school did not interest her at all. Apart from science, Abagail, who understood every single concept, was bored. Educated science, now that was something. New discoveries were being made! New concepts being taught! New inventions! Science was always changing! Science even changed Abagail's life! Without science, would she ever have met Hailey Clark, the famous professor of life sciences? No. Without science, would she ever had gotten her marine biology degree? No. Without science, would her life have turned out the way it did? No. No, no, and no! Nothing would be the same for Abagail if it wasn't for science! 

 

    It was only art and science that kept Abagail interested in school. They were like bread and water to her. Abagail longed to go on to college science classes, but she never imagined just how she'd do it. When Abagail, or Miss McMuffilin, as she preferred to be called, went off to college, she was just fifteen. Although sure that she wanted to get her degree in Marine Biology and Biologistic Chemistry, Miss McMuffilin was not sure which school she wanted to go to, and she was nervous. Finally, she decided to go to the Scotland School of Science. During her first term, Abagail made a special friend in a young teacher named Hailey Clark. Miss McMuffilin, who didn't know how helpful Ms. Clark would be to her, procured an internship with a prominent research company off the coast of Florida. Though she would be a long way from her family, Miss McMuffilin took the job, which involved her absolutely favorite subjects of painting and science.

    “'What if I don't know how to do whatever they want me to do? What if...' That was all I could think about as I was nervously getting ready to board the research vessel I was to intern upon.” Abagail, when asked about whether she was nervous or not when getting ready to start her internship, answered. “Besides, even though I knew I'd probably have plenty of fascinating jobs in my lifetime, I still wasn't sure what to expect. I guess I thought the boat wouldn't be so big. Besides, so much equipment was on board, and I was afraid I'd break something important.” Abagail, who knows now that her first job wasn't really that amazing, says, “When its your first time doing something that you have always wanted to do, everything is really cool.” Abagail McMuffilin's first ever job was full of somewhat interesting things like catching fish, eating tuna melts, and getting seasick. Although Abagail finds that her first job on a research ship prepared her for some of the projects that involve boats on the open ocean, she still occasionally gets seasick. Excited, Abagail McMuffilin was soon to learn that this faraway job for a college summer was the first of a lifetime of exciting, sometimes strange, jobs.

    “Why me? Why not someone more qualified for this? This is going to be one of the most exciting trips of my life! I wonder if I my family could visit me. Maybe I'll get to see the Eiffel Tower!” These and many other thoughts pushed their way into Abagail's mind on the plane trip to France. France was to be the new home of the Underwater Divers Research Associates, which was a group that worked with snorkelers and scuba divers to better understand oceanic symbiosis. Symbiosis, the relationship of two different species of animals, provides mutual benefits. Abagail had come to France to work under the current president of UDRA, in hopes of officially moving to France if given the position of president, that is, once the man who was the current president resigned or retired. Abagail was interested in France. It's culture, food, and now this research project were calling to Abagail. France, she felt, would be the ideal place for her to live. Of course, Abagail didn't know French, but that was no problem because she could learn it by hanging out in the open-air marketplace. But then there was the project. It was exciting! It was invigorating! It was amazing! Abagail would have to know some French for her new job, but she wasn't worried. The mere idea of this organization was enough to give her a thrill. She, Abagail, was going to work in one of the newest and most high-tech buildings on the coastline of France! Studying symbiosis, Abagail was sure this was the job for her.

    Ten years ago, Abagail, in France studying marine symbiosis, was working under one of the most famous marine biologists in the world. She never got a chance to be the president of the Underwater Divers Research Association. Just before UDRA's second year of research was over, the bank financing the organization crashed, which created difficulties in the way of maintaining the organization's several underwater remote control submersibles. Since she has moved from France and her position in the Underwater Divers Research Association, Abagail has been quietly residing with her family, creatively teaching science at a small school nestled in the rolling hills of Scotland. Some day Miss McMuffilin, who is quite happy with her life right now, is sure to find another interesting job, another small and innovative start-up company that needs her help. For now, though, Abagail is as content as possible to do what she does best: helping people through her love of science. After all, it doesn't take an expert on marine symbiosis to know when somebody needs a little help.

 *A tiny sample of Miss Conolly's writing. She definitely works within her 5 paragraph requirement, with nary a word more, but alas it's still a fun read, and look-see into her mind.

In the Shadow of Death Valley

   Does my soul reflect a desert, or does the desert reflect my soul? Am I parched and thirsty, or does life spring from crags and crevices within? If we are made of dust and ash, is not the desert our kin? The place my soul, thus knows how to roam?

   The desert is a margin place, a thin place. It tests patience. The desert tests perseverance. It is forever saying, "give me more." It will take all you have and then some. Yet, in the tiniest of crags and crevices life springs upward. In a parched and barren place, life springs eternal.

   Tempted, Jesus faced down his enemy in a barren desert. Indeed, both the enemy and the desert, were created of His accord and will. Deserts force us to bloom and blossom, yield and spread, or whither and die. Surely, the desert fathers and mothers knew there was life to be found on dry parched plains. We are not nearly so astute, nor monastic, but we do wander and wonder: What are we? What's out there? What might we encounter out of our comfort zone? When and where am I most rightly related to self, others, and God? 

   As is so often the case, I don't find the questions, or seek the answers, until I'm home and the adventure is asking questions of me. Surely, we ask questions while preparing for adventures, but it's not until adventures ask questions of us, that we often engage fully with a time, place, or space. 

   Oregon spring break, found us wandering to Death Valley. Indeed, we'd prepared and the goal was a good time with friends, amazing geology, and getting home safe. Of course, a Land Rover trip, by nature, no matter where you go, is always a chance to ask, "What are we made of?" Survival kits are always packed. However we, or at least me, hope to never really need them. Besides, you can't use a Life Straw, if there's no water to be found!

   While we were looking forward to Death Valley National Park, the week previous to our departure, I kept hearing Him say, “I go with you into the valley of the shadow of death.” Ah hem? Excuse me? Could you repeat that? He did, several times. It's hard to feel peace when those words are what you hear in your ear. Words like those, one simply embraces, holds close, and prays about. A lot. I might add that the examen was an important soul process to begin in March. 

   Thus, after a week of preparations, the morning of departure arrived. We awoke to a child with a 99.5 fever – not through the roof, but nothing to ignore either. I sent her back to bed, and we muddled about what to do. We cancelled our tickets to Scotty's Castle for the next day, a 16 hour drive away. Did I mention our time line was tight? To stay or go? To  commit or quit? A question, a dilemma, we all face every day. Yet, she awoke 3 hours later with no temperature. We loaded the cooler and pulled out of town because sometimes it's now or never.

   And really, there's never a good time to drive 16 hours (one way) and take an 8 day Land Rover trip. I've given up thinking that day will arrive - the day when it feels that all of life has meshed to make the slated rover trip possible. It is, and always will be, hard work to get out of dodge. We'll always be dodging something else in order to go, but relationships and riveting views also await and call. Thus we embrace life, get in the Rover, and go. 

   We headed east through Bend and Burns, before cutting south through the Malheur Wildlife Refuge, into Frenchglen, and then on to Fields, Oregon. We kept rolling, right into the dark, that first day. Miles and miles of empty dark pavement rolled past and under us while the sky overhead darkened, and then relit with stars. We pulled into Winnemucca, Nevada about 9:30 p.m. and laid down weary heads at a local motel. Clean, safe, local, drive to your door service. My kind of motel.

   Thankful: no more fevers.

   In the morning, we re-embarked upon open Nevada road, pulling through Lovelock where I roamed during the summer and winter breaks of my youth. So much mischief, many years ago. Then it was on to Fallon and Tonopah, and into vast stretches of open parched plain. We drove through lands of drought and often doubt. Miles of weapons depot and storage = heavy hearts and much discussion. Where do we invest as a nation, as a people? In Hawthorne, Nevada, the world's largest storage depot for weapons, bombs become flowers, because even there, we desire to turn what is broken into beautiful.

   We made it home in one piece, each of us - no small miracle.

   Near the north entrance to Death Valley, we prepare to turn left onto Scotty's Castle Road. There is a near miss with a semi-truck. I don't even like to think about it, much less write it. It still terrifies me, but for the grace of God. Did the trucker not see my turn signal? I gave him ample warning. (We would later find out, that it was possible the turn signal ground was no longer functioning.) 

   There but for the grace of God, 80,000 pounds of metal would have borne down upon us. 

    There but for the grace of God, when that semi-truck came barrelling down upon us, there might have been a car in the opposing lane of traffic, leaving him no where to go as he sought to avoid us, leaving no room for nothing good, a mess of metal and ashes on a hot highway.

   The grace of God, meant I saw him bearing down on us in the rear view mirror and decided not to make my left turn, but just try and keep going straight and hope he did not take us out from the rear. 

   The grace of God, enabled him to pass us at nearly 70 mph in the opposing lane of traffic, while I was probably going 20mph. He managed to avoid hitting us from behind, and I'm sure he was terrified when he realized we intended to make a left turn and were nearly stopped on the highway.

   The grace of God: We made it to Scotty's Castle and Mesquite Springs Campground. God must have more adventures for us, ones that don't include streets of gold right now, but rather dust lined byways.

Each of us, miracles.

   Then grace blushed the hills around us, and flushed them with life. There were mountain goats with graceful curved horns, coyotes romping on golf course lawns, endangered pup fish, magpies, bucked antelope, and doves. Grace kept the rattlers and scorpions away, either that, or the very noisy kids. They come in handy, they do.

   The pale blush of light also fell on the faces of gracious women who paved our path south with their prayers. They craft and carve meaningful moments into our lives, in my life, giving me lovely thoughts and words to chew upon, and even goodies for our sweet tooth. Indeed, notes, prayers, care packages, and goods arrived for the road, and followed us south.

   In Death Valley, I stumbled into a girl from childhood, now woman, sunning with her kids. She was kind then; she's still kind today.

   At a Death Valley dish washing sink, I ran into a home school mom from the past. Thick with suds, we shared God's provisions, and miracles of health and healing in 2014. We talked about how God met us in so many desert places. Their family had a diagnosis of blind for a teenage child. It came out of the blue, and threatened to turn all life black. We had a diagnosis of severe, chronic, and acute colitis, for life, for one child. Today, neither child is facing the diagnosis spoken over them, and both walk a path towards healing. Both kids were led by grace to doctors, in the midst of trial, to healing trials and trails of healing. We rejoiced, and watered the desert with a few tears of grace, all while washing dirty camp dishes.

   There is life in our deserts. There is life when it's blistering hot, and the air seems sucked out of your lungs, and all seems lost. When the very joy of life is sucked out of you, and your soul is parched beyond measure, and you are so thirsty you want the heat consume you, there is life. Yes, even there.

   And then there's our rover trail mates. Both are amazing. She's ever encouraging, listening, engaging, funny, and reliable. She's a gem. So very grateful for them and their friendship, mechanical wisdom, hilarity, and thoughtfulness.

   Death Valley is copper colored canyons, and canyons of pastel. Death Valley is the driest, lowest, and hottest. There were twists and turns and the threat of an engine that wouldn't ignite, but did, every time. Potential engine “mines” met mines made by men, and God got us back to camp and a cool swimming pool each night. 

   There was a resort staffer who turned Furnace Creek Resort upside down to find a pair of goggles for my kid to borrow. Because kids today must have goggles to swim - they know no other way. God bless that woman's soul. He leads me beside quiet waters. 

   And if I cough all night in the dry windy dusty desert, and listen to her cough all night, and we keep our motorhome neighbors awake, with their windows wide open, yes, even then, He restores my soul.

   We leave Death Valley, and on our way out, we collect national park patches in the shape of thermometers and Jr. Ranger badges, and are grateful to be on the road. Our last stop at Mosaic Canyon, the engine sputters, but comes to life.  

   Please let there be no broken in this beautiful canyon.

   We drive up and out on windy dry roads through the Pantamints, and then they are to our east and the Sierra Nevada range graces our west. Yet, the dry follows us all the way to Oregon.

   I can't get over the drought. Spring, eighty degrees in CA, fields barely green with grass, and yet no bud break, no leaves, on so many trees. California is dry like a bone. I saw one farm sprinkler running in agricultural valleys covering over 600 miles. Reservoirs, lakes, and irrigation channels dry. Driving by the Sierra Nevada's, we ponder the Donner party, and hope that one day there will be no "dry" Donner party.

   In Independence, CA, we arrive at no independence: Manzanar. I knew the Land Rover might not start again, but I also knew we had to see Manzanar. It was now or never. It would never again be easier to come to this place. It was completely necessary we see, discuss, and attempt to learn the lessons of such desolation, isolation, and deluded thinking.

   I will think about Manzanar for a long time, as well as Tule Lake, which we also passed on our drive home. Let us learn from our deserts.

   Pushing towards home, we made it to Carson City and still coughed our way through the night. Disappointed, we cancelled time with family in Reno due to continued sickness and Land Rover mechanical worries. 

   We shared America's Best Hotel with a former lawyer and law professor, now a permanent resident of the hotel. He smiled a toothless smile, and warmly told us his story. He also told us of the Siberian Husky who'd died at the hotel during the night in his owner's arms. We sympathized awkwardly, faced with this story of loss, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we bid adieu. Like travellers in the night, we slipped past, wanting to leave the sadness behind, find our way home, and choose life, not death. The valley of the shadow of death is everywhere; but I fear no evil, for thou art with me.

    The drizzle began around Eugene. The fields were thick with calf high grass, as new calves lolled about. The clouds layered themselves, and a single vertical shaft of brilliant rainbow placed itself upon the grassy slopes of a far off hill. Welcome home. Have hope. And we did, those of us who saw the rainbow anyway. One child was busy having a reading marathon, while the other, had finally fallen asleep holding onto the dish washing bucket, fearful of being road sick.

   Home, he diagnoses a sick Land Rover, and with 272,000 miles on her, she's allowed a few hiccups. I might even trust her to a road trip again. We book hair cuts and eye appointments. We plan Easter and birthday moments. We deal with swimmers ear, and begin taking Bragg's vinegar, some of us, in attempt to finally kick the cough. We bake cookies. We unpack, and unpack more. The laundry consumes, but oh the loads of wet moisture, and hot showers. We are thankful for the woman who left food for our return home, and emailed of hilltop adventures while we were away.

   The maples have burst and the cherries too. The bees hum and hive. We lay our heads down to sleep and pull out the examen. We sleep with bread and ask, “what was the most desolate moment of your day and the moment of most consolation?” We ask, “What are we embracing, and what are we learning?” We don't have the answers yet, but we seek to listen and learn what parched valleys may teach us, in order to find the hidden springs, all in the valley of the shadow of life. 

   And I know that I owe the hummingbird food. He zings by me on the porch. He's telling me something, and I need to listen. He, like me, needs sweet nectar to live upon.

Psalm 23 (MSG)

 God, my shepherd!
    I don’t need a thing.
You have bedded me down in lush meadows,
    you find me quiet pools to drink from.
True to your word,
    you let me catch my breath
    and send me in the right direction.

Even when the way goes through
    Death Valley,
I’m not afraid
    when you walk at my side.
Your trusty shepherd’s crook
    makes me feel secure.

You serve me a six-course dinner
    right in front of my enemies.
You revive my drooping head;
    my cup brims with blessing.

Your beauty and love chase after me
    every day of my life.
I’m back home in the house of God
    for the rest of my life.