We Wish

    We wish upon dandelions, and watch their seeds float away. You are the seed. Will you take root somewhere and thrive? Will you be hardy or hardened to your world?

  There are no words for the gut ache one feels when sending children off into a world where they are not safe. Not unless the One watches over them and leads them through. Saves them.

   After eight days and goodbyes, my heart is a jumble of, "Why and what are you going to do about them God?" I'm reminded of the answer we got months ago which was, "You. You are what I'm going to do about them." And it hurts to have your heart broken. It's hard to let go and let God, knowing the future of precious ones is in His hands, and so often those hands are on human flesh and are part of broken world systems.

   You child, are a seed buried, in what's going to be really rough ground for awhile. The slope is rocky and the ascent is up. Pray for wings.  

"Give them wings, God. Give them wings to soar."

   I realized this weekend that when we gather with others who are also making a difference for kids, who also are involved in their communities, I find it's easier to talk about broken systems and poor communication than the children. It's easier to talk about anything but your brothers and you, and all the children just like you. Children who may well be fighting for safe their whole lives.

   We certainly don't sit around the dinner table and talk about what we whisper in your ear in sacred moments. We don't mention sacred conversations where we pray, where we hope that hope was imparted. Yes, we are trying to whisper "hope" with every breath.

    There are dreams and wishes we wish for you. Sometimes, I think we are afraid of talking about them lest the power of the dreams and prayers fall away as you go. The wishes we wish for you feel like wind, so easily slipping through our fingers, just as you do. I have no clue where you are going, and you float off too soon.

   The quiet moments with you are the most difficult to reflect upon. Moments where we sought to throw you an anchor in the storm of now, and also an anchor for the stormy days ahead. This time around, nothing prepared me for how I need my own anchor at your going. The questions toss me about.

   Will you remember this is not a lesson for you? You wanted to know if it was all a lesson for you. "No, this is not a lesson, but yes it's an earthquake right now. The ground is shaking, but God is in your shaking world. He is with us. He promises not to leave nor forsake us." Will you remember the prayers spoken over you? Will you remember the broken oak? How her heartwood just split in two, but that the potential for even more life comes from those twisted limbs on the ground?

   Will that trip to OSU mean anything to you? Will all those machines, gadgets, and people become an embedded memory that one day leads you to wide open spaces of learning? You were wide eyed with wonder. Might you be college bound someday because of one short visit to see an Engineering Expo? Will that math dictionary stay with you? Will you use it? Will you remember, “You are strong, good, loving, and going to be a great builder with your hands and be a leader of people?”  Can words overcome the mess of your daily world?

   As a writer, I ask, "Are words enough?" Immediately, I know they are not. Words are powerful only when framed with a hug, a laugh, a bowl of food, and a warm bed. Words are powerful only when embraced within the gift of presence.

   We offered presence as best we could, now I will hold close sacred words and secret conversations, while the bars rattle all around you. I will keep praying for you and your brothers. I will write your names down in my book of remembrance. From a distance, I will keep speaking into your fears and pushing them back.

   Remember child. Remember us. Remember God cares. Remember this is not a lesson for you. This is not your fault. Remember we are praying. Remember you are going to change your world with that beautiful broken heart. Remember to guard your heart.  Remember to dance. 

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.