So much to do

When my husband dragged the box of Christmas decorations from the attic, my children found a leftover bag of craft items we used last year to decorate gift bags. Chaos ensued as I was unaware of the discovery. By the time I made my way into my kitchen gingerbreadmen and stockings alike were strewn across the kitchen counter and floor with googly craft eyes and rick rack glued in absurd sundry locations.
"Wow, you guys are hard at work. You must be ready to make presents for Christmas already. Let's get this stuff back in the bag and save the supplies for our Santa's workshop." The children's creative energy and desire to tackle our Christmas work
was wildly unleashed before I could say "Hello, Buddy the elf, what's your favorite color?" or "The elves eat from the four basic food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup."

So, I snatched up my elf hat and dashed to my computer for ideas. Not long into the overwhelming online search, I stumbled onto the acmoore.com website. For the first time in my life, I realized I could choose projects and go to a single store (Hallelujah!) and buy everything I needed in one fell swoop(Amen!).

Does anyone else have a bedroom lounge chair heavy laden with art supplies and a homeschool table spilling over to the floor with Christmas crafts yet? That' what makes up Santa's Workshop around here at True Vyne School of Nature. Our relatives are so very generous to me, my husband and my children, and in return I want these precious people who love us so well, something made from our hearts.

This is not an easy task with the mix of temperaments and skill levels of my children. Last year, I took them to a homeschool enrichment teacher's (Penelope's) and they made crafts she choose in one day. The presents made there were dear and handmade, but I want the children to spend more time on fewer things. It's a precarious thing to guide children through this process. Some of my children just "want to get it done fast" while others want to keep going for hours. Some of my guys are thoughtful about each jot and tiddle while others want to blob and pour out the glitter glue everywhere. In this process have to balance carefully on the precarious tightrope of quality verses a child's own ideas and work. I somehow managed to effectively squash my oldest son's genius and creativity when I told Peace, "Stick figures were definitely 'out' at Santa's Workshop this year". He also painted a cheery white snowflake GOTH BLACK. I hope Grandma shines her best patient smile when she opens up that treasure. And I had to very HARD to engage Peace in the art again after giving my unwanted critiques.

So, what fantastic things are you making or giving for Christmas?

These Pictures of You

I get melancholy. It's a fact. My dh turned on home videos of our children from 7 years ago, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My oldest son was 4, and he looked like some other person. Someone I can't remember. At all. On the video, he sang the song from Sesame Street-"I'm a little airplane now" and another diddy he made up on the spot as he heartily rode on the big molded bouncy horse on springs of all childhoods, "This is a song about cowboys and cowgirls."

"Cowgirls! Cowboys! Batman! Robin! Flying through the dessert. To get to the ocean."

"Then the cowboy lost his hat. Now I can't sing."

My 2 year old Tator sang unintelligible lyrics matching the tunes to the songs playing in the background. He strummed a plastic crazy kid rock and roll guitar. I despised that horrible toy which produced Van Halen guitar riffs with the slightest touch. It was evil. My Boodle jumped up and down and rolled his head side to side with the wild music. You'd have thought we frequented heavy metal concerts with him the way he carried on. Currently he is intent to learn the Beatles "Blackbird" and the intro to "Dust in the Wind". I get a giant lump in my throat when he plays with his dad on the green suede couches in our living room. If you only knew what it takes DAILY to keep that boy on the right track, and how the guitar definitely does just that.

My Wise One was a baby just beginning to walk. He was more chunky than I remembered. Now he's only skin and bones with an appetite the size of New York. I constantly carried him in my sling like a smiley kangaroo for years, but he was free to move about in the video. He walked something like a mechanical frankincense duck with his back arched and hands pointing backwards like wings from his hips. He epitomized contentedness as a baby. I highly recommend this temperament for a third boy child to any mother. He's still a contented soul. On his birthday last year he asked for pizza.

"Wait a minute. You don't like pizza," I reminded him.

"I want my guests to enjoy the food and everyone else likes pizza," he soothed.

"For heaven's sakes child, it's YOUR birthday. Have what you like," I joked.

"Mom, it's what I want most for my birthday- to please others."

Can you believe this person? When he loses it, it's because he's really been pushed beyond the natural limits of his giving soul.

The melancholy set in immediately as I watched the rambunctious boys run, jump, bounce, fly. Those days were so very hard. Endless poop diapers and redirecting octopus toddlers till my jello brain hurt made that season in my life a blur. Also, it was not long after this video that my entire world flew apart. A time when I angrily tore all my preconceived ideas about life and faith off the shelf and carefully and thoughtfully put only what was real to me back and trashed the rest. I wouldn't return to those days, just like Neo wouldn't go back into the system in the Matrix. I'd been sleeping to escape the pain of an unexamined life and tragedy woke me up suddenly. The awakened world around me was ugly and grey, but more real than the life I'd lived before those days.

One sign of deep healing originating from that period came in the form of lyrics from a Delirious song "Obsession". One night I sat scrunched on the floor with my back against the wall of a church service, making myself as unnoticeably small and out of the way as humanly possible. My head in my hands, I prayed to God with the song in desperation. God, "What can I do with this obsession with the things I cannot see? Is there madness in my being. Is it the wind that blows the tree? Sometimes you're further than the moon. Sometimes your closer than my skin. You surround me like a winter fog. Your burn me deeper than I know. And my heart burns for you. And *my* heart BURNS for you." So, where are you now, God? Can you possibly love the unlovely, hateful, unholy me? Suddenly,like a ray of light, I had a revelation that there was an angle I had always been missing in that song. God flipped the script and began singing to ME over and over, "And My Heart burns for YOU."

In my most undone state, a pit of despair, God saw fit to love me, deeply. I return again and again to that moment when storm clouds gather around me.

Regardless of...

I have no interest nor aspirations in politics, but I admire those who do. It's incredibly difficult to put oneself (and family) in the daily spotlight. Every word and opinion could potentially make the paper, keeping the representative on his or her toes at all times. Critics and cynics crouch in waiting to destroy. How vulnerable! Public life must be downright painful at times. Though I don't wish to enter politics, I do follow it.

Though I don't live in Knoxville, and I can't even vote there, I love the city and follow it's politics and people. To be completely honest, I've campaigned for city council members in Kville though I'm not a resident anymore. I'd campaign on a state or national level *if* I could actually stand proudly by any candidate. Not holding my breath on this one.

Here's something that went down at the last Knox city council meeting.

Two members, Woodhull and Becker submitted the following:

SECTION 2: City Council hereby expresses its full intent to promote the well-being of all people within the corporate limits of the City, regardless of race, creed, color, disability, national origin, gender, sexual orientation or citizenship status by setting a shining example of showing dignity and respect to all people and by recognizing and celebrating the diversity in our city whenever, wherever and however possible.


The council amended and approved this:

SECTION 2: City Council hereby expresses its full intent to promote the well-being of all people within the corporate limits of the City by setting a shining example of showing dignity and respect to all people and by recognizing and celebrating the diversity in our city.

Let me hit pause to ponder the words intentionally left out in the amended version "regardless of creed, color, disablity, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, or citizenship status...celebrating/respecting diversity whenever, wherever, however". I'll speak to my perspective on portions left out.

I wholeheartedly agree in promoting the well being of people regardless. Nothing wrong with that. However, I'll respect but don't want to celebrate some of the list above.

Take creed for example. I truly admire Ghandi and Malcolm X for the tremendous work they did on behalf of humanity, but I simply not interested in celebrating Hinduism or Islam. I study to learn from these creeds, but I celebrate my own faith with my family. I honor the person of Ghandi or Malcolm X. However, I would say a city needs to keeps church and state at arms length from one another on the creed issue.

Now about race, color,national origin, citizenship. My own family is made up of more than one color. I love international festivals and music. Yep, this one I do enjoy to the full. And I see a need for racial issues to be carefully overseen by the government based on city history. Minorities have a tough row to hoe in this town. In the 90's, the Office of Civil Rights found Knox Co. Public Schools had NEVER made an effort at racial desegregation 30 years after the Civil Rights Movement. The police have been investigated for racial profiling and brutality. I've seen some of each first hand in my inner city work. It would serve the Knox County people for government to intentionally seek balance and justice on these issues.

Disability. Don't want to celebrate disability, just the people who have overcome. And I do want to see the city actively advocating for those who cannot advocate for themselves.

Sexual orientation. This is a private not a public issue.

Gender. I'm a feminist and will be till there is no more need for it.

All that said, I prefer the amended version, because lumping all those "regardless of" catagories together doesn't reflect my whole perspective. However, the empowerment in specifically naming the groups is lost.

What do you think?

Gender issues

Pooh Bear is in crisis. Today we discovered definately her chicken, which she named Belle, is a ROOSTER. For those of you unfamiliar, roosters are male and are the only ones who crow at sunrise. Hens, females have a gentle soft purr when "talking" and only get squawky loud when there's danger. Now this may not bother others, but our four year old girl is quite offended. She only likes girls. Boys are stinky and stupid.

Was it a mistake to take her to window and watch as Belle began to practice his immature crows? To me, it's funny to observe- like an awkward adolescent boy whose voice cracks and squeaks wishing he could simply maintain dignity during this developmental transition.

As she looked down at Belle through the pane, Pooh Bear's lips began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. She exclaimed, "But Belle just can't be a boy. I don't want a rooster." Her daddy comforted her in his arms and said, "Let name him Beast from Beauty and the Beast instead."
"No! He's not a prince. I want his name to be Frankenstein now."

Frankenstein it is. I will blackmail her of this when she's a teenager.

Life as a Princess

I've mentioned my four year old daughter, Pooh Bear many times on this blog. I've lamented and praised her iron clad will and strong opinions...like the ten different colored hair bows she *thinks* make her the cat's meow on her way to ballet class. In reality, she always looks a little undone and scattered- like she certainly doesn't have a mom to brush her hair, match her clothes, or give her socks to wear with her mary jane shoes. I don't like to fix hair- hers, mine, or anyone else's, but I'd do it more often and better, I promise, if it didn't cause such trouble. "Mommy, I don't want to brush my hair today." or "I want this piece of hair to lay this (impossible) way." "Mommy, you always HURT me when you brush my hair." "Mommy, I don't like that bow." "I already fixed my own hair. I want it to look just like this." She's cut her own hair three times in the last three months and it simply looks goofy. About the mismatching of clothes- I often help her match her first outfit of the day, but she changes at least 4 more times into gawd-awful clashing patterns or jumpers without shirts underneath. The sock problem I dread when the first leaf falls from the autumn tree. Pooh Bear says all socks or pairs of tights are "Itchy!" "It squeezes my feet too tight!" or "The seam hurts my toes."

I saw stars last night when my tired Pooh Bear kicked a dear friend's six year old daughter just for daring to talk to her, and told her she only liked her a very little bit.

Why, why, why? When I was a public school teacher, I used to believe children were like this because of their terrble parents. I will fall to my knees and beg forgiveness if I ever come across a former student's parent whom I judged falsely. Kids are who they are from the day they are born.

Here's a story to sum up Pooh Bear's outlook on the universe.

An awesome twelve year old girl, Christy was over helping Pooh pick up her room. You can imagine with all the wardrobe changes the girl executes in one day, that her drawers are in complete disarray. Christy cleverly states, "You know, Pooh, a princess ALWAYS keep her clothes folded and tidy in her dresser. Are you a princess?" To which my dear daughter smartly replies, "Of course, I am a princess. And a REAL princess has servants to clean up after her."

Something True

God does not demand that we give up our personal dignity...that we lose ourselves and turn from all that is not him. God needs nothing, asks nothing, and demands nothing, like the stars. It is life with God which demands these things...God does not, I regret to report, give a hoot. You do not have to do these things -- unless you want to know God. They work on you, not on him.

You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.

~~Annie Dillard
Teaching a Stone to Talk

I read this fabulous quote on Martha, Martha's blog. It says everything I need at this moment, since I won't blog about some deep pain I'm experiencing of late. I can't think of a way to blog it down and keep the dignity of all those involved intact. So I'll let Annie Dillard speak for me today.

Gerbil Tragedy

Peace rushed in my room hysterical this morning. We think Brain ate his brother gerbil Snowball, partly. Ugghh.

My son thinks he forgot to feed them. He plays with those creatures everyday, and I'm just not sure that's what happened. Peace has a shirt dedicated for gerbil use and it's literally in shreds from all their chewing and running about all over my child. All our animals are treasures to him, and I know he would never intentionally harm any living thing, except maybe his annoying brother.

To be perfectly honest, I don't like gerbils. Creeping, fast varmints with long tails always scare me. In my head, I know they are sweet little pets, but in my heart I think Bubonic Plague and Black Death. One of Peace's favorite pasttimes is to sneak up on me, poke his gerbil in my face and exclaim, "Mom, I caught a mouse!"
I scream every last time. He's also repeated this activity with a computer mouse in hand with the same resulting response of real terror from me.

I spent some time talking through tears with Peace. His first response to the whole thing was "Oh, God! I HATE myself. I am a terrible person. I let this happen."

I step in. "Whoa, right there, guy. Let's not say another thing which isn't true."

We talked out all the possibilities. Yes, maybe the gerbils were hungry. Maybe they just fought. Maybe, though highly unlikely, Janet the cat actually got her way this time. She's been stalking the gerbils for years. In fact, Snowball was blind in one eye from being carried around in Janet's mouth. We will never know for sure, but I led Peace to forgiveness of himself no matter the circumstance. God knows his tender little heart never meant this to happen and forgiveness is the only way to go. The other route, self hatred, only leads to deeper places of regret. Peace also prayed to forgive gerbil brother Brain.

So, today my son will bury a friend. Outside the sky is grey to match the mood. I'm sad for my boy but am grateful Peace is learning tough lessons of loving, losing, and forgiving in the small ways before he's a man. He'll have some experience under his belt for the harder things in life to come. They will come.

Blogger I adore

My dear husband set up a blog a while back but honestly couldn't figure out out to use it. I still can't figure out after many tries, how to create a blogroll or put a photo of myself by my blog name. Yet, I taunted my dh about actually posting on his own blog. He's begun and it's a beautiful thing even if I'm ever the only one who reads it.

Svetlana Turns 39

Instead of end times, Knoxville News Sentinel should have been covering a far more interesting story in Deerlodge, TN. Svetlana turned 39 on November 11, 2005. She is a woman of intrigue, great wit, beauty, and perhaps the most clever person I know.
Plans to become a U.S. Ambassador to Russia have been postponed so she can raise her daughter and a little sprout on the way, create and keep a beautiful home for the children and her husband, and carefully build a community college library.
The celebration of her birthday Friday included the following and more: a huge bonfire about which all the boy children asked repeatedly, "What else can I burn? Can I put more wood on? Are there any other items around the farm I can add to the fire?", hotdogs and veggie dogs, every kind of drink you can think of from juice boxes to wine, birthday cake, cookies, chili, something appley, chips.
All Svetlana really wanted for her birthday was a glass nice red wine. However, it's the one thing in her first trimester of pregnancy she could not have. She could only sniff the luscious bouquet of fermented grapes and sob. Unfortunately, morning sickness has been not limited to mornings, and she never tasted a single bite of the birthday cake either. I hope she found some consolation in the antique pale green mug with a spray of lavender painted on inside bottom of the cup which Helen and I had given her.
No one is going to believe she's 39 this year, because other people have ruined that age by lying to conceal their real age. Also, she truly doesn't show age. I've known her since we were 7th grade science lab partners, and she's long outgrown the awkwardness and torture of junior high chunky glasses and skin and bone, to become a svelte, graceful admirable woman. The striking sharp features of an angular chin and nose are softened by milky and clear skin while the nip of winter in the fall wind touches her cheeks and lips with deep red roses. She's known in her daughter's preschool class as "Anna's funky mama". The tiny flowers on her summer shifts and rich wool for cold weather accent her shabby chic classic style.
More than her pure and simple beauty, I love Svet's kind and thoughtful heart. She and Baryshnikov are the kind of folks who love and protect the dignity of those around them. Svetlana's welds her sharp wit to overcome natural discomfort of conflict, but she carefully and consciously avoids aiming at arrows at others. She's a hero to me. How could I be so lucky to call her friend?
Happy 39th Birthday, Svetlana. Here's to another 27 years of youth together. After that, we may call ourselves wise and not old.

The End of the World as We Know It

The story in the Knoxville paper

Knology manager trumpeted visions of end times to media

By LARISA BRASS AND BILL BREWER, brass@knews.com, brewerb@knews.com
November 12, 2005


The general manager of Knology's Knoxville operations has been fired after expressing religious views about the end of time to local media outlets, including the News Sentinel.
John Gilmore, 34, has managed the local office of the Georgia-based provider of cable television, Internet and phone services for the past five years and has been with the company for six years. He was relieved of his duties Thursday.


"Looks like you made it." Clay speaks to me when I walk into his home Saturday morning from a pleasant night of sleep at the guest house.
"Huh?" I had forgotten all about our conversation around the bonfire the night before.
"The world did not end and we are all still alive today. Isn't that something?"
"Oh, yeah! It's good to be alive."

I don't know John Gilmore from the article, but his name, face, and voice had been all over the news in Knoxville last week, because he predicted a major tragedy would happen to end the world on November 11, 2005. I am not sure why he got all this attention except for the fact that people may be feeling shell shocked and fatalistic from the school shooting and three house fires in this area claming many lives recently.

More than likely I do know friends of John, because I know lots of technology wizards like him around town, and I don't want to make fun of him or his beliefs. I'm just sad that when something like that is publicized and nothing really BIG happens, he'll have no credibility. In the future, the label of conspiracy theorist will stick like glue to that man. I suppose his getting fired is something BIG in his life. He'll have to battle crazy reputation verses great talents and gifts from here on out.

Gone, gone, gone

Gone! Gone. Gone. Despite my Norton's hard at work, a horrible virus hijacked my computer, and except for a few files and photos which took hours to download because of the durn varmint inside my machine, Buck and I had to start over from scratch. The good news is that all those lost files of writing are still inside my head. The bad news is that some of that writing I'll need again may take a good long time to get back down in a file.
I tried not to cry as Buck asked me, "Which files do you want me to try and save? And which aren't so important?" Forced 'puter decluttering. I only chose about 10 documents, including one I've been working on for publication for a long while, and it took a very long time to recover each one. My songwriting husband had his recent work burned on a cd which was such a blessing. He told me those were huge files, and I knew most likely he would not have had time to recover them all before the virus utterly destroyed our computer altogether.
I'm taking this as a metaphor for life. I've always said, "I can walk away from everything and not be bothered when it comes to things I own." Today I had to put my money where my mouth is. I had a few minutes to decide essentials and hope for the best to keep them. Whatever was lost, I won't know until I try to find it again. There was simply too much to sort as time marched toward destruction. It was only words, files, work, thoughts. Just yesterday, a family a few miles away had to walk away from a housefire without a mother and some children. A few days before that, a boy shot the principal and assistants at a school in my area of the world. One of them died. Did that make national news? His family won't have a dad walking in the door for supper anymore.
So today, I kissed my husband a little longer, and hugged my children a little tighter. My losses are far outweighed by my abundant life.

it's my house and I plan to live in it

My House
Nikki Giovanni

i only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
when you need to be kissed
where i want to kiss you
cause its my house and i plan to live in it

i really need to hug you
when i want to hug you
as you like to hug me
does this sound like a silly poem

i mean its my house
and i want to fry pork chops
and bake sweet potatoes
and call them yams
cause i run the kitchen
and i can stand the heat

i spent all winter in
carpet stores gathering
patches so i could make
a quilt
does this really sound
like a silly poem

i mean i want to keep you
warm

and my windows might be dirty
but its my house
and if i can't see out sometimes
they can't see in either

english isn't a good language
to express emotion through
mostly i imagine because people
try to speak english instead
of trying to speak through it
i don't know maybe it is
a silly poem

i'm saying it's my house
and i'll make fudge and call
it love and touch my lips
to the chocolate warmth
and smile at old men and call
it revolution cause what's real
is really real
and i still like men in tight
pants cause everybody has some
thing to give and more
important need something to take

and this is my house and you make me
happy
so this is your poem


If you didn't listen to Nikki recite this poem aloud last night on PBS, you missed somethin' worth hearing. I nearly missed it, but I caught the tail end of her program just on before the children piled on my bed to watch the sacred concluding episode of Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Nikki struck me as a fast talking, well spoken, proud, elegant writer whom I admire greatly. She's captivating and had me talking out loud back to her with my boys pointing out, "She can't hear you, Mommy. She's on television, not in our room."
The truth of the matter is, I feel like I *know* her, because I love her work. Just like I feel like I know the weather man on Channel 10 News Straight from the Heart when I see him with his children enjoying the fall festival at a local school. Nikki came to Knoxville to spend her childhood summers with her grandma (I think it was her granny?), so we are practically neighbors except for the time space/continuum issue; this may have been before I was born, so, of course, it's hardly fair to say I know her at all.
I remember the feeling of horror and of wanting to run out the door once when I realized a room full of people, peers, I'd never met had read something I'd published about my work. A lady announced in front of everyone,"Are you the Truevyne who wrote..."? Blush, awkward wiggle. It's an uncomfortable feeling to be known by others and know absolutely nothing about their lives. I recognize my work as out-of-the-box, because I strive to make every idea a part of myself. However, this may greatly offend one who goes-strictly-by-the-book. Thus my impulse to flee the scene. Looking back, I believe I wanted to remain anonymous, so I could decide if I liked them *before* they decided whether or not to like me. I wonder if Nikki feels like flying away when she's recognized after hoping to simply remain one of the crowd?
She's a one of a kind. The kind I like.

My Nemesis- The Cautionary Tail of Osama Bin Kitty

Trust me. I do like cats. You already know I'll drop everything and look for a prodigal feline inclined to joyride. I tolerate Janet the cat jumping in my lap and kneading my belly everytime last time I sit down. I get up out of a dead sleep to let a cat meowing, "Let me in" while clawing on the window screen outside my bedroom window. Why don't those cats go to one of my son's (the owners) and jerk them clear out of dreamland instead of me?
However, there is one cat at Truevyne Farms which has become my nemesis. The mother ferrule cat, named TINO by my children and short for "This Is Not Ours", moved under our out building without permission and left a legacy of trouble when she departed our farm. Peace rescued one of her kittens from smothering under a pile of rubble, and as a result, felt he had a special life bond with the wild kitty. A few months later, this same kitten got stuck in our garage and against my severe warnings to let it be, he took it upon himself to "rescue" the cat again. I went to the garage several times and told the cautionary tale of the boy who got bit by a ferrule cat and had to get terribly painful rabies shots for weeks in a row to which Peace replied, "I won't get bitten." So, I directly addressed him, "Stop trying to catch the cat. I'll see stars if I have to take you to the ER tonight." I was certain he got my point and I walked back inside the house.
Not long after my departure, I heard a scream and then cries making their way towards me, "He bit me!" sob, sob "He bit me and after I saved his life! How could he?"

Sigh...

I immediately called a friend who is an ER doc. She gave me the skinny that in order to avoid rabies shots, one must find the offending cat, have its head chopped off and sent to Nashville to have its brains tested. Ewwww. It's rare for a cat to have rabies, but it is always fatal to humans and can only be treated by a series of expensive and not easily obtained injections. She recommended either catching the cat ASAP or getting to the ER.

Really big sigh...

My country neighbors (honest to goodness farmers) came over with a shot gun; the man whom I called couldn't resist bringing along the whole family. He camped out like a sniper until my dh arrived, so I could drive Peace to the ER. The innocent cat turned nemesis escaped capture and certain death by disappearing for the evening.

My doc friend set up our trip to the ER, and we received the most excellent care. However, after the third horrid shot into the wound on my son's finger, my son, myself and the nurse cried. She said my son looked just like her grandson. After two more gigantic shots in his rear, we made our way home at 1:00am.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we sought to capture the villain and end the series of rabies shots to follow; each injection cost much pain and $400. This is when the evil cat became known as Osama Bin Kitty. We caught *all* of TINO's other kittens, but never Osama. He was redubbed Mrs. Osama Bin Kitty when several more kittens appeared this spring.

Mrs. Osama's kittens have been spotted chasing our beloved free range chickens lately, and Buck decided to begin trapping these critters. First, he caught a skunk. A former wildlife officer had to take care of that nasty problem. Next, we captured a cat or two, and finally an opossum. All these creatures were released to more friendly environments than our farm. But today...

OSAMA was finally trapped. She definitely didn't have rabies or she'd have been dead a long while ago. Grrrrr. I gloated over her cage in the picture below before Buck hauled her off to Guitmo.

Noone expects the enemy to be a really pretty gal with beautiful green eyes and sleek coat.

Osama before deportation

Captured!

Pooh Bear digs through her purse to pay off the high priced bounty hunter(me).

When things come together

Lane is one PROUD grandma and whips out photos and conversations about this precious new bouncing baby boy with anyone who'll listen. She resides here in TN and I've known her for about 15 years. I ran into her not long ago and inquired about her treasure, "How's that baby boy?". A solemn look crossed her face, and she lets out a long sigh, "True, I'm going to tell you the truth. He's got a rare genetic disease, and my daughter is fixing to take him from her home in South Carolina and live in the Ronald McDonald House in Minneapolis. The doctors up there will do gene replacement over the course of several months. One of the weeks she'll be there, he will be kept in complete isolation, and she won't be able to see him. Her husband must remain in South Carolina to work and fly up to see them when he can. My daughter is a brand new mother and knows not a soul in Minnesota. Under all these circumstances, I am at peace. I am trusting God to get us all through."
A lump rose in my throat. Why a baby? Let it be me or at least someone who'll understand when they are being endlessly handled, poke, prodded, monitored by strangers in a hospital. I shook off my angry questions and searched my heart for answers. One of the practical sort came to me quickly.

"Lane, I believe you've shared this with me for a reason. I have something I'm going to work on for your daughter. I'll call you when things come together."


On a LISTSERVE I co-own, I'd read Myla's posts without knowing Myla in person. I've found her writing to be insightful and inspiring over the years, and hoped one day I'd have the chance to get to know her. The opportunity came in spades during my time in California this past summer. She attended the same training, and the small group size and presentations for one another created instant intimacy. Sometimes in evenings, Myla and I would cook dinner for one another. She suggested we go whale watching and we had lots of talking time on the trip. This I know about Myla- she is a the kind of person who actively seeks good for others, and a PROUD grandma. She enjoys her new bouncing grandson thoroughly. She and her daughter find joy together in the simplest of coos and kicking of chunky cherub legs.
Myla, her grandbaby, and daughter live in Minneapolis fifteen minutes from the Ronald McDonald house.

You've probably figured out my practical idea for Lane.

Myla and Lane's daughters, though complete strangers, have spoken over the phone a number of times now. Myla's daughter is on the hunt for an extra baby snow suit which are unavailable in South Carolina. The two have plans to meet as soon as the time comes for the trip. The world isn't such a lonely and unknown place when a friendly face is there to greet you.

I do love when things come together.