Thanks in Thanksgiving

Like my friend Aubri over here, we Olsons had a nice, relaxed Thanksgiving. It sure is a gift to learn some things over time, like: this is only one day. If the meat and at least one side is done, we'll survive. Kids like to help with special days (even if sometimes it feels like anything but help, like when they're juggling the fine china). A clean kitchen is a great joy. And a perennial favorite: eating is fuuuuun.

I also greatly benefitted from advance planning (I won't talk at length about my Wednesday meltdown which primarily involved a cranky, overtired pregnant momma who spent too much time standing and insisting on unrealistic execution. But I digress). The bread dough and pie were finished yesterday, so the sugar-high cinnamon rolls this morning were a breeze and a hoot--the kids wanted to try using cookie cutters on the dough until I explained that the cinnamon had to have a roll to make it happy. Papa dressed the turkey--the boys debated whether it should get underwear, a ski hat, or PJs to wear--as usual, which is a huge relief for me. He also cleaned and prepped and boiled the white and sweet potatoes. He's a dream, I know!

Because he did that, I could make the Schnitzel Beans (bacon, onions, green beans and other top secret ingredients), the Scalloped Corn, prep the dinner rolls from the dough, and make eggs for a late brunch. I also did two loads of laundry and put away three weeks' worth of clean clothes in our room, which was completely tangential to the meal but made me feel fan-tad-tic (look! Our dresser has a top!). Taking a shower probably helped my state of mind, too. And washing dishes by hand and running the dishwasher twice. Then I made the (box) stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes (cream cheese, check) while Papa carved the bird and made the melt-in-your-mouth sweet potatoes. Oh, and I opened up the can of cranberry sauce that Jon and the kids love.

At four we six and a half sat down to a great meal. We talked about things and people we're thankful for, in between preventing spills, reminders to use utensils, and refilling plates (you never have to ask Small Dude twice if he wants more. He invariably says "Puh-puh," or "please!"). Then I laid on the couch for an hour while Papa cleaned up. Bliss.

Yeah, the kids watched the parade this morning (fun to converse with them about it. When asked about the Rockettes' kick line, the Little Professor said, "It looks like a combine." Why, yes, yes it does. There's a deeper social analysis in that comparison, but the literal one was enjoyable enough). They played spaceship and trucks and who knows what else for much of the day. And I find myself near sleep and realizing how few thanks I gave today, how much I took for granted.

I know better. I wrote about gratitude this very week. I said prayers and read psalms and thought about God's gifts, but these are such small tokens. Like a pastor friend wrote on Facebook today, maybe that's the point--that God is pleased to receive our tiny thanks is another indication of His unsurpassable generosity to His children. We deserve nothing and get everything, and He smiles upon us when we give thanks to Him. I can and should do better, yes, in rendering thanks and praise to my Savior. Yet He forgives even my selfishness and inward focus on this day. For His great mercy I give Him my gratitude, my whispered words. And He gives again, and will so tomorrow and until the end.

Mother of a Filler Post

I began this post over two months ago, if that tells anybody what kind of priority this blog has been. It's been so long since I blogged that those of you in cyberspace might be wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on at the Olson Homestead. Not that you've lost any sleep. But your theoretical concern piques my heart, nonetheless. So here's a beginner of a filler post on what we've been doing here.

• Learning. We're heading into Week 18 of homeschooling--yes, that means we started back up in July--so we've been hip deep in larnin'. Reading? Check-check-check. Writing? Check. 'Rithmatic? Check-check. Catechism and daily prayer and bits of ancient history and science too. And Latin and piano lessons (for the Little P). Then there's tunnel-making and ball-rolling and leaf-pile-design and all kinds of free play for the littles, and all sorts of random stuff (I'm hoping the recent fascination with arachnids passes soon, because wheesh). It sounds like a lot, but it isn't. Maybe I'll explain that more thoroughly someday.

• House-selling. Well, it's not sold yet, and maybe I should have filed this under "learning." But it's been an interesting few months in a very small market. "Why are you selling your house?" you're probably wondering. Well, the short version is we'd like to both get rid of some debt with our huge equity and possibly get a bigger house before this one gets way too small. And the good news is we don't have to rush (if we sell, we can move, but we don't have to move rightthissecond). The better news is we've had five positive showings--a solid showing for this area--and springtime is a better time to sell. So we're optimistic.

• House-moving. Internally, that is. After eight years of a series of remodels and getting used to everybody sleeping on the first floor, Papa and I finally moved up by moving down to the ensuite master bedroom in the basement. With a walk-in closet and our own bathroom, I feel like I've finally reached some point of adulthood I didn't know I was missing. And it's really quiet down there! Unless Small Dude is screaming into the monitor. Pearly Girl transitioned cleanly into a big girl bed and her own room, and Superman and the Little Professor enjoy their big boy room. Yes, Papa did a three-room furniture shuffle (and repainting one room). I was awesome at giving directions, pointing, and picking up random screws. 

• Exploring regular freelance writing. Since late August, I've been given an awesome opportunity to write a weekly column for our local paper, the Star. It's been great practice for me, and the editor is amazing--constructive, insightful, encouraging in pushing me to improve. You can look up my columns here, under "Thoughts in the Heartland." 

• Kid growing. The Little Prof (6) is seriously steaming ahead in lessons (again, possibly more on that later). Superman (4.5) is looking to follow in his tracks ("I'm crazy about history!" he announced the other day). Pearly Girl (almost, almost 3) wants to do everything the boys do, and more. And Small Dude is a year old--a YEAR OLD! No walking yet, but he's crawling everywhere and starting to pull himself up on his knees (and eating random Cheerios off of the kitchen floor. Score!). We're thinking he might, just might, decide to go bipedal by Christmas, but it's actually kind of great that he's not walking or running or climbing stairs and furniture yet. Because..

• Kid growing, part V.  Yes, we have been blessed again. Olson Child will arrive in mid- to late April 2015! I'm doing much, much better in terms of energy and appetite than for a few months there in early fall, but keeping up with four kids is, for some reason, kind of time-consuming. I keep wondering why I'm so surprised by this. Like getting used to this life somehow also should mean it gets easier. It does, in some ways--few things they do surprise me--but in other ways, it's just a dump-fest--laundry, books, toys, needs. Thank goodness Someone Else is ultimately their Caretaker! This season is just that--a season. That gives me both heartache and incredible relief.

Well, that's about all I can put down for now. My pillow is calling.

The Impossibility of Thirteen Clocks Chiming Simultaneously

A belated nod to our nation's birthday, from Walter McDougall's awesome Freedom Just Around the Corner: A New American History 1585-1828:

[T]he American republic was not the product of a spontaneous uprising of instant democrats against tyranny, nor the product of bourgeois versus proletarian class conflict. Otherwise, contemporary historians agree the colonists' anger over taxes, restrictions on commerce, colonial assemblies, and new western settlements, and perceived threats to religious liberty were all necessary conditions for revolt, but none by itself was sufficient. Nor do any of the historical theories answer two mysterious questions. The first is why colonists, especially some of the wealthiest, risked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor over a thrup'penny tax or mere point of principle. The second is how the colonists managed to set aside their provincial, religious, and social divisions so that--as John Adams put it--"thirteen clocks were made to strike together." 

Those questions cannot be answered by reference to material or legal interests alone. Or rather, they can be so answered only if one grasps that most Puritans, Quakers, Cavaliers, and Bordermen, Old Lights, New Lights, and rational skeptics, invested their material and legal complaints against Britain with moral and spiritual meaning. Was the American rebellion caused by conflicts over wealth or ideology, a backward-looking Whig mentality or a future-oriented American dream, a secular discourse of human rights and equality or an evangelical discourse of corruption and virtue? The answer is all of the above, because the whole experience of the colonists dating back to 1607--and the twin vocabularies they used to interpret that experience--made self-government, religious freedom, economic opportunity, and territorial growth inseparable. Almost everyone from Massachusetts to Georgia could agree that: civil and religious liberty went hand in hand; liberty could not long survive without virtue; an exploding population could aspire to no liberty at all if its territorial and commercial expansion were artificially choked. 

And a nod to James Thurber, who shows us in a fantastic unique tale of romance, chivalry, whimsy, and better-than-Seuss tongue-twisters how inseparable [the] Time is from impossibility. Here, two of our heroes try to start the frozen thirteen clocks:

"I cannot start the clocks," the Princess said.

They heard the sound of fighting far above. "He faces thirteen men," she cried, "and that is hard."

"We face thirteen clocks," the Golux said, "and that is harder. Start the clocks!"

"How can I start the clocks?" the Princess wailed.

"Your hand is warmer than the snow is cold," the Golux said. "Touch the first clock with your hand." The Princess touched it. Nothing happened. "Again!" Saralinda held her hand against the clock and nothing happened. "We are ruined," said the Golux simply, and Saralinda's heart stood still.

She cried, "Use magic!"

"I  have no magic to depend on," groaned the Golux. "Try the other clock." 

The Princess tried the other clock and nothing happened. "Use logic, then!" she cried. In the secret walls they heard the Iron Guard pounding after Zorn, and coming close.

"Now let me see," the Golux said. "If you can touch the clocks and never start them, then you can start the clocks and never touch them. That's logic, as I know and use it. Hold your hand this far away. Now that far. Closer! Now a little farther back. A little farther. There! I think you have it! Do not move!"

The clogged and rigid works of the clock began to whir. They heard a tick and then a ticking. The Princess Saralinda fled from room to room, like wind in clover, and held her hand the proper distance from the clocks. Something like a vulture spread its wings and left the castle. "That was Then," the Golux said. 

"It's Now!" cried Saralinda.

A morning glory that had never opened, opened in the courtyard.

More than a handful: A 6th birthday for the Little Professor

Last week we enjoyed an awesome day with our Little Professor, also known as our eldest son. He marked his sixth birthday, and we sure had a slam-bang time! Well, a slam-bang time for a bunch of kids six and under--and mom and dad, too. I didn't get any pics of the outdoor fun, but you can hopefully enjoy the narrative.

As usual, LP got to open cards and presents throughout the day. After breakfast and his first opening, I asked him what he wanted to do: the park or the library. "The library!" he said, a little to my surprise. So the kids and I trekked over, and he (and Superman and Pearly Girl) got to pick out prizes for the library's summer reading program (good thing I filled out the reading logs before we left!). LP chose three books, thrilled to get another Magic Tree House book ("Christmas in Came-lot," he told me).

LP had originally wanted pancakes and sausage for lunch, but he changed his mind and opted for PB & J--which is what he has almost every day. Easy for mom, that one! We enjoyed eating outside at the picnic table on our newish patio, which was put in in May. (A beyond-huge improvement over the mud hole that's been there for a year and a half.) Then, during quiet time while the others slept, LP and I made "Fire Truck Cookies", since he'd chosen to have those instead of red velvet cake, his earlier choice (I know, Aunt R; I was bummed, too). But we didn't exactly make fire trucks. we used blue frosting instead of red, cut off two corners of each graham cracker instead of one, added golden Oreos (LP's choice) to most instead of regular Oreos, adorned the tops with pretzel sticks instead of licorice, sprinkled nonpareils and red, yellow, blue, and green sparkles all over the tops. We'd thought we were making police cars, but what we made looked way more like race cars--always a favorite here--so hey! Even better!

LP's self-made Birthday Cookie

After we took pics of the cookies, LP wanted to take some pics of his own to show off some of his birthday gifts.

A library pick, for obvious reasons. LP said he'll read it to Pearly Girl and Small Dude.

Another self-evident choice: boys and trucks!

And boys and planes! Dusty as a fire truck plane.

He wanted to do a group shot. All layouts and button-pressing done by LP.

After the others woke up, we went to the pool for some swimming ginormous sand castle fun, came home and grilled out for another round of picnic awesomeness. Papa played soccer with the boys before bed, and all in all, LP had a good day. Actually, near bedtime he told me, "I've had a GRREEEAAAT birthday!" And it was. We are so thankful for our son and the six years he's lived outside the womb!

Sibling excitement

 

"What is it?"...

"A harmonica!!" Thanks, Grandpa E.!

Superman made pictures, a card, and picked some of his toys
 to give to LP. He "wrapped" them in the bucket.

 

Nice monster truck!

A happy six-year-old!

Jellicle Time

Aside from the normal excuses I give about not blogging regularly, another event has cut into my typing time, and it involves fabulous feline fun. Disclaimer here: I'm not a cat person. I'm not even much of a dog person. We have no pets--which probably isn't that surprising, given the number of kiddos we have--and if we do ever get a pet, it will be years from now, and it would have to be the absolute right time and right dog. I've pretty much ruled out getting a cat for many, many reasons.

All that being said, I don't dislike cats. I've taken care of them before--our neighbors had my sister and I take care of their five cats when they were gone on vacation, and they were pleasant enough when they weren't hiding (the cats, not the neighbors). I pet them if they'll deign to allow it when I visit friends or family. But cats tend to be distant. They're particular. They don't lend themselves to blind loyalty or random snuggling with the nearest human unless they really want and need some love (see Socks when baby Charles shows up). And now I have a reason to possess a renewed respect for these aloof-yet-sophisticated animals.

T.S. Eliot wrote a wonderful little book called Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats in the 1930s, and Andrew Lloyd Webber used it to write the blockbuster musical CATS, which premiered in 1981. Our local theater organization, the Calumet Players, decided last fall to tackle this gigantic show, and it's currently completed its first weekend run.

And who's involved with this production? Well, many awesome and talented people. And me.

Yes, I'm actually playing a cat (her name is Jemima). And would you believe it? It's been amazingly fun!

If you're available next weekend--like, within fifty miles of here--you should come see the show. Not because I'm in it but because you'll love it. Even if you don't fancy yourself a friend of cats. Trust me--I know!

Quite the transformation is an understatement.

Easter is still here

Here's our Easter picture for 2014. It took us a few weeks to get one taken, due to the flu and the haphazardness of child collection and getting everybody to sit and look and smile, preferably all at the same nanosecond. We generally succeeded, I think.

What isn't pictured here is the talking-to the older kids got about listening in church and Small Dude's screaming for food and Papa and my's exasperation at normal kid misbehavior (Small Dude's need for sustenance doesn't count, of course). Saying we were exasperated is putting it mucho mildly ("spitting nails furious" is closer, at least for me). And, as every parent knows, just because misbehavior is "normal" doesn't mean we let it slide. We have to discipline. And discipline is hard because we wonder why they don't just LISTEN and TRUST US and DO IT THE FIRST TIME, FOR PETE'S SAKE. God knows that better than we do, He who put up with--and still puts up with-- broken command after broken command. And this is why we still celebrate Easter going on three weeks after the one Sunday most people see on the calendar. One Father's anger poured out on His obedient Son, and the rest of us benefit eternally.

So what is pictured here are six very sinful people. Six people who have all been baptized and forgiven and who still go to church every Sunday because we need Jesus--in His word, in bread and wine that are His body and blood. And someday, in His heavenly kingdom, we will sit and look and smile and bask in the presence of Christ. He will show us, like He did to His disciples, His hands and His side. And He will tell us, "Peace to you." And peace to you, dear ones, this Easter.

Superman, Four Years Old

April is going out like a sopping, shivering lion here in Minnesota. But we refuse to kowtow to drenching doldrums. Here, we party. Especially when we've got a birthday to celebrate! 

So yesterday Superman and Little Professor helped make Starlight Yellow Cupcakes (no, I don't know why Betty Crocker named 'em that way. They're kinda sparkly once baked, I suppose). Superman picked Papa's apron to wear. Hence "The Rev" and the emblem of the Greatest Football Team Ever.

"Cheeeeeeese!" A.k.a. The normal posed Superman face.

The "Nice for Mommy" posed face.

 My helpers were stellar. They moved a little quick with the ingredients (and for the camera), but didn't spill much and really, really, REALLY enjoyed helping with the mixer on high-seven-speed. (Little Professor kept whispering for Superman to "make it go faster!")

I told them to help me take some selfies. "What's a selfie?" asked Little Professor. Because he spends time reading The Magic Treehouse series instead of Facebook (or analyses of media culture). Anyway, per usual silly boys, they kept making silly faces. So I finally did, too. If you can't beat 'em, silly with 'em!

 

As usual, I forgot to take a picture of the cupcakes going in the oven, coming out of the oven, pre-iced, or even iced. Suffice it to say homemade cake and icing are mucho better than the boxed kind. And green food coloring makes a mess. But a bright, cheerful one.

So the big day came. We like to spread out birthdays here, so there's still presents and cards waiting to be opened in the next few days. Superman had fun playing with stamps this morning, building a monstrous tent house with four blankets and an American flag (disguised as a blue handkerchief), and reading birthday books. His sibs, especially the Little Professor, were so excited! LP even made him a second card, complete with its own envelope and label, that he placed by Superman's pillow during his nap so he'd find it when he woke up. 

Papa came home to pick up Superman to take him to get some eggs--one of his favorite foods--and to give us a little time to do some decorating and last-minute wrapping.  Little Professor hand selected four cars--significance in numbers here--to give to Superman. He wrapped each one in tissue paper. And Superman LOVED them. Brotherly love on display! Then he came home to a little surprise, some gifts, a lot of screeching excitement, and bacon.

Only the really excited kids stand on chairs!

 

I love it!

 And the little sibs didn't want to miss out, either. Pearly Girl kept a close watch. And Small Dude bounced up and down with excitement.

Did someone say "PARTY?!"

We celebrate birthdays with simple things--cake, icing, a few gifts, lots of love. Maybe someday we'll have a no-holds-barred birthday bash, but for now, it's a happy day to spend together, share some squeezes, thank God for His good gift of life.

He wanted eggs and sausage and toast with jam for his birthday dinner. Who wouldn't grin?

 A year is no time and a year is a lot of time. Here's Superman last year with his green cake, and here he is this year with his green cupcake. May you be blessed with many more, our dear son!

By Your Agony and Bloody Sweat

I originally wrote this post on Good Friday two years ago (for reference, Pearly Girl was a few months old, Superman was almost two, and Little Professor was three and a half). Here it is for you on this Good Friday.

On this Good Friday, the title above is both fitting and--I'll admit it--a deliberate attention-getter (that's Comp 101 on "Attracting an Audience" right there). I don't actually like to think about what Christ went through on this day. I don't even like to use the proper language to describe it. Thanks to the Litany (again!) for the right words when my sinful flesh cringes at the truth.

Today the kids and I went up to church at noon for an informal prayer service. I told Papa I could walk there, no problem--he needed to take a few boxes of books earlier so he drove the not-quite-two blocks with our one vehicle. But after strapping on Pearly Girl (roughly fourteen pounds) into the sling and pulling the boys (roughly sixty pounds) into a twenty-mile-per-hour wind for about one hundred yards, I realized I was tackling more than I thought. By the time I got to church, my back and arms were aching-sore and I was totally out of breath. But no big deal, I told myself. Jesus hung on the cross for three hours and endured hours of torment and torture before that, so a little sweat pulling my kids isn't anything to complain about.

We went into the dark church where Papa had covered the cross with a black veil and lit a few candles. A few women from church were there, and we sat in front of them in the first pew. The sanctuary was very dark and quiet. But not for long. Pearly Girl wanted out of the carrier. Badly. My muck sweat from the walk doubled as I wrestled the now-squirming, flailing, wailing girly out of the Baby Bjorn. Then Superman got ants in his pants and would not hold still. After trying unsuccessfully to rock our Pearl and shush Superman, Papa stopped his prayers so I could hand Superman over to him. Then I took PG and left the sanctuary, mere minutes after we first had walked in.

I sat down on the pew in the narthex with the door to the sanctuary closed and began to feed PG. And I couldn't help it; the tears started pooling in my eyes and running down my cheeks. Why, I thought, why can't I just go into church and be able to sit quietly and hear your Word without interruption? All I wanted was to hear and remember your Passion. 

I could hear the quiet murmurs of Papa and the women praying the Litany. The soft, muffled cadence of their voices calmed me down, and I gradually just sat still and tried to remember the parts where I thought they were. After a few minutes, they came out of the church and stood by me for a few minutes. The boys, now quiet, went with Papa to the van.


"How is she?" one of the women asked gently, gesturing to PG.

"She's almost asleep now," I said. "I'm sorry about all the noise."

Before I could say anything else, all three of them shook their heads and started talking at once.

"They're no trouble--"

"No, don't you worry--"

But one of them spoke most firmly.

"Don't ever apologize for your children. They are a gift to us, and we are so, so happy to see them here. Always remember what a joy they, and you, are to us."

I was touched by her words and the obvious agreement all of them had for this woman's sentiments. In fact, I was overwhelmed. What I saw as burden and interruption, they saw as gift, total gift. What I saw as irritation and distraction, they saw as reminders of the abundance of God's grace.

That afternoon, I got an email from the same woman with the comment. She wrote:

Thank you both so much for taking the time today to worship with us.  It was a special service and I appreciate the focus during this time, especially as the work day passes, it’s wonderful to break away and focus on what matters in this life – salvation through Jesus Christ our Lord and the new life He brings!!

 I also want you both to understand, please never feel the need to say “I’m sorry” for those 3 blessings that you have in your children.  You cannot imagine the feeling of joy that I had when I heard Paul’s voice join in on the Lord’s Prayer.  Hands down, highlight of my day.  It’s always wonderful to have them there.  Both Nancy and I were so thrilled to see the wagon outside of the church when we arrived, and we were so thrilled to spend that time with your family – our church family!!  It speaks to the kind people that you are that you apologize, but I want you to know that you don’t have to.  There is absolutely no apology necessary, ever.  Children are to be in church, and we are SO GLAD that they can be at Our Saviours!!

Love, because of Him,

Linda

The subject of her email was "This was truly a Good Friday."

So often I forget what's important in this life. Yet in the midst of sweat (literally) and tears (literally, all around, everybody join in!), Christ comes. My agony might seem terrible, but it's nothing compared to what He bore for me. He came to bleed and sweat and cry and die on the cross for us so that we won't always. I thought I'd missed His Passion. But He brought it to me anyway, just in a way I hadn't expected. And His word, that does for me what I can't do for myself, keeps me always. For this I am eternally grateful, just as I am so incredibly grateful for the love He gives through women at our church who remind me of Him so steadfastly.

Happy Good Friday.

An old man, a young girl, and their Brother

Heinz Otto Bleinagel was born into a north Prussian farm family in 1918. He shared hard physical labor with his father, mother, four brothers, and three sisters. He was hard of hearing in one ear. He didn't like corn because pigs ate it. He was a Lutheran.

Near the end of World War II, Heinz fought for Germany on the eastern front. Russians took him prisoner. When the war ended, the Russians told him and the other prisoners to walk over a hill, toward freedom. When the prisoners started moving in that direction, the Russians started shooting at them. Heinz escaped and walked all the way home, from western Russia to northern Germany.

While Heinz was escaping and then walking, his brother Oscar was in Milwaukee, wondering if he was still alive. He sent money for Heinz's passage to America. When Heinz got home, he left again, for good, for a new home in Wisconsin.

In Milwaukee, Heinz met Betty. Betty was a Catholic. They got engaged, and Heinz found himself taken into a room with Betty's aunt, a nun. Heinz told Sister, "I'm staying Lutheran, and that's that." They emerged, and the aunt told her brother, John, Betty's father, "He's okay." John then approved of Heinz and Betty's marriage.

Heinz and Betty's first child was Linda. Two sisters, Lee Ann and Lori, later joined the family. On Sundays after church, the Bleinagels would get together with Oscar and his family, eat ham and hard rolls, and play Sheep's Head for hours.

Heinz worked in manufacturing, worked with his hands. In his spare time, he smoked a pipe and carved animals and people out of wood in his basement shop that was filled with tools. He liked to fish and play more Sheep's Head with friends and relatives, including his grandson Jon, at Carl Schurz Park on Moose Lake. He had a sense of humor and enjoyed telling stories. His bright blue eyes would twinkle and his hands would gesture.

Heinz rarely talked about the war.

On Sunday, March 2, Heinz passed away.

Many, many years after Heinz was born, a little girl named Jordyn was born in the north central United States. She spent a lot of time in farm country.  She rode her bike while she wore her favorite skirts, and she giggled with delight. She loved her dog and kitties, her big sister and little brother, her mom and dad and grandpas and grandmas. She loved many people in her life, and they loved her. She was a Lutheran.

Jordyn was diagnosed with cancer when she was seven months old. She fought it for six years.

On Thursday, March 20, Jordyn passed away.

Heinz was our grandpa, grandpa-in-law, and great-grandpa. Jordyn was our neighbor, the great-granddaughter of friends.

In these days of ever more deliberate rhetorical choices to downplay death, Heinz was just another old man whose time had finally come. He nearly made it to his ninety-sixth birthday. The last few months--okay, years and even decades--were hard. But still, he'd had a long life. Okay, maybe that long life wasn't totally great and wonderful, but what more could anyone ask for?

In these days of ever more impressive efforts to show sick kids how special they are, Jordyn was just another young girl who tragically suffered. She didn't even make it to her eighth birthday. The last few weeks--okay, months and years--were hard. But still, people sure made great efforts to show how much they cared for her. Okay, maybe those efforts weren't as impressive as they could have been, but what more could anyone ask for?

My rhetorical questions are glib, even snide. They certainly belittle the very real pain Heinz's and Jordyn's relatives and friends felt, still feel, and will continue to feel. They especially undercut the lives, the precious lives, of Heinz and Jordyn. What little we remember about Heinz and what little we remember about Jordyn is nowhere near to what God the Father, who designed and created every hair on their heads, remembers about them.

The truth is, no matter how long human lives might last, no matter how much effort loved ones can love, the only end any of us really want for Heinz and Jordyn and ourselves is that there isn't one. No, we don't want them to suffer, and we certainly don't want to suffer in this life that is full of it. But death is no rosy, easy substitute for the slow debilitating decay of a body long used or for the terrible marks of cancer treatments on a young one. No, death merely reiterates to us how wrong it is to say goodbye to a grandfather or father, to a sister or daughter or great-granddaughter. Death is not natural. Returning to dust is not natural. Twinkling eyes and giggling laughter in dear ones that suddenly and forever end is not natural. Mortality in life made immortal is not natural. It is horrifically wrong, terrifyingly real, and hopelessly inevitable.

Heinz did things in his life that he wasn't proud of. I'd venture a guess that he regretted some of the choices he made up until his last breath. And Jordyn, sweet girl that she was, broke commandments. They both did. We all do. They just suffered the ultimate bodily consequences of sin before we did.

This week we remember Jesus, who rode on a beast of burden to His death. Who sacrificed Himself and feeds His own body and blood to our failing flesh. Who drowns us so that we will breathe in perfect bodies, forever.

Who took our putrid, stinking mortality and gave us His perfect, spotless, immortal righteousness instead.

Who remembers Heinz and Jordyn and all His saints even now.

Who made the hopelessly inevitable impossibly hopeful.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

For now, I remember these words from a Holy Week hymn:

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered 

Was all for sinners' gain;

Mine, mine was the transgression,

But Thine the deadly pain.

Lo, here I fall, my Savior! 

'Tis I deserve Thy place;

Look on me with Thy favor,

And grant to me Thy grace.

~O Sacred Head, Now Wounded, v.2

Spring has, um...

We're still here, recovering from nearly month-long colds and various travel and busy-ness (as usual). And now that it's over five days after the beginning of spring, I want to reassure everyone that the warming season is truly upon us because (wait for it) WE CAN SEE GRASS HERE! There's still vestiges of snow on it, and it's twenty-three degrees out, but still. Where there's grass, there's hope, right?