Dawn with Dad

When I think of dawn, I think of my dad.

From my father I inherited my curiosity, love of learning, height (well, that's equal parts mom and dad) and my affinity for mornings.

Most days I rise with the sun, a pattern I've maintained from childhood. I remember standing beside my parents' bed on Saturday morning, requesting breakfast. It must have been early if my dad wasn't up. Too early--they finally purchased a small pitcher from which even a petite, piggy-tailed girl could pour.

So it is to this day. I love morning--the earlier, the better. By far, my favorite mornings are spent at Pokagon State Park, where my family, my sister's family, and my parents gather yearly for a reunion.

One of our Pokagon mornings is dedicated to a pre-dawn walk. Dad and I meet for a quick cup of coffee before greeting the sun. Typically, a northern Indiana autumn is well under way. Our breath clouds the crisp air; the leaves crinkle under our walking shoes. We lower our voices to a whisper as we discuss politics, religion, my children, the weather. But when we near the meadow, we stop talking.

Neither dad nor I will admit it, but we measure the success of our walk on sightings. It's a good walk if we spot doe. A great walk is spotting a buck, as we did a few years ago. On a middling walk we'll see a flash of a white tail as a single deer retreats. On a bad walk, we come back having spotted a rabbit or two.

But I think we've got it wrong. A great walk is when I'm with my dad in the morning. A great walk is when his presence--solid, faithful, comforting, and above all, honest--permeates the morning, intertwining the best time of day with the second-best man I've ever known...second only to my husband.

With you, dad, it's always a good walk. Deer or no. Thank you for passing on your love of mornings.

Readers, has a loved one come to represent a time of day, season, or place in your mind? I'd love to read your stories!

Hammocks and Chimes

Today I enjoyed the best birthday gift my daughter ever requested: our hammock. Okay, it's technically her hammock. But she's generous. She shares.

The sun shone warm on my skin. Every few moments, a temperate breeze wafted. It was a golden summer day, the kind you want to unleash on an unrelentingly bitter day in January.

But soon enough I forgot the sun on my cheeks, the breeze, how my body relaxed into the hammock. We have wind chimes on our deck. Lovely chimes made of metal, but treated so the sound is muted, not tinny; rich, not clanging.

My musical training kicked in. Our chimes sing a pentatonic scale. No fa or ti, so there's no dissonance to western ears. When I began listening, the chimes sang me a tune: high so, low so, do. And again. And a third time.

I listened and identified each tone. The breeze was such that the chimes sang, then stopped, then sang again, offering just enough time in between for me to imagine arranging a wind chime song for children's voices or classroom instruments. Sometimes lyrics came to mind. Sometimes they didn't. But for fifteen minutes I was lost in the breeze-induced music. 


Summer does that to us, doesn't it? Perhaps it's the longer days, or the leftover feeling of summer vacation when we were children (teachers still have that benefit). In the summer, my senses heighten. I take more time to savor.

What do you savor in the summer? Sights? Sounds? Warmth? Flavors? I'd love to have your input.

Happy summer!

Prayers for a Birthday Boy

Do you remember fourth grade?

I do. My memories involve summer fun in a neighborhood full of kids: inventing games, eating Popsicles, running through sprinklers. My teacher entered my short story in a writing contest. There was an eclipse that year and, warned within an inch of our lives, my classmates and I peered into boxes and stared at our shoes, not even daring to lift our eyes to our teacher's waistbands.

You know what I don't remember? Deciding whether to fight a disease that had ravaged my body since age three or to finally, finally stop fighting.

This is the dilemma of a fourth grader in our area. Ryan has suffered brain cancer for most of his life. Repeated, painful surgeries. Rounds and rounds of chemotherapy. Radiation. Medication. Doctors, doctors, and more doctors.

Given the choice to face another treatment that might add three months to his life or stop the endless interventions, he's decided to live his last days treatment-free.

His birthday is May 24th. Ryan's goal is to be alive for it, to turn ten years old surrounded by his loving family, friends, and community members.

My hearts seeps with a double ache when I think of Ryan. I ponder him as a nine-year-old hoping to turn ten. I think of his parents. I try to imagine his mother waking up every morning, wondering...or if she sleeps at all. And the seep in my heart turns to an aching wound.

But the fight in Ryan, his admirable resolve, is an inspiration. His family thanks God and the community for the blessings they've received. Ryan was touched when his story was covered nationally and became a hot topic on Twitter. This month is brain cancer awareness month. Ryan hopes his story will bring awareness to others who struggle with such a vicious disease.

A fourth grader with courage while dying. A fourth grader with gratitude for blessings bestowed. A fourth grader who's an inspiration to all who know his story.

God bends near when life is most tenuous, and we know He hears the prayers of and for His precious young lambs. Friends, would you join me in praying for Ryan?

Thank you--and may God bless you and yours.

Sing Us a Spring

"For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of  the singing of birds is come..."--Song of Solomon 2:11-12 KJV

Do you ever hear the first morning bird sing?

Well before dawn, he's slow on the uptake. A tentative trill. Pause. Another, longer tune. Pause. Finally a song erupts. It wakes his feathered friends from their delicate slumber, and they soon join in avian harmony.

In May, the harmony extends for miles. The birdsong is joyful, deep and sturdy, almost frantic in its intensity. But oh, how I love that first brave bird of late winter. The one who, though the ground is white and the wind is bitter, cannot resist using the gift God gave Him.

As I get into my car on those dark, frosty mornings, I encourage him. "Sing us a spring, sweet bird," I whisper. "Sing us a spring." When my children were younger, they asked what I meant. "Spring doesn't come until the birds sing us there," I'd answer. I don't think they believed me, even then. But who's to say that the birds don't sing the buds open and cajole the flowers to spread their colorful clothing?

What do you enjoy most about spring? Can you identify the varied songs of birds? Do you have a favorite Bible verse relating to birds?

Happy spring, readers!

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games movie comes out this weekend, as most of you know.

I admit that I avoided the books for a long time. Sci-fi YA is not my favorite genre, and I'm one busy lady. When I'm reading, I'm either reading the Bible, Christian fiction or Christian non-fiction.

But after seeing a preview for the movie, I was intrigued. So I downloaded it on my Kindle. Eight hours later I emerged from book one, gobsmacked. What kind of imaginative mind constructs a can't-put-it-down story that captures the attention of an entire nation?

It's so elusive, that kind of writing. High stakes that are believable, at least within the world the author has constructed. A heroine that's consistently interesting. Enough sensory information to season the story without overwhelming the plot. A tale that personal and universal, all at once. But in book one of the series, at least, Suzanne Collins hit it just right.

Can you imagine the auction that book incited? Wow. My head spins to imagine it.

So what about you, readers? Did you read The Hunger Games? Just book one or the entire series? Do you plan to see the movie?

Have a great weekend!

The Years of Living Dangerously

My husband and I have been reminiscing about our childhood. It seems back then, everyone--parents, the government, even children--recognized that life came with risks. And though it might not be particularly sensitive, we laugh remembering the things we did that we would never let our children do now.

Anyone remember:

1. Sitting on the console in the front seat of your dad's car, or laying on the back window ledge while he drove through town? How about sitting in the bed of a pickup truck, or wrestling with your siblings in the back of a station wagon, unbelted and rolling on the floor?

2. Our mothers handing us pudding cups made of metal? We opened those tin cans ourselves and, worse yet, licked the pudding from the razor-sharp edges of the metal lid. No wimpy plastic pudding cups when we were growing up--no way.

3. Playing with lawn jarts? You know, those oh-so-safe arrows with pointy tips that you were supposed to aim at a target across the yard? (In retrospect. . .whose idea was THAT?)

4. Playing on tall, metal playground equipment with only a thin layer of rubber on the ground as protection? No mulch then, thanks. Sitting on monkey bars fifteen feet above the ground proved more thrilling, I suppose, when you knew a fall would result in a broken bone.

What about you, dear reader? Any dangerous tales from your childhood? Do you laugh or wax incredulous when you remember your childhood adventures. . .or do they make you shudder?

I appreciate your input!

Impressions

In the last week, two acquaintances made comments which pinpointed my personality in a few succinct words. 

Though not negative, the comments made me ponder. My personality must be obvious to the casual observer. But what lasting impression do I leave? Friendly, I hope. Reticent, perhaps. But I wondered about nuances. Would a perceptive observer sense that I prefer to be alone with my stories and my thoughts? Would my bubbly demeanor with children fool people into thinking I'm equally comfortable with a group of adults? 

What about you, readers? Has a comment from an acquaintance or stranger given you pause? Do you have a good grasp on how you're perceived? If you had to choose one word to describe the impression you leave with others, what would it be?

I look forward to your responses!