Storms, helpers, and theories on faith-building

So, one of the best things about a blizzard—

Wait, scratch that last. Saying "one of the best things" implies that there are more than one good thing about blizzards—which is, frankly, laughable, since I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel here to find even a single good thing. So, beginning again:

The only good thing about a blizzard and subsequent heavy snowfall is that suddenly, neighborhoods become neighborly again. I suppose any natural disaster brings about this end; I recall similar friendly acts when our street flooded two summers ago. Suddenly, people who'd barely spoken to each other were sharing buckets to bail, and even the more aloof crowd up the street wandered down to assist folks on our dead end, to push cars out of harm's way, to chat amicably and offer support. We haven't seen them since, but hey...

So, when last weekend's snow began to fall, and the husband was headed out of town, and the kid was sick with a flu, we just sort of hunkered down... and I did a lot of praying. For safe travel for the hus and his gang of church kids and fellow leaders (they arrived safely and had a great time), for my loved ones to have random plowing help and for more able family shovelers to step in (all of that happened), for everyone to use good judgment and common sense and do what they could for whom they could do it. Paying it forward, so to say. I couldn't drive an hour in my low-riding sedan in the snowdrifts with an ill child, so I shoveled our own walkway and the elderly neighbor's as well, trusting that if only all of us contributed in a sensible, local way,the good deeds would work their way around to every needy soul. And from what I've found out? That's what happened.

I remember reading that Fred Rogers told kids who were struggling to comprehend disasters that they should "look for the helpers." He comforted children who were floundering in confusion and unanswered questions by pointing them toward those fellow humans who stepped up to lend a hand—to be God's hands, in a way. And Mr. Rogers was right, of course; there are always helpers, and one can take some solace in seeing the good works of those folks. Part of healing occurs when you see the helpers, and sometimes when you are the helper... and I truly believe a big part of it also happens when you accept help, because that acceptance is an admission of sorts that you needed help in the first place.

The whole disasters-and-helpers thing has me thinking about a point I keep trying to make at my Bible study, and which as far as I can see has not yet been well received. I have observed aloud a direct correlation between being in a position where you need to ask for or accept human help, and being able to ask God for His gift of salvation. The part I think most of my study-mates object to is my suggestion that when you have plenty of money and a bevy of people around you whom you can pay for help, you don't grasp the idea of needing salvation as deeply because you just don't "need" much in this earthly realm.

This is my opinion, of course. But it lines up well with what I keep hearing about people who've been to the poorest places in the world, decrepit, downtrodden villages where people hear of God's love and eternal life and embrace it with the utmost joy. These people have nothing, their very existence often depends on moment-by-moment offerings. People who need assistance with every task—the chronically ill, the disabled, the infirm—those people truly understand their own helplessness, and I suspect that understanding helps them to better grasp their absolute dependence on God's mercy and kindness.

I'm not saying I want to be ill, or incapable, or desperately poor. Of course I don't. Yet, I do see over and over that those people have far less trouble on the whole accepting their need of Jesus. They have been humbled by life, by circumstances, by hungry children in their care, by the fact that without someone else, they can't get out of bed.

Humility is a difficult state to achieve when you're healthy, able, and comfortable, with money to spare. Doesn't it make sense that it's harder for many of us to feel we truly need God because we already have all the trappings of this world? It seems that the people with the biggest concept of God are those who have the smallest, most realistic, often most broken images of themselves and their utterly fallen, current dwelling place.

That's why bad storms make us neighborly again. We are humbled by something far bigger than ourselves; we realize, at a fundamental level, that we must accept help or be cut off and have our well-being endangered by our own stubbornness. It seems to me that the storms of life have the same effect. We can sit, snowed in, by the light of a flickering candle, eating cold canned beans and feeling lonely and sorry for ourselves... or we can open the door, accept the hand that is proffered, be humbled yet thankful, and then pass on the gift to others.

In my uninformed, simple opinion, this is one of America's greatest weaknesses: Our wealth. It's hard to see ourselves as we really are, when we've heaped up so much shoddy "finery" and just-released technology around our pathetic, messed-up selves. That stuff affects our perception of ourselves. It's piled so high that we can't even see Him knocking at the window. I hate storms... but I could probably do with more of them. Think about it: when have you felt closest to God? I don't feel joy when faced with trials, not yet, but I'm going to work on my big-picture viewpoint about the whole thing.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. -James 1:2-4

Aw, for cryin' out loud...

Snow? Really? On tax day??? We've all had quite enough, thank you very much. Everywhere I went, people wore sour expressions with narrowed eyes. The neighbors even went so far as to stage an impromptu protest. Of course, they quickly became distracted by some new, chilled grass niblets... (See photo.)

There's something so wrong about admiring a blooming magnolia tree through a veil of icy flakes. SO wrong.

Alas. It is what it is. I guess I'll give up, put on some socks, and hold my kvetchin' tongue.

Signs of these awful times

You know it's been a long winter when the temperature peaks at 46 degrees Fahrenheit, and you see people golfing.

I'm not kidding. I witnessed just that scene last weekend.

This is the time in our cruel winter season when I ponder the purchase of stock in some heavy-duty skin cream—a time when suddenly, I begin to find greater merit in anti-depressants and sun lamps. Moving somewhere far, far south becomes an increasingly attractive option.

I read recently about a new condition described as "snow rage," or explosive behavior swings caused by a relentlessly cold, wintry season that drags on longer than some people can bear. Except what can I call it when I'm still experiencing the symptoms but there's no snow? My son suggested "salt rage." I'm thinking that plain old rage would cover it some days...

Adding to my rage-cum-depression is the fact that I've been to the mall more in the past 7 days than in the last year. The weather's made me do it. I loathe the mall on principle, yet it provides ample, warm, un-slippery walking space. So I've headed there a couple of times recently, and I plan to do so again before the week is up. It's a safe, free way to raise my heart rate without risking my neck on ice or causing our small, wobbly living room to quake violently while I jiggle and gasp to an exercise beat.

What's so depressing about a mall, you ask? Well, it functions as a cultural outsider alarm for me. Nowhere else do I feel so removed from our twisted vision of modern suburban America. All of my denials about how sick we are as a nation come crashing down on me when I'm walking through a shopping mall. It's sort of like standing near young, lovely, slender girls. I don't enjoy doing that, because it heightens my awareness of just how little I share with those pretties these days. And the mall? Man, do I feel like an interloper there. I'm surprised they let me in.

I stride along those wide, polished floors, past window after window of mostly naked women, young smooth-chinned lads embracing other handsome and hairless boys, flat-chested young females pouting at me with hooded, come-hither glances... We certainly do groom these innocents for tawdry and sultry, don't we? It's not just the over-saturation of sex that appalls me, though. Nearly every store is selling a lie: our furniture will help you relax more completely; this hand soap will transport you to an island getaway. And these pretzels will make you think of an elderly relative who cooked with far too much butter yet so much love. But wait, here's a new gadget with a flashing screen, and it's newer than yours... Do you have high-heeled, open-toed ankle booties like these? Never mind how hideous they are, you need them to complete your designer duds.

The whole place is designed to entice, to beguile, to mislead, and ultimately to separate you from your money. It's all crap, and it deflates the heck out of me.

I really hope the stupid weather improves; I'm about ready to pull a serious groundhog, people.

Signs of spring

Here's the latest painting: a hoppity little fellow. Easter's approach always connotes the images of bunnies for me, probably for most of us. After wondering about the origins of the tradition, I read somewhere that Easter's pagan beginnings had a sharp focus on fertility. Heck, what's a better example of that than rabbits? Hence the "Easter Bunny." Weird. The savior of the world was raised from the dead, and we hide eggs (more fertility symbols) and give credit to a long-eared, madly breeding furball.

I have seen a few bunnies scrambling frantically in my evening headlights of late. Guess they're starting to get bored in those burrows, too.

Anyway. The painting is for sale in my Etsy shop.

I'll resume muttering at the stubborn snow now.

Purr, purr

I finished this painting of our dear kitty just before the holidays hit hard. She's so darned picturesque, you know? Most cats are, come to think of it. And on days like we had today, a cat is a fine example of how to behave if at all possible. Find a comfortable spot with some filtered light, or make a spot if nothing measures up. Get cozy. Nap. Wake, and nap again. Look out any nearby window, be thankful you don't have to be "out there," and then drift off once more.

Perhaps you're reading this from a warm, sunny place where you prefer being outside. That's great, but it's not that kind of day here. When I ventured outdoors earlier, I was pelted with tiny ice balls. They piled up, but not like fluffy snow—this stuff accumulated like the fake snow at ski lodges, all sharp and unnatural. I couldn't make a snowball out of this substance if I had to. And why, I ask, would I want to spend time surrounded by such an unwelcoming, unyielding surface? I wouldn't. Hence the cat example.

I only wish I could have napped. With a 7-year-old who'd already been on the sled, no cable TV, dirty laundry from holidays spent running, dishes in the sink from people home on vacation, and toys strewn across every flat surface, there was no napping here.

But that's okay. I'll leave it to the cat. Napping screws up my sleep at night, anyway. And I didn't have to drive on hazardous roads to a job today, so I'll count my blessings. I hope this post finds you safe in the place you most want to be.

Zoom, zoom

Coming out of the Christmas holiday is sort of like the last third of an amusement park coaster ride. The speed and spin factors become almost unbearable, you can see the finish line if you dare to open your eyes, and you feel increasingly ill.

Then it's done, you're coasting to a stop, and at once the simultaneous relief and letdown flood your every pore. (On a side, note, my post-holiday nausea probably isn't caused by motion sickness, but instead by a horrifyingly out-of-control consumption of cookies...)

As usual, I'm feeling much more relief than any other emotion. Christmas has pretty much lost most of its association with Christ, from what I see; mostly, it feels like a giant buy-a-thon these days. Not to mention that it's feeling rather brutal of late, what with pepper-sprayed shoppers and gun-toting, sneaker-buying thugs getting all the news coverage. This is why I shop second-hand, people—most shoppers can't afford weapons or self-defense sprays at the Goodwill.

So, honestly, I'm glad it's all over. Now comes the season of steeling oneself for the survival of long, cold, winter months. But already the days are getting a tiny bit longer, aren't they? We can cling to that, even while knit scarves and hats cling to our hair and throats as we try to endure the misery.

Happily, I am once again amazed and touched at the generosity of friends and family around us. We are really blessed, in so many ways. I guess that if I were to make a resolution, it would be to cultivate a genuine attitude of gratitude. A grateful heart really does change a person's perspective.

I found some great little Mary Engelbreit cards on clearance at the craft store, and one of them spoke to me: "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it!"

That will be my goal. Because, truly, I feel like time is slipping away faster than I can mark it. Alongside the relief of holidays safely past, crouching unobtrusively next to my snow boots, is the quiet, sobering realization that I don't have nearly as much time as I thought I did.

Kisses are Y-U-K-E

Wow, last weekend turned into a sickly one. Come to think of it, this entire late winter season has been sickly. And, in turn, it's been really expensive, since our "for-the-purpose-of-staving-off-medical-emergency-related-bankruptcy" crap plan isn't covering much. Thanks, Highmark. You healthcare people make me want to start smoking and gain plenty of weight, so I can push my prediabetes over the edge and become disabled like everyone else.

Anyway. People here were sick again last week. And I won't even mention today's wet, hideous snow. On April 1st, for cryin' out flippin' loud.

So. Sickness. Bills related to sickness. And TAXES. And then, snow. Good times.

But this post won't address any of those things. Frankly, talking those points deeper into the ground would only further foul my mood. Instead, I'll address why kisses are yucky.

Because that's what Y-U-K-E means. It's the Marcus spelling for yucky. Kisses haven't been cool here for awhile, but they've recently crossed the threshold into really undesirable territory. Marcus is 6 now, you see. He's quite grown up (unless he loses at a game, in which case he resorts to 3-year-old behavior again). And he has these little guy pals, among whom no girls are allowed. Even the recent birthday party was a boys-only club. They're quite tough, this crowd of swaggering, running, jumping, playing 6-year-olds. And kisses—well, they're barely tolerated by my son most days, and often merely mentioning a kiss will send the child scurrying away at top speed. (It does serve me well when I want him out from underfoot.)

Hugs are also spurned, unless the boy initiates it. Which, thankfully, he sometimes still does. But it's becoming less and less frequent.

That's why I saved all those little notes he made me last year when I was away working, and why I save the occasional note that I get these days. There's a tote bag full of them hanging on our linen closet doorknob, and there it will quietly stay. Eventually, I'll probably have to remove it and hide it somewhere; the bigger and tougher he gets, the more fearful I'll become that he might just find and destroy all those darling, misspelled mementos of his once-strong love for me.

I'll keep them safe. How could I not, when they'll be so perfect for his embarrassing teenage moments?

This is the end (of winter)

It's almost over, folks. Let me tell you how I know.

I know that winter is waning, because I have officially become my ultimate cranky, coughing, Vicks-scented, mean-girl self...and that happens every year around this time. We're on the cusp, and I am crawling toward that cusp, biting back curse words every time the wind blows my hood right off my head. We're on the cusp, and our entire household is enjoying an intimate relationship with our many boxes of Kleenex with Lotion (hey, I'll scrimp on clothes, furniture, and discount foods, but even I have my standards). We're on the cusp, because if this winter lasts much longer I can pretty much guarantee that injuries will be suffered by some poor person, at my hand, after said person has uttered the phrase (or thereabouts) "Spring is just around the corner!" You see, I am beginning to suspect that the only thing around that corner is a nasty sleet storm. Another nasty storm.

So, all of this means winter is nearly finished.

The only time I averted this horrible yearly phase of my psyche was the year that Todd and I had the good sense to book a long weekend in Florida in mid-March. I can't describe the bliss that came over me as we exited the airport in Tampa, looked around us at palm trees, and breathed the essence of living, green warmth.

I can't bear to think about it. Must plod on.

I have other things I'm planning to post about, but I'm not ready to stop feeling sorry for myself quite yet. Hope you'll check back in a day or two. That's assuming, of course, that the dastardly north wind doesn't blow so hard that it knocks out everyone's power.

I'm a fool

A painting fool, that is. It's my only escape from winter! Doesn't this little feathered pal make you think of spring?

It's in the Etsy shop; I plan to make blank note cards out of it, also—maybe early next week, after the Steelers victory.

Soak up the sun while you can, and look for beauty in the little things around you today. See what you can find to help calm and soothe you when the air is nippy and your mood is chippy!

P.S. "That boy sure is a runnin' fool!" Can you name that movie?!

Extremes

The Bad

I need to get some things off my chest:

Why doesn't the snow melt?

I am so sick of being cold all the time.

My skin is flaking like a snake's because of the heat overload.

I need about ten of those lamps that imitate sunlight, and then I need to strap them to myself and chant a sunny mantra.

I can't handle winter clothes anymore. They itch. They constrict. The only good thing about them is the fact that they hide my pasty, plump flesh. And that isn't good, either, because then I stuff my face and get more plump, all of which will be revealed on the first warm day.

Everything takes so stinkin' long in winter: getting dressed, finding and donning proper footgear, getting the car prepped, driving somewhere in slush/snow/ice, walking from the car to the destination without slipping and becoming a winter-broken-bone statistic.

I hate socks. Detest them. Yet need them.

I feel like a caged animal in this house. And even when I'm out? I'm running to another cage, from my temporary cage (car).

Can't. Take. Much. More.


The Good

The sun is shining, and has been shining for several hours. And the bathroom is finally clean.


The Beautiful

My little boy will be home from kindergarten soon.

If you had told me 15 or 20 years ago that I'd be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. I spent the first half of my life or more telling everyone I'd never had kids. I meant it. I had no interest, no burning yearning to be a mom, no thoughts of holding a small bundle of my own.

If you'd told me that at this point, I'd consider motherhood* to be the best experience I've had yet, I would have snickered and pressed my lips together in utter doubt. How ridiculous.

But it's true. I am delighted by my son. He is such a neat little person. I still can't believe what a gift he is. He's witty, and silly, and loves to play. He likes to learn new things, too, and we can sit and talk about things now and he gets it. It's awesome. But best of all? So far, he's turning out to be a kind, thoughtful kid.

I know it might not always look like this. I know people whose kids turned into strangers in teen years, or who suddenly grew up into completely miserable human beings. There's the occasional sad story of good kids turned bad who end up in jail, or worse.

But I have today. I have this moment. I have this child whom I adore, who enriches me daily, who has shown me how vulnerable I really am and how it's possible to love someone so much it pains you.


* Motherhood only—not pregnancy (stunk), not labor (stunk more). Just motherhood.

OMG (a.k.a. Tough kid, sissy mama)

When people ask me what's new, I usually say, "Nothing." And I'm usually thankful to say that. Boredom is often the opposite of chaos in my life, perhaps in other lives as well, and I'm happy to embrace boredom much of the time because I prefer it to the alternative.

We got the alternative Tuesday night.

It was a totally normal night. I was nagging the "boys" about bedtime, and finally managed to make my husband understand that the next morning our child would need to rise at the same old time, and that he needed adequate sleep in order to tackle the day with success, etc. My son ate a quick snack (pizza-flavored Goldfish crackers and water) and I herded him into my bedroom to get his clothes off and into the hamper so that PJs could be donned.

Apparently, after I left the room, the kid had an undeniable urge to run, naked but for socks, and see his father in the living room; when he didn't show up, I had to call out and remind him to stay on task and come in for pajamas and tooth-brushing. I was selecting the pajamas from a drawer when suddenly, I became aware that my child was running from the living room into his bedroom. I saw him approaching from the corner of my eye, not really registering the speed with which he came, and a second later there was a loud thump. I glanced up in time to see his feet literally flying out from under him, up in the air—and then saw him hit the floor, landing right on his back.

Now, there have been a few times when my son hit the wall—with his head, or his foot, or his back end when he was crawling around in a clownish manner. So, we'd seen similar situations before; panic did not immediately ensue. He lay there for a second, and my husband and I both scurried over from opposite directions to ascertain the damage. Marcus was still on the floor, and he seemed to have hit not only his face, but also the back of his head when he fell; our home is tiny, and the space in that little hallway outside bedrooms is quite unforgiving.

I was totally unprepared for what met me at close range: my son's forehead was gashed, straight up and down, and blood was spilling out in spurts. I thought I would be sick, and one look at his dad told me he was feeling the same. We sat him up a bit, I grabbed a washcloth and we held it on the forehead, and all the while Marcus was huddled there unclothed, red splashes landing on his bare legs, crying full tilt. Todd remembered to tilt his head back a little, to minimize bleeding, and when the washcloth did not stem the flood, we grabbed a dry hand towel to better soak up the mess.

A minute passed, I threw a blanket on my boy (can kids go into shock from a gash? no matter, it's winter and he's naked), and we worked up the nerve to take another look at the cut. This was the OMG moment, people: it was unspeakably horrific. It looked like a hockey injury. The giant slash running between my child's eyes could have come from a skate blade or a big, sharp stick; it could have been carved in with a knife. It was a perfectly straight line, because (we've since determined in hindsight and re-enactments) he hit it squarely, somehow, on the frame of his bedroom door.

Todd and I both stared at it, trying not to reveal in our faces just how awful it really was. In my head, I was screaming, "OH MY GOD that is so DEEP! I can't believe it! He needs stitches! Holy CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!" but on the outside, I was trying to remain calm and tell my son that everything would be okay. He kept saying, "It hurts," and I was thinking, no *!?# it hurts because I can practically see your SKULL in there!!! But I couldn't say that. So I murmured useless, soothing phrases, and Todd and I spoke with our eyes. Yes, we agreed, yes; we must go out on this snowy, slippery night, to the nearest hospital, right now.

We resigned ourselves to our fate, put some zip-up PJs on the wailing child, fashioned a headband made from destroyed T-shirt in order to secure the blood-soaking cloth, and got ourselves into the car, praying for safe travel, for quick treatment, for the best possible scenario. Thankfully, we made it out of our snow-covered driveway, and the roads were passable.

Let me take a moment to rave about Suburban General Hospital in Bellevue. The folks there were wonderful: quick, thorough, calming and friendly. We were the only ones in the ER, and they saw to us immediately, talking through what had happened, chatting with Marcus who had since stopped crying and was looking quite pitiful. One look at the depth of the cut and they knew it needed stitches; no skin glue for this one. To their credit, they were honest with my little guy, and told him (not all at once, but as needed) what they were going to do. There were three of them prepping him; a matronly type wrapped him in a sheet tightly, to immobilize his arms, but she talked with him as she worked, joked a little, made him as comfortable as possible. The assisting nurse, an affable fellow who was blind in one eye, was warm and friendly with all of us and put everyone at ease. The doctor who washed, gave numbing shots, and stitched was confident, very capable, and worked with speed.

Here's where I must confess that after they began to wash the cut, and I got a better look at just how horrible it was, I had to sit down and I missed most of the really gory stuff because I was fighting the simultaneous urges to throw up and fall down. I didn't see the stitching; I simply could not look. I saw the doctor's hands lifting, going down with the needle, pulling it up again, but I certainly wasn't counting; I couldn't watch for that long. (He got 5 stitches, according to his dad.)

But as much as a wimp as I turned out to be, my son was beyond stoic. The only crying he did was at home. When the doctor told him there would be stitching, and shots to numb the injury, his mouth turned down on the outsides—the telltale pre-cry face. Yet somehow, it never became full-blown. He set the mouth back to a normal line, he nodded or answered when asked a question, he allowed the nurse to hold his small, frightened face perfectly still while a man with a sharp object laced a nylon thread through his lacerated forehead. He never made a sound. Nothing.

The ER folks were impressed. I was speechless. What a tough guy. He was lying there, we were encouraging him and telling him it was almost done, and I was too sick to feel proud of him at that moment—but I knew, even as I fought the urge to hurl, that his behavior was pretty amazing.

Marcus bounced back just fine. When the procedure was finished, he stood with boots back on; since his face was still numb, he was in very good spirits. His dad and I? Both of us were sitting, ashen-faced, glad it was done but shocked it had transpired at all—and wondering which of us would be able to drive home. (Todd was; he thankfully did all the driving that night.) The amazing thing was the timetable from start to finish: On a treacherous winter night, my boy had run into a wall at approximately 8:45, and we pulled back into our driveway, stitched and bandaged, a couple of minutes after 10pm.

God is good. He put all the pieces in place, so that while my poor child had to go through that experience, it was as painless as possible. He didn't even miss kindergarten the next day (I'd been planning on keeping him home) because the weather turned very sour again, and the school district cancelled classes.

It's alarming to realize you are not nearly as tough as you would like to believe. Happily, my weakness was more than balanced by my offspring's strength. It would have understood if he'd cried, if he'd been a bit uncooperative, but it was as if he knew that his behavior would make or break the whole incident.

Thanks for listening, especially to my bragging about my boy; I try not to do that, especially here, but I feel it's more than merited on this occasion. And by the way: absolutely NO RUNNING in the house.

To quote Pulp Fiction, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a heart attack."

P.S. Stay tuned for a future post about the bill. Haven't got that yet... but I'm anticipating ugliness, as our plan has a ridiculously high deductible.

Big snow, little mind

Regarding the photo: Picnic, anyone? Pretty, isn't it. If I were Swedish or Norwegian or from one of those other crazy cultures where people embrace this stuff, I might be sitting out there next to a fire, drinking grog, or glog, or whatever hot drink they drink. No, thank you.

**********

Perhaps you, like me, don't think about the ridiculous bulk of white that an 18- or 20-inch snowfall amounts to. Perhaps, like me, you can even walk in it, fall in it, watch your child struggle to get out of it, observe a neighborhood team shoveling event to precede the Olympic Games, and still not get it that 18 or 20 inches is an absurd snowfall.

Perhaps you, like me, were a simpleton and decided to venture out today.

Perhaps you also had house fever, and a sweet little child coughing insistently on you, and too many sporting events happening now and looming later today; perhaps the walls were closing in on you, too.

I forgot, you see, that all those inches of snow have to be displaced somewhere. I failed to observe that I had to exit the garage through a silly-small space between piles of snow as high as my head. I didn't consider that, as the piled snow melts slowly, it creates mounds of slush—slush that creeps onto the once-somewhat-cleared roadways. I suddenly recalled the lurching sensation I get in my stomach when my car slides along with a mind all its own, how small and vulnerable I feel when I am surrounded by much larger, more capable vehicles.

My little sedan held its own, and I got where I was going (which, honestly, was mostly just OUT). I even got home again; thankfully, the hill to our home was bare. (I wouldn't have attempted the trip if it hadn't been.) But as I pulled back into the driveway, I thanked God repeatedly that I don't live in northwestern PA anymore, where this type of madness is a much more regular occurrence.

I won't be heading out again today, thanks for asking. I found my common sense and put it firmly back on my head as soon as I got back home safely.

Suddenly un-busy

Winter is pretty detestable to me, albeit picturesque at times, and each cold season seems longer to me than the last. Yet, winter has a way of reminding me how utterly at the mercy of the elements we all are…and bringing home the value of taking time to do nothing.

For example, last Wednesday was shaping up to be a busy one. We had a regular day of errands, Todd was working as usual, and we were to convene at home for a quick, earlier-than-usual dinner and then rush out the door to a variety of church events beginning at 6. Wet snow was spitting on the little guy and me as we groceried and made other quick stops; after we’d gotten back home, I had begun preparing the meal when I noticed it was snowing more purposefully. Lots of snow. And the snow was beginning to pile up.

I checked the news, saw various watches and warnings flashing across the screen, was overwhelmed with cancellations and doomsday predictions of bad roads and colder temps. Then I checked email, and there was a note from a church person: Everything is cancelled for tonight. Everything. Kid stuff, singing stuff, teenager stuff—all kaput. I confirmed this with the department where I’d been planning to participate that evening, found out the alternate practice time that had been scheduled, and scribbled it on the calendar. Just that quickly, we were in for the night.

Where there’d been busy-ness, there was suddenly free time. In a block of hours that had been completely accounted for, there was now the promise of relaxation, an early bed, coziness instead of mad dashing from car to building to car again. No plan, no agenda—instead, we were given a newly discovered time to breathe and be thankful.

Why does it take a snowstorm to ground us in the values of simplicity? None of the things we do here at our house are inherently bad things; they’re innocent and worthwhile activities. There’s nothing wrong with singing in a choir or attending kids club or playing hoops with some middle schoolers. Still, all those worthwhile pastimes can overtake you if you let them. Suddenly, you’re not being civil to each other, and you’re living in chaos and gulping your meals and tripping over clutter and dirty dishes and forgetting to feed the cat. It just happens, because those are all effects of the cause of over-busyness.

On that snowy, un-busy night, calm was reclaimed. We drank tea, and watched the fluffy whiteness envelop our home, the street, the cars parked resignedly there. No one was going anywhere. And in truth, no one really minded.

Snowbound

I’ve included a lovely picture of our shorn cat for your amusement. It’s related, loosely, to the post. Feel free to chuckle, and then read on.

So, the morning began awfully early. 5:00am, to be exact. The kid awoke, complaining of “nose hurt.” Probably because it’s dry, because our heat has been cranking non-stop for days now. Todd tried soothing him, I tried soothing him, we refilled the vaporizer and prayed he’d return to slumber.

No go. He was whining on and off for the next hour, and by the time the garbage truck showed up shortly after 6, he was in full foghorn mode, hollering from his bedroom: “Mama, I hear beeping. Dada, I hear beeping.” (The truck backs down our street, much to the chagrin of the sleeping masses.)

I finally gave up and got out of bed, Todd followed and made a beeline for the shower, and the kid and I looked out the window. More snow was beginning to fall. And on this morning, I truly didn’t mind.

The past few mornings have been filled with nonsense: Getting the brakes checked on the car (they were fine, thanks for asking); taking the goofball cat to be shaved so he stops puking hairballs all over the house in wee hours; running errands to various locations which, in light of the encroaching holiday, are becoming more and more inhospitable and crowded… So, the boy and I have been joylessly heading out amidst the flakes, drifts, and slush each day.

But not today—today is blissfully unscheduled, open, available, dull. Today, we’ve sat contentedly indoors; I ventured out only to refill the bird feeders (so the fat, lazy squirrels can fill their already rotund bellies with bird food) and then immediately came back in, feeling thankful for a warm home, a hot cuppa, and various cars and blocks for the kids to play with. (You can see the foam stacking blocks on the floor in that picture of kitty. They’re pretty cool—I play with ‘em, too.)

So, we’ll just stay home and watch from inside our cozy haven as the inclemency grows. Don’t hate me, though; remember, the boy has been awake since 5am—not to mention I’ve been hauling him around in the snow for several days, entertaining him at the Saturn dealership, distracting him while Christmas cards got printed at Staples, pulling him out of the back seat while blocking the cat’s premature leaping exit from the car, dragging the child from car seat to shopping cart back to car seat… he is just as happy to stay home as I am. I asked him if he wanted to go anywhere and without hesitation, he said, “No, just stay home.”

Sounds good to me, kid. Sorry for all you harried travelers, really I am. It’s miserable out there. I’ll be slipping and sliding among you soon. But not today.